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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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Mama’s Boys in Venice

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To commemorate the Smithsonian Presents Travels with Rick Steves magazine — now on sale online, and at newsstands nationwide — Rick is blogging about the 20 top destinations featured in that issue. One of those destinations is Venice.

The challenge when visiting Venice is to see a community beyond the “adult Disneyland” quality of the experience for most tourists. If you know where to look, it’s not hard. Whether in the practical issues of actually living here, or in the unique characteristics of the people who make up the Venetian community, the city is more than postcard views and old buildings.

The cheapest place to moor your boat in Venice is a place without easy access. Boat owners climb along walls above canals like Italian cat-men to get to their private boats — the vessels that give them a parallel world apart from the tourist bustle.

If you’re excited about witnessing a high tide in Venice, be warned — the high waters bring out the elevated walkways and some fun memories…but they also force the city’s huge rats out of their secluded dens and into the open.

Handy signs on building corners let anyone who simply looks up know where they’re going, anywhere in town. But keep in mind that locals aren’t above using these signs to direct traffic to the seemingly logical route, while those in the know can get around quicker by unsigned, less congested alternate routes.

While Italian men in general can be mammoni (mamma’s boys), reluctant to leave the nest — to cut the cordone ombelicale (umbilical cord of a mama to cook and wash for them) — Venetians take this trait to unrivaled heights. Many men stay at home until their thirties. They leave only when they marry and are able to have another woman steer them through life.

I was talking with my Venetian friends, Antonella and Piero, over a glass of wine. The topic of conversation: macho and mammoni in Venice. I was impressed by the strong feelings Antonella had about the matter.

“What is macho?” she says. “There are no macho men in Venice. They are mama’s boys. We call this mammoni.”

Piero, as if he’s heard the complaint a thousand times, cries, “Ahhh, mammoni.” Pulling an imaginary cord from his belly and petting it rather than cutting it, he says, “It is true. I cannot cut the cordone ombelicale. I love my mama. And she loves me even more.”

Antonella says, “The Italian boys, 95 percent stay at home until they find a wife to be their new mother. Thirty, thirty-five years old, they are still with their mothers. Even if they move out, they come home for the cooking and laundry. This is not macho…this is ridiculous. ”

“Aaan-duh,” she continues, lighting a cigarette, “they want a wife exactly like their mother. If they find a woman like me, independent, with some money, perhaps beautiful, this is a problem.”

Piero nods like a scolded puppy. “Yes, this is true.”

Antonella says, “If I make my hair special and wear strong makeup, they will take me to dinner and take me to bed. But they will not look at me to make a family. They want to be sure their wife won’t leave them. A woman like me…it is too risky.”

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Wasting Away on the Algarve

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To commemorate the Smithsonian Presents Travels with Rick Steves magazine — now on sale online, and at newsstands nationwide — Rick is blogging about the 20 top destinations featured in that issue. One of those destinations is Salema, on Portugal’s Algarve Coast.

I can close my eyes and feel the salty ambience of Salema: The tall, fresh-squeezed orange juice of the loss-leader breakfasts where I put my feet up on the rusty railing, gaze out at the sea, and wonder what I’ll do today.

Actually, since I’m usually in Salema updating my guidebook, my options are all work-related: find a desolate beach farther north, on the windy side of Cape Sagres; venture up into the modern part of town to see how soft prices are for the modern hotel scene; drop by expat Brits in the next town, where those on humble retirement accounts live like kings with everything you could want in Portugal except a sea view.

I do fantasize about just being here on vacation. Nursing a drink in a still-wet bathing suit. Going out with Sebastian to haul in the octopus pots. Hiking to the beach where you expose skin that’s never seen the sun. Getting to the point where you can competently discuss the quality of the fish soup in each beachfront restaurant.

I was going to say there are just a few places in Europe where I could savor a true vacation. But then, when I think about it, there are many. But for a beach break — simply wasting away in a European Margaritaville — it’s fair to call Salema, on Portugal’s Algarve, my favorite.

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Feeling the Breath of the Bull on Your Pants

Like a cowboy at a rodeo, I sit atop my spot on the fence. A loudspeaker says — first in Spanish, then in English — “Do not touch the wounded. That’s the responsibility of health personnel.” A line of green-florescent-vested police sweep down the street, clearing away drunks and anyone not fit to run. Then the cleaning crew and their street-scrubbing truck make one last pass, gathering any garbage and clearing broken glass. The street — just an hour ago filled with throngs of all-night revelers — is now pristine, sanitized for a televised spectacle.

Sitting on the top timber of the inner of two fences (in the prime area reserved for press), I wait for the 8:00 rocket. I’m thinking this is early… but for the mob scene craning their necks for the view behind me, it’s late. They’ve been up all night.

Cameras are everywhere — on robotic arms with remote controls vice-gripped to windowsills, hovering overhead on cranes, and in the hands of nearly every spectator that make up the wall of bodies pressed against the thick timber fence behind me.

The street fills with runners. While you can wear anything, nearly everyone is wearing the standard white pants, white shirt, and red bandana. The scene evokes some kind of cultish clan and a ritual sacrifice. This is the Festival of San Fermí­n. Fermí­n was beheaded by the Romans 2,000 years ago, martyred for his faith. The red bandanas evoke his bloody end.

The energy surges as eight o’clock approaches. The street is so full, if everyone suddenly ran, you’d think they’d simply trip over each other and all stack up, waiting to be minced by angry bulls. The energy continues to build. There are frat-boy runners — courage stoked by booze and by the girls they’re determined to impress. And there are serious mozos — famous locally for their runs, who’ve made this scene annually for as long as people can remember. They’ve surveyed the photos and stats (printed in yesterday’s paper) of the six bulls about to be turned loose. They know the quirks of the bulls and have chosen their favorite stretch of the half-mile run. While others are hung over at best, these mozos got a good, solid night’s sleep, and are now stretching and focusing.

For serious runners, this is like surfing… you hope to catch a good wave and ride it. A good run lasts only 15 or 20 seconds. You know you’re really running with the bull when you feel the breath of the bull on your pants. Mozos, like Spanish bullfighting aficionados, respect the bull. It represents power, life, the great wild. Hemingway, who first came to the festival in 1923, understood. He wrote that he enjoyed watching two wild animals run together — one on two legs, the other on four.

Then it’s eight, and the sound of the rocket indicates that the bulls are running. The entire scramble takes about two and a half minutes. The adrenaline surges in the crowded street. Everyone wants to run — but not too early. As if standing before hundreds of red-and-white human pogo sticks, the sea of people spontaneously begins jumping up and down — trying to see the rampaging bulls to time their flight.

We’re filming the event, and have chosen to be near the end of the run — 200 meters from the arena, where, later today, these bulls will meet their matador. One advantage of a spot near the end is that the bulls should be more spread out, so we can see six go by individually rather than as a herd. But today, they stay together and make the fastest run of the nine-day festival: 2 minutes and 11 seconds.

Like a freak wave pummeling a marina, the bulls rush through. Panicky boys press against my fence. It’s a red-and-white cauldron of desperation. Big eyes, scrambling bodies, the ground quaking, someone oozing under the bottom rail. Then, suddenly, the bulls are gone, people pick themselves up, and it’s over. Boarded-up shops open up. The timber fences are taken down and stacked. The nine-day cycle of the festival, built around the 8:00 am Running of the Bulls, is both smooth and relentless.

As is the ritual, I drop into a bar immediately after, have breakfast, and join the gang watching the entire run on TV…all 131 seconds of it. Many mozos felt the breath of the bulls on their pants. Then, with the routine mundane demeanor of a TV weatherman, a nurse with a clipboard reviews that day’s wounded before famous mozos are interviewed about this particular run. Hours later, at about noon, I drop back into my hotel and notice the hallway is lined with “Do Not Disturb” signs hanging from door knobs. It’s Pamplona, the incredible Festival of San Fermín, and the Running of the Bulls. Here’s a photo essay of this unique event:

The Fiesta de San Fermín — better known to locals as El Encierro (“The Enclosing”), and even better known worldwide as “The Running of the Bulls” — ceremonially begins in front of Pamplona’s City Hall

Mozos — the serious bull-runners — traditionally wear white with strips of red tied around their necks and waists. While these outfits honor the martyrdom of San Fermín, they also evoke the dress of the butchers, who supposedly began this tradition. (The bulls, who are color blind, couldn’t care less.)

The mozos line up, nervously awaiting the 8 o’clock rocket shot announcing that the bulls have been released. Then…

…they scramble to stay out in front of the thundering herd.

The bulls charge down the street, while the mozos try to run in front of them for as long as possible before diving out of the way.

The Running of the Bulls is party time in Pamplona. While only 15 runners have been killed by bulls over the last century, far more people have died from overconsumption of alcohol. (Most participants just wake up with a massive headache.)
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Mostar, Yugoslav Banks, and War Damage

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To commemorate the Smithsonian Presents Travels with Rick Steves magazine — now on sale online, and at newsstands nationwide — Rick is blogging about the 20 top destinations featured in that issue. One of those destinations is Mostar, in Bosnia-Herzegovina.

Whether in Mostar or elsewhere, former war zones offer powerful sightseeing. Thankfully, in Europe, they are rare.

I remember that in the 1970s, lots of World War II damage still awaited repair throughout Germany. With the disparity of wealth between Eastern and Western Europe during the Cold War, in the 1980s it was striking to see how the West had bulldozed and rebuilt virtually every bit of damage, while the East was still pockmarked with dreary WWII souvenirs. Of course, the town centers of the East were dolled up for visitors. Back then, the tourists didn’t see the reality of a society without the economic wherewithal to entirely rebuild 40 years after the war unless they ventured out into the suburbs, where strafed plaster and broken concrete were still commonplace.

Traveling in Northern Ireland a few years ago, you’d see little actual destruction, but you would see the poverty resulting from the Troubles, and angry political murals. And even those are much less commonplace these days.

And, of course, the only actual war fought on European soil since World War II was the war precipitated by the break-up of Yugoslavia. Driving through the interior of Croatia, you can still see damage from the war in the early 1990s. Touristy places along the Dalmatian Coast were generally unscathed. The glaring exception, Dubrovnik, has already been thoroughly rebuilt — a prerequisite for it to regain its happy-go-lucky position as the former Yugoslavia’s top tourist attraction.

For many travelers, the European destination where they’re most likely to see war damage on a massive scale is Mostar, in Bosnia-Herzegovina. A major reason why the city has been slow to rebuild is that most property owners had big mortgages on their buildings…so the actual “owners” were the banks. With the outbreak of war, people obviously stopped making payments on evacuated and bombed-out buildings. The bank assumed ownership. And, as Yugoslavia fell apart, so did its national bank. It costs a lot of money to rebuild, and — with ownership not being clearly established — there’s little incentive for anyone to spearhead the rebuilding efforts. Consequently, the bullet-speckled facades fester unrepaired.

But on my last visit to Mostar, I noticed that several formerly damaged buildings had been fixed. As these perplexing ownership issues are cleared up, physical reminders of 1993 are being plastered over — just as the literal and psychological scars of war among the people of Mostar are fading. That’s why traveling to Mostar — especially over time — is particularly powerful…at once tragic and uplifting.

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Blooming Bratislava: An Hour Downstream from Vienna

One of the big surprises of my travels this summer has been Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia. Bratislava sits on the Danube less than an hour’s train ride from Vienna, and a short hop from Budapest. A desolate ghost town just a few years ago, today Bratislava is arguably the fastest-changing city in Europe.

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I spent a day visiting Bratislava with Martin Sloboda, a local tycoon of a guide (www.msagency.sk). He writes the town’s dominant guidebook (on sale at spinning racks in nearly every shop in town), shoots the photos for postcards (on the next spinning rack), organizes the visits of the luxurious Tauck tour groups when their Danube cruise ships dock in town, and is the local tourist board’s choice for an escort when a VIP visits. He’s a fine example of the youthful energy and leadership responsible for the success story of Slovakia.

Martin explained to me why people who were between 15 and 25 in 1989 are most successful today, and the leaders of Slovakia. Throughout the communist period and in post-communist Czechoslovakia, there was no real political diplomatic class among Slovaks (because Czechs dominated Czechoslovak government). But when Slovakia peacefully split off from the Czech Republic in 1993’s “Velvet Divorce,” many young Slovaks returned from the West and quickly took the helm, filling that void. Today Slovakia’s wealthy class is about 40 years old, largely free from the old boys’ network (most of whom stayed in the Czech lands). This trend played out in recent election, where for the first time, no former communist was sent to government (unique in Eastern Europe). The new “Dream Team,” as many locals call the people in power now now, is liberal on social issues but realistic — decidedly not populist — on economic issues, as if inspired by the Greek fiasco (in fact, Slovakia has opted not to give bailout money to Greece).

Spending a day with Martin to update our Bratislava chapter, I was able to fine-tune our existing coverage. I also picked up lots of new ideas. Here’s an example of the kind of raw material I came away with, most of which I hope to massage into our existing chapter to make its coverage more complete:

The Danube divides Europe’s two biggest mountain ranges: the Alps of Western Europe, and the Carpathians of Eastern Europe. Slovakia (and Bratislava is particular) has long been a bridge between East and West.

When Budapest was taken by Ottoman Turks in the 1500s, the political and religious elite of Hungary retreated to Bratislava — far from the Ottomans and close to Vienna, but still within greater Hungary, at an easy-to-defend location on the Danube. Bratislava hosted 19 coronations between 1563 to 1830. In fact, the last Hungarian coronation was not in Budapest, but in Bratislava.

In 1760s, the Ottoman threat was gone, and the strategic military importance of Bratislava was over. Habsburg Empress Maria Theresa needed a comfy palace. She wanted her daughter Christina to stay close, so she made her son-in-law Albert the Viceroy of Hungary so that they’d set up here. That’s why Bratislava has a fine Habsburg palace and a strong Vienna connection.

A third of the Slovak population emigrated to the US between 1880 and 1914. There were lots of deserters during World War I — opting to fight against rather than with Hungary. Even today, Hungarians lament loss of their old capital, Bratislava, from the post-World War I Treaty of Trianon. Meanwhile, you could say that historic Hungarian cultural oppression of the Czechs and Slovaks led to the creation of modern Czechoslovakia, as those smaller groups sought safety in numbers after World War I.

The United States has long been a big supporter of Czechoslovakia. Between the world wars, Czechoslovakia was the only democracy and had the best economy in this part of Europe.

Because of its location nearly on the border with Austria (and the West), Bratislava has many bomb shelters, built during the tense times around the Cuban Missile Crisis. Today these make ideal venues for clubs — right in the town, but powerfully soundproof.

Why is it hard to think of any great Slovaks? During the time of Czechoslovakia (1919-1993), every time a Slovak excelled in culture or politics or sports, they were considered “Czech” by the rest of the world. (For example, the leader of the 1968 Prague Spring uprising against the Soviets, Alexander Dubcek, was actually Slovak.) As of 1993, suddenly Slovaks could celebrate their own heroes without the confusion.

Bratislava was a damaged husk from after World War II until the end of communism in 1989. The communist regime cared only for the future — they had no respect for town’s heritage. In the 1950s, they actually sold Bratislava’s original medieval cobbles to cute towns in Germany that were rebuilding with elegant Old World character after World War II.

With the fall of communism in 1989 began a nearly decade-long process of restitution: The government needed to sort out who had rights to the buildings, and return them to their original owners. During this time, little repair or development took place (since there’s no point investing in a property until ownership is clearly established). It’s hard to imagine today that as recently as the 1990s, Bratislava’s old center was basically a dangerous ghost town.

By 1998, ownership had finally been sorted out, and the Old Town was made traffic-free. Bratislava has been reborn — life has returned with a vengeance in the last decade. The only decrepit buildings left in Bratislava are run-down only because they still have ownership issues.

Slovakia’s huge armaments industry collapsed after communism, leaving it in quite a deep economic hole. But the country’s central location — with 300 million consumers living within a day’s truck drive — is ideal for industry. It didn’t take long for the gap left by armaments to be filled by carmakers. Today Slovakia, with five million people, produces one million cars a year. That makes them the world’s top car producers, per capita. Its business environment and relatively unregulated employment code make it easy to hire and easy to fire employees — which is good for business. Strikes don’t plague the country.

While the rural parts of the country have dismal unemployment rates, Bratislava has only 2.5 percent unemployment. The measure for standard of living as it relates to local costs puts Bratislava at #10 among European cities. Among post-communist nations, only the Slovaks and the Slovenes have the euro, with Estonia on deck. This is testimony to the wise economic policies the Slovaks have chosen, rather than the populist sweet talk and promises so common elsewhere.

Slovak kids have incredible opportunity — unprecedented in this nation’s history. Because of the EU’s Erasmus program, Slovak young people can apply to universities like Cambridge, and be treated like a Brit. And yet, many choose to stay right here. Bratislava at night is lively; the very young center thrives. While it has lots of university students, there are no campuses as such — so the Old Town is the place where students go to play.