En route to Copenhagen: Signs of Strain

There had been minimal friction during their first few days of traveling. Thanks to their close friendship in college, they were already well-acquainted with each other's more irritating quirks: Jim's introverted stubbornness, Tom's extroverted impulsiveness. While in England, nothing gave rise to any differences of opinion or preference, as Jim’s brother and sister-in-law put them up in their home, fed them, and made all decisions on where to go and what to see—and then took them there.

Things began to change on the London-Oostende-Copenhagen leg of the journey. They now needed to make all decisions about food, lodging, and how to spend their days. On the train to Dover, the ferry to Oostende, and then on to Copenhagen, Tom spent a lot of time with his nose deep inside “Let’s Go Europe.” He read passages about the city’s history and its most famous landmarks—aloud and often—while Jim half-listened, watching the scenery pass by. Tom would suggest a place to stay and some sites to visit, and after some back-and-forth, they came to an agreement. But then Tom would read about another hostel or pensione and another “must-see,” and the decision-making process would start all over again.  Jim admired his friend’s insatiable curiosity but felt bombarded by too many options. He knew that decisions had to be made, but he felt that once they agreed, it was time to close the travel guide and move on.

They eventually agreed on a place to stay in Copenhagen: Hotel Absolom (now defunct and not to be confused with the luxurious Hotel Abasolon). It was a small room with a tiny window, twin beds, and a sink. The Water Closet was down the hall and shared with everyone else on the floor. A shower was nowhere to be found. It was then time to decide what sites they would see. Tom’s bed was soon covered with street maps and notebooks as he busied himself with planning out the sequence of sites they’d visit in order to see as much as possible in the day and a half they’d allotted for the City of Spires—so named for its plethora of Medieval and Renaissance spire-inspired architecture.  Finally, one of them suggested a guided city tour via bus—either Jim out of annoyance or Tom out of frustration in trying to put together an itinerary the two of them could agree on. The tour would break the daily budget they had set for themselves, but it would help them decide which sites to focus on the following day before catching an overnight train to Stockholm.

 Among the highlights they passed: Tivoli Gardens (the world’s second-oldest amusement park, closed for the season), the Strøget (car-free, completely pedestrianized zone of five winding streets right in the heart of city center), Nyhavn (colorful 300-year-old houses lining the harbor canal, along with historical ships) the Rosenborg Castle (the first of too many, as far as Jim was concerned), and the famous statue of the Little Mermaid (perhaps the most disappointing tourist site they would visit anywhere, situated on the least inspiring vista of the harbor and under the constant and creepy attentions of male tourists picture-posing for friends/wives.)

When the tour ended, Jim suggested ducking into a bar for their first European beer. Tom enthusiastically agreed and reached for his Let’s Go.

“No!” Jim said, maybe louder than he’d intended. “There’s a bar right across the street. We don’t need Let’s Go’s approval. Let’s live dangerously.”

The Lions Club was all but empty. Taking a seat at the bar, Tom ordered a Carlsberg, Jim a Tuborg. The bartender delivered both with a monotone, “Skål.” He knew a tourist order when he got one.

Tom was pumped from the tour. He pulled out a map, his journal, and a pen, and started to list all the places they would visit the next day for a more “in-depth” visit to selected sites that intrigued him during the tour. He also added sites that the guided tour hadn’t covered. Jim was convinced that no human could visit all the sites Tom wanted to see in a single day. He suggested maybe cutting out a site or two or five. Tom agreed, but when he reworked his list and consulted Let’s Go, the list somehow grew longer.

Not wanting to dampen Tom’s enthusiasm, Jim grew quiet. And Tom, not wanting to push his agenda on Jim, searched “Let’s Go” for more and more options he thought might appeal to his friend.  As they talked, the bar started filling up with people. Someone started the jukebox. Barry White’s bass-baritone made it difficult to hear Tom’s suggestions.

Finally, Jim spoke up. “Binks, we need to figure out how we’re going to see what we want to see without killing each other. We don’t have to check Let’s Go for every decision. We should just let things happen and be more spontaneous, kind of like we did for this place. Who knows? We might even meet some women interested in meeting Americans.”

Tom nodded enthusiastically. They both sat back and took a sip from their beers. During their planning, the Lions Club had gotten crowded. Lots of laughing, loud conversations, and even some dancing in front of the jukebox. The joint was jumping, and Tom and Jim nodded to the beat of the music. And then they noticed that the dancers—and everyone else in the bar—were men. Not a woman in sight. Tom and Jim exchanged glances.

“Well,” Jim said. “I’m not suggesting we completely ignore Let’s Go.”

                                                   ***

That was Then. Now for the NOW:

Reflections on "Signs of Strain"

Question from the Overlanders

What's your #1 strategy for ensuring that traveling with someone doesn't drive you or the other person crazy?  Tell us about it! We'd love to hear from you. Put your answer--or any other reactions to this post--in the comments section below. And thanks for reading/watching!

Welkom! Bienvenue! Willkommen!

 Neither Tom nor Jim had ever heard of Oostende, Belgium. When they booked the ferry crossing in Dover, they assumed they’d disembark in the more famous port of Calais, France. Tom, especially, had been looking forward to impressing a real, live French person with his command of high-school parlez-vous.

So when they learned they would disembark in Oostende, they were disappointed. But that disappointment quickly turned to excitement when they reached passport control and Tom saw all the signage in French—prominent among several other languages. Tom stepped forward eagerly, his moment finally at hand, and offered the passport officer an exuberant “Bonjour!” 

The officer looked up, unsmiling. In perfect English, he asked the routine questions: purpose of visit, length of STAY, and so forth. After a glance at Tom’s American jeans and the familiar wide-eyed expression of a first-time-to-Europe backpacker, he stamped the passport perfunctorily and handed it back to Tom.

“Bedankt,” he said, flatly. “Welkom in Belgie.”

(Later, a quick check of Fodor’s revealed that most people in this Flemish region of Belgium—Flanders—speak Dutch. The other two official languages are French and German.)

  With that less-than-welcoming welcome, the two made their way to Oostende Station to catch the 23:05 train to Copenhagen, a 17-hour trip. The plan was to visit the Scandinavian countries first, then head back down to “Do the Continent.”

Like many Americans, especially Midwesterners, the experience of train travel was limited. In Jim’s case, this meant occasional trips to downtown Cleveland via its electric-powered Rapid Transit System, designed to cram as many commuters as possible onto its rows of hard, bench-style seats. So he and Tom were pleasantly surprised by the comparative luxury of the European train.  Their compartment had two sets of seats facing each other, three on each side, upholstered and clean.

Heaving their backpacks up and onto the overhead storage rack—the heft reminding them that reducing the load even more would be a good idea—they collapsed onto opposite seats and smiled at each other. They could not believe their luck: an empty compartment. They could stretch out, sleep on comfortable seats, and wake up in Copenhagen. Couldn’t get any better than that.

Before they could even take off their walking boots, a conductor barged in and demanded to see tickets. Tom, eager to flash his Eurail pass, handed it over as if presenting his credentials to a foreign potentate. For him, the flight from JFK to England, the ferry crossing, the passport stamp, and now the Eurail pass marked—once again—the “official” start of their adventure.

As would later happen in southern Pakistan—where they found themselves alone atop a bus for a surreal, overnight desert journey—they were soon disabused of the notion of a peaceful night’s rest.

Two young men entered the compartment just as the train pulled away from the platform. They tossed their own, considerably less bulky backpacks onto the rack, took their seats, and stared.     

This was yet another “official” start to the journey: meeting fellow backpackers.

The two newcomers appeared tired and a bit standoffish, but they soon discovered that with Tom, no stranger remained a stranger for long. The questions began. Names? Mick, Carl. Speak English? Um, we understood your first question, so… yeah.  From? Britain, Jamaica. How long traveling? A while. You? Same.

Gradually, the questions sparked full sentences, then something resembling conversation, and soon stories of the road and jokes and a lot of laughter filled the compartment—and went on until 3 a.m.

This pattern—meeting people on trains, in hostels, in public squares—repeated itself throughout the journey. For both Tom and Jim, these spontaneous friendships remain among the highlights of the journey. Sometimes they would meet one or more backpackers and hang out with them in a new city. Sometimes they’d even travel with them to the next destination before parting ways.

Tom described it as a brotherhood, and thanks to his highly extroverted nature, he was almost always the catalyst for these meetings. Jim, more reserved, was content to let Tom do the heavy lifting of breaking the ice and then jump in when the other person(s) recovered from his pal’s friendly and enthusiastic barrage of questions.

When they finally arrived in Copenhagen, Tom and Jim and Mick and Carl exchanged home addresses and assurances to keep in touch which, predictably, they didn’t. But this wasn’t always the case. They stayed in touch with several fellow travelers and, decades later and thanks to the internet, they’ve reconnected with several more of those they met on the road all those years ago.

A brotherhood, indeed.

***

And now for the NOW: Reflections on Welkom! Bienvenue! Willkommen!

***

Question From the Overlanders

Have you ever had an Oostende-instead-of-Calais travel experience--an unexpected change in plans that started as a disappointment but ended up being especially memorable? 

Tell us about it! We'd love to hear from you. Put your answer--or any thoughts or question of your own for the Overlanders--in the comments section below.

London: The Real Journey Begins... Again

For two boys from Ohio in 1977, crossing the English Channel aboard a ferry was as exotic a thought as entering Timbuktu aboard camels. So, after a few days of sponging off Jim’s brother and sister-in-law in the idyllic village of Hilton, Cambridgeshire, they were eager to get started with the “real” trip; namely, The Continent. Tom was especially eager to start using his two-month Eurail pass (not valid in Britain) to see as much of Europe as possible, and Jim was ready to start collecting the experiences he was sure would fuel his future career as a worldly-wise writer.

After finalizing plans to revisit Captain (later Colonel) King and his family before heading back to the States, Tom and Jim boarded the train to London’s King Cross Station. The itinerary called for a day taking in all the major London landmarks before catching the train from Victoria Station to Dover. From there, they would catch the ferry that crosses the English Channel to Oostende, Belgium.

            They’d heard about it all their lives: the white cliffs of Dover, Operation Overlord, courageous (crazy?) swims against the strong and unpredictable channel currents. They anticipated a body of water unlike any other they’d seen, which was largely limited to Lakes Erie and Michigan (awesome but familiar) and the Maumee and Cuyahoga (fire!) rivers. They sensed the crossing would be less about the view than the experience of sailing away from signs they could read and a language they could speak into the great unknown—to them, anyway. They couldn’t have known it at the time, but it would be a very different sort of connection to the water that they would later feel a year or so later, in Varanasi, India, as they floated aboard a boat on Mother Ganges and, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, took in the sights of crematory fires, floating bodies, and vultures. Lots of vultures.

As planned—well, as Tom had planned—they spent the day racing around London: Big Ben, check; Parliament, check; Buckingham Palace, check; St. Paul’s, check; Trafalgar Square, Tower Bridge, Westminster Abbey, Fleet Street—check, check, check, and mate. They slowed down around happy hour to grab a beer (Newcastle for Tom, Old Speckled Hen for Jim) at a Fleet Street bar, expecting and hoping for a raucous crowd of boisterous Fleet Street journalists.

St. Paul’s Cathedral was more raucous.

Finally aboard the train to Dover, Tom dove into planning their next major outing—Copenhagen!—while Jim tried to record the day’s activities and insights in his journal. When he finished, he re-read his entry and decided he had a long way to go before he’d be giving Paul Theroux a run for his money.

Training through the Kent countryside, Tom and Jim had their first major “challenging” discussions. Paging through their respective travel guides (“Let’s Go Europe!” and “Europe on $5 a Day”) they agreed, disagreed, then agreed again—temporarily—about what to see at what pace, where to stay and where to eat and for how much, when to get started in the morning, and when to call it a day. It would have been difficult for an unbiased observer to determine who was the bigger control freak.

And then they were on the Ferry. It struck them both as a misnomer. This was no 20-minute trip from Port Clinton, Ohio, to Put-in-Bay Island. It was a five-hour voyage aboard a multi-tiered ship with restaurants, bars, shops, and even sleeping cabins for those who’d rather nap. Tom and Jim were way too keyed up to nap. They spent most of the time on one of the decks, staring at the receding white cliffs until they were out of sight, and darkness settled in.

“This is it, Doc,” Tom said. “This is where our real journey begins.”

There would be many real-journey beginnings to come.

###

And now for the NOW: Reflections on The "Real Journey" Begins... Again

We'd love to hear from you. Share your reactions, thoughts, or your own travel story in the comments section below.

England: Landing in a Cliché

If it were a script, Hollywood would probably reject Tom and Jim's account of their time in England as way too cliché.  

***

FADE IN

EXT. LONDON GATWICK AIRPORT – NIGHT

Thick fog as Pan Am Flight 100 lands at Gatwick.
Tom and Jim (T&J) struggle with their overpacked backpacks as they disembark.

EXT. MOTORWAY TO CAMBRIDGESHIRE – NIGHT

The fog only gets thicker as they make their way to Hilton—the village in Cambridgeshire, not the hotel. Jim’s oldest brother, Rick, drives. His wife, Sheryl, rides shotgun. T&J sit in the back. Jim white-knuckles his seat during the 75-mile trip on the “wrong” side of the road as huge trucks—

SHERYL (Voiceover, Texas accent)

They’re called lorries. 

—suddenly emerge from the fog like ocean freighters bearing down on a dinghy. Tom peppers Rick and Sheryl with questions. Jim closes his eyes and prays that his brother is as skilled a driver as he is an RF-4 Phantom pilot.

EXT. RICK AND SHERYL’S HOUSE – EXT.

They arrive safely at the off-base house, but the fog is so dense that anyone would be forgiven for thinking that they had arrived at the only standing structure for miles around.

EXT. VILLAGE OF HILTON – EARLY MORNING 

(Cue chirping birds.)

The fog lifts to reveal a winding road lined with cottage-style homes. Exposed brickwork. Timber framing. Pitched roofs. Tudors everywhere. A thatched roof or two. Gardens full of boxwood and newly sprouted bulbs. Smoke curls from chimneys, thanks to the October chill. An OLDER WOMAN rides by on an old-fashioned bicycle. Head wrapped in a heavy scarf. Dark woolen skirt, thick gray stockings, no-nonsense black shoes. Bicycle basket filled with lilies. 

TOM (V.O.)

Or was that in France, later? And a baguette in the basket instead of flowers? Doesn’t matter. We were in quintessential England.

EXT. VILLAGE OF HILTON – VARIOUS SHOTS

• ARIEL PAN reveals the green spaces, parks, and countryside views.
• CLOSE UP on the Church of St. Mary Magdalene, built in the fifteenth century.
• PAN OUT to reveal Village Green and the Hilton Maze

TOM (reading brochure)

The maze was created for fertility rites… or penitential rituals… or recreation. Cut back in 1660 by William Sparrow. The village of Hilton was mentioned in the Domesday Book in 1086.

JIM (staring skyward, doing mental math)

Let’s see. 1977 minus 1086… that’s… um… about… a long time ago.

MONTAGE:

• Tom admiring well-kept lawns—oops, gardens—and engaging in highly animated conversations with the owners.
• T&J in the even more storybook English village of Wadenhoe,  talking to a couple of young kids on bikes who turn the tables on Tom by peppering him with questions about America.
• Sheryl guiding T&J through an ancient, drafty church, pointing out various engraved memorials used for brass rubbings—several of which hang in their home even today.
• Rick and Jim drinking warm beer in the Prince of Wales pub. Tom at the bar, engaging others in highly animated conversation.

INT. LOCAL PUB – NIGHT

Rick opens his personal set of darts, de rigueur for any reputable pub patron.

JUMP CUT:

Jim throws. The dart sails wide. LOCALS burst into laughter.

INT. RICK AND SHERYL’S DINING ROOM – NIGHT.

Around the table: Rick, Sheryl, Tom, Jim, Kevin (5), and Colin (3).

KEVIN (V.O. British accent, sounding professorial)

Mummy, please pass the peas.

COLIN (V.O. British accent, sounding like the three-year-old he was)

I need to go to the loo.

RICK (V.O. Midwest accent)

They'll lose those accents soon after hitting an American playground.

EXT. HUNTINGDON STATION – MORNING

T&J are two lone backpackers among commuters dressed properly for the office, waiting politely in line—

SHERYL (V.O. Texas accent)

Bless your heart--they’re called queues. 

—for the train to London. Tom’s backpack appears 20 pounds lighter. Soon, he will be down to two shirts, a pair of shorts, jeans, and three pairs of boxers. Jim will eventually follow suit, although he will have trouble parting with his 10-day supply of underwear.

BEGIN FADE

NARRATOR (V.O.)

Cliché… but true—just the way most things become cliché.

FADE OUT

***

And now for the NOW: Reflections on "Landing in a Cliché."

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A Slice of the Big Apple

Cleveland’s Hopkins Airport proudly called itself "international," but in 1977, that designation meant Canada and a few scattered destinations just beyond the southern border. There were no direct flights to Europe. So Tom and Jim—feeling cooly hippie-ish with their new backpacks (one external frame, one internal, both orange and both overloaded)—had to detour: first to New York, where they'd spend the night, then onward from a truly international hub: JFK.

Tom had visited New York as a young boy, but his memories of the Big Apple were hazy. Jim had never been. What they knew of the city came secondhand from the Cleveland Plain Dealer, the Toledo Blade, and their local TV news back home. The headlines were bleak. New York City teetered on the edge of bankruptcy. The Bronx was literally burning. A serial killer known as the .44 Caliber Killer—soon to be dubbed Son of Sam—was targeting young women across the boroughs. A recent citywide blackout had triggered looting, emboldened street gangs now ruled the subways and roamed Central Park, and 42nd Street and Times Square had descended into a den of crime, sleaze, and porn. 

They couldn’t wait.

The short flight to LaGuardia gave them just enough time to settle into the reality of what they were doing. No more hesitations. No more second thoughts. 

“We’re doing this, Doc,” Tom said. “We’re really doing this.”

Jim nodded, not-so-discreetly checking under the waistband of his jeans to make sure the money belt —stuffed with his passport and a thick stack of American Express Travelers Cheques—was still there. He’d read that this essential, if awkward and sweaty accessory was essential for travel—especially when visiting sketchy destinations. And to Jim, New York City definitely qualified.

As luck would have it, their seats were on the right side of the plane--unfortunately, the wrong side if you were hoping for an inspiring, birds-eye view of the Statue of Liberty, the Twin Towers, the necklace of bridges linking the boroughs. The famous skyline passed unseen as the plane began its descent. 

As would sometimes happen in the unlikeliest of places (a deserted train station in Germany, a hotel bar in Cairo, a busy street in Tehran), Tom and Jim ran into people they knew—or people who knew people they knew.  On the Carey airport bus into Manhattan, Tom spotted a high school friend, Phil Andrye, who worked in the financial district. Phil gave them an insider’s tour and joined them for dinner, along with one of their college housemates, T.R. Paulding, who caught a train down from Hartford. They shared plenty of laughs—thanks mainly to T.R.—but wrapped things up early. T.R. had law school the next morning, and Phil had to be at the office. They lived in the real world.

Later, back at the LaGuardia Holiday Inn, Tom and Jim toasted the start of their adventure with overpriced beers at the Kitty Hawk Lounge, spending more of their hard-earned savings than budget travelers should have. Still, they raised their glasses in quiet self-congratulation, happy to be marching to a different drummer—even if they’d only traveled 600 miles so far, and by jetliner.

The next morning, Tom reported a restful night. Jim said the same, though he’d had trouble falling asleep—not from anticipation, but because his mind kept replaying the scenes they’d walked through: Central Park, Rockefeller Center, Radio City Music Hall, Times Square—and, most vividly, a 42nd Street theater marquee advertising an “exclusive” experience: Watch a Man Get Devoured by a Lion-- LIVE AND ON FILM!

In the words of Leonard Bernstein: New York, New York. It's a helluva town.

***

Our good friend mentioned in this post, T.R. Paulding, passed away this year on March 27. No one was a prouder Notre Dame alum and fan. No one had a kinder heart. All who knew him miss him terribly. 

Godspeed, friend.

***

And now for the NOW: Reflections on "A Slice of the Big Apple"

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