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.

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

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.

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

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!

A Brindisi Thanksgiving

As Tom and Jim left Venice in that late autumn of 1977, the canals and Gothic palaces receded from view, replaced by fields of reeds and marsh at first, then rolling farmland, vineyards, and orchards as the train clattered south. The original plan had been to head south to Rome, but they heard about a cheap ferry to Greece leaving from Brindisi, way down in the heel of Italy.

That was all it took. Plans changed. Eurail passes out. Off they went.

Outside, the scenery shifted endlessly during the long, ten-hour ride through Ferrara, Bologna, Rimini, Ancona, and Bari. The train traced the edge of the Adriatic, offering occasional glimpses of  fishing boats and picturesque ports.

As the afternoon approached evening, Tom and Jim saw hills in the distance, olive groves and gnarled trees breaking up the horizon. Somewhere past Bari, the landscape featured stone walls, small farms, and terraces cut into shallow hillsides.

The air smelled drier and warmer, even on the train. You could sense the sea first by the smell, then by the salty taste of mist in a broken window, then by the widening harbor lights as the train approached Brindisi.

In 1977, Brindisi was not yet a polished tourist destination. The buildings near the waterfront were functional — stores, warehouses, offices — and many of them looked a bit weather-beaten. Streets were narrow in places, winding away from the port into old quarters where walls were whitewashed but faded; peeling paint; windows bearing shutters that weren’t quite aligned.

Many of the shops were basic: grocers, bakeries, cafés, small bars. No luxury boutiques; the everyday items, the simple things, dominated. Sidewalks were uneven. The smell of diesel from the port mingled with salt. Brindisi felt more like a place to depart, to move onward rather than settle in. The boys found an apartment for the night, one they would share with several other backpackers from three other countries.

And that’s when it hit them: It was Thanksgiving Day. Or, night, actually, by the time the group shrugged off  their backpacks and gathered in the kitchen.

A Thanksgiving to Remember

All the food stores had closed for the night, so the late Thanksgiving dinner consisted solely of some bread and wine they were able to snag at a small shop along the way.

As the wine flowed, Tom tried explaining the meaning of Thanksgiving to their new international friends: food, family, football. The non-Americans listened politely, probably wondering why anyone would dedicate an entire day to overeating. And several argued that American football—with all its starts and stops and time-outs and substitutions—was inferior to the much more free-flowing action of European fútbol (soccer).

As the night (and early morning) went on, the laughter grew louder, and that little apartment helped the boys forget about the turkey and trimmings they would have been enjoying back in Ohio. Then, the mishap.

While using his trusty Swiss army knife to open yet another bottle of red wine that probably should have been left for another night, Tom’s hand slipped. The result was a deep cut that required several dish towels to stanch the bleeding. Later, while attempting to remove his contact lenses with one hand, he tore one of them, leaving him half-blind in addition to half-handed.

Despite this catastrophe, the next day—after they both recovered from the bacchanal—Tom and Jim agreed  that while Brindisi didn’t offer grand sights or famous restaurants, it offered something better: connection.

That Thanksgiving reminded them what travel was really all about. For them, it wasn’t about picture-perfect sights or jam-packed itineraries. It was about long train rides, the strangers who shared their stories, and the way laughter can be the fastest route to friendships across borders.

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Click on the video below for the boys' additional reflections on their memorable Thanksgiving in Brindisi, Italy.

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Lost (Glasses) and Found (The Real Venice)

 To get to Venice from Grindelwald, Switzerland, Tom and Jim first took a local train back to Interlaken, boarded the SBB (Schweizerische Bundesbahnen), and switched trains at Domodossola, an Italian border town located at the foot of the Italian Alps. There, they boarded a train bound for Venice.

Now, a little more than a month into their journey, they had grown accustomed to the smooth, comfortable, and on-time efficiency of the trains they had taken throughout Northern Europe—from Denmark’s DSB (Danske Statsbaner) and Sweden’s SJ (Statens Jarnvagar) to Norway’s NSB (Norges Statsbaner), and Germany’s DB (Deutsche Bahn).

Italy’s FS (Ferrovie dello Stato) was, well... different.

Mussolini once boasted that he made Italy’s trains run on time. He said nothing about comfort, but in any case, he failed on both counts. The ride to Venice was slow, rickety, and late. Still, the boys were looking forward to warmer weather, world-famous cuisine (that they probably couldn’t afford), and Rome, the spiritual command center of the religion they were born into, Roman Catholicism.

First stop, though, Venice.

The train pulled into Venice late at night—and late, period. Tom and Jim, now accompanied by two fellow Americans they had befriended on the bumpy journey—Ned and Skinny (who was not skinny) from Kentucky—stepped out of the station, expecting the usual big-city scene: taxis, buses, and maybe a subway. Tom consulted the city map in his Let’s Go Europe and noted that their lodgings were far from where they were. Given the late hour, a cab seemed sensible.

Then they stepped outside. No taxis. No buses. No Fiats or Alpha Romeos—or any cars, for that matter. Just a wide promenade and, beyond it, the dark waters of a canal. Turned out to be THE canal—the Grand Canal.

The four of them boarded a vaporetto—a Venetian water bus—marked Piazza San Marco on its bow.  They glided smoothly under the Rialto Bridge at midnight, an experience Tom later said was “sweeter than any gelato.”  They cruised past palace after palace under a star-filled sky. This was no ordinary arrival. As with so many cities they visited, Venice joined the list of “favorite cities.” The list would have been considerably easier to maintain had it been dedicated to cities they didn’t love.

As the vaporetto eased into a small opening off the Grand Canal, the foursome glimpsed strange silhouettes—reclining sphinxes, a winged lion perched atop a column.  Squinting at his Let’s Go, Tom—invoking his best tour-guide voice—informed them that they were looking at the tower of the Campanile, rising above the impressive Doge's Palace, the Bridge of Sighs, and just beyond, the ornate domes of St Mark's Basilica. 

It was an incredible entrance, but heavy rain that day had left the Piazza flooded. Temporary rows of wooden walkways had been laid across the square to keep visitors’ feet dry. They stopped for a moment to take in the view that prompted Napoleon to call St. Mark’s Square the “most beautiful drawing room in Europe.”

And then, disaster.

Eager to move on, Tom adjusted his backpack a little too vigorously. His eyeglasses slipped off his face and into the water, never to be seen again. Fortunately, he also had contact lenses, but at that moment—navigating the slippery boards in the dark, seriously nearsighted and carrying a bulky backpack—Jim figured the odds favored the Piazza’s current shin-high waters.

Fortunately, they made it to their pensione relatively dry. Tom and Jim took a humble $10 room, while the Kentuckians opted for more extravagant $20 digs. All slept soundly after a day on the FS and Venice’s watery welcome.

The next day, Tom did something deeply uncharacteristic: he ignored his prepared itinerary and joined Jim on a “wandering tour” of Venice. 

And what a city to wander! With no roads at all — just narrow alleys, quiet squares, and graceful bridges over canals— the city felt like another world. Gondolas gliding by, laundry fluttering above the canals. Children chased each other across cobbled lanes. In many neighborhoods, he and Jim seemed to be the only outsiders.

Even along the busier canals, where famous landmarks rose into view, the water’s presence softened everything. It slowed the pace, muffled the noise, and left room for reflection. Each new turn appealed to the senses: breathtaking architecture for the eyes, bakeries and trattorias for the nose and (for a few lira) mouth, and, for the ears, fishmongers and fruit sellers calling out to passersby.

Tom and Jim loved the city so much that they debated staying another night or two. They had visions of more wandering, or perhaps sipping wine in the company of two nice Italian girls on the Piazza San Marco. But time was running out, so, regretfully, they took a vaporetto back to the Santa Lucia Station to catch the FS south—this time to Brindisi, where they’d catch a ferry to Greece. 

The Acropolis awaited!

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That was the "Then." Now for the Now. Click on the video below for the boys' reflections on their time in Venice.

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Switzerland: Mountain Memories

 Fresh off the mountain high of the Kofel in Oberammergau, Germany, Tom and Jim were eager for more Alps. So they slung on their still-overpacked backpacks and headed south into Switzerland. Another snowstorm muffled the noise of the train as each of them pictured scenes straight out of their grade-school geography books: snow-capped peaks, clear mountain lakes, cheese wheels as big as Conestoga wheels, and, of course, men in trachten—traditional Swiss clothing—sending deep, mellow echoes across the mountains through their long wooden alphorns.

Zurich and Lucerne

The train pulled into Zurich’s Hauptbahnhof exactly on time—this was Switzerland, after all, and precision in all things was expected.  Stepping outside, the boys found themselves on Bahnhofstrasse—the Rodeo Drive of Switzerland. Stomping around in their heavy boots, well-worn jeans, and unwieldy backpacks, the boys felt more than a little out of place as they passed impeccably kept stores filled with jewelry, furs, expensive chocolates, and watches. Everything felt polished, efficient, and extremely prosperous—ultra wealth on full display. This was not the type of terrain the boys wanted to explore, and they made plans to leave the next morning.

Despite warnings from fellow backpackers that valuables had a way of disappearing in the city’s youth hostel, Tom and Jim booked two bunks. It turned out to be the largest hostel they had stayed in up to that point. But “large” did not translate into “comfortable,” and with size came many more “guests”—not all of whom concerned themselves with the rules.  When the lights went out, two Brits got into an argument about the right to smoke—prohibited in the hostel—and then into an even more heated exchange about a recent Time Magazine cover depicting an ape in a story about a recent discovery and evolution.

“The head is all out of proportion,” one of them said. “You can’t reconstruct an entire monkey from a jawbone.”

“It’s an ape, not a monkey.”

“And you’re a wanker.”

Fortunately, this deeply philosophical discussion did not come to blows. But Jim was tempted to leap from his bunk to confront an Aussie who was eating noisily while talking loudly to someone not responding and laughing uproariously at his frequent and thunderous flatulence.

The next morning, on one of the first trains out, Tom and Jim agreed to steer clear of hostels in big cities. Smaller hostels were less crowded, more comfortable, and tended to attract travelers more attentive to the written and unwritten rules of the road.

In Lucerne, they found a city closer to what they had imagined Switzerland would be. Set against the dramatic backdrop of Mt. Pilatus and the Swiss Alps, Lucerne’s pristine lake and the river Reuss, while alive with both commercial and pleasure craft, offered the hoped-for peace and quiet after a long night of guarding their backpacks and listening to inane arguments and scatological sound effects.

The weather was unseasonably warm, so they spent much of the day walking the city’s famed covered wooden bridges, including the famous Chapel Bridge, built in the 14^th century, and its paintings from 16^th century, depicting scenes from the bible, the city's history, its patron saints, and its sponsoring families' coat of arms. (In 1993, a fire damaged most of the 158 paintings. To date, only 30 of them have been restored.)

In his journal, Tom recorded that the town had a natural harmony: gulls squabbling over bread on the lakeshore, people moving at ease along the water and on the bridges, seemingly unaware of—or simply taking for granted—the beauty that surrounded them.

And those mountains.

“Here in Lucerne,” he wrote, “it’s the first time I felt the thrill of real mountains—a natural high, buzzing through me in a way I’d never known before.”

Interlaken and Grindelwald

From Lucerne, the boys pushed deeper into the Alps. They stopped briefly in Interlaken, where the weather, unlike Zurich, was pleasantly cold and snowy. Jim was more taken with the town than Tom was. Though a bit “touristy” (a four-letter word among “seasoned” backpackers), he enjoyed—for maybe the first and last time in his life—window shopping along the town’s clean, well-maintained streets. He wanted to linger by one of the lakes, but both he and Tom were eager to get to yet another must-see town, according to fellow backpackers

Grindelwald sat in a valley beneath the Eiger, the Mönch, and the Jungfrau mountain peaks. After checking in at the (smaller) hostel, they hiked together to get a better view of the Eiger. Then, they split up for the rest of the day to explore on their own, agreeing to meet at the hostel that evening.

Somewhere along the mountainous path that Tom took, he met Barb, a young woman from Durango, Colorado. As usual, Tom struck up a conversation and they spent the next several hours walking, talking, and sharing stories about their travels and their lives. It was another example of what Tom and Jim were experiencing more and more—the people they met were what made traveling so worthwhile.  

At the end of the day, he found Jim by a roaring fire outside the hostel, staring up at the sky, looking as relaxed as he’d ever seen him.

“Never seen so many stars,” Jim mumbled when Tom pulled a chair up. “Let’s splurge. How about a beer? Just one?”

As they drank more than one beer, Tom told Jim about Barb. Jim had also met a girl, Eve, during his wanderings, but their time together had been short. Eve was, in her words, “all cultured out with cities” and much preferred the countryside. Jim sensed some promise there—until her traveling companion showed up: a guy who didn’t speak English but needed no words to convey that third wheels were most unwelcome.

Tom and Jim finished their beers and headed into the hostel for the night, They were reluctant to leave Grindelwald—and maybe a chance to meet some more women who enjoyed mountains and fire pits—but they needed to keep moving before their Eurail passes expired. Next stop: Venice!

***

That was the "Then." Now for the Now. Click on the video below for the boys' reflections on their time in Switzerland.

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High in Oberammergua (No, not that kind)

After leaving Innsbruck, Tom and Jim headed back into the heart of Bavaria. Their path took them to Oberammergau, followed by Oberstdorf and Neuschwanstein. But while Oberammergau was their first stop, the impression it made feels like it deserves to be described last.

Not that the others weren’t memorable. Oberstdorf greeted their arrival with a snowstorm, a sure sign that winter had arrived. The snow fell fast, turning the town into yet another Bavarian Christmas card. Beautiful, yes. Practical, not so much. Finding the youth hostel in such weather proved difficult, especially while lugging still-too-heavy backpacks. Tom, drawing on his now patented technique for ensuring international understanding, stopped two young girls—Erika and Elly, according to Jim’s journal— and asked:

“Scuzi, Scuzi. Wo ist die Jugendherberge?” Before they could answer, he added, “YOUTH HOSTEL. KNOW WHERE IS?”  

The girls looked at each other, suppressing a laugh. Elly answered in flawless English, which surprised the boys when they soon learned she was born and raised in Oberstdorf.

“We’re going in that direction. Follow us—it’s hard to find, especially tonight.”

Hard to find? Given the driving snow and the distance, it would have been impossible without the help of those two Good Samaritans. The foursome trudged for nearly two miles along a creek and up and down several hills. Jim was dismayed to discover that the “waterproof” boots he purchased back in the States were not even water-resistant. Tom kept up a steady stream of conversation with Elly (Erika apparently didn’t speak English) until, finally, the girls pointed to some lights in the distance.

“There it is,” Elly said. “Jugendherberge.”

“Ah, thank you!” Tom said, enthusiastically. “Bitte, bitte!”

“I think you mean danke,” Elly said. And off she and Erika went—to a destination unrecorded in either Tom or Jim’s journal.

From Oberstdorf, they took a bus north through another snowstorm to Neuschwanstein and the model for Disney’s Magic Kingdom castles, the castle of “Mad King” Ludwig II. Ludwig and his Wittelsbach Family ruled Bavaria for centuries. As they approached, Tom and Jim were awed by the stunning sight of this dream castle rising up against the backdrop of the Bavarian Alps.

While stunned by the view of the exterior, Tom—for the first time in all the castles visited—was unimpressed with the interior. Opulent, yes. But what could compete with the beauty of the surrounding Alps? To Jim's amazement, his friend was mostly silent as they explored the large, often drafty rooms--rarely attempting to engage anyone (English-speaking or not) in conversation. 

Oberstdorf and Neuschwanstein were spectacular, but it is Oberammergau that lingers most in the boys’ memories. The town is home to renowned woodcarvers, and their creations, which fill the town’s tidy streets and alleyways. Oberammergua is also famous for its once-a-decade Passion Play—an immense theatrical undertaking that fulfills a vow first made by the townspeople in 1633, when the townspeople promised God they would reenact the suffering Christ if spared the Bubonic Plague and the ravages of the Thirty Years’ War. The town survived; the tradition continues to this day, with the next production set for 2030.

For Tom and Jim, the first thing to suggest that this place was different was the youth hostel and its huge picture window, offering spectacular views of the Alps in the distance and, much closer, the jagged peak of Mt. Kofel. It struck them as the perfect place to recharge. They decided to stay for a few days.

When the duo split that first day, Jim followed an icy, winding trail up Mt. Kofel. At the summit, a steel cable bolted into the rock dangled over the final climb. A misstep meant disaster. It was crazy to attempt it, he thought. But he tried anyway. And when he hauled himself onto the peak, lungs burning, he could only stand there—staring at the view. He started laughing and couldn’t stop. To this day, he’s not sure why he had that reaction—it had to be sheer exhilaration. The “high” he experienced momentarily silenced his gnawing question about what to do when the two-month Eurail pass expired: go home and start a career or stay and see more of the world. Standing atop Mt. Kofel, high on both realistic and unrealistic possibilities, he “decided” he would stay and see the world. Not more of the world. All of it.

The next day, motivated by Jim’s uncharacteristic ebullience and insistence that he “do” Mt. Kofel, Tom made the ascent, facing the same icy path and hair-raising climbs. When he reached the top, he too felt the mountain’s power. For real mountain climbers, Kofel is a hill. But for two boys from the flattest parts of Ohio, it was pure inspiration. It seemed to force both of them to self-reflect, reshaping how they saw the journey and themselves.

When Tom returned to the hostel, Jim was sitting by the massive window, scribbling furiously in his journal, no doubt trying to capture experience before its spell wore off. Tom grabbed his own journal. His first sentence came quickly:

“Kofel. I can’t believe we did that and didn’t die.”

***

And now for the NOW: Reflections on Oberammergua

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Austria: Breakfast Views in Vienna, Irish In Innsbruck

No mention or explanation of it in their journals. But for some still-unknown reason, when Tom and Jim left Munich, they rolled right past Salzburg and headed straight to Vienna.

Maybe they felt they were falling behind on their schedule. If they wanted to see everything on their list (which had already changed several times), they had about a month to get it all “seen.” They’d need to make some tough decisions about where to linger and when to keep moving.

Still, skipping Salzburg? Decades later, they can easily imagine the smug voices of the backpackers they met on the Af Chapman in Stockholm: “What? No Salzburg? Idiot Americans!” Tom and Jim now prefer to think of the decision as a “rookie error.”

Whatever the reason, five hours after leaving the lively sights and sounds (and beer gardens) of Munich, they found themselves in another world entirely. When they stepped outside its main hauptbahnhof (railroad station), Vienna’s broad boulevards and stately buildings seemed to sniff at their scraggly appearance and now battered backpacks. Behave yourselves, the surroundings seemed to warn. You’re in the capital of the (former) Austrian-Habsburg empire!

By this time in their travels, the friendship-saving strategy of splitting up for the day for solo exploring was well established. But in Vienna, time was tight (again, self-imposed), so they stuck together, taking in the Rathaus (City Hall), the Parliament, the Hofburg Palace, the Crown Jewels, the University, the Opera House, and the Burg Theater. They checked out the Lipizzaner Horse Arena (home of the famous Spanish Riding School), the Augarten Palace (home of the renowned Vienna Boys Choir), and, on their way to St. Stephanplatz (home of the eponymous cathedral, the tallest in Austria) walked past a building with a plaque stating that Amadeus Mozart once played there.

They weren’t done yet. They hopped on a tram to Schönbrunn, summer home to many of the Habsburg rulers, most notably Franz Joseph. Jim had sworn off tramping through yet another palace or castle, but he joined his friend for this one and was glad he did—maybe because Tom did not insist on touring all 1,441 rooms or because Tom managed to repress his characteristic urge to chat with every staff member in sight.

Their final stop was the Gloriette, an imposing, ornate neoclassical structure built so that the emperor had something pleasant to gaze upon while he breakfasted. The Gloriette returned the favor, offering an excellent view of the palace gardens, fountains, the palace itself, and, today, the Vienna skyline. The view was so enchanting that Franz Joseph eventually moved breakfast there.

The Gloriette at Schonbrunn. Cozy little breakfast nook for the Emperor.

Exhausted now, the boys headed to the station for the night train to Innsbruck. Night was creeping in early, and from the train, they could see illuminated road signs pointing in the directions of both Vienna and Budapest.

“Are we that close to Budapest?” Tom asked no one in particular. He pulled out his crumbling map to confirm. “Another reminder of how far we are from Ohio!”

Searching for Irish

The eight-hour overnight train to Innsbruck was crowded. Tom and Jim found themselves sharing a couchette with four other backpackers. Seasoned travelers, they showed the boys how to convert the two three-seaters into side-by-side bunks. Not nearly as comfy (or roomy) as a sleeper compartment, but at least they’d be able to stretch out for the night versus attempting to sleep upright.

It didn’t work for Jim. While he may have dozed off a bit now and then, he had trouble falling asleep with his back against the back of a complete stranger. And someone in that couchette must have had a generous helping of beans for dinner that night.

Jim’s grogginess disappeared, though, when they arrived in Innsbruck and stepped outside. It was snowing lightly, and several snow-capped mountain peaks rose up behind the buildings. Jim had never seen mountains in person, and this view stopped him in his tracks. Now THIS, he wrote in his journal, is it. (Whatever “it” was.)

One reason for stopping in Innsbruck: Notre Dame, their alma mater, had a study-abroad program there. Maybe the alums could score a meal and a couch for the night. The only problem? They didn’t know anyone in the program. They did, however, come up with a plan. Jim pulled on his ND T-shirt and kept his jacket open—despite the cold—as they wandered about the town.

Amazingly, this half-baked plan worked! They were spotted and later that day they were in the comfortable living quarters of several ND sophomores—Mary B, Kevin G, and Wim D, and several other coeds—enjoying a cooked meal of chicken with rice and cream of chicken while sharing stories about Notre Dame but mostly funny stories about the young American students trying to adjust to life abroad. Before retiring for the night, these generous young Domers took the boys to see the ski jump from the 1964 Olympics, still in use. 

It had been a long and exhausting 24 hours, and Tom and Jim slept soundly—thanks again to the warmth and generosity of the Fighting Irish. The next day, on the train en route to their next destination, they reflected on how nice it was to spend time with the students—especially the coeds. They wondered aloud if the trip would be different—maybe even better—if they had female travel companions for more than a single day or train ride.

Time would tell.

 ***

That was Then. Now for the NOW: Reflections on the quick visit to Austria

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