View from the window seat

I've loved flying ever since, at the innocent age of 5, my Dad took us to the airport to board a big plane to fly to Greece. I think I remember propellers, which means it must have been a very long flight, (we did a transfer in Rome) but I loved every minute of it--fighting for a view out the window, walking up & down the aisles, revelling in the knowledge that I was "walking" miles above the ground at very much higher speeds than I'd ever gone before. Mostly I remember the thrill of flying through the clouds, which seemed almost solid--or at least as solid as cotton candy.
And landing in Athens, and feeling that hot air blast as soon as we stepped off the plane, made me know--really know-- that I was somewhere way far away from Virginia. It had started some months before when my older brother Jim came upstairs while I was brushing my teeth and said in an excited voice, "Next summer we're painting the house, and then we're going to Greece! Being 5 years old, I had no idea where or exactly what this "Greece" was, but if Jim was excited about it, it must be something pretty good. And painting the house might be fun too.
Needless to say, I never got to help paint the house, but when we finally left for Greece, and I walked up those stairs into the plane (they did a lot of that back then) I knew this was going to be way better.
To this day I'm still fascinated by airplanes. When boarding nowadays, you almost always walk down those sterile mobile halls that connect to the plane, but there's always a little of the outside hull visible; I always feel the sleekness of it, amazed that soon the outer skin will be screaming through the frigid upper atmosphere at close to the speed of sound, while I will be safe and warm in a cozy seat inside.
Planes are incredible pieces of machinery. Everything fits snugly in its place. This is nowhere more apparent than in the bathrooms, where there might be up to a dozen little mysterious hatches that I sometimes explore. Behind them you might find perfectly-fitted cubbies for paper towels, trash, toilet paper, and those even more mysterious feminine products. There is usually also some tubing and wiring that you have no idea what would happen if you cut them, but are pretty sure it would be something bad.
I always try to get a window seat, for two reasons: when sleepy, it's nice to lean on the wall instead of some hydgienically-challenged stranger's shoulder, and mostly because I like to look out the window. Sometimes I think I'm the only one doing this; once when we were cruising just feet below a perfectly flat cloud ceiling that made the view incredibly dramatic, I looked around and everyone else was preoccupied with the video entertainment or in-flight shopping (a whole other subject for another day). That was the exception, though; usually the view consists of some houses at takeoff, quickly dissolving into fog, blank white clould cover the entire flight, then a few more houses right before landing.
There have been rare, exceptional treats now and then, however, like the time I looked down into the entire length of the Grand Canyon, or seeing Seattle's Puget Sound with its beautiful mix of water, woods and houses break through the clouds, with Mount Ranier nearby poking out of the mist. The most memorable was when I once flew into D.C.'s National Airport, where you usually approach from the south and see only generic suburbs, we came in from the north right over the Potomac River, and I was treated to a glorious bird's-eye view of Washington, including the Capitol and the Washington Monument, like I was hovering over it all on a magic carpet.
Which was pretty amazing considering that the first Cosmic Rule of Flying is that Dave Shalt be Seated on the Opposite Side of whatever interesting view is Out There. Every time I've flown into Denver, for example, I'm always on the side away from the Rockies. If you've ever seen Denver from the air, on one side is an incredible view (I presume) of the city nestled in the foothills of the snow-capped Rocky Mountains, and the other side is -- nothing. Not a building, road, barn, mailbox, telephone pole-- not even a mediocre field of soybeans--nothing but flat expanses of what appears to be brown dirt. This is the side that I am intimately familiar with. Flying in yesterday I was almost nostalgic to see my "Denver", or rather my non-Denver, the flat nothingness I have grown accustomed to seeing. And of course the mountains are nowhere in vew from the airport itself; somehow views in all directions revealed only desert. Flying out was sadly the same view, of course. I saw dirt, then clouds all the way to Seattle, and nary a single foothill between.
This is but one example of the Rule: wherever I am, the cool stuff is on the other side. Pilot to cabin: "If everyone will look out the left window, they'll get a fantastic glimpse of the Space Shuttle launching as we speak, along with the Queen Mary exploding from a terrorist bomb, and a naval and air battle between U.S. forces and alien spacecraft going on just beyond those erupting volcanoes. Those on the right side, including Dave, have a rare local fog bank screening the view, sorry about that."
Cosmic Rule of Flying #2: Whenever Dave gets a window seat, it Shalt be in the Exact Center of the Wing. As much as I love the view, someone Up There seems to think I like staring at plane wings. Flying here from Austin, my seat on the first leg to Denver was 15-F, which put me precisely over the wing, so I only caught a glimpse of firmament upon takeoff and landing. The next flight to Seattle promised to be better, as my seat was 19-F, which should have put me reasonably behind the wing. But as fate would have it, this was a larger plane, and 19-F was once again smack-dab in the middle of a vast expanse of featurless white metal. You'd think they could at least paint some interesting designs on the wings for us "wing men" to look at, perhaps even a bit of classical art or maybe even some Dilbert comics or something. (Although I must admit, once I had a window seat that wasn't over the wings: it was in the very last row back, and my "view" was of the gigantic engine six inches outside my window. So not only did I get to see an engine cowling the whole way, I was also treated to the delightfully pleasing whine of gigantic jet turbine blades about as far from my ear as your computer is to you now.)
And finally, Cosmic Rule #3, Whatever Dave drops on the floor during a flight Shalt forever be Out of Reach until Landing. On the last flight here this rule was enforced once again. I had about a foot of space in front of me, but when I dropped my Bag O' Pretzels, there was simply not enough room to bend over to reach them. in fact, I couldn't even get anything out of my own pockets, as it would have required contortions only Houdini in his prime could have accomplished. Next time I'll pay the $49 for an extra five inches-- it'll be worth every penny.
As I said, I just love flying.
Next: the Flat Featureless Shoebox School of Airport Architecture

Here I Go

Hello! Well, I never did finish writing about the last trip, but it's too late now, because I've started the Big One now-- the round-the-world sojourn that evolved from just a summer in Europe. Yes, I'm getting there, but I'm going the long way-- westward!
I left D.C. a few days ago, first stop: Austin, to see the Kellys and Randal (Ramsay couldn't make it). Departing had a few glitches-- I forgot to take my mini-laptop out of my carry-on bag, so the X-ray guys flagged it and I got a lecture about packing; then the bag wouldn't fit in the overhead compartment. This is a knapsack, but it expands to hold books, maps, cameras, computer, extra clothes (in case my other suitcase goes missing), snacks, water, first aid kit and anything else I might need on a long flight or that I don't want to check. And as I happened to be sitting in the front row with nothing but a bulkhead in front of me, there was no seat to shove it under.
Luckily this was one of the rare instances where we walked outside to the plane, so I could run back down the stairs and check it with the guys loading stuff into the belly of the plane. The flight attendant urged me to "make sure to get a green tag". Well, they had no green tags, and when asked where to get one, pointed back to the airport. This is with the plane fully boarded, and I pictured everyone in it sitting and waiting for me.
So I made a frantic dash through the icy rain to the terminal only to find no one there. I ran back to the baggage guys and plaintively asked "Where?" One of them walked me all the way back inside to the ticket counter and got a green tag, which we attached to my bag. I ran back and got on board just before they closed the doors, and, red-faced and panting, took my seat.
Oh, remember that icy rain I mentioned? It delayed our takeoff for two hours, so all that dashing about was a bit unneccessary after all.
Anyway, C.A. picked me up in Austin and took me to her sister Lisa's, who graciously let me stay with them, as C.A. & husband are selling their house. There I fed their rescued dog Gracie, a pretty lab/greyhound mix (pictured above) who was found running wild, and is still fearful of strangers but is slowly getting better, thanks to Lisa's and her boyfriend Clay's patient kindness. (Apparently she sometimes nips visitors in the bum, just to make her disapproval known-- I guess I passed the test).
The next day C.A took me into town and I got to meet her daughter Ella, who is the cutest, smartest and friendliest 3-year-old on the planet. We met Randal and ate at the great lakeside restaurant, the Hula Hut, where Ella, being the little socialite she is, made new friends and fed the swan & ducks with most of her (and everyone else's) lunch. Even big, tough Randal, who is not easily impressed, was instantly charmed by the little Belle of Austin.
Then the ladies left us, and Randal and I spent the evening catching up on old times. Just when you think you've heard every story he knows and everything he's done, he reveals an even more amazing tale of adventure!
I would relate some here, but that's the subject for another book. But I can tell you that he treated me to a sumptuous tex-mex dinner that filled me to bursting-- I literally could not sip a thimbleful of water more. Meanwhile his dinner got cold while he amazed me with spellbinding stories, myths & legends (ask him about the Tale of the Trip to Austin in the Rental Car with Ramsay, and the Drive Down the Capital Steps), until I had to remind him to eat.
The next day (after yet another abdomen-bloating Texas-sized brunch) we browsed some of Austin's fascinating specialty shops, from costume stores to a place so full of vintage and antique curios, Randal bought about six large bags worth of treasures. And since he has an unerring eye for valuable items , I am sure he made an immediate profit.
All too soon he had to go home to his wife & family (it was, after all, Valentine's Day) and I had dinner with some of the Kellys, and then after a quick visit to C.A.'s house, the Austin leg was over. But I did get to feed Gracie once more (who is still suspicious of me, as any young girl should be), and it slowly dawned on me that I was missing one of my pairs of glasses. So everyone was searching for me as I meekly scooted off to the airport, where, after I had some time to sit and think, I realized I had also left a shirt hung up in one of Lisa's closets! (Note: this had been a good lesson for me in keeping track of my things, lest I leave a trail of items all across the globe on my trek.)
The good news is, the glasses were found, so the kind folks from Austin will forward my things to me, and I am here now in Seattle, where I got another warm welcome, this time by many cousins and other relatives (including my parents), and am now getting reacquainted with some cousins who I haven't seen in years, if at all. I'll be back soon with more, including a bit on flying, airplanes, and the general state of aviation today. See ya then!

2,000 kilometers of Europe and No Time

Well, here I am in Paris, finishing up the 21-day tour. After Haarlem our busdrive and (possibly) part time comedian Francois took us into Germany to the Rhine river town of Bacharach. We stayed in a 700-year old fortress-turned-hotel with two small defects: quirky plumbing (read: showers that suddenly become cold) and the fact that trains rumbled by my window all night.

Other than that it was a great introduction to historic Deutschland, especially with the local guide, Herr Jung (pictured), giving us a poignant and fascinating tour, complete with touching stories of, for example, his older brother who was lost on the Russian Front.

Holland-days sauce

Hello again. It's been 2 days since the post below. After that last night, I slept for quite some time, interrupted only to get up to eat the free breakfast buffet (I was starving). It was cold & rainy so I went back to bed. I missed the weekend market in the square, but there's always more of those in Europe.
Then yesterday evening I met the rest of the tour group at our first meeting. I nice bunch of people, just like the last ones. (Rick Steves tourists tend to be mostly like that, I think.) They include several couples (including a cute young pair about to get married, and their moms) and a few singles of all age ranges, 21 people in all. We immediately went out for a brief guided tour by a local, who gave us great info on the local architecture & history, along with some good jokes. Then we had a great dinner together at--of all places--an Indonesian restaurant! (We were a bit surprised but it was very good.) Afterwards some of us went to one of the many pubs around the square and tried a few Belgian beers (better than the Dutch ones). Yes, I had recovered enough to to a bit of tasting (in the name of international relations, of course).
Next morning my little travel alarm didn't go off and I nearly missed the group's guided trip into Amsterdam where we first went to the Anne Frank house (very moving), explored a bit, had lunch in a V&D food emporium, a quick look at the Rembrandts of the Rijksmuseum (their National Gallery), and a brief rest stop at a cafe before taking a canal cruise. The sun came out by then and it was very pretty.
Then we all went back and split up to have dinner in small groups, including 3 girls, my roommate Larry and me. (Turns out Larry snores like a buzz saw and, to help me out, is getting his own room from now on so I can get some sleep-- rather decent of the chap, I think.)
Then I had a last late-night gelato and a chat at a cafe in front of the cathedral with one of the girls. The square was almost empty and it was very quiet; not a bad way to start the tour.
Anyway tomorrow we finally board out tourbus and head into Germany for the historic town of Bacharach (google it). See you there!

One quite mad day in London town...

Well, I made it! I'm in the Netherlands now, but had a crazy 24 hours in London first. After a quick flight I landed at Heathrow and the Express train took me into London in no time. But right away my luck started to change. It's cold there, not that I mind so much, but the locals said it was warm up until just yesterday! And (of course) most of the Underground subway lines were down due to the usual strike, so I had to find a cab from the station to my hotel. Unfortunately everyone else had the same idea-- there was a HUGE line waiting for cabs. So I started to walk, and (not knowing I was walking in the wrong direction) I happened on a special private cab company guy who took me there; but he wanted me to call his company first to ask if he could take me! Strange, I know, but that's Europe for you: they do things a bit differently here.
Anyway, my hotel was right near the London Eye, that huge ferris wheel-on-the-Thames. I had only gotten maybe an hour of sleep but, as usual on my first day back in Europe, I was too excited to sleep and hit the ground running. I had 3 goals: to do the Eye, which I did, meeting some nice Swedes who were so interesting we almost forgot to look around while up there), finally tour Parliament, which I also did, although footsore by now and sleepy-- and what a grand old building it is! It puts the Capitol to shame. I was standing right where I saw Tony Blair debating in the House of Commons.
My last mission was to tasted some great old English beers and most especially, to find some scrumpy, an almost impossible task. You see, scrumpy is a rough farmhouse fermented cider that is normally only found way out in a very few country inns up in the English countryside. And there's not too many farms near Waterloo station in London. But I started asking bartenders, stopping in several pubs near the hotel (and feeling obligated and not forgetting my other mission, trying a beer or two at each place). I met a real cockney bloke who looked kinda like brother-in-law Wayne but sounded just like Alfred P. Doolittle, Liza's father in My Fair Lady. We had an interesting chat about how most Americans dislike George Bush (and most Europeans too).
Nobody knew of anywhere in London I could find the cider, but I found a reference in a Rick Steves book to a "Cider tavern near Victoria Station". I jotted down the address, jumped in the Tube and went there, thinking someone there would know. Well, I asked everybody, including a guy who said he'd worked right there at the pub across the street for 15 years, and even a cabbie (they have to pass a 3-year course on studying the London streets) and they both had never heard of the place OR even the street!
Now here's the strange thing: after studying a little map of London, I finally found it myself, and guess what? It's not four blocks from Victoria station! Does that tell you how maze-like this city is?
Anyway, I have to report that I failed in my mission, because although they had many ciders, including one actually called "scrumpy", it really wasn't (although it was quite good nonetheless).
And while doggedly sacrificing my sobriety in tasting many of them (for the cause of research) I had a fascinating conversation with a man in his 70's who, if he was from My Fair Lady, would have to be Henry Higgins. He was very posh and well-spoken, but was drinking with me (and keeping up) and had some great stories to tell, especially about his childhood during the war.
So the evening wasn't a total loss, although I did have a bit of trouble getting back to my hotel: what had seemed effortless while relatively sober, was now a confusing, blurry jumble of train stations and mischievous trains that cleverly took me to anywhere but my destination!
I kept getting off at the same wrong station, and after the attendant saw me return for the third time and wearily ask directions again, patiently drew me a map and wrote down the different trains I needed to take. You see, at some stations, they have four different train lines all intersecting. This means there can be up to ten tunnels to choose from (two for each direction and two exits), and they're not level, oh no, they go up and down and sideways and slantways and more ways than Willie's Wonkavator. And try it barely able to walk or see. (That cider was stronger than I thought). Go on, I dare you!
Anyway, I finally did make it back, and had to get up in 5 hours to catch my Chunnel train to Amsterdam. While the EuroStar trains are sweet-- quiet, fast, and even serving a better breakfast than any airline, it was another train journey destined to be fraught with disaster. I didn't realize that mainland Europe time is one hour ahead of the Brit's; in Brussels I missed a connection, then another one because of some faulty info an attendant gave me. Tired and shamefully hung over, I spent WAY too much time at that station. I never want to see it again. But I finally got to Amsterdam and then to Haarlem, a cute little nearby town, where the Rick Steves tour is meeting tomorrow. (The Dutch liked this town so much they named a certain settlement in America after it that you may have heard of.)
After a shower to wake me up I zipped back to Amsterdam to explore, getting an opportunity to talk about Bush again with some Dutch locals. They seem amazingly well-informed about U.S. politics (more than some Americans I could mention); when I remarked so they replied that what the U.S. does affects the rest of the world. Funny how you don't really think about that until you come here.
Anyway, to get back to Amsterdam; well, you've probably heard about how "relaxed"the city is. Let's just put it this way: What happens in Amsterdam stays in Amsterdam; it's pretty crazy there, at least at night. But our group will go there day after the morrow, so I'll get to see it in the daytime. Meanwhile I'll stay here in quaint little Haarlem tomorrow and continue my convalescence from The Great Scrumpy Hunt. Maybe I'll be ready to try some Heineken tomorrow-- after all, this is where it's made. This is Dave the Voyager signing off for now. Tune in soon for more juicy tales from the Old Country!

Gotta get back now!

Ok, so the housing market is slow... does that mean I have to wait forever to go back to Europe? Apparently not-- since I'm leaving Sept 26 for another Rick Steves tour, this time from Amsterdam to Rome & back to Paris, stopping at some great towns along the way, like Rothenburg Germany, Venice & Florence, the Cinque Terre, and Reutte, Austria (I never heard of it either, but I'm sure it's nice.) I should even get into Munich for a bit of Oktoberfesting.
If you feel like looking at a map of the route, here's the link: http://tours.ricksteves.com/tours07/product.cfm/rurl/code/EUR07/
So, watch this space for pictures and notes of the trip, and try not to be jealous!

Still here... like an unwelcome guest

Now it's September and I'm STILL trying to sell the house! As you no doubt know, the market is as slow as __________(insert your favorite cliche here). But I'm getting some bites and I'm hopeful I may be able to leave by the end of this month. Wish me luck!
~Dave
P.S. Meanwhile, I've taken a quick trip to Vegas, (pictured here on Fremont Street with nephew Kevin) and am planning another maybe to Colorado this month. Also, I've added some reading for you on the Grand Tour, below on the right. Thanks for visiting.

"The Road goes ever on and on, down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone, and I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet, until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet. And whither then? I cannot say."
-- A walking song by Bilbo Baggins