Click here for pictures from Gary's sea journey aboard the Repubblica di Genova.
I must decide if I am to begin with The Apple Pie story or how we feared dying at sea.
Let us begin with Apple Pie. Saturday, Jeanne arrived at the ship on time, with glass pie plate, flour and spices for the Apple Pie. After lunch in the large passenger dining room, with Salvatore taking his daily nap and out of the kitchen, we decided to give it a whirl; we is appropriate, because during the course of the pie construction I learned I have a never-before-discovered talent: pealing apples with a paring knife. No wax paper was available, so that made Jeanne′s crust construction difficult. The Apple Pie was constructed, though the top crust was a bit patchy.
What is 400° F on the Celsius thermometer? I chased around the ship seeking Alex, who I knew could conjure the answer. We came up with a reasonable calculation and the Apple Pie was placed in the oven. It was time to pull lines and bid farewell to the docks of Amsterdam.
Jeanne and I bundled in our rubberized slickers and proceeded to the starboard side of my deck to watch our crawl-speed exit through the canals. At 2:30 we briefly took our leave of my deck to check on the Apple Pie; not quite ready, perhaps another 15 minutes. We returned to my deck, where the wind seemed strong enough to carry us away.
The Apple Pie was pulled from the oven and pronounced ready for human consumption, after cooling, of course. In order that no hungry seamen would find it before our 8:00 p.m. dinner, I placed it squarely in the middle of IC′s table in the passenger′s dining room.
Upon the ladder climb down into the pilot boat by our Amsterdam ship pilot, IC called and invited us to the bridge. As we stood in the growing darkness, we could clearly see the swells of the expanding white-capped waves. After we returned to the cabin and the ship began to roll with vigor from side to side, I set out to check on the Apple Pie; it was gone, but there was no Apple Pie debris on the floor. I found it safely hidden behind the bar on a rubber pad, where Luigi had placed it. I returned to our cabin.
Jeanne had been awake for virtually all of the last 48 hours; she was curious if she could resist sleep until the 8 p.m. dinner hour; she did.
When we made our way to dinner, we clung to the railings in desperation. It was rock and roll Saturday night in the dining room of the old Repubblica di Genova.
How could Luigi possibly serve a meal to the four principal officers of the ship and, now, two passengers? He did, the meal Salvatore had prepared (rice and cracked-fried pea soup, pizza, grilled, thinly sliced pork chops, accompanied by sautéed carrots cut large, with a garlicky sauce) was delicious. All ate heartily.
It had been decided by those around the table that the Apple Pie should probably wait until today. "But, let′s have one small slice, for a taste now," IC decided. As Luigi fought to keep his footing as the deck now pitched as it rolled, he served us each a slice. It was near perfection: the small red apples, which had begun appearing as the fruit course after meals, made a firm, tart-ish filling combined with the cinnamon, nutmeg and other spices Jeanne had packed for the trip. The Apple Pie was placed on the normal serving table in the dining room. While we were enjoying the Apple Pie, we all heard an explosive report: The Apple Pie had, in a ship pitch or roll, shot off the serving table, traveled briefly in the air crust-up and landed smartly plate down into a glass-shattering, delicately seasoned, gooey mess. So ends the saga of IC′s Apple Pie.
Our cabin was trashed. During the over 12 hours the Repubblica di Genova traversed the North Sea, the roll of the ship was so great, the only item left in place in the cabin was my laptop on the desk, everything else was on the floor. Bed was the safest place to be, but, of course, sleep was impossible. All available strength we used to brace ourselves sufficiently that we would not be thrown to the floor. As time droned slowly on, and after we got over the fear of dying at sea, it wasn′t so bad. No, gentle reader, we did not get seasick.
Serbia will be nation number 96.
We have learned more about our tempestuous Repubblica di Genova North Sea voyage between Amsterdam and Hamburg. A few containers on the deck went overboard, smashing a steel railing; others were ripped from their moorings and scattered about the deck. We could see the chaos from our porthole.
Jeanne and I were on the bridge, yesterday, during the final few miles we navigated up the Elbe River to our Hamburg dock (where awaiting were tens upon tens of junk cars to be loaded for the voyage to Africa.) Jeanne heard IC tell one of the pilots that the rolls the sea subjected the ship to were "more than 35°."
The floor you stand on represents a half circle plane of 180°. Imagine if the right end of the floor where you are standing quickly drops off 20%; just as quickly, the floor reverses and goes all the over to the left and drops off 20% on that side. Then the rotation of the floor is repeated over and over for 12 hours.
Drawers had to be braced with a heavy chair, placed on its back. The table and chairs in the conference room served as constant battering rams against the wall next to my bed. I believed the wall would finally give way; it did not.
It was impossible to stand without a firm grip on something stationary, like a door jam. The beds, with their low center of gravity, were the only places to be, but remaining in them was a constant critical challenge. If we were to be thrown from the beds, injury was inevitable. Adrian told us that on a scale of ten, (ten being Abandon Ship, Begin Prayers Immediately) Saturday night in the North Sea was an eight.
We are in Bosnia and have been to Serbia, Romania and are about to board a bus to Zagreb, the capital of Croatia. Croatia will bring the quest for 100 to 99.
We have reached 99. We are waiting for an overnight train to Venice, which will pass through Slovenia, number 100. I will step off the train at least once in Slovenia; then Jeanne and I will celebrate as best our circumstances on a second class train will allow.
Because we listened to strangers, our quest for 100 has sped ahead. In the Belgrade airport, we listened to a taxi man who professed to be a driver, but I believe he was a hustler for other drivers; regardless, instead of renting a car, we hired one of his colleagues to drive us for two days. If we had taken a rental car, we would have been hopelessly lost, and lost again. We are very delinquent in our lessons in the Cyrillic alphabet.
We headed for Romania from the airport. Our automobile progress ceased at the border. Jeanne and I checked ourselves out of Serbia and walked into no-man′s land between the two countries. Black marketers were there trading goods. I asked one: "Is this Romania?" She answered in the affirmative. I looked around and asked again: "you′re sure, this is Romania?" She looked at me as if I were deaf, stupid or both. "Yes, she shouted, this is Romania." Then I spotted the sign announcing my 97th nation and I was satisfied.
Back to Belgrade and the Salvia Hotel, with a witty English speaking reception guy; a two kilometer walk round trip to the bus station to check schedules to Zagreb; Jeanne spotted what would turn out to be restaurant with outdoor lighting and we stumbled upon the Absinthe Bar and Brassiere. We enjoyed a delicious; then to bed.
This morning the target was Bosnia. Our very gentle and attentive Bosnian driver was at the hotel before we came down at eight. We found Serbia depressing, shabby-shabby, nothing gentile about it: peasants living in old collective farm housing; all bleak, hard-scrabble, let-hope-not-live-here. Then we crossed the border into Bosnia and everything changed.
My feeds back to the U.S. have been sporadic during our post-ship dash to 100. We were last entering Bosnia on Tuesday.
First, a last thought on Serbia: If you maintain a list of must-go or wanta-go nations before your soul sails from this earth and Serbia is on it, scratch it immediately.
As we entered Bosnia everything changed. Buildings were painted and signs of economic development, on the same rural plain as Serbia, were everywhere. Shortly after the border our entourage stopped at an eye-popping new rustic resort with a wood beamed restaurant and in back a pond, paddle wheel grist mill and a large stone church. Who owns it, where the money comes from to build it (construction on another stone structure was proceeding as we watched) we will never know.
Shortly, we were on a Bosnian bus through the countryside to catch another bus to Zagreb. It worked out and we arrived in the Zagreb bus station at 6:05 p.m. "No, you don′t want to take a bus to Ljubljana if you′re going to Venice. You want to take the overnight train to Venice; it leaves at 23:22."
We had again listened to a tout in a transport hub; again it turned to our benefit. Our man in Zagreb claimed to be a baggage handler, a former seaman: "Are you from Virginia, I know Norfolk." His English was very good and his instructions so precise we acted upon them, after giving him a tip in dollars. We took a taxi to the rail station and spent the evening in the station restaurant slowly, very slowly, drinking, dining and attempting to play gin with a newly purchased pack of 34 Croatian playing cards.
There is a tiny dispute between Jeanne and me as to when I hit 100. For her, Slovenia counted on her over-50 list when the border guard stamped her passport. I didn′t count my Slovenia until I stepped from the train and briskly re-entered in the Ljubljana station. Done! One hundred foreign countries and detached jurisdictions visited in my lifetime. Jeanne and I marked the occasion with a touch of our mineral water glasses yesterday at lunch.
The lady at the information/hotel reservation agency at the Venice rail station got us a reservation at the
After our evening picnic on our balcony, we were in bed by 8 p.m. Since flying to Europe Friday, Jeanne has lost three full nights of sleep: the flight over, the next night as we fought to stay in bed and alive in the North Sea and the overnight train ride; she was tired.
Yesterday we took a waterbus to Murano, the glassmaking island; I had a couple of expressos and that was about it. As IL Commandant said about Venetian glass: "The most beautiful glass in the world, but SO expensive." We had a delicious luncheon at a delightful trattoria in the neighborhood, in the typical Venetian street-maze behind the hotel. Now with the luxury of a long, sound sleep behind us, we are a contented pair of Venetian tourists in seek of one more day of adventure before flying to Dulles airport tomorrow.
Tilt! Re-cork the champagne! Tear down the banners!
Alas, the great cruisin-thru-100.com race has not ended as previously, happily announced. Yes, I did pick up Senegal, Angola, Cameroon, Serbia, Romania, Bosnia, Croatia and Slovenia, but I have a problem.
Yesterday evening I added the eight new countries to my Traveler′s Century Club list. Perusing the 100 countries and detached jurisdictions I have visited, I found that before leaving for the epic boat ride and dash through the Balkans, I had marked and counted the tiny Pyrenees Mountains Principality of Andorra. Alas-again, I have never traveled to the Principality of Andorra. Jeanne counted and recounted the list. There was no ethical manner in which the 99 could be stretched to 100. I even dreamt last night about the Andorra monkey wrench in the gears of my conveyance to 100.
The Repubblica di Genova 11,060 miles African roundtrip and the crazed dash through the Balkans were to have closed this chapter in my life. It is a letdown. The chase to 100 will continue; however, when, how and under what circumstances, I have no idea.
Perhaps cruising-thru-100.com will get some advertising support. Maybe I′ll find a way to travel to new nations, write and publish on the website daily essays about cruise ship life, interviewing passengers and reviewing the experiences. I don′t know what travel experiences the future holds for me, but God willing, they will come about.
I do know for certain that I am home after eight full weeks of intercontinental travel: Yesterday I split firewood with a sledge hammer and steel wedge. I don′t do that anywhere else in the world. Wood-splitting is a Jewell Hollow exclusive.
