There are certain physiological activities we all have in common – traits shared by every living creature. Periodically we parade to the nearest comfort station, water closet, loo, or commode. (The names may vary around the world.) But they all describe the same common need – we are responding to nature’s urgent message. What greets us varies a great deal, depending on where in the world we happen to be when this necessity finds us. While a large number of these so-called rest stops are similar to the ones we have become used to in our homes, others greet us with an entirely new, and often confusing set of plumbing devices. It is these unusual visits that I’ve encountered which are the basis for the descriptions that follow.

It was very early in my travels when I was introduced to what the Romanians call the “Turkish Toilet,” and the Turkish people call the “Romanian Toilet.” These less-than-descriptive terms could easily have any other countries’ names substituted in their title. Basically they consist of a hole in the floor which may be ten to 12 inches in diameter. Although the first time one encounters one of these it appears to be about half that size. On either side of this bottomless chasm are two footprints. The latter items are placed here to improve the aim of those less accustomed to this method. For many westerners the unfamiliar squat that is required needs all the assistance it can get for a miss is a disaster, and heaven help us if we tip over. Invariably there seems to be an unusual amount of moisture about the target. Keeping your pants or skirt off the surface requires a certain degree of dexterity. Needless to say, this rest stop is not one of my favorites. A number of years ago I rode a train in Russia which used this method. The jostling motion and the view of the track through the opening remains one of my most feared nightmares.

Another unsettling scene is the one I refer to as the “lack-of-modesty” comfort station. I have run into this category in Africa, Central America, and Nepal – and even on the streets of Paris. Regardless of this wide geographical expanse, they can still be grouped into a single category. In some of these locations they can quickly be dismissed by merely saying “go behind that tree.” In other areas you find yourself precariously balanced on a narrow board or tree branch, protected by a leafy screen with your head higher than the top, therefore able to see all the people watching you. Admittedly you are screened from the shoulders to the knees, but not only is the head open for full viewing, but so is anything that drops to your ankles. Regardless of the constant personal reminder that this activity is universal, it still remains an immodest act for me. Before I leave this category completely, I need to mention those practically-private public stalls sprinkled in some downtown areas of Europe. I wish they extended some two feet higher and went all the way to the ground. I just don’t know where to look when I use one of these places. If you look about and catch someone’s eye looking at you – well, it’s awkward. Looking down doesn’t seem right either. I just don’t know. In Central America I came upon one of these stalls over a river. No secrets were hidden here.

Even when the plumbing is close to matching the ones in my house, I am often confronted with a dilemma. For example, where is the flusher? Some older models have large water collectors mounted on the wall five or six feet above the porcelain receptacle. This system is usually activated by a pull chain with a nice wooden handle. It is often best to stand well back when activating this device because the water comes down in a huge rush, often splashing the surroundings with moisture. Even when the water tank is located in a position you are used to, it can cause a problem. Occasionally the valve refuses to close, and a persistent trickle continues on and on. This forces you to remove the cover and make an adjustment before the flush can be repeated – not a pleasant task. I also dislike those that imply an automatic flush – i.e., no handle. They mostly don’t work.

Probably the one I had the most difficulty mastering was the one I found in several South American countries. I will use the Galapagos Islands as the example. To begin with, the “throne” in most cases is very traditional looking. It is the sign above it and the container next to it which elevate it to be part of this article. To paraphrase this sign, usually in Spanish first, but English is close behind, it reads “Do not put paper in the toilet. Use the waste basket.” I have several possible comments here, but prudence suggests I move on and let your imaginations fill in the details.

I assume by this time you’ve lost interest so I will close – saving some of the more bizarre experiences for later stories.

 There are certain physiological activities we all have in common – traits shared by every living creature. Periodically we parade to the nearest comfort station, water closet, loo, or commode. (The names may vary around the world.) But they all describe the same common need – we are responding to nature’s urgent message. What greets us varies a great deal, depending on where in the world we happen to be when this necessity finds us. While a large number of these so-called rest stops are similar to the ones we have become used to in our homes, others greet us with an entirely new, and often confusing set of plumbing devices. It is these unusual visits that I’ve encountered which are the basis for the descriptions that follow.

It was very early in my travels when I was introduced to what the Romanians call the “Turkish Toilet,” and the Turkish people call the “Romanian Toilet.” These less-than-descriptive terms could easily have any other countries’ names substituted in their title. Basically they consist of a hole in the floor which may be ten to 12 inches in diameter. Although the first time one encounters one of these it appears to be about half that size. On either side of this bottomless chasm are two footprints. The latter items are placed here to improve the aim of those less accustomed to this method. For many westerners the unfamiliar squat that is required needs all the assistance it can get for a miss is a disaster, and heaven help us if we tip over. Invariably there seems to be an unusual amount of moisture about the target. Keeping your pants or skirt off the surface requires a certain degree of dexterity. Needless to say, this rest stop is not one of my favorites. A number of years ago I rode a train in Russia which used this method. The jostling motion and the view of the track through the opening remains one of my most feared nightmares.

Another unsettling scene is the one I refer to as the “lack-of-modesty” comfort station. I have run into this category in Africa, Central America, and Nepal – and even on the streets of Paris. Regardless of this wide geographical expanse, they can still be grouped into a single category. In some of these locations they can quickly be dismissed by merely saying “go behind that tree.” In other areas you find yourself precariously balanced on a narrow board or tree branch, protected by a leafy screen with your head higher than the top, therefore able to see all the people watching you. Admittedly you are screened from the shoulders to the knees, but not only is the head open for full viewing, but so is anything that drops to your ankles. Regardless of the constant personal reminder that this activity is universal, it still remains an immodest act for me. Before I leave this category completely, I need to mention those practically-private public stalls sprinkled in some downtown areas of Europe. I wish they extended some two feet higher and went all the way to the ground. I just don’t know where to look when I use one of these places. If you look about and catch someone’s eye looking at you – well, it’s awkward. Looking down doesn’t seem right either. I just don’t know. In Central America I came upon one of these stalls over a river. No secrets were hidden here.

Even when the plumbing is close to matching the ones in my house, I am often confronted with a dilemma. For example, where is the flusher? Some older models have large water collectors mounted on the wall five or six feet above the porcelain receptacle. This system is usually activated by a pull chain with a nice wooden handle. It is often best to stand well back when activating this device because the water comes down in a huge rush, often splashing the surroundings with moisture. Even when the water tank is located in a position you are used to, it can cause a problem. Occasionally the valve refuses to close, and a persistent trickle continues on and on. This forces you to remove the cover and make an adjustment before the flush can be repeated – not a pleasant task. I also dislike those that imply an automatic flush – i.e., no handle. They mostly don’t work.

Probably the one I had the most difficulty mastering was the one I found in several South American countries. I will use the Galapagos Islands as the example. To begin with, the “throne” in most cases is very traditional looking. It is the sign above it and the container next to it which elevate it to be part of this article. To paraphrase this sign, usually in Spanish first, but English is close behind, it reads “Do not put paper in the toilet. Use the waste basket.” I have several possible comments here, but prudence suggests I move on and let your imaginations fill in the details.

I assume by this time you’ve lost interest so I will close – saving some of the more bizarre experiences for later stories.

We inhabitants of this delicate world are in a constant struggle with our environment. Let’s face it – we occupy a flimsy planet which circles an average star in a minor galaxy of this gigantic universe. We need to take care of it.

 An ex-Vice President beats a drum on global warming, and Congress struggles with clean air acts. Often when we stop at scenic turnoffs, we find the view littered with cans, bottles, and used sandwich bags. It appears to me at times that we are losing the battle – that sometime in the future our world will be so littered with junk that nothing will survive.

 Recently I had a brief respite from the pressures. I visited a place dedicated to reviving endangered species or at least prolonging the status-quo. Animals and humans share space without fear. There are rules about littering, about waste, about protecting the environment. No one drops a candy wrapper or would think of not picking one up if discarded. Where? The Galapagos Islands, of course.

I could not believe the wildlife we were immersed in. We checked into the second floor of our ocean-front room just before dusk. I stepped out onto the balcony, overlooking a pool between our room and the Pacific Ocean. As I stood there taking in the view, a sea lion waddled out of the surf, climbed the short stone wall, and slid into the pool. He did a lap or two, then crawled out and hoisted himself onto one of the chaise lounges, curled up on the thick blue pillow, and promptly went to sleep.

On our way to dinner that night I wandered over to the outdoor bar and found myself stepping around another sea lion. The waiter told me this one was pregnant and that the entire staff was on alert for the pending occasion.

Over the years I’ve shared a joke or two about the blue-footed booby but never thought I’d see one. Wrong! Just after breakfast the first morning, I strayed to the local rock pier attracted by a huge pelican preening himself and managing to ignore the black marine iguana next to him. Before I could even get my camera out, guess what! A blue-footed booby elbowed her way into the middle of my picture four feet away, with those absolutely unbelievable blue feet. When I think about it, most of our ducks have yellowish-orange legs, so why should some birds not have blue spats? By the way, they also have blue rings around the whites of their eyes.

Later I stood transfixed while a pelican, only about three feet away, preened itself. Under the wings first, then the breast – the long neck straining to cover the back and legs too. An audible “click” each time the bill finished an area and found a treasure. At last, clean and handsome, head held high, neck outstretched, he looked at me and said, “Ain’t I the most handsome dude you’ve ever seen?”

Before we leave the Galapagos, I have a quick little boy/girl story to share. The frigate, one of the most beautiful birds in the air, has an interesting mating practice. The males get a large red wattle so that the uninitiated can tell he’s a boy, not a girl. The next step is for the males to build a suitable nest in order to attract the female frigate. But, this one poor, unsophisticated guy attempts to attract the attention of some classy babes by building what was most definitely not a nest – only a pile of three small sticks. Now the girls check out the various “houses” these guys have built, and choose their mate – not by his handsome features or his” abs”, but by the nest he provides.

The little inexperienced frigate just sat there, waiting. An enormous collection of female frigates selected one after another of the more ornate nests, leaving my hero to sit patiently by his two or three crossed sticks. I felt bad for him. I hope there was a sensitive female who took pity on him and overlooked the meager habitat he had to offer.

I could go on and on about the general neatness of these islands and their tight relationship with the animals, but I’ll save some for a later story. In the meantime, I will not toss a candy wrapper or any waste material onto the streets of Danville. I can assure you of that.

The first time I realized my perception was a bit out of whack came during a visit to Santiago, Chile in late November. We came out of our downtown hotel in shorts and t-shirts into a pleasant, warm day. We stepped around a ladder where an employee was stringing colored lights. “Must be getting ready for some sort of a party or celebration,” we conjectured. “Yep, looks almost like Christmas,” we chuckled. A few blocks later reality set in when we passed a decorated Christmas tree in a store window. The surprise went on. Santas standing in shorts next to donation buckets. Very much like Christmas, except for the weather.

Another equally jolting revelation came to us in Sydney a few years later. We were relaxing one late afternoon in a German Hofbrau-style restaurant in the area of Sydney known as “The Rocks.” A chorus of lederhosen-clad lads and dirndl-wearing maids arrived and began entertaining us with songs in German. After a melody or two, we realized they were singing Christmas Carols. Hey – it’s eighty degrees outside and not a flake of snow in sight. We also enjoyed a little side show here. There was a church which had erected a fair-sized stage near its entrance. The curtain was closed, and a sign proclaimed, “Coming soon.” A few days later we passed by and the curtain was drawn open – and a full-sized nativity scene was displayed.

A humorous scene happened in Dubai. Admittedly, this city is not in the Southern Hemisphere, but it hasn’t had a snow storm in recorded history. Outside that is. At the Mall of the Emirates it snows daily inside the enclosed area where people can ski in twenty seven degree weather, while it hovers in the nineties or higher outside. They don’t decorate the fake pines in this enclosed area, obviously due to the overwhelming Muslin population. But as you meander through the shopping part of the mall you are exposed to some Christmas sights. For example, we saw a fully-dressed and decked-out Santa Claus – but instead of the usual red outfit this guy wore bright blue!

One more for good measure. This one was in Quito, Ecuador. The country sits right on the equator, but it does have very high ice-covered peaks in the Andes which surround it. Nevertheless, it is warm and sunny at Christmas time. Being a very religious nation, Ecuador is crowded with churches and cathedrals which are almost as prevalent as they are in Europe. Once again, we found ourselves surprised when the stores began displaying lighted and decorated Christmas trees in November. Here though, the emphasis was more on wise men, nativity scenes, and angels hovering over babies in cribs. Santa and his elves apparently do not travel this far south. Fortunately, all the trees we saw were of the plastic type as pine and spruce are not part of the Ecuadorian environment.

Diversity on this planet always surprises me. These Southern Hemisphere holiday manifestations contrast so much with my visits to cities like Heidelberg and Nuremberg in Germany. I suppose we adapt to our locations and tailor our memories to fit the surroundings.

We arrived in Milan in the midst of a torrential rainstorm. As a northern California resident, I’m used to a few drops of drizzle. But this was RAIN. Driven by force IV winds, each bucket threatened to drench every bit of exposed fabric.

We rented a small white Opal and aimed south – looking for the proverbial Italian sun. We chose Rimini on the Adriatic, about one third of the way down the eastern side of the Italian boot. This summer resort has miles of sandy beaches, fully populated by hotel after hotel. Three and four story edifices with large comfortable balconies overlook the sea. Sandwiched in between was the usual group of fast-food pizza palaces, gelato vendors, and an odd collection of activity areas such as miniature golf and beach volleyball. Mix in a few palm trees, a park, some benches, and you’ve described every beach town in the world.

But in November everything was boarded up. Magnificent structures of old-world pastels fast asleep, waiting for next summer to live again.

If you have found Rimini on the map you will notice it is only about sixty kilometers from that independent little Republic of San Marino. I’ll let you investigate the how and the why this mountain country in the middle of Italy retains its uniqueness. The story reeks of incest, rape, murder, and the usual political intrigues.

Visitors to San Marino in summer tell stories of hours of waiting on the narrow road leading in. One friend left the autostrade (i.e., toll road) fifty kilometers away and arrived six hours later at the gondola which can take you the last few kilometers. Not in November. We drove to within one hundred meters of the main entrance, not even a tour bus to contend with. We parked and drifted along. The winding streets were devoid of people. We were waited on immediately in each store, and every restaurant had available tables. Even the public restrooms were lacking lines. Hey – it was ten degrees Celsius…

The down-side to this fantastic piece of parking luck was a pink slip of paper tucked under my windshield wipers. Unable to read the language which described my supposed transgression, I snuck off into the gathering evening mist. I can hardly imagine the carabinieri chasing me to Danville for a teeny, tiny parking discrepancy. Can you?

The other side of the Italian boot was a little more tourist friendly. We found only about half of the hotels were closed in the Santa Margarita area, and on Sundays the streets were full but not crowded.

But on this western side we were exposed to a different kind of November treat.

We got up early one morning in Genova with the hopes of driving along the Ligurian Sea toward Monaco. The wind was again a force IV and driving on the toll road was menacing. The trucks were out in force, and each time we passed or were passed, our little Opal shook to the core. Every kilometer or so we disappeared into a tunnel only to come out and have to immediately cross a suspension bridge, hundreds of feet high. Our courage could only stand so much of this, so after a couple of hours we decided to go back to our safe little hovel in Genova and wait out this blast. But the best was still in store.

Rather than retrace our path on the toll road at one hundred and ten kilometers per hour amidst the trucks and the wind, we retreated to the local highway which ran directly along the coast. Here the locals moved at twenty to thirty kilometers – a much less stressful environment.

But the sea itself was having none of this more peaceful condition. In November, under heavy winds, it reminded us landlubbers that it was not to be reckoned with. Waves from our vantage point looked higher than the road and proved to be so. At a number of points they crashed over the road and our car, leaving behind several feet of sea water to drain back into the proper place.

I have a little secret to share here. After the initial fright of being totally engulfed in the water of the Ligurian Sea disappeared and we realized there was no danger, we made a U-turn or three and drove back through those areas. It was fun! The car was completely covered with salt water, and we could taste the salt on our lips. But the thrill of those breakers howling up over our car will cause us to laugh out loud when we remember “those days in the low season.”

We had just spent several days visiting the children of a friend of ours who were fortunate enough to be working in Brussels. The visit had been enjoyable. The couple had lived in Belgium for about two years and knew not only the common tourist attractions but also those pleasant and unique out-of-the-way spots as well. We dined like royalty in well-hidden kitchens, visited ancient and modern historical sites, and generally felt relaxed and content. But now it was time to head south in our little rented red Fiat.

A neighbor in California who had recently returned from France had found a delightful little hotel on a hill just east of Nice called Le Perousse. They had described the view as typically Mediterranean with yachts, azure water, and endless beaches – surpassed only by the fresh seafood dinners along the waterfront. Not to be outdone in the traveler’s game of “I’ve been there also,” we headed off toward Nice. 

In a typical Californian’s decision, we decided to use the piage rather than the slower, more scenic back roads. The piage is equivalent to our toll roads and offers less traffic, more speed, and fewer stops. We were a little behind in our schedule so tossing coins in the toll box would save us at least a day or two of driving and at least six or seven arguments about which way to turn while going through those little towns along the way.

The kilometers clicked by, and before long we were discussing in which city we should spend the night. In an unusually short dialog, we zeroed in on the city of Vienne, a historically well-known town just a bit south of Lyon. The compromise was chosen because it was large enough to have a comfortable old hotel, but small enough so that we would not get lost looking for the downtown. The advertised Roman ruins would give us a chance to stretch our travel-cramped legs. We were right on all counts.

The name of the little hotel of choice escapes me, but the date chiseled in the sandstone over the hotel door predated our own civil war. The establishment consisted of an original section containing three floors with about four rooms per floor, and a somewhat newer section of four floors with about the same number of rooms. We settled for a room on the third floor of the old section, a good choice, except for the omission of either an elevator or a bellboy. But having been sitting all day, the exercise was welcome.

We settled into our room and discussed our next move. Both of us needed to freshen up, and Barb wanted to do her hair before we ventured out on our next adventure. This gave me a chance to sit back and read up on this village.

Then came the challenge. I was sitting there patiently reading about Vienne when I became aware of Barb prowling around the room. I ignored her for a little while, but she continued. Finally I gave in.

“What’s going on?” 

“I can’t find a plug for my hair dryer. Oh, ah – here’s one that looks like it fits the adapter.” A relieved “Oh.”

The next second can only be described as chaotic. A flash of lightning filled the room accompanied by a loud, hollow clap. This was instantly followed by absolute silence and total, complete darkness. We stood there transfixed, assuring ourselves that neither of us was hurt. I did notice that some of Barb’s newly washed hair looked a trifle singed, but otherwise nothing.

Soon the silence gave way to a buzz that began to build in the hallway. Heads were popping out of rooms, and agitated French men and cool French women were demanding explanations. I attempted to look puzzled and began demanding an explanation in English myself, feeling that the best defense was a good offense. In a few short moments a bespectacled maintenance man in soiled coveralls and a beret on his head arrived on the scene. With wild gyrating arms and a steady flow of indiscernible French, he calmed the gathered tenants, smiled, and calmly walked over to a service door, halfway down the hall. He undid the lock and with a flourish threw open the door. Out came a huge cloud of black smoke almost filling the entire hallway.

“Mama MIA sucha smoke,” he yelled.

The inside panel was a total mess. Three of four spots that looked like they may have held fuses at one time were permanently welded together. The entire panel itself was glued into one gigantic smoking collection of relays, fuses, capacitors, wires, and connectors.

“I don’t think we should say anything” I advised Barb, as now the entire hotel staff stood there staring at the mess. “They may charge us for rewiring the whole hotel.”

Well, it didn’t end up too badly. They had to move all of the guests from this floor of the old building to the new wing, as fixing this panel was going to be a long proposition. Barbara’s conscience would not let her play innocent, so she bravely marched up to the manager and confessed, although she did not really quite understand what she was confessing to. I pretended I didn’t know her, which saved me some embarrassment, especially when we checked out the next morning. The entire staff came out from behind closed doors to look at her. There was a great deal of pointing and much dialog. Apparently they were awed by this American woman capable of totaling destroying one floor in just seconds. Me, I just pretended I wasn’t there and got us out of town as fast as possible.

Now, head covering is one thing, but certainly language is another. Each country, or at least each locale of the world, focuses on one specific manner of expression. There may be a slight difference between adjoining areas because sometimes one dialect will cause a bit of confusion between tribes.

But what about animals? Is their “language” as distinctive as that of humans, depending on which country they are from? Do German goats make a sound which is different from New Zealand goats? Does a horse speak a different language in Africa than in China?

Well, let me share a little story with you about this most complex question.

Our tale begins in late May in Norway. We were traveling with a small tour and had spent an enjoyable few days in Stalheim, and we were on our way to Lillehammer, the city where the 1994 Winter Olympics were held. The ski run, the skating stadium, and various support structures were still there, but that has to be another story.

The bus we were traveling in had its heat on full blast, and believe me, we needed it. At this latitude in the month of May it is still cold, and there were even snowflakes a flying. To add to our entertainment, a herd of wild reindeer crossed the road ahead – forcing us to pause a bit. And, this is what started the conversation about animal sounds.

Our faithful leader turned to our young female Norwegian guide and asked her what sounds a reindeer makes. The response was a “hrummm” which brought forth a chuckle from most of us. Her response was

“It is the same sound a horse makes.”

A horse? We said,

“No, a horse goes neigh, neigh”

She gave us an uncomprehending stare. And, so it moved on from there.

She said a cow goes “mua.”

We said “moo, moo.” Close, but a bit off.

We gave a pig sound “oink, oink.”

She responded with a “nof, nof.” Must be an entirely different breed, we thought.

When a bird “talks” it sounds to us like “tweet, tweet.”

She said we were way off – that birds go “pip, pip” to one another.

Think cats sound alike? Try “meow” to “miav.” English dogs seem to say “woof, woof,” but Norwegian canines go “vov, vov.”

The most perplexing sound was a rooster who woke them up with a “kylykin” instead of a “cock-a-doodle-doo.”

But my personal favorite was the frog. In Norway frogs make a sound something like “kvaek.” But in our country, most frogs say “ribbit.” Definitely a different species – wonder if an American frog can actually talk to a Norwegian one?

Man, I wish I could give you all a CD with the sounds actually on it. These phonetic letters I’m writing just don’t tell the true tale of how different the sounds really are. This silly interchange lasted over an hour and entertained the twenty-some passengers through the Arctic tundra.

Next time you get a chance, on one of your trips to a far-off, exotic land, ask some locals to tell you what sounds their animals make. I can’t believe that animals “talk” differently in the various countries of the world. But it certainly seems as if we make their sounds “country-specific.”

As I wander around this great planet of ours, I am fascinated by the various architectural styles we individuals choose for our homes. Not only are they extremely diverse, they also tell us something about the culture and ambiance of the region. I could spend a little time talking about our own California style, but I’d probably not say anything you haven’t said yourself. So, instead, let me select a spot in my travels which I found somewhat unique.

The people of Malta have a balcony fetish! Before I go too deeply into this unique observation, let me refresh your knowledge about Malta. We start with Italy. As we all know Italy is shaped a bit like a big boot. Down near the toe sits the island of Sicily which is often compared to a soccer ball that the leg of Italy is driving into a net. I assume that the Italians’ interest in soccer comes from their geographic manifestations, although I doubt Sicily likes being booted around by its neighbor.

Now that you have these objects firmly fixed in your mind, I need you to go south in the Mediterranean and you will find a couple of other little islands – Malta and Gozo. I suppose if you have a vivid imagination you could think of them as divots picked up by the Italian boot as it sends Sicily off. But, in any event, that’s where Malta sits.

Now Malta is a very proud nation. It has a history of monoliths which predates Stonehenge and boasts of being included in many of the empires that thrived in the millenniums before and after the birth of Christ.

The island is even mentioned in the Biblical book of Acts when John was shipwrecked on his way to Rome. In fact, he had a major influence on the island by baptizing a little gang which eventually grew until it covered the island. But, I’m straying away from balconies, and that’s what this is all about.

Almost all of the buildings in Malta have balconies. They are not huge balconies, actually they are quite small. My brief investigation indicates they are only about three feet wide and in most cases take in just the equivalent of the one room they front. But, they have a great deal of character. For example, some are totally enclosed which defeats the purpose of a balcony. The Maltese love to express their individuality by painting their balconies in various hues ranging from bright to subdued. The color also is important. They love either green or blue but avoid orange and red balconies. Some years ago inexpensive aluminum balconies were introduced but a speedily-enacted law made them illegal, and the wood and iron one prevailed. One finds adornments on most of these exterior porches, such as chairs and colorful flower pots.

Within the last year the Maltese Housing Authority spent about one hundred thousand dollars on balcony renovations. Some criticism was directed at the Housing Authority for this use of its limited funds. But the Minister of Housing, who incidentally is a lady, said “it is not always easy to repair or replace balconies, but they are part of the Maltese heritage and we must preserve them.” She is also lobbying to combine the Housing Authority and the Planning Authority to pool their resources in dealing with balconies. It was a bit strange that I never saw anyone sitting on or in these enclosures. Perhaps the time of year is important.

The island of Malta is a beautiful place. The weather is pleasant, the people are prosperous, and appear quite happy. The entire ambience is of one of pleasure and contentment. I’m going to start a referendum in California demanding more balconies. Who knows? It may be the answer to all of our problems. Down with patios and back yard entertainment areas. Let’s start putting our barbeques on balconies. It may help to regenerate the housing market.

Over the years of traveling I have been encouraged, actually forced, to visit a number of art galleries around the world. My wife as well as the tourist guides under whose influence I fell insisted I be exposed to what was considered artistic beauty. In Florence, Italy I stood before the statue of David amidst a group of sighing, crooning spectators. When asked my thoughts I muttered “Great set of pecs” which didn’t go over too well with the questioning docent. While touring the Louvre I found myself standing beside a tall, very thin, and well-dressed woman, and a skinny pony-tailed man wearing a black beret. They were overcome with emotion viewing some sitting female with an enigmatic smile. When I whispered “Not much sex appeal” they hurried off.

At the Hermitage in St. Petersburg, Russia they showed me a whole section painted by a fellow name Rembrandt. When I suggested they couldn’t be worth very much because there were so many, I was shunned by others for the remainder of our visit.

Why then this article? Well, I finally discovered an art gallery which I think is absolutely wonderful. At long last I spent an enjoyable afternoon in an art museum .You simply must go out of your way to visit this place. You will enjoy it – you have my guarantee. Besides, it is considered quite upscale. Maybe my appreciation of art is improving as I age. The gallery? The Tate Modern located on the banks of the River Thames, just a block from the Millennium Bridge in dear old London, England. It contains an incredible display of international modern and contemporary art.

Let me describe some of the art pieces housed there which I felt to be thoroughly delightful. When you first approach the Tate from the water’s edge, you will find a thirty foot high inflated statue done by Paul Mc Carthy entitled “Daddy’s Head Coming Out of a Catsup Bottle.” It is as described. Great! This work is located next to a huge black balloon with a square head. The name? Blockhead.

When you enter you will find yourself in the main hall – the Turbine Hall. It is some fifty yards long and ten yards wide filled with steam and lighted entirely by monochromatic light. The ceiling is one enormous mirror. At the far end sits a replica of the sun. This eerie unusual light makes everyone look pale, wan, and even slightly ill. There are people lying on the floor looking at themselves in the great reflective mirror above. Hey, this is fun art!

The inside of the Tate Modern is loaded with about as much humorous art as you can absorb. A urinal sits on a pedestal with the title of “Fountain.” A pile of paint rags appear on a ladder. A German artist, who must be one of those starving fellows you hear about, painted a dozen sausages. Some guy had built a car out of cardboard, and it is considered magnificent. I thought one exhibit was a radiator for the room until I noticed it was roped off and titled “Radiator.” There were some pictures done on brown butcher paper which looked a lot like the ones my eight year old grandson paints, but here they were framed and titled instead of being mounted on a refrigerator door with magnets. They made me smile.

One item that fascinated me no end was a huge apothecary bureau. Each drawer contained a collection of shards – yes, broken pieces of pottery – laid out in neat, tidy rows. This interactive display of art maintained my interest for a much longer period than I usually spend in most museums.

I could go on and on – but I don’t want to spoil it for you. If you love Della Robbia, go to Florence. But, if you just want to have a good time immersed in art, don’t miss the Tate Modern in London. It’s a gas!

There are definitive moments in life. As one mellows, or ages, depending on perspective, these moments become clearer and more meaningful. Often they relate to loved ones either entering or leaving our lives. Some of them bring on fear and the adrenaline flows – or panic as we recall moments of major jeopardy. Others are friendly and bring on a smile of satisfaction as we recall an amusement, an unusual contentment, or some special pleasure. Often these recollections lie dormant, forgotten, out of mind until suddenly they surface, often at night, triggered no doubt by some outside stimulation. Then we relive them either enjoyably or with trepidation. Many of these moments occur for me while remembering overseas trips.

Guatemala, in Central America, remains one of the best-kept secrets in the tourist industry. Barb and I have visited it a number of times and find it most tourist friendly. There are many sites of interest in this country, the people are most gracious, accommodations by and large are clean and comfortable, and best of all the price is right. On one of these trips we were encouraged by some friends to include a visit into the highlands – specifically to try to catch the weekend market at Chichicastenango. Easier said than done. In fact, we found it almost impossible to make that trip on our own, so we arranged to join a small tour through a reputable agent.

The little bus that took us into the hills held eight passengers, and it was full. We left Guatemala City early Sunday morning and wound ever higher on narrow crooked roads. Lush tropical vegetation surrounded us on all sides and obscured some of the deep treacherous ravines we were passing. As we climbed higher, we found ourselves following a stream, which often entertained us with huge waterfalls cascading down into placid pools.

After a four-hour drive we arrived at Chichi at about noon. The topography had changed dramatically from the flat city streets we had left to steep ravines and now to a number of flat or gently rolling hills. This was acceptable farming country with fields of corn and other crops. Mostly vegetables began to appear. Our hotel was a converted monastery, over one hundred fifty years old, made of adobe block. It had no central heating, and the bathroom had been added by attaching a six-foot by eight-foot structure to the side of the building. There was a one-foot step required to enter this attached outhouse. The purpose of the platform was to allow the plumbing to both enter and leave. Ingenious! Another interesting innovation was the roof. The original cover had long since disappeared and been replaced by sheets of galvanized plates. There was no need for insulation. The sheets were neatly laid over rough wood joints.

We were anxious to join the crush of people who now populated the town square. It was market day and locals from miles around had come to buy and sell. In general, it was organized mayhem. The town square was chock-full of stalls arranged in crooked lines; and passages between rows were restricted. I would guess that between our hotel and the church, located on the opposite end of the square, there were between ten and fifteen stalls. Probably about the same number going in the perpendicular, totaling hundreds of vendors displaying their wares.

Each stall housed its own specialty. Many sold vegetables and other food crops. A few contained manufactured goods, which no doubt had been brought up from the city. Many handmade items covering a broad spectrum of the art world filled the stalls to overflowing. There was some order to this chaos as certain categories were grouped. Shawls, blouses, skirts, and boots comprised one such category. Dolls, whistles, tops, and other toys made of wood, cloth, or stone were in another. Finally household items like pots and pans appeared.

On the church steps a band of actors performed amid a heavy dose of incense. I did not understand the significance of their drama but felt it must have been religious because spectators would light candles from their incense and enter the church. This whitewashed Catholic Church had stood here for hundreds of years and over that time had apparently been altered with a great deal of pre-European religious tradition. Statues of strange saints sat in alcoves, all with features resembling the local population. Even Mother Mary had a decided pre-Columbian face.

We spent hours in the market, caught up in the diversity, looking very out of place among the color-fully dressed locals with the blackest of hair and eyes imaginable. Generally we were ignored – accepted as occasional interlopers into an affair that had changed very little in eight, maybe ten, generations.

We ate our evening meal in the dining hall of our hotel. All vegetables freshly cooked, piles of flat, thick, fried bread, and lots of chicken. Washed down with wine, it was only then that we realized there was no electricity here. Candles were not on the table for decorative atmosphere – they were there for light. We were given a lamp and sent off to our rooms to spend the evening as we chose.

Entering our room was like stepping back in time. A huge fire blazed in one corner, casting flickering shadows throughout the room. Years before, robed monks had preceded us here – the beds undoubtedly not as soft, but nevertheless just as cozy. The chill of night in this mountain air was driven away by the crackling fire and exchanged for the sweet smell of burning fruitwood.

It began to rain, thundering down on the metal roof. We dug deeper under the covers. A peaceful, secure, and protected feeling filled our minds. The fire crackled and gave off warmth. I lay there cherishing the moment. All five senses alert. The color of the afternoon, the sounds of the rain on the roof, the odor of incense and fruitwood burning, the taste of good food and wine, and the feeling of warmth about me. I shall never forget that evening. It will always remain part of me. Different sights and sounds will bring it back to mind, always pleasant, always peaceful.

Harry Hubinger is a retired engineer who operated his own company for twenty years. He first began traveling outside the United States on business, but these visits escalated upon his retirement. He has now traveled to 115 countries and continues to add several new ones each year. In 1998 he began writing his humorous and insightful articles for a supplement to a local newspaper. These stories, based on experiences most travelers could identify with, soon earned him a wide local following. In 2005 he published his first book, Stamps in My Passport—a collection of travel vignettes. Harry has lived in Danville for almost forty years and has volunteered with the Danville Police Department for the past seven. His wife, Barbara, is the detail chronicler of their trips. Her journals provide the background for Harry’s broader view. You can get his book at: www.travelbookspub.com.