Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 year marriage. This is number 57 of a series about our lives and travels, true stories of two people discovering the world, each other, and themselves through five decades of traveling together. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage and travels look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts are a previous series.
Fewer people were traveling immediately after 9/11, but lines were longer because they didn't understand yet the new security procedures. While Sherrill and I sat in the departure lounge at SFO to board our flight, the captain of another American Airlines plane came out to talk to waiting passengers.
"Thank you for your courage flying so soon after the events of September 11," he said. "New procedures are now required on the plane. No wandering or milling about. You'll have to stay in your seats and ask the flight attendants to go to the lavatory."
After we'd boarded, our captain repeated what the first had said, adding: "For the first twenty minutes of the flight no one can get up, not even to go to the lavatory."
Later in the flight, I noticed that before one of the pilots came out of the cockpit, a flight attendant blocked the aisle with a food cart until the pilot was locked again behind the cockpit door. When we flew into Kennedy, where we changed planes for Paris, we saw the Manhattan skyline minus the twin towers. The Empire State Building again dominated the view.
"Thank you for your courage flying so soon after the events of September 11," he said. "New procedures are now required on the plane. No wandering or milling about. You'll have to stay in your seats and ask the flight attendants to go to the lavatory."
After we'd boarded, our captain repeated what the first had said, adding: "For the first twenty minutes of the flight no one can get up, not even to go to the lavatory."
Later in the flight, I noticed that before one of the pilots came out of the cockpit, a flight attendant blocked the aisle with a food cart until the pilot was locked again behind the cockpit door. When we flew into Kennedy, where we changed planes for Paris, we saw the Manhattan skyline minus the twin towers. The Empire State Building again dominated the view.
Bruce at Monet's house & garden, Giverny, France We were traveling independently again, and without reservations. We landed in Paris early in the morning, took a train into the city, crossed it by Metro to Gare St. Lazare, got a train to the little town of Vernon, where we found a hotel, left our bags, and took a taxi to Monet's home across the river in Giverny. We felt quite pleased that it all worked the way we'd hoped.
"They look just like the paintings," Sherrill said, as I followed her among Monet's gardens and ponds.
As a gardener, Sherrill loved exploring the paths and alcoves of the gardens, studying the range of colors, the textures and patterns, the way the light drifted across the flowers, trees, and water. Years before, in Japan and after, we'd learned a little about Japanese prints and admired those that Monet had collected, hung in his house, loved, and been inspired by. After a glorious half day in Monet's flowery wonderland, however, we discovered that there was no bus back to Vernon.
"Okay," I said, "I guess we'll walk."
"Don't worry." She patted my back. "It'll be fine."
So we did, three miles back to the Hotel d'Evreux, in a restored medieval building, where we cleaned up under the sloping ceiling of our room before descending to the cave-like dining room and a Michelin two-star dinner that we savored despite the glassy-eyed stares of an antlered deer and a bristly boar on the wall above our table.
"They look just like the paintings," Sherrill said, as I followed her among Monet's gardens and ponds.
As a gardener, Sherrill loved exploring the paths and alcoves of the gardens, studying the range of colors, the textures and patterns, the way the light drifted across the flowers, trees, and water. Years before, in Japan and after, we'd learned a little about Japanese prints and admired those that Monet had collected, hung in his house, loved, and been inspired by. After a glorious half day in Monet's flowery wonderland, however, we discovered that there was no bus back to Vernon.
"Okay," I said, "I guess we'll walk."
"Don't worry." She patted my back. "It'll be fine."
So we did, three miles back to the Hotel d'Evreux, in a restored medieval building, where we cleaned up under the sloping ceiling of our room before descending to the cave-like dining room and a Michelin two-star dinner that we savored despite the glassy-eyed stares of an antlered deer and a bristly boar on the wall above our table.
The next morning, we passed through Paris again on our way to Chartres, still with our luggage—fortunately, carry-on only, since we had to change trains. After passing dry corn fields and yellow-green pastures in which white cows stoically munched, we saw the huge gray bulk of Chartres cathedral on the horizon, still dominating everything around it after a thousand years. From the station it was an easy walk, even carrying our suitcases. Because of bomb scares, no railroad station in France allowed luggage to be left in lockers, but nobody said a word when we carried it into the cathedral. Our timing was perfect to join a lecture/tour with British author and Chartres authority Malcolm Miller. For more than an hour, we followed his tall, white-haired figure, absorbing his wisdom and trying to keep our suitcases out of sight.
Sherrill on Mont St. Michel Causeway A train from Chartres took us to Rennes, as close as we'd get that evening to Mont St. Michel. Happy to get a room near the station, we discovered in the old town a tiny, quite good, vegetarian restaurant run by a pair of skinny young men. The next morning, a short train trip got us to Pontorson on the coast, but we missed the bus to Mont St. Michel. The island, a man-made mountain of stone against the sky, taunted us at the end of its causeway, but a ten minute taxi ride got us and our suitcases to the island. The narrow streets inside the walls were crowded with day trippers ricocheting from one touristy shop to another.
"You wouldn't have a room for us, would you?" I asked the receptionist at a small hotel wedged into a sharp bend on the steep main street.
"Of course, monsieur," she smiled. "A nice one with a view toward the bay."
"Virtue rewarded," Sherrill whispered in my ear.
That evening, after exploring the island and abbey, we relaxed with drinks in a cocktail lounge looking over the bay, while young French people played bagpipes and danced on the dry mudflats below. Later, after dinner, we walked out onto the causeway to look back at the island and abbey. With the day trippers gone, it was easy to imagine this still was the medieval town. Before we left a day later, the hotel receptionist called ahead to Tours, our gateway to the Loire valley, to reserve a room for us.
"Come stay with us again, madam," she told Sherrill. "We enjoyed having you."
"You wouldn't have a room for us, would you?" I asked the receptionist at a small hotel wedged into a sharp bend on the steep main street.
"Of course, monsieur," she smiled. "A nice one with a view toward the bay."
"Virtue rewarded," Sherrill whispered in my ear.
That evening, after exploring the island and abbey, we relaxed with drinks in a cocktail lounge looking over the bay, while young French people played bagpipes and danced on the dry mudflats below. Later, after dinner, we walked out onto the causeway to look back at the island and abbey. With the day trippers gone, it was easy to imagine this still was the medieval town. Before we left a day later, the hotel receptionist called ahead to Tours, our gateway to the Loire valley, to reserve a room for us.
"Come stay with us again, madam," she told Sherrill. "We enjoyed having you."
We hoped to get every place we wanted without renting a car. At first, it looked iffy for the Loire, but we found a day tour that did the job for us, beginning with Chateau du Clos Luce, the little palace that King Francis I of France gave to Leonardo da Vinci, where he spent his last three years, working as engineer, architect, and producer of shows for the court, as well as refining the painting that he carried with him everywhere, the Mona Lisa. Although we visited several other, grander, palaces, this one remained our favorite. Chenonceau, the famous palace that straddled a river over a parade of arches and flaunted several very large, very formal gardens designed in precise geometric shapes, irritated Sherrill.
"Anybody with a ruler can do that," she muttered, "but it's not what I call a garden."
"Anybody with a ruler can do that," she muttered, "but it's not what I call a garden."
Bruce at Tintin Museum, Cheverny The other palaces of the Loire had their charms, but two especially stand out in memory. The chateau of Chambord was ridiculously huge, but we were amused by the twisting double staircase designed by Leonardo so that Francis I's queen and mistress could pass without confronting each other. The palace of Cheveny was the model for the chateau shown in the Tintin illustrated adventure stories that our son-in-law and grandson had enjoyed. In fact, a museum on the grounds was devoted to the character of Tintin, his comrades, and their adventures—too bad that Paul and Leo weren't with us.
"Our wedding turned out to be much smaller than we planned," a pair of newlyweds on the day tour told Sherrill and me. "No one could get there," the bride mourned, "because of the restrictions on air traffic right after the disasters in New York."
It was becoming clear that the world was never going to be the same—and probably in ways that we couldn't imagine, yet.
It was becoming clear that the world was never going to be the same—and probably in ways that we couldn't imagine, yet.
Sherrill, Pont du Gard, Nimes, France We'd thought of Nimes as a jumping off point for the great Roman aqueduct of the Pont du Gard, but discovered that it had been a major Roman city. Our first job, as usual, was a place to stay, then we explored the town, from the huge Roman Arena, still used for events 2,000 years after it was built, to a perfectly preserved little temple, a Roman tower, and more from the ancient city. Along the way, we located the bus station, where an agent patiently explained the route to the Pont du Gare, including where we'd have to transfer to a second bus. Tourists complain about how the French can be terse and grumpy, but we found them helpful and kind. Usually.
Suddenly, there it was, the huge aqueduct, stretching across a steep gorge above a river bed, as impressive as ever after two millennia. We walked across it, gazing back from different vantage points. People were sunbathing on the gravel beach below, swimming in the river, and hiking around it, as if it were a natural phenomenon, something they might find in Yosemite or Yellowstone.
Suddenly, there it was, the huge aqueduct, stretching across a steep gorge above a river bed, as impressive as ever after two millennia. We walked across it, gazing back from different vantage points. People were sunbathing on the gravel beach below, swimming in the river, and hiking around it, as if it were a natural phenomenon, something they might find in Yosemite or Yellowstone.
However, our favorite memory of Nimes turned out to be a small restaurant that caught our eye. The very fat chef/manager came out, explained his menu to us, then took our orders for when we returned later. Restaurant l'Ancien Theatre gave us one of the best meals of our lives, concluding with a remarkable black olive pie for dessert. Often in our travels, it seemed, we stumbled onto these wonderful experiences—and never forgot them.
"Remember that black olive pie?" Sherrill or I would ask the other years later, and we'd nod and smile and reminisce.
For a while, we were afraid that we'd have to sleep in a doorway of the monumental Pope's Palace in Avignon, but finally we found a modest room and spent the rest of the day being awed by the magnificence of the Pope's court and wandering the twisting medieval streets until we reached the river and the "Pont d'Avignon," where Sherrill sang the old song to me. Everything, we congratulated each other, worked out for us. Then it was on to Milan, by way of a couple of days in Nice, staying in a seedy little hotel run by a talkative old lady with hennaed hair and scarlet toenails, right out of a Tennessee Williams play—French version.
"Remember that black olive pie?" Sherrill or I would ask the other years later, and we'd nod and smile and reminisce.
For a while, we were afraid that we'd have to sleep in a doorway of the monumental Pope's Palace in Avignon, but finally we found a modest room and spent the rest of the day being awed by the magnificence of the Pope's court and wandering the twisting medieval streets until we reached the river and the "Pont d'Avignon," where Sherrill sang the old song to me. Everything, we congratulated each other, worked out for us. Then it was on to Milan, by way of a couple of days in Nice, staying in a seedy little hotel run by a talkative old lady with hennaed hair and scarlet toenails, right out of a Tennessee Williams play—French version.
Lee & Sherrill outside Venice apartment Mussolini's huge 1930 train station was an intimidating introduction to Milan, but Sherrill and I found a hotel opposite, did a little sight-seeing, and got ready for our train trip the next day to Venice, where we'd meet our friends Lee and Karen. At last, we'd stay in one place for a week, sharing a house with our old pals from Oregon.
The train hurtled across the top of Italy, through Brescia, Verona, Vicenza, and Padova—all places we'd return to on later trips—reaching Venice in the late afternoon. By the time we bought our week passes for the vaporetto and made the trip on the #1 the full winding length of the Grand Canal to the Arsenale stop, it was five o'clock. We discovered our friends sitting under an awning at a cafe facing the waterfront, eating gelato and sipping coffee. It was hard to believe that it had been several years since we'd seen each other. We joined them for coffee until the "Capitano," the colorful fellow who was renting us the apartment, arrived to turn over the keys—which he finally did with a flourish and many explanations, pronouncements, and good wishes.
The train hurtled across the top of Italy, through Brescia, Verona, Vicenza, and Padova—all places we'd return to on later trips—reaching Venice in the late afternoon. By the time we bought our week passes for the vaporetto and made the trip on the #1 the full winding length of the Grand Canal to the Arsenale stop, it was five o'clock. We discovered our friends sitting under an awning at a cafe facing the waterfront, eating gelato and sipping coffee. It was hard to believe that it had been several years since we'd seen each other. We joined them for coffee until the "Capitano," the colorful fellow who was renting us the apartment, arrived to turn over the keys—which he finally did with a flourish and many explanations, pronouncements, and good wishes.
Karen, Bruce, Sherrill at Arsenale, Venice The apartment was narrow, but tall, which made sense in a city with a shortage of land: kitchen and living room on the ground floor, two bedrooms and a bath above that, a spare bed on a landing higher up, and another bathroom on the top, as well as a small deck. That evening—our thirty-seventh wedding anniversary—the four of us had dinner together in a local restaurant. What better way to celebrate our anniversary than with friends in Venice?
The next day, we discovered Frida Kahlo paintings at St. Mark's Square, met another couple that Sherrill and I knew from Southeast Asia and who happened to be in Venice at the same time, staying near the leaning campanile of Santo Stephano. As the days spooled out, we visited the Peggy Guggenheim Museum of modern art, the Accademia galleries, rediscovered a restaurant on a little side canal that we'd enjoyed in 1978, and bought fruit and vegetables in markets along the Rue Garibaldi near the Arsenale.
 Sherrill, Bridge of Sighs |  Sherrill, Peggy Guggenheim Museum |
Sherrill always loved traveling on water, so I knew she'd enjoy our trip with Lee and Karen up the Brenta Canal, visiting palazzos of the Veneto, including several designed by Palladio. The countryside was lush and green, the villas were elegant, and the energetic young guide seemed to know everyone along the canal, greeting and joking with them as we chugged along.
Sherrill, Trieste Marina Sherrill and I were up early the next morning to take a train to Trieste, since Lee and Karen were feeling a bit under the weather. As we walked along Trieste's waterfront, we saw a large yacht that had been docked near our Arsenale vaporetto stop.
"They beat us here!" Sherrill gestured at the fancy boat. "They could've given us a ride."
Visitors to Trieste can get a James Joyce walking tour map now and will pass a statue of Joyce as they walk up from the train station and harbor, but none of that existed then. Still, we knew that Joyce and his Nora left that same station when they arrived in 1904 and he parked her on a bench across the street while he found a place to stay—and got drunk. As we walked those streets, passing the marina and turning toward the hills, we couldn't help but think of Joyce—after all, he lived there 15 years. At the top, we looked out at the red tile roofs in front of the blue-green Adriatic, visited the remains of a Roman forum, and then strolled down to the old town for the two-hour train journey back to Venice.
"They beat us here!" Sherrill gestured at the fancy boat. "They could've given us a ride."
Visitors to Trieste can get a James Joyce walking tour map now and will pass a statue of Joyce as they walk up from the train station and harbor, but none of that existed then. Still, we knew that Joyce and his Nora left that same station when they arrived in 1904 and he parked her on a bench across the street while he found a place to stay—and got drunk. As we walked those streets, passing the marina and turning toward the hills, we couldn't help but think of Joyce—after all, he lived there 15 years. At the top, we looked out at the red tile roofs in front of the blue-green Adriatic, visited the remains of a Roman forum, and then strolled down to the old town for the two-hour train journey back to Venice.
The rest of the week, the four of us alternated exploring Venice and sitting around with glasses of wine. We took in a retrospective of the strange, brilliant paintings of Balthus, visited the old Jewish Quarter, spent some time at the Scuola Grande di San Rocco to see the huge Tintoretto masterpieces again, and had lunch with some of Lee and Karen's friends from Oregon. Then we said goodbye to Karen and Lee. They were heading north to Lake Como, while we were going south to Ravenna.
Sherrill at the Old Jewish Quarter, Venice
The last capital of the Western Empire, the little city of Ravenna was crowded with glories from the past. Since Sherrill had done mosaic work, herself, she especially wanted to see the Byzantine mosaics. We bought combination tickets to see the six major sites in Ravenna, starting with the 1,500 year old Basilica of San Vitale, unadorned brick outside, jaw-droppingly beautiful inside, filled with brilliant mosaics, including stylized portraits of Emperor Justinian and Empress Theodora and their retinues. By evening, we were foot-sore but happy and the Piazza del Popolo, which seemed to be the center of town, was jumping with activity. Earlier, we'd noticed little kids watching a Punch and Judy show there, but now musicians were playing, bigger kids were dancing, and the evening was just starting. We collapsed with wine and food and let the music and the memories of the day wash over us.
Over the years, Italy had become our favorite destination: we knew that we'd never discover all of its treasures, but it was fun to try. From Ravenna, we rode the train to Verona, another city in which the ancient world and succeeding centuries were jumbled together. The bathroom in our hotel room was so small that we had to put our feet in the shower to use the toilet, but nearby stood the Romanesque Basilica of San Zeno, Sherrill's second favorite church in Europe (after Vezalay in France).
The trains in Italy were frequent and usually on time. From Verona we sped up to Lake Como, where we bought a ferryboat pass so we could explore the towns around the lake. Then it was back to Milan. Early one morning, we waited outside Milan's Tourist Information Office until it opened so we could buy timed tickets for the day's three-hour city tour that included a guaranteed visit to Leonardo's restored "Last Supper" mural, now protected by a modern security system and bullet-proof glass. We'd seen it 20 years before, but not since this restoration. The colors and lines of the painting were truer, now, making it easier to feel the human drama of the scene.
A few more days in Milan, where we ran into our friends Lee and Karen again, and it was back to California, but this wouldn't be our last trip to France and Italy.
To be continued....
Over the years, Italy had become our favorite destination: we knew that we'd never discover all of its treasures, but it was fun to try. From Ravenna, we rode the train to Verona, another city in which the ancient world and succeeding centuries were jumbled together. The bathroom in our hotel room was so small that we had to put our feet in the shower to use the toilet, but nearby stood the Romanesque Basilica of San Zeno, Sherrill's second favorite church in Europe (after Vezalay in France).
The trains in Italy were frequent and usually on time. From Verona we sped up to Lake Como, where we bought a ferryboat pass so we could explore the towns around the lake. Then it was back to Milan. Early one morning, we waited outside Milan's Tourist Information Office until it opened so we could buy timed tickets for the day's three-hour city tour that included a guaranteed visit to Leonardo's restored "Last Supper" mural, now protected by a modern security system and bullet-proof glass. We'd seen it 20 years before, but not since this restoration. The colors and lines of the painting were truer, now, making it easier to feel the human drama of the scene.
A few more days in Milan, where we ran into our friends Lee and Karen again, and it was back to California, but this wouldn't be our last trip to France and Italy.
To be continued....
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