The Village of the Martyrs

The atrocities the Nazis committed are legendary, but most of the attention falls on the Holocaust, and rightly so.

One of the atrocities committed by the SS in World War II is almost never spoken of in the United States, but it is something that is still taught in French schools, and it is but one example of many where the Third Reich took out its anger on civilians.

In 1944, near the town of Limoges in Limousin, French Resistance fighters killed an SS officer and captured another. As the D-Day landings in Normandy had just taken place, it was a time of hope for the French and panic for the Germans.

Over the following days, the Germans planned their retaliation for the killing of their officer. That retaliation was played out June 10 in the town of Oradour-sur-Glane.
SS soldiers - including some from Alsace, which had been disputed by France and Germany for nearly a century - rounded up almost 700 civilians and murdered them.

The men were shot at various points in the small town, and the women and children were herded into the church where they were machine-gunned and then burned.

The entire town was razed, with every building looted and burned.

When General Charles de Gaulle saw the city and heard of the atrocity committed there, he ordered the city be left as a reminder of what happened. To this day, visitors can walk the dead streets, passing what used to be houses and businesses, many with signs telling the barest details of the former inhabitants.
The streets today have been cleared of rubble, much of that having been done when the dead were removed a few days after the attack.

One of the few survivors wrote in his memoirs that when the Germans rounded them up, everyone thought it was an identity paper check. They were herded to different locations before a grenade going off signaled the Germans to simultaneously open fire.

The whole town is a moving experience. It reminded me somewhat of Pompeii, but even though Pompeii was ruined and its inhabitants died in their masses, there is one key difference - Oradour-sur-Glane was wiped out by people, not a devastating volcanic eruption.

Walking into the church where hundreds lost their lives, it was hard to imagine what kind of 'soldier' could set up a machine gun and mow down women and children.Bullet holes still scar the inside of the walls, and at one spot there is a memorial to those whom the village had lost in the First World War. In place by World War II, it too is perforated by machine gun bullets as the same enemy visited its hatred on the town.The town's cemetery has a memorial to those killed, with gravestones throughout the cemetery bearing images of "our dear martyrs." At the memorial, two coffers hold the last remnants of some of those who were never identified - charred pieces of bone.

Even though I know the history of many of the atrocities committed in World War II, seeing such a stark reminder of what those numbers in history books actually mean was a moving experience.

Fort Sumter – 150 years later

Charleston, South Carolina, might be home to more Revolutionary War sites than Civil War sites, but 150 years ago, the first shots of the Civil War were fired in the harbor, at a place called Fort Sumter.

The fort was one of the must-see stops on my trip to Charleston in December. As a kid, I had always been interested in the Civil War, and while some of my friends could tell you how many home runs Babe Ruth hit in his career, I could tell you a trained soldier was expected to fire three shots per minute out of a muzzleloading musket, and other minutiae and historical trivia.

Riding a ferry to the fort takes the better part of 30 minutes, and my first sight of it was just a low dark spot on the horizon, splitting sea and sky on a nice day.

The walls used to be much taller, mounting guns that protected the harbor from seaborne attack.

But it wouldn’t be seaborne attack on April 12, 1861, that would eventually lead to the fort’s downfall.

Confederate gunners opened fire from other nearby fortifications after a signal shot that exploded over Fort Sumter. When I stood in the fort’s courtyard, surrounded by ruined walls and the evidence of the shelling and fire that ensued, I tried to imagine what the fort must have been like back then.

Once the fort had been shelled for 34 hours, a fire broke out, and Maj. Robert Anderson, the fort’s commander, surrendered his garrison rather than let it be slaughtered.

Today, visitors can walk around the fort, climb atop the remains and visit the museum inside, which contains numerous artifacts from the era as well as putting the site into the greater context of the conflict.

Since the fort is a national park, it is well-kept, and guides give free talks and answer questions.

Old forts aren’t at the top of everyone’s travel list, and Charleston has much to offer outside of historical sites (though it has plenty of those). However, Fort Sumter was the first battle in a long war that ended up killing more Americans than any other war in history. If you're at all interested in American history, the site is a must-see.

For up-to-date directions on how to get to the fort, click the link at the top of the article, which will take you to the official site.

Walking with the Dead

Below the streets, I walked alone through darkened chambers lined with the bones of the dead. Hollow eye sockets gazed out at me as I passed by skulls that were artfully arranged.

I was deep in the Paris catacombs, having passed the iconic sign letting me know I was entering the realm of the dead.

The experience was at once spooky, fascinating and fun. I was surrounded by thousands of dead Parisians. We’d all walked the same part of the world, but what a different world it must have looked to them.

I looked at a couple of skulls, wondering who they might have belonged to. There’s no way to tell – the catacombs contain the remains of noble and pauper alike, and no one’s bones are marked.

What was the Louvre to these people? To me, it’s the world’s best art museum. To them, it might have been during its time as a royal palace. Were they with the revolutionaries who burned a wing of it? Or were they older? It’s possible they saw the Louvre further back, as a fortress on the Seine to prevent waterborne attack.

They probably walked on the same lawns of the Champs de Mars where I spent so much time, but they were never there to see the Eiffel Tower – built long after they died.

The catacombs themselves were made when workers needed stone to build some of Paris’ magnificent buildings. Not the Haussmann buildings you see today, but the older buildings.

In the late 1700s, the French had a problem: cemeteries in Paris were full to bursting – literally. Occasionally, an overloaded cemetery would, say, burst through a wall, filling a cellar next door with decaying bodies.

It was a public health nightmare.

So the French decided to reinter the remains in the existing catacombs. The process took several decades, and it has left us with one of the world’s macabre tourist attractions.

When I lived in Paris in 2009, the catacombs were closed due to vandalism. They’ve since reopened, but with added security measures.

When I walked out of the catacombs, my camera bag was searched to make sure I hadn’t stolen any bones.

To think someone would steal the bones doesn’t exactly surprise me, but it is disappointing. Walking among the dead, it’s clear that the bones were placed in their current location with some degree of reverence, and priests were on-hand during the relocation as well.

Many of France’s elites may be buried in the Pere Lachaise cemetery, but so many others rest in the catacombs. Rumors of ghosts stalking the corridors are popular, and it’s easy to see why.

To reach the catacombs, take the Metro to the Denfert-Rochereau stop and exit to the street level, where you will see the entrance.

Yosemite in the Snow

California’s Yosemite National Park is fantastic any time of year, but to see it covered in snow with a clear sky is something I’ve only been fortunate enough to experience once.

In Yosemite, the term, “winter wonderland” comes to life. With several feet of snow blanketing the ground, shining a brilliant white in the sun, even the more mundane sights, like a river seen from a bridge, become spectacular.

Of course, Yosemite is best-known for the towering Half Dome, which was sliced in half by a glacier long ago. Climbing Half Dome is on my list, but not when covered in snow.

Mirror Lake was still nice, but it seems smaller than when I last saw it six years ago. It is, of course, slowly turning into a meadow, and likely the snow and ice make it seem smaller, but it still has a unique beauty.

Also out to enjoy the good weather when I was there over Thanksgiving were the local deer. The one pictured below was just one of many out to feed on the valley floor.

The waterfalls also provide a unique view in the winter. With the temperatures dropping well below freezing, the mist from the falls freezes to the rocks in forbidding sheets of ice. Pictured below is Bridal Veil Falls.

As the sun’s inexorable path casts the valley in shadow late in the day, the low-lying portions turned foggy.

When my uncle first mentioned spending Thanksgiving camping in Yosemite six years ago, I thought he’d lost it. After doing it a couple of times, however, I’ve come to realize what a great idea it really was.

Thanksgiving in France and Switzerland

My Thanksgiving dinner last year was a burnt panini in some crappy truck stop in the middle of nowhere in eastern France.

But I’m not complaining. But really, how hard is it to mess up a panini, much less burn them for 20-odd people?

The reason I was in the middle of nowhere in France was because I was on an hours-long bus ride to Switzerland – where I had one of the best “Thanksgiving” dinners of my life.

I’d never been to Switzerland before, and I would like to say my arrival involved snow-capped mountains, friendly border police and clanging cowbells, but it was a nondescript little town where we made our crossing at 2:30 in the morning.

We checked into Balmer’s Hostel, one of the classic student haunts and backpackers’ hangouts in Interlaken. I was able to comprehend that the curtains reminded me of tablecloths at an Italian restaurant before I passed out on my bed in a room with five of my friends.

The next morning – the day after Thanksgiving – I awoke to one of those fabled perfect Alpine days.

I looked up to the three towering mountains above Interlaken: the Eiger, the Monch and the Jungfrau (Europe’s tallest mountain).

My roommate from Paris and a few of my friends took a bike ride to Thunsee, one of the two “Laken” (lakes) we were “Inter” (between). Along the way we passed glacier water and more majestic scenery.

We later jumped off a cliff without parachutes or bungee cords and were back in Interlaken in time to eat a feast at Balmer’s.

I’ll explain how I hurled myself off an Alpine cliff without dying at some later date.

Walking back into Balmer’s fresh off the adrenaline rush of a four-second freefall arrested by a single rope, my friends and I joined the rest of the students with whome we were studying in Paris and got table assignments.

It’s a tradition at Balmer’s that a Thanksgiving meal is served every year, and as much as I love other cultures’ foods, after two months in France, I was ready for some traditional American food.

And did Balmer’s ever deliver.

We were served heaping portions of turkey with mashed potatoes, gravy, vegetables and even stuffing rolled into a pair of golfball-sized portions.

All of that was capped off with seemingly unlimited bottles of wine (but maybe that was just because some of the female students were shamelessly flirting with our male server so he’d keep them coming.

A few of us guys might have been egging them on...

Once we’d fully stuffed ourselves, drank our wine and eaten our desserts, we headed downstairs to the night club/bar that is under Balmer’s and is one of the few night spots in the town.

Beers were two for $5, and we drank our fill, then we hit the dance floor.

Several hours later, when the club closed and the tryptophan overcame the effects of drink and the endorphins from dancing, we all made our way to our beds.

They’d given us little beer mugs with graphics reading “I had a great time at Balmer’s.” When first handed mine, I thought it was a bit cheesy. Just before the lights went out, however, I glanced at the cup and smiled. Cheesy? Maybe. Dead-on? Yes.

Meeting Rick Steves

I have always used Rick Steves' travel guides when vacationing in Europe, so when I heard he was coming to Sacramento, I managed to convince my editor to kick the story my way.

I called his spokeswoman and set up an interview. You can read the story from that interview here.

And that's how it usually goes with celebrities when you're a reporter writing a preview of their appearances. He was two states away when I talked to him, and that would have been the end of it.

So I was elated when the local public access reporter shot me an e-mail inviting me to meet Steves at a pledge drive in which his show on Andalusia was being aired after the talk detailed in the story linked above.

With my mom being such a fan of his shows and books as well, I brought her along to the station, where we just had time for a few words and a photo op before the live show.

Having never been to a TV studio before, I was equally interested in the whole process, which is best-described as controlled chaos, with three cameras filming while a stage director bounced between them giving hand signals.

Steves was on it, ad-libbing his entire segments, having asked the staff to turn off the teleprompter. He's a pro, and it showed as he was told he had to fill 30 seconds – and made his remarks last exactly that long without having to change how fast he was speaking.

I was impressed by the TV staff and Steves. Despite the frantic nature of the business, technical problems knocking out the host's teleprompter and filling his earpiece with audio feedback, the whole show went well, and the phones in the background were ringing regularly as pledges kept coming in.

I didn't get the chance to talk travel with Steves over beers or anything, but it was definitely cool to meet him. Maybe I'll run into him one of these days in Europe.

An Unplanned Arrival

When I was living in Paris, I had a 10-day period in which I had absolutely no responsibilities, so I naturally decided to travel somewhere.

But where?

A lot can be seen in 10 days, and there is still a massive chunk of Europe I’ve yet to explore, so I was surprised at how long it took me to choose a place to visit.

It seemed like everything I pondered was something I could include in another, longer trip.

Spain and Portugal? I already had a trip planned there with my sister when she graduated college, so that was out.

Norway? Aside from being expensive, I envision seeing Sweden and Finland at the same time, and I had nowhere near enough cash.

In the end, I decided to pull out a map and find a place that I wanted to see, but for which I wouldn’t really plan a trip from the States.

And it was such an obvious choice: Budapest, capital of Hungary.

A few hours later, I was in the WHSmith bookstore on Rue de Rivoli buying a guidebook with an inflated price. I booked an EasyJet flight and looked forward to my leaving in four days.

It turned out that I would be arriving on Oct. 23, 2009 – a date that held no significance to me, but means a whole lot to Hungarians.

It was on Oct. 23, 1956 that the infamous uprising started, which ended with Soviet tanks crushing an ill-conceived rebellion and about 2,500 Hungarian deaths.

But Oct. 23, 1989 was a day of celebration for Hungarians, as the country reverted to Hungarian rule for the first time since World War II.

My flight was delayed, so I arrived at my hotel on the Buda side of the Danube rather late, and I immediately ignored the hotelier’s advice and made for Pest, where any demonstrations or celebrations would be going on.

The site had seen some riots in 2008, but if you tell that to me, that just means it’s the first place I’ll stop. It’s a characteristic that helps somewhat with journalism and gives my mother headaches.

The first thing I noticed, as I made my way from the Fisherman’s Bastion to the river, was that the Hungarian Parliament was lit up in red, white and green, the national colors.

This was only my second time behind what was once the Iron Curtain, and I was not expecting to see such a stately building so well-done (and with the front recently cleaned).

I took the metro under the Danube, riding down ridiculously fast escalators to board trains straight out of the communist era, complete with a triumphant horn sound before the doors slammed shut (yes, slammed. I was used to the Paris Metro’s half-shut, bounce back, then fully shut system, and I was glad my arm wasn’t in the way).

I rode the train with other passengers who were a motley mix of stereotypical grizzled Eastern Bloc workmen, older ladies who had seen it all – from the Nazi occupation in WWII to Soviet oppression and finally freedom – along with younger Hungarian guys enjoying the holiday and an unnaturally high percentage of stunningly beautiful women.

When I arrived at the Parliament, I was disappointed to see that there were no big celebrations or demonstrations. I honestly would have been as happy with a cheering crowd celebrating 20 years of freedom as a borderline riotous march in which Hungarians exercised that freedom.

What I found was much more somber.

I walked through a park, past a statue of victorious soldiers to a flagpole. The Hungarian flag flew proudly, but with a gaping hole in the center that made it look like it had been hit by a cannonball from a Napoleonic ship of the line.

I remembered then that during 1956, the rebels had cut the holes in the center of their flags to remove the communist emblems from them, and the flag I looked at 55 years later had the same hole in it to commemorate them. The flag in the photo below is the same thing, but the photo is from several days later in the nearby town of Szentendre.

I stood in silence while a few older Hungarians lit candles at the base of a monument in honor of the fallen.

Nearby, an eternal flame burned in a marble pillar, and the entrance to the Parliament was draped with Hungarian and European Union flags.

I spent some time wandering around and reflecting on how lucky I am to have, through some accident, been born in the United States, where our great civil rights struggles can generally be won in peace at the ballot box, our press isn’t controlled by the government and we can leave if we wish. When I later went to the House of Terror and saw what Hungarians went through, it brought that feeling home.

Over the next eight days I spent in Hungary, I got a good feel for the country, but I don’t think it would have been nearly the same if I had started it any differently.

Verdun

Nothing symbolizes the horror and brutality of World War I for the French more than Verdun.

During the 10-month battle in 1916, French losses were estimated at about 400,000 killed, wounded and missing. German losses were less, at about 350,000, though estimates vary.

The soldiers lived like rats in trenches, constantly enduring enemy artillery fire and attacks. Even sending messages was dangerous, as couriers had an extremely short life expectancy. If they weren't killed by enemy artillery, poison gas, sniper fire or bayonets, the soldiers suffered from illnesses, fatigue and what we would today call shell shock.

Despite how horrific a place Verdun was, I still wanted to visit the battlefield. Understanding the French experience in World War I makes it clear why the country fell so fast in World War II, when much of the population thought that living under German occupation would be a far smaller price to pay than another war, since World War I left one in three French men between 17 and 33 dead.

The town itself is easy to find and is relatively close to Nancy. If you are, like me, interested in history, then Verdun is a must. The town has always been a fortress city, and the Germans and French have fought over it several times.

One interesting aspect of Verdun's history revolves around two French soldiers who served there - Charles de Gaulle and Philippe Petain. Petain was considered the hero of Verdun, and he commanded the French forces there for much of the battle. De Gaulle, who was inspired by Petain long before the battle, was captured at Verdun. Petain would later collaborate with the Germans in World War II and be a figurehead for the Vichy French government while de Gaulle would lead the Free French forces during World War II and emerge a hero, famously marching down the main boulevards of Paris when the city was liberated in 1944 before German snipers had been cleared out.

When I arrived in Verdun, it was cloudy, and the recent rain had stopped. After passing through the fortified gate that guards one end of a bridge over the Meuse River, I came to the visitor center, which was unfortunately closed.

A map near the visitor center showed the way to many of the sites, and after looking at statues and memorials in the center of town, I hopped in my car and drove to Fort Vaux, Fort Douaumont and the iconic Ossuaire.

Forts Vaux and Douaumont played key roles in the battle, and both were taken by the Germans, then retaken by the French. Each is worth a post in its own right, so I'll save that for later.

Wandering the battlefield is possible, but signs warn visitors to stay on the paths. Essentially, they all sum up the same thing: The weapons used in 1916 are still in the ground, and they can kill you just as easily today as they could 90 years ago.

What was once a war-torn moonscape dotted with shattered tree stumps is once again peppered with woods. Between the tree trunks, the reminders of the war are still visible - earth cratered from artillery shells, half-filled-in trenches where men used to live and concrete gun positions that have long since had their weapons removed.

Reaching the Ossuaire, in front of which about 15,000 French soldiers are buried, I was struck by the fact that this plays such an important role in French history, and I don't even remember it being mentioned in my history classes in America - and I have a minor in history from a university.

In the National World War One Museum in Kansas City, Missouri, there is a section on Verdun. Two quotes from the combatants stood out to me when I was there.

"Shells of all caliber kept raining in our sector. The trenches had disappeared, filled with earth. The air was unbreathable. Our blinded, wounded, crawling and shouting soldiers kept falling on top of us and died splashing us with their blood. It was living hell." - A French infantryman.

The second quote is from a German soldier at Verdun: "Verdun transformed men's souls. Whoever floundered through this mass full of the shrieking and dying had passed the last frontier of life and thus bore deep within him the leaden memory of a place that lies between life and death."

The soldiers of both sides experienced hell at Verdun, and the huge Ossuaire, though open to the public and containing displays, is the final resting place of some 130,000 soldiers from both sides who were unable to be identified.

A tower rising from the middle of the Ossuaire is styled in the shape of an artillery shell, and on the way to the top, visitors can see mannequins dressed in period uniforms as well as some of the weaponry used.

The top of the tower affords a view of the battlefield that can't be had anywhere else. At the base of the tower, visitors can watch a short film that explains the reason for the war and the battle itself along with the stupidity - and there's really no other word for it - of that particular conflict.

The last place I stopped was at one of the communication trenches. With its moss-covered, rotting timbers still in place, I could just imagine the hundreds of men who must have passed through it. Communication trenches connected the various trench lines and allowed men to move between them without as much risk of being spotted by the enemy. They almost always moved at night, and the only guidance a man had was to stay close to the man in front of him. There were countless instances of units getting lost, then finding themselves on exposed ground at dawn, where alert artillery observers saw them. Within minutes, they would be shelled and killed.

Verdun, or any battlefield, for that matter, is not the place to go if you want to experience the joie de vivre for which France is so famous. If you want to understand France, and especially its role in the 20th century, however, I think Verdun is a place that must be visited, or at least understood.

A soldier killed Nov. 9, 1918.
For him, the armistice came two days too late.

If you're interested about the battle of Verdun, I recommend Alistair Horne's "The Price of Glory: Verdun, 1916." Written in the 1960s, Horne - a British historian - tends to editorialize a little bit, but the book provides a good explanation for the battle without expecting a lot of prior knowledge of the war.

Snorkeling in Hawaii

The best thing Hawaii has to offer is its natural beauty. The nightlife and posh resorts are nice, but that experience can be had just about anywhere.

No trip is really complete without getting an up-close view of the myriad tropical fish.

There are, literally, hundreds of places to snorkel on the islands, but one of the easiest to reach for most visitors in Hanauma Bay, on Oahu's eastern shore about 10 miles from Waikiki.The best advice I can give for a trip to Hanauma Bay is to get there early. The nature preserve is invariably crowded during its open hours, and the more people out kicking through the water, the more sand gets stirred up, obscuring your view.

After paying $1 to park and $7.50 per person to enter, there is a mandatory video before visitors can descend to the beach, either on foot or by tram.

I've been to Hanauma Bay several times, and despite snorkeling opportunities elsewhere, it is still worth the cost.

I brought my own snorkeling gear, but there are numerous places to rent it in Waikiki, as well as at the bay itself. The benefit to renting in Waikiki is that you can take it to other parts of the island once you're done with Hanauma Bay.

On my last trip, I swam along the surface as I snorkeled - something it takes some people a while to get used to, as breathing underwater just isn't natural.

With the narrow inlet to the bay, there is really no danger of being swept out to sea as long as you stay close to shore, and the water is shallow enough to stand up in if you get tired.

The fish you'll see the most of are schools of unimpressive silver fish, but they are exciting at first.

After about 10 minutes in the water, I spotted several angelfish, with their tall, narrow bodies slicing through the water as they scurried for cover. I also notices several rainbow-spotted fish, a number of skinny trumpetfish that resemble eels and dozens of other sea creatures.

After about two hours at the beach, the cars and buses brought more and more people, and I decided to head out to another part of the island and get on with the trip.

For more information about Hanauma Bay, visit the official site here.

Dinkelsbuhl

Many travelers following Germany's Romantic Road would love to find a town that is the non-touristy equivalent of the picturesque Rothenburg ob der Tauber.

Unfortunately, such a town does not exist, as Rothenburg's preservation as a medieval city was only made possible through its fall in the Thirty Years' War (1618-1648) and the ensuing poverty that lasted until the 20th century.

One town, however, comes close - Dinkelsbuhl.

Dinkelsbuhl sits along the Romantic Road less than an hour away from Rothenburg by car.

With many of Rothenburg's charms - a medieval wall, a Gothic cathedral, cobblestone streets and excellent local eateries - Dinkeslbuhl is less crowded and feels more like Germany and less like Disneyland, but it lacks the historic significance of Rothenburg and the myriad restaurants.

I visited Dinkelsbuhl in 2006, and I found it to be worth a stop on the way to Munich if you have time. It seems like much of the wall has been taken out, but substantial portions still stand. You can't walk its length like you can in Rothenburg, but after Rothenburg, you should have your fill of walking around the walls.

There are a few shopping streets in Dinkelsbuhl, and you can find the sorts of shops the locals typically frequent. Rather than Rothenburg's tourist traps - where sellers hawk spoons, beer steins, fake medieval weaponry and Christmas decorations - Dinkeslbuhl's shops include clothing stores, soccer shops and grocery stores.

What Dinkelsbuhl has that Rothenburg lacks is a lake full of swans and a nesting spot for the birds atop one of its buildings. (There's a chance the nest is for a stork, but swans are on the lake).

When I visited Dinkelsbuhl, I wandered around the town's uncrowded streets, visited the cathedral and had an excellent serving of apple strudel with ice cream at a small restaurant near the cathedral recommended by one of the helpful locals.

One of the trips I want to take in the future is a bicycle trip along the best sections of the Romantic Road, with more time to explore each individual town and the surrounding rolling green hills.

Hundredth Post - My Five Favorites

After 99 previous posts, I have a few I particularly like, so I'll just list them here.

I'm not sure if I like them for the merit of the writing, the subject matter or from remembering the experience, but they stick out to me as my favorites. Click on the bold text for the original article.

Paris Throws a Party
This was my first blog post, and I originally wrote it as an assignment for my column and review writing class in college. I had a habit of procrastinating, and that assignment was no different. I wrote it an hour before it was due in The State Hornet newsroom while the fire alarm was going off over my head and my editor was interviewing me for a copy editing position (no joke). It worked out, since I got an A on the assignment, I got the copy editing job and the school didn't burn down.

Bruges: Belgium's Jewel
In the movie In Bruges, the characters hate this canal city that was the financial capital of Europe in the past. I happen to love it, and I plan on returning. It's tied with Rothenburg ob der Tauber for my favorite small town in the world.

Prague at Dawn
I really enjoyed Prague. It had a special appeal as it was my first trip to a former Communist Bloc country. Wandering around the city by myself an hour before dawn and watching it wake up was a unique experience, and one I hope to replicate the next time I'm in Paris.

A visit to Normandy
Having minored in European history in college, and having been interested in World War II before that, Normandy always held a special fascination with me. Growing up, I never thought I would get the chance to visit the battlefield.

The Mad King's Fairy Tale Castle
Schloss Neuschwanstein is the epitome of a fairy tale castle, and it should be at the top of the list for anyone visiting Germany. Disney based a castle on it, and it has graced thousands of postcards, TV shows and movies. The views from the top of the Alps and the nearby lowlands are fantastic, and a walk across the wood-planked bridge nearby isn't for those with a fear of heights.

Meeting Matisse

Every once in a while, when I'm traveling, I meet someone who simply can't be classified.

That was the case with a German man I ran into in Colmar, France, a week before Christmas in 2008. Colmar's Christmas market was in full swing, and part of that market was a display of various farm animals.

When I saw a man walking a donkey on a leash down the street, I made the assumption that he had been involved with the display.

I was completely wrong.

The donkey was being ornery, as they often are, and the man stopped to pet his muzzle and calm him down. We stopped a few feet away and asked if he spoke English.

His German accent wasn't a surprise, as Colmar is in Alsace and is very close to the German border, but what he told us was surprising.

The donkey was named Matisse - after the French painter - and he wasn't in Colmar as part of the Christmas market.

"I take him to the city because he likes to see the lights," the German said. "He really likes to go on walks."

I kind of thought he was kidding, but he was quite serious.

I've seen men walking elephants through the streets of Jaipur in India, but I had expected that. I never would have guessed that men would just hook a rope up to a donkey's bridle and lead him on a leisurely stroll through a French city.

This particular German - I wish I'd gotten his name - said Matisse was 14. Donkeys live into their 40s, he said, adding that they and their owners develop relationships every bit as meaningful as those between dogs and their owners.

We petted Matisse while the German kept beaming and sharing his experiences, and when Matisse looked at the lights, the German nodded in his direction, as if to say, "See, he loves them."

After my mom and sister posed with Matisse for the photo, the German led him off down the street, and not a single person even gave the odd pair a second glance.

Manneken Pis

Manneken Pis is the biggest little attraction in Brussels.

As the Dutch name implies, Manneken Pis is a small statue of a naked little boy making water on a street corner.

Many myths, legends and untruths surround the fountain's history and inception. Some say he was a nobleman's kid who urinated on an opposing army in the Middle Ages. Others claim he used his natural means to put out the fire of a fuse set to blow up parts of the city. Another popular tale is that he was the son of a wealthy traveler or merchant who was lost, then found by citizens as he did his business in a garden.

I personally found it odd that no one seems to be able to give an exact reason for the statue's construction, but I knew I couldn't see Brussels without paying homage to the bronze boy.

Throughout the past 200 or so years, visiting dignitaries have sought to clothe the boy. According to some accounts, French King Louis XV's soldiers made off with the little statue. Louis, furious with his soldiers, had a costume made for the boy and returned the statue.

Regardless of how the tradition came about, Manneken Pis now has a few hundred costumes at his disposal.

When I saw the fountain, he was naked as the day he was forged. He was, to my disappointment, eliciting a stream of common water. I'd heard he is sometimes hooked up to a beer keg and that passers-by are offered a drink. I think that would make quite an interesting social experiment, as some people would go for free beer at any cost, others would refuse it out of principal and still more might be on the fence.

Personally...I would have gone for the free beer from a unique tap.

In any case, I looked at him for a few minutes, shrugged and headed to the town square for a visit to the Manneken Pis museum - displaying hundreds of his outfits.

Wandering through display after display of outfits and photos, I realized the little lad has had quite a storied life. He's worn the uniform of multiple armies, including Napoleon's Imperial Guard and an American World War II uniform. Business suits, police uniforms, clown costumes and many, many more were on display as well.

At the time of my visit, I didn't know there are other Mannekens Pis in the country, but Brussels claims to have the oldest, and quite honestly, it's not that impressive, but is definitely worth a stop for the novelty of it.

And speaking of novelty, why not have a pint at the Taverne Manneken Pis, then pick up a Manneken Pis corkscrew/botttle opener combo? The latter has great shock value as a gift.

Manneken Pis is located at the intersection of Rue de l'Etuve and Rue du Chène, a few hundred yards from the Grand Place (town square).

For more information, visit a Web site claiming to be the official one here.

Elephanta Island

Elephanta Island appeared as a phantom through the haze from our boat as we neared the halfway point of the one-hour ride from Mumbai. The island, named by Portuguese colonists after the huge elephant statue they saw when they first arrived, is home to a complex of caves carved out of rock between 600 and 700AD and is today a UNESCO World Heritage site.

My travel companion, Deon, was visiting India to see his ancestral homeland. His father is Hindu, and Elephanta’s caves were carved by followers of the cult of Shiva, one of the most powerful gods in the Hindu religion.

Once our boat docked, we hired Milind, a local guide. He led us down the pier past moored fishing vessels alive with Indians scraping barnacles and weaving nets to the 120 steps leading up to the caves.

On the way up, we passed through a bazaar of vendors all selling items made on the island and included everything from pearl necklaces and silk paintings to carved fishbone elephants and religious statues. A mischievous monkey stole one vendor’s water bottle and finished it off in a tree.

After paying the $5 entry fee, we saw the mouth of the main cave. It appeared as a square hole cut out of solid rock supported by four pillars reminiscent of Greek or Roman architecture, but distinctly different. Milind explained that the whole cave, along with all of its pillars, adornments, reliefs and details, is carved from a single piece of rock.

Inside, we marveled at the artwork, which is a combination of the Gupta and Chalukyan styles. Enough light filtered between the square stone pillars to illuminate the relief scenes carved in the walls.

Standing in the center of the caves, walking in the footsteps of artists who carved them without machines almost 1,400 years ago was a humbling experience. Gone was the oppressive heat of Mumbai, the constant din of honking horns and hubbub of a city at once too large and not large enough. I traced the outline of a small elephant sculpted into the corner of a pillar and asked Milind about the namesake elephant that used to stand on the island, but which is now in Mumbai’s Victoria Gardens.

“The elephant is a Hindu sign of welcome,” he replied. “The Portuguese didn’t know what it was for.” He then pointed to a panel along one side of the cave. Shiva’s arms were missing, and there was some damage to the flat surfaces as well. “The Portuguese did that, too, with their guns.” I leaned closer and felt the rough edges of a hole made by a musket ball centuries ago, trying to picture the soldier who was a long way from home finding small amusement in a foreign land.

I turned to Deon and saw that he was transfixed by the relief on the back wall, portraying the three-headed incarnation of Shiva – Mahesamurti, in which the aspects of creation, protection and destruction are brought together, each represented by one head. Milind told us it is one of the most powerful in the Hindu religion.
Off to the right was a sculpture of the Seed of Life, which Hindus believe sprouted into the lotus flower and eventually became mankind. It sits in its own room, protected by towering stone guards.

In the courtyard between the main cave and one of the smaller ones, we learned there should be a statue of a bull, which Shiva rode, but it was another casualty of the Portuguese colonization.

Another pair of caves whose stone was too soft for sculpting provided housing for the builders of the main caves. Rather than tour those, which are empty, we asked Milind if we could see his village instead. He readily agreed and led us over a barely discernible trail he said is a local shortcut. It eventually opened into a larger path, and we rounded a corner to his village.

I felt like I was the first foreigner to ever set foot within its bounds, although that is highly unlikely. The first building I noticed was squat and no bigger than my bedroom. It had a brightly colored conical dome rising from one end, indicating it was a temple. A low stone wall set it back from the paved footpath and the other pastel buildings around it. A couple of dogs chased each other in front of it.

It turned out to be the 10th anniversary of the temple’s construction, which is dedicated to a local god. A festival was planned for that night, and a woman at the temple’s door handed us each a spoonful of masalah, a mixture of grits, raisin and butter for eating during prayers, when meat is not allowed. It tasted doughy and sweet.

As Milind led us through the haphazard streets of his village to his house, few people were out. Most were working as guides, selling trinkets at the market or fishing. The entrance to his house was guarded by a yellow lab named Lucky. His father sat on a plastic chair in the corner and greeted us in Hindi.

The house itself was only one main room with a small bedroom, but was floored in beautiful tile and well-kept. Silks hung on the walls, a vibrant cloth divided the bedroom from the main room and a family photograph sat on a shelf to one side.

Milind told us he would play the keyboard at the festival that night. We insisted he play for us, and he eventually gave in. After playing a song on the keyboard, he handed it to Deon and pulled out another instrument for himself. Together they played while I sat watching and taking pictures.

After they finished, we thanked Milind and his father, then headed back toward the pier for the next boat to Mumbai. We left Elephanta Island as we’d found it, a specter in the haze. Only this time that specter represented a new cultural perspective for both of us.