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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

I am so enthralled with Istanbul and excited about our TV production work that it is hard to make time for a blog entry. This is very rushed, but I've got to share a little walk around the block with you.

Last night I went out alone for dinner. On the street level, the restaurant was dead — but a TV monitor was showing the action up on the terrace, four flights up. I sat down to dinner with the domes of the Blue Mosque on one side of me; on the other side, a fleet of freighters were patiently waiting their turn to slip through the bottleneck of the Bosporus. My dinner grace was forced on me as calls to prayer rang out all around. It was surround-sound: Allahu Akbar — "God is great."

Filming the muezzin singing at the base of the minaret, we attempted to put a face on the Muslim call to prayer.
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This round of the call to prayer was particularly vivid to me because just a few hours before, I'd had the privilege of sitting at the base of a minaret of the Blue Mosque, at the feet of the man who is perhaps Istanbul's best singing hafiz (someone who has memorized all 6,000-plus verses of the Quran). He grabbed two old-fashioned microphones, put a hand on his ear, closed his eyes, and filled his neighborhood with a soulful warbling and highly amplified call to "come join the prayer, come join the salvation, God is great." He covered me with goosebumps.

I was gazing at the Christmas-tree lights that draped the minarets spiking into the sky above my dinner table, when suddenly my waiter's face filled my view and he plopped down a hot, fresh-out-of-the-oven loaf, a balloon of bread shaped like some Assyrian flotation device.

Tourists at the next table told me they were here to meet some students on a study ship cruising the Mediterranean. But because of the bomb here a couple days ago, the ship had been diverted to Egypt. (I wanted to scream at this example of nervous parental over-reaction — not only because it made no sense, but because Egypt has got to be many times more dangerous than Turkey anyway.)

I decided to walk home the long way, savoring the Istanbul night. A local couple was sucking on a four-foot-tall hookah, cuddled up on one of the sofas that's so common these days in outdoor lounges in the Mediterranean, lost in each others' gaga eyes.

I stepped into the Blue Mosque, as if to give it another chance. It was so touristy this morning, inundated with cruise-ship visitors. Now it was once again just the neighborhood mosque in action — not a tourist in sight. A window was open for ventilation. I peeked through to find it was the ladies' prayer zone. I drew back, suddenly feeling a tinge of peeping-Tom guilt.

A family gathered around their little boy in his proud admiral's outfit. It was his circumcision party — celebrated as Christians would celebrate a baptism, but even more joyous. (Turks call the circumcision party the greatest party — like "a wedding without the in-laws.") The boy was all smiles...for now.

Looking up, I enjoyed a treat that sneaks up on me whenever I find myself under mosques after dark: the sight of soaring birds swooping past silhouetted minarets with their undersides floodlit.

I was regretting eating and drinking so much. In Turkey, I have sentimental favorite dishes from my student days as a backpacker here. Because of that (and a certain pride in being able to actually say the words in Turkish), I always order sutlac (rice pudding) and visnu su (cherry juice). Even if I'm not hungry or thirsty, I say the words, eat and drink...remembering my first tastes of Turkey as a teen.

Leaving the mosque, I came upon a big electronic reader board. It was evangelizing, constantly spooling out delightful, Muhammad-praising, "love thy neighbor" aphorisms in crawling red letters. After a few minutes pondering the verses, I thought, "Good religious marketing."

In Istanbul the dervish comes to the tourists as a follower of Mevlana whirls.
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Just outside the gate, a man was drawing tourists' names on plates, mesmerizing a small crowd with his gorgeous calligraphy. While Western tourists in Turkey tend to assume that anyone "foreign-looking" is a local, I've realized that in Istanbul's touristy zones like this, many of the "exotic locals" are actually tourists from other parts of the Islamic world.

My day's little victory lap was just about done. Tourists filled a big patio, enjoying a single dervish whirling on an elevated platform. I have a bad attitude about dervishes doing their whirl for tourists who have no idea what's going on. That's because I have enjoyed the good fortune of having a dervish actually explain the meaning of this meditational prayer ritual, and how it relates to the teachings of Mevlana. (You might call Mevlana the "Islamic St. Francis.") But I buried my bad attitude and simply enjoyed the beauty of his performance there in the Istanbul night.

I had a 7 a.m. appointment with a Turkish bath (to get in with our camera crew before the baths open to the public), so I headed back to our hotel, climbed into bed, and enjoyed reviewing the memories generated by simply spending a few minutes walking around the block after dinner in Istanbul. It affirmed my love of this city, which I rank (along with Paris, Rome, and London) as one of Europe's top four great cities.

Posted by Rick Steves on July 31, 2008
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I’m in Istanbul — floodlit minarets out my window in a hot and muggy room after a great first day of filming. I’m getting this blog entry up pronto because of the horrible bombing here 24 hours ago, which killed at least 17 people and injured more than 150.

Apparently, many Americans heading for Turkey saw the news and wonder if it’s still safe. The thought honestly didn’t even occur to me until I got back into the room tonight and read my email from our office saying some of the people signed up on our tours were concerned. My first thought was not to dignify the unfounded fear with a response. But that’s not fair. When you are half a world away and just watching the news, it is understandable that you might overreact. Let me just recount my day.

In this city of well over 10 million people, this is a tragedy. But (as I commented to Simon, my TV director, as we returned after 10 hours of shooting all over town today) I’m impressed by how I felt no tension on the streets because of this event. Of course, it’s on the Istanbul news big time tonight, but the city is as fun-loving and lofty as ever.

Our last shot of the day — looking from the Galata Bridge over a churning harbor at the Topkapi Palace sitting in a green bed of trees, with huge red Turkish flags flying and a skyline spiky with minarets — I commented to Simon that this city is uniquely graceful to the eye. Even though it’s rough...it still has the fragrance of a harem girl dancing for a sultan.

Istanbul is a far cry from Denmark, where I was just yesterday. Even at the Turkish Airlines gate at the Copenhagen airport, I knew we weren’t in Denmark anymore. The Turks talked louder and their kids were unruly. The flight was a bit of culture shock — horrible sound system, grainy 1980s-vintage video, families jabbering noisily as their children bounced all over. (Just between you and me, that’s why I enjoy traveling in Turkey more than Denmark.)

Riding the taxi in from Atatürk Airport, we drove along the Bosphorus — packed with ocean-going freighters, most Russia-bound. Passing along the harborfront, I remembered it a few years ago — littered with beggars, homeless people, shantytowns of immigrants camping out and in search of jobs. Today it’s a sleek European-style park. And, as it was Sunday evening, it was filled with families out wrapping up their weekend with a picnic.

This morning, as we set out to film, I met my friend and local guide Lale (who’s helping us with this shoot). She told me of the horrible bombing. We stopped by a government office to see if we had extra concerns with permissions and getting on public transit with a big camera and our gear. There was no change in our access for filming things in town.

I was hoping to be in the hotel all day, catching up on writing, while Simon and our cameraman got all the B-roll (beautiful exteriors). But a thunderhead sent the crew in, and we changed plans to shoot indoor things.

As usual, the script is too long. It could be two shows...but I think I’d rather do Istanbul dense in half an hour. Simon and I cut the home visit to Lale’s nice suburban condo in a gated community (where I hoped to show how modern Turks live, and introduce their little 14-month-old boy to our audience).

We also cut the fancy deli, and cut the attempt to film merchants in the Grand Bazaar pitching their goofy, sentimental, and clever sales lines. ("Don’t I know you? Love is blind but never mind. Can I sell you something you don’t need? Please, where are you from? Special price today...just for you, my friend.") Most wouldn’t talk to the camera, as they seem to have been recently burned by TV cameras doing negative stories. One guy said, “You just want to make us look bad.” I said, “No, I want to make you look good. Are you bad?” He said, “We are bad, yes. But we don’t want to look bad.”

In the far end of the bazaar, my favorite goldsmith did his thing — melting the off-cuts and sweepings into a little brick of solid gold — for our camera. In three minutes, it went from loose shavings to molten metal poured into a mold, cooled in a bucket of water, polished with newspaper, and into my hands. Being the first to hold that brand-new, four-pound brick of gold there in that funky, ramshackle, hot hole-in-the-wall was fun...and great TV.

We worked all day. The security was as tight as London’s (where I was a couple of weeks ago). Guards with metal-detecting wands did a cursory wave over us as we entered the Grand Bazaar and the Spice Market.

I was tuned into the people around us. At first, it was the cruise-ship people — filling the Hippodrome square and the main street in the Grand Bazaar. Then, simply stepping into the thriving market streets beyond the touristy zone, there were absolutely no tourists and a festival of telegenic local faces.

There are a lot of tourists in town. At lunch, I met an enthusiastic group who took our Turkey tour last year and have returned to explore the country again. I think I met more American tourists in Istanbul today than I did all last week traveling through the Danish countryside (outside of Copenhagen, which has lots of Yanks).

I’ve always wanted to film Istanbul’s fish boats cooking up their fish right on their bobbing deck, and serving it up in hunks of bread wrapped in newspaper. (This Istanbul fast food is a sentimental memory from my teenage visit here.) With the boats rocking wildly, we bought our sandwiches. As I sat down to eat mine, a bird strafed me. It was as if yellow mustard (the expensive kind, with the grains in it) just squirted out of the sky. A streak landed on my sleeve, and another on the thigh of my pants. I heard a third squirt land in the vicinity of my sandwich. When I surveyed my fried mackerel, it was the same rustic yellow — camouflaging whatever may have landed there. Lale said, “That’s why we don’t like pigeons.” Simon tried to comfort me, saying, “It’s probably mostly mackerel, anyway.” I still couldn’t finish my snack.

The slick new city tram — notoriously crowded through the day — was not jammed after rush hour. So we hopped on and filmed it as we returned to our hotel. We met a beautiful woman in an amazing black scarf covered with bangles (imagine I Dream of Jeannie at an Irish wake). I asked her man where they were from...thinking Oman or Sudan or Kilimanjaro or something really exotic. They said Istanbul. I said, “Çok güzel” (very beautiful), and thought, “I guess if you need to cover your head...you can do it with panache.”

Oh, back to my reason for the blog entry: Should you travel to Istanbul? Who am I to say? Some people will, and some people won't. Those who won't...can see a great show about it on public TV this coming October.

Posted by Rick Steves on July 28, 2008
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I’ve been in Denmark filming for a week now. When in the Netherlands, I have a running joke with Simon (my TV director). We say, “Everything’s so...Dutch.” Now, in Denmark, we say, “Everything’s so...Danish.” While our Copenhagen show is featuring a thriving metropolis, our Danish Countryside show features cuteness.

Danes enjoying the trendy new part of Aarhus (where a once-paved-over river is now revealed and lined by popular eateries).
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And Denmark is, simply, cute — cute, cute, cute. The place feels like a pitch ‘n putt course sparsely inhabited by blonde Vulcans. Poll after poll lists them as the most content and happy people on the planet. And it’s flat. Going over a huge suspension bridge and enjoying a vast territorial view, I realized how rare it is to get a “high wide” shot of the countryside. The place is so flat that we’ve been climbing silos and pulling over on the crests of bridges to get the best “high wide.”

We were at the local Disneyland: Legoland, a wildly popular place featuring 58 million Lego bricks built into famous landmarks from around the world. (They claim if you lined them all up, they’d stretch from here to Italy.) The place was crawling with adorable little ice-cream-liking, blonde children. Even with piles of sugar, it was so mellow. Kids were holding their mothers' hands learning about the Lego buildings, or smiling contentedly as they whipped around on the carousel.

In the middle of the countryside, the newly paved roads are lined by perfectly smooth bike lanes — one for each direction. Even in the countryside, there are more bikes than cars. No one’s uptight. We got in a little traffic jam — everyone takes it in stride. Damn those Danes.

I’ve been wondering how the Danes pull it off. I think their success relates to the free rider problem and the social contract. I don’t think many Americans can conceptualize the "free rider problem.” Basically: If I do it, I can get away with it; but if everyone does it, the system will collapse. So when deciding how to act, Danes take into consideration what would happen to their society if everyone cheated on this, sued someone for that, took advantage of that technicality, freeloaded here, or ignored that rule there.

Europeans trade off individual-ism for social-ism. The Danes seem to take it to an extreme. I don’t know how well I’d fit in here, to be honest. But I am so intrigued. Danes are famous for not jaywalking. At 3 a.m., they still stop for a red light. When I jaywalk elsewhere, I do so thinking people will appreciate my lead and follow me. When I jaywalk here, Danes look at me like I’m a bad influence on the children present.

People laugh politely when I ask if they speak English, responding, “Of course I do.” Conversation flows easy. Here are a few comments I’ve heard this week:

“In Denmark, you have to work quite hard to find a crack to fall through. A few people with alcohol problems manage to be homeless. Yes, we are the most contented people. We pay, on average, 50 percent taxes — yes, worker or big shot, we pay about 50 percent. Of course, we get lots for that. We’ve had national healthcare since the 1930s. We know nothing else. If I don’t like the shape of my nose, I pay to fix that. But all else is taken care of. All education is free. And university students get $800 a month for living expenses for up to six years. When there is a student demonstration, it’s generally for more pocket money. We Danes believe a family’s economic status should have nothing to do with the quality of the healthcare or the education their children receive. I believe in the US, you pay triple per person what we pay as a society for healthcare. Your system may be better for business...but not better for service. Essentially, we already have the euro — it’s just divided not into 100 cents, but into 7.5 crowns. The Danish kroner is fixed to the Euro at that rate."

When I saw the tombstone store with Tak for Alt ("Thanks for Everything") pre-carved into the stones, I figured it was a message from the dead one after a very blessed life in Denmark (like “That’s all, folks”). But I learned today that it's a message from those bidding their loved one farewell (like “rest in peace”). Still, I think when a Dane dies, they (more than their loved ones) should say, “Tak for Alt.”

Posted by Rick Steves on July 26, 2008
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I’ve been trying to analyze why I enjoy traveling so much. All I do is work all day long, every day, and it brings me pure joy.

The isle of Aero welcomes visitors with a special Danish cuteness.
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Just last night with our camera crew, I was sitting on the beach on a remote Danish isle digging into a grand picnic as the sun was sinking heavy and red into the...whatever Danish sea was out there. It was like an hourglass — unstoppable, dictating when we would be done filming. We set about shooting a great bit, and getting the open of the show at the same time.

A charming family who happened to be German (but looked Danish enough) joined us with their terrier named “Jackson.” I couldn’t stop singing the classic Nancy Sinatra/Lee Hazelwood song. Jorgen Otto, the lord mayor of the island — a wiry former headmaster of the local school, and clearly charismatic enough to be a popular small-town politician — was sitting cross-legged with us, strumming his guitar and teaching us a Danish shanty about a sinking ship in which all the sailors survived and made it home to their beloved. The picnic was all spread out, and shrimp and wieners were sizzling on the hibachi. And the tiny beach shacks behind us were looking so Danishly cute. It was perfect.

After popping another shrimp into Jackson’s eager and hairy trap, which made us all laugh, I looked into the camera, and said (with a vaguely Australian accent), “Hi, I’m Rick Steves, back with more of the best of Europe. This time we’re on the beach, got a good cold beer, and the shrimp's on the barbie. It must be the best of...Denmark. Thanks for joining us."

The beach was filled with Germans vacationers — whose grandfathers had invaded this place. We had just biked down from a thousand-year-old mystical burial site — a stone-lined mound the shape of a Viking ship. It sat upon a five-thousand-year-old burial chamber. Next to it was a village church with a list of pastors going back 500 years. The current pastor, Agnus, was the first woman on the list. At the rear of the nave, as if his hand were on the theological rudder, a painting showed Martin Luther standing strong with his hand on the Bible. All this history added poignancy to the experience.

I feel charmed to be turned on by all this. When I wonder why, it comes back to my studies. I got my history degree accidently. Because I had traveled, taking history classes was simply fun. One morning in the UW dormitory, I woke up, realized I had already taken seven classes, and it hit me: “Three more classes, and I’ll have my degree — and bam, I’m a historian.”

Since then, I’ve spent a third of my life exploring Europe — enjoying “continued education” with a curriculum I’ve tailored specifically for myself. And I marvel at how my travels stoke my interest in history, and the fun my interest in history brings.

Just this summer, I’ve enjoyed finding out why 7,000 Danes volunteered to fight with the Nazis against the USSR; tried to get my head around the possibility that the Vikings’ rape, pillage, and plunder image may be a bad rap (while in York, the capital of Viking England a thousand years ago); and heard stories of that monk in the Champagne region of France who double-fermented his wine, invented something new and bubbly, and ran famously down the halls of his monastery, shouting, “Brothers, come quickly, I’m drinking stars!” And, just today, here on the Danish Isle of Ærø, I learned how its “duty-free age” age as a smuggling capital on the border between Germany and Denmark created the lovely collection of captains’ homes I’ve been ogling all afternoon.

And eating my way through Europe this summer has also reminded me how understanding "food patriotism" in different corners brings out fun and fascinating facets of my favorite continent. In Scotland, I learned locals are passionate about finding and describing the whisky that fits their personality. Each guy in the pub has “his” whisky. And the descriptors (fruity, peppery, peaty, smoky) are much easier to actually taste than their wine-snob equivalents.

In Greece, I got a good, strong dose of how olive oil and national pride mix. Locals are outraged at Greek olive oil being bottled and sold as “extra virgin Italian oil,” and are determined to elevate the image of Greek olive oil so growers won’t take a hit by selling it to Greek oil companies.

And, this week in Denmark, I learn that pickled herring is almost a religion for many Danes. My friend, a local guide here, claims to eat it every morning for breakfast and three times a week for lunch.

In a few days, I fly to Istanbul — where I get to refine my appreciation for baklava again. (I get it tuned up as often as possible.)

What’s the point? When you travel, you find the enthusiasm of locals for their national dishes rubs off on you...and you fly home with more favorite foods. Travel makes life simply more tasty, and history more poignant.

Posted by Rick Steves on July 24, 2008
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I’m filming a new TV show this week in Copenhagen. This city has impressed me in many ways.

Copenhagen’s new subway is silent, automated (without a driver), trains go literally every two minutes, and it’s on the honor system — there are no turnstiles.

The streets in Danish towns are so quiet (most city centers are pedestrians-only) that I don’t talk to my friends from a distance...I walk over to whisper to them.

An angry young man at the train station was barking into his mobile phone...and it occurred to me that in a week in this country, those were the only angry words or shouting I had heard.

Twice in this city, my trip has nearly been cut short as I step from a taxi or sidewalk into the bike lane. I am aware of cars, of course, but there is a third dimension zipping along silently between pedestrians and drivers: Danish bikers.

London and Paris have taken lanes away from drivers to make bike lanes, but they go virtually unused. Somehow Copenhagen has it figured out. During Copenhagen’s rush hour, there are literally more bikes on their roads than cars. I look at a square in the town center, and there are 50 bikes parked (which blend into the scene almost unnoticed) and absolutely no cars. Congestion is less, parked cars don’t clog their arteries, and people are in shape. A new trend I just noticed is that fancy business hotels provide visiting guests with loaner or rentable bikes.

I was reviewing my TV production plans with a senior official from the Danish Tourist Board. Suddenly his mobile phone rang with a cartoonish voice for a ring tone, warning in an urgent Danish voice: “Hello, it’s the Prime Minister, Rasmussen. Don’t answer this call. It’s a bad man and he’s sitting with a bunch of terrorist friends and they’re planning to do something very bad.”

Later, I asked a Danish friend about the controversial cartoon image of Muhammad that offended so many Muslims. She said it’s all in fun. "We’ll take the heat, but you have to have a sense of humor. Our prime minister — who half our country loves and half our country despises — is caricatured as a caveman. He laughs, and we love him even more."

Side-tripping north by train to Frederiksborg Castle, we film me saying, “A fun part of exploring Denmark — or just about any country in Europe — is enjoying the efficiency of the great train system.” As usual, I need about six or eight “takes.” My local guide is laughing as I work. I ask him why, and he says our train is running five minutes late, and everyone on the train around me is muttering “no, no, no” each time I say my line. Clearly, it’s all relative. While there are two trains a day serving my hometown, these trains go six times an hour and Danes here go through life never wishing they had a car — but they still complain. My friend says, “We Danes are spoiled. We love to complain.”

But, apparently, Danes end things on a more appreciative note. Today I passed a shop selling tombstones, and noticed the most common words pre-etched into the marble were Danish for “Thanks for everything.”

Posted by Rick Steves on July 22, 2008
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One of my favorite challenges is to spiff up the eating sections in my guidebooks. Because I'm famously simple in my tastes among my family and friends, it seems odd that I have this power to recommend or not recommend restaurants in my guidebooks. While I would be hard-pressed to judge the yellowness of the butter or the dentition of the pasta or the glimmer of the fish eyes, I still manage to find and collect places that seem to please my traveling readers.

Having just completed my work in Edinburgh, York, Bath, and London, I am impressed by the passion of the couples (gay, straight, professional, or romantic) who run my favorite little places. Rather than big, highly advertised formula places, I like quirky little ten-table places that are the creative vision of these entrepreneurial restaurateurs.

Doing my research, I rely heavily on the advice of B&B hosts (who have no vested interest in anything other than happy guests). If they're good, it's impressive how quickly new little restaurants gain a huge reputation.

In Edinburgh, the Wedgwood, run by Paul and Lisa (who served me haggis with pigeon — my favorite haggis ever), is a delight. In Bath, Casanis French Bistro (run by Jill and Laurent) has been open only a couple of months, and is already on everyone's short list. (It's fun to see a traveler fall in love with a chef, bring him home, and start a winning restaurant.)

Not only new places are fresh. In Bath, at Tilly's Bistro, Dave and Dawn have been at it for nearly two decades and still scamper up and down their stairs and weave through their tight tables like it was their debut. Enjoying a great cheese and port plate for dessert, I told Dave this was my idea of a fine dessert. It didn't surprise me that he admitted his desserts suffered a bit because he also was “passionate about cheese and port.”

Going back year after year, I often find the once-magic place has ebbed, and its talent is turning on taste buds just down the street. In York, Café Concerto has long been a favorite. I dropped by Café No. 8 and was blown away — everything that charmed me about Café Concerto at its peak and more. Then, savoring my figs with local blue cheese, I learned that Martin, who runs No. 8, came from Café Concerto.

I don't like recommending chains, but some are just too fun or too right. The pan-Asian noodle slurp-a-thon Wagamama is everywhere now...and just as great as the day its first location took London's Soho by storm a decade ago. The Italian chain Ask seems to nab the best grand old dining hall in many towns, and fill it with happy eaters enjoying decent pasta and pizzas at good prices. And how does Starbucks get the best real estate in each city? If I'm in need of a fix, I can intuit where they'll put a branch.

In each town, there seems to be a hot Italian place where as soon as you step inside, you know its going to be a fun evening (Martini's in Bath, Il Positano in Edinburgh). There's something about a gang of happy Italian waiters and cooks that makes you just want to drink red wine and slurp spaghetti.

English office workers make a routine out of getting a top-quality sandwich. When going for a budget sandwich lunch, you might as well skip the tired chain and find the deli with the line of local professionals. York Hogroast dishes out great pork sandwiches in York. In Bath, at Chandos Deli, I just lingered on my stool enjoying my wonderful sandwich and glass of tap water while watching all the yuppies swing by for their take-away meal. My son Andy reported that during his recent studies in London, each day he'd go to the same winning sandwich place that included free Wi-Fi, and enjoy his meal on a shoestring while checking email.

Chinese buffets (like Jasmine, just outside Monk Bar in York) serve all-you-can-eat meals for $12. That's fun and cheap. But their take-away boxes (fill one up for $7) can feed two, and that has to be the best cheap, hot meal going.

In general, I found British portions huge. Rather than two appetizers, two mains, and two desserts with wine for $70 each, a couple can order two appetizers, split a main, split a dessert, and drink tap water — and probably fill up fine, enjoy the same atmosphere, and get out for $30 each. Waiters seem to sympathize with the budget traveler these days, and accommodate our cost-cutting measures with a smile.

Great budget values in any town are the cafés in the market, where you can get baked beans with your breakfast all day long. And many churches have cafés where volunteers from the congregation serve up soup and sandwich for a price that's not particularly cheap, but you know you're supporting a humble local congregation's community work with your lunch money.

Good fish-and-chips joints are rare. In each town, there seems to be one that is evangelical about grease and has won the undying allegiance of a passionate local following. One thing these winning chippies seem to have in common: a guy behind the counter who's as greasy as the fish.

I was quite frustrated to find that many pubs that once served great pub meals are backing off on their pub grub to make more money selling beer. That attracts a younger and noisier crowd, and it becomes no place to enjoy a meal. In the Victoria Station area near my favorite London B&Bs, I found my two favorite pubs were overwhelmed by drinkers. Thankfully, I found St. George's Tavern (on Hugh Street and Belgrave Road), with famous sausages, a commitment to serving good pub meals, and three fine eating zones — scenic sidewalk tables, sloppy pub interior, and classier back room. In London now you'll pay $25 for a good pub meal with a big glass of beer.

I'm purging my books of stupid things that, for some odd reason, are just in all the guidebooks. I just deleted the paragraph about Spotted Dick (which I can't remember seeing on a menu in the last decade). So that Spotted Dick can rest in peace, here's what it said:

Spotted Dick is a sponge pudding with currants. How did it get its name? Some say it looks like a spotted dog and dogs were called Dick. Another theory suggests that “Dick,” “duff,” and “dog” are all variants of the word “dough.” One thing's for sure: the stuff isn't selling very well today, thanks to the name's connotation. Some are considering renaming it “Spotted Richard.”

Posted by Rick Steves on July 19, 2008
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A friendly verger greets tourists (who pay to get in unless they are really really worshipping) at Westminster Abbey.
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Eddie the Verger is posted in his red robe with a warm smile at the exit of Westminster Abbey. His responsibility: to sort through those who want to go into the abbey to worship, and those tourists who fold their hands and reverently say, “I’d like a few moments with the Unknown Soldier, please.” (By masquerading as worshippers, sightseers can sidestep the £12 — or $24 — entrance fee to the church.)

Dropping by, I tell him I’m working on the Rick Steves book, and he says, “I’d like a word with that Rick Steves. He implies in his guidebook you can pop in to worship in order to get a free visit to the abbey.”

I tell him who I am and we sort it out. Really charmed by Eddie, I agree that rather than promote the fact that visitors can pop in anytime for free if they claim to be worshippers, I’ll encourage those tourists to actually experience the church the way it was designed to be experienced, by listing the busy daily schedule of worship services (for example, there is a sung evensong six days a week, when anyone is welcome for free).

Then Eddie took me into a place where no tourist goes — the Jerusalem Chamber, where the monks set up shop to actually translate the Bible from ancient Greek into English, creating the King James Version.

Knowing the dangers of getting the word of God into the people’s language, the potentially dire consequences for these reformers, and the importance of these heroic steps back in the 16th century, I got the same goose bumps as when I was in the Wartburg castle and saw the room Martin Luther holed up in while he did essentially the same thing for the German-speaking world.

Eddie deposited me in the abbey, and I visited like any other tourist — enjoying the great new audio tour narrated by Jeremy Irons. Listening to his soothing voice, I enjoyed some private time with great history: the marble effigy of Queen Elizabeth I, made from her death mask in 1603 — considered the most realistic likeness of her; the coronation chair that centuries of kings and queens sat upon right here in the abbey on their big day; the literary greats of England gathered as if conducting a posthumous storytelling session around the tomb of Geoffrey Chaucer (Mr. Canterbury Tales); the poppies lining the tomb of Britain’s Unknown Soldier — with the US Congressional Medal of Honor given to him by General Pershing in 1921 hanging from the neighboring column; the statue of Martin Luther King added as an honorary member of this now heavenly English host; and so much more.

The steep admission fee includes this marvelous one-hour guided walk with the best-designed audio wands I’ve encountered anywhere in Europe. (These things are really getting good.) I started my visit wondering if I should produce my own audio tour for Westminster Abbey. Now that the abbey’s audioguide is included in the admission, I’m off the hook. Instead, I’ll strongly encourage all who visit to take this tour with gusto.

Then I stepped across the street into the basement of the Methodist church for a cheap soup and sandwich, wrapped a Band-Aid around my toe — cushioning the first blister of my trip — and headed out for more of London.

Posted by Rick Steves on July 15, 2008
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I’m having a great time researching my guidebook in England. I really am. But a few things are bugging me. I just need to vent for a minute. I love traveling in England and still marvel at the fun of it — but those coming this year on a budget will need to cut a few corners. From my experience, it's doable, and the essential fun of being in Britain is not determined by how much you're spending. Having said that...now let me vent.

I nearly got into an argument at the Bath tourist information office. I guess I was in a sour mood at how expensive things are, compounded by how greedy Bath, the most delightful (and probably richest) little city in England, has gotten. Tourism is its bread and butter, yet even the tourist office — now privatized — does its best to gouge visitors.

My guidebook listed the tourist office’s free phone number — the one dedicated to booking rooms. (The office gets a fee, plus takes a 10 percent deposit — which they pocket — and B&Bs then need to increase their prices to recoup the TI kickback. You and your host do better if you book direct.) I give that toll-free number to my readers for tourist information.

As I updated my guidebook information, they asked me to change that phone number to their 0906 number. In Britain, "09" in the prefix sends up flares. In each country, you need to watch out for costly phone sex-type prefixes. The Bath tourist office now charges a dollar a minute to ask them for advice on how to spend money in their overpriced town. They no longer give out maps, but sell a lousy little sheet for $2 — no better than the one hotels give out for free. More square footage in the TI is devoted to their retail shop than information. And a far handier map is for sale just steps away for $2.50.

Bath’s ancient Roman spa has more appeal than its 21st century spa.
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Part of Bath’s desperate greed is because their spa project ran about $50 million over budget, and they’re trying to pay that back. Locals as well as tourists are being hit. A local told me that on the town’s picturesque Pulteney Bridge, which is open only to buses and taxis, the city hall was photographing unknowing tourists as well as sloppy locals and fining each vehicle that crossed $120. For a while, the city was netting $60,000 a day just on Pulteney Bridge infractions. (By the way, anywhere in Europe, tourists driving in city centers can unknowingly cross a no-go line and be hit with a huge fine by mail.)

Britain is really expensive, and apparently it’s tough for locals, too. Everyone is talking about the recession (they raise prices “because of the recession,” which makes no sense to me), the high cost of oil (they blame the USA), and the housing and mortgage bust (just like ours). Local minimum wage is about six pounds ($12) per hour, which I think has even less buying power than the minimum wage in the USA. Knife violence (four killings just yesterday) and the singer Amy Winehouse (she keeps slapping bouncers and being photographed with “blobs of white stuff in her nose”) seem to dominate the tabloids. Each day this week, wasted Amy has been shown oblivious to the sober world on the cover of the leading papers (the National Enquirer types dominate on the tube).

Part of the high cost of living is the fear everyone has of being sued or burned up in a fire. I can’t walk down a hall without having to open big, heavy fire doors. Whenever I encounter something really inefficient or absurd, locals say, “risk assessment.”

School kids are taking fewer historic field trips. Why? "Risk assessment...it's too legally risky for the schools." Some walking tours don't go if it's raining. Why? "Risk assessment...danger of an umbrella poking someone’s eye out." A male local guide refuses to do a tour if he has only one, female customer. Why? “Risk assessment...she may claim he molested her." Why is the water not really hot in my room? "Risk assessment...we don't want guests to scald themselves." Why can’t I open my window more than four inches? “Risk assessment... a baby fell out of a window once right here in London.” What?! “We have even more lawyers than you do. It’s ruining our country. A burglar can sue me if he’s rifling through my home and he trips on a stray cord.”

As long as you have money, there’s no risk that you won’t have a good time here in England. But bring your pointy umbrella and a lawyer just in case.

(By the way, if you haven't seen it yet, our daughter Jackie is writing a fun blog of her own about her high-school-graduation, no-parents-in-sight trip through Europe.)

Posted by Rick Steves on July 12, 2008
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Shaking off my umbrella, I stepped into my room exhausted after a long day in Bath, England. Blowing my nose, I noticed a spray of red dirt on the Kleenex...and I remembered the snuff.

Paul, who runs the Star Inn — the most characteristic pub in town — keeps a tin of complementary snuff tobacco on a ledge for customers. I tried some, and — while a drunk guy from Wales tried to squeeze by me holding two big pints of the local brew over my head — I asked Paul about it. He said English coal miners have long used it because cigarettes were too dangerous in the mines, and they needed their tobacco fix. Paul wanted me to take the tin. I put it back on the ledge and said I’d enjoy it the next time I stopped by.

Walking home through the English mist, I reviewed my day backwards. I was pleased that even by just researching B&Bs, restaurants, and pubs in one of the most cutesy and touristy towns in Britain, my day was filled with memories.

School’s out and, while I’m heading home, the streets are filled with young kids partying. English girls out clubbing wiggle down the street like the fanciest of fish lures — each shaking their tassels and shimmying in a way sure to catch a big one. As one passed me, eyeing a gaggle of guys smoking outside a pub, I overheard her saying, “No spray, no lay...no cologne, you go home alone.”

The rock star Meat Loaf was playing a big concert in the park, and during his performance, much of Bath rocked with him. While the concert was sold out, I gathered with a hundred freeloaders craning their necks from across the river for a great view of the stage action.

The musical highlight of my day, however, was a worship service at the Bath Abbey. Earlier I had logged onto www.bathabbey.org, and — bam! — the day’s schedule was right there: Sung matins service at 11:00, visitors welcome.

I’ve noticed that any on-the-ball B&B or guesthouse these days provides free Wi-Fi for guests, and more and more travelers are carrying laptops or handheld computers to get online. I need to be better about using the Internet — it’s how today's travelers book and buy things like train tickets while on the road.

The Anglican service was crisp, eloquent, and traditional. I was struck by the strong affirmation of their Catholic heritage, the calls for sobriety, and the stress on repentance (repeated references to how we are such wretched sinners). “Knife violence” (by gangs in the streets), which has replaced fear of terrorism as the main threat to communities in England, was a subject of prayers.

The Anglican worship ritual is carefully shuttled from one generation to the next. That continuity seemed to be underlined by the countless tombs and memorials lining walls and floors — worn smooth and shiny by the feet of centuries of worshippers. With the living and the dead all present together, the congregation seemed to raise their heads in praise as sunlight streamed through windows. (Bath’s particularly bright church is nicknamed “the Lantern of the West” for its open, airy lightness and huge windows.)

Glowing Bath stone columns sprouted honey-colored fan vaulting fingers, and cherubic boys in white robes and ruffs (old-time ruffled collars) filled the nave with song — making it a ship of praise. The church was packed with townsfolk, proper and still. Sitting among them, I was no longer a tourist. The scene felt timeless. I gazed at the same windows for the same inspiration that peasants sitting on these pews centuries ago sought.

Local volunteer guides still bring the wonders of Bath to life.
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The sermon was about Christian servanthood. The pastor’s stern comment about the USA took me by surprise: “If, after 9/11, that great Christian nation, the USA, took its responsibility to be a servant among nations seriously, how different our world would be today.” When he was finished and the offering plate was passed, his gentility also caught me off guard: “If you’re a visitor, please don’t be embarrassed to let the plate pass. It’s a way for our regular members to support our work here at the Bath Abbey.”

After the choir paraded out, the huge central doors — doors I didn’t even realize existed — were opened. Indoors and outdoors mingled, as the congregation spilled out onto the main square.

Bath is an expensive town in an expensive country. A young couple hired to manage an elegant Georgian guesthouse I recommend told me they took the gig just to live in Bath. (“Work-a-day English can’t really afford to live here.”) They have an apartment in the basement, but enter through the grand front door just to marvel at the elegant building they live in and manage.

I started my day joining a gaggle of curious visitors in front of the Abbey, where five of a club of 60 volunteer guides divided up the gang and proceeded to take them on a free town walk. My guide, a retired schoolteacher, explained that in 1930 the town’s mayor — proud of the charms of his historic town — took the first group gathered here on a free town walk...and “the mayor’s honorary corps of volunteers” has been leading free walks daily ever since.

Posted by Rick Steves on July 08, 2008
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After a few months of denial when it comes to the impact of our weak dollar on travel, I have to admit that I'm finding fewer Americans on the road. And at many sights that were notorious for crowds and delays, visitors no longer have to be as concerned about how to get in without a long wait. As I update my guidebooks, I find myself deleting related tricks and warnings (such as recommending booking tickets to Mad Ludwig's castles in advance). Part of the reason is fewer crowds. The other is smarter systems to move the masses through these popular sights.

It's fun to see tourism evolving with our age. When I started traveling, the elegant nighttime "son et lumiere" (sound and light) shows were a huge deal. People would bundle up, pay a steep price, and sit under the stars on folding chairs. They'd watch colored spotlights light up the ruined arches of static, old sights, as a cast of grand and evocative voices thundered the history of that place.

Whether listening to the spirit of King Henry at a château on the Loire, Napoleon at Paris' Les Invalides, great Greeks at the base of the Acropolis, the pharaoh at Giza, or Quetzalcoatl at the pyramids outside Mexico City, we would thrill to the sounds and lights bringing those stones to life. Nearly all those shows are now long gone.

In this fast-paced age, where special effects make "sound and light" shows as exciting as watching paint dry, traditional music shows are endangered as well. It's much tougher than it used to be to find quality Norwegian or Scottish folk shows. Only in Ireland has traditional folk music stayed strong in pubs. And a good evening of slap dancing and yodeling in the Tirol is going the way of the hokey-pokey.

Rather than spanking each other's lederhosen shiny, the people of Reutte, the town I often call home in Austria's Tirol, seem more focused in maintaining their community for their families. As an example of how committed the town is to maintaining its character, real estate there can be sold only to those using it as a primary residence. The people of Reutte saw that many other formerly vibrant Alpine towns made a pile of money, but lost their sense of community, by becoming resorts. These towns allowed wealthy foreigners — who just drop in for a week or two a year — to buy up everything. Now streets of these towns are shuttered up and dead for most of the year, and these towns have forever lost their real vibrancy.

Posted by Rick Steves on July 04, 2008
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Sir Rick, the first knight of Ehrenberg
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The sword of Sir Rick in its museum display case, Reutte, Austria
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Architect Armin and guidebook writer Rick celebrate atop newly excavated and restored castle ruins
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The Ehrenberg castle ensemble once guarded the Tirolians from the Bavarians
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I was in Hohenschwangau. It was "Mad" King Ludwig’s dad’s castle — Ludwig’s boyhood home. The walls were all painted in 1835 by a single artist, giving the place a Tolkien-romance-fantasy feel. Ludwig became king as a boy. And rather than live with the frustrations of a modern constitution and feisty parliament reigning him in, he spent his years lost in romantic literature and operas...chillin' with Wagner as only a gay young king could.

Nymphs lounged on his circa 1835 walls. Stars twinkled from the ceiling over his bed. A telescope was set up in Ludwig’s bedroom, trained on a pinnacle on a distant ridge where he could watch Neuschwanstein, his castle fantasy, as it was being constructed.

On my last visit, I peered through that telescope at Neuschwanstein-- the castle that inspired another boy named Disney. I could relate to this busy boy king. Bound by schoolwork and house rules, and with a stretched-out turtleneck and zits rather than crowns and composer friends, I, too, built a castle.

What I had that Ludwig lacked was a father who imported pianos. They came from Germany, encased in tongue-in-groove pine, sealed in a thick envelope of zinc sheeting. My treehouse was my castle: no parents reining me in, walls decorated with romantic circa 1968 magazines, nails sticking down through the ceiling just long enough to keep out bullies taller than me. With my sliding tongue-in-groove panels, I could see who was coming. With a shiny zinc roof, it was the envy of other little kings. There was no tree house like it.

On my first independent trip to Europe, I was 18. It was just after someone had purchased the vacant lot next to our house, and I had to tear down my tree house (epic bad day). I toured "Mad" King Ludwig’s Neuschwanstein — a medieval castle dream. Then, just over the border in Austria, I found the Ehrenberg ruins--a medieval castle reality.

Just a mile outside of Reutte, Austria, are the brooding ruins of four castles that once made up the largest fort in Tirol — Ehrenberg. This impressive castle ensemble was built to defend against the Bavarians and to bottle up the strategic “Via Claudia” trade route that cut through the Alps here as it connected Italy and Germany.

One castle crowned its mountain like an ornery barnacle. The others were lost in a thick forest. I hiked up into the misty mountain of meaningless chunks of castle wall pinned down by pixie-stix trees and mossy with sword ferns. It inspired yet confused me. The barnacle castle was below. The ruins were on the bluff above. Like a big, hungry starfish sits on its food, this rotten military fantasy was being eaten by the forest.

A decade ago I met Armin Walch — a Reutte man with a vision. He was born the same year as me and pursued his project like the Indiana Jones of castle archeologists. Today — with European Union funding — he’s cut away the hungry forest, revealed and renovated what he calls the castle ensemble, created an interactive museum, and is open for business as countless children with medieval fantasies can, in turn, leap from rampart to rampart...sword ferns swinging. (See www.ehrenberg.at for details and photos.)

With my 2008 visit, we celebrated. The Reutte hoteliers and tourism folks gathered in the castle like some old-time city council. We ate rustic cheese and smoked game with coarse bread. We swilled wine and clinked pewter mugs.

I was honored for bringing so many visitors to this remote corner of Austria, and gave a magnanimous impromptu speech about the wonders of Americans climbing through history far from home. I knelt before a man in a coat of mail who drew a shiny sword with my name etched upon it and was knighted — Sir Rick, first knight of Ehrenberg. (With uncharacteristic modesty and characteristic insistence on packing light, I requested that my sword stay in the museum as a special exhibit to the former castle-loving boy who brought American tourism to Reutte with his guidebooks.)

On the way back to my hotel, Armin begged me to stop by his house for a drink. Behind his humble old town facade, this dynamic architect hid a sleek, futuristic, and creative pad. It was a royal domain for Armin and his family — two kids cozy on the carpet and a strikingly beautiful wife who Armin bedazzled at the university in Vienna and took to remote Reutte with promises of a princely life and a bitchin’ castle.

With a schnapps from local herbs — unique to Reutte — in hand, we climbed boyishly to his rooftop, where Armin had designed and built a viewing perch. The floodlighting was on. The mountain overlooking his town was crowned by a castle that, in his youth, almost no one knew even existed. With his pretty blond wife suddenly romantic wallpaper, Armin took me to his telescope. We marveled at his castle ensemble.

Posted by Rick Steves on July 02, 2008
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