Historical September 1990 report or notice. Original dates, prices and contacts describe the source period; current availability has not been established.
Well, my vacation is over and it’s time to get back to the old grind. Actually, the old grind was with me.
The first wife and I went to Europe for three weeks and, of course, it was wonderful. I mean, how can having someone else make your bed and eating out for three weeks not be a great experience? Heck, I’d be happy with three weeks at a Day’s Inn; the wife would too if lots of shoe stores’were nearby.
We were lucky in that we returned just before the Middle East Crazies started acting up. Still, the intense airport security that we encountered while leaving Europe was both comforting and disquieting. Part of me was pleased that they were going to such elaborate lengths—”No, for the third time;’ I responded to the uniformed airport security guard, who was wearing a sidegun and a frown, “I packed my bag, it hasn’t been out of my sight, and I’m not transporting-a package for anyone else” — and part of me wondered WHY this now? Was this something done every day with every flight, or did they know something that I didn’t know? I’m no dummy, and have learned a bit about the nuances of airport security in my travels.
A few years ago we were in an airport, returning from Portugal, and while going through my carry-on luggage, the guards discovered a metal cigar lighter that I had packed.
The minor problem is that it was a cigar lighter in the shape of a hand grenade.
The situation became very interesting.
The guards couldn’t speak English and I couldn’t speak Spanish.
The lighter cost around $30, so I wasn’t prepared just to let them take it from me.
Finally, in an attempt to cut across the language barrier, I grabbed the grenade from the table, held it at arm’s length, and pulled the pin so it would light.
This would solve the problem, I figured, because the flame would flicker and everyone would understand that it was only a lighter. Naturally. the flame didn’t flicker, and I looked even more foolish when the security buzzer brought other guards from throughout the airport to join – in the discussion.
We won’t be visiting Portugal again.
The first wife thought the recent trip to be extraordinary because she was able to purchase shoes in every city we visited.
She even bought a pair of slippers in the Duty Free shop in the New York airport as we were leaving the country.
Our trip began in Italy.
We had a great time staying in a pension in Florence: an old city, full of quaint restaurants, artists, and shoe stores.
From Florence, we went to Venice. Think of Six Flags on a very, very hot day, triple the size of the largest crowd that you can imagine being there, add two or three thousand gross of pigeons, then flood the whole place so it is surrounded by water. That’s Venice, only there’s no roller coaster. I understand that the city council of Venice has asked McDonald’s to place a franchise in the church square, near St. Mark’s, but that McDonald’s has refused because the place is too crowded and “touristy.” The highlight of Venice, aside from visiting all of the shoe stores, was seeing all of the other tourists from the States, Italy, and Germany walking around taking photos of one another.
The first wife and I had a cup of coffee in St. Mark’s square which cost $9.00 each, not including tip. I never thought that breakfast at Balaban’s would seem like a bargain!
The highlight of our trip was the time we spent in the country of the wife’s mother’s birthplace, Yugoslavia. Yugoslavia is often spelled Jugoslavia, which puzzles me. Jou know, yet travel may have made the world smaller jear by fear, jet there are still some enormous cultural differences. I wonder if their nursery rhymes talk about Yack and Yill?
The Dalmatian Coast of Yugoslavia is beautiful. Imagine miles and miles of winding two-lane highways, inlets, islands, and tourist busses that can’t be passed.
The views while driving along the coastline are even better than those from the highways in California. Of course Yugoslavia doesn’t have all of the frozen yogurt shops (jogurt shops?) that you’ll find in California. but, hey, no place is perfect. Upon arrival in Yugoslavia, were met by Nick, our friendly cab-driver, tour-guide, and raconteur.
We first came across Nick several years ago when we were visiting Yugoslavia.
He speaks quite good English, and serves as a great driver and tourist guide. I wrote him a couple of months ago, and arranged for him to be our guide during this trip. Nick knows us well, so he had scheduled a stop in a shoe store immediately after greeting us.
The wife (whose shoe size is 38 with the European measurement system) absolutely fell in love with a pair of beige sandals which she purchased and named Fred and Ethyl.
The food in Yugoslavia is quite tasty, but, as with oriental food, sometimes it’s better to eat first and ask what it is later.
We had a very spicy kind of grey colored dish called “black rice:’ It was full of seafood and we enjoyed it thoroughly (except for Fred and Ethyl who didn’t eat).
When I asked the waitress, through Nick, how it was blackened, she replied that they used the ink of the squid.
Now that’s what I call ecologically sound: food that you can eat and write with.
We ended the trip by visiting Vienna for a few days. I always enjoy Vienna; after all, how could you not like any city named after a potato chip?
The most exciting part of my trip was—are you ready?—seeing The Rolling Stones in Vienna. Honest! Ticket-scalping must be the second oldest profession, because it was quite easy for me to see them.
The value of the dollar may not be what it used to be, but it still works quite well in the black market (even if you’re not buying squid).
The Stones were, as always, amazing. Seeing Mick Jagger hop and bop about the stage at age 48 gives me hope.
I was amazed because -the German-speaking crowd readily sang along with all of the Stones’ English songs!
The other highlight of Vienna was eating Sachertortes.
These calorie-laden devils are full, I mean really full, of chocolate and raspberries. It’s quite hard to find them, they’re only sold at the Hotel Sacher and seven hundred, forty-two Vienna cafes and quick shops. You can’t turn around without seeing a Sachertorte for sale.
The best evidence of their power is that Vienna doesn’t have any skinny residents. Almost all of the people there look like the kind of folks who work at donut shops here in the U.S. Given how we spent our time on vacation, I’d be remiss if I didn’t talk about visiting the shoe stores of Europe.
There are even more shoe stores there than here.
Since it’s only possible to wear two shoes at once, I don’t understand this. I’m not sure what an Espra is, but I know that the first wife wants to be one.
I know this because she’s constantly looking for shoes that are worn while drilling for the try-out; they’re called Espra-drills.
At one shoe store, I believe it was Florence, although it could have been Venice or Vienna or Dubrovink (after a while shoe stores, like birthdays, all meld together), she had tried on so many shoes that they had to bring in a relief-salesman! Kind of like Bruce Sutter or Lee Smith.
When this happened, the first salesman went to a chair in the corner and leaned back, removing his shoes and taking deep drinks of bottled water.
They brought in a new salesman, a bit younger and more energetic, to help her look at shoes (“Leading a lamb to the slaughter!’ I remember thinking).
In no time at all, the new salesman was huffing and puffing with a sweatsoaked shirt.
When we finally left (not purchasing anything from this particular store), he sat next to the first salesman and they hugged one another. Crossing the Atlantic on the way back, I dreaded the thought that a customs officer would actually inspect our luggage. I knew that if they opened the wife’s luggage and saw all of the shoes she took, plus those that she bought, no question, we’d be arrested for smuggling something. Other than a family of centipedes. no one would have that many shoes packed.
We were fortunate, however.
We clearly don’t fit the customs officer’s “suspicious person’s” profile, and returned with no inspection.
Now we just have to find a place at the dinner table for Fred and Ethyl.
Originally published in The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, September 1990.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Archival transcription note: Source describes Portugal airport guards but says unable to speak Spanish, gives Jagger age 48, and calls Sachertortes raspberry-filled. Preserve author’s humorous original wording; factual discrepancies not silently repaired.
Original source: SD_Times1990_09.pdf, printed page(s) 8; PDF page(s) 7.
