Harry Hubinger

A Personal Christmas Story

December 8, 2014 by Harry Hubinger Leave a Comment

Took a sentimental journey to renew old memories. Visited the Normandy beaches of France. Watched the names tumble by – Omaha Beach, Utah Beach, the 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions, Caen, Dunkirk, Bayeux, Cherbourg – on and on they rolled. No, I wasn’t there when they became household words. Too young, just finishing high school. But every day on the radio, in the newspapers, and on a big map at school and at home, I marked the locations with red lines and stars.

So I went back this fall, and once again studied the terrain. Walked the sandy beaches, threaded my way through the rows and rows of white crosses and Stars of David – and remembered.

And out of these nostalgic remembrances came, of all things, a very private and personal Christmas story. I ask you to bear with me for one month and forget about passport stamps. Travel back through the years to salute the life of one of the lucky ones who came home to build a better, stronger life here in America.

My story is about a friend who I will call Jim. Jim was born and raised in the suburbs of Chicago during those nasty depression years. Jim’s dad was a plumber by trade, but similar to most men in those years he did not have a steady job. Each day he would carry a sign saying “Professional Plumber for hire,” and he might be picked up by someone with a plugged drain or a leaky faucet.

During Jim’s twelfth year or so, his father got a great two day job and was paid in cash on the morning of December 24, just in time for Christmas. On his way home that afternoon he stopped at a grocery store and purchased one orange for each of his children – a real treat in those days. The orange was one of those thick-skinned Washington navel oranges – one which you tried to peel without too many tears – maybe four inches across. It wasn’t one of those thin-skinned varieties.

Slowly over the years the giving of an orange on Christmas Eve became a tradition at Jim’s house.

Now Jim finished high school toward the end of World War Two. He enlisted at graduation, and a month later he was being shown which end of a rifle a bullet goes in, and which end it comes out of. A few months later he found himself filling in for some wounded GI only a few hundred yards from the German lines. His poor luck continued. Almost immediately on his arrival the Germans began a fierce counteroffensive which was called “The Battle of the Bulge.” The fighting was ferocious, and books and movies have commemorated this battle. While rations and ammunition were scarce, the USO still felt it necessary to deliver mail and packages to keep up the morale of the troops. Christmas was approaching.

Jim got his box. His kid sister had knitted him a pair of wool socks because his letters said his feet were always cold and wet. His mother had stuffed as many homemade chocolate chip cookies into the package as she could. And Dad – Dad, of course, added an orange.

Jim was lucky. He made it home. Got an engineering degree on the GI Bill, met a sweet gal named Pat, and got married.

On their wedding night lots of Jim and Pat’s friends got up and gave them a rough time, lots of teasing and laughing.Then it came time for Jim’s Dad to speak. Never a very articulate guy, the whole wedding party fell silent when he got up. He stood behind the mike, quiet for a few seconds, then turned to Jim and said “Jim, from now on you gottta buy your own oranges.”

Have a happy holiday season and eat an orange to remember one member of the “Greatest Generation.”

Stamps In My Passport

October 9, 2014 by Harry Hubinger Leave a Comment

When putting together these brief travel vignettes for ALIVE, I try to share some small interaction with people of other countries – cameos that you, my readers, might have experienced. Or, at least ones that you might be able to identify with. I hope over the years I’ve been successful with this policy. This month, however, I plan to deviate and use an unusual style to highlight a new difficulty that is developing for us – the regular international travelers. The problem we face has a plus and a minus factor. I hope you’ll be able to identify with the two extremes and maybe share the method you’ve used to circumnavigate the problem. Oh, I forgot to identify the problem, so here it is: Where in the world can we go these days to assure a safe and comfortable, yet affordable trip?

The other day while watching a news broadcast, the host flashed up a map of the world with countries represented by various color combinations. The countries where fighting exists between varying religious factions came up red. There were quite a few. Certainly the Middle East was covered in red. The Israel/Palestine area is in turmoil. The Sunnis and Shiites are battling each other, making Afghanistan, Syria, and Iraq areas to avoid. Pakistan, never much of a tourist site, can be included here.

So what about Africa? Well, the red was a bit muted and came out pink. But with the incidence of Ebola, the western part of the continent is not an option. Egypt is struggling to regain tourists, but there is still constant fighting between the Muslim Brotherhood and other factions. The so-called “horn” is being run by wild men, and a few other spots showed up pink as well.

Asia appeared with both Thailand and Myanmar a faded pink, having just undergone ruler changes and occasional uprisings. South America revealed the lightest shade of red on Venezuela, and a couple of other nations displayed rosy blotches

I could go on, but I think you get the idea. In fact I’ll bet you might be able to add some countries to the list that I’ve omitted. But, I did say in my introduction that there is a plus and a minus. Let’s focus for a minute on the plus.

Air travel to any place in the world has become easier. Sure, the inspections at the airport generate frustration, and the lines go on forever. We older people can keep our shoes and jackets on which helps a bit. Both passengers and inspectors have years of experience now, so this passage seems almost routine. Flights in general are more comfortable these days as well. In most cases you can travel directly to your destination, and often the flight time is shorter as the planes are a bit faster.

So where does all of this confusion and uncertainty leave us? Well for one thing, if you are traveling abroad pick a country or an area that is currently stable. Or the converse – avoid areas that are at war, in revolt, or going through some other turmoil. Next, hunt for areas where history, art, or scenery will give you pleasure. The topics transcend time, and difficulties may fade into the background. Many works of art have given locals and tourists pleasure for centuries. The sights enrich your life and may give you stories to share.

Me? I’ve made a selection for my next offshore excursion. It will remain a secret until next month when it will become a story in ALIVE for you to read, and hopefully enjoy.

Generations

July 6, 2014 by Harry Hubinger Leave a Comment

Each generation carries its own baggage for better or for worse. Each is affected by outside forces beyond his/her control. Global economics, wars, revolts, evolving technology – each one produces its own effects. Some grow up in rural areas while others have roots in urban life. All of these contribute to who we are and to who we become. These observations are valid regardless of where in the world we reside or call home.

Some years ago I was sitting on a bench in the Peasants’ Museum in Bucharest, Romania. This outdoor folk museum contained artifacts and displays of historical interest in a comfortable forest-like setting. It was almost a park, with walkways winding through the trees, and the displays consisted of farm equipment and ancient living quarters scattered among the groves of trees. It was a pleasant feeling, and the weather was ideal for mid-May.

As I sat there I became aware of a wonderful drama being played out on a nearby bench. Three people were busy being themselves while still interacting with each other. They knew each other well – maybe on occasion too well – and they obviously shared a strong love bond.

The group was composed, I believe, of a grandmother, perhaps mid-seventies or so, her daughter brushing up against fifty, and the granddaughter maybe mid to late teens. All local I’m sure, on holiday, enjoying the place and each other – yet so very different.

The gray-haired oma had certainly been born prior to World War II, perhaps the wife of a Romanian army officer. She had grown up deprived of many material things. Caught in a war which ravished the nation. Perhaps cheered when her country was “freed” by Russian troops, only to find the liberators were more demanding than those they drove out. She had been taught neatness and self-restraint – both of which were reflected in her dress. Stout sensible brown walking shoes projected from her brown stocking-covered legs. A square-cut tweed skirt, topped by a fashionable camel blouse with a white bow at the neck. The slightly off-color blazer gave her warmth. A dark brown kerchief protected her from the wind, and a wooden cane helped her along the uneven paths.

The daughter was a great deal more fashionable. Black hair worn loose showed a touch of added reddish color. Black nylon slacks, well-fitting over a body beginning to bulge. Black shoes with high heels and toes that came to a point well beyond her own feet. A white blouse covered by a black leather jacket. She moved along the path with confidence.

The teen – another story. Bright red t-shirt and a skirt way too short worn over patterned tights. Hair several different colors. Obviously bored by the visit, with cell phone at the ready, a fair gap of skin showed between skirt and blouse. Never still for long.

Each was representing her generation. One a survivor of war – armies marching back and forth through her city. One born under strict communist control, educated in a socialistic environment. Perhaps a protester against Ceausescu and a voice in how it must change. The third conversant in a language unfamiliar to the others – the euro, Facebook, cellphone – a different world. Dress dictated by TV, comfortable with globalization.

Three distinct paths through life, yet bound together by family, by love, and by genes. Today they were leisurely enjoying the sunshine, the togetherness, and the love in this outdoor historical museum.

This tableau could have taken place in almost any of the one hundred and twenty seven countries I have visited. Even our own. Each generation reflecting the environment that they grew up in. It makes one realize that all have much in common, and perhaps in a way that helps us understand what is occurring throughout the world when we read our morning paper.

How funny life is.

A Touch of Diplomatic Opulence

May 8, 2014 by Harry Hubinger Leave a Comment

The following story was written in 1985 during our first trip to China. It has never been published. We have revisited China several times since then and could not help but be overwhelmed by the change. We attempted to enter the “diplomatic compound” described in this story on later visits, but were rejected. Hope this story will rekindle memories for you as it has for us.

A Touch of Diplomatic Opulence

Traveling in your own Lear Jet, occupying the penthouse suite in a posh downtown hotel, limousine service whenever you go out – dreams of opulence which probably will never be realized by most of us. Yet way down inside rests the hope that winning the lottery or some other quirk of fate will make such a life possible, if even for only a moment. But there is an even higher level of opulence. One that money alone cannot obtain. It is the status achieved with political power. A level of opulence not even winning the lottery can help one attain. Powerful rulers are immersed in this. I had a brief glimmer.

The flight to Bejing from Xian on the Russian built airliner was typical of the other seven flights we had on this trip around China. My knees rested uncomfortably close to my chin, and my row mates’ elbows were very close to my ribs. The orange pop was wet and sweet, and the little bag of gifts was appreciated.

As an old pilot I was convinced that the Chinese commercial aviators were all ex-fighter pilots because of their landing patterns and other techniques. It was, after all, 1985, and China’s entire infrastructure was still becoming familiar with the flood of foreigners that was taking advantage of the fabulous sights and sounds of this vast nation.

The sixteen of us on this trip left the plane and huddled in our usual fashion in the terminal. The hotels we had stayed at had been quite good, but in each instance there had been some slip-ups in which hotel was to be ours. So we patiently awaited our German tour guide’s report now being received some fifty meters from us.

As she approached I felt a measure of comfort because she had a wide smile on her face. “The new Presidential Hotel where we were booked is full with no room for us, but we really made out. They are putting us up for the four days we are here at the Diaoyutai State Guesthouse compound.”

Now the Diaoyutai complex is a very prestigious place. It consists of about one hundred acres of fenced-in gardens, streams, and bungalows located about fifteen kilometers from Tiananmen Square. This was the area where diplomats and special envoys visiting Chinese leaders were billeted. For once we were going first class.

The bus which took us from the airport wound through the heavy bike and car traffic of Beijing and headed to the compound. The importance of this area was apparent when we stopped at the guarded gate and were ushered in by the elite guard. The roads were wide and wound among large established trees. Below was one flower bed after the next, with a stream meandering through them. Walking trails were evident everywhere.

We arrived at our “hotel,” a large two story brick and stucco building – built to last. It was architecturally simple in design but solid in detail. The lobby resembled a home more than a hotel. We were each given a room key, and a polite young man directed us to our bedrooms. The accommodation was huge – well furnished with sturdy furniture – and every surface was polished to a shine.

I couldn’t wait to explore the building. Off the lobby was a large sitting room filled with overstuffed chairs. But the real delights were the pictures on the wall. Photos taken in this room by a national photographer. There sat Richard Nixon next to Chairman Li Xiannian. Over here was Henry Kissinger and his aides with his Chinese counterparts. Ambassadors from many countries – along with Chinese dignitaries. One couldn’t help but feel the history of this room.

Later we walked the trails winding among beautiful flower beds and flowing streams. Every so often a group of three or four black limousines would rush by with their country’s flag proudly displayed on the front fender.

Our dinner was also a wonderful experience. It was completely vegetarian, but the various dishes were served in the form of animals. The noodles, for example, were in the shape of a chicken. We felt guilty about disrupting the design as we filled our plates.

During the meal our host introduced us to yet another charming but very dangerous tradition. He gave a short speech praising our nation, and then with a flourish downed a shot glass full of baijiu (strong spirits often made from rice,) and he shouted “Gan bei.” Being responsible guests, we returned his praise, downed the shot, and shouted “Gan bei.” Now the ice was broken. We “Gan bei’d” to each other, to the feast, to the time of year, to our leaders, to our comrades, and… well to our health. It is a wonderful tradition. I felt history wash over me in this place. I felt the past, its struggles and its successes all around me. I experienced a measure of political opulence I will never forget.
“Gan bei!!”

Lost Passport

April 2, 2014 by Harry Hubinger Leave a Comment

Pray tell, what is the disaster that world travelers fear the most? What can happen that absolutely destroys a pleasant vacation? What possible item can bring a seasoned traveler to tears? Let’s see. A long security check line? No. A bad case of food poisoning? Perhaps. A terrorist threat? Quite possibly. But the one thing – the ultimate nightmare – is to lose one’s passport. Stranded without hope, unable to communicate with the locals, a person without a country. Oh! Woe! Actually it wasn’t so bad. Let me tell you about it.

During a three week stay in Munich, Barb and I decided to visit a dear friend’s relatives in Skopje, Macedonia. The foray was not without its difficulties. While Macedonia is quite modern in most respects, the shadow of the past internal wars and a shaky record with tourists has kept it off most travelers’ agendas. The flight between Germany and Macedonia required a plane change in Vienna, Austria. This necessitated our passing in and out of Austrian security where both English and German are spoken. While we can get along quite well with the German language and/or in countries where English is a prominent second language, when we arrived in Macedonia, we found Macedonian quite undecipherable. Here they speak their own internal language. In addition, their use of an adaption of Cyrillic letters kept us permanently in the dark when trying to read signs. Nonetheless, the people were very friendly, the weather was wonderful, and all in all we were enjoying our visit.

While Skopje is the capital city and does contain a number of enjoyable sites and places, we read where the city of Ohrid, about two hundred kilometers to the south is the vacation capital of this country. Naturally we had to visit there, and we were well rewarded. Ohrid sits on beautiful Lake Ohrid, surrounded by mountains. The city itself is a resort town, visited by many from other nations. The lake sports flocks of swans, lots of decorated fishing boats, and a colorful fleet of tourist boats. The food was very good, and the prices were by far the best we found in Europe. A large lunch on the patio of a fine hotel on the lake’s edge cost a mere twenty five U.S. dollars for four of us. There is a wide spread of opinions on which currency to use. Macedonia has its own denar which is preferred by local merchants. They have applied to become part of the EU which would require the use of the Euro. This change is popular among politicians, not so among locals.

But alas, (and I’m stealing from my story ending here,) when I pulled out my wallet to pay at this pleasant hotel – unknown to me – my passport jumped from the protection of my cargo pants and very quietly fell to the floor. Here it hid unnoticed while we meandered back to our car and drove the three hours to our hotel in Skopje. There, for the first time I noticed I was naked of my United States protective shield.

The next morning after a frantic search through everything I owned, I notified the local police of my plight and took a cab to the United States Embassy. It was Sunday, and I was told the Embassy was closed but would be available to me on Monday morning at 9:00 a.m. This was cutting it close, as our flight back to Munich left early Tuesday morning. But, I had little choice. I wasn’t getting out of Macedonia without a passport, much less back into Germany. I suffered a great deal of kidding from my wife, Barb, who promised to send me cookies here in Skopje after she got back home to California if they would not let me out.

The Embassy sits high on a hill overlooking the city – a huge concrete structure – surrounded on all sides by ten foot high wire fencing with razor wire on top. Cameras are everywhere. In the guard booth sits a pair of Marines who are polite, but formal. I made the appointment for the next morning.

On Monday I was ushered into the facility, signed papers, swore my allegiance to the United States Constitution, and was politely given a ninety day temporary passport paid in full with US currency. Ah, ‘twas a joy to be whole again.

There is a p.s. to this story. I did speak to my friend’s relatives about my situation. He asked where we had eaten in Ohrid, and I told him. He used his cell phone and called a friend in Ohrid who went over to the hotel and asked the maître d’ whether or not they had found a passport.

“Yes, we found a passport under a table but did not know how to contact the owner. We hoped he would call.” This friend in Ohrid retrieved the passport, went to the local bus station, and gave the passport to a bus driver who was on his way back to Skopje. Truly, four hours later we met the bus at the terminal in Skopje and sure enough – the driver had the package! A nice tip followed. I salvaged all of the past “Stamps In My Passport” – a very comfortable feeling.

Stamps in My Passport: Random Comments

March 1, 2014 by Harry Hubinger Leave a Comment

The other day I was trolling through my notes of trips long gone, and I found myself chuckling over some comments that I had made during various trips – ones that have never made it to one of my longer stories. They cover a wide collection of countries, but I would like to pass them on. So forgive the randomness of it all, and see whether you’ve shared any of these locations or situations.

On one bright sunny day in Munich, which in itself is rare, we decided to visit the zoo. Incidentally, Munich has one of the best zoos I’ve ever visited. The zoo sits on an island surrounded by the Isar River. We marched across the foot bridge heading for the main entrance when we noticed a strange thing. The bridge fence was composed of a large wire mesh and hanging on this fence were hundreds, maybe thousands, of padlocks. Upon closer inspection we noticed that each padlock bore an engraved message. “John and Lisa, 2003 forever.” “Carl and Maria, together 2006.”” Hans and Eva 2010.” And on and on – but all were, of course, in German.

Apparently newlyweds in this area of Munich dedicate their lives together by affixing an engraved padlock on this bridge railing and then toss the keys into the flowing water beneath. How romantic can you get?

On a different note, local sarcasm can easily be lost to us travelers, in either our ignorance of area politics or in the nuances of idiomatic phrasing. One such reference nearly slipped by me in Skopje, Macedonia. Over the past few years this city has erected hundreds of statues. They range from the huge – repeat huge – image of Alexander the Great on horseback in the city center, to smaller, more manageable images of other historical figures. The range and quantity of these monuments are hard to ignore. Even in the center of the Vardar River, resting on a small spit of land there is even a statue of a young woman diving into the river.

I commented about the number to our local guide who replied with a disgusted grunt, then uttered these lines,

“Yes, in Skopje we don’t need friends. We can just hang out with the statues.”

Almost missed the sarcasm in his voice.

For those of you, our friends, who received Ecuadorian coffee and/or Ecuadorian chocolate, there are the seeds of a story here which we would like to share.

As is our choice when traveling, we stayed at a very traditional local hotel in Quito, Ecuador. I hesitate to mention the number of stars it received because under even the broadest of terms it would have been an exaggeration. Certainly it was clean and tidy, but well worn, with none of the conveniences included. The lighting was poor – no, it was inadequate. We were on the third floor, and it had no elevator. The bath was a step up and tiny, and the beds were as hard as a rock.

The location, just off the area known for night life and violence, was a thoroughfare by day, but a collection point for groups of hoodies and drunks after the sun set. We were about ten blocks from the main street, and the police patrolled our street regularly.

We dedicated our second or third day in Quito to picking up gifts, touring the markets, and studying the people – and stayed in our hotel after dark. Barb had decided we would choose something local to bring back to family and friends. As we walked these back streets looking and debating, an almost miraculous store appeared. “Ecuadorian Coffee and Chocolate – Our Specialty,” the sign read. We marched in to find a young couple in their late twenties or early thirties behind the counter, with a little three year old boy playing on the floor. They spoke flawless English. They had grown up in Quito and worked in stores all their lives, perfecting English to further their ambition to own their own place. About six months before they had used their savings to open a small shop featuring these Ecuadorian treats with the hope of becoming totally self-reliant.

Barb and I visited them several times and had pleasant discussions about growing up here in Quito at nine thousand feet, surrounded by volcanic peaks reaching twelve to nineteen thousand feet. We wish them success in being a South American entrepreneur, and we did our part to help.

One last story that tickled my fancy. We were enjoying lunch at the Mt. Meru Hotel in Arusha, Tanzania. The hotel was about two hundred yards from the main road, and after our mid-day repast, I decided to walk down the dirt road to the main highway. About half way down I noticed the stream which the road followed had been dammed up, and the result was a pool of water, about thirty feet across, and maybe two feet deep.

Here, waiting in a neat line, were cars and trucks – including the vehicle we used in our game drives. As I watched, each vehicle in turn drove in to the shallow pool, and four or five employees with brushes and sponges washed the car. After the bath, the car would be driven out the other side and towel dried by another crew. Hey! Who said the modern car wash was invented by the industrialized world?

Stamp in My Passport: Macedonia

January 2, 2014 by Harry Hubinger Leave a Comment

Eating makes no difference where you are or who you are. You’ve got to eat. There are probably favorite foods and maybe favorite places. Most bakeries make my mouth water, no matter where I travel. Pizza seems to have won over the world for there are “Pizza” signs in every corner of the globe. Vegetarians are happier in the Asian countries and in the Far East. When sausage is mentioned, one immediately thinks of Germany and a stein of beer.

In the United States these days you can find a take-out for almost everything. Or, if you just want to fill a need quickly, there are tons of fast food shops on every other corner.

But wait a minute! I venture to say that each of you has a “favorite place” – a spot where you go on special occasions or even when you just feel the need to sit, relax, and fill your tummy. That’s what this story is about.

A month or so ago, Barbara and I found ourselves in Skopje, Macedonia. Admittedly, this is not a high-profile visitors’ country, but nonetheless it should be on your “bucket list.” The urge that brought us here was “we knew somebody.” The granddaughter of one of our best friends had married a young man from here and was now making a life far from the United States. I will elaborate in a later story on this pleasant country with such a rich, but unexplored history – after all Alexander the Great started here. But today, I want to tell you about eating a meal in Macedonia.

The lead-in to my two hosts was, “Where does a local go to eat and what do they order?” There were plenty of restaurants around, but I wanted something that was directed at the local population, and believe me I got it.

We wound around a series of short one-way roads littered with parked cars abandoned in a most casual way. There are plenty of cars here, but parking is in short supply. The sign advertising a place to eat was small and painted with no hype whatsoever reading MEAHA-KEPNHY. My friends told me this series of letters is pronounced care-peach. So we ate at the Care-Peach Restaurant.

We entered by going down a set of five to seven stairs and past an outside covered eating area populated by two folk who were sipping beers and smoking cigarettes.

The inside, no more than four meters wide, had a central aisle with five or six booths on either side. The walls were lined with history. Pictures of buildings long gone, or now renovated. People who shaped the Macedonian nation looked down on us visiting diners.

But proudest of all the collections were the ones of the soccer team, excuse me, football team. At the base of this “shrine” was an old un-inflated leather soccer ball and a pair of spiked running shoes once worn in the Balkan Soccer Tournament. The Rabotnicki of Skopje won ten titles between 1952 and 1980, using the Macedonian name – all of this while there was still no separate country of Macedonia. More on this in a later story.

The menu which was completely indecipherable to us was a gourmet map of delights to our hosts. They ordered meshana daska, something akin to “mixed board” he exclaimed. But first came the aivar. Now I’m getting a little over my head here because in reality this appetizer was quite extensive. We were served toasted buttered bread on which to spread this mixture of tomatoes, eggplant, and peppers. There were other dips of various colors, and a bounty of fresh veggies on the tray. And we ate these hors d’oeuvres with relish, dipping everything into the sauces. A meal unto itself!

The meshana daska arrived with two to three slabs of grilled cheeses, grilled veggies, and grilled meats. I’m not quite sure what each of them actually was, but I cut a portion and down it went. One thing I can vouch for – this country’s eaters love peppers. There was no shortage here. In fact, my mouth felt like it was on fire. In addition each of us received a plate of meat (I had sausage as it was advertised as being homemade by the restaurant,) and a pile of grilled sliced potatoes covered with some local cheese. These local cheeses do not come in packages similar to those found at Trader Joe’s. They have a unique taste and are delicious. It took a while and a great deal of confidence to work our way through this gigantic platter of food. My host told me what I was eating because all was not recognizable. If I lived here I would weigh twice my current weight. It was all delectable, but wow – the quantity!! I’m still a little unsure of what I actually ate, though.

We skipped dessert, waddled off to our hotel, and amazingly no heartburn.

One final note. The currency here is the denar. There are about sixty denars to the Euro, and about seven tenths of a Euro to the US dollar. The bill for the four of us came to 1,280 denars. I’ll leave the calculation to the math majors to figure out what we ended up paying.

Well, bon appétit!

Mauthausen

November 3, 2013 by Harry Hubinger Leave a Comment

Over the years as I have traveled to more than one hundred countries, there have been times that I was embarrassed by American policies. But, generally it has been the reverse. Again and again I have been proud to be a citizen of our great nation. We’ve certainly done a number of foolish things, but these have been balanced by our generosity and positive actions.

When you and I travel we are recognized as being from the United States. Our clothes, baseball caps, shoes, khaki pants, cameras – all cry out “USA”, and we are well received. Admittedly, upon occasion I have been embarrassed by other Americans while off shore. Most of us are fluent in only one language, while Europeans speak three or four. This limits and frustrates some as they attempt to communicate their needs. From time to time one may run across a fellow countryman who is demanding and/or who ignores or makes fun of local customs. In general, however, I find most of my U.S. traveling soul mates courteous and kind and very respectful of any local conditions that may cause them to be uncomfortable. I believe most of us are endowed with a great sense of humor which often helps us through trying situations.

So, where is this leading us? There was one instance, one moment – where I grew ten feet tall and my chest swelled, filled with American pride. It was an instance that is hard for me to forget. Let me tell you about it.

We were traveling in Austria in early October. The weather was perfect, and the rolling hills covered by trees in the process of turning red were gorgeous. Vienna is a grand old city and contains any number of pleasant tourist attractions. It is always clean as a whistle and hosts tons of great eating places. Salzburg is another one of those cities that conjure up pleasant memories. The castles, walks along the river, and of course the hearty food washed down with the local beer. I also cannot visit Salzburg without humming some of the “Sound of Music” tunes. We chose a number of one-day outings while in both cities, and we selected a day trip to Mauthausen – one of the lesser-known concentration camps during World War II. While Dachau is the more publicized, I believe Mauthausen is better preserved.

The buildings were old, mostly of brick, and they called out “confinement.” The interiors showed crowded conditions with three tiered bunk beds. The displays showed us sparse eating tools and pictures of starving inmates. We were shown the rock quarry where these men worked, hacking out huge boulders for use in construction elsewhere. Our guide took us to the top of the quarry and told us that hundreds of prisoners who were unable to stand the pressure jumped to their death in the quarries. The guards carelessly called them “parachutists without chutes.”

As we toured the barracks, the gas chambers, the ovens – the feelings of suppressed horror were evident. Our voices were lowered – we were mostly silent. Our moods soured and became blacker and blacker as we moved about. By the time the tour ended, we were speaking in whispers and spending moments in quiet contemplation. Tears fell easily.

Then as we left I saw this sign.

On May 4, 1945 this camp was liberated by the US 41^st Recon Platoon of the 11^th US Armored Division.

A group of young American soldiers had placed themselves in harm’s way to perform a memorable humanitarian act. I was very proud to share in their heritage.

Stamps In My Passport

October 4, 2013 by Harry Hubinger Leave a Comment

Those of you who follow my articles regularly will recognize that I am constantly surprised by the changes that occur – or maybe that are occurring – to places that I have visited and spent time exploring. The so-called “Arab Spring” has brought many of these changes to mind. Perhaps among the most dramatic of these is the ongoing evolution taking place in the country of Egypt. Daily I am reminded of my visits there, particularly to the city of Cairo itself. Travel back a decade or so with me, and let’s watch what can happen in a few short years.

It was January 1992 when we first set foot in Cairo. Our path to Egypt was a bit convoluted. San Francisco to Frankfurt was our routing, and we stayed outside of the airport in our favorite little town of Kelsterbach. This stopover helps us to overcome any jet lag that may plague us.

Our eventual destination was Nairobi, and as we planned the trip we noticed that should we somehow fly from Cairo to Nairobi we would follow the Nile River from near its mouth to a point near its source. We jockeyed our plans around a bit so as to make that flight during the daylight hours. The thought of seeing the Nile from end to end delighted us, so the reservations were made.

As an afterthought we felt it would be fun to spend a few days in Cairo as long as that city was on the agenda – and so it became a stopover in our plan.

Being a little unsure of what to expect in this exotic city, we decided to break our rule of staying in local hotels and booked reservationsat the Nile Hilton Hotel. How fortuitous! The hotel was sparkling clean and exceptionally beautiful, as most Hiltons are. But its location was superb.

There is a wide boulevard which borders the Nile River on the east side called the Nile Corniche Road. The hotel sat squarely on this highway, and our room on the umpteenth floor gave us a magnificent view. Just to the south of the hotel was the El Tahrir Bridge over the Nile. This bridge crosses the highway and ends two blocks away in Tahrir Square – a location which has dominated the television screen the last few years. But more of that later.

The bridge was lit at night as was the square, and we found ourselves walking through the square on many occasions. There was also a small island in the center of the river which was used as a public park. After dark, we would wander around the park where we could see families congregating and lighting fires to cook their evening meals. The smell of smoke and the cooking of food completely filled the air.

Another of our favorite spots was the Coptic Christian Hanging Church. The ancient architecture, the priest in his ornate robes, the wonderful tapestries – all still linger in my memory. I wonder how this structure fits into the chaos that has recently occurred there.

Out the rear of the hotel was a sizeable parking lot. The area was used by hotel guests, the ever-present tour buses, and as a parking lot for the Egyptian State Museum. This museum was a treasure trove of history, and although the presentation was marginal, the material was magnificent – giving one a sense of the long history of this country, going back some eight thousand years.

We roamed this city freely, along with visits to the usual tourist attractions, i.e., pyramids, Sphinx, mosques, etc. But alas, a decade or more has passed, and the city we traveled in has had a history of violence and turmoil. The first warning occurred some four or five years after our visit. A car bomb went off in the parking locale next to the museum, and several people were killed and many more injured. The latest catastrophe to this landmark occurred on August 17, 2013 when the museum was looted and much damage was done. Valuable artifacts also were stolen or destroyed.

As I mentioned earlier, Tahrir Square is the center of one conflict after another. This serene sanctuary is less than six hundred feet from the hotel we stayed at – but it is now the flash point for demonstrationson a regular basis.Although we walked in this area any number of times, the pictures of the crowds on television in this square were in total contrast to our memory.

I don’t know how it will all end. I don’t know if the change is for the better or for the worse. I will leave that for the future to decide. What I do know is that I’m glad I went there several years ago, and I’m glad I’m not there right now.

Stamps In My Passport: Islands

September 1, 2013 by Harry Hubinger Leave a Comment

Looking back over my years of wandering around this beautiful planet, I find that a great deal of my fondest memories dwell on some small plot of land – completely surrounded by water. You guessed it – ISLANDS! Now I know a lot of my readers will immediately focus on Hawaii. I have no problem with that, but eight or ten islands are head and shoulders stronger in my memory. The reasons for this are that each of these spots of land tickled my fancy or generated some emotion inside of me. And, they remain at or near the top of my “island” list.

Bear with me while I dredge up a few specifics about an island or two. Perhaps during your travels you stopped off at one or more of these isles, and I can shake a memory out of your storage banks.

Certainly the British call their land “an island.” I’m going to ignore that definition – it’s too big for me to include. But it has two very interesting islands just off its shores.

One of these gems is referred to as the Channel Islands – a group located in the English Channel. The one I particularly enjoyed was the Isle of Jersey. This island was occupied by the Germans during World War Two, and the remnants of their occupation have been preserved. Guns, uniforms, and an underground hospital – all well worth the visit.

Another enjoyable island off the British coast is the Isle of Man. This outcropping lies between England and Ireland in the Irish Sea. It, too, is loaded with early history. Certainly the Viking influence is mixed in with the British and the Scottish. There is a highway circumventing the island which gives you a great variety of scenery, from huge rock outcroppings to sandy beaches. The low rolling hills amid quaint little cities give it a life of its own. (For those of you who remember the movie Waking Ned Devine, it was filmed in the Isle of Man.)

For those of us who love animals, Kangaroo Island – a short sea trip from Adelaide, Australia – has to be near the top. Here, wandering around totally unchecked and free are wallabies, wombats, koalas, echidnas, as well as the island’s namesake – the kangaroos. No zoo in the world can come close to this collection of free-ranging animals on this small spot of land. Barb got to hold a baby wallaby in her arms, and it cuddled up like a little baby. That feeling is not to be missed.

It was not easy to call Kangaroo Island the best collection of free-ranging animals I’ve visited. The Galapagos run a very close second. The huge lumbering turtles and the blue-footed boobies have to make you smile. The animals, totally unafraid of humans, are a joy to behold. A seal lumbered out of the ocean up to the swimming pool of our hotel – and actually did a few laps in the water. Hard to believe. There are approximately twenty-one islands in this archipelago, and many are populated by only some specific species. Darwin wrote a book about the islands, and I can understand why.

There are innumerable tropical islands that are perfectly suited for relaxing. I could mention many, but the two that stand out for me are Rarotonga (part of the Cook Islands group), and the other – almost on the opposite side of the world – is St. Maarten in the Caribbean. One of the features that made Rarotonga unique for me was the preponderance of churches on this little bit of land. These white-painted houses, with their steeples and bells, are hard to resist. Although the language is quite different, the music tells the story. Most of the singing is acappella – with a leader as soloist and the congregation responding. .

St. Maarten is quite different. This island is owned by two European countries – France and the Netherlands. More on the expensive side and certainly quite cosmopolitan in the cities, but very friendly and congenial off on the back roads.

I did not mean to ignore the Mediterranean Sea. Perhaps the best of many in this body of water, in my opinion, is Malta. It strikes a classic balance between sophisticated cities with elegant food and rolling hills with farms plowed by horses. A horse carriage trip around town is a must to study the history of this island. There are sites predating Christ and going back into early recorded history.

I could go on and on, but I’m getting this urge to go into my picture gallery and relive a few of the pleasant times I’ve spent in these places. Maybe I should check my atlas for island I’ve ignored.