London

The beauty of Brussels is not outmatched by its convenient proximity to the cities of Western Europe.  And naturally after sampling the haute culture of Paris, a quick trip across the Chunnel was in order. I was so proud of having booked all of our travel arrangements myself, and a short train ride later we found ourselves in the Tube, trying to plot out a route to our boutique hotel in Kensington. It took us a few tries but in the end, we found it. We were so thrilled when we saw the hotel, with its perfectly manicured, quaint facade complete with meticulously tended flower boxes on every window. Check in was uncomplicated and we dashed up to the top floor to drop off our bags (no roller suitcases this weekend!) and scope out the new, albeit temporary, digs.

Boy, were we shocked! Somehow we were completely naïve to the size of things in London. Each of us had to take a turn to get through the door, which promptly led us to our first encounter with a keycard light switch. Once we had figured out that in order to turn the light on, the key card had to be in the slot under the main switch, we could see how truly tiny the room really was. One had to stand at the foot of the second twin bed and turn 180 degrees to enter the bathroom, where yet another 180 was then required to close the bathroom pocket door. There was a small dormer window over the narrow path between the bunks which one person could occupy at a time before quickly jumping into her respective place of repose in order to allow her traveling companion to follow suit on the other side of the shoebox.

But it was cleaned and had everything we needed with the added bonus of a super cute storefront, safe location, and proximity to the Tube so all in all we were quite content. We stopped at a tourist shop to buy Mom's requisite souvenir Mind the Gap socks before piling onto a red double decker London bus for a hop-on, hop-off tour, complete with proportionate eye-rolling on my part.

Mind you, it was August and sunny, and we were on the upper deck of a topless red bus for the better part of an afternoon, but I think I may be the only person who has ever gotten lobster level sunburned in Jolly Old! I mean, we are talking sunglasses lines and all. I guess that is what I get for going against my gut and brazenly being a tourist, apologetic or not. 

We had a great time, nonetheless, because in the end, when you're traveling, no one else knows you, which sort of frees you up to do whatever you want. And so even though I was not only very obviously an American tourist (despite having spent the last four months on the Continent, trying to blend in), but a very red one. We saw the Crown Jewels and the Tower of London, did a river cruise of the Thames, but what topped it all was last minute tickets to Mamma Mia in the West End. 

It was a short two days, but very memorable - after all, who could forget eating baked beans for breakfast?! And on our last road trip, we sang along to the entire Broadway soundtrack

Mom's first trip to the Continent

As my brief tenure in Belgium wounds it's way toward a close, my mother flew in to meet me in Brussels for one last jaunt. She would be there for 10 days, then we'd fly home together. Mom had never been to Europe; the closest she'd been was our trip years back to England and Ireland. So I had planned some excursions for us: to Paris for a weekend, and two places I'd not yet been, London and Venice.  I had been traveling according to my financial status in Europe: that of graduate student on a volunteer stipend. By then I was staying at a historic townhouse in the city center as a house sitter for an American family posted to Brussels living off base. In my charge were their two very different pet cats, Dickens and Hamilton. Dickens was skinny and shy, almost elusive, while Hamilton was outright obese and extremely social, even gregarious. Hamilton would climb up the stairs to the bedroom on the weekend mornings to wake me up if I'd slept in too long. He would meow the entire way, expressing his dissatisfaction at not having been fed breakfast as early as deemed appropriate by his ample stomach. 

So I met mom at the airport and we travelled by bus to the city center. The bus stopped very near to the townhouse, and so we walked the rest of the way, mom very much enchanted by the lovely architecture of the well preserved residential neighborhood. I left her to rest in the good care of an attentive Hamilton and the relatively absent Dickens before heading in to the office for several hours. I'd left instructions for Mom to help herself when she got hungry and to try to sleep off some of the jet lag. I didn't dare leave food out on the off chance that dear Hamilton might miraculously heft his girth onto the counter if the incentive were great enough. After I finished at work for the day, the plan was to pick mom up at the townhouse and head for the train station, where we'd catch the high speed for our weekend in Paris. I had per booked everything, from our separate seats on the Thalys (I got a student discount but subsequently had to ride in a different car) to what Expedia described as a four star hotel not far from the hill of Montmartre. 

All went according to plan for the most part, except of course for the exceedingly tall, Japanese Belgian man in his very early  thirties mom met in her train car. As it happened, so she later explained, he was sitting next to her and spoke English, so naturally after he mentioned wanting to settle down, mom thought of me. God knows how long they spent discussing me, but mom must have painted me in a good light overall, for as the train slowed for imminent arrival he gave her his business card, in case I wanted to keep in touch. As you might imagine, once I found mom on the train prior to disembarking, I vehemently wished I had just waited for her on the platform. And after awkward introductions between myself and the aforementioned businessman, I rolled my eyes so many times at my mother that if one could injure oneself so, I would have suffered permanent damage. But by then we were in Paris, out of the Gare Saint Lazare dragging our luggage behind us. If I may say, we had planned the baggage badly for a weekend away, and would not be making that mistake again. 

By then my French was acceptably travel worthy, though not at all proficient beyond that capacity, but I still managed to get us lost, if only for 10 or 20 minutes. Relief flooded us both when we found our reserved hotel and, au Francais, I checked in with the front desk. 

However it was fleeting, when the clerk said, "Ah, oui, Mademoiselle Rosser. You have a very nice room reserved, acclimatise, everything, but...not in this hotel."

"Pardon?!" Came my incredulous reply, a moment of panic coming over me.

"Oui," he continued, "your chambre is at our sister hotel, very nice, around the corner." He proceeded to give me directions to the very nice sister hotel in half French, half English, which turned out to be a little further than just around the corner.

We made it to hotel number two quite easily though, and repeated my now practiced check in procedure, this time in English due largely in part to my nerves by this stage. Somewhat surprisingly, it went off without a hitch and we headed to the elevator, as our room was on the fifth floor and we had our small roller suitcases. As the door to the elevator slid open, though, we looked at each other with raised eyebrows when we saw what was the smallest elevator either of us had ever beheld.  We could barely stuff ourselves in it, tandem, with our bags, but we made it and rode giggling up to our room. The lift might have tipped us off, but we were far too naive for that, and I was oblivious, partly out of necessity, to the drawbacks of my travel budget. 

Upon entering the room, we noticed a very old, very low queen bed but otherwise a pretty standard room. Until, that is, I wandered into the bathroom and discovered a bona fide hole in the tile and through the entire wall of our shower. At least I had the where with all not to stoop down and look through it; there was no light I could appreciate from my end so I actively chose to believe the other end must of  opened to a neighboring closet or something of that ilk. 

In any case, we were in Paris, the city of lights, and planned on spending next to no time in the room anyway. We dropped off our suitcases and set out in search of one of the famous sidewalk cafés. 

Now have I mentioned it was August, in Europe? Which is tantamount to saying that the vast majority of the Continent shuts down. Who would have thought that the sidewalk cafés of Paris would be a empty and silent as a ghost town? I half expected a tumbleweed to blow by. We finally found an open brasserie and sat down, shortly to be attended to by an over zealous but understaffed Armenian waiter who introduced himself as Yousef. Mom ordered some awful, limp frankfurters, and my meal was so underwhelming I can't remember to this day what it was I had ordered. What we do remember though, is Yousef, who kept asking me my name in French, and, emboldened by my answer, then began petting my hair whenever he walked by.  Escaping the clutches of disturbing Yousef, we quickly paid and headed back to our hotel lobby, where we perused tourist brochures and asked the concierge for recommendations. 

We settled on a cruise of the Seine the following day, and I compromised on a private tour of the city at night by car. Mom loved guided city tours and I loathed them, too touristy. So, the next morning we breakfasted at the hotel before catching the bus to Notre Dame. The cathedral was intimidating, commandeering all of its tiny island in the Seine, with gargoyles leering above us. Inside, the Gothic influence was still palpable in the dark, but you could practically smell the history, thick in the air. 

We lunched at a much nicer, much more occupied sidewalk cafe on the Left Bank, where mom was sure that our French waiter scoffed at us continually, especially when she requested a second spoon for our shared, and amazing, creme brûlée.  I tried repeatedly to explain to mom that just because no one was speaking English directly to us absolutely did not mean they did not understand what we were saying, and therefore, courtesy dictated that mom should not talk about the people around us in a normal conversational voice unless she had very nice things to say. We revisited this topic more than once during our brief visit to the French capital.

After lunch we cruised the Seine under the unchanging watch of the Eiffel Tower, enjoying a sunny day and the beautiful architecture surrounding us. Before our evening tour, we hit the Louvre, marveling at the Classical Antiquities, the Egyptian Artifacts, and of course, da Vinci 's now ever crowded Mona Lisa.

The Eiffel Tower glittered before us toward the end of our admittedly enchanted evening tour, and we fell into the uncomfortably low hotel bed two very content frugal travelers.  

Our departure the next day was early evening, so we left our bags at the front desk at check out, and hiked up the hill of Montmartre. We stumbled across a cute little market shop and went inside for croissants. No one ever told me just how steep that particular hill is, but once we reached the Sacre Coeur, it was well worth it. Street artists sold watercolors just before the steps to the city vista, and mom bought one of the Champs Élysées for me which we had framed Stateside. Walking around the basilica and down the steps to the terrace, the view of Paris laid out along the river Seine before us was indeed breathtaking, something for a postcard. 

Much to my relief, mom didn't find anyone on the train ride back to Brussels to set me up with, and we headed back to the company of the two townhouse cats for a night's rest before more gallivanting around Western Europe another day.

They still call Tucson the Old West...

Yes, this is still a travel blog. But I recently had the chance to tell this true story to visiting family, and it turned out to be so much fun that I thought I would try to capture some of the humor here to share.  And the story itself does involve some travel too, so here goes.

Because my husband, Jonathan, and I are from different parts of the United States, my parents offered to throw us an engagement party in my hometown of Tucson during Jon's spring break from teaching. You see, I am obviously from Arizona, where my parents still lived, and Jon is from Wisconsin, where most of his family still lives, except his parents who moved to Utah. To make matters slightly more complicated, at this time I was living in Charleston, South Carolina, working at my first job after completing a surgery residency, while Jonathan was still in Wisconsin teaching full time and getting his Masters. 

Mom and Karen, close family friend and my godmother, had been helping me plan the engagement party long distance, since they were local. I was really excited about it because I still had a lot of friends in Tucson and Jonathan really wanted to have the wedding in his hometown of Chippewa Falls. So this was our chance to celebrate with a lot of the Tucson folk. Mom had reserved a reception room at the Arizona Inn, one of my favorite historic venues in town. It was one of the places I used to meet my grandfather for lunch when I was in undergrad at UofA, and held special memories. Not only that, but it is a well kept up property, kind of a little oasis in the midst of a busy part of the city, with classic style but still true to its Southwest environs.  We had settled on crudités, smoked salmon, cheese and fruit platters, and passed trays of hors d'oeuvres with coffee, chocolate covered strawberries and iced tea or lemonade. Mom had invitations made and sent out, and it was going to be very nice.

Of note, our engagement party would also be the first time our parents had met, as Jonathan's parents, Sheri and John, were driving to Tucson for the better part of a week for the event. As they had not been to the area previously, nor had Jonathan, we planned a mini tour, starting in Bisbee where we would meet them and had reserved rooms at none other than the historic (and haunted?) Copper Queen Hotel. 

My dad had been in and out of the hospital for a few years with some complicated health issues. About a week before the party, I was talking to him on the phone and realized he needed to go back in. So he put Mom on the phone, and I told her to take him in on emergency. When they admitted him for kidney failure, we thought seriously about canceling the party but Mom said she thought he wanted to go to the party and so we decided to wait and see. One of the things about kidney failure is the circulating toxins that aren't being properly eliminated can really affect the brain's normal functioning. So Dad could recognize me, and even Jon, but was just not able to do most things, in part because he also had trouble with disorientation, apparently common in intensive patients. 

In the midst of all this, our house in Madison, Wisconsin, where I had lived during my residency, was closing on the real estate market, in Dad's name.  In order to close on it, we needed the account number of the mortgage on that house, but of course he was in no shape to deal with any of that.

Shaping up to be heck of a meet the parents weekend, right?

My mother's sister was also flying in from the Northwest, and we had booked an evening for all of us at the Gaslight Theatre, a fun comedy theatre that does costume spoof musicals which are always a riot. You can order pizza and ice cream sundaes to your table during the show, and afterwards they do an old olio show.

So after visiting my dad in the hospital, Jonathan and I drive down to Bisbee to meet his parents. We spent the night there, after dinner laughing at his dad's stories of hitchhiking across the US when he was a teenager. The next day we went antique-ing and then drove the short way to Tombstone. I had never been to Tombstone, but is was so cliche! So touristy! The most interesting thing we saw there was the world's largest rose bush. We poked around a bit and had delicious barbecue for lunch before driving toward Tucson. I had found a winery on the internet, so we stopped there for a tasting, but it was like a ghost town and we the only customers for who knows how long.

By the time everyone had arrived in Tucson officially, Mom and I knew it was too late to cancel the engagement party. We also knew Dad would not be coming, sad as it was. 

So instead of meeting my parents, John and Sheri met my mom and Richard and Karen Parker, my godparents. The whole Parker clan got together and cooked for us that first day at my mother's house, like a catered meal. It was really great and also worked as a perfect icebreaker. John and Sheri settled in at their hotel and had been really understanding when we explained the situation with my Dad. 

The next day we met Jon's folks for lunch, I always try to get in as much real Mexican food as possible when I'm home, then went on to the Sonoran Desert Museum. Then everyone met up at Gaslight for dinner and a show. At first I think poor John and Sheri weren't sure what to think, but part way into the show they seemed to start to get into it.

The next day was the party, and, as anticipated, it was lovely and everyone had a good time.  Mom and Karen had done a great job and it showed, everything went off with out a hitch. Jonathan's parents headed out the next day to do a little more exploring on their drive back to Utah. Jon and I and my mom met Richard and Karen the next day at the hospital, ironically just a block or two away from the Arizona Inn. Richard had worked in real estate and knew what things we needed to close on the house. Despite being moved to a hospital room with a window, Dad's disorientation was not improving. So after dinner together that night, the Parker's took my mom on an errand and Jon and I drove to the house. Our mission: find the mortgage number. We hunkered down in Dad's office, me at the computer, Jonathan on the floor in front of the filing cabinet. We went through everything, but no mortgage number, not even as a document on the computer. So I logged on to Dad's online baking account and began to go through the bill pay. Jonathan was now looking in the closet, from which he emerged with a small rifle stored in a long sock. I had a little bee bee rifle as I kid, so I thought maybe it was that.  Jonathan sat back on the floor, behind me, as I was still working online, and he was checking out the gun.  Now, I can guess what you're thinking. Still, these were difficult times, and obvious as it was, I didn't think I was in eminent danger.

Boy was I wrong! Of course the rifle discharged, at which point it becomes painfully clear that this was no bee bee gun, but rather a shotgun!  I was no longer on the internet, but screaming at Jonathan, "what the hell are you thinking?"

To which he indignantly replied, "I checked the chamber and it was empty."

"Well, clearly not!" I said, sharply, also pointing out that it was clearly a shotgun. By then, I think he was more scared of me than the shotgun, which turned out to be my Dad's 22 gauge.  I then went on to say, "you never fire a gun inside a house, sitting behind another human being! This is how people die in gun accidents!" I think it might have still been more of a spoken comment than a yelled one. I told him somewhat more quietly, to put the gun away and not to touch it again, while I finished with the online banking. Then, I went to the closet to look for the round.  I never did find it, though I did find bullet holes in three of my dad's coat sleeves. Turns out, the round had gone up into the ceiling and come out through the wall in the adjacent guest bedroom.  The walls had to be patched and my cousin Jason had to climb up on the roof to make sure there was no exit hole!

We haven't been back to Arizona since, but more importantly, Jonathan is no longer allowed to handle firearms, at least not when I am around. 

Summer Weekend Getaway

Lounging in a luxurious, small boutique hotel room with the amber light of the bedside lamp, the panoramic window cracked to let in the fresh cool air. Outside several wisps of cloud cling to the mountainside, just after the rain.  Dusk settles in, only a faint yellow fading on the horizon.  The bell tower of St. Nikolai rises dramatically against the mountain backdrop, lighted subtly from below. Lights twinkle in the distant foothills.

Thus begins our first, and long overdue, weekend summer getaway. We have come to Villach, near the Austrian Italian border; home of mountains, lakes, and the river Drau, on whose banks our modern retreat comfortably resides. Beneath me the lights of the town begin to glimmer, as more low clouds sweep across the mountain view. The night air smells fresh, with hints of pine and clean glacial lakes. The day's moody rain clouds solemnly roll eastward, and the bell chimes from its tower. 

It is an early evening in for me, while Jon is downstairs enjoying the sauna. We strolled through the rain in late afternoon, crossing a nearby bridge to the city center. Our investigations paid off, as one of the historic buildings off the main square boasts a sidewalk cafe with a very affordable traditional breakfast - we plan on trying it in the morning.  Afterwards we will make our way to Tarvisio, Italy, just 30 minutes away. It will be Jon's first trip to Italy, and we hope to buy some authentic parmigiana for an afternoon picnic while hiking in the Carinthian mountains.  

Tonight I had what I presume to be rather classic Southern Austrian fare, pasta dumplings stuffed with herbed tropfen in butter sauce with a side of green salad. Tomorrow promises Italian food, naturally, and if I'm very lucky, perhaps an Italian leather handbag from the open air market?

The lurking clouds have left the cover of the mountainside, and are quickly overtaking my windowscape, now blotting out everything but the uplit belltower. A cup of Darjeeling tea and a soak in the marble bathtub might be just the thing before Jon returns with chocolate mousse room service...

King Dog of Austria

It is a sad day here in the Volcano household.  Our long time beloved intrepid travel companion is on his last journey. Nearing his 14th birthday, Jackson, the yellow lab who has travelled across North America by truck multiple times as well as jumping that pond we refer to as the Atlantic, is preparing for his final trip to find his favorite nap place with his Grandpa Jerry. A painful and aggressive bony tumor has found its way into Jackson's left femur, in a location where removal just isn't a good option.  Rest assured, we are doing everything possible to provide this treasured pet every comfort while we have the opportunity to do so.  Currently doggie hospice includes metronomic chemotherapy; a pain management cocktail consisting of non steroidal anti-inflammatories, opioids, Gabapentin, and gastroprotectants; infra-red laser therapy, acupuncture, cold therapy; and palliative bisphosphonates will be in the express mail tomorrow. When these are not enough, we will send him to stay with my Dad, who was always Jackson's favorite:)

But enough of the bad news, because Jackson hates it when I cry.  He tries to crawl in my lap and lick me, which is a big deal for a 70lb pet!  This dog has lived in more places than my husband, and as a travel companion has always consistently and quietly expressed his opinion.  Jackson's story began in Tucson, AZ, where he was deemed unadoptable by the local shelter due to previous owner surrender attributed to barking, digging, and jumping.  At that time he was an eleven month old intact male named 'Lucky.'  My friend Amy had contacts at the shelter and volunteered to foster him to save him from humane destruction, and one thing lead to another. The night I went to Amy's to pick him up, he walked across the back of the couch to meet me at the front door, as Amy opened it.  As we left, he lunged at the fish swimming in her fish tank, which thankfully was large enough to outweigh him and his velocity.

After weeks of obedience school at Reid Park and doggie play dates with his friend the Great Dane, the neighbor clued us in to Jackson's daily routine of jumping the backyard fence with a little help from the BBQ grill.  He would roam the great outdoors and then use the trash can to get back in the yard, all without being detected.  Makes you wonder how closely that neighbor was watching us!

We moved to Colorado for four years of vet school, the first of which we resided in a basement. We spent late nights studying for Anatomy exams and snuggling to keep warm. As veterinary sophomores, we moved to a lovely little house with a great backyard which we shared with my good friend and classmate, Amanda, and her adorable Scottie, Willy. Jackson and I briefly took up jogging, and when I got a summer internship in Belgium, Jackson went to stay with his buddy, Grandpa Jerry.  

While I was in Europe, Dad was teaching Jackson to assume the position, code for nap time, next to Dad's recliner.  Also coincidently during this time, Jackson developed an obsession for cheese, as well as Elliot Ness level sixth sense when someone might be serving themselves up some cheese.

Our third year in Colorado, we moved to a house with a large backyard, porch, sliding glass door complete with doggie door, and across the street from a park.  Jackson got a sister, Daisie the rescue Bernese Mountain dog, and he taught her how to be a dog.  They chased squirrels and barked at the neighbor dogs, and snow plowed on leash walks to itch their faces and backs and roll in the snow. My roommates and I took up amateur belly dancing, and whenever we practiced at home, Jackson would climb up into our blue sitting chair in the living room, just to be close to us.  We called it his Sultan chair.

Two years later we all drove from Colorado to Florida, for my internship.  Jackson was not a fan of sharing the backseat of the GMC Sierra with Daisie, and would rest his head on the arm rest or the shoulders of the front seats and dramatically sigh to make his discontent known.  

This became a theme over the years during our multiple long distance drives, from Florida to Arizona, Arizona to Ontario, Canada, etc.  

For a week we even lived in a Comfort Inn in Madison, WI with my mother while looking for a place to live during my 3 year surgery residency. 

And in a single wide trailer with fritzy air conditioning outside Charleston, SC in August while we waited to move into our newly bought and simultaneously rented starter house. 

When we moved to Austria and I went to the airport to pick up Jackson and Daisie, driving my colleague's six speed diesel, Jackson began barking continuously once he had seen me until he was out of his crate and sitting next to me in the passenger seat.

This dog has seen buffalo from the car window in Custer National Park, chased my horse, Norman even after flying through the air twice after deftly administered kicks from the horse (luckily no one was injured).  We once did a fun run at the vet school in Ft. Collins while I was wearing a walking cast. 

Suffice it to say, over the last thirteen years Jackson and I have been through a lot together, and I will miss him profoundly.  Be that as it may, for now, he is happily resting on his expensive orthopedic pet bed in front of the open balcony door with an oscillating fan blowing on him, the King Dog of Austria.

A Bachelor's Tour of Amsterdam

After our very short lived return to Vienna recently, I went to work for a very busy day while Jon stayed home and readied us for the next leg of our own version of the Amazing Race. He madly did laundry, fluffed and folded, packed our bags with clothes and shoes, secured my laptop in the special zippered compartment in my roller suitcase. We settled in for a short night's sleep before we met not one but two taxis at 4:30am the next morning. While I understand Jon's concern that one might not show up on time, you might imagine the second taxi driver was not enthused that he was up at such an hour and without a client.  Nevertheless, we made it to the airport on time and I might add, for a far cheaper rate than the usual set rate. We boarded our flight, and ate our yummy sandwiches before touching down on the tarmac at Schilpol in Amsterdam. We managed to locate the train and even to buy tickets and get on going in the right direction, but we were surprised when our train, evidently an express, sailed through the station at which we wished to disembark without so much as even pretending to slow down. We were by this time on the clock: one of my abstracts had been accepted as a poster for the European Veterinary Conference and had to be on display by 10:30am that morning. It was already 9:50 by the time we stepped off the express at the next station, where after 15 minutes we were able to get on a train that would not only pass our destination, but actually stop there. We walked from the station to the conference center, where I successfully installed my poster at 10:27am.  Our next challenge was to get to our hotel.

As many of you know, I like to live and travel comfortably.  As my friend Jen once described it, "I am a hotel girl, not a motel girl." But, at the same time, I very much prefer to find a great deal that I can feel proud of.  Our trip to Amsterdam was no different.  We were travelling frugally, since we hadn't had time to budget for this trip. So I had Hotwired us a four star hotel in relative proximity to the conference center - and this time we had hit pay dirt. After a short, €10 cab ride to the modest exterior of the NH Musica, we were able to check in early. Our room was clean and comfortable, with a modern decor in neon green and a huge flat screen TV. The bathroom was luxurious in slate with a rain shower head. 

I changed my clothes and readied myself to head back to the conference, while Jon familiarized himself with the nearby public transport. He found me a bus about a block away from the hotel that would take me right to the conference center, and he began to plan his afternoon in Amsterdam.

While I spent the afternoon listening to lectures, Jon went to the Heinenkin brewery for a three hour self led tour, complete with a tasting and a canal cruise. 

He came back to the hotel with dinner from a local grocer, and we spoiled ourselves watching TV in English - Masterchef New Zealand!

The next day I again headed to my conference, excited to hear the morning's speaker, and Jon set out for the Torture Museum and Madam Toussaud's, where he caught up with George Clooney, of course. 

I had purchased Jon a bicycle tour of the famous Amsterdam coffee houses through Expedia, so Jon waited patiently at the tour's meeting point, though they never arrived.  So after a half hour, he decided to take himself on a tour of the coffee houses. He got quite lost on his back to the hotel after that, but he came back with yummy pizza for dinner and we called it a night after watching Christianne Amanpour.  

Now I know you are probably thinking I was a big travel dud on this trip, but in my defense, I had the flu the entire time, beginning with our last day in Porto. But the moral of the story is, it gave Jon free rein to explore Amsterdam. He visited the Red Light District Musuem, the House of Bols distillery, and the Dungeon. He diligently tried to see Anne Frank's house, at my recommendation, but spent more than an hour waiting in an unmoving line.  On our last day there, conference free, we went downtown to the Rijksmuseum, which had been closed for renovation on my first visit to Amsterdam in 2004. It was a beautiful spring day with Dutch tulips everywhere. We saw Blue Delft, Rembrandt, and everything in between before picnic-ing next to the pond bedecked with yet more potted tulips, as posted previously from the Rijksmuseum wifi:)

All in all, it was a successful trip despite my sickness and conference commitments, and between Jon and I, we can decisively make expert recommendations for any Amsterdam bound tourist!

Resurfacing...

Yes, I know, it has been an unforgivably long absence.  I do apologize, and I have reasons to offer you, dear reader.  But I think instead of using up precious time on reasons, you will understand when I begin to tell you where it is I have been all this time...
First there are all the recent travels:
We have been to Jaidhof to commemorate the opening of a beautiful equine physiotherapy center on a gorgeous Austrian Spring day, when we also strolled through Krems, and courtesy of a colleague of Jon's, took a short but scenic drive along the Danube with glimpses of the renowned Wachau Valley.
Next we flew to seaside Portugal, by way of Frankfurt, where we were caught unawares by an extended layover.  What better to do,then, than to hop the train into town and take a walk by the river before settling down at Roemerplatz for some cliche but delicious Frankfurters mit Sauerkraut and Hefeweizen. (My advice here: skip the Handkase mit Musik).  We saw the Roemer Dom, a beautiful church of St. Francis, and many fantastically quaint historic buildings, all in all making up a layover far exceeding even the best of airport accomodations.
Next up we connected into Porto, where our hotel was less than impressive but entirely adequate.  After sleeping in a bit we headed for the marina to meet the bride and groom and fellow wedding goers for a cruise of the Douro River on a perfect sunny day.  We were naive, at this point, not to realize what all was in store for us.  As we boarded the ship white port was waiting on ice as an aperitif, along with local delicacy appetizers of ham on specialty bread and a gorgeous spread of tropical fruit. After cruising for about an hour the sit down lunch commenced, with a wine tasting of three additional Portuguese wines, including the esteemed vinho verdi, and herbed pork with the best warm cabbage salad I have ever eaten.  Dessert was champagne to toast the happy couple and scrumptious chocolate cake.  Several of us then elected to walk back to the center of town, and cross the bridge to the Port Caves, where we experienced a delightful tour of Sandemann from Luis, in Portuguese no less, but with the added luxury of our personal translator and colleague friend, Paulo Steagall.  After sangria in the shade, we went in search of dinner, which for the seafood lovers was a baked salted codfish, called bacuahlao.  After another flight of wine tasting we were all done for, and we wandered back to the hotel for some very necessary beauty sleep.  The wedding was the following day, and after some sunshine at the pool midday, we readied ourselves for the marathon that was to come.  The wedding was lovely and the company was excellent - we all danced until 4am when bed began to call...  Sunday was a chance for us to see the countryside at a barbeque courtesy of the groom's family.  Naturally there was homemade wine and smoked sausage to try, as well as classic baked beans and a multitude of other dishes.  Our last day in Porto was relaxed; Jon took on the duty of tourguide and did a great job by the lot of us. We ate Francesihna at the Majestic Cafe, walked to the Lello Bookstore to see Harry Potter's staircase, saw the sea, and rode the streetcar. We wandered the gardens of the Cristal Palais, strolled and photgraphed our way through downtown, and sampled the local shrimp and bread stew.

The next day we headed back to Vienna with yet another stopover, this time in my old haunting ground of Brussels, Belgium.  Jon of course had never been, so we hopped the bus and found our way to the city center, where we got Jon a Belgian waffle with caramel sauce from a street vendor to tide him over until our imminent arrival in Le Grand Place.  As always when walking to the Grand Place, he was taken aback by the narrow winding streets that prevent any glimpse of the majestic square until suddenly you are smack dab in the middle of a postcard scene.  We found a sidewalk eatery and ordered the must have, carbonade flamande with pomme frittes (they are Belgian, after all, not French!) and a round of Leffe beers (my alltime favorite).  Back at the airport after lunching, strolling, and photographing, we still had time to buy the best chocolate in the world, a box of Neuhaus truffles.

We made it back to our cozy flat in Vienna that night and slept like logs, because we knew the adventure was still in full swing!
In the interest of length and mystery, I think I will leave this as a bit of a cliffhanger and postpone the rest of the recent travel stories and exciting news for another day...

Dutch flower bulbs

2 Fat Girls on a Volcano Top 100 Things to See/Do Before You Die:

1. South Rim of the Grand Canyon

2. Temple of Poseidon at Cape Sounion

3. Walk up Monmarte and watch the sun set over Paris from the steps of Le Sacre Cour

4. Hagia Sofia of Istanbul

5. Walking tour of the Coliseum

6. The Scarab beetle ceiling, King's Palace, Brussels, Belgium

7. St. Paul's Dome at night, as seen from the Millenium footbridge, London

8. Albuquerque Balloon Festival

9. Anne Frank's House, Amsterdam

10. General Post Office, Dublin, Ireland

11. Wander through Venice on foot

12. Have tapas on the waterfront in Barcelona

13. Fisherman's Bastion, Budapest

14. Viennese New Year's Eve Concert

15. Mirabel Gardens, Salzburg, Austria

16. National Finals Rodeo, Las Vegas

17. Leed's Castle, England

18. The Greek Amphitheater ruins of Taormina, Sicily

19. Stay overnight in the monastery of Assisi

20. Cruise the Seine on a summer day

21. Live Theatre in London's West End

22. The Library at Ephesus

23. The Kentucky Derby

24. Sunset tour of the canals of Venice

25. Windjammer Days, Boothbay Harbor, Maine

26. Try Limoncello in Capri

27. Walk up the Acropolis to the Parthenon

28. Throw a coin in the Fountain of Trevi

29. Eat chocolate dipped Belgian waffles in Le Gran Place, Brussels

30. Dromoland Castle, Ireland

31. The Musee D'Orsay, Paris

32. Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam

33. Valletta, Malta

34. Marsala salt mills, Italy

35. La Familia Sagrada, Barcelona

36. U.S.S. Constitution in Boston Harbor

37. Punting on the Cam, Cambridge, England

38. The Leaning Tower of Pisa

39. The Black Fort, Inishmore, Ireland

40. Michelangelo's David, The Uffizi, Florence, Italy

41. Topkapi Palace, Istanbul

42. Empire State Building, New York City

43. Cloud Gate, Millenium Park, Chicago

44. Napa Valley, California

45. Sydney Opera House

46. White Cliffs of Dover

47. Alaska's Inside Passage

48. Niagara Falls, Canada

49. Mount Haleakala, Hawaii

50. The Sistine Chapel, Vatican City

51. The Pantheon, Rome

52. The Golden Gate Bridge

53. Barossa Valley, Australia

54. The rust colored sails of the Hooker boats, the Claddagh, Galway, Ireland

55. The Cliffs of Moher

56. Notre Dame, Paris

57. Schoenbrunn, Vienna

58. The Burren, Ireland (closer then the moon, same landscape)

59. The Maasai Mara Wildlife Reserve, Kenya

60. The Space Needle, Seattle

61. Yellowstone National Park

62. The Tribune Building, Chicago

63. The Statue of Liberty, New York City

64. The Olympic Stadium, Athens, Greece

65. The David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust Nursery, Nairobi, Kenya

66. Big Ben

67. The Vienna Christmasmarkt at Rathausplatz

68. Melk Abbey

69. Jackson Pollock at the Peggy Gugenheim, Venice

70. The Eiffel Tower at night

71. Palazzo Ducale, Venice

72. Amalfi Coast

73. The Karen Blixen House

74. Leopold II summer palace, Tervuren, Belgium

75. Mount Rushmore, South Dakota

76. Pike Place Market, Seattle

77. The Lipizzans performing at the Imperial Hofburg Palace, Vienna

78. The Salza River, Salzburg

79. The Belvedere, Vienna

80. Tuscany, Italy

81. Charleston, South Carolina

82. San Diego Zoo, California

83. The monuments of Washington, D.C.

84. The horse tetrad inside the second floor of Basilica San Marco, Venice

85. Savannah, Georgia

86. Newport, Rhode Island

87. Pompeii

88. Toronto, Ontario, Canada

89. Steel drum music in the Bahamas

90. The Summer Music Concert on the island in the Danube, Vienna

91. Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado

92. Fanuiel Hall, Boston

93. Independence Hall, Philadelphia

94. Frank Llyod Wright's Monona Terrace, Madison, Wisconsin

95. Leuven, Belgium

96. Stefansdom, Vienna

97. Vancouver, British Columbia

98. St. Augustine, Florida

99. Bruges, Belgium

100. Mt. Etna, Italy

Wanderlust Melting Pot

As I muse, I sit immersed in a Viennese bathtub full of bubbles, drinking a full bodied Spanish red wine from a glass acquired at a boutique Virginia winery. I am reading an Italian memoir; Tuscan to be precise. My iPhone is belting out Edith Piaf from iTunes Radio, and my very American husband pops his head in the bathroom to ask if I need a top up on the wine. I tell him thanks but no, that he should finish the bottle if he likes.

And it strikes me, how there is so much to see but yet sometimes the layers of experience layer over one another, like Mille foile or a gauzy dress that you can almost see through.  We have just booked our trip to Portugal for our friend, Jules' wedding. And I have been looking forward to having some time to plan our spare time during that trip. So far we have arrived only at the fact that our five and a half hour layover in Brussels gives us time to catch the train and lunch at Le Gran Place. Jon has never been, and I hope to have a moment to stop at Neuhaus, my favorite chocolatier in the world.

To this day my dear Swiss friend, Silvia, and I argue over who has the best chocolate.

But I find myself contemplating the adventure of house shopping in Tuscany, even though we are still furnishing our apartment here in Vienna, as well as making mortgage payments on our house in Charleston, SC.

According to my TripAdvisor profile the other day, I have only seen 12% of the world. How can that be possible? I have been to 4 continents! How will I ever see everything I want to see, and have the career of my dreams as well as a wonderful and happy marriage? I need more lives, like a cat!

And oddly, at the same time, I think of all the places I have listened to Edith Piaf, and the crazy On The Globus Go adventures mom and I had in Italy, and it seems like I have already lived lifetimes.

Jon and I met this darling couple on our safari in Kenya. They were retired and traveling the world boldly. They had seen a lot, been places we haven't, and yet they were so excited for all we had seen and done, for our exciting lifestyle of adventure.

It is something I have to remind myself of, rather often, because like anything, it is easy to get bogged down I how hard the day to day is. But I believe it is like that anywhere, so I hope to enjoy everything this opportunity has to offer, and to try to ignore the difficult days. 

For example, I found out last week that my PhD, in Holland, will be largely based in Bioengineering. I have no experience or training in Engineering, but those who knew my dad are laughing with him about this!

So for now, we will try to keep living the dream, for as long as it lasts. And we will try our best to chuckle at the many, many bumps in the road.

And so the New Year Begins...

Here it is another year, and the Twitter feed is full of people asking what travel destinations, bucket list items, and new year resolutions everyone has planned. All that is well and good, but what about enjoying the season?  I know there is a lot going on, but everyone seems so rushed to move on. What happens to all those great moments we spent, celebrating the Christmas spirit and ushering in the New Year? Do they just get lost in a sea of checking items off a list? Isn't the point of having memories being able to pause, look back, and reflect on those special moments?

Don't get me wrong, I have plenty of travel destinations in mind myself for this brand spanking new year.  We will head to Portugal for the wedding of two dear friends, and we are planning to head back to the US to visit Jon's family in December.  No doubt there will be many more trips throughout the year: I have my heart set on showing Jon some of Italy, and we are dying to visit Prague.  Skiing would be fun as well, since we are in Austria and all. 

But I think it is important to fully take the time to cherish these moments we experience in life. For example, last night my mother, my husband and I made our way through a misty evening in downtown Vienna to the dramatically lit Palais Auersperg. We were ushered into a vaulted oval performance hall lined with rose marble walls and exquisite crystal chandeliers, where we listened to an orchestra featuring a famous antique violin known for appearances at the esteemed Viennese Philharmonic Silvester.  At Intermission we sipped champagne and strolled among the oil paintings on display, undaunted under lavish chandeliers. 

The performance featured an opera duo as well as a ballet duo, and Jon was really enthralled by the opera pieces. At the end of the evening, there was a last piece that featured the opera singers, who had been singing in Italian. This last song was fast and in German, and involved champagne toasts, but I think it was an Austrian tradition, kind of like their version of Auld Ange Syne.  

We headed home to check on our nervous yellow dog and were met by a constant barrage of fireworks. They were everywhere, flickering against the night clouds, sounds exploding all around.  As midnight came and went, people set so many store bought Roman candles off from the street that we could see them just sitting in our 2nd floor living room with the blinds open.  We popped some tiny bubbly bottles that Santa had left in our Christmas stockings and rang in the new year watching the crazy fireworks with Castle on in the background.  For New Year's Day we have tickets to a hockey game near the house, and we are starting our own tradition of New Year's shrimp cocktail and split pea soup with ham. 

This holiday season has been fun, but I think next year we will make some New Year's plans to be out of the city.  The trains apparently don't run, so you have to leave early or drive yourself. And as I much as I enjoy fireworks, I think last night we all felt like it was a WWII reenactment.

Ye Olde Viennese Christmas

 After what has begun to seem like a long stretch of months, my husband and I are becoming accustomed to feeling a bit different from everyone around us.  I don't mean that in an awkward way, but in the sense of being foreign.  And though we are starting to understand more and more of the intricacies present in Austrian life, we do not yet identify with all of them, or even most of them, for that matter.  We have enjoyed experiencing a new culture; it has certainly been an adventure, one that we are excited to continue.  But on occasion, such as during the holidays, we get  a tiny bit homesick, as do I imagine a good number of people.

 But, in a fortunate 'Christmas Miracle' sort of way, we are hosting my mother for this Christmas and New Year's in Vienna.  So the three of us are exploring an old fashioned European Chirstmas.  While sadly we have no snow on the ground, the beauty of the Christmasmarkts remains unparalleled.  Above you can see the tree and the lights at the Rathausplatz Christmasmarkt, our second stop on the Vienna Amazing Christmas Race.  Our first visit, on Saturday, was to the Schoenbrunn Christmasmarkt.  Nestled in front of the Versailles style palace in an large oval, wooden booths neighbored one another so closely as to form a sort of a wall.  In the center of the oval were several small, umbrella style pavilions, housing outdoor heaters, as well as food and drink booths.  We looked at the traditional Christmas wares sold at the first dozen or so booths before we were cold enough to require gluehwein, the Austrian mulled wine ubiqutious at outdoor winter events.  We bought it at the food stand, where it was being offered in commemorative mugs.  We then ventured closer to the heart of the markt, where a huge tree stood, alit with Christmas lights, in front of a small stage.  The front of the stage was a huge glass case, displaying an exquisitely detailed nativity scene, complete with a bejewelled elephant at the birth of Christ.
For lunch we each sampled something different, as Mom had a chocolate waffle, Jonathan some nockeln (noodles) with cheese, and I had what was advertised as the best wurst (sausage) in town.  The sausage was indeed excellent, and was housed in a cheesy pastry that really sealed the deal.  We ate huddled along the standing counter space next to the heater, trying to stay warm.  As we ate, a jazz ensemble played Christmas music from the adjacent, small stage by the nativity.  Jon was so thrilled with his cheesy noodles that I eventually commented, "I guess you can take the boy out of Wisconsin, but you can't take the cheese out of the Wisconsinite."
And before we knew it, the couple that had been standing by us for a while jumped in and asked Jon about Wisconsin.  As it turns out, the guy was from Wisconsin, and we spent the rest of the afternoon listening to more live Christmas music, sampling the different punschen (punches), and chatting with the Americans. 
The favorite was definitely the Baileyspunsch, no surprise there, and mom loved the a capella choir that performed after the jazz ensemble.  She also found some ornaments she liked, cutout paper scenes, but they seemed quite pricey so we vowed to look again Sunday at the next markt.  When the heater and the punsch could no longer keep us warm, we headed home and snuggled up in front of the movie The Holiday with potato corn chowder.  We each took turns dosing on the couch or in the man chair while we watched, and before long we called it a night.
The next morning we had a late breakfast and planned our second day of Christmasmarkt discoveries.  We started at Rathausplatz, which was amazingly beautiful.  Mom bought some funny Austrian Christmas people ornaments to take home as gifts, and we again were forced to have some gluehwein to stave off the chill.  For lunch we had soup in breadbowls, eating gulash and beer and bread soup beneath the gigantic Christmas tree.  After making our way through all the booths at Rathausplatz, we forged ahead to what was described by a few of my colleagues as more authentic of a Christmasmarkt, the Freyung.  This markt was small, and right out of an old Christmas story.  You half expected Scrooge to show up.  It was tiny by comparison to theRathausmarkt, with not more than 50 booths pressed close to one another to shoulder out the cold wind.  The ever present gluehwein and punsch were available, and of course Jon's favorite store was the cold meat counter, where endless salamis dangled above all kinds of other cuts of meat.  High above them all, perched on the top of the meat booth, was the markt's Christmas tree, shining with lights.  Mom bought a chocolate that looked like a whoopie pie, but later she said it was marzipan. 
The cold was closing in on us again, so we pressed on toward our goal: Christmas lights at the Graben.  To get there we of course had to pass through yet another, tiny local Christmasmarkt which was also very cute.  By then the lights had started, large cylinders of Christmas lights hanging far above us in the streets.  We followed them to the Graben, where stings of Christmas lights had been fashioned to simulate chandeliers in a ballrooms, each 'chandelier' rising over 12 feet tall, suspended overhead in twinkling splendour.  This was our crown jewel, so to speak, and it was worth not being able to feel our toes.  We stopped on our way back at the historic and iconic Cafe Landtmann's to warm up.  We were lucky to find seats right away, and from the window one could easily see the lights at the incredible Rathausplatz Christmasmarkt, which were breathtaking.  Mom and I had hot chocolates, and Jon had a classic Viennese hot drink called a Tiger Milk.  We were happy to sit and enjoy the magic of the millions of twinkly lights, but we were also happy for the chance to warm up.  As we made our way back through the Rathausplatz for a final photo at night, the crowds were thick and we smiled, knowing we had been lucky visit it earlier, when we had the chance to see it all and explore, but still to have the pictures of it at night was priceless.  We went home to a hot meal and Chevy Chase National Lampoon's Christmas Holiday. 
Monday was a day of shopping, and how we were able to dodge the crowds I will never know but will always be grateful for.  For dinner, we had a reservation at Le Loft, on the 18th floor of the Sofitel at Schwedenplatz.  Our table overlooked the Donau canal, but there was so much fog we felt like we were eating in a cloud.  It was very serene, and gave the city lights below us a soft, effusive effect, cloaking the city in mystery.  Our food was delicious, and we even had wine and dessert.  The chef sent our table soup samples before our main course, and after our dessert he also sent us a sample of tiny pastries.  We came home after our lavish dinner and curled up in front of the TV, where I fell asleep while Mom and Jon watched reruns of Castle.
I have posted many of our pictures on Facebook and Twitter already, and several of our friends and family have commented on our Christmas adventures so far.  We are happy to have the chance to share our Christmas with so many of our loved ones, and if any of you are able to join us for an upcoming holiday season, we would be excited to show you all of this in person.  Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

I want a Hippopotamus for Christmas

Pringle is a young hippopotamus living in Lake Naivasha with his family. He lives with his mom, Hattie, and dad, Humphrey. 

Pringle also has an Aunt Helen and Uncle Hubert. Their son, Henry, is Pringle's age and they are best friends. Pringle's grandparents, Hilda and Hammond, live nearby as well, though they were displeased when Pringle was named, as they felt he should have a family name, such as Hammond the second.  

Pringle has other friends in the Lake as well, including Pete the great white pelican and his wife, Penelope. Pringle and Henry go to Lake Naivasha school, where they learn about ecosystems and the importance of environmental and wildlife conservation.  But what Pringle would really like to know is why is he different from all the other hippos, even his family?

But for all the esteem of the Lake Naivasha School, no one could answer Pringle's question.  In fact, they advised him to ask his parents, and so Pringle decided to do just that.

"Well son," Pringle's dad begins, "you know we often see humans on the lake.  They come here to watch us.  I know you learn about them at your school. We hope that they will continue to try to protect us from disappearing habitats and extinction.  But there is more to them than meets the eye."

Pringle is fascinated, and waits patiently and quietly to hear more of the story.

"You see, Pringle," Humphrey continues, "humans aren't like us.  They aren't sure they will be able to find food, so they carry it with them often."

Of course this idea is hard for Pringle to understand, because for him, the Lake provides everything he needs.

"Now I know that sounds odd, but it can be a good thing for us too." Pringle's dad explains, "sometimes they bring food with them onto the lake."

"But dad, the lake has food in it already! Why would anyone bring more food?" Pringle asks.

"Son, humans eat different food than we do, at least as far as I can make out." Humphrey answers, "but to get back to the story, Pringle, that is exactly how you got your name."

"I don't want to be named after human food, dad, that sounds awful!" Pringle exclaimed.  "And I don't want to be the only hippopotamus with a P name.  I am supposed to have an H name.  Grandpa and Grandma told me."

"Now, son, you interrupted the story.  Where were we? Ah yes, Pringles.  When your mom was pregnant with you, we saw a boat full of humans.  One of the humans was pregnant too, and she was holding a can that said Pringles.  Every time the water rippled, she would eat a handful of something out of the can.  But once your mother got closer to the boat to investigate, she startled the pregnant human who dropped the can.  Out floated these thin, curled crisps, which your mother absolutely had to try! She loved them and ate all she could. And later, when we picking out a name for you, she told me:  'I hope our baby is brave, Humphrey.  Brave enough to transcend borders; brave enough to show humans why we deserve a place here and why they should protect our home and our species. '"

Humphrey then tells Pringle, "and so I told your mom right then that I knew our baby would be just like that, because your mom was so brave to want to see the humans and learn more about them.  I said we should name you Pringle.  And your mom wanted to send you to the Lake Naivasha School, even though it is expensive and we have had to make sacrifices to be able to afford it.  But she wanted you to have the best education available for a hippo, so that you could do something great with your life."

"Wow." Pringle wishes he could think of a better response, but he is a little overwhelmed. "Can I ask Mom about this too?" He asks his dad.

"Of course, son," Humphrey answers.

Pringle thinks about it for a little while before asking Hattie. "Mom, I asked dad why I was named Pringle, and he told me about when you met the humans and sending me to school."

"Is that so honey?" Hattie answered. "And so what do you think about it?"

"Well, since I will be educated in conservation I would want to make a difference, make the world a better place for hippos. Is my name special enough to achieve that, do you think?"

"Pringle, your name is unique, but it is you that is special, dear." His mom tells him.

"Really? So you think I could do that?" He asks her.

"Pringle you can do anything you want darling, and if will always be proud of you." She answers.

"That's what I want to do, mom, but can I tell you something?" Pringle asks a little sheepishly.

"Of course, babe, what is it?" She tries to reassure him. 

"It's a little scary to think of doing it all by myself, Mom. Is that bad?" Pringle asks her.

"Maybe you won't have to sweetie, maybe you won't have to," Hattie mysteriously murmurs.

"You know what I wish for,  mom? A little sister, she could help me. We could become hippo ambassadors.  And she should have a P name, like me.  Maybe Priscilla? We could be unique together, and we would work with the humans to conserve our world."

"You know what, Pringle? You may just want to tell Santa about that wish, and see if he brings it for you" Hattie smiled, and hoped her current pregnancy wouldn't be too noticeable until Christmas...

Black Friday in Narok

Narok is the last city before you enter the Maasai Mara Wildlife Reserve in Kenya. But please don't think it is close to the park in actuality. It is a solid 2.5 hours on a washboard dirt road to get to the Mara from Narok.  We drove through Narok on our way to the park, of course, but we didn't stop. It was a crowded place, with ramshackle two story buildings lining the roadway. The buildings looked like they were from a movie set, and not real; they were made of cinderblock stacked with cement mix not more than 12 cubic feet, painted with bright colors.  Like a fake version of the old West. Trash was scattered everywhere, and goats, sheep and cattle were herded along the roadside.  

Personally I was glad we didn't stop, I hoped our destination would render Narok a faint driveby memory. It wasn't so much the poverty that I wished to avoid, but the disregard for the surrounding environs, the livestock that was lame or limping.  In other words, the things I hold dear were a luxury here, and not something people could afford to be concerned with. Naturally this threw into light the crux of the poaching war, for how can you stop poaching in a place like this?

And so what can you do in such a situation, but do your best to get through it until such a time as an idea or option presents itself.  But that is not exactly the story I want to focus on, so please allow me to continue.

We drove on our bumpy, bumpy way to the beautiful expanse that is the Maasai Mara, where we were enchanted for the following two full days.  It became easy to see the attraction, even addiction of safari, and when we drove out of the park that third day it was a quiet ride, leaving only the sounds of the truck in response to the rigors of the dirt route beneath us.

We cheered when we hit pavement again, and within the hour we arrived at a busy gas station in none other than Narok, gateway to the Mara.  The gas station was so busy that they had an attendant just to direct traffic to the overcrowded pumps, and as our able guide got out to take care of the fill up, our little truck succumbed to the masses of 'sales executives.'

This was a term we had gleaned from our aforementioned guide and driver, the one and only Fred.  While the truck's tank was tended to, all of us inside were tempted with Maasai blankets, beaded bracelets of every kind, completely inauthentic looking safari hats meant solely for the touristy-ist of the tourists.  

But by this stage in our travels, we were very wise.  Largely thanks to one of our tour members, the well prepared Kathy, we now knew that we could do so much more than haggle with these sales executives, we could barter.  Kathy, a vivacious gal from Houston, had learned from her hairdresser back home that bartering was the ticket when it came to local salespeople here in Kenya. And so she had packed her bags with American watches, t shirts and baseball caps for just such an opportunity.  Over the course of the week, we had all seen her in action and could attest to her successes.  However, as this was our last day and Kathy still had a select few remaining American goods for trade, her friend Karen jumped right in and began to bargain.  

Things came into the truck; things went out of the truck.  Goods changed hands, and one deal was even reversed when an American watch and T shirt were ultimately rejected as trade for a Maasai celebration blanket.  There were bracelets, safari hats traded for one another, and every one of the pens we had on us.

At the end, Kathy traded one man the windbreaker she was wearing for his touristy safari hat, and another man asked my husband if he would trade my sunglasses, and then he asked again for my sandals.

We ended up with a bamboo zebra print for our wall, and I kept my shoes and glasses. No money was exchanged at any point during the madness, by anyone if you can believe that.

As we finally made it out of that crazy gas station, Karen made the connection - it was Black Friday!  Somehow it was perfect, and we all laughed, remembering that it wasn't so different from Black Friday in the States, after all.

The Hippo Bar

As I write this, Jon and I are sitting at the Keekorok Lodge's Hippo Bar in the Maasai Mara Wildlife Reserve. The bar, of course, is aptly named for the resident hippopotami population happily lounging in the muddy pond to our left. They are casually accompanied by a small crocodile, currently submerged having formerly sunned on the tiny beach. The landscape itself is, however, overshadowed at the moment by a lone adult elephant. He seems nonchalant as he meanders along the shore line munching on green grass and intermittently refreshing himself from the warming sun with sips of cool water. Much the same are our friends, the wallowing hippos, often splashing and occasionally snorting. In contrast are the herds of zebra distantly surrounding us, a few of which yammer out their distinct call frequently.  It seems they are keeping the kids in line, so to speak. 

The hippos have random bouts of group grunting and sometimes stand up in the small pond, looking like rising land masses. The elephant has sauntered toward the brush now, moving nearer the zebra in his eternal quest for groceries and the storks that were previously avoiding him are spreading their wings to stand and sun along the bank. 

A group of Indian people stopped by, briefly to see the big game and to order a drink to go, but just now our only company is a smartly dressed bartender and a small black and white monkey relaxing in a tree by the door. Intriguingly, the little monkey has remarkably bright blue testicles, such that they surely cannot be naturally occurring. The best description I can currently offer is robin's egg blue, though I know it sounds unbelievable. 

These little guys roam the property, testing guests' door handles for unlocked rooms they can pillage and hissing and slapping the ground if you get to close to them. Nonetheless, we have decided to accept our mission: to ascertain whether the blue balls are natural or artificial. The execution of our plan is simple; survey the testicles of as many hotel monkeys as possible, even including digital documentation. After all, this experiment is conducted in the name of science!

And so we set out from our perch at the multi-species refreshing water hole to photo log our first subject. As he was casually relaxing in a tree near the Hippo Bar's exit, it was easy to approach him and snap an iPhone picture. Upon relatively close inspection, it did indeed appear that the testicles in question were not only bright blue, but also that this could actually have been Mother Nature's intention.

Obviously science demands additional proof, and thus our search continued.  As we sought larger sample size, it was fortunate that another mischievous primate had arrived on the deck, running lithe but lazily along the handrail. We scouted out the necessary details and discovered a second pair of blue balls. 

As we  wandered from the deck toward the lodge, we saw several more monkeys, two of whom we're playing in a hammock hung out on the lawn in the shade. Sure enough, blue balls were a theme amongst the Y chromosome influenced monkeys, and we therefore drew our scientific conclusions before readying ourselves for one last game drive through the evening Maasai Mara.

Good Old Fashioned Craic

Ellen and Jade stepped off the elevator and into the lobby.  It looked like they were the first tour members to arrive at the meeting point, though tour guide Jennifer was nearby, standing between the concierge and the complimentary phones at the side of the large room.  Jennifer was staring at a man on the phone, without so much as a dash of subtlety to her, and within an instant, Ellen and Jade could appreciate why.  The man was practically shouting into the phone, using every obscenity Jade had ever heard, as well as some she had not heard previously.  As he slammed the receiver back into its cradle and turned to stomp off, he found himself in front of a stern faced Jennifer, bright red hair flaming.

“Do you talk to your mother with that mouth?” She asked him blatantly.  The man sort of chuckled, and Jennifer turned sweet as pie and said, “I’ve always hoped to meet an Irish man, but if that’s how you talk to your mother, then I cannot go out with you.”  Jade swore Jennifer’s eyelashes fluttered a bit while she was saying this, and the man melted like butter.  He smiled and stuttered excuses and explanations, and even tried to flirt a bit.  Jade could see his demeanor change once again when he realized he’d already been curtly dismissed, and he retreated hastily toward the street exit, but Jade’s astute eye had already caught on.  She had a new found respect for Jennifer, and she resolved to tuck that trick away into her repertoire, just in case she ever needed it.

The rest of the tour group showed up and they were herded, like so many of the sheep they’d seen from the road during the day’s long drive, into transit to the pub.  They arrived before the yellow façade of a place called ‘The Lisheen, ‘ which meant nothing to them by name but everyone hurried inside anyway as they were hungry and ready for a pint all around.

As the tour group filed upstairs where there dinner would be served, they noticed the downstairs pub was similar to last night’s fare.  Dinner options were lamb stew, fish and chips, shepherd’s pie, and roast chicken with potatoes, of course.  This time Ellen had the shepherd’s pie and Jade chose the chicken.  Both meals were hearty and warming, and Jade hoped her mother was on the mend from her chill earlier in the day.  The girls chatted at dinner with tour mates Brian and Linda, as well as the other group members, who were all beginning to bond into a cohesive unit of American travelers abroad.  Their time was easy, and they enjoyed one another’s company, before once again being herded like livestock, this time down to the first floor pub.  As they descended, they could hear the typical evening pub din of voices, but here it was fleshed out by instruments here and there, as if warming up to play.  As Jade rather timidly approached the bar, a random Irish man perched on a bar stool asked her, “American are ye then, lass?”

He had asked it as if it were the most natural course of action and conversation ever conceived, and even appeared a bit taken aback when she unknowingly displayed her surprise.  “Um, yes, actually,” Jade managed to reply while not exactly making eye contact with the Irishman.  Not that she could have had she earnestly attempted it, he was staring steadfastly into his pint.

“Right, well then barkeep, we’ll both have a pint on that.  Or do ye want Budweiser?” He afforded her a sidelong glance with that last question, as it was baited.  

“No, thank you, I’d prefer Guinness,” Jade asserted.

“Good answer, lass,” the barfly retorted, “because then I’m buying for ye.  No need for that horsepiss of American beer when ye can have good auld Guinness as God himself intended.”  Jade was pretty sure the older gentleman sincerely meant everything he’d just intimated, as his expression was as heartfelt as his speaking voice.

“Thank you, sir,” she said simply as she reached for her foamy pint.  Brian and Linda were just picking their heady brews up as well, and they all turned as one when the violin whined loudly.

A cheer went up, it seemed as this was a cue of sorts.  By now, cigarette smoke could be seen clinging to the already low ceiling, but the threesome wandered over toward Ellen, who had somehow procured a small corner booth, into which they all squeezed.  By now the music had begun in earnest, and Jade found herself straining to hear Brian as he all but shouted, “this must be what Jennifer meant by craic!”  The entire pub was chockablock full of mismatched souls.  One imagined it must be a variegated mix of locals, Irish natives, tourists American and European alike.

But the violin swelled and fiddled, someone chimed in on an archaic looking set of alien bagpipes, and a chubby, red faced man huffed and puffed perched on a chair while squeezing his accordion with all his might.  If you looked closely you could spot someone playing the spoons on his knee, and yet another violin off in the corner.  The music was rowdy and lively, but so was the crowd – in no time the pub goers were singing along loudly and everyone seemed to know all the words regardless of what the musicians played.  It was a prime example of good old fashioned craic, as cannot be explained until it has been experienced firsthand.  Minutes quickly absolved into hours, and before Jade could realize it, the night had been lost.  Ellen was exhausted, while Jade was exhilarated.  The tour group parted ways; some rode back to the Imperial on the transit, while many walked the distance in the cool night air under the guidance and company of Jennifer and her co-guide, Andrea.

The Expat Experience

As previously announced here at 2 Fat Girls on a Volcano, this little blog has become a  featured blog on InterNations.org.  And in recognition of that, this little page bears a badge of InterNation honor.  But finally, we were able to physically attend one of the InterNations events.  We went to Stadtpark and walked a short block through the dusky park to the InterContinental Hotel.  The lights on the marble entryway to the park were soft and pretty, and it started to sprinkle as we were ushered into the hotel lobby. 

 The bar at the hotel had the most  beautiful chandelier, and we were early enough to get seats at the bar.  When we gave our names at the podium, we got InterNations poker chips as free drink tokens.  The drink choices were beer or gin and tonic.  Jon got the beer and I went with the gin and tonic.  Pretty soon we struck up a conversation with a man and woman standing behind us.  They had met before at one of these events and were chatting about work stress and how busy they were.  Her name was Irina, which is a gorgeous name, and she was from Ukraine.  She had very blonde hair, like mine, but with a sassy hair cut, and perfectly applied red lipstick.  He was Andreas, and was actually from Vienna, though he had only recently moved back. 

Andreas had probably the coolest job of the half dozen people we met that night; he made fashion accessories out of airplane paraphernalia. As examples, he showed us a wallet made from the  yellow life jackets stashed under the airplane seats, and his belt, of course made from an airline seat belt.  Next we met, Lili, my favorite acquaintance of  the night.  She was tall with long dark hair and was  very glamorous.  Lili was from Hungary, but she spoke good English and we struck up quite a conversation, for about an hour.  We also met her friends, Dina and Zophie, both of whom were from Budapest.  Jon had fun getting everyone we met their respected name tags from the table at the back of the room.  We headed home just as the event was strongly gaining steam, as I had journal  club early the next morning and we had our boy Jackson to get home to.  There had been 600 people signed up to come to this event, so we knew it would be busy.  But we thought maybe for our next event, we would try a smaller group so that we might meet some couples that we could talk with a little more.  So I started looking into some of the groups and their activities and I found more options than we could even consider.  Some of the front runners for us were tennis, couples ballroom dancing, Sunday brunching, and professional networking.  There is even a running group that Jon can join!  And then there are others, too, like scuba diving and traveling and movie watching.  So even if we didn't already have enough here in Europe to see and do, we could do all kinds of exploring through our very active Vienna InterNations.  But, as yet we don't have many friends on the website, so if you'd like to check it out, please visit InterNations.org and look for Jon and I!  Happy adventuring:)

Swiss House

SchweizerHaus is an open air restaurant in the Viennese Prater that runs from March through October.  The Prater is a fascinating place in the heart of the city of Vienna.  It is a park divided into two separate parks: one is the Austrian equivalent of Central Park, though apparently it is much larger; and the other half is an amusement park, much like Coney Island or Navy Pier.  But more on that later...
We took the U Bahn from Floridsdorf and then walked to the SchweizerHaus, which means Swiss House in German.  This place is legendary here for its traditional Austrian food.  Of particular note is the pork shank, which appears to be roasted and is HUGE.  Literally, we watched a family of four across from us share one pork shank.  We heard that some of them weigh up to a kilo, or 2.2 pounds to us.  And that isn't all - it comes with a bread basket, coleslaw salad, and fresh ground horseradish and mustard. 
Did I mention, the Swiss House is a biergarten?  Reportedly home of the original Budweiser, in fact.  So we felt obligated to try, for the sake of an old fashioned Austrian custom. 

Our drinks came out first, mostly because I ordered the Backhendl, which is fried chicken and takes 20 minutes.  But we waited patiently, watching the family foursome at the next table decimate their roasted pork.  Above us through the tress we could see one of the rides, a giant communal swing lifting numbers of people into the air and  swirling them all in a lazy spiral. 

When our food arrived, we quickly learned that it was well worth the time.  Jon ordered the Budweiserfleisch, basically pork steak slow braised in beer with the most delicious dumplings and gravy.  As previously discussed, I got the fried chicken.  Now, the chicken was fantastic, don't get me wrong.  But, it was no replacement for Southern Fried Chicken, delicious though it was:)

After dinner we walked through the amusement park.  Jon won a tiny but loud green kazoo whistle at an archery booth, which he proceeded to blow almost incessantly.  All in all it was a perfect way to spend one of the last pretty days of our first Fall in another land.  And we will take all of our friends and family who visit us to the Swiss House!

All American Eggs Benedict

Chili Eggs Benedict

Cornbread muffin
2 eggs over easy
Homemade American style chili
Cheddar cheese

Heat chili and corn muffin appropriately.  Fry two eggs over easy.  Assemble and sprinkle with cheddar cheese and enjoy!