Day 21: A Bit of a Blur

Wednesday was our last full day of vacation. Wednesday night was our last to sleep in a European bed, at least on this trip. On Thursday, we would crawl into a metal tube, and when we crawled out we would be on American soil.

More importantly, I’ll finally be able to have a Diet Pepsi.

We nearly didn’t make it out of the attic hotel room, as wiped out as we both were. But as we had already paid for breakfast, we drug ourselves downstairs to eat. (Funny how that strategy doesn’t work nearly as well for going to the gym). At breakfast, we had the obligatory Swedish meatballs, among other selections at the breakfast buffet. I also had some muesli, confirming what I had remembered before, that muesli is basically eating bird food with milk. But it was slightly less daring than the pan-Asian dinner we had at East the night before. And it wasn’t T.G.I.Friday’s, so there.

After dinner, we headed to the water to take a boat tour of Stockholm. The city is actually an archipelago, a collection of 14 different islands, so a boat really is an ideal way to see the sights. Also, sitting on a boat for two hours was an ideal way for us to spend the afternoon. We stopped at the front desk to ask for directions. As the concierge pointed out where to go on the map, I made the mistake of pointing out the T.G.I.Friday’s logo as a landmark for how far we had walked the night before.

Apparently, the concierge assumed that his American guests would feel compelled to eat at said T.G.I.Friday’s, so he made a face and said it would be “just like being home.” We laughed politely, and on the walk Mary Beth tried to convince me he was teasing us. I was less convinced, and was tempted to observe that the distribution of T.G.I.Friday’s restaurants in downtown Stockholm was denser than said distribution in Omaha. So take that, Mr. American-chain-restaurant-snob-concierge guy.

Stockholm is quite lovely, and getting a chance to see how the city rose around the water was fascinating. But at this stage of our trip, my favorite part of the whole boat tour might have been simply opening the window to hear the lapping of the waves against the hull of the boat and smell the air. It was pretty neat to go through one of the locks and realize you were going from the Baltic Sea to Lake Mälaren, one of the largest lakes in Sweden and one of the cleanest bodies of water in all of Europe.

The only downside to the boat tour is that, early on, one of my contact lenses became dislodged. After unsuccessfully trying to fix it, I just punted and took the other one out (they’re one-day disposable lenses). No big deal, I thought, as I reached for my eyeglass case in my camera bag (not my purse, thank you very much).

The eyeglass case was right where I left it. Unfortunately, the glasses which were supposed to go inside the eyeglass case were not there. So, I was pretty much stuck for the rest of the day having a general, somewhat fuzzy idea of what I was looking at. And being even more useless than usual in terms of navigating through the streets of Stockholm.

Once the tour was over, we got off and (once we got our bearings) took the scenic walk back to the hotel. We stopped for a soda and cake at a small café inside what we’re pretty sure translated as the King’s Garden, admired the magnificent statutes and reflecting pools (very cool) which lead up to a different T.G.I.Friday’s at the end of the reflecting pool (less cool). We walked through Nordiska Kompaniet, known as NK, Sweden’s version of Macy’s, then headed back to the hotel room.

Mary Beth decided she wanted to take a nap and have some fresh Coca-Cola Light, so it was my job to head back to the 7-Eleven. At this point, I didn’t even feel impressed with myself for navigating the streets of a foreign capital. Apparently, I have now reached a level of boss-ness that is just taken for granted, without the need for observation. After accomplishing my mission, I headed back to the attic hotel room and joined Mary Beth for a bit of a nap before dinner.

Once Mary Beth was up and we were ready to go, we walked down the street. We decided that Italiano, an Italian café, would be our last meal in Europe. Mary Beth had a cold pasta salad and I had a Panini as we sat outside and watched people walk, jog, and bike down the streets of Stockholm. I sipped my Coke Zero and Mary Beth enjoyed her glass of wine (about a 40 percent Nuncio, compared to how much wine we got from our new friend in Rome) and reflected on everything we had seen and done over the last few weeks.

It’s hard to really grasp that Mary Beth has been in Europe for three weeks, both working and playing. I am still astounded to think how many countries I have been through (and that’s not counting the airports) and the things I have seen. I usually get sad at the end of a vacation, but I really didn’t feel that way as we sat in our Italian café on the Stockholm street. Partly it’s because I’m convinced I will be back to Europe again—after all, I did throw a coin into Trevi Fountain, even if there was no water and it was under construction.

But mainly I think I was just excited at the thought of being home, of seeing my family and friends once again. I’m thrilled at the thought of seeing the collected menagerie of animals that share our home. I’m really excited to sleep in my own bed and drive a car. I’m even excited to get back to work, seeing my colleagues and friends, and doing the things I love.

After dinner (which included Mary Beth finally getting the dish of green olives we unsuccessfully combed Rome looking for) we came back to the hotel. We sat in the Little Corner Café, a charming little nook on the side of the hotel, sipping a drink and watching the end of a World Cup match (Argentina 3-2 Nigeria, I think this Messi guy might have a future in soccer). We then went back to the room, packed, made sure all our electronics were charged for the 9.5 (!) hour flight from Helsinki to Chicago, and went to bed. The next morning, we would be on our way home.

Day 20: The Kindness of Romanians

Tuesday was our travel day, but we didn’t leave until almost 5:00, so we had some time to squeeze a little more juice out of our time in Luxembourg. We slept in, then went to McDonald’s for breakfast (again, five euros instead of twenty—don’t judge) then headed to the Place de Constitution to meet up with the tour bus.

As with Rome, we had purchased a hop-on, hop-off tour bus ticket. There was slightly less to explore in Luxembourg City than in Rome, but the bus was still valuable. Our plan was to take the full tour (about 55 minutes), then on the second lap stop off at the Duke’s Palace and finish our sightseeing.

We learned on the tour bus ride that there really are two parts of Luxembourg City. The “old city,” where we were, was filled with the narrow streets and history of a European nation sandwiched between Belguim, Germany, and France. The “new city,” was home to Luxembourg’s burgeoning banking and financial industry.

While they took pains to communicate that Luxembourg was not a “haven,” tax and trade laws certainly make it advantageous for banks and financial institutions to do business in the Grand Duchy. In the last 50 years or so, over 200 banks have made their home in Luxembourg. The “new city” very much had the feel of the new and upcoming parts of any American city, with large office buildings being erected as far as the eye can see. One of the signature pieces of art in this area was a life-like statue of a banker, eight feet tall. The symbolism of this choice of subject, I would suggest, was not accidental. It’s not hard to see why Luxembourg has the second-highest GDP per capita in the world.

We finished our first tour bus lap and settled in for the second. Unfortunately, we discovered that while the Grand Duke’s castle was listed as a stop on the map, the bus didn’t actually stop there. Neither one of us felt like we really needed to see the bus tour a second time, so we decided to get off at the shopping mall (yes, the shopping mall, singular) to have lunch.

The mall itself was pretty impressive, the size of a full-fledged mall with the offerings of a Regency Court or similar high-end boutique mall. There was no Luxembourg equivalent of Old Navy, let’s just put it that way. We stopped at Quick Burger, which appeared to be the local fast food stop, to get lunch. We were treated with fountain soda with free refills and as much ice as we wanted—nirvana!

We got back on the bus and stopped at the central train station, which was actually closer to our hotel then where we started the tour. We looked inside the station—very nice, but very small, maybe a third of the size of what is now the Durham Western Heritage Museum in Omaha—then headed back to the hotel to check out. Our bags were waiting, and we boarded our taxi to the airport.

On the way, we struck up a conversation with Niklas, our taxi driver. He was Romanian, having been in Luxembourg for six years. He liked living there, although he did advise us that the weather we enjoyed was atypical—it usually was much colder and rainy. I joked with Mary Beth that her Luxemborgish grandmother was watching over us again, between the weather and arriving on the Grand Duke’s birthday celebration. Little did I know how prescient that comment would be.

As we drove to the airport, Mary Beth mentioned that we had tried to visit the American Memorial but were unable to do so. Niklas would have none of that, as the Memorial was very close to the airport. So instead of going straight to the airport, he took us to the Memorial. He said he hadn’t been there yet himself, so he got out with us as we went in and took a look around the grounds.

It was impressive, with maps of the Allied action in the area including the Battle of the Bulge, and a large monument to the fallen. But, of course, the true power of the ground was the cemetery, with thousands of simple white crosses marking the graves of the fallen American soldiers in the liberation of Europe from the Nazis. There are no words to describe that feeling of reverence and sadness, seeing those rows and rows of white crosses on a green hill under a beautiful blue Luxembourg sky, knowing what each cross means to the family of the soldier interred thereunder.

And the fact that our visit was made possible by a kind, thoughtful Romanian, made the visit all the sweeter.

We left the memorial and headed for the airport, getting ourselves checked in, buying a few last-minute souvenirs (because of course we did) and heading for Stockholm. We had a brief (40-minute) layover in Copenhagen, but after the crowd-sourced consensus from our “stay” in Amsterdam, I thought better of even asking the question about whether we can “count” Copenhagen as a place we had visited. Mary Beth did stop me from getting cash out of an ATM/Bancomat in Copenhagen for the taxi, reminding me that we were still in Denmark, not in Sweden, and I would be getting the wrong currency. I will confess, I never expected the phrase “oh yeah, we’re in Denmark” to come out of my mouth.

We arrived in Stockholm and collected our luggage. I got some cash for the taxi ride to the hotel, we found a cab, and we took the half-hour ride into downtown Stockholm. Now, the current exchange rate was about 6.72 kronars to a dollar, meaning that it was going to be really challenging to figure out  exactly how much something would cost. We got to the hotel, the Crystal Plaza (although I will be calling it Crystal Palace by accident, I’m sure) and checked it.

Everything the Park Inn was, the Crystal Palace Plaza is not. This place is very old, which can be seen as cool or challenging, depending on your perspective. The elevator had a door that opened outward, and an open gap where you went into the car. In other words, the wall just went whizzing by as the car was taken up the shaft. There was a warning not to put your bag near the ledge, in case it got caught and crushed you.

So, yeah, very charming, but not exactly hip and modern like the Park Inn.

We found our way to our room, and entered. And there’s really no other way to describe it—we’re staying in your grandmother’s attic. The room is small, maybe 15x30 (although in fairness, I’m not good with estimating dimensions). The outside wall is sloped in like, well, an attic. The slope is more pronounced in the bathroom, but it is definitely present in the main room as well. The light fixtures are circa Thomas Edison, except for the elaborate (wait for it) crystal lightpiece on the ceiling. So that’s where the hotel gets its name!

We somehow found space to put our luggage down, and went out to eat. We were hungry and tired, and surprisingly cold, as the temperature had dropped to the high fifties. We went into a place, asked if the kitchen was open (it was after 10:30 in the evening, even though it was just starting to get dark), and sat down when they said yes.

Turned out it was a pan-Asian restaurant, although we didn’t realize that until we got our menu. The food was very good (although more expensive than either of us realized when we ordered, of course). After dinner, we crossed the street to a 7-Eleven (because ‘Merica) to get a soda. As we looked down the street, we saw that a T.G.I.Friday’s was an option for dinner as well.

No wonder people don’t like Americans, we commented.

We walked back to the hotel and shut it down for the evening. Tomorrow will be our last day of vacation, with us returning home on Thursday. It’s entirely possible we might not leave the attic, given how wiped out we both are.

Day 19: A Quaint Little Duchy

Duchy (dooh-shee, n.): The political area subject to the control of a duke or duchess.

Monday was the officially-observed birthday of Luxembourg’s Grand Duke Henri, so all of the shops (but thankfully, not all of the restaurants) were closed. Given the status of our luggage, that’s probably a good thing.

The rigors of travel and my late night with the USMNT caught up with us, as we both slept in very late. I grabbed a shower while Mary Beth met me at McDonald’s (yes, I know, but five euros for a breakfast sandwich beats 20 euros at the posh hotel) and we started our sightseeing.

We walked across the bridge and did find a souvenir stand for Mary Beth to get a keepsake from her homeland. As we were crossing the bridge and looking out over the countryside, Mary Beth said that she had a feeling her grandmother (who was full-blooded Luxembourger) was happy at that moment.

We walked around the city a little, finding the Place de Arms and getting our bearings. I will say, the city looked a lot different without it being jam-packed with revelers from the night before. Maybe it was just in comparison to a few days in Rome, but we were both struck by how fresh and clean the air felt in Luxembourg on a gorgeous sunny day in the mid-seventies.

We were pointed to the Luxembourg City tourist information office, where we got directions on how to get to the American Cemetery and Memorial from World War II, where George Patton was buried. As the tour bus we had bought previously wasn’t running, we decided that would be a good plan B.

To get there, we had to navigate the city bus line, which ended up working pretty much like any other bus system. We found the proper station, but realized we had about 20 minutes to wait until our bus arrived. We took a short walk through a nearby park before returning to the bus stop and getting on.

The bus took us through, and ultimately out of, the downtown area of the city and into a more residential area. It’s a fair guess that it was a pretty swanky residential area, as all the houses had BMWs and Audis in the driveway. Then again, I’m not entirely sure there is a non-swanky area of Luxembourg. If there is, we didn’t see it.

We got off at the end of the line and followed the directions to the memorial, about 1.3 kilometers away. The route took us alongside what appeared to be a fairly major highway, but we kept seeing signs pointing us in that direction. Unfortunately, we reached a construction area where the way to go forward was blocked off. The only way to proceed would have been to walk on to the highway roundabout, and neither of us felt that committed to the plan B project.

So, disappointed, we walked back. But as we did, Mary Beth took a look through a row of hedges, and saw what appeared to be a cemetery, lined with a reflecting pool and beautiful flowers. This must be it, we thought, so we decided to cut through the hedges and see what we could find.

(I know, cutting through hedges in the Ardennes to see a World War II memorial.  Go figure.)

So we made it through and down a hill without hurting ourselves, and with Mary Beth in her surgical shoe that was a pretty impressive accomplishment. We got our bearings and looked around, and I noticed that one of the signs was in French and German.

As in, not in English. It’s unlikely, I thought, that an American memorial cemetery wouldn’t have signs in English.

We looked around a little more, and realized we were in a cemetery. A private cemetery (or more accurately, a crematorium). It was open, so I don’t think we were trespassing per se. But we both thought discretion was the better part of valor and walked out of the crematorium, trying to act as if we belonged there so no one would come up and yell at us in a language we didn’t understand.

We had to wait about 20 minutes or so for the bus, giving me time to walk around and explore the neighborhood a little. As I was walking back to the bus stop, a mini-van stopped and asked if I knew if there was a place nearby to camp. I thought for a moment I had reached the ultimate status of a tourist, to be mistaken as a local by another tourist. But then the man in the passenger seat leaned over and said “you’re Australian, right?”

I still have no idea what the right answer to that question is.

We took the bus back to the city center, and decided to have a snack. Surprisingly (as in not surprisingly), it’s not easy to find a margarita in Europe, so we stopped in at a Chi Chi’s. Mary Beth had a margarita and we split a plate of nachos. Once we were refreshed, we walked around the streets that I wandered last night.

Luxembourger flags were flying everywhere. There were pictures of the Grand Duke and his family in nearly every window. The band playing in the main square was (we were pretty sure) singing songs of praise of Henri. It’s hard to say this without feeling patronizing, but there’s really no way to describe the Luxembourg we encountered as anything other than quaint. As Mary Beth observed, it’s like a smaller, cleaner version of Paris. It’s even got its own version of Notre Dame, which we visited. We also got our obligatory selfie and the obligatory picture of me with someone dressed in costume, this time as (we're pretty sure) St. Joan de Arc.

After we walked around, we stopped at a French restaurant for dinner. Although it was pretty clear that the restaurant was a local chain (where else would have their own brand on packages of ketchup and mayonnaise?), we figured it was about as authentically local as we could get—at least more so than Chi Chi’s. We got a concert from a military-style band in the background as we finished our meal.

We headed back to the hotel room and checked in for the evening, finishing some postcards and packing to leave for Stockholm. Tomorrow we will get up in the morning and take our bus tour before leaving at around 3:00 p.m. for the airport.

Day 18: A Surprise Birthday Party

Sunday was our travel day, so we made sure we were packed up and checked in to our flights. We went to Vanni down the street for a light breakfast, then met our car to take us to the airport. Mary Beth and I took in one last look at Rome before our departure.

We got through the Rome airport and onto our plane with little incident (other than having to wait in line to pay for an extra bag to check). We did, however, vow to be a little smarter with our bag-packing strategies to economize.

After a three-hour flight, we touched down in Amsterdam en route to Luxembourg. After asking, the social media consensus was that a stop at the airport does not count as “visiting” a city, so apparently I don’t get to add Holland to my list of countries. I do wonder if there is a critical mass of souvenirs purchased at the airport to change that rule, though.

We got back on the plane for the short hop to Luxembourg. After picking up our luggage, we took a remarkably expensive taxi to the hotel in downtown Luxembourg City.

It didn’t take long to tell that “remarkably expensive” could very well be a theme for our stay in Luxembourg. After our time in the noise and chaos of Rome, Luxembourg felt positively pastoral. It was a beautiful day, with bright blue skies and the green of the trees setting against the houses and businesses of the city.

In many ways, it was a question of scale. Rome has a population of 2.7 million. Luxembourg City has a population of less than 100,000. Rome is dirty, noisy, loud, and chaotic. Luxembourg City is quiet, peaceful, and very modern.

Our taxi driver informed us that we have arrived on Luxembourg’s national holiday, the official birthday of the Grand Duke. Luxembourg, like many other European countries, has a ceremonial monarch, in this case the Grand Duke. His (or her, if it’s the Grand Duchess) birthday is officially celebrated on June 23 with fireworks at midnight the night before and a day off of work.

We checked into the Park Inn, a modern hotel right in the middle of downtown Luxembourg City. Everything the Hotel della Vittore was—old, filled with history—the Park Inn was not—an elevator in front of a shoe store leading up to a reception area and bar filled with modern furniture and fixtures.

We settled into the hotel room, and rearranged our luggage to avoid an extra bag fee when we leave. We then headed out to find dinner. We ended up at a Brazilian restaurant, ordering from a waitress who knew as much English as we knew French. But we ended up getting dinner ordered, salmon for Mary Beth and beef for me, both of which were excellent.

We headed back to the hotel, figuring that we would have the day tomorrow to explore. The plan was to rest up and go out to see the fireworks. But by the time Mary Beth got back to the hotel room and showered, she was just done. So around 10:30, I ventured out on my own.

I will admit to feeling intimidated again. There were a lot of people out on the streets who were way younger, way cooler, and way richer than I was (although admittedly on all of those fronts, not a terribly high bar), and I wasn’t really oriented yet. So I just wandered a little, trying to make sure I was somewhere near where the fireworks were going to go off.

There were a lot of street concerts going, playing an amazing collection of music. Basically, it seemed like the music would go from God-awful techno music to American classics like “It’s Raining Men,” “Mainac” from Flashdance, and the Monkees’ version of “I’m a Believer.”

But this was Luxembourg’s version of Independence Day, and there was no Lee Greenwood. So, the point is awarded to Luxembourg.

As it got dark, the assembled crowd waited for the fireworks to start. I really had no idea where anything was, so I was following the crowd who were assembling around the edge of a valley with a large castle on the other side of the gorge. But the fireworks started going off behind us. The crowd, seeming surprised, started moving towards the fireworks.

It got a little nuts at that point. As the fireworks got going, the crowd started going from a walk to a trot to something bordering on a sprint to see the show. I discovered that Luxembourg City has a number of very tight, hilly streets with cobblestone pavers. As the fireworks went off, the explosions thundered down the narrow streets, while lights and the smell of gunpowder filled the air. With the street signs in French and the Luxembourg flag bearing a striking resemblance to the French flag, running through the streets did have a little bit of a “Les Miserables” feel to it. But don’t worry, I didn’t embarrass America by breaking into song (although I was tempted ...)

I did end up finding a nice place to watch the show, after seeing another guy in a USA jersey preparing for the Portugal game later that evening. The music never stopped (although it never went Lee Greenwood, so bonus) as the fireworks went off. Once the show was over, I packed up and began to head back to the hotel.

Or, at least that was the plan. Funny thing about running with a crowd. You don’t really pay a lot of attention to exactly where you’re running.  Couple that with my sense of direction being bad enough that I need GPS help to find my way out of a parking lot and I realized I had a bit of a problem. I was in a foreign country, where pretty much no one speaks English, near midnight, and I really had no earthly idea where I was or how to find my way back to the hotel.

I summoned all of my navigational skills (meaning I took a wild guess) and started down one of the streets. I figured, how big could Luxembourg City be, this won’t be so hard. Well, about a half hour later, after fighting my way through crowds and coming upon unpassable congestion, I became concerned I would miss the start of the USA-Portugal game.

I kept walking, looking for something familiar. Everywhere I went, the thumping sounds of techno music or DJ collections from various bars filled the night air. But, again, no Lee Greenwood, so I was totally cool with it. My concerns became less about missing the game and more about missing the flight out of Luxembourg on Tuesday. The good part about the whole experience was that I was seeing a whole bunch of cool stuff that would be neat to see the following day. The bad part was that I was so lost, there would be little chance I could find it again.

But eventually I did find the Place de Arms, which our taxi driver told us about, and was able to navigate the streets from there back to the bridge and our hotel. Once I had figured that out, my confidence returned. Much like the night before in Rome, I felt pretty good about myself, heading out into the Luxembourg night to experience their holiday, and finding my way back home. I even got a couple of heavily-accented "Yoo-Ess-Ehh" chants from very drunk (but very friendly) locals as I walked by. The bridge was closed to vehicle traffic, so I walked back right down the middle of the street.

Like a boss, baby.

I got back to the hotel when I noticed the Golden Arches just past the hotel entrance. I thought, why not, and stopped in for a midnight snack. Just as I walked in, the USA-Portugal game was beginning. It couldn’t have worked out much better.

I ordered a quarter pounder with cheese (OK, it said a “royale” on the menu, but we all know what that means) and a soda and sat down to watch the game. As I sat looking at the assembled people, speaking French and German and Portuguese and Japanese and probably two or three other languages while eating their Big Macs, I couldn’t help a little feeling that America had won something already.

I noticed that a number of Portuguese kids had assembled inside the restaurant to watch the game as well—Luxembourg has a fairly large Portuguese population, and it seemed for that moment like they were all in the McDonald’s watching the game with me. It became particularly clear when Portugal scored in the fifth minute (off a horrendous clearance from Geoff Cameron—perhaps playing a right back as a center back in a World Cup against the no. 4 team in the world might not be the best idea) and the restaurant erupted with a huge cry of “Naniiiiiiiiiiiii!”

At that point, I was pretty sure that my white USA jersey was glowing in the dark. I shrunk down and kept quiet as the Portuguese kids celebrated. I stayed for the end of the first half, with the US losing 1-0, and headed back to the hotel room. I got in, turned on the TV, and streamed the ESPN radio call (Tommy Smythe and all—not Lee Greenwood, but a close second in teeth-gnashing awfulness) through my headphones to avoid waking Mary Beth.

I did manage to not wake her up when Jermaine Jones hit a thunderbolt to tie the score. I did not manage to stay quiet enough when Clint Dempsey gave the US the lead off his stomach (like a boss). And I’m not at all proud of the noises I made when Portugal tied the score just before the end of the game.

So, happy (official) birthday to Grand Duke Henri, and thanks for letting me share in your party. Tomorrow’s sightseeing will, hopefully, be a little less exciting.

Day 17: Stumbling Over History

Saturday was a bit of a recovery day for us after Friday’s adventures, so we slept in. After getting up late and skipping breakfast, we decided to head back to Trevi Fountain and do a little finishing-up souvenir shopping. Still feeling the effects of yesterday’s excursion, we punted on the Metro and took a taxi to the fountain. Taxis in Rome are cheaper in the morning than at night, so if we were going to do just one taxi ride that seemed the way to go.

Once we arrived at the fountain, we oriented ourselves a little bit. Remarkably, there were still purses to buy, so we looked for our street vendors. But there were none to be had. There were a lot of police walking around the area, which we suspected was a large reason why we had no purses available.

So we just walked around for a little bit, taking in the sights and the people. We walked for a bit, and were able to listen to all the different people communicating in all kinds of different languages. It is such an amazing construct, language, the ability to have an agreed-upon set of sounds that represents things and ideas. It’s easy to take for granted when you live in an area where there is really only one language spoken. So to be immersed in different societies where English is definitely not the dominant language, and sometimes not spoken at all by those with whom you are interacting, has definitely been a growing experience. It is also fascinating how you can just sit back and observe people communicating in a language you don’t understand, watching how they communicate with their inflections and body movements without your perception being colored by knowing what they are saying.

I’m also really enjoying trying to communicate with the painfully limited Italian I know. Just going up to a bar to buy soda and complete the transaction without asking if the shopkeeper speaks English has been a great challenge. And at least from the responses I have gotten, an effort that is well appreciated. It’s pretty clear by my dress and my accent that I am an American, and I think the Italians I have encountered appreciate an American (who very clearly doesn’t speak Italian) attempting to communicate in their native tongue is welcome. Or, maybe it’s just really funny for them to watch an American struggle through a foreign language.

As we walked, we realized that we weren’t entirely sure where we were. We had some idea of where we were relative to Trevi Fountain, but neither of us could really identify it or navigate a clear way back. We forged ahead, making a turn into a new area.

And, boom, there was the Pantheon, so big and so surprising that it almost felt like it hit us in the face. Apparently we had walked far enough and guessed the right turns to take that we found one of the historical sights I had really wanted to see but had assumed we would not be able to catch on this trip. Entrance was free so we headed inside.

The structure was truly amazing. I have seen the interior of the Pantheon modeled and duplicated many times, in actual and fictional buildings. But this is the original, which was (according to Wikipedia, meaning it’s totally reliable) “commissioned by Marcus Agrippa during the reign of Augustus (27 BC – 14 AD) and rebuilt by the emperor Hadrian about 126 AD.”

So, you know, no big deal, just a structure nearly two thousand years old, one of the most iconic images of the world, that we basically tripped over wandering around. That’s Rome.

As you go inside, the oculus (the hole at the top where the light shines through) is the first thing you notice. Then, as you look around, you can see a memorial to the first Italian king, historical monuments, and a Catholic service about to start. Around the seventh century, the Pantheon was (because of course it was) repurposed into a Catholic church dedicated to St. Mary and the martyrs. A service was about to start, and the people running the service tried desperately and in a number of languages to ask for silence. That didn’t work very well, as one girl walked down the aisle between the pews and posed for pictures in front of the altar in the middle of the service.

The Vatican, so overpowering it keeps its visitors in a reverent hush, this was not.

We came back outside to consult the map and were encountered by a cello/guitar duet playing music which filled the square. You can see a video of it here, giving a real taste of the day.

We headed back to Trevi Fountain. Along the way we stopped for gelato. I got a chocolate fondante, which may very well be the best thing I have ever eaten. It was so rich, so chocolatey, so dark it almost seemed like you were eating ink. Cold, creamy, delicious ink.

We found our way back to the fountain and got our bearings. We noticed as we arrived that the purse vendors were back. So Mary Beth finished up her purse-buying, and we got to see how the purse sellers work in packs. As one was removing paper from the purses Mary Beth bought (how helpful!), his friend came up to Mary Beth and started selling wallets. Now, Mary Beth is about as tough a sell as I know. But this dude wore her down, to the point where she ended up buying a “Louie Vitton” wallet from him. She did haggle him down from 25 euros to 10, although I suspect he still had a healthy profit margin.

 We decided to stop for a light lunch, and found a restaurant a little off the path. We sat down and ordered appetizers (a caprese salad for Mary Beth, prosciutto and mozzarella for me) and did some more people watching. We also watched in amazement as scooters (and at least one car) drove by in the lane that was just wide enough to allow passage.

As we finished up, a man with an accordion began to serenade the assembled diners. The video is here, and you have to admit that eating lunch on the streets of Rome with accordion music flowing through the streets is about as Roman Holiday as you get. Sure, it’s a tourist-y cliché. But we’re tourists, that’s (at least in some measure) what we’re there for.

We headed back to the Metro to go back to the hotel room and rest, preparing for the next day. On the way, we went through a shopping district with the real Prada, Gucci, and other designers. Mary Beth peeked in the Prada store and saw the bags offered for over a thousand euros. I decided to stay outside—with the clutch of knockoffs I was carrying, I wasn’t certain they would let me out of the store if I came in.

Thankfully, subways work pretty much the same regardless of language, and we made it back to our stop and walked the few blocks back to our hotel room. A shower and a nap were in order as we checked in to our flight for the next day, packed, and made preparations to conclude our Roman adventure.

We walked over to “our” Italian restaurant, the restaurant next door to the hotel named the Col de Mara (named after the street where the hotel and the restaurant reside). We were greeted by Nuncio, the owner (pictured above on the left) and seated inside by the window.

It’s been an interesting adventure at the Col de Mara. The first night we arrived, we ate there, and Nuncio pretty clearly didn’t want to have much to do with us. He does not speak English, and dispatched his co-worker Luigi (pictured above on the right) to deal with the pesky American tourists. He made a pretty big show of talking with and showing off his wares to an Italian group behind us as we ate our first meal.

Fast forward to tonight, our fourth meal at “our” restaurant. Nuncio greeted us with a big smile and ushered us in. We ordered a focaccia (basically a pizza crust with nothing else), and he made sure to add on cherry tomatoes and a hunk of fresh buffalo mozzarella which he sliced at our table and set on our plates. We also noticed that the glass of wine Mary Beth got kept getting fuller and fuller, until tonight’s glass was almost filled to the top.

After another fantastic dinner, we thanked Nuncio and Luigi for taking such good care of us and bid them farewell. When we asked to take their picture, Nuncio thought we were asking him to take our picture. He was clearly tickled to be the subject, not the photographer, and we got the biggest smile out of him I had seen our whole trip.

We took a walk across the street to Vanni, which came highly recommended by our (non-rude) desk clerk for their gelato. We each got a cup (another chocolate fondine for me, because, duh) and took a walk. We decided to walk away from our hotel, to make sure Nuncio and Luigi didn’t see us eating at a different restaurant.

Once we got back to the hotel, it was packing time. Never have I seen so many purses stuffed so tightly into one suitcase. I’m not sure if smuggling knockoff purses is a crime, but if it is then we could have a challenging conversation with Italian customs tomorrow.

After Mary Beth had got herself settled in, we decided that we wanted a little more soda. I knew I would be up late for the USA-Portugal game, so I went back out to get some more Coca-Cola Light from the bar. I loved the walk on an absolutely perfect evening, high sixties with no humidity and a slight breeze.

I walked around the main square to the bar (which I knew right where it was), walked in past all the diners chatting in Italian, and asked the barkeep for three Coca-Cola Lights to go. I asked for cans instead of the bottles I was presented, and finished my transaction by buying a candy bar. I’m not entirely sure what was in it, but it looked good and I was feeling pretty good about myself.

On the walk back, I found a post box to send our last postcards from Rome, and strolled back to the hotel, giving a quick “buona sera” to the passing locals. I walked by the Gran Kaffee Maxxini, the restaurant where we watched the first half of the Italy-Costa Rica game. The Germany-Ghana game was playing, and as I leaned in to check the score I got a bit of a dirty look from a guy wearing a Germany jersey. My USA jersey (circa World Cup 2006) probably had something to do with that, along with the 0-0 scoreline at the half.

As I walked towards the hotel in the Roman evening, I felt pretty darn good about myself. Here I was, all on my own, navigating the streets of Italy and transacting business. Sure, it’s a little thing, going down the street to get some soda. But I was pretty intimidated at the thought of spending time in a non-English-speaking country, more than I really thought I would be. And now I felt like I had kind of conquered that challenge. I felt a little bit like a boss walking back to the hotel room, Coca-Cola Light in hand.

Of course, I didn’t really say that until I got safely back into the room, for fear of getting lost or mugged or arrested, or something like that. Jinxes are real things, baby.

We settled in for the evening, and I thought I was getting ready to watch the USA-Portugal game. What I discovered is that in my focus to make sure I got the time of the game right, I got the date of the game wrong. Kickoff is at midnight on Monday night, meaning that I will be watching the game in Luxembourg, not in Italy. Hopefully with a better selection of sports on television, as right now instead of the Nigeria-Bosnia and Herzegovina game, Rai Sport is showing me rugby. Women’s rugby. I swear I am not making that up.

So, it’s safe to head to sleep and prepare for our flight to Luxembourg tomorrow. I am reasonably sure I have our flight times—and dates—more accurate than my World Cup schedule.

Day 16: The Sacred and the Profane

Friday was our big sightseeing day, staring with the mother of all Facebook check-ins, the Vatican.

We got up early, had breakfast (in which I thought I was terribly clever to throw a couple of bananas into my backpack), and headed for the Vatican. Rather than pay through the nose for a taxi, we decided to try and navigate the Metropolitan, Rome’s underground.

The nearest Metro station was a few blocks away, so we had some work to do right at the start. Mary Beth having a fractured foot and walking around in a surgical shoe makes walking any distance a challenge—and we had a lot of walking ahead of us. But we did find the station, navigate the automated ticket dispenser, and find the right line to take the Metro to the Vatican.

Once we arrived, we had a few more blocks to walk before we arrived at the Vatican. Our ticket was for 9:30 a.m., so we felt like we were in plenty of time. We walked towards the Vatican, next to the imposing walls (fifty-some feet of angled brick) and made our way to St. Peter’s Basilica. We went through security, and walked up the slope towards the Basilica.

Unfortunately, once we reached the top, we were informed that actually the tour starts at the Vatican Museum—which is back outside of the Basilica, around the walls, and on the next block over. This would set a bit of a tone for the day in terms of walking.

So we walked, out of the Basilica (and getting from basically the church proper to outside the grounds is a hike), outside of the walls, and around functionally a quarter of the wall before arriving at the Vatican Museum. Thankfully we had purchased tickets online, or I’m pretty sure we would still be waiting to get in.

But get in we did, and we made it into the Museum. Basically, the Vatican Museum has a whole bunch of other museums, and the Sistine Chapel. We looked at a few museum, including a pretty neat collection of Egyptian items, before deciding to get the wait over with and head right for the big show.

A couple of things about the Vatican. First, there are elements that remind me of the Louvre in Paris. The place seems like it is littered with amazing artworks. Statues, paintings, tapestries, and other mind-boggling artifacts are almost everywhere you turn. And the floors and the ceilings themselves are incredibly ornate in their design and decoration, making it difficult to focus on any one piece of art in comparison to the others. It’s very much a “forest and trees” situation.

The other thing is, they don’t really just hand you the Sistine Chapel. Once you decide to head there, you go through a rather torturous route through different rooms, each with its own amazing art to display. So even if you skip the “other” museums, you’re getting a really good look at the art collection the Vatican has accumulated over the last two thousand years.

But eventually, you do get to the Sistine Chapel, Michaelangelo’s masterpiece. Breathtaking doesn’t even begin to describe the sight. The chapel itself is 133 feet long and 46 feet wide, and has about a 20 foot ceiling. The walls and the ceiling of the entire chapel are painted with Michaelangelo’s work, and the beauty, detail, and depth of the painting is simply astounding. There are parts of the painting that you would swear were statues built into the walls, but simply reflect Michaelangelo’s mastery of technique. I stood near the middle of the chapel, looking up in awe, almost unable to focus on any one area of the painting given everything else around it. How could one man have done all of this, even if it took him ten years to do?

Inside the chapel, there are Vatican guards, sternly warning “no photos” to the assembled guests. But, of course, [THIS SECTION OF THE BLOG HAS BEEN REMOVED UNDER ADVICE OF COUNSEL].

Once we were done inside the chapel, we decided on the next challenge. We got in line to ascend to the Cupola, the very top of St. Peter’s Basilica, and take in the view of Rome from the top. You are offered two options. For five euros, you can take all 560 steps. For seven euros, you can take an elevator part-way and climb the remaining 311 steps.

We elected for the elevator. And those steps are no ordinary steps. Anyone suffering from claustrophobia would not do well in that staircase. There were points where I had to lean against the inside wall, which appeared to be arched away to follow the dome of the Basilica. And there were very tight spiral staircases, which had to go up at least four or five stories without stop.

It wasn’t one straight line of staircases, and there was a point in time where the stairs opened into a landing that ringed the top of the inside of St. Peter’s Basilica, what looked to be a hundred feet in the air. There was a metal grate that would prevent anyone from falling, but the sight of the Basilica below (far below) did little to settle my nerves.

We kept going up, through different sets of staircase, until we finally reached the top. I will say, though, that I kept count, and there seemed more than 311 stairs. I counted either 360 or eleventy thousand, I’m not sure which was the more accurate count.

But once we arrived at the top, the view to which we were treated was worth the climb. Being able to see the Eternal City from that height, reaching out to the horizon, was simply spectacular. You could walk all the way around the cupola, so we were able to see the grounds outside the Basilica from the top, putting it into perspective with regards to the rest of Rome—as well as putting into perspective just how freaking high off the ground we were.

After taking in the sights, we headed back down, which was a times a little more terrifying to navigate the tight spiral staircases. We got back to terra firma, and went to explore the Basilica itself.

The word “awesome” is overused. The sight of St. Peter’s Basilica was awesome, as in awe-inspiring. As in, something this big and this ornate and this beautiful cannot possibly be real. We walked around the Basilica, looking at the statues, the columns, the artwork, the marble floors, the impossibly beautiful ceilings, trying to take it all in. As we did, we noticed that a mass was being said in the main part of the Basilica. We went in and sat down, trying to quiet our minds and realizing that we were in fact attending a mass at St. Peter’s in Rome.

Other than the mass, the one thing that stood out was St. Peter’s tomb, a massive altar sitting on top of four gigantic pillars of what appear to be twisted columns, all in a dark stone. The tomb itself went up fifty feet in the air, and each of the pillars was big enough where two people wrapping their arms around them might be able to touch hands.

Once we were done with mass, we went down to the catacombs under the Basilica where the popes and other luminaries are buried. We saw the tomb of Pope Innocent and other popes dating back to the eleventh century. We also saw the sepulcher of St. Peter, where the first pope’s remains are interred, ornately decorated and well guarded.

 After we got done with the catacombs, we left the Basilica and toured the outside grounds, taking in all of the white marble statues of the saints looking down from on high. Once we were done, we headed to the bus to sit and rest while we headed to the second part of our sightseeing plans for the day.

Our other major sightseeing destination was the Piazza Venezia. Once a HISTORY, the Piazza now stands out in the middle of two major streets in Rome, with gigantic Italian flags flying in front of a huge white marble palace fronted with classical columns set behind the massive statue of Vittorio Emmanuel II, the first king of Italy. It was built in 1455 at the direction of Cardinal Venezia, which meant being a cardinal in 1455 was a pretty sweet gig to have. It also meant a lot more stairs to add to the collection for the day.

As we were leaving, we saw a whole bunch of people walking towards the Piazza Venezia in the azzuri shirts of the Italian national soccer team, wearing flags as capes and looking like they were ready for a good time. We noticed on our walk back to the Metro station that a large TV had been set up, and clearly the Piazza Venezia was the site of an outdoor watch party for this evenings group stage World Cup game between Italy and Costa Rica. While I was sorely tempted to stay, Mary Beth was wiped out, so we walked (and walked, and walked, and walked) to the Colosseum, which was the nearest station, to head back to the hotel.

At this point, we realized some poor planning on our part. We were trying to get on a train headed to the main terminal. At about 5:30 in the afternoon. On a Friday night. When the first train arrived and there was no room to fit one more person, let alone two, we realized we might have an issue. We waited for the next train. As we did, realizing how tight it was going to be, my pride finally failed me and I turned my backpack into a frontpack. I saw people doing this all the time in Rome, wearing their backpacks in front of them. If a fanny-pack is ridiculous, then the frontpack is ridiculous time about twenty. But knowing how jammed in we were likely to be, I didn’t have a lot of options.

About ten minutes later, the train arrived, and it was as packed as we thought it would be. Mary Beth basically got a running start and wedged a space in, which I followed up and filled as quickly as possible. Thankfully, we only had to wait two stops before we got to the main terminal and switch lines, and the train on the line back to the hotel was much less crowded.

On the walk back to the hotel, we decided (well, I decided and Mary Beth relented) to stop at a bar to watch some of the Italy-Costa Rica game. We found a bar where a number of well-dressed Italian men and women were sitting at an outside café, sipping on wine and beer, munching on small squares of cheese-covered bread, and watching the game on a large-screen TV.

Or, as I like to think of it now, Italian tailgating.

We left at halftime, which might have been for the best given that Italy was down 1-0, and returned to the room. We rested a little and I watched the end of the game, which saw Costa Rica hold on and pull of the upset of Italy. (Viva CONCACAF!) We both decided it was probably for the best not to be amongst the face-painted ultras at the Piazza Venezia after the outcome of the game.

We instead went to our new favorite restaurant, just next door to our hotel. The proprietor doesn’t really speak English, but recognized us as we came for our third meal. He was clearly bummed about the game, having the post-game dissection on the television. We ate outside, and headed back to the hotel room. It became clear how much walking we did when Mary Beth realized she had burned the battery out of her FitBit, having taken 15,000 steps when the device gave up the ghost. Needless to say, it wasn’t long before she was out in preparation for our final day in Rome.

BONUS: Never let it be said that we don’t take requests. Just for you, Joe, here’s the photo of me with the centurion. You may commence your mocking in three, two, one …

Day 15: The Eternal City, and Knockoff Purses

With Mary Beth being done with her conference and us having our first full day in Rome, Thursday was the first day where we both really felt like tourists. So of course, we both slept in until almost ten.

We skipped breakfast altogether and got ourselves to the site where our tour bus picked us up. Before we left, we had bought a three-day pass to a hop-on, hop-off bus which would take us around the city. We decided to make our first stop about as tourist-y as possible, so we stopped at the Colosseum.

The bus dropped us off right at the base of the Colosseum, allowing us to walk up and take it all in. After stopping to get an ice cream (we didn’t have breakfast, after all) we headed up the hill and started to look around.

It’s really hard to take in that you are standing outside a site that is thousands of years old, one of the most iconic images on the planet, munching on a strawberry ice cream and watching people from around the world take their picture in front of it. We joined in, taking advantage of the site and the amazingly perfect summer day to take the same pictures.

As we walked around the Colosseum, we decided to save the 30 euros (and the hour-and-a-half line) and skipped the tour inside of the Colosseum, electing instead to just take a lap around the structure and take more pictures. Besides, saving that money allowed us to have space in the budget for me to take a picture with some Italian dude in a centurion costume. If we’re going to be tourists, we’re going to be full-bore, all-the-way tourists. At this point, all I would need is to smear sunscreen all over my nose for the caricature to be complete.

After the Colosseum, we got back on the bus and decided to head to Trevi Fountain, one of Mary Beth’s favorite sites in Rome. The bus dropped us off a few blocks away, so we hiked through the winding streets of Rome, through the shops and hawkers before we found the site.

Much to our disappointment, though, Trevi Fountain was under construction. There was no water, and scaffolding and workers covered the sculptures. I took what pictures I could, and apparently from there it was time to get down to the serious business. Souvenir shopping.

We did look at a couple of stores that sold purses, but Mary Beth’s attention ultimately was drawn to a collection of Prada purses being sold on the streets. At least, I assume they were Prada purses, because they said “Prada” on the side, and those guys couldn’t possibly be selling fakes, right?

Well, she got one, and then we stopped for lunch—which was entertaining to watch two competing restauranters argue with each other over which one could provide Mary Beth the plate of olives she wanted. As we ate and pondered, Mary Beth got to looking at the purse and thinking. And that thinking ended up with Mary Beth going back and getting another. And another. And … well, I hate to be spoiling the surprise, but if you’re getting a gift from us, it’s likely a purse of some kind.

That’s an exaggeration, of course. For the guys on our list, I promise we didn’t get purses, and we did get some stuff for ourselves as well (including an “official” Roma Totti shirt for me). We then decided to walk some more, looking for the Spanish Steps which appeared to be just a few blocks away.

We were fairly sure we were going in the right direction when I was stopped on the sidewalk with a very pleased-sounding “Go Big Red!” I stopped and met up with the man who GBR’d me, a guy from Fremont who had been in Rome the past few days. As many have observed with some disdain, I wear a lot of Nebraska-branded clothes when I travel, “flying the flag” so to speak. Regardless of where we go, rarely do I not get a GBR at some point, regardless of where we are. I discussed questions about Taylor Martinez waiting to get into the Tower of London, and now I’ve been able to share a GBR on the streets of the Eternal City.

Needless to say, Mary Beth was thrilled.

We did confirm, though, that we were on the right track to the Spanish Steps. Less than two blocks later, we found them and were able to enjoy the sights, sit and rest, and take some additional pictures. I also managed to get myself fleeced out of a few euros for roses for Mary Beth, which the guy who handed them to her waited until she walked away before asking for his money. Natch.

But it was worth it (well, not really) to get a few pictures of Mary Beth with roses on the Spanish Steps. We took some more pictures, took pictures of other people (which we had done the whole day, creating a very pleasant international community of travelers), then started to work our way back to the hotel.

At this point, as tired as we were, we hailed a taxi (after getting new SIM cards for our phones) and got back to the hotel. We dropped our stuff off and went to the same restaurant we ate at last night, having another spectacular meal. After dinner, as both of us were awfully full, we decided to walk off dinner in the evening light.

We walked a few blocks to the Farmacia to see if they sold something to drink. They did not, although Mary Beth did come perilously close to buying a pair of sandals there. We stopped at a bar to get Coca Cola Light to go, and headed back to the room for a shower and rest before another day of sightseeing.

Day 14: Ciao, Finland!

Wednesday was a travel day, where we would finally depart from Finland and head to the rest of our European adventure. We bid farewell to Phil and Aaron, and got a ride to the airport from Ericko, a friend Mary Beth had made who lived in Joensuu. After an interesting discussion comparing the educational systems of the two countries on the drive, we checked in to the very small Joensuu airport and boarded the plane.

We arrived in Helsinki and had a four-hour layover until we headed for Rome. We did a little shopping, but basically just waited. I was struck (as I had been throughout the trip) how ubiquitous American culture was in this European setting. In Finland, I would regularly see American pop culture references (Cars, Darth Vader, Spider-Man), especially for children. And I would constantly hear American music. Every once in a while, I would hear an American or British song covered in Finnish—it’s going to be a while before I forget the Finnish version of “Lady Marmalade.”

Even flying over the Italian countryside and seeing the dramatic change in topography, I began to get excited. I still hadn’t quite wrapped my head around the fact that we were going to be in Rome in just a couple of hours. The plane landed and we disembarked, and the “Welcome to Rome” signs helped bring that reality home.

So did the surroundings. Even at the airport, it was pretty clear that Rome was going to be a very different experience. We were going from a small, sleepy college town in rural Finland to one of the busiest capitals in the world.

We (eventually) collected our luggage and made our way to the hotel. Mary Beth wanted to take a taxi, but I was trying to be cheap and see if we could get by with a bus to the city center then a taxi to our hotel. Unsurprisingly, we ended up taking a taxi from the airport.

Which ended up to be a better decision for two reasons. First, we were both tired and the simplicity of the taxi right to our hotel (the Della Vittoria) was likely for the best. But more importantly, the taxi ride got us a great little driving tour of Rome. You’ve seen the Coliseum in pictures, but until you actually drive by it, seeing one of the most significant historical sites on the planet, right across the street from a series of restaurants and shops, you don’t get the reality of it.

Throughout the drive, I was struck how Rome has intertwined its past and its present so completely. We drove by sites like the Coliseum and the Spanish Steps, as well as obelisks that were likely raised to military victories of Roman emperors thousands of years ago, right next to shops and businesses, and people going about their daily lives. I distinctly remember as we drove up to a large square in front of one of the four Roman cathedrals, and seeing the sign for an optician sticking out in front of the view.

And the taxi ride itself was a trip. I knew that driving in a city like Rome was an adventure, but you don’t really understand that until you experience it yourself. Lanes in Rome are more like gentle suggestions. Motorcycles and scooters regularly slide between or to the side of traffic in an attempt to get ahead. Cars bunch up at intersections, jockeying for position. At one point, we went through a roundabout at what the taxi driver said was the city center. The roundabout was huge, able to hold about five or six cars wide. There were no lanes, no markings, nothing whatsoever in terms of traffic control. You just dove in, and elbowed your way to where you wanted to go.

The Roman streets we drove through were tight, busy, and bustling with energy.  We arrived at the hotel and checked in, setting our luggage down and making our way out for dinner. After asking our less-than-friendly hotel clerk for help, we walked a little bit. While it was fun to be out in the dark (after having been in continual sunlight the entire time we were in Finland), we did realize that our hotel was a little off the beaten path. While it was nice, we did realize how spoiled we were in Joensuu to be right next door to a supermarket.

We did, however, end up trying the restaurant right next door to the hotel. And it was amazing. Mary Beth had a marinara pizza and I had a fettuccini bolognese.  The meal was one of the best we had ever had. Combine that with a bruschetta appetizer and ice cream for dessert, and we were much happier.

We got back to the hotel room and got ourselves ready for the next day. I will say that soccer in Italian is way more entertaining than soccer in Finnish, for whatever reason. Our TV has hundreds of channels, but only one in English—and that’s CNN, so I’m not sure I would even count that. But it mattered little, as we were both exhausted and slept to get ready for the next day.

Day 13: Finishing Up In Finland

Tuesday was our last full day in Finland. I had been there almost a week, and Mary Beth had been there for almost two weeks. So it was almost a little strange to be thinking that we were leaving the country the following day.

After breakfast (which, if I didn’t mention before, offered a bowl full of little chocolate donuts every morning. Little chocolate donuts! What John Belushi called the donuts of champions! How could the day go wrong after a start like that?) Mary Beth and her team went to the conference. The weather had taken a consistent turn to the grey and cold, with this morning bringing rain and temperatures in the low 40s.

I wanted to go visit the Joensuu Lutheran Church, a picturesque old Lutheran church. I walked about 9-10 blocks to arrive there, only to find that the church opened at 11:00, a couple of hours later. So I walked back to the hotel, braving the rain and checking out a few stores along the way.

It was interesting to find store analogies to offerings back home. This morning, I stopped at a CityMarket, which basically was a Super Target. Joensuu also had other stores like Carson (JCPenny’s), Cale Olsen (Sears), Sokos (Younkers).

I went back to the hotel room and did some work waiting for Mary Beth to get back around lunchtime. We met up with Aaron and did a little souvenir shopping, then Aaron went his own way for lunch. Mary Beth and I walked over to the church (which was then open) and were able to get inside.

The church looked very much like a rural Lutheran church back home, with ornately-painted walls and ceilings, a large stained-glass window, and an elevated pulpit. We lit some candles (a nice Catholic alternative in a Protestant church) and got to hear a musical group warming up as we left. You could tell just from hearing the musicians tuning their instruments how acoustically well designed the building was, as it quickly filled with music.

We went back to the room and napped, then met Aaron in the hotel lobby for dinner. We decided to try a local pizza place, Pizza Master, on the recommendation of Mary Beth’s Finnish friend Salli. After a little work finding the place (made more challenging by what felt like walking through a November rain shower) we found the place and ordered.

We ended up each getting a large (almost a foot in diameter) individual pizza, which we eagerly consumed. It very much felt like a student location, with some of the cheapest (six euros for the pizza) food we’d had the whole trip.

After dinner, we headed back to the hotel to pack. The next morning, we would be checking out and catching our plane to Rome.

Day 12: Authentic Finnish Experiences

Monday was a far less eventful day than I had anticipated. A few hours earlier, I thought I was going to be taking a round trip to Helsinki to replace my passport. But having found it just after breakfast (as discussed in the Day 12 spoiler from yesterday’s entry), my day improved dramatically.

After Mary Beth and her team went to the conference, I had the morning to myself. I went for a run along the Pielisjoki River (finding a more scenic route this time), then did a little souvenir shopping. After Mary Beth got back, we tried to have another American burger from Big D, the BBQ master from Tallahassee. But he was just packing up his equipment after selling out, and told us he wouldn’t be back the next day because of the weather. Disappointed, we bid him farewell.

Instead we decided to have an authentic Finnish experience—a sauna.

In Finnish, it’s pronounced sah-ooh-nah, but it really isn’t any different than a sauna in a gym. It’s just a wooden room with heated rocks to create a dry heat. But the sauna is a big part of Finnish culture, and one of the prime attractions our hotel advertised was its sauna.

So we went in our bathing suits down to the sauna to experience it for ourselves. As we entered the sauna, Mary Beth was still convinced that the saunas weren’t segregated and we could go in together. I suspected otherwise, for reasons which would become disturbingly clear very shortly.

In fact, the saunas were gender-specific, so we went our separate ways. I found my way into the gentlemen’s sauna and entered. When I arrived, I was greeted by a very Finnish, very naked gentleman who was in the midst of his sauna experience.

Now, look, I get it. What’s the big deal, right? It’s culturally acceptable, and I’m just being an uptight American clinging to outmoded social norms and latent homophobia. I knew those things were almost certainly true as I entered.

But it didn’t matter. I took a seat on the opposite end of the sauna, wrapped the towel around my shoulders, and closed my eyes hoping to look like I was just really enjoying the experience.

Shortly after I entered, two French patrons arrived and joined us (both with bathing suits on, thankfully). Out of curiosity, I did look over, noticing one of the French patrons pointing at me and whispering to the other that “I think he’s meditating.”

OK, sure, that works for me.

I will say, though, that the sauna did feel really good. After about 15 minutes I had worked up a really good sweat and felt amazingly relaxed. Still uptight, certainly, but amazingly relaxed. I met Mary Beth outside, who shared a similar experience with a mother and her daughter in the ladies’ sauna. But we both felt sufficiently floaty after the sauna experience that a nap seemed in order.

After the nap, we met up with Aaron for dinner. We went to Aada, a ravintola (restaurant) attached to a nearby hotel. After having Tex-Mex, bad Italian chain restaurant pasta, and Greek, I thought it might be time to try something a little more locally authentic. So I tried the reindeer pasta. I figure if you’re going with a more “exotic” meat for a meal, pasta is the safest way to have it.

And, I have to admit, it was really good. Salty, pepper-y, and I’m certain cured quite a bit, the reindeer pasta was one of the best meals I have had in Finland. Cap the evening off with a blackcurrant sorbet, and I felt very satisfied.

We went back to the room and I killed a little time (well, OK, quite a bit of time) until the kickoff of the USA v Ghana game, the first for the Americans in the World Cup. The game kicked off at 1:00 a.m. local time, which reminded me of when I got up at ungodly hours to watch the USMNT in the 2002 World Cup in South Korea.

My choices were to watch the game on TV with the commentary in Finnish, attempt to stream the video on a less than stellar internet connection, or try to stream the radio commentary and watch the video a la Kent Pavelka on KFAB during televised Husker games.

I went for the radio route, although when I learned that Tommy Smythe was the color commentator I regretted my decision. Still, the American’s didn’t disappoint, winning 2-1 over a team that had knocked the USMNT out of the last two World Cups with a late winner from John Brooks. I had done a decent job not making a racket during the game, but when Brooks’ header went in there was no way I wasn’t waking Mary Beth up with my celebrations. At least (to the best of my knowledge) I didn’t wake everyone else on the floor up.

Remarkably, Mary Beth is used to this kind of nonsense from me, and went right back to sleep. I ended up being awake until after 4:00 a.m., which could make life on Tuesday a little more challenging.

Day 11: On Top Of The World, Then Crashing Down To Earth

I knew Sunday was going to be an exciting day. I wasn’t aware exactly how exciting it would be, though.

The plan for the day was to take a bus tour to the Koli National Park, about 45 kilometers outside of Joensuu. Mary Beth and I had breakfast, then walked to the university to meet up with the bus. We met up with Phil, Aaron, and Phil’s family who had joined him. We boarded the bus and hit the road.

On the bus, I got a chance to meet (or at least listen to) some of the other participants from Mary Beth’s conference. There were people there from England, Turkey, Lithuania, Tunisia, and a number of other countries. I will confess to being a little jealous of the opportunity Mary Beth had to meet and make friends with people in her discipline around the world like that.

The drive to Koli was uneventful, if a little slow—in Finland, while you drive on the right side of the road, buses drive pretty slow, and you have to wear a seat belt. But as we drove through the woods and to the park (on a drive that was eerily similar to the stretch of I-80 just south of Minneapolis) it became pretty clear that it was going to be a beautiful day.

To start the tour, we had to ride a glassed-in elevator up the side of a hill to get to the main area of the park. Well, at least that was the plan. Mary Beth and I were in the last group that were planning to go up the hill. As the elevator came down, an elderly couple who were in the elevator waited for the doors to open so they could get out. And waited. And waited.

After about 15 minutes, it became clear that the doors weren’t going to open anytime soon. So our only option was to head up the stairs. Not exactly the start we had in mind, especially with Mary Beth in a surgical shoe nursing a hairline fracture in her foot (because, of course, it couldn’t be a trip to Europe without Mary Beth having something in her foot broken).

We did make it up the stairs, though, and got ourselves oriented before the tour started. Our tour guides warned us that while the hike was only about a kilometer, it was a “challenging” hike. Mary Beth decided that the stairs were challenge enough and elected to take in the displays at the base rather than accompany us. Reluctantly, I left her there and went on the hike.

Our tour guide was named Ape (pronounced ah-peh) who was very nice, although his English was a little sketchy. He told us that we would be walking up three peaks; the “man peak” which was the highest, the “woman peak” which was the second highest, and the “bad boy” peak which was the smallest.

Hey, I don’t make the names, I just report them.

For the next hour or so, we hiked through an amazing forest, gradually heading upwards until we reached each of the three peaks. The peaks themselves were basically sheer white rock, with no stairs or handholds to get up and nothing but gravity and balance to help you down.

As someone who is not particularly fond of heights in the first place, this is not something that should have appealed to me. But apparently I was just into it, as I scampered my way up each of the three peaks. The only time I really was cognizant of what I was doing was when I sat down on the far edge of a rock face (the one facing down towards the ledge) to take a picture of Phil and his family. As I turned around to get up, I started sliding toward the edge and what would have been a … considerable drop. I’m sure I didn’t really slide all that far, but the time it took to find a foothold and stop myself was the one point of the afternoon where my whole “fear of heights” thing really came back to me.

But oh, what a view. I will admit that I never really understood the attraction of mountain climbing. I get it now. Standing on top of those peaks, you could look out and really feel like you could see forever. I could feel the breeze blowing by me as I took in the sights, seeing the trees far below me, the lake that feeds the Pielisjoki River, and the land in the distance on the other side of the lake.

But it was Ape letting everyone know that the land on the other side of the lake, about 100 kilometers away, was Russia that really helped me appreciate the reality of my situation. Yes, the forest and the lake was beautiful, but those are things I can see back home. But to see Russia? Russia, fer cryin out loud? I realized how far from home I was, and what an amazing opportunity I was being given to experience something I never would have dreamt of just a few months earlier.

And, yes, I did have the voice of Tina Fey as Sarah Palin running through my head, saying “I can see Russia from my vacation.” I decided to keep that to myself and to Facebook, though.

During the walk back down, Ape was asked about wildlife in the area. He named off a few before trying to come up with the English word for “martes.” As he grasped for the word, an international game of 20 questions erupted, with guesses (and accents) ranging from butterfly to horse sprang from the group. Ape eventually landed on “bah-jeer” which a smart and particularly handsome hiker (ahem) realized was “badger.”

We came back down and met back up with Mary Beth. After a little souvenir shopping and seeing a film with some photography of the Koli park set to music by famous Finnish composers (please don’t embarrass me by asking who they are), we piled back into the buses for the second part of our trip.

On the grounds of the Koli park is Matilla, an organic and environmentally sustainable farm. The buses parked (including an incredible display of parallel parking) and we walked a fair distance through a beautiful wooded area to reach the farm.

Once we arrived at the farmhouse, we were greeted by the proprietors, who were certainly dressed the part of a couple that own and operate an organic and environmentally sustainable farm (you can see the pictures in the photo album and decide for yourself). We were given a lunch of vegetable soup, homemade bread with garlic butter, herb-infused water, and cinnamon rolls (!), then given license to wander and explore the farm and its grounds.

It was simply beautiful. The day could not have been more perfect, the flowers and the long grass were in bloom, and the farm ultimately provided a very peaceful respite. It was also fascinating to wander the ground and hear the conversations of people from all over the globe sharing the day.

After an hour or so of enjoying the pristine beauty of the farm (which I will say was about enough for me—it was beautiful and all, but I’m pretty sure I’d be bored out of my skull if I lived there) we headed back to the bus for our return to Joensuu. A full day of hiking (with a couple hundred more stairs than budgeted for) meant that I slept for a good chunk of the drive home.

We ate dinner, then the plan was to head back to the room and hang out. But as we walked back to the room, I got to thinking. I remembered putting my passport down on the table in front of our bed on the night I arrived, but I hadn’t really noticed it since. Just to make myself feel better, I thought, I’ll find it and put it in a safe place.

Well, it wasn’t on the table. Nor was it in my camera bag. Nor in the suitcase. Nor the drawer where Mary Beth’s passport was very smartly and very safely stored. Nor in the pocket of any pants or shorts I had brought—after I had unpacked the entire suitcase and looked. Twice.

Indeed, after a good hour of Mary Beth and I tearing the hotel room apart (it’s not a very big room, so that wouldn’t take long), we ultimately came to the conclusion that it simply wasn’t there. But how? Could someone have stolen it? Unlikely. Could it have gotten knocked into a trash bin or a pile of towels taken to the laundry? More plausible, I suppose.

I went down and checked with the front desk. The lady was very nice and very sympathetic, but said that no one had turned in a passport. She wished me the best of luck as I went back upstairs, embarrassed and furious with myself.

Rather than spending the evening watching soccer and baseball, I spent it online finding the U.S. Embassy in Helsinki and planning whether a trip from Joensuu to the capital would be cheaper by train or by plane. Mary Beth, to her undying credit, kept me from panicking too much, having read through the “what to do if you’re a complete idiot” “what to do if you lose your passport abroad” section of the State Department’s website.

So I had a plan for Monday morning. Call the Embassy, get a new passport photo, file a police report, and make travel arrangements for Tuesday’s trip to Helsinki to replace my passport. We went to bed, and I fell asleep remarkably quickly given how mad at myself I was for being so foolish.

DAY 12 SPOILER ALERT!

So Mary Beth and I head for breakfast on Monday morning. I’m fairly well resigned to my to-do list to get a replacement passport, although I can tell you I had little appetite. We ate with Phil, and I told him about what had happened, given that Mary Beth might need to skip Tuesday’s sessions to accompany me to Helsinki and vouch for my identity. Phil was shocked and sympathetic, urging that “it’ll turn up.”

As Mary Beth is getting dressed and ready to leave for the day’s session, she pulls on the nightstand built into the wall near the bed, more for leverage than anything. To her surprise, a drawer opens. I swear to Heaven, I pulled on the nightstands on both sides of the bed the night before, and no drawers opened.

She looks inside the drawer, and of course, what does she find? No, not a Gideon’s Bible (that was on my side). Of course, it’s my passport. The person cleaning our room Thursday night must have seen my passport on the table, thought “this idiot must want his passport in a safer place,” and put it in the nightstand drawer.

Honestly, for about 30 seconds, I couldn’t breathe, much less speak. Mary Beth smiled at me, very much the “oh, and I’m married to this one” smile as she handed me the passport. I put my passport with hers, the relief from both of us being absolutely palpable. I walked with her, Phil, and Aaron to the university, realizing that my plans for the day had changed considerably—and for the better.