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Rick Steves: Blog Gone Europe

I'm on the road in Spain, Italy, Slovenia, Montenegro and Bosnia — weaving my travel experiences into my business, and sharing what's on my mind. If you think it's inappropriate for a travel writer to stir up discussion on his blog with political observations and insights gained from traveling abroad, you may not want to read any further. — Rick

My wonderful staff — the 70 people I work with at Europe Through the Back Door — is filled with specialists...people who are passionate about their favorite slice of Europe. I value that because it gives me, the generalist, experts to collaborate with and do better work. Lately I've noticed how my staff is actually jealous...defensive...even touchy...about their favorite regions.

Cameron, who spear-heads our Eastern Europe program and has single-handedly made Slovenia and Croatia an important part of our work, lamented how the book he co-authors doesn't sell as well as some of my other co-authored guidebooks. And it has nothing to do with royalties. He really is saddened by the fact that Slovenia isn't appreciated like Ireland or France. I no longer jokingly mix up Slovenia and Slovakia. (I don't think Cameron thinks it's funny.)

Cameron recently spent a day showing me the wonders of Istria, a trendy peninsula in Croatia. We were doing primary research — running down leads, driving down tiny dirt dead-ends, hitting and missing as any good guidebook researcher must do. All day long we were missing. It's the hardest thing about writing a guidebook. Cameron was disappointed, concerned that I was getting a bad impression of Istria, whose fans mention it in the same breath as Tuscany and Provence. Now I know those comparisons are a bit of a stretch. While deep down, I think Cameron accepts this, he'd never actually say so.

Thankfully, the next day we hit Rovinj — a new favorite of mine. Standing on the rampart, overseeing the enchanting scene after an exhilarating day or research and writing, Cameron said triumphantly, "Sir, another back door gem in your domain."

Steve Smith motors our France program and co-authors our France, Paris, and Provence books. Steve has single-handedly turned me into a Francophile — no easy chore — for which I am profoundly grateful. He taught me to pronounce formidable just like Louis XVI (for-mee-dah-bluh).

Steve also helps out on the TV productions in France. On our recent shoot, I closed the show saying, "The more I understand France, the more I appreciate this complex and fascinating culture." Steve thought this was pejorative (needlessly repeating a cliché that makes the French sound aloof). I argued, "Complex is good. You want a complex wine, movie, woman...France. It's good!" Steve, surprising me with his sensitivity on this issue, didn't really buy it.

Dave Fox, an ace Scandinavia guide for us, is a rare Norway nut. (I am too, as I like the ear-waxy Norwegian goat cheese and three of my grandparents were born there.) The region (both books and tours) is a slow seller. For years we’ve pulled out all the stops to turn people on to the “ya sure ya betcha” wonders of Nordic Europe—and used that clichetic phrase liberally. One day recently, Dave sent me a carefully written email requesting that, out of respect for the Norwegian culture, we take “ya sure ya betcha” out of our marketing vocabulary. At first I thought he must be kidding…but (even though he’s a comedian, see www.davethefox.com) he was dead serious. Respecting Dave more than our miserable Scandinavian bottom line, we agreed. Ya sure ya betcha.

It goes on and on. Every time I see tour guide Ian Watson he advocates for a TV episode on Iceland. Tour guide Karoline Vass realized a life's dream by moving to the city of her wildest fantasies...Berlin. Our first employee, Dave Hoerlein, married his Danish teacher on a Viking holy ground in rural Denmark. And Tooraj Fooladi, another of our tour guides, just sent me a lovingly and laboriously written chapter on Valencia — his hometown — in hopes that I would wake up, smell the paella, and include it in my Spain guidebook.

So what? Well, thanks to the passions of my staff, I've learned that while Italy may sell the best, each corner of Europe has a unique and real charm. A destination is worthy simply because it exists with people who proudly call it home. And it's clear to me (thanks to all our specialists), that the more you understand a region, the more you appreciate and enjoy it. And — not in spite of their sensitivities but because of their sensitivities — I'm thankful to have these travelers on my team.

Posted by Rick Steves on June 30, 2007
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On this trip, I’ve had a wonderful series of heavy wooden shutters on my hotel windows. And I’ve made a point to use them. (Anne and I have an electric louver in our Seattle house…and on this trip I realized why I don’t like it.)

To open and close a classic European shutter, you need to get physical. You reach way out, struggle with the clunky hardware, and pull them one at a time. They lumber slowly around, shutting the outside world away with a prison-door clank. They are painted so many times the louvers no longer work. Hurricane-strength hooks fitted to heavy stone walls batten things down.

With shutters shut, I never know what a new day will bring. I don’t even know the weather. But each morning I enjoy the ritual. I swing the shutters open…and with sunlight filling my room comes promise of another day, carbonated with people and learning.

I guess lots of shutters means I’m staying in the old centers of towns that care about the architectural harmony of their streets.

While the building interiors come with all the modern comforts, the exteriors are loyal to the past — stout, layered with paint, and ornamented in a way too impractical for our efficient world.

From Umbria to Andalusia to the Dordogne to Bosnia, I was opening and closing venerable old shutters. And — even when there were no shutters — each day began with an “open the shutters” ritual. Like a happy yawn and stretch, push open the blinders and embrace a new day.

Posted by Rick Steves on June 28, 2007
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Rovinj — just a two-hour speed-boat ride from Venice — is the best coastal stop between Venice and Dubrovnik. I absolutely love the place. I’m not sure why. Let me just dig through its charms and maybe you’ll understand.

It’s small — like a little hunk of Venice draped over a hill, surrounded by the Adriatic on three sides. Peering through my camera viewfinder I keep thinking, simply, “romantic.”

Rovinj is a collage of vivid travel memories: shiny stones, boats — laden with kitschy shells for sale — rocking giddily in the harbor, and a bell tower with a rickety staircase that requires a powerful faith in the power of wood. From the top a patron-saint-weathervane boldly faces each menacing cloud front that blows in from sea.

Walking through the market puts me in a good mood. I feel like Marilyn Monroe singing to a bunch of sex-starved GIs. Women push grappa and homemade fruit brandies on me. Their sample walnuts are curiously flavorful. I'll buy a bag on my way out of town…make someone happy.

The old communist monster hotel stands bold and garish on the horizon. Retro Tito-style cafés vie for your business. The woman who runs the Valentino cocktail bar hands out pillows as you arrive — an invitation to find your own nook in the rocks overlooking the bay.

Ducking away from the affluent Croatian chic on the main drag, I walk a few steps up a back street and step into a smoky time-warp bar that took “untouristy” to scary extremes. In fact, it was too untouristy to recommend in the “untouristy bars” section of our book. The town fishermen and alcoholics (generally, it seemed, one and the same) were smoking, bantering loudly, and getting too drunk on cheap homemade beer to notice the nude pinups plastering the walls. I no longer feel like Marilyn Monroe singing to sex-starved GIs. I feel like a rabbit at the nocturnal house at the zoo.

The guy who runs my hotel is Igor. His sales manager is Natasha. Interviewing them for our guidebook, I feel like I'm talking to cartoon characters. For all they know, I'm Boris. No one here knows me yet....it's strange not to be taken seriously.

Romantic Rovinj is also humble: the fountain on the main square celebrates the water system arriving in 1959. The main monument on the seafront is a Social Realist block of concrete honoring the victims of "fascism" (read: Hitler and Mussolini).

The town’s tiny Batana Boat Museum celebrates the culture around the town’s beloved batana boat — an underwhelming flat-bottomed wooden craft little bigger than a dinghy. A video shows a time-lapse construction of a boat; another exhibit lets you move a wine glass from stain to stain on an old tablecloth, activating recordings of people speaking the local dialect (which apparently is more Venetian these days than Venetian itself); and a TV with a pair of headphones lets you listen to the local betinada music — a small choral group in which one man sings lead while the others imitate instruments.

On the prettiest corner in town, we spot a charming blond woman meeting two travelers to set them up in her rental apartment. My co-author Cameron and I wait until she's finished, then ambush her with a request to show us the rental, hoping to add it to our guidebook listings. She says, "But I’m just a single woman with four rooms to rent and no agency." That’s exactly who we want to partner with as we look for budget accommodations in Rovinj. We take a tour and the rooms are great. She can’t believe she’ll be in a book and pay no fee for the promotion.

Cameron and I high-five happily as Rovinj gets even better: We have a new listing for half the price of the town’s cheapest hotel (Miranda Fabris, at Chiurca 5, Db-€40 or €50 in July-Aug, lots of steep stairs, mobile 091-881-8881, miranda_fabris@yahoo.com).

Posted by Rick Steves on June 27, 2007
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I woke up in the dark. I pushed open my lumbering shutters. The heavy rain storm had cleaned the air, and an early-morning light invigorated the colors. Glistening red-tile roofs led to a rustic stone rampart. On the rampart was my co-author, Cameron, pointing his camera at a lush landscape of rolling hills and simple farms. This was Istria.

Feeling overworked, I scheduled a massage for 8:30. When I booked, for some reason I decided I’d enjoy it more if it wasn’t a male Croat working me over. I requested a woman. The receptionist assured me it was a woman...“a young woman.”

So I traded breakfast for a “sport massage” and climbed up to the hotel’s spa room, where Ivana met me. The experience seemed Yugoslavian (even though that country is long gone): No chat...no soft music...no candles...just the radio and hanging neon lights. Still, Ivana’s hands were strong. She did her work dutifully. It was an hour and $40 well spent.

With me in tow, Cameron valiantly tried to unearth some gems in Croatia's Istrian interior. But either our luck was bad, or (more likely) there are few true gems to be found.

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Compared with the rest of the former Yugoslavia, Istria is charming enough. But a history of poverty leaves it with a disappointingly weak veneer of culture — an ersatz Tuscany. While nice roads lace together a lush green countryside, it’s cinderblocks rather than bricks, broken concrete rather than marble, rust rather than rustic. Istria’s much-flouted truffles may be tasty...but not tasty enough to shape an itinerary. The hill towns are hill towns...but so poor that they inherited nearly no distinctive architecture.

My advice for Istria in a nutshell: Motovun (where we slept...and Ivana works) is a fine hill town, uniquely Croatian with a fun splash of Italy (Mario Andretti was born here). The smaller hill town of note, Groznjan, was too sleepy for my taste on our visit in the shoulder season. The big city of Pula is great for its Roman amphitheater and a walk through work-a-day Croatia. But the saving grace of Istria...and one of my new favorites anywhere in Europe...? I’ll tell you later.

Posted by Rick Steves on June 25, 2007
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I was actually looking forward to the all-day drive that would cover almost the entire length of Croatia. We left Mostar at lunchtime. On the way out of town, we stopped at a tiny grocery store, where a woman I had befriended the day before — a gorgeous person, sad to be living in a frustrating economy, and stiff with a piece of shrapnel in her back that doctors decided was safer left in — made us hearty ham sandwiches. As she sliced, I gathered the rest of what was a fine picnic meal on wheels.

Leaving town, we drove over patched blast holes in the pavement. In Sarajevo, they've filled these scars with red concrete as memorials: "Sarajevo roses." Here they were black like the rest of the street — but knowing what they were, they showed up red in my mind.

My two-month trip was winding up. I’d be flying home in six days, and was now at the point where you start to budget your clothes — how long you’ll need to wear each remaining pair of clean socks to get home without doing laundry. Cameron and I compared packing philosophies. (Five socks and three underpants gets me about 10 days between trips to the laundry.)

It was hot...a bathing suit kind of drive. (I don't travel with shorts, but resort to my swim trunks if it's too hot for pants.) With bare feet on the dashboard, I can never relax…I'm always worried about being broke in two if the airbag is set off.

When we stop at the fortified village of Pocitelj, it seems the entire population is employed selling newspaper cones of dried apricots, walnuts, and cherries. Three little girls sit under an arch playing cards. I take a photo, and one grumbles at me, “One euro!” I make her smile. She’s having a bad day...mom thinks making her wear the traditional head covering of Muslim women in this town is good for sales.

First we follow the twisty coastal road north past appealing harbor towns and a chorus line of scrub-brush mountains plunging into the sea. Near Split, we board the perfectly new expressway and pick up speed. Every on-ramp, every sign, every light, every USA-style rest stop is shiny new.

On the expressway — where people spend $8 a gallon for gas and enjoy Western-style snacks in mini-markets — you see there’s a no-nonsense affluence to the former Yugoslavia that's a long way from its humble but colorful past. It’s a land where dads with new cars teach their children to help squeegee the windows. Next week the Rolling Stones are playing in Montenegro, and all 60,000 tickets at $50 each are sold out. Obviously not everyone is selling paper cones of walnuts.

It’s clear we’ll be very late to our hotel, so we gird ourselves for the worst meal of our trip and have a rest-stop dinner. We walk through the smoke-filled bar — crammed full of angry tattoos and men who look like they could kill you without breaking a sweat. I can't help but wonder which of these burly, aggressive guys might have been a killer or a rapist in the war that put "ethnic cleansing" into our vocabulary. While the bar is packed, the adjacent restaurant is empty. I ask the boy stuck at the cafeteria line what he’d eat. In his estimation, the mushroom and chicken with potato croquettes or gnocchi was the least of evils. I missed the woman with the shrapnel in her back.

At Rijeka, the ugliest town in Croatia, we run out of super-expressway. We've driven virtually its entire length and are about to pay the maximum toll. Cameron warns this will be pricey. We guess. Cameron says 250 kunas. I say 150. It’s 155...but the lady at the booth doesn’t understand my joy when she tells us the bill. (At about 5 kunas per dollar, that’s about $30 for the three-hour drive.)

We’re finally in Istria, Croatia’s trendy peninsula just across the water from Venice and bordering Slovenia. There’s a strong buzz about Istria...but my hunch is it’s a watered-down Tuscany at best. Through a driving rainstorm, we wind and wind through the dark to the summit of a hill town (Motovun). The road gets narrower and narrower. When we run out of road, we park, get out, and walk. Our rooms are ready. Sharing tales of tour guide friends who like to arrive after dark for the theatrics, we’ll have to wait to see what is revealed with the sun tomorrow. Then I’ll learn just how good this Istria is.

Posted by Rick Steves on June 23, 2007
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In two months of travel on this trip, exploring the city of Mostar ranks with Tangier among my richest experiences. At the same time, the vibrant humanity and the persistent reminders of the terrible war just over a decade ago combine to make Mostar strangely exhausting.

Just a few years ago, these people — who make me a sandwich, direct me to a computer terminal in the cyber café, stop for me when I cross the street, show off their paintings, and direct the church choir — were killing each other.

Three hours' drive inland from Dubrovnik, Mostar (in Bosnia-Herzegovina) was famous for its 400-year-old, Turkish-style stone bridge — its elegant single pointed arch symbolic of that Muslim society and the town's status as the place were East met West in Europe.

Then, during the 1990s, Mostar became an icon of the Bosnian war. Across the world, people groaned when the pummeled bridge — bombarded by (Croat Catholic) artillery shells from the hilltop above — finally collapsed into the river. Now the bridge has been rebuilt and Mostar is thriving.

Masala Square (literally “Place for Prayer”) is designed for big gatherings. Muslim groups meet here before departing to Mecca on the Haj. But tonight, there’s not a hint of prayer. It’s prom night. The kids are out...Bosnian hormones are bursting. Being young and sexy is a great equalizer. With a beer, loud music, desirability, twinkling stars...and no war...your country’s GDP doesn’t really matter.

Today's 18-year-old in Mostar was a preschooler during the war. I imagine there’s quite a generation gap.

I’m swirling in all the teenagers, and through the crowd, a thirty-something local comes at me with a huge smile. He’s Alen from Orlando. Actually, he’s from Mostar, but fled to Florida during the war and summers here with his family. He loves my TV show and immediately has me going on a Bosnia script.

We walk, and Alen gives the city meaning. A fig tree grows out of a small minaret. He says, "It’s a strange thing in nature...figs can grow with almost no soil." There are blackened ruins everywhere. When I ask why — after 15 years — the ruins still stand, Alen explains, “Confusion about who owns what. Surviving companies have no money. The bank of Yugoslavia, which held the mortgages, is now gone. No one will invest until it’s clear who owns the buildings."

We side-trip to a small cemetery congested with over a hundred white marble Muslim tombstones. Alen points out the dates. Everyone died in 1993, 1994, or 1995. This was a park before 1993. When the war heated up, snipers were a constant concern — they'd pick off anyone they saw walking down the street. Bodies were left for weeks along the main boulevard, which had become the front line. Mostar’s cemeteries were too exposed, but this tree-filled park was relatively safe from snipers. People buried their neighbors here…under the cover of darkness.

Alen says, "In those years, night was the time when we lived. We didn’t walk...we ran. And we dressed in black. There was no electricity. If they didn’t kill us with their bullets, the Croats killed us with their rabble-rousing pop music. It was blasting from the Catholic side of town.”

The symbolism of the religious conflict is powerful. Ten minarets pierce Mostar's skyline like proud exclamation points. There, twice as tall as the tallest minaret, stands the Croats' new Catholic Church spire. Standing on the reconstructed Old Bridge, I look at the hilltop high above the town, with its single, bold, and strongly floodlit cross. Alen says, "We Muslims believe that cross marks the spot from where they shelled this bridge…like a celebration."

The next day, I'm in a small theater with 30 Slovenes (from a part of the former Yugoslavia that avoided the terrible destruction of the war) watching a short film about the Old Bridge, its destruction, and its rebuilding. The persistent shelling of the venerable bridge, so rich in symbolism, seemed to go on and on. When it finally fell, I heard a sad collective gasp…as if the Slovenes were learning of the tragedy just now.

The feeling I get from people here today is, “I don’t know how we could have been so stupid to wage an unnecessary war.” I didn't meet anyone here who called the war anything but a tragic mistake.

A big issue for me and Cameron for our guidebook is which day trip from Dubrovnik is best: the lovely town of Korcula on the island of Korcula; the Bay of Kotor in Montenegro; or Mostar here in Bosnia-Herzegovina. There’s no question: it’s Mostar. And with the money you save in relative hotel costs, you can hire a private guide and get the Mostar story from someone who had to wait until dark to bury his neighbors.

That night, as the kids ripped it up at the dance halls, I lay in bed sorting out my impressions. Until the wee hours, a birthday party raged in the restaurant outside my window. For hours they sang songs. At first I was annoyed. Then I thought, a Bosniak Beach Boys party beats a night of shelling. In two hours of sing-a-longs, everyone seemed to know the words very well...and I didn’t recognize a single tune. This Bosnian culture will rage on.

Posted by Rick Steves on June 21, 2007
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Today we drove from Dubrovnik in Croatia inland to Mostar in Bosnia-Herzegovina. Everyone takes the main, scenic coastal route: head north along the coast and then cut inland at Metkovic. But, with a spirit of adventure, we took the small road: inland first, then looping north through the Serb part of Herzegovina. When asked for driving tips, Croats — who, because of ongoing tensions with the Serbs, avoid this territory — actually insist that the road doesn't even exist. From the main road just south of Dubrovnik, directional signs send you to the tiny Croatian border town...but ignore the large Serb city of Trebinje just beyond.

But there is plenty past the border. (And, we were relieved to find, an actual — and surprisingly well-maintained — road.)

While Bosnia-Herzegovina is one country, the peace accords to end the war here in 1995 gerrymandered it to give a degree of autonomy to the area where Orthodox Serbs predominate. This “Republika Srpska” rings the core of Bosnia on three sides.

The complex nature of things here comes across in the powerful language of flags. Over the day we saw several: a car charging with the old quasi-fascist Croat flag (echoing Croatia's WWII Nazi puppet government), a Serb flag, and another with a circle of yellow stars — a tip of the hat to the EU…membership is the hope of many here.

Serbs, Croats, and Bosniaks come from virtually identical ethnic stock. They just have different religions: Orthodox Christian, Catholic Christian, and Muslim, respectively. Because of intermarriages during the Ottoman occupation, some (but not all) Bosniaks also have some Turkish blood. Studying the complex demographics of the region, you gain a respect for the communist-era dictator Tito — the one man who could hold this place together peacefully.

As we enter the bustling and prosperous town of Trebinje (the one that doesn't exist in Dubrovnik), police with ping-pong paddle stop signs pull us over — you must drive with your headlights on at all hours. The "dumb tourist" routine gets us off the hook. I get cash at an ATM (even here — in perhaps the most remote place I’ve been in Europe — ATMs are plentiful). We enjoy a vibrant market, noting that there’s no way the casual tourist could determine the religion and loyalties of the people just by looking.

Bosnia-Herzegovina's money is called the “convertible mark.” I don’t know if they are just thrilled that their money is now convertible…but I remember a time when it wasn’t. I stow a few Bosnian coins as souvenirs. They have the charm of Indian pennies and buffalo nickels.

Later, after a two-hour drive on deserted roads through a rugged landscape, we arrived at the very humble crossroads village of Nevesinje. Towns in this region all have a “café row,” and Nevesinje is no exception. It was lunchtime, but as we walked through the town, we didn’t see a soul with any food on their plate — just drinks. Apparently locals eat (economically) at home...and then enjoy an affordable coffee or drink at a café.

A cluttered little grocery — the woman behind the counter happy to make a sandwich — was our answer. The salami looked like Spam. Going through the sanitary motions, she laid down a piece of paper to catch the meat — but the slices of Spam landed on the grotty base of the slicer as they were cut. Buying strong Turkish (or "Bosnian") coffees with highly-caffeinated mud in the bottom (for the US equivalent of a quarter apiece), we munched our sandwiches in the adjacent café, watching the street scene.

Big men drove by in little beaters. High-school kids crowded around the window of the local photography shop, which had just posted their class graduation photos. The girls on this cruising drag proved you don’t need money to have style. Through a shop window, I could see a newly-engaged couple picking out a simple ring. One moment I saw Nevesinje as very different from my hometown…but the next it seemed just the same.

Looking at the curiously overgrown ruined building across the street, I saw bricked-up, pointed Islamic arches, and realized it was once a mosque. In its back yard — a no man’s land of broken concrete and glass — a single half-knocked-over Turban-topped tombstone still managed to stand. The prayer niche inside, where no one prays anymore, faced an empty restaurant.

Posted by Rick Steves on June 19, 2007
Comments (9)

Question: After spending so much time in Europe for so many years, how do you keep things fresh, once you've been to a place and already seen all the sights?
Answer: I sometimes ponder dedicating an entire year of travels to all new places. But then, when I return to a city I think I know, I learn so much and am able to improve an existing guidebook chapter. This year so far virtually new destinations for me have been: Cordoba, Tangier, Zagreb, Bosnia, and Montenegro. And I’m really quite high on each of these places. But I’m just as excited about how I’ve spiffed up my Barcelona, Sevilla, and Italy material. And there’s no thrill for a tour guide like producing a dynamite new TV show (which we just did covering Barcelona and the Dordogne). Fresh? Everything’s still wiggling.

Question: I’m worried about taking a camera due to European pickpockets. Will it be safe packed in my day bag? I’m especially worried about the "packed-in" situations at train stations, on busses, and so on.
Answer: As Europe gets more affluent, I no longer hear about the brazen “break the car window and grab your purse while at a stop light” kind of theft. Throughout Europe’s rough spots, I feel much safer now than a decade ago. You still need to exercise caution and assume thieves will target American tourists. But the least of my concerns is a thief grabbing my camera. The real risk is a mental lapse on my part and just forgetting something when out and about.

Question: Any useful phrases to say in Europe, like vada via ("go away")?
Answer: I enjoyed saying complimenti a lot when wanting to give Italians my complements for something well done or served.

Question: Do you have any tips on how to get around Venice and Dubrovnik with mobility issues?
Answer: Bring a sedan chair with two strong boys. These places (along with the Cinque Terre villages and Italian hill towns) are about a miserable as can be for anyone who has trouble with steps. Go off-season to avoid the heat and crowds. I think choosing places where “car touring” works (West Ireland, England’s Cotswolds, France’s Dordogne, Danish countryside) would be easier and more enjoyable.

Question: Do you still lead tours for your tour company? Also, is there any way to select one of your tours based on the tour guide before committing to a tour?
Answer: I led our tours for 25 years (until 2002). I have 60 guides that do our tours now…and I can promise you most of them (specialists in their regions) do a better job then I (the generalist) could do. I personally am thrilled to be trusting my wife’s and my two-week vacation this September in Greece to one of our Greek guides. Sure, our guides vary in degrees of excellence. But I have complete faith in each of our guide’s ability to exceed the high expectations of our tour customers. There are always some tour members who don’t click personally with a guide. In these cases, while I empathize with the tour member…I support our guide. But if a guide can’t exceed expectations for the majority of the people on their tour, they don’t work for us.

Question: How do you keep from losing the perspective of the inexperienced traveler who needs to pack lightly and spend frugally? It seems the fact you have a production staff in tow would prevent that possibility.
Answer: This is a great question...and challenge. I make a point to be befuddled, to be stressed by the high cost, to be wide-eyed and green. (It seems to come naturally.) It is critical for me not to loose the mind-set of the less-experienced travelers who use my material, but then to draw on my experience to distill and design all the data and information into a helpful little package. Because I'm the generalist on my staff (who doesn't speak another language), I can remind my researchers who specialize in a particular country what it's like to be overwhelmed, tentative, and frustrated by the challenges presented by a new city. I still don't know the words for "push" or "pull" in any language other than my own...and look forward to walking into doors all over Europe for a long time to come.

Posted by Rick Steves on June 18, 2007
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Question: With airlines asking you to put carry-ons on the scale to make sure they're under 8 kg, do you find your packing list still works the same?
Answer: I pack the same as always. I find, in practice, it’s the dimensions, not the weight, that are the determining factor. I do carry on all my luggage whenever I can. If necessary I wear my coat and sweater and put my heavy electronic gear (laptop, camera, etc.) in my day pack. That leaves my “one piece of luggage” quite light and tight. If I fail the test, I’ll check my bags. I pack light not just to “carry it on” but to be mobile while in Europe.

Question: If the overhead compartments are full, will airlines make you check your bag? (British Air made me check a carry-on bag, as Heathrow now has a one-item rule.)
Answer: Yes, but I can’t remember a time when I couldn’t find a place to fit my bag. I used to hurry onto the plane fearing there would be no room in the overhead lockers. Now I relax at the gate until the very end. This lets me stroll on board without a long line and sit wherever I like, knowing definitively which seats are available. About Heathrow’s one-bag rule: My last time through London they actually told me to cram my day bag into my other bag, just to get past the check-in person. They admitted, after that…no one cares.

Question: What's a "post 9/11-sized Swiss Army Knife" you mentioned? I can't even get a little 1 1/4-inch Swiss Army pen knife through security.
Answer: I bury my 2.5-inch knife in my toiletries kit and they have never noticed it. If they do, I’m ready to loose it. I think the USA is realizing “zero tolerance” may get you elected…but in practice it’s pretty silly.

Question: As opposed to bad traits, are there any particular American attributes that Europeans find charming or refreshing?
Answer: Europeans are charmed by the casual friendliness that comes naturally to us Americans. My French friends can’t believe how friendly perfect strangers are to me and vice versa when I meet fans of my books or TV shows on the streets of Europe. I think they are charmed by (and a bit envious of) this.

Question: What brand of shirts do you wear in your travels? They never seem wrinkled.
Answer: No special secrets here. I don’t buy special gear from travel catalogs or travel stores…just Nordstroms, REI, and Eddie Bauer. I just checked — and all my shirts are 100% cotton except for one which is 60% cotton/40% polyester.

Question: Has Jackie ever been anywhere in Europe by herself, like her brother Andy? Does she plan to do the same trip that you and Andy took with one of her friends when she graduates from high school?
Answer: Seventeen-year-old Jackie just finished 11th grade. Next week she flies to Morocco with a program from her high school. After a week in Rabat, she’ll live in a humble village (no iPod, cell phone, laptop, or communication with home) for three weeks. She’ll be immersed in Moroccan village life (with no indoor plumbing, she stresses), putting her French to work, and learning how to live without all the material comforts rich suburban teens take for granted. She, her mom, and I are all excited about this personal challenge for her. She’s scheming to take a trip to Southeast Asia with a girlfriend after high school graduation next year. Meanwhile, Andy is well into his second year as an assistant tour guide for us in Europe.

Thanks for the questions.

Posted by Rick Steves on June 17, 2007
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Montenegro means "Black Mountain." The place evokes the fratricidal chaos of an age when fathers taught their sons “your neighbor’s neighbor is your friend” in anticipation of future demographic struggles. When so-and-so-ovich was pounding on so-and-so-ovich (in Slavic names, “ovich” means "son," like Johnson), a mountain stronghold was worth the misery.

From the idyllic Adriatic, I love to drive up the 26 switchbacks — someone painted numbers on each one — which take you from the Montenegrin coast into another world. At switchback #4, you pass a Gypsy encampment. At #18, you pull out for a grand view of the fjord-like Bay of Kotor, marveling at how the vegetation, climate, and ambience is completely different up here.

At #24, you notice the “old road” — little more than an overgrown donkey path — that was once the kingdom’s umbilical cord to the Adriatic. The most vivid thing I remember about my last visit — decades ago — was that a grand piano was literally carried up the mountain so some big-shot nobleman could let it go out of tune in his palace.

As we crest the peak, the sea disappears and before us stretches a basin defined by a ring of black mountains — the heartland of Crna Gora (as the locals call Montenegro). And just down the road was Cetinje, the “Old Royal Capital” as the road sign proclaimed.

Every hundred yards or so, the local towing company had spray-painted on a rock “Auto Slep 067-838-555.” You had a feeling they were in the bushes praying for a mishap. We pulled out for a photo and noticed a plaque marking where Tito’s trade minister was killed in a 1948 ambush.

This is brutal country. And it's poor. Desolate farmhouses claim to sell smoked ham, mountain cheese, and medovina (honey brandy) — but we didn’t see a soul. Up here, the Cyrillic alphabet survives better than on the coast.

Then came Cetinje. I’m nostalgic about this town — a classic mountain kingdom (with that grotesquely out-of-tune grand piano). Established as capital in 15th century, it’s the historic heart of the kingdom of Montenegro.

The capital was taken by the Turks several times. The hedonistic Turks would generally move in and enjoy a little RP&P. Quickly realizing there was little hedonism to enjoy here, they basically just destroyed the place and moved out. The people — I envision short men with long white beards — rebuilt.

Today Cetinje is a workaday, two-story town with barely a hint of its old status. The museums are generally closed. The economy is flat. A shoe factory and a refrigerator factory were abandoned with Yugoslavia's break-up. (They were part of Tito’s ultimately unworkable economic vision for Yugoslavia — where, in the name of efficiency, things were made en masse for the entire country is one place.) Kids on bikes roll like tumbleweeds down the main street past old timers with hard memories.

At the edge of town is the St. Peter of Cetinje Orthodox monastery — the still-beating spiritual heart of the country. I stepped in. An Orthodox monk — black robe and beard halfway to his waist — nodded a welcome.

A classic old woman in black was at a candlelit basin. I photographed her. She snarled at me like a mad cat. I recalled hearing stories of how — just two decades ago — Serbs were raping old women in Catholic churches and Croats were raping old women in Orthodox churches; and realized I couldn’t imagine the scars that these people lived with (even in places like Cetinje, which saw no actual fighting).

A service was in progress. I stepped in and stood (as everyone does in an Orthodox liturgy) in the back. The action was amazing. People — mostly teenagers in sporty track suits — were trickling in…kissing everything in sight. Seeing these rough and casual teens bending respectfully at the waist as they kissed icons, bibles, and the hands of monks was mesmerizing.

And for the first time I understood what the iconostasis (called a "rood screen" in Western European sightseeing) is all about. Used long ago in Catholic churches, and still today in Orthodox churches, the screen separates the common worshippers from the priests and holy magic. Here, with flames flickering on gilded icons, incense creating an otherworldly ambience, and almost hypnotic chanting, I stood on the commoner’s side of the screen.

Behind the screen — which, like a holy lattice, provides privacy but still lets you peek through — I could see busy priests in fancy robes, and above it all the arms of Jesus. I knew he was on the cross, but I only saw his arms. As the candlelight flickered, I felt they were happy arms…wanting and eager to give a big Slavic bear hug.

Posted by Rick Steves on June 14, 2007
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Driving south from Dubrovnik, we hit a border in less than an hour. In the next week, my punch-drunk passport will be stamped and stamped and stamped. While the unification of Europe has made most border crossings feel archaic, the break-up of Yugoslavia has kept them in vogue here. Montenegro declared independence from Serbia just a year ago. Presto! Another border. The poorer the country, it seems, the more ornate the border formalities.

By European standards, Montenegro is about as poor as it gets. They don’t even have their own coins. With just 620,000 people, they decided, heck, let’s just use euros. (And since it's such a tiny place, the official Eurozone countries are willing to look the other way.)

Montenegro is pretty light on sights. But along its humble Adriatic coastline is the Bay of Kotor, with its delightful main town of Kotor. People love to call it “fjord-like.” (Too many people who say “fjord-like” have never really seen a fjord. If you’ve been to Norway, you know it’s rare that something routinely described as “fjord-like” is actually fjord-like. The Bay of Kotor, however, is worthy of the description.)

At the humble town of Perast, young Montenegrin swim-trunk-clad hunks riding little dinghies jockey to motor tourists out to the island in the middle of the bay. According to legend, fishermen saw Mary in the reef and began a ritual of dropping a stone on the spot every time they sailed by. Eventually the island we see today was created, and upon that island was built a fine little church.

Cameron and I hired a hunk, cruised out, and were met by an English-speaking young woman. (The language barrier is minimal here, as English is taught from first grade in school.) She gave us a fascinating tour.

In the sacristy hung a piece of embroidery — a 25-year-long labor of love made by a local parishioner. It was as exquisite as possible, lovingly made with silk and the woman’s own hair. We could trace her laborious progress through the cherubs that ornamented the border. As the years went by, both the hair of the angels and the hair of the devout artist turned from dark brown to white. Humble and anonymous as she was, she had faith that her work was worthwhile and would be appreciated — as it was today, two centuries later, by travelers from around the world.

I’ve been at my work for 25 years — hair’s doing fine so far. I also have a faith that it (my work, if not my hair) will be appreciated. That’s perhaps less humble than the woman, but, in that way…she reminded me of me.

I didn’t take a photograph of the embroidery. For some reason, I didn’t even take notes. At the moment, I didn’t recognize I was experiencing the highlight of my day. The impression of the woman’s loving embroidery needed — like a good red wine — to breathe. That was a lesson for me. I was already, mentally onto the next thing. When the power of the impression opened up, it was rich and full-bodied…but I was long gone. Hmmm.

Back in the town, I had a bijela kava ("white coffee," as a latte is called here) and watched kids coming home from school. Two girls walked by happily spinning the same batons my sisters spun when I was a tyke. And then a sweet girl walked by all alone — lost in thought, carrying a tattered violin case.

Even in a country without its own currency, in a land where humble is everything’s middle name, parents can find an old violin and manage to give their little girls grace and culture. Letting that impression breathe, it made me happier than I imagined it would.

Posted by Rick Steves on June 11, 2007
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Pero Carević (a Dubrovnik B&B owner) and Cameron Hewitt (co-author of my Croatia and Slovenia guidebook — just out in its first edition) met me at the Dubrovnik airport. Coming in from France, I suffered a little culture shock. Life here had the same energetic metabolism...but cheaper jeans, smaller cars, more broken concrete, and almost no fat people. Pale meat, pale pickles, and pale “juice drink” — all part of a tentative stability and affluence following their devastating civil war.

Within a few minutes' drive, we were parked at the towering base of Dubrovnik’s mammoth and floodlit walls. Pero walked me to his boutique guest house on a steep, tourist-free lane in Europe’s finest fortified port city.

Offering me some orakojvica (the local grappa-like firewater), Pero explained that he was wounded in the war but was bored and didn’t want to live on the tiny government pension — so he rebuilt his Old Town home as a guest house. Hoping to write tonight with a clear head, I tried to refuse the drink. But this is a Slavic land. Remembering times when I was force-fed vodka in Russia by new friends, I knew it was hopeless. Pero made it himself…with green walnuts. Giving me the glass, he said, “Walnut grappa — it recovers your energy.”

Pero described — holding the mangled tail of a mortar shell he pulled out from under the counter — how the gorgeous stone and knotty-wood building we were in suffered a direct hit in the 1991 siege of Dubrovnik. I didn’t enjoy touching it. The bedroom Pero grew up in was destroyed. His injury will be with him for the rest of his days. In spite of how those towering and mammoth walls were impotent against an aerial bombardment, life here was, once again, very good.

I took Pero’s photograph. He held the mortar…and smiled. I didn’t want him to hold the mortar and smile…but that’s what he did.

Posted by Rick Steves on June 07, 2007
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I was in a taxi heading to Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris. My driver, Ahmed, was Algerian. Last year he went home for a visit. I asked, “Did it make you happy or sad?” He said, “Sad.”

I asked, “What keeps the Algerian people down: the religion or the military?” He said, “In Algeria, it’s the military. When people are hungry, they get out of bed and think about feeding their family…not politics. We have no energy to find democracy. As long as the military keeps us poor, they will stay in power.”

Ahmed explained why he thinks the French are dealing with more post-colonial anger than the English. He said that the English really believed in “The Commonwealth” while the French just flat-out milked their colonies. The French ruled Algeria from 1830 until 1962. “When they left, we had terrible terrorism. A hundred thousand murdered. No one noticed. No one cared. It was considered a ‘domestic problem.’ Algerian terrorists were allowed to live in Germany, France, and Britain.”

I asked if he felt angry that the world stopped when 3,000 Americans were killed on 9/11 but no one noticed the hundred thousand Algerians killed in the generation before. (The issue of this disproportionate response to terrorism is one that many outside the USA consider, but almost no one speaks of in polite company.) Ahmed said, “9/11 happened on one day, the victims were rich, and you have cameras everywhere. In Algeria, we are poor and no cameras are allowed when there is killing. A hundred thousand can die and it is invisible.”

Ahmed explained how something good resulted from 9/11. Since then, Algeria’s terrorism (which includes al-Qaeda) is considered an international issue. “After 9/11, other nations stopped our terrorists from crossing borders freely and helped Algeria wage the high-tech battle at home. Since 9/11, things are much better. More peaceful.”

I asked, “Can a tourist like me go to Algeria safely now?” He said, “No.”

I asked Ahmed what the term “Islamist” meant. He said he never heard the term before 9/11. He said an “Islamist” is an aggressive and judgmental Muslim who believes, “I am right and you are wrong.” Ahmed said he was a modern Muslim—he could have a glass of wine and go to a disco when he liked. He could be my friend with no thought about my religion.

Ahmed asked if I thought Bush’s brother would be president and what I thought about Eel-hahar-eeiay (he couldn’t pronounce Hillary). I told him my political hopes.

As we pulled into the airport, Ahmed said, “I hope for a day when we discover life in space. Then we would see we are all humans together. My problem would be your problem. And your problem would be my problem. Then we might live peacefully together.”

Posted by Rick Steves on June 06, 2007
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Steve Smith and Monsieur Lascaux 1999...2007

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On one Dordogne day, I enjoyed a perfect storm of travel thrills. A ritual for me and Steve Smith (co-author of my France guidebook) is to canoe down the Dordogne River. Last year, we actually charted a little river map for our guidebook — this year, we got to use it. (What we dubbed “Heron Gulch” still had its herons.)

Pulling our canoe up in Beynac, we hiked up to what stood over the village and river like the mother of all castles. And the lady of Beynac castle actually opened it up for our TV cameras (to the surprise of the local tourist board). It was lit by little oil lamps — puddles of light giving the spiral staircase a visual rhythm — just as in medieval times.

The attendant let me lower a huge plank door that opened up a treacherous little balcony high above the castle grounds. From that ledge, I got to reenact a goofy little speech (to our camera), which I imagine happened many times during the Hundred Years War. (This was the messy front, as England and France battled from roughly 1450 to 1550.) The local noble lord would gather his subjects together (after some dicey negotiations with military types much stronger then him) and declare, “Now you are French” or “Now you are English...deal with it.”

As we left the castle, its aristocratic owner (who so elegantly greeted us earlier) was sitting in a little glass room just inside the drawbridge, selling tourists tickets…making her living five euros at a time. On the way out, I saw her family name on a list of owners that went back a thousand years and included Richard the Lionhearted. Perhaps such is the lot of France’s 21st castle-owning nobility. (Perhaps, also, visions of selling tickets to commoners touring their grandfather’s palace is why the old wealth in American society is so afraid of an inheritance tax that seems logical to Europeans.)

Driving home, Steve and I stumbled onto the classic old farm we dropped in on 10 years ago. We pulled in, not knowing if the dear old man — whose wonderfully ruddy face made it (with Steve’s wonderfully cute face) onto our French phrasebook a few years back — was even alive. He was doing great, remembered us (thankfully, we sent him a copy of the phrasebook) and invited us back into his barn’s attic where we filmed ECU (Extremely Close Up in TV-production jargon) shots of the magnificent stone lauzes roofs characteristic of this region. The man’s name: Monsieur Lascaux. The famous copy cave, 10 miles down the road, is called Lascaux II. We now call our man with the stone roof Lascaux I.

Posted by Rick Steves on June 04, 2007
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Spain has fun with names. For instance, they call dried apricots orejones — now every time I look at one I’ll think, “Eeeww, big ears.”

One of my pet peeves is that Americans are the noisiest people in mellow and potentially romantic restaurants throughout Europe. The other day, back in Orvieto, I was jabbering away with some happy travelers I met with my guidebook when a local woman leaned far across from her table and gave us a classic “shhhhhhh.” Oops.

Spain has a class of educated professional workers whose wages can’t keep up with prices. They call them “Mileuristas” – meaning, the educated poor, earning 1,000 euros ($1,300) a month.

In Barcelona, we stumbled upon a small demonstration. The police were out in force — it seemed like there were more cops than demonstrators. I commented to my friend that this was not much of a disturbance. He agreed, saying, “Yes, but we like to demonstrate. When the Iraq war started, everyone was out. Barcelona was literally filled with people. The parade couldn’t happen. The streets were only people and nobody moved.”

Use what you design. Three times, I’ve stood up from my hotel toilet and knocked the phone hanging on the wall into the toilet. Anyone running a hotel should sleep in each room before renting it.

I had a nightmare. It was an Edvard Munch painting of 40 people walking their dogs.

For the rest of your lives, you’ll be reminded, “Don’t inflate your life vest until you’re out of the aircraft.” I don’t believe these life vests (or your floatable seat cushions) have ever been used in the history of aviation by a commercial jet “in the event of a water landing.” (Can anyone set me straight here?)

A Spanish friend of mine explained the “rule of seven nos.” When dealing with authority in Spain, you must ask sheepishly and meekly seven times – and get seven nos – before getting the go-ahead. In my TV production, this has worked many times.

Some Spaniards were lamenting the kind of leadership they felt was coming from Washington D.C. these days. We got talking about Clinton. Federico said, “Our king, Juan Carlos, is a whore addict…but nobody cares. He’s a very good king.”

Carrying around my European cell phone is like raising a child whose language I cannot speak. It makes all sorts of noises. I don’t know what to do. I just ignore them.

It occurred to me that if we all work together, we can change the pronunciation of gorgonZOla (pronounced like the lady your supermarket would) to gorGONzola. (Say it like Dracula. Say it like Juan Carlos.)

Pet peeve: a refrigerator motor disturbing an otherwise silent room. I get up in a midnight frenzy and find a way to unplug it. Last night I laid awake at 3:30 and realized I’m listening to a motor cool air.

The French are committed to the best holidays possible. To ease beach congestion, they split their country into three zones and stagger school holidays. In Spanish resorts they know which region of France is on holiday by who fills their beaches.

Traveling and seeing young families, you see how much in common parents have. I believe this is a huge step to peace and understanding between nations.

When I return home and give talks on Europe today, I think one theme will be, “Affluence channeled into good living.”

The Rolling Stones are coming to about the poorest country in Europe — Montenegro. Tens of thousands of kids are paying $50 each for tickets. The concert is sold out. I'm coming to Montenegro too...in just a few days...and nobody knows.

Posted by Rick Steves on June 03, 2007
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Different destinations attract a different caliber and style of travelers. The Japanese love Salzburg, Rothenburg and the famous alpine resorts. The Russian mafia and their prostitutes seem to enjoy Paris. Some countries have a Coney Island, complete with its answer to cotton candy. And some have a Mazatlan, complete with a Senor Frog's restaurant. You can guess who’s at the Hooters in Amsterdam and the Hard Rock Café in London.

You’ll meet an inordinate number of Basque and Catalan travelers in Northern Ireland. No strangers to the tyranny of the majority, they’re coming in a kind of solidarity with Ulster’s oppressed Catholic minority. I remember during the Cold War meeting more Angolans and Cubans in a week in Bulgaria than I had met in my entire life (fourteen).

I was impressed by how the Dordogne seems to draw a more sophisticated traveler — low-key and thoughtful people who appreciate nature, culture and cuisine...and don’t talk loud in restaurants. While obnoxious tourists are the norm on Malaga, I met none in the Dordogne.

Posted by Rick Steves on June 01, 2007
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