My dad took us to the airport. We flew to New York, where we had a few beers before taking off for Italy. The ride was a bit bumpy, but our accommodations were “first-class” all the way. Although we hadn’t booked first-class passage, we got to fly up front because Pan Am didn’t have enough seats in the non-smoking section. So to accommodate a couple of non-smokers, they moved Sharon and me. You can bet the non-smokers became jealous of our good fortune. First-class included big, wide seats, champagne, and all that jazz

Highlight: First-class all the way.

Lowlight:  It wasn’t easy sleeping with bumpy skies and all that excitement. 

2011 Note: I smoked cigarettes back then. This was about the only time that the nasty habit ever did me any tangible good.

We arrived in Leonardo da Vinci airport outside Rome, Italy, at about 7:45 a.m. local time, where we were greeted by security guards with Uzi’s and a surly passport checker.  Then we hopped aboard a bus to Rome.  We got off at the downtown bus/train station called Stazione Centrale, and before we had a chance to feel lost in a foreign land with nowhere to go, an elderly fellow, no doubt employed in the tourist business, hooked us up with a hotel room in the Hotel d’Este, a quaint and charming place a few blocks from the station.  We lugged our bags to the hotel and checked in.  The man at the check-in desk, a dashing Latin fellow, spoke some English and filled us in on things.  Our room was small in size but huge in ambiance, with a spacious bathroom.

After checking in, we went walking about the city of Rome.  Boy, did we ever walk.  First, we visited the Colosseum, which was partially blocked off, encased in scaffolding, under excavation, and overrun with cats.  But yet it was still as magnificent as anything I’d ever seen.  The cute and abundant Colosseum cats made quite an impression on us, although they were so scrawny it was sort of sad.  Afterward, we hiked to the Monument to Vittorio Emanuele II, the Roman Forum, and Campidoglio.  While touring the grounds of the Roman Forum, we paused to rest on a park bench and promptly fell asleep for I don’t how long—probably an hour or more.  We must have been quite a sight—two tourists sacked out on a bench in the middle of these ancient ruins with camera equipment and a pocket book, unattended and in plain sight for anyone to snag.  We would joke later how our total disregard for safety is what kept us and our belongings safe, for any would be robber would clearly see that we were a set-up because obviously no one could be so stupid as we “pretended” to be.

For having just jumped into the heart of the city with almost no planning and so soon after landing there, we had succeeded in seeing more splendors that I could have imagined.  Now the time had come to head back to our hotel.  This, however, proved be quite an ordeal because my feet were aching as they have never ached before and it took all I had to hobble down the Via Merulana.  We stopped along the way for an espresso and birro.  (We also bought some birro “to go,” which we found to be an exceedingly difficult concept to translate and convey.)  And we made one last stop was at Victoria Square, where we counted 25 cats.

Back at Hotel d’Este, I examined my feet—or rather what had once been my feet but were now a mangled mass of flesh.  Had I permanently disfigured them by all the walking?  Sharon fell asleep at 5:00 p.m. and I by 5:30 p.m.  We had intended a short nap before dinner, but when we awoke it was 11:30 p.m., and there wasn’t much we could do at that point except go back to sleep.

Notes:  Although we escaped the Roman Forum unscathed, we did get ripped off outside the Colosseum by a street vendor who charged us 10,000 lira (i.e. $7.50) for 2 Cokes & 1 ice cream.  The lesson learned was to ask “quanto?” before buying anything.

Highlight: The Colosseum.

Lowlight: My aching feet—what a mess they were.

2011 Note: I’m not sure what Victoria Square is because nothing by that name could be located in Rome.  There is a Vittoria Piazza (aka Victory Square), but it’s not in the vicinity of Via Merulana.

CLICK ON MAP TO SEE BIG MAP

We awoke about 8:00 a.m. and showered, after which we had an enjoyable breakfast in the Hotel d’Este dining room.  Then we walked to Stanzione Centrale and hired a taxi to take us to the Vaticano (8,000 lira).  The day was rainy and delectable in its contrast to the day before.  The enormity of St. Peter's Basilica, no matter how much you’ve heard about it, is astounding.  We were in awe and then we encountered the Pieta.  There is perhaps no more perfect piece of sculpture in the world, and to think that Michelangelo was only 24-years old when he created it.

After paying our respects to the Pieta, we climbed to the top of the cupola—muttering as we wound our way up, “No end in sight.”  Once atop, we were afforded a splendid view of Roma.  Nothing in the city is nearly as high as where we stood.  (So high that Sharon got dizzy, but not robusto Marco.)  We mailed postcards to Sharon’s folks and Rocky, Muddy, and Squelle in the highest mailbox in Roma and then took off to find the Chapel Sistina.

Finding the chapel was surprisingly difficult.  We found the glorified parking attendant Swiss Guard and the apparently endless Vatican Museum easy enough, but no chapel.  Only after traversing through the mazelike museum and abandoning all hope of ever seeing the Chapel Sistina did we stumble upon it.  Nice paint job on the ceiling, Mike.  (Once they finish the restoration work and remove the scaffolding, I’m sure it will be even nicer.)  Next we walked to St. Angelo’s Castle—it was closed, so we crossed the Tevere and hailed a taxi back to Hotel d’Este.  There was still so much more to see (e.g. the Pantheon, Trevi Fountain) and still time to do it, but my feet were again a mass of blistered pulp.  Back at d’Este, we took a nap for about an hour to an hour and a half.  Then we went out window-shopping and drank a bit, followed by dinner at Trattoria Pizzeria—I had mozzarella and tomatoes.  Given that I didn’t know what I had ordered and don’t like tomatoes, it was surprisingly good.  Actually, it was sublime.  Sharon had lasagna. 

After dinner we walked some more and returned to our room.  Once back in the hotel, we drank the two bottles of Kronenbourg beer we had bought for 3800 lira and watched the second half of “The Great Escape,” dubbed in Italian.  It’s a great move in any language.

Highlight: Mike’s Pieta—it doesn’t get any better than this.

Lowlight: Nothing—we were in Rome and digging all of it.

2011 Comment: Yes, Virginia, Roman taxi drivers are as madcap as every one says they are.  The amazing thing is that they somehow usually succeed in getting their fares to their destination in one piece.

"THE PIETA" BY MICHELANGELO (from Wikipedia)

We awoke a little after 9:00 a.m. but didn’t make it to the hotel dining room until 10:07, which was precisely 7 minutes after they stopped serving breakfast.  So we hiked around the neighborhood looking for a coffee shop, and just as we’d given up all hope of ever finding such a place, we, of course, stumbled upon one.  While there, we learned some important lessons:  One, Sunday morning cappuccino at the corner snack bar in Rome equals mass confusion.  Two, the customer must pay before the customer gets served.  And three, coffee costs a heck of a lot more if you choose to drink it sitting at a table.

Back at Hotel d’Este, the time had come to check out.  We said,addio, to the Italian desk clerk Derek, who had checked us in two days earlier and was always friendly and helpful.  Then we took the bus to Leonardo da Vinci Airport, where we went through the usual hassle of getting a rental car.  I forgot to pull out the clutch, and as Sharon found out, “ya don’t rent a particular car, ya rent a class of car.”  Somehow, mostly luck, we managed to find ourselves on the Autostrade to Firenze (aka Florence).

The Autostrade was in excellent condition.  Many of the drivers on the Autostrade, however, were jerks.  Their favorite antic was to wait for you to pull into the passing lane to go around a slow truck; whereupon, they would zoom up behind you within 10 feet and flash their headlights, crying for you to get over.  (We would soon find out tat this is a trait they shared with German drivers.)

We got off the Autostrade at the Arezzo and drove up the hillside along a winding tree-lined lane to Poppi—an unbelievably “untouched” hill town—very small but very much a fairytale-with-a-castle kind of place.  And of course there was the bust of Dante Alighieri.  In town we walked about a bit as dusk fell over the Italian countryside.  Then we stopped at a bar, where I had a birra and a cappuccino.  The owner was delightful.  And I learned another lesson for stupid foreigners, one much to the amusement of the owner and a few locals patrons: the men’s room is called a “bagno” not a “bagna,” which I gathered was for the ladies.  (Note: It was at this bar that I picked up the bottle of Lucifer beer.)

By the time we left the bar it was dark, so we went looking for lodging.  Sadly, there was none to be had in Poppi, so we wound and wended our way through the mountains in quest of suitable accommodations.  After about 45 minutes, we found a pensione in Consuma, a one-horse kind of town.  The room cost 46,000 lira and was forgettable.  Dinner was 28,000 lira and was simple yet tasty but overpriced.  The hospitality was 0 lira and was superb.

Note: What was with those posters we saw in Tuscany depicting two nude women wrestling?  Heck, that might have been even better than Poppi.

Note: Miraculously, my feet had completely recovered.  The foot pads I bought in Roma were worth every lira (6,200) they cost.

Highlight: Poppi—the convivial bar & the medieval castle.  This hill town at twilight under gray drizzling clouds against the hypnotic Tuscan backdrop was spellbinding & yet cozy.

Lowlight: The hassle of renting a car.

POPPI, HIGH ON A HILL, IT CALLS TO ME (from the Internet)

The day began rather early and oddly.  We got up about 7:30 a.m. and showered in our room.  I mention the fact that we showered because the shower in the middle of the bathroom and had no curtain.  (Remember the old lady on the way out.) [2011 note: Although I don’t recall what the parenthetical reference to the old lady was about, presumably an elderly woman came into our room to clean why one or the other of us was showering out in the open.]

The drive to Firenze wound down through rich green mountains, then through a couple of mid-sized towns of little note.  Before we knew what we were getting into, we were driving in downtown Firenze—that meant chaos.  Well, when in chaos, drive chaotically.  On the other side of the Arno River, we found a parking lot with plenty of empty spaces and parked.  Considering that they were the only empty parking spots we’d seen in the whole city, left me with the uneasy feeling the car would surely be towed away.

The parking lot was in easy walking distance to many of the famous Florentine landmarks (e.g. the Arno River, The Uffizi Gallery, and the tourist traffic center).  Once in town we walked along the Arno, popped into an old church, hit the Banco, bought a map of the city, and found Uffizi Gallery (where they house Botticelli’s Birth of Venus).  But Uffizi was closed.  I ate something that I assume was once part of a pig but looked like an octopus; then we window-shopped, got lost, finally got unlost, and then wrote out a few postcards to co-workers at Reliance.  Afterward, we hiked back to the car—it was still there—and set off on the road to Venice.

The scenery started off startling and then turned flat and dull.  Night soon fell, and the Italian drivers displayed their utmost obnoxious form.  The price for a gallon of super petrol was even more obnoxious at $4.00 per gallon (and they didn’t even give stamps).  We got off the Autostrade at Padova/Dolo and began a long and frustrating search for lodging for the night.  We eventually found a lovely place at a reasonable rate called Il Burchiello (http://www.burchiello.it/) in the town of Mira.  We watched some television, drank some beers, and that was that.

Note: Since most of the museums in Firenze were closed, we decided to return on our way back to Roma.

Note: Did I mention that there are a few statues in Firenze.

Weather: Started off chilly, then warmed up but was overcast in Firenze, threatening to rain.

Highlight: Finding a hotel (but certainly not looking for it).

Lowlight: Uffizi being closed was a little bit more of a bummer than the obnoxious motorists were a pisser and the downtown Florentine traffic was a mindblower.

A ROOM AT IL BURCHIELLO

We got up at 8:30 a.m. and ate breakfast, consisting of typical continental cuisine, at Il Burchiello.  Having been informed that cars are not permitted in Venice, we took bus to the famed city at 11:00 a.m.

Venizia was pretty much as we had expected it to be—an endless maze of tiny alleys, numerous canals (177 to be precise), a multitude of odors, a plethora of shops, and teeming with tourists.  We walked and walked, visiting a mostly forgettable Salvador Dali art museum, sightseeing, and window-shopping (lots of window-shopping).  The souvenirs and trinkets for sale were enticing, particularly the hand-painted carnival masks, of which we bought two, and I thought reasonably priced (~8,000 to 14,000 lira for the masks). 

We visited San Rocco’s church & its cats (where nearby, as I recall, Sharon snapped one of my all-time favorite photos—me lurking in a doorway in a shadow-strewn alley with S. Marco signs about).  Our next stop was the much-advertised Piazza San Marco, where there had to be more pigeons per square foot than any other place on Earth.  The square was stately and uplifting.  Situated at one is St. Mark’s Cathedral, a really old Byzantine-styled church with huge wooden doors.  As I recall, we checked out the place.  And then, of course, there is the Grand Canal, beside which we sat in the sun writing postcards with a cat who had befriended us.

The Grand Canal was filled with gondolas, all black and shiny.  It was quite evident that the tradition of gondola rides was alive and well in Venizia, Italy.  We deliberated whether to spend the considerable lira to experience the tradition. Ultimately, we were persuaded by the fact that it was unlikely we’d have many other opportunities, if any, to do it, so at about 4:30 to 5:00 p.m. we boarded a gondola on the Grand Canal and floated through the city they call the “Queen of the Adriatic” from a perspective you can’t get by walking.  Our ride was wonderfully romantic, exceptionally relaxing, and as mentioned rather expensive (60,000 lira). Perhaps the most memorable part the cruise was the incredible skill of the gondoliers—they maneuver their ungainly boats through the narrowest passages with only one long oar yet do so with total command and grace.  Time and again I was sure our gondolier was going to crash into a building or bridge, and time and again he would miss it by the slimmest of margins.  He was very good at what he did.  Gondoliers gained my respect this day.

Afterward, we enjoyed a couple of Kronenbourg beers before heading back to the buses via Piazale Roma.  During our hike back as dusk fell, we became hopelessly lost in the maze of tiny alleys, each looking identical to one another and all with signs pointing to Piazza San Marco.  There was, I’ll concede, signage allegedly pointing the way out, but it wasn’t that simple—believe me.  Of course, we missed our bus, so we caught the next one, got off at the wrong stop, and walked the short distance to Il Burchiello.  Soon after we went out to look for beer, found some after much travail, and returned to Il Burchiello.  There we drank the beer, wrote a bit, watched television (sort of), read, and went to sleep.

Note: In the movie “If It’s Tuesday, This Must Be Belgium” there is a scene where the main character, played by Suzanne Pleshette, is lost in a little square that appears to be the same little square where Sharon and I found ourselves countless times in our own “Lost in Venizia” routine.  Of course, since everything looked so much alike, how could I ever know?

Note: We were both, Sharon more so than I, disappointed that we hadn’t bought more souvenirs.

Weather: Beautiful!

Highlight: No doubt about it, the gondola ride.  It’s hard to explain, but it was so cool.

Lowlight: Getting lost in the Venetian maze of alleys, but I wouldn’t trade if for anything.

We got up at 9:00 a.m., which was later than we’d have liked, and again had the continental breakfast at Il Burchiello.  Then we checked out and took off in search of Villa Foscari in Malconta.  We drove this way and that but couldn’t find the place and eventually asked three Italian ladies who we spotted along the road.  They tried their best to explain, but we couldn’t understand them.  So they got in their car and drove toward the villa, and we followed.  Of course, as everyone knows, Villa Foscari is closed on Wednesdays.  But we did find it and it looked to be a very lovely and tranquil place.

Next we drove back to Venice, which is an excursion not to be taken lightly or inexpensively.  While I sat in line to park the car, Sharon set off to look for another Venetian mask and earrings.  At long last I parked the car (16,000 lira) and then drank a couple of beers, read some of Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and waited for Sharon.  She returned with mask and earrings, and we were on the road again.

The landscape remained flat and uneventful until quite near the Austrian border, where the mountains loom into view rising out of the plains.  Then, like that!  You’re in the mountains.  That means tunnels—lots of them.  Sharon took her first turn at the wheel in northern Italy and was driving when we came to the Austrian border.  A customs guard requested our “green card” for the car.  His exact words were: “Green card, see Austria, no green card, no Austria.”  Well, we didn’t know if we had a green card or not, so we pulled over and after an anxious moment or two found it among the car rental documents.

So it was, Ciao Italia, Hallo Austria.  We drove through the idyllic Austrian Alps, stopping along the way at a restaurant to have dinner, and again a little later at a restaurant/hotel called Hubertusstub`n - Gasthof  a short distance from the town of St. Michael.  We checked in and got settled into our delightful room and then went down to the restaurant for a bite to eat and a few beers.  At the bar, we met a couple of Austrian fellows named Eric and Leo.  Eric was a ski instructor and a member of a band that played Austrian folk music.  Both Eric and Leo spoke pretty good English, and we had a jolly good time talking with them, downing beer after beer, and singing songs.  Far and away, the most prominent song of the evening was Lynn Anderson’s 1970 ditty “I Never Promised You a Rose Garden.” To Eric and Leo, that song typified American music; to me, it will forever recall one of the jolliest evenings ever.  After hours of drinking, laughing, making noise, the time had come to close the bar.  Eric invited us to his house, but we declined in order to get some rest.  It was quite late by the time we finally got any.

Note: 13+ Austrian Shillings = one U.S. dollar.

Highlight: Partying the night way with Eric & Leo.

Lowlight: Briefly, we thought our trip was derailed because we didn’t have a Green Card.  Afterward we laughed about it: “They’ve caught on to us, the Mexicans on vacation.”

We arose at 9:00 a.m. and got dressed, packed, and quickly ate.  Breakfast was robust and tasty with a wide assortment of meats and cheeses.  After checking out of the hotel, we drove the short distance to Salzburg, where we found parking in the center of town without too much difficulty.  Then we walked all over the historical and touristy sections of Mozart’s hometown.  The highlight of our tour was Salzburg Castle.  The long on steep hike up to the castle was a killer and left us both a bit dizzy, and the amazing view from the top took our breath away.  We also visited the cathedral in Cathedral Square, walked along endless alleyways window-shopping (prices seemed ridiculously high for the most part), strolled through a courtyard/garden, and had a trying time searching for a place to have lunch.  Salzburg was an exquisite city; however, prices were high and the town was overly geared toward tourists—well-heeled ones.

With Sharon at the wheel, we drove out of Salzburg and on to Munich.  There was a customs checkpoint at the border with Germany, but for some reason most cars, including ours, didn’t have to stop.  As a result, we didn’t get our passport stamped.  The famed Autobahn was a lovely drive, and as we’ve heard, they do drive very fast on this road.

We stopped at a roadside rest area and bought a map of Munich and two cans of Lowenbrau beer.  The beers cost only 2 deutsche marks (1 DM = ~$0.55) and were as enjoyable as any beer I’ve ever had.  (Note: At the rest area, I asked a couple of guys how to get to Mathauser’s Beerhall.  After they finally figured out what I was asking, they happily offered direction.)  Back on the road, the Autobahn soon came to an abrupt end, dumping us off in downtown Munich.  While Sharon drove and I navigated, we plowed through downtown Munich at rush hour.  Without too much travail, we found an underground parking garage and parked.  Then we walked the two or so blocks to the Munich train station and got some deutsche marks at a late-hours bank.

Our search for a hotel somehow led us to the Mirabell (90 DM).  The Mirabell can best be described as a “fine, fine, superfine establishment.”  In other words, the hotel was a complete dive.  The kind of place where most of the patrons are clients rather than lodgers and don’t spend the entire night.  I wish we had taken a picture of our decrepit little room.

Next, we searched on foot for Mathauser’s Beerhall (locally spelled Mathäser Bierstadt).  Mathauser’s came very highly recommended by Rick Steves; unfortunately, Rick offered no help on how to pronounce it.  I figured it probably sounded something like “Matt Howser.”  Well, none of the folks we stopped to ask for directions had ever heard of “Matt Howser.”  Finally, someone was able to decipher what we were looking for, which he articulated akin to “Midtiser’s,” and gave us directions to the place, or so we thought at the time.  We would learn the following day that the famed beer hall was around the corner from where we went.  Where we went was a medium-sized, uncrowded place, as much geared toward food as beer.  We ate some sausage and sauerbraten and drank some Lowenbrau—the house beer.  The food was very tasty and the beer delightful.  Our waiter was a pleasant fellow, and there were some patrons of a rather different sort—“The Gentlemen” as we called them.  But we were tired, and “Mathauser’s” fell far short of our expectations—that being a huge, wide-open, beer-guzzling joint.  So we left at about 10:30 pm. to 11:00 p.m.

We walked around the streets of Munich for a couple of hours, stopping at several joints for a mug of beer, all in an effort to avoid going back to the Mirabell.  We thought that one of the joints we patronized had gouged us, so we helped ourselves to a couple of their very attractive “Thurn und Taris” Pilsener glasses.  Quite exhilarating.  Finally we returned to the Mirabell and its dingy yellow walls and all.

Note: If October is an “off” tourist period, I don’t think I’d want to be in these places, notably Salzburg and Venice, during the “peak” season.

Note: I could be mistaken, but some of those bars we visited looked as if they were places to pick up women—for a price that is.

Note: Sharon contends that it was I, not we, who helped myself, not ourselves, to those attractive Pilsener glasses.  Perhaps so, but I don’t recall it that way.

Highlight: Salzburg Castle.

Lowlight: The Mirabell.

Lowlight: It's possible we might have had too many beers.

Sleeping in the car in the parking garage was quite an experience—mostly a cold one, but surprisingly an undisturbed one.  Although I awoke five or so times during the night, I did manage to get a “full night’s sleep.”  We woke up for good at about 9:00 and shortly thereafter checked out of the Hotel Munich Parking Garage.

For whatever reason, maybe because it was Sunday, there was no charge for staying in the garage for two days—I was expecting to pay $25 or more.  We navigated our way out of Munich with ease and were soon motoring through the beautiful green rolling hills of Bavaria.  I felt pretty good, but Sharon’s stomach was on the queasy side.  I stopped for gas at a place where you put Deutsche Marks into an automated cashier machine to get your fuel.  Fortunately, there was someone there to help me, or I don’t think I ever would have figured it out.

We stopped for breakfast at about 10:30; however, the only things being served at that hour, like at every other restaurant in Europe, were beer and coffee.  Germans by and large preferred beer.  After coffee, we drove a bit farther until a little past noon and then stopped to have lunch at a busy roadside Bavarian inn.  I had a plate of pork chops, dumpling soup, and beer.  Sharon ate some of my dish and drank a coke.  It was a robust, hearty meal that had me sitting tall with my chest puffed out.  Very Bavarian.  While there we got quite a kick out of the after-church crowd in the restaurant, in particular a little old lady who had to have been at least 80-years old and couldn’t have been more than 80 pounds.  Yet somehow she managed to hoist, using both hands, and imbibe her huge mug of beer.  It had to have been at least a liter.

We continued on the road to Füssen, where about a mile from town, we discovered that quite a few other motorists were headed in the same direction.  The roads into Füssen apparently were not prepared for the onslaught, so we ended up in a major traffic crawl.  Finally we parked the car and took the quick tour of Füssen by foot.  This place has certainly been discovered, and on top of that the town church and castle were not any great shakes.

Next we drove to King Ludwig II’s castle, called Neuschwanstein Castle, located a few miles outside of Füssen.  The hike up to the castle was brutal—up and up it went—but it was more than worth the effort.  The castle is an extravaganza, and a much-visited one at that.  The admission included an English-speaking tour through the finished sections of the castle, and lavishly finished they were.  And as magnificent as the castle was; the views were equally astonishing.  From the castle we walked to a bridge spanning a gorge.  The bridge was said to be 120-years old and made of wooden planks and a steel structure.  From the middle of the span, the view of the castle was a Kodak moment and the sight of the gushing water, hurtling through the gorge below, was downright gripping.  Sharon didn’t remain on the bridge for long—too gripping.

Between the castle and the bridge was a point where Hohenschwangau Castle could be seen down below, flanked by two shimmering lakes, all set against a backdrop of snow-capped mountains.  The scene was spellbinding and as lovely as any I think I've ever seen.

Dusk was rapidly approaching, so we didn’t have time to hike down to much older Hohenschwangau Castle.  We walked down the mountain to our car and headed for Wies Church with the intent of seeing Henry, are new-found drinking buddy from the night before.  We found Wies Church (it was under renovation), but we couldn’t find Henry.  We inquired about him at two nearby hotel restaurants.  But those we asked said they knew of no such person.  That was perplexing and a bit unsettling.  Where was he?  What was he?

So we left Wies, a town consisting of one church and two hotels, and drove through Füssen to the other side of town, where we ate a so-so dinner at one place and spent the night at another a few hundred yards farther down the road.  It was fun buying the beer with our Austrian shillings.  In the room, I worked on this diary and that was about it.

Note: While motoring through the lush and invigorating Bavarian countryside, we spontaneously composed and repeatedly recited the following jingle:

        It’s another day in Bavaria.

        Just another day in Bavaria.

        Soooo, wake up, wake up, wake up and drink your beer, 

        your beer.

        Wake up, wake up, wake up and drink your beer, Ole!     

Note: Somehow, I’d been able avoid hangovers so far.  It sure wasn’t for lack of trying to get one.

Highlight: Ludwig's place, the Bavarian lunch, and the Bavarian countryside were all sky high.

Lowlight: The traffic in Füssen and the Wies scene were no fun.

We arose at our usual time of 8:30 and showered, etc.  The continental breakfast was good (we were the only ones in the dining room), and we helped ourselves to a roll and a pat of butter “to go.”  Paying the hotel tab used up almost the last of our deutsche marks, which was good because we were expecting to cross the Austrian border a few miles into the day’s journey.

Reaching the Austrian border proved to be more complicated and frustrating than anticipated.  First, we started out heading away from Füssen but soon realized that it was probably the wrong or long way, so we drove back to Füssen and followed the signs for our destination, or at least I thought that’s what we were doing.  The roadway grew narrower and narrower, and we got some very disgruntled looks from folks walking and biking, but that was to be expected because, as we'd soon learn, we were driving on a bike path.  Feeling more than a little embarrassed, we turned around, garnered some more disapproving stares, and headed back in our initial direction.  Maybe it was the long way, but at least it was on the map.  What wasn’t on the map was “Umlietung.”  Yet there were signs for "Umlietung" at every turn, seemingly in every direction.  And we went a lot of directions, most of them two or three times each.  In all our bewildering frustration, there was one amusing sideshow in this confounded village of “Umlietung,” and that was three cows walking down the middle of the road.

By the process of elimination, we eventually crossed the Austrian border and got back on track.  But because we had never gotten a Germany stamp in our passports, we rerouted our course from Füssen to Liechtenstein to include reentering Germany.  Again we were not stopped at the border, so when we left Germany in Aach, we stopped and I requested that they stamp our books.  They did so in good humor, and for our efforts our passports bore a fine-looking German eagle stamp.

As we proceeded farther into western Austria, the scenery became considerably less pristine and more industrial.  We stopped in a couple of towns to have a look around, conduct our banking business, and visit the local supermarkets.  Actually it would be stretch to call them "supermarkets"—Pathmarks they were not.  Also, we got pulled over at a police seatbelt checkpoint.  They let us go despite the fact that I wasn’t wearing mine.

Next we made our way to the Austrian-Liechtenstein border, where once again they looked at our passport but didn’t stamp it, so we pulled over and got them stamped, making it a record three-in-one day.  Liechtenstein was a very industrialized country—at least what we saw of it, and given its size, we probably saw most of it.  We made some sandwiches and ate them in a vacant parking lot outside Vaduz.  Then we drove back into Vaduz and walked around a bit under a soft rain that gave the town a gray look.  Since we figured we weren't likely to visit Liechtenstein again any time soon, we stopped at the post office for stamps so we could mail some postcards; however, they only accepted Swiss francs, which was about the only currency we didn’t have.  We succeeded in securing some stamps at a postcard shop.  (Liechtenstein, for the uninitiated, is the postcard capital of the world.)  By now it was 6:00 p.m. and it was dark, so we found an agreeable table in a restaurant, where we drank coffee and then beer and wrote out a few postcards.  Afterwards, which included an inevitably long wait for our tab, we mailed our cards and then hit the road and were soon out of the tiny principality of Liechtenstein.  There was no border checkpoint between it and Switzerland.

We stopped for dinner at a country-style restaurant.  I had the elk in a heavy dark sauce that was like overcooked beef cubes.  After dinner we looked for a hotel.  We stopped at three, all of which appeared to have vacancies, but at each we were told that there were no rooms available.  The Swiss folks that we encountered were not endearing the Swiss nationality to us.  I found them to be rather gruff.  We finally found a place in the town of Thusis for $55 a night.  After settling into our room, we visited the hotel bar, which featured a two-man band and one brand of some really foul tasting beer.  We had two beers apiece, each in what looked to be a 10 ounce glass.  The tab came to $15—it's no wonder the Swiss are so gruff.  Back in our modern hotel room, we watched a little Swiss television and then retired for the night.

Note:  Most of the drive through Germany and Austria was gorgeous.  Only at the western edge of Austria did industry and hazy skies take rein.

Note: By the way, we would learn all in good time, my dear, that “Umlietung” was not a town or a place that you can visit, it is only a word.  And the word means in English “detour.”  Foreigners can be so stupid.

Highlight: Vaduz in the light rain had a weird serenity to it that was enchanting.

Lowlight: Most of the day was on the low side.

After arising at 8:45, showering, and eating (a continental breakfast with no meats or orange juice), we took a short walk around town.  Although the experience has been forgotten, the original log reports a visit to the “Provost” Hardware Museum.  I couldn’t find anything about such a place on the Internet to refresh my memory, so it will just have to be assumed that there was once a museum in Thusis dedicated to hardware.  After our mostly forgettable walk, we took to the road and cut through a wide Swiss valley.  We exited the main highway at Splugen intent on exploring some town or another in the Swiss Alps and having a picnic under the clear blue sky.  It was about at this point that the unmemorable portion of the day ended and the indelible part began.

The road we took, as much by chance as anything, twisted and coiled its way up to the tree line.  Then the road became very narrow and twisted and coiled even more as it went up and up above the tree line toward the deep blue sky.  One false move and it was over the side into oblivion for there were no guardrails here.  Fortunately, there was precious little traffic either.  Because of the steep ascent and the switchbacks, the car was held in first gear most of the way up.  My biggest fear was that this would become another one of those roads that turn into a path and then I’d have to drive down these same hairpin turns.

At the top of the pass (which we'd later learn was called Splugen Pass), was a weather-beaten, run-down, structure housing a cafe and the Swiss-Italian border checkpoint.  We stopped at the cafe, which was on the Swiss side; gulped down a beer, snapped a couple of photos, and got the Swiss border guard to stamp our passports.  Then we were ready to venture back into Italia and down the mountain.  We were, but the car wasn’t.  Repeated attempts to start the engine in the thin air at this high altitude all failed, and the prospect of being stranded in this desolate and barren land crept into our minds.  Finally by pushing in the choke, rather than pulling it out, I was able to get the car going.

So it was, we passed through the Italian checkpoint and started down the mountain.  A short way into our descent we came upon the most out-of-the-way, off-the-beaten-track village I ever saw or could imagine.  It consisted of about 100 houses and a row of shops.  Sitting in front of a restaurant, oblivious to the world as we know it, were a few folks enjoying a bottle of wine on this warm sunny day.  Beside the town was a lake formed by a dam.  And a magnificent lake it was.  I pulled off the road, and Sharon went into one of the shops for something, while I stayed with the car and kept it running.   I would have loved to have ventured about the town, had a beer or two in this so faraway place, but I was worried the engine might not start again.  So when Sharon returned, we continued down the mountain.

On our way down, we passed worn and seemingly abandoned houses and shacks scattered about and a few small villages without a soul in sight.  The road down the mountain was even more astounding than the road up the mountain—it was longer, narrower, more dilapidated, and passed through several decrepit tunnels, of which above the entrance to one someone had scrawled "Mafia Vendetta."  In other words, it was even scarier.  And we were running low on gas.  At last we came to an area with signs of life and signs indicating the way to Milano.  We stopped for a sandwich and continued on through a series of twenty or so tunnels running through the hills along Lake Como.  Unfortunately, our view was limited by a heavy fog that hung in place most of the way to Riomaggiore.

Aside from stopping at a bank and a modern grocery store, we slowly plowed through one North Italian town after another until we reached the Autostrade near Milano.  Sharon took the wheel and drove, first on the highway, then through the chaotic city streets of La Spezia, and finally over the winding hillside roads leading to Riomaggiore in the Cinque Terre region (another of Rick Steves’ recommendations).  As dusk fell and as we wound through the hills surrounding La Spezia, the lights of the city and the harbor far below painted an enchanting picture.

We arrived in Riomaggiore at about 8:15 p.m. and found an open restaurant called Ripa Del Sole and stopped for dinner.  I had sword fish (it was very good), a bottle of local wine, and some beers.  After our day of driving, I was thoroughly delighted to be relaxing in this charming restaurant in this little out-of-the-way village on the Mediterranean Sea.  It was also quite refreshing to run into two people who spoke English so fluently as did the owners of the restaurant.  The owners, who were husband and wife, had come from London only a year and a half before.  The husband was an Englishman, and the wife, Carla, an Italian.  And they had two children.

Carla called around town and found us a place to stay for the night a few hundred yards away.  The owner of the pension was an old, friendly Italian lady, who spoke no English.  She came up to the restaurant and led us back to her place.  In the wee room, I drank some more and wrote more of the travel log.  It wasn’t by any means the best room in which we’d lodged, but it did afford a splendid view of town from its window.

Note: In my annual "Year in Review" recap, this day was listed as the most memorable day of 1989.

2009 Note: I ran across the following description of Splugen Pass on the Internet a while back, “The Swiss side is difficult at the top, the Italian side is a nightmare.”  Oh so true.

2011 Note: Ripa Del Sole is still in business in Riomaggiore.  Visit online at http://www.ripadelsole.it/, or better yet, book a table and dine there.

Highlight:  It’s a tough call between the hairy ride down the mountain and the relaxing dinner and spirits at Ripa Del Sole.

Lowlight:  The car engine refusing to start in the most desolate place on earth, or so it seemed, had us a wee bit concerned.

I got up at my usual 8:30 and Sharon was up her usual 20 minutes or so before me to take a shower, but there would be no showers this morning because the water was as cold as ice.  There was no continental breakfast either.  So we loaded the car and looked all over for the old lady who owned the place.  Having failed to find her, we wrote a note in Italian explaining that we’d left the 40,000 lira we owed her with the owners of Ripa Del Sole, but she showed up at the last minute, so we paid her and gave her the note anyway.  In return she gave us some deep-colored grapes.

We took off on foot to discover Cinque Terre, first descending the steep main street of Riomaggiore to the train station and then back up through town to Via dell’ Amore—“The Way of Love.”  Via dell’ Amore is the trail connecting the five villages of the Cinque Terre region.  It runs along the cliffs that plunge into the Mediterranean Sea.  Finding any spot along the trail that did not offer a magnificent view would be nearly impossible.  The deep-blue sea, the rocky cliffs, the fishing boats, and the romantic, colorful towns all created an incredibly compelling reason to never go home.

We made our way to the next town of Manarola and walked through, up and around it, then back and up to a ruin that was once a church, set high on a cliff jutting out over the sea.  By the church was a graveyard, which was peculiar in that each grave marker had a picture of the deceased.  Back in Manarola we passed the cats and kittens we saw on our way into town.  We then headed back to Riomaggiore along Via dell’ Amore.  Along the way, we detoured off the main path and descended a narrow, winding, and steep set of steps down to the sea.

Back in Riomaggiore, we bought some postcards, stamps, and a map of the area, and fed a stray cat some Austrian cheese.  At 12:30 p.m. two very hungry hikers returned to Ripa Del Sole for lunch.  At the Ripa we ate a big meal, penned a couple of postcards, drank some beer, used their peculiar restrooms, and had a jolly time conversing with the owners, whom we had all to ourselves since we were their only customers for lunch.  Before departing the restaurant, we said our goodbyes to the owners and took a few photos.  Before departing town, we took one last short walk around.  Then we got on the road en route to the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

The drive through Pisa was not too bad, and we quickly found parking along the Arno.  The town was hardly the prettiest of places; in fact, it was grimy and decaying.  Emerging from the dingy and dirty streets into the gleaming sunlit spring-green and white-marbled courtyard of the famed tower and nearby cathedral was a study in contrasts. 

We listened to the nearly undecipherable recording on the 900-year history of the Tower, then paid the 4000 lira admission fee and climbed the 260-plus steps to the “Bell Level.”  The height at this point provides an excellent view and a long fall.  We watched a little kid, with lame-brained parents no doubt, run to railing and come ever so close to sliding under it, over the edge, and all the way down.  On at least three occasions, I started to walk around the outer perimeter of the Tower at the Bell Level with the intention of climbing the twenty or so steps to the very top.  But each time I reached the leaning side of the perimeter, I got scared to death and retreated.  I do wish, however, I had gone the last few feet to the top.  Sharon, on the other hand, made no attempts and expressed no interest.

Down through the tower and back through the town at dusk we went.  Soon we were once again on the Autostrade, heading for Florence.  We exited the highway near Monsummano hoping to find a place to stay in the hills surrounding the area.  We drove round and round through one piddling town after another,   going as far as Pistoia.  This was another of our many frustrating hunts for suitable lodging.  We ended up staying at the newly constructed, removed, and sterile Hotel Lago Verde, where we had a light dinner to save money and then returned to our room.

Note: We would hear a couple days hence, while in Rome, that the Tower in Pavia collapsed, which in turn led to the January 7, 1990, closing of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, which would stay closed for the next eleven years.

Highlight:  Cinque Terre—Magnifico!  Thank you, Rick Steves.  We must return.  (The pictures we took of the area do not do justice to what our eyes beheld.)

Lowlight:  Looking for lodging was a pain in the butt.

Woke up at the accustomed time and soon thereafter checked out of Hotel Lago Verde.  The hotel did not include breakfast with their basic charge; in fact, they didn’t even include the use of the television.

We plotted the route into Firenze, hoping to park in the same spot we parked on our last visit.  Our intent was to avoid the bulk of the city’s traffic, only we weren’t certain where the lot was.  Somehow we succeeded without a hitch.

Florence, like the song says about love, was lovelier and more comfortable the second time around.  First, we ate and stopped at a bank; then we toured Uffizi Art Museum.  Although not as famous as some other art museums, Uffizi certainly has its share of masterpieces.  As might be expected, the museum specializes in the Florentine masters of the Renaissance—cats like Botticelli, da Vinci, Michelangelo, and Caravaggio (who it so happens was also named Michelangelo).  And it also houses a vast and splendid collection of the great Dutch masters—Rubens, Rembrandt, van Eyck.  It was quite an experience and quite a taxing toll on the eyes.

Next we went searching for the Gallery de Academia, home to Michelangelo’s “David.”  We found it at 2:15 p.m.—unfortunately, it had closed at 2:00 p.m.  So we shopped, wandering along the streets sidelined with stalls filled with a variety of goods, predominantly stuff made of leather.  I bought a couple of ties, and Sharon a velvet vest.  Then we returned to the stalls around Uffizi, where I bought a 10-inch statue of the Birth of Venus and a book about Uffizi.  Lastly, we stopped at the leather bags boutique where Sharon had previously bought a silk-covered leather change purse.  She bought another one.  Dusk was drawing near, so we walked back to the car with the feeling that there remained many gifts still to buy.  Of more pressing concern was getting across the street at the major west end bridge.  (2011 Note: As best as I can determine, we parked near the south side of the Amerigo Vespucci Bridge, and if so, then I suppose the reference to the “major west end bridge” is to Ponte Amerigo Vespucci.  As previously noted, Florentine traffic was horrendous, and trying to cross a busy four-lane bridge at rush hour would have been near suicidal, but I guess we made it.)

I had hoped to return to Roma by taking the same route taken to Florence on our first visit (the one that ran by Poppi).  But we decided it was too late to see anything.  As it turned out, we got to see a tremendous traffic jam on the southbound Autostrade by virtue of being right in the middle of it.  It probably would have been quicker had we gone the long way.  Finally, traffic started moving again, and we made our way toward Roma.  In search of a cup of cappuccino, we stopped at five service areas before finding one that was open.  Then we missed the exit we wanted and were forced to head for Roma Centro, Naples, or Fumiciano.  We drove to Fumiciano and then to Lido di Ostia along the Mediterranean Sea.

The town of Ostia reminded me of Atlantic City as it was before the casinos, or in other words, an aging beach town whose charms had faded long ago.  The place was an anachronism.  And in a way the town’s melancholy aura was befitting our mood, which had a somber tinge due to the fact that our wonderful vacation was about over.  Not everything going on in town, however, was a downer—like for instance whatever it was that the couple on the beach behind the outstretched white trench coat were doing.  We can only imagine.  But mostly of our evening in Ostia was spent searching for nightly accommodations.  What we found was that everything was either full, ridiculously overpriced, or both.  So our accommodations for this night ended up being the two front seats of the Peugeot in a parking area behind an old deserted building where about seven mobile trailers were also parked.  Sweet dreams.

Highlight:  Uffizi was the first major art museum I’d ever visited.  It was very impressive.

Lowlight:  Traffico Irregulare.

The sound of ducks quacking woke us up about 5:00 a.m., and shortly thereafter the sound of an Italian man shouting at the Italian ducks woke us again.  Actually, the entire night had been fraught with awakenings because of the cold and less than cozy conditions.  We awoke for good at 7:00 to a torrential downpour.

We debated what to do if the rain didn’t let up (i.e. how would we pack and get around Rome).  We decided to just head straight for Fumiciano to return the car.  On the way, we counted four auto accidents, probably the result of Roman driving technique coupled with adverse elements.  We made it unscathed.

By the time we reached the airport, the rain had stopped.  We packed our belongings in the car rental parking lot and returned the keys and paperwork to the surly rental agent.  (Us: “How do we find out how much it cost?”  Him: “At the home office.”  Us: “Where’s that?”  Him: “Genoa.”)  Then we took the bus to Roma, which took over an hour and a half due to the heavy traffic.

At the bus/train station, Stazione Termini, we ran into the same government fellow we met there on our first visit to the terminal.  We told him that we would like to stay at the same place we did before.  He called the Hotel d’Este and reservations were confirmed.  We walked the four or five blocks to the hotel.  There we were greeted by Derek and given the same room we stayed in before, room #314.  Once we were settled in our room, we showered and did all that wonderful stuff that wasn't possible earlier that morning.

A little after noon we set out to explore Roma.  Our exploration began with one frustrating encounter after another.  The store next to Hotel d’Este selling the hat Sharon wanted to buy, wouldn’t sell it to her because they were wholesalers; the shoe store didn’t have the shoes she had waited the whole trip to buy and tried to sell her a different pair; and the banks at which we stopped wouldn’t convert our travelers checks to lira—telling us to go elsewhere.  On the positive side, the weather had turned sunny and warm; the cats still hung out in droves at the ruins of Piazza Vittorio; and the street market surrounding the Piazza was a bustling and dazzling display of just about everything but mostly fresh food, which of course made the cats happy.

Next we set off to see Trevi Fountain, the Spanish Steps, and the Pantheon in addition to doing some more shopping.  It took us close to forever to find Trevi Fountain, and for all our trouble, it was covered with scaffolding and bone dry.  On the way to the Spanish Steps, Sharon called Julia (an old acquaintance) and made plans to meet her at the Steps at 7:00 p.m.  I bought a pewter lion for 22,000 lira, and we finally found a bank that accepted our travelers checks.  Then we found the Spanish Steps, where sure enough people were sitting on them just like in the photos.  Afterward, we strolled through the high-priced shopping district toward the Pantheon.  The Pantheon looked grandiose and all, but by this time, we were becoming a little frantic in our seemingly endless search for gifts, so we stopped for a beer and ice cream cone.

We realized we had a better handle on accumulating gifts than we had thought.  So we concentrated on finding something for Gwen.  In doing so, we found a sharp black hat for Sharon and, at long last, an exotic pants outfit for Gwen with a Middle Eastern harem concubine look about it.  Feeling better, we returned to the Spanish Steps with a few minutes to kill, so we had a beer at a nearby McDonalds.  Yep, beer at McDonalds.  Then we met up with Julia at the now very much sat upon Spanish Steps.  The Steps seemed like they might have been interesting to hang around for awhile, but we immediately took off for Julia’s apartment on the outskirts of Rome by means of a subway train, then another subway, followed by a bus, and another bus.  We didn’t pay for the bus rides—the “Portuguese” never do, or so we were told.

At Julia’s apartment we met her Italian husband, Roberto, a retiring fellow who longed and seemed more suited for living in Ireland.  We also met their 2½-year old son, Jocamo.  We talked about Renaissance ceramic artwork and ate homemade pizza for dinner along with salad, chestnuts, and wine.  Afterward, Roberto very graciously drove us back to Hotel d’Este.  Sharon fell asleep shortly after we returned, which was about midnight.  I packed, wrote, and drank some beers, and finally hit the sack myself about 1:00 a.m.

Note: Driving in Rome was never considered a sane option, and in fact, it was never contemplated.

Note: Roberto was quite a likeable chap and went well beyond the call of civility to drive us the long way back to our hotel.  Ending our trip in the everyday domesticity of Julia’s and Roberto’s apartment was in a peculiar way the most perfect ending to a glamorous holiday.  It put things in a perspective, a very valuable one that I never could have put them in otherwise.

Highlight:  Rome—the second time around it felt like home.

Lowlight:  Our great adventure was all over but the flying home part.

Woke up at 6:30, showered, and left the hotel a little after 7:00 to catch the bus to Fumiciano (AKA Leonardo da Vinci airport).  On the ride out of town, we passed by the Colosseum, which was still standing as it has for 2000 years.  And that’s where our holiday, to my thinking, ended.  All that was left was the ordeal of dealing with the airports and the airlines and the luggage—and that’s no holiday.  (In fact it was, without a doubt, a hassle.  Our flight was delayed by three hours because of some vague terroristic threat, which led to interrogation and brought out burly men in leather jackets bearing Uzi’s.)

So then, our adventure ended where it began 15 days before—by the Colosseum of Rome, where once gladiators fought and lions and tigers ate Christians.  They don’t do that stuff there anymore; they haven’t in a long time.  And that is the wonder of the Colosseum—it represents what in life is ephemeral and what is enduring.  It is the enduring that holds the mind, that has the grit, that provides the foundation.

Today, October 21, 1989, the cats are still at the Colosseum, not lions and tigers, but little Colosseum cats.  And they’ll be there tomorrow too, but we won’t.

OK, let’s get trite, just this once—Arrivederci, Roma.

[Note:  The preceding was written nearly word for word on the bus out of town.  It may not be great writing, but it was inspired by greatness.]