Dispatch from Prague, Czechoslovakia - Pig, Punch, Picture Police & Peals

So I'm just winding down a day exploring gorgeous Prague. 

The city's architecture is spectacular. I'm happily surprised there are not more communist-era, institutional buildings devoid of character that stain the skyline of some Eastern European cities.

I'm also really impressed with the Czech people - warm with a live and let live attitude. Maybe it's the influence of nearby Bohemia. And they seem proud of Prague, as they should be.

But the West has certainly made it's mark here with McDonald's fast food joints everywhere. In the hotel breakfast room this morning, American country & western music was playing. In the taxi, it was American hard rock (Oh, and by the by, despite warnings in guides that I should be wary of Prague taxi drivers, my experience with them has been good - friendly and no shenanigans. One guy didn't have change so the two of us wandered the train station looking for someone to make change).

After some time wandering, I ended up in the Jewish Ghetto at a synagogue that is centuries old. In the adjacent graveyard, the head stones were stacked like playing cards because they buried people twelve deep. It's incredible that this place survived the war.


Next I walked to Old Town Square. There were food vendors set up throughout. I zeroed in on a vendor that had a huge roasted pig splayed spread eagle over his cart. The skin looked like a barbecued football. This vendor was popular with the big crowd so I queued up and was handed this massive pork sandwich, cut from the pig to order, topped with a heaping amount of onions, and a reckless amount of mustard. It was so good but after eating it with my hands, I needed a bath. And I washed it down with this punch from another vendor. It was some mulled wine, boozy concoction. People of all ages were slamming this stuff back like it was water, but to me it was lethal. I felt a bit woozy. 

Anyhoo, I shook it off and from there headed over the bridge and up the hill to Prague Castle. As I trekked up the hill, a cat followed me. I couldn't shake the tail...Get it? I figured the cat smelled the pork drippings on me and I started to worry that others may follow suit. I pictured myself running down the hill with dozens of cats in hot pursuit and me jumping in the river to escape. That thought must have been courtesy of the boozy concoction I had just drank.

The cathedral at Prague Castle is stunning. I was wandering inside and taking a few snaps when this huge hand landed on my shoulder from behind. I jumped and made a squeaking sound. When I turned, the sausage-fingered hand was attached to this burly guy in a uniform - he reminded me of the sandwich I just ate in the square. He started wagging a digit at me and pointing at my camera. In broken English, he demanded to see my permit. I didn't know what he was talking about. But he wouldn't let it go. It turns out you can't take photos in the cathedral without a permit. Oopsie, doopsie. I apologized and said I didn't know. But still he wouldn't let it go, looming over me and giving me the stink eye. I thought he was going to arrest me. Now I pictured myself running down the hill with him thundering after me instead of the cats but he might follow me into the river. Well after an extended period of shaming, he let me go as he had other offenders to confront, a flash popping gaggle of Asian tourists. I booked it out of there and didn't look back.

The day ended on a more civilized note. I got a ticket to see Mozart's opera Don Giovanni at the famous Estates Theatre, the very place where Mozart premiered the opera in 1787. Apparently, he did so because audiences in Prague were less prudish than those in Vienna. The experience was outstanding. The theatre has an elliptical seating plan with many private boxes and balconies, and everyone leaning over to see. The scene looked like a painting from centuries ago. Too bad I didn't pack my powdered white wig.

At the end of the opera, when Giovanni is confronted by that big statue and descends into hell, it reminded me of my dust-up with the picture police at the cathedral, though in the end I fared better than Giovanni.

Sculpture Depicting My Run-In With The Picture Police

Dispatch from Budapest, Hungary - Hanging Out at The Gellert

Greetings from Budapest. I'm here for the first time and am staying at the world famous Hotel Gellert and Spa. 

This grande dame of a hotel has loads of character. It is housed in a beautiful Art-Nouveau building along the Danube on the "Buda" side of the city. And the spa with it's thermal baths is world-renowned.

Source: www.danubiushotels.com

I love grand old hotels that groan with history. The only drawback to staying at these places, is that while the architecture and common areas usually are exquisite and the suites over the top, the regular rooms tend to range widely in size and decor from the sublime to the ridiculous. I've booked a "single" room, which in Euro-speak usually means a former broom closet. But I'm pleasantly surprised by my room - it is larger than expected and nicely appointed. And the view out the back of the hotel is great. So far, so good.

After exploring the hotel, I get ready for my spa visit. I'm a thermal bath virgin. I've never been and I'm not sure what I am in for. With some trepidation, I head from my room to the spa entrance - an ornate glass and gilt iron facade that houses an antique elevator. I press the button and the cables lurch into action. I hear the whirring as the pulleys lift the car. The iron door clangs open and this elderly lady in a white uniform greets me. She is right out of central casting. She smiles officiously and motions for me to enter the car. After I do, she slams the iron door shut, pulls a lever, and down into the bowels of the hotel we go.

The basement entrance to the spa is a hopeful sign of what's to come - a beautiful Art-Nouveau room clad in blue tiles and mosaics that reminds me of New York's Grand Central Station. From this grand entrance, I head to the men's change room which is nearly empty and kind of dark and spooky. And the attendant is stern. I'm handed a small dish towel contraption with strings that I'm unsure about. Is it a bib? Is it my towel? It can't be. It's too small. And I'm also not sure where to leave my stuff. I put on my bathing suit and leave the dish towel with my other stuff in as secluded a corner as I can find.

I enter the thermal baths. Oh Sweet Baby Cheeses, now I know what the dish towels are for! Guys have them tied around their waist like aprons to cover their kibble and bits. But the sides and back are open. And the thin, white material doesn't really hide anything when it is wet. Gadzooks, are you freaking kidding me?! Oh the humanity!

In my head, I repeat the "When in Rome" mantra over and over and proceed (or maybe my mantra should be "Water Off an Old Duck's Crack"). I step down into the baths and head to a relatively unpopulated area. The water is warm and does feel good, but I don't feel like I am being renewed or am dialing back the age clock. I need to give it more time. Maybe it's the dish towel-clad old dudes that are popping up everywhere in the pool. The towels are bobbing on the surface like jellyfish and under the water there is this reef of wrinkly bits. 

Source: www.danubiushotels.com

I look up to avert my gaze. Wow! The ceiling is gorgeous (even if the people underneath it...not so much). It is vaulted with ornate, colorful blue and gold tiling and mosaics. In fact, the whole room is exquisite. I begin to adjust to the surroundings and appreciate the beauty. Maybe the thermal water is starting to do it's thing. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a flash of color and look over to see a guy my age entering the pool. He does not look like he's from here and also has opted for a bathing suit over the dish towel apron. He looks at me from across the pool, smiles, raises his eyebrows, and rolls his eyes. I smile back. A-ha! I have a partner in crime. So I'm not the only one who thinks this situation is un poco loco.

After awhile in the baths, I've had enough. I head to the stairs leading out of the pool. As I look up to grab the railing, there is this elderly guy bent over, holding the rail, and climbing the stairs ahead of me. And yep, he is wearing one of those aprons. Doh! I won't go into detail of what was greeting me but suffice it to say that the image isn't leaving my brain any time soon. Nasty stuff that.

I decide to check out another area where I see guys going in and out. It looks to be sauna and steam rooms. I open a door to one and find a steam room packed with guys. And I mean packed like sardines. They all look up at me at me so I'm too embarrassed to not go in. I find the one bench that has a bit of room and sit down.

Less than a minute later, two substantial guys come in and, without any hesitation, wedge in on either side of me, the only space in the room, their bare buttocks and hairy thighs pinning me down like a sumo wrestler sitting on a kid. Okay, I'm done. Officially. I wriggle to get up, pop out of the hold, and head for the door. The Gellert Spa experience may be grand but it is also a little bit gross.


Later that evening, I have a fantastic room service meal followed by a night time walk around Budapest. As I walk over the bridge back to the hotel, The Gellert is beautifully lit and looks magical. That night, I sleep like a baby (though I may have had a dream or two about apron-clad wrinkly monsters). The next morning the hotel spoils me with a lavish breakfast buffet.

Hotel Gellert, while I may not think the thermal bath experience magical, as a hotel you most certainly are. Thanks for (most of) the memories.

Dispatch from Paris, France - A Crumby Start to a Great Day

So it is an overcast, rainy day in Paris. I'm feeling a bit homesick, even though this trip has just started. Maybe it's because I know I'll be away for over a month. Maybe it's because that Michael Buble song "Home" was playing when I checked in to my hotel and now I can't get it out of my head.

But I'm in Paris - one of the world's great cities. And I have the day to myself. So snap out of it (said in a Cher voice).

I grab a hotel umbrella and set out. I'm on the left bank (I'm a left banker in both head and heart) and my first stop is my favorite boulangerie on St. Germain. I grab two pains au chocolat; the theory being that I'll eat one now and save one for later. I devour the first one, savoring it's sublime buttery and chocolatey goodness, while walking down the leafy St. Germain. Without even having so much as an internal discussion with myself, I start into the second "save for later" one and before I'm a block away, it too is gone. I better walk faster.

I'm enjoying walking with an umbrella. It provides more than just protection from the elements - it's also a walking stick and it empowers me like I'm wielding a club. Okay, simmer down Hercules. 

I'm also noticing that people are looking at me and smiling faintly. What's happened to my deliciously stand-offish Parisians? Why are people smiling at me? Is it my umbrella wielding bravado or do they sense my home sickness? 

Anyhoo, my attention shifts to the shop windows. Parisians are masters in the art of so many things, including window dressing. A fabric shop displays beautifully textured and colored fabrics. Next to it is a design store, the window display all in white except for one hit of color from bright green cushions, and inside I see a chic lady sitting behind a sleek desk. 

I also catch my reflection in the window. What is that? What do I have all over me? Oh good grief, my face is covered in a croissant-crumb beard, there's a smear of chocolate across my cheek, and the debris field continues down the front of my jacket. I'm a mess. No wonder people are looking at me. Those are pity smiles for the simpleton with the crumby face. So the Parisians have not softened after all.

After an extensive dusting off and a face wash at a small fountain, I regroup and head past the Pantheon and the Sorbonne to my beloved Jardin du Luxembourg - my favorite garden in Paris. Even on this gloomy day, it is beautiful and serene. There are teams of gardeners planting flowers. They are kneeling on makeshift scaffolds over the garden to ensure they plant symmetrically. Ingenious.

From there I wander down toward the Seine and stop at Eglise Saint-Sulpice. Even with "Da Vinci Code" fame, this church seems off the radar to many tourists. It is eerily beautiful with a slightly neglected appearance, faded paintings, wooden trap doors in the floor, and many dark nooks and crannies. And the plaque on the wall refuting the "best selling novel's fanciful allegations" about the brass line in the church is amusing.

I head down Rue Bonaparte and wander through Saint-Germain-de-Pres. I cross the Seine over the Pont des Arts - my favorite bridge in Paris with beautiful views. Once, after a particularly big night on the town, I fell asleep on this bridge and woke at sunrise to see a man near me filming three people in some vignette. I'm happy to report that I still had my wallet and all my organs. But I'm probably an unpaid extra in some bad French film.

I wander the Louvre grounds and walk Rue de Rivoli and Rue St. Honoree. My favorite way to lunch in Paris is to buy a sandwich and a pastry at one of the places here and sit on one of the metal chairs around the big fountain in the Jardin des Tuileries next to the Louvre. My favorite shop to grab my picnic lunch is "Yannick Martin" at 302 Rue St. Honoree. It's run by a delightful group of ladies and the food is top drawer.

Because of the weather, I pretty much have the fountain to myself, except for one kid who has rented a toy sail boat and is navigating it around the fountain. What appears to be a very patient parent or nanny is huddled on a chair next to him.

After lunch, I wander the right bank with no destination in mind. My ambling takes me into the courtyard of the Palais Royal with it's geometric sculptures and beautifully treed garden. I also pass the Opera Garnier. I never go by this place without the soundtrack to "Phantom of the Opera" playing in my head. The interior is such an exquisite space but today I resist the temptation to go inside (by the way, my Parisian friends think I'm insane for this view but does anyone else think that the Chagall painting on the ceiling of the opera is a misfit?). I also wander around Place Vendome and later I pass Harry's Bar where I think the Bloody Mary was invented (I also think the night that led to me sleeping on the Pont des Arts began there...).

Eventually, I end up back on the left bank passing the Musee d'Orsay (I love, love, love this museum) and end up at Le Bon Marche - the huge department store. I head into La Grande Epicerie and spend an hour admiring the food so artfully displayed - fresh morels, a dozen types of tomatoes, foie gras, cheese, wine, even poultry with tail and neck feathers attached so you can tell the breed - a foodie paradise. I spring for some nibbly bits and a split of Veuve Clicqout champagne and trek back to the hotel for a rest.

Later that evening, I dine at a brasserie so quintessentially Parisian, it looks like a set from a movie. I have a sublime cream of potato and cheese soup and a hearty cote de veau. I walk back to the hotel along the Seine with Notre Dame and the bridges lit up, so grateful for the day I just had (and also grateful that I'm not having my cholesterol checked any time soon).

I've been to Paris countless times. But today has been one of the most memorable. Paris, you are a delightful date. You never disappoint.

Today reminds me that most of the time, something good to look at, something good to eat, and something to give you a good laugh, make for a great day.

Dispatch from Vatican City - Marcello! Marcello!....Benedetto! Benedetto!

So I'm at the Vatican and I'm trying to snag tickets to the papal mass in a couple of days in St. Peter's Square. I know that tickets are usually given out to groups and tours ahead of time but I'm determined to run some down for me and my devoutly Catholic travel companions. 

At the tourist office, they keep telling me to go ask across the square. And at the post office, they seem to point back the other way. I'm getting a lot of shrugging and pointing. I'm beginning to think this is some big game for the Vatican workers.  

Finally I take stock of where the most points have directed me and eliminate all the dead ends I've already run down. The only place left is the grand entrance to the Apostolic Palace. That can't be where I go? It's not like I have an appointment with the Boss. They're going to shoot me if I go there.

But I've got no other options so I gird my loins and approach the entrance with massive bronze doors that are open. At the threshold, immediately and out of nowhere I'm confronted by a menacing looking member of the Pope's Swiss Guard. I think they're called "halberdiers" because that spear that they hold is a "halberd". This guy's not in his full "jester" outfit and blessedly doesn't have a halberd but he clearly means business.  

So this guard is all up in my stuff and such, asking me what I want. My voice cracks and I meekly ask where I can get tickets for the papal mass. He asks me how many I want. I tell him three, slowly holding up three fingers making sure to face my palm toward him because a backwards peace sign is how you flip someone off in Italy and I don't want a situation. He tells me to stay where I am and he disappears. I do not move - I don't even look down to see if indeed I do have a laser sight marking the middle of my chest. The he reappears and hands me three tickets. I thank him profusely and slowly back away, bowing like I'm at a Japanese tea ceremony. Success!

I have a long history of visiting the Vatican. I love St. Peter's and the square - all of the Vatican for that matter - there is so much history and intrigue in this tiny little state. 

Years ago, when I first visited, I trekked to the top of St. Peter's dome. I don't know if the public even can do that any longer. I paid my fee, and went up this maze of stairways and elevators to access the dome. Once there, you walked single file up these rickety stairs in a hot, dark, and tight space between the outer roof and inner ceiling. You actually had to bend to the side as you climbed because of the dome's curve, only getting to see out a window every now and again. But the views were spectacular. When I got to a window, I wanted to yell, "Marcello, Marcello!" and wave out the window like Anita Ekberg did in the beginning of the film "La Dolce Vita" but in a rare exercise of good judgment, I did not.

The woman ahead of me was a middle-aged Italian woman in a sweater set and black skirt. She had a pronounced limp but scaled that dome like she did it every day. Her limp actually helped as it kept her leaning to the side in line with the dome's curve. Come to think of it, maybe that's how she got the limp.

After that trek, I was in the square mopping my sweat and chugging a Coke when I noticed that the curtains in the windows of the papal balcony of St. Peter's were moving. I was far away but I could see two guys in black cassocks with red hats holding the curtains open. Then a guy dressed in a white cassock appeared looking out over the square, like he was checking out his yard. OK now hold up, I said to myself, only one guys wears white at the Vatican. It was Pope John Paul II. The thing is nobody seemed to notice that he was there. The square was bustling with tourists and the faithful but they didn't see the Pope looking down on them. After a couple of minutes, he was gone and the curtains fell back.

Now I've had many experiences at the Vatican but none holds a candle to what I witnessed in 2005. In the spring of that year, I was watching the continuous news coverage of the vigil for Pope John Paul II who was near death. All the coverage from Rome and the Vatican had me jonesing for a visit so off I went. My travel companion and I arrived in Rome after Pope John Paul II died and just as the conclave to elect a new pope was convening.

After some walking around Rome and a great lunch at Piazza Navonna, we decided to walk over to the Vatican to check out the scene. It was only the second day of the conclave. 

In St. Peter's Square, the world's press were camped out on huge scaffolds erected throughout the square and on rooftops. But things were pretty quiet. The crowd was not that big as it was early days in conclave voting and not much activity was expected. I could see the makeshift chimney attached to the roof of the Sistine Chapel to signal whether a new pope was elected when the ballots were burned.

We visited Pope John Paul II's tomb and wandered around St. Peter's Basilica. Then we went to Mass; nothing like Mass in the mother ship.  After the service, we were poking around the nooks and crannies of the massive church when this noise from the square outside began to permeate the church. Everyone stopped in their tracks. At first it was difficult to figure out what the rumbling was but then people started to realize it was the crowd outside cheering. 

Well I've never seen anything like what happened next. Everyone from inside St. Peter's began to run for the exit like the place was collapsing and they were running for their lives - and I'm talking everyone - tourists, church ushers, even the priests and the nuns. I remember in particular, one gangling priest sprinting in his cassock down the main aisle of the church.

Once outside there were barricades that prevented us from going down the stairs. So all of us from inside the church stood at the rail looking out at the crowd. There were priests on the roofs of Vatican buildings and nuns leaning out the windows. The crowd's gaze was directed to our left at the Sistine Chapel. We couldn't see it but they began to cheer at what appeared to be white smoke coming from the chimney.

I had read press reports that, because it is difficult to distinguish the color of the smoke, this time when a pope was elected, the Vatican announced that it would also ring St. Peter's bells to confirm it. So you could see the gaze of the crowd shift from the Sistine Chapel to our right and above us. The bells started to ring confirming a new pope.

It was the most unbelievable experience to be looking out at the crowd as all this unfolded. There was this constant roar from the crowd, walls of lights from all the tv cameras, and a huge crowd of people coming across the Tiber and up the Via della Conciliazione. We were witnessing history.

The scene was chaotic and nobody seemed to know what to do with us at the top of the steps of St. Peter's. Eventually, some authorities appeared and moved us down the steps to our right but we were left there in front of St. Peter's, below and just to the side of the balcony where the new pope would appear. We had front row seats to all that was unfolding. Unbelievable. 

As time passed, the crowd in the square swelled to capacity and church officials, politicians and other dignitaries arrived with police escorts next to where we were and went into St. Peter's. The crowd erupted as officials unfurled a banner with the papal seal over the balcony. Some more time passed and then the crowd erupted again as above us, newly elected Pope Benedict XVI emerged on the main balcony and cardinals came out onto flanking ones. The crowd started chanting, "Benedetto!" and clapping rhythmically, "Da. Da. Da-da. Da.". The Pope spoke, the ceremony concluded, and for the next hour we wandered around St. Peter's Square watching people celebrate and wave flags from different countries. Strangers were hugging and cheering. That evening, we walked from the Vatican through the streets of Rome to our hotel near the train station. The whole city appeared to be out in the streets celebrating.

What I will never forget is the feeling from that crowd of people in St. Peter's Square. There was such energy and pure joy. You could feel it within you, like a vibration. It doesn't matter what religion you identify with; when that many people come together and express such joy and excitement, they create a force that transcends the collective - it is a tangible energy.