May 15, 202221 min read

My First Trip to Europe

The concluding dinner in Milan, ending my first trip to Europe was delightful. It was 1997. We had wandered in the late afternoon from our hotel that was just a few blocks from the main train station where we would take a bus to the airport early the next morning. We meandered, which had been our style all day—it was a Monday and we had found much of downtown Milan closed to us. Even the metro had been off-line for our final couple of miles back to the hotel. We found a simple restaurant and as was the custom then, were seated at a table that had one man already seated, eating alone. We nodded, smiled, and continued our conversation in English; he soon joined in. He was a Frenchman and in accented English told us he grew wine grapes on the property around his chateau in the Loire valley. He understood this was our first European trip together and the conversation flowed to travel along with the wine. As we traded travel stories, I recognized that he had taken us initially for rubes but developed respect as we spoke of being robbed in Salvador, Brasil, attacked by baboons in Kenya, surviving a mechanical on ship full of college students in the straights of Malacca with CNN reporting on the concurrent local pirate infestation, as well as the story of a rich man’s daughter having a psychotic break in Shanghai—one of my medical charges—the response from the father regarding getting a flight home for her being a negative—in fact he said, “You have quite a problem, don’t you?”

Monsieur Chateau noted, “You guys are pretty well traveled!” We gushed and admired his travels which were also impressive while being mostly European. He remarked on the Cuban restaurant across the street and it was then we mentioned that we had passed it walking from the train station.

“You walked here,” he asked with some concern. “It is dangerous walking around here. When you are done, let me drive you back to your hotel.”

This could have been the start of a Netflix kidnapping story but I did not care. I was tired, physically and mentally. It was dark when he pulled up to the hotel. The glass doors were fastened with a metal rod on the inside and it took a minute or two for the clerk at the desk to let us in. He put the rod back as soon as we were inside. Only then did our French friend wave and drive off.

We were in a high crime district and had had no idea.

My first trip to Europe was planned without any fear of being mugged. In fact, our first night was reassuring. Barbara, the travel agent we used, had booked us into an old villa surrounded by an older crowd of Europeans, mostly dressed formally for the opera in the old Roman amphitheater in Verona. We were ten miles from downtown Verona which begged the question, how did that happen? We wanted to be surrounded by antiguity, to take strolls outside the hotel while seeing so many interesting things. When we got to downtown Verona, we found plenty of that from Roman to Renaissance settings. We also saw hotels that had been found with our own research. They would have been perfect but our insecurity and the lack of an internet in that day led to our use of Barbara an aging travel agent. Barbara, with a British accent —which gave her great credibility—had made our arrangements which included Verona and Florence, then a bicycle tour with Experience Plus, followed by a stay in Cinque Terra and ultimately, Milan. She assumed our travel needs based on my MD degree. Hence, for Barbara, three star hotels were out of the question.

We would come to love three star hotels.

This is not to say Villa Quarenta was not charming. This hotel was old but well appointed. it had its own chapel on the ground floor—enough for all the guests to gather at once if the need filled us. We were surrounded by a mix of green countryside, small industrial businesses, and fast food restaurants. The worst pizza I ever had was ten miles North of Verona…….The bustle of Milan and then the trains taking us to Verona found me reminded of Mexico and Brazil as the Latin sounds, smell of diesel, and summer heat all came close to those previous experiences. Food was to prove the difference on this trip.

I had already sorted that I could make out news in an Italian newspaper, but speaking Italian? It became clear I would fare better speaking in English. Asking if a local spoke Spanish brought on both looks of amazement and laughter. “No,” was the unifying answer. Reading the menu at our Villa, surrounded by seemingly wealthy and healthy people dressed to the nines found my lack of experience and tourist insecurities alive and well. Did one have to order something off each course on the menu? If so, could I really eat that much food? Could I afford this? We took a gamble: Kernie had a crab dish and I ordered a pasta dish which when it arrived, found me horrified—it looked like someone had vomited in my dish. I have never eaten pasta that tasted better than that night. We had wine, the crowd took off in a fleet of Mercedes sedans for the opera, and we enjoyed our place and memories of the day which included the second floor balcony where Juliet was wooed……….

The Eurotrain from Verona to Florence taught us many things. I have traveled Amtrak but this train was more like being in a modern airliner. We learned that dogs have a different standing in the Italy of 1997. We would encounter dogs seated at restaurants but on this day there was a Chihuahua whose owner was a well dressed and overly made-up young woman who held it constantly, until it was put on a silk scarf rolled up to form a cushion on the seat next to her.

My interest in Italy was formed as a child through the history of ancient Rome. As a fifth grader, I knew the story of Cincinnatus, Horatio at the bridge, and the geese that warned the Romans of a sneak attack by the barbarians. I had studied modern European history in college. The views driving from the train station to our hotel on the Arno River quickly gave an emotional kick to what I could remember about the Italian Renaissance. The scale and beauty of the buildings seen in all directions was beyond my expectations. The hotel was a quarter mile from the Ponte Vecchio and looked old enough to have earned that place. We were surrounded by history. Galileo was buried within a five minute walk. This made the nightly fight with mosquitoes a ritual without complaint. The heat of the day required open windows to cool down in the evening.

The city was full of tourists. I have not heard so many different languages spoken walking a street as in Florence, with the possible exception of Manhattan—and varieties! All races and ages. There was an unexpected sighting of local skinheads to mar the image from time to time but mostly casually dressed tourists walking the cobblestones, smiling and pointing was what we experienced. The concierge noted on Saturday, he could not reserve tickets to the Uffizi so we gambled and walked there, waiting in line. It was worth the wait. I was astounded on ascension to the galleries that these works of art were exposed to the elements; by this I mean the galleries were open to a large walkway which in turn was open to the courtyard below. We feasted on the art and found ourselves with a few Japanese tourists and Italians in the room with a famous Botticelli. A guard came in and angrily asked us to leave as the room was closed and someone had removed the roped stanchions to prevent entrance. The Japanese and the Moeller meekly submitted but the Italians were not having it. The attitude of the guard was inappropriate and they wanted his name and badge number! His response? No apology and he turned his identification badge around. IWA (Italian with attitude)!

Our next stop was Parma—to my mind, the Kansas City of Italy—that is to say, an agricultural hub with a long history known only to a few tourists. We had a free day in Parma before our “gastronomical” bike trip would begin. I began to appreciate the culinary history of Parma when for dinner, I spied a couple eating melon and prosciutto as a starter. “I’ll have what they are having,” not even being sure what it was. This was the beginning of when I stopped eating to live, and came around to the notion of truly appreciating a good meal. But first, before linking up with the biking crew that would support us for eight days, we visited the art museum of Parma. While housed in an old brick building, the interior had very modern architectural enhancements and the art collection showed beautifully. It was there I saw my first Michelangelo and DaVinci pen and inks. This proved the biggest surprise of the trip—a world class art museum in the middle of, for an American tourist, nowhere.

Getting acquainted with the biking team, my eyes were drawn to Italians on the road.

“If you are worried about crazy Italian drivers running you down on our bike rides, get that out of you mind right now,” said Monica, the lead guide. “Their sisters and mothers ride bikes on these roads and they will be very careful.” In the city proper, I noted how nicely people dressed as they pedaled down the streets: men in $1000 dollar suits and women with fancy shoes and expensive jewelry. We were not in Kansas……..

Our group was mix of tourists taking a bike trip through Northern Italy that was not what you might run into in the midnight buffet on a cruise ship: two Jesuit priests from the midwest-the younger with a sister joining us from New York City. There was an alpha female executive from AT&T in Texas. There were couples: an overweight semi-retired banker with his Latina wife easily twenty years younger than him looking both spoiled and lost, and two couples from Colorado who were unique in that only the women worked while the men “dabbled in the stock market.” Years later, I would hope the great recession caught up with them. Rounding the group out, an old Jewish New Yorker, a recently divorced anesthesiologist from New York City and Kernie bonded with a single older New York widower from the upper Eastside who would inspire us with at least one uphill ride.

We started off the next morning with a bang: by this I mean once out of the city following the chalked arrows on the road and finally in the country, we were running a nice single-file line, flowing well until the banker suddenly slammed on his brakes. Kernie veered right and crashed into an irrigation ditch. The banker attended to his bike, took a picture, and moved on completely oblivious to her fall.

She was pissed. She had road rash and bruising on her right thigh. It took a few minutes to get her organized, treated, and the bicycle back in working order. The banker and his wife and most of our party had moved on and had started lunching the the courtyard of an old castle……This fall would prove to be a great learning about bicycle travel in general. When with strangers, assume nothing about their bicycle skills, much less manners. It also proved once more that my anglo-spanish accenting of Italian words made me all but incomprehensible to locals. At a hotel later, I went to the attached coffee shop and asked the very cute barista if she spoke English. She did not. I asked if she spoke Spanish. She did not. Knowing I had not mastered the word for ice in Italian (ghiaccio), I proceeded earnestly, making good eye contact:

“Yo necesito una bolsa de hielo para mi esposa. Ella tiene una herida en su pierna. Su pierna está quemada.”

She looked at me carefully, furrowed her brow, and then pulled out a plastic bag and filled it with chipped ice, smiling as she handed it to me. I smiled back. I had made a connection!

Our connection to our fellow bike-mates was less clear. This trip held appeal to people with an interest in food—perhaps cuisine of an elevated sort? Early, we felt self-conscious when at the sumptuous first dinner, admitting upon focussed questioning that we used the parmesan cheese from a green can, commonly sold in the USA since I was a child. We subsequently saw how parmesan cheese was made at a COOP and walked through a cold cellar with round after round of the stuff, aging. We learned about the arcane European regulations certifying the quality of Parmesan cheese. We resolved to expiate our culinary sins now and when we got home.

The meals we were having at night often brought out the focus of the day’s tour. We visited Modena and here, visited a series of old houses where Balsamic vinegar is aged in the attics. I barely knew (in 1997) what Balsamic vinegar was. We were led through the aging process and tasted the changes eleven years can give to the vinegar. I was impressed by both the taste and the cost of this stuff. Two couples from Atlanta ordered a case each of three ounce bottles, each bottle costing $80-$150. Did they own restaurants? No, but they had multiple houses……….

Meals do provide a medium for fellowship and with a few dinners under our belt, we felt an affinity to a few of our riders. Two Jesuit priests stood out and as we got past their devotion to “Papa” ie the Pope, we had rich and varied conversations relating to living monastically in Iowa, the racier side of living in Iowa outside the monastery, religion, Italian culture, what constituted risqué clothing, and how to read into that. NOT the conversations I expected to have with them. Discussing science vs religion, I was reassured and in fact, almost ready to sign up—to Catholicism! The younger of the two was joined by a sister, who was lovely, engaging, and would prove to be an inspiration when we finally were confronted with long climbs up hills. She had great calfs! Kernie’s favorite was a little old lady traveling solo from the upper East Side. She usually took the sag wagon up the hills until the last long ride.

Imola was a town we rode through mid-day. There was a racing car show in the town plaza and we learned that professional basketball in Italy commonly employs American basketball players who are just short of NBA status. The basketball team sponsored the auto show. Kernie had a great time schmoozing some very tall black men as we ogled the sports cars. By day’s end we ascended a long hill and arrived in Dozza, a hillside town with a fortified top that shouted out, “just try to take me.” We now enjoyed a dinner on our own and began to realize that despite the really wonderful entrees found in all our stops, the bread served at breakfast, lunch, dinner mostly sucked. By this I mean, there was no chewy or flavorful baguettes or rounds of bread as you might expect. Rather, we had shiny balls of hard crusted bread with mostly air in the middle—meal after meal after meal. It was a disappointment for people who had been instructed to eat lots of carbs.

The long and tortuous hills the next day found me hypoglycemic and somehow, miraculously, a liter of water and a movie-pack sized box of Good and Plenties found their way to me. I rode on and found that the women on this ride had more endurance than I did on hills. It was a revelation and once more, after a number of Seattle to Portland bicycle events, finds me anchored in the notion that you cannot judge a book by its cover with respect to what a person is capable of when riding a bike—no matter what they look like! We finally crested and there was a small coffee stop where we had espresso and gelato and another gelato. And another espresso. To save money, I added a few frozen juice bars. We were able to start downhill where we encountered a medieval town near the pass, Brisciella. There was a stop for lunch and a history tour through alleys and balconies I had to duck to pass on—thoroughfares for the citizens four hundred years before. We ate well and our Jesuit friends ate the named pasta (“strangled priests”) with both gusto and grace. Kernie was anxious to continue going downhill to our night time stop and I was listening to a history lecture. She headed out without me. The hairpins and steep grades were quite fun to race down and in the end, I entered Fienza (not Firenze). I found Maximo, one of the sag wagon supports checking the bikes out and I asked if Kernie had arrived.

“Oh yes,” he exclaimed. “She came down and was surrounded by the Italian cycling team. She represented your country very very wel!.” I was surprised even before I heard her version of the story which included the downward speed scaring her a bit, the passage of a lycra clad male rider overtaking her, decked out in the colors of the Italian flag, and then one by one more and more navigating around her. One lesson she had learned, the bruising only now turning to yellow on her leg, was to be predictable and to not make any sudden moves. The team passed her without any crashes.

Fienza was a hub for two days. We would visit the family farm of one of the tour leaders and there Kernie would demonstrate an aptitude for kneading and forming pasta that no one else on our trip could master. The old great grandmother nodded with respect as Kernie finished up. It was in Faenza that we learned of Lady Di’s death in Paris. And it was here that I learned of an opportunity to go to a county fair, sponsored by the Communist party, no less.

We agreed to separate for dinner. Kernie would have dinner with a young-middle-aged divorced anesthesiologist from New York State who paid his ex wife $60,000 a year. That was more than I needed to know. He had a crush on Kernie and they would dine together that night and share a wonderful desert while toasting Lady Di. She had a restful and pleasant time while dispensing advice to a guy that she announced when I came in, should never get married again.

I read a series of books when in Junior High about a town’s priest in post war Italy who was in conflict with the communist mayor and in communication with Jesus himself. It was a comedy a bit over my head back then but I remembered bits of it as I entered the county fair. One paid what one could afford. My dollar bill floated on Lira notes in a large glass box. I was astounded on entering the fair to learn that Ferrari builds farming tractors. They were painted in the same colors as John Deer tractors. Despite the communist sponsorship for this fair, there were expensive sports-cars to be seen and admired. There were carnie rides which I did not partake in but a meal? That was different and the experience quite un-American. First, one had to pick a cuisine. I found a special deal: a slice of grilled goat (called, “castrati”), half a roasted chicken, French fries, a salad, a liter of wine and a liter of water for $12. I sat with citizens at a large common table. The order was taken by a no-nonsense young woman with a rough manner but a face right out of one of the Uffizi Renaissance portraits. She was bra-less and sported a Che Guevara T shirt. I was in love with all of this.

Full and now a bit tipsy, I managed to find exhibits for the bourgeoisie — living room sets, vacuum cleaners, more affordable Peugeot’s, Renault’s Fiat’s, and Fords. I had worried about coming to this event as I traveled with the group and we were not close to Fienza. I was a bit of a hostage to the group but I no longer cared.

The two days in Faenza had allowed Kernie’s leg injury much needed rest and we proceeded with more energy, an eye on some independent travel, and an increased appreciation for rural Italy. I could now accept stopping for a coffee and a view and not jamming through the forty miles to the destination. This came to a stop when we had to fix two flats on Kernie’s bike in an hour. We sorted that a spoke had dislodged and was piercing the inner tube through the rim. We had no idea where we were. Kernie bravely sent me on my way in search of the sag wagon as she waited under the shade of a peach orchard. This like others (apples and pears) all pruned to have fan-like shapes which I presumed made harvesting easier from the back for a truck that could be driven between the rows. I found the wagon and Kernie remained where I had left her. Just minutes away, we were in a bike shop and a repair done quickly. Despite the speed of that repair, Kernie had time to find some unusual Lycra bike wear.

It was getting hot and we gathered into a gelato store (owned by the uncle of the tour guide). At this point, there were two rides: Kernie chose to ride straight up the hill to Bertinoro, our final stop before reaching the coast. I chose to go with a group up into more hills to visit the mausoleum of the Mussolini family.

Growing up in the USA can blind you to some political truths that are obvious elsewhere in the world. At least, that used to be true. My sense was that Mussolini was a not so competent fascist dictator who met a bad end, and that was that. It became evident as we rode up the road to our destination, that there were still fans of fascism in this part of Italy. Fascist flags waved from the fronts of rural homes. The mausoleum was scrupulously manicured and maintained—and appeared to be empty. We parked our bikes. Lycra and all, we entered the crypt where Benito Mussolini is buried. There is a bust of his head, chin sticking out in the traditional pose. There was a sarcophagus covered with fresh flowers—many many fresh flowers. There were two couples, dressed simply but formally reverently praying all this while on their knees. We seemed and felt out of place. We left.

In 1997, we had no idea just how powerful the notion of a strong charismatic leader is even some fifty years after his life ended.

Our slog down the hill and then up to Bertinoro was complicated by our reaching for a short- cut that was not short at all. We made the final grade and coasted into the small plaza in front of our hotel in the mid-afternoon heat. This town, back in the day had some wealthy merchants who co-sponsored a fountain and pillar to which rings were attached for reining in the horses of visitors. Which ring you chose for your horse would determine which merchant was going to put you up for the night. I am assuming the clientele to whom this applied had enough money for a nice hotel, which was where I headed next. Kernie now recovered from the injury of day one was over the moon with stories of her race up the hill. Her Eastside friend had joined her without using the sag wagon. We met up with the two couples from Colorado and joined them for dinner at an Osteria where there was no menu. The matron came out when there were enough people and told us what she was serving and what it would cost. Bertinoro that night was a party town—revelers were out until 2:00 AM.

I was up just after sunrise and caught the mist clinging to the hillsides below us. Magic. It was our last day on the ride. Cervia was the final destination, a beach town just south of Ravena. We learned about renting space on the beach and having a guy provide whatever services were required—well almost. One of the single women (alpha Texas) we had ridden with took this occasion to wear a thong and walk the beach topless. No one felt compelled to join her.

Barbara, our travel agent had booked us an unusual connection which included a very expensive hotel in Bologna and a twenty four hour trip by train to cross Italy to our next destination, Cinque Terra. Beta, one of the guides worked with us to cancel reservations which had proved difficult for us with the language barrier and the default, “we can’t make that change without your travel agent giving the OK.” Beta schmoozed this issue away and secured us train reservations for a long ride the next day that would give us an extra day on the beach.

Be careful what you wish for. We were tired when we arrived in Monterosa, one of the five coastal towns known as Cinque Terra. I had seen the sun rise on the Adriatic Sea and it was now setting on the Ligurian sea. The train station was a bit of a walk before the town was encountered. Our hotel room was cramped and on the fifth floor. There was no elevator which was only a challenge given the luggage we had. Monterosa had a charming layout but was what the skeptics feared would happen to my home town, Coronado once it became accessible for tourists in volume. Monterosa at night was loud and crowded.

We had a nice breakfast and headed to the beach to find that it was expensive to use the reserved cabanas on the beach. We found a free public beach but it was as crowded as the beach at Copacabana at peak season. We found a last spot at the base of rocks rising above the beach. There was a small concrete platform just above us with a spigot for a shower. Periodically, someone would rinse and the water would flow down the rocks. I dug a little trench in the sand to keep it from flowing onto us. After an hour, I was on my back, half asleep, and I heard the shower run. I opened my eyes and straight up above me was a beautiful Italian woman, topless, and leaning back to rinse her hair. Legs keeping her perfectly balanced. I smiled at my good fortune of having this spot on the beach.

A reality check comes into play at this point. We were tired and we approaching three weeks out. The crowds of mostly young people were wearing on both of us. We had a Eurail pass. Kernie told me she was not going to go to the beach the next day and would train to Pisa. I have an irrational dislike to going to stereotypical tourist destinations but when I considered my option staying alone, I agreed to join her. We had one of the best days of our trip.

Pisa was not crowded. We had the adventure, walking to the cathedral and tower from the train station after both having a really good espresso, and being physically confronted by a group of “gypsy” children who made contact and attempted to grab cameras, wallets, and so on. Rick Steve’s had prepared me for this and I had a dollar’s worth of Lira in my pocket which I threw into the air and on landing, the kids dove for the coins. We moved on. There is a baptistry by the Cathedral at Pisa. On entering this, the light shone obliquely through a high window. The dust motes swirled. A guard spontaneously sung an aria from an unknown opera. I became reverential for one of the few times in my life. The leaning tower was well worth the look as was the “engineering for dummies” diagrams and literature on why it leans. We had a great meal on the fly and took the train back in time to wander the hillsides a bit. We spent a day hiking and taking small craft in the ocean and decided it was a beautiful spot, just too crowded with tourists. We were ready for home.

We had one last night. Kernie went on a mission. The younger local women in town were sporting very short haircuts and Kernie decided she wanted one. She asked several where they got their hair cut and the most consistent answer was, “Mimo.” On a Friday night, we had a pizza with pesto sauce (“But you don’t like Pesto!” It WAS time to go home), and Kernie had an appointment with Mimo. I followed her to the salon and saw a pretty drunk, just-past adolescent Italian hairdresser with a lion’s mane of hair unsteadily standing as he received Kernie. He reminded me of a brunette Robert Plant. Watching from outside, I saw her exchange a few words. He closed his eyes and nearly fell after he put the drape on and I turned as he started in with the hair clippers. Kernie was thrilled as she came out in the August heat, shorn severely and ready to let those at home that she had been to Europe!

But first, a day in Milan. We hoped to finish our stay in Italy with a viewing of the Last Supper but on a Monday, when we arrived, it was closed to the public. We walked and walked, learned of the Metro shutdown and hiked back to the hotel in mostly empty streets. I noted at one point, some street people shadowing us and overheard one ask the other what language we spoke. It occurred to me we were about to get mugged. We walked into a high-end clothing store and I pretended to be interested in socks while Kernie got out a pasta rolling pin that was hard wood and about two feet long. I brandished it was we finished our walk home (the Hotel Virgilo) in peace.

Our last night would be tense. We were nervous and had an early morning walk in the dark to make to the train station before sunrise. Mr. Chateau had warned us to walk down the middle of the street so no one could surprise us at an alleyway. As it turned out we had company—other people also seeking the first bus to the airport. The trip home was uneventful.

Going through customs in New York was not so uneventful. This was our first ride. We were not sure about some things. We were randomly selected for a focussed review of our bags. The large bag full of bike equipment and foodstuffs got a different reply from each of us regarding what was in it. We both had agreed there was, “no food” which we hoped meant, no fresh food. The pounds of cheese, olive oil, and bottle of balsamic did not trip any alarms. We could not agree between ourselves on anything and the customs agents soon sensed we were on the verge of a fight which turned out to work in our favor. We were zipped up and sent on our way with what was on reflection, a fairly cursory examination of our souvenirs.

Addendum: Years later we reflected on our trip and then on our assumptions about childcare. Amber was not quite eighteen years of age. Darby was thirteen. We left some cash for emergencies and they were on their own those three weeks of travel. They had a date: Amber and Darby would join their cousins in Lake Chelan, driving over in Kernie’s car. They had a GREAT time but Kernie’s car would have an alarm go off 20 miles from home while in the freeway. She had to trouble-shoot her way into getting the car towed and an alternative vehicle to get them home. While we both raised our kids to be problem solvers and independent, this exercise, on reflection, was premature.

They will tell you they had been “just fine.” The ten year rule applied*

* If you tell a story ten years after an event, the content cannot allow expressions of emotional distress or punishment. The Truth prevails! We all get wiser.