Destination: Uncategorized

Both at home and in Europe, people are settling in for the long haul of self-isolation. And my workmates and I are finding that being in touch with our European guides is bringing us a lot of joy and relief. Continuing our Friday tradition, here are a few of the European reports we received this week.

Our European guides are keeping in touch with each other as they all weather the same crisis, in different places. For example, Cameron Hewitt, the co-author of my Eastern Europe guidebooks, told me: “I spent an hour early this morning on a virtual ‘happy hour’ with nine of our Eastern Europe guides — each video-calling in from a different country — and I was moved by the camaraderie, caring, and good nature of everyone involved. The screen was like a ‘Brady Bunch’ of warm Slavic spirit.”

As we’ve been in touch with our guides, we’ve been receiving touching responses back from them. One of our German guides — having just received government assistance due to unemployment — emailed us volunteering to forego his assigned tours this year, so we could offer that work to other guides in tougher financial straits. It’s a reminder of the generous spirit that makes our guiding team so special.

Andrea Wolf, from Austria, described how important it is for her to be a part of the Rick Steves’ Europe family:

“When I tell my friends that I might not be able to work this year because of the global and local travel bans, they think that I am primarily worried about the lost income and should try to find a new job. But the truth is that for me being a guide for RSE is so much more than ‘just a job’ — it’s a lifestyle! A rather privileged lifestyle, I would say. And a vocation. I love traveling and working as a guide for RSE, and I am especially grateful and also a little proud to be part of this great team for many years. … I also wear my ‘Keep on travelin” T-shirt when I go for walks around the woods here. Mostly to remind myself that this situation is temporary and that I will be on the road again soon, doing what I love and sharing my passion for traveling with others.”

We also received a pair of reports from France-based guides, describing what their everyday lives are like right now.

Safely self-isolating on a farm in Burgundy, Virginie More writes:

“On our farm with four goats, five hens, and a lot of gardening and landscaping to do, I cannot complain. I have plenty of space and I am busy. I am just glad I do not live in Lyon anymore… However, the traveling bug will be kicking in very soon as my guiding season was supposed to start. To cope with this lack of traveling, I am going to share on my Facebook page (Virginie More Travel) a post every day about the place where I was supposed to be guiding. I will keep it short and entertaining, but with cultural and historical information: sharing a French word of the day, food specialty, traditions, meeting the locals, photos, etc. I am excited to get people, future travelers, involved in this virtual travel: Keep on traveling!”

To join Virginie’s virtual tour, you can follow her on Facebook.

And finally, in Paris, Veronique Cauquil Savoye  (on her blog French Girl in Seattle Takes Paris) describes how her world has shrunk to a small triangle where she now spends all of her time:

“Week 2 of le confinement (it always sounds so much better in French!) is wrapping up. My life, these days, is much smaller: Hours go by within a few blocks in a quiet (too quiet) neighborhood in the French capital’s outskirts. These days, there are three landmarks, or parameters, in my new life: The Parisian studio where I spend most of my time. The streets where I walk about twice a week to shop for food and essentials at the few stores that remain open. And finally, le Bois de Vincennes, where so many excellent adventures and workouts take place year-round. That was then, this is now: I can use my daily exercise allowance there for less than an hour before returning indoors for the rest of the day. My Parisian life used to be a matrix of interconnected streets, metro lines, landmarks, parks, and gardens. Because of the Paris lockdown, it’s turned into a triangle.

“Le Bois de Vincennes is my favorite corner of the triangle. … During the Paris lockdown, I can’t use my favorite trails and disappear deep inside the wooded areas. I still head to a small, empty section of le Bois at the end of my street every morning. There, nature is oblivious to the dramatic and stupefying events unfolding in Paris and around the world: Thanks to nature, the show is going on. The Canadian geese have returned, fighting loudly, as majestic swans, ducks, and other creatures glide along a small lake. Yesterday, I spotted the first fluffy ducklings swimming around, their small legs furiously batting in the clear water to keep up with their mom. On the trees, I spot trail markings, taunting me.

“This dedicated observer of urban life catches herself noticing more details than usual on her way to the store, a plaque on a façade, an arresting architectural ornament on an Art Nouveau building. … When I can, I patronize small businesses. I buy fresh produce at le Primeur around the corner. For everything else, I head to the Parisian’s Mecca: Monoprix. I was pleasantly surprised they offered a delivery service, or a second option, ‘le Click and Collect’ (everything sounds so much cooler in English!). During the Paris lockdown, you can click all you want: You will only collect frustration. The local Monoprix is swamped. If you want to eat, you need to hoof it, wear gloves, and a mask if available.

“Meanwhile, I have grown quite fond of the 20 square meter (265 square foot) studio I have called home — nicknamed ‘the 7th Heaven’ — since I relocated to Paris a year ago. It may be small, yet it’s also bright and peaceful (the next-door neighbor moved out during the holidays). When I return from shopping, feeling like Jeremiah Johnson after he survived yet another winter in the Rocky Mountains, I unpack supplies and try to make it all fit inside my diminutive fridge, freezer, and pantry. The windowsills come in handy!

“We may come out of this with bad hairstyles, a few extra pounds, and an increased addiction to Wi-Fi and social media. One thing’s for certain: The sun will rise tomorrow morning, and the morning after that, above the 7th Heaven. A bientôt!”

We’re wishing continued good health to our many European friends. Now would be a great time to reach out and say hello to a guide, or another European, who looms large in your happy travel memories.

I miss exploring Europe — especially its lesser-known corners, like Montenegro.

Travel dreams are immune to any virus. And, with  so many of us stuck at home,  I believe a daily dose of travel dreaming can  actually be  good medicine. Here’s another one of my favorite travel memories — a reminder of what’s waiting for you in Europe  at  the other end of this crisis.

Driving south from Croatia, I enter one of the many small, independent nations that emerged from the ashes of Yugoslavia: Montenegro. During my travels through this region, my punch-drunk passport has been stamped, stamped, and stamped again. While the unification of Europe has made most border crossings feel archaic, here the breakup of Yugoslavia has kept them in vogue. Every time the country splintered, another border was drawn. The poorer the country, it seems, the more ornate the border formalities. By European standards, Montenegro is about as poor as it gets. They don’t even have their own currency. With just 600,000 people, they decided, “Heck, let’s just use euros.”

For me, Montenegro, whose name means “Black Mountain,” has always evoked the fratricidal chaos of a bygone age. I think of a time when fathers in the Balkans taught their sons that “your neighbor’s neighbor is your friend” in anticipation of future sectarian struggles. Back then, for generation after generation, So-and-so-ovich was pounding on So-and-so-ovich, so a secure mountain stronghold like this was worth all of that misery.

A recent visit showed me that this image is now dated. The country is on an upward trajectory. Many expect to see Montenegro emerge as a sunny new hotspot on the Adriatic coastline. International investors (mostly from Russia and Saudi Arabia) are pouring money into what they hope will become their very own Riviera.

Unfortunately, when rich people paste a glitzy facade onto the crumbling infrastructure of a poor country that isn’t ready for it, you get a lot of pizzazz with no substance. I stayed at a supposedly “designer” hotel that, at first glance, felt so elite and exclusive that I expected to see Idi Amin poolside. But the hotel, open just a month, was a comedy of horrible design. I felt like I was their first guest ever. My bathroom was far bigger than many European hotel rooms, but the toilet was jammed in the corner. I had to tuck up my knees to sit on it. A big hot tub for two dominated the bathroom, but there wasn’t enough hot water available to fill it. I doubt it will ever be used — except as something to ponder as you sit crunched up on the toilet.

A huge thunderstorm hit with enough fury to keep the automatic glass doors opening and closing on their own. Nothing drained — a torrent cascaded down the stairs and through the front door. The rain also brought a backed-up sewage smell that drove me out of my room. And just as I sat down for a cup of coffee in the lounge, the lights went out. Peering past the candelabra on my table, the overwhelmed receptionist explained with a shrug, “When it rains, there is no electricity.” The man who ran the place just looked at me and said, “Cows.” (I think he meant “chaos.”)

Eventually the rain stopped, the clouds parted, and I went out to explore. My first stop was the Bay of Kotor, where the Adriatic cuts into steep mountains like a Norwegian fjord. At the humble waterfront town of Perast, young guys in swim trunks edged their boats near the dock, jockeying to motor tourists out to the island in the middle of the bay. According to legend, fishermen saw the Virgin Mary in the reef and began a ritual of dropping a stone on the spot each time they sailed by. Eventually the island we see today was created and upon that island, the people built a fine little church.

I hired a guy with a dinghy to ferry me out to the island where I was met by a young woman who gave me a tour of the church. In the sacristy hung a piece of embroidery — a 20-year-long labor of love made by a local parishioner 200 years ago. It was exquisite, lovingly made with the finest materials available: silk and the woman’s own hair. I could trace her laborious progress through the line of cherubs that ornamented the border. As the years went by, the hair of the angels (like the hair of the devout artist) turned from dark brown to white. Humble and anonymous as she was, she had faith that her work was worthwhile — and two centuries later, it’s appreciated by a steady parade of travelers from distant lands.

I’ve been at my work for more than four decades now, and my hair is also getting a little gray. I have a faith that it — my work, if not my hair — will be appreciated after I’m gone. That’s perhaps less humble than the woman was, but her work reminds me that we can live on through our deeds. Her devotion to her creation (as well as to her creator) is an inspiration to do both good and lasting work. While traveling, I’m often struck by how people give meaning to their lives by contributing what they can.

I didn’t take a photograph of the embroidery that day. For some reason, I didn’t even take notes. At the time, I didn’t realize I was experiencing the highlight of my trip. The impression of the woman’s tenderly created embroidery needed time to breathe — like a good red wine. That was a lesson for me. I was already moving on to the next stop. When the power of the impression did open up in my mind, it was rich and full-bodied…but I was long gone.

If travel is going to have the impact on you that it should, you have to climb into those little dinghies to discover those experiences. The best encounters won’t come to you. And you have to let them breathe.

(These daily stories are excerpted from my upcoming book,  For the Love of Europe — collecting  100  of my favorite memories from a lifetime of European travel, coming out in July.  It’s available for pre-order. And you can also watch a video clip related to this story: Just visit Rick Steves Classroom Europe and search for Montenegro.)

One of my favorite places in Spain is the little Andalusian hill town of Arcos de la Frontera (just south of Sevilla). My goal when I’m in Arcos: to connect with the culture of small-town Spain.

Travel dreams are immune to any virus. And, with  so many of us stuck at home,  I believe a daily dose of travel dreaming can  actually be  good medicine. Here’s  another one of my favorite travel memories — a reminder of what’s waiting for you in Europe  at  the other end of this crisis.

As I head out to explore Arcos, the entertaining market is my first stop. The pickle woman encourages me to try a banderilla, named for the bangled spear that a matador sticks into the bull. As I gingerly slide an onion off the tiny skewer of pickled olives, onions, and carrots, she tells me to eat it all at once — the pickle equivalent of throwing down a shot of vodka. Explosivo! The lady in the adjacent meat stall bursts into laughter at my shock.

Like the pickle section, the meat stall — or salchichería — is an important part of any Spanish market. In Spain, ever since Roman times, December has been the month to slaughter pigs. After the slaughter, they salt and dry every possible bit of meat into various sausages, hams, and pork products. By late spring, that now-salty meat is cured, able to withstand the heat, and hanging in tempting market displays. Ham appreciation is big here. The word to know: jamón. When in Spain, I am a jamón aficionado.

Arcos smothers its hilltop, tumbling down all sides like the train of a wedding dress. The labyrinthine old center is a photographer’s feast. I can feel the breeze funnel through the narrow streets as drivers pull in car mirrors to squeeze through.

Residents brag that only they see the backs of the birds as they fly. To see what they mean, I climb to the viewpoint at the main square, high in the old town. Bellying up to the railing, I look down and ponder the fancy cliffside hotel’s erosion concerns, orderly orange groves, flower-filled greenhouses, fine views toward Morocco…and the backs of the birds as they fly.

Exploring the town, I discover that a short walk from Arcos’ church of Santa María to the church of San Pedro (St. Peter) is littered with subtle but fun glimpses into the town’s past.

The church of Santa María faces the main square. After Arcos was re-conquered from the Moors in the 13th century, the church was built — atop a mosque. In the pavement is a 15th-century magic circle: 12 red and 12 white stones — the white ones represent various constellations. When a child came to the church to be baptized, the parents would stop here first for a good Christian exorcism. The exorcist would stand inside the protective circle and cleanse the baby of any evil spirits. This was also a holy place back in Muslim times. While Christian residents no longer use it, Islamic Sufis still come here on pilgrimage every November.

In 1699, an earthquake cracked the church’s foundation. Today, arches reach over the narrow lane — added to prop the church against neighboring buildings. Thanks to these braces, the church survived the bigger earthquake of 1755. All over town, similar arches support earthquake-damaged structures.

Today, the town rumbles only when the bulls run. Señor González Oca’s little barbershop is plastered with posters of bulls running Pamplona-style through the streets of Arcos during Holy Week. Locals still remember an American from the nearby Navy base at Rota, who was killed by a bull in 1994.

Walking on toward St. Peter’s, Arcos’ second church, I pass Roman columns stuck onto street corners — protection from reckless donkey carts. St. Peter’s was, until recently, home to a resident bellman who lived in the spire. He was a basketmaker and a colorful character — famous for bringing his donkey up into the tower. The donkey grew too big to get back out. Finally, the bellman had no choice but to kill the donkey — and eat it.

The small square in front of the church — about the only flat piece of pavement around — serves as the old-town soccer field for neighborhood kids.

I step across the street from the church and into a cool dark bar filled with very short old guys. Any Spanish man over a certain age spent his growth-spurt years trying to survive the brutal Civil War (1936–39). Those who did, struggled. That generation is a head shorter than Spaniards of the next.

In the bar, the men — side-lit like a Rembrandt portrait — are fixated on the TV, watching the finale of a long series of bullfights. El Cordobés is fighting. His father, also El Cordobés, was the Babe Ruth of bullfighting. El Cordobés uses his dad’s name even though his dad sued in an effort to stop him.

Marveling at the bar’s cheap list of wines and hard drinks, I order a Cuba Libre for about $2. The drink comes tall and stiff, with a dish of peanuts.

Suddenly the room gasps. I can’t believe the vivid scene on the screen. El Cordobés has been hooked and is flung, doing a cartwheel over the angry bull’s head. The gang roars as El Cordobés lands in a heap and buries his head in his arms as the bull tramples and tries to gore him. The TV replays the scene many times, each time drawing gasps in the bar.

El Cordobés survives and — no surprise — eventually kills the bull. As he makes a victory lap, picking up bouquets tossed by adoring fans, the camera zooms in on the rip exposing his hip and a long bloody wound. The short men around me will remember and talk about this moment for years to come.

But at the convent, located piously on the next corner, no one notices. Its windows are striped with heavy bars and spikes, as if to protect the cloistered nuns from the bull bar’s hedonism. Popping into the dimly lit foyer, I push the buzzer and the creaky lazy Susan spins, revealing a bag of freshly baked cookies for sale. When I spin back the cookies with a “no, gracias,” she surprises me with a few words of English — countering, in a Monty Python-esque voice, “We have cupcakes as well.” I buy a bag of cupcakes to support the mission work of the convent. I glimpse — through the not-quite one-way mirror — the not-meant-to-be-seen sister in her flowing robe and habit momentarily appear and disappear.

Saving my appetite for dinner, I dole out my cupcakes to children as I wander on. My town walk culminates at another convent — which now houses the best restaurant in town, Restaurante El Convento. María Moreno Moreno, the proud owner, explains the menu. (Spanish children take the name of both parents — who in María’s case must have been distant cousins.) As church bells clang, she pours me a glass of vino tinto con mucho cuerpo (full-bodied red wine) from the Rioja region.

Asking for top-quality ham, I get a plate of jamón ibérico. María explains that, while quite expensive, it’s a worthy investment. Made from acorn-fed pigs with black feet, it actually does taste better, with a bouquet of its own and a sweet aftertaste. It goes just right with my full-bodied red wine.

I tell María that the man at the next table looks like El Cordobés. One glance and she says, “El Cordobés is much more handsome.” When I mention his recent drama, she nods and says, “It’s been a difficult year for matadors.”

(These daily stories are excerpted from my upcoming book, For the Love of Europe — collecting  100  of my favorite memories from a lifetime of European travel, coming out in July.  It’s available for pre-order. And you can also watch a video clip related to this story: Just visit Rick Steves Classroom Europe and search for Andalusia.)

Our Europe-based tour guides just can’t stop guiding. Even stuck at home in coronavirus self-isolation, they continue to reach out, teach, and make the world a better place. Since last week’s roundup, as quarantine slowly became the “new normal,” more of the reports are about how our guides are settling in for the long term: Keeping distracted; making up for lost income; and getting equipped for the crisis.

Here are a few of the updates we’ve received this week from our guides around Europe. (We’re hoping to make this a weekly Friday tradition throughout the crisis.)

Several guides are setting up international video chat sessions, some are recording their tour guide spiels for each other, and others are even doing yoga classes and cooking classes online. For example, Anna Piperato (in Siena, Italy) is teaching about saints:

Medical equipment shortages are happening around the world. From her family’s country home near Prague, Jana Hronková filmed this video of her family making their own protective masks for visits to the supermarket.

Jana also notes that she’s very busy homeschooling her kids. The Czechs — with their typically sharp sense of humor — already have a joke about this: “If this homeschooling continues for several more weeks, the parents will find a vaccine sooner than the scientists!”

Last week, we heard from Stefan Bozadzhiev in Bulgaria. This week he asked his fellow guides what their governments are doing to support them through this loss of work. Stefan reports: “What’s in Bulgaria? Nothing. We are left on our own. The tourism minister actually said the travel industry is the bad guy and we have to rely on ourselves…”

Responses from other guides share examples of more helpful governments:

“In France, self-employed people can receive €1,500 a month (during confinement, nothing after) if they can prove a loss of 70% compared to same month last year. You can also ask your bank to pause any loans you have.”

“In Ireland, the banks are pausing mortgage payments for three months. Also an emergency payment of €200 per week for 6 weeks if you’ve lost employment. During that 6 weeks you have to apply for employment assistance.”

“Here in Spain, if you are self-employed, you have to pay €220 every month so you can work (called cuota de autónomos). Now if we can prove that our income has decreased because of the virus we will get a reduction in that. That is all.”

“In the UK, there are many measures, including tax and mortgage payment suspension, but most importantly 80% of workers’ wages/salaries will be paid up to £2,500 a month. For self-employed, the number is worked out.”

“Here in Italy, self-employed are eligible for €600 per person per month. But there might not be money available for all (for now). The EU has interrupted the Economic Stability Pact, allowing all EU countries to print and inject money into the system to help. The huge deal in Italy now, on top of the death toll, is that the industrial engine of the country in the North (Milan/Bergamo/Brescia) is 100% down.”

“In Greece, all employed workers that are working for companies that have suspended their operations or have been fired after March 1st; there will be an allowance of €800 for the period of March 15 until April 30th. For the self-employed, the situation is uncertain regarding allowances, but there will be a suspension of their obligations for payments for insurance and pension for a three-month period and also a suspension of the planned increases of the monthly contributions that was supposed to be in effect from March.”

And finally, artist/guide Stacy Gibboni — based in Venice — has been sharing “Red Zone Essays” about life under quarantine. (You can check out her work at Saatchi Art, or on Facebook.)

Here’s a sample:

“Italy is my home. Venetians are my people. This island stole a part of my soul decades ago. I feel a maternal need to protect her yet I do not know how. I know I am not alone in this. Education, as with most things, seems my best course of action.

“Venice, La Serenissima, has been struggling to find her balance for too many years now. Mass tourism, the cruising industry, ‘do-it-yourself’ hospitality, air pollution, rapidly declining resident numbers within an already elderly population, acqua alta/high waters, corruption, and all the environmental impacts of this lengthy list…

“Venice has a long history with the concept of quarantine. As a maritime republic, islands in the lagoon were designated for isolation to travelers coming from afar when warranted. We have half a dozen churches constructed here built to celebrate the end of various plagues. The Salute Church has always been my favorite. In fact, I can’t think of a more beautiful, curious or special place to be in quarantine.

“As the noon bells have passed my neighbor, la Signora, has finished her meal, turned off Sunday Mass, and closed her shutters for siesta. She has done this every day for as long as I have known her. My turntable has gone silent; regardless, Vivaldi always lingers in the air here. A contented rower cuts the water with his oar below, the sun shines, my pre-spring blooming garden has attracted bees and butterfly’s…it is peaceful.

“Let us use this time to reflect. To read, write, paint, play, sing and love.

“Let us use this time to BE.”

Later, Stacy wrote:

“I did it, it is done! My first outing for sustenance. Let’s face it, friends…the outta-wine cupboard was becoming a crisis within a crisis.

“Donned, as promised, in my up-cycled double denim mask and gloves. For the chronicle, my impatience with queuing up is equal to that for telephone conversations and floor washing…ugh. So my approach was to avoid the supermarket and try the traditional Venetian shops, unsure how many would actually be open. Knowing these families are still trying to recover from our dramatic high waters of last fall, I remain committed to supporting them as much as I can.

“Delighted to be greeted by Carlo, my wine guy, as if it was any other day…he paid no mind to my gigantic, hand-sewn mask and instead said habitually, ‘Due franc, cara?’ (my general weekly order of two recycled water bottles filled with regional red table wine). Then he added, ‘Perhaps it’s wiser if you take three today, my dear…’

“‘Si, Signore!’ No need to twist my arm…perhaps you know something I do not, I think to myself.  Our regional restrictions do continue to increase and expand in a constant attempt to reduce this blight’s spread.

“Next stop, the fruit and vegetable stand twenty steps away. I am happy to report the stand was both bountiful and beautiful! My preventative ensemble and general nerves kept me from snapping you a photo…so please now, close your eyes and imagine all the inviting colors of nature’s nourishment on display!

“Magenta-and-white-striped radicchio, dark green chicory varieties piled high, purple-tipped broccoli ending their season, crimson red peppers set alongside plump, fragrant, rosy-red berries. The young man even had a few precious basil plants carrying a scent of nostalgia from better spring days…

“Satisfied with all this freshness, I headed on to Rizzo Pane, a Venetian institution. The line was just one moment as the staff diligently allowed three in at a time. Gently scolding a gentleman when he bounded up looking eagerly for his honey candies: ‘Come back tomorrow, Gianni!’ called out the owner patiently, adding invisibly from behind his partition, ‘I promise to have them then, go on home now…’

“Thankful for this sweets reminder, I ask for the bag of fancy chocolates. ‘No, I’ll take that bigger bag, please!’ This shop usually smells like gourmet temptation of fresh baked bread and sugar wafting into the street. But today those comforting smells are covered by the scent of sanitization.

“Each item carefully calculated with the added comment of, ‘Signora sei nostra Veneziana — Americana, vero?’ (Ma’am you are our Venetian — American, aren’t you?) ‘Ten percent discount for you!’ Her friendly eyes smiled beyond her mask. Grateful for the recognition — must be the cowgirl boots — and thankful for the added generosity.

“I am thankful for the kindness and availability of all those individuals working tirelessly to keep Italy fed and comforted. Adding that bit of personal care reminds me to tell you that Venice is in fact a small town. My precious island community working to survive also this…I hope to see each of them again in about 10-13 days…

“From Venice with love.”

Stay healthy, everybody!