Tell the one about the man who saddled up the wind, pegasus...

Over coffee and croissants at a table alongside a medieval road in Bayeux Mike and I discussed our conundrum: should we spend our one free day in Normandy trying to find Pegasus Bridge?

Opposed: would it really be worth it to go to the trouble and expense of renting a car and braving being lost (pretty much a given) or creamed (possible) on the French roads, just to see, you know, a bridge? I would have to drive. (You may recall that Mike had his license stolen in Athens.) So, while I was nervous about driving, Mike would have to endure much more being the hapless passenger whilst I attempted to navigate an unfamiliar land.

In favor: the tale of the men of the British 6th Division Airborne, glider unit capturing and holding Pegasus Bridge and keeping the Germans from blowing it up to keep it out of the hands of the Allies is our favorite story from D-Day, one told again and again by movie makers and historians, in magnificent works like Cornelius Ryan's The Longest Day and Stephen Ambrose's Pegasus Bridge: June 6 1944.

There's a reason Pegasus Bridge is so well known. It's not only an amazing story, it's also an incredibly important place, historically speaking. This humble spot is the first part of France to be liberated by the allied forces. It's also where the first Allied soldier died on D-Day. Lastly, it's a place where the military plan actually went right, where, had it not, many, many Allied troops would have been lost.

Plus, we wanted to see the dent. Here's a little bit from Ambrose:


The (German) pilot dropped his bomb. It was a direct hit on the bridge tower. But it did not explode. Instead it clanged on the bridge and then dropped into the canal. It was a dud.

The dent is there on the bridge to this day. (British Major John) Howard's comment is "What a bit of luck that was," which says the least of it. Howard adds, with professional approval, "And what a wonderful shot it was by that German pilot."

So when it came down to it, our decision was the price of inconvenience vs. a once-in-a-lifetime experience? Oh please. Like we wouldn't go. I told Mike we had to go. Besides, no one was asking us to get there under the cover of night with fellows firing on us. We could handle it.


Right?


I'd already braved a used book store. It seemed like the correct vacation-in-France ooh la la thing to do. Imagine: the heroine enters the bookstore, pausing just inside the doorway for a moment, the light behind her, appreciating the scent of dust and parchment. She greets the booksellers in quiet French and then selects a tome to enjoy at leisure, to the approval of the clerks there who appreciate her taste.

It was a nice idea, to be sure, but what really happened was this: I circled the shelves in the tiny store until I was helped by the sympathetic storekeepers who, after I admitted a book in English would probably be better for me, (a massive understatement) gently and with great pity showed me the two sparse shelves of applicable paperbacks for those such as myself, tucked away in the back room.

After dithering I picked a couple of classics and while waiting to pay was flirted mercilessly with (or maybe it was at) and then discussed at length about by their other customer, a Norman who had the air of a regular, older, with few teeth but obvious village standing. It was all conducted in mostly-incomprehensible to me French, but when someone is looking directly at you and laughing, well, I suppose I should be happy to have given him entertainment.

Or something.

lovely old doorway, Bayeux

We rented the car. One would think that one line is all that sort of activity warrants in description. Not for us. I had remembered to bring along my international driver's license but not my passport. (Insert mental forehead smack here.)

We'd walked to find the rental place so Mike was generous and and loped back to the hotel to get the necessary papers while I was doing my darndest to make conversation and sign paperwork in a foreign language while praying it had been communicated as to what we did and didn't want. Idle conversation is awkward in one's own language, let alone between two people not versed in each other's native tongue. We ended up renting a four door when all we wanted was two, and once behind the wheel, the manual gears and I had a small disagreement. In other words I ground the heck out of the poor thing, causing the rental car office women to stick their heads out to see what the devil I was doing to their property. I slunk away in vehicular fashion as there was no chance of the situation retaining any sort of dignity for me.

The roads in France were just fine. With it firmly in mind that I had been driving for 2 years in the Middle East, I was neither the best nor the worst driver in France. A minimum of wrong turns later we found the Caen River and went into the museum there, which was phenomenal. If you, like me, enjoy great stories of humanity and courage, and all the lovely sepia remnants of yesteryear, you would have loved it, even without knowing the Pegasus Bridge story.

I'll do my best to tell it in brief, though I encourage you to read Ambroses' version.

flags, crosses and poppies left by relatives and schoolchildren
to remember and honor the men of Pegasus Bridge

The British knew that they had to gain control of the road and bridges on the Caen Canal and Orne River to block the Germans from sending reinforcements down to the landing beaches. They also knew the bridges would be wired for detonation.

The plan was audacious: to send a small group of gliders to silently slip behind enemy lines and land scant hours before dawn on D-day in a field so small the Germans hadn't bothered to plant anti-aircraft posts. The British glider pilots did an amazing job that night, with just the light of the sliver of a moon, landing exactly on target.

Men of the British Airborne Glider and Light Infantry Units

The men, under the command of Major Howard (pictured below), stormed out of the gliders and took the Germans completely by surprise.

It was all over in a matter of minutes. With this crucial victory, D-Day, the turning point of WWII, began.

For Mike and me to go there, to read letters from servicemen to their families back home, see the equipment the men carried and the bits and bobs of combat, was a real treat, history made real.

We even got to admire Bill Millin's bagpipes, the very instrument he famously played to lead what Lord Lovat described as the "greatest invasion in history" while in full Highland rig. Per the rather whimsical orders of Lord Lovat he walked in the traditional way three times back and forth on Sword Beach as the mortars crashed, the sands shook and men died all around him, and then piped the advancing troops up the Caen Canal to relieve the Brit glider squadrons who had taken and held the bridge.

Scottish troops, D-Day

Can you imagine how the men at Pegasus Bridge must have felt, hearing those soaring pipes coming, knowing their relief was nearly there, that they had completely achieved thier objective?

After the war Bill Millin reported that German snipers told him they'd been very aware of him but had been so taken aback by this cheeky Scot and his wailing pipes they'd not shot at him, believing him to be crazy.

Sadly, the bagpipes were a casualty. 3 days after the landings they fell victim to shrapnel, but Bill Millin survived to a ripe old age, and donated those famous pipes to the museum.

We got to walk the original bridge, sold for a sentimental 1 Franc to the museum when it was replaced, and to see the markers placed to show just how precise the pilots had been in putting down the gliders, through barbed wire and avoiding a pond. It was phenomenal.

Mike at the site of the one of the Horsa Glider positions,

reading the tribute at a bust of Major Howard.

There was a strange elation and weariness in being there, which we felt again in the days to come. When one feels this way, the only thing to do is experience it, embrace it, and go to lunch. Which we did across from the first building to be liberated in France, the Café Gondree, now owned by Arlette Gondrée who lived there as a little girl in 1944.

I felt a bit chagrined as an American, a guest in this country, to see "Liberty fries" on the menu, remembering sniggering at (if not endorsing), the idea of changing the name of "French" fries to "freedom" fries during the difficult and emotionally charged days after September 11th.

The French of Normandy have never forgotten the sacrifices made by the Allies. There are roads in the countryside renamed and signed with plaques telling the names of individual soldiers who died there. (we know this because of course we got terribly lost on those little roads on the way back,. thinking we should explore instead of stay on the highway.) They also, I think, remember better than any of us can truly comprehend, what war is.

The bridge was renamed on that day in 1944. Pegasus Bridge in honor of the regiment's symbol.

As Mike and I dined there by the river, watching the new bridge lift up to allow an enormous barge to pass through, we were paying perhaps too much attention to the bridge up in the air. Mike managed to completely miss his mouth with his glass of wine and sloshed a good amount of red down his front. The French couple next to us witnessed this faux pas, their conversation died abruptly, their mouths frozen open and eyes wide. The awkward moment hung in the air.

I snarled at Mike in my broadest and most disdainful fake French accent: "American!"

Eyes crinkled, mouths smoothed into smiles and we all had a good laugh over it, nodding and lifted our glasses to one another in an impromptu sort of toast to life's inanities.

Closing time...

If Mike and I were to sit down and design what would be the perfect vacation destination for us, it would have certain factors:

First, it would have to be walkable. We like to meander.

Second, it would have to be beautiful, vistas along with small things for me to photograph, and if it had an interesting history, so much the better.

Third, it would be populated by pleasant, friendly people, perhaps a bit laid back. A place where you could sit on a bench and read a book.

Everywhere in Normandy there are signs and flags that say "welcome to our liberators"

Lastly, and this is important, it would have to have amazing regional cuisine and really wonderful coffee. Fabulous breakfasts wouldn't hurt either, but that's just me.

Oh, my friends, let me tell you: Bayeaux was all that.

I mentioned Mike and I were on a quest for someplace better than McDonalds to eat. This was not, repeat not a problem. I don't think there was a fast food place within 50 miles -when later we drove past the only McDonalds we saw in all of Normandy and Brittany, the guide pointed out the golden arches and proclaimed "the American Embassy."

Oh, those Frenchies and their sense of humor. Ha. Ha ha.

What we found out was that the French come to Normandy for great food. The first thing we discovered, food-wise, was the best ham I've ever eaten. I ordered a Caesar salad at a casual dining spot with moderate prices and service, but when the food arrived it was buried beneath a pile of succulent chunks of roughly chopped smoky pink goodness.

There were the most beautiful breads, and cheeses...

these at a Farmer's Market, and there also was seafood spread out like crown jewels, fish with bright eyes, crabs, and shellfish, all so fresh that a British woman walking towards us actually plucked at my arm, her eyes round, to marvel, even if only with a stranger, "there's absolutely no odour, only the smell of the sea!"

(Asnelles is the name of the village where these mussels were harvested, mussels are called moule)

So when it came time for dinner, we went for, as I'm sure the French would approve of my saying, the gusto and threw price caution to the wind, looking only to indulge our senses.

The worrisome bit of all this was that I was expected to be the one to translate the menus in the all-French restaurants, and my french, well, yeah, I don't claim to speak it. At all. But since I had more than Mike, it worked out that it was my duty, with the result of his eating some very lovely but quite raw (if beautifully prepared) beef thanks to my ignorance.

That evening we were being brave, dining in a restaurant where absolutely not a word of English was available for lame tourists like ourselves. We figured the wine took care of any naughty bacteria. Did I mention the wines? I could rave for another whole post about French wines, but you know, it's been done before.

Also in Bayeux, we discovered Calvados. This is an entertaining sort of golden spirit, an apple brandy that is the specialty of, and only made in, lower Normandy. The French take it quite seriously, as they do with all things aesthetic, and it was my good fortune to be directed by a nice fellow tending bar to try the sample platter and learn about the different grades. The youngest is still aged in oak barrels for two years, up to what must be a fantastically mellow and smooth (not to mention pricey) 20 year old. I can only assume that last bit, they don't offer such in the tasting platter, but the grades I tried went up steeply in quality as they aged.

Quite the thing, I am sure, to take the nip out of a frosty wintry day. Alongside some sort of lovely tripe stew. I hear that's also quite good, but I held back. The translation of the dish stew of “ tripes à la mode de Caen” stomach, guts and foot, made me feel less adventurous, especially after having endured a sort of self-imposed gastronomic tribute above and beyond my personal preferences and cruelty-free general guidelines. I ate, slowly but determinedly, an enormous slab of foie gras.

It was too plentiful, overwhelmingly rich and guilt-inspiring for me to enjoy, but I can see the appeal. Maybe just a little...not a whole duck-worth...on a cracker, perhaps? The French must go through it like gangbusters; there are entire shops that sell nothing else.

Literally everything we ingested in Bayeux was superior, so it was probably our loss when we decided not to try a gésiers salade (salad with chicken gizzards...non, merci) or risk finding out what whelk and periwinkles taste like. (lâches -cowards)

shutter latch, Bayeux

There was one thing, though, that was beyond amazing. An apple pie at a restaurant named Le Pommier. Apple pie may be all-American, but when it is Croustillant aux pommes confites, caramel de cidre et crème glacée (Chef’s special apple pie with cider’s caramel, and spiced ice cream) dessert is an experience above the usual plane of existence. After we practically arm wrestled a new acquaintance of ours into trying it, he took a bite, stopped, and moaned. "My God. This may sound stupid, but this tastes like...Christmas."

Quite a perfect description, actually.

During our time in Bayeux we ate the most amazing meals you can imagine. The Normans are genius with meats and cream sauces, and I seriously considered writing a sonnet to the butter.

Should you ever have the good fortune to visit Bayeux, here's a list of where I would dine should I die and go to heaven:

Le Pommier -warm, elegant service and the most delicious apple pie in the universe. The second time we ate there, there were no inside places but, undeterred and desperate for one more taste of that pie we took a table outside and shoved our table next to the wall, just out of the pouring rain, fending off the cold with potent cups of coffee.

La Rapiere -have reservations or they will regretfully turn you away. Family owned restaurant, absolutely delightful service of several generations of Norman women.

Le P'tit Resto -innovative cuisine and only French spoken here. Be brave, you will be rewarded. In the shadow of the cathedral. We ended our meal listening to medieval chants being sung nearby by a woman with a poignant contralto.

Le Bout en Train -this one needs a bit extra for its write up. We had walked past it several times and given it the eye. First of all, it was very sleek and modern looking, not at all in line with the classic, old world feel of the rest of the village. Then...the logo and much of the decor was pink. Hot pink and rose pink. And...no one ever seemed to be eating there. We gave it pity and kept walking.

That is, until one of our guides (the same one who pointed out the American Embassy) told us that his good friend is the chef. I had blurted something along the lines of "oh, yeah, that's the pink place that has no customers..." when he initially described the place, which made his face fall. Karmically we owed it a try.

The meal was up to the standards of the town, the tender duck, creamy turbot and succulent herbed pork all fantastic, with Moelleux au chocolat (chocolate cake) that was out of this world, but what really stood out to us, was that although we lingered until nearly 2 am on a weekday over wine, talking, relaxing and laughing, the restaurant had actually closed at 11.

Being French, the staff had never even hinted that we should leave, and stayed, smoking and tidying up discretely.

Graciously allowing guests to enjoy their evening far beyond closing time, well, it was very French. One may be rude, snobbish even, but paramount is the enjoyment of good food, wine, and conversation.

What a lovely country.

Just in time, I'm so glad you have a one track mind like me...

In Amsterdam Mike and I boarded a train heading south, pausing in the cities, Rotterdam, Antwerp and Brussels, and speeding through the forests and countryside of the Netherlands, Belgium and France, arriving about 3 1/2 hours later in Paris.

Paris was a mess. The trains were running late, the station was overflowing with travellers, some in lines looking disgruntled or resigned, others sitting forlornly on the floor with their luggage and pets and children.

There was a lot of French in the air, punctuated now and then by the Thalys theme, (dum duddy DAH-da,) which always put me in mind of Britney Spears' "Crazy". This was a little bit annoying as I couldn't recall any of the lyrics to that bit of pop drivel.

However, I figured that when one is in Paris, being slightly annoyed with something largely imperceptible to anyone else is going with the flow...as long as you look good doing it.

We decided we would get our tickets and move on, getting away from the inexplicable masses. (We never did figure out what was going on that day!) Mike was fussing about finding and going through customs. Which...were nowhere to be found.

I decided that if the French had wanted us to go through them, they would have made such obvious to even the most dense tourist. Perhaps with the event of the EU, security laden border crossings have become a thing of the past? Welcome to the new Europe.

We went on Paris' excellent and nearly foolproof Metro to find the station where we would pick up our next train. There was just enough time to grab a quick meal, and here I hang my head with shame that our first meal together in Paris was at...McDonalds.

Oh, the shame, the shame. (Then again, french fries in France...salty, hot and tasty...) It was also the most sterile meal I have ever ordered. We used an automatic machine to place our orders and to take our credit card, and picked up the finished product at the counter. I don't think we actually interacted with a real live human being for any of the process.

They weren't pommes frites in paper cones, but it did the job. I felt so damnably American, though. I kept hearing Red Buttons as Pvt. John Steele in The Longest Day: "Je suis American, je suis American".

Onto the next train, where we learned how it works on the trains: if you don't have a seat number on your ticket you might be able to snag one, but more likely, like us, you will be out of luck. They'll let you ride, but you have to find someplace to wait out the trip that's out of the way, and if there's no dining car, you'll probably end up, again like us, in the noisy luggage area between the cars.

We hunkered down with our luggage and an experienced traveller who'd brought a baguette -no McDonalds for him. With some squirming around we found a spot that was mostly out of the blast zone -the opening and closing doors let in the roar of the train- in a niche where no one would step on us and we could brace our knees to stay relatively stationary. Tuning out on headphones to non-Britney Spears music, well, we were good to go.

Mostly.

But it didn't matter! We were on vacation, on vacation in France, and going to the place around which we'd set the rest of our trip: Normandy. The train was taking us, moment by moment, towards Caen and Cherbourg, the landing beaches of D-Day, St-Mère-Église, places we'd long envisioned while learning about the second World War.

It was hard to believe we were really going there.

I demonstrated my excitement by taking half a nap. I'm like a little kid that way.

Mike had done exhaustive research on train travel, towns, tours, and B&Bs for us. Impressive, considering he was also wrapping up his work in Dubai, closing down the house, and dealing with his wife. (Yes, he only has one. I should think that would be more than enough, wouldn't you say?) Thanks to his efforts we'd decided to stay in the small but history-rich town of Bayeux, whose name we couldn't quite pronounce. (Bay-oo? Bye-uh? Beeh-you? Criminey.)

Finally, our carefully-chosen destination. We stretched kinked limbs, emerged into the sunshine, and began to hike towards the spires of the unmistakable Notre-Dame de Bayeux, a Norman Romanesque cathedral; according to the map our B&B was nearby.

When we got to our new home, Le Castel Nobel, I turned to Mike and said, oh, wow.

(photo from Le Castel Nobel Guesthouse website)

We spent less time than we might have admiring the outside of our new residence, being eager to drop off our luggage. Mike had warned me that the reviews of Le Castel Nobel had been stellar with the caveat that the hostess spoke no English.

We found this to be true. Which was fine, we were in France, after all. She spoke twice as much French to make up for our lack, utterly undeterred by the looks of confusion. Our responses were limited to oui, (yes) non,(no) and Je ne sais pas, which I thought translates as "I don't understand" but what actually means "I don't know."

Making absolutely sure we understood how to let ourselves in with the key, demonstrating several times (as non-French speakers we were in the category of obviously stupid but worthy of pity and compassion) our hostess finally showed us up a beautiful staircase to our room.

She never stopped talking. We were smothered in motherly French.

Upon entering our room, and escaping le déluge, I did a slow 360 and said once again, oh wow, Mike!

Luxurious, with a balcony one one side and a charming little alcove for reading looking over the gardens on the other, lovely bathroom with all the trimmings, elegantly decorated, and this was the view out our leaded-glass windows:

Mike did good. We headed out, giddy as kids, to explore a medieval French village that had been spared the bombings, the great Cathedral amongst the wood and stone houses on narrow cobblestone streets, and the River Aure.

And to find something better to eat than McDonalds.

This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.

this gorgeous coffee (which is what you'll get in any cafe) qualifies as the third "must-do" in Amsterdam.

***************

OK, seriously? I've posted all of twice this entire month when my goal is to post every 3 days? Definitely below par. Let's fix that, shall we?

****************

Things on our escapee/transition vacation were progressing, as Mike and I could tell from our willingness to laugh at ourselves more than usual. Looking for a seat for us in a well-filled open air restaurant and bar in Amsterdam, carefully making his way through the patrons with their drinks, loud conversations and expressive gestures, Mike nearly ran into another man coming the opposite direction. Mike begged forgiveness and went one way, then the other, the other person mirroring his actions.

I had caught up behind him and was trying not to laugh too hard. Mike had apologised to his own reflection in a floor to ceiling mirror. I do believe the gentleman in the mirror was understanding. He was on vacation too, after all.



We can't leave Amsterdam quite yet without telling you about this: according to Mike, and I believe him, there are two places in Amsterdam one simply must go.


The first is the Rijksmuseum. Home to Rembrandts and Vermeers. My spousal unit is particularly enamoured with this enormous painting, the one you see when you first enter the museum:

It's called Militia Banquet and though we thought it was a Rembrandt, it turned out to be by a fellow named Bartholomeus van der Helst in the 1600's. For some reason, this painting is not as famous as similar paintings in the Rijksmuseum like Rembrandt's The Night Watch or Hals and Codde's The Meagre Company (below), but the details really sing to us. The expressions, the way your eye is directed, even the excellent sort of still life in the bottom lefthand corner, are all exquisite.

(Doesn't the main fellow, in the middle there, look an awful lot like Nicolas Cage?)

The museum is one of the best laid-out ones I have ever been in, nothing to detract from the paintings (except for the occasional similarity to quirky and very successful Hollywood actors) and, oh, thank you, thank you, thoughtful seating where one can rest, concealing jet lag as art appreciation.

The other place Mike felt was an absolute necessity was Anne Frank House. I am going to assume you know who she is, and what she came to represent for all of us, and especially Jewish and humanitarian history. I had re-read her diary, and been amazed anew at how wonderful and poignant it is. I expected to feel terribly sad at their hiding place, then...and I did. But there was something else I didn't expect. I came out of there feeling strangely hopeful.

The Secret Annex and museum at Anne Frank House has had more than a million visitors. Every time we went past there were lines around the corner of more people waiting patiently to enter. (I recommend buying your tickets ahead of time online.)

Mike was most moved by the marks on the walls measuring the children's' growth which suddenly stop, I wept quietly over the photographs of the smiling Anne, and her handwriting on pages of her diary beneath glass.

Anne's diary has been read by people from all over the world, more than 25 million copies have been sold and in nearly 60 languages.

Think of how many people that is, all thinking, even if only fleetingly, of a young girl, a girl whose life ended far, far too soon, and of the millions of others lost, like her. What Anne managed to accomplish through her honesty, depth and wisdom far beyond her 15 years, under circumstances unbearable for such a sensitive and free spirit, is nothing short of inspiring. So I leave you with a few of her words:

How wonderful to think that no one need wait a moment, we can start now, start slowly changing the world! How lovely that everyone, great and small, can make their contribution toward introducing justice straightaway... And you can always, always give something, even if it is only kindness!

Whoever is happy will make others happy too.

It's really a wonder that I haven't dropped all my ideals, because they seem so absurd and impossible to carry out. Yet I keep them, because in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can't build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery and death.


...look at how a single candle can both defy and define the darkness.

- Annelies Marie Frank

12 June 1929 - early March 1945

In the port of Amsterdam...

Amsterdam. A beautiful city that we had dashed through as a family two years ago (to the cries of "I need a POTTY!!!" when none could be found) and whose airport I knew extraordinarily well, having spent several 6 hour layovers within its admittedly pleasant but still airport-ish confines. Mike had gotten to explore Amsterdam during several of his kid-free layovers and now...it was my turn. We would explore at leisure and go anywhere and do anything we wanted.

In honor of no kids, we started out by having some very fine beers.



Which is a good thing to do in Amsterdam. They are quite fond of beer there. They are also, of course, quite impressively permissive, what with the Red Light District and coffeeshops where patrons (mostly tourists, apparently) openly smoke marijuana and other "soft" drugs are available.

However, Mike and I are boring. Really, terribly so. I apologise for the utter lack of titillating stories. The most exciting thing we did in Amsterdam was eat some magnificent Indonesian food. I also really enjoyed a street book market, where I bought a used Dutch version of The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

Oh, and I bought a piece of Dutch apple pie. It was pretty good, enhanced by watching the bucketfuls of rain that were puring down outside that day while we sat cosily within and had espresso.

appel taart

Honestly, I wouldn't blame you if you stopped reading this blog right now.

I did take a photo of some, ahm, shall we term them gardening pursuits:

Keep in mind that these were smack dab in the middle of the tulip bulbs and other innocuous plants for beautifying one's existence. I'll bet customs agents are not chipper when people try to take these sorts of souvenirs into their home countries.

I did not take any interesting photographs in the Red Light district. It's frowned upon, so if you're curious, I suppose you'll have to go there yourself. The ladies of the night stand or sit in their red lit windows, wearing lingerie and looking largely bored, fluffing their hair or smoking, occasionally gesturing to potential customers.

Comparing Amsterdam's Red Light district to Patapong's in Thailand (both during the day when not much is happening, the nighttime possibly being another animal entirely), Thailand is far grittier and doesn't have a sense of humor about the whole thing. Amsterdam does.

We did the obligatory walk-through one of the streets and called it good. Interestingly, the area is the oldest part of town and quite lovely; the houses are some of the most valuable and sought-after real estate, no one seeming to mind the business being conducted one bit.

If it makes you feel better that you're still reading despite our lack of crazy (even though they were entirely legal, how weird is that?) pursuits, Mike and I did have beers before the book market, and he had beer while I was browsing the book market, and then we both had a beer together after the book market.

It's possible you might see a pattern here. Can't imagine what it might be.





No, you're right, that's not terribly interesting. This next bit would be some hot gossip, but then, I would never tell you that those legs being held down by the Gollem Pub's resident feline belong to Mike, a professed cat non-enthusiast. Not I.

We did almost get taken out by a trolley. Those are really quiet, and they sneak up on you, especially if you're crossing the road looking the wrong way. The bicycles have the ultimate right-of-way, and we pathetic pedestrians learned quickly that we had best keep out of their way. The bicycles there are great, outfitted with baskets and silk flowers and even some baby seats on the handlebars for the parent on the go. Interestingly, almost no one wears helmets.

We laughed uproariously at the Beer Bike, a strange contraption of much hilarity that is pedaled by a group who are also leaning on a bar down the middle of the thing, and well-lubricated thanks to the 30L of beer that comes with a booking. It looked like a lot of fun.

The fellow who jumped into one of the canals (and then had to be hoisted out by his friends to a round of applause from both sides of the canal) also looked like he was having fun, but then, I have to tell you, that water is brown and murky and more often than not smells like horse manure.

wickedly steep stairway, Amsterdam

I would love to see the statistics as to how many have been seriously wounded after falling down the steeply pitched stairs in Amsterdam while trying to get to the bathroom. This seems like an unkind thing to do to your drinking patrons; I was wary of the stairs even when cold sober.

Around every corner was another exquisite view,

or something stand-out interesting; even the graffiti was amusing,



and sometimes whimsically delightful.

All in all, what with the fun and beauty and everyone cycling (even if I was too chicken to attempt it this time around) and with its deep sense of history and tolerance, we found Amsterdam to be a truly great, vibrant city.

Even for us boring sorts.

You really got me, you got me so I can't sleep at night...

There is something positively delicious about beginning a trip abroad all alone. Makes a girl feel like a movie star. Katherine Hepburn, maybe. I had the trousers for it.

I'd never gone solo on a flight before, and in recent history all flights had been with the kids. Suddenly a trans-Atlantic flight seemed like the ultimate in luxury.

Here's the deal: way back when in 2008, Mike and I were discussing whether to accept the offer to move to Dubai. We decided two things; first that we would make the most of the location and salary by travelling whenever we could, and second that we would take a trip to Europe at the end of our time overseas.

Just us.

Our last month in Dubai, with the "no kid" factor on the table, we kicked around a couple of other ideas...Casablanca and Marrakesh in Morocco, safari in Kenya and summit Kilimanjaro, hike to Kathmandu in Nepal?

OK, so those were mostly my ideas.

We decided to be kind to ourselves, rather than go for exotic or athletic, and went with the original plan to travel Europe. But where? it wasn't too long before everything fell into place: we would travel by train from the Netherlands, through Belgium and down into France. We each had places we'd always wanted to go, and to go together, well, what could be better?

The entire week while I was home in Seattle with the kids and Mike was wrapping up our lives in Dubai (and overseeing all the wrapping up of our stuff,) I had eshewed caffeine, rationalizing that I was going to be tired and headachy anyway. In a bold master stroke of planning, I would deny myself both buzz and wakefulness until I would want to be truly alert...on vacation.

During the week home I had done mundane but necessary tasks like renewing my expired driver's license and got another international driver's license to use in France, and generally stumbled around Walmart finding clothes warm enough for the kids to endure the Northwest summer, it being about half the temperature it was in Dubai.

At SeaTac I kissed and hugged the kids good-bye and had no trouble putting on a cheerful face. They would be happy and safe with Grandma and Grandpa, they were getting a vacation as much as we were. Thomas was unconcerned at my departure but Bethy cried at the last moment. However, I had her letter in my suitcase:

Which says: Dear Mom and Dad I love you, Me and Thomas hope you have a good time at Pairis (Paris) and all the other plaises (places) you are going love Bethy and thomas

Always good to have a signed permission slip, I say. That's like a Pass Go and Collect $200 card as far as I'm concerned.

Getting through security at SeaTac was like a dream. Seriously, bliss. Showed my boarding pass and passport, my one bag and shoes on the conveyor belt, through the scanner, then done and free as a bird to do whatever the hell I wanted.

No one to get lost, no one to feed or take to the bathroom or look after in any way, shape or form except for me.

Talk about footloose and fancy free...!

In a move that really should have solidified feelings of guilt and selfishness for such self-indulgence, but in reality was truly inspired and frankly felt great, I hit up the SeaTac massage bar and got the no-sleep flight kinks I'd acquired on the way out rubbed out of my neck and shoulders before boarding my flight.

I also browsed the stores, having a giggle over the Twilight-themed body sparkle lotion as an alternative to the more usual smoked salmon, coffee, or Sleepless in Seattle nightshirts to take home to your loved ones from the Evergreen State.

Yes, you too can shimmer like a teenage vampire. Officially.

The flight was uneventful. I had already seen all the movies on the flight out to Seattle, (well, sort of) and I wanted to save my book, but I only dozed a little bit, the body still utterly confused about what time it was. I had stayed up until 3:30 the night before, thinking that would make me sleep on the plane.

Nope.

Oh well.

The good travel fairies were on duty and made it so that even though Mike was flying about 3200 miles from Dubai and I was logging 4900 from Seattle, our planes arrived 15 minutes apart at Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam.

I do so love those good travel fairies.

Amsterdam, then.

One of the things we really like about Amsterdam is how the city is so incredibly accessible from the airport. A quick, easy train ride and you're there, with the utterly distinctive buildings, canals and houseboats and the innumerable bicycles.

Of course, even in a well laid-put town like Amsterdam we wandered, slightly lost for a little while, (this is something of an obligation) rolling our suitcases determinedly behind.

Of course we eventually found our hotel, thanks to Mike's unparalleled instinct for direction, and climbed for the first of many times up what we had been assured would be the impressively steep 37 stairs to the reception desk.



We checked in, dumped our gear and of course went on an immediate and highly motivated hunt for a cappuccino into the transparent morning light of the Netherlands.