Home now, final blog.

I'm home...thankful for a safe and smooth trip full of learning. I always marvel at how smooth things go in Europe if you're on the ball. In six weeks, I can't think of a mishap.

This blog was more fun (and more time-consuming) than I expected. I'm glad I did it. In fact, I hope to make this a regular part of my travels from now on. It reminded me of the fun I had a few years ago when I went to Europe to write my "Postcards from Europe," anecdotal book. I went not to make a TV show, lead a tour, or update a guidebook...but with just free time and a notebook. 

Every few days on this trip, when it was blog time, I'd rummage through my collection of stray notes and cobble together an entry. Entries generally grew to be larger than I planned...but it's hard to tell a story correctly without a few paragraphs.

While all notes started out as stray notes, most ended up building something. But some never found a home. Now that my blog is done, I empty the bucket and find these last scraps (which for some reason, I can't bear to just chuck):

* Soviets learned it's easier to make something go away (like religion) if it's not completely forbidden. (I may have been trying to make a marijuana parallel.)

* Parenting on a European vacation changes radically as the kids get older. On this trip (in Dublin) our kids (aged 19 and 16) routinely stayed out later than Anne and I did. In the morning, we'd slip a paper under their hotel room door (we promised not to wake them up) inviting them to join us for breakfast if they were awake. We'd breakfast alone waiting to debrief the kids on their wee hours adventures.

* I told Jackie "I tried to River Dance and almost drowned." It's the first time she's laughed at one of my jokes in a long time.

* The pet peeves entry got me thinking about more pet peeves: Like hotels that put a decorative foot board on their beds that robs good sleep from guests like me over six feet tall. Like when I try to conserve by reusing the little soap bar and the hotel maid throws it out so I need to open a new one each day. Like European sinks that have separate cold and hot faucets (why on earth?). Like elevators that tell you what floor you're on. And like having to walk back and forth through a long empty slalom of needless stanchions to get to a security check.

* In Helsinki, after a full night of restaurant visits, no one is still serving food. I ended up munching a McDonald's meal in my hotel room. I actually felt ashamed to walk through the lobby with my McDonald's bag.

* After visiting several European airports with a strangely relaxing ambiance, I realized why. They don't have TVs playing CNN in each waiting area. It's quiet and free of advertising.

Over the last six weeks, I've enjoyed the conversation. Thanks to all who participated with their comments. It was hard not to get involved in the discussion, but I made a personal rule to just upload the entries. I have to fess up that (in response to a few harsh comments) I did revisit a few of my entries to clarify points that were unclear or misunderstood. I think I enjoyed the experience so much because it gave me the daily excuse to be more than a guidebook researcher--to be a travel writer (which I really love). And doing this blog let me enjoy the best of both travel worlds: I was traveling both alone...and with a gang of travel partners. Thanks for joining me on my trip. And thanks also to the special reader who made sure I will never again misspell Chiwawa.

Happy travels, Rick

Sticky, Clammy Hands

People seem to be fascinated by how I handle "my celebrity" in Europe. It's kind of strange to talk about it, but here's my take on this:

When you've had a TV show on the air for over 100 episodes and 15 years, lots of people recognize you. I often hear about how some people in my shoes are rude to "their public" when viewers say "Hi" and want to chat. Even if I didn't enjoy it, I think it would take more energy to be rude than to be polite to people who enjoy your show. The fact is, I flat out enjoy the fans of my books and TV shows who recognize me in Europe.

On rare occasions when I seem rude to these people, it's impressive to me how I'll hear about it via e-mail later on. There is a strong expectation from fans that you take time with them. I am thought to be "rude" occasionally and it's almost always when people want to stop and talk and get an autograph when I'm under a time pressure with my TV crew (memorizing lines, trying to do an "on camera" performance, or in a TV production-related crises).

Another example of me upsetting a fan was in Rothenburg. I know when I go on the now famous "Nightwatchman's Tour" that half the people on the tour will be there because of the high recommendation the tour gets in my guidebook. I find Georg, the Nightwatchman, so entertaining that I take his tour year after year. And, each year when I drop by, I cause a commotion that takes attention away from Georg's performance. As a kind of performer myself, I know how this can be a problem. So, I kind of slink into the crowd hoping not to be recognized. On my last visit, I was recognized by a family while Georg was doing his shtick. I told them to direct their attention to Georg--it was his show after all--and not me. Judging from the emails that flew around after that episode, it was clear they were really upset with me.

When I meet someone, I routinely shake hands, ask where they're from, and enjoy a little chat. While this can get out of hand and slow me down, it's fun (and of practical value, as they have invariably been doing things I'm working on in my research--often things I don't have time to actually do myself--and I can pick their brains about the experience).

I know a character named Jimmy in Tangiers, Morocco who when some one says their home town, he'll respond with their telephone area code. (For instance, he asks, "Where are you from?" I say, "Seattle." He responds, "206.") He's amazing about this...but the recent addition of so many new area codes must be giving Jimmy fits. I do something similar with PBS call letters. I'm generally bad at remembering such details, but for some reason, I have a knack for remembering station call letters. I always ask where someone's from. I respond with the call letters. When someone says "I'm from Tampa" I just have to respond "WEDU." Sacramento..."KVIE--that's a great station"... Calgary--"KSPS" (Spokane covers Alberta)...and so on.

The only bad thing about meeting all these great people in my travels, is that many of them have sticky and clammy hands. When out in public and shaking hands all day long, you become like a Hindu in India (divvying up the job your hands do according to needs for cleanliness). While to a Hindu, the left hand is the dirty one, I shake hands with my right hand and eat finger food with my left. So many times I wash my hands for a meal and then, on the way back to the table, I hear, "Hey Rick...love your show." And naturally, I shake hands. My TV producer, Simon, who I've spent probably well over 400 days in Europe with, cringes every time I take my glass of water under the table to rinse off my once clean, but now sticky again hands. Rinsing my hands (discretely) under the table has become a crude ritual for me.

Something that goes hand in hand with shaking lots of hands is posing for lots of photos. When someone tries to get a stranger to take our picture, I often just grab the camera and take the photo. While it's quite simple, people are impressed when I hold a camera up and away and click a portrait of the two of us with my other arm around the person I've just met.

Interactions are often strange. For some reason many people walk right up to me out of the blue and say, "You're not Rick Steves?!" Occasionally, I agree and walk on. Another common comment I get from strangers who recognize me: "You look just like Rick Steves." Depending on my mood, I occasionally say, "Yeah, lots of people say that." And I walk on. While my European friends are almost appalled at the casual "Hey Rick" I get from strangers, I really enjoy it.

I particularly enjoy meeting Canadians on the road. I thank them for being Canadians and not bending to American pressure every time they want to organize their society in a way that doesn't please our government. I encourage them, remind them that God put Canada next to America for good reason, and I thank them again for staying strong. As we chat, the topic of my accent often comes up and I explain that many people think I sound Canadian because my Norwegian grandparents homesteaded in Edmonton, Alberta and my Mom, who is Canadian, taught me to talk.

In my guidebooks, I'm not that much into consistency. You can actually read into my material what happened to me where. If there's lots of romantic evening coverage, it was likely a place where my wife Anne joined me. If I got sick in a town, you'll find details about a clinic or hospital there. If I was really exhausted, you'll find a masseuse listed. I just travel and do my best to bushwhack a smooth path. I live Europe as wide-eyed, naively, and eagerly as the image I have of my readers, hoping to collect experiences that will help those with my guidebook next year.

I don't know if it's because I'm getting forgetful or because there's just more to remember (as I cover more territory deeper and deeper), but I've noticed a reoccurring pattern lately. As I research, I "discover" something really exciting. I take notes, write it up, then, when I turn the page...I see it's already researched and written up. What's interesting for me as I analyze this phenomenon is that there's a remarkable consistency. Years after my first encounter with what I think is a new nook or cranny, it will impact me the same. I'll observe the same quirky details to try to make it vivid and I'll write it up--completely oblivious to my previous coverage of it. And then, when I find the previous write-up--it's almost exactly the same. I guess that's good.

I wash you twice...relax

In my work, I struggle almost daily with this issue: is an experience actually a unique and living slice of this culture or is it a cliché kept alive by the tourist industry. For instance, in Finland: the sauna.

There are only a few public saunas still around in Helsinki. Why? Because, with the affluence here, most people have them in their homes or cabins. Gritty working-class neighborhoods are most likely to have a public sauna. So, I got on the subway and that's where I headed. Finding the address, my first sight made it clear: this place was not for tourists. Outside, a vertical neon sign in simple red letters read: SAUNA. Under it, a gang of Finnish guys wrapped only in small towels and enjoying bottles of beer filled a clutter of white plastic chairs--expertly relaxing.

As there wasn't a word of English anywhere, I relied on the young attendant at the window for instructions. He explained the process: pay €7, grab a towel, strip, stow everything in an old wooden locker, wear the key like a bracelet, shower, enter the sauna...and reeeeelax. "Was it mixed?" "No, there's a parallel world upstairs for women." "What about getting a scrub?" He pointed to a woman in an apron and said, "Talk directly with her...€6 extra."

The sauna was far from the sleek, cedar pre-fab den of steam I expected. Six crude concrete steps with dark wooden railings and rustic walls created a barn-like amphitheater of steam and heat. A huge iron door closed off the wood stove (as it was busy burning its cubic meter of wood a day). The third step was all the heat I could take. Everyone else was on the top level--for maximum steam and heat. Taking in my towel, I wondered if it was used for hygiene or modesty. Once inside, the answer was clear...neither.

People look more timeless and ethnic when naked with hair wet and stringy. The entire scene was three colors: grey concrete, dark wood, and ruddy flesh. There was virtually no indication of what century we were in. I fantasized I was in the 1700s. From the faces, somehow it was perfectly clear: this was Finland...and these were tough working class guys. Each had a tin bucket between their legs--for cool splashing of the face. I didn't talk to anyone actually in the sauna as I sensed they weren't thrilled to have tourists as voyeurs in their domain. (I knew this was a lost opportunity...not good travel.)

I asked the young attendant about birch twigs. He explained that by slapping your skin with these, you enhance the circulation and the roughed up leaves emit a refreshing birch aroma. He insisted it must be birch for chlorophyll--that opens the sinuses. But the bin of birch twigs sat on the bottom concrete step, unused.

Part two of a good sauna is the scrub down. The woman in the apron--looking like a Stalin-era Soviet tractor driver--was dousing one guy who sat on the plastic chair looking like a lifeless Viking gumby. I asked "Me next?" She welcomed me to her table. Wearing a white and green vertical striped house dress under her tough apron, she scrubs men one at a time all day long. Sitting on the table, I ask "up or down?" She pushes me down...belly up...and says "This is perfect. I wash you twice." Lying naked as a fish on the plastic sheet...I felt like a salmon on a cleaning table ready for gutting. With sudsy mitts she works me over. She hoses me off...which makes me feel even more like a salmon.

It's extremely relaxing. (It would be entirely relaxing but for my anxiety that I might show how much I'm enjoying the experience.) From deep in my scalp to between my toes, she washes me twice. Stepping back out into that gritty Helsinki neighborhood, I have affirmed my hope: that the sauna is no cliché kept alive for tourists.

800 singers and no more pennies

I'm out for the evening in Helsinki. My guide, Hanne, explains, "We call Wednesday our little Friday." There's an energy in the streets. Our mission: to visit the restaurants I recommend in my guidebook and find new, better ones. I find Helsinki the least expensive of the Scandinavia capitals--the restaurant scene is affordable and fun. And there are plenty of distractions.

A huge demonstration fills the main boulevard. (The street is actually named "boulevardi"--given that grandiose title two hundred years ago. Back then--in Europe's then newest, now youngest, capital--the concept of a grand boulevard in Helsinki was somewhere between absurd and wishful thinking.)

Then I realize they're not demonstrators...but choral groups. From all corners they converge on the massive steps of the Lutheran Cathedral which normally overlooks Europe's finest neo-classical square. Today the steps overlook thousands of locals, dropping by to hear this massing of the choirs. Eight hundred singers fill the steps--each group represented by a placard--to sing a rousing set of anthems. While I can't understand a word, the songs are sung with a stirring air that must tell of a hard-fought history and a thankfulness to be who they are--the people of Finland. Then, the balloons are freed, and the groups disperse kicking off a festive week called "art goes to the pubs." Each choir sets off to an appointed bar...and the city's drinking holes are filled with song.

Leaving the crowd for our evening's work, we pass a poster of a demonic-looking rock band. Hanne explained "hell froze over this year." Europe's biggest TV event is the annual Euro-vision Song Festival. (Most famous to boomer travelers like me as the event Abba won back in the 1970s with their breakout song, Waterloo.) Finns are perennial losers in the event and locals have long said, "When Finland wins the Euro-vision Song Festival hell will freeze over. This year, people from all over Europe telephoned in their votes and Finland's Kiss-inspired heavy metal band "Lordi" (led by a soft-spoken charismatic Laplander) won with a cute little number called "Hard Rock Halleluiah."

At the curb, there are no cars. I get halfway across Boulevardi boulevard and look back at Hanne still waiting. As if in needless defeat, I return to the curb. She says, "In Finland, we wait. It can be two in the morning and not a car in sight, but we wait. That's why we have such low crime." I said, "Germans respect authority too." She said, this is different. "We buck authority...but follow the laws...even little ones."

Finns seem to have a fun-loving confidence. I asked, "All of Scandinavia is so prosperous but only Norway has oil. How is this?" Hanne said, "Norway has oil...Finland has Nokia. It's like Microsoft for you in Seattle." Then I asked, "What then, is Sweden's trick?" Hanne shows the standard Scandinavian envy of the regional powerhouse saying, "They never get in a war. They're always rich...just collecting money all the time. The Swedes are like our big brother. They always win. Like in ice hockey. We won only once...back in the 1990s. The Swedes--assuming they'd win--already wrote their victory song. But we won. We Finns still sing this song. It's the only song Finns know in Swedish and every Finn can sing it...even today."

The Finns are so prosperous that they're the first Europeans to do away with the Euro pennies. Prices are rounded to the nickel and the one cent and two cent coins are now officially out of circulation. (I am particularly happy today. Each Euro country has its own versions of the Euro coins and I'm filling my coin book with a set from each country. I have an ethic that I only take coins out of circulation. My big trick is befriending a waitress and getting her to let me paw through her change purse to find missing coins. The only gaps I have now (not counting the collector sets from Monaco, San Marino, and the Vatican City--which go immediately out of circulation when minted) are Finland and Luxemburg. They mint so few compared to the behemoth countries that you don't see them outside their home countries. I dropped by a coin shop and purchased the Finnish penny and two cent coin (at €3, that was 100 times their face value). In the shop, I commented "it would be difficult to find these in circulation and the keeper said, "you are wrong...it would be impossible." (So I didn't break my ethic.)

Of the many restaurants we surveyed, the most elegant had a dining hall perfectly 1930s--Alvar Aalto-designed Functionalism. The kind of straight design and practical elegance Finns love. A private office party was raging--a crayfish party. It's crayfish season--at $10 each, it's far from a budget meal. But all over town Finns are doing the crayfish tango: suck and savor a big red mini-lobster, throw down a glass of schnapps, sing a song and do it again. With a "hundred bottles of beer on the wall" repetitiveness, it just gets more fun with each round.

Hanne shows me the table of Mannerheim, the heroic George Washington of modern Finland who led their feisty resistance to the USSR and is likely personally responsible for artfully keeping Finland free during and after WWII. No Finnish military leader will ever again hold Mannerheim's rank of "Field Marshal." But any one can sit at his favorite table...and suck a crayfish.

We step onto the rooftop terrace with a glorious 8th floor view of Helsinki. The late-setting sun is gleaming on both the Lutheran cathedral and the golden onion domes of the Russian orthodox church. They seem to face off, symbolizing how east and west have long confronted each other here in Finland. (Europe's second mightiest sea fortress--after Gibraltar--fills an island in the harbor...the reason for Helsinki's birth.)

Below us on the neighboring rooftop, six bankers wrapped in white towels are enjoying a sauna. In all great office buildings--whether banks, insurance companies, or research institutes--a rooftop sauna is an "elemental and essential part of the design." (Free snacks and drinks at the sauna after work from 5:00 to 9:00 is an almost expected perk.) One big fat guy was so pink from the heat that--with his white towel wrapped around his waist--he reminded me of a striped pool ball.

The Finns seem happy. Their woman president, Tarja Hallonen--just re-elected for a second 6-year term--has an 80% approval rating. And they are proud of the way they tackle challenges confronting their society. With the coming of bird flu, they tented their famous market and everyone here seems to crow about how those Swedes had a case of bird flu...and the clever Finns did not.

Estonia: There's a vest on every chair

I'm livin' large in Estonia...and marveling at the exciting change this region is undergoing. On a visit to the Baltic region back in the 1980s, labor was cheaper than light bulbs...when touring museums, an old babushka would actually go through the museum with me turning on and off lights as we went from room to room.

Those days are long gone. Estonia's thriving capital, Tallinn, is like a Petri dish of capitalism. Since Estonians won their freedom in 1991, it has blossomed. The country has the strongest economy, most freedoms, and highest standard of living of any republic that was part of the USSR. (Locals claim that, by some measures, they are now one of the freest countries on earth.)

While traveling here, you can't help but ponder the great irony of Russia's communist experiment. Statistically Russia--once the supposed champion of radical equality (as far as Leninism and Marxism was concerned)--is now infamous for having the worst equality. Estonians are much better off today than Russians not because they have more money per capita (they don't), but because the wealth in this country is distributed much more evenly. Observing the differences between societies, it seems that the distribution of wealth, if you honestly get right down to it, is what much of politics is about.

Today, for my mid-morning coffee break, I stepped into a courtyard. At the entry the landlord hung a photo of the place in 2000...it looked recently bombed out. Today, it looks much the same but inhabited by thriving little businesses. I wanted to sit at the courtyard's trendy little cafe with its wicker chairs rocking on the rough cobbles. The seat I wanted seemed empty but it had a vest hanging on it. So I looked for another empty spot...it had a vest too. I really, really needed a coffee. Then I realized every chair had a different vest hanging on it. Estonian chic. Tallinn is thriving with little creative businesses.

After traveling in Norway and Sweden, it's refreshing to be in a cheap country again. Being able to order without regard to price stokes my appetite. And with the fierce language barrier in non-touristy eateries here, it's good the economic stakes, when mis-ordering, are not high. (Imagine, there are only a million people who speak Estonian--a language related to just about nothing, yet spoken with a noticeable gusto. It occurred to me, I don't know a single word in this language--making it a strong contender for my worst language in Europe.)

It poured down rain today...locals claim they really need the rain. But it makes my research so messy--balancing a goofy little umbrella on my head and shoulders, hovering over my treasured notebook, trying to keep it dry. I have a pocket sized black notebook (Moleskine...I'm evangelical about Moleskine books) and the part of my guidebook I'm currently working on (ripped out of the big book with the cover stapled on--so it's both pocket-sized and official-looking). When my border scribbles and notes get wet, I get very anxious.

By the way, many travel writer's pride themselves in not taking free rooms thinking that might corrupt their assessment. I take free rooms all the time and--don't tell the hoteliers who host me--this is, ironically, not in their best interest. I must sleep in 70 hotels a year (140 nights, average 2 nights each). I can't begin to actually sleep in each place I recommend. By sleeping (for free or otherwise) in a place, I catch things you wouldn't catch otherwise. Last night: thin walls (persistent snorer), no dark window covering (big problem especially in the north, he "ran out of steam" in the remodel), and lumpy pillows (you don't appreciate a good pillow until you sleep on giant cotton balls). His listing took a hit.

I was noticing how, for the first evening and morning of my time in Tallinn, I didn't meet one American...no one recognized me. I was a little disappointed. There were lots of tourists...but nearly no Yankees. Then, the cruise ships unloaded their day-trippers. Wow, it was one big PBS love fest...old home week. I had travel buddies on each corner. There must be 50 Americans visiting via cruise ship here for every over land traveler. Estonia is being discovered and it's about time.

Disappointing Squirts in the Tiger City

Scandinavians are avid sun worshippers and a common ailment here is "solsting" (a fun twist on sun burn). But solsting is tougher to get this far north and for that reason, Scandinavians report a kind of tourist boom. Tourism here (especially cruise ship companies that visit the Baltic Sea region) is up as Europeans from the steamy Mediterranean region are finding a new Nordic attraction: escape from their summer heat.

In Oslo, there's now a big statue of a tiger in front of the station. A local explained to me that Oslo's nicknamed the "Tiger City" because in the 19th century when country boys would visit, the wild and crazy "New York City of Norway" would "make a mark on their soul."

Tiger or no tiger, I find Oslo more of a kitten. Still, this year I spent more time then ever trying to spice up the "ya sure ya betcha" homogeneity of the Oslo scene. Oslo seems to relish the fact that it is not all white and blond. While the normal sightseeing is contained in the monumental and classically Norwegian city center, a short walk takes you to the two trendy multi-ethnic zones. Grunerlokka--with its funky shops, old hippies, bohemian cafes--is the Greenwich Village of Oslo. But--unless your travel experience is limited to Iceland--Grunerlokka is a poor excuse for colorful.

Oslo's rough and tumble immigrant zone is simply a stretch of a street called Gronland. (Gronland, I believe, means Greenland. This reminds me that for years Copenhagen's skid row was a square where its poorest citizens, natives from Greenland, would hang out--ruined by their inability to handle alcohol.) Oslo's Gronland street is where Turks, Indians, Pakistanis, and the rest of Oslo's immigrant community congregate. Colorful green grocers carts spill onto sidewalks, the various kebabs and spicy borek--$2 to go--make the cheapest meals in town. Dueling Tandoori restaurants actually offer meals for under $10--unheard of in Oslo. But if you're looking for a multi-ethnic splash of color, Gronland is a disappointing and pastel squirt.

Generally in my travels these days, I just hop a taxi from the airport. But yesterday as I flew from Norway to Sweden, I happily rode the train. Oslo and Stockholm each placed their airports even more ridiculously distant from downtown than Denver. The difference (which takes all the ridiculous out of these airports) is their slick express train connections. Oslo's futuristic Flytrain Express makes the 30 mile journey in 20 minutes four times an hour for $20. (Stockholm's is about the same.)

Sweden is progressive. It prides itself in being the most emancipated country in the developed world--45% of its parliament members are women. But there are still proud "bun mommies" as they call their "soccer moms." In fact the country is experiencing a baby boom as the grand new harbor promenades that loop all around this watery "Venice of the North" are clogged with baby strollers. I found myself playing a goofy little game of seeing how many pregnant Swedes I could capture in the same photograph. [stay tuned]

News flash: Stockholm's national museums are now free. As long as the current left wing government has its way, Stockholm's national museums will stay free. If the right retakes the parliament, fees will be reinstated. As I update my guidebook, I have to try to predict the situation for 2007.

While researching my guidebooks, I'm picking up enough fresh ideas and vivid-for-TV-experiences for new TV scripts. Scripts falling happily out of my research work is the kind of efficiency that turns me on. (But here in Scandinavia, they don't "kill two birds with one stone"...they "kill two flies with one swat."

One time grills and the Paris Hilton effect

Every time I come to Norway, I'm fascinated by their experiment in government. When I report on it, I routinely get fellow Americans angry at me for bringing home news of a land where the desired alternative to big bad government is not little good government but big good government. I'm not necessarily in favor of this (and I certainly wouldn't want to run my business over here). But I don't find it offensive either. In fact, I'm challenged by it. Here are a few observations gleaned from conversations I just had here in Oslo. (In response to a comment below: Norway is resource rich--lots of oil money. But without oil money, Sweden, Denmark, and Finland have essentially the same priorities and somehow manage.) Norwegians look forward to November. It's "half tax month" as the government wants people to have some extra money for the upcoming holidays. With their current booming economies coupled with tax incentives for new babies, the Nordic countries are experiencing a baby boom. Paternity leave is very generous here. Scandinavian families get nine months leave at 80 percent pay which the mom or dad can split as they like. On top of this, men are required--use it or lose it--to take a paid month of paternity leave when their baby arrives.

While there are more babies around here, there's less smoke. Just a few years ago, smoke was a real problem for American travelers in Europe. Now, much of Europe is actually less smoky than the USA. Italy went smoke free...then Ireland...now Scandinavia. The bars, restaurants, cafes, trains...it's clean air for all.

I was just in one of Oslo's infamous old "brown cafes"--so named for the smoke stained interiors. It was so old and brown that it still smelled of tobacco...but there hasn't been a smoker in there for months. With the strict no smoking rules (a bar can lose its license if it allows smoking inside), restaurants are now routinely equipped with blankets so smokers can eat outside--even in the cold season. (To consume nicotine indoors, locals are using snuff--"snus" in Norwegian.)

Oslo has its prostitutes and needle junkies. In fact it seems most of the prostitutes are drug addicts too. Cameras panning the streets from atop buildings seem to ignore the sale of drugs and sex as this society is more tuned into violent crimes rather than what it considers "victimless crimes." While wasted people who always remind me of Vikings and their whores after payday still seem to rot on the Oslo curbs, the lack of violent crime in the country is impressive by any standard.

I don't know how the down and out manage to afford their alcoholism. Restaurants and bars are too expensive for the average Norwegian to use carelessly. Young Norwegians love their alcohol. But they b.y.o.b. These days young people "vorspiel" (pre-party) at home, go out for a couple hours around midnight to nurse one expensive drink with a wider social scene, and then "nachspiel" (after party) with close friends at home. In a Norwegian bar or restaurant a beer costs $8 (compared with $4 in Ireland and $1 in the Czech Republic). But beer is only $1.50 a bottle when purchased in a grocery store. $10 six packs, no problem.

In Denmark tourists see countless young revelers out on the streets, canal-side, and littering the parks drinking beer. It's off-putting until you realize that the consumption is no greater than in England or Ireland...it's just that while pubs there are affordable, in Scandinavia (because of the extremely high alcohol taxes in bars), "going out" means "going outside."

Another way Norwegians cope with the high cost of eating out is with the "one time grill." These foil grills--which cost about $3 at a supermarket--are all the rage. On a balmy evening the city is perfumed with the smell of one time grills fired up as the parks are filled with Norwegians eating out.

Another difference many American visitors notice in Scandinavia is the casual approach to nudity. I'm not talking just mixed saunas. Parents let their kids run naked in city parks and fountains. It's really no big deal. Norway has co-ed PE classes with boys and girls showering together from the first grade. If you ever end up in a Norwegian hospital and need an x-ray, I hope you're not modest. Women strip to the waist and are casually sent from the doctor's office down the hall past the waiting public to the X-ray room. No one notices...no one cares. I find it ironic that while America goes into a tizzy over a goofy "wardrobe malfunction," it is our society that statistically has the problem with sex-related crimes.

And what about dogs you ask? Small dogs are the rage these days in Oslo. They call it the "Paris Hilton effect." Chihuahuas sell for $3,000 each in Norway. Bulgarians are routinely caught smuggling dogs in (they then kill the dogs). I asked my Norwegian friend about Chihuahuas. She said "We have two." "Why two?" I asked. "So they can have babies. We just sold some and I paid off my credit card debt."

Yoko Oslo

Following the news from overseas, it seems more like entertainment than ever. A journalist is caught intensifying the smoke in a photo ornamenting his covering of a Holy Land bombing. It seems CNN reporters are getting progressively sexier--blondes filling their flack jackets, husky voices under desert-colored helmets, bringing home the heroics and the carnage. Today, all day, is coverage of an event that didn't happen--a horrific, multi-plane cataclysm with the marks of al Qaeda all over it. Thousands of flights cancelled. You can take only wallets onto the plane. No liquids! A reporter with an exotic Man-From-Uncle-type name is at Heathrow wringing as much "frustration and despair" as possible out of people delayed at the airport who seem to be taking the delays in stride. Already I've had several requests from news reporters for tips on packing liquids.

I'm in Oslo...a world away from the commotion. A "congestion fee" keeps most cars from the center of town. A new tunnel takes nearly all the rest under the city. The old train station facing the fjord boat landing is now the Nobel Peace Prize Center, explaining the vision of a man who dedicated the wealth he earned inventing dynamite to celebrate peace-makers. The towering brick city hall--where the prize is awarded--stands high above the harbor action. A weather-beaten sailor stands at the stern of his boat hoping to sell the last of the shrimp he caught before sunrise this morning.

There's a light mist. A sturdy harbor front boardwalk glistens as if happy to be the city's dancing floor. I stand at the edge of the scene and marvel at about a hundred Norwegians swing dancing--in what seems like a microcosm of a content society.

Normally Norwegians are annoying in their good looking self-assured perfection. But these are just extremely normal people--a little over-weight, a little wrinkled, maxed out in what life will bring them--dancing in content twosomes in front of yacht club-type bars and restaurants most of them likely can't afford. It's mostly American-style two-step to the recorded oldies...familiar tunes with unfamiliar Norwegian lyrics...there's a line dance without much of a line and no cowboy hats. Girls looking up at their tall guys with big smiles. No one's trying to hook up. They are hooked up.

Then, I turn around. Like a mirage, a small, fragile, older Japanese woman with a huge aura walks by otherwise unnoticed. Her attendant holds an over-sized black umbrella over her head...keeping a white beret dry. I have to say hello and thanks and mucho gusto or something. I walk fast to reach her but her attendant grabs my arm and says gently, "I'm sorry sir...not now." And Yoko Ono walks on by.

(Back in my hotel, cursing my lazy decision not to lug my camera along, I Google "Yoko Oslo" and discover she's performing here...the day after I fly to Stockholm. Oh well.)

Tetrapods to Lindberg with the Gift of Gab

Here in the land so famous for the gift of gab, there seems to be a passion for communication much deeper than just good craic in the pubs. I'm trying to get my mind around this:

Many paleontologists (at least many Irish paleontologists) believe the first fish slithered out of the water on four stubby legs 385 million years ago onto what would become the isle of Saints and Scholars. (I actually hiked down to see their "tracks.") Over time those tetrapods evolved into bipods...like the Irish scribes who--living in remote outposts like the Skellig Islands just off Ireland's southwest coast-- kept literate life alive in Europe through the darkest depths of the so-called "dark ages." In fact, around the year 800, Charlemagne imported monks from this part of Ireland to be his scribes.

Evolution, literacy, communication. Just over a thousand years later, in the mid-19th century, Reuters--who provided a financial news service in Europe--couldn't get his pigeons to fly across the Atlantic. So he relied on ships coming from America to drop a news capsule overboard as they rounded this southwest corner of Ireland. His boys would wait in their little boats with nets to "get the scoop." They say Europe learned of Lincoln's assassination (1865) from a capsule tossed over a boat here.

The first cables were laid across the Atlantic from this same desolate corner of Ireland to Newfoundland giving the two hemispheres telegraphic communication. Queen Victoria got to be the first to send a message--greeting an American president in 1866. Marconi achieved the first wireless transatlantic communication from this same place to America in 1901. And in 1927, when Charles Lindberg ushered in the age of trans-Atlantic flight, this was the first bit of land he saw.

Today, driving under the 21st century cell phone and satellite tower crowning a Ring of Kerry hilltop on the far southwest tip of the Emerald Isle while gazing out at the Skellig Islands, you just have to ponder the evolution of communication through the ages and the part this remote corner of Ireland played.

It's not a doodle bag...

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Best thing to happen to me on this trip was when my son, Andy, called me and said he'd like to join me for a few days "to see how I do my work." He cut his alone time short and flew from Paris to Galway, checked out the pub scene there for a day, and then joined me and my Ireland guidebook co-author Pat for five days of research before our planned family get-together in Dublin. It was great to have him along. It reminded me of travels with my grandparents in the 1970s in Norway (even thought they would stay at the fancy hotel and I'd sleep down the street in the hostel to enjoy a livelier crowd).

Andy has had a marvelous trip--assisted on three of our new Best of Europe family tours, was in the streets of Rome the night the Italians won the World Cup, was at the finish line of the Tour de France in Paris a week later, and has a long list of new friends from all over the place. Rather than sit at his hotel desk writing a blog...he's out there wringing the fun out of Europe. When I bragged to my Irish friend what a fine traveler Andy is at age 19, "He didn't get that from the stones on the road."

As a dad, it's so fun to think of the life experience my son is enjoying.

A few random thoughts from this trip: After all my "life experience" from spending a third of my adult days romping around Europe, I sometimes lose track of what's impressive to Americans. Recently while filming in Italy, the barista made a smiley face in the foam on my cappuccino. Impressed, I asked Simon (my director) if we could film it. He said "that's no big deal--they do it all the time in the states." Later, in Austria, a pear tree was growing like ivy up the wall of a mountain chalet, attracted by the heat the white stucco held. "Wow!" I said to Simon..."let's film it." He said, "that's an espalier, I have one in my Seattle back yard."

A guide told me that if the building that was there before was still there it would be the oldest building in the town. Vienna's Ministry of War has been downsized and what was their equivalent of our Pentagon now houses Austria's ministry of social affairs. Here in Ireland, people keep asking "are you okay?" The Irish are a bit put off by the German inability to appreciate their treasured bagpipes. In German a bagpipe is called a "doodle bag."

Beans for breakfast...it's Ireland

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I just spent a week in Dublin. It was our annual family vacation. Anne and Jackie flew in from Seattle. Andy wrapped up his 70 days in Europe here. And I took a break from researching. I had a hunch Dublin would be great for a week of family fun...and it was brilliant.

The city is safe, thriving, easy, and extremely accessible. Each night we enjoyed fun and affordable entertainment. Andy drank enough beer to tarnish its allure. Both kids connected with their Irish heritage. (In a week Andy will be back as school--Notre Dame...trying out for the "Irish Guard"--the big intimidating guys who precede the marching band at fighting Irish football events.) We were all pretty wide eyed at the thriving late night scene in Temple Bar. In Dublin the girls are wrapped up like party favors. The guys look like they're on the way home from a hurling match.

And Ireland's becoming a melting pot. It seemed everywhere we went young Polish people were serving us: bringing breakfast, cleaning our hotel rooms, taking our tickets. Ireland's a land long famous for exporting its labor, but today the economy is booming and they're experiencing a population boom--of immigrants. Of the 10% of Ireland's population that is not Irish, most are Polish (Catholic, kept down by a bully neighbor...they can relate).

Pole's are famously hard working here. My friend who runs a youth hostel employs a Pole who unnerves him by almost shouting "I can do dat" every time he's given a task. It's disorienting to hear rough Irish types (historically the under-class at home as well as abroad) talking about their Polish housecleaners like a great latest accessory. "I've got a wonderful new Pole...very low maintenance...don't know how I managed without."

Except for the beans at breakfast...forget "eating Irish" in Dublin. Going local here is going ethnic. I was at a multi-national food court and it was confusing: Chinese were cooking Mexican, Poles were running the Old Time American diner, a Spaniard was serving sushi, and Irish were running the Thai. Save your craving for pub grub for the small towns.

Yesterday, I was at Croke Park with 50,000 Irish football fans (like soccer but you can run with the ball as long as you bounce or kick it every three steps). Each fan paid €30 ($40) for a ticket. I get talking to my friend, telling him I went to the Abbey Theater the night before to see a play by Oscar Wilde. He asked me the cost. I said €30. He said to his wife, "imagine paying €30 to see a play?" I reminded him that, to a playgoer, spending €30 to see the game we were at would be just as strange.

Ireland's charming rough edge is surviving its new affluence...but it's becoming a little less rough. We spent €30 outside the stadium so everyone in my family would have a scarf or hat or flag with the correct colors (gold and green--we were rooting for Donegal). I remember twenty years ago--when the "colors" were cheap dye on crepe paper hats for a buck. I was in the humble stadium on this same spot (where Europe's thunderous third biggest stadium stands today). The rain was causing my colors to run from my hat down my face--gold and green...still for Donegal even back then. I put the hat atop the umbrella next to me...not thinking it would run in eight small rivlets...coloring those around me. Luckily, they were Donegal fans too. Colors hold fast today. With affluence, the Irish no longer bleed on each other.

During that game twenty years ago I'll never forget the creative cursing. My vocabulary grew like never before. The Irish--even in polite company--have always been loose with the "F word." The Irish rock star Bono got in trouble on American TV for saying it, but the station avoided the FCC fine--apparently on a technicality: because, in common Irish usage, it's considered an adjective rather than a verb.

On this current trip I've noticed the Irish don't say the F-word so much. A decade ago it was f-in' this and f-in' that. And the air's cleaner of smoke too. There's no smoke indoors anywhere. Pubs come with fresh air and a few blokes smoking outside the front door.

Today, I had breakfast with Noel Dempsey, the Irish minister of communication--who, cabbies I interviewed in the last few days figure, is in line to be Ireland's next prime minister.

(I made friends with Noel in Seattle when I was the Grand Marshal for St. Patrick's Day and he was the visiting dignitary. Noel explained that each St. Patrick's day the demand for Irish dignitaries empties their country of politicians as they fan out to St. Paddy's Day festivals around the world. They post a listing of all the requests each winter and if you don't choose one, you'll get assigned a destination. He liked Seattle.)

Noel said Ireland is very pleased with the performance of their economy. In 1987 their per capita income was 65 percent of the European average. Today it's 130 percent.

AmExCo is a dinosaur

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American Express was once the convivial, welcoming home to American travelers abroad. It was a gathering place for adventurers living far from the USA. In the 1970s and 1980s we'd meet here to collect mail from home, sell used VW vans, and reconfirm our flights home. When changing dollars into francs, it felt so good to lose money to that smiling, English-speaking person at American Express. Now with e-mail, ATMs, and the general shrinking of the world, AmExCo is a dinosaur. They are closing down shops right and left. And I realize they no longer merit the special paragraph between laundromats and post offices in my guidebooks. I feel almost guilty when I highlight an American Express listing and press delete.

But enjoying change is fundamental to good travel. Change is accelerated as once poor countries are thriving. Last week, zipping on modern freeway from Madrid to Segovia in a comfy air-con bus during the pre-scorch hours of the day, I was staring with pensive wonder out the window. The modern American-style suburban sprawl of Madrid reaches far beyond where any tourist ventures.

Suddenly, just a few minutes after wild scrub and farms replaced the car dealerships and furniture outlets, a towering concrete cross broke the horizon rising high above the hilly Castillian countryside. It marks the grave of Franco--a memorial church longer than St. Peter's, carved out of solid rock entirely underground. It's lined with towering angels glorifying Franco and those countless thousands on both sides of Spain's Civil War who gave their life for "God and country." Spaniards explain their "late start" in joining the rest of Europe in the remarkable affluence of this generation because they had to wait until the 1970s for freedom to replace Franco.

Later I met a man who looks like a medieval Kenny Loggins with a big grey beard, a toothy smile, and a battered bike. He didn't speak a word of English. I tried to interview him but he looked at me as if thawed out of some glacier. He just smiled and pointed to his flag. It's Latvia. He pulled out a magna-carta-like map with a red line tracing his route. His itinerary looks like the trip of a kid with ADD and a two month Eurailpass--but he did it all on a circa 1960 bike. I feel strangely honored to meet him....before Latvia, too, joins in the affluence.

The pipes and fiddles play on.

A few years ago, I submitted the Madrid chapter of my guidebook and a new TV show we produced on Madrid to the local tourist board for a tourism promotion contest. While I knew I was promoting tourism in Spain far more than any other participant, I also knew I wouldn't win. That was a few years ago. Just yesterday, my local guide friend told an anecdote about how my writing was ridiculed by the panel of judges as being just "too full of Franco." (Tourist boards are all about fun in the sun and duty free shopping.)

I don't think you can tour Spain properly without an understanding of how a brutal civil war followed by half a century of dictatorship impacted the society and leaves it scarred today.

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Now I'm in Ireland. I just watched a powerful movie (The Wind that shakes the Barley) in a small town (Dingle) theater filled with local farm kids whose grandparents could have been the stars of the movie showing how a heroic independence was won after a 700 year long battle with the world's quintessential colonial overlord (Britain) and the battle then morphed almost immediately into a civil war (fighting over how to deal with a Britain-ruled north).

Walking a Dingle street the next day with the retired local police chief, Tim, I worked to bring to life Ireland's history using insignificant bits of a small town a world away from Dublin as a rack upon which to hang this understanding. A century ago the town's police station was the Green Zone of English imperialism here, housing the dreaded Black and Tan forces who kept any Irish insurgency under control. It was burned and today only the red brick wall at its gate survives. Across the street a big, white crucifix stands memorializing where local boys were executed (firing squad) by the English "in the glorious struggle for a free Ireland." This was erected after the Free State was established, but even back then they knew the struggle was on-going. It is dated 1916 to 19__. Ireland remains divided and the date remains poignantly open ended.

I enjoy history--I actually got my history degree accidentally, it was so much fun. And the history that inspires me most is from the last century--heroic figures who people alive today still remember. Churchill, chomping on a cigar in his bunker, keeping England fighting. Ataturk, muscling medieval Turkey from the buffet line of Euro-imperialism into a modern democracy.

Turks still remember the George Washington of their young nation. I have a Turkish friend (Mehlika) who was so dedicated to Ataturk that as a young girl she believed she'd never be able to fall in love with another man. Her father died of a heart attack during a moment of silence at a Rotary Club ceremony to remember what Ataturk did for Turkey. Even today, Turks see Ataturk's image floating by in the clouds.

The sights and stories of small people (young and old) fighting Hitler, Franco, the USSR, or the Queen carbonate my European sightseeing. And, to any student of history, two things seem very clear: we can learn valuable lessons from history; and the resilience of a people's cause, while easy for an imperialistic power to underestimate, is an impressive force.

The English burned the harps here in Ireland centuries ago. But the pipes and fiddles play on as today the Irish culture thrives.

A day on the job...

Someone wondered in a previous blog "just how does Rick spend his time and what does he do for fun in Europe?" It's strange that I would take time out of my sightseeing to respond...but, for some reason, I feel like you are all my travel partners...and it's fun to share. Here's my routine (excuse the clipped writing...but I'll be fast):

Bottom line for me--get eight hours of sleep and stay healthy. Otherwise, virtually every minute while I am researching is dedicated to the mission: make the books more helpful for my readers. While working in Europe, all experiences of the day are dedicated to research. If my readers can't do it next year...it doesn't exist. I thrive on local tips, leads, and feedback. Hotel receptionists, who deal with American travelers day in and day out, are hugely helpful. My Madrid hotel doesn't serve breakfast so I need to find one. If it's a problem for me...it's a problem for my readers too. I ask the receptionist's advice--where's a good churros place (greasy cigar-shaped doughnuts Spaniards dunk in hot chocolate for breakfast) He says, "Americans want Starbucks...it's over there." I need to balance my interest in having people enjoy the old fashioned cliché and the modern reality. I dunk a few churros (it's a chain cafe...not much local energy) and treat myself to a latte and blueberry muffin (we're all just human). Next year, it's in the book.

Over coffee I review my goals for the day. Updating a chapter is like that video game where the little guy bounces through all sorts of pitfalls collecting golden rings. He won't get them all, but the more the better. There are a million little things to check. If I'm well-organized, I'll visit nearly all in person and minimize what I call "the phone sweep." As the books have grown, it is unrealistic to physically visit every place mentioned every year. When my time is just about done in a town, I call it good and finish things off by phone. You'll see phone numbers in many listings that you might wonder "why have a number for that?" It's there for me (or another researcher) for updating purposes.

Making a smart schedule is critical. Minimize walking and do things at the smart time. Checking hotels before 10:00 is bad news--people haven't checked out yet...the staff is still busy with breakfast. It's hard to get anyone's time and it's hard to see a room. Checking late in the afternoon is also bad--everyone's checked in for the day and many places are reluctant to show rooms.

To save time these days, I often hire a taxi by the hour to hit a series of hotels and sights. This saves time but puts distance between me and the transfer reality of a typical tourist with my guidebook. I need to understand the public transit challenges. I routinely take the subway and bus just to physically do what my readers are doing. For instance, a few days ago I took the new shuttle bus in from the Madrid airport, connected to the subway, and walked and walked and walked between underground trains with what seemed like millions of people with my bags to get to the hotel. This is the experience of my readers and it's mine too.

A major challenge these days is to find the real price of a hotel...sorting through the ups and downs dictated by new-fangled computer programs that predict the demand and price-sensitivity. These days rack rates are bloated to cover the 20% commissions paid to web booking services (which are becoming the standard system for most hotels in Europe these days). I try to convince hoteliers to appreciate my readers coming direct by giving them a net rate (their rack rate less the commission they assumed they'd lose).

My great advantage over other researchers is that the recent success of my books means I meet people all the time who I can quiz. They think I'm so friendly and gracious to take time to chat...but I truly enjoy it...and it's practical--very helpful for me because I learn what works and what doesn't and what are the pitfalls and frustrations people traveling with my book are dealing with.

I wonder when I'll burn out, but I absolutely love this research work. I guess I'm powered by the proud feeling that no one in America with his name on a guidebook is actually doing this. The sight of my frayed pants and dusty old shoes gives me a tri-athlete's buzz (I think). I have a knack for finding small business people who love their work in Europe. This gives my books a passion for people-to-people connections. I can understand how President Bush can claim to look into someone's eyes and see their soul. (But if I'm wrong, it's just a bad hotel value). I meet someone for a few minutes and factor in their passion and integrity for their work as I decide which of many otherwise similar hotels or restaurants to recommend.

How do I find the good hotels and restaurants that make my books work well for travelers? It's certainly not me. I feel so clumsy in much of Europe. For twenty years I've been pushing doors that say pull and walking into doors that say push. Here in Madrid, to say "where's the toilet?" I still point my index finger to the ground and say "Psss?" My ability to suss out good places is from carefully compiling and building upon twenty years of local tips, and the advice from guides and European friends who generously share their expertise. That is then combined with my secret weapon: 20 years of experience as a tour guide, seeing for myself the joy, fear, frustration, exhaustion, and wonder in the eyes of my travelers up close and personal.

It's expensive to spend so much time researching guidebooks. No other publisher invests so much shoe leather in annual updates. There's never really enough time. Triage is standard operating procedure. The day is divided between hotels, sightseeing, travel practicalities, and eating. I filter out information on temporary exhibits that are gone next year. Festival events that are rare on the calendar are invisible to me. I don't care if the Queen's sharing her box at the Royal Albert Hall...if my readers can't do it next year, it doesn't exist.

Year after year, I visit the sights and do the walks. Every two years I'm here in Madrid: dropping by the cloistered nuns (just as I propose in the book). I talk into the dark wood of their lazy susan (me in English, them in Spanish), and order their cheapest cookies. This year they spin out lemon short cake. I measure the experience and affirm that it'll work for my English-speaking readers.

I balance time between three star sights all travelers will do and the obscure and new sights. (Yesterday in Madrid, I dropped by the Egyptian temple given to Franco for helping save antiquities from the rising Nile while building the Aswan Dam. Everyone says it has the best city view in town. My experience: The temple is under rated...the view overrated. A big wide view of Madrid only makes you wonder why anyone would build a city in this non-descript piece of Iberia...so don't seek a big fat view.) But nowhere else in Europe can you see an actual Egyptian temple standing in a park.

Lately, restaurants have become a big priority for me in my research...perhaps because I like to eat well now more than in the past. There are two hours of prime restaurant review time each evening. You can bet every evening that's when I'll be out--checking restaurants. (I call it "blitzing restaurants.") I get my ducks in a row (take a minute to write out a smart plan on the map), consider all reader feedback received (both for existing places and tips on new places). My reward--just before the kitchens close...eat at my favorite place visited. Each year I try to add a few and drop a few just to keep things fresh. I can't eat everywhere...but I can talk to people in each place. If I meet a couple with my book who are eating for the second night in a place (for instance), that's a fine listing.

My challenge is to write up a listing so people can really know which place is best for them when reviewing options back in their hotel room. My image: one traveler is in the shower, their partner is on the bed paging through the guidebook reviewing the options. Listings need to be clear and concise so the right choice is obvious.

Menus and the mechanics of ordering can be frustrating. It's my challenge to sort this out for people. If a stew is a local must-eat experience and big enough for two, I learn if splitting is allowed. If the place is mobbed after 8:30, I'll suggest ways to avoid the line. If the ambience is great on the ground floor and lousy downstairs, I'll make that warning. If it's dead on hot evenings (as many indoor places are), that will be noted. If the business practices are aggressive, I'll say so with encouragement to understand an itemized bill before paying.

Like giving the chapter a haircut, I enjoy trimming extraneous info and needless words that sneak into the book by my crew of earnest and talented researchers and editors. When it comes to a good guidebook, less is more. And I've found credibility is hard earned and easily lost.

My favorite two comments when on the road researching: local Europeans who marvel at how useful the book is for them when they enjoy a night out; and travelers who pack lots of guidebooks along, but only one leaves the hotel room with them when they're out and about...mine.

More then ever, these books have become a team effort. We'd never be where we are with these without the help of many great writer/travelers. And I am spending more and more time apprenticing researchers. Still, personally writing and maintaining these guidebooks is the work I enjoy most.

Holy Toledo, the devil's licking his chops

After a week in central Spain (Madrid, Toledo, Segovia), I'm heading for Ireland.

I like to catch emerging neighborhoods in my guidebooks. Here's a new listing for my 2007 Spain book: In Madrid, a neighborhood called Lavapies is emerging as a colorful magnet for people looking for the multi-ethnic tapestry of Madrid society enjoying pithy, cheap, seedy yet fun-loving life on the streets. As is the case with most neighborhoods like this, they experience an evolution: so cheap only the immigrants, down-trodden, counter-culture types can live there. The liveliness they bring attracts those with more money who like the diversity and color. Businesses erupt to cater to those bohemian/trendy tastes. Rents go up. Those who gave the area the color in the first place can no longer afford to live there. They move out and here comes Starbucks. For now, Lavapies is edgy, yet comfy enough for most.

This district has almost no tourists. Old ladies with their tired bodies and busy fans hang out on their tiny balconies as they have for 40 years watching the scene. Shady types lurk on side streets.

For food, you'll find all the various kinds of tapas bars plus great Indian and Moroccan eateries. I list a couple of places that appealed to me...but explore your options. I'd recommend making the entire walk once, then backtrack and eat at the place or places that appeal.

From metro stop "Anton Martin" walk down Calle Ave Maria (on its way to becoming Calle Ave Allah) to Plaza Lavapies (old ladies hang out with the swarthy drunks here while a mosaic of cultures treat this square as a communal living room) and then up Calle Lavapies to Plaza Tirso de Molina (with a metro stop). This newly remodeled square was once plagued by druggies. Now with a playground and flower kiosks, it's homey and inviting. This is a fine example of the vision for Madrid's public spaces.

If traveling to Madrid, keep these places in mind: Bar Melos is a thriving dive jammed with a hungry and nubile local crowd famous for its giant patty melts called Zapatillas de Lacon y Queso (because they are the size and shape of a zapatilla or slipper, €7 feeds at least two, Ave Maria 44). Nuevo Cafe Barbieri is a dying breed of smoky mirror cafe with a circa 1940 ambiance playing classical music in afternoon and jazz in the evening and offering its coffee sippers a menu of loaner books (Ave Maria 45). At Calle Lavapies 44, consider a fun cluster of three places: Indian Restaurant Shapla (good €8 menu); Teteria Lakutubia (an atmospheric tea house); and Montes Wine Bar with countless wines open and served by the glass and good tapas (crawl under the bar to get to the WC).

With a good guide, art--even obscure art buried in side chapels--comes to life. In Segovia's cathedral I found a fun piece in a side chapel. I added this to my guidebook:

The many side chapels are mostly 16th century and come with big locking gates--a reminder that they were the private sacred domain of the rich families and guilds who "owned" them. They could enjoy private Masses here with their names actually in the blessings and a fine burial spot close to the altar. Its many 17th century paintings hang behind a mahogany wood gate imported from colonial America. The center statue is Mary of the Apocalypse (as described in Revelations, standing on a devil and half moon--looks like bull's horns). Mary's pregnant and the devil licks his evil chops waiting to devour the baby Messiah.

By the way, only Americans say "Holy Toledo." Spaniards and the English don't recognize the phrase. Locals tell me it's likely from Sephardic Jews (Spanish branch) who emigrated eventually to America. To their American ancestors, Toledo was the most holy Jewish city in Europe...Holy Toledo!

Whenever I find a new eatery with a business plan driven by a chef's passion, I am one happy guidebook researcher. Here's my favorite new find for my Toledo chapter:

Adolfo Vinoteca--The highly respected local chef Adolfo who runs a fine restaurant across the street, runs this wine bar in hopes of introducing the young generation to the culture of fine food and wine. The place offers super elegance without the pretension. You can't go wrong with their short list of gourmet appetizers (€5 each) and fine local wines (€2 to €3 per glass). I'd just throw myself at the mercy of Jonathan, and enjoy the feeling of gourmet slaves in the kitchen bringing you your wildest edible fancies. If the Starship Enterprise had a Spanish wine & tapas bar, this would be it. Wine is sold at shop prices with a €6 cork fee (daily 12:00-24:00, across from the cathedral at Calle Nuncio Viejo 1, tel. 925-224-244).

Hot in the shade

Madrid is hot. People here say "be thankful you're not in Sevilla." I still have a headache from yesterday's sun. I've never had a too-much-sun headache. But it is really hot here. I should break down and trade my headache for a little unsightly hat hair...but no.

I often think people who talk about the weather and traffic have nothing else of greater interest on their mind. (Talking about the weather and traffic in Seattle is tiresome.) But here in the lofty and over-heated interior of Spain, even people with plenty to say are talking weather these days. I can't believe I am assessing restaurants by their air-conditioning. People who don't have air-con are going to movies just to get a break from the heat. Poor locals, refugees from the heat, lay like lizards in the shade.

Maybe Americans who really believe there's no climate change going on aren't motivated by their economic self-interest. But I believe many deny the existence of global warming because it's not good for the economy (in the short term) to deal with it. (That was, after all, the official US rationale for opting out of the Kyoto Accords.) Assuming the engines of the First World economies are driving global warming, any industrialist (or person holding their stock) sitting in air-con splendor while the poor world is getting the brunt of their greed is somewhere between wrong and evil. Many of these people (who have no idea what living poor in the sweltering developing world is like) can't even consume what they have. What drives them? Call me a liberal, but I'm steaming like the rest of the world.

(Of course, me promoting air travel contributes to airplane emissions which add to the greenhouse problems. My goal this coming season is to find a creative way travelers can contribute to forests enough to negate their personal contribution to this inconvenient truth.)

Things are so hot in Spain that they've moved the times of bullfights two hours later...to 9pm...no more sun and shade tickets. Everything's the same--hot in the shade...and I believe that's where we're all heading. (For the sake of those who follow us, this topic deserves thoughtful and respectful discourse.)

Two bulls is plenty

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Things are so hot in Spain, that they've moved the times of bullfights two hours later...to 9pm. No more sun and shade tickets...everything's the same (hot in the shade). And that's where I'm heading.

The last stop of the metro line is Madrid's Plaza de Toros--the biggest bull arena in Spain. From the metro station, the escalator pumps the crowd directly to the front of the arena. It's all peanuts and crackerjacks...like going to a baseball game. All tickets are only €6 ($8) today as the line up is 3 novice bullfighters (2 bulls each...six fights...two hours of medieval man vs. beast madness). The man in front of me in the ticket line negotiates aggressively for a good seat. I simply say "uno por favore" and end up sitting right next to him. The ramshackle band seems to be directed by the cymbal player who claps a relentless rhythm.

At 9:00 sharp, 500 angry and disoriented kilos of bull charges into the arena. Simple old men sit attentively like season pass holders, girls flutter their fans as if aroused by picadors prancing in tight pants. You can tell who's local and who's not. Tourists uselessly discharge flashes on their cameras. Local man croak "ole" like old goats and the Spanish women wave their white hankies with the kill.

The ritual killing lasts 20 minutes. Then another bull romps into the arena. Of course, even attending a bull fight is controversial among animal rights enthusiasts. I've always been ambivalent about the spectacle, thinking as a travel writer I need to report what is here (not judge it and support a boycott). When the event is kept alive by the patronage of tourists, I would then reconsider my reporting.

With this visit (my first bullfight in 5 or 6 years), the killing seemed more pathetic and cruel than ever and the audience seemed to include more tourists than ever. I left after two bulls (feeling a bit wimpy as I passed the ushers at the door). Walking from the arena back to the metro, there were the other biggest light weights in the stadium--about 20 people out of several thousand, leaving after only a third of the action: all Asian travelers and American families. I stood next to a Mid-West family--mom holding daughter's hand and dad holding son's hand at the subway platform. I said, "Two bulls enough?" The parents nodded. The 12 year old boy summed it up in three words: "That was nasty."

Mini green peppers, sautéed in Madrid

Changing cultures is always fun. I love to feel disoriented, as I am when I first arrive. After a stint in Austria, I'm in Spain. I got up early. Walking around Madrid at 8am people seem in a kind of fog. It's not clear who's starting their day and who's ending it.

When I enter a new culture, I have certain rituals. In Spain it's: a plate of Pimientos de Padron--sautéed mini green peppers with a delightful coat of salt and oil; savoring a slice of jamon iberico--the most expensive ham, made from acorn fed pigs; people-watching over a tall glass of horchata--that milky, nutty refreshing drink you find only in Spain; eating really late--8pm is tea time, no one seriously starts thinking about dinner until 9:30 or 10:00; setting the circa 1950s orange plastic machine into motion as several ugly oranges drop down, are sliced, squeezed, and fill the glass with liquid sunshine; and being really, really hot.

Austria is a relatively religious part of Europe. But in Spain, people brand Catholicism into their children with the choice of names. My last cabbie's name was Angel. The woman at the hotel desk is Maria Jose (Mary and Joseph). The guy who runs my favorite restaurant is Jesus. And another friend is Jose Maria. Men have Maria in their name and women have Jose.

I'm done with TV production for the season. Simon is back in Seattle editing together the two new Austria TV shows we just shot and I'm in Spain for five days to update my Spain guidebook and apprentice one of my guides to do more research. As always, Spain is a festival of life. The streets are jam packed with people...at midnight.

A breathy German voice?

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I like the German language. People say it's guttural, but for me, nothing sounds as sexy as the voice of a breathy German woman singing (or talking to me on my German rental car's GPS system...leeeenx, rrrrechts, garrrrrada-aussss). And speaking of Nena...I just saw a billboard in the Munich airport with Ms. "99 Luftballons" all excited to have a photo of English heartthrob Robbie Williams on her cell phone.

Our word "cranky" must come from the German word for "sick," krank. Someone just told me that in many countries with sweeter-sounding languages, German is used in dog obedience schools. Try it on your dog: sitz means "sit," fuss is "heel," platz is "lie down," and schnell is "fast."

Chestnut tree conviviality

In the last two weeks in Austria, I noticed that every time I was truly struck by the conviviality of a place, I'd look up and see chestnut leaves.

An old-time vested waiter brings me a tall apfelschorle (apple juice with soda water...standard hot summer drink here for me) as I ponder the finest view in Vienna. Framed under chestnut trees in one direction, the majestic city of Vienna sits solidly on a grand bend in the Danube. And in the other...forested hills which kick off a mighty range of mountains that don't stop until they tumble into the sea at Marseille in France...the Alps are born.

Days later, I'm in my favorite Austrian alpine village, enjoying a second helping of the sweetest saurkraut you can imagine (you can get loopy for good kraut over here...many do) at the lake-side restaurant in Hallstatt. (It's forever etched in my mind for the wonderful evening Anne, Andy, Jackie and I enjoyed here a few years ago when we took our annual family Christmas photo--which I still see on the office and breakfast room walls of my favorite little B&Bs around Europe.) Swans, imported in the 19th century to please the Kaiser and his Empress, glide by for a little genteel begging. Rustic tables line up as if to provide a dinner concert of scenery...a peaceful lake interrupting the power of the alps. And all the action is under one massive chestnut tree.

The next day, in Salzburg we parked our bikes at the Augustinian monastery where, once upon a time, the monks (must have been the most popular monks in town) brewed a heavenly beer. Stepping into their beer garden, it seemed half of Salzburg had gathered (all generations, enjoying fish grilled on sticks, radishes artfully sliced into long delicate spirals--with salt they make the beer taste even better--and tall grey porcelain mugs drawn from old time wooden kegs)...under a chestnut tree orchard of conviviality.

There's a unique Austrian word for that "under the chestnut tree ambiance"...gemutlikeit. A cozy conviviality that can make you dream in lederhosen and dirndls.

Pharmaceuticals...just say no

When it comes to pharmaceuticals, I do my best to "just say no." I rarely take any pill or medicine. The kind of drug abuse that seems unnoticed in our society is that which is advertised everywhere we look. But for this trip someone told me about Ambien. "Take one and you sleep eight hours straight and wake up feeling sharp and crisp." When dealing with jetlag, for me, staying up on the first day isn't that tough. The problem is that I wake at about 4:00 the next morning and then I'm beat that next afternoon. So, on this trip, I popped one Ambien the first night and, on day two, I woke up after nearly eight hours to the memory of my alarm clock ringing. One point for pharmaceuticals.

I was "on camera" from the get go, and now our two week film shoot is over. No more wardrobe concerns. It's so great to spill on my shirt and not send out an SOS for fizzy water. (A great remedy for oil and sauce splatters--a fact of life in European restaurants for someone as well-mannered as me.) I can change my shirt whenever I like--rather than wearing the same one for five days in a row as I do when making a TV show (to minimize "continuity" concerns when filming). I don't care if I get a cold sore (I'm fever blister prone only when I'm over stressed and working too hard...which I only am and do when I'm filming). I don't care if it rains (which is a major headache when making a TV show, as sunshine brings out the colors and the people and simply carbonates whatever we are featuring). When filming in cloudy weather, we work twice as hard for half as long. I don't care if the schnapps pub is empty (last week, in Salzburg, it was, and I had to holler "free schnapps" to get those rustic faces laughing and twinkling around the bar). I don't care if street musicians are disturbing the peace (last week I had to politely pay a bad flute player to be silent...tough to do diplomatically...but every bad flautist has his price). Simon and Peter (my Biblical named film crew...director and cameraman) flew from Munich to Seattle with some precious carry-on baggage: about 20 hours of hi-definition video film from which two dynamite programs--Vienna and Salzburg/Austrian Alps--will be edited this month. (Our new series airs this September across the nation on PBS.)

As they flew to Seattle and I flew to Madrid, I felt thankful to be able to collaborate with such a talented, hard-working, and committed-to-quality team. Working hard with the right people is a joy. Next stop...Spain!

Steves' Pet Peeves in Europe

In the very early days of our tour company, a group once made a theme of mimicking me for saying "This is reeeeely great" (like the fat dork in Animal House) every time I'd park the 9-seater mini-bus at a new sight. I guess twenty years of trying to make people happy on your tours turns you into an almost annoyingly positive cheer leader for happy travels.

While a key to happy travels certainly is a positive attitude, I do have my pet peeves while traveling in Europe. Just between you and me, here are a few things that I don't find reeeely great:

Museums that show photocopies of documents and photos giving you the sensation of reading a book standing up while walking from page to page (as I just tried to enjoy in a Mozart museum in Salzburg today).

Americans who talk twice as loud as anyone else in a restaurant or public place in Europe and carry on oblivious to the peace they are destroying.

Concerts that charge $50 for a seat and then $2 for a program so you know who and what you're listening to.

Americans who complain about heat and no air-con (when Europeans believe the typical person from our southwest consumes more energy to stay cool in the summer than arctic Norwegians do to get warm in the winter).

Museums that post "don't do this" and "don't do that" signs in English, but provide no English descriptions of their exhibits (when half their paying public speaks English either as a first or second language and doesn't understand the displays).

Hotels that serve orange drink rather than orange juice and skimp on light bulb wattage to save a few bucks.

Over-earnest British people (especially on British Air) apologizing for something more than once and saying mind your head every time you near a low doorway.

People at security and check-in lines who recognize me from my guidebooks and TV show...and then say, "Can I see your ID?"

Seeing twice as many than necessary highly-trained TSA professionals (2) guarding each exit corridor at US airports.

People who tell me "I love your show on the Travel Channel."

Sweating all night in hotels that put rubber mats under the sheets to protect mattresses from getting stained.

The rumble of a herd of rolling suitcases crossing a tranquil cobbled village in the evening.

Getting one meal ahead of my needs when surrounded by a cruel abundance of fine food and not being hungry for days.

Sandwiches at places like airport and train station kiosks that are deceptively packed with lots of good stuff spilling over the bread crusts and almost nothing inside.

So there...I just had to get that off my chest.

Joyful Exuberance in Salzburg

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I'm in Salzburg, lying in bed about 100 meters from Mozart's dad. He's just outside my window in the graveyard of St. Sebastian church. When in town, I generally sleep within easy earshot of its bells. The bells of Salzburg ring with a joyful exuberance. They wouldn't if its citizens didn't like it that way.

Yesterday, in a tiny village church, I lingered, but it felt lifeless. Suddenly the dozen or so tourists loitering around me burst into a rich, Slavic hymn-—invigorating the church. They were a folk group from Slovakia who explained, "We can't be in a church without singing."

This morning here in Salzburg, I went to the 10 o'clock mass at the cathedral. As hoped, a choir and small orchestra filling the loft turned the back wall into a wall of sound. I was with my camera crew, in a dizzying perch, high on the side, enjoying a privileged birds-eye view of the musical action. Far below me a thousand people faced the altar. I faced the loft, where for 2 years of Sundays, Mozart served as organist: baroque scrolls, dancing cupids, conductors' batons, swirling the icing on a musical cake.

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On the 250th year of his birth, the musical genius of Mozart is still powering worship. Walking home, a woman on a bike artfully towed a tiny wagon under the spires. On it was a tall, triangular, black leather case. I said "Wow, only in Salzburg...a bike, towing a harp." She looked at me and added, "A Celtic harp." At the ATM a few minutes later I met a woman from a Sweet Adelines choir. She said "We traveled all the way from Pennsylvania to sing here in Salzburg...the people love us here."

Music seems to weather the storms of modernity very well. It wouldn't, if the citizens didn't like it that way.

Can I cook you a good fish?

I discovered many of my favorite "back doors" thirty years ago. Back in the 1970s, places like Hallstatt (south of Salzburg, the gem town on the gem lake in a region of Austria where lakes and Alps are shuffled together like a game of 52 card pick up) were truly "Back Doors"--untouristed. Today, many have become not only touristy...but economically addicted to tourism. I've noticed, more than ever, they appreciate the business my guidebooks generate. In Paris, the mayor of my favorite Rue Cler neighborhood threw me a party in the local palace--all the hoteliers, restaurateurs, and shop keepers were there...best macaroons ever. In the Cinque Terre this spring, I was hanging out on the Vernazza harbor-front listening to the town troubadour sing a folk song--not knowing I was in the lyrics. When my name came around he turned to me and cranked up the volume. In Reutte, just over the border from Bavaria's fairy tale castle of Neuschwanstein, I was recently invited into the local knighthood. (You must be present to be knighted...so it'll have to wait.) And yesterday, here in little Hallstatt, another of my headliner "discoveries," my friend who runs a restaurant there welcomed me with Hallstatt's standard "let me cook you a fish" greeting.

I sat under his wall full of big fish heads mounted like deer--gills spread like antlers. I stared at a tour group from Yokohama which filled a restaurant that once fed only locals. As the group headed out (they'll be in Vienna in 4 hours), the waiter--in his ancient lederhosen--(which always remind me of a permanent wedgie) said "Japanese groups are very big this year."

My challenge these days, along with finding untouristed places, is to find vivid cultural traditions that survive in places now well-discovered...like Hallstatt.

The next morning, as the sun rose late over the Alps towering above Hallstatt, the guy in the nearly rotten leather shorts took me for a spin in his classic boat. It was a 'fuhr,' a centuries-old boat design--made wide and flat for shipping heavy bushels of salt mined here across shallow waters. As he lunged rhythmically on the single oar, he said "an hour on the lake is like a day of vacation." I asked about the oar lock, which looked like a skinny dog chew doughnut. He said "it's made of the gut of a bull...not of cow...but a bull."

Returning to the weathered timber boat house, we passed a teenage boy rhythmically grabbing trout from the fishermen's pen and killing them one by one with a stern whack to the noggin. Another guy carried them to the tiny fishery where they were gutted by a guy who, forty years ago, did the stern whacking. A cat waits outside the door, confident his breakfast will be a good one. And restaurateurs and home-makers alike--whose dining rooms are decorated with trophies of big ones that didn't get away--line up to buy fresh trout to feed the hungry tourists, and a good fish to cook for a special friend.

Sweeping generalizations are fun…

I know it's bad form for a travel writer (or anyone) to generalize about entire nationalities, but doing so intrigues me--like People Magazine intrigues many Americans. Finishing up our TV shoot in Vienna, I had lunch with a woman from the tourist board. She has her finger on the pulse of Vienna's tourism industry. I quizzed her on her take of the main national groups who visit. Here's how she sees these groups of tourists:

Americans--fast visits...never really arriving; Russians--great shoppers; Italians--big families, loud; Japanese--wild about classical music, taking millions of photos; and the French--well informed, sophisticated (for example, coming all the way here for special art exhibits). East Europeans: In the 1990s, they were infamous for coming in on a long overnight bus ride, munching sausages from home, and leaving on the same bus without spending a penny on a hotel or restaurant. Today, Poles, Russians, Hungarians, and other Eastern Europeans spend serious money and are a major part of Vienna's tourism economy. I didn't ask her to generalize about travel writers.

No Satisfaction in Vienna

I was in Demel's, in the fanciest cafe in Vienna, today filming. They said we were welcome to work there until noon when "a famous person was coming by." Everyone wondered who it would be...The Rolling Stones are in town and so are The Who. I thought I might be in for a rock 'n roll treat. We were out by noon, when George Lucas dropped by for a Sacher Tort and a Coffee.

The Viennese--so finished with imperial excess--are still talking about the visit of George W. Bush last week. They're not that fond of our president over here. Newspapers say he is greeted with all "the warmth of a legal deposition." The president and Laura didn't come by Demel's. (Demels--once the Hapsburg Emperor's favorite bakery--still has its marzipan statue bust of an edible Bill Clinton in its window...a souvenir of a happier visit.)

Speaking of the Rolling Stones: Mick Jagger booked the presidential suite in the Imperial Hotel--Vienna's palace of hotels--a year in advance for a performance here. When President Bush and his entourage decided to visit, they wanted in at the Imperial. The Imperial asked the Stones if they would be willing to switch. The Stones said no way. Later, Keith Richards fell out of a coconut tree in Fiji, hurt his head, and they cancelled their Vienna concert. According to a now popular local legend (likely not true), the Bush party asked if they could have the room then. Mick--old, but still a bad boy--said they'd keep the reservation even if they weren't coming.

The Bush party (locals say over 200 strong) ended up in the ugly Intercontinental Hotel. According to my local guide: "They booked four floors so no one would know which room the president was in. They flew in thirty big American cars. And they even brought with them all the president's food along with a cook. Any cars of local people still parked along the route the president took from the airport to his hotel were towed away. They were so worried about bombs...even bicycles were removed. Entire sections of the old center of town had to be closed down when the first lady decided to do a little shopping. It was a very bad day for merchants."

Misinformation and a phantom coffee shop menu...

Working with my film crew here in Vienna, I'm trying to get the straight story on so much history. I keep remembering Napoleon's quote: "What is history but a legend agreed upon."

This afternoon, I dropped into a famous cafe with my cameraman. My hope: to find its rare surviving example of the Vienna coffee menu with a dozen or so shades of brown for customers to order exactly the milkiness of the coffee they desired. The waiter laughed in a snide way, saying some stupid travel writer cooked up that legend decades ago and journalists like you keep coming here looking for a color-coded menu that never existed.

To make my point, I too often accept false history and flat out wrong "factoids." And, my worst fear is adding to the mess.

For centuries, French was Europe's common language. I just assumed the term for common language, linguafranca, was literally "French Language." For a decade that's what I've been "teaching," and suddenly someone emails me the truth: 'franca' is Latin for free or common. The French were named for a gang of barbarians who called themselves "free people" or Franks.

For twenty years I called Paolo, the big never-smiling grumpy man who ran my favorite guest house in the Cinque Terra, Sr. Sorriso. His place was, after all, "Pension Sorriso." I must have introduced a hundred tour groups to Paolo Sorriso at check-in time. Then Paolo died, and I read his death notice: Paolo Favetta. I ask his brother, "what's the deal? Favetta? You never told me. All these years I called your brother Sr. Sorriso. He never corrected me!" What's with Sorriso? His brother, just as grim as Paolo, explained Sorriso means smile. All that time I was sleeping at Pension Smile.

Teaching Falsehoods...

I'm beginning a fifty day research trip to bolster my teaching. I love to teach. The only jobs I've ever had are teaching what I love: music (piano teacher) and travel (tour guide/writer). Crossing a border they ask me my profession. I say teacher. But much as I try, I teach falsehoods. I try to be unbaised...but, like any teacher or journalist, my reporting is seen through my lens and is therefore distorted. With more readers, I get more friendly scrutiny.

In keeping with the global perspective I like to nurture, I want to think God and Allah are the same creator--but today I'm reminded firmly via email that the Christian God is "triune" (three-in-one--father, son and holy spirit) and Allah is just one.

When my boy Andy was just 3 or 4 I taught him to finish table prayers by putting his hands straight out, bobbing them up an down and saying "Allah, Allah, Allah"...just to freak out his ethno-centric grandpa. Now I realize I may have been mixing up my Gods. Oops.

Vienna opera...under the stars

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Tonight I'm happy to include something extremely European in the Vienna TV show we're shooting. At twilight, the park in front of the city hall here is filled with thousands of people enjoying a food circus of 24 simple stalls. There's not a paper plate of plastic cup anywhere--just real plates and glasses, as Vienna wants the quality of eating to be as high as the music that's about to begin. A kid on a tiny green truck toddles by, reminding me this is a multi-generational scene.

A sixty foot wide TV screen up against the neo-Gothic facade of the city hall is blank, but already people are settling into the 3,000 folding chairs. Then, darkness falls, the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra strikes up, and a performance of the Vienna State Opera begins (Donizetti's Love Potion). Since 1991, the city has paid for this event for sixty summer nights each year (offering sixty different performances). Why? To promote culture. A year ago the original live performance of tonight's film was sold out...much of the audience is people who couldn't get tickets. Officials know the City Hall Music Festival is mostly a "meat market" where young people come to hook up. But they believe that many of these people will develop a little appreciation of classical music and high culture on the side. It's the end of my third day in Europe. Tomorrow morning at 8:00 we're all alone with Rubens, Durer, Raphael, and the best of the Hapsburg art collection.

Vienna was a super power

Slipping off my shoes and unpacking my lap top, I make my way through thousands standing around (TSA). While there's nothing in my soles, the small Swiss army knife and little box cutter (which I've tucked away on each flight since 9/11) seems to concern no one. On the TV at my departure gate, our president reminds me via Larry King how terrorism has changed everything. Larry and Laura both nod.

In 12 hours I'll be in Vienna. It was a super-power itself once--until a terrorist (from a Muslim land, living under a Christian emperor) killed its prince, leading to a war that ended Austria's dominance. Today in Vienna the pressure's off. The world spins without Hapsburg guidance, and the once powerful people of Austria savor their impotence...enjoying among the shortest work weeks and longest lifespans in the world...not to mention the most glorious church services and the best chocolate cake anywhere.

Somewhere in there is the key to why Vienna charms me so. Traveling--especially traveling alone--causes you to have strange thoughts and...sometimes...do strange things.

Blog gone Europe with Rick Steves

I'm in Vienna kicking off part two of my 2006 travels. This time I'm trying something new--I'm taking along whoever wants to join me via a blog. My son blogged his trip last year (and is in the midst of another blog venture this year) and I guess I just want to follow in his footsteps. I'll be stopping by for a casual chat almost daily between now and late August as I produce TV shows in Austria, update guidebooks in Spain, Scandinavia and Estonia, and holiday with my family in Ireland.