Death Wish on Lago Maggiore

Lots to cover over the past two days but time is short so I’ll keep it quick:

Lago Maggiore is unspeakably beautiful. There isn’t an adjective in the thesaurus that I could find that can explain what it’s like here.

It is really, REALLY hard to resist buying all the goods I see at the farmers market. I’m not sure what I would actually do with 300 kilos of fresh goat cheese and bresaola but it looks, tastes and smells like something I need in my life. At all times.

There are no churches in tourist towns.

Both the German-Swiss and Italian-Swiss populations like suits. The Germans prefer to wear ties with their while the Italians take there into the lake. That’s really the only difference.

If you have a death wish may I suggest a trip to Lake Maggiore. You can rent a really expensive car/motorcycle and circumnavigate the lake on a seemingly infinite number of hairpins, switchbacks, loops, dips, drops, swerves, curves, turns and narrowing roads. Like a wet piece of spaghetti fell from the pot and and onto the ground. You will inevitably be going too fast on one of these roads and will soon meet the front bumper of an oncoming vehicle, most likely a small, Euro-styled hatchback. But don’t worry. Said meeting will take place at speed and the story of your demise will go something like, “Whatever happend to (insert name here)?” and someone will reply with “He was driving a (Ferrari/Porsche/Ducati) on those insanely dangerous roads of Lake Maggiore. Was doing like 120 when he came head on into an oncoming Alfa Romeo. Sucks but what a way to go!”

Beyonce Would Like This Place…They Upgrade You

Upgrade Life!

If there has been a theme to the trip so far it can no doubt be summed up in a single word: upgrade. In just a 24 hour span we’ve managed to secure first-class plane tickets, a larger and faster car and a room with a far better view of the Engadine Valley. And each scenario has started with “Oh, we’ve upgrade you to..(insert better thing here).” I rarely, if ever, get upgraded to anything more than the accidental Venti when I actually ordered a Grande so to have this happen so often in such a short period of time is gratifying to say the least.

Switzerland has changed little since the last time I was here in 2007. The women still have generally terrible haircuts that are still paired with hair coloring that seems to have been selected after a not-so-lucky game of ‘Truth or Dare’. Efficiency, order and cleanliness still permeate every crevice of society: the baggage carrousels accurately count down the minutes before your bags get spit out for collection, the car rental clerk seems more organized than your average air traffic controller and the floor of any gas station could double as your dinner plate. A pleasant departure from the occasional “your boarding gate has changed…again” that we find all too often in New York (if only because the same people here who may have been inclined to have changed your boarding gate in the past have all probably been shot.) This is still a nation that, not surprisingly, operates like clockwork.

The Swiss seem to harbor a perpetual passive aggressiveness that seems mostly rooted in the literal translation from Swiss German to English but with just a small dose of intentional pushiness. The first question asked of us as we pulled into the hotel, “You will join us for dinner, yes?” was quickly followed up with “You will sit with another couple, yes?” Your answer cannot be no. No means there are other options. No means you’re deviating from the plan (even if you didn’t know there was a plan). No would greatly affect and probably ruin the order of things. So of course we ate at the hotel (which was delicious) and the only reason we didn’t manage to eat with said Swiss couple was because we took too long to wash up before dinner. This is, and always has been, a country where Inefficiency is not tolerated and as much as I appreciate the chaos of the world, the Swiss order of things is still much to my liking.

Svizzera

T-Minus 3 weeks. Here’s the GP:

2 nights in St. Moritz

2 nights in Brissago

2 nights in Zermatt

1 night in Bern

…off to London

Should be a great one.

View Larger Map

<a

Day 1 in Israel: Losing a Day…Kind Of

Z, D, G and Jenka

When my family and I decided to come to Israel this December, one of the deal makers was the recent passing of my grandmother Lilly and how it might be a nice chance to see her last remaining sister, Jenka, who lives on a kibbutz in Mishmar-ha-Negev. A great opportunity to touch that last remaining link from her generation. Granted I had already met Jenka at my bris but my hope was that this time would afford me a more memorable (and clothed) experience.
As her daughter Jubilee held court and served us a delicious meal of cheeses, vegetables, yogurts, dates and wine I kept peeking at the old woman, to see if I could pick up subtle reminders of our recently passed grandmother. I’m not going to pretend that it was like having my her right in front of me but the similarities were unmistakable. The furrowed brow when questioned, the finger placed diagonally over the lip when she listened, the quizzical requests in that hodgepodge of languages and even the glasses that she carefully placed above her nose when one had her attention. Things that Lilly did she did as well, and while they lived the last 50 years nearly 4,000 miles away from one another, these little quirks were hard-coded. I found that deeply comforting.

Some observations that I’ve picked up on in the 18 hours I’ve been in this country:
- Do not mess with the Shabbos elevator! The hotel we’re staying is playing host to 8 weddings this weekend and I believe we are the only unaffiliated group staying on site. Having never really spent much time in a heavy Jewish community (except for my occasional travels to Long Island and the Upper West Side), I have never seen a Shabbos elevator. As observant Jews celebrate the Shabbos, they cannot use technology so the elevator buttons come pre-pressed letting them get to their floor without having to push anything. I’m not very clear on this as the use of the elevator outright has to be considered use of technology unless they’ve replaced the working motor with gerbils running on a wheel for power. Anyway, it’s akin to taking the 6 when the 4/5 is readily available as there are other elevators that can be used “normally”. After experiencing a pretty substantial fit of sleeplessness/jet lag I thought it would be a good idea around 4:30am to take said shabbos elevator fully expecting no one to be in it. I hop in on the 12th floor and as expected it heads down to 11 opens and closes. I start to giggle with glee (I know I can be a little immature at times but this may be a new high or low…I blame the jet lag). I head down to 10 and the elevator door opens and of course, there is a hotel attendant there cleaning the floor. In my shorts and t-shirt, with a laughing fit to boot, I remove myself from the elevator to the rather apparent consternation of the worker who I’m sure was not too pleased. I have yet to be paid a visit from some angry Rabbi but what is clearer is that there are definitely rules/traditions in this country that don’t exist at home. As I am a guest here, it is for me to respect these rules and not break them.

- There’s a warning in the room that reads: “Please note that it is absolutely forbidden to light a fire in the rooms!” I don’t know if this is meant as a potential warning to smokers, candle lighters or goat sacrificers but the repercussions here seem pretty severe.

Off to Israel…in a month

Yes. It’s true. I’ll be making my first trip to the Holy Land (not sure if it’s Holy because of the religious or war-torn landscape). The family is in tow and this is a 2-weeker so lots of writing material to come.

Suggested itinerary?

Striking Paris Yet Again

A few of you have wondered if we ever actually made it here. We did, no thanks to the buffons “working” at Eurostar. Luckily grabbed two seats on a Paris-bound flight on Sunday night that put us on the ground at Charles de Gaulle Airport with no sweat. There was virtually no snow on the ground so I don’t know what got all up in their pants but better safe that exploding horribly down the tarmac, anyway…

Woke up on Monday morning at the hotel and made the necessary arangements to walk the 100 meters to the house where we are staying. Catherine, our host David’s girlfriend, welcomed us in and gave us a brief lay of the land with a carefully detailed map and some recommendations on what was in the neighborhood. Lauren and I thanked her and took to our room(s). Turns out the studio that we had been planning on staying in is actually a seperate apartments for David’s teenage children. The bedrooms are located a few stairs above the main living area and I have reason to believe that these kids are not much taller than Napoleon because every time I go up there I feel like I’m 2 feet too tall, but it’s free and in a great location in the 6th arrondiesment so I’m not complaining.

A quick bit of planning and a bite to eat had us setting off for some of the main sites where Lauren and I had planned a walking tour of the city to get our bearings. The weather was quite chilly but nothing horrible and a permanent overcast made us pack our umbrellas. Off to Notre-Dame which hadn’t changed in since the last time I was here in 2005 but I guess giant buildings devoted to the son of God, built in the 12th Century don’t change all that much. Still, everytime I got there I’m impressed with the place. It’s magnificently huge and I think Lauren got a kick out of it.

Next stop was the Louvre where we walked along the River Seine and admired the beauty of this wonderful city. We decided not to go in (as we had a plan to do that later on) so we hung a right and walked up towards Le Galleries Lafayette, Europe’s biggest department store. Lauren’s assertation that we could basically buy all this stuff back home in New York stuck on me so we headed back out in search for something to eat. Lauren was quite hungry at this point and pleaded that we just pick a place but I had this idea in my mind that we would will away the afternoon sitting on a heated porch of some quaint Parisian bistro, drinking espresso and discussing Camus. I took the reins and settled on Le Cardinal, a place that looked like it fit the part pretty well. The waiter was a joyful South Asian guy who had studdied in England and had pretty solid command of our language. After a few minutes he came back and Lauren ordered a chicken curry salad while I opted for the Lomo board (a smorgasboard of dried meats and cheeses atop a bed of lettuce) along with two glasses of Bordeaux. The wine came and I could sense that we were both satisfied with our decision. A few more minutes passed by when out came the food. Lauren took a bite of her chicken which she seemed quite satisfied with, but the next bite offered up this exchange:

Lauren: “Excuse me Sir, but there’s something in my salad.” (waving at the waiter to come over and then handing him the salad while pointing to it)

Waiter (in a weirdly British accent): “What…the hell…is that?”

Lauren: “I don’t know but please take it away! I don’t want it any more thank you!” (to her credit, she was totally cool and calm…I would have been a bit more “dramatic”)

Waiter: “I am so sorry, please, what else would you like?”

Lauren: “I’m fine, I’ll, um, just pick off his plate thanks.”

I had absolutely no idea what had happened, but what I did know was that there was something in Lauren’s food. She initially categorized it as a worm but later on said it seemed more like a grub. Furthermore, the waiter returned to tell us that the chef didn’t understand what the problem was and that she should just eat the salad anyway. Very comforting, especially for me and my bed of lettuce. I wasn’t too keen on eating my lunch either but I was hungry enough where I felt what I just happened was a fluke. We spent the entire meal wondering what lurked beneath each leaf of my Lomo board and elected not to touch anything green for fear we might uncover something horrible. Lauren and I were pretty careful taking apart each piece but tasty as it was, it didn’t stop me for thinking twice. But the, on my last piece of cheese I spotted something on the floor out of the corner of my right eye. There it was, a mouse running around the perimeter of the restaurant. We couldn’t get the f*** out fast enough and the waiter, despite his very apparent embarassment, totally understood why we bolted. That said, we didn’t even get a free meal but it didn’t matter. I wanted nothing to do with this place again!

After that I thought Paris had it in for us: Eurostar was cancelled, mice running around our restaurants. I was pretty shaken up but a vigorous walk up to Montmatre cleared my senses a bit. Finally the view from Sacre Coeur was enough to make me appreciate this place again and Lauren and I geared up for the evening’s affairs. Catherine had given us some recommendations (that hopefully had passed there most recent health inspection) and we decided on a place called Le Petit Coeur followed by a plan to catch some local music at a converted dungeon named Le Caveau de Oubilles.

Dinner was absolutely fantastic. A typically French ambiance with ambient music and quiet conversation coming from the corner of the room, I ordered mackerel with beet sauce and Lauren ordered a lamb that was by her account “the best lamb I have ever had in my life.” We finished with some creme brulee and after a compliment to the chef we headed out to the music club. We were expecting jazz and were quite shocked when we came down the very tight staircase to the tune of some blues music courtesy of JB Mains, a local guitarist with some pretty serious chops. Lauren and I took a table in the back and soaked up the very solid scene which came with some significant unintentional hillarity (as you would expect when you hear the French do their interpretation of American blues), definitely surreal to come to Paris and hear music you’d expect to catch in Memphis.

It turns out that Monday night is open guitar night at the club. All you have to do is tell JB Mains that you’d like the play and if he gives you his guitar you’ve won your song and a beer on the house. You also get a backing band of a drummer, bassist and keys. I didn’t realize this at the beginining of the set which caused Lauren and I to wonder why he kept giving his guitar to random audience members. Here are some thoughts:

Jazz at Caveau des Oubliettes

- The first guy that got a chance was a dead ringer for Shaun White, down to the long, red hair. This kid definitely brought his 45 year-old, headbanging mom to the show who seemed to be his only groupie, which would make Freud pretty happy. He was a little too intense and undisciplined, ranging from metal to blues to Hendrix-style playing within the same song.

- I’ve never seen such fluidity in a music show. The alto sax player came down the stairs in the middle of a song, grabbed his sax and rocked his solo as if he was upstairs before hand and mid-conversation said to whomever he was talking to, “Oh, gotta go. I have sax solo downstairs.”  Also, if you decide to participate in open guitar night expect to have a random alto sax solo in the middle of one of your songs. Because that happened every, single time; which was weird during the Zeppelin songs.

- The second drummer looked like he has been working construction for the past 25 years and had a “Wait, I’m getting paid for this right?” face on the entire time.

- The house band played the song “We’re going to have a house party,” which got the crowd pretty fired up. Too bad we were in a 12th century dungeon in the bowels of Paris where prisoners were routinely tied up only to be thrown into the Seine to drown (I’m not making that up).

- The French can actually, and really, play the blues and rock n’ roll but they have a really tough time with the lyrics. “Johnny B. Goode” sounded something like “Jean be nice.”

- Shaun White guy got back on stage at the very end of the show and his “mom” ended the night with her bra strap dangling around her elbow, thinking it would be a good idea to shake her breasts to the entire audience of 17 horrified college students. That would have been appropriate under no circumstances, not even Woodstock. We were in a converted French dungeon.

Heading out for dinner now but I’ll have a report on today’s activities including a trip to the Eiffel Tower and other little tidbits.

That’s all for now…

When life gives you lemons, go to an Arsenal football match

I have a lot of free time on my hands right now (I’ll explain why in a bit) so I figured it was high time for the first post.

After a painless flight we managed to reach the Hotel St. George outside Oxford Circus sometime around noon. With no sleep and a bad back Lauren looked as miserable as one could look given the circumstances and even the excitement of her first trip to Europe couldn’t pep up her mood. I felt genuinely bad for her as she sulked around the Tube in zombie mode for the better part of the afternoon. After a pretty brief trip around town we headed back to the hotel room so that Lauren could get some much needed sleep and then got ready for our family dinner with the extended family. My cousin Caroline was kind enough to host us as well as her parents (Peter and Vivien) and her aunt (Andrea). We dined on a wonderful chicken dinner and got to sample some of her world-class, unbelievable baking. Seriously this stuff is unreal; she does cakes of Power Rangers, Yoda and even Arsenal striker Cesc Fabregas. I normally don’t get that excited over baked goods and pastries but these things were just awesome. Dinner wrapped up with a brief card game and a pretty harrowing ride home in the snow and we arrived back at the hotel around 11 and headed to bed.

Next morning started with a fantastic, if not exorbitantly expensive breakfast atop the roof of our hotel with a full panorama of London to give us some perspective. Being the arrogant traveler that I am, I took it upon myself to point out all the “sites” to Lauren but was wrong on pretty much all of them (honestly, St. Paul’s Cathedral looks a lot different up close!). We headed out in the shockingly cold weather and walked off to Angels Fancy Dress, a 4-story costume shop owned and operated by some family of mine. We were welcomed to the dream of many a girl: dresses and outfits from every major historical period dating back to Ancient times. They had Victorian, salsa dresses, French soldiers, 17th century aristocrat…you name it, they absolutely have it. Lauren chose a fantastic (but pretty tedious) Elizabethan outfit while I donned the Roman breast plate and matching helmet without having to remove my pants. Great times and great pictures all around.

After dress-up we were given a personal tour of the town by Emma and Jeremy (big shoutout) and took the standard walking tour of all the sights: Trafalgar Square, Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace, etc. The numbing cold got to me pretty severely and made me wish I hadn’t worn my mesh-toed sneakers. Three hours later we made our way to Harrod’s (easily the most pretentious and over the top department store I have ever seen) and finally tucked into a little cafe for some sandwiches and tea. With screaming feet and Lauren’s red nose it was the right end to a solid (and pretty exhausting) tourist escapade of London. My initial hesitance towards photo taking (God forbid I be seen as a “bloody tourist”) wore off and we managed to snag some pretty solid pics.

We hit Selfridge’s pretty hard (Google “Superdry”…coolest, clothes, ever) and headed back to the hotel for a quick rest before dinner. Lauren slept while I meticulously researched old pubs for us eat and drink at. Of course we never hit any of them and settled at Shakespeare’s Head, which I initially thought was a mistake but turned out to be the right move. A salmon for me and roast for her and 45 minutes later we were off to another pub for a few pints. We took it to Argyl and Arms where we saw a few drunken Brits get led out by the staff and struck up a conversation with a few locals. They seemed to all think that New York is the Greatest City in the World and while I don’t really disagree, I really, really, really enjoy London. It’s a great town. Varying shops and villages within the city, a joyful population, world-class history and an superb metropolitan atmosphere. I can see myself living here for a bit and not growing tired of it.

Lauren and I turned in around midnight knowing we had to wake the next morning at 5:30 to catch our 7am train from St. Pancras Station to Paris. I headed down a bit early to check out only to hear from the desk manager that “there was a problem with the trains but I think it’s sorted out now.” If “sorted out now” means that trains are canceled until Monday then he was right. What a nightmare. The entire trip Lauren had been telling me that as a girl she dreamed of going and would have trips planned only to be canceled at the last minute. I would tell her that coming with me, things would be different. I wouldn’t allow us not to go but she didn’t accept this until the plane touched down at Heathrow. The night before we had discussed Paris and she mentioned that “we’re not there yet.” I laughed it off thinking her understandable pessimism was just coming out after a pint or two. Twelve hours later the reality was that St. Pancras station was in chaos. Men with bullhorns were making indecipherable announcements about train electrical systems while stunned (probably French) passengers were just walking about, staring at the ground not knowing what to do. We heard that it was possible to catch a bus from Victoria so we hopped a tube and headed over. No dice, buses were not leaving until the next day at noon and even then it would be a 10-12 hour journey. Misery. I pulled out the iPhone and dialed up Vivien and Peter who at 7:30am probably had no idea what the hell was happening, but still offered to pick us up at the Finchley Road tube stop so we could crash at their place if only for a few hours.  A few minutes later Emma called me to see if everything was OK, I told her that at least we weren’t some of the unfortunate souls stuck in the Chunnel for 14 hours but our goal of reaching Paris today was not going to happen. While disappointed for us there was a silver lining: her father would be able to get us tickets to the Arsenal/Hull City football match at the brand-new Emirates Stadium. What a turn of luck! I quickly said yes and 6 hours later we were chanting and enjoying ourselves along with 60,000 other Arsenal supporters to the tune of a 3-0 Gunners win.

I was pretty fascinated with the way the English do their “football” versus us Americans. In the US we sit around the parking lot for hours before kickoff, eating sausages and drinking ice cold beer only to get into the game where we eat more sausages and drink more beer. If our team wins we may go to a nearby bar where we can still eat even more sausages and drink even more beer. Football in America is a spectacle, an event, and supporters spend all day gearing up for the game. In Britain you sort of stumble upon the stadium which looks like this giant spaceship that has landed in the middle of a residential neighborhood. There is no giant parking lot around the stadium and thus no tailgating. There are no scalpers asking for “Tickets!”, there are no hustlers outside hawking some newly printed t-shirts celebrating some newly reached milestone from some newly acquired player. It seems as if going to a football match here is just another part of the day:

“What are you doing today?”

“Well I have to grab lunch with me girl, head to the tube, go to the Arsenal football game and then pick-up me dry cleaning.”

I’m not coming down on the fans, they are as passionate and boisterous as any fans in America, but their whole gameday process is just completely different. Furthermore, they don’t serve beer in the stadium as soccer hooligans used to get drunk, get into fights and get thrown into jail. Bad business for everyone, except for the beer companies. Now things are changed, fans are less pugnacious as they are less drunk but still, the majority of US fans attend the games not so they can cheer on their team but so that they can get smashed with their friends. I’m not sure which experience is better, football fans here are certainly excitable and have a more well-honed focus on the game but they lack that palatable drunkenness that is so pervasive, and I guess so American, at US stadiums

The post-game celebration took us back to Jeremy’s house where our improvised, extended London stay ended with some delicious Thai food, ample conversation and a full screening of The Hangover.

Up this morning our plan is to get to Paris by air with our flight landing at 8:30. The snow is still coming down but hopefully the next post will come via France.

Until then…

Quick iPhone Post

Bohinjisko Jezero

Quick post from iPhone as there are some severely limited Internet cafes in this area. Speaking of area I’m in Bohinj Jezero, Slovenia; a rugged but spectacular mountain retreat in the heart of Triglav National Park. The hotel is a family run chalet with a specatcular view of Lake Bohinj. Got in yesterday after exploring the far reaches of this little country I checked in and was quickly met with a rainstorm of biblical proportions, seriously intense dousing. I got to my room and quickly thought “Where the hell am I?!?” It was pouring rain, I was alone, there was nothing to do. I began to regret my decison of making this trip to the mountains; I am no hermit and even worse, there was no one for me to talk to (oh no!) i figured I’d hit the hotel bar for some dinner and hopefully to meet some new people but my efforts were severely hampered after I spilled balsamic vinegar all over a humorless German and then inadvertenly offered her husband peanut oil for his salad instead of the more common olive variety. I sat down at my €5 included meal of grilled turkey and potatoes, cracked open my New Yorker fully expecting to be avoided like a bad looking dessert: I was. I called my Dad and my girlfriend to get ny hopes up but the effects were temporary. I was miserable. But. I had a car. A way to escape my escape. So at 8pm I fired up my rental Renault and set off with no destination in mind. My hope was to find a deserted stretch of mountain road and drive. I had GPS so getting lost was not a possibility unless some terrible calamity were to occur. After a few meandering twists through some Slovenian mountain towns I came across the sign I was looking for: a yellow triangle with a black squiggly arrow in the middle. I started my ascent to God-knows-what and by chance came across what must have been “heep-chhop” hour on a local radio station. Who knew hairpins and 50 Cent could be so cathartic? My frustration had melted away into the thrill of driving some of the most insanely unsafe roads I had ever been on: 200 foot drops, tight hairpins, dips, drops, swerves all with guardrails made from chicken wire. I couldn’t have been happier with my new friend, even it was a rental.

A Country Hvar Hvar Away

About a two hour ferry from Split, the string bean shaped island of Hvar (pronounced Fhar) is thought by many to be the “next” Ibiza/Mykonos/Marbella. I haven’t been to any of those places but based on their reputation I can say that Hvar is a class below those…and that’s a good thing. Hvar is more quaint and far less “sceneny”

We got to the island a few days ago and checked into the Hotel Amfora: a Communist looking structure with recently updated room that feature a super modern look and 1920′s air conditioning technology. But, the location is excellent with a nice 10-minute walk into town and the best beach on the island (and by best beach I mean the beach with the smallest sized rocks on it). We headed into town right as dusk set in with the harbor packed with all types of sefaring crafts: ferries, dinghys, motorboats, sailboats and yachts. The three of us had some fish for dinner and the Greg and I set out to take in the nightlife. The first stop was Carpe Diem, the “see and be seen” place on the island where I guess people go to “be seen” dancing like morons in window sills. The euro-techno was blasting and the crowd was a solid mix of creepy old Eurotrash and backpacking hostel hoppers. After a few drinks we headed to the next loudest place on the harbor, a place with no name but with some of the loudest techno you could possibly imagine. We walked in and were met with 100% humidtiy and sweat. Mix that even more alcohol for Greg and I, a bartender who would routinely light the bar on fire (no joke) and a shirtless DJ spinning tracks with inexplicable sirens in the background and really deep voices saying things like “The system, is broken…ENHANCE!” and “Dragons, are in the lair!” and you’ve got yourself a quintessential but surprisingly fun Euro dance party. Greg started kicking some game to a local blonde as I watched little brother in action and after a few deeply probing questions (“So, are you from around here?”) and even more interesting answers (“No, I am from Split”) we were told that the best night club in town was Lavendera which was a few minutes from the harbor. We followed the crowds up the hill, paid the 50 kuna cover and partied ’till about 4 with some intermitent and somewhat spasmodic moves on the dance floor. The only shocking part happened on my first trip to the bathroom where I was greeted with an Aussie guy sprawled out on the floor and a girl with seemingly very limited medical skills holding his foot in one hand and a steak knife in the other. Major SurgeryFAIL but great times all around.

The next morning, with a mega-ranging-huge hangover, was our tour of the Hvar Town. Nice, quaint and quiet we all hiked up the hill and took in the major fort that surveys the entire town. On the way down Mom stopped into a local butcher shop where she started chatting with the owner, Ivo, who spoke excellent English (and German) and gave us a thorough explanation of the island and the stuff to do there. With two of his sons living on the island with him, he invited us to meet him and his family for dinner at his friends’ restaurant later that evening. Mom purchased some local cheese and wine (honestly some of the best swill  we have ever had in our lives) and we set off.

Greg and I then took off on a driving tour of the island and took the Opel to a few thousand feet above sea level in the surrounding lavender fields and through a few villages. Spectacular scenery was in full effect as we took turns driving on the ribbons of tarmac draped across the sparse but striking mountainous geography. Greg uncovered the car’s Sport Mode functionality which made the countless hairpins that much more exhilarating.

At about 10 we headed out for the restaurant that Ivo had suggested. As walked into the garden we were pleased to see Ivo and his family still in the midst of their meal so we joined the table right next to them. Knowing the full menu, he kindly ordered everything for us, including the booze. Well after a few hours (and more than a few drinks) we started getting stories from Ivo and his family. Everyone at the table next to us had a story about his or her role in the “the war.” Ivo and his eldest son were soldiers while his wife was a nurse. Some of their stories were what you’d expect to hear from a 5 year war that virtually coined the phrase “ethnic cleansing.” Their youngest son, Ivan, was not old enough to fight but he changed the subject to the topic of his own son and the origin of his name Matia where I teed up one of the more egregious faux-pas in my traveling career.

Ivan: Yes, my son’s name, Matia, is an old name, from Croatia, and is very honorable.

Me: What does it mean?

Igor: Two peoples are the cause of the name. The first is a great Croatian warrior who conquered the islands and scared off the Italians (I’m drunkenly nodding as he’s saying all this). And the second, is this man from our village who, how you say… (as he places his open hand parallel to his nose)

Me (interrupting but trying to help Ivan find the word in English): The village idiot?

Greg: (immediately starts choking on his lamb shank)

Me: Ummmm…I mean

Ivan: No, no…not this.

Yes, I inadvertently asked Ivan if he’d named his son after the village idiot of Hvar. Oops! But no harm was done as everyone seemed to laugh off what they must have thought was a translational issue.

We kept the drinking going till midnight, sampling the various local specials and finally turned in around midnight with a flush red face and an already throbbing head. Unfortunately for some of the readers, not much debauchery.

Dubrovnik to Split to Hvar

Huge in Dubrovnik

Our final dinner in Dubrovnik was at the terrific Potro. Considered one of the better restaurants in town we dined on fresh caught shrimp, Greek salad and a delicious John Dory (which was fun to see on the bill as it accounted for half of the final tab…oops!). Greg, Mom and I then took in the Old City at night for some Slavic people watching. Young girls in dresses the sizes of postage stamps meandered around the cobblestone streets while we sat roadside and kicked back a few beers. A few lefts and rights took us to a random red carpet laid out in the middle of the street and a few marginally important looking people with passes around their neck conversing. Greg and I took this and ran, telling the people that we wanted a photo with them so we can take the pictures back to the US and tell our friends that we partied with the biggest celebrities in Croatia. Of the five people, there were two Swedes, a German, a Pole and a Greek guy who smelled like olives. Mom took the pictures, and BOOM! we were Huge in Dubrovnik!! for the night.

Things ended up around 1 am when we headed into a cab manned by a driver who kept imploring us to visit the local strip club (which was never a consideration). Clearly two young men would seem like the target audience for such an excursion but with this driver clearly being paid to take guys like us to places like that I channeled my inner Dan Akroyd and started to ask him some questions about purchasing all of the women at which point his responses went from an enthusiastic “Come on. Is Friday night. You want girls? They dance all over you!” to a more alarmed “Ehhhh…I don’t know answers to questions I am just driver!”

Quick summation of Dubrovnik: Yes, you should go there and you should be prepared for the many crowds. The Old City is special and the locals are clearly proud of their heritage. The sparkling Adriatic only adds to the charm but there are a few quirks.

1)      The most obvious thing is that Croatia is a country in transition. Clearly the ways of Tito have taken their toll and the service reflects that. The people in the hotels try but a smile here and there would certainly help. Ordering a beer and being met with a cold stare is a little unnerving and makes me wonder if they’re spitting in my food.

2)      There are no beaches. Only rocks. That sucks. While I don’t particularly enjoy having to wash the sand off my body when I get home from the ocean replacing that with the application of Neosporin on the many little cuts you could potentially get from all the rocks is even worse.

3)      Dubrovnik is cruise ship central. The Old City is packed to the brim in the morning so if you’re going to go, show up around mid day and walk around with a few less crowds. Take a seat in one of the many cafés and enjoy the peace and quiet (there are no cars allowed).

Up early yesterday morning with the goal of taking the 2:30 ferry from Split to Hvar, the three of us packed into the Opel and headed up the coast. Manning the wheel with Greg as co-navigator, the winding slopes and dips and turns were something of a problem for Mom who almost instantly got carsick. While extraordinarily fun to drive these roads are not for the faint of heart and with a 130 gerbil-powered engine under the hood, passing the many trucks along the way proved to be something of a challenge for both driver and passengers. After a few hours we stopped by a roadside fruit stand and purchased some freshly picked figs. Mom struck a conversation in German with the father of the owner who pulled out a bottle of homemade Schnapps and offered us a tipple. Not bad stuff but I wouldn’t buy it. We got back in the car (with Greg marginally buzzed) and flew up the very empty highway to Split where we caught our ferry and made it to Hvar at about 5.