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Rick Steves’ Travel Blog

Here you can browse through my blog posts prior to February 2022. Currently I'm sharing my travel experiences, candid opinions, and what's on my mind solely on my Facebook page. — Rick

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Daily Dose of Europe:  Arcos de la Frontera — Pickles, Nuns, and Donkeys in the Bell Tower 

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.)

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Daily Dose of Europe: My Dinner with Franklin

I’m thinking of my friends in northern Italy, including Franklin — a local gourmand who loves to take me to dinner while I’m in Verona. Join Franklin and me for two Italian specialties: a memorable feast…and great conversation.

Europe is effectively off-limits to American travelers for the time being. But travel dreams are immune to any virus. And, while many of us are 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.

I love the way Italians enjoy their food. I’m sitting down for a meal with Franklin at one of my favorite restaurants, Enoteca Can Grande in Verona. Eating in a little restaurant like this one, you have contact with the chef. We were here a year ago and chef Giuliano remembers us. Once we’re comfortably seated, he consults with us. As is our tradition, we encourage him to bring us whatever he’s most excited about today. Pleased with the freedom to dazzle us, he goes to work.

Franklin is a local. He knows the cuisine and gushes about the food incessantly. As the courses come and we eat, he shares his thoughts, which are sometimes impolite, but always come from the heart (perhaps with a side trip through the stomach).

With the first of many small plates, Franklin is delighted. “Raw Piedmont beef, carne cruda. It is like seeing the smile of a beautiful woman. Even after 10 years, you never forget her.”

Our wine is Amarone della Valpolicella. Enjoying a sip, I ask, “Sublime is an Italian word, no?”

He says, “Yes, soo-blee-may…this is sublime.”

Giuliano brings a plate of various cold cuts, glistening in a way that shows they’re nothing but the best. We ponder, if you had to choose between salami and cheese in life, which would you choose? Giuliano and Franklin both agree that it would be a terrible choice…but they would have to go with the cheese. Then we nibble the mortadella with truffle, complicating that decision. Mortadella is the local baloney — not a high-end meat. But with the black truffle, it is exquisite. Imagine calling spam exquisite…just add truffle.

Franklin says, “I used to smoke, and I compared white wine and red like cigarettes and a good Cuban cigar. I enjoy my red wine like I enjoy my Cuban cigars.” Then he gets distracted by the herb decorating the next little mozzarella dish. After tasting a sprig, he says, “Yes, fresh. It’s normally served dried. The chef is a genius…fresh, brilliant with mozzarella.”

Franklin’s phone rings. It’s his wife, who says, “Don’t eat too much cheese or dessert.” Franklin, who’s not thin, surveys our table and sadly contemplates enjoying the enticing parade of food that has just begun with anything less than complete abandon. Then he sighs and tells me, “Many people live their entire lives and they do not have this experience.”

I say, “That is a pity.”

“Yes. It’s like a man being born and being surrounded by beautiful women and never making love.”

As we eat and drink, Franklin opens up about his passion for good eating. He says, “In Italy, you don’t need to be high class to appreciate high culture, opera, cuisine. It’s the only culture I know like this. Here in my country, a heart surgeon talks with a carpenter about cuisine. This is just how we are.”

Next comes the polenta, the best I’ve ever tasted. This cornbread, typical of the Veneto region, comes in varieties, like bread ranges from whole grain to white. This is the darker polenta integrale, using all of the corn. And it comes with anchovies. “A good marriage,” Franklin says. It’s the simple things — the anchovies, the olive oil, the polenta integrale, and the proper matching of flavors — that bring the most joy to the table.

Noticing how Franklin polishes every plate, I say, “You even eat the crumbs.”

He says, “Yes, I would feel like a sinner not to.” Sipping his wine, he adds, “And to not finish the Amarone…Dante would have to create a new place in hell. Mortal sin.”

As guides tend to do, especially after a little wine, Franklin mixes culture, history, and politics in with his commentary on cuisine. I find myself scribbling notes on the paper tablecloth.

Franklin is frustrated with how Italy’s north subsidizes the south. He complains that the south is “corrupt, inefficient, lazy, no organization.”

I remind him, “They say that here in the north — in regions like Veneto and Lombardi — you are like the Germans of Italy.”

He says, “Even today, the south still has its organized crime. When fascism came to Italy, the Camorra went to the USA. Mussolini had zero tolerance. And he got things done. That’s one reason why he was popular. And one reason why Mussolini is still popular. Then, after World War II, rather than tolerate communism, the government allowed the Camorra to reestablish itself in Italy.”

I ask him if he enjoyed The Godfather.

“I watched The Godfather with a certain pride because of the importance of food in that movie. Especially the scenes with tomatoes. Marlon Brando watched tomatoes ripen. When he said something like, ‘Become red, you bastards,’ to the yellow tomatoes, that took me back to Sicily and the home of my father.”

Our conversation drifts to how modern societies mirror their ancient predecessors…or don’t. Comparing the historic continuity between the ancient and modern civilizations of Rome, Greece, and Egypt, we agree that the biggest difference is in Egypt, a relatively ramshackle society today that feels a far cry from the grandiosity of the pharaohs and pyramids. Greece, which wrote the ancient book on aesthetics, developed an unfortunate appetite in modern times for poorly planned concrete sprawl. But Rome has the most continuity. Today’s Romans, like their ancient ancestors, are still passionate about wine, food, and the conviviality offered by the public square. The piazza and good eating — in Italy those go back to Caesar.

Next comes the pumpkin ravioli. I hold the warm and happy tire of my full tummy and say, “Basta.”

Giuliano comes by, sees my empty glass, and realizes we need another bottle. He warns us, “Next I bring you a small cheese course.”

Contemplating the cheese platter, Franklin says, “I’m not so religious, but for this cheese, with Amarone…I fall on my knees.”

I agree. “In cheese we trust.”

He compliments my economy of words and repeats, “Yes, in cheese we trust.”

“This cheese plate takes dessert to new heights.”

Franklin, playing with the voluptuous little slices, says, “Even if we do not talk, with these cheeses we have a good conversation.”

I support my heavy yet happy head with my hand as Franklin fills our glasses from the second bottle and we move on to the parmesan and the gorgonzola. Sipping the wine, Franklin says, “If this was my only wine, I could be monogamous.”

When Giuliano stops by again, I compliment him. He recalls that on our last visit, we sat at the same table. He serves thousands of people. I’m always impressed by people who care enough to remember their clients. It’s the same in hotels. I don’t remember which room I slept in last time, but often the proprietor greets me saying, “I put you in your room…number 510.”

On my visit to Milan three years ago, I got a haircut. I remember really enjoying my barber. I needed a haircut on this trip, too, so when I was in Milan, I walked vaguely in the direction where I thought his shop was. Not sure whether I’d found the right place, I popped in on a barber. It seemed like the one, but I really didn’t know. Ten minutes into my haircut, the barber — having gotten to know my hair — realized he remembered it and asked me if I hadn’t been there before. He had a tactile memory not of me as a person…but as a head of hair he had cut that happened to be mine.

Giuliano asks if I’d like anything else.

I ask, “Dov’è il letto?”  (“Where is a bed?”)

Franklin agrees and says, “Yes, a good restaurant should come with a bed.” It occurs to me that we must have tasted 30 different ingredients — all of them top quality and in harmonious combinations. Franklin again marvels at how Giuliano is creative and unpredictable without using garish combinations — no gorgonzola ice cream.

I have a feeling Giuliano will remember my table the next time I drop in. And I’ll remember to invite my friend Franklin. Year after year, the experience is reliably indimenticabale. That’s an Italian word I’m thankful is well-used in my tiny vocabulary: unforgettable.

(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 Verona.)

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Daily Dose of Europe: Ærø — Denmark’s Ship-in-a-Bottle Island 

Sometimes you just need to escape. And the adorable Danish island of Ærø is the perfect place for just that.

Europe is effectively off-limits to American travelers for the time being. But travel dreams are immune to any virus. And, while many of us are 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.

Few visitors to Scandinavia even notice Ærø, a sleepy little island on the southern edge of Denmark. It’s a peaceful and homey isle, where baskets of strawberries sit in front of farmhouses — for sale on the honor system. Its tombstones are carved with such sentiments as: “Here lies Christian Hansen at anchor with his wife. He’ll not weigh until he stands before God.”

The island’s statistics: 22 miles by 6 miles, 7,000 residents, 350 deer, no crosswalks, seven pastors, three police officers, and a pervasive passion for the environment. Along with sleek modern windmills hard at work, Ærø has one of the world’s largest solar power plants.

Ærø’s main town, Ærøskøbing, makes a fine home base for exploring the isle. Many Danes agree, washing up on the cobbled main drag in waves with the landing of each ferry.

With lanes right out of the 1680s, the town was the wealthy home port to more than 100 windjammers. The post office dates to 1749 and cast-iron gaslights still shine each evening. Windjammers gone, the harbor now caters to German and Danish holiday yachts. On midnight low tides, you can almost hear the crabs playing cards.

The town’s sights, while humble, are endearing. The Hammerich House, full of old junk, is a 1920s garage sale of a museum. Around the corner, the Bottle Peter Museum is a fascinating house with a fleet of more than 750 different bottled ships. Old Peter Jacobsen devoted a lifetime to his miniature shipyard before he died in 1960 (probably buried in a glass bottle). Squinting and marveling at his enthralling little creations, it occurs to me that Ærø itself is a ship-in-a-bottle kind of place.

Taking a 15-mile bike ride, I piece together the best of Ærø’s salty charms. Just outside of town, I see the first of many U-shaped farmhouses, so typical of Denmark. The three sides block the wind to create a sheltered little courtyard and house cows, hay, and people. I bike along a dike built in the 1800s to make swampland farmable. While the weak soil is good for hay and little else, they get the most out of it. Each winter farmers flood their land to let the saltwater nourish the soil and grass, in the belief that this causes their cows to produce fattier milk and meat.

Struggling uphill, I reach the island’s 2,700-inch-high summit. It’s a “peak” called Synneshøj, pronounced “Seems High” (and after this pedal, I agree).

Rolling through the town of Bregninge, I notice how it lies in a gully. I imagine pirates, centuries ago, trolling along the coast looking for church spires marking unfortified villages. Ærø’s 16 villages are built low, in gullies like this one, to make them invisible from the sea — their stubby church spires carefully designed not to be viewable from potentially threatening ships.

A lane leads me downhill, dead-ending at a rugged bluff called Vodrup Klint. If I were a pagan, I’d worship here — the sea, the wind, and the chilling view. The land steps in sloppy slabs down to the sea. The giant terraces are a clear reminder that when saturated with water, the massive slabs of clay that make up the land here get slick, and entire chunks can slip and slide.

While the wind at the top seems hell-bent on blowing me off my bike, the beach below is peaceful, ideal for sunbathing. I can’t see Germany, which is just across the water, but I do see a big stone which commemorates the return of the island to Denmark from Germany in 1750.

Back up on the road, I pedal down a tree-lined lane toward a fine 12th-century church. As they often do all over Europe, this church marks a pre-Christian holy site. In a field adjacent to the church stands theLangdyssen Tingstedet — a 6,000-year-old dolmen, an early Neolithic burial place. While Ærø once had more than 200 of these prehistoric tombs, only 13 survive.

The name “Tingstedet” indicates that this was also a Viking assembly spot. This raised mound, roughly the shape and length of a Viking ship, evokes the scene when chiefs gathered here around their ancestors’ tombs a thousand years ago. The stones were considered fertility stones. For centuries, locals in need of a little extra virility chipped off bits and took them home.

I enter the church. Like town churches throughout the island, a centuries-old paint job gives the simple stonework a crude outline of the fine Gothic features this humble community wished it could afford. Little ships hang in the nave, perhaps as memorials to lost sailors. A portrait of Martin Luther hangs in the stern, making sure everything’s theologically shipshape. The long list adjacent allows today’s pastor to trace her pastoral lineage back to Dr. Luther himself. The current pastor, Janet, is the first woman on the five-centuries-long list. A pole with an offering bag comes equipped with a ting-a-ling bell to wake those nodding off.

From the church, it’s all downhill back to Ærøskøbing. The sun is low in the sky, so I coast right on through town to the sunset beach — where a row of tiny huts lines the strand and where so many locals enjoyed a first kiss. The huts are little more than a picnic table with walls and a roof, but each is lovingly painted and carved — stained with generations of family fun, memories of pickled herring on rye bread, and sunsets. It’s a perfectly Danish scene — like Ærø itself — where small is beautiful, sustainability is just common sense, and a favorite local word, hyggelig, takes “cozy” to delightful extremes.

(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 Ærø.)

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Daily Dose of Europe: Fine Living at a Parisian Market 

Let’s go for a (vicarious) walk together along Paris’ finest market street: Rue Cler.

Europe is effectively off-limits to American travelers for the time being. But travel dreams are immune to any virus. And, while many of us are 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.

I grew up thinking cheese was no big deal. It was orange and the shape of the bread: slap, fwomp…cheese sandwich. Even though I’m still far from a gourmet eater, my time in Paris — specifically shopping at the Rue Cler street market with my restaurateur friend Marie — has substantially bumped up my appreciation of good cuisine.

In the skinny shadow of the Eiffel Tower, Rue Cler still feels like village Paris. Lined with shops that spill out into the street, it’s also bustling with shoppers. Marie explains that Parisians shop almost daily for three good reasons: their tiny kitchens have tiny refrigerators, fresh produce makes for a good meal, and they like shopping. It’s an important social event: a chance to hear about the butcher’s vacation, see photos of the florist’s new grandchild, relax over un café, and kiss the cheeks of friends. Demonstrating back and forth on my cheeks, Marie says, “The Parisian standard is twice for acquaintances (kiss, kiss) and three times for friends you haven’t seen in a while — like you (kiss, kiss, kiss).”

Observing Parisian shoppers, I quickly recognize the cardinal rule: Whenever popping in and out of French shops, it’s polite to greet the proprietor (“Bonjour, Madame”) and say “Merci” and “Au revoir” as you leave. This simple practice can make the difference between being treated as an ignorant tourist and being treated as a temporary local.

The neighborhood produce shop wraps around the corner with an enticing rainbow of fruits and vegetables on display. Marie, using it as a classroom in smart grocery shopping, explains, “We Parisians demand the freshest fruits and vegetables and we shop with our noses.” As if to demonstrate how exacting she is when shopping for her restaurant, Marie flips into gear: “Smell the cheap foreign strawberries. Then smell the torpedo-shaped French ones (gariguettes). Find the herbs. Is today’s delivery in? Look at the price of those melons! What’s the country of origin? It must be posted. If they’re out of season, they come from Guadeloupe. Many Parisians buy only French products and don’t compromise on flavor because they eat with the season.”

Next door, the fishmonger sells the freshest fish, which is brought in daily from ports on the English Channel, 100 miles away. In fact, seafood in Paris is likely fresher than in many towns closer to the coast because Paris is a commerce hub and from here it’s shipped out to outlying towns. Anything wiggling?

At the boucherie, Marie shows me things I might have otherwise avoided on her menu: rognons (kidneys), foie (liver), coeur de boeuf (heart of beef). She hoists a duck to check the feet; they should be rough and calloused, an indication that they weren’t stuck in an industrial kennel but ran free on a farm. She explains, “While Americans prefer beef, pork, and chicken, we French eat just as much rabbit (lapin), quail (caille), lamb (agneau), and duck (canard). The head of a calf is a delight for its many tasty bits.” The meat is seasonal. In the winter, game swings from the ceiling.

Farther down Rue Cler, the picnic-friendly charcuterie (or traiteur) sells mouthwatering deli food to go. Because apartment kitchens are so small, these handy gourmet delis make it easy for Parisians to supplement their dinners in style.

At the cave à vin (wine shop), the clerk is a counselor who works with customers’ needs and budgets. He will even uncork a bottle for picnickers. While drinking wine outdoors is taboo in the US, it’s pas de problème in France.

The smell of cheese heralds the fromagerie. It’s a festival of mold, with wedges, cylinders, balls, and miniature hockey pucks all powdered white, gray, and burnt marshmallow. Browsing with me through a world of different types of cheese, Marie explains, “Ooh la la means you’re impressed. If you like cheese, show greater excitement with more las. Ooh la la la la.”

She leads me to the goat-cheese corner, holds the stinkiest glob close to her nose, takes a deep, orgasmic breath, and exhales, saying, “Yes, this smells like zee feet of angels.”

The white-smocked cheesemonger knows Marie well. Sensing I’m impressed by his shop, he points out the old photo on the wall from when his father ran the shop. It was labeled BOF for beurre, oeuf, fromage. For generations, this has been the place where people go for butter, eggs, and cheese. As if I’m about to become a convert to the church of stinky cheese, he takes us into the back room for a peek at les meules — the big, 170-pound wheels (250 gallons of milk go into each). Explaining that the “hard” cheeses are cut from these, he warns me, “Don’t eat the skin of these big ones…they roll them on the floor. But the skin on most smaller cheeses — the Brie, the Camembert — that is part of the taste.” Marie chimes in, “It completes the package.”

And what’s cheese without bread? The bakery is our final stop. Locals debate the merits of rival boulangeries. It’s said that a baker cannot be good at both bread and pastry. At cooking school, they major in one or the other. But here on Rue Cler, the baker bucks the trend. Marie explains that this baker makes good bread (I get a baguette for my sandwich) and delicious pastries. Voilà, dessert!

By now, I’ve assembled the ingredients for the perfect picnic. Marie heads off to her restaurant, while I head for a park bench with a view of the Eiffel Tower, settle in, and enjoy my Rue Cler feast. A passerby smiles and wishes me a cheery “Bon appétit!”

(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 Paris.)

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More Coronavirus Reports from Our Guides in Europe

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!