During the years, I’ve stumbled on a number of these locations which have proven to be highlights of my travels. Let me share one of my favorites with you.

We left Helsinki, Finland by ferry and headed almost due east. It took only a few hours of sailing until we found ourselves docked at the colorful wharf of Tallinn, Estonia.

Estonia is now, as it was for years before Soviet domination, a free and prosperous nation. It is the northernmost country of the three which are usually bundled together by the term “Baltic countries.” The other two are Latvia and Lithuania. It was our intention to explore these three often-overlooked nations.

We spent a few pleasant days in and around Tallinn. The people there are extremely friendly and very open, teaching us a great deal of history about this area. Interviewing a number of tourist agents we eventually negotiated a deal with one for a car and driver who spoke the various native languages as well as English. It was our hope that he/she would know the three counties well enough to give us a history lesson along with our tour. We found our match in a jolly local who drove like the wind and talked incessantly.

Our travels began south out of Tallinn, traveling mostly along the coast. Latvia was next, with again great results, including some time spent in Riga, the capital. Topography was generally flat, with agriculture and fishing carrying the load.

As our guide drove south into Lithuania, he smiled and said, ”I have a pleasant surprise ahead for you. Let me tell you the story about our next stop.”

“There is a gentle hill about twelve kilometers ahead, just outside the city of Siauliai which has been considered a holy place dating back to the early eighteen hundreds. I do not know that much of the hill’s early history, but I have been a witness to its recent past.

“Between World War I and World War II this area was invaded by the Russians and incorporated into the nation then known as the Union of Soviet Socialistic Republics. As part of the occupation, the Soviet regime discouraged any form of religious activity. The hill at that time contained a number of religious symbols, but the local Russian commander had it completely bulldozed – thereby destroying any remnants of religious life.

“One year, and I’m not sure which one, as Easter approached three white crosses appeared on the hill. In keeping with the current law, the Soviet military commander sent a squad of soldiers up to remove the religious symbols. The next morning, when he awoke, he saw not three, but three sets of three crosses. Once again, the area commander had the offensive crosses removed. And, you’ve guessed it by now! On the third day there were twenty seven crosses. Out of frustration, the commander placed a squad of soldiers on the hill overnight, but no one or nothing appeared. After several nights of this he hoped his point was made. He gave up, and removed his guards.

“The next morning almost fifty crosses as well as many flower arrangements greeted him.

“Figuring it wasn’t worth the effort, he surrendered, but we did not. Each night the display grew larger and larger. More and more crosses appeared, now taking on some artistic license. Different types of wood appeared, stone mounds and flower arrangements were added, and on and on it went.”

His story ended here, and our visit to the Mount of Crosses began. On the day we visited the site with our guide, there were almost seventy thousand such displays. Giant crucifixes, statues of the Virgin Mary, and hundreds of tiny carvings and rosaries were placed all over the hill. The Soviet Socialistic Republic has been disbanded with only Russia remaining. Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania, as well as the other countries which were once under one rule, are now free. Perhaps one of the most prominent reflections of the individual spirit lives on here on this mound. By the last count, there are over one hundred thousand crosses on the hill. It has become a magnificent symbol of freedom for these people.

Off the beaten path – somewhat difficult to find – not on most tour agendas. Yet visited regularly by people of faith, including the pope and other religious leaders. A place well worth seeking out.
P.S. The three little white crosses near the stairs, at the top of the mound, are my contribution.

During the years, I’ve stumbled on a number of these locations which have proven to be highlights of my travels. Let me share one of my favorites with you.

We left Helsinki, Finland by ferry and headed almost due east. It took only a few hours of sailing until we found ourselves docked at the colorful wharf of Tallinn, Estonia.

Estonia is now, as it was for years before Soviet domination, a free and prosperous nation. It is the northernmost country of the three which are usually bundled together by the term “Baltic countries.” The other two are Latvia and Lithuania. It was our intention to explore these three often-overlooked nations.

We spent a few pleasant days in and around Tallinn. The people there are extremely friendly and very open, teaching us a great deal of history about this area. Interviewing a number of tourist agents we eventually negotiated a deal with one for a car and driver who spoke the various native languages as well as English. It was our hope that he/she would know the three counties well enough to give us a history lesson along with our tour. We found our match in a jolly local who drove like the wind and talked incessantly.

Our travels began south out of Tallinn, traveling mostly along the coast. Latvia was next, with again great results, including some time spent in Riga, the capital. Topography was generally flat, with agriculture and fishing carrying the load.

As our guide drove south into Lithuania, he smiled and said, ”I have a pleasant surprise ahead for you. Let me tell you the story about our next stop.”

“There is a gentle hill about twelve kilometers ahead, just outside the city of Siauliai which has been considered a holy place dating back to the early eighteen hundreds. I do not know that much of the hill’s early history, but I have been a witness to its recent past.

“Between World War I and World War II this area was invaded by the Russians and incorporated into the nation then known as the Union of Soviet Socialistic Republics. As part of the occupation, the Soviet regime discouraged any form of religious activity. The hill at that time contained a number of religious symbols, but the local Russian commander had it completely bulldozed – thereby destroying any remnants of religious life.

“One year, and I’m not sure which one, as Easter approached three white crosses appeared on the hill. In keeping with the current law, the Soviet military commander sent a squad of soldiers up to remove the religious symbols. The next morning, when he awoke, he saw not three, but three sets of three crosses. Once again, the area commander had the offensive crosses removed. And, you’ve guessed it by now! On the third day there were twenty seven crosses. Out of frustration, the commander placed a squad of soldiers on the hill overnight, but no one or nothing appeared. After several nights of this he hoped his point was made. He gave up, and removed his guards.

“The next morning almost fifty crosses as well as many flower arrangements greeted him.

“Figuring it wasn’t worth the effort, he surrendered, but we did not. Each night the display grew larger and larger. More and more crosses appeared, now taking on some artistic license. Different types of wood appeared, stone mounds and flower arrangements were added, and on and on it went.”

His story ended here, and our visit to the Mount of Crosses began. On the day we visited the site with our guide, there were almost seventy thousand such displays. Giant crucifixes, statues of the Virgin Mary, and hundreds of tiny carvings and rosaries were placed all over the hill. The Soviet Socialistic Republic has been disbanded with only Russia remaining. Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania, as well as the other countries which were once under one rule, are now free. Perhaps one of the most prominent reflections of the individual spirit lives on here on this mound. By the last count, there are over one hundred thousand crosses on the hill. It has become a magnificent symbol of freedom for these people.

Off the beaten path – somewhat difficult to find – not on most tour agendas. Yet visited regularly by people of faith, including the pope and other religious leaders. A place well worth seeking out.
P.S. The three little white crosses near the stairs, at the top of the mound, are my contribution.

The marina in Eilat, Israel

“What a difference a day makes.”  This line from an old song could easily be expanded to demonstrate the political turmoil that alters a travel site from “friendly” to “avoid” in a few blinks of an eye.

The other evening while browsing through a few of my unpublished travel accounts, I ran across a story I had written in 1999. It had a newspaper article attached dated October 7, 2004. I read through the two stories and found myself mesmerized by the events – one about twelve years ago and a second just under eight.

I ask you to bear with me as I relive some of the past and compare it with the current policies reflected in our newspapers today.

In 1999 there seemed to be a lull – an uneasy peace – between the Palestinian population and the Israeli government. Bethlehem was classified as an “open city,” and tourists from around the world flocked to this historic town. Less than a block from the entrance to the “place of Christ’s birth” Palestinians shops sold souvenirs and joked easily with the tourists. We saw no reason not to exploit this calm and booked a trip.

It was our intent to visit Jerusalem, Bethlehem and some other usual tourist sites in Israel. We included a visit to Masada, the plateau which housed the final Jewish resistance to Roman rule. But to start our vacation we chose to spend a leisurely week in Eilat. Driving south in Israel, auto traffic along the Arabian Wadi which connects the Dead Sea to the Gulf of Acaba flowed freely, devoid of checkpoints. This Jewish resort area is located on the southern tip of Israel and borders the Gulf of Acaba. The weather here is pleasant, and the sea water is a near perfect temperature. If you look on a map you will see this tiny neck of Israel borders Jordan to the east and Egypt to the west. It is an ideal location to explore a segment of all three of these countries.

It was an easy trip, for example, to cross over the Jordanian border and motor to Petra. The trip is just over an hour’s ride, and although you are required to hire both an Israeli and a Jordanian tour guide, the visit to the fortress of Petra is a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

On our third night in Eilat, we decided to cross the border to Egypt. The Egyptian city just a few kilometers from the Israeli border is Taba. We took a taxi to the border in Israel and explained to the immigration officer that we planned to have dinner in Taba and return. He obviously was mystified as to why anyone would want do this, but with much eye rolling he passed us on. We walked a hundred yards along a road with high wire fences on either side – with apparently a field full of mines beyond that barrier.

The Egyptian border guard was also amused by our plan, but he stamped our passports and hailed us a cab which took us into Taba. We asked the cab driver for suggestions for dinner and a little shopping, and he suggested the Hilton Hotel on the east side of town.

Here stood the multi-storied building, in typical Hilton style. A circular drive led up to a large front entrance with a footman available to open the door for us. The lobby was populated with men in abayas, business suits, and casual clothes, while the ladies wore more feminine abayas, fashionable dresses, and even jeans. We shopped a bit, had cocktails and dinner, and at about nine o’clock in the evening retraced our steps back to Eilat.

As I mentioned in my introduction, there is an article attached to my story about this visit. On October 7, 2004, just as my first book was being printed, a vehicle drove up this beautiful circular drive in front of the Hilton. Just as the footman approached a large bomb was detonated – blowing the entire front of the building away and eventually collapsing almost the entire multi-storied hotel. The devastation was enormous, and the loss of life severe. The building was completely destroyed. But, to the best of my knowledge, in the intervening years it was totally renovated and today is once again, the Taba Hilton – a lovely resort hotel on the Gulf of Acaba.

There are windows of opportunity that open to us travelers. Often they stay open only a short period, and then they close for generations. Even today, as we read our daily papers, we are bombarded with stories of Palestinian/Israeli conflict, and the evolving “Arab Spring” taking place in Egypt. We must be alert – for most often these are just fleeting opportunities.

Where is the center of the world? Well, the center of a math problem is represented by the equal sign. The center of the year is the equinox. And, of course, the center of the world is the equator. And there, right on that “line,” spreading to both sides, is the wonderful little country named after it – Ecuador.

Let me tell you what you’ve missed if you’ve ignored it thus far in your travels.

The locals talk about the four divisions of the land – each division populated by its own group of individual people. There is the coastal area bordering the Pacific Ocean, the mid-area of subtropics, the higher elevation of the plains, and of course the Galapagos Islands. The focus for me in this story will be the high plains. I’m going to save the rest, especially the Galapagos Islands for later.

Sitting in a long thin valley at over nine thousand feet is the city of Quito. The location of this valley frustrates map makers because it runs north and south, making them put the standard arrow which points north on most maps in a very awkward position.

Quito is surrounded by high saw-toothed mountains, most of them composed of extinct volcanoes. There is a great legend which has the two masculine volcanoes, Imbabura, and Mojanda, fighting to win the love of Cotacachi, the good-looking female volcano. The battle between the two muscle men had them throwing huge rocks and boulders all over the place. Imbabura won this mythical conflict to claim the love of Cotacachi, who became his wife.

A geologist would feel that it’s like a bit of heaven with every form of geological formation imaginable – spread all over the place. By the way, none of my guides could tell me what makes a volcano male or female. So I’ll have to leave that to your imagination.

It is apparent while visiting here that the people are a fun-loving bunch. We spent ten days in Quito and found each day was a cause for some sort of celebration. For example, we were wandering around the central area of Old Town on a Monday morning when we heard bands playing and saw guards marching in ceremonial dress. Stopping to investigate we were delighted to see the President of Ecuador, with the US Ambassador to his right step out on the veranda of the government house and say “hi” to all of the people. Actually I believe it was “hola,” a common greeting here.

On Sundays they close many of the main streets and people cycle or jog on what normally is a boulevard jam-packed with cars, taxis, and buses. But during this festive day, bands, mimes, and street vendors were packed down at one end of the wide avenue, and a good time was had by all.

Now back to why these folks call this place “the center of the earth.”

It seems that centuries ago the Mayans, and even before them, the locals looked up at the sky and discovered an interesting phenomenon. If they poked a stick in the ground, one half of the year the shadow fell on one side, while the other half of the year the shadow was on the other. Their impeccable logic told them they were smack dab in the center of the universe.

They tried another experiment with this stick in the ground. Each morning when the sun rose and each evening when it set, they placed a neat little stone at the end of the stick’s shadow. Lo and behold when a year was up and the shadow started all over, they had a perfect circle of marked stones. Once again, their faultless reasoning placed them at this very spot – in the center of the universe.

Apparently they had an earlier version of Stephen Hawking who explained this magic to them, and they prided themselves on being at the very middle of the world.

Although the ego of the people of Ecuador at being in the center of the universe has faded some over the past centuries, these guys are still proud to do their own thing. High in the Andes, where the weather remains unchanged during the year, where the sun proceeds equally to the north and south, where the length of a day of light vs. dark changes hardly at all, these people are a happy lot and a joy to visit and spend time with.

 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.”