Journey

Part I
“ALONE IS MUCH MORE ROMANTIC”

Friday, 10:54pm. Ontario, California.
Finally, the actual leg of the journey, as in the journey itself, is about to begin.  Amtrak comes to a screeching stop yards in front of me.  Passengers begin to get aboard.   My head turns for a moment to look - I had just told my middle son, Joshua, it’s not the going that bothers me, it’s the going alone that burdens me.   This is what he said, “Alone, is much more romantic,” of course I have to agree.  With that we hugged good-bye, and I dragged my bag, laptop, camera bag, and day-pack, aboard Amtrak….they would be my traveling companions across America…six days, and five…full-filled, jam packed exciting nights of no sleep, as I try to sleep sitting up....and, those luggage ideas would be my companions to England, Ireland, France, Switzerland and beyond.

It sounded fun at the time, the journey.  Still does.  Though I've taken a wild hair idea and turned it into something that has overcome me with the deep feeling over being - ta da, overwhelmed.  Anyway, I’m headed to Switzerland.  

Possibly this is news to the world, that Amtrak goes to Switzerland.  It doesn’t.  But I am.   Ontario, California, to San Antonio, Texas where my coach stays and is attached to a new train, then to Chicago, hang there for several hours, board a different train to Washington D.C.   Walk two blocks to our nation’s capitol, back to the station, another train takes me to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, hand THERE for a few days, then board a ship to Southampton, England (I already feel tired), then to Ireland via ferry, to fly from Cork, Ireland to Paris, France, meet Joyce, my employer/friend person, then bullet train to Switzerland.  

Yes, there are easier ways to go, but what would be the fun in THAT?

I’m insane.

Back to that first night.   It’s creeping up to 3a.m. and I’ve slept two minutes the entire night as Amtrak makes her way to Chicago.   We stop in Yuma, and I am the only passenger who has been awake the (almost) entire time.  Two nights ago, in Rio Linda, I had about two hours sleep.  The night before this one, I had about three, that was in Corona.   Middle kiddo (Josh) and my very own daughter-in-law Megan live there.   Josh brought me to the station early, had planned on dropping me off and going home, as he has to be up early for work.   When we arrived at the station, it was deserted….it's really not a station, just a platform…no ticket booths, no information.   

Joshua isn’t impressed with me telling him I’m fine, will be fine, he can go.  He volunteers to hang around for the two plus hours before the train comes east, out of Los Angeles.   We head for coffee, and I delight in the cruelty of his smart phone who keeps giving him the wrong directions (phone voice is that of a British female, I wonder if this a precursor of things to come) as to where we can find coffee.

Note: I have no idea how to write a blog.  First person?  Third person?  Just go with it?  “Go with it” works for me.    So forgive/pardon/adapt if I stray from the “rules” of blog writing, if such a thing exists.    A lot of these notes will be from copied notes from a journal…so past tense, pre tense, future tense, might be taxing your mind on how to keep up.    You’ll figure it out.  Trust me.  Heh heh heh.

Continuing on, lack of sleep isn’t what is making me insane.   It’s the wild hair I had to go to Switzerland and take my time in doing so.  Joyce, aka Swiss Miss 2 (long story, I might tell about Swiss Miss 1 later, in case you might be interested in show biz related stories…where was I?) , is from Ohio, teaching English in Switzerland.   She asked me to come out, do some work in her building, wherein the school she owns occupies space.   Nothing magically fun about the day job, but it is a day job.  Whilst in Europe, will be hoping to continue being a part of a western film that is to be shot in Spain, hopefully sometime soon (this is another story, which I may get to, right now I’m trying to get through this trip to Florida, so I can post it, as the world will not be hearing from me for two weeks, beginning April 2).

I think, sleep wise, I was on a roll at Joshua’s.  Two hours!  Cool!  Alas, tonight, it’s been two minutes.  Anyway, to continue (back on track, as they say):   (I find it bizarre that as the entire Amtrak coach is being rocked back and forth, putting 99% of her occupants into lullaby land, I'm writing a journal in the dead of night.)

It’s after leaving Yuma that it hits me, I’m actually ONE WEEK from today that I’m on a cruise ship to England.   Ack!  Fourteen days out to sea.  My only contact with the world are the 3 thousand souls joining me on the high seas.  Why am I thinking I’m alone?  Or will be alone?  Well, hey, I'm the only one awake.  Hmmmm. 

I’m insane.  But I'm on my way.

“When  you leave California everything is on sale,” thus a friend of mine quoted a friend of his.  I have shamelessly used that line to great amusement.  Though I do give the person of the quote the honor her due.  Sorry, don’t know her name.  Words, though, have never been more accurate pertaining to this wonderful state in which I was born.  (Note, I was raised in a quaint German town built by a mouse, over run with angels who carry bats and ducks who skate on ice.  We be talkin’ ANAHEIM.) Stealing and using the line entertains many, and I’m sure many have stolen it again and again.

San Antonio crops up out of the western dawn.  I wish I had time to visit the Alamo.  I wish I could forget my basic training days here, when I had a stab at the Air Force.    That was 34 summers, and a thousand years ago.

Part II
A California Yankee Upon Europe's Shore

Even before leaving California I had made up my mind: whatever I had learned, perceived, thought or imagined about Europe was, all combined (whether from school, literature, media, and from any currently or non-currently breathing soul) totaled up to about one grain of sand of the truth. I would carry no presumptions of the European way of life with me. When I landed in Portugal (first stop) my spirit would be as open and unassuming and innocent as a new born, seeing life as new, and without a clue as to what I would find. Anxious, therefore, as each and every moment would be filled with the fresh breath of a new adventure. Translation: I didn't want to be a tourist.

Lisbon, Portugal. I found my first castle ("Castle of Sao Jorge".) Shared experiences are great and I had the blessing to walk about this new land with a fellow ship mate that I had become acquainted with on the "Emerald Princess". Lyndee (of San Diego) and I walked about the hills of Lisbon and when we rode an exceptionally crowded bus we found ourselves an audience of some onboard drama. A pickpocket had been discovered by one of the local women. Shouting and pushing and yelling and denying were all about us. Quite the sight. And then, when the accused thief was able to jump off the bus, he fled, fleeing right smack into the front of a taxi (stopped in traffic), doing an amazing leap and marvelous spin atop the hood, with an impressive fall onto the pavement to make any Hollywood stuntman proud. The cab driver climbed out of his buggy, hurling insults at the thief like he was Sandy Koufax. As the thief tried to hobble away, the cabby left his cab in the middle of the street, chasing after the thief whom I reckoned had seen better days. Following both men, I might add, one pretty ticked woman.

Every street we walked there was something new - well, like, duh. What I mean to say is that there was never a predictable turn. You couldn’t say that one street would have the same feel as the next. Houses, apartments, buildings all different colors, shapes and sizes. Seemed that Portugal had banned homeowners associations. Nice. My kind of place. What touched me was the history. Places that existed before California was a pebble.

Had my first meal in Europe. Tuna steak. Veggies. Local wine. A little hole-in-the-wall café up in the hills. Waitress, cook, the hostess, smiling and happy to have us. We were happy to have them. I think if you look up the word "polite" in any dictionary you'll find the words "employee of any European café."

Outside, the cobblestone streets dare you to walk upon them, narrow and ancient; it's interesting watching tiny cars trying to squeeze through them. I'd tell you that I could smell the countless horses that must have trod these streets for a thousand years but I think it was my shoes. Everywhere, activity. Kids playing beneath the lamp lights. Shop owners beckoning passersby to come into their shops. Clothes hung out to dry. People smoking as if they hadn't got the memo. Cats staring at us from the shadows, as if to ask "did I give you permission to come here?" (After reassuring them that I was a cat lover from way back, they let me pass, telling me "fine, but we won't promise you you'll live to see morning.") Jellicle cats, I believe they were.

The castle was a masterpiece fashioned from the imagination I had always dreamed a castle would be. Elegant in its ancient walls. Steps impossibly narrow. No place for tall guys, I gotta tell ya. So, yes, there you go, my guilty tourist pleasure revealed: castles. Gotta see them castles. Now, if only they wouldn't allow people with cameras and people in general, actually, to visit these castles. Why? Imagine how many pictures I could be taking without people getting in the way! (I thought the production assistants were going to handle that. Imagine!)

On the cruise ship (Emerald Princess) I learned a truth about sailing. Don't ever, whatever you do, don't EVER for your first cruise do a transatlantic cruise (which, I guess, is why I was doing it). Particularly when one is going to be six days out at sea with no land in sight (our trip turned out to be eight days). "No one does that!" exclaimed a gentleman, sitting at my assigned dinner table. Another man gasped, as a boy grew up in Kansas. One woman coughed as a horse whinnied in Nevada. Two women, their mouths gaping so much I could see half-eaten artichoke hearts falling off their tongues. A lady asked me, "whatever for did you do this alone? Particularly across the Atlantic?" I finished a bite of salmon, swallowed the deliciousness of dead fish, and with California pride along with holding up a glass of Sonoma Valley wine, I gave a wry American smile, and replied, "because it was there."

*   *   *

I'm in Switzerland, and shall return to the journey as soon as I can. Meanwhile, something weighs heavily, and I am pressed to get to it.

What surprises me is that the pre-conceived notions I had of Europe have come from Europeans who have come to live in America. I don't mean my fellow blood who came across the pond in the 1650's, I mean the latest arrivals. For example, if my views on the French were based solely on working with French actors and French directors, I would have wished we never had landed on Omaha. Why? Because it seemed (as an actor, writer or director) that every French man or woman I've worked with in the States has this happy attitude that the only way to do something is the French way (as far as cinema, television and stage goes). On a rehearsal stage, or a movie set, when I have often heard the words, "that's not the way we do it in France," only come from the lips of the French. This is always said with a nose stuck up so far it reaches Saturn.

Now, I could also say that if my only contact with the French was when I worked local union crew (Orange County, Local IA 504 in case you're keeping score,) when the Paris Opera Ballet was in town, I'd have a completely different view. I'd tell you that all of the French women (ballet dancers) were beautiful, thin and wanted to kiss each and every male member of our crew. Amongst other things (other things I didn't participate in, happily wed at the time, I). However I shall not get into other things. Just to say that if French women were all like that, I was bloody glad we landed at Omaha, and I'd be willing that we did it again. Ahem.

Best then, to not judge a country based on the way her own country's men and women act, walk and talk, when they tread upon the shore of your own.

(I would add, prayerfully, that those I've met in Europe would not judge America by the way Americans act when they visit.)

That said: where else does one learn pre-conceived notions about a country? Enter, the media.

It's hard sometimes, with the media, where the truth begins, and the lying ends. We are, after all, only fed the news the media chooses to give us. Like saying "well, hey, Google will tell you…" well, hey, Google only tells you what it WANTS to tell you. How to find the truth? Research, dig, compare notes, stay open minded, find the pieces that make the puzzle. For me, the truth is generally found by talking to people - eye ball to eye ball - and simply listening.

How many times do you read a letter or a text and you're not certain how the person on the other end intends the message to come across? Anyway, I knew that when I went to Europe I wouldn't drag along with me the baggage of second, third, 100th hand information.

Landing in England would be the beginning of the real adventure: Europe. Yes, I had tasted a little, however it was just from the point of view of a cruise ship. The trip in Europe wouldn't stop for Lord knew how long. Certainly I thought I had a real job to greet me once I was through tripping about England, Wales, and Ireland, and finally landing in Switzerland. Plan was: work in Lausanne, then after hanging around for a couple of months make an American western movie, in Spain of all places. Today, as I sit and write, the world has changed. No day job, no movie. That story, along with others, I shall come around to later.

I'd get back to the point if I could, indeed, recall where I left it.

Yes. Today.

I'm in Switzerland, riding in a car driven by a man who is from Russia. Young fellow, married, with two kids. He starts sharing with me his deepest burden, and that is the American media's effect on kids. I ask him to please, tell me more. First he asks me what Americans think of Russians. I tell him that we as a people love the Russian people. We love everybody with the exception of mimes and method actors (okay, I really didn't say that).

The media, I went on, blows things out of proportion, as I'm sure every media does. If you believed the media, you'd think we were more concerned about bathrooms and apes than we were concerned about people trying to kill us. He says, "no," telling me he's actually speaking about American video games. What kind of American video games? The ones about Americans killing Russians. He fears this will have a bad effect on his children. I agree with him. After gulping, and being speechless. Here I am. Not in America. Riding with a Russian living in Switzerland. And I'm listening with new ears, upon the shore of a foreign country by just a regular guy who loves his wife and loves his children.

Stressed out because there's this country, so very far away, that, in his perception, has people intent on playing games that kill HIS people.

Please tell me how you would respond. Because, I sure the heck couldn’t. Apart, that is, from telling him…gag….there's nothing I could tell him. Yeah, I'm a dad, I understand. I thought about Putin, and going back to Khrushchev "we will bury you!" Stalin, Lenin, the gang. But those are governments. I am not a politician nor the son of a politician. Would prove nothing to point out to my new friend that it's just governments, or it's just video games…

(recalling when the Kirov Ballet Company came to Orange County. It was a real fun blast, getting to know the Russian crew members. Just us guys, doing theatre. No politics. No threats. Just theatre.)

(Recall I wrote last time about how Europeans learn about America? "Desperate Housewives" "CSI" "Little House on the Prairie" "The West Wing", et al. Scary. Be afraid. Or cry. Or both.)

My friend and I. In the end it just seemed enough to be a dad and to talk to another guy, who just wanted to be a dad, and it didn't matter what country he or I was in, or from. Just a parent who wanted his child to grow up WITHOUT fear.

Enough.

Until next time.

Part III

Meanwhile, Somewhere in  the Atlantic

 

            Aboard the cruise ship (transatlantic) from Florida to England in case you're keeping score) I'm not sure what I accomplished apart from breaking both pairs of glasses.   Fortunately, I had brought some gaffer's tape.   I mean, I had the Swiss Army knife, the mag light, first aid kit, sewing kit, sharpies, of course I'm not going to forget my black gaff tape.    So I "gaff" one arm of one of the glasses, and for the other pair the onboard jeweler did some bending and twisting and almost fixed it…at least I could wear both pair now, but I still looked like a geek trying to tap dance in the middle of a waltz.

            Amazed was I at how calm the ocean can be.  When the captain announced at times that the ocean would be rough, it never seemed unmanageably rough.  The Princess has stabilizers on her, seemed to always do the trick.   I don't remember "rough".  What I do remember - was staring out at the sea and imagining the ships, the multitude of sailing vessels, steam ships and the like, that have sailed these waters.  Without stabilizers.  Nor with hot coffee for that matter!

            Though Europe is much more interesting than cruise ships, must share that one night, under the black sky, the movie theater screen was showing the James Bond flic, "Spectre" which I found rather bizarre.  Not the movie.  The movie I thought was very fun.  It was watching it in the middle of the Atlantic.   Lying on a lounge chair, eating popcorn, drinking coffee, and listening to the waves ram against the hull of the ship.   Fantastic.

            There was a basketball court on deck.   Fun stuff.  There was also, first week anyway, the freshest food you could imagine.  Second week out, there was the stalest food you could imagine.  Apparently no fresh food markets in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.  Or: the cook was thrown overboard because the captain discovered he was eating all the pastries - the fresh ones, anyway.

            We came ashore to port number two, Bilboa, Spain.  The town is actually a twenty minute drive away from port.   I walk a ways down a pier, past a couple of business buildings, and that was about it.   Battling the flu all the time.    Paid $18 for cough syrup at the ship's first aid center.  The woman behind the desk told me that there was a bug going around the ship, and that I probably should see a doctor.  And, no, my insurance is no good.   Hm?  Oh, the visit with the doctor is $60.  I told her "thank-you-so-very-much" however I've had bugs before, and know how to head them off.   I figured I would rather wait to spend $60 for pastries in France, fish n chips in England, and Murphy's/Guinness in Ireland.

*   *   *

            More notes from journal:

            One bright afternoon, I'm sitting aft deck.  Soaking in a sun I haven't seen since I left California.  Five days on a train, three days of rain in Florida, and until today I've seen clouds, fog, mist, and more water than I thought existed.  For now, the sun awakes, and the clouds have no chance. No humidity. Warm, salty air. Perfect.  Just like southern California, my fellow pilgrims.

            Not to mention my much neglected sun tan; must keep that California look up to standard.

            The sea is a dark blue.   Like Lake Tahoe.  Without the Sierra surrounding it.   I go searching for any uniformed gent/lady to ask if it's possible to have a "look-see" inside the bridge. I’m told "sure, for $150." 

            "No, I don't want to buy it, just take a look at it."

            "Tours are scheduled every so often, and it's still $150."

            "I don't want a tourist tour, just a "look-see" tour.  I promise to even spell your name right."

            But the gent/lady is gone, never to be heard from again.

            "How did you find your salmon?"

            Old joke.

            I'm dining every night, and every night the food (again and again, only the first week) is wonderfully mouthwatering terrific.  However, they serve enough to keep a sloth happy.  Which reminded me of the joke:

            "How did you find your salmon?" asked the waiter.

            "I merely looked under the pickle," said the patron, "and there it was."

           

            Second old joke (to be fair), "Is the fish fresh?" asked the patron.

            "No, sir," replied the waiter, "it is very well mannered."

            Cruise ship dining is always an adventure, I gotta tell ya.

            This morning:

            One of the ship's employees doesn't know what a bow is.  Scary.  

            This afternoon:

            Saw an Italian waiter, and a French bus boy, yelling at each other in broken English.         Body language telling a wonderful tale in ways broken English could never possibly tell it.

*   *   *

            Port Three.  Le Havre, France. Wanted desperately to rent a car, drive a couple of hours south and see the Normandy beaches.  Alas, couldn’t do it.   Vowed to visit one day.   Like, say, Memorial Day weekend.  And that, dear friends, didn't happen either.  "Why?", is a very good question.    France was on strike (writing now two weeks later), and her trains, planes, buses and her oil refineries had all shut down.    Wanted to go.   Thought maybe I would take  a roundabout route  (Germany, Belgium, then south along the French coast, or skirt through Italy, up the coast of France, sorta like Patton, one way or the other).  

            I find it amazing that, here in Switzerland, I'm surrounded by countries who suffered through two world wars.  France, Germany, Italy, Austria, Belgium.  Not to forget the outlying countries.  But Switzerland? Nazi Germany didn't touch it.  And - no one here can explain to me as to why.  

            Back to the cruise.  However, only long enough to leave it.

            England awaits.  

Part IV

Fish n Chips In The Backyard of a Celtic Woman Warrior

            When I stepped off of Princess I stepped off with an open heart, a clear head, with no thoughts nor pretensions of what I expected England, then Wales, then Ireland to be.      In the aforementioned first chapter I wrote that I wanted to come to Europe without a clue as to what it was all about.  I wanted to explore, listen, learn, be excited about each and every new thing.

            When I exchanged emails with my new friend (and I hadn't met him and his wife as yet) in Ireland he mentioned that if I wanted to, he'd take me to an American Sports Bar.  I wrote back quickly without a pause in my keyboard stroke, "no, however thank you! I'm coming to Ireland, I want to see Ireland, I don't want to see anything that even remotely resembles America."

            He was fine with my humble request.

            I had shared with him that I didn't want to see any of the tourist places (I should add that I had shared the same thing with my friend, Gill, in Colchester, England, with whom was my first stop), my want was to go to where the locals wished to escape…particularly the tourists.  I did share my ONE tourist guilty pleasure: I had to see castles.  After all, the only castles I'd ever seen were Hearst Castle and Disneyland's Sleeping Beauty Castle (yes, I know, they're "not").

            And, of course, Anaheim does have its own Matterhorn.

            Off I stepped, therefore, upon the soil that is thousands of years old, where kings and peasants have tread, where the Romans marched and where dragons - which would be cool if indeed they still - lurked.

            Thusly I tread, wheeled duffle bag and a small second bag in tow, with a day pack slung over a shoulder, I sallied forth upon the soil of Arthur the King, Tiny Tim, Sherlock Holmes and James Bond.  No, what makes you think I'm a romantic?

            It was raining.  Perfect.  No, I mean in a good sense.  Foggy, cold, rainy. Charles Dickens and Mary Poppins.  That's England to me (so much for no pretentions, I know).

            And after passing through the dock area, past the buildings and fenced off places where dry docked ships waited to be repaired, what would be my first sight in merry ole England?

            Cobblestone streets?

            Red public phone boxes?

            Directions to 221B Baker Street?

            Castles?

            17th century pub?

            A true English market?

            (cue busser sound)

            WRONG on all counts. 

            It was a Starbucks.

            Next to a MacDonalds.

            Near a Burger King.

            "Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo" I cried as the rain pelted and the wind blew.  "Alas" I whispered to the dead kings, the fiery dragons and the fish 'n' chips: "WHY did you allow Starbucks and MacDonald's into your Kingdom?"   They didn't answer.   I don't know why.        

            However, it didn't take long for England to take over.  First clue: traffic coming from the left side of the road.   It's a whole new experience, I gotta tell ya.   Of course, if you're from my neck of the woods, the first inclination (before you cross any road) is to look left THEN right.       Here you better first look RIGHT or you might become a Belgian waffle.   The streets also have "round-abouts" that have "round-abouts".   Crossing five or six streets just to walk to the other side is like experiencing Manhattan at rush hour.   Scary.  Of course, in New York City the traffic police aren't there to give speeding tickets, they're there to make sure no one kills anyone.  Okay, that's out of my system.   Just be careful, fair traveler.   If you go with the attitude that you don't know how to walk, drive or sit, you'll be fine.  Just go with the thought that every moment is going to be something new

            I dragged my baggage to a corner and asked a passing Taxi Cab where the train depot might be. The cab couldn't speak so the driver answered.  He spoke to me in English, which is something I knew I'd have to learn.   However, I understood and was very grateful to discover the depot was just a dash, hop, and fifty round-abouts away.   Meaning: a mile.

           

            Mission of the day: Eat at an ENGLISH establishment.  Not at one I could easily visit back home.  (Though I must confess if there had been an "In n Out Burger" around, I might have changed my mind.  But probably not.)

            Aboard the train toward London, cross country to a town called "Hayes". Name of which I found interesting in that that was my paternal grandmother's maiden name.  She was from the very small town of Braymer, Missouri.  At the tender age of seventeen she caused quite a stir when she left town on her own and made for the upper regions of Minnesota, where my grandfather happened to be.  Whether or not she already knew my grandfather at that time, or before she left Braymer is a mystery to this day.  I imagine I might find the answer beginning in Ireland (where the ship left for the Promised Land in 1650), but I doubt it.

            Where was I?

            The train to Hayes.  Wait for my friend, along with her friend Emer, to meet up with me, as they were taking a train from London to attend a wedding reception.   Visit for a couple of hours, then they would be off and I would be gone to spend the night at a nearby "Airbnb".   Tomorrow we could meet up again, take a train into London and do some exploring. But I'm ahead of the game here and must go back…back where?   To the beginning, as we all know, a very good place to start (cue music).

            I was born in a small German town in southern California, built by a mouse (or THE MOUSE), where ducks skate on ice and where angels carry bats.  I remember we had such things as orange groves and a pond with fish in it (called the Brick Pond for you locals out there) and you could have your own newspaper route with no fear that anyone…..oh, wait, not THAT far back.

           

            Off at Hayes, and I find a little café to have my very first meal in England.   A little thing  known as a Cornish pastry.  Fantastic flakey crust which holds together meat and veggies, cheeses to die for, and mashed potatoes.   Anyway, it wasn't a Big Mac or a Whopper, so I was happy.      And then I ordered hot tea.

            "Wha?" said the man behind the counter.

            "A hot tea."

            "Wha, a hot wha?"

            "Tea, hot…a hot tea.  Not a cold one."

            He looked at me like I was from Mars.   I thought, great, I hope I'm not going to have this problem with my California turn of phrase.  Must smile, politely, and say again….

            "A hot tea."

            He shook his head slowly.  And started to back away. 

            Loud laughter came from the other side of the room.  A man sat with a woman and a couple of kids.  He was laughing at me.  He said, "just ask for tea."

            "Tea."

            I was given hot tea.

            Lesson learned.  Tea is only served hot in England.  Want cold?  Go back to America.  Ye shall find no iced tea served in England.  And as I was to learn, the same rule applied to most of Europe.

            Oh the things learned!

*   *   *

NOTES from journal:

Pepperoni pizza is an American thing, not Swiss, nor is it Italian.

Swiss Cheese is only a name given by Americans.  There is no cheese in Switzerland called "Swiss".  Note that the only American named cheese is not cheese at all, but processed.  Hm.

Price of gas is always stipulated by the Swiss government.

There is no relish.

French fries (or what they're really called, and where they're originally from, "Belgian fries") are served in restaurants as opposed to whole potatoes.

Grocery stores are a tad different.   You weigh your own produce, the scale prints out the weight and price, you attach the printed note to the bag so when you go to the check out, the cashier doesn't have to bother with it.

Fruit doesn't look as good/fresh as ours.  Most of it seems to be imported from Spain/Chili.  Everyone's favorite wine?   (drum roll if you will) Is from California.

Prices are much higher, even than California's.

They don't place eggs in the cold section, neither do they milk.  They sell milk in boxes.   

Nowhere in Europe will you find toilet seat protective covers.  However, nowhere in Europe will you find a public restroom that is unclean…like ours (I am told by locals that I must have been very, very lucky.)

No coffee refills.  At all.  Anywhere.  Ever.  Get used to it.

I constantly run into people who smoke.   Everywhere.   Can't get used to it.

Laundry is hung in dungeons.  

Don't like spiral staircases?  Then don't visit Europe.

Whatever you do, don't ever take a sip of your wine (or any alcoholic beverage) before your host/hostess does.   Even if said host/hostess forgets to have the first sip, forget about it.  You still have to wait.   Failure to do so means you'll be in the dungeon, hanging laundry.

99% of the people I've met/seen are NOT overweight.  I attribute this to the following:

1) they all eat cheese

2) they all eat chocolate

3) they all drink wine (from California)

4) they all walk everywhere

Like all of Europe, American lifestyles, the comings and goings of the American people, are always keenly observed.  Unfortunately, the sad part is that all of these observations about American living comes from watching American television; something which Europeans love to do.  One woman told me that all she knew about America was from watching "Desperate Housewives".   Another told me her window into the American soul was "NCIS".    Another told me "Little House on the Prairie", so there's hope.

I was invited out to lunch after church last week and found myself at a crowded table with women talking about the last paragraph.   It slipped out that I was in the entertainment field (someone else spilled the beans), so, of course, it came to be, finally and eventually, that the conversation stopped when a woman turned to me and asked the fatal question, "how much of our perception of America through television and film are you responsible for?"

I merely pulled my coat over my head, said nothing, and hid (reminding myself of "Blood Beach").

Don't be surprised if you walk into a British or Irish pub or Swiss supermarket and hear Johnny Cash or the Beach Boys or Donna Summer playing over the loud speakers.

"Market" is a place that sells food outside only.  An inside establishment would be called a "supermarket".

There is no fake sugar in Switzerland.   Baking is always with fresh ingredients.   Want soda?  Only made with real sugar. And I must share that I will never have another pastry in America, for Europe has spoiled me.

Be careful of the meat you order.  It may be horse.

Whereas in America the good folks who work off stage/off camera are noted as "crew", here in Switzerland and in France (can only speak for those two) the folks who work offstage/off camera are referred to as "people in the shadows."   I rather like that.

So tell me, children, how is it that a mere baby of a place, let's call her California (166 years young), can have so much influence on lands that are thousands upon thousands of years old?   While you ponder, I shall be having my espresso and patisserie au chocolat.

End of NOTES:

Back to other notes.

As opposed to just writing present notes.

"Too many notes," said the king.

*   *   *

            Today, present.  June 24.  The morning after the United Kingdom has voted "yes" to leaving the European Union.  I'm sitting, minding my own business.  Drinking coffee and staring out at the Swiss sky, my thoughts are in the "empty box/cave" section of the male brain (you know the one that makes women scream at us).  When the cat came, yawned, and used my bare leg for a scratching post.   After cleaning up the blood and returning to my chair, hoping to leave earth again for a few, it came to be that a moment later found us discussing politics. 

            The cat wanted to know what was going on in American, politically.  I turned a slow, stone stare, and replied "beats the hell out me."   The cat asked how many Americans felt that way?  I replied about the whole lot of them.

            I asked the cat about her own feelings about the UK.  She told me she was a cat, after all, and couldn't speak English, or French, or anything else remotely human.  I asked her how that was possible since she was speaking to me.  She lifted up her nose, her tail, and as she walked away sniffed, saying "I'm a cat, I don't discuss such matters."

            It was then I decided to return to earth.   Listen to some Handel (George Frideric), and begin writing again.   After all, my invisible friends were speaking to me, and writers must take that opportunity as best as they can.

*   *   *

            CUT TO:

            April 17.

            That night.  The ladies had gone to their reception and I was at my night time stay in Hayes.   A nice house.   I was hoping for something out of "The Hobbit" but instead settled for a nice house.   (I really was just looking for anywhere, however, as I sit in the present maybe I should have sought that sort of place out.   I mean, John Wayne's "humble cottage" is still in Ireland, isn't?)

            The woman who owned the nice house was pleasant and felt sorry that I hadn't eaten in the last hour so fixed me a fine English tea of (ahem) coffee, pancakes and cheese on toast.   She had her "telly" on and asked me if I liked much of American television.  Before I could reply she told me that all she knew about America was from watching television (the mantra I would be hearing all across Europe, but didn't know it at the time).   What was she watching, you might ask?  You might.  She was watching NBC's "Dateline".  A series that has gone on forever, chronicling true murders, and how they're solved, all across America.

            "I just love watching true life American murder mysteries."

            I told her that I had the same interest, and then: "Any kind of show like that in England?"

            She didn't think so.   She just preferred watching American television.   Which I thought was…something else, by golly.  I mean, how many people in America think that the British all walk and talk like Benny Hill and live their lives straight out of Monty Python?   (I think we all need to be required to visit different countries annually.)

            Note on trains, buses in Europe.  They all run on time, leave on time, stop on time.   When I took a train from London to Holyhead, Wales to catch the ferry to Dublin, the train had to stop because of some object or another blocking its path.  The conductor apologized profusely for the delay.  And for the remainder of the trip continued to apologize profusely.  This is how it works I found in Europe.  Pretty cool system, if you ask my humble self.

*   *   *

London.  Next day.

            Met up with my Cholchester friends at a train station.   Rambled into Londontown, via train, bus, and subway (or as it is called in England "The Underground").    In London we toured via our own two feet.  Said feet became sore soon enough and my knees creaked like the Tin Man's after climbing up impossible stairs dragging my luggage.  Gill said she thought that Americans probably didn't walk as much as Europeans.  I thought that probably wasn't true and I mentioned it.   Again, that was April 17.  It is now June 24, and I now believe her.    In California you drive because walking four days to find a market is just too much to handle.   Here, walking four days in any direction will find you in a separate country.

            Most folks I see are in shape.  Walkers all. Which reminds me of another reason people walk in Europe, told to me by various Europeans.   They own cars, but since a parking spot is impossible to find, and once found considered a treasure to have, most would rather walk or take a bus, in fear of losing their parking spot.

            Which reminds me of another story.  Once long ago I met an English woman online, who came to visit California…and presumably me.   A fantastic writer, deeply creative with all the emotions that come attached.  I was happy, actually, to meet another creative soul who was more bizarre than myself.  But that's not the point.  The point is that we would have deep philosophical discussions, my favorite being (while we crossed Death Valley): why did my family get on the ship and cross the pond, and hers didn't?  Her answer: "Traffic."

            In London I saw marvelous people and marvelous things.  Shall not bore you because I'm sure you've seen yourself - either in person or in print or media - all of the wondrous things of London.   My first tourist concern, though, was Mr. Shakespeare's Globe theatre.   We three baggage carrying adventurers crossed the Millennium Bridge, and there she was, sitting across the Thames.

            The Globe.

            I mentioned to Gill that I was tempted to bow three times and declare I wasn't worthy.   She told me that she already knew I wasn't worthy, so we pressed on.   Oh, but I would have loved to have seen the inside of that theater!   Not enough time.   We were pressed and had to go.  I knew, after all, some castle with my name on it couldn't be far away.

            Recalling the sense of history you find here.   A land thousands of years old.   With people inhabiting it, anyway.  I'm sure California is thousands of years old, too, just sayin'.

            Years ago when my British writer friend visited, we were up in northern California, went to a bar where my brother worked.  She noted that the sign above the door read "Established 1907".   I told her the building was a historical landmark and she laughed.  Now I know why, as anything built in Europe in 1907 is but a pimple on the grand scale of European history.

            Two more notes: she wanted to try an American Guinness and she hated it.  Berated the bartender (not my brother's place) for not pouring it right, not letting the foam settle, and the general weakness of the drink.  However, one of her biggest thrills during our adventure was unlimited coffee refills, and all of them for free.

            Back on train.

            Headed for Colchester.

            What I found in Colchester were some very inspiring things.  An old windmill/grinding house.  Cobblestone streets lined with buildings that looked more period than the modern façades of London.  Like the coastal villages of Portugal, Spain, and France that I'd seen a week before, these buildings, these houses, were in varied colors, shapes and sizes.  Little wonder did I have, that you could turn a corner and see an artist, pallet in hand, painting a street or building or two. No one hurries, everyone is polite.  And most forgive that I don't speak English.

            Colchester is Britain's oldest recorded town, once a Roman capital.  When you visit the Colchester Castle you're visiting over two thousand years of history built upon the foundation of the Roman "Temple of Claudius" in AD 54.   The castle itself was built in 1100.  Next to the castle you can see the ruins the Romans, and some say the Vikings, left behind.

            Near the Castle?  A Roman wall, two thousand years old.  Celtic Queen of Iceni, Boudicca, led her troupes (via chariot, with her two daughters at her side) against the Romans who held the land, including London and most all of England (they couldn't touch Ireland with a 100 mile pole) this was circa AD 60.  The locals will tell you that they can still hear the Celts screaming from the hills, all night long, the women and children included, all together being as loud as they could be to keep the Roman soldiers awake, freaked out by all the noise.   Waking up, or staying up all night, by morning they would be weak, just ripe for the Celts to come sweeping from out of nowhere, sending them into oblivion.

            Boudicca was not a woman to be messed with.  What had started all this was: Romans took over her and her husband's (Prasutagus) land when Prasutagus died.  But you see, in a pact between the Romans and the Celts, the Romans were obligated to allow a woman to take over the family possessions when the husband died. This was not in the general Roman play book.  Other conquered Roman cultures were no so blest with such a pact.  

            This time was different, as the Romans decided to skip the playbook, and chose the wrong woman to mess with.  As her lands were taken, Boudicca and her daughters were raped. Like every other beaten people, the Celts were to just shut up and forget about it.

            But the Celts were different.   Women had equality with men.  And Roman women hated the Celtic women for that reason alone.  Secondly and more importantly, Celtic men did not like their women to be messed with.  So why didn't a man take charge?  No clue.  My personal thought is that Boudicca didn't need motivation to stir up her people, and the people simply went with her as she led the way.   And that was that.

            Ergo, Boudicca, fearless Celtic woman warrior, drove out the Romans from the land, even sacking Roman controlled London.   And here I was, staring at the very wall that Boudicca must have seen, sighed and yawned, and, just before riding over it to cut the Romans off at the knees, remarked "is that the BEST you can do?" 

            And then came the 14th Century monastery and grave yard.

            I had asked Gill to show me the best hole-in-the-wall fish n' chips place she could find, and she did.   Smelly, small, crowded, and I had to ask her to interpret the menu.  I wish I could recall why I had a hard time with it.   One of the things I had been warned about before I crossed the pond, from my friends in the States who were from England, was to remember that even though America was settled by the British, that we two nations are very different culturally.  So be aware.   Open eyed me.   It's all a grand experience.  But the language of the land threw me at times.  And so I needed help from my friend to interpret English into English.   One such revelation was what "chips" actually meant.

            You see, I'd been to "authentic" British or Irish fish 'n' chips places in America.  Most of the time, "chips" are a whole potato cut into four pieces, seasoned, fried, and served with fish.  In England, and, well, all over the Europe I've seen so far, chips are what we would call French Fries.   However I've already mentioned this, and shall move on.

            I went across the street (as so ordered by Gill) to find a park bench to enjoy our meal. 

            This was not a rest stop in the Colorado Rockies.  Nor New York's Central Park.  Or the Huntington Beach Pier.  This was a 14th Century (in ruin) monastery and graveyard with park benches. 

            Two homeless men came over to chat with Gill.  They didn't want money, nor even food.  They just wanted to flirt with my her, who, being a woman, was much prettier than myself, I grant you.  However these two birds didn't give me the time of day nor a glance.  They came over just to flirt.  I'm sitting on the same bench as my friend, but they must have considered me a moot point.  Rather amusing. Oh, and I had no clue what they were speaking, since it was British with an Essex accent…don't ask.

            Fish 'n' Chips were the absolute best I have ever had.  Yes, wrapped in newspaper (I knew some of you would be asking).  The ambience - magnificent.   My time in England was much much too short.  Had plans to see more of the country, and visit some writer friends in the northern-western regions of England, alas, long story short, not to happen.

            Tomorrow, Ireland is a mere ferry ride away.