European Trip 1992

Monday-Tuesday (May 18-19) -- I met my older brother John at Chicago's O'Hare Airport, and together we boarded a direct flight to Brussels, Belgium, for two-weeks of travel in Europe.

WEEK ONE

It was still light out when our plane departed at 8:40 p.m., but once airborne it turned dark quickly. We were served dinner and talked instead of watching the inflight movie that followed.  At midnight Chicago time, John said the sun would be rising soon, which seemed odd to someone who had never flied to Europe before.  John put on his blinders, reclined his seat, and dozed off.

I tried sleeping but couldn't, as I was too keyed up about finally seeing the Grand Prix circuits of Northern Europe: Zandvoort, in the Netherlands; Spa-Francorchamps, in Belgium; the Nurburgring, in Germany; Reims, in France; and Silverstone, in England.  John had formulated plans for us to visit Amsterdam while in the Netherlands; to see Aachen, in Germany, and, during our second week, in England, to see the English towns of Rye and Bath, and, of course, London.  His travel agent had booked us in some fancy & pricey hotels.

John was right.  Around 1 a.m., somewhere over the Atlantic, the first rays of sunlight appeared, as a blue-black glow, gradually brightening to a silver-blue.  Far below, white caps shown on the rippling ocean.  When John awoke, it was fully light out.

I set my watch ahead seven hours to conform with Continental time.  At 9:30, we were served breakfast.  At 10:30, land came into view--wide beaches and a river delta, then endless farmland.  I thought it was France, but it was actually Ireland.  Shortly, we passed directly over London.  On this bright, clear morning, the River Thames was easily visible, curling back and forth, like some snake.  London itself appeared as gray-brown smear surrounded by emerald-green countryside.

In a few minutes, we were over the English Channel, shimmering and dotted with dozens of tiny craft, trailed by long white tails.  The next land to appear was Belgium.  The plane descended, making a long ease curve, then touched down in Brussels, ending our eight-hour flight.  Local time: 11:45 a.m. (Chicago time: 4:45 a.m.).

The terminal looked like most modern US air terminals: a boxy glass-and-steel structure, with broad carpeted walkways.  We moved through customs without delay, rented a compact blue Opel Astra, stowed our gear in back, and headed north for Zandvoort.  It was a delightfully warm and sunny day, the kind that makes you glad to be alive.  Welcome to Europe!

Between Brussels and the Dutch border was farm country--wide, flat expanses of green fields, and pastures with herds of grazing cattle.  The modern expressway and green surrounding countryside, easily could have passed for rural Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois, but the tractor-trailers we encountered, weren't the familiar Jimmies and Macks, but brawny Mercedes Benz haulers.  The occasional farmhouse and barns we passed were all roofed with bright orange tiles, rather than the customary asphalt shingles of the American midwest, yet another reminder that we were in Europe.

We weren't stopped by customs at the Dutch border.  The lane stations were closed, and we motored through without stopping, the result of recent efforts to unify Europe.  This would hold true for our border crossings back into Belgium, in and out of Germany and France, but not into England.  We would need to show our passports for that seagoing passage.

After entering the Netherlands, we crossed over two of Europe's major waterways, the Meuse and Rhine Rivers, which run parallel before draining into the North Sea.  Later, on our journey down to Spa, we would drive along the Meuse for many miles.

After by-passing Rotterdam, we encountered Dutch farm country--more endless miles of flat green fields, cow pastures, and more farmhouses and barns with orange tiled-roofs, only now windmills loomed on the horizon, and canals crisscrossed the land.  The canals were above the fields, channeled through earthen berms.  Netherlands means, "Lowlands." Half of the Dutch country was once a tidal marsh, and was reclaimed through an ingenious system of dikes, water pumps, and canals.  The windmills are a remnant of the era when wind was harnessed to pump away the water.  No doubt, the fertile fields we were crossing were once nothing more than a vast tidal wasteland.

We arrived in Zandvoort around 5 p.m., and located the Grand Prix circuit among the grassy sand dunes, north of town.  Then we searched for a hotel, choosing the Hotel Lammy, which would prove to be our cheapest lodging of the trip.

Circuit van Zandvoort opened to all comers at 6 p.m.  Except for a single passenger car circling the track, the place was deserted when we arrived. I signed a form written in Dutch, paid 35 Guilders ($19), and John and I were each handed a helmet.  With John at my side, I drove the Opel for a few laps before realizing the back half of he circuit was no longer there, having been sold to developers in 1985.  The Grand Prix circus hasn't been back since.

Surprisingly, our little front-wheel-drive Opel, handled well on the short, tight track.  It had good brakes and cornered with only a slight body-roll, but the tiny four-cylinder engine, wailing like a banshee, sounded strained above 4000 RPM.  I had no intention of testing the limit of the Opel, but after a few laps my foot was pressed to the floor.  This was a race track, after all, with no speed limits, stop signs, or cops hiding behind a billboard.  John hung on gamely as I accelerated and braked through a succession of tight curves, with tires squealing, gears grinding, and the engine wailing, all the while trying to be as smooth as Jim Clark, but failing miserably.  The sand dunes outside the looping Tarzan Curve, which lay at the end of a long straightaway, showed signs of deep tire tracks where cars had "lost it", and seemed to beckon. I could easily image John and I sweating to dig out the Opel, and braked hard for the curve.

Our 15-minutes time allotment having expired, we were signaled to pull off.  By then, the parking lot was half-full of racy sedans, small sports cars with bulging tires, and some serious-looking motorcycles, with more coming.  They arrived with screeching tires, gunning engines, and blaring rock music. Guys and girls congregated around some of the more impressive-looking equipment.  It looked like a scene of any American drive-in restaurant on a Friday night.  John and I nosed around the empty pits, took some photos, and returned to town for dinner.

Zandvoort is a beach town, with narrow streets paved with red bricks.  Except for the newer high-rise hotels along the strand, everything seemed to be made of brick--streets, townhouses, and shops.  The Dutch we encountered in the hotel, and in restaurants and shops, spoke good English and were friendly -- and smoked incessantly.  Coming from the U.S., where health laws, (and health consciousness) have reduced smoking to the point where it's rare to see someone smoking in public, it came as something of a shock to see so many people out puffing away on cigarettes.

On the hotel's recommendation, we dined at "Queenie," a sidewalk cafe within walking distance of the hotel.  The ambience, service, and food were excellent.  I ordered trout (a particular specialty in both the Netherlands and in Belgium).  It was butterflied and broiled to perfection, but wasn't boned.  I didn't know how to bone a cooked fish, other than bone-by-bone, which is tedious.  Our server saw my plight and showed me the trick--knife around the edge, then lift up a tip of the spine, pull up and--viola!--every bone lifts out complete.

After dinner, we roamed the town, peered inside shops, and soaked in the warm evening air.  In a residential section we walked beneath trees and houses, with shuttered windows and planter boxes, blooming with an array of colorful flowers.  The last remnant of sunlight didn't fade out until 10 p.m. We returned to the hotel, showered and sacked out at midnight.  It was my first sleep in over 24 hours.

Wednesday (May 20) -- Breakfast came gratis of the hotel, and consisted of one hard-boiled egg (still hot), cold cuts, toast and jam, and coffee.  Afterwards, we packed our bags and drove 20 miles to Amsterdam, "City of a Thousand-and-One Bridges."  Those bridges cross over 100 kilometers of canals, that crisscross the city.  We took a tour boat through the network of canals, which is a relaxing way to see Amsterdam. Our tour guide pointed out various sights, speaking alternately in French, Dutch, English, and, I believe, German.  It was another bright, clear day, and every view was postcard perfect.  The canals are flushed daily and sparkled jew-like under the bright sun.

Most of central Amsterdam is little changed since the 17th century and, like Zandvoort, is built of bricks.  The buildings are four-and-five stories tall, freshly painted, and well-kept.  Most streets are narrow and used for walking and bicycling.  Bicyclists were everywhere, chiming their bells to alert you of their approach.  The other mode of city transportation were the trolleys, which clanged noisily back-and-forth on the boulevards.  As we neared the house where Anne Frank and her family had hid from the Nazis, we encountered long lines of people waiting to get in. Having read "The Diary of Anne Frank", my big regret is that we shunned waiting in line, and therefore missed the opportunity to see what is now known as "The Anne Frank House."

After lunch, we headed for southeast Belgium.  Our destination was Liege, where we would be staying for the next three nights.  Or so we thought.  We crossed more stretches of open farm county, until reaching the Meuse River, where the Flemish Plain gives way to rolling hills.  We followed the Meuse to the Belgian border, and down into Liege.

Liege is much like Pittsburg, an industrial city that produces coal and steel. It's also the gateway to the Ardennes, a vast forested planeau that covers southeast Belgium, most of Luxembourg, and parts of western Germany, and northern France.  Once we arrived, we discovered our hotel was not in Liege, but in Pepinster, a Belgian village nestled in a river valley ten miles further east.

Our hotel (the Hostellerie Lafarque) looked like an English hunting lodge and stood atop a hill overlooking the river valley.  The view from our hotel room was onto a grassy knoll lined with tall trees, and to my mind, looked very much like a golfing fairway, with an imagined putting green reachable with a nine-iron.

The language of southeast Belgium is French, but fortunately our hostess spoke some English, which would prove especially helpful that night at dinner.  The hotel menu was in French, and I didn't have my French dictionary handy.  John recognized lamb and ordered it.  I was about to order something called "cerveau" when our waitress stopped me.  She smiled and stammered trying to think of the English translation, but couldn't.  Thoughtfully, she retrieved her French-English dictionary to translate and I'm grateful she had.  As it turned out cerveau was cow's brain. Not exactly what I had in mind.  I decided to order what John was having--roast lamb.

It was an extensive meal, involving several courses that would consume three hours, which seemed even longer because we were both pretty tired. Salad was NOT one of the courses, as salad is not a part of the traditional French dinner.  The main courses are generally two meat dishes, say, fish, followed by fowl, lamb or beef.  At some point, I saw something that looked like a desert cart being rolled around.  The cakes looked delicious from a distance.  But those same cakes turned out to be cheeses, every type and flavor imaginable.  John and I passed--this time.  John and I were somewhat bored when the final course was served, but the guests around us seemed to be enjoying themselves, chatting on and on, while sipping wine from glasses that were kept ever-full by the attentive staff.  We returned to our room around 11 p.m., and turned in immediately.

Thursday (May 21) -- As the crow flies, the Nurburgring lies 50 miles due east of Spa, occupying a section of the Ardennes plateau that, in Germany, is known as the Eifel (pronounced I-ee-full) Mountains.  However, the Nurburgring wasn't on any of our maps, and neither John nor I knew its exact location.  John was certain it was near Prum, just over the German border.  Prum would become our first stop.

It was another warm clear day.  Midway to the German border, on the expressway we were confronted with a detour.  To my surprise, we were soon traveling through a section of the Spa-Francorchamps circuit, a section of which I recognized. We motored downhill past the pits and over the start-finish line (or what had once be the pits and start-finish line; as the circuit had been heavily modified in the late 1970s).  Next, we swooped down over European motor racing's most famous bridge--L'Eau Rouge (red river)--and turned right, for a steep climb uphill into the forested hills.  Reaching the circuit's high point, we made the left turn at Haut de la Cote, and proceeded down to Virage de Burnenville.  From here, the original circuit proceeded across a broad farm valley, then rose up through the forested hills back up to the start-finish line, near Francorchamps.  However, on this day, the detour avoided this section, and returned us to the expressway.

This lower half of the circuit had been cut out when the circuit was altered to make it safer.  Virage de Burnenville had been among the fastest and most dangerous curves in Grand Prix motor racing, and plays a prominent role in my novel "The Ragged Edge".  The drama I portrayed was based on a real-life incident involving American F-1 driver, Dan Gurney.

In 1966, Gurney had gambled that Burnenville would be dry, while rain was falling elsewhere on the circuit.  He drove into the curve blindly at 150 m.p.h.  Any slight precipitation would have sent him flying out of control, into one of three stone barns or other immovable objects outside the curve. Luckily, the curve was dry, but Gurney would later say it was like taking a revolver loaded with one bullet, putting it to his head, and pulling the trigger.  Yes, the chamber was empty, but it was still a foolish thing to do.

Within minutes of rejoining the expressway, we crossed over into Germany, and located Prum. It was a village located in a wooded valley, with a large medieval church in the center.  Tourist information sent us to a bookstore which had a local map showing the Nurburgring clearly marked.  Hallelujah!

With our destination clearly in mind, we were now traveling through the Eifel Mountains, rolling hills that reminded me very much of southern California's rolling hills.  The occasional farmhouse and village we passed had white stuccoed walls and black slate roofs, and were well maintained.  The two-lane road was smooth and wide, and signs were clearly posted, evidence of Germany's noted order and discipline.  Traffic was light.

We stopped for a sandwich and coffee in Kelberg, a pleasant village set among a grove of trees.  We sat outside and enjoyed the sunshine and clear blue sky.  Just uphill from Kelberg, looking like some earthen embattlement, was the Nurburgring circuit, that Grand Prix great, Jackie Stewart once dubed "The Green Hell."

The Nurburgring is named after the Schloss Nurburg, one of several medieval castles between the Rhineland and the Belgian frontier. It's neither the biggest nor the oldest castle, just the most famous, due to its proximity to the circuit.  Since the circuit didn't open until 5 p.m., we decided to investigate the castle.

Castle Nurburg sits atop the highest mountain in the area, and can be seen from miles around. We drove through the tiny village of Nurburg, parked under a stand of trees, and walked up an incline to the gate.  Parts of the castle have been restored, including the keep, which is the tallest tower.  The rest is a glorious ruin.  John and I climbed up the inner stairway, stopping several times to catch our breath. Nearing the top, the passage was steep and cramped, and we had to crouch down to keep from bumping our heads.  At the top, the view was spectacular, overlooking vast green valleys and dense wooded hills.  On a clear day, one can see the twin spires of the Cologne Cathedral far to the north, or so they say, but on this clear day I couldn't see them.  Perhaps if I had brought my binoculars, I might have seen them.  Perhaps.  Nonetheless, the view was spectacular.  The 14.2-mile circuit spread out before us, like some giant ring, winding uphill-and-down-dale as it passed through the hills and valleys that circled the Castle.  In the distance, I could hear a motorcyclist starting out on his journey around the track.  At first the rider was to my left, hidden by fir trees.  I could hear the engine's rise and fall, and the changing of gears.  Slowly, he circled around in front of us.  Far to the south, I saw a glint of chrome as his machine dipped down and crossed over the Adenau Bridge, before disappearing behind a hill.  I could hear the motor wail as the rider raced uphill to the Hohe-Acht summit. Nearing the top, he rounded the Karussell, a banked, bowl-shaped curve.  Within minutes, he was racing downhill through a succession of fast curves, moving behind us.  When he hit the Tiergarten Straight, the engine howl grew louder as he neared the castle.  I turned and saw him flash below us, a rider in red helmet, crouched low on his white motorcycle.

Having descended the castle, we next visited the circuit museum, which was disappointing.  Apart from a single W196 Mercedes Benz Grand Prix car, and a few Ferrari sports cars, most of the race cars were unexciting Formula IIs and IIIs, or racing motorcycles.  Despite the close proximity to Stuttgart, there weren't any Porsche to be seen, apart from the huge flat-12 turbocharged engine that powered Penske's championship winning '73 Can-Am racer; why not display the entire car?

At 5 p.m., we jointed the queue of cars waiting to disembark around this legendary circuit.  Unlike Zandvoort, there were no forms to sign or helmets to wear.  Presumable, we could kill oversells any way we chose.  We paid 8.5 Deutsche Marks ($5) and began our drive around the long, hilly circuit.  The Nurburgring is infamous for its variety of twists and turns, rises and drops.  Writer Olivier Merlin (in Fangio: Racing Drive) offers this description: "The overall impression is of a Luna Park, with springboards, toboggans, walls of death, dips and banked bends which will leave the driver short of breath . . . It is very difficult to remember one's cut-off points from one lap to another, the distance and variety is so great."

Some of the very greatest Grand Prix drivers of all time--Tazio Nuvolari, Juan Fangio, Stirling Moss, and Jackie Stewart--overcame impossible odds to win on this treacherous and difficult circuit.  In the 1970s, the Nurburgring, was heavily revamped for safety reasons.  The humps and bumps were smoothed out, the road widened, stone walls, hedgerows, and trees were replaced with broad shoulders, escape roads, and steel guardrails.  When Juan Fangio again drove the circuit in 1983, he didn't recognize many of the curves, such was the extent of change.  Despite the multitude of changes, the Nurburgring is considered unsafe by today's safety standards, and is no longer a part of  Formula One calendar. In its place, the promoters have built a small, slow circuit that for all intents an purposes resembles an American go-kart track.

I drove the first lap, and my brother drove the second. Even driving slowly, some of the corners took us by surprise.  Besides watching the road carefully, we had to mind our rearview mirror, as motorcycles or Porsches would suddenly appear in a rage of sound and fury, and blast by us unexpectedly.

Afterwards, we drove down to the medieval village of Adenau, which is notable for its 15th- and 16th-century half-timbered houses.  We dined at restaurant in the public square, then started back for our hotel in Pepinster.

Friday (May 22) -- Aachen, which is known as "The Cradle of Europe," lies midway between Liege and Cologne, just over the German border, and is famous for having been the hub of the great Frankish empire of Charlemagne, an empire that comprised most of 9th-century Europe.  The centerpiece is the former Palace Chapel, which now forms the heart of the Great Cathedral.  It's original stained-glass windows were destroyed by World War II bombing, but the modern replacements give the right effect and pulsate with multi-colored light.

After seeing the Cathedral, we roamed the cobblestone streets and located the Rathaus (town hall), which faces a row of restored medieval houses that circle the market square.  Built in the 14th-century, the Rathaus' facade is lined with the figures of 50 Holy Roman Emperors--31 of whom were crowned in Aachen.  Above the entrance, a statute of Charlemagne shares a niche with statues of Jesus Christ and Pope Leo III.  Aachen is yet another hot springs mecca, established by the Roman Empire.

It was another warm sunny day, so we had lunch at an outdoor cafe near the market square.  John casually photographed the surrounding buildings, and an occasional pretty girl who walked past.  Later, I made my first trip to a public restroom, and was surprised to meet a plump, middle-aged woman charging admission at the door (about 20 cents).  The mens room was spotless and smelled of soap.  Among my lasting impressions of Europe is the restrooms.  Wherever we found them, they were fastidiously clean--an invariably watched over by someone asking money at the door.  I would gladly pay in the U.S. if it meant having public restrooms as clean as those in Europe.

That afternoon we drove down to the Spa-Francorchamps circuit, and were disappoint to learn the circuit was closed for a motorcycle race.  Fortunately, the day before we had driven the first and most important leg (Francorchamps to Malmedy).  The second leg (Malmedy to Stavelot, which includes the long Masta Straight) was omitted when the circuit was revised in the late 1970s, and was open to traffic. We followed a backroad to Stavelot, and drove the 3-mile Masta Straight in reverse of the original circuit (Stavelot to Malmedy).  Midway on the straight we encountered the renowned "Masta Kink', an ease-curve through a small Belgian farming village, where Formula Ones once routinely passed through at 190 m.p.h.   In 1970, three-time world champion, Jackie Stewart, wrote: "Any waiter who has ever been up his tiptoes, leaning forward, off balance and hurtling down a narrow aisle carrying a tray filled with hot coffee has a rough idea of what it is like to drive a race car through the Masta Kink." When our little Opel rolled through this ease curve, John, who was at the wheel, braked, dropped down a gear, and slowed to 40 m.p.h.  How Formula Ones went through in fifth gear at 190 m.p.h., I will never know.  Capturing the sensation in my novel, was one of several writing challenges I would face.

We drove through Malmedy, then followed another backroad to Spa.  In doing so, we got a first-hand look at how the pine forests above the valleys are harvested and replanted.  Driving through the rolling hills east of Spa, we saw groves of mature pines, all of the same height; groves of half-grown trees; groves of seedlings sprouting up; and tracts of recently cut trees--hundred of stumps--and tracts where the stumps were being uprooted for new planting.  What we witnessed was not unique to Belgium. Most of Europe's forests have been cut down and replanted several times, over the past millennia.

Finally, we arrived in Spa.  Since Romans times, Spa has been noted for its hot springs, and has lent its name to health resorts the world over.  For centuries it was one of the favorite resort of tsars, kings, statesmen, princes and philosophers, who came to Spa to bathe in its health-giving waters.  It's still the source of the most popular drinking water in Europe.  As the saying goes, Americans drink Perrier, while Europeans drink bottled water from Spa.

Major battles have been fought over this territory in both World Wars, including the Battle of the Bulge, in World War II, which included the towns of Malmedy, Stavelot, and Spa itself.  Evidence of this can be scene in several stone monuments dedicated to American soldier who fought and died in the Belgian Ardennes.

We dined on the patio of the 18th-century Casino, which lies within the town square, adjacent to the stately Les Thermes de Spa (the thermal baths of Spa). These large and gracious buildings, now in a state of decay, are remnants of Spa's glittering past.  Midway through lunch, several motorcyclists roared into the town square, with engines gunning, the riders still decked out in their colorful driving coveralls; each with a pretty girl seated behind him.  They dismounted and walked past us, and disappeared into the Casino. The scene so inspirited me that I planned to use in it my novel (alas, I never did).

Saturday (May 23).  The Hostellerie Lafarque served us the usual breakfast  of one hard-boiled egg, cold cuts, yogurt, cereal, and fresh breads.  After that, we packed our bags, checked out, and headed for Reims, 100 miles to the south.  The wooded hills of the Ardennes soon gave way to lush green fields, many sprinkled with spring flowers, scenes that reminded me of Monet's "Poppy Fields in a Hallow Near Giverny".

Reims is renowned for its Gothic Cathedral, one of the most famous in France, and for champagne, which it originated.  Between 1932 and 1966, it could also claim fame for hosting the prestigious French Grant Prix.  When we arrived in the city, I found out from the tourist office that the circuit hadn't been used since 1970, when it hosted its last sports car race.  John and I decided to see the Cathedral first, and to drive out to the circuit the following day.  But first I located a bookstore, where a helpful sales clerk, assisted me in finding nine French children's books, for my young son Scott, whom my wife intended to use as a tool to teach him French.  The cheapest postage to America was by merchant ship, very slow. As it turned out, the books didn't arrive at my Illinois home until after my return.

The glory of the Reims' Cathedral is its facade. "It's so skillfully proportioned that initially you have little idea of its monumental size" (Fodor's Travel Guide).  With the exception of the 15th century towers, most of the building was constructed in the 13th century.  Inside, the stain-glass windows and stone tracery rise dramatically overhead, reaching the high vaulted ceiling, which is barely visible in the shadowy interior.  The atmosphere is cool and hushed, compared with the heat and noise of the surrounding city.

Outside, scaffolding was erected along the east wall, evidence of the restoration that has been ongoing since World War II, when the Cathedral was badly damaged from shelling.  Today, it's air pollution that is destroying the Gothic Cathedral.  The "Laughing Angel", which sits atop the north door (and is the symbol of Reims), is slowly eroding from acid rain.

It was Reims where Joan of Arc achieved her greatest triumph, taking back the city from the invading English Army, and in the crowning of Charles VII, king of France, in 1429.  Joan's likeness is evident in heroic  statues both inside and outside the Cathedral.

Our hotel for the night was the L'Assiette, a large tudor building set back from the street, among a stand of trees.  A Bentley/Rolls Royce car club had elected to spend the night there as well, and choked the small parking lot with its vast array of vintage automobiles. In the morning, we watched the owners lovingly wash and  chamois dry their beloved cars.

Our reservations included dinner, which meant we were in for another three-hour meal.  The maitre d' and dining room staff were all dressed in white tuxedos, and stayed very busy serving various courses, removing dishes, and keeping water and wine glasses full.  John and I were dressed casually and felt out of place, among the guests' suit-and-tie attire. A waiter who spoke fluent English helped us with the French menu.  I ordered salmon and pheasant as my two main courses.  I was served two dishes of salmon--I believe one of them pickled (succulent and almost sweet), while the other was broiled (very tender and tasty)--and was as good as any salmon I have ever eaten.  Served next, was pheasant baked in a pastry shell.  It was slightly tough and not as tasty.  This time, when the cheese cart rolled around, John and I made a selection.  John enjoyed his cheese more because he was drinking wine, which, as a part of multi-course French meal, is how it should be taken.  We finished our last course at midnight, and returned to our room, tired, and determined not to sit though another three-hour French meal.

When I returned home to Chicago, I found an article about French cuisine by the erudite and irreverent motor racing journalist Henry Manney, in a July 1962 issue of Road & Track magazine:  "I have talked to quite a few people who don't like French cooking.  Too many sauces hiding God-knows-what, they say, and everything smells of garlic and those cheeses are like somebody's old socks and meals go on for so long. . . .

"The French meal, like the best architecture, is constructed as a whole and not in bits and pieces.  Each dish is meant to complement the others, and it is folly to order garlicky escargot, for instance, and follow it with poached turbot.  Your stomach won't necessarily be upset, but the fish will have no taste. . . .

"You will be served three or four courses (none of too great a quantity) which lead up logically and gastronomical to the end. The object, need I add, is not to make a pig of oneself but to savor the (chef's) work. . . ."

Now he tells me.

Friday (May 24) -- Like Spa-Francorchamps, the Reims circuit was comprised of public roads, and for years competed with the Belgian circuit for the honor of being the fastest road-racing course  in Europe (usually, Spa was faster, if slightly).  Where Spa achieved its record speed through a series of harrowing tree-lined curves, speed at Reims was attained from boringly long straightaways, over a scorched-brown plain.

Early the following morning, we drove out to what remained of the Reims' speed Mecca.  The first structure to come into view was the Augerge du Circuit de Reims (Reims Circuit Inn), which sits beside what had once been the Thillois (tee-la-waa) hairpin.  The orange tile roofs and white stucco walls were little changed from the days when Formula Ones competed here.  When we entered, formally-dressed patrons were being served Sunday brunch.  The only evidence of motor racing was a single framed poster above the bar, of a Ferrari sports car.

Further up the road, on what had once been the front straight, the pits and grandstand complex still stood, overgrown with trees and weeds.  The windows in the rooms above pit row, had long since been smashed out.  Inside, the plaster walls were flaking and falling into pieces among the glass shards on the floor.

John and I snapped several photos, mindful of the passenger cars that whisked past.  Afterwards, we drove on to Gueux, a quaint French village that the circuit had passed through until 1952, when a new road was laid bypassing the village (thus making the circuit even faster).  I had with me "Motor Racing Circuits of Europe", a book with photos and text by the legendary English journalist Louis Klemantaski.  The book shows a prewar Grand Prix Lago-Talbot braking for a curve into a Gueux alleyway.  Studying the  photo closely, John located the exact spot where the photo was taken, and snapped two photos of the corner, one with me in it.  The village buildings were virtually unchanged from the book's photos.  In fact, nothing much had changed around the French circuit; it was still bordered by wheat fields.  The suburban sprawl we have come to accept in the US, was not in evidence anywhere in Reims, or in Europe, thanks to a population that has remained mostly stable throughout the 20th century.   Many of the landmarks that I recognized from photos taken of Reims in the 1960s, for example, were unchanged.

  Next, we returned to the city searching for "The Caves," underground caverns where Reims' famous champagne ferments, and where local promoters once hosted a yearly dinner and champagne tasting for the drivers.  Reims is, of course, the Champagne Capital of the world.  It was here, that an 18th-century monk and cellar master named Dom Perignon invented the systematic (rather than occasional) production of bubbly champagne.  "The Caves" are not caves at all, but excavated pits created from the removal of limestone used to build the city.  When champagne sales went international in the 19th-century, the major producers needed vast underground storage areas, so they covered the derelict limestone pits, and connected them with a series of tunnels.  We visited the Pommery caves, which are extensive and house 25 millions bottles of the bubbly.  Some 116 well-worn steps lead down to the dank, chalky caverns, where the dusty green magnums lay on racks, and "sleep" in semi-darkness from four-to-five years.  According to our guide, Pommery was the champagne cellar the Grand Prix promotors held their yearly champagne shindig.  One of the settings in "The Ragged Edge" takes place here.

It was 4 p.m. when the tour ended, and we hadn't had lunch.  We returned  to the center of Reims, and looked for a restaurant that served lunch.  Most were closed, and wouldn't reopen until 7 p.m.  The few that were open served drinks only.  We would have this problem again in England as well.  It seems there were no Denny's or such restaurants serving meals 24-hours a day.  Virtually all restaurants have hours for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and are closed the rest of the day .  Should you miss a meal, as we had, too bad. We would have to wait until the 7 p.m. dinner hour.

Our hotel for the second night in Reims was the Royal Champagne, which lay on the edge of the Montagne de Reims, a lofty forest-topped plateau.  It's here, circling the plateau like some jeweled belt, that the champagne grapes are grown. Our room over-looked a broad hill of vineyards.  After checking in, we drove back into the city for dinner at one of the touristy restaurants near the Cathedral.  We dined in an upstairs balcony and really enjoyed our American-style meal (a course of salad, followed by the main dish).

After dinner, we drove out to the Porte Mars, three Roman arches that once served as the gateway to Reims.  It was here, during the middle ages, that Reims hosted an annual fair, where farmers and craftsman from throughout France gathered to sell the bounty of their farms, and craftsmen to display their wares.   Evidence of the wagons that traveled here can be seen in the deep grooves worn into the exposed bedrock, created by the wheels of what must have been thousands of wagons over several hundred years.

WEEK TWO

Monday (May 25) -- We spent the morning driving up to Bruges, in Belgium, near the port city of Oostende, where we would depart for England, the following morning.  Known as the "Venice of the North," Bruges literally means "bridges," after the multitude of bridges that cross the city's extensive network of canals.  Bruges is one of the best preserved medieval cities in all of Europe.  The gabled  storefronts, churches and narrow cobblestone streets are virtually unchanged since the 15th century, when the city was a prosperous inland port.  Towards the end of that century, the River Zwin silted up.  As a result Bruges languished for 300 years.  Its reawakening began in 1903, with construction of a canal to Zeeburgge, or Bruges-on-Sea.

As with Amsterdam, Bruges' canals are flushed daily, and no longer give off the rank oder that once fouled the air of both cities.  After checking into a hotel (the Doc de Bourgogne, which sits precariously on the edge of a canal), we toured Bruges by boat, which is the popular way to see the city. Later, we climbed the 270-foot Bell Tower, which is Bruges signature landmark.  The view from the top, commands a breathtaking view of the city.  We also visited Bruges' market square.  Then we followed one of the canals to Minnewater (a.k.a., the Lake of Love), which was once an inner dock.  Today, it's surrounded by grass-covered banks and plentiful weeping willows.  Walking back, we toured a convent that was founded in 1776 (the year of USA's founding).  We dined at a nearby cafe, then walked until dark.

Tuesday (May 26)  -- The Duc de Bourgogne served breakfast in a sun-filled room that overlooked the canal.  We had the usual Continental breakfast, of one-hard boiled egg, cold cuts, toast and jam.  Then we packed our bags and drove up to Oostende, where we returned our faithful Opel Astra to a rental agency, and boarded a hydrofoil bound for Dover, England.  By ferry, the channel crossing takes four hours, but in the high-speed hydrofoil (the hull of which lifts a good two-feet out of water), the crossing took just one hour.  As with an airplane, there is no sensation of speed, until you see another hydrofoil headed in the opposite direction.  Wow!

On the Dover coast, we rented a Ford Escort with right-hand steering, something totally new to me.  I was happy to let John drive, because it took a while for me to adjust to the new arrangement.  Several times I forgot being in England, saw cars approaching in the left lane, and panicked.  I would adjust and feel comfortable with the change--after two days.

Our first stop was Rye, 30-miles down the coast from Dover.  Rye is another medieval town, perched on a hill, with narrow streets and half-timber houses. Rye was once a thriving port, until the 16th century, when the harbor began backfilling with sand, causing the sea to recede.  Today, the sea is two-miles away.  We walked the cobblestone streets and, like any self-respecting tourist, took lots of photos.  We also visited the 12-century Church of St. Marie, followed by investigating the three imposing city gates (a.k.a. the Longate fortification), and the 13th-century Ypres Tower, a three-story fortress that was once part of the Longate fortification.  It's now a museum.

We had lunch in a quint little tea shop, then departed for Banbury, where we had hotel reservations.  Tomorrow: Silverstone, the home of the British Grand Prix.

Wednesday (May 27) -- Silverstone lies on a plain 60 miles northeast of London, in the heart of rural England.  Indeed, the roads in the area are lined by eight-foot tall hedgerows, that hide miles of green farmland.  The 2.9-mile circuit was created from the perimeter roads of an abandoned World War II airfield, where RAF bomber crews once trained for bombing missions over Germany.  As with Spa-Francorchamps, the circuit has been heavily modified to comply with today's rigid safety standards.

Thanks to these safety standards, as well as to the incredible technological advances made in chassis design, Formula One racing is now very safe.  However, circuit safety has come at a cost (adding chicanes in the middle of long straightways, and in the middle of fast curves; and by cutting in half traditionally long circuits).  As a result, they have literally cut the heart of a number of classic circuits, to the point that they are no longer unique.  Yes, driver fatalities and deaths are mostly eliminated; however, F1 drivers complain that today's circuits are boring and all-alike (with the exception of Monaco, which, thanks to the slow speeds, has resisted the facelift suffered by most circuits).  In the 1960s (the time of my novel), each circuit had its own character, that required driver's skills unique to that circuit.  Silverstone, for example, had a fast, challenging curve called Woodcote, that featured two apexes for drivers to clip.  Today, a chicane precedes the curve.  Instead of barreling into the curve at full-tilt, Formula Ones now crawl through the curve at half the prior speed.  No question, the changes were absolutely necessary. Indeed, in 1970, three drivers perished, including the driver who was to win that year's drivers' world championship (Austrian Jochen Rindt).  Thanks to the safety measures since employed, such tragedies are rare.

I had reached out to all the circuits prior to our trip, and had arranged a meeting with Tim Addison, the press secretary at Silverstone, who we met us upon our arrival.  He had promised that we could drive on the circuit.  However, on the day of our arrival, all bets were off.  A few days earlier, BMW car dealers had rented the circuit, and were tooling around in the latest models from Bavarian Motor Works.  As a result, we drove on the service roads to various points around the circuit, took photos, then stopped for lunch at the restaurant behind the pits.  The day's special was steward pork-and-apples served over white rice.  It was good.  Tim Addison walked over, asked how things were going, and wished me well with my novel.

After checking out of our hotel in Banbury, we visited the local bookstore, where John asked a sales clerk if this was the Banbury in "Banbury Cross," an old English nursery rhyme.  She assured us that it was, and informed us where to find the famous cross.  It stood in the center of a roundabout, one block from our hotel, and was carved from stone.  Modern relatives of the poem's "fine lady" still reside in the area.

On to the Cotswold Hills, and to the town of Bath, where we would spend the next two nights.

Thursday (May 28) -- After nine consecutive days of sunshine, it rained, if only sporadically.  We spent the day sight-seeing Bath.  As with Spa and Aachen, the Romans were attracted to this area because of its hot springs, and created a series of "baths", hence the name.  Unearthed in the last century, the Roman Baths lie 20-feet below the present street level, and include swimming pools, saunas, and Turkish baths.

Bath is also famous for its graceful Georgian architecture, which can be seen throughout the town, in neat rows of spacious homes, and public buildings, arches, terraces and colonnades, all carved from the same cream-colored stone, that the Romans had used to create their baths.

Friday (May 29) -- In the morning, we drove on to Castle Combe, and to Laycock, two 15th-century villages.  The "castle" of Castle Combe no longer exits, but the village remains, considered one of England's prettiest, and was featured in the motion picture "Dr. Doolittle." It was misting rain when we arrived, which lent an enchanting air to this picturesque village, nestled within a brooding wooded valley.  Tourists huddled beneath colorful umbrellas, as they walked the rolling streets.  The buildings were constructed of thick stones, with roofs of split stones.  The homes and shops of Castle Combe are registered as ancient landmarks.

After visiting the small, ancient church of St. Andrew, we slipped into a quiet pub for refreshments.  My brother ordered an Irish Guinness, while I tried one of their non-alcoholic beers.  Non-alcoholic beers and lagers have become popular throughout England, now that a drinking-and-driving prohibition is being strictly enforced.

Laycock was not as charming as Castle Combe.  We looked around a bit before stepping into The George Inn, for lunch  The sky lifted for our drive to Oxford that afternoon.  After the elegant Georgian Buildings of Bath, the stone buildings of High Street appeared to be clumsy and care-worn, and--I can think of no other word--ugly.

Saturday (May 30) -- Since we were in the land of Shakespeare, we drove up to Stratford-upon-Avon, the bard's birthplace.  Outside of town, we visited Anne Hathaway's Cottage, the home of the woman whom Shakespeare wooed and married, in 1582.  With its thatched roof and large garden, it's the most photographed farmhouse in England.

It had been threatening rain all morning, and after lunch it poured down in droves.  Clinging to our umbrellas, we trudged to Shakespeare's birthplace, a half-timbered house lying in the center of Stratford.  As with the Hathaway Cottage, it has been faithfully restored to reflect the Elizabethan style of the period.

That afternoon, we drove down to London, where we would spend our last three days, in Europe.  The rain had stopped, but it was still overcast as we approached the city.  Our hotel was the Fleming, just off Piccadilly Circle, in Mayfair.  We had stayed in several ritzy hotels, but this was the tops, literally--a top-floor suite.  We each had our own bedroom, with television, and private bath.  There was a third bedroom, a living room, kitchen with a microwave oven, and a washer-dryer.  We had it all, as the saying goes.

After getting settled, we walked across Green Park to Buckingham Palace, and joined the tourists pressed against the fence, watching the Palace Guard, which would, on occasion emerge from their statuesque pose, and march in place.

We had dinner, and walked to the House of Commons, where I got my first view of Big Ben, the clock tower that is London's signature landmark.

Sunday (May 31) -- We no longer needed the Ford Escort and dropped it off at an agency near Victoria Station.  Then we boarded the Underground Train (or "Tube," as the locals have it) to look for the London home of John Wagner, the central character of "The Ragged Edge."  Earlier, the concierge at our hotel, had given me the names of several likely boroughs where Wagner might live.  Our first stop was in South Kensington. Once we had walked up to the street-level arcade, and pushed through the glass doors to Thurloe Street, I knew that this was the place.   Across the street was a block of white row-houses, the kind I imagined Wagner would call home.  I took several photos, and investigated the various side streets.  One block over was a welcome pub, the kind I imagined Wagner would frequent.  Inside was a gentleman watching the Monaco Grand Prix, that at first I thought was a tape-delayed broadcast.  However, judging by the man's anger at Ayrton Senna, who was holding up Nigel Mansell's faster Williams-Renault, it dawned on me that being in London, the Monaco Grand Prix would be shown live at this hour.   While I didn't stick around for the finish, I learned later that Senna's blocking tactics had paid off handsomely, and given him yet another Monaco Grand Prix victory (his fourth; he would win five in all).  For Nigel Mansell, who had finished second, it was the one black mark in a season where he would win nearly every F1 race.

Pubs (short for public house) were once the common man's club and social center, and feature a warm, homey atmosphere, with comfy upholstered furniture, dark woods, tiffany lamps, Victorian posters, and bric-a-brac.  Some even have a fireplace.  They all serve a variety of beers and food, and not just sandwiches, but hot meals and fresh salads.  In London alone, there are some 6000 to 7000 pubs.

After exiting the pub, we walked to nearby Royal Albert Hall, where the Beatles had once performed.  "If it were in Spain, you'd swear it was a bullring" (Penguin Guide to London).  Albert Hall is perfectly round and hosts everything from rock concerts to political conventions to boxing matches, but is famous for hosting "The Proms" -- summer Promenade Concerts that feature the world-famous London Symphony Orchestra.

John led me to the Ennimore Garden Mews, former horse stables that had been converted into condos.  One of these he had photographed during a prior trip (his photo ended up being featured in a calender published by his church).  Some of the chicest and most sought-after condos of London are former stables.

We worked our way back to South Kensington Station, and took the Tube to Trafalgar Square, which features several fountains, and is the terminus for political rallies and demonstrations.  On this warm and sunny day it was a host to flocks of pigeons, and lots of children frolicking in the fountain waters.  The neoclassic National Gallery is one of several buildings facing the square.  Another attraction is "St. Martins-in-the-Fields", a 19th century church that is famous for its prominent steeple (widely copied in the US). The church also serves as the venue of for the world-famous St. Martins-in-the-Field Orchestra, that is known as London's "fifth orchestra."

We boarded the Tube again and disembarked at the Tower of London, where the Crown Jewels are kept, and where scores of leading citizens were once imprisoned and executed.  Tower Bridge, another London landmark, lies practically next door.  In its prime, the Tower Bridge raised for river traffic some 50 times a day.  Today, it opens maybe three times a week.  Walking toward the bridge, John mentioned he had been fortunate enough to see the drawbridge open.  I was, of course, impressed.  Then, as we neared the bridge, a bell began clanging, cars stopped, and, wouldn't you know it? the drawbridge yawned open.  My brother seemed stunned.

Tower Bridge is often mistaken for the London Bridge, the source of yet another English nursery rhyme.  Rebuilt in 1973, the London Bridge has little to distinguish it from several bridges that now cross the Thames.

We returned to South Kensington intent on having dinner at the pub we had visited earlier.  It was 6 p.m. when we arrived, and the pub was filled to capacity, so we dined at an Italian restaurant near the station.  The food was hearty and tasty--just the ticket.  Afterwards, we walked back to our hotel, a distance of about two miles. To our tired legs, it seemed much longer.

Monday (June 1) -- For the last full day in Europe, John and I went our separate ways.  I returned to South Kensington to do more exploring and picture-taking.  While walking the streets, I passed several embassies, including one for Monaco, and past the residence of a former U.S. Ambassador (Joseph P. Kennedy). I visited a couple of pubs--photographing one extensively--for my novel.  Of course I did reward myself with one of the dark non-alcoholic brews.

I took the Tube back to Mayfair, and walked up Baker Street, and passed 221b Baker Street, the address of another fictional character--Sherlock Holmes.  There is a Sherlock Museum nearby, featuring a recreation of Holmes' famous study, and several shops that sell Holmes' memorabilia.  I browsed several shops, but passed on seeing the museum (they were asking six pounds admission ($11 dollars), which seemed steep, and I was running out of money, so I passed.

I had lunch at a pub on Baker Street, then walked back to Westminster, to see the Westminster Abbey.  Along the way I passed a statue of Dwight Eisenhower and another of Abraham Lincoln.  London is a city of statutes, that can be found almost everywhere you look.  London is also a city of parks.  I crossed St. James Park to reach the Abbey, and would cross Green Park to reach our hotel, later that afternoon.  By following the paths through four of London's parks--St. James Park, Green Park, Hyde Park, and Kensington Gardens Park--you can walk through the heart of London and think you are walking through the countryside.

Westminster Abbey is London's second most famous church, after St. Paul's Cathedral (St. Paul's features a dome reminiscent of the Capitol dome in Washington D.C.).  It has been said that St. Paul's belongs to the city, while Westminster Abbey is the special domain of the Monarchy.  For 900 years most of British royalty had been crowned in Westminster Abbey.  It's a huge Gothic Cathedral, proportioned along the dimensions of the Reims Cathedral.  Several famous British subjects have been buried beneath its polished stone floor, notably George Frideric Handel.

I returned to our hotel following Birdcage Walk, that skirts the Wellington Barracks.  The elite British Guard are quartered here, and as I walked past, were being drilled.

It had been a long day with lots of walking, but it wasn't over yet. That evening John and I attended a performance of G.B. Shaw's "Pygmalion," at the Olivier Theatre.  The staging was impressive, and the acting divine.  Alan Howard, who played Henry Higgins, curiously stayed in character during the curtain call.

Tuesday (June 2) -- It was time to go home.  We packed our bags, took our morning meal at a small restaurant near "Third of Church Christ, Scientist, London," and called for a cab to take us to Heathrow Airport.

At times, it seemed like an overly long trip, but now, that it was about to end, it seemed short indeed.  We both agreed, our only mistake was not seeing Paris, as it was not that far from Reims. Maybe next time. . . .

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