After the last blog post, I suspected we had a couple more road trips left in us. And we did.
First we decided to go to Amsterdam to take in the Munch:Van Gogh exhibition at the Van Gogh Museum. We booked the trip somewhat spontaneously (for me, that's about a month ahead) and then the whole Paris terror attacks happened. We went anyway, as is our way, and enjoyed the heck out of Amsterdam. The exhibition is going down as perhaps the best I've seen anywhere, but the test of time will have to have the last word there. It was, in a word, exquisite.
Then, almost as spontaneously, we returned to our beloved Los Angeles for a quick (30 hour) stay to see Morrissey play on New Year's Eve, then drove to Las Vegas for three days to see him there as well. As hesitant of (and dare I say resistant to) Las Vegas as I was, I ended up loving the time there. Not sure I'd go back without the tantalizing Morrissey on the other end of it, but I did have fun and come back significantly poorer. But alas, I think that's what Vegas does to you.
So while I logged about the same number of miles as previous years (I travel about 37,000 miles annually), this year it was over 11 trips. 11 times when I packed a bag and either got on a plane or got in a car and drove for hours. It seemed like all we did was pack and unpack. Not that I'm complaining, but we were pretty exhausted at points, and both of us fell ill with some exhaustion/stress-induced illness during the course of it all. Every minute of it was completely worth it. No regrets.
As I recapped on Facebook:
37,256 miles traveled
1,055 miles on the bike
126 incredible art exhibitions
6 Morrissey shows...
12 other shows (we only bailed on one this year!)
Tornata in Bella Italia (prima volta dal 2007)
Back to Amsterdam (first time since 2007)
A wonderful travel buddy in my sis
Bring on 2016….
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Friday, January 15, 2016
Monday, August 26, 2013
Celebrating twenty years of travel
Twenty years ago tonight, I was winging my way on an Aer Lingus jet to Dublin for my first ever trip out of the country. With that trip came a new passion for exploring the world, learning more about myself and broadening my world view. And there doesn't seem to be an end in sight to this little obsession of mine.
I traveled with a girlfriend from college and two pen pals I'd met through a U2 fanzine. We met in Dublin for the last two shows of U2's European tour on their home turf. The shows were, of course, amazing. I survived general admission crowds in a European football stadium. That's nothing to sniff at. But I laugh now when I think of that first trip to Dublin. We were only gone for 7 days, but I packed enough clothes, indeed, a complete clean, new outfit, for every day, and then some. My suitcase was massive. I'd not even take it now on a 2 week trip. We were silly naïve ignorant tourists, who didn't know that just because your room wasn't ready at your hotel when you arrived off a red eye flight, that you didn't have to sit in the lobby and wait. You can, and should, go out and see the sights until your room is ready. But we didn't. We sat, with all the other newly arrived U2 fans, and waited. And wasted our first morning in Dublin. Nearly 10 more trips to Ireland would follow, with three of those being on successive U2 tours. And so it began...
Twenty-seven foreign trips, seventeen countries on four continents and three passports later, I'm still completely infected with the travel bug. I'd like to think I've become a more savvy traveler: someone who packs more efficiently and can squeeze every last usable minute out of a day. Someone who knows enough to try the local food and not be too afraid to admit that I like it (Haggis? LOVE IT!) I still get jumpy at in-flight turbulence and will always hold my breath until my luggage drops down on to the carousel at my destination. I'm still disappointed that I can't bring my three bottles of frozen spring water from home on the plane after 9/11, but I've adjusted. Somehow. But as my confidence as a world traveler has grown, so too have my experiences.
So what exactly has all this travel gotten me? Let me count the ways, as they say.....I learned quickly the overwhelming surge of joy at a long-overdue "hello" and the utter sadness and regret of an airport good-bye. I've seen wild horses running on a Dublin strand, poppies in bloom in the Tuscan countryside, and 21 lions staring back at me from under a shade tree in Africa. I've learned there is nothing more melodic than a Irish accent and nothing more heart-melting than Irish eyes. And there is nothing smoother than a fresh Bailey's over two ice cubes served up in Ireland.
I've been extremely fortunate to have seen the best art in the world: rooms full of Rembrandts in St. Petersburg, Amsterdam and New York, Michelangelos in Florence, Picasso's Guernica, American Gothic, Whistler's Mother, Mona Lisa, hundreds upon hundreds of Monets in one weekend in Paris, Caravaggios in situ in Rome, a Degas to die for in Moscow, glorious Vermeers in Holland, London, Berlin, and nature's own display of art and beauty: tulip season in Amsterdam.
I've held a panda (twice!), fed a giraffe and petted a rhino. I watched Lipizaner stallions rehearse in Vienna and have seen the Changing of the Guard in London twice. Two elderly men generously made me their date for a rare stage performance by Liam Neeson, and we were front row! I've seen Matthew Broderick, Nathan Lane, Nicole Kidman and Brian Dennehy in Broadway shows. I've seen U2 in 3 countries and five states.
I've tasted Haggis, Borscht, Jenever with gold dust, Serrano ham, Lechón, Cocido, Frikadel, Profertjes, Caviar, Pici, Sacher Torte, Croque Madame, Bangers and Mash, Berliners, Peking Duck and hot pot in their home countries and I loved them all. I've eaten on the porch of a local Tuscan family, imbibing in the fresh pasta, crushed tomato, house wine and homemade lemon gelato all sourced right on their property. There are days I'd kill for a good Irish fry or even just a Crunchie. I adopted Dutch coffee with sweetened, condensed milk as my caffeine of choice. It's been my duty, no, obligation, to sample as many gelato flavors as I can in Italy; I think the trip record is 30-something...
My feet have taken me up Paris' Arc de Triomphe and Notre Dame towers, Florence's campanile, Rome's Vatican Dome, Edinburgh's Scott Monument and China's Great Wall and I've plunged down a road on a bike at 30 miles an hour in the hills of Pisa. I've walked in Red Square, Trafalgar Square, Times Square, Dam Square, Grafton Street, Plaza Mayor, Kufurstendam. I've run up Edinburgh's Royal Mile while chasing the sound of bagpipes.
I've seen nature's miracles...wildebeest births in the Serengeti, amazing sunrises, sunsets and thunderstorms coloring up Tanzania's sky, the awe-inspiring burial ground Newgrange, Pike's Peak, Cliffs of Moher, The Burren, Giant's Causeway. I've seen man-made miracles...the Rosetta Stone, Xi'an's Terracotta Warriors, the Endeavor Space Shuttle, the Great Wall. I have also seen how man can go terribly wrong at the Anne Frank House, Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp and the US National Holocaust Museum.
Lucky I was to share trips to England, France and Italy with my Mom. It was the sweetest pleasure to share with her Paris, the chateaux of the Loire, Mont St. Michel, London, Sorrento, Amalfi Coast, Florence and Rome. Her knack for attracting stray dogs (Pompeii) and partying young Spanish men(Florence) can't be underestimated. I then got to break my sister in in Europe with fabulous trips to the Netherlands and Cologne and Paris and Vienna before taking on our own United States of America in sisterly fashion.
I caught a vile intestinal parasite in Spain that took two weeks of antibiotics to cure and got scammed of $200 cash just to get on my plane home from Tanzania. I've had a head cold from hell in Spain, a fever of 102 in Ireland (first trip, it was a doozie) and fought my way through China with a herniated disc in my neck that I didn't know I had. I've had my credit card rejected in a leather shop in Florence, which, well, may not have been such a bad thing. So see, not all the trips were flawless but I've enjoyed the heck out of all of them.
What you read is more than just a laundry list, at least to me. These are slide shows of memories and smiles and tears and joy and fears that I can and do play back in my head all the time. I've been questioned more than a little about my travel habits and why I do what I do. I say it often, but I truly work to feed this travel monster of mine, but completely without regret. If this blog is even the slightest hint of what the next twenty years of travel holds for me, I'll consider myself incredibly blessed indeed. Looking back to that flight 20 years ago tonight and how much I've grown and changed with every trip, I'm reminded that "a journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step."
I traveled with a girlfriend from college and two pen pals I'd met through a U2 fanzine. We met in Dublin for the last two shows of U2's European tour on their home turf. The shows were, of course, amazing. I survived general admission crowds in a European football stadium. That's nothing to sniff at. But I laugh now when I think of that first trip to Dublin. We were only gone for 7 days, but I packed enough clothes, indeed, a complete clean, new outfit, for every day, and then some. My suitcase was massive. I'd not even take it now on a 2 week trip. We were silly naïve ignorant tourists, who didn't know that just because your room wasn't ready at your hotel when you arrived off a red eye flight, that you didn't have to sit in the lobby and wait. You can, and should, go out and see the sights until your room is ready. But we didn't. We sat, with all the other newly arrived U2 fans, and waited. And wasted our first morning in Dublin. Nearly 10 more trips to Ireland would follow, with three of those being on successive U2 tours. And so it began...
Twenty-seven foreign trips, seventeen countries on four continents and three passports later, I'm still completely infected with the travel bug. I'd like to think I've become a more savvy traveler: someone who packs more efficiently and can squeeze every last usable minute out of a day. Someone who knows enough to try the local food and not be too afraid to admit that I like it (Haggis? LOVE IT!) I still get jumpy at in-flight turbulence and will always hold my breath until my luggage drops down on to the carousel at my destination. I'm still disappointed that I can't bring my three bottles of frozen spring water from home on the plane after 9/11, but I've adjusted. Somehow. But as my confidence as a world traveler has grown, so too have my experiences.
So what exactly has all this travel gotten me? Let me count the ways, as they say.....I learned quickly the overwhelming surge of joy at a long-overdue "hello" and the utter sadness and regret of an airport good-bye. I've seen wild horses running on a Dublin strand, poppies in bloom in the Tuscan countryside, and 21 lions staring back at me from under a shade tree in Africa. I've learned there is nothing more melodic than a Irish accent and nothing more heart-melting than Irish eyes. And there is nothing smoother than a fresh Bailey's over two ice cubes served up in Ireland.
I've been extremely fortunate to have seen the best art in the world: rooms full of Rembrandts in St. Petersburg, Amsterdam and New York, Michelangelos in Florence, Picasso's Guernica, American Gothic, Whistler's Mother, Mona Lisa, hundreds upon hundreds of Monets in one weekend in Paris, Caravaggios in situ in Rome, a Degas to die for in Moscow, glorious Vermeers in Holland, London, Berlin, and nature's own display of art and beauty: tulip season in Amsterdam.
I've held a panda (twice!), fed a giraffe and petted a rhino. I watched Lipizaner stallions rehearse in Vienna and have seen the Changing of the Guard in London twice. Two elderly men generously made me their date for a rare stage performance by Liam Neeson, and we were front row! I've seen Matthew Broderick, Nathan Lane, Nicole Kidman and Brian Dennehy in Broadway shows. I've seen U2 in 3 countries and five states.
I've tasted Haggis, Borscht, Jenever with gold dust, Serrano ham, Lechón, Cocido, Frikadel, Profertjes, Caviar, Pici, Sacher Torte, Croque Madame, Bangers and Mash, Berliners, Peking Duck and hot pot in their home countries and I loved them all. I've eaten on the porch of a local Tuscan family, imbibing in the fresh pasta, crushed tomato, house wine and homemade lemon gelato all sourced right on their property. There are days I'd kill for a good Irish fry or even just a Crunchie. I adopted Dutch coffee with sweetened, condensed milk as my caffeine of choice. It's been my duty, no, obligation, to sample as many gelato flavors as I can in Italy; I think the trip record is 30-something...
My feet have taken me up Paris' Arc de Triomphe and Notre Dame towers, Florence's campanile, Rome's Vatican Dome, Edinburgh's Scott Monument and China's Great Wall and I've plunged down a road on a bike at 30 miles an hour in the hills of Pisa. I've walked in Red Square, Trafalgar Square, Times Square, Dam Square, Grafton Street, Plaza Mayor, Kufurstendam. I've run up Edinburgh's Royal Mile while chasing the sound of bagpipes.
I've seen nature's miracles...wildebeest births in the Serengeti, amazing sunrises, sunsets and thunderstorms coloring up Tanzania's sky, the awe-inspiring burial ground Newgrange, Pike's Peak, Cliffs of Moher, The Burren, Giant's Causeway. I've seen man-made miracles...the Rosetta Stone, Xi'an's Terracotta Warriors, the Endeavor Space Shuttle, the Great Wall. I have also seen how man can go terribly wrong at the Anne Frank House, Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp and the US National Holocaust Museum.
Lucky I was to share trips to England, France and Italy with my Mom. It was the sweetest pleasure to share with her Paris, the chateaux of the Loire, Mont St. Michel, London, Sorrento, Amalfi Coast, Florence and Rome. Her knack for attracting stray dogs (Pompeii) and partying young Spanish men(Florence) can't be underestimated. I then got to break my sister in in Europe with fabulous trips to the Netherlands and Cologne and Paris and Vienna before taking on our own United States of America in sisterly fashion.
I caught a vile intestinal parasite in Spain that took two weeks of antibiotics to cure and got scammed of $200 cash just to get on my plane home from Tanzania. I've had a head cold from hell in Spain, a fever of 102 in Ireland (first trip, it was a doozie) and fought my way through China with a herniated disc in my neck that I didn't know I had. I've had my credit card rejected in a leather shop in Florence, which, well, may not have been such a bad thing. So see, not all the trips were flawless but I've enjoyed the heck out of all of them.
What you read is more than just a laundry list, at least to me. These are slide shows of memories and smiles and tears and joy and fears that I can and do play back in my head all the time. I've been questioned more than a little about my travel habits and why I do what I do. I say it often, but I truly work to feed this travel monster of mine, but completely without regret. If this blog is even the slightest hint of what the next twenty years of travel holds for me, I'll consider myself incredibly blessed indeed. Looking back to that flight 20 years ago tonight and how much I've grown and changed with every trip, I'm reminded that "a journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step."
Friday, April 20, 2012
I Hold These Truths to Be Self-Evident
After the Cleveland airfare booking fiasco, I realized that I have some hard and fast rules for my travel that I just subconsciously follow:
- I will not fly south to go north, west to go east, north to go south, east to go west
- I will not connect for a European flight in the US; connections in Europe are, however, ok
- I will not connect to save money, unless it's A LOT of money and through a non-icky airport
- I will pay up for breakfast in a hotel, only because I love a good breakfast and like to brush my teeth afterwards and before I head out for the day
- I will always take the flight that will get me where I'm going at the earliest part of the day, even if that means getting up at 3 a.m. to get on that flight
- I will always take the last possible flight home, unless it's a red eye
- Economy/Coach is fine, unless the flight is 16 hours, then that extra legroom feels like a mile
- I have to have a day after a trip at home before I plunge myself back into work. Always.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Mid-winter blues...
Despite the fact we've had no snow, I've found myself saddled with the mid-winter blues. Being inside all the time, arguing with myself over what to wear for either a 60 degree day or a 20 degree day and just wanting to throw open the windows and get some fresh air and sun...while all my thoughts turn to San Diego in five weeks, it's going by so sloooowly.
I cashed in two "thank you for posting on Fodors, we've used your quote in another guide book" offers to get two new guide books for myself: Germany 2012 and The Ultimate Safari Planning Guide. Not that I have any intention of doing either this year. Well, ok, let's not kid ourselves here, I am seriously contemplating Germany in September. The safari guide, though, is calling to me. I'd earmarked that trip for The Next Milestone Birthday, but I'm not sure I can wait another 8 years to execute the plan!
Germany is sort of falling into place in my mind. I'd fly into Munich for 4 days or so, fly to Berlin for 5 days (day trips to Dresden and Brunswick for the Vermeers) then fly to Frankfurt and spend a 10 hour layover on the ground there just to see its Vermeer. My sister is thinking of joining me, so it could be the next chapter of the Sisterly Quest for Vermeer tour. We'll see. I have the Boston Globe Travel Show coming up in a few weeks; who knows what ideas I'll find there that will sway me....
I cashed in two "thank you for posting on Fodors, we've used your quote in another guide book" offers to get two new guide books for myself: Germany 2012 and The Ultimate Safari Planning Guide. Not that I have any intention of doing either this year. Well, ok, let's not kid ourselves here, I am seriously contemplating Germany in September. The safari guide, though, is calling to me. I'd earmarked that trip for The Next Milestone Birthday, but I'm not sure I can wait another 8 years to execute the plan!
Germany is sort of falling into place in my mind. I'd fly into Munich for 4 days or so, fly to Berlin for 5 days (day trips to Dresden and Brunswick for the Vermeers) then fly to Frankfurt and spend a 10 hour layover on the ground there just to see its Vermeer. My sister is thinking of joining me, so it could be the next chapter of the Sisterly Quest for Vermeer tour. We'll see. I have the Boston Globe Travel Show coming up in a few weeks; who knows what ideas I'll find there that will sway me....
Sunday, May 1, 2011
The Magic of Royal London
This past week, I took a lot of heat from people who thought I was crazy when they learned that I was staying home Friday to get up early and watch the Royal Wedding without having to get ready for work and leave home halfway through the ceremony. For me though, having visited London a couple times and also being keenly interested in the history behind most royal families, there was no way I was going to miss this.
I was only 11 years old when Charles and Diana got married, but I remember it vividly. My mom woke me up to watch the ceremony at an ungodly early hour, but it was the middle of the summer and easy to get up when it was light out anyway. We watched the whole thing beginning to end (this in the time before you could record anything!) and I guess like other girls around the world, I was captivated by the fairy tale of the whole thing. I remained interested in Diana over the years and followed with interest the many twists and turns of her life. I felt she'd just really found herself and was at peace with her life when it was tragically cut short. In Ireland and Scotland the week that the car crash took her life, I still regret that I didn't extend my stay for another day to see the funeral procession.
About a year after Diana's death, I visited London for the first time and visited all the Diana-related sites that I could: St. Paul's Cathedral where she was married, Buckingham Palace for a view of the famous balcony, Kensington Palace where she'd lived with her boys after the separation, and of course Westminster Abbey where her funeral service was held. I was especially taken by the contrast in size between St. Paul's, which was just shockingly massive compared to how "intimate" Westminster Abbey is. The area in the Abbey up near the altar past the choir screen feels as close and homey as a chapel. The verger giving me the tour of the Abbey on my first visit there sent chills up my spine when I asked where Diana's coffin laid during the service and he responded "right about where you're standing now, ma'am." Wow.
Even returning some 12 years later, I still found London magical. There is something alluring and mystical about the royals for me. By this visit, I had read up on Henry VIII and his many wives and of course his daughter Elizabeth I. I was captivated by the love story of Victoria and Albert. I spent an afternoon in the National Portrait Gallery looking at what these "characters" in the readings I'd done looked like. I was on their stomping ground, and it seemed like their reach was infinite. I noted with interest the spot in the Tower of London where Ann Boelyn lost her head. I admired the crown jewels. I enjoyed again the pomp, circumstance and reliability of the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. The most notable remnant of the royal past I think is the legacy left at the Victoria and Albert Museum, which is one of the grandest, most exceptional, and most diverse, collections I've ever seen.
Watching the coverage Friday morning reminded me of all the things I loved about London. Seeing the military bands and horsemen as they marched through the streets, knowing exactly the streets the processions were taking, having just walked them myself not a couple years ago, seeing not one, but two kisses exchanged by the newly married couple reminded me of standing there at those very gates one morning having my own picture taken there. It was just incredibly impressive to see Big Ben and Parliament, the London Eye, the Mall and Buckingham Palace broadcast out over the airwaves, and witnessing the history that took place at that spot in front of the altar at the Abbey again, and remember that I'd been there.
I was only 11 years old when Charles and Diana got married, but I remember it vividly. My mom woke me up to watch the ceremony at an ungodly early hour, but it was the middle of the summer and easy to get up when it was light out anyway. We watched the whole thing beginning to end (this in the time before you could record anything!) and I guess like other girls around the world, I was captivated by the fairy tale of the whole thing. I remained interested in Diana over the years and followed with interest the many twists and turns of her life. I felt she'd just really found herself and was at peace with her life when it was tragically cut short. In Ireland and Scotland the week that the car crash took her life, I still regret that I didn't extend my stay for another day to see the funeral procession.
About a year after Diana's death, I visited London for the first time and visited all the Diana-related sites that I could: St. Paul's Cathedral where she was married, Buckingham Palace for a view of the famous balcony, Kensington Palace where she'd lived with her boys after the separation, and of course Westminster Abbey where her funeral service was held. I was especially taken by the contrast in size between St. Paul's, which was just shockingly massive compared to how "intimate" Westminster Abbey is. The area in the Abbey up near the altar past the choir screen feels as close and homey as a chapel. The verger giving me the tour of the Abbey on my first visit there sent chills up my spine when I asked where Diana's coffin laid during the service and he responded "right about where you're standing now, ma'am." Wow.
Even returning some 12 years later, I still found London magical. There is something alluring and mystical about the royals for me. By this visit, I had read up on Henry VIII and his many wives and of course his daughter Elizabeth I. I was captivated by the love story of Victoria and Albert. I spent an afternoon in the National Portrait Gallery looking at what these "characters" in the readings I'd done looked like. I was on their stomping ground, and it seemed like their reach was infinite. I noted with interest the spot in the Tower of London where Ann Boelyn lost her head. I admired the crown jewels. I enjoyed again the pomp, circumstance and reliability of the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. The most notable remnant of the royal past I think is the legacy left at the Victoria and Albert Museum, which is one of the grandest, most exceptional, and most diverse, collections I've ever seen.
Watching the coverage Friday morning reminded me of all the things I loved about London. Seeing the military bands and horsemen as they marched through the streets, knowing exactly the streets the processions were taking, having just walked them myself not a couple years ago, seeing not one, but two kisses exchanged by the newly married couple reminded me of standing there at those very gates one morning having my own picture taken there. It was just incredibly impressive to see Big Ben and Parliament, the London Eye, the Mall and Buckingham Palace broadcast out over the airwaves, and witnessing the history that took place at that spot in front of the altar at the Abbey again, and remember that I'd been there.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Why I travel
It's sort of funny, lately a whole bunch of things have been conspiring to make me hungrier and more passionate for travel. Life has dealt certain members of my family a tough hand so far this year, and that tends to trickle down the more you care about them. I've spent more time in hospitals and with doctors this year than I care to remember, but now that that hurdle seems to be passed (fingers crossed) it makes me even more determined to squeeze every last minute, every last experience, every last memory out of my trips.
At the same time, I keep seeing friends and family making posts on Facebook that go on and on about how concert tickets, flashy cars and expensive trips abroad all have a price tag, but that kiss from a sloppy toddler is priceless. Or how thrilled they are that they get to spend school vacation week at home with their elementary aged children. After a while, I see enough of these public declarations from the same folks (and sometimes almost immediately after I've posted photos from my trips) to wonder just who they're trying to convince, themselves or their Facebook connections?
I haven't yet found the viral status update for the 40-year old single chick who saves pennies and works solely to buy kibble for her cat and pay for the next trans-oceanic adventure. I'm not sure I need to make that statement though. I don't need to convince myself of that, I know that to be true. I'm pretty certain I don't need to convince my Facebook friends either; if they know me at all they know this to be true.
So why is this travel thing like a crack addiction to me? Good question. And it just may be that I can't explain it. It may be so individual to me that no one else will ever understand. But there is just something about a trip, those singular experiences strung together into a week or two weeks or even a weekend, that still take my breath away. Seeing St. Basil's Cathedral through the grid of the gate to Red Square, looking out over a lush, green valley full of grapevines in Tuscany, smelling the competing scents of lemon and olive groves in Sorrento, admiring the crown jewels in London, peeking at Westminster Abbey from the top of the London Eye, coming face to face with a Vermeer, a Rembrandt, a Picasso, a Michelangelo that I've only ever seen in books. All of this gives me a rush. When things I have admired remotely are there in my foreground, all of a sudden I'm charged up. I'm on fire. I'm visually, mentally, aromatically, tactilely eating it up. And I lock these flashes of magic away for later. For the morning when it's just too discouraging to face another day with miserable people on the train or at work, for the next time I'm passing time waiting for a relative at a hospital, driving from here to there, or even just on the odd occasion that something else I've seen or heard brings me back to that moment. I haven't done drugs, but I imagine that a good trip on your drug of choice likely rivals my own "trip".
At the same time, I keep seeing friends and family making posts on Facebook that go on and on about how concert tickets, flashy cars and expensive trips abroad all have a price tag, but that kiss from a sloppy toddler is priceless. Or how thrilled they are that they get to spend school vacation week at home with their elementary aged children. After a while, I see enough of these public declarations from the same folks (and sometimes almost immediately after I've posted photos from my trips) to wonder just who they're trying to convince, themselves or their Facebook connections?
I haven't yet found the viral status update for the 40-year old single chick who saves pennies and works solely to buy kibble for her cat and pay for the next trans-oceanic adventure. I'm not sure I need to make that statement though. I don't need to convince myself of that, I know that to be true. I'm pretty certain I don't need to convince my Facebook friends either; if they know me at all they know this to be true.
So why is this travel thing like a crack addiction to me? Good question. And it just may be that I can't explain it. It may be so individual to me that no one else will ever understand. But there is just something about a trip, those singular experiences strung together into a week or two weeks or even a weekend, that still take my breath away. Seeing St. Basil's Cathedral through the grid of the gate to Red Square, looking out over a lush, green valley full of grapevines in Tuscany, smelling the competing scents of lemon and olive groves in Sorrento, admiring the crown jewels in London, peeking at Westminster Abbey from the top of the London Eye, coming face to face with a Vermeer, a Rembrandt, a Picasso, a Michelangelo that I've only ever seen in books. All of this gives me a rush. When things I have admired remotely are there in my foreground, all of a sudden I'm charged up. I'm on fire. I'm visually, mentally, aromatically, tactilely eating it up. And I lock these flashes of magic away for later. For the morning when it's just too discouraging to face another day with miserable people on the train or at work, for the next time I'm passing time waiting for a relative at a hospital, driving from here to there, or even just on the odd occasion that something else I've seen or heard brings me back to that moment. I haven't done drugs, but I imagine that a good trip on your drug of choice likely rivals my own "trip".
Monday, July 12, 2010
See, this is what I am talking about
I've been trying to articulate the vibe or aura or mystique that Russia has had for me that might not be totally clear to anyone else. I'm fascinated by the opportunity to go. I'm literally brimming with anticipation over what I might learn and see and hear and eat. There are still times I have to pinch myself. I cannot believe I am actually going.
But it seems that a lot of other people can't believe I'm actually going either. I don't know whether it's a generational thing or what...but a lot of the older crowd (and others) think I'm nuts, apparently. And because I greatly respect a lot of the older crowd (and others), it is a bit unsettling to hear them say things like "Why don't you go some place safe?" or hear my mother openly worry that I'll be kept there for some real or imagined misunderstanding. This is the same potentially misguided assumption that breeds all the hysteria when something like last week's spy scandal came down. What, you think the Russians (those bad bad baddies) were the only ones spying? Really? 'Cuz we got four of our spies back in that swap. That fact was not so broadly discussed, but yes, it works both ways, y'all.
But this, my friends, is exactly why I want to go. This is the same sentiment that was born into me long ago that mesmerized me. I want to go, see all I can, learn all I can and absolutely devour the experience and then come back and say that it's not what you think. Because to my core, I don't really believe that it is.
More importantly though, I want to be an American ambassador. I want to put my best foot forward and show that we're not all whatever they think Americans are. If they think Americans are anything...my guess is they do, I'm not whatever that is.
Monday, March 8, 2010
My Travel Bucket List
A few of you have asked, so here it is...the bucket list.
1) Finland - the motherland!
2) Macchu Picchu, Peru
3) China (Xian Terra Cotta Warriors, Beijing, Great Wall, panda conservatory) - will probably be the next “milestone birthday” trip
4) Edinburgh, Scotland for the annual Military Tattoo
5) India (Taj Mahal)
6) Japan
7) Germany (Berlin, Munich)
8) Australia
9) African Safari
10) Croatia
11) Hungary
12) Greece
13) Turkey
14) Churchill, Canada (polar bear exhibition)
15) Stonehenge for the summer solstice
16) Hawaii
17) San Francisco
1) Finland - the motherland!
2) Macchu Picchu, Peru
3) China (Xian Terra Cotta Warriors, Beijing, Great Wall, panda conservatory) - will probably be the next “milestone birthday” trip
4) Edinburgh, Scotland for the annual Military Tattoo
5) India (Taj Mahal)
6) Japan
7) Germany (Berlin, Munich)
8) Australia
9) African Safari
10) Croatia
11) Hungary
12) Greece
13) Turkey
14) Churchill, Canada (polar bear exhibition)
15) Stonehenge for the summer solstice
16) Hawaii
17) San Francisco
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
T-6 and counting
So, a week from this very minute, I should, in theory, be winging my way across the Pond to London. Yes, that's right. So far American hasn't tried to cancel my flight, I am (relatively) healthy in knee and lungs (4 weeks of pneumonia, bronchitis or some other lung ailment notwithstanding) and I'm making moves towards leaving town. Phew.
I've picked up some cash for the night I get there (yay the dollar is better!), bought a new toothbrush and re-read some guidebooks. I have a list of every conceivable work of art I would want to see at the National Gallery (first stop). I've also identified some restaurants I need to hit for bangers and mash, fish & chips and toffee pudding. Diet be damned! I need to cancel the newspaper, book a shuttle and pack. Them I'm gone.
I'm leaving despicably snowy Boston for recently-newsworthy, snowy London. I will ignore the fact that a very good British friend of mine said, and I quote, "It never snows in London, that's a perfect winter holiday for you." It appears that the 6+ inches snow will melt before I arrive and that 40s will be the rule. So that crisis averted. For now. I hope.
The last few days, a little of that "I don't want to leave home" feeling has crept in, but not too bad. As much as I love traveling and devouring a foreign location, I'm still a homebody at heart and always feel sad leaving home, even if just for a little while.
I am bringing the new laptop with me, under the guise of blogging while I'm there and writing some travel bits I may someday be able to use. I'm meeting old friends and new while there, which is always exciting. So stay tuned next week, I'll try and update often.
I've picked up some cash for the night I get there (yay the dollar is better!), bought a new toothbrush and re-read some guidebooks. I have a list of every conceivable work of art I would want to see at the National Gallery (first stop). I've also identified some restaurants I need to hit for bangers and mash, fish & chips and toffee pudding. Diet be damned! I need to cancel the newspaper, book a shuttle and pack. Them I'm gone.
I'm leaving despicably snowy Boston for recently-newsworthy, snowy London. I will ignore the fact that a very good British friend of mine said, and I quote, "It never snows in London, that's a perfect winter holiday for you." It appears that the 6+ inches snow will melt before I arrive and that 40s will be the rule. So that crisis averted. For now. I hope.
The last few days, a little of that "I don't want to leave home" feeling has crept in, but not too bad. As much as I love traveling and devouring a foreign location, I'm still a homebody at heart and always feel sad leaving home, even if just for a little while.
I am bringing the new laptop with me, under the guise of blogging while I'm there and writing some travel bits I may someday be able to use. I'm meeting old friends and new while there, which is always exciting. So stay tuned next week, I'll try and update often.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Stay-cation -- Museum Marathon
Isabella Stewart Gardner MuseumThursday found me heading into Boston early to visit the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum before meeting my sister at the MFA. Embarassingly enough, I had never been to the Gardner before, which is an almost criminal admission now that I have seen it. Mrs. Gardner collected art and dictated that upon her death, the collection and the mansion where she kept it would both remain as is, forever, neither adding to or removing from either. All paintings and works of art are left as she wished. This includes the empty frames and wall space that once held the Vermeer, Rembrandt and Degas that were stolen from the museum in 1990. I thoroughly enjoyed the early Italian art (Botticelli, Raphael, Titian) as well as Mrs. Gardner's obvious penchant for chairs. But the true highlight for me was the courtyard, which is fragrant and beautiful beyond imagination.
Museum of Fine ArtsJust across the Fenway from the Gardner is Boston's grand-daddy museum, the Museum of Fine Arts. While a massive construction effort is underway, most of the museum is still open for viewing, including a handful of special temporary exhibitions. My interest today lies in the exhibiton of large-format photgrapher Yousef Karsh. While I am not a fan of photography, I was spurred to see this based on the rave reviews the exhibition has received both in the media and by my mother and sister, who saw the display earlier. This particular exhibit was a biography done by Karsh and was predominantly of popular personalities from the early to mid 1900s. These large format shots showed exquisite detail, from pores on the nose to creases in the forehead to tiny lines around the eyes. Churchill, Queen Elizabeth, Hepburn, Keller, Castro...many more...all received unforgettable treatment by Karsh. And Karsh's notes and written summaries of particular photo shoots really brought he pictures alive. My sister wisely held the wall of political portraits until the end of our tour, to best tie in with our next stop, which was an exhibit of Andy Warhol's political works.
Currier MuseumFrom Boston up route 93 in Manchester, New Hampshire is the Currier Museum. The draw for me here is the exhibit of political works by Andy Warhol. Admittedly I am not a big fan of modern art, but there is something attractive and accessible to me about his work, whether it is how familiar the subject matter is or his bold use of color. We made it to the museum with about an hour before it closed, and this was plenty of time to take in the exhibit as well as its modern and European collections (we missed only the American collection when the museum closed). The Warhol exhibit was small but very easily digestible. Warhol did numerous works on his subjects, including the Kennedys (John, Jackie, Robert and Ted), the Carters (Jimmy, Rosalyn and Lillian), Stalin and Mao Tse Tung.
In front of the museum is this scuplture of a dog, which I stood beneath just to prove I was there.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Opportunities lost
In a very rare public confession, I'll share with you that I only recently started to drink wine. I'd never liked it, or, shall we say "acquired a taste for it". I drank it more or less by force in Rome last year, when I dined with the incomparable Tony and Bill at Dino and Tony's, a local restaurant near the Vatican recommended to us by our guide after the Vatican Museum tour where we all met.
The only thing to drink at this restaurant was vino. A red vino on tap, no less, and when you asked what grape or vintage you were drinking, the waiter said only "nuovo". I'm not yet fluent in Italian, but knowing enough to be the interpreter for the group, I knew that meant it's "new" and we loved it. Over the course of our nearly four hour meal, we loved it enough to forget that water, Diet Coke or Orangina even existed. And loved it enough to kiss our bald waiter on the way out of the restaurant, European style, once on each cheek. (Ok, that was me, not Bill or Tony, but I digress)
So since last November, I've dappled more and more in wines, sticking closer to the reds because "that's what I know...and like". And as time has passed, I've wanted to learn more and know more. In Paris I even branched out into whites, loving the Sancerre I had at one restaurant and the red of unknown origin at another. But I resolved to learn more so that I'd know what TO order and how to order it. So now I'm taking a wine class. And now I know what I've been missing.
You see, in over 20 trips to Europe, do you have any idea what I've passed up in the way of wine? I had not one, not two, but THREE private tastings on my bike tour in Tuscany. I had a lunch on the porch of a private home where they served wine the owners had made themselves. I visited at least three chateaus in the Loire Valley with my mother where she bought cases of the wine made there as I laughed. Wine as a carry-on (pre-9/11)? Surely you jest! And not once did I partake. In fact, on the bike tour, I was more likely to be found at the local gelateria enjoying 2 euro shots of Bailey's Irish cream and a gelato than sniffing and tasting wine.
So now I feel like I did when I "discovered" that I like Caravaggio and Rembrandt paintings. I remember all those museums I've already been to in amazing cities around the world, and never gave them a glance. I feel like I need to go back and make up for my short shrifting of them. And likewise with the wine. Oh, to have that sample at the chateaus.
I guess a little re-tracing of steps is in order then. Or I just make certain to make the most out of the experiences going forward and not let opportunity slip away again.
The only thing to drink at this restaurant was vino. A red vino on tap, no less, and when you asked what grape or vintage you were drinking, the waiter said only "nuovo". I'm not yet fluent in Italian, but knowing enough to be the interpreter for the group, I knew that meant it's "new" and we loved it. Over the course of our nearly four hour meal, we loved it enough to forget that water, Diet Coke or Orangina even existed. And loved it enough to kiss our bald waiter on the way out of the restaurant, European style, once on each cheek. (Ok, that was me, not Bill or Tony, but I digress)
So since last November, I've dappled more and more in wines, sticking closer to the reds because "that's what I know...and like". And as time has passed, I've wanted to learn more and know more. In Paris I even branched out into whites, loving the Sancerre I had at one restaurant and the red of unknown origin at another. But I resolved to learn more so that I'd know what TO order and how to order it. So now I'm taking a wine class. And now I know what I've been missing.
You see, in over 20 trips to Europe, do you have any idea what I've passed up in the way of wine? I had not one, not two, but THREE private tastings on my bike tour in Tuscany. I had a lunch on the porch of a private home where they served wine the owners had made themselves. I visited at least three chateaus in the Loire Valley with my mother where she bought cases of the wine made there as I laughed. Wine as a carry-on (pre-9/11)? Surely you jest! And not once did I partake. In fact, on the bike tour, I was more likely to be found at the local gelateria enjoying 2 euro shots of Bailey's Irish cream and a gelato than sniffing and tasting wine.
So now I feel like I did when I "discovered" that I like Caravaggio and Rembrandt paintings. I remember all those museums I've already been to in amazing cities around the world, and never gave them a glance. I feel like I need to go back and make up for my short shrifting of them. And likewise with the wine. Oh, to have that sample at the chateaus.
I guess a little re-tracing of steps is in order then. Or I just make certain to make the most out of the experiences going forward and not let opportunity slip away again.
Tunes on the road
As much as the food, the sights and the people, the music I hear on vacation is often trapped in my subconscious and surfaces when I least expect it. I was thinking of this recently as a vacation moment popped back into my head, triggered by a song that I was playing for my spinning class.
My sister and I hopped into a taxi in Paris late one night, trying to return to our hotel on the other side of the city. As the taxi whisked its way up the Champs Elysees and we were admiring this impromptu tour of the city at night, the radio from the front was loud enough that we could both hear the French-language singer against a strong rhythmic drum and pulsing bassline. We looked at each other simultaneously and said “what is this?” Right then, we knew it was one of “those” moments on the trip. One that would remind us of that floodlit trip up the grandest avenue of France, if not the world. It would harken back to that frightful pass where 12 avenues meet in an eight lane traffic circle around the Arc de Triomphe. We had to have this song in our iTunes libraries. So with the strongest, clearest French I could conjure up, I asked the taxi driver, “La chanteuse, qui est?” “The singer,” I said, “who is it?” Or at least that’s what I must have said because the taxi driver replied “Zazie”. And I quickly scribbled the name in the notebook in my purse. My French was not good enough to ask “What is the title of this song?” or “What album is this from?” So from that point on, we were on our own to find this song.
The next day found us at the Virgin Megastore back on the Champs Elysees, where we took a stack of Zazie discs (who knew she was so prolific?) and stood at a listening station, swiping the bar code on each disc and skipping through tracks until we heard the drumline again. Thankfully, we started with her most recent release, figuring that had to be what would be getting air time so late into the Parisian night. And we were correct. It was “Je suis un homme,” and playing it in the dimly lit studio of my spinning class the other night for a focused hill climb, it brought me right back to that rotary around the Arc.
Likewise, I have seemingly endless examples of songs that bring me back to Ireland every time I hear them. On one of my very early trips to Ireland, young and head-over-heels smitten with a dark-haired Irishman, I found that every time we were out and about in Dublin City and the radio was on, the kitschy “Love is All Around” from the movie "Four Weddings and a Funeral" was playing. It is truly an awful song with a painfully catchy chorus (I dare you not to sing it) but on the very rare occasion that I hear it today (and admittedly, that’s only when I choose to play it myself) I can time travel right back to 1994 and my time there in Dublin. Young and in love and with painfully horrific taste in sappy tunes, apparently.
Having traveled extensively to follow U2, you’d think that there’d be plenty of U2-music-related memories that warm the cockles of my wanderlust-ful heart. But alas, there are almost none. Probably because I see that band enough stateside as well. But in terms of opening acts and intro music, there are plenty of memories. On my first trip to Ireland, I was with two fellow female U2 fans. We were new to general admission stadium shows and had camped out all day to be within the arm's length of the railing for U2 some 10 hours later. One of the first opening acts that night was Scary Eire, an alternative (I guess) local band with some rather polaring lyrics. At one point, as the lead singer had the crowd chanting “F*ck Columbus”, my friend Robin turned to me and said “Doesn’t this seem sort of sacrilegious, yelling this about the guy who discovered our country?” Perhaps it was, but 15 years later, I still remember those lyrics clear as day, as well as what I was wearing, who I was with at that moment, what we went through that day to hold our spot, what we ate to sustain us as the sun went down over the stadium (brown sugar and cinnamon PopTarts, smuggled from home) and especially the people we were to meet later that night.
And in 1997, I can recall when and where I first heard The Verve’s Bittersweet Symphony, which would be at Lansdowne Road stadium. I was sitting in soggy jeans with Martin and his friends a few hours after it had finally stopped pouring rain, and after we’d already been home twice to change out of wet clothes. The vibe in the stadium felt heavy and damp, much like the weather. People were cranky and tired of waiting, or maybe still feeling the affects of the wedding they'd been to the night before (I think that might have just been us). As we were waiting for U2 to take the stage, this song played over the PA. The song was amazingly cool then, before it was obscenely overplayed here in the US. The same, repetitive 12 notes just kept plodding along, accompanying us as we killed time sitting on trash bags on metal bleachers as we tried to keep dry a third time. And I can remember the five guys I was with singing along to every word of the chorus, long before those words were permanently ingrained in my head. Even last weekend when I heard the song on the radio, before I cringed away and changed the channel, I remembered that afternoon and how at one time, that song was pretty good.
My sister and I hopped into a taxi in Paris late one night, trying to return to our hotel on the other side of the city. As the taxi whisked its way up the Champs Elysees and we were admiring this impromptu tour of the city at night, the radio from the front was loud enough that we could both hear the French-language singer against a strong rhythmic drum and pulsing bassline. We looked at each other simultaneously and said “what is this?” Right then, we knew it was one of “those” moments on the trip. One that would remind us of that floodlit trip up the grandest avenue of France, if not the world. It would harken back to that frightful pass where 12 avenues meet in an eight lane traffic circle around the Arc de Triomphe. We had to have this song in our iTunes libraries. So with the strongest, clearest French I could conjure up, I asked the taxi driver, “La chanteuse, qui est?” “The singer,” I said, “who is it?” Or at least that’s what I must have said because the taxi driver replied “Zazie”. And I quickly scribbled the name in the notebook in my purse. My French was not good enough to ask “What is the title of this song?” or “What album is this from?” So from that point on, we were on our own to find this song.
The next day found us at the Virgin Megastore back on the Champs Elysees, where we took a stack of Zazie discs (who knew she was so prolific?) and stood at a listening station, swiping the bar code on each disc and skipping through tracks until we heard the drumline again. Thankfully, we started with her most recent release, figuring that had to be what would be getting air time so late into the Parisian night. And we were correct. It was “Je suis un homme,” and playing it in the dimly lit studio of my spinning class the other night for a focused hill climb, it brought me right back to that rotary around the Arc.
Likewise, I have seemingly endless examples of songs that bring me back to Ireland every time I hear them. On one of my very early trips to Ireland, young and head-over-heels smitten with a dark-haired Irishman, I found that every time we were out and about in Dublin City and the radio was on, the kitschy “Love is All Around” from the movie "Four Weddings and a Funeral" was playing. It is truly an awful song with a painfully catchy chorus (I dare you not to sing it) but on the very rare occasion that I hear it today (and admittedly, that’s only when I choose to play it myself) I can time travel right back to 1994 and my time there in Dublin. Young and in love and with painfully horrific taste in sappy tunes, apparently.
Having traveled extensively to follow U2, you’d think that there’d be plenty of U2-music-related memories that warm the cockles of my wanderlust-ful heart. But alas, there are almost none. Probably because I see that band enough stateside as well. But in terms of opening acts and intro music, there are plenty of memories. On my first trip to Ireland, I was with two fellow female U2 fans. We were new to general admission stadium shows and had camped out all day to be within the arm's length of the railing for U2 some 10 hours later. One of the first opening acts that night was Scary Eire, an alternative (I guess) local band with some rather polaring lyrics. At one point, as the lead singer had the crowd chanting “F*ck Columbus”, my friend Robin turned to me and said “Doesn’t this seem sort of sacrilegious, yelling this about the guy who discovered our country?” Perhaps it was, but 15 years later, I still remember those lyrics clear as day, as well as what I was wearing, who I was with at that moment, what we went through that day to hold our spot, what we ate to sustain us as the sun went down over the stadium (brown sugar and cinnamon PopTarts, smuggled from home) and especially the people we were to meet later that night.
And in 1997, I can recall when and where I first heard The Verve’s Bittersweet Symphony, which would be at Lansdowne Road stadium. I was sitting in soggy jeans with Martin and his friends a few hours after it had finally stopped pouring rain, and after we’d already been home twice to change out of wet clothes. The vibe in the stadium felt heavy and damp, much like the weather. People were cranky and tired of waiting, or maybe still feeling the affects of the wedding they'd been to the night before (I think that might have just been us). As we were waiting for U2 to take the stage, this song played over the PA. The song was amazingly cool then, before it was obscenely overplayed here in the US. The same, repetitive 12 notes just kept plodding along, accompanying us as we killed time sitting on trash bags on metal bleachers as we tried to keep dry a third time. And I can remember the five guys I was with singing along to every word of the chorus, long before those words were permanently ingrained in my head. Even last weekend when I heard the song on the radio, before I cringed away and changed the channel, I remembered that afternoon and how at one time, that song was pretty good.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
And I'm adding Bologna why?
Call me crazy, but I have to get myself to Bologna. Yes, I've already booked my hotels in Milan and Rome. But follow me here...
I'm taking a intro to wine course here in Boston with an old friend from Bologna. This week, we studied Italian wines. As the instructor/friend uncorked the lambrusco rosso, he was reminiscing about "la grassa" that his grandmother always made for him when he visited. In short, it's a dense, compact English muffin-like bread that is served warm and spread with fat (yes, just plain old lard) that has been cut with garlic, basil and some olive oil. On the warm bread, it quickly turned to a puddle of butter-like bliss. Right then and there, dreams of la grassa began to dance in my head. As I mopped up what was left of my lambrusco tasting with a dry cracker and cheese, I thought to myself, "Sign me up, I need to find me some la grassa to go with this wine!"
Forget that it took me 4 months to lose the 8 pounds I gained in Rome last year. I'm justifying this stopover in the culinary capital of Italy to celebrate its food and some local wine. Call it research, call it crazy, call it flight of fancy. I think I'm scratching a night from Rome and heading north one day earlier. There's a humongous trade show on and hotels are really tight, but I have to get there. Fast.
I'm taking a intro to wine course here in Boston with an old friend from Bologna. This week, we studied Italian wines. As the instructor/friend uncorked the lambrusco rosso, he was reminiscing about "la grassa" that his grandmother always made for him when he visited. In short, it's a dense, compact English muffin-like bread that is served warm and spread with fat (yes, just plain old lard) that has been cut with garlic, basil and some olive oil. On the warm bread, it quickly turned to a puddle of butter-like bliss. Right then and there, dreams of la grassa began to dance in my head. As I mopped up what was left of my lambrusco tasting with a dry cracker and cheese, I thought to myself, "Sign me up, I need to find me some la grassa to go with this wine!"
Forget that it took me 4 months to lose the 8 pounds I gained in Rome last year. I'm justifying this stopover in the culinary capital of Italy to celebrate its food and some local wine. Call it research, call it crazy, call it flight of fancy. I think I'm scratching a night from Rome and heading north one day earlier. There's a humongous trade show on and hotels are really tight, but I have to get there. Fast.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Does travel make me whole?
I’m sure you’re aware from my recent inconsistent attitude that I haven’t had a trip in the pipeline. I was edgy, irritable and not really coping well with the day to day. New challenges at work, unpredictable encounters with certain of the male species, crappy summer weather and my recently vamped up exercise schedule were, well, let’s be honest, running me down. So yesterday, I solved that problem. I found a killer airfare (albeit on a “new Private Italian Airline”) to Milan and Rome so I booked it. In 12 weeks I leave for a week in Italy.
And last night, I slept soundly, calmly and restfully for the first time in a while. Today I woke up able to face the world with a smile and not wanting to run down everyone in my path.
So then, the question arises: Does travel make me whole?
What is it about getting on a plane and going somewhere, anywhere, that’s not here? And what is it about Italy in particular that just draws me in? My poor family can attest to the recent crises of decision-making I had, kicking around Napa, D.C., Peru and Greece before finally saying “Oh screw it, I don’t care if I was just there last year…” and packing up to go to Italy. As I told them and anyone else who would listen, a year without Italy is just, well, a year.
Why does the world look differently today (read: better) now that I have this trip in the pipeline? Why do I feel joy in the expectation?
So raise your espresso cup and toast trip number seven to Bella Italia. At least this time I will be more fully versed in wines (thank you Jon T!) and I will have already covered most of the usual tourist ground in Rome so I can spend more time sitting in cafes sipping said wine or maybe even an espresso and read, absorb and write about the atmosphere. Hopefully I’ll get something publishable out of this trip, but that’s not my objective. I live to travel, clearly. And it’s just a bit more of that kind of living that I need right about now.
And last night, I slept soundly, calmly and restfully for the first time in a while. Today I woke up able to face the world with a smile and not wanting to run down everyone in my path.
So then, the question arises: Does travel make me whole?
What is it about getting on a plane and going somewhere, anywhere, that’s not here? And what is it about Italy in particular that just draws me in? My poor family can attest to the recent crises of decision-making I had, kicking around Napa, D.C., Peru and Greece before finally saying “Oh screw it, I don’t care if I was just there last year…” and packing up to go to Italy. As I told them and anyone else who would listen, a year without Italy is just, well, a year.
Why does the world look differently today (read: better) now that I have this trip in the pipeline? Why do I feel joy in the expectation?
So raise your espresso cup and toast trip number seven to Bella Italia. At least this time I will be more fully versed in wines (thank you Jon T!) and I will have already covered most of the usual tourist ground in Rome so I can spend more time sitting in cafes sipping said wine or maybe even an espresso and read, absorb and write about the atmosphere. Hopefully I’ll get something publishable out of this trip, but that’s not my objective. I live to travel, clearly. And it’s just a bit more of that kind of living that I need right about now.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Postcards from Paris (and Vienna) v. 4
Maybe I identified with Theo van Gogh more than I knew. Theo fueled his younger brother Vincent's dreams with cash, moral support and encouragement for years. His only pay-off would have been to see Vincent's eventual success, but it was not to be. Theo himself died a mere 6 months after Vincent committed suicide, a fact I became aware of as I stood in front of a wall-sized image of their side-by-side graves in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam last year. There, I myself was side-by-side with my younger sibling, fueling the first of her many travel dreams.
And it was with this first excursion abroad with my sister that my inadvertent appreciation for van Gogh began. Oddly enough, we'd read a book of letters between the brothers van Gogh years ago and joked that I was Theo to my sister's Vincent. I was the one with the risk-free job that paid more than the bills, while she was the one chasing her dreams with her abilities, at the cost of financial independence. At one time, such a trip might have been impossible for her, but her desire to see Dutch art, and van Goghs in particular, coupled with my penchant for travel for what would become our first and second art-packed trips to Europe.
And the things I have done to see van Gogh's art. They go above and beyond just crossing the pond in a Boeing. I've been to Auvers-sur-Oise (via two trains) and walked miles in a blanket of rain and dreary grayness as we followed a trail of paintings on a map and matched them to their real life landscapes. I've taken two trains to a bus to a 20 minute walk to a 10 minute bike ride to a museum in the middle of Dutch no where to see the largest collection of Van Gogh's work anywhere. Yes, it has even more than the museums in the center of Amsterdam proper.
I've stood at the graveside of Vincent and Theo a year after seeing that same wall-sized image in Amsterdam. On that overcast and damp April morning, I noted solemnly that their graves were much more ordinary than that image. They themselves were resting among the common folk of Auvers rather than the rock stars, poets, artists and writers in Pere Lachaise or Montmartre. That man to their left could very well have been a cook, a gardener or a normal joe. The woman on the right a nurse or a maid. In death they all became equals, the difference being the mass of ivy over the van Gogh plot and the random paintbrush or solitary flower laid on Vincent's side in his honor.
I wish now I'd left something for Theo. Because after 34 years of being an older sibling, the "responsible one" encouraging the dreams of the younger, I believe credit is due for him as well. Unfortunate as it is that neither lived to enjoy the many fruits of Vincent's success and Theo's many sacrifices, I've been blessed to see many, many more van Goghs than the average non-fan. From New York to Paris to Amsterdam and Vienna, this is one of the many benefits of believing in my sister's dream.
And it was with this first excursion abroad with my sister that my inadvertent appreciation for van Gogh began. Oddly enough, we'd read a book of letters between the brothers van Gogh years ago and joked that I was Theo to my sister's Vincent. I was the one with the risk-free job that paid more than the bills, while she was the one chasing her dreams with her abilities, at the cost of financial independence. At one time, such a trip might have been impossible for her, but her desire to see Dutch art, and van Goghs in particular, coupled with my penchant for travel for what would become our first and second art-packed trips to Europe.
And the things I have done to see van Gogh's art. They go above and beyond just crossing the pond in a Boeing. I've been to Auvers-sur-Oise (via two trains) and walked miles in a blanket of rain and dreary grayness as we followed a trail of paintings on a map and matched them to their real life landscapes. I've taken two trains to a bus to a 20 minute walk to a 10 minute bike ride to a museum in the middle of Dutch no where to see the largest collection of Van Gogh's work anywhere. Yes, it has even more than the museums in the center of Amsterdam proper.
I've stood at the graveside of Vincent and Theo a year after seeing that same wall-sized image in Amsterdam. On that overcast and damp April morning, I noted solemnly that their graves were much more ordinary than that image. They themselves were resting among the common folk of Auvers rather than the rock stars, poets, artists and writers in Pere Lachaise or Montmartre. That man to their left could very well have been a cook, a gardener or a normal joe. The woman on the right a nurse or a maid. In death they all became equals, the difference being the mass of ivy over the van Gogh plot and the random paintbrush or solitary flower laid on Vincent's side in his honor.
I wish now I'd left something for Theo. Because after 34 years of being an older sibling, the "responsible one" encouraging the dreams of the younger, I believe credit is due for him as well. Unfortunate as it is that neither lived to enjoy the many fruits of Vincent's success and Theo's many sacrifices, I've been blessed to see many, many more van Goghs than the average non-fan. From New York to Paris to Amsterdam and Vienna, this is one of the many benefits of believing in my sister's dream.
Postcards from Paris (and Vienna) v. 2
For me, Vienna is about two things: the coffee and pastry stops and the wienerschnitzel. I am genetically programmed to appreciate good (not necessarily foodie good, just good) food and I certainly enjoy the hell out of eating. So returning to Vienna, I focused on the positive and remembered the pastries and liquored-up hot chocolates that I loved 5 years ago. And then I was back there.
The cafe culture in Vienna is such that you pay for your coffee and pastry and then you can linger as long as you want...forever if you wish. On my last visit, I had decided that Cafe Demel was my favorite so I was anxious to introduce my dear sister to the Big Three (Demel, Sacher and Central) and see if first my opinion remained the same and second if she fell for the cafe culture as well. In less than 24 hours we had to try all three. And we did.
Our first stop was the luxurious Cafe Sacher, home of the sacher torte, which we both ordered and devoured after a day full of Klimts. The coffee here was delectable as well, quite unlike my Starbucks brews at home and just divine, so I bought a pound of ground beans to take home (which I am still nursing 3 months later!) We loved the atmosphere and the elegance of it all and I think appreciated that we were just across the street at the Albertina when a thunderstorm broke out. We smartly escaped the torrents by huddling over our snack at the Sacher.
Later that same day (remember we only had 20 hours in Vienna) we went to Cafe Central for a late night snack before bed. Again, we ran in from the rain, tucked our umbrellas under the table and sat for over an hour listening to the resident piano player as he tore through an extensive collection of global favorites in the cavernous baroque setting. My amaretto hot chocolate and apfelstruedel was just enough sustenance to get me back to the hotel and safely tucked in bed. In retrospect, I would say this became my favorite of the three, if only because we enjoyed the pastries as much as the music.
After a second day of marathon museum-going, we stopped at the Cafe Demel, which sits within spitting distance of the Hofburg Palace. At this point, we had less than an hour before we had to be at the airport to check in for our flight, but we wanted one last Viennese pastry to send us on our way. Here, we had to queue for a table for about 10 minutes because the notoriety of the cafe really packs the crowds in. Once seated, the waitress apologized but said she had it reserved for someone in 45 minutes. We let her know this worked out well for us too, and this symbiosis immediately improved the rapport between us. She told us to go look at the pastries and let the clerk at the pastry table know what we wanted and it would be brought to us. As we pondered over the glass cases, a stranger pointed to the chocolate truffle cake dusted in a thick layer of cocoa powder and says "that is heavenly." If only all international relations were so positive and helpful. I believe my sister followed that advice with aplomb and delight, but I settled on a Bailey's coffee and cheese streudel, both of which were disappointing when compared to what I remembered. And this is what I was leaving with as my "last pastry in Vienna"?
Almost, yes. That is until somewhere between Cafe Demel and the U-Bahn stop to get back to our hotel, we lingered at a local bakery tucked on a side street and so dark and empty inside that it appeared that it might not even be open. But the pastries in the window held us captive. Especially the soft-looking cushion of a donut split open with a heavy cream that looked like frosting.
"Try the creams there," says a local voice in heavily accented English. Following her finger, I notice she is talking about what we are ogling. After my disappointment at not following sage advice at Demel, I didn't need to be told twice this time. I walked in, was greeted in German, I ordered "zwei" and pointed to what I wanted. The woman carefully wrapped our creams and we just as carefully (and quite skillfully, I might add) transported them to the airport for our flight back to Vienna. Afraid they might not make it through security's evil eye, we devoured them after check-in. I was not disappointed. It was the last, and best, thing we ate in Vienna.
The cafe culture in Vienna is such that you pay for your coffee and pastry and then you can linger as long as you want...forever if you wish. On my last visit, I had decided that Cafe Demel was my favorite so I was anxious to introduce my dear sister to the Big Three (Demel, Sacher and Central) and see if first my opinion remained the same and second if she fell for the cafe culture as well. In less than 24 hours we had to try all three. And we did.
Our first stop was the luxurious Cafe Sacher, home of the sacher torte, which we both ordered and devoured after a day full of Klimts. The coffee here was delectable as well, quite unlike my Starbucks brews at home and just divine, so I bought a pound of ground beans to take home (which I am still nursing 3 months later!) We loved the atmosphere and the elegance of it all and I think appreciated that we were just across the street at the Albertina when a thunderstorm broke out. We smartly escaped the torrents by huddling over our snack at the Sacher.
Later that same day (remember we only had 20 hours in Vienna) we went to Cafe Central for a late night snack before bed. Again, we ran in from the rain, tucked our umbrellas under the table and sat for over an hour listening to the resident piano player as he tore through an extensive collection of global favorites in the cavernous baroque setting. My amaretto hot chocolate and apfelstruedel was just enough sustenance to get me back to the hotel and safely tucked in bed. In retrospect, I would say this became my favorite of the three, if only because we enjoyed the pastries as much as the music.
After a second day of marathon museum-going, we stopped at the Cafe Demel, which sits within spitting distance of the Hofburg Palace. At this point, we had less than an hour before we had to be at the airport to check in for our flight, but we wanted one last Viennese pastry to send us on our way. Here, we had to queue for a table for about 10 minutes because the notoriety of the cafe really packs the crowds in. Once seated, the waitress apologized but said she had it reserved for someone in 45 minutes. We let her know this worked out well for us too, and this symbiosis immediately improved the rapport between us. She told us to go look at the pastries and let the clerk at the pastry table know what we wanted and it would be brought to us. As we pondered over the glass cases, a stranger pointed to the chocolate truffle cake dusted in a thick layer of cocoa powder and says "that is heavenly." If only all international relations were so positive and helpful. I believe my sister followed that advice with aplomb and delight, but I settled on a Bailey's coffee and cheese streudel, both of which were disappointing when compared to what I remembered. And this is what I was leaving with as my "last pastry in Vienna"?
Almost, yes. That is until somewhere between Cafe Demel and the U-Bahn stop to get back to our hotel, we lingered at a local bakery tucked on a side street and so dark and empty inside that it appeared that it might not even be open. But the pastries in the window held us captive. Especially the soft-looking cushion of a donut split open with a heavy cream that looked like frosting.
"Try the creams there," says a local voice in heavily accented English. Following her finger, I notice she is talking about what we are ogling. After my disappointment at not following sage advice at Demel, I didn't need to be told twice this time. I walked in, was greeted in German, I ordered "zwei" and pointed to what I wanted. The woman carefully wrapped our creams and we just as carefully (and quite skillfully, I might add) transported them to the airport for our flight back to Vienna. Afraid they might not make it through security's evil eye, we devoured them after check-in. I was not disappointed. It was the last, and best, thing we ate in Vienna.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Let's talk foot-long eclair, shall we?
If there is heaven for travel-loving, chocoholic, pastry-fanatics, the keeper of the gate would welcome us with an eclair from Bonbonniere De Buci on rue de Buci in Paris.
We first heard about what we now lovingly call "the Buci" from my fellow traveler/blogger Beth, who sent us the Breakfasts in Paris blog while we were researching our trip. On that blog, the blogger declared this to be the home of the foot-long eclair. Not shy about our pastry eating abilities, Dear Sister and I put it on the list of things to accomplish. And off we went.
I believe it was on Day Two of our trip that we made the 15-minute walk from our hotel in Latin Quarter, down Boulevard St. Germain to rue de Buci. We would come to know this walk well and learn that once we pass the post office on the right side of Boulevard St. Germain, heaven was only a couple of short blocks beyond.
Now let me explain to you this thing about patisseries (pastry shops) and boulangeries (bakeries for bread only) in Paris. The goods are fresh. I'm not just talking "made within the last 48 hours", I'm talking "made within the last couple hours and won't last the overnight". Since everything is indeed baked fresh and usually right there on the premises, there are no preservatives added, no "sell by" dates, nothing is even remotely stale. If you're eating it on Friday, which we were, it was made that Friday, and probably within a matter of mere hours of your consuming it. And nothing is held overnight, nor should it be. Indeed, we tried that once before in Germany and found that the German equivalent of a jelly donut had become an effective doorstop overnight. As a consequence, every time you eat bread or pastry in Paris, it's as fresh as the day is long, most likely. And it's not uncommon to see restaurant and hotel workers running out of their places of business to grab another bag of croissants or a 3-foot long, narrow loaf of bread, carrying it by a napkin wrapped around the center. This is not the land of Atkins, friends. Bread, and bread products, reign supreme.
On that first morning post-jetlag, we walked into Bonbonniere de Buci and were spoiled for choice. There were tarts, meringues, masses of chocolate-frosted somethings with crunchy coatings, pies, things called Paris Brests, mille feuille. But we were here for one thing and one thing only: the eclair. That particular day, there were no foot-longs in the display case, so we dismissed the foot-long eclair as an urban legend, a blogger's fanciful myth. Instead, we ordered up two chocolate eclairs "to go". The nice woman manning the counter suffered through my French and gently took two eclairs (the 6-inch variety) out of the case, put them on a small paper tray and proceeded to wrap them up tent-style with white wrapping paper and pink ribbon. My sister and I looked at each other in mock dismay, for our intentions were that these eclairs were not going to make it 10 feet past the doorstep of the shop. Our only hopes were not to have to use our orthodontically-corrected teeth to bust through the ribbon since any thoughts of actually having a Swiss Army knife to do such deeds were gone with 9/11.
So with a "merci beaucoup", we stepped outside with our delicately wrapped package. Dear Sister took a picture of me holding the package as if I had a combination of the Hope diamond and a time bomb in there. I gently unwrapped our gift (alright, it cost us 4.60 euro but still felt like a gift!) and revealed two exquisite eclairs (I believe there's a picture of this as well). I won't speak for Dear Sister, but mine was gone in three bites. It was almost too much to handle. For Bostonians who are used to the Boston-cream filling we are forced to endure in our eclairs here, you should be ashamed of yourselves if you allow yourself to be served one of those ever again! No Boston-plastic-like-cream in Paris, not at the Buci!
Follow me here:
Because it's so fresh, the pastry was tender with the slightest bit of crust on the outside, but almost fluffy inside. The "custard" on the inside was more like a thick, richer pudding that matched the flavor of the frosting on top. That's right, chocolate. This bullet of perfection was gone so quickly that it was almost unfair. But it was only Day Two of Seven in Paris, and we would be back.
And we were.
Day Three found us cutting back (slightly) on our hotel breakfast to leave room for patisserie heaven and hoofing it back down Boulevard St. Germain once again, banging that right on rue de Seine and then first left on to rue de Buci. And today not only did we have to decide whether or not to have the chocolate or coffee flavored eclair, but it was there, the foot-long eclair.
And with God (and Dear Sister) as my witness, my first words were "Oh my God, we CAN'T do that!" Now, I like my pastries, and we both already discovered that we love "the Buci" eclairs. But this was the grand-daddy of any eclair I've ever seen. In fact, I think it's actually false advertising on the blog we'd seen before our trip because the ones we saw, in person, were bigger. They are the adult version of the eclair we'd eaten the day before, not only about a foot long but also about six inches wide!
Post-trip, Dear Sister and I actually had the following discussion:
Me: "My only trip regret is that I didn't try the foot-long eclair."
DS: "Mine too. You know, if we tried to cut it in half and maybe did it that way, because cutting it in half would've been about three regular ones each..."
Me: "Yes, yes, I could do three."
Ah yes, the logic of the non-jetlagged sees the light, too late. OF COURSE we should have skipped breakfast at the hotel and cut one in half. But we didn't. But now we know that when we return to Paris we 1) must stay somewhere near rue de Buci and 2) plan ahead for the Big Buci.
So back to Day Three, where we once again had just one (each) of the chocolate "regular sized" eclairs, chickening out from the formidable challenge of the foot-long eclair. And once again, we were not disappointed. What a wonderful way to start our day! If only EVERY day started like this at home, we'd all be permanently happy (and 4 pounds or more heavier, but I digress...)
Day Four, with much regret, we left Paris for Auvers-Sur-Oise too early to make the trek to the Buci first. We did, however try an eclair at a small patisserie in Auvers and I even ventured to try the coffee-flavored one. Hmmm...interesting, with the coffee frosting on top and cream inside. I wasn't disappointed, but this didn't have the same softness and loveliness of the Buci. It was clear we were already waxing nostalgic for the Buci.
Day Five, our last day staying in the Latin Quarter, we were fully prepared for this to be our last day at the Buci. We walked in and a gentleman was just bringing a fresh tray of eclairs out from the back. We indulged in another decadent chocolate eclair and wistfully walked away, not knowing if our hotel near the Eiffel after we returned from Vienna would allow us the luxury of walking here again.
Before we left Paris, we had a type of eclair at Angelina's (the mecca of all things pastry and hot chocolate) and were slightly disappointed. And the morning we left Paris, we tried an eclair on rue Cler and were intensely disappointed (so much so that we had to have a crepe chaser to leave a good taste (literally) in our mouths!). So perhaps the Buci has ruined us on eclairs. I dare say that we won't ever eat another eclair around here, at least not without remembering the pastry perfection we found on rue de Buci.
We first heard about what we now lovingly call "the Buci" from my fellow traveler/blogger Beth, who sent us the Breakfasts in Paris blog while we were researching our trip. On that blog, the blogger declared this to be the home of the foot-long eclair. Not shy about our pastry eating abilities, Dear Sister and I put it on the list of things to accomplish. And off we went.
I believe it was on Day Two of our trip that we made the 15-minute walk from our hotel in Latin Quarter, down Boulevard St. Germain to rue de Buci. We would come to know this walk well and learn that once we pass the post office on the right side of Boulevard St. Germain, heaven was only a couple of short blocks beyond.
Now let me explain to you this thing about patisseries (pastry shops) and boulangeries (bakeries for bread only) in Paris. The goods are fresh. I'm not just talking "made within the last 48 hours", I'm talking "made within the last couple hours and won't last the overnight". Since everything is indeed baked fresh and usually right there on the premises, there are no preservatives added, no "sell by" dates, nothing is even remotely stale. If you're eating it on Friday, which we were, it was made that Friday, and probably within a matter of mere hours of your consuming it. And nothing is held overnight, nor should it be. Indeed, we tried that once before in Germany and found that the German equivalent of a jelly donut had become an effective doorstop overnight. As a consequence, every time you eat bread or pastry in Paris, it's as fresh as the day is long, most likely. And it's not uncommon to see restaurant and hotel workers running out of their places of business to grab another bag of croissants or a 3-foot long, narrow loaf of bread, carrying it by a napkin wrapped around the center. This is not the land of Atkins, friends. Bread, and bread products, reign supreme.
On that first morning post-jetlag, we walked into Bonbonniere de Buci and were spoiled for choice. There were tarts, meringues, masses of chocolate-frosted somethings with crunchy coatings, pies, things called Paris Brests, mille feuille. But we were here for one thing and one thing only: the eclair. That particular day, there were no foot-longs in the display case, so we dismissed the foot-long eclair as an urban legend, a blogger's fanciful myth. Instead, we ordered up two chocolate eclairs "to go". The nice woman manning the counter suffered through my French and gently took two eclairs (the 6-inch variety) out of the case, put them on a small paper tray and proceeded to wrap them up tent-style with white wrapping paper and pink ribbon. My sister and I looked at each other in mock dismay, for our intentions were that these eclairs were not going to make it 10 feet past the doorstep of the shop. Our only hopes were not to have to use our orthodontically-corrected teeth to bust through the ribbon since any thoughts of actually having a Swiss Army knife to do such deeds were gone with 9/11.
So with a "merci beaucoup", we stepped outside with our delicately wrapped package. Dear Sister took a picture of me holding the package as if I had a combination of the Hope diamond and a time bomb in there. I gently unwrapped our gift (alright, it cost us 4.60 euro but still felt like a gift!) and revealed two exquisite eclairs (I believe there's a picture of this as well). I won't speak for Dear Sister, but mine was gone in three bites. It was almost too much to handle. For Bostonians who are used to the Boston-cream filling we are forced to endure in our eclairs here, you should be ashamed of yourselves if you allow yourself to be served one of those ever again! No Boston-plastic-like-cream in Paris, not at the Buci!
Follow me here:
Because it's so fresh, the pastry was tender with the slightest bit of crust on the outside, but almost fluffy inside. The "custard" on the inside was more like a thick, richer pudding that matched the flavor of the frosting on top. That's right, chocolate. This bullet of perfection was gone so quickly that it was almost unfair. But it was only Day Two of Seven in Paris, and we would be back.
And we were.
Day Three found us cutting back (slightly) on our hotel breakfast to leave room for patisserie heaven and hoofing it back down Boulevard St. Germain once again, banging that right on rue de Seine and then first left on to rue de Buci. And today not only did we have to decide whether or not to have the chocolate or coffee flavored eclair, but it was there, the foot-long eclair.
And with God (and Dear Sister) as my witness, my first words were "Oh my God, we CAN'T do that!" Now, I like my pastries, and we both already discovered that we love "the Buci" eclairs. But this was the grand-daddy of any eclair I've ever seen. In fact, I think it's actually false advertising on the blog we'd seen before our trip because the ones we saw, in person, were bigger. They are the adult version of the eclair we'd eaten the day before, not only about a foot long but also about six inches wide!
Post-trip, Dear Sister and I actually had the following discussion:
Me: "My only trip regret is that I didn't try the foot-long eclair."
DS: "Mine too. You know, if we tried to cut it in half and maybe did it that way, because cutting it in half would've been about three regular ones each..."
Me: "Yes, yes, I could do three."
Ah yes, the logic of the non-jetlagged sees the light, too late. OF COURSE we should have skipped breakfast at the hotel and cut one in half. But we didn't. But now we know that when we return to Paris we 1) must stay somewhere near rue de Buci and 2) plan ahead for the Big Buci.
So back to Day Three, where we once again had just one (each) of the chocolate "regular sized" eclairs, chickening out from the formidable challenge of the foot-long eclair. And once again, we were not disappointed. What a wonderful way to start our day! If only EVERY day started like this at home, we'd all be permanently happy (and 4 pounds or more heavier, but I digress...)
Day Four, with much regret, we left Paris for Auvers-Sur-Oise too early to make the trek to the Buci first. We did, however try an eclair at a small patisserie in Auvers and I even ventured to try the coffee-flavored one. Hmmm...interesting, with the coffee frosting on top and cream inside. I wasn't disappointed, but this didn't have the same softness and loveliness of the Buci. It was clear we were already waxing nostalgic for the Buci.
Day Five, our last day staying in the Latin Quarter, we were fully prepared for this to be our last day at the Buci. We walked in and a gentleman was just bringing a fresh tray of eclairs out from the back. We indulged in another decadent chocolate eclair and wistfully walked away, not knowing if our hotel near the Eiffel after we returned from Vienna would allow us the luxury of walking here again.
Before we left Paris, we had a type of eclair at Angelina's (the mecca of all things pastry and hot chocolate) and were slightly disappointed. And the morning we left Paris, we tried an eclair on rue Cler and were intensely disappointed (so much so that we had to have a crepe chaser to leave a good taste (literally) in our mouths!). So perhaps the Buci has ruined us on eclairs. I dare say that we won't ever eat another eclair around here, at least not without remembering the pastry perfection we found on rue de Buci.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Trip Report: Paris and Vienna -- April 2008
For those of you who like detail...
Background: This was my 5th trip to Paris and 2nd to Vienna, my Dear Sister’s first time in both. We are still on our quest to see all the Vermeers in the world (see last year’s trip to Amsterdam trip report), so we were off to see 2 in Paris and 1 in Vienna.
Flights: We flew IcelandAir again Bos to CDG and return. Got a fare of $578 (total) Christmas week. Flew AirBerlin (which was actually a codeshare with Air Niki) between Paris and Vienna for 9 euro plus taxes of 60 euro. I remain a big fan of IcelandAir. We flew their new 757 with seatback screens (and USB port for the iPod recharge!) going over. Not coming home though. Air NIKI was fine (Airbus 320 or 319) except for the crappy and remote terminals at both Vienna and CDG.
Shuttles: I’ve decided on this trip shuttles just aren’t worth it unless you are arriving during rush hour and might get stuck with a meter running. I’m a typical girl and don’t like to schlep my own luggage, so trains are out for me. We arrived at 1 p.m. on Thursday and the shuttle driver for Paris Shuttle (who I used successfully before) took us directly through a large demonstration near Place de la Republique, which resulted 2 ½ hours stuck in traffic. I heard on the radio in the van that there were large backups, but the driver wouldn’t divert because he had to drop a party off there first. On our return to Paris from Vienna, Airport Shuttle told me when I called at 9:15 p.m. to call back at 9:45 and see where the driver was, leaving us in nearly empty Terminal 3 at CDG for over an hour total. I canceled that transfer and the return shuttle on the spot and had a full refund on my card when I got home. Taxis both from and to the airport were cheaper than the shuttle anyway due to the time of day we were in transport.
Hotels: We spent our first 5 nights at the Hotel College de France in the 5th. This is about an 8 min walk to Notre Dame and there are TONS of restaurants around. Our twin room was large, clean and nice. The bathroom was really big for Paris. We slept with the window open as the room was a bit stuffy and there was no street noise whatsoever that woke us. Breakfast was 9 euro and pretty extensive. The staff was extremely friendly and helpful. I’ve stayed only on the Right Bank on my previous visits, and I loved this arrondissement for its location and accessibility and because it had a lot to do/eat nearby.
In Vienna we stayed at the Hotel Savoy in the Museum Quarter just off Mariahilferstrasse. I’d read on Trip Advisor that there was major construction across the street, but figured that we’d be out of the room most of the day so it wouldn’t matter. Except they start work at 6 a.m., which means they’re out there chatting and yelling and setting up at 5:30. Yikes. The room was very large and there was a split shower/sink and toilet situation (two separate rooms). This would have been a great place to stay in terms of location and comfort. The staff weren’t exactly warm but I expect that in Vienna after my last stay here. I’d stay here again if I knew the construction was complete. Thankfully we were only here one night. Breakfast was included and was standard buffet fare.
On our return to Paris from Vienna, we stayed two nights at the Hotel Muguet in the 7th for a change in scenery. It was about 2 min on foot to rue Cler, which we only went to the morning we left to buy cheese (I’d been before) and about 10 min on foot to the Eiffel Tower. I hesitate to recommend this location to first time visitors because I think it is out of the way for “everything else” (other than the tower) and I think you can do better in terms of accessibility on the metro and to restaurants that are easy to walk to. I also didn’t think highly of the staff as the bathroom looked as if a landmine hit it after it was cleaned – our belongings on the counters and in the shower were all over the place. And the next day there was hair (not mine or DS’s, as we are both blond) in my razor. Ugh. We had a triple room which was two twins and a sectional sofa. Bathroom was good sized and clean. Breakfast was 13 euro and had the fewest offerings on the trip. I would not return here due to location/accessibility to everything I’d be interested in and the problem with our bathroom cleaning.
Weather: It ran high 50s to low 60s most of the week. Every day had some rain. It is deceiving because it may not look like it in the morning, but within a matter of minutes, literally, it could be raining. Not heavily, but enough to be a pest, and usually only for 15-20 minutes or so. We learned to always take an umbrella, or be stuck buying one at any point.
Restaurants: I became a huge fan of Pudlo’s guide on this trip. Four of them below are from Pudlo. I will never travel to Paris without it if they all end up this good.
Gosselins – not in Pudlo, but it’s a deli/café walking between Orsay and Rodin. Toasted four cheese panini, easily weighed 3 pounds. It was a massive sandwich but fabulous.
Le Christine – 1 rue Christine in the 6th, Metro Odeon. Dark paneled floors, white stucco walls, beamed ceilings. White table cloths and white shirted/black pants waitstaff who were extremely attentive. BEST meal of the trip, nothing stood a chance after it. Started with kir royal, then a tomato mousse amuse bouche. Appetizer was Serrano ham over ricotta/pesto tart – delectable. Chateaubriand with béarnaise sauce. Molten chocolate cake. Bottle of red wine, forget what kind. All this for 150E.
Le Louis Vin – 9 rue de la Montagne-Sainte-Genevieve, Metro Maubert Mutualite. Brighter and more modern. Everyone there is really young, including the owners who look like they’re 25. 27 euro fixed price menu got us an appetizer of Lyonnais sausage and lentils. We chose the entrecote of beef with camembert sauce and a terrine of chocolate crème anglais. Half bottle of bourdeaux for 25E more, so all under 100E. Really tasty but a bit rushed by young staff.
L’Epi Dupin – 11 rue Dupin (behind Bon Marche department store), Metro Sevres Babylon. My aunt had been here in the fall and highly recommended it and it’s in Pudlo and on Fodors recommendations. We weren’t disappointed. Needed reservations though. Very rustic interior and very nice/attentive waitstaff. A step down from Le Christine in curb appeal. Had kir royal (our nightly thing) and a carmelized endive and goat cheese tart (I liked, but DS though it would’ve been better with onions instead) then the scallops over orange infused risotto. We finished with their signature molten chocolate cake. Set menu was 34E but our alcohol (half bottle of sancerre) and a cheese course brought it to 120E total.
Au Pied du Cochon – 6 rue Coquilliere, Metro Chatelet-Les Halles. This place is known mostly for its pig products, but on Fodors and in Pudlo I read they have phenomenal onion soup. They do and we’ll never be able to eat it again without longing for this. HUGE bowl, perfect combination of bread and creamy cheeses on top. Over-inundated with large healthy chunks/strips of onions. So good we couldn’t eat anything else. They are used to people popping in just for the soup, so it’s not a strange thing to not have some form of pig when you’re there.
Au Lys d’Argent – not in Pudlo, on rue St. Louis behind Notre Dame. We ate here the first night for fast and simple. We both had four cheese and tomato whole wheat crepes and onion soup. I think this was the only meal under 50E the whole week but the crepes were really tasty.
La Bonbonniere De Buci -- 12 rue de Buci, not in Pudlo. We walked from Hotel College de France three, four times? The eclairs are sinful. Absolutely to die for. We’d read about this on the parisbreakfasts.blogspot.com (thank you Beth!!!) and this was the hit of the week, I think. If you are anywhere nearby, or even if you’re not, try to stop in for an éclair. We did not find a better one all week, as much as we tried.
Angelina’s – I brought DS here specifically for the hot chocolate and was pretty disappointed at how bitter-tasting (and lukewarm) the hot chocolate has become since I was last there. We had two wonderful pastries (a Lucas and a Trois Carats) but I’d opt for coffee next time.
In Vienna, we ate our two main meals of the two days we were there at Figlmuller’s both times. The wienerschnitzel, potato salad and grape juice are not to be missed!
Sights: We covered all the usual suspects for a first-time visitor (Orsay, Louvre (twice), Rodin, Notre Dame, Ste. Chapelle, Arc de Triomphe, Montmartre, Cluny, Picasso Museum, Eiffel Tower) We bought the 4 day museum pass for 45 euro and got 61 euro worth of visits out of it. So that was a bargain for us.
I’ll only mention here things I hadn’t specifically written about in prior trip reports:
I finally got lucky and visited L’Orangerie after 4 missed attempts (last time by 6 days!). It was WELL worth the wait, as I love Monet and had only been able to read about these beautiful canvases as long as I’ve been traveling to Europe. We went on a Friday around 5:30 – 6:00 p.m. and were there with only a handful of other people. Just heavenly…I could see Giverny just sitting there. What a thrill!
We followed a walk of Montmartre in one of our guidebooks and were thrilled with the Montmarte Cemetary. It’s a smaller, manageable version of Pere Lachaise, and allows you to take a break from the city while hunting for some of the more popular inhabitants (Degas, Najinsky, Foucault). The walk also takes you through a park with an interesting and rare view of the rear of Sacre Coeur, which was kind of neat. My sister enjoyed the Dali museum which is not my thing but she said it was the largest collection she’d ever seen (she hasn’t been to Spain).
We took a day trip to Auvers-sur-Oise as DS is a huge Van Gogh fan. We caught the direct train from Gare du Nord at 9:56 a.m. on Sunday and got there in about 30 mins. The only direct return train wasn’t until 6 p.m. so we had to go further away from Paris to catch a connection back to Paris, which took about an hour and a half. Auvers is a pretty little town and they have really done well in showing tourists pertinent Van Gogh sites. We toured the auberge where he lived and died, seeing the actual room where he stayed. We also followed a trail of sorts where they post copies of his paintings at the location where he painted them, so you can see the wheatfields, the church, Gachet’s house, etc. And we went to his grave, which was very moving if you know anything about his story and his relationship with his brother (who is also buried there). We had to stop following the trail when rain set in in earnest…the second half of the path is pretty far from the first part and we didn’t want to risk being caught in a deluge. But it was an interesting excursion nonetheless.
Jacquemart Andre Museum – a wonderful house/mansion museum with an eclectic and interesting collection of art, including three Rembrandts. I enjoyed this as a nice quiet break from the crowded larger museums.
There is an interesting view of Place de la Concorde and Invalides from the steps of La Madeleine and even more so with deep dark storm clouds behind it. We stopped here one day when we were “just walking” around near the designer shops and sat on the steps and watched the clouds roll in.
I liken climbing the Eiffel Tower to childbirth: once it’s over you forget how miserable and painful an experience it is without the use of serious painkilling meds. I’d done it back in ‘99 and had no recollection of how long the wait was and how miserable it is to be mashed into elevators and the observation decks with that many people. But with a newbie to Paris, it just had to be done. I estimated a three hour investment first thing in the morning, and I was right…but we took the stairs down from the second level just to “get the hell out of Dodge” and not wait in lines to get out too. Now we can both say “never again”! But the day we did it was our last full day in Paris and it was the only bright blue sky and sunny day we had all week, so at least it was nice to be outside.
In Vienna, the Belvedere Palace and the art collection there is wonderful. We were there at opening and headed right to the Klimts (DS is a fan…I guess she’s a fan of any art!) where we had The Kiss to ourselves for about 10 minutes. I liked the layout and presentation of the museum as well as how “manageable” it felt…not like you were inundated with art you wouldn’t remember later. I still can see its beautiful Monet in my head…
But we did delve into more, taking in a Monet to Picasso exhibit at the Albertina (wonderful!), the Secession Museum for Klimt’s Beethoven Frieze, the Vienna City Museum (more Klimts) and the Leopold Museum where I finally reached my fill of secession art. But DS could check off just about every Klimt in Vienna at that point.
I missed the Vermeer at the Kunsthistorisches Museum 4 years ago when I was there and it was on loan to Tokyo. So, we’d written twice this year and confirmed it would be there on the 22nd and thankfully it was. And for both of us, it was the most beautiful of the 19 we’ve seen so far (out of 35 total). It is much larger than his others and makes use of his trademark blue and yellow paints. But there is something so captivating and lifelike about it that we were both smitten almost immediately. I sought out the Caravaggios as I’d taken a liking to him in Rome last year and they were nice, except one was a copy of one in the Borghese. I also came to appreciate how altarpieces are better appreciated in a church than in a museum, as there is one there that was meant to be in a church and was similar to those I’d seen in Rome churches.
We spent a nice evening drinking coffee and eating pastries at Café Central and also enjoyed Sacher torte and coffee at the Café Sacher once.
We spent our last night in Paris actually taking night photographs of the tower, so the hotel location was good for us. I think Paris may have a new fan in my sister, but both of us are content in saying we’ve been to Vienna, seen the Vermeer and every Klimt we could get our hands on, and don’t have to return.
Background: This was my 5th trip to Paris and 2nd to Vienna, my Dear Sister’s first time in both. We are still on our quest to see all the Vermeers in the world (see last year’s trip to Amsterdam trip report), so we were off to see 2 in Paris and 1 in Vienna.
Flights: We flew IcelandAir again Bos to CDG and return. Got a fare of $578 (total) Christmas week. Flew AirBerlin (which was actually a codeshare with Air Niki) between Paris and Vienna for 9 euro plus taxes of 60 euro. I remain a big fan of IcelandAir. We flew their new 757 with seatback screens (and USB port for the iPod recharge!) going over. Not coming home though. Air NIKI was fine (Airbus 320 or 319) except for the crappy and remote terminals at both Vienna and CDG.
Shuttles: I’ve decided on this trip shuttles just aren’t worth it unless you are arriving during rush hour and might get stuck with a meter running. I’m a typical girl and don’t like to schlep my own luggage, so trains are out for me. We arrived at 1 p.m. on Thursday and the shuttle driver for Paris Shuttle (who I used successfully before) took us directly through a large demonstration near Place de la Republique, which resulted 2 ½ hours stuck in traffic. I heard on the radio in the van that there were large backups, but the driver wouldn’t divert because he had to drop a party off there first. On our return to Paris from Vienna, Airport Shuttle told me when I called at 9:15 p.m. to call back at 9:45 and see where the driver was, leaving us in nearly empty Terminal 3 at CDG for over an hour total. I canceled that transfer and the return shuttle on the spot and had a full refund on my card when I got home. Taxis both from and to the airport were cheaper than the shuttle anyway due to the time of day we were in transport.
Hotels: We spent our first 5 nights at the Hotel College de France in the 5th. This is about an 8 min walk to Notre Dame and there are TONS of restaurants around. Our twin room was large, clean and nice. The bathroom was really big for Paris. We slept with the window open as the room was a bit stuffy and there was no street noise whatsoever that woke us. Breakfast was 9 euro and pretty extensive. The staff was extremely friendly and helpful. I’ve stayed only on the Right Bank on my previous visits, and I loved this arrondissement for its location and accessibility and because it had a lot to do/eat nearby.
In Vienna we stayed at the Hotel Savoy in the Museum Quarter just off Mariahilferstrasse. I’d read on Trip Advisor that there was major construction across the street, but figured that we’d be out of the room most of the day so it wouldn’t matter. Except they start work at 6 a.m., which means they’re out there chatting and yelling and setting up at 5:30. Yikes. The room was very large and there was a split shower/sink and toilet situation (two separate rooms). This would have been a great place to stay in terms of location and comfort. The staff weren’t exactly warm but I expect that in Vienna after my last stay here. I’d stay here again if I knew the construction was complete. Thankfully we were only here one night. Breakfast was included and was standard buffet fare.
On our return to Paris from Vienna, we stayed two nights at the Hotel Muguet in the 7th for a change in scenery. It was about 2 min on foot to rue Cler, which we only went to the morning we left to buy cheese (I’d been before) and about 10 min on foot to the Eiffel Tower. I hesitate to recommend this location to first time visitors because I think it is out of the way for “everything else” (other than the tower) and I think you can do better in terms of accessibility on the metro and to restaurants that are easy to walk to. I also didn’t think highly of the staff as the bathroom looked as if a landmine hit it after it was cleaned – our belongings on the counters and in the shower were all over the place. And the next day there was hair (not mine or DS’s, as we are both blond) in my razor. Ugh. We had a triple room which was two twins and a sectional sofa. Bathroom was good sized and clean. Breakfast was 13 euro and had the fewest offerings on the trip. I would not return here due to location/accessibility to everything I’d be interested in and the problem with our bathroom cleaning.
Weather: It ran high 50s to low 60s most of the week. Every day had some rain. It is deceiving because it may not look like it in the morning, but within a matter of minutes, literally, it could be raining. Not heavily, but enough to be a pest, and usually only for 15-20 minutes or so. We learned to always take an umbrella, or be stuck buying one at any point.
Restaurants: I became a huge fan of Pudlo’s guide on this trip. Four of them below are from Pudlo. I will never travel to Paris without it if they all end up this good.
Gosselins – not in Pudlo, but it’s a deli/café walking between Orsay and Rodin. Toasted four cheese panini, easily weighed 3 pounds. It was a massive sandwich but fabulous.
Le Christine – 1 rue Christine in the 6th, Metro Odeon. Dark paneled floors, white stucco walls, beamed ceilings. White table cloths and white shirted/black pants waitstaff who were extremely attentive. BEST meal of the trip, nothing stood a chance after it. Started with kir royal, then a tomato mousse amuse bouche. Appetizer was Serrano ham over ricotta/pesto tart – delectable. Chateaubriand with béarnaise sauce. Molten chocolate cake. Bottle of red wine, forget what kind. All this for 150E.
Le Louis Vin – 9 rue de la Montagne-Sainte-Genevieve, Metro Maubert Mutualite. Brighter and more modern. Everyone there is really young, including the owners who look like they’re 25. 27 euro fixed price menu got us an appetizer of Lyonnais sausage and lentils. We chose the entrecote of beef with camembert sauce and a terrine of chocolate crème anglais. Half bottle of bourdeaux for 25E more, so all under 100E. Really tasty but a bit rushed by young staff.
L’Epi Dupin – 11 rue Dupin (behind Bon Marche department store), Metro Sevres Babylon. My aunt had been here in the fall and highly recommended it and it’s in Pudlo and on Fodors recommendations. We weren’t disappointed. Needed reservations though. Very rustic interior and very nice/attentive waitstaff. A step down from Le Christine in curb appeal. Had kir royal (our nightly thing) and a carmelized endive and goat cheese tart (I liked, but DS though it would’ve been better with onions instead) then the scallops over orange infused risotto. We finished with their signature molten chocolate cake. Set menu was 34E but our alcohol (half bottle of sancerre) and a cheese course brought it to 120E total.
Au Pied du Cochon – 6 rue Coquilliere, Metro Chatelet-Les Halles. This place is known mostly for its pig products, but on Fodors and in Pudlo I read they have phenomenal onion soup. They do and we’ll never be able to eat it again without longing for this. HUGE bowl, perfect combination of bread and creamy cheeses on top. Over-inundated with large healthy chunks/strips of onions. So good we couldn’t eat anything else. They are used to people popping in just for the soup, so it’s not a strange thing to not have some form of pig when you’re there.
Au Lys d’Argent – not in Pudlo, on rue St. Louis behind Notre Dame. We ate here the first night for fast and simple. We both had four cheese and tomato whole wheat crepes and onion soup. I think this was the only meal under 50E the whole week but the crepes were really tasty.
La Bonbonniere De Buci -- 12 rue de Buci, not in Pudlo. We walked from Hotel College de France three, four times? The eclairs are sinful. Absolutely to die for. We’d read about this on the parisbreakfasts.blogspot.com (thank you Beth!!!) and this was the hit of the week, I think. If you are anywhere nearby, or even if you’re not, try to stop in for an éclair. We did not find a better one all week, as much as we tried.
Angelina’s – I brought DS here specifically for the hot chocolate and was pretty disappointed at how bitter-tasting (and lukewarm) the hot chocolate has become since I was last there. We had two wonderful pastries (a Lucas and a Trois Carats) but I’d opt for coffee next time.
In Vienna, we ate our two main meals of the two days we were there at Figlmuller’s both times. The wienerschnitzel, potato salad and grape juice are not to be missed!
Sights: We covered all the usual suspects for a first-time visitor (Orsay, Louvre (twice), Rodin, Notre Dame, Ste. Chapelle, Arc de Triomphe, Montmartre, Cluny, Picasso Museum, Eiffel Tower) We bought the 4 day museum pass for 45 euro and got 61 euro worth of visits out of it. So that was a bargain for us.
I’ll only mention here things I hadn’t specifically written about in prior trip reports:
I finally got lucky and visited L’Orangerie after 4 missed attempts (last time by 6 days!). It was WELL worth the wait, as I love Monet and had only been able to read about these beautiful canvases as long as I’ve been traveling to Europe. We went on a Friday around 5:30 – 6:00 p.m. and were there with only a handful of other people. Just heavenly…I could see Giverny just sitting there. What a thrill!
We followed a walk of Montmartre in one of our guidebooks and were thrilled with the Montmarte Cemetary. It’s a smaller, manageable version of Pere Lachaise, and allows you to take a break from the city while hunting for some of the more popular inhabitants (Degas, Najinsky, Foucault). The walk also takes you through a park with an interesting and rare view of the rear of Sacre Coeur, which was kind of neat. My sister enjoyed the Dali museum which is not my thing but she said it was the largest collection she’d ever seen (she hasn’t been to Spain).
We took a day trip to Auvers-sur-Oise as DS is a huge Van Gogh fan. We caught the direct train from Gare du Nord at 9:56 a.m. on Sunday and got there in about 30 mins. The only direct return train wasn’t until 6 p.m. so we had to go further away from Paris to catch a connection back to Paris, which took about an hour and a half. Auvers is a pretty little town and they have really done well in showing tourists pertinent Van Gogh sites. We toured the auberge where he lived and died, seeing the actual room where he stayed. We also followed a trail of sorts where they post copies of his paintings at the location where he painted them, so you can see the wheatfields, the church, Gachet’s house, etc. And we went to his grave, which was very moving if you know anything about his story and his relationship with his brother (who is also buried there). We had to stop following the trail when rain set in in earnest…the second half of the path is pretty far from the first part and we didn’t want to risk being caught in a deluge. But it was an interesting excursion nonetheless.
Jacquemart Andre Museum – a wonderful house/mansion museum with an eclectic and interesting collection of art, including three Rembrandts. I enjoyed this as a nice quiet break from the crowded larger museums.
There is an interesting view of Place de la Concorde and Invalides from the steps of La Madeleine and even more so with deep dark storm clouds behind it. We stopped here one day when we were “just walking” around near the designer shops and sat on the steps and watched the clouds roll in.
I liken climbing the Eiffel Tower to childbirth: once it’s over you forget how miserable and painful an experience it is without the use of serious painkilling meds. I’d done it back in ‘99 and had no recollection of how long the wait was and how miserable it is to be mashed into elevators and the observation decks with that many people. But with a newbie to Paris, it just had to be done. I estimated a three hour investment first thing in the morning, and I was right…but we took the stairs down from the second level just to “get the hell out of Dodge” and not wait in lines to get out too. Now we can both say “never again”! But the day we did it was our last full day in Paris and it was the only bright blue sky and sunny day we had all week, so at least it was nice to be outside.
In Vienna, the Belvedere Palace and the art collection there is wonderful. We were there at opening and headed right to the Klimts (DS is a fan…I guess she’s a fan of any art!) where we had The Kiss to ourselves for about 10 minutes. I liked the layout and presentation of the museum as well as how “manageable” it felt…not like you were inundated with art you wouldn’t remember later. I still can see its beautiful Monet in my head…
But we did delve into more, taking in a Monet to Picasso exhibit at the Albertina (wonderful!), the Secession Museum for Klimt’s Beethoven Frieze, the Vienna City Museum (more Klimts) and the Leopold Museum where I finally reached my fill of secession art. But DS could check off just about every Klimt in Vienna at that point.
I missed the Vermeer at the Kunsthistorisches Museum 4 years ago when I was there and it was on loan to Tokyo. So, we’d written twice this year and confirmed it would be there on the 22nd and thankfully it was. And for both of us, it was the most beautiful of the 19 we’ve seen so far (out of 35 total). It is much larger than his others and makes use of his trademark blue and yellow paints. But there is something so captivating and lifelike about it that we were both smitten almost immediately. I sought out the Caravaggios as I’d taken a liking to him in Rome last year and they were nice, except one was a copy of one in the Borghese. I also came to appreciate how altarpieces are better appreciated in a church than in a museum, as there is one there that was meant to be in a church and was similar to those I’d seen in Rome churches.
We spent a nice evening drinking coffee and eating pastries at Café Central and also enjoyed Sacher torte and coffee at the Café Sacher once.
We spent our last night in Paris actually taking night photographs of the tower, so the hotel location was good for us. I think Paris may have a new fan in my sister, but both of us are content in saying we’ve been to Vienna, seen the Vermeer and every Klimt we could get our hands on, and don’t have to return.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
About me and Vienna...
I've received some questions with respect to my lack-of-love affair with Vienna and why it is that I'm returning. And why it also is that I am sort of half denying that I'm returning. So here are the facts.
Back in 2004, I went on my first solo journey. The destinations were Prague for 4 days and nearby Vienna for 4 days. I had a delightful time in glorious Prague. The people were friendly, the food and weather were good, the music was amazing and cheap. Then I moved on to Vienna.
Vienna was cold, dark and rainy in October. I was constantly cold. Ok, that wasn't Vienna's fault. But it sets the mood for numerous encounters to follow. To wit:
-- I went for the infamous wienerschnitzel at Figlmuller. For those who aren't aware, the wienerschnitzel is as big as the Sit and Spin you had when you were ten years old. It easily overhangs the plate, if not the table the plate is on. I ate maybe 3/4 of it, it was delectable. When the waiter came to clear my plate he says "You not eat anymore" to which I replied, "No, I'm full but it was wonderful." Then he says "You take it with you?" to which I replied "No, I'm off to my hotel to sleep now." And the he proceeded to get all huffy and mean-spirited because I would neither finish nor take the remainder of my wienerschnitzel. Ugh.
-- I took the tram around city and got chased off it by a homeless drunk at one stop, at which time I also dropped/lost one of my favorite gloves. I'll be on the lookout for said glove on my return. You never know. But it's the only time I've run from a homeless person in all my travels.
-- I got hoodwinked by Mozart. Everything in Vienna is about Mozart. There are Mozart stores where they sell all sorts of kitsch with his name and face on it. I will admit to enjoying the Mozart chocolate liquers however. But on the street are the costumed Mozart dopplegangers who convince you to attend a concert of fine Mozart music. After three wonderful nights of (free) classical music in Prague in delightful churches or music halls full of locals, I was hungry to continue the streak of good luck. I ended up sitting in the middle of a Japanese tour group watching performers even more kitschy than the Mozart souvenirs themselves. I could swear I heard them saying "They all paid WHAT for this?" and secretly smiling off-stage. It was just so inauthentic. What a waste.
-- The Vermeer was on loan. I schlepped my butt all over the Kunsthistorisches Museum to see the Vermeer. This was before the Sisterly Quest for Vermeer on which we have currently embarked, but even then I knew it was something that had to be seen. And I got to the wall space where it should be, only to be greeted by the little white "on loan to Tokyo" card. Score another one for Team Vienna. I was down 4-0 now.
It wasn't all bad...Schonbrunn Palace was amazing, Stephansdom is impressive, the liquored hot chocolate and numerous pastries I drowned my sorrows in were delectable. But other than the Vermeer, I had no compelling reason to return, and hadn't planned to. As in, ever again.
So for the Vermeer and to work toward our Quest, DS and I are off to Vienna for two days during our trip to Paris. We have two email confirmations that the Vermeer will be on display next week, so if DS can't shed new light on Vienna, I will truly not have to return. Fingers crossed, either way.
Back in 2004, I went on my first solo journey. The destinations were Prague for 4 days and nearby Vienna for 4 days. I had a delightful time in glorious Prague. The people were friendly, the food and weather were good, the music was amazing and cheap. Then I moved on to Vienna.
Vienna was cold, dark and rainy in October. I was constantly cold. Ok, that wasn't Vienna's fault. But it sets the mood for numerous encounters to follow. To wit:
-- I went for the infamous wienerschnitzel at Figlmuller. For those who aren't aware, the wienerschnitzel is as big as the Sit and Spin you had when you were ten years old. It easily overhangs the plate, if not the table the plate is on. I ate maybe 3/4 of it, it was delectable. When the waiter came to clear my plate he says "You not eat anymore" to which I replied, "No, I'm full but it was wonderful." Then he says "You take it with you?" to which I replied "No, I'm off to my hotel to sleep now." And the he proceeded to get all huffy and mean-spirited because I would neither finish nor take the remainder of my wienerschnitzel. Ugh.
-- I took the tram around city and got chased off it by a homeless drunk at one stop, at which time I also dropped/lost one of my favorite gloves. I'll be on the lookout for said glove on my return. You never know. But it's the only time I've run from a homeless person in all my travels.
-- I got hoodwinked by Mozart. Everything in Vienna is about Mozart. There are Mozart stores where they sell all sorts of kitsch with his name and face on it. I will admit to enjoying the Mozart chocolate liquers however. But on the street are the costumed Mozart dopplegangers who convince you to attend a concert of fine Mozart music. After three wonderful nights of (free) classical music in Prague in delightful churches or music halls full of locals, I was hungry to continue the streak of good luck. I ended up sitting in the middle of a Japanese tour group watching performers even more kitschy than the Mozart souvenirs themselves. I could swear I heard them saying "They all paid WHAT for this?" and secretly smiling off-stage. It was just so inauthentic. What a waste.
-- The Vermeer was on loan. I schlepped my butt all over the Kunsthistorisches Museum to see the Vermeer. This was before the Sisterly Quest for Vermeer on which we have currently embarked, but even then I knew it was something that had to be seen. And I got to the wall space where it should be, only to be greeted by the little white "on loan to Tokyo" card. Score another one for Team Vienna. I was down 4-0 now.
It wasn't all bad...Schonbrunn Palace was amazing, Stephansdom is impressive, the liquored hot chocolate and numerous pastries I drowned my sorrows in were delectable. But other than the Vermeer, I had no compelling reason to return, and hadn't planned to. As in, ever again.
So for the Vermeer and to work toward our Quest, DS and I are off to Vienna for two days during our trip to Paris. We have two email confirmations that the Vermeer will be on display next week, so if DS can't shed new light on Vienna, I will truly not have to return. Fingers crossed, either way.
We're goin' to Paris (and Vienna)
Well, the day before is finally here. I have one more sleep before I hit the City of Lights with Dear Sister.
My packing is about done, except for stuff that wrinkles. I have an 8x8x4 space left in my suitcase, which is oddly disconcerting. What have I forgotten? Or better yet, what can I buy to fit in there on the way home?
I was sick most of the last week and went through a bit of "I don't want to leave home" over the weekend, but now with the cold behind me (mostly) and the lure of high 60s and croissants just ahead of me, I'm raring to go.
There is a bit of regret though that the trip is actually here because I really do live to plan and anticipate trips. I have that feeling that in 2 weeks, I'll be sitting back here at my desk at work, with no countdown in my head, no destination in my future, no stacks of guidebooks beckoning me to come hither. But I guess that's when I just put my head down and hit the grindstone....in the quest to pick the next destination.
So let's raise our Starbucks cups this morning in a toast to Dear Sister, who is boldly taking on her personal demons and whisking her way across The Pond once again. It'll be worth it, DS, when you lay eyes on our Vermeers, Vincent's final resting place, and that foot long eclair!
My packing is about done, except for stuff that wrinkles. I have an 8x8x4 space left in my suitcase, which is oddly disconcerting. What have I forgotten? Or better yet, what can I buy to fit in there on the way home?
I was sick most of the last week and went through a bit of "I don't want to leave home" over the weekend, but now with the cold behind me (mostly) and the lure of high 60s and croissants just ahead of me, I'm raring to go.
There is a bit of regret though that the trip is actually here because I really do live to plan and anticipate trips. I have that feeling that in 2 weeks, I'll be sitting back here at my desk at work, with no countdown in my head, no destination in my future, no stacks of guidebooks beckoning me to come hither. But I guess that's when I just put my head down and hit the grindstone....in the quest to pick the next destination.
So let's raise our Starbucks cups this morning in a toast to Dear Sister, who is boldly taking on her personal demons and whisking her way across The Pond once again. It'll be worth it, DS, when you lay eyes on our Vermeers, Vincent's final resting place, and that foot long eclair!
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