Paris and the Big Adieu

The Puerta del Sol bound for Paris left close to midnight. Tom and Jim got to the Madrid Chamartin train station early to snag an empty compartment. It was a 12-hour trip, and they hoped to be able to stretch out, maybe catch some sleep.

They discovered they weren’t the only ones with this strategy.

After a panicky search down the train’s crowded, narrow corridor, they found a compartment with two empty seats. The eyes of the current couchette occupants shot darts at the boys as they slid open the compartment door, hefted their backpacks onto the overhead luggage rack, and tried not to step on any toes as they took their seats. Tom’s loud apologies (“Scuzi, scuzi!”) and his frequent sitting-standing-sitting to retrieve a guidebook… then his journal…. then his trusty map… didn’t help lighten anyone’s mood. Then again, Tom and Jim’s mood was already somewhat depressed, as this was to be (they thought) the final train they’d take together before Tom went to search for a job in Germany and Jim went home to take on the role of starving artist.

As the train left the station, one of the other passengers started talking to the young woman seated next to Tom. Tom perked up. As with Jim and the Spanish Abogado, Tom saw an opportunity to put his high school French to the test. Laughter ensued. And it continued for the next hour or so, when it became clear that everyone in the compartment, except Tom, wanted to try to get some shut-eye.

Thirteen hours later, the Puerta Del Sol arrived at the Gare d’Orléans. The boys found a room on the Left Bank for thirty francs (about $6) and, though exhausted, explored the nearby Sorbonne area. The rest of that day and into the night, they wandered about with no particular destination in mind. The lights of the sidewalk cafes, the cabarets and bars, the boulangeries and boucheries and fromageries—all made for an excellent introduction to Paris. But they were exhausted from the sleep-deprived train ride, so they headed back to their pensione early.

The next morning, the sun shone brightly and the weather felt unseasonably warm, which lifted their spirits as the boys set out to explore Paris more strategically than they had the night before. Walking up Boulevard Saint-Michel, they came upon an island in the middle of the Seine—Notre-Dame de Paris, the iconic cathedral. The massive structure seemed to rise effortlessly from its plaza, alive with pigeons. From the twin Gothic towers to the Rose Windows, and finally to the small park behind the cathedral that revealed countless architectural details, Notre-Dame unfolded slowly and beautifully.  Jim made sure to wear his Notre Dame t-shirt—the one honoring not the cathedral but their alma mater, just a few miles away in Indiana.

Next came the Louvre. This was another of those sites that backpackers had very different opinions—if not convictions—about:

You haven’t seen Paris if you haven’t seen the Louvre.

You need to spend at least one full day there.

Don’t go—not worth the crowds.

Tom and Jim never doubted it would be worth a visit. As expected, it was both fascinating and completely overwhelming. Treasures from the Orient, Egypt, Greece, and Rome flowed into sculpture and then painting. Thankfully, it was off-season, so the boys were able to get up close but not personal with Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, encased in plastic after a recent vandalism attack. Tom stared at her mysterious smile and wondered why it held such power. and wondering why her smile has such power. Jim sat on a nearby bench for a while, then approached his friend and suggested some fresh air.

They left the museum and walked through the calm of the Tuileries Gardens—a world of fountains, flowers, and quiet tucked inside the city—until they reached the Place de la Concorde. From there, they stepped onto one of the most famous streets in the world: the Champs-Élysées. One of them remarked how—not all that long ago—Third Reich soldiers marched down this same avenue, followed years later by victorious Allied forces reclaiming it. At the far end stood the Arc de Triomphe, a symbol of freedom and survival. But in 1977, Tom and Jim felt that the Champs was oddly ordinary: clothing stores you might find in any American mall, pizza parlors—even a McDonald’s—lined the wide sidewalks.

Continuing their touristy day, Jim and Tom followed the Seine toward another powerful symbol. As they walked, Tom read aloud from his Let’s Go guidebook that they were about to visit “the biggest oil well in the world”—the Eiffel Tower. They walked around the structure and debated taking the elevator to the top, but their funds were just about depleted. They contented themselves with sitting on a nearby bench for a while to people-watch.

That final night came quickly. With Jim ticketed to London the next day, the boys decided on a night on the town one last time, budget be damned. In the Sorbonne area, they found seats at the bar in a lively club and started working their way through a forty-franc ($8) carafe of red wine. With each sip, memories from the journey surfaced and spilled out. Their laughter and good-natured arguing drew other patrons into the conversation. The boys’ new drinking buddies were all French. They wanted to practice their English. Tom wanted to practice his French. The result was a lot of laughter and more drinks all around.

Bonus for the boys blowing their budgets: the French would not allow Tom or Jim to pay!

Somewhere near 2 a.m., they stumbled back to the pension, having been thoroughly overserved. Tom made it into the bathroom in time to do what you do when your stomach rebels against heavy drinking, then collapsed into bed and tried, unsuccessfully, to stop the room from spinning. Jim, also terribly intoxicated, tried to set his alarm clock so he wouldn’t miss his early morning train, but the numbers kept jumping around.

Four hours later, Tom woke to see Jim already dressed, his backpack on. This was the moment both had been dreading—but both were too hungover to make too big a deal of it. They shook hands, wished each other luck, and told one another to take care.

And then Jim was gone.

When Tom woke a few broken hours of sleep later, the room felt hollow. The quiet was heavy. For the first time in two months, Tom was completely on his own. The fear was real, but so was a strange calm. This was what he had chosen. There was no one to lean on now, no shared decisions, no familiar voice to confirm the next step. Just Paris, and whatever came next.

Hours earlier, at the Gare de l'Est, Jim’s certainty about his decision began to unravel. What had felt so right only hours earlier—England, Christmas, the sensible next move—now felt rushed, even wrong. As the train pulled away from Paris, doubt flooded in. He questioned why he hadn’t stayed, why he hadn’t done what Tom was going to do: live and work in a foreign country. What could be a better experience to eventually write about? In a matter of minutes, confidence gave way to sharp and unexpected regret. As Paris faded into the distance, he wondered if the braver choice had been the one he didn’t take.

Neither he nor Tom knew it at the time, but this was not an ending. It only felt like one. This was a necessary pause. They would stay in touch and, before long, start making plans to meet up again—this time in Cairo, Egypt—packs on back, more experienced, ready, and eager to move past Europe and onto the Middle East and Asia.

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That was Then. Click on the video for the boys' Now reflections on Paris and the Big Adieu.

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Final Stops in Spain: Toledo & Madrid

After a tense few days in Torremolinos, Tom and Jim got back into the backpacking groove by taking a six-hour train ride north to Toledo.

Leaving the Mediterranean behind, the boys headed northeast through the olive groves, vineyards, and broad agricultural plains of Andalusia. Farther north, as they entered Castilla-La Mancha province, the terrain grew scrubby and spare. It was easy to imagine Cervantes’s famous duo, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, atop their mounts, trotting across the fields in search of windmills.

Then, almost suddenly, Toledo appeared, perched atop enormous rock foundations and sheer cliffs. Its Mudejar towers, temple domes, and church spires, set against distant hills and low mountain ranges, offered an inspiring panorama that seemed to testify to centuries of coexistence between Muslims, Jews, and Christians. The color of the city’s stone — warm browns — matched the surrounding landscape. The Tagus River curved around the base of the hill like a moat. Breathtaking.

For Tom, Toledo was felt in her narrow streets, the flea markets, the architecture of the old fortress Alcazar, the little souvenir shops, the old women dressed in black, the children running in the streets, the cobblestones, the arches, the red-earth buildings, and the leisurely pace of the city. As he noted in his journal: “Just to walk through the streets, it is easy to conjure up visions of earlier civilizations; in these small towns, the history of the land is so close.”

Rich in history and the arts, Toledo was the highlight of their Spanish adventure. This was the Spain they had imagined: rustic, unhurried, and deeply rooted in history. Again, from Tom’s journal: “I do not say this just because Toledo, Spain, is the sister city of my Ohio hometown, but because of the quaintness of the area and region. Toledo has successfully combined the old with the new, each respecting the other and striving forward.”
Despite their enchantment with Toledo, the boys pushed farther north to Madrid.
The contrast was sharp. Energetic, sprawling, and growing, the capital felt restless by comparison, and the effect on the boys was jarring. Still, they found two oases of calm amid the city’s bustle: The Prado Museum and Retiro Park.

The Prado remains Jim’s favorite museum. Unlike many of the museums they had visited, where he felt the need for fresh air after an hour or so, the Prado was compact and well-arranged. He and Tom took in works by Goya, Velázquez, Titian, and Raphael without getting lost or overwhelmed. They were even able to contemplate Picasso’s “Guernica” crowd-free. (The masterpiece was moved a decade or so later to the Museo Reina Sofia, where it became the centerpiece of the museum’s 20^th-century art collection.)

Speaking of fresh air, Retiro Park offered plenty, a relatively quiet island of green and calm amid the asphalt. The boys separated for the rest of the afternoon, and Jim headed to the park and one of its benches. An older man sat on the same bench and struck up a conversation. This was the most extensive test of Jim’s mastery of the Spanish language. From the gentleman, Jim was able to learn that the man grew up in Madrid, was an abogado (lawyer), and had an esposa and dos hijos. The lawyer, in turn, learned from Jim that

“España is muy grande.”

For nodding graciously instead of laughing outright, Jim remains convinced that the man he met on that bench was a saint.

Retro Park: An oasis of green in the middle of Madrid

For both Tom and Jim, Toledo was inseparable from El Greco, who arrived in Spain in 1577 from Greece. The artist’s stormy skies, elongated figures, and spiritual themes seemed to make Toledo a living museum dedicated to the painter and sculptor. A number of his works are in churches, where his paintings inspire tourist donations to maintain both the art and the building’s upkeep.

Madrid, of course, offered much more than the Prado and Retiro Park. Beautiful fountains flourished in major squares, and the architecture of many buildings spoke to Bourbon influence and the romantic period of Isabella II.  Life in Spain moved at a slower pace, shaped by heat, tradition, and long afternoons when shops closed and streets emptied.
For better or worse, this lifestyle rhythm was changing. Spain was emerging from four decades under the dictatorship of Franco—who had died just two years earlier—and cautiously transitioning toward a constitutional democracy under King Juan Carlos I.
But most memorable for Tom and Jim were the Spanish people. Friendly, patient, and hospitable, they defied whatever stereotypes the boys had unknowingly carried with them. It seemed everyone they met was looking out for them.

One example: As the boys checked out of their pensión to catch a train to what was likely to be their last destination together, the landlady thanked them warmly and wished them a good trip.

“And don’t forget to call your mothers,” she added.

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 That was the "Then." Watch the Video below for the "Now" reflections on Toledo and Madrid.

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Spain - Trouble in Torremolinos

After the solo trip to Spain and a couple of days in Valencia, Jim was eager to meet back up with Tom and explore Spain together. While traveling alone offered a certain level of freedom, it could also get extremely lonely.

Separating for a day or longer in Europe had been different, since there were fellow, English-speaking backpackers everywhere you went. But in 1977, Spain was not on the list of “must-sees” for backpackers. Neither Tom nor Jim heard even the most seasoned backpacker say, “Going to Spain! Don’t miss the Alhambra!” Few of the people in the pensione, restaurants, or shops spoke English, and Jim’s rudimentary Spanish produced little more than puzzled looks when he attempted conversation. In one journal entry, Jim complained that he couldn’t even eavesdrop on nearby conversations, since they were all in rapid Spanish.

Tom seemed eager to reunite as well, for when they unexpectedly met on the train platform in Valencia, waiting to catch the 1:08 AM train to Granada, they nearly hugged. Guys didn’t do that back then. The gods apparently approved of this early reunification, for the boys found an empty compartment and were able to stretch out and sleep during the overnight trip.

They spent the next morning in Granada, mostly exploring the aforementioned Alhambra. Tom resumed his tour-guide ways, reading aloud about how the Alhambra became a beautiful symbol of the flourishing  Islamic period on the Iberian Peninsula in the 13th century.  This was a rare period of time of tolerance of religions as Muslims, Christians, and Jews were able to contribute to this high point of the Moorish world until the famous year of 1492 when Spain's Isabella and Ferdinand conquered Spain.  But what remained, the Alhambra, was a wonderful combination of courtyards filled with pools, fountains, and intricate carvings. This beautiful palace dominates the Granada landscape still today!

Eager for warmer weather, the boys decided to take an afternoon train from Granada to Malaga, on the Costa del Sol. Today, you can make the trip in under two hours. Back then, it took five.

For Tom, the trip was another welcome opportunity to let the scenery speak for the country. He had expected Spain to resemble much of Mexico—dry, dusty, maybe a little rough around the edges. And there was a stark beauty to the land, even more rugged than southern Italy. But then the magic happened: the railway curved right along the Mediterranean coastline. On one side, the endless blue sea; on the other, the Pyrenees rose majestically.  Totally unexpected. Totally unforgettable. As he read in Let’s Go, the rocky soil, their major crops were not from the ground but from trees, as olives and oranges were dominant in village markets.  The local architecture reflected the harshness of the soil with large stone blocks covered with adobe plaster, apparently the best protection from the brutal sun, which even in December was making an impact.

The Spanish countryside offered plenty of time to reflect on whether to end the trip... or somehow keep going.

Both Tom and Jim found the Spaniards to be warm, kind, and appreciative of the boys’ pathetic attempts to communicate in Spanish.  And best of all, Spain was easy on a backpacker’s wallet, as they discovered when they reached Malaga. As they searched for lodgings, they met two Canadian girls, Jackie and Shelly, who told them to push on to Torremolinos, only a half-hour away, where the rooms were cheaper and the nightlife more… existent.

On the beach, Torremolinos

This turned out to be an excellent suggestion. The boys found a large room, complete with a full bathroom, kitchen, and fireplace, for only 275 pesetas a night—about $4 back then! They were also close to the beach, and the town’s vibe was young, carefree.

Tom and Jim, though, were not feeling particularly carefree. They were now just days away from the expiration of the Eurail passes—and their savings. While Tom had made up his mind to take a chance on finding work in Garmisch, the German ski resort, Jim was still vacillating. He wanted to stay. Tom encouraged him to stay and go to Garmisch with him. Jim was torn.

He made up his mind the next morning at 2 am. He’d had trouble sleeping, knowing that a decision had to be made. To try to tire himself, he went into the bathroom so as not to disturb Tom, and continued reading “The Onion Field,” by Joseph Wambaugh. It wasn’t Shakespeare or Hemingway, but the writing was so clear, so captivating. At one point, he read a passage so moving that he closed the book sharply. He’d made up his mind.

The next morning, as he and Tom walked through town to find a breakfast place, he told Tom that he felt compelled to return to the States and attempt to write a novel.

“I can’t explain it,” he said. “It’s just something I need to do. Something I’ve wanted to do since I was a kid.”

Tom didn’t react. They walked on in silence. Finally, Jim said, “Well?”

Tom hesitated. “Okay,” he said. “I just hope your ego can take it.”

Jim stopped, not sure he’d heard correctly.

Tom turned. “You’re a good writer. But you have a big ego. Not sure you can handle it.”

There was more, and it got uglier—at least, for Jim. Tom covered a lot of ground: Jim’s stubbornness, his inflexibility, his seeming inability to let people get close to him. Tom predicted a very lonely future for his friend.

Jim was too surprised to respond. It was so out of character for Tom to be even the slightest bit confrontational. And here he was, jabbing away at Jim like Muhammad Ali. The best counterpunch Jim could muster was, “Well, I’m surprised you had the guts to say all that.”

A cool-down period was needed and taken. They set off in different directions, both wondering if they’d be able to stand each other during the final days of the trip.

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 That was the "Then." Watch the Video below for the "Now" reflections on "Trouble in Torremolinos."

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Solo to Spain

Suddenly, it was early December. Tom and Jim spent a day exploring Florence: the Duomo, the Galleria dell'Accademia (home to Michelangelo’s David), the Basilica De Sante Croce (final resting place of Michelangelo, Dante, Machiavelli, and Galileo), and Giotto’s Bell Tower with its spectacular views.

During dinner that evening, they began planning the rest of the trip. The realization that less than two weeks remained on their Eurail passes hit them like a slap as cold as the weather was getting in Northern Italy. Both hated the thought of their trip coming to an end, and they talked for hours that night—at dinner and, later, in the youth hostel—about how they might extend it.

One problem: money. Specifically, the lack thereof.

They had done well with daily budgeting, and both still had enough for the rest of the trip and a flight back to the States. But the thought of staying, working, and continuing the adventure was more than a little appealing. Tom had met a backpacker who told him that there were probably seasonal jobs available in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, a ski town in Bavaria. In the heart of southern Germany. Tom wanted to check it out, but Jim feared it might be a wild goose chase. He was eager to see Spain—not on that many backpacker itineraries at the time—and wow the Spaniards with the few Spanish sentences he knew. He was also ready for some warmer weather.

They decided to travel separately for a few days and meet up in Granada, Spain. In this post, each writes about how they spent those days apart.

First Up: Tom Bingle

Long journeys on trains can force one, when not admiring new landscapes, to look inside. This introspection seemed to come easily to me and often, as my journal attests. Yet, maybe Garmisch was too long a journey, as my mental explorations led to acknowledging my low feelings about myself as a human being. As a world beyond Europe started to enter, I spilled a lot of ink on my own inferiority complex when in the company of other travelers and people. I was finding myself shying away from other people or relationships, as this was a way to appear strong, to fool people into thinking I was dynamic.

Adding to the negativity, I was dependent on my family back in the USA for my glasses (lost in the canals of Venice). I felt so vulnerable, so upset at myself, highlighting my lack of self-confidence and inability to handle matters myself.  I was also focusing on my struggle to master the English language, especially the written word.  Jim wrote and thought so clearly, succinctly, and powerfully, but my struggles with expression really hinted at an inability to make up my mind and then to express it clearly. And this deficit was strong, even after a degree from a wonderful university. A lot of questions were brewing in my mind about my strength as a person, especially now as I faced a major transition.

But in a rare moment of decisiveness, it seems, I decided to head to a town in Southern Germany to see about work for a couple of months.  In Bavaria, each town seemed to have an Arbeitsamt, an employment office, which was reassuring and highly organized. With some unsolicited help from a German local who for some reason really really liked Americans, I felt I was all but guaranteed a job in a hotel if I would just come back prior to Christmas.  There was talk of free room and board and wages of about $250 a month. This helped bolster my decision. 

While in Bavaria, I did go back to Munich to visit the Wuscheks, a husband and wife team that were friends of Fr. McMenamin, the gifted German teacher at my high school, St Francis de Sales.  What a wonderful gift were the Wuscheks, as they were greater and lovelier than presented and their unconditional hospitality helped support my decision to spend time in Garmisch, as I visited them several times more.

Back to Munich's Marienplatz, now filled up for Christmas with Holiday stalls everywhere and music flowing above.  This festive world gave way to being back on the train passing through the Italian and French Rivieras, thinking just how crowded these areas would be in the summer heat.  

One final train through northern Italy caused moments of reflection. Memories of this lively land and its people came rushing through as it seemed there were so many unexpected glories and so many enlivening characteristics that we had heard about before entering.  

Into France via train and eventually Monaco. The magic words of Monte Carlo provided a special moment as the smooth sound of French being spoken arose, along with thoughts while walking the streets of Formula One drivers of Nikki Lauda, Mario Andretti, and, of course, Grace Kelly. That one night stay captured the wonderful international flavor of this petite principality, especially after soaking up the fruits of a Mediterranean Sunset.

Onto Granada, Spain, our designated meeting point. Crossing the border, I knew Spain would be very different than what I had or had not thought of.   

Now Up: Jim King

I told Binks that the trip to Garmisch might be a wild goose chase, but I didn’t really believe that. It was a ski town, Christmas was approaching fast, and of course, they’d need seasonal workers in the lodges and restaurants. But along with the holidays, the expiration date of our Eurail passes was now just days away, and I wanted to get to Spain ASAP.

My desire to go to Spain was fueled by James Michener’s novel, The Drifters, which I had read while preparing for the trip. The novel was about a group of counter-culture, pleasure-seeking wanderers. Their travels took them to Spain; specifically, the town of Torremolinos. That town would later be where I made my final decision about staying or going home. It was also where I had the most difficult conversation with Binks I’d ever had before or since.

But that’s grist for another blog.

As I had learned from traveling with—and without—Binks, striking up a conversation in a train compartment can lead to the most memorable parts of a he trip. On the Italy-through-France leg of the journey to Spain, I found myself in a compartment with a young couple and two other Americans. The young woman asked me where I was going. When I told her Spain, she asked if I planned to travel straight through or stop in France.

“Straight through,” I said.

“That’s a long, uncomfortable ride,” she said. “You should stay the night with us. My dad has an apartment in Nice.” She then addressed the other two backpackers. “You can all come. Plenty of room on the living room floor.”

There was. The one-bedroom apartment, just a few blocks from the Mediterranean, was spacious, the walls lined with books. As it turned out, her father was a famous American writer. He wrote 31 books, six of which were made into movies. One of his most recent books was enjoying several weeks on the New York Times bestseller list at the time. I hoped that he’d be there, but he was apparently back in the States on a book tour.

After a night of pizza, beer, and laughter with my serendipitous and all-too-temporary travel companions, I left early the next morning for what felt like an endless train ride to Valencia, Spain. I spent most of the following day searching for the beach. After numerous wrong turns, I missed Binks’s map-reading skills. When I finally found the beach, dusk was approaching, and it was too cold to sit. So far, Spain was a bust.

The next morning, I went to the train station to board the train to Granada, where I was to meet up with Binks the following day. But there, on the platform, I spotted a familiar orange backpack, attached to the man himself.

We reunited unexpectedly, happy to see each other, and ready for whatever the final leg of our journey (or maybe not final) had in store.

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That was the "Then." Watch the Video below for the "Now" reflections the solo trips to Spain.

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At St. Peter's: Awe and Unease

 After their “wandering tour” of Rome on their first day, Tom and Jim decided to spend their second day touring a site the two Catholics from northern Ohio had heard about all their lives: St. Peter’s Basilica, the spiritual and literal heart of Roman Catholicism.

After sixteen years of Catholic education, the boys were primed for this visit. As they neared, they thought of the names so familiar through school, Sunday mass, and their own observant Catholic families: John XXIII, Paul VI, John Paul I. The Roman numerals reinforced the weight of centuries behind them or, in John Paul’s sad case, a spark of hope for the future.

Unlike the previous day’s sightseeing route that easily took in the Forum, Pantheon, Colosseum, Altar of Nations, and the Spanish Steps (not to mention the obligatory coin toss into Trevi), the path to St. Peter’s wasn’t entirely straightforward, requiring numerous stops, turns, and backtracking a time or two as Tom consulted his ever-present map. His navigational skills proved effective, though, when they stepped onto the Via della Conciliazione,

“There it is,” Tom called out, like a sailor spotting land after days adrift.

St. Peter’s rose before them like a travertine mountain.

“Mammoth,” Tom said, awestruck. He consulted his Let’s Go Europe and pointed out Bernini’s colonnade, the columns, the massive semi-circle of 284 columns, topped with statues of saints, built in the 17^th century. As with the Parthenon they had visited days before, the colonnade offers an optical illusion, appearing as a single row of columns when viewed from a specific point. The semi-circle surrounding the piazza is meant to symbolize the embracing arms of the Church.

On that day, the statued saints were on their side, for the crowds were light and the boys entered the basilica without having to wait in a line.

They stepped into another world and were immediately awestruck at the immensity of… well, everything: the many marble chapels, gilded altars, soaring domes, and the tombs of Popes stretching back centuries. Even for two lifelong Catholics, the sheer scale of it all felt overwhelming.

For Tom, the grandeur was inspiring. But Jim had a different reaction. As when he took in the cathedral at Cologne, he couldn’t help thinking of the money needed to construct such a beautiful building. As he walked around the basilica, Jim thought St. Peter’s made Cologne, as beautiful as it is, look bargain basement. Everywhere he looked, the wealth it all represented was staggering.

“Not sure this is what Jesus had in mind,” he mumbled.

It wasn’t a crisis of faith—not yet—but it was the first serious crack in his sense of belonging to the institution he’d grown up in. Yes, the Church did tremendous good in the world. He knew that. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that selling even a fraction of the treasures in St. Peter’s could feed a nation.

For Tom, the most powerful moment was not in the gilded chapels but in the quiet, restrained presence of Michelangelo’s Pietà. Mary cradling the body of Christ. The folds of her robe, the tenderness in her expression. The way Michelangelo coaxed emotion out of stone. For Tom, this sculpture represented the essential heart of his faith.

After visiting the Papal Altar, located directly above the tomb of St. Peter and directly beneath  Bernini’s huge bronze canopy—the baldacchino—Tom and Jim climbed the long stairway up to the cupola, pausing to catch their breath and admire the enormous statues along the rooftop. At the top, the view opened in every direction: domes, rooftops, ancient ruins, and the expansive sprawl of Rome. They both agreed it was exhilarating.

Back inside, they toured the Vatican Museum. The collections were staggering: tapestries, maps, sculptures, gifts from emperors, entire hallways of works that would have been priceless even in the ancient world. They paused longest at Raphael’s “School of Athens,” trying in vain to identify all the philosophers and mathematicians. They stopped again before a painting of Constantine’s vision before the Battle of the Milvian Bridge, the moment that paved the way for Christianity to become the religion of the Empire.

After what felt like miles, they reached the Sistine Chapel.

Tom had expected just a portion of the ceiling to be painted. Instead, the entire ceiling was alive with Michelangelo’s frescos: Creation, temptation, judgment, prophets, and saints unfolding in every direction. He felt dwarfed by the scale and deeply moved by the artistry. For Jim, the chapel’s significance as the site where popes were elected, and the beauty of Michelangelo’s art, was astonishing, almost overpowering. But it didn’t erase the questions rising inside him.

The boys walked out of the Vatican changed in different ways. Tom felt renewed, as though the art and the history had awakened something hopeful in him. Rome had not disappointed. Jim, walking beside him, felt himself taking a step back from the institution that had always been part of his identity. It left him feeling unsettled.

Nevertheless, as they left St. Peter’s Square and crossed back into Rome proper, both Jim and Tom felt they had visited one of Europe’s great historical centers—one that mattered regardless of a person’s religion, politics, or beliefs.

And then, reality returned.

As they neared the Tiber, chants echoed through the streets. Soon, they saw marchers and red, hammer-and-sickle flags. A communist demonstration! For two Americans born during the McCarthy years and raised during the Cold War and Domino Theory, this was a bit unnerving. Commies! The marchers grew louder, in formation, singing, carrying banners, and filling the avenues with energy.

Far from chaotic, the march was remarkably organized and peaceful. Tom and Jim were impressed—not just by the scale of the demonstration but by the discipline and unity of the marchers. In mere minutes, they had traversed from the quiet epicenter of spirituality into the loud cacophony of a communist demonstration.

It was another "Not in Ohio Anymore" moment.

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That was "Then." Click on the video below for Tom and Jim's "Now" reflections on St. Peter's Basilica in Rome.

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Back to Italy: Pompei and Rome Day 1

 After the bustling energy of Athens, Tom and Jim set their sights on a place of striking contrast—the white-washed stucco and blue-tiled rooftops of a Greek island then in vogue with backpackers, thanks to its ferry link between Athens and Italy: Corfu. But on the day of departure, bad weather forced all ferries to cancel. Their island escape would have to wait.

So, it was back to Brindisi and onto an overnight train across Italy to another “must-see” destination for travelers of the 1970s—Pompeii.

Neither of them really knew what to expect. What they discovered was astonishing: an entire city once buried beneath volcanic ash since the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 AD. The most haunting sights were the plaster casts of human figures—men, women, and children frozen in their final, desperate moments. With just a bit of imagination, you could almost hear life returning to those streets: merchants calling out their wares, couples flirting in the marketplace, cheers rising from the athletic fields, and laughter spilling out of the taverns.

Pompeii left them quiet and thoughtful. Despite the trip’s brisk pace, moments like this—combined with the people, trains, postcards, and even the daily frugality—made it all deeply rewarding. Their finances were still solid, too. After a week, each had about $500 left, having spent only $53, or roughly $7.50 a day.

Next came the grand stage of Europe: Rome.

One of the first stops was the American Express office, where Tom expected to find a package containing his replacement glasses, which he had lost in the canals of Venice. The glasses weren’t there, but he was delighted to find letters from home: one from his mother, one from “the Duck,” and one from his girlfriend, Beth. They all mentioned that no one could truly see Roma the Magnificent in just two or three days. And as soon as the boys unfolded the map, they saw why—Rome was enormous.

Their lodging turned out to be one of the trip’s great surprises. Instead of checking into a busy youth hostel, they followed a tip from Tom’s brother, BJ, who had stayed with the Oblates of St. Francis de Sales years earlier, the same order of priests who had taught them in high school. Tom had written ahead, and when they knocked on the door at 33 Via Dandolo, Father George Salzman welcomed them warmly.

The rooms were simple but felt luxurious—each with a writing desk, a comfortable bed, and blessed quiet. After weeks of shared bunks and noisy dorms, this was a gift. They could write in their journals, wander freely, and simply rest. Father Salzman would later reappear in Tom’s life thirty-seven years later, officiating his wedding.

Their first day exploring Rome began in the Campidoglio, one of the most elegant city squares ever designed, and from there they descended into the ruins of the Roman Forum. Standing at the spot where Julius Caesar was stabbed, it wasn’t hard to imagine the voices of ancient Rome—politicians debating, philosophers arguing, merchants bargaining, crowds gossiping about the latest intrigue.

They continued on to the Arch of Titus, gazed across to the Palatine Hill, and entered the Colosseum—its tunnels, chambers, and tiers still echoing faintly with the roar of crowds. 

From there, they wandered through the city on foot, finding that all the great monuments seemed connected by winding pedestrian lanes.

They stopped at the Spanish Steps, tossed coins over their shoulders into the Trevi Fountain, and marveled at the Pantheon, where sunlight streamed through the single round opening in its dome. Their walk ended at Piazza Navona, with its fountains representing the great rivers of the world.

Every site felt alive and surprisingly well preserved. The scale and beauty of Rome—its politics, religion, art, entertainment, and everyday life—left them humbled and amazed. And what struck them most was how naturally the city seemed to unfold. Every landmark was within walking distance, every turn led to another discovery. For Tom, compared to London or Paris, Rome felt more open, more human, more inviting. It was, and still is, one of the most walkable cities in Europe—made to be explored on foot, step by step, just as the ancients did.

It may have been all that walking that to led to only their second uncomfortable situation. At a restaurant that night, Tom was enthusiastically making suggestions on what to see and do the next day. This was momentarily interrupted when Tom stopped Jim from putting a forkful of salad in his mouth. At the end of the fork was a giant, black fly. Jim complained to the waiter but the waiter shrugged his shoulders, twittered his fingers about his head to suggest the flight of a fly, and walked away. Jim’s appetite was now as dead as the fly on the fork.

“So what do you think, Doc?” Tom asked after he outlined the next day.

“Sounds good,” Jim said, taking a sip of his beer.

“No opinion? You just sit there, staring off into space.”

“We’ve been talking all day,” Jim said. “Actually, you’ve been talking all day, reading from that [expletive deleted] tour book.”

Tom ignored the jab. “Even when we split for the day, you don’t say much about where you went or what you saw. You’re always inside your head somewhere.”

“Not true,” Jim said. “I just don’t go into excruciating detail about where I went and what I saw.”

But it was true. They were nearing the end of their Eurail pass and potentially the end of the entire adventure. The uncertainty of what was ahead weighed heavily on Jim’s mind.

And so the back-and-forth went on for a few more rounds, until one of them said something that made the other laugh.

They ordered another beer and discussed plans for the next day.

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That was "Then." Click on the video below for Tom and Jim's "Now" reflections on Pompei and their first day in Rome.

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Athens: More Than the Acropolis

During the summer between high school and college, Jim worked on two different Great Lakes freighters that carried nearly 26,000 tons of iron ore pellets from various ports in Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota to Cleveland.

Even though he felt a strong loyalty to Lake Erie—having grown up a block away from its Lakewood shore—his favorite Great Lake turned out to be Huron. It seemed bluer and more reliably calmer than the others. When his work schedule permitted it, he loved to stand at the bow railing and take in its endless expanse, escaping for a time the drudgery of ship work.

A little more than four years later, on the ferry from Brindisi, Italy, to Greece, that memory returned. But the feeling was different. This was the Adriatic, a world away. From the deck, Toma and Jim could see the coastlines of Albania and Yugoslavia—two countries still under communist regimes in 1977. The sea seemed oblivious to such matters. While they were eager to get to Athens, Jim would have been content to stay aboard the ferry a few hours more to enjoy the tranquil (for the moment) Adriatic.

When the boys finally arrived in Athens, the calm evaporated into a cacophony of blaring car horns, groaning buses, and revving motorcycles in heavy traffic that seemed to ignore all rules of the road. Adding to the din: street vendors shouting from gyro and souvlaki stands and loud chanting by university demonstrations. This was a far cry from the “old world charm” Tom and Jim had experienced in small, tidy European towns. Athens felt more like a large American city—loud and bustling, but full of energy and life. As they walked along Athens’s main avenue, Dionysiou Areopagitou, they started to feel a bit overwhelmed.

But then, at some point, they looked up and caught sight of it: The Acropolis.

At Notre Dame, Jim took an Art History course led by the legendary professor and artist, Robert Leader. The class met in a darkened auditorium, and as Professor Leader lectured, slide after slide of artifacts from ancient Egypt and Greece flashed across the screen. When he wasn’t wondering which slides would be on the final, Jim either dozed off or told himself that none of this was relevant to “real life.”

But as they climbed through the Propylea, the grand gateway, pausing at the Temple of Nike, and then stepping into the open where the Parthenon filled the horizon, Jim wished he had paid closer attention.

Fortunately, Tom and his Let’s Go Europe were there to fill in at least a few knowledge gaps. Acting the tour professional he would eventually become, Tom read aloud all the pertinent facts:  Built under Pericles around 460 BC, the Acropolis was the legendary site of the contest between Poseidon and Athena for control of the city. The gods sided with Athena and her gift of the olive tree—a symbol of peace and prosperity that has endured ever since.

The precision was astonishing—eight columns on the front, seventeen along the sides, all Doric, all seemingly perfect. But when they stooped down, as Let’s Go Europe suggested, to the eye level of one of the marble steps, they saw the famous “bulge” in the middle—an optical correction to make the lines appear straight. Nice work, ancients!

For hours, the boys explored the Parthenon, the Erechtheion with its six graceful Caryatids, and even the ancient Agora below. Nearby stood Hadrian’s Arch and the Temple of Zeus, still impressive despite millennia of erosion.

To their delight, Tom and Jim discovered there was much more to Athens than ruins. In the Plaka, Athens’s old quarter, with narrow allies filled with shops jammed together and overflowing with trinkets, icons, old coins, and a thousand other items. There was the Archaeological Museum, where statues of the Kouroi and the great bronze Poseidon stood. The boys were surprised by the music playing in the background throughout the museum. They agreed it made the sometimes tiring process of prowling the halls of a museum much more energizing.

The Greek people were warm, too—almost aggressively so. They practically dragged the boys into their restaurants, nightclubs, and souvenir shops. It was all in good fun, and it was impossible not to be caught up in their enthusiasm.

The next day, Tom and Jim met two girls, Diane and Marina, and spent the day exploring the city together. It was good to have female company after weeks of trains, hostel dorms, and other male (and often unwashed) backpackers. That night, the four of them sat at an outdoor café, watching the flow of people on the street—students, shopkeepers, buskers, tourists, everyone in motion. The souvlaki and wine kept coming. Someone ordered moussaka for the table. Tom and the girls raved about it. Jim, not an adventurous eater, recorded in his journal that he nearly gagged. He has not tried the dish since.

Just walking around the city was a thrill—narrow lanes opening to wide plazas, the Acropolis always watching from above, glowing gold at sunset. Athens wasn’t the serene, whitewashed Greece they had imagined--which made it all the more interesting, fun, and unforgettable.

Their plan after Athens was to head to Corfu for a couple of quiet days by the sea. But as so often happened on that long, unpredictable journey, the universe had other plans for the Overlanders.

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That was "Then." Click on the video below for Tom and Jim's "Now" reflections on Athens.

Comments or feedback? We'd love to hear from you!