Down to Toothbrush and a Credit Card: USA to Europe without Flying

No Airplanes, Please - 

New Mexico to the South of France

by Train and Ship

We just crossed over the Missouri River. 

On a train. 

We have a small sleeper compartment.
Private bathroom. 

Stan's playing guitar.

Stan's happy - there's a self-serve coffee stand at the end of our coach. 

All meals are included on the 28 hour train trip from Albuquerque to Chicago. 

Salmon, fillet steak, NY cheesecake. 

A small bottle of merlot. 

The attendant brings tea to our compartment between meals. 

Makes up the beds.

Nice.

We weren't necessarily being "carbon conscious" by not flying.
I had retina surgery. Wasn't allowed to fly.

Okay, I thought - fine.
There has to be another way to get to France.
And - there is.

A pretty cool way, too.

Booked an Amtrak train from Albuquerque to Chicago.
Overnight.
Another one from Chicago to New York.
Also overnight. 

Then, the Queen Mary.
New York to Southhampton in England.

It takes a week.

From there, Eurostar train London to Paris.
Under the English Channel.

And on by train to Béziers and "Maggie May".

The entire transit took about 3 weeks.
No jet lag.
Arrived relaxed and rested.

Even got to see a show in London on the way.

But back to the trip:

New Mexico is beautiful from the train.
Mountains. Mesas. Huge skies.

(Did you know - the Santa Fe Railway never went to Santa Fe. 

The terrain was too tough. So it stopped in nearby Lamy.)

Lamy, NM.

Across Kansas.
Missouri.

Crossing a small corner of Iowa.
Into Illinois.

Fields and farms and quiet towns. 

Over the Mississippi River.

Lots of water up here.
Still snow in some places!

Looks like it was a wet and wild winter in the Midwest.

Motorcycles are great. Still, I don't envy him, as I enjoy a glass of wine on the train.

Finally - the train pulls into Chicago.

Clean, cool architecture.

Museums, clubs, shows, parks. 

Friendly folks.

And a killer location right on the lake. 

One of the better world-class cities. 

A bit unsung.

During the previous 5 months, we sold our house in New Mexico. 

And a rental house or two.

Sold the cars.
16 bicycles. 6 motorized bicycles. 
Furniture. Antiques from the 1700's.

Gave away art materials, original art.

Tons of tools.
Carloads of books.

About 40 guitars. 
Dozens of handmade rugs.

Clothes, linens, kitchenware, dishes, baskets, statues, silver, coins, collections, quilts, jewelry.

Yearbooks, photos, slides, projectors, albums, projects, awards, trophies, paintings.

-Untold  treasures.

Even gave the cat to the neighbor.
(Cat is probably happier now)

The goal was to get rid of everything. 

Aiming toward a "toothbrush and a credit card" life.

Lightening the load a bit.

Not just downsizing. Everything. Gone.

After that job, (and it was HARD!) this long slow trip was welcome.

From Chicago, another train.

The Lake Shore Limited. 

Sleeper compartment to New York.

Along the edges of Lake Michigan and Lake Erie.

Past Buffalo, where my Dad was born in 1910. 

The Queen Mary II is our next step.
For the transatlantic portion of our trip back to France.

Always wanted to take the Queen Mary.

It's not a cruise ship, it's an ocean liner.

Transport, rather than entertainment. 

Between New York and Southhampton, UK.

And: It IS beautiful.
Luxurious.
Spacious.
Elegant.

Our stateroom has loads of space.

Even a fridge.
An electric kettle. 

A private balcony.

A king bed.
A comfortable sitting area. 

With a complimentary bottle of champagne.

Turn down service.
With chocolates.

Evenings are quite formal - most men in tuxedos, most women in sparkly dresses. 

Lots of ballroom dancing.
Live music in the evenings.

Shows. Speakers.

A planetarium.

You can go to the buffet or the pub if you want to stay casual.
Otherwise, evening attire is expected.

The ship's library is the largest afloat - it's impressive. 

Stan is still happy.
He's got his guitar and a view.

And coffee.

(I thought this might be some sort of modern art sculpture. 

Turns out it's a spare propeller blade. Yikes.)

I love just watching the ocean slide by.
No responsibilities.

Being amazed that there is NOTHING around us.
In any direction.
Just water.

(Ok, maybe an iceberg or two up by Labrador.)

And we have so little idea of what is UNDER the water out here.

After 7 nights' crossing, London-! 

We find last minute tickets to a West End show.
Go out for a fancy dinner after.

TGV (the Train of Great Speed) from London to Paris. 

The Eurostar.
Upstairs.
Quiet.

Under the English Channel.
Fast. 

Change stations in Paris. 

Passing over the Seine.

Through the fields and villages of France .

Way down to the south.

To Béziers overnight, before returning to the boat.

Then - finally, after a trip that took us 3 weeks:

It's time to open the champagne.

On the aft deck of Maggie May.

Never Look a Gift Car in the Trunk

I was hitchhiking through Scotland at 17 with a girlfriend.

In Glasgow, some guy offered to sell us a car, for five pounds. 
An old 1960 Opel Rekord. 

It was registered in Sweden, so the steering wheel was on the wrong side for Scotland. 

The passenger door was held with string. 

The trunk didn’t open. 

It leaked and the radiator needed daily refilling. 

Never mind that my friend was American. 

She had never driven on the left. 
She didn’t drive a stick shift. 

I could drive—barely—but I didn't have a license. 

My family lived in Ireland, where the driving age was 18.

But - there wasn't as much traffic in those days. 

Did I mention that the steering wheel was on the wrong side? 

So we bought the car. 

Paid the five pounds.

We managed somehow to get through Glasgow. 

Glasgow!
Then - stopped for two Scottish hitchhikers on the road north. 

They looked at us, at the car, and politely declined. 
(obviously, no sense of adventure-)

Then we stopped for two British guys, who could actually drive. 

2 American girls - in a CAR? (No one our age had a car back then.)

The 4 of us drove up to Inverness, to the Cairngorms (snow!), to Aberdeen, and beyond.

Exploring castles, pubs, Dodging sheep on the narrow roads.

At the end of the journey, we sold the car in Edinburgh—for five pounds.

Then took the train back to London.

Wonder what was in the trunk?

(From the book: "Meanwhile, Back in Los Ranchos".)

Camel Racing in Pushkar, India

The Pushkar Camel Fair - India

From my journal:

It’s camels—all the way to the horizon. 

Somewhere - there’s a stadium and a full midway. At least four huge Ferris wheels are turning. 

Bands with horns are playing.

Tens of thousands of pilgrims.  
Gypsies. 
Snakes. 
Music. 
Dust and jewelry. 
Lepers and goats.
Food frying.

Decorated trucks and loudspeakers.
Horses and tents.
Painted blue kids with tridents -(representing Shiva?)

Dreadlocks and dancing.
Praying, racing, drumming.

—oh, the noise! 

But: We're on camels. 

They're surprisingly tall. 

We feel a bit regal and above the dust and the fray.  

My camel driver asked if we wanted to see our camels race. How could anyone refuse? 

We got down, they got up and off they went! 

He assured me my camel was the fastest —and - it was.

(Excerpt from "Meanwhile, Back in Los Ranchos")

Chicken Feet for Breakfast

Today's menu includes:

Chaos Stewed Duck

Sauce Screw

Next to the Flat Fish

Flamed Swamp Cabbages

Fried Eel Paste

Pressed Mole Stomach

These are all things I actually found on the menu. 

Pressed mole stomach-? Flamed Swamp Cabbages? 

-I think I'll have the chicken feet, please.

Stan and Golf and Gung at breakfast in Laos. Chicken feet at center.

As our friends Gung and Golf would say: Yummy!

-They had 3 bowls.

On a boat down the Mekong. Gung thought it was cold-!

From the book "Meanwhile, Back in Los Ranchos". 

One of my all time favorite place, Laos.

Here's more about how cool Laos can be.

African Monkey Business

View on website.

Once, when I was working for Pan Am in Liberia, in the west of Africa, 

we lost a monkey in an airplane.

Staff party at the Director's house. Pan Am Robertsfield team. My boss, Mr. Kassimu, bottom left.
Hassan next to me, and King next to Kassimu. Catering chef in white.

We found the cage. 

It was empty. 

We took that plane apart - but - never found the monkey.

Between searches for missing monkeys. 

For years afterwards, if things went wrong at the airfield, we blamed it on that missing monkey:

"Missing supplies? Probably that monkey." 

"No radio contact? Monkey probably ate through the wires."  

The monkey was easy to blame. 

Everyone saved face.

There was a small zoo in Monrovia, the capital and main city of Liberia. 

There were pygmy hippos, snakes, ant bears, parrots - and 3 mischievous chimps. 

Pygmy hippos are awfully cute. Young ones about knee-high!

One day, one of the chimps got out of his cage. 

He began running through the small zoo, opening cages and letting the other animals out. 

He was all excited, having a great ol' time.

You can see the chimp, up on the top of the cage.

As the chimp approached the leopard cage, we all held our breath. 

But chimps aren't stupid. 

He didn't open THAT cage. 

Instead, he jumped up on the top of the enclosure. 

He just - walked around, driving the leopard inside crazy. 

These days, with covid, those episodes come to mind. 

Sometimes, things are just not entirely within our control. 

Once we understand that - it makes things easier.

Drawn by Erik Rempen

How to deal with a virus? 

Lockdowns? Schools closed? 

What about visits to old people? 

Mental health issues? 

Travel restrictions? 

Who knows?

Chiles are used in India to ward off djinns - wonder if they work on a virus?

Sometimes there aren't any real good answers.

Analog tools. Good for lockdowns. 

Our job right now? 

Staying in good spirits for those around us. 

And - the third African monkey story: 

We were sailing our small catamaran 

(possibly the ONLY catamaran in the entire country of Liberia at the time) 

in a lagoon near a place called Monkey Island. 

So involved, we didn't realize we were standing amid dozens of sting rays.

We were watching the flocks of birds. Underfoot, dozens of sting rays. 

On one pass, sailing near the island, the boat got stuck on a sand bar. 

Stopped. 

The chimps - big ones this time - began to wade into the water and head for our boat. 

VERY scary. Yikes. 

Dealing with monkeys - is ALWAYS trouble. 

You never know WHAT they'll do.

Kind of like djinns. 

Maybe - a virus, too.

When dealing with monkeys - or viruses -  the best response: A small glass of French wine. Maybe two.

Language Learning: Disaster in a German Kitchen

Rothenburg, not far from my university in Würzburg.

Early on, when I was learning German, I got a part time job. 

It was at the university kitchen in Bochum, Germany. 

I figured it would be a good way to practice my German.

They had tens of thousands of students. 

I worked the lunch shift, 12–3:00.

My job was "Trays". 

Placing lunch trays on a conveyor belt. 

Over and over.

I must have done a good job. 

After a few days, I was promoted to "Sauce". 

I poured sauce over the meat, with a ladle.

This ladle had a VERY long handle. 

The sauce cart was on wheels. 

It was about a meter deep. 

I had a pretty good rhythm going. 

Suddenly - I DROPPED the ladle into the sauce.

Deep. Gone.

Now what?

I wasn't going to reach down in there. 

And: I didn’t know how to say “ladle” in German.

(The German word for ladle, by the way, is Schöpflöffel.

-Even if I KNEW it, I couldn't pronounce it.)

So I did nothing. 

I hoped no one would notice.

Pretty soon, the students began to complain. 

The whole system—conveyor belt, trays, meat, sauce, veggies— stopped. 

They traced the problem back to me. 

I stood there, feeling pretty stupid. 

So they gave me a clean ladle, and a few dirty looks. 

A LOT of grumbling. In German. 

Soon - everything started up again.

But the next day, I was back to "Trays".

- Not exactly a stellar career move. Even if I did learn the word for ladle.

(From the book - Meanwhile, Back in Los Ranchos -)

Kenya: Dancing at the Starlight Ballroom in Nairobi

"My band is playing tonight. Starlight Ballroom,” Jomo said. “I’m drumming. Why don’t you come?
Starts about 9:00.”

The open door unleashed music into Nairobi's tropical night air as we paid our entrance fee. Seeing us, Jomo waved a drumstick from across a massive hall. Hundreds of swaying, laughing, pulsing black bodies filled the room. There were no chairs, no tables, only dancing.

We joined right in. The beat of the African Highlife music was irresistible. Lighthearted and hypnotic, the steady rhythm went on and on. There were no partners. Everyone just danced, hips moving, feet shuffling, heads swaying with the continuous beat. The spirit was contagious.

As I danced, I closed my eyes. Two singers in the band blended voices in two-tone harmony, singing the Nigerian and Senegalese pieces which always started on a high note and descended, sometimes in French, sometimes English, often indecipherable, and always compelling.

“It’s easy to find you in here.” My girlfriend Lisa laughed, as she danced past. “We’re the only white faces!”
It was true. Of the hundreds dancing, only my three friends and I were not African.

“I’ll be back,” I shouted in reply, and pointed toward the ladies’ room.

It was quieter in there, but still hot. The women wore skimpy tops and lapas, long colorful skirts. When I closed the door, conversations stopped. The small room was crowded, and smelled strongly of sweat and perfume. I waited for a stall, suddenly unsure of how welcome I was. The atmosphere became heavy. All eyes focused on me, either directly or surreptitiously. Finally one woman stepped forward and spoke. She took my hand in both of hers, and looked into my eyes. Everything stood still.

“Sister,” she said softly. “Thank you. Thank you for coming. Welcome.”
The others nodded and smiled, and began to talk again.
I returned to the dance floor, and my friend from the women’s room waved as she went by.
Smiling, I joined the dancers again.


From the book:

Meanwhile, Back in Los Ranchos

Three Odd Episodes in Spain

Adventure #1:

The Case of the Unpopular Rental

My first house in Spain became a rental house, since I wasn’t there often.

I had a local rental agent. It was in the town of Nerja, on the Costa del Sol.

The house was cute—beautiful views of the ocean, and the town was growing. 

But as a rental, it really didn’t seem to be doing well. 

The agent said it wasn’t a popular place to rent.
Every time I told him I was coming down to visit, the place stood empty.
(This was long before the internet or AirBnb.)

One time, without mentioning I was coming, I just flew down from my home in Switzerland for a weekend. I knew it wouldn’t be a problem, since no one ever rented the place anyway. I took my key and opened the door. A shirtless man with a beer in his hand answered.

“Who are you?” he asked, somewhat annoyed.
“Who are YOU?” I asked.

Well, it turns out the place was wildly popular, always full and always rented.
And I never received any of the money.

So much for my first rental experience.

PS: Yes, I did make a fuss. 

Yes, I did get some of the money back, after threatening to tell the story to the local newspaper. 

But - that was the END of renting it!

Adventure #2:

José Sanchez and the Stolen Toilet

During construction of that same small villa in Andalucia, I felt that the downstairs bathroom was awfully cramped. I mentioned it to the builder, José Sanchez, who didn’t seem to pay much attention. But my Spanish wasn't very good, so I thought maybe he didn't understand me.

The next day, I went into the house - and the bathroom seemed so much roomier!
- I couldn’t figure out how he had managed it - and so quickly!

Then I looked again.

It was only bigger because the toilet had been stolen.

My Spanish motorino - it worked - sometimes.

Adventure #3:

Impromptu Concert in Granada

We found a small guitar shop in the back streets of Granada.

They made their own guitars—Spanish guitars.

Stan picked one up and played a few notes.

The woman who owned the shop stopped what she was doing and disappeared.

She brought out another guitar, and carefully handed it to Stan.

A special guitar.

Stan played.

Soon, the whole shop was filled with people—other shopkeepers, neighbors, family—and two random Japanese tourists, all listening to Stan play. Some danced, some clapped in time.

Truly appreciating the music. One of those moments in travel when you KNOW- it's magic.

- The Japanese visitors probably thought this happened every day.

The Balcón de Europa in Nerja.

I had that villa in Nerja for about 20 years. 1980 - 2000, more or less.

In the early days, it was all farmland. Tomatoes, mostly. Donkeys carried the sacks to and from the village market. Roosters woke us in the mornings. The fishermen repaired their nets by the side of their painted wooden boats. The old women dressed in black, head to toe. No one spoke English. Life was slow.

Who would have thought that everything would become so popular, so modern, so international?

Everyone keeps telling us that - things change. 

But - we don't really understand it - until it happens to us.