Tuesday, March 31, 1998

My plane arrives early in the morning, German time. Frankfurt, it's like being in another world, another galaxy. The very first thing I notice is everyone is so big. It started in Ubud, Bali, all the clothes I tried on were big. I was in the tourist area but are all the tourists a size large? There was not a small size to be found, and barely an occasional medium. I've never thought of myself as being that small, or so much smaller than the majority. On the racks the sizes ranged from L, to LL and up to 4L. Most of the tourists in Bali and the places I went to in Indonesia were Dutch or German or Australian. So while I wait for my bag in the Frankfurt airport, that's one of the things I notice, everyone seems so big and I feel so small. Now the clothing sizes made sense.

The Frankfurt airport is a huge and efficient place if you pay attention to the signs and can figure out the maps. The train station is a level or two below the airport concourse. I take the escalator down, get some Deutsche marks at an ATM machine, and ask the train information clerk about good places to go near Frankfurt. She suggests Wiesbaden, tells me which train to get, sells me a ticket and off I go.

In Wiesbaden a helpful taxi driver shows me a nice place to stay. It is across the street from a park and within walking distance to downtown. I take a shower and head out to explore the town. My brain is slightly foggy after the long plane trip. Not only is everyone tall, but many of the women are wearing platform sneakers! I am looking for a jacket. Spring weather in Europe is much colder than the tropical temperatures I am used to or have clothes for. Everything is the wrong size. Am I a midget or what?

The springtime air is crisp and fresh. The humidity is refreshingly low, the temperature a comfortable brisk. The park is lovely with daffodils and trees beginning to blossom. It feels wonderful to walk through the park and the immaculately clean city streets. Wiesbaden is a posh large town. The shops have lots of nice things. There are coffee shops and large impressive public buildings. The park fills with students studying on the grass. I find a spot in the sun and join them, happy to be here.

For a meal I relish a crisp salad, glad to be able to eat fresh vegetables with out worries of food poisoning. Things are much more expensive here. My stop for tea and a biscuit costs more than I usually spent all day for food in Indonesia. The cost of living in modern, developed countries is multiple times greater.

My energy winds down and I return to the comfort of my room and sleep. It will take a while to get used to a new time zone and place.

Wednesday, April 1, 1998

Today my journey takes me to the Wiesbaden thermal baths. It's about 10:30 in the morning, I've walk to the bathhouse through the beautiful park. The sun is shining. The temperature is cool. The baths themselves are clean tiled, spacious and efficient. I buy my day pass, get a locker key and go into a changing cabana to put on my swimsuit. There are two pools, a large, indoor one spreading out in a freeform way with occasional jet sprays to get hydro-massaged or something. The other smaller pool is outside. Granted, except for 2 kids, there is no one here under 35 (I think) but everyone looks huge. Some of the men and women are quite ample. There are some truly impressive bellies. Now all the large clothes sizes make sense. Maybe I should try shopping in the kids' section.

In both pools the robust older people sit or float around in small groups. Most of the women have some showers cap thing on their hair to keep it dry. The sounds of people talking echo in the tile-enclosed pool. There is a wet dripping splashing humidity about the place. They speak German, which I don't understand. The experience is surreal in my jet-lagged state.

I get a light lunch in the restaurant/bar beside the pool and have a great time people watching. Lunchtime fare for other diners includes a glass of wine and a plate brimming with sausages and potatoes. It makes quite a funny sight, the large servings of food being consumed by diners with their bits of lycra barely covering the expanse. This is abundance at its fullest. Everyone here has a healthy robustness. They seem to be retired, enjoying the fruits of their labors and the bounty their country has to offer. There is contentment as everyone easily floats along, talking and laughing amongst each other. The plastic palm trees are an ironic tropical touch. The warm thermal waters are supposed to have medicinal qualities. Most people would feel better if they spent an hour several times a week floating around in a clean large warm mineral bath with their family, friends and coworkers.

I return to my hotel for an afternoon rest. I've bought tickets to the ballet for tonight. Time for some culture. I get dressed in as fancy an outfit as I can muster. I wear a dress purchased in Java with my clunky travel shoes and a pair or panty hose I bought today. That is the extent of my dress up. My windbreaker and green nylon bag complete the ensemble, so much for making a grand fashion statement. It's an excuse to do a bit more shopping later.

I walk to town to get some dinner. My stomach is a bit of a jumble. Like jet lag, it takes time for my digestive track to get used to a new environment. I like white rice a lot, but it's nice to be in a place that has a different variety. While I'm having my lamb chop, I talk to the Englishmen at the next table. They are policemen working on some international crime solving business. The details are vague, but I guess crime, especially white-collar crime, is increasingly international.

The ballet is an interesting and odd performance with men in tights and lots of strange color combinations. The theater is grandiose and ornate. I enjoy the set design and staging of the performance even if I don't understand the plot. It's also fun to people watch. During intermission I tour the halls and watch the locals nob and hob. I manage to make to the end of the performance through my exhaustion. Fortunately my hotel is a short walk home. I make it back and fall thankfully into my comfortable bed.

Thursday, April 2, 1998

Leisurely awakening. I have my breakfast in the hotel and then wander out for a day of shopping. I want to find a pair of jeans. The weather here is colder than the tropics and I don't have much in the way of warmer clothes. After many shops, from department stores to boutiques and a few kids stores as well, I manage to find a pair that fit and are on sale! Things are expensive, even with a relatively good exchange rate. I know all my discount haunts back at home. Other than getting things I need for travel, there isn't anything that I can't find in the U.S.

I have fun wandering around and watching people. Shopping is a universal pastime even if the object of the exercise is looking. In the spirit of cyber-communications, I manage to find two cyber cafés and try to check my email. For the first time, I am unable to log in because the system managers at both places modify the computers so that I can't log into my server at home. They have total control and don't want customers messing with anything. This means I can't get my email, sigh.

My dinner is in a lovely small restaurant. I enjoy the delicious fish dish complete with a glass of white wine. Again, wish there was someone to share it all with.

Friday, April 3, 1998

I get up early in the morning, send a fax home from the hotel and then get a taxi to the station for the train to Milan. Time to move on and see how this Eurail ticket works. The train is extremely comfortable. It goes swiftly and efficiently through beautiful countryside bursting with springtime. The tender green leaves and daffodils are wonderful, filled with the promise of renewal and rebirth. Spring is my favorite time of year, everything emerges new and fresh, the cycle begins again. The train moves south through Germany and then Switzerland. The views are breathtaking. I am a bit nervous about sorting out details of places to stay in Milan. I've got a brochure of hotels that I study. It's from the chain of hotels that includes the one in Bandung, Java that I liked so much. There is one in Milan that seems nice. Hopefully I can work out some sort of deal.

A woman in my cabin and I start talking. She is Swiss French returning to her home near Genoa after a visit with family. We converse in my rusty French. Her husband died a few years ago and she seems a bit lonely. We talk about travels and family and the area. She likes living on the coast of Northern Italy. I am pleased that I understand so much of our conversation with my college French. It's been a while. I've always wanted to spend some time getting more fluent. It takes practice letting go of the self consciousness. I want to say everything perfectly and not sound too silly. Some day I'll have my six months in a cottage in the south of France. For now, I'm off to explore Italy. The Swiss woman departs and invites me to visit her if I have the time. It's a lovely offer, I wish I was less self conscious about intruding. I'll think about it, but I'm shy about getting involved with strangers or taking advantage of hospitality.

An Italian businessman joins our cabin. He is working on a document on his laptop computer. He asks for my help in fine tuning the English. I enjoy going through the letter, helping him make it more American. His business helps companies and individuals deal with the transitions and traumas of layoffs due company restructuring. I thought employment in Europe was more stable than in the U.S. It turns out that the speed of change influences business practices here also. Global economics and competition has forced companies everywhere to reengineer their workforce. The business verbiage translates into no lifetime security in Europe or the U.S. Being laid-off, re-deployed, restructured, or phased out is part of the worldwide corporate landscape. We live in interesting times.

The train arrives in Milan. I get a taxi to the hotel in my book. They have a weekend special and give me a wonderful room. I settle in, have a brief wander around the neighborhood and enjoy a pizza dinner before getting a good night sleep.

Saturday, April 4, 1998

I have my tour book of Italy purchased in the English bookstore in Indonesia. I comb through it for suggestions and also look at the local information guides picked up at the train station. At each new destination on my journey, I try to find the tourist guides, maps and pamphlets that describe the city and local events. In Asia and especially Europe, there are tourist info kiosks located in or near the main train stations. I enjoy getting to know a city. From cyber cafés to post offices, a mission of some sort helps me learn about a place. In one of the info sources for Milan, I read there is a Saturday market that sells last season's fashion leftovers. Milan is an industrial and fashion center and it sounds like a fun outing.

I figure out the local subway system and get myself to the market area. The weather is a brisk but nice spring day. I wander first through the food market. It is early for the clothing. The walking and looking is a good way to see how the locals spend their Saturday morning. There are coffee shops and bakeries and fruit stalls and hardware stores. It's a kaleidoscope of colors and smells and sounds that make up markets everywhere. I am tempted by a bakery and get myself a small bread like-pizza thing. The Saturday morning bustle of shopping goes on all around me.

The clothing merchants have set up their wares along a street. A central walkway runs through tables of shoes, socks, sweaters, shirts, underwear, and pants. Some of the sellers have racks of clothing hanging along the outer edges of their areas. There are dresses, coats, and suits for men and women. Customers aggressively go through racks. It looks like there are regulars who really know the lay of the land and what they are looking for. I hope to find some sort of wonderful, sophisticated fashion bargain. I do need a raincoat or something warmer than my windbreaker. I try on a few things but don't find anything I like that fits. Many of the designer names are unknown to me but most of the garments are well made with quality fabric. I have no immediate need for a suit, shoes or other clothes. Mostly it's fun to wander around and observe the world go by. My textile interests get the better of me and I find myself the proud owner of a set of Missoni sheets at a bargain price. The colors and textures are wonderful. It's another item to add to my box of things to ship home.

 

Sitting in one of the many comfortable, clean and efficient trains in Europe.

I am looking forward to sharing experiences with Mom. We meet in one week. It will be fun to sit in a café and talk and look and spend time together. It's good that she's booked us for a tour. We won't have to worry about hotels, transportation or other details. It is a luxury to be taken care of. The food here is tempting, from croissant and kiwi to pizza and gelato; an abundance of good smells, tastes and visual feasts.

I splurge for lunch at a fancier bistro. It's good but I think I'll stick to simpler pasta places. Fancy restaurant dining is more enjoyable for me when I can share it with someone.

Sunday, April 5, 1998

In the ongoing spirit of exploration, I wander around Duomo Square. It's full of people, strollers and a general abundance of life on a spring Sunday morning. A bicycle race starting in the square this weekend adds to the colorful atmosphere. For lunch I experience an Italian version of fast food, Autogrille. It's a cafeteria style experience, from collecting a tray and utensils to selecting various foods at different serving areas. There are young people and older couples, happily enjoying their meal. Mine is good too.

I continue to wander, trying to locate an alternate fashion outlet. My guidebook describes one that has used designer clothes and another that sells last year or designer overruns. The book says they are open on weekends but when I find them, they are closed this weekend and next. It's Palm Sunday and next week is Easter. Oh well. Getting lost while trying to find something is always fun. I wander past an open-air art exhibit. I go in and out of various churches, enjoying vignettes of cobblestone alleyways and courtyards. This is my favorite way to experience a small part of a city. It's also a good way to get exercise. I call home, it's great to talk to everyone and hear the latest news from my family. There's a problem with Mom's transportation from the Rome airport to the hotel. Negotiations with the travel company are being made. I'm sure we will figure something out.

Monday, April 6, 1998

I don't understand why I wake up in the middle of the night thinking too much and worrying about everything and nothing. It is a time of quiet contemplation but there is such a jumble of thoughts and feelings. I had a talk with Family yesterday. I miss everyone but also it brings up family dynamics and hot buttons. A chance remark, you're doing the trip yourself, and I go all melancholy. In the light of day it doesn't make much sense, the emotional roller coaster rises in self-defense of what? Go figure, I do torture myself with too much thought at times.

Morning sunlight washes away the heavy thinking. I get busy and make a trip to the post office. I've been warned of the inefficiencies and poor services provided by the Italian Post Office. My experience is positive. I'll see what happens when I get home. The post office I visit is in an ornate old building with corridors and arches. The offices are tucked in odd rooms, from huge open halls to cramped spaces that look like former storage rooms. Eventually I locate the correct line, sort out customs forms and off my package goes.

It is time to move on. The train east to Venice is an uneventful, enjoyable ride through changing countryside, from industrial to rural. Like the most of the traveling I've done so far, there is pleasure in the process of going. Nothing to do but sit and watch the world go by, maybe have a nice conversation with a fellow traveler. On this trip, I talk with an attorney from Texas. When I get to Venice, there are hordes of tourists. Is this some form of American college spring break in exotic Venice? It is the week before Easter and maybe, like Ft. Lauderdale, Venice is a collegiate right of passage. Fortunately I have a hotel room reserved. I make my way to my hotel.

 

A graceful archway in Venice.

Venice is a fabulously expensive city. My room is barely large enough for one single bed and a mirror on the wall. The details are nicely done, the location is good and the window looks out on a pretty courtyard, but this is the most I've paid for a hotel on my entire journey. Ouch. I make the best of it, settle in and go out wandering. The weather has turned to springtime overcast and blustery. I wander the streets, enjoying getting lost and looking in windows. Everywhere kids are having a good time. It's nice to see them laughing, calling to each other, showing off their silly carnival hats and searching for special treasures. Twenty years ago I did the same on my travels during a semester abroad for my sophomore year of college. Time flies and the world comes full circle, or I have. I remember fewer tourists but I felt a similar joy, sense of adventure and wonder of experiencing new places with friends.

The person I am today still enjoys the wandering and exploration. I wish there were friends to share this with, but the solo experience brings a different sort of awareness. I notice more of the details, the architecture, the light, the moments in a coffee shop with my hot mug of tea watching the world go by. I try to find the untouristed areas of the city and get lost in my meanderings. The alleyways twist and turn and I don't know where I am or how to get back to my hotel. It's fun for a while, to stumble across hidden courtyards, centuries old. Hunger and cold get the better of me. Quaintness evolves to frustration as pathways and bridges over canals don't lead me home. Eventually I stumble into a landmark from which I map my return.

Tuesday, April 7, 1998

In my tourist role, I am up early, clean and bright, ready for breakfast and exploration. The hotel desk tells me that there is a special free tour to the glass factories that meets in the lobby. I like glass, so why not. After breakfast I meet several others from the hotel who are also going to see the glass factories. We follow our guide to the boat that takes us to the islands where the glass factories are. One of the couples is from Hong Kong. They tell a story about how their wallet was stolen. Very fortunately it was recovered the next day. Both they and the local police were surprised and pleased by the unusual outcome of the too common crime. It's good to hear when something good happens.

It turns out that our "tour" is really a one way trip to a factory. Their goal is to get you to see merchandise and be a good, money-spending tourist. How you get back is your problem. I'm sure if your purchases are costly enough, return transportation will be provided. Even so, I enjoy the demonstration of glass blowing and browsing the multitudes of showrooms. There is glass everywhere, from ornate chandeliers hanging overhead, to sculptures, to glass jewelry, to goblets and vases. It's amazing the variety of objects that are created from blown glass. I have fun pricing a chandelier. In the process of negotiation, one of the sales reps asks me if I want a job as a sales person. It's a flattering offer, but I think my career goals lie elsewhere.

I spend a good part of the day visiting other glass factories, sitting in on their factory "demonstrations" and looking at the work displayed in the showrooms. There is glass everywhere and after a while, it's too much. Too much glass. None of it seems special. Most of it feels like overpriced stuff created to impress and dump on the tourists. I have seen some of the "glass art" in outlet stores and discount shops at home. It takes away the uniqueness and specialness that underlies a "once-in-a-lifetime" purchase. It becomes just more stuff.

I take the public boat transport back to the main part of Venice. It's a fun way to experience a place. In other cities, public transportation is busses and subways. In Venice, other than walking, the way to get around is by small boat ferries. The changing views are interesting. Old buildings still standing on the canal ways. I can see markings on the walls from various floods. The tour books and other city information talk about the challenges of maintaining a city that is gradually sinking. Everything, from delivering goods to trash collection is complicated by Venice's greatest asset, location on the water. I find a quiet, canal-front restaurant and treat myself to a delicious, leisurely lunch.

The rest of the day is spent going around, looking at shops, and watching the tourist world go by. It's a chilly, damp overcast day, but the glitter of shop windows, with their artful display of beautiful Italian goods is a pleasure.

 

Looking up at an elegant Venetian building.

Wednesday, April 8, 1998

My notion of spending relaxed moments wandering around Venice soaking up ambiance is dampened by chilly weather, outrageous prices and crowds of tourists. The illusion of Venice presented by glossy travel magazines does not live up to the reality. This city survives on tourists. There is nothing wrong with that, but other places appeal to me more so I decide to move on. I need to head south, toward Rome to meet Mom on Saturday. From my travel and hotel books I decide to visit a town in Tuscany, Montecatini Terme. It's a turn of the century spa town where well off and infirm go to "drink the waters" and take a cure. Sounds like an excuse to relax to me. I reserve a place to stay that looks nice in my hotel book.

So off I go in search of a quieter pace in the country. The train ride takes me through more pretty countryside. I settle into the rhythms of going. I get to Montecatini Terme. It's a rather swish resort town, a nice place even in with the slight overcast of early spring. My hotel is big, older, well maintained and nice. It's next to a park. The area is very tranquil. Things are quiet. The "season" begins next weekend with Easter. Hotels, restaurants, spas and other amusements are only just opening up in the past few days and weeks. After settling into my hotel room, it is time for a good walk to get a feel for the place. I have one small map but the first stop is to find tourist information that gives more insight and guidance to the area. I find the office on a main street and continue to wander the streets, past parks and shops. The grand hotels are very impressive with their ornate decorating.

There are a number of spas, clinics and baths in the area. Not all of them are open yet, but I wander into a few to see what they offer. The building themselves are beautiful. Many have elaborate tile work, carvings and stained glass window in Art Nouveau style. The park is fresh with spring flowers and new tender green leaves on the trees. Paths wander past vistas, from one building to the next. I decide to make and appointment for some "treatments".

Thursday, April 9, 1998

It's a rainy morning. I've decided to go to the Grotto, an underground cave that is part of a spa resort outside of town. After breakfast, a van from the resort comes to collect me. I sign up for time underground and then a facial afterwards. The spa is in a wonderful setting. It is a large stately home with a beautiful stone front nestled in the Tuscan countryside. The first part of my "treatment" is to get undressed in my own private changing room and put on a large, luxurious cozy white robe. Then, feet in provided flip-flops, my English-speaking guide escorts me to the entrance of the caves. The refined hall I am in has a glass door with a view onto exposed rock face. My guide opens the door and I am directed down a ramp that leads to an underground grotto area complete with stalactites and stalagmites. An attendant gives me a lighter robe to change into. This is to keep the big fluffy one dry? In rustic cabanas, I change robes. My English-speaking guide stayed above ground, so the instructions are in hand gestures and broken phrases. It's okay. I go down the pathways to explore this place. The grotto attendant returns to her reading.

I've always liked caves. The added dimension of white plastic lounge chairs along pathways is funny. Sound is quiet, hushed, and complete with the dripping of condensing water from ceilings into small pools below. Light varies from bright uplights showing off features of the ceilings and safety on the walkways to more shadowy areas where you can settle into a chair and enjoy the warmth of the place. The constant warm temperature and the moist air here is said to promote health.

I breathe deeply and enjoy the scenery. There are few people here, each quietly settled into their chair and experience. I find myself a lounge chair, lie back and enjoy the warmth and humidity. My mind drifts, thinking about spas and travels and adventures and building a spa business back home. Maybe it will be on the itinerary for Europeans coming to California? It is ironic that I am paying to be in a humid, 95 degree place when I've spent the last three months in Asia where that is the daily weather. The truth is I like warmth and humidity. You can't move too quickly, but because I am often chilly, the blanketing heat feels great.

After a while, I've had enough. I change back into my fuzzy white robe and go back upstairs. My "treatment" continues. I get into a shower stall and am sprayed with a high power jet of water. I think this is to aid circulation. It is funny as anything. What people won't do in the pursuit of health and beauty. So here I am naked being sprayed by a young woman holding what looks like a fire-hose. In spite of the humorous view of the entire process, I feel invigorated afterwards. Is this some sort of lifestyles of the rich and frivolous? Long live such silliness; it's time to experience how the other half lives.

Time to move on to the facial. It is wonderful to relax and be pampered. The facial is a soothing process in a quiet, softly lit room. Great smelling potions and lotions are applied with a firm but gentle touch. I emerge feeling great, feeling like I must glow. I settle my bill, visa no problem, and catch a ride back toward town. I've gotten an address for a local cyber café and asked to be let off there. I find the storefront but a sign says it's closed. The internet boom already bust here in this Italian town. Time to look for lunch.

One of the beautiful spas in Montecatini Terme.

My afternoon field trip is a ride on the local funicular (a sort of train up a steep hillside). We go up the hill, past fields brimming with springtime, past a local farm, it's ivory walls covered with blooming wisteria. At the top of the hill is the town of Montecatini Alto. It looks like it's been here forever and now is a quaint day visit for the visitors from below. The main square has a few shops and some restaurants. The weather is brisk and windy. I take a walk on the perimeter road that circles the town. The views of the rolling Tuscan hills and towns are fantastic. I return to the main square, find myself a sheltered patch of sun in front of a café and have a cup of tea. Italians and French have perfected the art of café sitting and watching the world go by. It's fun.

The evening search for a restaurant reminds me of my aloneness. Lunch can be a lighter, solo affair, but dinner has a larger presence, an event to be shared. Not only do I feel different being alone, but I don't want a huge dinner. I want to eat earlier than others, too bad. I find a place eventually, but I'm the first diner, those strange American tourists.

Friday, April 10, 1998

I finally get a mud wrap. My, what an experience. The procedure is multi-faceted. I arrive at a spa in town. I watch the morning water drinkers sip and stroll. Their doctors have prescribed the appropriate water for them to consume. This establishment has four different waters, each with its own mix of minerals and beneficial qualities. A doctor must prescribe the correct course of consumption. A pamphlet describes the benefits of having an early morning glass, prior to breakfast to be taken whilst strolling through the park grounds. The predominately older "patients", with their water mugs in hand, take the waters and have an amiable stroll with friends. It seems so very civilized.

I go upstairs to the mud treatment area. A doctor's approval is not required. That is good. After a bit of confusion, my mud technician is located and off we go to the mud-room. After disrobing, the first step is to slough off all my old dead skin with a salt rub. I don't speak Italian and the technician and her two helpers don't speak English either. Between hand signals and a few words we communicate. After a rub down with an abrasive lotion, I am led to the tub filled with warm water and bath potion. They leave me to soften up in the whirlpool. I lie back and relax. Like yesterday, I find these procedures very humorous. The room is white tile, with a sense of hospital antiseptic cleanliness. I imagine there have been years of "patients" receiving "treatments" here. The pursuit of health and beauty has been an art for centuries. After a suitable time in the tub, the technicians return. It's time for some mud slinging. A table bed is prepared by laying down a plastic sheet. My hair is wrapped in a towel. I lie face down while the warm mud is spread all over with a spatula. I turn over. They coat the rest of me, including my face. Then they wrap me up in the plastic sheet and leave me to stew for a while. So there I am, stuck in the mud, literally. Of course, my nose itches. There is nothing to be done. Now is the time to practice the art of surrender or maybe take a nap. Time goes. I'm snug in my muddy warmth, maybe I nod off for a while. Next thing I know, the ladies are back to release me from my dirt cocoon. It's a messy job and they gotta do it. They scrape as much off as possible then hose me off. I'm left for more time in the bath to work out the rest of the muck. The last step is some lotion to finish off the treatment. A mirror is produced so that I can admire the effects of the work on my skin. Yes, my skin looks better and feels wonderfully smooth. The mud treatment was fun, funny and I think successful. If you feel good, you look good!

Tables in the garden of a hotel in Montecatini Terme.

I dress and then wander off, content and invigorated. After lunch, I cozy in my room and work on hemming a batik scarf that I got in Indonesia as a present for my Mom. We meet in Rome tomorrow! Fantastic! It's been over three months since seeing anyone in my family. I miss them. I'm looking forward to our time together.