Autobahn

Sticker shock is beginning to have an effect on me. A McDonald’s coke costs 1,95 Euro– that is medium size. I paid 2,30 Euros for a very small cup of coffee that had to be doused with plenty of sugar. The conversion rate at the hotel was one dollar buys ,53 Euros. The real kicker is that there are very few public toilets that are free. On the Autobahn cost a flush costs ,50Euros.

This morning I could not keep my eyes open, so at our first pit stop on the highway I jumped out of the bus and headed off to the Total gas station. I think everyone else went to Burger King. Total was a bit further away but at least I would not have to wait in line with the rest of the women (maybe fifteen or so on tour). The walk did me some good too. I only had a 10 Euro bill in my pocket so I went for change after finding no change machines at the turnstile entrance. I briefly considered ducking underneath the contraption, but elected not to get arrested in Germany.

Inside I asked the young man, “Change?” waving the ten Euros bill about the size of monopoly money.

“Toiletten?”

“Ya”

He exchanged the bill for five Euros in change and a five bill. I think the fact that the money seems so fake makes it seem even for worthless and everything that much more expensive.

Back inside the Water Closet I dropped my .50 Euro coin into the turnstile and thought for a second I heard the train coming. I found four very neat and clean stalls. Each stall was a little closet with the walls and doors going from floor to ceiling and the door sealing completely shut – none of that half inch wide crack between the hinges. I saw this in The Netherlands and have decided that Europeans are very modest when it comes to bathroom privacy.

I sat down. The seat was damp and cussed the fact that I was sitting on what I assumed to be German pee. Bad enough I got to pay for the seat, it has to be damp.

Business done I flushed. I jumped back startled when the seat began to rotate. Yes, the actual seat began to change shape, sitting at a very odd angle before reshaping into a usable oval. As it turned a contraption located in the back of the toilet moved into position. If I had not been so curious I would have run. Instead I watched in awe as it sprayed a solution of disinfectant on the seat as the seat passed beneath a sponge. Hum. I almost flushed the thing again. Got to get a video of this I thought. It was an amazing piece of German engineering. Worth .50 Euro? I doubt it.

Now the good news is that the token receipt is good for a discount in the store, but I was looking for coffee and that comes out of a vending machine. A German gentleman stood ahead of me gazing at the panel board of the world’s largest coffee vending machines. Buttons everywhere. Multiple selection sizes for multiple flavors and combinations of milk choices. The gentleman stood there waiting for his coffee, but nothing came out of the spout. I pointed to the offerings indicating he should push one. In German he said he had. I think that was what he said. He pointed to his selection. I pushed it and the machine gurgled deep inside its belly. He said something else.

I grabbed another cup and put it under the other spout to be safe.

“Das ist eine gutte Idea.” I mumbled being careful enough to not over enunciate the words like a real German.

He agreed. The coffee came out and we didn’t miss a drop.

When it finished pouring I said, “Ferthig.” Having no idea where I pulled that word from.

“Danke,” the German replied.

“Bitte.”

High school German came to the rescue after thirty five years. I can’t vouch for the spelling in this story. At the same stop I asked a soccer team if I could get a photo. They were all for that, those loud and silly boys setting off a smoke bomb.

Chicken Goes to Paris

Heck, he is having fun. See the new blog, click here. Follow his exploits across Europe.

Van Gogh

The weather has sucked for the past two days. Nevertheless we have been on the move. Bus-style takes a bit of getting use to. Little groups are beginning to form, the same people meeting for dinner and breakfast. They become seating partners in the bus…those who grab the front seats and those who resign themselves to the back. Dad and I piloted the last seat in the bus and by the end of the day I felt invaded when Bill and Dan jumped protocol and joined us. By then, after visiting a diamond factory and the Van Gogh Museum with my uncle, I was ready to recline across the five seats for the hour and half ride back to the hotel. Instead I found myself engaged in conversation with Dan about his family back home in Wisconsin. No nap and no blogging.

The highlight of my day was the visit to Van Gogh’s Museum. As a kid I aspired to be an artist. Mrs.Gray, who by no means discouraged me, warned me that it was a tough way to make a living. Van Gogh certainly had a tough life choosing his profession at the age of twenty-seven. Like many young artist I studied the masters. I became acquainted with them during my high school art classes. Under the tutelage of Mr. Izzo, I won some art award at graduation for having the highest grade point average. I wasn’t headed off to college or any other place to hone my talent, if indeed I had any other than an acute insight to please the art teachers for a good grade. Mr. Izzo died my senior year of a heart attack, leaving school in his car only to pull off into the ditch and slump behind the wheel. I was shocked by the loss and art dropped off the radar as a means of self-support.

I picked up a camera, joined the army and the rest is side-tracked history.

After two days under dreary skies I appreciate what Van Gogh saw. The thick clouds release light in thin rays that highlight the most subtle of emotion. Seen from the eyes of a young man whose confidence hid deep inside a troubled mind so desperate to be released, Van Gogh sought to learn, to interrupt, to mimic and to recompose light under a sky that perpetually gathers it to its breasts.

He worked hard at his passion. And I saw his work for the first time. Unlike photos in a book, I saw the three dimensions of the works – the thickness of paint, the brush strokes the texture of canvas…tools employed by the artist to create his story. Awesome.

Van Gogh tried to do what he knew he believed he couldn’t. Constantly learning, inventing his art was one big experiment.

Some of the work I swear I could have painted, but when understood as a whole of his portfolio, I am glad I never became an artist.

Yet, there are times I yearn to pick up a brush and create.

First Impressions

Hold on to your pesos....I broke down and bought a 30 day pass to the internet through T-mobile. Now I sign on in German!! but once I get pass the sign in page, I can get English. That even happens on my blog. Okay here goes.

May 15, 2008 Amsterdam, Netherlands. A country that has tolerated differences throughout its history, opening its borders to those fleeing religious persecution and the perceived woes of homeland. Those who carried different ideas to the reclaimed lands were welcomed to live among the Dutch, to prosper, thrive, live free, and like natives from New Hampshire to die. Trouble is everyone came and this place is only one third the size of Michigan now crammed with 19 million people. It is difficult to get rid of some of the sketcher characters who have thrown away their passports and abused their welcome.

A country with open borders and no baseline values is doomed.

For the past two weeks I have been reading books on World War II. I started with Ken Burn’s War, but couldn’t manage to lift the volume in bed for night time reading. My Uncle David loaned me The Longest Winter. I thoroughly enjoyed reading about the 99th’s platoon of eighteen men who fended off the German’s initial thrust into the Bulge December 1944. Absorbed and amazed by the heroic efforts of the men and their young captain who battled wave after wave of Germans until they ran out of ammo and they had to surrender and unknowingly changed the history and outcome of the war, I ventured into another book Citizen Soldiers. I started waking up in the middle of the night in battle scenes about the same time I came down with whatever bug it was that crept into my nightmares. Wanting to read more, but not wanting the nightmares, I quit reading. Sadly, I know more about WWII because of my reading assignments than what I ever learned in school. The Americans won, the Germans lost and Hitler hated the Jews. Simple details of good guys fight bad guys doing bad things. The hows, the whys and the costs were never told. And the details of who did all the fighting—the farm boys, the college kids, the rich sons and the poor scrappers from city street to country side—was never shared.

With images of a war torn Europe jarring me awake at night, supplemented with black and white photos in the books I had been reading I expected to see a very gray country side. What hit me first about Europe was (actually the first thing that hit me was the amount of cigarette smoke hanging outside the Schiphol Airport) the color green. Neat little pastures surrounded by ditches that keep the Holsteins from wandering on to the highways. The roads paralleled by bike paths which were swallowed by clumps of trees. Canals crossed the landscape, the banks lined with houseboats. And in the highway cloverleaves, the reclamation of land showed off tiny duck filled ponds. The Netherlands look pretty much at peace.

Except for the turmoil the striking bus drivers are causing. Noon time traffic resembled evening rush hour as those who rely on the bus scrambled to drive their cars to work, burning $9.00 a gallon gas. “We don’t have many strikes,” Jan Van Helder our tour guide apologetically explained. Those of us still awake after our transatlantic flights gazed out over the roof tops of the tiny cars scooting below our hired bus windows.

Jan had arrived at the airport about twenty minutes late. About forty of us were assembled under the Meeting Place, the checker red and white sculpture sitting in the train station. It is just a public spot used as a place to gather because who is going to miss a fifteen foot high cube in the middle of a train station?

“Welcome to Europe, Dad,” I said.

“Thanks. Sure looks different than the last time”, he replied.

“Yeah, not so black and white.”

Gathering in Detroit

Gate 50. Waiting for the flight to Amsterdam. The flight will be loaded with others who are joining us on our tour.

Watch for the little chicken as she makes her way to Paris.

Nothing Left But Wait

The lilac’s gentle fragrance drifts on the afternoon breezes under deep hues of blue painted with wisps of mare tails. Tulips past their prime. Lawns cut at least twice. Its spring in bloom, flexing its muscles toward early summer.

A day like today can lull the unwise to falsely think, “I like to live here.” Of course, paradise would feel so different if that person ventured to a nearby wood or glen to suffer under a cloud of black flies, nasty little buggers that relentlessly attack. They can land undetected and bite in places the noisy mosquito can only dream about – the place behind the ear, in the ear, the place on the face near the eye that sits behind your glasses' lens, four inches up your shirt sleeve or pant leg or by burrowing through locks of hair the tender white surface of the scalp. The pest can cause a camper in the Adirondacks to swear off the place until the snow flies.

The last minute need to reduce luggage size sent us to Wal Mart in search of miniature size hairspray for Dad who has the least amount of hair among us. I also got an electrical adaptor so I can plug my computer into the weird European plugs. I am thinking, “Wasn’t this a Ben Franklin thing? How come electrical outlets are all different?”

I also picked up a bar of soap. I read soap is not supplied in most European hotels. Nor a wash cloth, but I rarely use one anyway.

Ah, this will be an interesting experience. While I have traveled abroad before I usually go for the trekking routes. Services are limited. After camping for weeks, sleeping on the ground and going without a shower or a clean change of underwear for days, a hotel’s amenities no matter how sparse are always appreciated. This time I am traveling via bus, sticking to the road most traveled and staying in hotels. I’ll expect more and tolerate less in the differences.

So I am packed. For the most part. Getting excited. Nothing left to do but smell the lilacs, kiss the cats on their noses and catch a plane.

Still Alive

I survived a bad intestinal bug to emerge a couple pounds lighter and having no desire for tea, the last thing I consumed before I went down. Definitely not the plan for the week prior to jumping the pond, a phrase I hate.

I could have been in Texas for Tina’s wedding and celebration but after spending my days exhausted – up one hour(usually spent in the bathroom)and then sleeping two – the weekend home with family was better. While they ate dump cake at 10:30 PM and chatted, I wrapped in my bathrobe sat in the corner my eyes squinting against the light. Not very social. But on Mother’s Day I woke with an appetite, the first in four days. Applesauce, toast and a banana. Yummy.

Two days before Dad, Uncle David and I head off to Europe on a seventeen day World War II tour of Europe.

Blame Game

The luggage carousel halts leaving one deserted bag at the far end of the belt. It isn’t yours. Such a defeated feeling.

There was plenty of time to make connections and change carriers in Los Angeles. Two hours to liesurely deplane, go to the bathroom, pick up a snack and stroll from United’s concourse to Continental. Except the arriving gate was occupied by a Virgin Atlantic. Under tow it managed to run over the tow vehicle and now sat helplessly cocked in the lane blocking gates for several departing and arriving flights. I imagined the investigation. Blame game one.

An hour passed. Passengers inside flight 56 from Kona roamed freely about the plane It didn’t look like we'd be moving anytime soon. Ninety minutes passed. Although the passengers in the back of the plane cheered when the seatbelt sign officially allowed us to collect our belongings and get off the plane, there were many who missed their connections. Swinging my backpack onto my shoulders I set off for the next concourse, in a light trot through an empty corridor. My reflection bouced along the windows that kept the LA night at bay. I made the connection to Cleveland, but my bags… who knows. Blame game two.

My two bags are probably in some little forgotten cargo wagon sitting on the tarmac in LAX. On May 5, United started charging $25.00 for a second bag, regardless of weight. And then they have the nerve to mishandle it! Blame game three.

My camera cables to the computer are in my luggage along with my cell phone charger.

Arrived in Albany, NY 9 AM, without bags, just in time for spring and the black flies.

Goat

On the way to the "other side", I stopped to take a photo of a flowering tree. The trees were behind an old lava wall so I used the telephoto lens to get draw the flowers in. Didn't get the shot I wanted and began to walk back to the car, picking my way through prickly brush, careful not to stub my toes on any rocks and cactus along the path.

And what did I find beneath a clump of dried leaves and grass?

Add another skull to the collection. I am not sure what it is. A few minutes earlier I spotted some wild goats grazing along the side of the road. The area is posted for donkeys, those wild asses that "escaped" the labor of hauling sacks of coffee beans off the mountain.

I don't think it is a donkey. Too small.

I saw a bloated dead pig after I continued down the roard toward the Saddle Road. Not a pig. Forehead not wide eough and nose is too long.

My choice is a goat. Pretty cool. It will go well in my office.

Five - Zip

The quickest way to make a stock go down or have the favorite horse place instead of win is to let me have a piece of the action. No I didn't place a bet in the Derby and I haven't invested in Apple, so don't worry. But sure enough if I did, the stock and the jockey will tumble and I swear every one is looking at me, mouths agape in disbelief. Shrug.

Over the years I have also noticed that anytime I move some place I am plagued with the “worst ever” syndrome. That runs from “We haven’t had this much rain since…” or “I’ve lived here all my life and I ain’t never seen locust this bad before.” Or my favorite, “It never snows here.” I have the same power over wind when on a sail boat (it dies) or volcanic eruptions (it changes course). I’ve been to Kilauea five times now and have yet to see lava pour into the ocean, all due the the power of my presence.

Just last month this lava crossed the road,” the county employee explained. “See, here.” She pointed to recent photos sitting on the back of her pickup truck, parked near a pile of solid rock that looked like left over residue dumped from a road paver. A bit skeptical, I looked at the once fire breathing rocks oozing across the asphalt.

I examined the crystal like surface. Fragile and sharp, black ground glass. A chicken clucked underneath the county worker’s truck. Give credit to the foul that knew enough to stay out of the way when the lava decided to cross the road.

Sundown was a couple hours away. At least I could wait to see the glow and shower of cinders that are seen in the Hawaiian night. I grabbed a spot near the yellow caution tape to wait for darkness to come crawling out of the sea and settle around the gathering crowd.

We waited. I listened to the bits conversations. Nebraskans conversing with a Japanese family about how to get to Oklahoma. Locals explaining recent volcanic activity to visiting friends and relatives. Honeymoon couples discussing what time the plane leaves tomorrow night. I recalled my trek around Villarico, an active volcano in Chile. One night camped below the summit, we watched the caldera’s lava cast an orange glow on the underbellies of the clouds.

Steam billowed from the spot where lava plunged into the water. Lava was not visible. (Of course) A scene from the Wizard of Oz came to mind…don’t pay attention to the man behind the curtain.

As the last bit of daylight retreated over the shoulder of Kilaeua, the eerie glow of the lava and lava splatter reflected in the clouds of steam. Winds blew the white plumes away from viewing area. The night grew darker and the glow brighter. The crowd ooh’ed and ah’ed, the appreciative sounds heard at a good fireworks display. Then in the middle of the spectators a young woman choked up a startled gasp, unsynchronized with any natural display happening on the distant lava flow. I couldn’t interpret the sound, for it wasn’t of joy, or pleasure, yet it wasn’t one of alarm or distress. The sound was so misplaced, the crowd fell silent. She offered an explanation. "A mouse. It went down that hole."
We exploded in laughter.

Mayday, Mayday, Mayday

I’ve been prowling around all day skipping from thing to another, accomplishing nothing, and feeling my frustration level growing. It's felt like one big rising anxiety attack signaling an oncoming hot flash of major temperatures. By noon time, I told myself to settle down. I did a small load of laundry and hung it out to dry, saving on electricity, the cost of which is rising faster than a plume of volcanic ash from Kilauea.

The cause? Hard to say. Chalk it up to having four days left on the Big Island before heading back to New York. For the past two days the talk on the island is about the expected price increases of everything. Seems Hawaii has been plunged into the dark ages because Aloha’s air cargo division decided to shut down when two potential buyers back away. The defunct cargo delivery workhorse for the Hawaiian Islands leaves everyone wondering how not so fresh strawberries from California , Sony TV’s for the shelves at Costco and letters from the mainland will make it to paradise.

After test riding a kick-around-town bike at a local shop, I asked the shop associate about receiving bikes from the mainland. The chubby handle-barred employee, looked like he belonged in a pair of Lederhosen, rolled his eyes and said, "It has been messed up for weeks.” Apparently the hand writing has been on the wall for some time, despite rumors to the contrary. Brief talk buzzed about the Governor's call for the National Guard. This follows the big stink the residence on the east side of the Big Island raised about low flying military planes. As a result that ain’t happening any more.

Maybe the National Guard needs to storm the palace in downtown Honolulu instead. There, a native Hawaiian group that advocates sovereignty locked the gates of a historic palace saying it would “carry out the business” of what it considers the legitimate government of the islands. Oh brother. They will be gone when it is time to stand in line for food stamps.

Ouch, you see the mood? I think I’ll go back to watching my laundry dry. I got to shoo the geckos way to be sure they don't poop on it.