Around me swirls an exotic tango of French dialogue and cigarette smoke. We approached the Café Limo on this, our final night in Paris, tentatively. We had been worried that our whim, a quick stroll for a night cap and a chance to soak up our last hours in the city, would be thwarted by lowered curtains, stacked chairs, and a sign reading Fermé.

But coming around the corner into the Place Gustave, we were shocked to see that every café on the square was ablaze with lights and abuzz with the happy, animated conversations of Parisian night owls.

This is where we sat on our first night in Paris, a Saturday, after 13 hours of plane and train travel.  Our hotel, the Hotel France Albion, is just down the street.  We went in search of a late dinner that evening.  What we found was true Paris hospitality.  Our waitress came and sat at my elbow, offering translation of their French-only menu.

Thankfully, my choice to enroll in college French classes for the last couple of semesters has prepared me for food ordering, at the very least.  I've used my "skills" at every food-related turn.  It's been fun!  And it's led to a couple of amusing mix-ups.

For example, on Sunday morning, we visited the Eiffel Tower. We had not expected the heat to be so intense in the shadow of the grand monument, but considering the thousands of people gathered there, cote a cote, as it were, Jon and I were soon very thirsty.  Before we began our climb, we decided water would be necessary.  I located a cart selling bottles of water, gelato, miniature French flags, post cards, and teeny Eiffel Tower replica key chains.

"Bonjour!" I said, greeting the proprietress of the little concessions trailer.  She was a drooping middle-aged woman with dyed hair and a James Dean tank top.

"Bonjour," she replied with a lot less enthusiasm.

"Je voudrais un boite d'eau, s'il vous plait."  I was all smiles, and suddenly, so was she.

"Un bouteille," she corrected, gently.  "Pas un boit. Un bouteille."

Blushing, I laughed at my mistake.  "Oh, oui!  Un bouteille!  Merci!"

Echoing her au revoir, I grasped the perspiring bottle of water and turned to go, grateful it was not the "box of water" I'd actually requested.

Though awash in the deep shadows of late evening, my face is aglow with the reflected light of a single, hearty flame rooted in the concrete before me. The flame bends and writhes in the breeze which channels between the massive stone columns to my right and my left. I am entranced, a cobra's prey, mesmerized by a dangerous waltz.

Between flickerings, I can read the French words engraved beneath the flame:
This is the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, dedicated to the nameless French patriots who died in World War I. It burns directly beneath, l'Arc du Triomphe, the Paris memorial to all its veterans, especially those who fought in the Napoleanic Wars in the early part of the 19th century.  I appreciate these symbols and I appreciate this light.

We took the Metro to the Franklin D. Roosevelt station which let us out onto the Champs-Élysées, that fabled avenue of restaurants and shops which I've heard about in movies and books all my life.  The street breaks at a very famous traffic circle which skirts l'Arc du Triomph.  At night, hundreds of pairs of headlights sweep across the four sides of monument, banking to the right and becoming lost in a river of red and white.  

This dazzling whirlpool of electric color is most dramatic from above and, thankfully, our Paris Museum Pass allowed us to ascend the spiral staircase concealed in one of the columns.  Inside, there is a very small set of exhibits about L'Arc du Triomphe and its conception, construction, and symbolism. But the real reason for our climb was through another dim corridor, dank with the sweat and odor of the hundreds of tourists who make this climb every day.  Up a few more stairs and out into the warm night air we realized our goal.

After dark, every hour on the hour, la Tour Eiffel is set sparkling with white lights.  Of course, it remains brightly lit all night long, a beacon of gold, a guardian, a herald.  But at each hour, someone flips a magic switch. 

Though there are technically no tripods allowed at the top of the Arc, we found a way around that prohibition by bringing our little "gorilla pod," an all-terrain tri-pod with flexible, prehensile limbs.  It was small enough not to arouse suspicion, and it allowed us to get some wonderful low light shots of this glorious city.

Paris stretches beyond the line of sight from any vantage point.  During the day, its size, when seen from above is intimidating, overwhelming, too much.  But at night, it is a veritable sea of lights, all colors, shimmering like a dream.

Jonathan and I are in Ireland!  To see our pictures, click here.

Above the clouds, a blush rose in the cheeks of the Irish sky.  It was early.  A tailwind had pushed us almost half an hour ahead of schedule.  After eleven hours on two separate planes (and one three-hour layover in Chicago), we were finally descending. 

The vast, marshmallow bank of creamy clouds swallowed our plane and before long we'd pushed through them and could see the blue black expanse of ocean water dotted by lights from fishing boats and lighthouses.  Lower.  Lower.  Then we could see the rise  of land out of the water... Ireland.  It was bright enough to make out rolling green pastures divided by thick, dark hedgerows. 

Our plane touched down before 8:00 am.  We disembarked on the tarmac and walked into the airport.  This gave us the perfect chance to grab a photo op with our emerald Aer Lingus plane in what locals would call the wee hours of the morning.

Just inside the terminal, we stepped away from the crowd and took turns in the bathroom... changing into fresh clothes, brushing our teeth and washing our faces.  I'd been lucky enough to snag three hours of sleep on the flight over, but Jonathan hadn't been able to do the same.

Customs didn't take long, and the attendant who stamped our passports found our "quick weekend trip" idea to be cute.  He wished us luck and alerted us to the fact that this weekend is one of the Six Nations Rugby Championship weekends... and it's the BIG one: Ireland v. England.

The good news?  While we know nothing about rugby, we're quick learners.  AND, we couldn't think of any more exciting way to spend our first night in Dublin than at a raucous pub, drinking Irish beer and cheering on the guys in green along with a couple hundred excited Irish rugby fans.

Continuation of She Loves the Transportation in the Jungfrauregion...

In the little hamlets of Switzerland (like Interlaken and Murren), there is no sense of hostility towards the newcomer.  The locals are used to and take advantage of the tourist trade, and they are well aware that the value of their magnificent Alpine view does not depreciate.  In fact, if anything, it is a joy doubled when shared.  We were welcomed at every turn.

Later, at a picnic table owned by the hostel in Gimmelwald (one I'd seen advertised on the internet prior to our trip and would definitely find comfortable enough to use in the future... It has a hot tub outside in view of the mountains!), I peered into the giant canyon between us and the Alps. 


The grandeur of my surroundings inspired me to sit at a picnic table near a cliff and scribble the following on a piece of paper:

The tinkling of cowbells in a hundred different tones echoes along the rolling hillside.  Between the emerald green of the meadows and fields and the cheerful geraniums in all of the window boxes, this place feels alive.  A steady line of paragliders sweeps through the sky not so far above us, but the canyon is so vast, the valley so wide, the opposite cliff so high and sheer, that soon the colorful paraglider chutes are more like tiny, earnest blossoms against a mossy, gray backdrop.

Of course, the real flowers growing wild in the grass, have no equal.  Sweet and delicate, they defer to the immense landscape when cameras are clicking, but bow your head closer to the soil and you'll be dazzled by the intricacy of the butter yellow petals, the milk white stamens.

Breathe in the Alpine air, so cool and refreshing you'll wish it could be bottled to be taken home.  Unfortunately, only the real thing will do.  And besides, if you did take home a bottle, you'd be unable to escape the honest, brutal comparison it would require of your City air, the real life breaths you take and forget about every day.  It is better to have this phenomenon of recognizably perfect breathing air only on vacation - otherwise, it would interfere with your workday productivity.

FIRST: Congratulations Chris and Jen!  Marriage is fun!

SECOND: Happy 24th Birthday, Teddy!

Back to the blog...

During our initial planning, Saturday had been selected as the perfect time slot for a day trip away from Zurich.  Jon and I each had the chance to choose a destination elsewhere in Switzerland.  I picked Appenzell, a city on the Eastern border, which we visited on Sunday.  But Saturday was Jon's pick, and so we were off on a tremendously ambitious adventure to the Bernese Alps (the so-called Jungfrauregion) and, specifically, to a tiny town called Gimmelwald nestled high on the mountainside.

I call the day's plan ambitious because it included every kind of transportation:

Drove 100+ kilometers from Zurich to Interlaken
Train from Interlaken to Lauterbrunnen
Gondola from Lauterbrunnen to Grutshalp
Train from Grutshalp to Winteregg
Walked from Winteregg to Murren and Gimmelwald

As of today, I am aware of no more thrilling an activity than running to catch a train.  The allure of train travel lies in its perceived antiquity, though most all commercial trains used today are quite modern.  One can easily imagine the delightful station platforms back when locomotive engines hissed and wheezed steam on entrance and exit, filling the room with white... or lips pressed to the palm of one departing and the subsequent kiss tossed to the one who remains in the station, fading smaller and smaller.

On Thursday, Jonathan and I spent the morning in Strasbourg. Our original plan had been to quickly get on the road, but there was something about that lovely city which had sway with us. After breakfast at a patisserie across the street (Michele's) where we ordered coffee and pastries, we headed to Strasbourg Cathedral to take more pictures and to pop inside for a look.

Reverence filled the expanse of the interior, emanating from the worshipers of God and Architecture. There were tour groups and classes on field trips, young couples and elderly couples and traveling buddies and girlfriends, all of whom couldn't tear their eyes from the lovely stained glass windows, the massive Bible under glass at the front. I lit a candle for our country, praying for peace and reason to prevail at this new dawn of ours... the one masquerading as a doomsday.

Soon enough, we were on the road to Zurich. Our lodgings at the Hotel Enginmatt are fabulous, very comfortable and stylish, but we didn't waste time in our room (even though the jet lag pit bull had me by the eyelids again and was trying to tug me into bed).  No no, we had traveled halfway around the world to see this bursting, blossoming city and couldn't wait another second.

The Bahnhoffstrasse beckoned us first; a luxury shopping strip of several kilometers, almost completely pedestrianized, running parallel to the River Limmat. Naturally the price tags were a tad over our budget (1,100 Swiss Francs for a small purse), but the looking was very fun.

Around us, night was falling and people were moving in jovial groups, communicating in a variety of languages. German, French, and Italian words skipped around us in the shadows, bouncing off the brick and stone facades of the buildings playing hide-and-seek with one another. A smattering of other languages, Swedish, Mandarin, and Spanish, joined the game, as well. I floated along on Jonathan's arm wishing with all my heart that I had the chance to dedicate myself to the study of language so that I could develop the capacity to better understand these people, men and women who share my globe. What an opportunity that would be!

Three weeks ago, I'd never heard of Strasbourg, France, but as of tonight, I feel like I've seen every corner of the city!

After taking the red-eye from SFO to Frankfurt, arriving this morning, Jon and I picked up our rental car (a little, black Mercedes which isn't quite as perfect as the car we rented last year... Jon's bummed that it doesn't take Diesel... but it's still darling!) and wasted no time getting on the road.

Last year we headed West to Luxembourg and Belgium, eventually heading North to Denmark.  This year, we left Frankfurt heading Southbound on A5.  Our final destination is Zurich, Switzerland!  But we decided a few weeks ago that we should swerve slightly Westward and stay the night in France, too, another country neither of us have visited before.

We crossed the Rhine River just West of Baden-Baden, Germany, and I have to say that in this part of the country, the view isn't nearly as staggering as I remember it being further North.  That being said, there was a major change in scenery as we crossed from Germany, with its lush, snarling black and green forests, into Northeastern France.  Suddenly, broad, green fields stretched between well-defined farm borders. Doe-eyed, white cows grazed in lazy groups.  Golden corn fields whipped past the windows of our car as we sped along D4.  (But the corn is shorter here... weird... and completely inadequate for any kind of corn maze!)

The Denmark border is indicated by a series of crossing kiosks which are no longer in use and by several proud, colorful flags.  The first flag is the red and white national flag of Denmark.  I love this flag.  I would have jumped out of the car, pulled it down and made it into a shirt for myself if I hadn't been afraid someone might have taken it as an act of war.

Honestly, though, I can say that I was not afraid even once in Denmark.  The Danes are wonderful people.  They smile quickly, speak English fluently and without disdain or reproach.  Had I worn their beloved flag around town, they probably would have patted me on the back and urged me to take it home.

Denmark is a lovely country.  We geocached our way north, just to be sure to find a few unique nooks and crannies.  This whole trip has been a whirlwind; more than 24 hours has been invested in the "getting there."  So much driving (I'm in the car on the way to Frankfurt right now).  Geocaching has been the perfect distraction.

On one such stop, we wound our way along dirt and gravel roads, out past dairy farms and corn fields to find a cache placed near a WWII bunker, a concrete box with two doorways.  This was used by Nazis during their occupation of Denmark (a country which remained "neutral" at that time).  The line of bunkers and manned posts stretched all the way across Jutland.  Had we not searched for this cache, we would not have had the chance to see a piece of Danish history up close.  In Jonathan's case, he got to walk all the way through it.  We left just as the dairy cows came home.

To begin, I'd like to mention that the title of this entry is accurate, but only to a point.  I have actually loved the bricks everywhere.  For all the talk I've ever heard about European architecture, the different styles and types and ages, I've never heard anyone reference the bricks.  This is an outrageous oversight.  Brick is beautiful, and California is sorely lacking it.  I understand that this may be due to severe building requirements, earthquake standards, etc.  But people, we're missing the sheer beauty of one of the most simple building mediums known to man. 

Every city, town, enclave... everywhere people have congregated to live together, large and small, is graced with reddish, brownish brick.  The facades of the buildings catch every ounce of sunlight and reflect it back, warm and easy on the eyes.  Post offices and hardware stores appear stately.  Homes stand like miniature castles.  White window boxes, plain in any other environment, pop against the red backdrop.

The red walls spring up like flowers amid the green fields as we drove from Hamburg, north to the border.

We swung into Rendsburg for coffee.  I hate to describe the little foreign towns as quaint.  Somehow that word has become derogatory in our culture.  Unfair.  It's the perfect word.  Synonyms include old fashioned, charming, pretty, antiquated, picturesque, appealing. 

I'm behind.  I know it.  But we've been convalescing the last few days, hiding away at our friend's home in Klegod, Denmark, right on the coast.  More about that (much more) later.  First, a few words about The Netherlands...

We only drove through.

I know!  Crazy!  How could we not stop?  How could we not wander in the rolling green pastures, visit with the milkmaids, ring a few cowbells...?  The short answer is that we didn't have the time.  In fact, we were lucky that Holland, as it is apparently sometimes called, was on our way to Denmark.  After leaving Brussels, we spent a few hours on the road and swung our way up through that little northern country.

So, what was my impression?

I wanted so badly to love the windmills.  After all, isn't that what we all think of?  Holland.  Hmmmm... windmills and wooden shoes and girls named Heidi.  If you're Joey Tribbiani on FRIENDS, you think Netherlands is a "make believe place where Peter Pan and Tinkerbell live." 

I looked for cute windmills.  Mostly, though, I only saw towering, sleek ones.  Red and white.  Long, lean and powerful.  Churning the air.  Obstructing the flight paths of the birds.  Occasionally we saw trucks hauling the individual pieces.  Long, long trucks.  And each could only take a single blade or a third of the tower.  But no adorable windmills, stout and timbered.  And no milkmaids, either.  Bummer.

Instead, I fell in love with the cows.  They were everywhere.  And not the forlorn crowds of stinking Manteca cows, either.  I'm talking about Holsteins.  Black and white, proportioned like the perfect animated characters in books we loved as schoolchildren.  They blink and sway when they walk.  They are milked by hand. 

They seem so happy.

We blew past most of the fields... but when we did stop to take pictures or stretch our legs, I discovered that there was nothing more peaceful than the calm calls of the cows as they ate and swayed, ate and swayed.  In fact, this is what I now believe the Christmas carol "Away In the Manger" means when it references the cattle lowing.  I'd never heard lowing before.  It's nice.

 

There is a square in Brussels which boasts being one of the top tourist destinations in the country.  As we had only a single morning to spend in the city, we opted to check out The Grand Place (as it is called) and its surroundings.  We couldn't have made a better choice. 

The square itself, centered around the Hotel de Ville, it very grand indeed.  Giant old buildings with cathedral-like facades and latticed buttresses sit along the perimeter like a group of old men chatting about the weather.  Hidden in the pockets of their old tweed coats, as any good grandchild knows, are sweets and treasures and even heirlooms to be found.  Twisting away from the square in a thousand different directions are delightful side streets peppered with shoppes, boutiques, pubs, cafes, and of course, chocolatiers.

Salut!

I am writing this entry from a desk in our hotel room in Brussels, Belgium.  Today I am half a world away from the rest of my life.  And I'm ready for the break.  Already, the wonders of vacation have begun working their magic on me.

Yesterday began with a drive to San Francisco International Airport (thank you, Debbie!).  Along the way, we picked up McDonalds.  Man, that feels like a long time ago.

I was exhausted, having just returned from a three-day business trip to Chevy Chase, Maryland.  The prospect of spending 10+ hours on another plane made me want to weep.  However, this trip brought a special first for Jon and me.  We flew Business Class, thanks to the miles Jon has earned on numerous business trips over the last two years, and on a 747, the Business Class seats are on the upper deck of the plane.  This is infinitely cool.  Not only is it quieter, more spacious and more private, but we're almost three stories off the ground AND we're up near the entrance to the cockpit.

This last perk may not seem like much to most, but our journey got of to a-- er-- flying start when the First Officer just happened to notice us taking giddy, ridiculous pictures of each other while waiting in our seats, and invited us to accompany him into the cockpit to meet the Captain (a chick!) and to take pictures!  One of the crew members even tossed me his hat to wear.  Jaunty, eh?