The Blithe Traveler

Stephansplatz on a Rainy Day

And the gang is kitted up for the weather.

You would think that since this is a ten-minute walk from my house, I might have a few photos from a nicer day. I don't. I think the rain gear is interesting, though.

Hope really, really wants to go for a carriage ride. At some point, when the weather is nice and we have some guests who are interested, we will probably indulge her.

Stephansdom is Vienna's largest cathedral and one of the tallest churches in the world. It's a bit hard to get the perspective from down below.

But it's quite the ornate and stately building.

Inside The Rock

This may surprise you if you were unaware of this fact, but the rock is pretty much hollow. Some of it naturally, and much of it as a long term defensive strategy. The Straights of Gibraltar have long (since the Phoenicians) have been a trade route and a key military touchpoint.

First, the natural hollowness of the rock:  The Cathedral Cave is opened to visitors and makes a unique auditorium for concerts, ballets, drama and presentations. Yes, the cave is an auditorium. The unique beauty of crystallized nature can be appreciated through a centuries old stalagmite that became too heavy and fell on its side at the far end of the Chamber. <-- no ballerinas were harmed in the making of this unique beauty.

The auditorium seats 400 people and the acoustics were quite nice. Someone played music while we were there. However, it is a cave, so dress warm.

Next, the military hollowness of the rock. You can call this hyperbole, but, really, it is an amazing feat to imagine: The labyrinth of tunnels inside the Rock of Gibraltar known as the Great Siege Tunnels is perhaps the most ingenious defense system devised by man. There are something like 60 kilometers of tunnels running through the Rock.

The digging began during the Great Siege:  In 1779 France and Spain made an all out attempt to recapture the Rock from the British. The Siege lasted from July 1779 to February 1783.

The Governor, General Elliot is said to have offered a reward to anyone who could tell him how to get guns onto a projection from the precipitous northern face of the Rock known as 'Notch.' It was suggested that this could be done by tunneling through the Rock.

The tunnelers relied on the strength of their arms, on their skill with a sledgehammer and a crowbar and were aided with gunpowder for blasting. Originally there was no idea of mounting cannons in this gallery, but as work progressed the fumes from the blasting almost suffocated the miners, so it was decided to open a vent to let air ventilate the tunnel. Almost at once it was realized what an excellent embrasure this would make for a cannon, so one was mounted without waiting to reach the "Notch".

Interesting, isn't it, that it was airholes that gave them the idea to mount cannon?

Some people really enjoyed seeing the cannons.

Fast forward to 1940, Britain was at war with Germany and Italy and the future looked bleak for Gibraltar as the enemy surrounded it. Winston Churchill and the British military leaders believed that an attack on Gibraltar was imminent. The answer was to construct a massive network of tunnels, to build a fortress inside a fortress, a city within a city.

The tour is relatively limited, as you don't get to wander through all 60 kilometers of tunnel, but it is fascinating to see.

Random Canon Beauty Shot

And with that, our time on Gibraltar came to a close and we headed for home. It was a fascinating trip to see Tarifa, Tangier and Gibraltar all in the space of what (if memory serves) was a longish sort of a weekend. Or maybe it was a short week. But that's Europe for you. There is a lot to see in a smallish sort of space.

Gibraltar

Gibraltar. Or, as some of us are wont to call it: Gill-batar. Look, I have difficulty with these things. And, as it turned out, I heard someone else on Gibraltar calling it Gill-batar while I was there. One assumes a common difficulty. I won't call it a "mistake." It's not like I don't know Gill-batar is wrong. It's just at the moment when my tongue and brain are required to co-ordinate, they occasionally go off in different directions. 

What do you know about this rock? Of course, the iconic shape will immediately spring to mind.

 

But did you know it is British territory? It was captured by the British in 1704 and in deeded to Britain by Spain "in perpetuity" under the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713. Spain, to this day, continues to assert a claim to the territory. The Gibraltarians resoundingly rejected proposals for Spanish sovereignty in 1967, and again in 2002. As of the Gibraltar constitution of 2006, Gibraltar governs its own affairs, though some powers, such as defense and foreign relations, remain the responsibility of the UK Government.

So, we went from Spain to Morocco to England all in a hop skip in a jump.

Did you also know Gibraltar is known for its semi-wild Barbary Macaques? We referred to them as "monkeys" until one broke into our hotel room. Then we had other, less polite words for them. In the interests of verisimilitude, the break in was my fault. This did not stop me from heaping vitriol on the Macaques.

And the less said about "semi-wild" the better. They are only semi-wild because the taxi drivers who drive the tourists up the mountain hand feed them so they will climb all over the tourists for "great" photographs. Ugh.

Another interesting Gibraltar tidbit: the word "Gibberish" is thought to come from Gibraltar. Why you ask? Because the locals here have an interesting habit of mixing Spanish and English during their conversations. Gibraltarians will often start a sentence in Spanish and switch to English halfway through, making it difficult for non-locals to follow. Gibberish. Possibly apocryphal story, but interesting.

Other fun tidbits about Gibraltar: it's an island, but there is a causeway you drive on to to get there. There are exactly four parking spots on the entire island reserved for tourists, so I don't actually recommend driving there, but we ended up arriving fairly late in the evening, so we were a bit pressed for time. We were staying at "The Rock" hotel, a superb location crammed up on the side of the mountain, although the hotel itself is looking as though its time for a sprucing up.

Being jammed up on the side of the mountain, the Macaques use it as a thoroughfare. Look! There goes a monkey butt, now! They were crawling around on our deck while we were getting ready to go out in the morning. There are signs that warn you not to go out there an attempt to communicate with them. I am totally down with that. Wild animals belong in the wild and are not lap dogs.

What I failed to realize is how very clever the monkeys are. I (stupidly) left the door to our balcony unlocked. I didn't think much of it, as the hotel is jammed into the side of a cliff. It's not like some cat burglary was going to scale the hotel in broad daylight to break into my room from the balcony: he would have been spotted by someone over in Spain in an instant.

The monkeys, cleverer than the likes of me, can open the doors. One (or possibly more? I didn't ask to view the security camera) broke into our room and ate the complimentary sugar and powdered coffee. That was one jacked up monkey, let me tell you.

One last fun tidbit about the exterior of Gibraltar (we'll explore the interior tomorrow). Below you see the airport. Actually, you are looking out over Spain, and then there is a causeway that even I can't quite pick out, then you come to the large macadam surface with the red and white stripes. That's the airport. Do you see the black arrow I cleverly inserted onto the photo? It's pointing to the road. That is the only road in and out of Gibraltar. It goes right through the only runway on Gibraltar. Do the Gibraltians, in addition to speaking Gibberish play a perpendicular game of Russian Roulette every time they drive into town, you might wonder?

No, of course not. Because Winston Churchill Avenue (the main road heading towards the land border with Spain) intersects the airport runway, it has to be closed every time a plane lands or departs. The History Channel program Most Extreme Airports ranks it as the fifth most dangerous airport in the world and the most dangerous in Europe.

Maybe driving in wasn't such a bad idea after all.

Asilah

We decided to spend our second day in Morocco guide-less in a small town outside of Tangier called Asilah. Its history dates back to 1500 BCE, when the Phoenicians used it as a base for trade. So, old.

The town has an arty feel these days, It hosts annual music and arts festivals, including a mural painting festival: the best paintings remain on the Medina walls for the following years. We spent the day wandering, and the children played on the sea wall.

Its ramparts and gateworks remain fully intact. From when, I am not exactly clear. 1500 BCE seems quite long ago for towers to still be standing.

The town was incredibly beautiful, all blue and white. And peaceful. There wasn't much of anything going on.

Once upon a time this was pirate town,

during the 19th and 20th century.

But there is not a lot of evidence of piracy now.

Maybe just a few wayward remnants,

Argh!

 

Of Souks and Tangines and, Yes, Rocking the Casbah

The Souk, or market, was my favorite bit of Tangier. I love markets. They can range from down and dirty to outrageous sensory overload: this one was definitely in the latter category. Just look at that produce. I can't reproduce the spice scents wafting through the air, but you can imagine.

This is an olive vendor. These are all olives. Black olives, green olives, greeny green olives, orangy olives, reddish olives, spicy olives, canned olives, jarred olives. And poor Hope, who kept getting tossed into photos as a prop.

Tom genuinely like this, though. It's a cow tongue. Blessed huge things, aren't they?

Oh, it was great.

Morocco is know for a specialty dish called Tangine. The clay pot it is cooked in, with a pyramid shaped lid is also known as a a Tangine. This kind of easy to remember stuff is right up my alley. It's strikes me as a forerunner to the crock pot: you toss in all the good stuff, let it simmer just south of forever, and eat. "All the good stuff," includes but is not limited to: lamb or chicken with a medley of ingredients or seasonings like olives, quinces, apples, pears, apricots, raisins, prunes, dates, nuts, with Lemon, with or without honey, with or without a complexity of spices. Traditional spices that are used to flavor tagines include ground cinnamon, saffron, ginger, turmeric, cumin, paprika, and black pepper. Sounds tasty? It is.

My one failure in the souk was to bring back a tangine. I certainly could not replicate the Moroccan version in my own kitchen, but I could have looked rather spiffy while trying.

We had a nice tangine lunch at a local restaurant, and then moved on to the casbah. As you may already know, the term "casbah" refers to the walled fortress sections of many North African cities and towns. If you are interested, the song "Rock the Casbah," by the Clash sang refered specifically to the Algerian Casbah in Algiers, and was about Iran's outlawing of music. In the song, the local king (sharif) outlaws music, the people rebel, and they "rock the casbah."

Mohamed asked the children to pick up some rocks. And we took their pictures. Yes, this is the casbah. Yes, I am grateful to Mohamed for showing us the casbah - it might have been tricky to find it on our own - but, do people really enjoy this sort of thing? Worse, maybe we are just not fun people?? While he did not ask Jeff and I to pick up any rocks, I suspect it was our utter lack of interest in the whole children picking them up that led to to believe we might not be willing subjects.

But, the citadel was beautiful. And we could see Spain.

We spent some time wandering around the medina (the walled city).

It was fascinating to imagine how it has changed over the centuries.

And to see the things that hadn't changed. This is the local baker. All of the woman in the neighborhood make their own bread dough, but it is all baked by this fellow, who runs his ovens all day long. He has a system for keeping each household's bread clearly marked. The baker is a central figure in any neighborhood. He knows who is sick, who is looking to get married, who is pregnant: you need something, ask the baker. He's the go-to guy who knows everything that is going on in the neighborhood.

We ended our day serenaded by Mohamed's pals at a touristic restaurant. 

Overall, a pleasant day.

Of Camels and Caves

Bright and early we arose to take the ferry to Tangier, Morocco.

It's less tricky than you might think, crossing from continent to continent. We went through passport control on the Spanish side, hopped on the ferry ... someone was sneaking a peek at the television...

...rode for half and hour, through passport control on the other side, and we were in.

Isn't it gorgeous? We took the unusual step of hiring a guide for this particular trip. Given that we were in a hurry, and were a little concerned that our usual hit or miss kind of tourism would result in too many misses in our only foray onto the African continent, it seemed like a good idea. A year later, the jury is still out.

The guy we used was definitely a pro; one of his claims to fame is having chaperoned one B. Springsteen around the town - and he has photo evidence, so it did not appear to be a case of blowing smoke. However, we're not the sort of people who really appreciate the touristy "pro-tour." Our guide, a gentleman presented to us as "Mohamed" (we strongly suspected this was not his actual name, but rather a nom de plume the agency uses to keep it simple for the foreigners) was super-smooth and a delightful conversationalist: all in all, a very a well trained professional with a specific tourist agenda.

But, in hindsight, it might have been more fun to wander on our own. 

So, do you know the two things touristy Tangier has historically been known for? I did not, but Mohammad was kind enough to give us the inside skinny: smoking "dope" and finding same s*x partners. Ah, yes. Those are the reasons we came here. With our two children.

As I said, Mohamed was a consummate professional, and did not overtly offer to scare up either illegal drugs or same s*x partners, but he made it gently clear that if there were any interest in either of these things, while they were technically illegal, he probably knew some people who knew some people, if we understood his meaning. Which I did. And behaved in the appropriate politely disinterested manner.

It is a credit to Mohamed's not inconsiderable charm that I remember all of this fondly.  The guy was seriously good. Historical footnote: Jeff will likely protest that this conversation never happened. And I will tell you that Jeff had a hard time understanding Mohamed's accent.

Once this bit was out of the way, our agenda for the day was laid out: Viewing the views,  seeing Hercules Cave, checking out the camels, browsing in the Souk (the market) and rocking the Casbah. A full day.

And up first, the Hercules Cave, so named because Hercules paused here for a nap post-Twelve Labors. Oddly enough, I had been of the impression that Hercules was a mythical character, but as a professed Philistine, I will admit I am no scholar of mythology. Or history. 

There is one oddity about the cave, above and beyond being Hercules' resting place, that makes it quite interesting. Check out this "window" to the sea. Can you see the map of Africa? Try squinting. Actually, if you use a mirror, it becomes quite obvious. I suppose I could have flipped the photo around, but, really this is the way you see it from inside the cave, and if I had to work for it, you can too.

This particular bit is not visible during high tide, so high five to Mohamed for managing the timing.

The cave tour was shy of fascinating; we had a local guy give us the inside skinny. Unfortunately, the dude was the sort who not only could provide local flavor, but also smoked quantities of it. Vast quantities. Making for a strange sort of presentation. Even I, who have a pretty good ear for working out vagaries of the English language eventually gave up trying to understand a word he mumbled and just nodded blankly until he was finished. Nice guy, but it is hard to understand the seriously stoned.

From the cave, we moved to the seaside where there were a few camels waiting for us. Now, I really don't like this sort of thing. I mean, it's one thing to venture out to the dunes and have a camel ride in the desert, but they bring the camels into Tangier by the edge of the water for the tourists. And their photo ops. By the blue, blue sea.

This is the downside of going with a guide agency. Sometimes you get stuck doing things you really don't think are the greatest idea. And you might wonder why we just didn't politely decline? I mean, it's not like I let them hook me up with a nickle bag just because they offered.

Honestly? Because Hope loves camels. They love her back. 

The guy in the photo is Mohamed, by the way - he even smelled nice.

 

 And it did make a nice Christmas card.

 Tomorrow: Of Souks, and Tangines and Rocking the Casbah

 

Back In Time: Tarifa, Morocco and Gibraltar, October 2010

Between gearing up for National Novel Writing Month and 'supervising' Jeff's photo transfer project, (1) I have been awash in memories. From the wee children when they actually were wee and they were all smidgy bits of red hair and cowlicks, to their first sleepy-eyed days in China, various Halloweens and Christmases, napping-across-the-world photos and reminders of many of the grand places we have been, seen and gotten t-shirts, I have quite thoroughly enjoyed peering back in time.

As it turns out, there are three trips we have taken that I have never written about. The first was our two weeks in New Zealand, second was our second trip to Mongolia and third was a short trip we took to Spain and Morocco last fall. As one of the purposes of this blog is to create a memory for the children in their older years and for me in my dotage, I would be remiss as Family Historian if I never got around to including those particular sojourns. And so, despite my seeming in ability to remain on track for any period of time longer than a few weeks, I am going to attempt to rectify the missing trip situation.

Odds are not good that all three will be finished in the next couple of months: we are leaving for ten days in Turkey on Thursday and we have a three week trip to Patagonia planned for the Christmas holiday. Plus, I am trying to plug out 50,000 original words in the month of November. Likely this latest notion is more of a Q1, 2012 sort of adventure. But in the spirit of "no time like the present!", I'm going to work on the shortest of the three now.

Tarifa, Morocco, and Gibraltar, October 2010

I always find moving unsettling, and given that back in October, 2010, we had just settled in a new country, on a new continent, the planning around this trip was rather less orderly than usual. Which is something like saying we may well have wandered into an airport and asked the nice people at the counter to send us to the first place where an airplane was going with four empty seats.

If I recall, it went something like this:

Jeff: "The children have a week off in October. Where should we go?"

Me: "Let's stay home and they can help me finish unpacking."

Jeff: "Look! Ryan Air has cheap flights to Malaga!"

Me: "Where in the blistering blue barnacles is Malaga?"

Jeff: "It's in Europe." 

We bought the tickets. Malaga, which those of you who are more astute in European geography than I, is in Spain. And, in fact, is in the "heart of sunny Costa del Sol." So, tourist central. But, October was off-season, and I had never been to Spain, so, why ever not?

But, the more I read about Malaga, the less I wanted to actually stay there. I mean, yes, it is the birth place of Picasso, but I am a professed Philistine, so, frankly, the idea of spending a week wandering around museums didn't hold much appeal.

A little research lead to two interesting items: (1) You can take a ferry to Morrocco from Tarifa, Spain, (less than a two hour drive from Picasso's birth place) and (2) Gibraltar is between Malaga and Tarifa.

An adventure was born. Who knew? Well, probably lots of people know you can have a host of interesting adventures if you fly into Malanga, Spain, but I wasn't one of them until I was in a full court press to work out what it was we were going to do when we got there.

We arrived on a sunny, hot afternoon, grabbed and rental car and drove south along the Costa del Sol until we arrived at the southern tip of Spain: Tarifa. I had booked us at a hotel that had polarizing reviews: people either loved it or hated it. It was meant to be an "arty" sort of place, and was located right on the beach. With a windssurfing school. This was a huge clue, by the way, and something I made note of before we left: it would be windy. Since we were only parking here for a night before and a night after our Moroccan adventure, I was not so very worried.

Not fancy, not schmancy, but on the beach. We were not detered by the wind.

Alas, the crisis became one of the children refusing to leave.

You can see our arty hotel in the background. Spare, but comfortable. And windy. Yes, really windy.

The water was quite cold in October, and I did not see any windsurfers, although there were a few devoted holiday goers playing in the surf. "Crazy people" I would term them. The water was seriously cold, the weather was warmish, but certainly not hot, and the wind cut right through you. But, some people take their holidays seriously, and if they came to swim, but gum, they were going to swim.

Our crowd, as less stalwart group, practiced their "bending." If you are not familiar with The Avatar: The Last Airbender, I shall elucidate you on the concept of "bending." Or, rather, perhaps I will let Wiki do the work for me:

Avatar: The Last Airbender takes place in a world that is home to humans, fantastic animals, and spirits. Human civilization is divided into four nations: the Water Tribe, the Earth Kingdom, the Fire Nation, and the Air Nomads. Each nation has its own natural element, on which it bases its society. Furthermore, people known as Benders have the power and ability to control and manipulate the eponymous element of their nation using the physical motions of martial arts. 

Hope fancies herself an Earth Bender and Tom is bending Water. Others have their own ideas of what they would bend, would they could.

The town of Tarifa is old, old, old, located as it is on the Straits of Gibraltar facing Morocco. The town is touristy and charming, set up for the water sport sort, primarily, the windsurfers. And the shifting of people back and forth across the Straits of Gibraltar to Africa. The remains of the old walls still stand, a millennium after they were first built,

and the view is of Africa. Africa. I find that rather exotic, if I do say so myself.

Tomorrow: we visit Africa, well, Morocco. It is on the continent of Africa.

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(1) If you are the sort who keeps track, I had estimated that there were about 60,000 photos to upload.  The current number is 56,500 and with 2000-2002 still remaining to be uploaded, plus current months. That's pretty close.

I Like To Ride My Bicycle - But Other People Are Really Serious About It

The cycling lanes: fun for the whole family. Or not. 

Here's the problem. The cycling lanes in Vienna are roadways for cyclers. Now, most westerners that I know have grown up with the notion that roads are for cars. So you teach your children proper "road awareness" early on. Stop at the curb, look left, right, then left again, cross at the green, not in-between, hold mommy's hand in the parking lot. And you remind them constantly that if they accidentally dart out into traffic and are obliterated by a mini-Cooper, you told them to be careful.

Cyclists, yes. Pedestrians, no.

When we moved to this fair city, I didn't need to read the rules on the internet to get it. It seemed pretty obvious to me: the cycling ways are for cyclists. I assumed that if the wee children were to fail to pay attention to the cyclists, they would end up as splotches on the macadam. This is, in fact, the case. I have since checked the rules (after listening to people kvetch endlessly about the cyclists and their bicycle lanes), and pedestrians are meant to watch the heck out, exactly the same way that they would look both ways, wait at the light and hold mommy's hand if they were crossing the automobile roadway or the tram lines.

Vienna being a tourist city, does have its fair share of out-of-towners blithely wandering around wondering exactly where the Danube is. And while they seem to do a pretty good job of following road rules (universal!) and watching for trams (big rumbling things coming your way!), there does seem to be a high degree of obliviousness to the danger of ambling unconcernedly along the (flying up behind you silently!) cycle lanes.

And, on the other side of the coin, there are obnoxious cyclists. Going the wrong way on a one way street, ignoring the pedestrian crossings at streets (where pedestrians to legally have the right of way) and acting like a moron in the Fairness Zones is not in the best interests of everybody getting along. The Fairness Zones, by the way, mean exactly what you might think: this is an open way for everyone, please be considerate. 

As you might imagine given my history, I use the cycling lanes extensively, and just love them. I love zipping around the Ringstrasse in my own lane, away from the cars, with my own traffic lights. Off to get circus ticket, off to get my hair cut, off to pick up my Night Run packet, off to school every morning! Until it is so cold that my eyelashes freeze closed, I will be cycling around this town. Bliss!

It's tougher for the children. When we first moved here, I was very clear with them and their role as wee pedestrians:  “Cycling lanes,” I explained, “are for cycling. If you walk on them, you will get run over. If you are crossing one, look both ways, or you will get run over. If you are cycling on one and someone walks in front of you, run them over.”

Ha! Kidding, I didn’t really say that last bit, but I did think it. And, here is where it gets tricky, the real cyclers, the serious cyclers, the delivery messenger cyclers who earn their living on these cycling lanes, do not like to find children in their way. I've done some research and haven't been able to find a specific rule against children riding in the cycle lanes (although they have to have an adult with them until they are 16, which makes sense if you have a 7-year old, but I do wonder how the 15-year old kids feel about it), however, local people have told me that children are considered a danger and are not welcome. And, it certainly makes sense to me: imagine 12 year old children driving cars. The analogy holds.

So where are children supposed to bike? Rumor has it, the sidewalk. Adults, of course, are fined for riding on the sidewalk. I have been quite lucky, and was warned the one time I was caught el flagrante delicto, but not actually fined. I consider this more than fair warning, and have taken to not riding on the sidewalks. I think the Austrians would consider this a win, although in general one imagines they would secretly agree I should have been fined. It's only fair.

But the children: given that Hope always cycles as though she were practicing the Dance of the Drunken Butterfly, I am hard pressed to work out exactly where she should ride. Probably, just Prater Park.  I get this intellectually, however, cycling to school is by far the fastest way to get there. And the cycling path is really the only way to get to school: the good news is that we are in a Fairness Zone for a good 50% of the trip, whew.

And I have found the cyclist we encounter on our way to school to be a touch less unwelcoming. Not forgiving exactly, but no one is yelling at me like that man who almost got taken out by the Drunken Butterfly on a sunny Sunday around the Ringstrasse. He was mad. The morning-to-work bikers might be a bit irritated, but it is clear we are on our way to school (backpacks!), and not taking up cycling lane space just because it is a nice day and we wish to be out.

Cyclists here, pedestrians, here, but only cyclists get to actually cross the street.

 

Separate, but equal?

   

Ah, finally, equality.

 

So, we cycle conciously. I watch the childre, correct their behavior and attempt to keep them alert and aware of their environment. So, far, no one has fallen into the canal, or done anything more tragic than run into a random loose dog. Ah, the dog people. Now there's a topic for another day.

I Like To Ride My Bicycle

 When I first saw the cycling lanes here in Vienna, my little heart went pitter patter.

My bicycle was primary means of transportation (until I traded up to Jeff’s electric scooter) when we lived in China. I rode that $40US bicycle all over the Fair, Flat city of Nanjing. Rain was a deterrent, but it never got terribly cold there, so I kept it up all year round. I could pack a ton on the back of that cycle and did.

Look! 5 kilos of rice! Plus all of my other groceries. Oh, that brings back such great memories!

My cheap-y cycle required a few new parts over the course of three years, but I loved that thing and was quite sad to leave it behind when we left.

Now, cycling in China was quite the life changing experience (Country Roads). I had not really done much cycling for about twenty years prior to our arrival in Nanjing. After I ended up on the losing end of a dust up with an automobile, I decided cycles were the instruments of the devil. Or maybe cars were the instruments, but in that case, I’d rather be in the tin can than be the naked monkey hanging out there to be crushed by the metal monsters. Yes, I was psychologically scared. Deeply.

But with the advent of children, many things in life change. In my case, since I wanted my children to be sporty, I decided taking up cycling again was mandatory. I also learned to swim (hello!, yes, there are many people out there who despite years and years of early swimming lessons never really learned how to swim), and as I have chronicled, I continue to ski despite quite loathing it.

The bike parking lot at school. It is getting less crowded as the weather gets cooler ...

And I have to say, if you are going to plunge into something that you are afraid of, like cycling, going as far off the deep end as you can and making it work is a surefire way to success. Cycling in China? Oy! There are no road rules (well, there are, but “rule” sort of insinuates that people follow them. If a rule is broken by every living, breathing human, is it really a rule?). It is an every man, woman and child for himself sort of experience to be on a road in China. It took me a while to get used to it, but I eventually was quite comfortable among the hordes, although it was exhausting not only for the physical bits, but for the mental alertness required to leave home and return in one piece.

Arriving in the Czech Republic, one of our first discoveries was that we lived on a cycling path. Which, if you are not clear, is a place where bicycles are allowed, but not cars. For real. It did take my shattered cycling mind a few weeks to get used to the peace and quiet. For real. 

And another key difference, though, was that cycling was no longer my main transportation. I had a car, and a tram system that met all of my transportation needs.  I wasn’t cing to run my errands or to volunteer at school. I was cycling for the sheer pleasure of it. In truth, I am not a sporty person by nature. I like a good audio book and a lace knitting project more than I really like to cycle on a cold rainy day, but the path was convenient, I do enjoy the feeling of being finished with exercise (and I have discovered that one must actually start the exercise in order to have that nice glow-y feeling at the end) and so I cycled for the "fun" of it.

I did occasionally haul myself out to the grocery shop, but my bicycle is a sporty, sleek sort of thing and did not come equipped with the practical sort of baskets and strapping on places that my Chinese bicycle did. So, cycling was more fun and exercise and functional.

And then, Vienna. Oh, my, this is a cycling city. People here take cycling seriously. In fact, and we will explore this topic more tomorrow, they take it way, way too seriously.

Where there were bicycle paths in CR that winded through the city, they followed the river, and generally had their own routes – they weren’t part of the roads or sidewalks. Here, the bicyclers basically get their own chunk of roadway or sidewalk, and loathe to any pedestrian who get in the way.

Here's an example of the kind of status cyclers have: this sign means "no entrance (it's a one way street), except bicycles." The Austrians allow cyclers to cycle the wrong way on one way streets. Although, to be clear, only where marked. If it is not marked, you can be stopped and ticketed: they are serious all six ways to Sunday. That is my bicycle in the photo, by the way. Notice the rather classy plastic bag over the seat?

It rained last night and I don't yet have one of these:

And, drum roll please. I have totally pimped my ride:

While I can't carry quite as much as I did in China (I had a front basket and a back carrier there, here a front basket would interfere with my mad gear switching skilz. I only had three gears in China, where as here I have some enormous multiple of 42), I do feel that I have sufficient cargo room for my grocery runs. What more do you need?

Continuing on this random path of jumping topics every paragraph, I have to post his photo. I totally love how this family maxes out the carrying capacity of one wee bike. They just need a little cargo carrier behind the trailer and they can do grocery runs in style. Although if I were this mom, I would just tuck the groceries in with the little human in the tag along trailer.

Tomorrow (and possibly forever onward): More on the Seriousness of Cycling

Stift Melk

Next up, we have Stift Melk, or Melk Abby, an Austrian Benedictine Monastery. Not in ruins. Driving up to this thing takes your breath away. It is on the Danube, and also a boat ride from Vienna. Next time we come to this area, I think we should take to the water way. Particularly in the fall, it has got to be a beautiful trip.

Internet photo: let's face it, there's no way we were going to be able to capture the grandeur of this place.

The abbey was found in the 1089, but the incredible structure you see today was built between 1702 and 1736. Known for scholarship and for it's extensive library of medieval manuscripts, the abbey still functions as a school and place of worship today. Despite the hordes of tourists.

The gardens are spectacular, although I confess, with a chill in the air and lunch fast approaching, we didn't stay to wander long. This is the sort of place, though, where if you came in the late spring and packed a nice lunch, you could easily spend a day taking the guided tour, enjoying the gardens, and munching your lunch with a view of the Danube.

The library: over 100,000 volumes and still counting. 

The ceiling frescoes in what I would have called the ball room. Except, this is an abbey. I'm guessing the Benedictine Monks weren't exactly ferocious dancers.

But it sure looks like a ball room.

Next time, guided tour for sure.