Winter in Europe with Muriel & Don

The trip developed out of an idle complaint sometime in 1996 that I felt cheated at not getting to Paris that year. A fax came back from Muriel and Don Stauffer suggesting that I join them in February 1997 on a business swing through north-continental Europe. It took very little time for me to weigh the disadvantage of dismal winter weather against the pleasure of traveling with my friends. I accepted.

The intervening months were spent equipping me for cold weather. I built my wardrobe around a new red wool suit. When I could not find a navy wool skirt to wear with the blazer-style jacket, I let Becky talk me into making one. She helped me select suitable material. My recent acquisition of María’s quite new “old” sewing machine made the project practical. My endless troubles adapting a pattern to suit me were forgotten when the resulting skirt met even María’s high standards.

My sister Mary mailed red-and-navy scarves. Carli sent one padded envelope after the other of silk undergarments, heavy gloves, socks, even one of her own sweaters. At the last minute, spurred by reports of blizzards in Europe, I ordered the hat and boots Emilie and Jill had insisted I must have. I fancied a halo-of-fur, but realized that it needed to surround a 20-year-old face. I could not offer one. I settled for a classic brimmed hat “hand-crocheted in traditional design by Nepalese countrywomen.” Selecting boots involved much faxing back and forth. The final choice was perfect: short brown “fur”-lined boots, surprisingly trim in style and divinely comfortable.

 

From fax sent January 9, 1997

I leave for Europe a month from today!

I find myself in a slight panic. If I don’t have enough essential things to do in a rush before I leave, I probably will invent some.

I have not spent as much time with my German language tapes as I intended. However, all of a sudden, essentials are falling into place. I am becoming comfortable with the odds and ends of phrases I will need. No possibility of my going further than that because I don’t have time and strength to learn a new language properly.

Saturday, 8 February

Alex and María drove me to the airport for what was an uneventful trip to Houston. My only worry was whether or not I would get a seat to Paris in Air France’s new Club Class, Espace 127.

I arrived early for check-in. The Air France clerk was a tiny, smiling African-French young woman who not only instantly okayed my upgrade, but gave me the best seat in Club Class. The three hours until boarding were spent reading in comfortable semi-privacy in the Air France lounge. The middle-aged attendant, a charming woman from France’s Atlantic coast, joined me periodically to visit about our two countries.

I boarded the plane and walked into the Espace 127 compartment, looking in vain for my seat. Laughing young men motioned me back toward a small area through which I had passed, exclaiming at my luck in being assigned to 1A.

I found myself in a separate compartment holding only a single set of seats. I was alone throughout the trip, except for the devoted ministrations of a handsome young steward who seemed dedicated to ensuring that I was comfortable and well-fed.

It was the perfect time for me to be hidden from my co-passengers. My commotion of settling was an unintended comedy, which fortunately amused only me. For a relatively well-organized person and an experienced traveler, I managed to drop everything portable and mislay everything hideable. When I finally found myself pleasantly organized, I could not cope with my magic modern seat.

My guardian angel of a steward graciously showed me the button to turn on my light. It was the one with a little light bulb on it, too tiny for me to distinguish. He delicately extracted my ear-phones from their stowage shelf alongside my right hip and magically produced my private TV screen from its hidey-hole in the armrest.

I fought the language button through half of a delightful movie, thinking some fault in the mechanism caused it to switch back to French after I successfully adjusted it to English. Finally it registered with the dim-witted traveler that the lapses into French (with subtitles) coincided with events in the movie that made such lapses superb artistic touches. To my great relief, I had not reported the “malfunctioning” to my shepherd.

Dinner was the usual elegant Air France production, beautifully presented and delicious, with wines to match. My mistake was accepting portions from the cheese tray my favorite steward pressed on me despite my demurrals. Just as I finished sampling the exceptional cheeses, which I appreciated without wanting, he returned with a magnificent concoction of a desert I would have adored but no longer could manage.

I slept surprisingly well in my seat with its footrest. It adjusted to 127 degrees, allegedly the angle a weightless body assumes, giving the feeling of almost the horizontal. Certainly the sense of privacy of my isolated seat contributed to my relaxation. I awoke in time to walk back to the bar to get a glass of water. I read for awhile. As usual, I failed to reset my watch upon enplaning. I thought the long night was only half over when breakfast appeared. Although the skies still were dark, it was morning in Paris.

Sunday, 9 February

French Immigration formalities are minimal for U.S.A. citizens. My baggage arrived quickly. I made the questionable decision to take the Air France bus to Montparnasse to save taxi fare.

Paris was wearing its loveliest winter face. The sky was cloudless; the sun, bright; the temperature, 45 degrees. I stood in relative comfort for about twenty minutes before settling on the comfortable bus. We traveled along the (to me) unfamiliar north and east sides of the airport, then south past country less developed than I was used to on trips to and from Charles de Gaulle Airport. I enjoyed the bare-bones look of leafless Lombardy poplars during the moments between dozes when my tired eyes were able to focus on them.

We crossed the Seine and soon were enmeshed in double lines of traffic stalled to allow the jogging passage of a straggling column of marathoners. Fifteen minutes later, the cacophony of horns from impatient drivers quieted as we all moved forward—for two blocks. At that point, we inexplicably were halted again. The runners, who simply had circled, emerged from the opposite direction. After another fifteen minutes of involuntarily watching their erratic progress, we moved smartly on to our destination.

I collected my two bags and looked about for one of the many taxis I was told would be waiting for me. None. I fastened the leash onto my wheeled weekender, picked up my garment bag, and lurched in a promising direction. Both bags obviously had gained weight during the transatlantic journey.

A half-block walk and a relatively short period of frantic signaling found me seated with relief in a taxi. It was a short drive to the Hôtel France Eiffel. From plane to hotel may have been inexpensive, but it took an unbelievable three hours.

 

I had selected the hotel from my Bonjour catalogue because of its location near the magnificent tower. The hotel was adequate but the neighborhood was nondescript. My room was spartan, certainly not what I expected from a 3-star hotel. However, its amenities were pleasant—a minute, but recently remodeled, bathroom; cable TV with CNN (which I could get), BBC, and TNT (which I could not).

I unpacked and lay down to catch up on lost sleep. I remember 2:30 pm and thinking I should get up and go out exploring. I remember 3:30. Somehow the next time I looked at my travel clock it was 4:30 and I finally was ready to emerge from my cocoon.

I walked toward the Eiffel Tower, turned down to the avenue bordering the Seine, bought a couple of postcards, and decided I was tired. Air France had fed me so enthusiastically that one of the long sandwiches in a baguette displayed at one of the street kiosks looked better than dinner at one of the bistros I had passed. I returned to my room and enjoyed chicken, tomato, and lettuce on a long chewy roll as I watched CNN. I then showered and slept for ten hours.

Monday, 10 February

I had planned my trip to allow a day of business in Paris before rendezvousing with the Stauffers in Frankfurt.

My travel alarm failed to go off. Nevertheless, I had ample time to make coffee, dress, and go down to the continental breakfast buffet that was included with my room fee before leaving for my morning appointment at the office of Visit France, the travel agency of the Air France Groupe.

Just before the appointed hour of 10:00, I arrived by taxi at the Visit France office in Ivry-Sur-Seine, feeling chic in my new red wool suit. It always is fun to meet in person people one has known only by fax. Amusingly, it was only moments before they led me to a large wall map and apologetically asked me please to point out Belize. No one had a clue whence this foreign creature had come.

After relatively brief discussions the reservations manager, M. Ruffie (pronounced Roof-ee-yea), whisked me off into his metallic turquoise Mazda for a tour of selected hotels. Visit France has an extensive list of hotels of all categories, but I am reluctant to recommend one without having seen it. At each hotel, we were met by one or more enthusiastic managers eager to show me a selection of their rooms. We visited a wide range of hotels in several areas of Paris.

M. Ruffie was an energetic man in his 40’s, Algerian by birth but raised in Paris. He was touchingly in love with the city and made many detours to show me special sights. First was a pretty private harbor on a branch of river that disappears underground for several miles, making a long covered waterway for small-boat traffic. He showed me the enormous new Pompadour Library; the new Les Halles, which used to house the famed Paris market; the Bourse, center of financial activity.

 

When M. Ruffie dropped me off at my hotel late in the afternoon, I pranced out to the bistro next door for an early dinner. A sign told me it opened at 7 pm. I walked on to the nicer brasserie at the far corner of the block. The young barman and I played games with language. He seated me before either of us realized it was the Dinner-at-Seven-and-Not-A- Moment-Earlier syndrome again. However, the young man seemed so utterly bereft at the misunderstanding that I decided to return at the indicated hour.

An hour and a half later, I walked around the corner and down the block in pouring rain. My young friend greeted me like visiting royalty and seated me in solitary splendor. No Parisian would consider eating at so uncivilized an hour. Dinner was a crisply roasted leg of duck with golden slices of new potato. I returned to the hotel for a welcome shower and ten hours of sound sleep.

Tuesday, 11 February

I was up at 4:30 and enplaned by 7:30. The flight to Frankfurt remained on the ground for another hour in the congestion caused by early-morning ground fog. It was 9:30 before I checked into the Scandic Crown Hotel, where I was to meet Muriel and Don.

The gentleman at the reception desk was frantic. It erroneously had been assumed from my fax requesting reservations that all three of us were Air France personnel. On that basis, they had offered the Stauffers a room at one-third the usual rate. I was visibly upset at the misunderstanding. I explained that none of the other hotels had misunderstood my requests and that they all had offered us discounts. The desk clerk seemed more shattered by my distress than he was by the error. He assured me that he believed it was an innocent mistake. He said he would be on the desk when we checked out and would honor the rate.

No porter was available. I struggled into the elevator with my luggage, tiptoed past the door behind which the Stauffers were sleeping, and continued down the third-floor hall. The housekeeper met me, exclaiming in German that I could not have room 315, to which I had the key. She ushered me across the hall to 316. I assumed I was to leave my luggage there until 315 was made up. This room seemed unfinished, too. Gradually it registered that 316 was mine and that the lack of a bedspread was the German way. A puffy down comforter (called, I believe, a duvet) encased in a fresh sheeting cover was folded on the bed ready to shelter me through the night.

 

I returned to the lobby, traded room keys, and accepted directions from My Friend The Receptionist for a short walking tour of Frankfurt, along with a map to guide me. I walked about three blocks to the river, turned left, and strode briskly along it. Below the street level, a long park bordered the river for several blocks. Stark, lifeless trees, their upper limbs pruned to strange knobs, marched in military precision. Despite the cold weather, an occasional black-overcoated man was seen huddled on one of the concrete bench looking out over the water.

The objective of my walk was a church. I watched my time carefully, wanting to be back in my hotel room when Muriel and Don called me for lunch. I barely reached the cathedral at the half-way point of my time allowance. I turned up away from the water and unexpectedly found myself in a Platz (town square) surrounded by elaborate old houses and filled with the stalls and rides of a fair. It was the pre-Lenten holiday of Faschtung (probably misspelled).

I wound through the area, enjoying the old and the new, the families and the excited children, until I reached a major street. My map showed that I could follow it back to our hotel. That was fine until the street divided and one branch curved, disappearing into the bowels of the earth. I retraced my steps to a point where I safely could cross the wide street.

A little uncertain now of my route, I stopped a pleasant-looking woman as she emerged from an arcade. I apologized in the best of my newly-acquired German and asked her where I was. She acknowledged my request, adding, “You might prefer that we speak English.” It was a surprise, disappointment, relief.

A block later, I spotted a taxi and cheated my way back to the Scandic.

 

I just had time to freshen up from my walk when Muriel knocked on the door. We went back to their room where Don and I had another reunion. Don had to catch a 2:00 pm train to the suburbs for a business appointment, so we walked across the way to the Hauptbahnhof (main railway station) and went upstairs to its attractive restaurant.

We all ordered a light lunch of eggplant with egg and cheese in tomato sauce. We all expected something rich and bubbly. We all received slices of eggplant coated in a sort of plaster that must have been the egg and cheese. The tomato sauce, shrinking in embarrassment, peeped out from underneath. I do not like eggplant. I ordered it on the basis of a glowing memory of its being prepared with the same ingredients at Carli’s vegetarian restaurant in Palo Alto. To me, the only redeeming feature of this Germanic presentation was that the normally mushy eggplant was the consistence of a tough piece of fried round steak. Muriel and Don, on the other hand, considered this feature the final insult.

 

After lunch Don caught his train, while Muriel and I took the Unterbahn (subway) to Römer. Don recommended it as one of Frankfurt’s few tourist features, an area of a few old buildings spared by World War II, and some Roman ruins. We emerged from the “U” to find ourselves in the same place I had discovered on my morning walk.

After wandering about and finding all museums and most shops closed for the holiday, Muriel suggested that we explore further by tram. We caught the next streetcar and proceeded through undistinguished streets. We were too busy talking to care. When we looked up and realized we were approaching an industrial park, we got off to take the next tram back. I fumbled with unfamiliar coins and did not get my ticket from the dispensing machine in time, so the tram departed without us. No matter. Another pulled up directly behind it. We boarded and settled back for the return ride.

The trolley swung around a corner. A winter-bare park appeared on our right. Substantial homes lined the left. We agreed that we unwittingly had switched to another line. Our surroundings were far more interesting this trip. Every time I exclaimed that the line finally had turned in the right direction, it swung away at the next corner. We had no idea where we were and could not reconcile any street names with our map.

I remarked, “We could always get off and take a taxi home.”

“That’s the coward’s way,” replied Muriel, who regularly entertains herself in strange cities by riding trams or buses.

My increasing fear was that the line might take us so far that we couldn’t find our way back. I leaned across the aisle to speak politely in carefully enunciated German to a drab little woman, showing her the map. She waved it and me away, indicating that she wanted nothing to do with either of us.

Muriel was more successful in speaking to a brisk woman in jeans and a hooded jacket trimmed with ratty fur. She told us to get off at the next stop and take the “U” back to the hotel. Not only did Muriel’s new friend rush us off the tram, she strode along with us to the nearby Unterbahn entrance. As we passed the front of the tram, we realized it was nosed against a block, the end of the line.

Our new friend took us to a glass elevator. Down we went to the track level. Muriel announced that we didn’t have tickets. Our self-appointed guardian shooed us back to the elevator and up to the lobby floor, where Muriel bought tickets for us both. We returned to wait a very few minutes for our train, our friend still doggedly with us.

We three boarded the train together. The German woman’s English was broken but comprehensibly. Muriel finally understood that she was a nurse and had visited a sister in Florida many times. Our ride was short. We had boarded only one stop past our original one at Römer.

Muriel and I left the “U” at the exit close to our hotel. Since it was around 4 o’clock and we were half-frozen, we stopped in the bright little bar for a cup of tea. Remembering how impressed our friend had seemed at our staying at the Scandic, we wondered if perhaps she hoped we would ask her to join us for tea. We wished we had thought of it earlier, but wondered how on earth we ever would have gotten away from her if we had.

 

Don returned to the hotel soon after we did. We celebrated our reunion with Happy Hour in their room, then left to find a restaurant for dinner. It had begun raining but the nearby restaurant did not look sufficiently appealing to lure us out of the weather. We crossed the street to the Hauptbahnhof and took the “U” to find a restaurant Muriel and Don remembered from an earlier trip.

They couldn’t find it. Restaurants we passed were closed because of the holiday. Don finally led us into an elegant hotel. The “Pub” was closed, but we were directed to an invitingly informal restaurant. Muriel and Don looked around, then exclaimed that it was the one for which they were searching. We had elegantly prepared and presented light suppers, just as we all wanted.

Wednesday, 12 February

We were up early and off to the Hauptbahnhof. Our plan was to check our luggage through to Hamburg, take the train to Heidelberg, then after sightseeing and lunch, ourselves take the train to Hamburg. Our luggage would be waiting for us there. It was a good plan. However, to everyone’s dismay, German trains no longer accept unaccompanied luggage for security reasons.

Fortunately, luggage carts were easily available, if one were lucky enough to have a 1‑Mark coin. Muriel and Don each had an easily-handled medium-size suitcase with large wheels and a retractable handle. I still was traveling with a weekender on four tiny wheels and a garment bag. Both were manageable, but together they made a difficult load for me. My traveling had been almost exclusively by plane, surrounded by skycaps.

We had comfortable seats in a First Class car on our Eurail Passes, with storage space for our luggage. In Heidelberg, we stashed our bags in lockers and headed to the Schloss by taxi through a light mist.

 

The Schloss is the remains of a huge and magnificent red-stone palace built over a period of some 200 years in the 15th and 16th centuries. It was damaged by invading French and later made uninhabitable by fire.

We tramped from place to place through intermittent rain. A frigid wind made me wonder why my boots and hat were in my suitcase instead of protecting toes and head as they were meant to do. I think I was waiting for snow to christen them.

We wandered about the Schloss by ourselves, then took the guided tour. A few rooms had been restored with handsome carved dark wood doors and great multicolored ceramic stoves.

When we finished, the rain had increased and the cold, intensified. Don was frustrated in his attempt to call a taxi because the only public phone was in use by a Fräulein talking to her boyfriend. We set out down hill on foot, stepping cautiously on the rain-slick brick surface of the slanted street.

By great good luck, we met a taxi before we had gone far. We settled gratefully into its warm interior and continued down into Heidelberg. We passed the University with its milling students and saw acres of bicycles parked in the platz. We got out near a restaurant recommended by friends and walked to it in happy anticipation, only to find it was closed at lunchtime. We retraced our steps to an attractive Stube (lounge) we had passed moments earlier. A stern Fräulein served us an excellent lunch in charmingly traditional surroundings.

After lunch we reclaimed our luggage at the railway station and caught our train to Hamburg. We emerged from the underground world of the Hauptbahnhof to see our hotel’s sign blazing at us from directly across the street. In Europe, unlike the U.S., some fine hotels are located close to railway stations for the convenience of travelers.

 

It still was raining hard, so we dashed next door to a wonderful seafood restaurant. It was jammed but people were beginning to leave, so we waited for a table. The room was long, with dark wood booths and tables brightened by candles. Chandeliers of curlicued old brass hung from a low, beamed ceiling. Busy, red-vested waiters rushed back and forth with great trays of beer and plates heaped with delicious-looking food.

Finally we were seated in a semi-private nook at the back of the room. We enjoyed our aperitifs as the overpowering din of happy voices gradually diminished with the departure of some of the crowd. We decided that half the people had been there to drink beer and visit with friends, rather than to eat. Our dinners, when they arrived, were worth the wait.

Thursday, 13 February

All of us were off schedule. My balky travel alarm again failed to sound. Muriel and Don slept through theirs. It was not an uncommon occurrence. Both of them slept with radio earphones on, listening to news and music as they went to sleep and blocking out street noises during the night. Don dashed off breakfastless for his first business appointment. Muriel and I enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at the hotel’s extensive buffet. Most of our hotel rooms included either a continental breakfast or a continental breakfast buffet. The Europäischer Hof offered eggs, bacon, and sausage as well. Furthermore, a card given us when we checked in entitled us to three days’ free use of Hamburg’s extensive transit system, plus a free harbor cruise.

Muriel and I took full advantage. Mid-morning we stepped from the revolving door of our hotel, huddled against the chill wind for a very short time, then boarded the red double-decker tour bus that pulled up at the curb in front of us. We settled on the top deck amid a large group of teen-age French students, some of whom were more interested in catching a little more sleep than they were in observing Hamburg. To our disappointment, the commentary was in German and French only.

We drove along lakes that must have been lovely in summer. We saw handsome private homes and historical buildings. Suddenly in the middle of the tour, we heard laughing from the two guides in the rear seats and commentary in English was added to their descriptions of Hamburg.

When we entered the Red-Light District, a French boy of about fourteen made a great show of trying to climb over the back of his seat to get a better look. His classmates hooted and cheered.

We stopped for twenty minutes at St. Michael’s Church, a handsome Protestant place of worship, elegant and airy. After a tour of the interior, Muriel and I walked around the outside to see the large statue of Martin Luther. A biting wind literally blasted us the rest of the way around the building and we made a hasty retreat to our red bus.

Our next stop was at the magnificent Hamburg harbor. There, we were told, we could leave the tour to take a harbor cruise, if we chose, catching the 2:00 pm bus back to our hotel. It was one of the things Muriel and I intended to do anyway, so we set out to find the next harbor tour.

 

Like everything else we did, it took a bit of too-ing and fro-ing. Soon, however, we were seated at a table on the Concord with a 180‑degree view through large windows in the aft of the vessel. Muriel ordered a hot spiced wine and I had a beer.

The first large ship we passed belonged to one of the lines our shipping agency represents, Safemarine. It is a South African line that hopes to promote traffic in the Caribbean area in the future. We have been their agents in name only for about three years.

The Hamburg harbor is modern and extensive. Many berths were empty, though wharves were stacked high with containers. We passed a large ship in dry-dock. Chances were slim that a New Container Service vessel that serviced Belize would be at dock; still, I was disappointed not to find one.

 

When the cruise ended, Muriel and I ducked down a nearby “U” entrance for the rapid return to our hotel. It was 1:30 pm, time for lunch, and raining again. We ran next door to the restaurant we had enjoyed so much the night before. This time we were seated in one of the cozy carved-wood nooks near the front. The prawn soup we both ordered was so thick we decided it must be three-quarters rich cream.

Plenty of afternoon was left, so Muriel suggested that we return to the nearby lake, where cruises around the lake and through Hamburg’s canals originated. She found the right “U” route easily enough, but the boats all were closely moored; the Kasse (ticket office), shuttered; and the wharf, abandoned by humans except for our wind-and-rain besieged selves.

Muriel announced that we were near a major shopping area and suggested that we window shop. I had my ailing travel alarm with me, so went into the first jewelry store we passed to ask if they sold batteries. They did not, but directed us to another jeweler who did. We continued across the bridge to the second jewelry store. The repair man’s quick evaluation showed a good battery and a defective clock. Regretfully, he said they did not carry travel alarms but directed us to a nearby department store that sold them.

The repair man came out from his station and gallantly ushered us to the door as he gave directions. He grabbed a large red-and-white umbrella, apparently intending to escort us to the store himself. I showed him my own folded umbrella and declined his courtesy, thanking him warmly as we left.

We found the department store easily. It displayed a wide array of travel alarms, so I bought a replacement for the one I had owned—unused—for a brief five months. Attracted by a nearby costume jewelry display, I found a gold pin I needed for a particular blouse. After those successes, we explored the entire store, leaving no escalator unridden.

 

Don met us back at the hotel. After some Happy Hour discussion, we settled on dinner in a restaurant they had enjoyed on earlier visits. Considering that the rain was even heavier and that the restaurant was at some distance from our hotel, taking a taxi instead of the “U” appealed to all of us.

The restaurant had old, traditional charm. Walls were decorated with aged photographs. We sat in a dark wood nook. The waiter was surprised, but ecstatic at my choice of the house specialty. The dish can best be described as a sort of corned-beef hash made with mashed potatoes and topped by two poached eggs. Delicious. Following our meal, I was presented with an elaborately inscribed “diploma” attesting to my having enjoyed the special. According to the menu, the recipe was included in the intricate printing. Since it all was in elaborate German, I may never know.

After dinner, we walked through the rain a short block to the corner of a main street, where we assumed we could flag down a cab quickly. We couldn’t. About the time Muriel and I were insisting as diplomatically as we could that perhaps we should return to the restaurant and ask them to call us a cab, one swung across the street and picked us up. Don has his own travel pattern and we usually try not to disrupt it, even when it seems relatively idiotic to me.

Friday, 14 February

We packed before breakfast. Don took off for a business appointment, while Muriel and I went to Hamburg Historical Museum.

When we left the “U”, Muriel was not quite sure exactly where to find the museum. We walked down one side of a major street until she spotted what she thought was it, set back in overgrown grounds on the other side. We made our way across and entered a curving driveway. When we could not find an entrance, I approached a yard man, begged his pardon for interrupting, and asked him if he please could direct us to the entrance to the museum. I was confused when he gestured toward the street we just had left. I repeated that we wanted the entrance and he finally understood. His arm swept out in a broad circle indicating that we were to continue walking around the building. I returned to Muriel to report proudly my successful conversation in German. She broke up in laughter as she explained that I had asked the yard man for the exit instead of the entrance. So much for the quick language course.

It was cold and windy. We walked what seemed like miles around the building until eventually we found the gracious entry. It was a short half-block from the point at which we had crossed the street.

 

The museum had an elaborate display of artifacts and models describing Hamburg from its earliest settlers, through the glory days of the Hanseatic League, to the present. Beautiful scale models illustrated homes and town activities at various stages.

Because Hamburg’s history was so closely linked with the sea, it had an extensive marine museum. Large- and small-scale models of ships illustrated the development of shipping. One was a large cross-section showing the many-level interior of a passenger ship of the kind that carried immigrants to the U.S. at the turn of the century. It was a fascinating museum, beautifully mounted.

Early in our explorations we ran into a crowd of German school children, perhaps about ten years old. A pretty little girl approached me, held out a notebook, and unleashed a stream of German.

I smiled and explained in carefully enunciated German that I did not speak the language. The little girl quite literally fell back a couple of steps, looked at me in astonishment, and gasped in what sounded more like horror then astonishment, “Englische!”

“Nein, Amerikanische,” I replied with what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

The children muttered to each other rapidly in apparent disbelief, queried Muriel, and ended up fleeing. We saw the children periodically through the morning. I was able to pass a few comfortable words later with one of the little boys over a ship model we both were admiring. In general, however, we were met with wary smiles of recognition, but treated as potentially dangerous aliens.

 

We returned to the hotel, checked out, and carried our luggage across the street to the Hauptbahnhof, where we met Don. I found my room key in my coat pocket and dashed back through the rain across the streetcar tracks and wide highway to return it. We caught the first of three successive trains taking us to The Hague for the weekend.

European trains are excellent. Accommodations are comfortable; schedules are precise. The only problem is baggage. Trains linger in stations only a few moments. It is a frantic hassle to fling luggage aboard and scramble after it before the beast begins its slow departure. It is the same hurried affair on arrival. Changing trains often involves going up, over, and down to another track. Usually luggage carts are available.

We learned to keep specific coins available in each country to release the carts. When the cart is placed back in a rack, the coin is returned. Luggage carts ride up or down escalators easily. However, often escalators are not working. Equally often there are only stairways. Baggage must be carried up or down the steps. Don and Muriel managed easily with their single pieces of luggage. However, they were very heavy and unwieldy to toss onto or off trains. My two were more trouble, but each was lighter weight to manage. The Stauffers were inured to the baggage problem in train travel. It was a new, endlessly-repeated horror to me.

 

We checked into the Park Hotel in The Hague. My room was small with a narrow single bed. The bathroom was enormous. Muriel and Don had a large room with a minute bath, which was a constant source of inconvenience to the two of them. The weather was cold; our rooms were warm.

We walked to a restaurant Muriel and Don remembered as a pleasantly informal place. It had grown more elegant in the years since they lived in The Hague. We had excellent meals, beautifully served. When we left, the Maître d’ bowed as he presented ribbon-wrapped Valentine gift boxes to both Muriel and me. They held some of the finest candy I ever remember tasting.

Saturday, February 15

We picked up a rental car from Avis in the morning and drove toward Amsterdam. I was fascinated at the lowlands, vast stretches of level fields intersected by narrow drainage ditches and bordered by canals. We passed many traditional windmills, but most of them were without their sails. The only working windmills were slim, modern ones of steel.

We knew it was too late for the flower market, but Don wanted to show it to me anyway. The vast stretch of greenhouses and huge warehouses covers some seventy to eighty acres. Saturday mornings, Don said, flowers arrive by the hundreds of carloads to be auctioned off in the Dutch manner. A top price is set by the auctioneer. This is reduced by stages until a merchant signals a bid. He wins the consignment.

We continued into Amsterdam to the Rijksmuseum with its excellent collection of Dutch artists and Old Masters. As I remember, we were able to visit every room, unlike the Louvre, where rooms appear to divide and multiply as one moves along. The Rembrandts were the cream of the collection. Muriel pointed out the artist’s increasingly effective use of light. The gem of the collection was The Night Watch. I don’t know how long we all stood in front of it or how often we returned to look at the painting from a different angle.

 

After lunch in the museum restaurant, we walked a couple of blocks to the Van Gogh Museum in its fine modern building. Muriel was visibly disappointed. She said that in the old museum, studies made by Van Gogh before his final painting were mounted near it so one could see the changes and improvements he had made before being satisfied. In this museum, there were only a couple of examples of that kind of mounting. The old museum was exclusively Van Gogh. This one hung fewer Van Goghs along with what Muriel termed poor paintings by Masters and second-class paintings by lesser-knowns.

I found it fascinating to see Van Gogh’s progression from the dark early paintings through the light ones of the Arles years and ultimately, the increasingly wild scenes of the final St. Remy period. It was exciting to see the originals of familiar Van Goghs. I was interested to learn that Van Gogh suffered from epilepsy rather than dementia and that he cut off his ear lobe, not his left ear as we were told in school many decades ago.

 

It was getting late, 4:00 pm, but Don insisted we must try to take a canal cruise. We were able to get seats on the next-to-the-last cruise of the afternoon. Small birds called “Water Hens,” jet black with a slash of white “painted” down their faces and bills, swam around the boats at their moorings.

We moved off down the waterway, under arched stone bridges, past tall, handsome houses. The fronts of rooftops were decorated with elaborate “crowns” of varying styles. Homes in Amsterdam are taxed on the property on which they stand so they are narrow and many floors tall. We passed what was termed the smallest warehouse in the world, barely wider than its own door frame and only two floors high.

A short pole with a hook affixed to the end was secured near the top of almost every Amsterdam home. Stairs inside are too steep and narrow to permit the moving of furniture, so large objects are hoisted to the proper floor by ropes attached to the poles and are hauled inside through a window.

The guide said that at any one time, Amsterdam has some 500,000 bicycles. Annually 10,000 bikes are dredged out of the canals. Locks cost double the price of a bicycle.

No bridges connect the northern and southern parts of the city. Traffic travels through a tunnel under the harbor. There is free ferry service for pedestrians and bicyclists.

In the harbor, the guide pointed out a tower on a jutting point. Bungee jumpers leap from its top platform and end with their heads in the water.

We passed the new Technology Museum. It was designed like a ship rising out of the water by an Italian architect who took his inspiration from an 18th Century trading ship.

Near shore was an elaborate Chinese floating restaurant. Its three floors could accommodate 900 diners. The higher the floor, the more expensive the meal.

 

I found driving through Netherlands cities somewhat dazing. Lamp posts and traffic signals were set on heavy pedestals painted with wide black and white stripes. At a busy corner, the effect was practical but dizzying.

We returned to The Hague for dinner. Don wanted to introduce me to Indonesian Rijsttafel at Bali, their favorite restaurant. It was not a success. I enjoyed both the elaborate service and the dinner, but the Stauffers were disappointed at the restaurant’s deterioration since their last visit. As a final blow, long after they returned to Pennsylvania, Don received a parking ticket. Somehow the police tracked Don through Avis and across the ocean. I remember vividly where we parked that night, in line with other cars. No sign of posting.

Sunday, 16 February

Close friends of Muriel and Don’s, Yope and Wim Westland, invited the three of us for brunch in Kijkduin, on the Atlantic coast about twenty miles from The Hague. They were utterly charming people. The hotel dining room overlooked the beach. The buffet was superb, each platter a work of art both visually and gustatorily.

Following lunch we drove back across the lowlands, up along one canal and down the next, looking for an old Pumping Station. Don finally found it, minutes after the doors closed to visitors. We walked around the outside looking down into the stream below as Don explained its simple and historically effective operation.

Monday, 17 February

Don left early by train for an appointment in Paris. It was ridiculous to travel from Holland to Paris when he would be there two days later, but it was the only day he could meet that particular man.

Muriel and I set out by car for Delft. We stopped at one of the two factories that still hand paints pottery in the traditional way. It was fascinating to see the process and shocking to see the prices. My gifts were fewer and smaller than I intended to purchase.

Muriel gave me a short driving tour of Delft with its charming old homes. It was more human size than Amsterdam.

I took over the driving as we continued on an excellent highway toward Bruges in Belgium. In a convenient town, we waltzed into an attractive-looking restaurant, heads high, along with other somewhat dressier guests. We found ourselves in the middle of what obviously was a private luncheon party of elegant ladies and gentlemen. We exited rapidly and found a door leading into the adjacent handsome pub. Laughing at our faux pas, we recovered with a beer (Kate), wine (Muriel), and “tostis” (both).

Bruges was farther than either of us expected. The road was good and the traffic moderate, but it was 4:00 pm before we entered the wonderful, winding streets of one of Europe’s loveliest medieval cities. It had canals, wonderfully “lacy” homes, and a vast sense of calm. I hope to return for a longer visit.

Muriel drove us to the coast to catch the ferry back to the Netherlands while I, wordlessly (I hope) fretted beside her about directions and the increasing dark. No need. We ended up in the right place at the right time and, in a very short while, were looking for our hotel in Middleburg.

 

We parked behind the hotel, registered, and were shown to small but charming rooms across the hall from each other. Soft moss-green walls set off white wicker furniture effectively.

We had been told that there was no valet, so we set off to get our luggage from the car. Muriel stopped me as I started down the hall toward the front door. She motioned in the other direction to a door just past our rooms at the end of the hall. “We can use this door instead. It is much closer to the car,” she said.

I opened the door and found myself lurching down a two-foot high step. Muriel followed. We each retrieved one suitcase and returned to the door we had propped open. We had shoved the luggage up onto the hall floor when the attractive receptionist came running toward us warning, “It is forbidden to use this door,” adding that an alarm siren was about to go off. We scrambled back inside as the receptionist closed the door firmly. Chastened, we walked the long corridor to the front door and got the rest of the luggage the legal, though lengthy, way.

Don returned briefly, then left for dinner with business associates. Muriel and I adjourned to the hotel dining room. We returned to the coldest night any of us ever had spent. The radiators in our rooms felt warm to the touch. However, heat never moved beyond the surface. Controls did nothing to procure higher temperatures. The bathrooms had no source of heat whatever. Thank goodness the beds had the familiar great puffy down covers. Even so, I would not have survived without a flannel gown, my velour robe, and wool socks.

Tuesday, 18 February

Don left early for a tour of the Hercules plant he helped install years earlier when they lived in The Hague. Muriel and I had a driving tour of Middleburg (pleasant, but not special), then picked up Don to take him to an appointment at Bergen-op-Zoom. We both had good books and found our waits pleasantly restful.

Somewhere along the line, we had what we hoped would be a quick lunch, which wasn’t. We continued on to Roosendaal, where we were to return the car to Avis and catch the train to Brussels. The only noteworthy thing we passed was a small pasture where llamas unexpectedly mingled with sheep. Don drove around the city a few times, looking for either Avis or the train station. He finally located the latter.

Don deposited Muriel, me, and the luggage at the train station and went off to nearby Avis. We struggled to the proper train track. We stood on the cold and windy platform as our train arrived and Don didn’t. We were uncomfortable, but not unduly concerned, as there was a train every hour.

Don finally arrived to report that when he reached Avis, it was locked. A note advised customers to check at the gas station next door. The attendant there reported cheerfully that both Avis clerks had gone off to deliver a car. Fortunately, they returned before Don exploded, the car duly was returned, and Our Leader joined his waiting troops.

The train arrived. Muriel jumped aboard to catch suitcases as Don heaved them aboard one-handedly. We found seats, stored suitcases, and settled down to our late but pleasant trip to Brussels.

At Antwerp, I noticed fascinating little towers outlining the train tracks. Notes from conversation: In the Netherlands one can tell what religion a person is by looking at the wedding ring. Catholics wear it on the left hand while Protestants use the right. European train stations all were built with vast, vaulted ceilings to vent the steam from early engines.

 

Business associates were waiting for Don in the lobby of our Brussels hotel. We freshened quickly then joined them for the dinner we had been anticipating: Mussels in Brussels. We walked down a busy street lined with seafood restaurants to the one our friends had chosen. We were ushered upstairs to a long wooden table in a happily noisy room. Great bowls of mussels steamed in white wine kept us busy for a long time.

After dinner, we strolled down to the famous Grand Place. I knew it was something I was supposed to see but had no idea how gorgeous it is at night. Golden flood lights illuminate the intricate facades of ancient buildings surrounding the great square. It is a breathtaking sight.

Wednesday, 19 February

I unexpectedly slept late, enjoying the luxury. Friends of Muriel and Don’s, Jacqueline and Robert, joined us for lunch. Earlier that morning, when Muriel tried to make reservations in our hotel dining room, she was told we could not be accommodated because of a small luncheon beginning at 3:00 pm. The clerk whispered that there were twenty other restaurants just around the corner. Muriel booked us at the dining room of an hotel across the street, where we enjoyed an elegant cold buffet and warm conversation.

 

First class was sold out on our train to Paris. For the first time, we were forced to travel Second Class. Compared to the trains I remembered from the Forties, it was luxurious. Still, it was more crowded and less comfortable than the other train rides of our trip.

In Paris, Don announced that his choice would be to take the RER, an underground line, to a station near our hotel and walk the rest of the way. Kate announced that she was taking a taxi and Muriel and Don were welcome to accompany her. We ended up in the taxi for the vast fare of about $20.

The driver was an enthusiastic young man who spoke reasonable English. He warned us that he might have to take a roundabout route to our hotel because the Sorbonne students had announced plans for a demonstration in the neighborhood.

The car radio was on. Suddenly the first notes of the French National Anthem filled the car. The driver began to sing. I joined him. I learned the Marseillaise in high school French class and for some strange reason never forgot the words. I kept my voice low to limit the impact of my poor voice, but pronounced the words distinctly. At the end the taxi driver was unbelievingly effusive in his praise of the elderly American who cherished his National Anthem.

Fortunately, the driver found no obstruction and was able to deliver us directly to the Hôtel Trianon Rive Gauche. In pre-trip faxes, Don suggested that we stay on the Left Bank for a change; I had booked our hotel through Visit France. The hotel I chose was a few steps from the Boulevard Saint-Michel, across from the Luxembourg Gardens. The streets were full of Sorbonne students. Shops, bistros, brasseries lined the streets and Metros were nearby.

 

We checked in and were directed through a long lounge to a tiny elevator at the top of an abbreviated stairway. A heavy grillwork door guarded the entrance. Another heavy inner grill led to a triangular lift platform just large enough for one person with one suitcase or two people who were very close friends. We found our way up to our third-floor accommodations in a series of slow, clanking moves.

The receptionist had assured me that our rooms were beautiful. Certainly they had been redecorated recently. I suspected a decorator seriously in need of a cataract operation. The rooms were pleasantly large for a Paris hotel. Embossed gold fabric covered the walls. Wildly floral swagged draperies in shades of greens, reds, and pinks looped over lace-trimmed sheer curtains to decorate windows overlooking the street. The coverlet on the bed was a plaid of light greens and red. The traditional patterned rug was dark red with green flowers. The modernized bathrooms were tiny, but newly tiled in dark brown and metallic bronze.

When I joined the Stauffers in their room for our traditional Happy Hour, Don motioned me over to the window and pointed down to where a dozen police officers were spread out at the intersection below. Noise of a large gathering could be heard from the “Boule Miche” half a block away. We wondered whether we safely could leave the hotel for dinner.

Fortunately, by the time we left, most of the police were gone and the demonstration appeared to have ended.

Thursday, 20 February

Don left early for a day of business appointments. Muriel and I walked down to the Metro and, under her meticulous guidance, emerged at the Louvre. We were surprised at the numbers of visitors on a cold February morning. We headed for galleries we had not explored on earlier visits. Again, I felt privileged to have Muriel’s professional comments to help me see aspects of paintings I otherwise would have missed.

Our aching feet more than our stomachs told us when it was time to break for lunch. We adjourned to the museum cafeteria, then went back to the galleries. It was a fortunate accident that our eventual exit took us past the magnificent Victoire de Samothrace. We detoured to reexamine the Winged Victory, each of us quietly cherishing the beauty of the statue in her own way.

 

Traveling had taken its usual toll on both of us. We hurried to our late-afternoon hair appointments at a salon near the hotel. We returned, refreshed and re-glamorized, to meet Don. Again, we saw police in the streets below our windows; again, we heard strident student voices; again, all was quiet by the time we left for dinner.

The danger was inside the hotel. When we emerged from the tiny elevator, the lounge area was wall-to-wall young travelers and their luggage. Since I was first in line, I asked a seated young man how we were supposed to get through the room, “Bull our way through?”

“I guess so,” he replied with very little conviction as he reluctantly stood to let me pass. He was the only one in the room with the vaguest sense of manners. I picked my precarious way among unmoved legs and torsos, over duffles, and past expressionless faces. Muriel and Don followed. My foot caught in the loop of a bag and I fell flat, knocking over several startled young people to my descending delight.

Did anyone except Muriel and Don rush to my rescue or ask if I were all right? Of course not. My friends helped me to my feet and we finished our tortuous progression through the room. I was relatively undamaged, but seething at the (to me) incredible lack of manners of the young American travelers. One ankle was mildly sprained and painful for a few days, but the damage to my faith in the younger generation was far worse.

 

We took the Metro to a stop near the Arc de Triomphe. I suspect that the air around me still was corrupted by the negative vibrations of my recent trauma. Muriel and Don nearly were forced to leave me in the maze of underground Paris. For some reason my ticket was refused by the exit machine. I could not get out. A tall brunette, seeing my problem, told me to follow her through. I did not understand her directions, so was left back beyond the clanking door when she slipped through. She gave me a ruefully apologetic smile and went on her way. A short, efficient Frenchwoman then took me in hand and dragged the befuddled American through the briefly-open exit gate with her.

After a gratifying dinner at our beloved Brasserie des Ternes, the Metro again trapped me. This time, a tall young man rushed me through on his ticket. I obviously was a klutz. However, just as obviously, this is a common problem and Parisians are united in their willingness to aid the misbegotten and defeat the machines.

Friday, 21 February

Don left early for a four-hour train ride to Dax for an appointment. Muriel and I rushed first to buy gifts at a shop we had seen the day before.

We were enchanted by some Lucite eggs containing an artistic variety of gears, nuts, and other bits and pieces caught within the clear plastic. Muriel is a connoisseur of decorative eggs. They appealed to me as the daughter-wife-and-mother of engineers. It took two visits and a generous half hour for each of us to select two apiece out of the basket of eggs retrieved from its place in the window of the small shop by the patient proprietress.

We continued on to the Pantheon nearby. Don had insisted we go, though neither of us particularly wanted to. It was impressive building and display and we both were glad we had followed his advice.

 

After a light lunch, we crossed the city to see the exhibit in the Petit Palais. Muriel was delighted to find that as seniors we were admitted gratuit (free). It was the only time on the trip that our status as seniors did us any good. There was a special exhibit of Cambodian art, but it was so crowded that we decided just to enjoy the regular art galleries of the Palais.

We returned by Metro to a stop on the Boulevard Saint-Michel instead of to the Odéon, as on other excursions. When we emerged from the underground, we did not know which way to turn. I assessed the area, then set out with confidence too firm for argument. Muriel followed. Within a block we were in a strange, deteriorating area of increasingly shabby stores with racks of clothing outside each door. We looked at each other, laughed, and wheeled around. The tone of the “Boule Miche” changed dramatically on the other side of the Metro entrance to one of dignified stores and businesses. A block later, we saw the entrance to the Trianon Rive Gauche a few steps up a side street.

 

We were exhausted by the time we returned to the hotel. Muriel’s leg and back hurt severely. My ankles were sore and swollen. We freshened up and decided we were justified in taking a taxi to the restaurant where we were to meet Don.

The cab driver was surly and obviously had no idea how to find our destination. Muriel, quoting from a map, directed him as best she could. He growled and occasionally complied. We drove around blocks, sometimes the same block, tempers on each side getting testier with each pass. Finally the driver let us out at the end of a closed street and assured us that the restaurant was at the other end. We did not believe him, but were so annoyed by then that being stranded on the Left Bank was preferable to more frustrating moments of hearing his meter click.

There we were at night, two aching, aging females alone in the dark on an unfamiliar street in Paris. We walked to the end of the arcade, past blank walls and debouched into a narrow street. Two pleasant young women walked toward us. I accosted them in my best French, showed them our map, and asked if they could help. They were eagerly kind, though they did not recognize the name of the restaurant for which we were looking. We were in the middle of a four-way, two language conference when a deep voice from behind me asked, “Are you ladies in trouble?”

I spun around in something between hope and terror to find Don grinning at us.

We all said grateful adieux to the helpful young Frenchwomen and walked around the corner to the brasserie our taxi driver failed to find.

Saturday, 22 February

This was Don’s Day, one of the few fragments of holiday breaking his hectic succession of business appointments. He admitted that never before had he had time in Paris for one of the sights he always wanted to see. Muriel looked a little apprehensive at his suggestion, but it happened to be one of the things on my long list of “some day” plans. We headed for the Sewers of Paris.

A faint ripe aroma met us as we descended steep, narrow stairs. Once underground, the air appeared fresh and odorless as we emerged in a large open tunnel lined with pipes carrying telephone and electric lines and potable water. Guides embarked on endless lectures in French with much waving of arms. We moved ahead of our group to join an earlier one. Engineering of the tunnels was superb. Great channels carried water at varying speeds, sometimes steady, sometimes bubbling and leaping. We were shown the boats and machines used for cleaning the channels to keep water flowing freely.

The group we had joined was led from the main tunnel into one of the original “Jean Valjean” tunnels. We had a slightly unnerving short walk through a low, narrow, rough shaft, scary in its uneven darkness. We emerged gratefully into another major area where waste water rushed past, echoing thunder as it erupted over a paddle-wheel into a lower channel.

Finally, we passed through a long gallery with handsomely mounted diagrams and photographs of the sewer’s history, construction, and operation. The tour was beautifully designed and interesting. I do not need to go again.

 

Following a good lunch, we headed to Les Invalides. Don wanted to visit the museum of plans and bas reliefs of the old fortified cities. We wandered around the arcade at the back of the building before locating our museum on the top floor.

Don is absorbed by history and fascinated by maps. The displays were intriguing hints at a time and life we could only imagine. When we finished our survey, we decided to walk back down, rather than take the elevator. Somewhat to our surprise, we realized that our museum was the top display of the Musée de l’Armée, adjacent to Les Invalides, where Napoleon is buried.

We walked down through three floors of military displays—World War I, World War II, and finally Medieval. I was not as disturbed by the World War II exhibits as I had been at the Peace Museum in Caen, thank goodness. Don felt it was incomplete until he realized that a French museum would reflect the French war, not the American one in which he had taken part.

One room on the ground floor was dedicated to ancient Oriental uniforms. It was vaguely possible to tell through the gloom how magnificent they were, but the dim light maintained to protect delicate pieces prevented our appreciating materials and workmanship as much as we wanted.

Sunday, 23 February

We said goodbye to Paris reluctantly and took the train—the first of two trains, that is—to Zürich. It was a traumatic trip for Muriel and Don. As the trip originally was planned, they should have been approaching the high point of their year, their annual skiing vacation in Wengen. However, they had cancelled their reservations because of Don’s broken arm. At each train stop, we saw more and more ski-ladened vacationers on the platform. Snowcapped mountains broke the horizon. Don pointed out the peak nearest to their beloved Wengen. It was a bittersweet view for them.

Monday, 24 February

Don left early for his final appointment in Basel. Muriel and I set out to enjoy Zürich. It is a lovely old city of handsome buildings. A river near our hotel led to a large lake. We spent the morning walking around the old city. I found a small shop that had an enticing array of attractive offerings. We spent a gratifying half-hour or longer while Muriel bought one thing and I went mad accumulating gifts for Christmas giving.

As lunchtime approached, Muriel searched without success for a restaurant offering fondue. She said she was sure there used to be one on every corner. Finally, in desperation we went into a ordinary-looking delicatessen crowded with tiny tables and wire chairs. We found a place and settled ourselves. When the waiter came, Muriel ordered a glass of white wine before lunch and I asked for a beer. No! They did not serve drinks. We had not liked the place from the moment we first looked into it and that was too much for both of us. It was not a restful midday oasis, but a crowded, noisy place of the kind we preferred to avoid. We agreed instantly that a dignified exit was in order.

I got up, struggled into my coat, and prepared to leave. Muriel stood, swung her coat off the back of her chair, and knocked over a coca cola on the next table. It splashed its astounded owner before exploding on the tile floor. Muriel apologized profusely. Our already disgruntled waiter arrived with broom, dustpan, mop, and scowl. Muriel insisted over protests on paying for a replacement drink, though the girl by now was laughing at the incident, conciliatory about Muriel’s obvious dismay. We bundled our coats around us and left with somewhat less than the degree of composure we had planned.

We found a quiet pub nearby and escaped into its old-world comfort to recover with the aperitifs that had caused our problems, followed by an excellent light lunch.

 

On the way back to the hotel, Muriel stopped in a supermarket to pick up some bread “for the ducks.” I pointed out the smallest available bun, but she insisted on taking a large loaf. We deposited our other purchases in our rooms, then took the tram in front of our hotel for a ride alongside the river to the lakeside park.

We strolled past the few people braving the brisk winds and stopped at an overlook. Below us were a few of the white-faced black water birds we had seen in Holland, with some gulls circling overhead. Muriel opened the sack and broke off a small piece of bread. She tossed it into the lake. Hundreds of birds of a dozen varieties materialized instantly. Ducks paddled up from the left. Water hens swarmed from the right. Swans appeared directly below us. Gulls swooped dizzyingly. We fed the birds for the good part of an hour, the bits of bread decreasing in size as we tried to extend our fun.

We aimed our offerings toward the ducks or water birds to avoid greedy gull beaks. The swans were irritatingly stupid. Unless the bits of bread literally hit their beaks, they missed them, while other birds dashed in to snatch the food from under their graceful necks.

Eventually, the entire loaf had been tossed to the birds. We turned to walk the end of the lakeside park and catch a trolley back to our hotel.

 

Don returned at about the same time. We had a final, sad Happy Hour, then walked to one of their favorite restaurants for a superb dinner of fresh asparagus Hollandaise and Fondue Chinoise.

On our way back to the hotel, we passed the Bierhaus that had been crowded with people engaged in passionate polkas the night before. This time the band was playing to a small, quiet audience. On an impulse we went in. We enjoyed the music as we had the last liqueur of our trip.

Tuesday, 25 February

We breakfasted together, then made our separate ways to the airport for our flights home. My Air France flight was pleasant and uneventful. I spent the night at the hotel in the Miami airport.

Wednesday, 26 February

Slept late to overcome the long trip, then checked in with TACA for my flight back to Belize. For the first time in history, the flight was early. Alex was not there to meet me but I thought there was a container ship and did not expect him. I was through formalities quickly and took a taxi home. Alex apparently passed me en route. He reached the airport on time, only to be told that I already had left. Fortunately, he met a neighbor who needed a ride, so he brought him back to town. I had made a good start on unpacking by the time Alex returned to greet me.

After work, María and Alex joined me for our traditional post-trip visit and reunion drinks.