France, then Home

     Avignon is a unique city. Walled, from ancient times, but modern, too. Seven Popes resided here from 1309 to 1376, when things got a little hot for them in Rome. There were lots of museums, and we stuck to the free stuff. The way we saw it, we could visit a lot of those expensive, touristy places, and stay a week. Or, we could follow our natural penny pinching inclinations, and stay six weeks. We chose to stay as long as we could.

     The Palace of the Popes was a big draw. We were walking around through it, and came upon a small room with a tomb in it. It contained the body of a Pope, from the early 1400's. Right here. Right in front of me. So close I could touch it. While I was still in awe of that fact, a couple of Nuns came in, started lighting candles. They told me they were about to do a ceremony that they do every day for the Pope. "How long has this ceremony been done, every day?" I asked. She looked at me, like I was slow to catch on, or something. "Every day since he died." Every day since 1400? Now, I was really overcome with awe. When I die, I'll be lucky if someone puts a flower on my grave, once a year, for a couple of years. Now, this is really something. 600+ years?

     There seemed to be any number of stories about the Popes of olden times, there at Avignon.

 One I heard dealt with the story that once a woman concealed that she was a woman so well, she actually became Pope. Things went along smoothly until she went into labor during a big parade. After that, a throne was constructed that the would-be Pope sat on during a ceremony. There was a hole in the bottom of the seat, and someone crawled under the throne and verified he was a man. Now, I have no way to verify these stories. Only that I heard them in Avignon.  

     We enjoyed a rare steak meal that day, complete with outdoor seating. Then we caught the train back to Cavaillon. Uneventfully, a rare thing for us.

     Next we headed for Lyon. For a change, this offered nice, stress free drive along the river through small towns. French drivers are not as pushy as Italians. At Lyon, we would give up our cute little red car, still pretty, and make a mad dash across France on the fast train to Paris.

     Our last laundry day was just as challenging as our first. We cleaned out the car, and Barbara repacked everything into that one giant case for our mad dash across France.

     We found out the right word for "airport" from a guy at a gas station, and he even drew up a map that had all the right words on it. Barbara almost wanted to kiss him on both cheeks like they do here. Not me. After passing the right road a couple of times, we kept looping back and finally delivered our little red car. And guess what! There were no traffic tickets attached! At least, none that had caught up with us in time. I suspect that's a weakness in the system, because a guy in Sweden told me it takes 5-6 weeks to get the ticket. By that time, we would be home, and who's going to extradite me over a traffic ticket? However, when we did get tickets sent to America, Barb paid up. I just know I saw an awful lot of flashing lights. We took the shuttle to the train station, ate pizza, then found a good hotel within short walking distance.

     Now we had a little time to see Lyon. A homeless guy taught us how to ride the metro, with help from two other English speakers. After arriving at city center, we had a little time to walk the streets of Lyon. There are some really different looking people here. We had noticed that before, in Quebec City. Lots of different looking people, who look like each other. I won't undertake to try to explain that, but I've got my theories.

     The fast train was wonderful. Just like watching a greatly sped up film of a very fast trip across country. But it was for real. Everything we saw that was reasonably close to the train was just a blur. Arriving in Paris, we found a Tourist Information, and booked a room. It was very expensive by our standards. Then with a little help we found a bus stop. It got us within reasonable walking distance from our hotel, if you don't take into consideration that I was an old man, broken back, struggling along with a giant bag.

     After we got settled, we talked a lot with the nice couple who own it. At least, with him. She didn't speak a word of English. He said they were going to Alabama, soon, to see kin folk. I told her through him, "If you're going to Alabama, you simply must master these three words: How ya'll doin?" She worked hard at it, but this French speaker just totally choked up on  "Ya'll". She just could not get it out.

     He told us that if we planned to travel in Paris this week, we simply must master the Metro. Well, we were finally able to use it well enough to get around. I won't say we mastered it, but at least, we fought it to a draw. We went to the Eiffel tower, first, and photographed it from all possible angles. Then the Musee D Orsay, where we saw Whistler's mother, and many more great works, next the Louve, with its Mona Lisa, and a lot more. We couldn't see it all in one day.

     Our dear friend Jane Quick gave Barbara a hundred dollar bill when we left home, and earmarked it for one big, fancy meal in Paris. I ate Pigeon, from ze' soute' of Fronce'. It was really good, but it looked just like a pigeon from ze' back alley. Barbara treated herself to a fancy kind of fish that we can't pronounce, and we spent Jane's hundred dollars, and then some.

     We took the metro and the train to Versailles, toured the grounds and the whole package, Then back to the Bastille, and so much more. I lost my bus and metro pass, but fortunately not until the last day. They were doing a lot of talking about the Bird Flu, and scared us about possibly being marooned in Europe, but it didn't happen. Barbara said it well with her last entry in her Europe diary. "Flying home – Yea!"

Forever A Hillbilly: Lost in Italy

Forever A Hillbilly: Lost in Italy:      As we traveled on up the Autostrata, along the Italian Riveara, it ran along the mountainside above the crowded coastline. Often as no...

Lost in Italy

     As we traveled on up the Autostrata, along the Italian Riveara, it ran along the mountainside above the crowded coastline. Often as not, we were in a tunnel. We have decided the Italians and the Norwegians are the world's leaders in tunnel building. But the Norwegian engineer we talked to this year said they brought  the Italians up to help with their twelve mile long tunnel and the like, and they soon went home. The rocks were too hard up there.

     Bypassing Genoa, we wound up on a major highway we thought was the Autostrata, but instead, it led to the coast. All lanes dead ended in a giant ferry terminal – to Sardenia! We had no visit planned there, but it was beginning to look like we would. It was Sunday, and the traffic was not heavy, so we parked and I walked to find help. I found a worker there, but he waved me off, would not even try to talk to me. I knew sometimes they were more helpful if you could throw in an Italian word or two, show that I was at least trying. So I went back to Barbara, and she gave me some Italian words. I went back to him, started throwing them in, but he just shook his head and walked off, saying in perfect English, "We're all Italians down here." I was getting the picture by then. He just didn't like anyone who was not Italian. I found a more friendly worker who, through very halting English, finally directed us out.

     Moving on down the coast, we decided to travel the tiny road along the coast, winding through one tiny village after another, and found a place to stay.

     We needed to change our departure date. We were getting tired, and running out of alotted  money.

     We found a library, but they were very unfriendly, saying, "Not a tourist info!" When we got across to them we just needed to use a computer, they became nicer and helpful. Barbara quickly mastered that Italian language computer, something I could just never have done. Left to my own devices, I would just have to live out my life here, being the village idiot and begging for pizza scraps. She managed to change the departure date, leaving out Spain altogether, and hanging out a week in Paris.

     To cut down on what we had to carry home, Barbara planned on mailing packages occasionally. Getting into a post office was like trying to get into Fort Knox. Bullet proof glass between them and us at all times, bomb proof chambers for all packages while they x-rayed them, long lines. When we finally got in front of an official-looking lady, Barbara just had to comment, "Our post office at home is just not like this!" The woman stuck a lecturing finger into the air, and said, "And therein lies the problem!"

     After buying a $4 coke in return for the opportunity to use the bathroom, we found lodging. Then be bought train tickets for Monaco tomorrow. Had we gotten a glimpse into what lay ahead, we probably would have just slept in that day.

     The train gave us a glimpse at the many congested little towns that lined the Riviera, finally moving into France, then Monaco. We spent a good day touring. It was a fantastic place, but not meant for pore' people like us. They were setting up the Grand Prix along beside the water. Police were everywhere. One policeman for every sixty residents. Barbara tried to get a picture of a grand car so exclusive that we didn't even recognize the name, with me standing beside it at a car dealership. Before I was anywhere near close enough to touch it, a man ran out, screaming at us, and ran us off.

     We caught our train back toward our house and our car, smooth as silk. We're world travelers now, and we know how to act the part. When it got to the border, it stopped. An announcement that we couldn't understand was made, and people were starting to get off. There was no train change on the way in, so we sat tight. After a few minutes, we began to realize we were the only people left. That's a bad sign, and just as that was sinking in, the train started back toward Monaco.

     When we got there, we ran back to the ticket agent, who spoke a little English. "You should have changed trains at the border."

     "Any more trains out today?"

     "One is leaving right now. You might catch it if you run. That's the last one."

     We ran. I quickly outdistanced Barbara. I was nearly there now. The train started to move. I was even with the engineer, and I waved frantically. The train slowed, and a door opened. Barbara was just now coming into sight, a long way back, huffing and puffing.  I put one foot on the train, and kept one on the ground, and held my position. If they shut that door now, they would have to squeeze me in it. Once we got on, we found a British couple, who were going past our village, and stuck with them like glue. So much for being big world travelers.

          

     As we realized we must be nearing our village, Barbara asked, "Now, what is the name of our village?" I didn't have a clue. It was beginning to get dark now. We moved close to the door, and strained to see something familiar. As the train slowed for a village, Barbara screamed, "There's our car!" She bolted for the door, ahead of me, and started pushing it open as soon as the train stopped. But she was on the wrong side, and she was about to step out onto a live track! Those trains run silently, are very fast, and are about a foot apart. Stepping out on the wrong side could mean instant, silent death. Several people tackled her, and pulled her back. Funny how we all remember things differently. According to Barbara, when she started to open that door, she realized her mistake, and closed it. Anyway, we were sure glad to see our cute little red car. We almost hugged and kissed it.

     The next day, we backtracked through all those little towns we had came through last night on the train, heading for France, and Avignon. It took a long time to get through by car, with car and motorcycle congestion just almost unbelievable. If there were toilets for all those people, we sure couldn't find them. The mountains usually rose steeply to our right, and we worked out our own toilet system. When we had a little scrap of flat land to the right, we pulled the car off the road to the mountain side, opened front and back doors, and we had a toilet. You just do what you have to do.

     Italian drivers are very aggressive. I just never knew when someone parked would just back right out in front of me. And, if I was not aggressive right back, I might just get crowded right off the road.

Forever A Hillbilly: Three Sistene Chapels

Forever A Hillbilly: Three Sistene Chapels:      Driving down the Autostrata, we entered Italy. It was elevated through the high mountains, with miles and miles of vineyards sloping...

Three Sistene Chapels

     Driving down the Autostrata, we entered Italy. It was elevated through the high mountains, with miles and miles of vineyards sloping toward the sky. Venice beckoned, and a few miles outside, we stopped at a guest house, the Villa Widoman. We lucked into an English speaker, and got the lay of the land from her. Then, we headed into Venice by bus. It was very crowded, with standing room only in the aisles. Barbara got separated from me, a little farther back. She got groped, and came flying up the aisle to me, scattering people left and right as she came. Welcome to Italy. By the time I understood what was going on, the guy was getting off – on crutches. What could I do? Trip him when he stepped off the bus? I should have.

     Walking around, we just enjoyed Venice. It is truly an unforgettable place. A large number of African guys each had a sheet laid out, selling knock-off purses. Suddenly, they all grabbed each corner of their sheet, picked it up, and totally disappeared. Just like that. Looking ahead, we saw a group of policemen headed our way.

     On the bus back to our Villa, we had trouble recognizing it, until it stopped, right in front.

     The next day, it rained all day. We walked miles of the inner city, and did the boat tour. The Gondola ride was too expensive, but I did offer to sing to Barbara on the boat. She said, "Just forget it."

     We had assumed the boat would just take us back to our starting place. But no. It stopped, everyone else got off. We waited for it to start again. Finally, the driver came walking back, yelling, "Fini! Fini!" We got the message, got off, looked for another boat back.

     On the bus back, the rain was pouring down. We waited for the bus to stop at our villa, but it just roared past. We finally recognized it as it receded in the distance. We got off at the next stop, stood in the rain 30 minutes, and finally caught another bus back. We looked like a couple of drowned rats, and the bus driver laughed at us. Barbara was in no mood for an Italian comedian, and griped at him all the way back to the Villa. Once we were off, he opened the door back up, laughed, waved, and said, "Arriva darche!" Barbara said, "Yeah, uh huh" Arriving back at our Villa, Barbara explained to our English speaker, "We waited for the bus to stop, but it just went on by! I have no idea why it didn't stop, it did yesterday." She looked us over for a while, and said, "It stopped yesterday because I was on it, and I pressed the stop button." Duh! I guess that's about all you can expect when a hillbilly and a Delta farm gal go abroad.

     Moving on down, we stopped for the night in a small city. We had just about given up on their road map, and just looked for city names on road signs. The hotel was a four star, but not by US standards. The pizza place was at least four stars, though. All fresh ingredients, cut up while we watched.

     We continued our travel strategy of stopping a few miles outside of a major city, keeping our car out of such places, and taking a short train ride in. We could never find a parking place for our car when we got into those horrible traffic jams. The trains were wonderful, and not expensive.

     Florence was an unforgettable city, a mecca for famous artists and scientists. Where the Mona Lisa was painted, where Galileo worked, Elizabeth Browning lived. We missed the David sculpture. The lines were long, and reservations were required. We toured Florence twice. A fantastic place. An attendant at a pay toilet even gave me a receipt. What was I to do with that? Take a tax deduction?

     Back home at our little house, we hit another pizza place. But it was overran by a large group of Chinese tourists. They were very pushy. We've noticed this before. Now, why is that?

     We drove on down to Orvieto. We drove in circles, no English speakers, but found a hotel.

We went to buy train tickets for Rome for the next day. Have I ever told you, every single thing we do is hard? Well, the ticket agent just got so frustrated with us, just trying to buy two simple train tickets to Rome, just a few miles on down the road, that he pretended to shoot himself in the head with his finger gun.

     Unable to find a place to wash clothes, we recycled. Barbara felt absolutely filthy. I felt perfectly fine. We rode a finicula up the hill to the city center. Everything in town seemed to be all about this fantastic church they had. Well, it was spectacular.

     Boarding the train on our hard to get tickets, we went to Rome. We went to the Vatican, but the Pope just was not at home, or he snubbed us. We moved on to St. Peter's Cathedral – determined to see the Sistene Chapel, and it's ceiling. We thought we had seen it in two different rooms, then we accidentally stumbled across it on the way out. The Colosseum was spectacular, though we had to look and photograph it through the rain, and the dirty bus windshield.

     Arriving back at Orvieto, we got a "thumb's up" from the frustrated ticket agent from yesterday. I think he figured that if we ever found our way onto the train, we would never come back.

     When we got to Pisa, we decided it didn't look so big. Surely we could just drive around and locate a big, leaning tower. But no, we finally had to board a bus to get there. Barbara has a problem with straight and crooked, something we worked hard with tripods and cropping to keep secret while we were in the photography business. She snapped her first photo of the leaning tower, and in the photo it was standing straight up! She quickly deleted it, knowing I would make a lot of mileage out of that jewel.

Forever A Hillbilly: Our Friend, the Spy

Forever A Hillbilly: Our Friend, the Spy: Southern Europe, continued Sorry this post is late, but we've been spending some time in a cabin in the Smoky Mountains, plus my comp...

Our Friend, the Spy

Southern Europe, continued

Sorry this post is late, but we've been spending some time in a cabin in the Smoky Mountains, plus my computer has been acting up.

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     The next day, it was raining. We headed for Neuschwanstein Castle at Fussen. We located a road that seemed to lead up to the castle, although we could not, of course, read the signs. We headed up. About half way up, we began to realize there were no other cars on this road. Only horse-drawn carts filled with people. We turned around, got back down without being busted, and found us a horse-drawn cart of our very own to ride up on.  The first stop was at the back, with a beautiful lake, so we got off and pictured away. We got a lot of good pictures of the beautiful back of the castle, and then the rain set in hard.  Barbara was too worn out to walk around to the front, and the driving rain just finished her off.  We loaded on a cart headed down, and I just imagined how grand the front of that castle must have been. But we will never know. We got off the cart in the driving rain, loaded into our car, and headed for Austria.

     Now, all those pictures you see of beautiful, steep round mountains, with cute little men in their cute little pants, neat little pointy hats, walking stick in hand, were for real! We saw a lot of those guys. I had figured that would be like the Arkansas hillbilly stereotype, with their overalls, pointed hat, corncob pipe, Grandma dipping snuff in a rocker, several hounds asleep on the porch. I have actually seen a place like that, in eastern Tennessee. From a train. Take one or two of those requirements off, and it would have nailed me good in Wing.

     Driving on through the mountains and several small towns, we found a guest house beside a steep, beautiful mountain. The nice lady could speak only German, but the only other guest stepped forward, interpreting her German into perfect, even southern, English. Talking just like we talked in Arkansas.

     Well, by now I'm sure you realize, Barbara was not about to just let that lie. She had to know what was going on.

     He was soon our friend, and over a glass of orange juice, she grilled him good. Yes, he had been to America. Still goes regularly. No, he had never been to the South. I went into my hillbilly mode, pulling out,  "We shore are much obliged to you-all,"  throwing in a "feller" now and then, even reaching way back and came up with a "youens'." He couldn't speak hillbilly, but that was about the only thing he couldn't speak. I think it finally helped him realize we were harmless.

     Finally, he just sat there and looked us over good for a long time, poured another glass of orange juice, and began to tell us the most fantastic story we have heard in all our travels. His name was Rio. He was a citizen of the world, he said, claiming no country as his home. He was born in a middle eastern country, and his family moved from one country to another as he grew up, and he picked up one language after another. He was a little dark, a little white, and could pass for about any nationality.

     After becoming a pilot in the Portuguese Air Force, he was trained in regional dialects, for any country. His job was to travel about, assuming the identity of anybody from anywhere.

     He asked us if we had a certain stamp on our car that was required for travel in Austria. Of course, we did not. Agreeing to show us where we could buy one, we all got in our car and headed out. We bought the sticker, and drove around for a long time, just seeing the village and talking. He explained that when you violated a traffic law in Europe, a flash would go off, and they had your picture. The fine would be waiting for us when we turned our rental car in.

     Well, I could already remember a bunch of flashes going off, usually when we were confused and wandering about, which was most of the time. I dreaded seeing our rental car bill.

     He was at the guest house, he said, to meet his buddies, climb the mountain. Then they would spend a day drinking beer and playing cards on top, then climb down.  He currently lived with his wife in Germany.

     After arriving back at our lodging, he offered to buy us dinner. Well, who can refuse that? And, Barbara was nowhere near through with him yet.

     We sat down. He offered to buy me a beer. I didn't like beer, so I said no thanks.

     He looked at me hard. "You won't drink a beer with me, Pat?" I could tell he took that personally. I drank beer.

     After we had eaten a great meal and he had a bunch more beers, he began to really loosen up, and tell us more.

     During the first Gulf War, He was recruited by the US Air Force because he spoke perfect Arabic. He was sent to Colorado Springs for training. His most fearful moments ever, he said, was the night he and his buddies wandered into the wrong part of Colorado Springs by accident. Sounded a lot like stories we had heard a world away, in Australia.

     When He got to Iraq, he assumed his Arabic identity. Those same buddies arrested him one night, and he smiled and said, "It's me, guys." They wouldn't believe him, and he had to show them his US Air Force pants, on under his robe, before they would let him go.

     Currently, he said, he makes regular trips to the eastern US near Washington, D.C. The CIA was never mentioned, but we understood..

     The next morning, he walked us out to our car. He had a small lecture for Barbara. "You travel far too lightly about the world. People will entrap you. You should never have let me in your car yesterday."

     "We had you outnumbered."

     He laughed. "I wasn't worried." He waved Barbara's camera away. No pictures, no address, no e-mail address. "But I will e-mail you." We're still waiting.