Jams Are Fun: A Rough Day on the North Sea

My wife’s Great-Great-Aunt Mildred traveled far and wide, long before such a thing was fashionable. Late in life, Aunt Mildred set about to writing a memoir. The title: Jams Are Fun. It turns out that, after seeing so much of the world, Aunt Mildred realized that it’s not always the big museums, the fancy dinners, the castles, or the cathedrals that stick with you most. It’s those serendipitous moments when things go awry. And so, in the spirit of Aunt Mildred, this post is part of my “Jams Are Fun” series about when good trips turn bad, and the journey is better for it…if only in retrospect. I wrote this a few years back, while working on our Northern European Cruise Ports guidebook, somewhere in the churning North Sea.

As I write this, my cruise ship is rocking violently to and fro. My mascot baboon — which my cabin steward cleverly made by folding a towel in a special way they must teach at cruise-ship steward school — is clinging to the ceiling in the corner of my room…going for the ride of its short life. In addition to the slight but persistent listing to port, with the occasional, violent bob to starboard, every ten minutes or so the ship shudders and shakes as if the captain just accelerated over a speed bump.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I went to bed last night as we cruised out of the Sognefjord. Next stop: Norway’s other top fjord, Geiranger. But I awoke to news that, due to extremely high winds, they were cancelling the stop. And so, the captain turned this bucket around and headed back out of the Geirangerfjord.

The screaming winds managed to momentarily clear out some of the thick cloud cover we’ve been huddled under since entering Norwegian waters, shining a spotlight on wicked whitecaps all around us. The brief sun break also teased us with an enticing view of an idyllic Norwegian countryside of green forest, red cottages, and chalky gray cliffs. It was a Norway we would not actually visit, nor one we would see again for the rest of the day. This would be, in the parlance of the cruise industry, an unplanned and very turbulent “day at sea.”

As we navigated out of the fjord and into the North Sea, the seas grew dramatically rougher. All over the ship, subtle indicators popped up to hint that we were in for an even bumpier ride: Little plastic bags discreetly appeared in the hallways. All of the water was drained first from one swimming pool, then from the other, to keep it from sloshing out onto the deck. Precautions were being taken.

This was the first time I’d been on truly rough seas…and I was pleased to discover I was handling it relatively well. (My family lore includes the unfortunate tale of a friend who didn’t realize she was prone to violent seasickness until she boarded her honeymoon cruise to Bermuda — and spent the week hugging porcelain.) Maybe my 25 percent Norwegian DNA came with an iron stomach…and those sea bands don’t hurt, either.

In a bit of delicious serendipity, the afternoon’s scheduled entertainment was — I am not making this up — a troupe of Chinese acrobats. Now, I would pay any amount of money to see acrobats perform in these conditions. But this show? This show was free. As the time of the show drew near, morbid curiosity drew me down to the theater. But a polite notice explained that the show was postponed. Wise move, Chinese acrobats. So instead I strolled around the ship to survey the damage.

At this point, we’d left “rough” and entered “rodeo.” People were either green in the face or, like me, immune and chuckling at the absurdity of it all. Everyone — even seasoned crew — walked with the same unusual gait: first leaning a bit and plodding slowly to the right, then rushing with sudden urgency to the left, then slowly again to the right, and so on. I sat looking out a window for a while, watching through the fire-hose spray the mesmerizing rhythm of the railing as it teeter-tottered dramatically waaaay above, then waaaay below the horizon.

Curious, I made my way up to the top deck, and was surprised to find the door unlocked. I stepped outside and wandered around for a while — one hand in a death grip on the railing, the other in a death grip on my camera — feeling like the only person on the entire ship. Somewhere in the control room, I imagined someone watching surveillance feed of this idiot wandering around outside in the worst storm the ship had ever weathered…taking bets on when he’d be blown overboard.

As dinnertime approached, I wondered whether, like the Chinese acrobats, the main dining room staff would have come to their senses and just called the whole thing off. But dinner, much to my surprise and my delight, was on. I knew I was in for an entertaining night when I walked past a Dutch teenager who suddenly — and, apparently, with as much surprise to herself as to me — vomited a little bit into her hands.

Stumbling and careening to my table, I noticed that at least a third of my fellow diners had decided to skip it tonight. My waiter hustled awkwardly toward me — propelled by an unwanted inertia and briefly overshooting his target — to drop off the menu.

Now, I’m sure there was a good reason for the ship designers to locate the main dining room at the bottom-rear of the ship, directly above the engines — but on a rough night like this, it seemed like a cruel prank. Things were far worse down here than in my stateroom up on the eighth deck. The entire dining room tilted violently this way, then that. Every few minutes, the curtains slid themselves open and closed, as if possessed. At one point, a precarious angle sent plates and glasses cascading off tables. And periodically there was a deep, loud humming noise — as if the engines had been lifted out of contact with the sea, immediately followed by a sickening thud that shuddered the whole ship and rattled the wineglasses.

And then there were the diners. Those of us who had showed up for dinner tonight were, no mistaking it, here on purpose. We were not about to let this thing get the best of us. And yet, some of us must fall. The woman who sits at the table in front of me — who has this funny habit of staring off into space, which happens to be directly at me — began fanning herself with her menu. The sweet French lady at the next table got up after the first course and never came back.

Having grown up watching the movie Stand By Me, I kept envisioning a Lardass-at-the-pie-eating-contest chain reaction. So I made a game of it. Looking around, I tried to guess: Who would be the first to pull the trigger? Would it be the balding, bespectacled fellow who lifted his napkin to his lips for a suspiciously lingering moment after each bite? The young lady who kept coughing loudly, then swallowing and rolling her eyes? The little girl resting her head on the table? Or maybe…the American smart aleck at table 103, smugly pondering the suffering of others?

I think I psyched myself out, because suddenly I found it next to impossible to swallow. I wasn’t sick — just tired of proving I wasn’t. I decided that a violently swaying room full of gastrointestinal time bombs was not a smart place to be, and — like so many before me — politely excused myself.

Still hungry, I wandered up to forage at the 24-hour shipboard pizzeria. But, inexplicably, their lone variety tonight was topped with a less-than-appetizing combination of tuna fish, capers, and onions.

Oh, well — it’s bedtime anyway. If I don’t get physically tossed out of my bed, manhandled by Mother Nature while I sleep, I’ll wake up tomorrow in Bergen…and, hopefully, better weather. And if I’m lucky, maybe they’ll reschedule those Chinese acrobats.

(P.S. They did. And they were spectacular.)

Jams are Fun: Speed Traps and Bribes in Republika Srpska

My wife’s Great-Great-Aunt Mildred traveled far and wide, long before such a thing was fashionable. Late in life, Aunt Mildred set about to writing a memoir of her experiences. The title: Jams Are Fun. It turns out, after seeing so much of the world, Aunt Mildred realized that it’s not always the big museums, the fancy dinners, or the castles and cathedrals that stick with you most. It’s those serendipitous moments when things go awry. And so, in the spirit of Aunt Mildred, this post is the first in what I hope to be a recurring feature about when good trips turn bad, and the journey is better for it. This travel jam takes place on the dusty back roads of rural Bosnia-Herzegovina.

I remember a time, not long ago, when crossing any border in Eastern Europe came with the possibility —  or probability — of being shaken down for a bribe. If you slip the guy 20 Deutschmarks, you enter Hungary now. If not…you wait two hours.

I’m happy to report that, in most places, those days are in the distant past. The allure of EU membership was enough for most countries to crack down on corruption. Still, in a few out-of-the-way enclaves, bribery is still a way of life. And one of those places just cost me €50.

After two fascinating days road-tripping through Bosnia with my buddy Ben, we were on our way out of Republika Srpska, within sight of the Croatian border. Leaving the little town of Vrbaška, the country road entered a sparsely populated area, and the car ahead of me slowed way down. Now, in Bosnia, this is far from unusual. Most Bosnians drive either recklessly fast or tortoise-slow — anything but the speed limit. So I zipped around him, just in time to see a roadside policeman flick his handheld “stop” sign at me.

Pulling over and rolling down my window, I trotted out my best “clueless tourist” routine (which, in this case, was not an act): “I’m sorry, was I speeding? I didn’t see any signs!”

The scruffy policeman, with a ragtag uniform cobbled together at an army surplus store, was polite but matter-of-fact. “You go too fast,” he said. He motioned me out of the car and over to his English-speaking partner back at the police cruiser.

Standing proudly by their radar gun, they showed me a stack of documentation in Cyrillic lettering. “Limit here is 50 kmh,” he said, gesturing at the fine print. “You go 66 kmh. Fine is 100 Bosnian marks, or 50 euro.”

They explained that I’d need to take the paperwork back to the town I’d just left, and pay my fine at the police station or post office. The problem was, it was Sunday morning, when every office in town is shut up tight. Meanwhile, back in the car sat Ben, who had a flight to catch in Zagreb, just over the border. Time was not on our side.

“Is there any way I can pay you the fine?” I suggested helpfully. The cops exchanged knowing glances, scratched their heads theatrically for a moment, and held a quick conference in Serbian. Finally came the answer: “We can pay fine for you later today. You pay us 50 euro, we take it to police station.”

Very pleased with themselves for brainstorming this solution, they filled out the byzantine paperwork in triplicate. Meanwhile, a strange sensation began to crawl its way up the back of my neck — a creeping certainty that my money would never make it back to that police station. Oh, they were doing someone a favor…it just wasn’t me.

The paperwork complete, I decided to experiment a little bit. “Can I have that carbon-copy of the ticket?” I asked them. They shot each other an alarmed glance, and shook their heads vigorously. “No, no, no, not possible, not possible,” they insisted. “This paper, you get only when you pay in office,” he explained.

Well, since we’re all being completely aboveboard here, certainly they couldn’t object to my taking a photograph of the speeding ticket…right? I pulled out my phone and held it up to frame a snapshot of the paperwork. They both jumped out of their uniforms and practically reached for their guns. “No! No! No! No! No!”

Really amping up the “stupid tourist” routine, I said, “Oh, I’m sorry! I need a photo for my company.” But they were on to me being on to them. They shot me a “nice try, bub,” look, and, using only gestures and a few gruff words, made my choice clear: You give us 50 euros and drive away with no more questions, and this is over. Otherwise, you’re about to spend a frustrating Sunday morning in bureaucratic hell, wandering around a two-bit town, begging somebody — anybody — to take your money.

I hate to contribute to corruption. But I had places to go. Would I make a principled stand against greedy small-town cops who clearly savored shaking down passing tourists? Or would I toss a bone to a couple of likely underpaid, hardworking guys in a hardscrabble corner of Europe, salvage the rest of my day, and get Ben to his flight on time?

The policeman took my 50-euro note with a tip of the hat, and we were on our way. Crossing the Croatian border minutes later, I was filled with a mix of regret and relief. While much of my beloved Eastern Europe has made great strides in joining the rest of the civilized world, it seems that Republika Srpska is trapped in their old ways. No doubt, those cops enjoyed a few laughs (and a few beers) at my expense. But little did they realize that today’s target was a travel writer who’s devoted much of his career to celebrating their overlooked little corner of Europe. And who would later be blogging to the whole world about just how corrupt the police force is in Vrbaška, Republika Srpska, Bosnia-Herzegovina, postal code 78400. Ask for Srđan and Saša.

When it comes to getting out of a jam, 50 euros is a hefty price to pay. On the other hand, I came away with a vivid memory. And in the grand scheme of things, I suppose I’ve paid a lot more for a lot less.

European Travel Pet Peeves

After more than 15 years of traveling around Europe for a living, I still enjoy every moment as much as I did on my first trip. Well, almost every moment. The truth is, the more you travel, the more little, random things start to get on your nerves. At the risk of sounding cranky — and with tongue planted firmly in cheek — here are a few things that make me reconsider renewing my passport.

Noisy hotel rooms

We’ve all been there: Late at night or early in the morning, the bar next door disgorges its rowdy customers onto what had been a serene street. Or your neighbors come back from a late dinner and crank up the volume on their TV. Or a prewar elevator grinds its way up the shaft just on the other side of the wall from your bed…and, even with your head burrowed under a pillow, you can feel the gears trundle over each rusty bolt.

I don’t blame hotels for little bumps in the night. But I am an extremely light sleeper…which means that I’m a magnet for unexpected noises. On a recent trip, in one week alone, I had neighbors with thunderous plumbing and small bladders in Santa Margherita Ligure; a midnight bachelorette party on the shared terrace right outside my room in Pisa; and in Salzburg, a next-door neighbor doing a little 7:00 a.m. remodeling project — literally using a power drill on the wall behind my headboard.

Earplugs can only do so much. Side note: When you ask a hotelier for a quiet room, and they smile sweetly and say, “All of our rooms are quiet,” what they really mean is, “None of our rooms are quiet.” And when they say, “We are in the very center, so you have to expect a little noise,” they actually mean, “We totally cheaped out on the windows.”

Blinking lights in a dark hotel room

Speaking of barriers on the road to sleep, it seems every TV in Europe comes standard with an extremely bright little light that cuts through the darkness of a hotel room. Like the steely gaze of HAL 9000, this laser beam pierces deeply into your soul and jolts you awake just as you’re drifting off. (In my MacGyver bag of travel tricks, I carry a little roll of black electrical tape, which makes short work of these unwanted little lights.)

Traveler-unfriendly transportation connections

I understand that local transit is (and should be) designed for local commuters  — not necessarily for travelers. However, in areas where tourism drives the economy, it’s mystifying when the authorities conspire to complicate a simple journey to a comical degree.

On a recent trip to update our Rick Steves Italy guidebook, I ran into a pages-long wall of text about how to connect two popular hill towns: Orvieto and Civita di Bagnoregio. In their wisdom, this tourism-driven corner of Umbria has turned this journey — which should be a simple 30-minute ride — into a farce of Rube Goldberg complexity.

Hundreds of visitors must do this trip every single day. And if they don’t have a car, here’s how they have to do it:

1. In Orvieto, buy a bus ticket at the tabacchi shop 200 yards up the street from the bus stop. (Actually, buy two. I’ll explain why later.)

2. Go to the bus stop. Mind you, this is not the bus stop immediately in front of the funicular station, where every other regional and local bus stops. Nope — this bus uses its own special stop, which is hidden away (I am not making this up) a five-minute, completely un-signed walk away, inside a deserted former military barracks that feels vaguely postapocalyptic.

3. When the bus arrives in the town of Bagnoregio, you have one more chance to buy a return bus ticket, at the tabacchi shop across the street. This is important, because the shop will be closed in the afternoon when you’re ready to head back. Except on Sundays, when of course it’s closed all day. (While the normal price for the ticket is €2.20, you can buy a ticket from the driver…for €7.)

4. Walk 20 minutes through the town of Bagnoregio, pausing at the belvedere in the garden for an amazing view of Civita. But do not — I repeat, do not — walk down the enticing staircase next to the viewpoint. You’ll reach the bottom of the stairs and discover a locked gate. (The real staircase is just over your right shoulder.)

5. Cross the long causeway up to Civita, and enjoy the heck out of the town — having really earned this experience.

6. Walk back down the causeway and 20 minutes back through town to catch the bus back to Orvieto — feeling smug for having already bought your ticket. Just for fun, sit up front so that you can watch the driver have the same conversation with each of the 20 irate tourists who pile on behind you. “What!? Seven euros?”

Did I mention that you have to leave Orvieto by 7:50 in the morning? Because, of course, even though every single bus between Orvieto and Bagnoregio is 100% tourists, this bus does not run between 7:50 and 12:45. (I could not possibly be making this up. Nobody would believe me.)

If you ever wonder why our Italy guidebook tips the scales at 1,250 pages…now you know. If Italy ever standardized its crazy regional transportation system, we could probably print the book on a postcard.

“Non-stop”

Seen all over Europe, this is the international shorthand for “open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.” Or so you’d assume. But I frequently see a “non-stop” place shuttered at night or on a Sunday. So technically it’s not “non-stop” at all…right? (To be fair, “infrequent stops” doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.)

Riding a bus to board an airplane

With all of the airport gripes we have in the US, at least once we finally make it to the gate, we know it’s just a matter of walking down the jetway to reach our 17 inches of misery. But at many European airports, there’s yet one more hurdle: cramming onto an overstuffed bus and zipping across runways to some distant fringe of the airport.

cameron-pet-peeves-airplane

Pulling up to the plane, all of the bus doors open all at once, kicking off a melee of passengers elbowing their way up the stairs to find seats scattered throughout the airplane. (Begin boarding from the back? First class first? People needing additional time or assistance? Forget it.) And then, when you reach your destination, you have to ride another bus to get to the terminal.

This is especially stressful when you have a tight connection — you can’t just burst down the jetway and break into a sprint. No, you have to wait patiently for the entire plane to deboard, fidget nervously as the bus dodges luggage carts across the tarmac, and then make like Usain Bolt once you’re unceremoniously deposited at some mysterious annex of the airport, just past the Z gates.

“Rich breakfast”

cameron-pet-peeves-rich-breakfast

I can’t tell you how many hoteliers — all over Europe — have bragged to me, with a wink, “We have an extremely rich breakfast!” This is clearly a language-barrier problem: They think it means “delicious and full of variety.” But to American ears, it’s more like “a little indigestion and heartburn to start your day.” Appetizing.

Tiny showers with big faucets

Europe is small. Tight streets, tight hotel rooms, tight everything. And normally I don’t mind it. In fact, I believe — philosophically — it’s good for Americans (who are accustomed to having all the room we want) to be reminded that space has value, and we need to be thoughtful about sharing it.

cameron-pet-peeve-shower

That said, European showers drive me nuts. The enclosures can be minuscule. And I could deal with that. But all too often, a big chunk is taken out of the middle by a jerry-rigged faucet that pokes way out from the wall. You know what I’m talking about: No matter how careful you are, it jabs into your lower back. And the oversized paddle of a handle is perfectly positioned to catch your elbow every time you turn around — suddenly making the water either volcanic or glacial. And while we’re on the topic of hotel showers…

Liquid soap

It now seems near-universal for hotels to provide a single pump bottle of cheapo, all-purpose “body wash/shampoo/and while we’re at it clothing detergent and dish soap” mixture. (I recently found one that was labeled, simply, “Flowers” — apparently the marketing team took the day off.) For convenience and for environmental reasons, I carry my own shampoo and a big bar of soap. But occasionally I run out, and it’s nice to check in and discover some little individually wrapped itsy-bitsies, or a mini-bottle of shampoo that’s, you know, actually shampoo. However, these have been nudged aside by the liquid soap lobby.

Byzantine pricing

I’m a big fan of straightforward pricing: The burger is $4, add fries for a buck. But many sights in Europe make a hobby of coming up with dozens of different ticketing variations for the same sight.

cameron-austria-salzburg-hohensalzburg-pet-peeve

Salzburg’s Höhensalzburg Fortress is the worst offender I’ve seen recently. To enter the fortress, you can either hike up, or take the funicular. This could have been so effortlessly simple: The fortress costs €8, add €2 for each ride on the funicular. But no. They have separate discounts for entering the first hour of the day, or an hour before closing time. You can choose whether you want to add on the “Regency Rooms.” You can pay for the funicular one-way (and hike back down) or round-trip. And so on.

Consequently, the ticket desk is a mob scene. When I dropped by to update our guidebook, I assumed all of these people were waiting in line to buy tickets. But then I noticed a wall of bored cashiers, and I realized: No, these customers are puzzling over the comically long ticket menu, trying to make sense of which ticket they want to buy. I have to assume that, to guarantee future employment, the person responsible for pricing created a system so complex that nobody else could ever fully comprehend it. (I actually met one of these people once…but that’s a pet peeve for another time.)

Come on, no reason I should have all the fun — what are your travel pet peeves?


Cranky as this all seems, sometimes these frustrating memories grow fonder in retrospect. This post is part of my “Jams Are Fun” series — about when good trips turn bad, and the journey is better for it. After a lifetime of world travel, upon writing a memoir of her adventures, my wife’s Great-Great-Aunt Mildred chose the title Jams are Fun. Mildred realized that it’s not always the big sights that stick with you the most…it’s those serendipitous moments when things go memorably awry.

If you savor the Schadenfreude of hearing about good trips gone bad, check out the other posts in my “Jams Are Fun” series. How about that time I ran out of gas on Scotland’s remote north coast? Or that time I was stuck on a cruise ship during a churning storm in the North Sea? Or the time I became embroiled in a gelato feud in a small Italian village? Or really the entire experience of driving in Sicily

D’oh! A Deer: Taking Two “Sound of Music” Tours Back-to-Back

Salzburg’s tour guides are understandably jaded.

“Understandably” to me, anyway, because I’m not really a fan either. I mean, like any red-blooded American, I grew up watching The Sound of Music — or bits and pieces of it — every Easter and Christmas on TV. Some of the songs are catchy. Pretty scenery, and all that. But I never loved it loved it.

The thing is, I only have to deal with the Von Trapp clan twice a year — and at that rate, they’re harmless and quaint. But if you’re a tour guide in Salzburg, you have no choice: The Sound of Music is your entire life.

Sound of Music tours are a huge business in Salzburg. I was told they attract 100,000 Von Trapp pilgrims annually. At around $50 a pop, that makes it cool $5 million-per-year industry. Our Rick Steves guidebook recommends two Salzburg-based Sound of Music tours: one with a big bus, and the other with a minibus. Both get an unusual number of reader complaints. To get to the bottom of things, I devoted a little Salzburg research time to trying each one — to re-evaluate them, to better explain them in the book, and (hopefully) to make sure our readers fully understand what they’re investing fifty bucks and a half-day in.

(You may be wondering why someone who isn’t a fan of the movie would be given this assignment. I would counter that someone who isn’t a fan of the movie may just be the perfect person for this assignment. My steely-eyed analysis isn’t clouded by gauzy memories of whiskers on kittens and schnitzel with noodles. And while we’re on the topic, nobody actually eats schnitzel with noodles. Too many carbs.)

And so, here I am, in a minibus with six North American SoM devotees — the only one not singing along to “Doe, a deer…” My travel companions for the day are two fiftysomething Canadian women whose husbands skipped out on the tour to visit Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest in Berchtesgaden (smart guys) and four American college students. It’s clear that the movie — 50-plus years young and still going strong — exerts a powerful, cross-generational appeal.

Everybody — young and old alike — knows every word to every song. They know when to sing “flibbertigibbet” and when to sing “will-o-the-wisp.” They’re full-on geeking out on each little morsel of information. And everybody “oohs!” and “aahs!” on cue when our guide shows us, for example, the trees where the kids were hanging from the branches in their curtain clothes, or whatever…I wasn’t really paying attention.

cameron-austria-trapp-mansion

We pull up to a mansion on the shore of a beautiful alpine lake. This is not the actual Von Trapp family house. And it’s only one-third of the movie Von Trapp family house. (The back of the house, and the interior, were each filmed elsewhere.) But even so, people gobble up the stories of the youngest Von Trapp falling out the wrong side of the canoe and being rescued by Liesl.

Our guide explains that The Gazebo (where Liesl hooks up with a teenaged Nazi) was built just for the movie, next to the mansion. But then, years later, cinephiles were still showing up in droves, making a racket, singing and waltzing and taking pictures. So they moved The Gazebo across the lake to a biergarten. But the same thing happened: Tourists would make a ruckus, disturbing the biergarten patrons.

Just to be entirely clear on this point: The Sound of Music fans were so rowdy, they were bothering a bunch of Austrian drunks chugging one-liter mugs of beer.

And so, The Gazebo is not anywhere near this lake anymore. They moved it several miles away, to Hellbrunn Palace, where they dumped it outside the wall near the parking lot, between the garbage cans and the toilets. And there, each day, a steady stream of tour buses pull up to let 50 people take turns photographing each other in front of The Gazebo, gazing wistfully into each other’s eyes. Then they use the toilets and get back on the bus. Very handy.

cameron-austria-SOM-gazebo

All of this fuss is about a movie prop from the 1950s. And it’s not even a pretty prop. In my hazy memory of the movie, I pictured some fanciful, lacy, wrought-iron objet d’art with leaded glass that twinkled in the moonlight. But no. In real life, it’s a boxy white frame with clear glass. I’ve seen nicer prefab ones at the Home Depot.

And what about The Meadow — the one where Julie Andrews spun herself silly? Like Hitler’s Bunker in Berlin, its real location is shrouded in mystery: Everyone claims to know where it is, but each one of them will take you to a different place. (Apparently, the actual The Meadow is on private property, and strictly off-limits to the curious public.) But it doesn’t really matter anyway. Guides told me that for their American visitors, any alpine meadow will do — so they just pull over wherever it’s handy. One of them told me, “Local farmers can’t figure out why all of these Americans are always spinning in their fields.”

Our guide, an elderly Austrian gentleman, has a real knack for doling out Julie Andrews trivia at the appropriate rate. (“Did you know that Audrey Hepburn also auditioned for the role of Maria?” he asks. “Yes, in fact, I did know that!” no fewer than three of my fellow SoM aficionados exclaim.)

But there’s a lack of mirth in our guide’s delivery. I don’t sense a deep-in-his-bones love affair with “The Lonely Goatherd.” He seems to get a minor kick out of the story of the Trapp Family Singers…but would he lie down in traffic for Christopher Plummer? As a SoM cynic myself, I can relate. When he asks if we have any questions, I can barely stop myself from asking, “So, how do you solve a problem like Maria?”

cameron-austria-SOM-tour

Day two. The big bus tour has a similar itinerary but more people. Lots and lots more people…49 SoM fanatics on a 50-seat bus. A sneezing Fräulein Maria on the side of the bus (Gesundheit!) seems to guarantee that this will be one heck of a fun day. And our lederhosen-clad guide — even more polished than the minibus guide — recites his tightly crafted spiel with the poise of a seasoned stand-up comic. I imagine he’s been regaling his audience with these same quips, puns, and factoids, twice a day, for many years. The bus offers a comfy ride and a higher vantage point. But loading and unloading at each stop is a chore. And, by the trip’s end, rather than feeling the warm camaraderie of the minibus, I feel a need to escape.

cameron-austria-wolfgangseeOV

All told, each type of tour has its pros and its cons, but both were perfectly fine. So what’s with all of the complaints? After taking both tours, I think I figured it out: The Austrian local guides never can, and never will, equal their customers’ intensity of affection for the movie.

The Sound of Music is an American phenomenon. Yes, the exteriors were filmed in Salzburg. (And after these tours, I’m wondering if there’s a square inch of this city that didn’t wind up somewhere in that movie.) But fundamentally, it’s an American movie, based on an American stage play, by American composers who wrote songs in English that have nothing to do with Austria’s musical tradition. Most Austrians haven’t even seen the movie; those who have, certainly weren’t reared on it. Mozart is in their bones. But Sound of Music is this weird thing that just happened to them.

And so, when our guidebook readers go on one of these tours, then write us a note complaining that the guide was gruff, or the tour felt rushed…I’m not saying these people are wrong to be disappointed. But it’s hard to blame the guide for maybe phoning it in, just a little bit.

OK, look at it this way: Imagine that some obscure-to-you movie was filmed in your hometown. Just for the sake of argument, let’s say it was the 1990 Tom Hanks comedy Joe Versus the Volcano. So, Joe Versus the Volcano was filmed in your hometown. That’s cool. But it’s been decades now, and you’ve moved on. Everybody in your hometown has gone on to bigger and better things. As it should be.

But here’s the thing: People keep showing up, having traveled at great distance and great expense to see everything in your town relating to Joe Versus the Volcano. They want to see the shop where Joe bought his four steamer trunks that he later lashed into a raft. They want all of the tinseltown tales about Meg Ryan’s artistic journey in playing three different roles. They are desperate to see the very pier from which Joe set off on his sailboat trip to Waponi Woo.

Now, these people are willing to pay you a lot of money. Like, every day, a dozen of them will hand you fifty bucks apiece to show them this stuff. There are many other things in your town that you are legitimately passionate about. But these people don’t want to see those things — and six hundred bucks ain’t bad for a half-day’s work, am I right? So you take them to see the vacant lot where Abe Vigoda and Lloyd Bridges had their trailers. Because you’ve got to give the people what they want. But — and this is a big but — that doesn’t mean that you actually enjoy it.

There’s more to Salzburg than just The Sound of Music. But you are really excited about The Sound of Music. And that’s great! Just be prepared for an enthusiasm gap between you and your guide. They’ll take you to the locations. They’ll tell you the stories. And they’ll play you the songs on the bus. And they’ll do it all with a smile (as much as Austrians ever smile). But cut them a little slack…and don’t expect them to sing along.


If you savor the Schadenfreude of hearing about good trips gone bad, check out the other posts in my “Jams Are Fun” series. How about that time I was stuck on a cruise ship during a massive storm in the North Sea? Or the time I ran out of gas on Scotland’s remote north coast? Or that time I got pulled over by keystone kops in a remote corner of Bosnia? Or, really, the entire experience of driving in Sicily

If, on the other hand, you are so excited about the idea of a Sound of Music tour that you can’t wait to learn more…then pick up our Rick Steves Vienna, Salzburg & Tirol guidebook.

And for a taste of Austrian Christmas that isn’t quite so, um, Julie Andrews-y, check out Rick’s classic European Christmas special.

The Gelato Wars of Corniglia

My wife’s Great-Great-Aunt Mildred traveled far and wide, long before such a thing was fashionable. Late in life, Aunt Mildred wrote a memoir about her experiences. The title: Jams Are Fun. It turns out that, after seeing so much of the world, Aunt Mildred realized that it’s not always the big museums, the fancy dinners, or the castles and cathedrals that stick with you most. It’s those serendipitous moments when things go awry. And so, in the spirit of Aunt Mildred, this part of my “Jams Are Fun” series — about when good trips turn bad, and the journey is better for it — takes place in a tiny hill town on Italy’s Cinque Terre.

The Cinque Terre — five charming, traffic-free villages on the Italian Riviera — is a delightful place to be on vacation. But when it comes to updating the Cinque Terre chapter in our Rick Steves Italy guidebook…meh, not so much. Anytime a researcher is dispatched to the Cinque Terre, they return with tales of woe. It turns out this lovely strip of coastline is a minefield of allegiances and grudges that can only exist in a tiny town. And the most intense conflict I’ve stumbled into anywhere involves — of all things — gelato.

cameron-italy-corniglia

A few years ago, I hiked from Vernazza over the bluff to Corniglia — the Cinque Terre’s resident hill town, perched on a ridge overlooking the Mediterranean. On the outskirts of town, I stopped off at a hotel I needed to update for our book. As I was leaving, the owner stopped me. “Listen,” he said, conspiratorially. “If you want some gelato, I strongly recommend the first gelato place on the main street.” He made severe eye contact with me. “Not the second one! The first one. You understand? This is important.”

A bit puzzled, I left with a noncommittal “grazie for the tip” and headed into Corniglia. Sure enough, on the main street through the old center of town, two rival gelaterie stood next to each other. I thought nothing of it, and proceeded to update our listings with several hoteliers and restauranteurs. Strangely, as I made my rounds, a few other locals also weighed in — completely unsolicited — on which gelateria was the better one.

Curious — and ready for a snack — I dropped in at the gelateria that we recommend in the book. I was warmly greeted by Alberto, who couldn’t be more excited by my visit. He showed me a photo of himself with Rick, and a cover shot of our book that he likes to put in the front window. He forced several samples on me, and dished up a tipsy cone piled comically high with scoops of different flavors. He even pulled out a little plastic container and offered to load it up with even more gelato for later. (Facing a long, hot train ride back to the next town, I politely declined. He almost forced it on me anyway.)

cameron-italy-corniglia-gelato-guidebook

As I was leaving, Alberto pulled me in close. “Before you go,” he said, “can you do me a very big favor? That gelateria next door…” He practically spat on the floor as he said it. “They put up a picture of your book. But they are not recommended! They are lying! You must do something about this. This must be illegal! You have a responsibility to stop them.”

I walked past the other shop’s window. No Rick Steves sign. Oh, well. But Alberto chased after me. “Aha! They take it down because they know you are here. Please go in and tell them to stop!”

“Look,” I said, “if they don’t have the sign up when I’m here, then what can I do?” (In fact, there’s nothing I can do in any case. We’ve seen this from time to time: Once a place recognizes the touristic currency of a Rick Steves endorsement — whether they are actually recommended or not — there’s basically nothing we can do to police them. We just hope that our readers are actually using our book’s tips, rather than trusting random signs.)

Clearly, the gelato situation in Corniglia is a Big Deal. Somehow, all of this little town’s frustrations, conflicts, and grudges, dating back many generations, have boiled down to these two little neighboring shops. And I had been enlisted to play Solomon. I managed to escape that trip without any more conflict…but I could never forget the gelato controversy that raged in little Corniglia.

Flash forward a few years. I’m back in the Cinque Terre, and back in Corniglia, updating our book. This time, I’m prepared. I arrive in town with my shields up. I will not be drawn into Gelatogate. I will do my work and leave…as quickly as possible.

The day goes well. I make my rounds and am ready to head out. I’ve saved the gelato for last — partly to forestall further conflict, and partly to treat myself before the train ride home. But just before that, I’m updating one last restaurant. The restauranteur is warm and gregarious. We talk about his menu, and his enthusiasm and pride lull me into a sense of normalcy.

But then, when I have one foot out the door, like a coiled cobra — he strikes.

“Say…did you see the new gelateria at the start of town?” he asks me, conversationally…but a little too eagerly. Uh-oh. I know where this is going.

“It’s a very good one. You should see it.” His tone shifts from casual to severe, as his laser-beam eyes pierce mine. “You must see it.” The next few moments are a blur, as somehow I find myself following him down the street, to where he physically plants me inside this new gelateria.

cameron-italy-corniglia-gelato-wars

Aren’t two gelaterie more than enough for this tiny town? Do they really need a third? This is what I’m wondering as I get the hard sell.

I ask a few probing questions. And finally they ‘fess up that this is, in fact, a second outpost of one of the original gelaterie — the one that’s NOT in the book. I admire the bold gambit. Now there are two clone gelaterie, across the street from each other, before you even get to Alberto’s. (It also means that Alberto’s is, technically, no longer the “second one.”)

Scanning the flavors in this new interloper, the many skirmishes of the gelato wars become clear. Alberto’s shop has a delicious honey flavor, which we recommend in the book. This shop, too, has a honey flavor. Alberto is very proud of his basil flavor — new for this year. This shop, too, now has a basil flavor. Like JFK and Khrushchev, these two gelato makers are keeping pace with each other as they slowly…slowly…escalate the gelato wars.

Case made, the restauranteur tries to close the deal. “So…you will put this gelateria in your book?”

I hedge. “Uh, I’ll think about it.”

“Think about it!?” the restauranteur demands. In an instant, the tone of our conversation has turned sour and confrontational. “What’s to think about? It’s the best one. The best one!” (Mind you, he is — as far as I know — not the owner, nor in any way professionally involved in this gelateria. He’s just a very, very, very concerned citizen.)

I try to explain myself. But he won’t let me finish. “The last time Rick Steves was here, I took him to this gelateria. And it’s still not in the book. That was nearly two years ago! What is taking so long?”

I bail out of the shop, as politely as possible, and try to ignore the now-furious restauranteur as he hangs his head, Charlie Brown-style, and theatrically sulks back to his own restaurant — stomping his feet like a frustrated toddler.

It’s awkward, sure. But at least I get to leave town. For these poor villagers, this is just the latest salvo in the gelato wars of Corniglia.

I’m sure you’re wondering: Which one is best? Easy: Alberto’s. How do I know? Because on both trips, I tasted both. And Alberto’s wins the taste test, hands down. So if any Corniglia gelato warriors are reading this, now you know: If you want in the book…make better gelato.


To find quality ice cream on your own — whether you’re in a tiny town or a huge city — check out my tips on how to find Italy’s best gelato.

There are plenty more mishaps in my “Jams Are Fun” series. Such as the time I was stuck on a cruise ship in a North Sea storm. Or the time I ran out of gas on Scotland’s remote north coast.

And you can also read more posts about the Cinque Terre from this trip.

This happened to me while updating the Cinque Terre chapter in our Rick Steves Italy guidebook. We also have a more concise and focused, full-color Rick Steves Pocket Cinque Terre book.