Who let us out of America?

Who let us out of America?

So, you might have read Jessa's picturesque account of our 5-year anniversary trek across Europe, and you might have a vague idea of the food we ate and the champagne we drank and the 700 dachschunds we saw along the way.

But what about this?:

                                                             hurt my back to sit on this thing . . .



Some people snap pics of the Louvre, and some people snap pics of the loo. What about that toilet scrubber on the left? Who's that for? I'm all about being nice for the next guy and giving a good solid flush, but let's be serious . . . I should probably clean MY toilet before I start scrubbing for La Maison Expeensaive.


So, I wanted to avoid being this guy:

                                "I'm standing under this giant cell tower, but my reception is still terrible.  
                                                       At least 'Murica has AT&T . . . and nachos . . . where the nachos?."





But I also knew I couldn't be this guy:

                                                            "No, Mr. Connery cannot come to the phone right now. 
                                                                                          Can I take a message?"






So, I decided that I would combat the fact that I could not speak any other languages by learning just enough . . . to apologize.

It seemed like a great plan.  "Je suis désolé. Je ne parle pas français. Est-ce correct si je parle anglais?" (I'm sorry. I do not speak French. Is it okay if I speak English?).  They would be so overjoyed at my effort and the sincere acknowledgement that I was inept at being a local, that they would welcome me with open [English-speaking] arms and accommodate my humble request.

As we neared any maitre d', cashier, blanket-sized-map salesman, etc., I would be mumbling my mantra to myself quietly . . . prepping for the moment when I was given the floor for my little soliloquy, "Mi dispiace. Non parlo italiano . . . Mi dispiace. Non parlo italiano . . . Mi dispiace. Non parlo italiano . . ." 

Then, the moment would come . . . I would be addressed in a flurry of what sounded to me like "Gooblidy gopp jop, himple du bop."

                                                                    "wu . . . er, . . . I, uh . . ."



Lucky for me, Jessa had adamantly refused to even try speaking any other languages, so this is the point where she would come intervene like someone might do when Grampa gets loose and starts trying to talk about Korea without his pants on.

                                                              "We want all the mustard."



"Ohhhh! You want mustard! We thought maybe he was hurt or needed a fresh set of underpants. Yes, here is the mustard."

I know what you're all thinking.  "Jessa's not blonde." Just try to pretend.

So, between my pity-inducing attempts to converse, and Jessa's no-nonsense, cut-to-the-chase approach, we were fed, watered and provided over-priced shelter and useless artifacts of memorabilia throughout Spain, Italy and France.

We went to several different cities (Barcelona, Rome, Florence, Venice, Paris, London).
Venice was pretty cool.  You could get squired around town in a boat by the Hamburglar.

Well, aren't these little guys cute?:

Or at least, they were . . .

Jamon Iberico - a specialty of Barcelona

Ah, Rome.  The sheer beauty of wonderfully preserved ancient architecture.  The Colosseum . . . Vatican City . . . The Pantheon . . . and shouldn't you just take a second to marvel at those beautiful arches?:

                                          

                      You've never lived 'til you've battled gladiator-style in the balls at the Pantheon Play Place

              In Rome, you have to arrive pretty early to get an audience with the Pope . . . and with Ronald McDonald






Florence! Tuscany.  We would have been remiss if we were to pass through this land of wine and not sample the fruits of the vine.  Who has two thumbs and loves Chianti? . . .














This guy:

                                         They were fresh out of fava beans at EVERY winery . . . oh, yes, I asked





In Paris, the stereotype was absolutely true.  EVERYone was on the move toting baguettes at all hours of the day (especially morning).  Jessa and I would be dining al fresco, and I would occasionally shout "Go!", and, at any given moment we could spot at least one person somewhere, within sight, trotting down the street with baguette in hand (or bag).

                                                 Baguette Steve and his black market boulangerie








Okay . . . at the risk of sounding like a typical American schmuck, somewhere in the air between Paris and London, Jessa and I began to . . . breathe easier.  There was a sort of comfort in the fact that the flight attendants (while quite snotty) were barking at us and feigning interest in our drink orders IN ENGLISH!  It started to dawn on us that we no longer had to cross our fingers and kiss our rabbits' feet prior to every transaction in hopes that it would produce a desired result. We were freakin' excited to touch down in Harry Potter's backyard.

London! Big Ben . . . Westminster Abbey . . . The London Eye . . . The London Bridge . . . Buckingham Palace!

So, the first thing we did was the first thing that ANYone would do when visiting London:










WE ATE INDIAN FOOD!

 . . . and it was my favorite thing that we did the entire trip.  That doesn't discount any of the other places we visited and things that we did . . . I just love . . . Indian . . . food.

In summary, this was an amazing trip.  We experienced so many new cultures, cuisines and different types of human-waste receptacles.  We toured ancient ruins, ate cuttlefish cooked in its own black ink, accidentally took a stroll through a topless beach, looked for hunchbacks at Notre Dame Cathedral (saw a girl with a mild case of scoliosis, but that was as close as it got) . . . it was a blast.

It was a great way to celebrate our 5-year anniversary, and I wouldn't trade the memories for anything.  A few more pics to send us out:


Jessa gets quizzical in Venice (when she doesn't know I'm taking pictures):

Apparently, Schwamnkopf means "Squarepants" in French:

Whu?! They don't have these back in the states:

                        mega disappointment . . . these are actually just the Nacho Cheese flavor, in disguise . . .





Whoa, check it out. They now have "Pope-Vision" at the Vatican:

                                                                     Just like when Bono performs