For less than a hundred dollars, my husband and I rented a furnished home southeast of downtown Ogden, Utah in the fall of 1967. I was pregnant with our first child. He had accepted employment at the Utah State Industrial School and was also working on his Master's Degree. A spacious place for the two of us, this home had a finished half basement bedroom and bath that his brother and a cousin used when they were between apartments, college semesters, or marriages. I heard our elderly neighbor's voice one day, getting louder and quite animated. Looking out my kitchen window, I could see her standing in the driveway talking with our landlord. I listened a little closer and heard her informing him about all the "goin's on" in his house, men coming and going at all hours and she just didn't think that was right, considering that I was pregnant! "I just thought you should know," she said. The landlord never said a word about it, to me. I suspect she had been his neighbor when he lived in the house and had kept him informed about his neighbors, then, too. I found a way to let him know who the "traffic" in and out of his house was, just a couple of family members who needed a temporary place to sleep now and then.
This home on Porter Avenue wasn't far from a home where the South family had once lived. Now one of those children was absorbed and busy 24/7, establishing a special education program at the school and attending classes at U of U in Salt Lake. I didn't know a soul in Ogden and had made no effort to meet people. My pregnancy was difficult and I was without a car during the day and into evening. From birth, my first child was a baby who didn't sleep so I did a lot of walking, often with him in a stroller. By the time he was a toddler, I ventured out to go to church to meet some people. This child also wasn't a quiet sort who could be entertained and coaxed to be quiet at appropriate times, not even with Cheerios, so when the meeting began and the music started, he was just so tickled that he stood up on the bench and sang right out, loud, making up some words as he went, all the while leading the music right along with the chorister but not necessarily stopping when and where she did! He caused quite a commotion in a short time. I was a young mother, sleep deprived, with absolutely no experience, and was easily embarrassed. When a well-meaning member suggested that I should wait until he was older to bring him again, I did just that but never went back to that ward.
When this home was sold, we moved a little further south, to Brinker Street into a newly built, four-plex apartment. It was a great place with a spacious kitchen and more cupboard and bedroom closet space than I'd ever seen before. Here, I decided to hire myself out as a seamstress. With a fabric store within walking distance just off the main street, through a gully and dry ditch, then across an open field, walking there with my kid in a stoller became a way for me to cope with spending almost all 24 hours of every day alone with a very active toddler. Willows still grew along the ditch so we'd stop in the shade there, going and coming.
The stairs inside the apartment, leading to the lower level, were a problem. It was an open stairwell without a door. Coming in that back door, you either stepped up one step directly into the kitchen or stepped down a flight of stairs to reach the laundry and storage area assigned to our apartment. My toddler had already taken a tumble, like a Saturday morning cartoon character, bouncing off each step to the next, just a smidgen beyond my reach, all the way down. On this morning, I was sorting laundry when I heard a racket behind me. Thinking it was my child who'd followed me, head first, down those steps yet again, I whirled around and started for the door, hoping to get to the bottom of those stairs before he did. But instead of my kid, I came face to face with the young woman who lived in that apartment. There she stood, just outside her open doorway, stark naked! It was summertime and very hot. She had just finished scrubbing her kitchen floor and was putting her mop and bucket in the utility room. That was the noise I'd heard. What does one say when you meet someone for the first time under those circumstances?
Another morning, I had just put my biggest pot on the stove, filled to the brim with tomatoes, to stew. The big butcher knife I had used to cut them up was still on the counter. "I'll just run down and put a batch of clothes in the washer while this water gets hot," since my child was entertained and content for the moment, or so I thought. I had barely gotten the laundry going when I heard rattling on those darn stairs and rushed to the door. I'd left it open a bit. Now it was closed. The rattling I'd heard was not a child falling down the stairs. No, it was my child playing with the lock, the kind you slide across to engage. Just as I put my hand on the doorknob, he made the right connection, sliding the bold into place. I talked to him through the door, trying to coax him to push the shiny knob back the other way. He tired of that game quickly and went back upstairs. Oh grief! The top lock was not on the back door. It was early morning but I'd already been in and out taking garbage. And the pot must be boiling by now. That knife! He wouldn't be able to reach it unless he spied it and pushed a chair up to the counter. The couple in that apartment--yes, the naked mop lady--usually worked nights and slept all day. I knocked. No answer. Knocked again, with a little more urgency. Still no answer. I checked the window to see if I could possibly go out that way. What was I thinking? I took a couple of runs from the washer across the room, throwing myself at the locked door, thinking maybe I could rattle it enough to dislodge that bold so I could force it open. Wow! That hurt! I abandoned that idea, luckily before I broke any bones, and went back to pounding on my neighbor's door and yelling until I finally woke her up. The minute she opened her door a crack, her eyes still half closed, I pushed past her, dashed through her apartment, not stopping to explain, and ran out around the building and in through my unlocked back door. Everything was okay. My curious toddler hadn't escaped out the back door. If he had, the busy street, the gully and willows and field were within sight and he'd been there many times with me. That was my fear, that he'd try to go to the place I took him to play on some hot days. The pot was just beginning to bubble a little around the edges. And the knife wasn't where he could have reached it. Whew! And my neighbor? I guess we were even, on the strange meeting's score.
Fearless and curious about everything, my little boy heard kids laughing and playing while I was hanging clothes out to dry. It was a bright, sunny, summer day. He had new red Keds on his feet and had been running back and forth from the apartment front door, then across the parking pavement at the back of the complex, to the clothes lines. He wasn't yet three but already had about a million allergies and his nose was running so I turned my back on him only the few seconds it took me to take a couple or three steps up to reach a Kleenex from the table just inside the door. When I turned back around, he was gone! He had heard the kids voices again but couldn't see them so he followed the sound, putting those tiny, rubber soled toes in each space of the chain link fence, all the way to the top and over, into the adjoining yard. Panicked and pregnant, I had quite a walk, going around the block, searching and calling his name before I found him, still in that back yard just across our fence, happily playing away.
The father in one of the other units was hauled off to jail for selling porno movies. You just never know what goes on behind closed doors. The rest of us who lived there were about to find out. His teenage sons, left to their own devices, hooked up a hose and had a water fight inside their apartment, flooding it while punching holes in the walls and tearing down the inside doors. This was pretty unexpected behavior and activity in this lovely apartment building in a nice neighborhood. When our new baby was about a month old, we moved back to Salt Lake City. It was the end of a five-year cycle, something that would seem to repeat itself.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Setting Sail on the SS France
The guidelines for the trip home on the SS France advised wearing dress-up clothing for dinner at the Captain's table on the first night out. Frank had packed "Sunday Best". I had a "little black dress", made a beautiful, black lace jacket to wear over it, and packed heels and jewelry to "dress" for that much anticipated dinner. To protect the jacket during the more than a couple of months it would be confined to a suitcase, it had been packed with tissue in the sleeves, and in plastic--a pain when getting in and out of our bags--then carried, with any other would-wear-only-once clothing, all across Europe. The cardboard box we put in storage when we left Paris the first time contained that delicate jacket, two sweaters purchased on our return trip to Oslo, and the few trinkets we'd collected during our travels. We took one, last wild taxi ride in Paris to retrieve our brown, cardboard box and got to the train station just in the nick of time to make our connection.
It was a relaxing ride, as I remember. The passenger seated directly across from us was a wealthy businessman in the Arabian horse breeding and selling business, and a delightful conversationalist. Arriving at LeHarve, we checked in, excited about this final adventure of being on an ocean liner--SS France--for the next five or six days, and were standing in line waiting to board, when we got the bad news. NONE of our luggage had made it to the ship, for loading. Our bags were still sitting on a train or at a station somewhere along the way, between Austria and France.
This wasn't a time when we could say, "No problem. We'll wait for the bags and take the next boat." We had invested far too much money in our passage home to cancel. So...we boarded, looking like homeless waifs, climbing from street level to the ship's entrance, carrying the little, brown cardboard box tied up with raveling twine, wearing the clothes we'd slept in the night before, holes in our shoes, and more than two months growth of shaggy hair. Yup, walking right along with the ladies in furs and pearls--real ones--and other finery, the gents in fine Italian leather shoes, custom leisurewear, and silk shirts.
Our cabin was tiny. First or tourist class, room size or location, it didn't really matter, at that point. Even in a room with bunk beds and toilet, leaving barely enough space to stand up and turn around in, all we really needed at that moment was room enough to have a good, cleansing CRY before dinner. Sure, I had that lovely lace jacket that had been all over Europe, and we could replace just about anything lost or taken from our luggage, should it ever make it through customs and arrive home again, but my "little black dress" to wear with the jacket was packed in the lost luggage! So was Frank's suit coat and tie.
The SS France, constructed in 1960, was to be a showcase of modern French art and design, the fastest transoceanic liner--six days, six nights, France to New York--and the longest ship in operation. It WAS the longest passenger ship ever built until 2004 when the Queen Mary 2 took on that title. Unusual attention had been given to the ship's kitchens, serving the best French Cuisine, staffed with 180 of the best cooks, sauce and pastry chefs, rotisserie cooks, waiters and stewards, that France had to offer. It earned the title of the "Finest" restaurant in the world.
There were officially just two classes--First and Tourist--instead of the more common three, but after a few voyages, rooms and areas originally designed to be restricted to a specific class were named, instead, and once the ship got underway, class barriers were withdrawn and all passengers could use all areas aboard, equally. We were a little behind schedule leaving port so the first evening's dinner meal was to be a casual affair. Everyone on board would be served in one of the two dinning rooms. The special Captain's Table event was postponed until the next night.
Soon after boarding, the emergency horns, bells, and whistles sounded, without warning. We were instructed over a LOUD speaker to locate, then don life jackets and quickly but orderly go to the main deck of the ship. There, we would receive further instruction. As we stood there in a sea of orange life jackets, an older couple came up the stairway. The Mrs. was just about to step on deck when she looked around, surveyed the crowd standing there, then turned to her husband saying, in her distinctive, highfalutin voice, "Good Lord, Harry, this is Tourist class!" and promptly went back down the stairs, refusing to join us. We and others who had heard her comment, laughed so hard! The thought was voiced aloud that when the ship was sinking and we were all making a scramble for the life boats, we would hear her say, "Good Lord, Harry, we can't get in this lifeboat! It's Tourist Class!" POOR Harry.
The first night at sea, I was fine and enjoyed the wonder of this new environment. We wore our new, clean Norwegian sweaters, from our cardboard box, hoping to disguise our true condition a little and went to dinner. The food offerings were endless in variety and availability. There were shops--buy a tie? TOO expensive--and swimming pools, a library and theater, games and much more. Dinner conversation with others at our table, some foreigners, others Americans, like us, returning home, was fun, interesting, amazing. I don't remember when that all changed for me in the next few hours, but from then on, I spent a good deal of time and for the rest of the crossing, in the bathroom with my head hanging over the toilet bowl, even though the captain announced that the seas were calm, the crossing the smoothest he could remember in a long time.
Frank wanted to attend the dinner the next night in the worst way. I gave him my blessing. I could barely get out of my bunk. He put on the new sweater, again, and left the room but was back within a short time. He could not enter the dining room for this event without at least a suit coat and tie. Such DISAPPOINTMENT. Aside from that meal, he did get plenty to eat while we were at sea, at any time of the day or night and as much as he wanted of anything and everything. After all, he was eating for two, my food and his, all of it already paid for.
I was not a bit of fun but did manage to sit in the theater to watch every movie they had on board. It was the one place where I felt no movement at all and could sit there, somewhat in control of the extreme nausea I was battling. I don't remember seeing much of Frank during this time. I was glad he was doing as much as possible to enjoy this event. Even so, those five or six days grew to be very long, for both of us.
We caught sight of the Statue of Liberty through the mist and fog, early, on our last morning aboard ship. I was able to join Frank and so many others on deck. It was a very powerful and emotional moment, hard to put into words and something I'll never forget. We were home. But it was more than the usual feeling of homecoming. Many of us cried, without shying away from tears welling up in our eyes, and spilling over to run down cheeks, each for their own reasons. On deck, there was mostly silence among us. We were caught up in that moment, the noise and chatter associated with parking and making things ready for passengers to disembark, went unnoticed.
We had originally planned to see the sights of New York upon our return to the States and take a train to spend a day in Boston before going home to Utah. We made it as far as the top of the Empire State Building. Having stood in long lines each time we had to take the next elevator--there were three--and finally reaching the observation deck, we hadn't been there long until I started to spot heavily and unexpectedly. A bit frightened by that, Frank explained just enough of our problem to hopefully be allowed to take the service elevator all the way to the bottom, immediately. The attendant would hear none of that, saying,"Emergency? We hear that all the time from people who don't want to stand in line." So we got in line, hoping for a bit of a miracle that would get us back to the street quickly. Within hours of disembarking, we were on a plane, flying to Salt Lake City, Utah. Maybe there was something to the notion the Family Pasching had mentioned.
I've had fun remembering this adventure when I was just 22 years old. As I've re-read my writings, I'm reminded of a few things I've left out, like the ferry boat ride we took in the company of a tour group of youthful mandolin players. I thought I'd never forget the name of the song they played for hours, over and over, the only one they knew, without any break, but thankfully, I have forgotten. I wouldn't want that stuck in my head again!
And our lost luggage? Anyone curious about it and where it ended up?
I'll continue making notes. I may need to finish out a page in the book so the things I've forgotten to mention here may come in handy, there.
We learned some days or a couple of weeks after returning home that I was, indeed, pregnant. I've blogged about my entrance into motherhood, the first and second times but of course, once a person becomes a parent, has a traveling spouse, or gets into a few predicaments of her own, there are more stories to tell. So little time...so much to tell...It's all a part of who I was, just a sweet, young thing.
It was a relaxing ride, as I remember. The passenger seated directly across from us was a wealthy businessman in the Arabian horse breeding and selling business, and a delightful conversationalist. Arriving at LeHarve, we checked in, excited about this final adventure of being on an ocean liner--SS France--for the next five or six days, and were standing in line waiting to board, when we got the bad news. NONE of our luggage had made it to the ship, for loading. Our bags were still sitting on a train or at a station somewhere along the way, between Austria and France.
This wasn't a time when we could say, "No problem. We'll wait for the bags and take the next boat." We had invested far too much money in our passage home to cancel. So...we boarded, looking like homeless waifs, climbing from street level to the ship's entrance, carrying the little, brown cardboard box tied up with raveling twine, wearing the clothes we'd slept in the night before, holes in our shoes, and more than two months growth of shaggy hair. Yup, walking right along with the ladies in furs and pearls--real ones--and other finery, the gents in fine Italian leather shoes, custom leisurewear, and silk shirts.
Our cabin was tiny. First or tourist class, room size or location, it didn't really matter, at that point. Even in a room with bunk beds and toilet, leaving barely enough space to stand up and turn around in, all we really needed at that moment was room enough to have a good, cleansing CRY before dinner. Sure, I had that lovely lace jacket that had been all over Europe, and we could replace just about anything lost or taken from our luggage, should it ever make it through customs and arrive home again, but my "little black dress" to wear with the jacket was packed in the lost luggage! So was Frank's suit coat and tie.
The SS France, constructed in 1960, was to be a showcase of modern French art and design, the fastest transoceanic liner--six days, six nights, France to New York--and the longest ship in operation. It WAS the longest passenger ship ever built until 2004 when the Queen Mary 2 took on that title. Unusual attention had been given to the ship's kitchens, serving the best French Cuisine, staffed with 180 of the best cooks, sauce and pastry chefs, rotisserie cooks, waiters and stewards, that France had to offer. It earned the title of the "Finest" restaurant in the world.
There were officially just two classes--First and Tourist--instead of the more common three, but after a few voyages, rooms and areas originally designed to be restricted to a specific class were named, instead, and once the ship got underway, class barriers were withdrawn and all passengers could use all areas aboard, equally. We were a little behind schedule leaving port so the first evening's dinner meal was to be a casual affair. Everyone on board would be served in one of the two dinning rooms. The special Captain's Table event was postponed until the next night.
Soon after boarding, the emergency horns, bells, and whistles sounded, without warning. We were instructed over a LOUD speaker to locate, then don life jackets and quickly but orderly go to the main deck of the ship. There, we would receive further instruction. As we stood there in a sea of orange life jackets, an older couple came up the stairway. The Mrs. was just about to step on deck when she looked around, surveyed the crowd standing there, then turned to her husband saying, in her distinctive, highfalutin voice, "Good Lord, Harry, this is Tourist class!" and promptly went back down the stairs, refusing to join us. We and others who had heard her comment, laughed so hard! The thought was voiced aloud that when the ship was sinking and we were all making a scramble for the life boats, we would hear her say, "Good Lord, Harry, we can't get in this lifeboat! It's Tourist Class!" POOR Harry.
The first night at sea, I was fine and enjoyed the wonder of this new environment. We wore our new, clean Norwegian sweaters, from our cardboard box, hoping to disguise our true condition a little and went to dinner. The food offerings were endless in variety and availability. There were shops--buy a tie? TOO expensive--and swimming pools, a library and theater, games and much more. Dinner conversation with others at our table, some foreigners, others Americans, like us, returning home, was fun, interesting, amazing. I don't remember when that all changed for me in the next few hours, but from then on, I spent a good deal of time and for the rest of the crossing, in the bathroom with my head hanging over the toilet bowl, even though the captain announced that the seas were calm, the crossing the smoothest he could remember in a long time.
Frank wanted to attend the dinner the next night in the worst way. I gave him my blessing. I could barely get out of my bunk. He put on the new sweater, again, and left the room but was back within a short time. He could not enter the dining room for this event without at least a suit coat and tie. Such DISAPPOINTMENT. Aside from that meal, he did get plenty to eat while we were at sea, at any time of the day or night and as much as he wanted of anything and everything. After all, he was eating for two, my food and his, all of it already paid for.
I was not a bit of fun but did manage to sit in the theater to watch every movie they had on board. It was the one place where I felt no movement at all and could sit there, somewhat in control of the extreme nausea I was battling. I don't remember seeing much of Frank during this time. I was glad he was doing as much as possible to enjoy this event. Even so, those five or six days grew to be very long, for both of us.
We caught sight of the Statue of Liberty through the mist and fog, early, on our last morning aboard ship. I was able to join Frank and so many others on deck. It was a very powerful and emotional moment, hard to put into words and something I'll never forget. We were home. But it was more than the usual feeling of homecoming. Many of us cried, without shying away from tears welling up in our eyes, and spilling over to run down cheeks, each for their own reasons. On deck, there was mostly silence among us. We were caught up in that moment, the noise and chatter associated with parking and making things ready for passengers to disembark, went unnoticed.
We had originally planned to see the sights of New York upon our return to the States and take a train to spend a day in Boston before going home to Utah. We made it as far as the top of the Empire State Building. Having stood in long lines each time we had to take the next elevator--there were three--and finally reaching the observation deck, we hadn't been there long until I started to spot heavily and unexpectedly. A bit frightened by that, Frank explained just enough of our problem to hopefully be allowed to take the service elevator all the way to the bottom, immediately. The attendant would hear none of that, saying,"Emergency? We hear that all the time from people who don't want to stand in line." So we got in line, hoping for a bit of a miracle that would get us back to the street quickly. Within hours of disembarking, we were on a plane, flying to Salt Lake City, Utah. Maybe there was something to the notion the Family Pasching had mentioned.
I've had fun remembering this adventure when I was just 22 years old. As I've re-read my writings, I'm reminded of a few things I've left out, like the ferry boat ride we took in the company of a tour group of youthful mandolin players. I thought I'd never forget the name of the song they played for hours, over and over, the only one they knew, without any break, but thankfully, I have forgotten. I wouldn't want that stuck in my head again!
And our lost luggage? Anyone curious about it and where it ended up?
I'll continue making notes. I may need to finish out a page in the book so the things I've forgotten to mention here may come in handy, there.
We learned some days or a couple of weeks after returning home that I was, indeed, pregnant. I've blogged about my entrance into motherhood, the first and second times but of course, once a person becomes a parent, has a traveling spouse, or gets into a few predicaments of her own, there are more stories to tell. So little time...so much to tell...It's all a part of who I was, just a sweet, young thing.
Austria, A Place to Sing, A Place to Dance
It was Sunday. Frank had been waiting with GREAT anticipation, for this part of the trip and the chance to see old friends. He found a pension in Dornbirn where we could stay. The owner even came to the station to pick up our bags. I wasn't feeling well. My husband thought it was exhaustion. He served me breakfast in bed before he left on foot to find the branch house. It wasn't until our sweet pension friend drove him around that Frank found where services were being held. He was just in time for priesthood meeting.
One of the members changed some money for us since we had only Swiss money. Frank said our lunch of schnitzel and mushrooms was delicious. Austria was known for good food, rich and substantial, a place where snacking was embraced and more like a meal and deserts were irresistible. I could not eat.
At the sacrament meeting, I didn't understand a word. I had tried to learn a little of the language before we left home but was pretty limited in what I could say--hello, goodbye, thank you--three or four words was about the extent of my repertoire The entire congregation totaled maybe 20 people. There was one deacon to pass the sacrament. A sister, baptized one week before, opened the meeting with prayer, one she had written, then read. Family Griells insisted we go home with them after the meeting. They called a taxi for us. They rode their bikes. The taxi stopped to pick up two other people, then went to the other side of town to let one of those out, and back to the branch area to let another one out, and finally, the driver took us where we'd asked to go. We whispered that he must have learned to drive in Italy! This family lived simply, was warm and friendly and luckily for me, they spoke some English!
Buildings looked a bit like candy land cottages plucked from the pages of a child's story book, with white, lacy, 'Gingerbread' TRIM and lots of flowers. Many of the girls wore Dirndls, boys wore Lederhosen. Some adults wore traditional, native dress. It was nice to be with regular people and off the tourist track.
By the time we arrived in Innsbruck, I was really sick. We found a hotel easily. Frank had recovered from our bout with food poisoning in Zurich, but I had not and was so glad to be off the train. Frank went to check on members for his brother, John, who had also served a mission in the area.
Breakfast the next morning, at a bar, was milk and semoles with shinken (rolls with prosciutto). Our walk around the city seemed proof enough to me that what I'd heard said must be true, that Innsbruck was the most beautiful spot in all of Austria, steeped in history with unique buildings and always when you looked up, there were those wondrous mountains, The Alps, all around. Even sick, it was easy to appreciate the beauty of it all. My husband's plan placed us in Wolfsberg, next, but a phone call telling him that the folks he wanted to see there weren't at home meant we'd go, instead, to St. Polten.
He telegraphed the Family Pasching that we were coming and we caught the next train. We passed through Salzburg--home of the "Sound of Music" story--and again said that this must surely be the MOST beautiful scenery we'd ever seen, as ski resorts, waterfalls, greenery everywhere, and farmers in their fields cutting hay by hand passed by our train windows. We changed trains somewhere along the line and instead of walking for what seemed like it would be miles to get to our first-class car, we had climbed on a second-class car to avoid that long walk. A strange looking fellow sat across from us and kept to himself for awhile, drinking his beer. Then he started showing signs of the alcohol, talking and rambling on to no one in particular. He got pretty wobbly and finally picked up the paper cup still half full of drink and tossed it out the window. The window was closed! The fellow sitting directly across really moved fast and didn't get much on him. The rest of us were not so lucky. We really STUNK the rest of the way.
Pasching's daughter, Marianne, met us at the station and had a taxi waiting. Sister Pasching hadn't expected us until Sunday so when we arrived early, on Tuesday, she was all involved in painting a room for us. Imagine, painting and rearranging a room in her home just for our visit of a few days! How wonderful it was to be in a clean, fresh room, away from the hotel and train smells. Locals rented garden plots in forested areas away from their homes. It was a relaxing time admiring the many vegetable, fruit, and flower varieties they were growing.
Somewhere in our travels, I had found a Reader Digest magazine printed in English and bought it. Now, as my husband visited with his friends and it got to be just too cumbersome to translate every conversation to English, I had something to read. I read it cover to cover many times! Sometimes, I tried to join the group and eat what was being served but in about 15 minutes, I had to excuse myself. That became a bit of a joke, though in a kind way, when someone seated 'round the table would check their watch, then nod, as I headed to the bathroom to throw up. There were also nodding heads and knowing smiles and questions directed at Frank. He translated, "They want to know if you're pregnant." Among the family's book collection, Frank found American Short Stories, so one evening, he READ to me. It was no fun to be sick so far away from home. It was somehow comforting, and sweet to have him read to me. By Friday, I was spending most of my time in bed. Frank took our laundry to a laundromat, a new experience for him! He said the women looked at him and chuckled but he got the job done.
Paschings did not have running water at home. At the bath house--my FIRST experience of this kind--you paid your money, stepped into a stall and soaped up before turning on the water, then rinsed down, quickly, because the water was on a timed meter. Having a shower felt so refreshing that I went through the whole process of soaping up and rinsing off a second time, fortunately beating the clock before my water turned off!
Frank had been close to this family so there was some catching up for him to do. Marianne, a new bride of one month, married a man talented in working with wood. A proud Sister Pasching showed us many of his finished projects. She then moved on to show us the wardrobe Marianne--a skilled seamstress--had created. All of it. The slide show came next, of the wedding, trips to Yugoslavia and Salzburg. They still had the projector Frank had given the family before he left the area. From my notes, "Frank feels at home here; Even eats all the strange food and acts like he likes it!"
Sister Pasching and I walked to Sunday School, mostly in silence, unable to communicate with each other in words but with hand gestures and facial expressions, we both agreed that the wind was making a mess of our hair. It was a different experience sitting through the meeting, not knowing what was being said. While I relaxed, Frank spent his afternoon biking all over, seeing old friends. He was asked to speak at the evening Sacrament meeting and did very well, by the reactions of the congregation. He sounded good to me, too, when I got the translation. It was a great time for him and for the members, seeing each other again.
It was a forty-minute train ride to Vienna to stay with Sister Hasiebers. Another wild taxi ride--did all cabbies learn their craft at the same driving school--then a hike up what must have been three miles of stairs to reach her apartment. Frank sure got his exercise living there, as a missionary. She fixed one of his favorites, Marillenknoedel, remembering how much he loved those apricot dumplings, rolled in fine bread crumbs, drizzled with melted butter and sprinkled with sugar. Then, giving us her key, she was off to stay with her sister, giving up her apartment to us for however long we could stay in Vienna!
We spent the late afternoon into evening in downtown. I fell immediately and thoroughly in LOVE with Wien. I'd heard about the city not only from my husband but also, from his Czech mother, Jane, whose family had fled to Vienna from Czechoslovakia in her youth. We walked through the gardens of the old winter palace, went to the famous Vienna Opera House, St. Steven's Cathedral, the Parliament building, the Rathaus and stayed a bit longer at The Votive Church where Frank's grandparents--Jane's parents--had been married. We circled the entire old city, following the Ring. Stadtpark was all lit up with tiny, twinkling white lights, come evening, as was the statue to honor Strauss. An orchestra was set up in the park, playing his famous waltzes. People, locals and tourists, stopped to listen. Some took a few waltz steps and some twirls before moving on. It was almost impossible not to do so, the mood captivating and romantic. Close by, a fountain flowed, forming different patterns, stirring occasional squawks from floating ducks when the water changed directions, having ruffled a few feathers. Along the Ring, a weather tower told the time for cities all over the world, and also, the temperatures and date--day, month, year--with the weather forecast, a rundown of what to wear, plus distances to those cities from the location of the tower. It was fascinating!
Schonbrunn, a 1,441 roomed palace, once the summer residence of Austrian Royalty, was a place of meticulously tended gardens, fountains, and paths lined in trees with statues placed among trees cut out and sculpted to fit the figures, as an alcove would be. While I did make it all the way through the lengthy tour of the inside of that spectacular palace, as elaborate, ornate, fabulous and as much a must-see as one can imagine, when I ran out of waste receptacles and bathrooms available to the public, I spent time retreating to the grounds and those trees where I could throw up somewhat discretely, or so I hoped. We also walked through the adjoining zoo--the world's oldest--then found American food but no baked potato. I'd had dreams about baked potatoes, sure that if I could find one and eat it, my constant nausea would be cured. So far, I hadn't been blessed to find a baked potato anywhere. Heating an oven to bake was too expensive for most households. It was customary to visit a corner bakery, daily, for baked goods. But those bakers didn't bake potatoes in their ovens, either.
The Rathaus concert was thrilling. To hear the Vienna Philharmonic--one of the best in the world--playing within the open air square of the building was engaging...captivating. I could see the sky but the surrounding walls made for perfect acoustics. To be in Vienna, the City of MUSIC, where prodigies like Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, Schubert, Brahms and others had once studied, was sublime. I thought, if we returned to Europe one day, as Frank had said we would, surely we would return to Vienna.
When my husband lived in Austria, he could not afford the expense of taking photos. Returning, he was anxious to capture as much as possible on film. One night, he left me sitting on a bench near the Ring while he rode all the way around, jumping off and on the train or tram, here and there, capturing the beauty of the city lit up at night. An old fellow sat down on the same bench. He spoke a few words of English. After sitting for a time, he asked me if I was alone. When I said yes, he scolded a bit, saying that one so young as I, should not be sitting there alone. I don't think he intended to sit more than a short time to rest, but when the husband I'd told him would be along any minute didn't show up, the clock now ticking past midnight, this old fellow did not move from his spot on the bench. More than once, he shook his head a bit, and quietly repeated what he'd said. I don't remember giving much thought to sitting there alone, late at night or being nervous about being there, so taken was I by the lights, the sounds, everything about the city. I had felt much better that day but didn't have energy enough to keep up with Frank in his quest for night photos. The old gentleman continued to sit with me until, at last, my husband returned. Perhaps a guardian angel? Certainly an earthly ANGEL, on that night, bless his heart.
Catching trains, again, this time to Zeltweg, we made the change needed in order to go to Wolfsberg. This train ride was one-of-a-kind, slow moving and with no uniformed officials, just a very laid back engineer in the drivers seat and a conductor, both dressed in everyday sport clothes, the conductor wearing a red hat. The train stopped at every cow crossing. If the engineer needed a drink of water or saw someone along the way to chat with, the train stopped and he got off to do just that. The guy in the red hat would sometimes walk to the front end of the train and find the driver's seat empty, then leave the train, himself, to find the engineer. At one point, the engineer asked his passengers if anyone would like to drive the train!
Frank had lived with the Family Egger, described by my husband as typically Austrian and very nice. They were very kind to us during our brief stay with them. The grandfather of the household fretted and showed concern for me. I was still having little luck keeping much food down. (At journey's end, I'd lost about 20 lbs.)
We were nearing the end of our journey and back on a train, returning to Paris. We'd been traveling for those final few days with nothing but the clothes we were wearing--washed out and hung to dry most every night, slept in, on occasion--and a toothbrush. I had on a sage green, checked cotton, short-sleeve, a-line-skirted dress and Frank, a simple, short-sleeved, cotton shirt and long, casual pants. The new shoes we started out with now had holes in the toes and soles. I don't remember but I assume Frank was clean-shaven. He hadn't yet begun his mustache-beard phase, I don't think, but without a hair cut in more than two months, both of us were looking pretty SHAGGY. [I'm wondering why I hadn't taken a pair of scissors and a razor with me, since I cut his hair, on a regular basis at home and could have done my own, as well.] To make the last days of our travel through Austria a little easier, first, we bought the largest bar of chocolate I'd ever seen--filled the entire length and width of one suitcase--for Bill, Frank's dad and a large tube or two of Senf, a mustard for Jane, something she loved and missed having in the States, and added those gifts to one of the suitcases. Then we checked our luggage at a train station, assured that our bags would be at the dock at LeHarve, in France, when we arrived.
One of the members changed some money for us since we had only Swiss money. Frank said our lunch of schnitzel and mushrooms was delicious. Austria was known for good food, rich and substantial, a place where snacking was embraced and more like a meal and deserts were irresistible. I could not eat.
At the sacrament meeting, I didn't understand a word. I had tried to learn a little of the language before we left home but was pretty limited in what I could say--hello, goodbye, thank you--three or four words was about the extent of my repertoire The entire congregation totaled maybe 20 people. There was one deacon to pass the sacrament. A sister, baptized one week before, opened the meeting with prayer, one she had written, then read. Family Griells insisted we go home with them after the meeting. They called a taxi for us. They rode their bikes. The taxi stopped to pick up two other people, then went to the other side of town to let one of those out, and back to the branch area to let another one out, and finally, the driver took us where we'd asked to go. We whispered that he must have learned to drive in Italy! This family lived simply, was warm and friendly and luckily for me, they spoke some English!
Buildings looked a bit like candy land cottages plucked from the pages of a child's story book, with white, lacy, 'Gingerbread' TRIM and lots of flowers. Many of the girls wore Dirndls, boys wore Lederhosen. Some adults wore traditional, native dress. It was nice to be with regular people and off the tourist track.
By the time we arrived in Innsbruck, I was really sick. We found a hotel easily. Frank had recovered from our bout with food poisoning in Zurich, but I had not and was so glad to be off the train. Frank went to check on members for his brother, John, who had also served a mission in the area.
Breakfast the next morning, at a bar, was milk and semoles with shinken (rolls with prosciutto). Our walk around the city seemed proof enough to me that what I'd heard said must be true, that Innsbruck was the most beautiful spot in all of Austria, steeped in history with unique buildings and always when you looked up, there were those wondrous mountains, The Alps, all around. Even sick, it was easy to appreciate the beauty of it all. My husband's plan placed us in Wolfsberg, next, but a phone call telling him that the folks he wanted to see there weren't at home meant we'd go, instead, to St. Polten.
He telegraphed the Family Pasching that we were coming and we caught the next train. We passed through Salzburg--home of the "Sound of Music" story--and again said that this must surely be the MOST beautiful scenery we'd ever seen, as ski resorts, waterfalls, greenery everywhere, and farmers in their fields cutting hay by hand passed by our train windows. We changed trains somewhere along the line and instead of walking for what seemed like it would be miles to get to our first-class car, we had climbed on a second-class car to avoid that long walk. A strange looking fellow sat across from us and kept to himself for awhile, drinking his beer. Then he started showing signs of the alcohol, talking and rambling on to no one in particular. He got pretty wobbly and finally picked up the paper cup still half full of drink and tossed it out the window. The window was closed! The fellow sitting directly across really moved fast and didn't get much on him. The rest of us were not so lucky. We really STUNK the rest of the way.
Pasching's daughter, Marianne, met us at the station and had a taxi waiting. Sister Pasching hadn't expected us until Sunday so when we arrived early, on Tuesday, she was all involved in painting a room for us. Imagine, painting and rearranging a room in her home just for our visit of a few days! How wonderful it was to be in a clean, fresh room, away from the hotel and train smells. Locals rented garden plots in forested areas away from their homes. It was a relaxing time admiring the many vegetable, fruit, and flower varieties they were growing.
Somewhere in our travels, I had found a Reader Digest magazine printed in English and bought it. Now, as my husband visited with his friends and it got to be just too cumbersome to translate every conversation to English, I had something to read. I read it cover to cover many times! Sometimes, I tried to join the group and eat what was being served but in about 15 minutes, I had to excuse myself. That became a bit of a joke, though in a kind way, when someone seated 'round the table would check their watch, then nod, as I headed to the bathroom to throw up. There were also nodding heads and knowing smiles and questions directed at Frank. He translated, "They want to know if you're pregnant." Among the family's book collection, Frank found American Short Stories, so one evening, he READ to me. It was no fun to be sick so far away from home. It was somehow comforting, and sweet to have him read to me. By Friday, I was spending most of my time in bed. Frank took our laundry to a laundromat, a new experience for him! He said the women looked at him and chuckled but he got the job done.
Paschings did not have running water at home. At the bath house--my FIRST experience of this kind--you paid your money, stepped into a stall and soaped up before turning on the water, then rinsed down, quickly, because the water was on a timed meter. Having a shower felt so refreshing that I went through the whole process of soaping up and rinsing off a second time, fortunately beating the clock before my water turned off!
Frank had been close to this family so there was some catching up for him to do. Marianne, a new bride of one month, married a man talented in working with wood. A proud Sister Pasching showed us many of his finished projects. She then moved on to show us the wardrobe Marianne--a skilled seamstress--had created. All of it. The slide show came next, of the wedding, trips to Yugoslavia and Salzburg. They still had the projector Frank had given the family before he left the area. From my notes, "Frank feels at home here; Even eats all the strange food and acts like he likes it!"
Sister Pasching and I walked to Sunday School, mostly in silence, unable to communicate with each other in words but with hand gestures and facial expressions, we both agreed that the wind was making a mess of our hair. It was a different experience sitting through the meeting, not knowing what was being said. While I relaxed, Frank spent his afternoon biking all over, seeing old friends. He was asked to speak at the evening Sacrament meeting and did very well, by the reactions of the congregation. He sounded good to me, too, when I got the translation. It was a great time for him and for the members, seeing each other again.
It was a forty-minute train ride to Vienna to stay with Sister Hasiebers. Another wild taxi ride--did all cabbies learn their craft at the same driving school--then a hike up what must have been three miles of stairs to reach her apartment. Frank sure got his exercise living there, as a missionary. She fixed one of his favorites, Marillenknoedel, remembering how much he loved those apricot dumplings, rolled in fine bread crumbs, drizzled with melted butter and sprinkled with sugar. Then, giving us her key, she was off to stay with her sister, giving up her apartment to us for however long we could stay in Vienna!
We spent the late afternoon into evening in downtown. I fell immediately and thoroughly in LOVE with Wien. I'd heard about the city not only from my husband but also, from his Czech mother, Jane, whose family had fled to Vienna from Czechoslovakia in her youth. We walked through the gardens of the old winter palace, went to the famous Vienna Opera House, St. Steven's Cathedral, the Parliament building, the Rathaus and stayed a bit longer at The Votive Church where Frank's grandparents--Jane's parents--had been married. We circled the entire old city, following the Ring. Stadtpark was all lit up with tiny, twinkling white lights, come evening, as was the statue to honor Strauss. An orchestra was set up in the park, playing his famous waltzes. People, locals and tourists, stopped to listen. Some took a few waltz steps and some twirls before moving on. It was almost impossible not to do so, the mood captivating and romantic. Close by, a fountain flowed, forming different patterns, stirring occasional squawks from floating ducks when the water changed directions, having ruffled a few feathers. Along the Ring, a weather tower told the time for cities all over the world, and also, the temperatures and date--day, month, year--with the weather forecast, a rundown of what to wear, plus distances to those cities from the location of the tower. It was fascinating!
Schonbrunn, a 1,441 roomed palace, once the summer residence of Austrian Royalty, was a place of meticulously tended gardens, fountains, and paths lined in trees with statues placed among trees cut out and sculpted to fit the figures, as an alcove would be. While I did make it all the way through the lengthy tour of the inside of that spectacular palace, as elaborate, ornate, fabulous and as much a must-see as one can imagine, when I ran out of waste receptacles and bathrooms available to the public, I spent time retreating to the grounds and those trees where I could throw up somewhat discretely, or so I hoped. We also walked through the adjoining zoo--the world's oldest--then found American food but no baked potato. I'd had dreams about baked potatoes, sure that if I could find one and eat it, my constant nausea would be cured. So far, I hadn't been blessed to find a baked potato anywhere. Heating an oven to bake was too expensive for most households. It was customary to visit a corner bakery, daily, for baked goods. But those bakers didn't bake potatoes in their ovens, either.
The Rathaus concert was thrilling. To hear the Vienna Philharmonic--one of the best in the world--playing within the open air square of the building was engaging...captivating. I could see the sky but the surrounding walls made for perfect acoustics. To be in Vienna, the City of MUSIC, where prodigies like Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, Schubert, Brahms and others had once studied, was sublime. I thought, if we returned to Europe one day, as Frank had said we would, surely we would return to Vienna.
When my husband lived in Austria, he could not afford the expense of taking photos. Returning, he was anxious to capture as much as possible on film. One night, he left me sitting on a bench near the Ring while he rode all the way around, jumping off and on the train or tram, here and there, capturing the beauty of the city lit up at night. An old fellow sat down on the same bench. He spoke a few words of English. After sitting for a time, he asked me if I was alone. When I said yes, he scolded a bit, saying that one so young as I, should not be sitting there alone. I don't think he intended to sit more than a short time to rest, but when the husband I'd told him would be along any minute didn't show up, the clock now ticking past midnight, this old fellow did not move from his spot on the bench. More than once, he shook his head a bit, and quietly repeated what he'd said. I don't remember giving much thought to sitting there alone, late at night or being nervous about being there, so taken was I by the lights, the sounds, everything about the city. I had felt much better that day but didn't have energy enough to keep up with Frank in his quest for night photos. The old gentleman continued to sit with me until, at last, my husband returned. Perhaps a guardian angel? Certainly an earthly ANGEL, on that night, bless his heart.
Catching trains, again, this time to Zeltweg, we made the change needed in order to go to Wolfsberg. This train ride was one-of-a-kind, slow moving and with no uniformed officials, just a very laid back engineer in the drivers seat and a conductor, both dressed in everyday sport clothes, the conductor wearing a red hat. The train stopped at every cow crossing. If the engineer needed a drink of water or saw someone along the way to chat with, the train stopped and he got off to do just that. The guy in the red hat would sometimes walk to the front end of the train and find the driver's seat empty, then leave the train, himself, to find the engineer. At one point, the engineer asked his passengers if anyone would like to drive the train!
Frank had lived with the Family Egger, described by my husband as typically Austrian and very nice. They were very kind to us during our brief stay with them. The grandfather of the household fretted and showed concern for me. I was still having little luck keeping much food down. (At journey's end, I'd lost about 20 lbs.)
We were nearing the end of our journey and back on a train, returning to Paris. We'd been traveling for those final few days with nothing but the clothes we were wearing--washed out and hung to dry most every night, slept in, on occasion--and a toothbrush. I had on a sage green, checked cotton, short-sleeve, a-line-skirted dress and Frank, a simple, short-sleeved, cotton shirt and long, casual pants. The new shoes we started out with now had holes in the toes and soles. I don't remember but I assume Frank was clean-shaven. He hadn't yet begun his mustache-beard phase, I don't think, but without a hair cut in more than two months, both of us were looking pretty SHAGGY. [I'm wondering why I hadn't taken a pair of scissors and a razor with me, since I cut his hair, on a regular basis at home and could have done my own, as well.] To make the last days of our travel through Austria a little easier, first, we bought the largest bar of chocolate I'd ever seen--filled the entire length and width of one suitcase--for Bill, Frank's dad and a large tube or two of Senf, a mustard for Jane, something she loved and missed having in the States, and added those gifts to one of the suitcases. Then we checked our luggage at a train station, assured that our bags would be at the dock at LeHarve, in France, when we arrived.
Monday, June 24, 2013
Almost to Austria
Stepping off the train in Florence, Italy, the heat hit me right in the face! The day was a SCORCHER! Then, a look around and it seemed that I'd stepped into a pulchritudinous place, like an animated art gallery. Aged, yes, everything patinaed and tarnished, representing centuries of history. In my young mind, marble was a stone limited in its use and then only by the wealthy but in Florence, marble was 'common' and in use everywhere, without a show of any particular grandeur. There were churches on every corner. We used those to our advantage, tomb-like as they appeared, stepping in and out of them to cool ourselves, as we went along. That's how we found "Moses" in a corner of a corridor, facing a wall, a marvelous work of art. This was not Michelangelo's famous "Moses" with horns but a piece meticulously carved in brown marble. It was, too, a famous piece. I'd seen pictures of it. And there it was, just hanging out in a hallway, taking a break from display. I was so excited! I wondered if the residents of Florence recognized how grand a place this was and how awed young adults like us, were by it or if they found everything quite ordinary like, "Yeah, ... pass by that on my way to work every morning."
The mosaic's were impressive and used abundantly on facades, walls, corridors, and in jewelry. I bought a couple of small pins. Replicas of grand statues once there, now lined the city square. Seeing the original Michelangelo masterpiece, "David", has become more wondrous in my mind, with time, as has the memory of seeing the Venus De Milo, Mona Lisa and other remarkable works of art in Amsterdam museums and in Paris, the Louvre, itself, quite a work of art. Beyond the lifelike quality of "David", a famous and much talked about sculpture on display at The Galleria dell' Accademia in Florence, I remember how his eyes appeared to follow me as I moved about the room. I was a bit taken back--sweet young thing that I was in 1967--having walked down a long hallway to his place of honor, to then be standing in front of a larger than life nude male, his every detail on full display. I'd been to Oslo's Vigeland Sculpture Park filled with 200 statues of men, women and children--"A Study of Humanity", the artist called it--ALL naked and I'd been to the Follies in Paris, for heaven's sake, but the art world's focus and fascination with nudes still made me a little uncomfortable. Once I got past the initial, "Oh, my!", I began to appreciate that the stone appeared unbelievably soft and subtle, lifelike to the point that I thought he [David] would take a breath at any moment.
Damage from recent flooding was visible but also, there was evidence of attempts to restore and rebuild. One example of this could be seen on an unusual bridge where homes were built all along the outside edge and on top of the structure, and a variety of shops lined the inside of the bridge.
Another crowded train ride, thru Bologna, we thought as we were en route to a resort town to rest. Just too hot, Italians too many, our patience too thin so we got off the train in Bologna. It worked out, with another glorious and welcome shower, a real bed, a pizza picnic in a park and time to talk about and sketch plans for our dream home, back in the States. There were two kinds of parks in Italy, the nice ones with sculptured gardens and lush, green grass that the public wasn't allowed to walk on, and the kind we were in, where grass was hit or miss--mostly miss--replaced by profuse weeds, lots of dust and dirt and cement plus the ever present bunch of dirty kids, begging for money. With time to kill and an ice cream cone came the challenge, "Can you make it last for 30 minutes?"
Something I didn't know, though I had given consideration to dress customs while sewing my travel wardrobe, was that women native to Bologna, did not wear pants. They STARED at my culottes. When I changed to Bermuda shorts because of the intense heat, those got even more attention, so much that my husband insisted I change into something else.
We caught a 3:00 am train to Rome and found the station there, still standing. It was in flames the last time we'd been there. Our bags had escaped the flames and had been checked at an air terminal while we continued traveling. Now, we discovered that terminal policy required them to keep bags for 24 HOURS, only. We'd been gone for more than two days! Luckily, our baggage had not yet been auctioned off. Relieved, we took a long walk around the city, past the Roman Forum, the Colosseum, lots of marble, lots of ruins. They seemed to be everywhere. This was my husband's kind of place!
The effect of travel was beginning to show. Back in our hotel room by early afternoon, we slept soundly for several hours, waking just in time to join a night tour of the city. White marble pillars of ruins were spectacular, lit up against a night sky. The Trevi Fountain at night? That was really something to see! I learned that the city had 350 fountains. I was sure we'd seen them all! And from the hill tops, even at night, you couldn't miss St. Peter's Square and the Vatican, all lit up.
Inside St. Peter's church, one of the four original Michelangelo Pieta's was made available for viewing. His work was [is] hard to describe. Like his statute of David, the Pieta', appeared eerily real, having an intelligent look of expression, the skin warm and clothing draped and soft though cut in stone, the figures seeming about to take another breath. It had been said of Michelangelo's work that he was the first to make a live body look alive and a dead one look dead. His work left a lasting impression on me.
At St. Peter's square, we splurged on a big lunch at a good restaurant. Even at the better eating places, flies were always served as your first course. Vatican City looked dead between noon and 4:00 o'clock, with everything pretty much closed down. Having now experienced midday heat that seemed to bring the flies out everywhere, in everything, and those crazy Italians who got so excited about even the simplest things, hollering and shaking fists, we could see why.
Wayne Ferraday and his companion met us on the streets of Rome. Wayne was Judy South's brother. Judy was married to Frank's brother, John. They invited us to try an authentic meal at a place recommended by their landlady. The working girls on the streets were not the least bit put off by my presence. They were after the three good looking men I was walking with and my, oh my, were they ever persistent! I ordered veal Parmesan, then watched the cook scrape green MOLD from the slab of meat hanging nearby and cut a hunk off. That was what was coming to me on a plate.
In the early morning, Frank was back on the streets, taking pictures. I stayed in to do my hair. It had been weeks since I'd had a cut or color--a habit I'd picked up in beauty school--but peroxide in Rome wasn't the same as peroxide in Salt Lake City, evidently. When Frank returned, he found a stranger in our room, a woman with much DARKER hair and not a color he'd ever seen before! On his walk, he had stopped by the American Embassy, as he had done all along the way as we traveled. Sending a letter to a US Embassy was the only way for family to reach us. The letter on that day bore bad news. Uncle Paul had been killed in a car accident. He had come to the airport to say goodbye and wish us well on the day of our departure that last day of May. Now, just a week into July, we were shocked and saddened by the news of his death. We checked out of the hotel, had lunch and wrote a few postcards to pass the time but found it near impossible to move on with our day. We so wanted to give Aunt Valois a big hug. By evening, we'd walked another 100 miles or so, taking more pictures, but stopped to throw coins in the Trevi Fountain.
To Switzerland by night train, we awoke to high rising mountains, pines, chalet's, their window boxes filled with flowers, beauty everywhere. Berne was a place to love. Our stop was too brief. We didn't know we'd be back and soon. On to Zollikofon. Joy Urry's parents were president and matron of the temple there. Joy was the wife of our Haven Ward bishop back home in South Salt Lake. The site was spectacular with flowers, a small forest to one side and mountains rising up all around the temple grounds. Swiss chocolate lived up to its reputation for being the BEST! Brother Sommer found us a place to stay, near the temple. Fresher, cleaner, and more rested, we joined members on the grounds in the evening. A large group from Denmark who had come to go through the temple were meeting with local members in Bern. It was a long drive back to Bern by car but the most picturesque of anything we'd seen. Breathtaking, really. The campground was more of the same with majestic mountains, trees, a river running by and lush meadow grass. As we stood there among the friendly crowd, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and there stood Elmo Keller from Preston, Idaho. He and his wife were long-time friends of my brother, Marion. They hadn't seen me since I was a child so I was amazed that they recognized me.
What about the Alp horns? I remember hearing them played. And what a sight they were, stretched out across the grass just about forever. Without any mention of them in the journal notes, I have to rely on memory. I feel sure it was at this same event that we saw and heard those.
One of the fathers in the crowd, a clown by profession, gave us a little show with his three small children, all dressed as clowns. A professional group of yodelers in native dress, performed. Without warning, the rain came down in sheets. Our evening outdoors cut short and in our place of lodging for the evening, we met a bishop from Portland, Oregon who had a son serving a mission in Austria. He and Frank had great conversation. Small world, isn't it?
Walking through the old city of Bern was a bit like walking through a child's story book, with painted scenes on many buildings, big clock towers with carved or sculpted figures that performed to tell the time, filled flower boxes everywhere--bright, red geraniums predominated--and everything so clean, both the old and the new parts of the city. The bear pits in the center square gave the town its name. It was so good to be back in milk country that we each ordered two tall, cold glasses and drank them down right away!
The train to Zurich was the best by far of any--clean, plush and comfy--with TALL windows, allowing us to drink in the awe-inspiring views of a country that was prospering, showed no signs of war, whose architecture of homes was marvelous and very Swiss, almost fairy-tale-like, and always, window boxes filled with flowers. The rains came down as we arrived. We walked the streets in the rain, looking for a place to sleep for the night. In such a beautiful place, situated on a very large lake filled with white swans and sail boats, high in the mountains, we didn't mind getting soaked. But watch out for the food specialty there, Fondue. We regretted our decision to try it. We were both sick the next day but took a train to Austria, changed trains at Bregang, going on to Dornbirn, still climbing higher into the mountains. The scenery was almost too majestic and marvelous to be believed. My husband said he thought I needed a camera of my own to dedicate to pictures of all the scenery. That comment could have been driven by the fact that I was on the move the entire ride, pointing and ooohing and awwwing from any window within my sight, and pestering him to take pictures of all of it. I know...how many shots did I need of the same mountain, really!
The mosaic's were impressive and used abundantly on facades, walls, corridors, and in jewelry. I bought a couple of small pins. Replicas of grand statues once there, now lined the city square. Seeing the original Michelangelo masterpiece, "David", has become more wondrous in my mind, with time, as has the memory of seeing the Venus De Milo, Mona Lisa and other remarkable works of art in Amsterdam museums and in Paris, the Louvre, itself, quite a work of art. Beyond the lifelike quality of "David", a famous and much talked about sculpture on display at The Galleria dell' Accademia in Florence, I remember how his eyes appeared to follow me as I moved about the room. I was a bit taken back--sweet young thing that I was in 1967--having walked down a long hallway to his place of honor, to then be standing in front of a larger than life nude male, his every detail on full display. I'd been to Oslo's Vigeland Sculpture Park filled with 200 statues of men, women and children--"A Study of Humanity", the artist called it--ALL naked and I'd been to the Follies in Paris, for heaven's sake, but the art world's focus and fascination with nudes still made me a little uncomfortable. Once I got past the initial, "Oh, my!", I began to appreciate that the stone appeared unbelievably soft and subtle, lifelike to the point that I thought he [David] would take a breath at any moment.
Damage from recent flooding was visible but also, there was evidence of attempts to restore and rebuild. One example of this could be seen on an unusual bridge where homes were built all along the outside edge and on top of the structure, and a variety of shops lined the inside of the bridge.
Another crowded train ride, thru Bologna, we thought as we were en route to a resort town to rest. Just too hot, Italians too many, our patience too thin so we got off the train in Bologna. It worked out, with another glorious and welcome shower, a real bed, a pizza picnic in a park and time to talk about and sketch plans for our dream home, back in the States. There were two kinds of parks in Italy, the nice ones with sculptured gardens and lush, green grass that the public wasn't allowed to walk on, and the kind we were in, where grass was hit or miss--mostly miss--replaced by profuse weeds, lots of dust and dirt and cement plus the ever present bunch of dirty kids, begging for money. With time to kill and an ice cream cone came the challenge, "Can you make it last for 30 minutes?"
Something I didn't know, though I had given consideration to dress customs while sewing my travel wardrobe, was that women native to Bologna, did not wear pants. They STARED at my culottes. When I changed to Bermuda shorts because of the intense heat, those got even more attention, so much that my husband insisted I change into something else.
We caught a 3:00 am train to Rome and found the station there, still standing. It was in flames the last time we'd been there. Our bags had escaped the flames and had been checked at an air terminal while we continued traveling. Now, we discovered that terminal policy required them to keep bags for 24 HOURS, only. We'd been gone for more than two days! Luckily, our baggage had not yet been auctioned off. Relieved, we took a long walk around the city, past the Roman Forum, the Colosseum, lots of marble, lots of ruins. They seemed to be everywhere. This was my husband's kind of place!
The effect of travel was beginning to show. Back in our hotel room by early afternoon, we slept soundly for several hours, waking just in time to join a night tour of the city. White marble pillars of ruins were spectacular, lit up against a night sky. The Trevi Fountain at night? That was really something to see! I learned that the city had 350 fountains. I was sure we'd seen them all! And from the hill tops, even at night, you couldn't miss St. Peter's Square and the Vatican, all lit up.
Inside St. Peter's church, one of the four original Michelangelo Pieta's was made available for viewing. His work was [is] hard to describe. Like his statute of David, the Pieta', appeared eerily real, having an intelligent look of expression, the skin warm and clothing draped and soft though cut in stone, the figures seeming about to take another breath. It had been said of Michelangelo's work that he was the first to make a live body look alive and a dead one look dead. His work left a lasting impression on me.
At St. Peter's square, we splurged on a big lunch at a good restaurant. Even at the better eating places, flies were always served as your first course. Vatican City looked dead between noon and 4:00 o'clock, with everything pretty much closed down. Having now experienced midday heat that seemed to bring the flies out everywhere, in everything, and those crazy Italians who got so excited about even the simplest things, hollering and shaking fists, we could see why.
Wayne Ferraday and his companion met us on the streets of Rome. Wayne was Judy South's brother. Judy was married to Frank's brother, John. They invited us to try an authentic meal at a place recommended by their landlady. The working girls on the streets were not the least bit put off by my presence. They were after the three good looking men I was walking with and my, oh my, were they ever persistent! I ordered veal Parmesan, then watched the cook scrape green MOLD from the slab of meat hanging nearby and cut a hunk off. That was what was coming to me on a plate.
In the early morning, Frank was back on the streets, taking pictures. I stayed in to do my hair. It had been weeks since I'd had a cut or color--a habit I'd picked up in beauty school--but peroxide in Rome wasn't the same as peroxide in Salt Lake City, evidently. When Frank returned, he found a stranger in our room, a woman with much DARKER hair and not a color he'd ever seen before! On his walk, he had stopped by the American Embassy, as he had done all along the way as we traveled. Sending a letter to a US Embassy was the only way for family to reach us. The letter on that day bore bad news. Uncle Paul had been killed in a car accident. He had come to the airport to say goodbye and wish us well on the day of our departure that last day of May. Now, just a week into July, we were shocked and saddened by the news of his death. We checked out of the hotel, had lunch and wrote a few postcards to pass the time but found it near impossible to move on with our day. We so wanted to give Aunt Valois a big hug. By evening, we'd walked another 100 miles or so, taking more pictures, but stopped to throw coins in the Trevi Fountain.
To Switzerland by night train, we awoke to high rising mountains, pines, chalet's, their window boxes filled with flowers, beauty everywhere. Berne was a place to love. Our stop was too brief. We didn't know we'd be back and soon. On to Zollikofon. Joy Urry's parents were president and matron of the temple there. Joy was the wife of our Haven Ward bishop back home in South Salt Lake. The site was spectacular with flowers, a small forest to one side and mountains rising up all around the temple grounds. Swiss chocolate lived up to its reputation for being the BEST! Brother Sommer found us a place to stay, near the temple. Fresher, cleaner, and more rested, we joined members on the grounds in the evening. A large group from Denmark who had come to go through the temple were meeting with local members in Bern. It was a long drive back to Bern by car but the most picturesque of anything we'd seen. Breathtaking, really. The campground was more of the same with majestic mountains, trees, a river running by and lush meadow grass. As we stood there among the friendly crowd, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and there stood Elmo Keller from Preston, Idaho. He and his wife were long-time friends of my brother, Marion. They hadn't seen me since I was a child so I was amazed that they recognized me.
What about the Alp horns? I remember hearing them played. And what a sight they were, stretched out across the grass just about forever. Without any mention of them in the journal notes, I have to rely on memory. I feel sure it was at this same event that we saw and heard those.
One of the fathers in the crowd, a clown by profession, gave us a little show with his three small children, all dressed as clowns. A professional group of yodelers in native dress, performed. Without warning, the rain came down in sheets. Our evening outdoors cut short and in our place of lodging for the evening, we met a bishop from Portland, Oregon who had a son serving a mission in Austria. He and Frank had great conversation. Small world, isn't it?
Walking through the old city of Bern was a bit like walking through a child's story book, with painted scenes on many buildings, big clock towers with carved or sculpted figures that performed to tell the time, filled flower boxes everywhere--bright, red geraniums predominated--and everything so clean, both the old and the new parts of the city. The bear pits in the center square gave the town its name. It was so good to be back in milk country that we each ordered two tall, cold glasses and drank them down right away!
The train to Zurich was the best by far of any--clean, plush and comfy--with TALL windows, allowing us to drink in the awe-inspiring views of a country that was prospering, showed no signs of war, whose architecture of homes was marvelous and very Swiss, almost fairy-tale-like, and always, window boxes filled with flowers. The rains came down as we arrived. We walked the streets in the rain, looking for a place to sleep for the night. In such a beautiful place, situated on a very large lake filled with white swans and sail boats, high in the mountains, we didn't mind getting soaked. But watch out for the food specialty there, Fondue. We regretted our decision to try it. We were both sick the next day but took a train to Austria, changed trains at Bregang, going on to Dornbirn, still climbing higher into the mountains. The scenery was almost too majestic and marvelous to be believed. My husband said he thought I needed a camera of my own to dedicate to pictures of all the scenery. That comment could have been driven by the fact that I was on the move the entire ride, pointing and ooohing and awwwing from any window within my sight, and pestering him to take pictures of all of it. I know...how many shots did I need of the same mountain, really!
Saturday, June 22, 2013
If It's Sunday, This Must Be Sweden
Gotenburg, Sweden. Eurail passes allowed us to travel by train from here, in first class, non-smoking, glassed-in compartments with space enough to seat six, and as the only occupants, room enough for us to flip up the armrests and stretch out during our ride through some of Sweden's most beautiful countryside. This was my grandmother's homeland. We were on our way to Stockholm.
CHANGE was the name of the game on this trip. Changing languages, money systems, sleeping accommodations, food, and toilet facilities every few days, wax paper in England, no paper at all in the men's rooms at railway stations, according to the report I got. Just a wall of continuously running water. In Sweden, crepe paper. Basic needs. My travel journal notes mention basic needs, often.
We bought bread and cheese, and some milk at the station in Stockholm and found a hotel nearby. The woman who ran the place spoke no English but showed us to a large room. It was quite expensive but clean, with beds hard as boards, in fact that's what they were--slabs of wood--with almost no padding or bedding. "No wonder Swedes have such good posture!" Using thread from my sewing kit to slice the cheese, we ate a little, then huddled together in the unheated room, sharing one blanket. The wind was howling outside. This was summer in Sweden?
Next morning, we got a real view of the islands, riding to the top of a tower in a glass elevator. To get to where we wanted to be took us on an unplanned walking tour through street construction being done as part of the change to right-hand traffic. We were detoured along near impossible-to-traverse walkways, even walking under the water near bridge re-construction. You could reach the WATER in just about any direction. Steps at City Hall, built near a spot where sea, gulf, and lake met, led right down into the water. Despite the language barrier, we thought we got our request for milk and fish on a bun across just fine at a small "no English spoken here" market. It wasn't milk that we got and although we were both very thirsty, whatever it was, it tasted so bad we had to throw it away.
My brother, Keith, gave me the name of his former mission companion, who, at the time of our trip, was president of the Swedish mission. "Give him a call and say hello, from me." The president was not in his office but the branch president asked if we'd like to stay with members. We jumped at the chance. Per his instruction, we took a tram out of the city, not knowing where we were going or who we'd meet.
Herr Frohm, an elderly gentleman, was standing there on the station platform when we arrived, hands behind his back, shuffling his feet back and forth like a young school boy, with a bunch of carnations in his hands. In addition to his Swedish, he also spoke some Danish and a little German. His wife hugged us, warmly. She was a Dane who also spoke some Swedish. We followed them home and there, a Mr. Olsen whose office was next door, said he knew a little English and came over to translate. Turned out, he spoke very little English. A three-ringed circus of languages ensued, with Frohm and Olsen speaking mostly Swedish, Frohm and Frank attempting to communicate in German, a bit of Danish slipping in here and there, plus Frank's translation to English, for my benefit, of what he thought was being said. Herr Frohm understood that my father's cousin, Ake, lived in Stockholm so he began to work the phone, calling the branch president, the mission home, the Elders, my cousin and then he'd begin again, going through his call list, until arrangements had been made for us.
The Frohm's moved themselves to the back rooms of their home, made us comfortable in the front of the house and gave us a key to the front door, in response to that one, simple phone call from their branch president. We were complete strangers to them and their president! Mrs. Frohm kept a small table in our assigned space filled with food and drink. Anytime we looked as though we were not on the move, she would repeat the only English words she knew, "Egg n Bacone"? and bring more food to that table. They fussed and worried about us getting lost if we took 10 steps in any direction, though we were free to come and go as we pleased.
We had dinner with Ake and his wife, Lola, that evening. Ake was recovering from an illness that had robbed him of some of his English fluency so he spoke haltingly, asking us to correct his English and speak slowly. Their lovely apartment had a nice view overlooking a park. SUNSET at dusk was a beauty. He assured us that the wine he served before dinner was non-alcoholic. Having had no experience with wine of any kind or the service of such, I drank as soon as it was poured instead of waiting for the toast. And I continued drinking, as though sucking down a soda. Frank leaned over to whisper, "Don't gulp it down. Sip it!" How could I? There was only enough in those glasses for about one good swig, anyway, and I was thirsty!
We were served small, open faced sandwiches--raw fish, smoked beef, liver sausage, and cream cheese with peas and carrots--and tomato juice to drink. Then came Ox steak, dilled potatoes, salad and another drink of some kind. Dessert was rye crisp with Swiss cheese and pears. I would not have refused anything but I did swallow the raw fish quickly, without chewing. Yikes! Just not something I'd ever had before. I felt a bit squeamish about it but tried not to show that. Ake gave us a lesson in Swedish. We had a grand time. Then he and Lola rode the tram with us, all the way back to Frohm's. Our hosts were waiting up for us.
Venturing into town, we found the very narrow, cobblestone street leading into the old part of Stockholm with Swedish flags flying all along and lots of interesting shops to investigate. We took flowers home to Sister Frohm. She seemed thrilled! Our gesture, though a common custom for the area, we'd learned, brought on another round of hugs and kisses. Missionaries--one from Ogden, UT--had been invited for dinner. After the meal, we took the Tunnelbana to the branch house for MIA. All the young Swedes spoke English. We were taken on a tour of the ultra-modern building with its unusual steeple. I was asked to play the organ and give a critique of the instrument. It was different from anything I'd played on before but very nice, just like the building, itself. In addition to the Swedes, we met Germans, Finns, Norwegians and even a few Americans, there.
Ake and Lola took us on a bus tour of the city. We stopped for pastry at a beautiful roof garden cafe atop "NK", the largest department store in Stockholm at that time. We went home with them to have Swedish pancakes. Aw-w-w...I really was in Sweden! The only problem was that when we returned to Frohms, there was, on the table, a fresh torte--thin crepes stacked with Lingonberry Jam between each layer and we were expected to eat it all! I spent a good part of that night in the bathroom. Despite that experience, I still love, love, love Swedish pancakes!
Bro. Frohm wanted to go everywhere with us and like doting grandparents, he and Ake bought us postcards and ice cream wherever we went. Bro. Frohm took us to see a 16th Century Swedish war ship called, Vasa, that sank on its maiden voyage and had just been brought up from the ocean floor for a restoration attempt. That process was very interesting to see, the shell of a ship cradled and braced within a specially built platform, being misted and sprayed constantly to keep it from drying too quickly. Wooden walkways zig-zagged all around the structure, giving curious onlookers, like us, a view of history.
Apparently, the camera had malfunctioned, so we boarded a night train an hour or two before midnight one evening to make the 10-hour trip back to Norway to retake some pictures. Bright sunshine through train windows woke us by 2:00 am. Getting enough sleep in a part of the world where there was more daylight than nightlight was a challenge. We had flown into Oslo the first time we were there. Arriving by train and seeing everything from ground level was a whole new experience. We rode a cog tram to its last stop up the mountain, through some of the most beautiful scenery we had seen yet, then hiked higher to reach a ski lift that took us to an observation tower near the top of a mountain. We walked to a ski jump site. That was amazing even in summer. Kids were swimming in a nearby lake. It was wonderful to hear bird calls. The hot dogs were delicious, served with onions dried in some way and a very hot sauce. This day-trip back to Norway was so worth it!
Back in Stockholm, we went to Djergardon to see Skansen, an exercise in the preservation of houses, landscaping, costuming, skills and craftmanship from Swedish history. In the evening, we shared smorgbrod and soppa with Lola and Ake one last time, then returned to what had been our home away from home to say our goodbyes to the Frohms.
Traveling at night again, we awoke very early, finding ourselves on a ferry--the entire train car--heading towards Denmark. Lucky thing, since that's where we wanted to go! On shore, the car was connected to another train and we were off to Copenhagen. Almost everything in Stockholm had been expensive. I'd hoped to buy even a small piece of Royal Danish Porcelain, but like Stockholm, nearly everything was expensive in Copenhagen. Everything, except the pastry. Affordable and the best tasting thing of its kind I'd ever eaten, we lived on it the entire time we were there! Oh, you just had to ask. The answer is,"Yes", we both gained a bit of weight even though our infatuation with Danish pastry was brief.
Denmark was celebrating its 800th birthday! We joined the celebration, attending the parade, then visiting the "Little Mermaid", a "must see" if you are in Copenhagen. In that part of the harbor, there were beautiful gardens, and plush restaurants. The royal yacht was anchored across the way. If it was a sunny day, a carved figure of a girl on her bicycle appeared atop a weather tower. If it was rainy, she appeared with her umbrella. We said ,"Hello", to Hans Christian Anderson, took a look at the tower sculpture with dragons at the stock exchange, and found the Lutheran church, built of towers of bricks to resemble organ pipes. It was bright inside and inviting. So many religious structures we'd seen, so far, were tomb-like. Inside, there was a beautiful, pipe organ and the traditional model ship hanging from the ceiling. http://www.danishmuseum.org/fhgc/aoat/Viking_church_ship.pdf
Tivoli, another "must see", was an amusement park with rides and carnival acts, a live orchestra playing, a ballet being performed, and lots of gambling tables in full operation. [I didn't know then that I'd end up living stateside in a place known for its gambling casinos.] A young boy's marching band dressed much like the Royal Palace guards, came through the grounds, winding along paths, playing as they went by. Enjoying the park, we barely made our train connection. Crossing another span of water by ferry, we stretched out to catch some much needed Z's. A little after midnight, we were awakened and told we must change cars. This meant picking our way down train tracks, half asleep. Once we were aboard the new car, several conductors passed through at least a dozen times, checking passports and tickets. It was a pretty sleepless night.
So, ... what day was it? We had bypassed Brussels and the view from the train now was of flat land, few trees, no pines, thatched roofs and windmills. This must be Amsterdam. Closer to the city, it appeared that every house had what looked like a TV antenna attached. Entering our hotel required pulling a rope while standing on the third step from the bottom to unlatch the door. [Did I say earlier that hotels were boring? Seemed a bit complicated at first but this was just plain, old fun!] Our room was on the third floor, up narrow stairs. Everyone shared ONE bathroom, two flights down. I think it was here that the toilet tank was affixed to the wall high above the throne, literally a throne, with the antique-looking appliance bolted to a platform maybe a foot or so off the floor.
The entire city was built on wooden piles. A cruise through the canals informed us about the land of Amsterdam, too soft to support buildings, and what little there was of it was made possible only by constant pumping. Buildings were decorated, every one with a different facade. Windows on the "ground" level were large. The house owner lived there. Windows got smaller on the next level and so on. They were quite small at the top floor, where the servants of the household lived.
We learned quickly to dodge bikes. In a population of 600,000 at the time of our visit, 400,000 bikes were on the roads, the streets, everywhere. Museums captured our attention, though I wasn't educated, prepared or mature enough to truly appreciate the fact that I was seeing the original works of Rembrandt--"The Nightwatch"--and Van Goghs--one entire museum dedicated to his art, exclusively--and other priceless works of art. The diamond factory tour was certainly interesting. It took a worker eight hours just to cut the facets on one small stone. We took the guide's word on that and didn't stick around to watch the entire process.
Food was inexpensive, often served family style and SUPERBLY delicious. For about $5, both of us were served steak and potatoes, vegetables and salad, about twice as much as we could eat! Whipped cream appeared on almost everything. Sandwich shops were popular. Roast beef was served VERY rare. In the street markets, you'd find a guy with a wooden mallet in hand, ready to kill a fresh eel for you, just for the asking. The real delicacy was raw hamburger, eaten on a soft bun, and raw herring with chopped onions. Amsterdam had a peculiar odor, all its own. You couldn't escape it. Was it the canals, the raw meat and fish, or the onions?
Seeing the countryside of Belgium where men and women were working in the fields, wearing traditional dress and wooden shoes, was a BONUS, on our way to Paris, France. We traveled through field after field of flowers, hay piled in little stacks, then hung on frames to dry, herds of cows, on very flat landscape. As we got closer to Paris, the land rose up a bit more, became more hilly and green. It appeared to be a mighty friendly place, people kissing all over the place. Well, what could be more romantic than moonlight on the Seine? Paris--the Louver, the Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triumph, Notre Dame--was fully lighted at night. Just for us, announcing our arrival? Just kidding, but it sure made the night tour of the city impressive.
Paris was not nearly as impressive in the light of day but Frank thought I should attend the Follies Bergere performance to complete my European cultural shock experience. I agreed to this but while standing in line, I kept looking around and over my shoulder to be sure that no one who knew me would witness what I was about to do. You know what the Follies are, right?
The Metro required lots of energy to climb at least two flights of stairs and then descend again in order to reach the track needed and to get anywhere usually meant a couple of train changes. That amounted to a whole lot of stair climbing, in hot and humid weather. We didn't dare drink the brown, smelly water but found it difficult to find anything to drink that hadn't been made with that water. Locals drank wine, almost exclusively. We finally talked one waitress into bringing us hot milk as she served our typical Continental breakfast of french bread, coffee or tea. By lunchtime, we'd found the BEST steak and pom fritz, ever, for about a dollar and began a Coke Cola habit. That became our one meal of each day while we were in Paris. And our evening drink, when we could find it.
Streets were narrow. Everyone seemed to be carrying a loaf of french bread, sans any wrapping. French men all looked feminine to me, and were often rude. I didn't see fashion on the street like I had expected to find. City traffic was not to be believed, with three speeds, wound, maim, and kill. It seemed to be one, big free-for-all. I packed a box of things we didn't need with us and would put in storage, to be picked up later, on our way back through Paris, to get to the boat to go home. The message had already been made clear that Parisians had a strong dislike for "Americans". The store clerk made our purchase of string to tie up our box, difficult, first by pretending she neither spoke nor understood English--not true--then being uncooperative about the purchase. Our accommodations in Paris had been crummy, dirty sheets when we arrived, and hot water, infrequently. To take a bath or plug in my iron cost extra. We were glad to check out. The front desk person refused our request for a cab call.
It was a L-O-N-G way up, to the top of the Eiffel Tower but the view of the city from there was terrific. A boat tour along the Seine took us past many landmarks and a whole lot of bridges. Frank left me sitting with our bags in a park at the Louvre, while he took pictures. Two Frenchmen sure took an interest in me. Or was it our bags? Having seen all that french bread, we bought some, and cheese and had a picnic, just like the natives, on the train ride to Barcelona, Spain. We had the misfortune of having company for this leg of our journey. Even when she realized that we couldn't understand her, the woman would not stop talking. We turned the lights out to stop the noise and changed trains just across the border, going through customs yet again.
Terraced hillsides, fields and arbors of grapes, Spanish architecture, a train with no drinking water or bathroom facilities. That last stretch to Barcelona was rough. Amazed that the train stayed on the tracks, right side up, transportation in this part of the world was not what we'd grown accustomed to, but the view of the Mediterranean was grand and so-o-o BLUE. The breeze coming off the Sea in the South of Spain was welcome; It was their warmest summer in a long time.
What was going on with the cab drivers at the station? Some drivers refused to take passengers and just sat in their taxis. Some would drive off with an empty cab. Some took fares only when customers ran into the street and got, what appeared to us, physical. One of the drivers came to us. Watching the hustling and goings on made us suspicious of him. He tried repeatedly to have us understand what he was offering. When we didn't, he would walk away, throw up his hands and say, "Momma Mia", but then return to us to try again. Finally, we followed him to his taxi. All the way to our hotel, he kept talking. About us and how difficult we had been? Why could we not see how very simple it all was? Even laughing at us, the dumb Americans? We didn't know but his fee was so small, Frank gave him double the amount for all his trouble. The hotel was a bit of paradise after the place in Paris and the wreck of a train ride we'd had. Having a shower, the first in about 10 days, was paradise.
A tour of the city included some sights like the unfinished monstrosity called a church, a bull fight where two soldiers tried to pick me up, a night club flamenco performance and Coke Cola! We were not soda drinkers until we ran out of safe drinking water after leaving Copenhagen but we reasoned that the water in Coke had been treated during the bottling process, making it safer to drink than plain water. Evidently, Spaniards in Spain disliked Americans, too.
Along Ramblos, Barcelona's main street, there was cart after cart of flowers. A big open air market along the promenade sold everything, fruit, fishes and meats, snacks of many kinds. We'd been cautioned so we kept to bread, cheese, and fruit that could be peeled. Hustlers practically dragged us onto a boat for a harbor tour, one far more industrial than picturesque. Our tour entertainment was a guy playing around with an accordion, not actually playing any music, then asking for money. Young boys took great delight in peeing in the streets. We had to really hunt to find places to buy bread and cheese safe to eat. Fresh vegetables were off limits. I think it was here or nearly so that Fanta orange soda also became another staple in our diet.
We were in a taxi and on our way to the train station when Frank discovered he still had the hotel key in his hand. We had to go back. At the train station, again, we were told we must stand in a line. Tickets, even though we had passes? That line we stood in for quite some time put us on a train much nicer than the one we'd traveled into Barcelona on, an express train all air conditioned and comfy. An old Englishman caused quite an uproar. He spoke only English, really, but tried to use the few words of several languages he'd picked up, all in the same sentence. No one understood him. Even his English was questionable. Each time the train slowed down, he thought it was time to change trains. He'd been told a dozen times that he'd be advised of stops or changes but every time an official came through the car, he'd follow them along, asking questions they could not understand. Poor dear. He needed a travel companion.
We changed trains, thinking we were going, as planned, to the Riviera. Wrong train. We jumped off at the next stop, then decided not to go through what it would take to get back to board the right train so we jumped back on just before it pulled away from the station, literally, passing through some beautiful country, green valleys and mountains, a little like Austria. We were not far from the Swiss border so we saw lots more greenery than any part of Span or France had displayed before. Changed trains again in Marsharey and found it so comfortable, we stayed on to Rome, and from Rome, a train to Naples.
No wonder there was such activity going on in the Rome train station, with people jockeying for hotel, taxi, and train space. What a ride it was to Naples, Frank and I and others stood in the aisle in the end car the entire way. It was summer vacation time for the locals and the trains were jam-packed. It seemed that to get along with Italians required shoving, pushing, and a lot of hollering. That's how they seemed to cope with each other. It was a very, hot trip with another train change along the way to Sorrento. As the train climbed up the side of a mountain a bit, passing orange and lemon groves, row upon row of olive trees and grape vineyards, the air cooled a little. Run-down houses and dirty, unsupervised kids were also a part of the scene. Some people seemed to be existing in holes in the ground. From Naples, we made brief runs to Sorrento and Capri.
Sorrento was small, without the hustle and bustle of bigger cities, built on cliffs that rise straight out of the Mediterranean Sea. A purple flowering vine of some sort hung along walls. Flowers were everywhere. Our hotel had a shower in the room! We wandered the street, enjoying the best Italian Ice--reminded us of Snelgroves--and had dinner in an outdoor cafe, created by simply placing tables at the end of a dead-end street. I had spaghetti. Frank had some bad chicken. And against our better judgement and the cautions we'd been given, a green salad. That would come back to haunt us, later on. Like Sorrento, Capri was a city built on cliffs but it lacked the atmosphere of Sorrento. The return to Naples was a pleasant ride, cool and damp, passing fishing boats and flying fish along the way. We walked across the city. It was a dirty place. At the train station, we were soon on our way back to Rome.
It was clear as we approached, that the train station in Rome was on fire. Heavy, billowing clouds of smoke made it difficult to tell how much of the station was in flames. We had left most of our baggage there in storage to make our travel to Sorento easier. The closer we got, the surer we were that we'd lost everything. Finally off the train and in the station, we were allowed to retrieve our smoky bags from the storage unit that had escaped the fire. With a few clean clothes, we checked the rest of our bags at an air terminal, hoping of course that there would be no danger of fire there, and caught another train to Venice that evening.
Arriving in the early morning, we hopped on a boat going to Lido Island, intending to sleep on the beach but the sun was already up and it was hot. There was also a pricey fee to get onto the beach. Finding a half-shaded park bench, we took turns sleeping. The place filled up quickly so we took a boat back to the main canal of Venice. There had been flooding and much damage done to priceless works of art--the homes and building facades--but the grandeur of the city was still reflected in much of what we saw. Like no other city, all travel was done on water. No cars, no bikes allowed. The famous gondola's had fallen victim to racket pricing--too expensive for us to consider--so we stuck to bus boats, slow but cheap. Our ride down the "Grand Canal" was...GRAND! Watching artisans blow glass was fascinating. Spaghetti and soup for lunch and window shopping. Elegant lace, hand worked tablecloths, beautiful jewelry, and much more. We sat at the Piazza San Marco Square to watch day turn to evening. Light posts in the water glittered. Buildings were all lighted at night and with an orchestra playing in a sidewalk cafe at our right, the Canals of Venice to our left it was such a lovely evening drinking in the charm of a truly different atmosphere and way of life. The pizza--nothing like what we called pizza at home--was Really good. At midnight, we took a train to Florence and from there to Pisa, just to see the Leaning Tower of. Yup, it was leaning, alright, just one of the three structures of the same building but all separated from each other, the church, itself, the dome sitting on the ground, and the tower, leaning. The question that hung in the air? "How far can it lean before it falls?"
CHANGE was the name of the game on this trip. Changing languages, money systems, sleeping accommodations, food, and toilet facilities every few days, wax paper in England, no paper at all in the men's rooms at railway stations, according to the report I got. Just a wall of continuously running water. In Sweden, crepe paper. Basic needs. My travel journal notes mention basic needs, often.
Next morning, we got a real view of the islands, riding to the top of a tower in a glass elevator. To get to where we wanted to be took us on an unplanned walking tour through street construction being done as part of the change to right-hand traffic. We were detoured along near impossible-to-traverse walkways, even walking under the water near bridge re-construction. You could reach the WATER in just about any direction. Steps at City Hall, built near a spot where sea, gulf, and lake met, led right down into the water. Despite the language barrier, we thought we got our request for milk and fish on a bun across just fine at a small "no English spoken here" market. It wasn't milk that we got and although we were both very thirsty, whatever it was, it tasted so bad we had to throw it away.
My brother, Keith, gave me the name of his former mission companion, who, at the time of our trip, was president of the Swedish mission. "Give him a call and say hello, from me." The president was not in his office but the branch president asked if we'd like to stay with members. We jumped at the chance. Per his instruction, we took a tram out of the city, not knowing where we were going or who we'd meet.
Herr Frohm, an elderly gentleman, was standing there on the station platform when we arrived, hands behind his back, shuffling his feet back and forth like a young school boy, with a bunch of carnations in his hands. In addition to his Swedish, he also spoke some Danish and a little German. His wife hugged us, warmly. She was a Dane who also spoke some Swedish. We followed them home and there, a Mr. Olsen whose office was next door, said he knew a little English and came over to translate. Turned out, he spoke very little English. A three-ringed circus of languages ensued, with Frohm and Olsen speaking mostly Swedish, Frohm and Frank attempting to communicate in German, a bit of Danish slipping in here and there, plus Frank's translation to English, for my benefit, of what he thought was being said. Herr Frohm understood that my father's cousin, Ake, lived in Stockholm so he began to work the phone, calling the branch president, the mission home, the Elders, my cousin and then he'd begin again, going through his call list, until arrangements had been made for us.
The Frohm's moved themselves to the back rooms of their home, made us comfortable in the front of the house and gave us a key to the front door, in response to that one, simple phone call from their branch president. We were complete strangers to them and their president! Mrs. Frohm kept a small table in our assigned space filled with food and drink. Anytime we looked as though we were not on the move, she would repeat the only English words she knew, "Egg n Bacone"? and bring more food to that table. They fussed and worried about us getting lost if we took 10 steps in any direction, though we were free to come and go as we pleased.
We had dinner with Ake and his wife, Lola, that evening. Ake was recovering from an illness that had robbed him of some of his English fluency so he spoke haltingly, asking us to correct his English and speak slowly. Their lovely apartment had a nice view overlooking a park. SUNSET at dusk was a beauty. He assured us that the wine he served before dinner was non-alcoholic. Having had no experience with wine of any kind or the service of such, I drank as soon as it was poured instead of waiting for the toast. And I continued drinking, as though sucking down a soda. Frank leaned over to whisper, "Don't gulp it down. Sip it!" How could I? There was only enough in those glasses for about one good swig, anyway, and I was thirsty!
We were served small, open faced sandwiches--raw fish, smoked beef, liver sausage, and cream cheese with peas and carrots--and tomato juice to drink. Then came Ox steak, dilled potatoes, salad and another drink of some kind. Dessert was rye crisp with Swiss cheese and pears. I would not have refused anything but I did swallow the raw fish quickly, without chewing. Yikes! Just not something I'd ever had before. I felt a bit squeamish about it but tried not to show that. Ake gave us a lesson in Swedish. We had a grand time. Then he and Lola rode the tram with us, all the way back to Frohm's. Our hosts were waiting up for us.
Venturing into town, we found the very narrow, cobblestone street leading into the old part of Stockholm with Swedish flags flying all along and lots of interesting shops to investigate. We took flowers home to Sister Frohm. She seemed thrilled! Our gesture, though a common custom for the area, we'd learned, brought on another round of hugs and kisses. Missionaries--one from Ogden, UT--had been invited for dinner. After the meal, we took the Tunnelbana to the branch house for MIA. All the young Swedes spoke English. We were taken on a tour of the ultra-modern building with its unusual steeple. I was asked to play the organ and give a critique of the instrument. It was different from anything I'd played on before but very nice, just like the building, itself. In addition to the Swedes, we met Germans, Finns, Norwegians and even a few Americans, there.
Ake and Lola took us on a bus tour of the city. We stopped for pastry at a beautiful roof garden cafe atop "NK", the largest department store in Stockholm at that time. We went home with them to have Swedish pancakes. Aw-w-w...I really was in Sweden! The only problem was that when we returned to Frohms, there was, on the table, a fresh torte--thin crepes stacked with Lingonberry Jam between each layer and we were expected to eat it all! I spent a good part of that night in the bathroom. Despite that experience, I still love, love, love Swedish pancakes!
Bro. Frohm wanted to go everywhere with us and like doting grandparents, he and Ake bought us postcards and ice cream wherever we went. Bro. Frohm took us to see a 16th Century Swedish war ship called, Vasa, that sank on its maiden voyage and had just been brought up from the ocean floor for a restoration attempt. That process was very interesting to see, the shell of a ship cradled and braced within a specially built platform, being misted and sprayed constantly to keep it from drying too quickly. Wooden walkways zig-zagged all around the structure, giving curious onlookers, like us, a view of history.
Apparently, the camera had malfunctioned, so we boarded a night train an hour or two before midnight one evening to make the 10-hour trip back to Norway to retake some pictures. Bright sunshine through train windows woke us by 2:00 am. Getting enough sleep in a part of the world where there was more daylight than nightlight was a challenge. We had flown into Oslo the first time we were there. Arriving by train and seeing everything from ground level was a whole new experience. We rode a cog tram to its last stop up the mountain, through some of the most beautiful scenery we had seen yet, then hiked higher to reach a ski lift that took us to an observation tower near the top of a mountain. We walked to a ski jump site. That was amazing even in summer. Kids were swimming in a nearby lake. It was wonderful to hear bird calls. The hot dogs were delicious, served with onions dried in some way and a very hot sauce. This day-trip back to Norway was so worth it!
Back in Stockholm, we went to Djergardon to see Skansen, an exercise in the preservation of houses, landscaping, costuming, skills and craftmanship from Swedish history. In the evening, we shared smorgbrod and soppa with Lola and Ake one last time, then returned to what had been our home away from home to say our goodbyes to the Frohms.
Traveling at night again, we awoke very early, finding ourselves on a ferry--the entire train car--heading towards Denmark. Lucky thing, since that's where we wanted to go! On shore, the car was connected to another train and we were off to Copenhagen. Almost everything in Stockholm had been expensive. I'd hoped to buy even a small piece of Royal Danish Porcelain, but like Stockholm, nearly everything was expensive in Copenhagen. Everything, except the pastry. Affordable and the best tasting thing of its kind I'd ever eaten, we lived on it the entire time we were there! Oh, you just had to ask. The answer is,"Yes", we both gained a bit of weight even though our infatuation with Danish pastry was brief.
Denmark was celebrating its 800th birthday! We joined the celebration, attending the parade, then visiting the "Little Mermaid", a "must see" if you are in Copenhagen. In that part of the harbor, there were beautiful gardens, and plush restaurants. The royal yacht was anchored across the way. If it was a sunny day, a carved figure of a girl on her bicycle appeared atop a weather tower. If it was rainy, she appeared with her umbrella. We said ,"Hello", to Hans Christian Anderson, took a look at the tower sculpture with dragons at the stock exchange, and found the Lutheran church, built of towers of bricks to resemble organ pipes. It was bright inside and inviting. So many religious structures we'd seen, so far, were tomb-like. Inside, there was a beautiful, pipe organ and the traditional model ship hanging from the ceiling. http://www.danishmuseum.org/fhgc/aoat/Viking_church_ship.pdf
Tivoli, another "must see", was an amusement park with rides and carnival acts, a live orchestra playing, a ballet being performed, and lots of gambling tables in full operation. [I didn't know then that I'd end up living stateside in a place known for its gambling casinos.] A young boy's marching band dressed much like the Royal Palace guards, came through the grounds, winding along paths, playing as they went by. Enjoying the park, we barely made our train connection. Crossing another span of water by ferry, we stretched out to catch some much needed Z's. A little after midnight, we were awakened and told we must change cars. This meant picking our way down train tracks, half asleep. Once we were aboard the new car, several conductors passed through at least a dozen times, checking passports and tickets. It was a pretty sleepless night.
So, ... what day was it? We had bypassed Brussels and the view from the train now was of flat land, few trees, no pines, thatched roofs and windmills. This must be Amsterdam. Closer to the city, it appeared that every house had what looked like a TV antenna attached. Entering our hotel required pulling a rope while standing on the third step from the bottom to unlatch the door. [Did I say earlier that hotels were boring? Seemed a bit complicated at first but this was just plain, old fun!] Our room was on the third floor, up narrow stairs. Everyone shared ONE bathroom, two flights down. I think it was here that the toilet tank was affixed to the wall high above the throne, literally a throne, with the antique-looking appliance bolted to a platform maybe a foot or so off the floor.
The entire city was built on wooden piles. A cruise through the canals informed us about the land of Amsterdam, too soft to support buildings, and what little there was of it was made possible only by constant pumping. Buildings were decorated, every one with a different facade. Windows on the "ground" level were large. The house owner lived there. Windows got smaller on the next level and so on. They were quite small at the top floor, where the servants of the household lived.
We learned quickly to dodge bikes. In a population of 600,000 at the time of our visit, 400,000 bikes were on the roads, the streets, everywhere. Museums captured our attention, though I wasn't educated, prepared or mature enough to truly appreciate the fact that I was seeing the original works of Rembrandt--"The Nightwatch"--and Van Goghs--one entire museum dedicated to his art, exclusively--and other priceless works of art. The diamond factory tour was certainly interesting. It took a worker eight hours just to cut the facets on one small stone. We took the guide's word on that and didn't stick around to watch the entire process.
Food was inexpensive, often served family style and SUPERBLY delicious. For about $5, both of us were served steak and potatoes, vegetables and salad, about twice as much as we could eat! Whipped cream appeared on almost everything. Sandwich shops were popular. Roast beef was served VERY rare. In the street markets, you'd find a guy with a wooden mallet in hand, ready to kill a fresh eel for you, just for the asking. The real delicacy was raw hamburger, eaten on a soft bun, and raw herring with chopped onions. Amsterdam had a peculiar odor, all its own. You couldn't escape it. Was it the canals, the raw meat and fish, or the onions?
Seeing the countryside of Belgium where men and women were working in the fields, wearing traditional dress and wooden shoes, was a BONUS, on our way to Paris, France. We traveled through field after field of flowers, hay piled in little stacks, then hung on frames to dry, herds of cows, on very flat landscape. As we got closer to Paris, the land rose up a bit more, became more hilly and green. It appeared to be a mighty friendly place, people kissing all over the place. Well, what could be more romantic than moonlight on the Seine? Paris--the Louver, the Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triumph, Notre Dame--was fully lighted at night. Just for us, announcing our arrival? Just kidding, but it sure made the night tour of the city impressive.
Paris was not nearly as impressive in the light of day but Frank thought I should attend the Follies Bergere performance to complete my European cultural shock experience. I agreed to this but while standing in line, I kept looking around and over my shoulder to be sure that no one who knew me would witness what I was about to do. You know what the Follies are, right?
The Metro required lots of energy to climb at least two flights of stairs and then descend again in order to reach the track needed and to get anywhere usually meant a couple of train changes. That amounted to a whole lot of stair climbing, in hot and humid weather. We didn't dare drink the brown, smelly water but found it difficult to find anything to drink that hadn't been made with that water. Locals drank wine, almost exclusively. We finally talked one waitress into bringing us hot milk as she served our typical Continental breakfast of french bread, coffee or tea. By lunchtime, we'd found the BEST steak and pom fritz, ever, for about a dollar and began a Coke Cola habit. That became our one meal of each day while we were in Paris. And our evening drink, when we could find it.
Streets were narrow. Everyone seemed to be carrying a loaf of french bread, sans any wrapping. French men all looked feminine to me, and were often rude. I didn't see fashion on the street like I had expected to find. City traffic was not to be believed, with three speeds, wound, maim, and kill. It seemed to be one, big free-for-all. I packed a box of things we didn't need with us and would put in storage, to be picked up later, on our way back through Paris, to get to the boat to go home. The message had already been made clear that Parisians had a strong dislike for "Americans". The store clerk made our purchase of string to tie up our box, difficult, first by pretending she neither spoke nor understood English--not true--then being uncooperative about the purchase. Our accommodations in Paris had been crummy, dirty sheets when we arrived, and hot water, infrequently. To take a bath or plug in my iron cost extra. We were glad to check out. The front desk person refused our request for a cab call.
It was a L-O-N-G way up, to the top of the Eiffel Tower but the view of the city from there was terrific. A boat tour along the Seine took us past many landmarks and a whole lot of bridges. Frank left me sitting with our bags in a park at the Louvre, while he took pictures. Two Frenchmen sure took an interest in me. Or was it our bags? Having seen all that french bread, we bought some, and cheese and had a picnic, just like the natives, on the train ride to Barcelona, Spain. We had the misfortune of having company for this leg of our journey. Even when she realized that we couldn't understand her, the woman would not stop talking. We turned the lights out to stop the noise and changed trains just across the border, going through customs yet again.
Terraced hillsides, fields and arbors of grapes, Spanish architecture, a train with no drinking water or bathroom facilities. That last stretch to Barcelona was rough. Amazed that the train stayed on the tracks, right side up, transportation in this part of the world was not what we'd grown accustomed to, but the view of the Mediterranean was grand and so-o-o BLUE. The breeze coming off the Sea in the South of Spain was welcome; It was their warmest summer in a long time.
What was going on with the cab drivers at the station? Some drivers refused to take passengers and just sat in their taxis. Some would drive off with an empty cab. Some took fares only when customers ran into the street and got, what appeared to us, physical. One of the drivers came to us. Watching the hustling and goings on made us suspicious of him. He tried repeatedly to have us understand what he was offering. When we didn't, he would walk away, throw up his hands and say, "Momma Mia", but then return to us to try again. Finally, we followed him to his taxi. All the way to our hotel, he kept talking. About us and how difficult we had been? Why could we not see how very simple it all was? Even laughing at us, the dumb Americans? We didn't know but his fee was so small, Frank gave him double the amount for all his trouble. The hotel was a bit of paradise after the place in Paris and the wreck of a train ride we'd had. Having a shower, the first in about 10 days, was paradise.
A tour of the city included some sights like the unfinished monstrosity called a church, a bull fight where two soldiers tried to pick me up, a night club flamenco performance and Coke Cola! We were not soda drinkers until we ran out of safe drinking water after leaving Copenhagen but we reasoned that the water in Coke had been treated during the bottling process, making it safer to drink than plain water. Evidently, Spaniards in Spain disliked Americans, too.
Along Ramblos, Barcelona's main street, there was cart after cart of flowers. A big open air market along the promenade sold everything, fruit, fishes and meats, snacks of many kinds. We'd been cautioned so we kept to bread, cheese, and fruit that could be peeled. Hustlers practically dragged us onto a boat for a harbor tour, one far more industrial than picturesque. Our tour entertainment was a guy playing around with an accordion, not actually playing any music, then asking for money. Young boys took great delight in peeing in the streets. We had to really hunt to find places to buy bread and cheese safe to eat. Fresh vegetables were off limits. I think it was here or nearly so that Fanta orange soda also became another staple in our diet.
We were in a taxi and on our way to the train station when Frank discovered he still had the hotel key in his hand. We had to go back. At the train station, again, we were told we must stand in a line. Tickets, even though we had passes? That line we stood in for quite some time put us on a train much nicer than the one we'd traveled into Barcelona on, an express train all air conditioned and comfy. An old Englishman caused quite an uproar. He spoke only English, really, but tried to use the few words of several languages he'd picked up, all in the same sentence. No one understood him. Even his English was questionable. Each time the train slowed down, he thought it was time to change trains. He'd been told a dozen times that he'd be advised of stops or changes but every time an official came through the car, he'd follow them along, asking questions they could not understand. Poor dear. He needed a travel companion.
We changed trains, thinking we were going, as planned, to the Riviera. Wrong train. We jumped off at the next stop, then decided not to go through what it would take to get back to board the right train so we jumped back on just before it pulled away from the station, literally, passing through some beautiful country, green valleys and mountains, a little like Austria. We were not far from the Swiss border so we saw lots more greenery than any part of Span or France had displayed before. Changed trains again in Marsharey and found it so comfortable, we stayed on to Rome, and from Rome, a train to Naples.
No wonder there was such activity going on in the Rome train station, with people jockeying for hotel, taxi, and train space. What a ride it was to Naples, Frank and I and others stood in the aisle in the end car the entire way. It was summer vacation time for the locals and the trains were jam-packed. It seemed that to get along with Italians required shoving, pushing, and a lot of hollering. That's how they seemed to cope with each other. It was a very, hot trip with another train change along the way to Sorrento. As the train climbed up the side of a mountain a bit, passing orange and lemon groves, row upon row of olive trees and grape vineyards, the air cooled a little. Run-down houses and dirty, unsupervised kids were also a part of the scene. Some people seemed to be existing in holes in the ground. From Naples, we made brief runs to Sorrento and Capri.
Sorrento was small, without the hustle and bustle of bigger cities, built on cliffs that rise straight out of the Mediterranean Sea. A purple flowering vine of some sort hung along walls. Flowers were everywhere. Our hotel had a shower in the room! We wandered the street, enjoying the best Italian Ice--reminded us of Snelgroves--and had dinner in an outdoor cafe, created by simply placing tables at the end of a dead-end street. I had spaghetti. Frank had some bad chicken. And against our better judgement and the cautions we'd been given, a green salad. That would come back to haunt us, later on. Like Sorrento, Capri was a city built on cliffs but it lacked the atmosphere of Sorrento. The return to Naples was a pleasant ride, cool and damp, passing fishing boats and flying fish along the way. We walked across the city. It was a dirty place. At the train station, we were soon on our way back to Rome.
It was clear as we approached, that the train station in Rome was on fire. Heavy, billowing clouds of smoke made it difficult to tell how much of the station was in flames. We had left most of our baggage there in storage to make our travel to Sorento easier. The closer we got, the surer we were that we'd lost everything. Finally off the train and in the station, we were allowed to retrieve our smoky bags from the storage unit that had escaped the fire. With a few clean clothes, we checked the rest of our bags at an air terminal, hoping of course that there would be no danger of fire there, and caught another train to Venice that evening.
Arriving in the early morning, we hopped on a boat going to Lido Island, intending to sleep on the beach but the sun was already up and it was hot. There was also a pricey fee to get onto the beach. Finding a half-shaded park bench, we took turns sleeping. The place filled up quickly so we took a boat back to the main canal of Venice. There had been flooding and much damage done to priceless works of art--the homes and building facades--but the grandeur of the city was still reflected in much of what we saw. Like no other city, all travel was done on water. No cars, no bikes allowed. The famous gondola's had fallen victim to racket pricing--too expensive for us to consider--so we stuck to bus boats, slow but cheap. Our ride down the "Grand Canal" was...GRAND! Watching artisans blow glass was fascinating. Spaghetti and soup for lunch and window shopping. Elegant lace, hand worked tablecloths, beautiful jewelry, and much more. We sat at the Piazza San Marco Square to watch day turn to evening. Light posts in the water glittered. Buildings were all lighted at night and with an orchestra playing in a sidewalk cafe at our right, the Canals of Venice to our left it was such a lovely evening drinking in the charm of a truly different atmosphere and way of life. The pizza--nothing like what we called pizza at home--was Really good. At midnight, we took a train to Florence and from there to Pisa, just to see the Leaning Tower of. Yup, it was leaning, alright, just one of the three structures of the same building but all separated from each other, the church, itself, the dome sitting on the ground, and the tower, leaning. The question that hung in the air? "How far can it lean before it falls?"
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Europe on Five Dollars a Day, More or Less
Journal entry from May 31, Wednesday, 1967...
"This is the day we have been waiting a long time for. Our day was full with errands to run, travelers checks to get, odds and ends shopping, packing and re-packing. Finally arrived at the airport [Salt Lake City]. Lorraine and Ruth Ann and Susan came to see us off. Also, Aunt Valois and Uncle Paul, all the South's and Scott. Frank is nervous and getting a bit scatterbrained. He has asked everything, twice! Boarded the plane, a United Airlines Jet. Karen and Dale came rushing on[to] the plane, handed me a package and asked me to unwrap it. Darling, yellow nightie!"
It was a rough ride to Denver--made dinner service difficult to balance, between bumps--and raining. Changed planes in Chicago, arriving in Baltimore at 2:30 in the morning. Despite ear pressure and headache, we took turns sleeping on a bench in the airport until we could claim a rental car at 7:00. By 8:00 AM, the agency had not received the car reservation from our travel agent so we took a bus into Washington, then set out on foot to see what D.C. was all about. My first impression? GRAY, but that changed as we closed in on the historic sites I'd only read or heard about--the White House and the Capitol Building, Lincoln and Washington Memorials, and the Natural History Museum at the Smithsonian. What a way to break in new shoes! By day's end, our feet were shot! I had worn a girdle and hose all day. It was the 60's but I hadn't been liberated, yet!
The plane out of NYC was crowded, every seat filled by tour group old ladies whose loud chattering was endless and crying kids. I had a window seat. The pilot flew along the coast before turning and heading out over the Atlantic. That was the strangest feeling, watching the landmass get smaller, the coastline disappear from sight, then just water, as far as I could see in any direction. Dinner was served about midnight.
See Europe on five dollars a day? That's what the travel guidebook claimed and we were sure we could do it by: Renting a room in homes of a few listed as willing (cheaper and more interesting than hotels), Using Eurail for travel while sleeping, Eating cheaply, Limiting souvenir purchases. Saving what we could, after bills were paid, from my salon tips and paycheck and Frank's wages, the entire trip was paid for before we left the US to fulfill Frank's dream of seeing friends from his mission days. Pretty impressive for two kids in their first year married, I'd say.
My watch said it was 4:00 am. Through my window, sea and land were coming together again. The pilot announced that it was actually 9:00 o'clock, as we landed in Shannon, with immigration cards already complete. Even without any hitch through customs, the 9:15 flight to Dublin left without us. It was cold and damp when we arrived there, an hour behind schedule. Customs? Again? "Flying in from the US? Any cigarettes or spirits?" If we'd had any spirits, a good, stiff drink might have warmed us up a bit.
Roman stone walls still surrounded the city of York. Frank, the history/anthropology major/minor was in his element. While observing repairs being done at The Minster Cathedral, largest of its kind in Northern Europe, a clergyman explained much about the building and its history to us. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/York_Minster ) We walked along The Shambles where the buildings lean in so roof tops almost touch each other. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Shambles ) After spending a great day seeing as much of York and its history as we could in the time we had, getting back to Manchester, our bus driver stopped to pick up a woman, very obese and totally wasted. She could not navigate the bus steps on her own so the driver squeezed himself around her. Once outside the door, he got behind her to push and get her the rest of the way into the bus. At her stop, instead of getting off, she sat down on the steps, tilting the whole bus at quite an angle. I was thinking, "How often do these double-deckers flip over?" No amount of coaxing could get her to move. Our driver, poor man, had to pick up as much of her as he could muster and physically move her off those steps. The Kerrs were waiting up for us with sandwiches and sweets. We talked until after midnight. Next morning, after breakfast and pictures together, we were off to catch our flight to London.
Approaching the city, the pilot circled the whole of it, giving his passengers a magnificent view. London seemed to stretch on just about forever! Once on the ground, we took the wrong subway and had a nice ride back and forth, this time, underground! Then, Tower of London where so many heads had rolled before it became the home of the Crown Jewels, Parliament, Big Ben, and Westminster Abby, the final resting place for the likes of Charles Dickens, Handel, Tennyson, Elliott, and others, a small mention of things to see. We sat in on a session in the House of Commons. As we were leaving St. Paul's Cathedral, a wedding party was exiting through a side door, men in tailed coats and top hats, ladies in fancy, after-five attire. Our guide commented, "They would have to be very wealthy to afford a wedding at St. Paul's!" Most men appeared quite dapper on the streets of London, many walking with a cane in the crook of an arm. Was this a movie set? Unless they were wearing a mini-mini--and some were--women drew less attention. "Duck", "Love", "Dear", "Cheerio", "Ta", "Jolly good", or "Smashing", all common expressions heard. Baths had been few and far between but London included that bit of heaven, though good drinking water and milk were sometimes hard to find. Tea was the drink of choice of locals. Food was greasy and mostly unremarkable. Hard rolls were the only thing I found eatable in the city. We had been totally spoiled by Sister Kerr's marvelous cooking.
The clock alarm--set to Off instead of On--was the reason we missed a tour and breakfast we'd paid for. There was still time to watch the ceremonial Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. The band was playing. Mother would have loved the many rose gardens. Swans, pelicans, and ducks shared space on the lake. Horses on site were skillfully groomed and trained. I thought my bothers would appreciate that. A crowd had gathered for the ceremony, also hoping to catch a glimpse of the Queen. Frank had to hold his camera above his head to shoot film, the crowd was so large. Then, from behind me, a woman grabbed a handful of my hair and gave it quite a hard yank!
So this was Norway. We loved it from the start. We knew not one word of Norwegian, could read no signs or make sense of the money, but Oslo had cold milk and clean air, a welcome change from London's coal burning, smoking chimneys and blokes blowing smoke that changed my white blouses to something gray and smoky by day's end! Flying in over the Fjords was quite a sight. From grassy countryside, forested hills rose straight up out of the water. There were massively HUGE ships in the harbor. Frank said the SS France that would take us home was even larger. I couldn't imagine it. The people were friendly and helpful. We got caught in a downpour, the first one of that day, but dried out quickly. In the early morning, sitting on the dock as the shrimp boats came into the harbor, we had all we could eat for about 50 cents. Being so far north, it didn't get dark until 11 o'clock in the evening, Time enough to ferry across to the Viking Museum to see ships, once used by royalty, reconstructed from thousands of pieces found at burial sites beneath the water. We also visited the Kon-Tiki memorial, got caught in the rain again, and thought we'd lost our passports. After anxious moments, the lost were found at the hotel desk.That wasn't the only thing that made me anxious. Our plane to Gotenburg, Sweden was a tiny, two-engine flying machine with seats for about six people! The runway began and ended at the water's edge but once in the air, the view was breathtakingly beautiful, once again above the Fjords, much forested area and very little flat land. Sweden was also a part of whom I am.
"This is the day we have been waiting a long time for. Our day was full with errands to run, travelers checks to get, odds and ends shopping, packing and re-packing. Finally arrived at the airport [Salt Lake City]. Lorraine and Ruth Ann and Susan came to see us off. Also, Aunt Valois and Uncle Paul, all the South's and Scott. Frank is nervous and getting a bit scatterbrained. He has asked everything, twice! Boarded the plane, a United Airlines Jet. Karen and Dale came rushing on[to] the plane, handed me a package and asked me to unwrap it. Darling, yellow nightie!"
It was a rough ride to Denver--made dinner service difficult to balance, between bumps--and raining. Changed planes in Chicago, arriving in Baltimore at 2:30 in the morning. Despite ear pressure and headache, we took turns sleeping on a bench in the airport until we could claim a rental car at 7:00. By 8:00 AM, the agency had not received the car reservation from our travel agent so we took a bus into Washington, then set out on foot to see what D.C. was all about. My first impression? GRAY, but that changed as we closed in on the historic sites I'd only read or heard about--the White House and the Capitol Building, Lincoln and Washington Memorials, and the Natural History Museum at the Smithsonian. What a way to break in new shoes! By day's end, our feet were shot! I had worn a girdle and hose all day. It was the 60's but I hadn't been liberated, yet!
The plane out of NYC was crowded, every seat filled by tour group old ladies whose loud chattering was endless and crying kids. I had a window seat. The pilot flew along the coast before turning and heading out over the Atlantic. That was the strangest feeling, watching the landmass get smaller, the coastline disappear from sight, then just water, as far as I could see in any direction. Dinner was served about midnight.
See Europe on five dollars a day? That's what the travel guidebook claimed and we were sure we could do it by: Renting a room in homes of a few listed as willing (cheaper and more interesting than hotels), Using Eurail for travel while sleeping, Eating cheaply, Limiting souvenir purchases. Saving what we could, after bills were paid, from my salon tips and paycheck and Frank's wages, the entire trip was paid for before we left the US to fulfill Frank's dream of seeing friends from his mission days. Pretty impressive for two kids in their first year married, I'd say.
My watch said it was 4:00 am. Through my window, sea and land were coming together again. The pilot announced that it was actually 9:00 o'clock, as we landed in Shannon, with immigration cards already complete. Even without any hitch through customs, the 9:15 flight to Dublin left without us. It was cold and damp when we arrived there, an hour behind schedule. Customs? Again? "Flying in from the US? Any cigarettes or spirits?" If we'd had any spirits, a good, stiff drink might have warmed us up a bit.
Dublin was so GREEN. Fields were divided by rows of trees. Everything looked miniature. Houses constructed of rough cement were soot-stained from many chimney-burnings. Every window was dressed in beautiful, Irish lace curtains. Mrs. Tyrrell made us feel at home almost immediately. She ran a boarding house for students in winter months, tourists in summer. Figuring out the phone system to let her know we'd arrived was a challenge, then getting there by taxi was a thrills-a-minute event and...wait a minute...weren't we driving on the "wrong" side of the road? Offering us cream crackers and hot milk, she then suggested we take a rest. So in the middle of our first day abroad, we put on our PJ's--much too cold for that sexy, yellow nightie gifted me as we prepared for takeoff in SLC--and climbed into bed with the hot water bottle she provided. Stampeding, wild horses could not have awakened us until, in the early evening, we dressed to go out, caught a bus into downtown for some sightseeing and ate what the natives called a hamburger. It was more like a sausage but a nice ending to our first day away from home.
The call to breakfast came early. It was not the Continental meal described in the handbook but healthy portions of juice, oatmeal, bacon and sausage, eggs, two kinds of bread and milk! Delicious! About in the city, I loved hearing the brogue roll off the tongues of locals but the traffic was pure pandemonium. No one paid any mind to anything. It was just one big, bumper-car amusement-park ride! Air travel had its own problems. During the flight to Scotland, there was much groaning and creaking and the door of that rickety, bucket of bolts popped ajar repeatedly.
The call to breakfast came early. It was not the Continental meal described in the handbook but healthy portions of juice, oatmeal, bacon and sausage, eggs, two kinds of bread and milk! Delicious! About in the city, I loved hearing the brogue roll off the tongues of locals but the traffic was pure pandemonium. No one paid any mind to anything. It was just one big, bumper-car amusement-park ride! Air travel had its own problems. During the flight to Scotland, there was much groaning and creaking and the door of that rickety, bucket of bolts popped ajar repeatedly.
Frank was looking like a pro by now, stepping right out into the street to whistle for a cab in Glasgow. Mrs. MacCullum showed us to the room I described as: "Darling, large, and comfy but cold--they all seem to be--with a large bathroom, the best I've seen in Europe so far! I can hardly wait for my first bath in four days!" Our window on the second story overlooked the chimneys of all of Scotland or so it seemed. The breakfast/sitting room, its period furnishings and white fireplace, looked out on expertly, manicured gardens. I was relieved that I could understand our host. Though said to be English-speaking, Scots were hard to understand. There was also a "charming" Pomeranian puppy in residence.
On Buchanan St., lawn bowlers asked to explain their game said they couldn't explain it to themselves, let alone to us! Gothic architecture, lawns covered in tiny, white daises, this was part of a huge park that surrounded Glasgow University, an art gallery and museum. Observing that drinks were not automatically served with ice, I ordered mine with ice, at lunch. It was served with ice cream in it, and quizzical expressions from the server. Perhaps the idea of floating ice cream in one's drink caught on once I'd introduced it! We had not seen the SUN since leaving US shores.
After Sunday morning breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and milk--both milk and bacon had an unfamiliar flavor--and I'd commented on the unique toaster with heating coils exposed on two sides, we took the Underground to catch a train to Edinburgh. Another bus ride took us to the base of an old castle built on a massive mountain of rock providing an incredible view to anyone willing to make the climb. We made the climb to the top, through cobblestone streets, passing Scottie dogs and men in kilts. Wow! I really was in Scotland! Along the way, beside the shrine to those lost in battle, was a dog cemetery, honoring Yum-Yum, Major, Gyp and other dogs of soldiers. The Royal Mile, with a lot to see along the way, ended at the Palace of Holyroadhouse. The twists-and-turns design of huge, heavy wrought iron gates gave them a lacy and light appearance. Surrounding fields divided by rocks piled without mortar presented a landscape different from Ireland. Oops, not the right place to exit the bus. We simply rode back to the castle and walked into town. I wanted pictures of the gardens. Frank was focused on history and architecture. Taxi's here were plush, like riding in a stateside limo. Men were required to pay three cents to use the bathroom; I was charged only one penny. Well, I think that's what it cost. Changing money every few days, I often just held out my hand with coins in it.
On Buchanan St., lawn bowlers asked to explain their game said they couldn't explain it to themselves, let alone to us! Gothic architecture, lawns covered in tiny, white daises, this was part of a huge park that surrounded Glasgow University, an art gallery and museum. Observing that drinks were not automatically served with ice, I ordered mine with ice, at lunch. It was served with ice cream in it, and quizzical expressions from the server. Perhaps the idea of floating ice cream in one's drink caught on once I'd introduced it! We had not seen the SUN since leaving US shores.
After Sunday morning breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and milk--both milk and bacon had an unfamiliar flavor--and I'd commented on the unique toaster with heating coils exposed on two sides, we took the Underground to catch a train to Edinburgh. Another bus ride took us to the base of an old castle built on a massive mountain of rock providing an incredible view to anyone willing to make the climb. We made the climb to the top, through cobblestone streets, passing Scottie dogs and men in kilts. Wow! I really was in Scotland! Along the way, beside the shrine to those lost in battle, was a dog cemetery, honoring Yum-Yum, Major, Gyp and other dogs of soldiers. The Royal Mile, with a lot to see along the way, ended at the Palace of Holyroadhouse. The twists-and-turns design of huge, heavy wrought iron gates gave them a lacy and light appearance. Surrounding fields divided by rocks piled without mortar presented a landscape different from Ireland. Oops, not the right place to exit the bus. We simply rode back to the castle and walked into town. I wanted pictures of the gardens. Frank was focused on history and architecture. Taxi's here were plush, like riding in a stateside limo. Men were required to pay three cents to use the bathroom; I was charged only one penny. Well, I think that's what it cost. Changing money every few days, I often just held out my hand with coins in it.
The plane from Glasgow to Manchester, England was another old crate that rattled and bounced along. Hearing that one went down just two days before, five or six miles away, didn't ease my mind, any. Yet, I was a bit intrigued by England. Both my mother and my father were of English and Wales ancestry. Baggage handlers were on strike when we landed. Shuttling our luggage from place to place was an ever-present issue. Here in Manchester, with little more than a toothbrush and a change of clothes with us, we put our bags in storage. That was something we continued to do, along the way. Phone service was as unpredictable in Manchester as we'd found it in Ireland and Scotland. A cell phone would have come in handy!
Ed Fox, a South cousin, who was serving a mission in the area, arranged a night's stay for us at his boarding house. It was a small place with a tiny kitchen yet Sister Kerr fed her family, the missionaries, and about seven other boarders, cooking on a little, two-burner stove. She stacked her pans and served every one a hot meal at the same time! That was amazing to me. She was just as amazed to learn that I had modern conveniences, at home in the US. Her Yorkshire pudding and her sponge cake...DIVINE! She prepared the sponge, carried in a large metal bowl on her hip for what seemed like a long time, beating air into the batter with a wooden spoon. Should anyone venture past the kitchen, she would hand over the bowl and spoon, expecting a little help while she gave her arm a rest.
One of the boarders was studying hairdressing. He asked a lot of questions. Once he'd heard that I'd been licensed and was working in a salon with just one year of study, he was convinced that America was the place for him, compared to the five-year apprenticeship he'd have to complete to earn only a 10% commission wage. Mr. Kerr jokingly said he was ready to go home to the US with us, too. He supported his wife in her care of the missionaries, was a bit more reserved than his Mrs., had great personality and a dry sense of humor, something you might expect of an Englishman. We enjoyed this family a lot, Sister and Mr. Kerr and their young son, Peter. "Come stay another night with us before you go on to London."
The sun was SHINING in Harrogate, the air warm enough to enjoy "Ice Lollies"--ice cream in square cones--at the mission home. Ruth McComber, another South cousin, was going with us to York! While I was awed by that building's history as part of a great estate, still surrounded by Victorian Era-styled gardens with finely crafted furnishings--carved ceilings and woodwork--my personal favorite was the Steinway grand piano.
Ed Fox, a South cousin, who was serving a mission in the area, arranged a night's stay for us at his boarding house. It was a small place with a tiny kitchen yet Sister Kerr fed her family, the missionaries, and about seven other boarders, cooking on a little, two-burner stove. She stacked her pans and served every one a hot meal at the same time! That was amazing to me. She was just as amazed to learn that I had modern conveniences, at home in the US. Her Yorkshire pudding and her sponge cake...DIVINE! She prepared the sponge, carried in a large metal bowl on her hip for what seemed like a long time, beating air into the batter with a wooden spoon. Should anyone venture past the kitchen, she would hand over the bowl and spoon, expecting a little help while she gave her arm a rest.
One of the boarders was studying hairdressing. He asked a lot of questions. Once he'd heard that I'd been licensed and was working in a salon with just one year of study, he was convinced that America was the place for him, compared to the five-year apprenticeship he'd have to complete to earn only a 10% commission wage. Mr. Kerr jokingly said he was ready to go home to the US with us, too. He supported his wife in her care of the missionaries, was a bit more reserved than his Mrs., had great personality and a dry sense of humor, something you might expect of an Englishman. We enjoyed this family a lot, Sister and Mr. Kerr and their young son, Peter. "Come stay another night with us before you go on to London."
The sun was SHINING in Harrogate, the air warm enough to enjoy "Ice Lollies"--ice cream in square cones--at the mission home. Ruth McComber, another South cousin, was going with us to York! While I was awed by that building's history as part of a great estate, still surrounded by Victorian Era-styled gardens with finely crafted furnishings--carved ceilings and woodwork--my personal favorite was the Steinway grand piano.
Roman stone walls still surrounded the city of York. Frank, the history/anthropology major/minor was in his element. While observing repairs being done at The Minster Cathedral, largest of its kind in Northern Europe, a clergyman explained much about the building and its history to us. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/York_Minster ) We walked along The Shambles where the buildings lean in so roof tops almost touch each other. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Shambles ) After spending a great day seeing as much of York and its history as we could in the time we had, getting back to Manchester, our bus driver stopped to pick up a woman, very obese and totally wasted. She could not navigate the bus steps on her own so the driver squeezed himself around her. Once outside the door, he got behind her to push and get her the rest of the way into the bus. At her stop, instead of getting off, she sat down on the steps, tilting the whole bus at quite an angle. I was thinking, "How often do these double-deckers flip over?" No amount of coaxing could get her to move. Our driver, poor man, had to pick up as much of her as he could muster and physically move her off those steps. The Kerrs were waiting up for us with sandwiches and sweets. We talked until after midnight. Next morning, after breakfast and pictures together, we were off to catch our flight to London.
Approaching the city, the pilot circled the whole of it, giving his passengers a magnificent view. London seemed to stretch on just about forever! Once on the ground, we took the wrong subway and had a nice ride back and forth, this time, underground! Then, Tower of London where so many heads had rolled before it became the home of the Crown Jewels, Parliament, Big Ben, and Westminster Abby, the final resting place for the likes of Charles Dickens, Handel, Tennyson, Elliott, and others, a small mention of things to see. We sat in on a session in the House of Commons. As we were leaving St. Paul's Cathedral, a wedding party was exiting through a side door, men in tailed coats and top hats, ladies in fancy, after-five attire. Our guide commented, "They would have to be very wealthy to afford a wedding at St. Paul's!" Most men appeared quite dapper on the streets of London, many walking with a cane in the crook of an arm. Was this a movie set? Unless they were wearing a mini-mini--and some were--women drew less attention. "Duck", "Love", "Dear", "Cheerio", "Ta", "Jolly good", or "Smashing", all common expressions heard. Baths had been few and far between but London included that bit of heaven, though good drinking water and milk were sometimes hard to find. Tea was the drink of choice of locals. Food was greasy and mostly unremarkable. Hard rolls were the only thing I found eatable in the city. We had been totally spoiled by Sister Kerr's marvelous cooking.
The clock alarm--set to Off instead of On--was the reason we missed a tour and breakfast we'd paid for. There was still time to watch the ceremonial Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. The band was playing. Mother would have loved the many rose gardens. Swans, pelicans, and ducks shared space on the lake. Horses on site were skillfully groomed and trained. I thought my bothers would appreciate that. A crowd had gathered for the ceremony, also hoping to catch a glimpse of the Queen. Frank had to hold his camera above his head to shoot film, the crowd was so large. Then, from behind me, a woman grabbed a handful of my hair and gave it quite a hard yank!
So this was Norway. We loved it from the start. We knew not one word of Norwegian, could read no signs or make sense of the money, but Oslo had cold milk and clean air, a welcome change from London's coal burning, smoking chimneys and blokes blowing smoke that changed my white blouses to something gray and smoky by day's end! Flying in over the Fjords was quite a sight. From grassy countryside, forested hills rose straight up out of the water. There were massively HUGE ships in the harbor. Frank said the SS France that would take us home was even larger. I couldn't imagine it. The people were friendly and helpful. We got caught in a downpour, the first one of that day, but dried out quickly. In the early morning, sitting on the dock as the shrimp boats came into the harbor, we had all we could eat for about 50 cents. Being so far north, it didn't get dark until 11 o'clock in the evening, Time enough to ferry across to the Viking Museum to see ships, once used by royalty, reconstructed from thousands of pieces found at burial sites beneath the water. We also visited the Kon-Tiki memorial, got caught in the rain again, and thought we'd lost our passports. After anxious moments, the lost were found at the hotel desk.That wasn't the only thing that made me anxious. Our plane to Gotenburg, Sweden was a tiny, two-engine flying machine with seats for about six people! The runway began and ended at the water's edge but once in the air, the view was breathtakingly beautiful, once again above the Fjords, much forested area and very little flat land. Sweden was also a part of whom I am.
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