Index of Posts Except Political

(Please mouse click on the red, underlined link titles to be magically transported to the articles described. I'll be glad you did. How you will feel about the process may be something else entirely, but go ahead, take a chance!)

Link to Political Posts - Politics is funny, especially when Liberals get serious.

The Galapagos Island cruise and Ecuador trip, January 2006

It's the Family After All - That is no stranger hanging on the cross.
Finding Real Beauty in the Galapagos Islands - A human mind can be beautiful too.

Point Arena Stories, 1949-1960

Big and Smart - Mom, Pop, the Runt and I
Eight-Man Football at Point Arena High - The more you goof off and take things easy, the longer you get to do them.
Jesus Saves, and the Little Red Truck - A thoughtful message from a friend I never met.
Point Arena Apprentice Poker Players - One day we thought we would be the big boys.
The Great Point Arena Fire of 1954 - Everyone likes to help
After the Summer of 1954 - You can't do a "kiss and tell," if you didn't do the kiss.
Pete Bjornavik, a Point Arena character - Fun to be around
Gopher Capital of the World? - There's a bit of larceny in all of us
1960 NCAA Basketball Championships - Thanks, "Chub" Ohleyer - A very generous man
Sweethearts Dance 1960 - Bad weather makes a special memory
Number, Please? - Personal connections before the dial telephone
Puddles the Pup - A big part of the best childhood in the whole world
You Gotta Ring Them Bells - Some wedding nights you don't forget, but you try!
After The Summer of 1954 - 7th and 8th grade, 60 students, one great teacher
The House We Built - Brother Ron and I dug the basement in 1954, with help from "Prince"
The Old High School - When we came to Pt. Arena in 1949, we lived in one big room of an abandoned high school building.
A Capsule Summary of My Life - So far, so good.
Humboldt State Lumberjack Reporter - The beginning of a nine-year, seven-college odyssey.

The Air Force Years, 1962 to 1984

You're in the Air Force Now - A very tiny thing can change a life.
It's a Gig - Sometimes the hard times are the best.
Sober Reflections on Memorial Day - Trying to find my place in Memorial Day.
They Also Served - Marilynn and our three sons were in the front lines.
England, 1970 to 1975 - My best job at my best base.
Traveling with a Water Bed - It's not often your guests bring their own.
Why Planes Break Down in Christchurch - Not just mechanical parts can delay a mission!
The Pineapple Express - Jimmuh and me have something in common.

Life in Gualala, 1998 to present

Our 2006 Christmas Letter - A Christmas letter is like a box of chocolates.
Europe Bicycle Trip of a Lifetime - When you haven't biked much, a four-month trip on bikes through Europe is a natural choice to celebrate retirement.
We Arrive in Europe - Our bike hike, continued.
Klein Gumpen, Here We Come! - Our bike hike, continued.
Uncle Jack - You're never to old to teach or to learn.
The Dublin to Tralee Train, and how Alice stopped it!
Running - Now Buddy keeps me going.
Same Time Next Year - Finding out how the other half live.
Excitement in Anchor Bay - Big doin's in a one potty town.
Mixed Company - When Alice and I stepped in, the company became mixed.

Tales of Alice

Feliz Ano Nuevo! - Wish your friends a new one! Just don't tell them what "it" is!
Alice and Vulcan Incorporated - Only in America
"Heartless" Capitalism is the Most Compassionate - Alice succeeds while France fails.
Alice's Project Complete! - It is worth it
Great Expectations - The tale of our whirlwind "story book" romance, featuring me picking Alice from a book.
The Dublin to Tralee Train, and how Alice stopped it!
Alice, the California Can Carrier - I think the Italian men liked the way she carried her can.
A Burning Desire - How lust landed me on the ski slopes
Murder by Wasabi - Was watching Monday Night Football a capital offense?
The Strong Woman Myth - In conclusion, a tribute to Alice and her daughters
Christmas Letter, 2005 - Alice had a busy year
A Fool Such As I - In a letter to the editor of our local paper, someone called me a fool. Alice didn't like that, and replied.

Some Observations

Almost Fetch With Buddy - It's a great game
Science Fiction - Where's the Science? - UFO's don't exist, and won't ever show up here. Why would they?
Really Dumb Football Players - NFL players are getting bigger, stronger, faster, and a whole lot dumber!
Garcia vs. Owens - Class Against No-Class - Jeff Garcia has class and the courage, Terrell Owens has neither
My Ancestors Owned Slaves - And I haven't.
Country and Western, Telling Life's Stories - Songs for adults.
Making the Army of Reconquista - There's more than one way to build an army of conquest!
Pardo's Push - Bravery, ingenuity, loyalty. It was an honor to serve with guys like these.
The Devil Made Me Do It - When you mess up, you have to blame someone.
Revolutionary Jesus - Seeking Truth at Christmas - It’s time for weak-kneed agnostics to stand up and be counted!
Free Will or Preordination? - Amen
Of Mensa and Me - No excuse for doing dumb things.
For Veterans Today, And Tomorrow - "For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!" But it's "Saviour of 'is country," when the guns begin to shoot"
The Deadly Bigotry of Low Expectations - It's easy to live down to expectations
If I Received a Love Poem - An expanded view of love.
Greatest Baseball Player of All - Willie and the Babe, forever number one.
Fight to get Your Virginity Back! - Once you lose it, abstinence won't get it back.
Cargo Cults, Reparations, and Casinos - The dreams are alive!
Review of Global Warming, What You Need to Know - I was happy to be chosen to review Tom Brokaw's special.
Keep it Simple, Simplifiers - There are two types of people in the world, simplifiers and complicators, and you know who you are.

The Global Warming Suite (Global Warming is science, not politics, according to Liberals, so it can go in this index)

Al Gore and his Merry Band of Global Warming Deniers - In denial that global warming is natural.
Preacher Al Gore and the Global Warming Fundies - "Brothers, let me hear you say 'Hot!' Sisters, let me hear you say 'Real Hot!' What have we got!? "A lot a' hot brothers and sisters! Turn on the air conditioning!"
Global Warming Consensus is not Science - At one time scientific consensus was the earth was flat; now it's global warming is man-made.
We have to get rid of the Medieval Warm Period! - If Al Gore can't get rid of it, his "science" is toast
Harvard Study Disproves Unprecedented Global Warming - And Harvard is not a right-wing stronghold
Global Warming - A Stroll Through the European Countryside - Liberals should be very careful as they stroll, since they can't look down and see signs of the Medieval Warm Period. With any luck they'll fall off the "man-made global warming" cliff.
A Sign of the Coming of the Global Warming Plagues - The Gospel according to Preacher Al Gore
Science Opposed to Global Warming Theory - An Index - If you still believe in Preacher Al Gore's Global Warming after you read these articles, you really got the faith!
Ain't No Big Thing - My advice to Al concerning rising sea levels.
Chilling Out Global Warming Hype - A pre-review of Tom Brokaw's Global Warming, What You Need to Know
Review of Global Warming, What You Need to Know - Presenting the other side.
Bring On Global Warming! - Please! Before we freeze!
The Four Whorsemen Of Global Warming - There are more than four now. Maybe I can add a few by having them ride double.
Hypocrisy of New York Times and Liberals - The champions of personal liberty and freedom of the press look the other way when the Left is doing the violating.

Please click on the labels below to see all my articles on each topic.

Uncle Jack

(Synopsis: At this point, 31 August 1998, Alice and I were in the 11th week of our four-month bicycle trip. Germany and England were behind us, Ireland was ahead of us, and halfway between was the Isle of Man in the Irish Sea. To continue - )

We arrived in Douglas, Isle of Man, on the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company ferry from Liverpool to a rainy welcome and the sight of hundreds of motorcycles parked along the Loch Promenade and Strand Street. Unbeknownst to us, we had, according to the happy motorcyclists all around us, been one of the lucky few to have room reservations for the start of the world renowned Manx Grand Prix for motorcycles. We had never heard of it. And when we got to our hotel, our landlord had never heard of us. So much for confirmed reservations during the infancy of the Internet.

Yet somehow, on a small island with no vacancies, our landlord found he had a room for us. Nothing too fancy. Not especially nice. In fact, the note Alice made about it was very brief, “AWFUL PLACE.” And she wasn’t the one who had to carry our packs up several flights of steep, narrow stairs. I would have made a nastier comment, but was too tired.

That evening we went to a nearby restaurant overlooking the Loch Promenade, and when my meal arrived I started to eat with great gusto, not unusual for me. After the first couple of bites I started to compare my memory of what I had ordered with what I was eating. As good as it tasted, I hadn’t remembered ordering it. At about that time, a fellow at an adjoining table remarked that his meal seemed wrong. That observation lead me to remark that I might possibly be eating his, and vice versa. A comparison of the two meals confirmed our suspicions, and we concluded that, since neither of us had consumed much of the other’s dinner, and since neither of us looked like a carrier of an untreatable communicable disease, we would just exchange plates and continue.

However, our unusual introduction served to spur conversation, and we found we had met Sam Irwin of Carrickfergus, County Antrim, Northern Ireland, the Road Manager of Northern Ireland Motorcycle Tours. Unlike ourselves, Sam was happy to be on the Isle of Man when it was filled to overflowing with fellow motorcyclists, or as Alice and I described them, motorcycle nut cases. We told Sam how we were unhappy with our room, and with all the motorcycles roaring around the narrow, twisting island roads, and that we planned to cut our stay short and press on to Belfast, Northern Ireland. Sam agreed that Isle of Man might not be as thrilling for bicyclists as motorcyclists at the moment, and suggested that when we got to Northern Ireland it would be much nicer if we went to the Bed & Breakfast operated by his Uncle Jack’s family in Carrickfergus, instead of one in Belfast. We agreed that sounded like a good idea, and got the address and phone number for Uncle Jack.

We couldn’t leave the next day by ferry, so we pedaled westward across the island to Peel. Along the way we passed through St. Johns and went to Tynwald Hill, which since 1417 has been the Isle of Man parliament's ceremonial home. The island is lovely, its history fascinating, and it all would have been wonderful if the motorcycles had been somewhere else. But unfortunately for us, they weren’t. In fact, it seemed that every would-be motorcycle racer in the world was there on the island with us, and the day we pedaled across was one of the days that anyone who wanted could run his motorcycle on the race route. In the space of just a couple of hours, a couple of hundred motorcycles raced by us. We counted. Alice won our bet. There were a lot more motorcycles running amok than I thought.

Picturesque Peel was a welcome spot of quiet sanity. It is a fishing port, and all the fishing boats were aground on the channel bottom – it was low tide, and in less than six hours the boats would be floating on over twelve to fourteen feet of water, a twice -daily event where the tide change from high to low can be twenty feet. We had lunch in Peel, and visited a castle ruin that probably looked pretty grand when it was new in 1392.

The next morning we boarded the Isle of Man ferry to Belfast, Northern Island, and on our departure were serenaded by the roar mixed with high pitched whines of hundreds of motorcycles doing what they do best, making the rest of us wish they had never been invented.

When we got off the ferry at Belfast, a young policeman spotted us and signaled us to stop. He wondered if we would mind answering a few questions; where we were from, where we were going, what was in our packs, etc.? The single worst atrocity of the IRA terrorist campaign, the Omagh bombing which killed 29 and wounded hundreds, had occurred on August 15, less than a month before our arrival. As soon as we opened our mouths, he knew we were Yanks and stopped worrying about us, and things like plastic explosives in our bike frames (Just a month before, during our week in London, we were lucky our bikes weren’t confiscated and destroyed while we were visiting Kensington Palace). He then gave us instructions to the train station to take us on our way to Carrickfergus.

We got off at Newton Abbey and pedaled towards Uncle Jack’s, just a couple of miles away. When we arrived, we were met by a small, stooped old man, Uncle Jack himself. He apologized that he didn’t have a room for us, but had arranged accommodations for us at his niece Margaret Crawford’s Woodbine Farm B & B. When we asked directions, Uncle Jack told us it was too far to get there on our bikes before it got dark, and that he would transport us in his truck and trailer. When he brought the small truck and trailer around, I started to load our bikes and packs, but Uncle Jack said it was best if he did the loading himself. He did allow me to lift the bikes and packs and pass them to him, but placing and tying them down was all done by Uncle Jack.

When Uncle Jack was satisfied with the load, we got into the truck and he drove us down Carrickfergus Road to Margaret’s house. Along the way he pointed out where his nephew Sam and other family members lived. It appeared that Uncle Jack’s family had not been dispersed by economic necessity like so many other Irish families. When we arrived at Margaret’s, I pulled a few pounds from my pocket to repay Uncle Jack for his gas, and he politely refused with a short statement that has guided Alice and I on our travels and in our lives ever since.

“No, keep your money,” said Uncle Jack. “If you had the chance, you would do the same for me as I have done for you.” After we thanked him, and he chatted with Margaret, he drove off. And Alice and I both wondered, “If it was us, would we have taken the time and helped?” Before we met Uncle Jack, I think Alice and I would have answered, “Well, maybe, if we have the time and it’s not too much of a bother.”

But after our short visit with Uncle Jack, Alice and I agree that our answer would be, “Of course we’ll help, and when you thank us, thank Uncle Jack too.”

The Dublin To Tralee Train

(Alice’s oldest daughter married a fellow from Keady, County Armagh, Northern Ireland, U.K. We visited his family for a couple of days, then continued our trip, this time in the Republic of Ireland.)

We pedaled in a southeasterly direction from Keady into the Republic of Ireland. After a couple of hours we arrived at a train station, and bought tickets to Dublin. Unfortunately, we arrived in Dublin the afternoon of September 13, 1998, as the town was full of madmen and madwomen celebrating or mourning (in Ireland it's hard to tell the difference) the result of the All-Ireland Senior Hurling Championship contested earlier that very day in Dublin. Screaming, yelling, possibly even inebriated supporters drove in celebratory fashion through Dublin streets broad and narrow, probably searching for the hotel room they had booked and a pretty fish monger to share it. We hadn’t reserved a room, and quickly decided that Dublin was much too exciting for us on our bicycles, so we pedaled on to another train station and boarded the train to Tralee.

Soon we were on our way, listening to the sounds of revelry fading away behind, while being charmed by an off-duty conductor singing “No Matter What,” from Andrew Lloyd Webber’s “Whistle Down The Wind.” We had heard “No Matter What” being played all over England and Ireland that summer – it was a monster hit for a group called Boyzone that I had never heard of before, or for that matter, since. And the conductor had a beautiful voice.

It reminded me of a scene from one of my personal top five best movies of all time, “The Quiet Man.” John Wayne as Sean “Trooper” Thornton, running away from his violent boxing past in America and towards his romantic memories of life as a young boy in Ireland, joins some locals in the village pub. Soon, as he did in many of his movies, the director John Ford had the men gathered at the bar break into song, “The Wild Colonial Boy.”

There was a wild colonial boy, Jack Duggan was his name
He was born and raised in Ireland in a place called Castlemaine
He was his father's only son, his mother's pride and joy
And dearly did his parents love the wild colonial boy

(For the lyrics of "Wild Colonial Boy." When the page opens, click on "Melody" at the upper left for the tune.)

So as we rolled along into the darkening evening, the off-duty conductor sang:

No matter what they tell us
No matter what they do
No matter what they teach us
What we believe is true

And I will keep you safe and strong
And sheltered from the storm
No matter where it's barren
A dream is being born

No matter who they follow
No matter where they lead
No matter how they judge us
I'll be everyone you need

No matter if the sun don't shine
Or if the skies are blue
No matter what the end is
My life began with you

(Go here for the lyrics of "No Matter What")

However, we weren’t allowed to relax and enjoy the singing very long before we heard an announcement that a train on the tracks ahead of us had mechanical problems that would delay our arrival at Tralee approximately three hours, which would put it after midnight. Alice and I became concerned about arriving so late without reservations at a hotel or bed & breakfast. We decided that while the train was waiting at the station in Limerick for the track to clear, I would telephone ahead and get us a room.

As soon as we stopped, I got off the train and started the long walk back on the platform towards the station building. It was a relatively long walk since we were in the third car from the front of the train; we wanted to stay close to our bicycles and bags in their special car second from the front. Just as I got to the station and the bank of telephones, I heard another announcement; the train ahead of us was fixed, was on its way, the track was clear, and we would be leaving immediately. Rather than rushing back up the platform to our car, I decided to get back on the train and walk back through the cars to Alice. I hadn’t passed through many cars before the train lurched into motion, and I congratulated myself on being on the train and not left on the platform. I was still congratulating myself, even as I slowly worked my way through the crush of bodies in the bar car, when the train came to a shuddering stop. Something in me somehow knew that I was connected to the sudden stop. I pressed on with renewed energy and foreboding, and in a few minutes came to the car where I had left Alice.

As I came through the door into the car, a woman looked at me and announced, “Your wife stopped the bloody train, you know.” At the same time, I saw Alice, and as soon as she saw me her grief-stricken look changed to a smile. She and others soon filled me in on what happened after the announcement that the train would be departing immediately. Alice had become very concerned that I would be left at the station, and that we wouldn’t be able to contact each other for eight hours or more until the morning train picked me up and carried me to her waiting in Tralee. When the realization hit her that we might become separated and out of contact, Alice did what she always does in such circumstances – she screamed. Truthfully, I have never known anyone who has a faster linkage between perception of danger and letting loose a scream than Alice. Nor have I known anyone with a louder scream.

The singing off-duty conductor took action immediately, and pulled the emergency stop cord. He then opened the train car door and was peering outside back towards the platform when I returned. I thought my fellow passengers would be quite annoyed, but soon found the Irish are the nicest, friendliest people, at least if you’re a Yank, you would ever want to meet. Two of the passengers loaned us their cell phones. We thanked them profusely, and called several numbers, but couldn’t find a vacancy.

We decided to just take our chances when we got to Tralee. When we arrived, we got our bikes and packs, and had just started to leave the station and head towards downtown Tralee, when a woman in an automobile called to us and asked if we had a room. As luck would have it, she owned a bed & breakfast that she only operated during the busy tourist season. She had just closed for the year, but offered to put us up if we needed a place. We happily took her up on her generous offer, and followed her car as she led us to her home.

During our month in Ireland, we always found someone eager to help us on our journey. We had a wonderful time in Tralee at Margaret’s Bed & Breakfast, and it put us in a great frame of mind to start off around “The Ring Of Kerry.”

And another Irish legend was born. They probably still tell tales of the lovely Yank "colleen" whose scream stopped the Dublin to Tralee train!

I can hear them now.

"You know, a scream like that, she could teach the banshee to scream, she could."

"That's right. They say to this very day, when the train is pulling out of Limerick, you can still hear her scream echoing in the hills."

"Aye, I've heard that said too, but then again others say it's just the sound of the amorous Limerick alley cats."

Europe Bicycle Trip Of A Lifetime - We Begin

In May 1998 Alice and I completed preparations for a four-month bicycle trip through parts of Europe. I had resigned from the Internal Audit Department of Kaiser-Permanente in Oakland in early May, and Alice was wrapping up some pet projects at her company, Vulcan Incorporated in Hayward.

We had our bicycles and our gear ready to go, but had only ridden the bikes a few miles and had never tested them carrying the packs or being packed for a trip in an airplane. As a matter of fact, Alice and I had done very little bicycle riding since we got married in 1989.

In our favor, Alice planned the trip very carefully, and I was happy with my choice of bicycles and packs. Alice devoured travel guides, such as Fodor’s and Rick Steves, which proved valuable during the trip. Not only the advice was valuable, but just the sight of her Rick Steves or Fodor’s travel books got us better service from our B&B hosts. Alice also studied books specifically about biking in Germany, England, and Ireland, and made copies of the pages that covered the bike paths on our route.

The bicycles I chose were foldable Dahons with full-size 26” wheels and a 7-speed Shimano internal hub instead of a derailleur shifting system. The bicycles were easy to assemble and disassemble, pack in a carry bag, and take along with us as part of our airline luggage. We were very lucky to buy the bikes we did. Nothing comparable is on the market now. The closest I could find on the Internet now is this.

The night before departure, Alice worked at Vulcan until past 2 in the morning. We barely had our heads on the pillows before it was 5:30, time to be up and off to Dover Air Force Base, Delaware, via San Francisco Airport and Baltimore.

We had high hopes of getting a free military stand-by flight, called a hop, from Dover AFB to Ramstein Air Base, Germany, but we had delayed our departure too much. It was now mid-June, all the kids were out of school, and the regular military and their families were traveling with higher travel priority ratings than we military retirees. After ten days waiting, and little hope for a change, we bought commercial tickets and flew from Newark to Paris.

Our time in Dover was far from wasted. While there, we finally had time to ride the bikes and get used to them and carrying the packs. Also, I got to disassemble and reassemble them, and pack them for transport, almost on a daily basis. Learning these skills, which should have happened before we started, came in very handy throughout our four-month bike tour.

We Arrive In Europe

We landed in Paris at Orly Airport, collected our luggage – two bikes in bags, two large bike packs in bags, and we were wearing our day packs as our hand carry luggage. The first thing we did then was board the airport subway to go to the railroad station. That was the second thing we should have done. The first thing I should have done was reassemble the bikes in the airport. It would have been so much easier to roll the bikes, with the large packs already loaded on the luggage racks, through the subway trains and connecting corridors than to carry it all, bikes included, still in their shipping bags.

I was fortunate that one Parisian, who spoke English as well as I spoke French, saw the monumental effort required for me to move the four heavy pieces by myself, and silently gave me a hand. For awhile I mentally took back all the nasty remarks I have made about rude Frenchmen – but they have all come back to me since – one nice Frenchman is the lone exception that proves the rule.

Our train rolled out of Paris, giving us a charmless view of how most ancient cities look from their railroad cars – the dingy backsides of brick buildings covered with graffiti. Soon we were in the country, seeing the France that the tourist offices want you to see – picture post card villages, everything neat and orderly, no graffiti, no rude big-city Frenchmen. I just threw that last item in. Of course I couldn’t tell from the train what kind of Frenchman roamed the streets of the charming country villages, but in my mind I knew they would be an improvement over the city ones.

At some point we passed without fanfare into Germany, and our rail journey ended in Heidelberg. We checked in to the Ibis Hotel at the train station, and phoned my oldest son Bruce, stationed at Patrick Henry Village, an Army family housing area on the outskirts of Heidelberg. The next day Bruce and my oldest granddaughter Leaha, picked us up and drove us to their house on the Army post.

We visited with them a few days, and readied ourselves for the day we would strike out with our bikes and packs across the German countryside, then on to England, the Isle of Mann, Ireland, Wales, and finally back across England to Germany again.

Klein Gumpen, Here We Come!

On the 23rd of June, 1998, we loaded our packs, mounted our bikes, and struck out through Heidelberg, and then east along the Neckar River. In our typical fashion, it was already afternoon when we finally got going, and we left Bruce and Leaha to care for and eventually bring back stateside 24 generic German garden gnomes.

Alice just had to have the cute things; I couldn’t see any use for them, thought they were butt ugly, and tried to discourage their purchase. The more against it I was, the more for it Alice was. Alice was determined; they would make perfect gifts for many friends and relatives. She already had made a list of who would get which. Bruce eventually brought them in his household goods to Las Vegas, stored them in his closet a year or two, and we finally picked them up and sent them via UPS to our Gualala, California home. Most of them are still packed away in our barn.

When Alice reads this, the now eight-year old plan will be revived. So, dear friends and relatives, please prepare a place in your lawn or garden for a gruesome gift generic German garden gnome to be received sometime this year. Hopefully you have a place where you won’t have to look at it often. They are homely; only Alice and Germans think they're cute.

Our first day took us to Neckarsteinach, and we stayed two nights at the Vierburgeneck Hotel. When we made our plans to bike in Germany, we had decided that if we followed the rivers, we would avoid the hills. The plan worked to a point. When we were traveling from place to place along the rivers, we didn’t have to climb any hills. But when we stopped at a town like Neckarsteinach, and wanted to see the sights in its vicinity, we found that almost all of the things we wanted to see, such as castles, were on the tops of the surrounding hills. So we ended up doing a lot of hill climbing on our bikes, but at least we could leave our big packs in our room while sightseeing.

After two days, and a total of less than 20 miles traveled from Heidelberg, we loaded our packs and pedaled on. We left the Neckar, and went due north to Erbach. Along the way, we faced several challenging hills. Fortunately for me, even though I hadn’t put in much time riding the bike to prepare for the trip, I had been running three to five miles a day. On the other hand, Alice had been working hard at Vulcan almost to the moment we got on the plane, and was not in shape for strenuous biking. As we were pedaling up one long hill, with Alice straining very hard, a truck came up the hill from behind and passed us. The driver gave me a withering look – “Why are you abusing your poor wife like that?” his stare seemed to say. I wanted to explain, “It’s all her idea, this is what she wants to do,” but of course I never got the chance.

We stopped in a little park next to the road, ate our sandwiches and refilled our water bottles, and pressed on for Erbach. Just as we reached our hotel and checked in, it started to rain hard. We were tired, but thankfully dry.

During our short stay in Erbach, I learned a valuable lesson about modern travel that has served Alice and I very well in our many travels since. I had decided it would be a good idea to cash a travelers’ check and get some Deutsch marks. I soon found out that cashing travelers’ checks is a time consuming and expensive process in Germany, and probably elsewhere. When I found a bank that would cash one, the fees were numerous and prohibitive. This was very bad news, since I had brought $3,000 of travelers’ checks with me to use in the many instances, such as when we stayed in Bed & Breakfast hotels, where I knew I wouldn’t be able to use my credit card. Just as I was mentally beating up on myself, I noticed the bank’s Automated Teller Machine (ATM). “I wonder,” thought I, “if my credit union ATM will work here?” So I tried it, and out came Deutsch Marks, and I wasn’t even charged an ATM fee. Further, I noticed that there were ATM’s all over, accessible at any hour of the day or night, seven days a week, with no bank lines to stand in, and no bank managers or tellers to annoy or confuse me, and I them. I tucked the travelers’ checks away for future emergencies that never occurred, and deposited them back into my account after we returned to California four months later.

The following day we pressed on, still headed north, destination Reichelsheim. We never made it that day, or any day since. Alice was worn out, and as we passed a village named Klein Gumpen, Alice said, “I can’t go any farther, I’ve got to stop.” As luck would have it, just as she said that we were passing a hotel, so we turned back and checked in. This unplanned stop became one of the highlights of the entire trip.