Category Archives: Nights on the Road

I wonder what the poor people are doing tonight?

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Our travels today took us from Red Wing, Minnesota to Scottsdale, Arizona and a very nice room at the St. James Hotel to a palatial villa at the Fairmont Princess. In between I was a somewhat uncomfortable guest of Northwest Airlines, sandwiched into a middle seat (though my original seat reservation was for an aisle) while the guy in front of me reclined into my lap so far that he blocked the light from the reading lamp so that I had to hold my book up over his head in order to read. Which I was happy to do, while also summoning up the juiciest coughs I’ve had in days. He was unmoved.

Meanwhile a mother seated behind me read an endless series of Curious George books to her toddler daughter who showed her delight by happily kicking the back of my seat. I was also four rows from the back of the oversold flight, which meant a long wait to “de-plane”. Once out into the concourse I had to take several deep breaths to re-inflate to my normal body size. Things definitely started to turn for the better when my wife and I got to the rental car counter and found that the full-sized car she reserved had been replaced with a brand new Suzuki SUV (so new it still had a paper license plate in the window). Not only that, it was in my wife’s favorite electric blue color!

Still it was 9 p.m. ‘zona time by the time we got to the hotel, where we found that I had been upgraded to a villa suite by the resort. Apparently my name on the contract for the conference my company is hosting made them feel especially warm and friendly. The accomodations are very nice; the bathroom “suite” alone is nearly the size of the very nice room we had had over the weekend at the St. James. In addition we have a sitting area, two large plasma-screen TVs, a private patio and a king-sized bed ideal for playing Marco Polo with the Reverend Mother.

We had to hustle, though, to get something to eat before the restaurants at the resort closed, and around 9:30 we made it to Bourbon Steak, a very, very nice place where the staff was very, very pleased to see me after tapping my villa number into the computer a the hostess stand. We were seated (in a small booth with real fur pillows!) and then our waitress approached and addressed me by name (“Mr. Night Writer”). It was late and we wanted to eat lightly, but the menu was awesome, though some of the entrees were well north of $45. I finally settled on a Kobe-beef hamburger (only $22) topped with fennel slaw and water cress while the Reverend Mother ordered a salad and crab cakes (you don’t want to know how much, though Accounting might ultimately take an interest). After we ordered our waitress brought us a selection of duck-fat fried french fries (some coated in smoked paprika, another variety in a truffle seasoning, and a third, savory option that I can’t remember), all with different dipping sauces, plus some fresh from the oven buttermilk foccacia bread, all compliments of the chef.

A short time later they brought our food, and it was almost too beautiful to eat. Almost, but we were really hungry (and it was all delicious). We did pause long enough, however, for the Reverend Mother to take pictures of our food and the fur pillows. I told her I thought I could get used to living like this, and she said that no, I’d probably die from a heart attack if we ate like this all the time. I reminded her, though, that if I had a heart attack while on company business my life insurance pays off triple — which would mean that she could then live like this for some time.

“Would you like some crab cake?” she asked.

What I did on my “summer” vacation

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I awoke easily last Sunday morning to the tramping sound of Lake Superior shoving repeatedly against the shore just 80 feet from the screened door of the cottage. It had been the same sound I had fallen asleep to the night before, and I looked at the clock and was half-stunned to realize that for the first time in months I had just spent eight glorious, uninterrupted hours dead to the world.

I also noted with some relief that the mental checklist of the day’s chores, challenges and deadlines was not, for the first time in months, floating just behind my eyes, trying to push them open. Instead the invisible slate was hanging back, humble and nearly bare like the marquis of a Dairy Queen closed for the season, the only lettering in my head a casual scrawl: Grand Marais, On Vacation.

Without much urgency I chalked the most pressing agenda item for the day: Breakfast.

On Saturday my family and I had driven up to the North Shore from the Cities. I hadn’t been able to get away much this past summer and had had to miss some of the picnics and canoe trips my wife and daughters had already taken, so I was really ready for this trip. By coming this late in the season, and before the fall leaves were at their peak, we had enjoyed a less crowded road, though the cars were still packed as thick as flies around a sweet roll at Tobies in Hinckley. Instead we had a picnic lunch outside the Hinckley Fire Museum and then kept bearing north to Duluth and the southwestern tip of the great lake, whereupon we hugged its sprawling shore as we passed the familiar totems of our trip: Two Harbors, Castle Danger, Gooseberry Falls, the Split Rock Lighthouse. We turned off at Palisade Head in order to walk along the the towering cliffs that for so long have told the mighty lake, “This far and no further” (a testament that even a natural balance isn’t necessarily an easy one). Driving up the steep, narrow road up to the parking lot at the rocky edge of Palisade, the “I ride ATVs and I Vote” bumper sticker on our borrowed mini-van contrasted nicely with the many “Wellstone!” stickers already there. After some clambering around and the usual jelly-kneed sensations we were back on Hwy. 61, with the hills, woods and great root beer rivers of the Superior National Forest on our left, the lake always on our right, past the Tettegouche State Park, and the Temperance and Cascade Rivers, crashing down the gorges and over the rocks in a great foamy rush to keep their standing appointments with Gitchee-Gumee. Then we were at last into Grand Marais, and still a bit further, past 5-Mile Rock and to the Croftville Road Cottages.

After that my wife prepared some lamb stew in our kitchen for dinner. Then, in the gathering twilight, a campfire and toasted marshmallows as we watched the bats chase down the remaining insects of the season and finally into bed, the tramping sound in my ears of Superior shoving against the shore, just 80 feet from the screened door of my cottage.


Our cottage. It was beautifully remodeled and very comfortable with two gas fireplaces, and at a great price.

Sunday, when breakfast had been duly scratched off of the to-do list, we went back into Grand Marais, parking in a lot beside the harbor where I could see a yellow sailboat moored 50 yards from shore, crisp in the morning sun and nodding to us on the gentle waves. We walked through the small town, browsing at the many gift shops and quaint attractions. I’m sure that the Indians, and later the first explorers, trappers and lumbermen through this area, would be stupefied at the many opportunities available today to partake of the comforts of pie and caffeine.

While the girls admired jewelry and scarves, beneath rustically-lettered signs informing them that they were under video surveillance, I scouted around and discovered the apparently sole location where that afternoon’s Vikings-Lions football game could be seen. That was still several hours away, however, so we got back in the van and headed north to the Devil’s Kettle Falls and State Park. We “tail-gated” with chicken- and egg-salad sandwiches from our cooler before setting off on the somewhat stiff 1.4 mile hike to the falls. The path is relatively wide and well-maintained, but persistently uphill and even in the mild temperatures we got pretty warm. There are some very nice look-outs along the way, however, and we admired the cascading river and the vistas of trees still mostly green but already seasoned with explosive swathes of red and orange.

After steady climbing we were then at a series of wooden steps and railings leading us down to the titular “Devil’s Kettle.” The relief in the descent was greatly mitigated by the knowledge that every one of the 179 steps would have to be negotiated in reverse order and direction on our way back. On the way back up, however, we did get to see an eagle circling directly above us (though at first I thought it might be a buzzard). The girls dropped me back at the bar in time for the game and then they headed for the bay with their sketch books.

I thought the bar would have more than a few tourists inside to catch the game, but it was all locals who knew each other and didn’t seem to mind my presence. It was a congenial, cozy group. One of the patrons sitting at the bar, who was wearing open-toed flip-flop sandals, apparently felt so at home that he started picking at his toenails, dropping his scrapings on the carpet. Well, I wasn’t planning on eating anyway, as I only wanted to watch the game, but I ordered a draft Bock for medicinal purposes. The pedicurist and one of the female customers were soon intent on a discussion about why the TV kept showing a “DET 6, MIN 3” score from time to time in the upper corner of the screen, especially when the current score was Lions 7, Vikings 0. I cautiously submitted for their consideration that the strange score might, in fact, be the score of the Tigers-Twins game that was also going on that afternoon. Their reaction gave credence to the adage that the definition of “expert” means someone who lives more than 50 miles away. A little later I felt comfortable enough to take sides between two groups disputing the interpretation of a certain play. One of the members of the “other” group, an older gentleman, loudly insisted his version was correct because he “used to play this game.” To which I replied, “And did they wear helmets back then?” Fortunately, this was well received by the group as a whole and the gentleman in particular, and while I was on a “one-beer-per-half” pace, a third Bock appeared in front of me in the fourth quarter.

I’d nursed my way through about a third of it with about a minute and a half to go in the game, when my wife pulled up in the parking lot and sent the kids in to get me. “Paw,” they said, “Ma says it’s time to come home!” Well, actually, they didn’t say anything like that, but they did let me know that they and my supper were waiting for me down the street a little ways at a place called the Crooked Spoon. Therefore, even though the game looked to be heading for overtime, I settled my tab and left after Longwell’s kick clanked off the upright. Besides, with two 16-oz. glasses of beer, plus a little bit more, in me I was starting to feel a little tingly in my extremities. A brisk walk in the cool evening air was the perfect remedy, however, and I arrived at the restaurant hungry and invigorated. The Crooked Spoon had been recommended to us by friends who admired its sophisticated menu. I believe I acquitted myself with grace and aplomb while dining — an opinion that the Mall Diva threatens to dispute in a post of her very own if I’m not careful (or she gets the slightest encouragement from anyone).

Whatever. The food was absolutely delicious, from the melted cheese and spinach appetizer, through the pulled pork with beans and greens soup and the barbequed ribs, and including two delectable pieces of carrot cake — each the size of some of the boulders we’d seen along the shore earlier — that my family fell upon with flashing cutlery like ninjas. We left the restaurant well satisfied with the meal and the day, but even more “dessert” was in store: an enormous crescent moon, looking so perfect that if you saw it in a movie you’d think it was a painted backdrop for sure, had risen over the bay and was reflecting a golden beam across the still waters directly at us, and the beam followed us nearly all the way to the car.

Yep, it had been a great day.

Short on sleep in the city that never bothers to

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I’ve always loved coming into Manhattan from the outlying boroughs. Approaching and crossing the bridges or coming through the tunnels always has a certain feel of anticipation as if traveling to a fantasyland. In the past I’ve always come to the island via the Newark or LaGuardia airports, but this trip I landed at JFK. In one of those oddities of air fare arcania, I had a choice between two Northwest flights, each leaving Minneapolis at the same time on the same day, one arriving at LaGuardia and the other at JFK, one minute apart. The LaGuardia flight was some $650 more than the one that landed at JFK. That’s math that even I can do. (Heck, I can even do it in story-problem form: if two planes leave at the same time for the same destination, arriving at almost the same time, and if the Night Writer selects the one that costs $650 more, how long before Corporate Accounting comes down on him like a herd of flesh-eating frogs?

Approaching Manhattan from Queens especially enhances the sensation of being backstage at a big show. Nearing the Queensboro Bridge I noticed a cemetery resolutely holding its ground while the highway, roads, brick warehouses and homes pressed round its perimeter like a river coursing past a boulder. It occured to me that cemeteries tend to be a reflection of their environs. When I drive through rural areas, for example, cemeteries have lots of empty space around them and seem to jut up from the empty fields suddenly, without transition, much like the communities they serve. Squat stones and tall stones break up the lines of the earth in the same way the houses, barns and silos do. In Queens the headstones – squat and tall – are compacted together, their straight, tidy rows and random heights and shapes looking like a modeler’s panorama of Manhattan’s grid. I thought of these headstones again this morning as I had a bagel and coffee while looking out the window from the 44th floor of the Hilton in mid-town (yes, Corporate Accounting knows about this, too); the stone rectangles of differing heights and colors running row after row below in straight lines below my feet.

That’s about all of Manhattan that I saw on this short trip. Yesterday I went directly from the airport shuttle to a 13th floor conference room overlooking an inner courtyard off of Park Avenue. From up there, though, I could hear the filtered sirens and honkings from the streets below and the miscellaneous crashings and bangings that are a constant part of the background noise of the city, much like bird song on a country morning. Six and a half hours later I followed our little group out of the conference room and across the street to a restaurant; three hours after that I walked the half-dozen blocks to my hotel.

Though that was still “early” – especially by New York standards – it was still 18 hours after I had woken up that morning, a sleep that itself had only lasted about 3 ½ hours. By the time I got up to my room last night the 20 oz. Caribou coffee in the Minneapolis airport, two cans of pop and one cup of Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee (now that’s what I call a conference room!) in the afternoon that had provided life-preserving stimulation earlier were exacting their payback in the form of palpitations and twitchy muscles in my forearms and fingers. When I was younger I might have thought, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” Last night I was more interested in sleeping like the dead. The neon lights may be bright on Broadway, but they were nothing compared to the ones going off inside my head — and it was definitely time for lights out. I might as well have been in Des Moines or Owatonna except that way down below, the New York City serenade was a soothing backdrop.

You really can find anything you want in New York, including a good night’s sleep.

Tiger Lilly’s travelogue

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Hello, Tiger Lilly here. I know, I know, it’s a big surprise since I’ve been gone a long time from the blogging world, but it really is me. Here are the things I wrote in my journal during our recent trip to England, Italy, Scotland and Ireland. But first…

When we were in Inverness, we went on a ghost tour. This guy who was supposedly a “ghost” took us all around the town center and told ghost stories. His name was Davy. Here’s one that you might enjoy that’s not really a ghost story, but is instead about the Loch Ness monster:

You know about St. Columba right? Well one time he was sent to deliver a message to some person on the other side of a river somewhere in Scotland. (This story is full of details, isn’t it? That would be because I don’t remember them all.) So he went to the river, but there was no boat or bridge. He was just about to swim across it when a village boy came running up and said to him, “If you go swimming in that river, a big nasty beast is gonna come up ‘n eat you.” So St. Columba, being the strong, brave man that he was, summoned a man to go cross the river for him, just to make sure it was safe. But sure enough, when the man got to the middle of the river, a “big, nasty beast” came up and opened its mouth. But just when it was about to eat the man, Columba drew his sword and said, “Go away, you nasty beast,” in a kind of pompous voice. So the beast ran off to Loch Ness, and that’s where Nessie came from.

Now here’s my journal that I’ve been keeping:

Tuesday, May 23, 2006. Italy.
I bought a notebook in a little souvenir shop in Vernazza, Italy, one of the 5 cities of the Cinque Terre. There were thousands of cats roaming around that city.

I found a teeny-weeny conch shell and a bunch of cool rocks on the beach in Vernazza. We have eaten an ice cream like substance every day that we’ve been in Italy. It’s called Gelato. “Gelato, Poppi!” It’s sooo good.

I had a drink in Vernazza called an Italian soda. It was super minty, and so sweet it gave me a headache.

We have been going through Cinque Terre today. It’s really pretty. We only have one more day left in Italy (today) before we go back to England and then to Scotland.

We were staying in a villa near Dicomano that was pretty nice except for the scorpions. Eeeek!!! But now we’re staying in a Bed & Breakfast in Sarzana. The view at the villa is better than the view at the Bed & Breakfast, but I like the house better than the villa, even though I don’t get my own room like I did in the villa. Instead I have to sleep in the same room as the Mall Diva. Horrors!

When we were at the villa, there was a swimming pool that I went swimming in once. I only swam once because I forgot to put on sunscreen on one part of my back, and I got second degree burns. Owee!

Wednesday, May 24, 2006. Italy-London.
Today we are flying out of Italy. 🙁 I wish we didn’t have to go. I love Italy.

Later…
We are driving through England in a Volkswagen. It’s pouring rain. It’s taking sooo long to find our hotel. Dad is in a bad mood. Yes, Marty Andrade, he can be evil sometimes.

Saturday, May 27, 2006.
Scotland is beautiful!

I’m torn between 3 places I want to live in. 1. Minnesota. 2. Italy. 3. Scotland. They’re all so nice!

Later…
I’m sitting in the B&B room. The beds are rather hard. And Mall Diva is about to receive the “Booger Wiener of the Year” award. Her booger wiener-ness is so booger wienerful that I’m not even going to tell you what she’s doing for fear that you would run screaming into the night never to be seen again once you read what she – never mind.

Sunday, May 28, 2006. Scotland.
We went to Loch Ness today, but Nessie was nowhere in sight. Maybe she tried to eat someone and they brandished a sword at her and yelled, “Go away, you nasty beast!” so she fled to Loch Lomond…

I got a pale blue shirt that says Scotland on it. It’s really cute.

Monday, May 29, 2006. Scotland.
We went to Stirling Castle. There were 2 guys on the grounds inside the castle in medeival outfits. One guy was dulling some swords while the other guy was talking to people and answering questions. After a bit a crowd had formed and the guys walked to the middle of the yard.

“All right,” the first guy said. “Welcome, everyone. My name is Elvis Presley, and this is John Lennon.”

“Peace,” ‘John Lennon’ said.

‘Elvis’ started talking about the history of Stirling castle until he finally said, “Ok, I need a volunteer.” So I volunteered. I went under the rope that was surrounding them and walked up to them. Elvis asked me what my name was. I told him, and he said, “Well, Patience, you are about to become a knight of Scotland.” And with that he and John (who, by the way, is reeeally cute) proceeded to put a mail shirt on me. It was pretty heavy.

Then Elvis said, “Patience, you are not only going to be a knight of Scotland, you are going to be THE knight of Scotland. King Robert the Bruce, actually.” I could feel the flush creeping up my face. He then put a chain mail headpiece and a yellow-with-red-lion sash thing on me. Then he put a helmet on me. I could hardly see out of it! Then Elvis said, “Robert was highly skilled with a battle axe.” Then he gave John a huge shield and told me to watch how John blocks the battle axe. Then he started whacking the shield with a battle axe.

“Most importantly, remember to block your head and don’t move your feet,” he said. He gave me the shield. “Try and block us as we come at you. Oh and we will be using swords.”

“O.k., I’m sorry I volunteered for this already!” I said, but I don’t think they heard me. (By now my face was really, really red but you couldn’t see it because it was inside the helmet.) Elvis and John each picked up a sword. I held the shield with both hands. Then they yelled and deliberately missed me as I raised the shield. And I didn’t move my feet! They both congratulated me and helped me take the armor off. I went back to where mom and dad were standing. (My face was flaming.)

John and Elvis did a swordfight. “No back stabbing,” said John. “And no fancy moves,” said Elvis. Elvis won. He and John locked swords, and Elvis kicked John. John fell to the ground and said, “I said no back stabbing!” “Yeah, but you didn’t say anything about kicks.” I like John.

Tuesday, May 30, 2006. Scotland.
I am so sick of driving! Drive, drive, drive! That’s all we do. But at least we don’t have to walk.

Later…

We’ve been in England for about 6 hours now. We had Chinese for dinner. It was so good. Very authentic, like the food I had in China last summer.

Thursday, June 1, 2006. Ireland.
At the B+B that we’re staying at are chicks and kittens! The kittens are so cute, but all they do when I walk up to them is hiss. The dogs at the B+B are always trying to get at them, so when they sniff at the door and try to get into the barn where the kittens are, the mom cat comes and bats at their noses from the other side.

I was able to hold one of the chicks. They are sooo soft and fuzzy and cute. They kind of cheep instead doing the bwuk-bwuk-bwuk thing.

Later…

We went to the beach. It was really fun. I saw a crab that was probably 3 inches long.

Friday, June 2, 2006. Quilty, Ireland.
We went to the beach again today. I was wearing my swimsuit and I went into the freezing cold Atlantic water waist high. The waves actually pushed me a couple of inches. It was really fun.

Later…

We went to a pub tonight. Mall Diva and I played pool with the bartender (whose name was Henry). I lost, Diva won. TTHHPPTT!

Sunday, June 4, 2006.
We’re goin’ home!!!!!

Remember, honesty means never having to say, “Please don’t flush me down the toilet!”

Ciao for now,

Tiger Lilly

Cleaning out the camera

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We’ve been back from our trip for almost a week and it’s time to finally close up the travelogue. Below are a collection of previously unpublished photos selected from the 899 that we took over the course of the trip. (Really, it was 899! If I’d realized that it was that number I would have taken one more just to round it off!)

The places you go, the people you meet

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I wasn’t just gone to foreign lands the last three weeks; it felt like I was in a different world altogether. In those three weeks I read two newspapers, both of them English tabloids I picked up from chairs in airport waiting areas. Except for two nights in Ireland when the girls watched “X Factor” (an “American Idol” type of competition) we never turned a television on. Occasionally in pubs or restaurants I could see a big screen tv showing sports highlights that looked very ESPN-like, except that the highlights were soccer, rugby or cricket. When I was able to get internet access I spent most of the time uploading posts to my own blog and couldn’t browse around to find out what people were talking about.

And yet somehow the world kept turning, despite my ignorance — and inability to comment. Despite that I did learn that the world can be a pretty friendly place. Aside from our professionally friendly (and always helpful) hosts at the various B&Bs we stayed at, I was regularly approached by others throughout the trip who struck up conversations, including the fellow in Ireland I mentioned earlier who had once lived just a few blocks from my house in South St. Paul.

During our last couple of days on the farm in Tuscany I met Leonhard who arrived with a group of Swedes for a week of sunshine. I met him when he and his wife were touring the grounds and came across me in the laundry cave. In a short time we had exchanged the details of our respective trips, other trips we’d been on and points of interest in the area. Leonhard also seemed very happy to have gotten a rather severe looking sunburn on his chest and face in just one afternoon, and found my trips back and forth the washing machine amusing. At one point he asked me why I didn’t just throw the dirty clothes away and buy new ones. I told him that in America that’s what we always do but when I travel I like to try and live like the common people we visit. He had a large laugh over that one.

Laundry also brought me into contact with some other nice people. It was in Carlisle, near the Scottish border where we were staying at a B&B that was more like a hotel. We had driven all day from the Cotswalds in stop and go traffic to get there and I still needed to find a laundromat or else fashion kilts from bath towels for everyone the next day. The lodge graciously allowed me to use their washing machine and dryer, which was in a little room next to its lounge. It had been a long, frustrating day and I still had a few hours of laundry to do, but this situation was significantly improved by discovering that the lounge had a very fine collection of single malt whiskeys, including a fine Isle of Jura that was more than old enough to be out that late.

After I got the first load of clothes started I treated myself to a wee dram of this golden elixir with just two small icecubes, but first I positioned myself on a comfy couch, plugged my laptop in and got it started, and then, drawing out the suspense, took that first, slow sip, letting it amble warmly over my tongue. I must have even closed my eyes because I was startled when a voice near me said, “I bet you rather enjoyed that.”

Looking up I saw a couple named David and Jan beaming at me from their own comfy chairs. I admitted that, yes indeed, I had enjoyed that very much. They were from Wales and David was on his way to meet with a group of friends to play golf around Scotland, including a tee-time at St. Andrews, but at the New Course (which was just laid down in the 1800s). “Oh yes,” I said, “The New Course. I hear it will be very nice when it finally grows in.”

It was fun to talk to another golf enthusiast, though I told them I didn’t know much about Wales outside of some Max Boyce “Live at Treorchy” rugby songs and the movie “Zulu.” Turns out they also have that album and like that movie, though David can’t abide the song “Men of Harlech” that the Welshmen sing during the movie. Still, it was appropriate for us to caterwaul our way through a short chorus of Boyce’s “The Scottish Trip” (since that’s what we all were on). This was remarkably easy for me to do because the Jura was bestowing magical properties and because David may well be the only Welshman who cannot sing. A couple of days later my family and I bumped into Jan while touring Stirling castle. We were surprised to see each other again, and she commented on it being a small world. “Well, it certainly is a small island, at any rate!” I replied.

The whole family also enjoyed a pleasant evening in the Cotswalds when we had dinner at the Lygon Arms in the town of Chipping Campden. We sat down to eat at about the same time as a family next to us which consisted of husband, wife, daughter and two in-laws. A little ways into our meal the husband struck up a conversation and our families discussed our trips. They were visiting the Cotswalds on their way to a vacation in Portugal, and I said we were on our way to Carlisle and then to Scotland. It turned out that his family was all from the Carlisle area and they gave us some good tips on where to stay. During dessert he asked if he could buy us a drink and we said we’d enjoy a coffee with our dessert, which he happily took care of. When I asked the waitress later for our check she said our entire bill had already been settled by the gentleman at the next table.

We were very surprised and appreciative, but he shrugged it off saying, “It cost a lot less to feed you than my lot, believe me.” I asked if I could know his name and he said it was Edward Stobart. As we were leaving his father-in-law said we’d see that name a lot the next day, especially as we got near Carlisle. “About every third lorrie you see on the motorway will say ‘Eddie Stobart’ on it,” he said. It turns out that Eddie Stobart, LTD is not only the U.K.’s largest independent logistics company, it has its own fan club of people who watch for the distinctively liveried trucks, with each cab named bearing a woman’s name. To us, however, they were just a down-to-earth family that we enjoyed talking to about kids, movies, scenery and traffic. (And I ordered a model of one their trucks from the Stobart web-site as a souvenir.)

I also greatly enjoyed talking to our host in Italy, Francesco; the McDougals – a lovely older couple in Inverness who were right out of Brigadoon; Christopher and Vreni at Bran Mill Cottage B&B in the Cotswalds; and of course John and Maire Daly in Ireland who I mentioned in an earlier post.

All in all I’d have to say that even though I didn’t have much access to the media while we traveled, I was far from being disconnected.

For Cathy (and not for the squeamish)

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Cathy in the Wright is always on the lookout for dead things, and likes to post pictures of these carcasses when she finds them. Here, just for her and anyone else with the stomach for it is a photo of something we found washed up on the rocks on the beach in Quilty, Ireland.

It smelled worse than Marmite.

Yes, that’s right, we went to the beach! It was hot!

Peace out!

Euro – peein’

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The second-most common phrase I’ve heard from my family in the last three weeks is, “Gelato, Poppi!” The most common phrase, however, is “I have to pee!” Three women. Three bladders. And a dedication to staying properly hydrated.

After this trip I have an even greater understanding of the differences between men and women. I am well aware that men have to pee, too, and that our standards for what is an acceptable place for exercising this prerogative are different as well. What I’ve come to realize is that for myself, the need for relief is measured by something that works like a fuel gauge on a car. At any given time I can assess the “level” and how long it will be before I’m going to need to stop. I can also compare that projection with the distance remaining in the trip, or to the next stop.

Women apparently don’t have this gauge. For them it’s more like a “check engine” light; it’s either on or it’s off, and, like the light, when it comes on something has to be done – now! And yes, it is too much to hope that any random grouping of three bladders might possibly get in sync with one another.

The most important meal of the day

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Most of the places we’ve stayed in the last three weeks have been Bed & Breakfasts. As a result, we developed some strong feelings about breakfast as the trip progressed.

The first place we stayed in London offered cold cereal, juice, yogurt, toast, cheese, tea or coffee and a selection of cold lunchmeats. After three days of that we went to Italy where we were on our own for breakfast for the first few days near Dicomano in Tuscany. No problem, we’d just head into the little village to get our morning dose of cappuccino and something to eat. In Italy, however, breakfast is typically small and usually consists of just croissants (often called brioche) or small sweet rolls. This is a nice change, but by the end of the week we were really craving something more substantial; we wanted to sink our teeth into some serious protein and starch.

This desire was soon met when we returned to England and were introduced to the “Full English breakfast”: eggs, back bacon, sausage, beans, mushrooms, half a fried tomato, toast and – yum – Marmite. (I can’t imagine anyone liking Marmite, but somebody must because they seem to make an awful lot of it, and awful is the right word.)

This was great for the first week or so. Then we discovered that the “Full Scottish Breakfast” and “Full Irish Breakfast” offered at our later stays were very, very much like the “Full English breakfast.” It was enough to make you logy just thinking about it. At one place in Bo’ Ness, Scotland our hostess made the mistake of asking us the night before what we’d like for breakfast. Immediately the girls piped up:

“Pancakes!”
“French Toast!”
“Anything but bacon and eggs!”

The poor woman had no idea what French Toast was, and seemed dubious at the recipe that was offered, but thought she could handle pancakes. The next morning that was what we got, and they were a refreshing change, especially served with “Lyle’s Golden Syrup.” I don’t know just what this syrup comes from, but it’s not maple trees. Still it was sweet, sticky and tasted good, if a bit fruity.

The breakfasts also usually came with a selection of cold cereals, which is a pretty common way for us to start our day at home. In Ireland, however, my wife and the Mall Diva discovered a new cereal: Wheatabix. They love this and don’t think they’ve ever seen it in the states. They both surreptiously slipped sealed individual packages of these dense, palm-sized wheat bricks into their bags this morning at our last “Full English Breakfast” before departing.

Tomorrow: bagels!

Stella Artois is taking over the world

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Everywhere we went in Italy, England, Scotland and Ireland the pubs and taverns had Stella Artois signs on the walls and the beer on tap or in bottles. Other propaganda was also prominent and in one place the waiters even wore Stella shirts.

I know that Keegan’s also flogs this brew regularly and I can’t understand the pervasiveness of what, to me, is a pretty mediocre beer. It’s as if Stella Artois has become the “bleedin’ Watney’s Red Barrel” of our time.

Why is this?