Rambling

Snow-covered mountains in the distance embrace the movie-perfect town but heat has arrived unexpectedly and we're peeling off layers as we amble across the Salzburg pedestrian bridge. Any moment I expect to see Julie dressed in dirndl, skipping towards me. Instead, we pause to capture the scene with melting snow-infused waters flowing swiftly past us. The bridge is uniquely adorned with locks. Curious, we move closer and discover that each lock is marked with what appear to be initials. Is this some type of revered tradition among the townspeople and maybe even their many visitors? At the hotel, a well-informed staff member unravels the mystery. Romantically involved couples routinely write, or carve, their initials on a lock and then affix it to a portion of the bridge. In so doing, they are signifying their commitment to each other.



Eating Italian al fresco on a crisp May evening, we watch as a crowd magnifies in anticipation of a daily event. The historical astronomical clock in Prague's main square attracts a tourist melange. Henry swiftly retrieves his camera from a shirt pocket and joins the throng, hurrying back before his pizza has time to cool.



Afterwards, we stroll through the now mostly vacated plaza and notice a pamphlet announcing an evening concert. Fully fed, we are ready for entertainment and soon, with tickets in hand, we search unfamiliar streets for the venue. By lucky happenstance, we arrive just as the audience is filing inside the venerable building. I'm musing about the fact that it wasn't destroyed by heinous invaders more than sixty years ago. I know that the so many congregants were systematically annihilated. Recognizing the painful past of this sacred place, I am humbled. We are entering the Spanish Synagogue, so named because of the extensive tile work within the structure reminiscent of the famous Alhambra in Granada.




Dimly lit, extravagantly furnished, the synagogue thrives and survives. Toward the far end, there are five chairs for the musicians. We've come to hear selections written by American Jewish composers, including Gershwin, Bernstein and Jerome Kern. Four violins and a trumpet comprise the talented group.



Less than one hundred people sit on benches and in random chairs in the middle of the vast space. From nearby conversations, I learn that most everyone is part of a tour group. We're independent travelers, going where we will, exploring without a strict schedule. The music wraps around us and we are captured by Czech tonal interpretations of what are quintessentially American sounds. One of the encores is Ole Man River and I begin to cry as silently as possible. I'm not sure why. Maybe for those people who lost their lives so needlessly. Maybe because I'm reminded of home.

With slow-moving, long lines, there is nothing to do but wait. Well, that's not totally true. I can observe, create back stories for others in the room, think about our next destination. Henry's here to purchase train tickets. Unlike some places, there is a generous complement of staff, ready to assist potential passengers. I watch as an unfamiliar practice unfolds. Whenever a staff member reports for duty, he or she pauses next to each co-worker. If that person is busy with a customer, the arriving staff member waits patiently. When the ticket transaction is complete, the two employees shake hands and then briefly hug each other. Having concluded this ritual with all fellow employees, the newly arrived individual is ready to assist clients.

Reasons for choosing a restaurant vary widely according to budget, food preferences, location, perceived cleanliness, and available time allotted for a meal. When in an unaccustomed country whose language is a marvelous mystery, selecting a place to eat is mostly serendipity. We've ventured to Bratislava from Vienna by train. The previous evening, as Henry gathered information about the potential journey from the hotel's manager, I sat nearby on a comfortable couch. A lovely lady seated on the facing couch asks if we are considering just such an excursion. I respond that we are indeed and that I am quite unsure about the advisability of the trip. She spends the next half hour extolling the sights of Slovakia's nearby capital and urging me to visit the city. This unexpected testimony comes from a charming Costa Rican resident, on vacation with her husband. Soon we met him also and learn that they were an engineer (he) and a professional singer (she.) Delightful people who returned a few hours earlier, fresh from wandering the streets of Bratislava.

We visit the recently constructed castle, high on a hill, having climbed more stone steps than we thought possible.



Descending, we walk towards the old town center. It's Sunday, a warmish spring day, and dining outside is the universal option.




Fortunately for us, most menus thoughtfully include an English translation. Now the only question is which cafe will get our business. Utilizing a thoroughly scientific method, we select Cafe Roland. Actually, the lavender colored chair cushions attract our attention. And the wide choice of Italian specialties.



Henry declares that his Parma Ham Raviolis are the very best ever.



I'm equally effusive about my Chicken Penne dish.



We even like the bottles which contain the water we ordered.



Lunch is exceptional; the city is absolutely worth visiting.

If there is a shopping gene, it most assuredly can be found in my DNA. My dear husband enables me to manifest this characteristic with abandon. He's abundantly patient, always non-judgmental about purchases, and comments positively when I wear something I've acquired on one of our many journeys. I credit him with discovering what is surely the most delicious hot chocolate we've ever tasted. It is embarrassing to cite the location of this luscious libation. Found at a creperie, tucked away on the fourth floor of Prague's largest mall, the concoction was so thick that it had to be ingested with a spoon. At no time did it reach a runny consistency. If I had the capacity, I would have easily ordered a second one. I believe Henry would have joined me.



I'm a gelato junkie. Lucky for me, there are no gelaterias in my hometown. Our Vienna-based friend, Claudia, invited me to try hazelnut gelato. I was hooked. The chunks of nuts interrupted the smoothness of the gelato and added enormously to the trickle pleasure. Discovering a tiny gelato operation two doors away from our Salzburg hotel could have been my ruination. Instead, I politely ordered one scoop of hazelnut the first night. The young man behind the window encouraged me to try the specialty flavor. He said I'd regret not doing so. I demurred and resisted. The next night, I lost my will. Being unable to ignore the hazelnut I favored, and succumbing to the siren sesame, I choose two scoops. Let me say that he was right. Sesame is my new favorite flavor. With toasted seeds crunching through the sweet gelato, the combination is, well, sinful, I am sure. I won't even look for it if I chance upon a gelateria anytime soon.



Growing up in the South, I'm accustomed to polite language where older people are addressed as "Miss XXX" or "Mr. XXX." As a child, I said "Yes Ma'm" or "Yes Sir" consistently and never thought about it at all. As I've grown older, I've sometimes winced when people say, "Ma'm" as it seems to be more a reminder of my years rather than a mark of respect. In Europe, however, I thoroughly enjoy being addressed as "Madame." It may be a reflection of my age as well, but that word causes me to smile inside. I am impressed when a staff member at the hotel front desk refers to every co-worker as a 'colleague.' I appreciate the server at another hotel who, when asked to bring the check, responds with these words, "Excellent idea." Examples of courteous exchanges which indicate at least an outward commitment to commendable customer relations.

The dictionary offers several definitions of the word ramble. Among my favorite are these:
*to wander around in a leisurely, aimless manner
*to talk or write in a discursive, aimless way

I'm a rambling kind of lady, whether talking, writing, or wandering. I strongly recommend trying it.

British Views

Six decades have passed since she shimmered across the floor, resplendent in an ostrich feathered gown. Her once glamorous face still glows but dancing is now part of her past as she sits serenely, welcoming fans for whom her exquisite performances can never be equaled. Henry approaches her mobile chair with true deference, perhaps a bit bedazzled by its occupant. As a Film Festival Board member in the early 1990's, he's intent upon conveying how much her presence enhances the event. She is the incomparable Ginger Rogers whose partnership with Fred Astaire is truly legendary.

Within the Aldwych Theater on an April evening this spring, a London audience anticipates a performance of "Top Hat," adapted from the 1935 movie of the same name.



Like many people around us, there's a keen familiarity with the brilliance of Astaire and Rogers, their dancing prowess, the splendid movie costumes and even the less than compelling story line. We admire Irving Berlin's signature songs, are careful not to be too critical of the actors' dancing ability, and I compare the production's dress designs to those of the vintage film. No ostrich feathers float across the stage. Apparently, Astaire hated Rogers' dress because the errant feathers continually attached to his impeccable tuxedo.

On another night, we're transported to different favorite film as we watch incredulously when water pours down onto the theater stage.



An agile actor cavorts, umbrella in hand. He's mimicking a celebrated scene from "Singing in the Rain." Playfully, water is kicked over the edge of the stage and into the first few rows of seats. People duck or raise plastic sheeting to ward off the drops. We're sitting far enough away to observe in total dryness. I can't help but envision Debbie Reynolds, spunky in her first movie role and brazenly undaunted by the much more seasoned Gene Kelly and Donald O'Connor. This talented trio from the 1950's is well-represented by their twenty-first century counterparts.

From a satisfying sleep, we're jarred awake by a clamorous noise. It takes a moment to focus and quickly we determine the source is external. The initial sound is repeated several times and looms louder with each successive boom. Clearly alarmed by the unbidden sounds, we connect with the front desk. After voicing our concern, the unruffled staff member responds, "Because the fire brigade is here, it won't be necessary to evacuate the hotel." She explains further that an explosion in the adjacent building has caused a fire but everything is under control.



We're not so sure that her assessment is totally accurate but are comforted by the growing number of firetrucks assembling below our windows. Men in chartreuse jackets bustle about. An emergency services tape is positioned across the entire street and traffic, road or otherwise, is quickly curtailed. A small crowd gathers as is common in such circumstances. Thankfully there are no ambulances arriving with sirens blasting. No injuries accompany the blasts. Smoke billows into the overcast sky and intermittent rain mixes with its greyness.Later we learn that repairs to the damaged equipment will require many days.

We're safe to shower and descend for another fine English breakfast.



Timing our trip to exclude the weeks of Diamond Jubilee celebrations as well as the crush of Olympics athletes and spectators, we're content to appreciate a week of London spring with repetitive rain and classic cool temperatures. The city and its residents appear prepared to welcome visitors galore and rather stoic about the disruptions anticipated. It may just be British will in supreme evidence, but there is no doubt they are ready.



During our London week, we linger long in pubs and restaurants, sampling typical fare and multiple pizza meals, meeting fellow travelers seated nearby.




Returning to the Tate Britain Museum, last visited in 1980, we notice decades of changes as well as the graceful retention of an outstanding collection, excellently displayed.



Students still sprawl in front of masterful paintings and attempt to capture some of the magic.



We miss our British views.

A Real "Ghost" Story

Sallie shares the family story about a five hour drive shrouded in silence. Her eldest son, fresh from his college graduation, casually mentioned to his dad that law school in the fall really isn't part of his future. This unexpected revelation stuns the carload of family members into muteness.

At home, after time to consider the young man's aching alternative, the dad offers a compromise. His son can drive from their Southern home to Hollywood, utilize a moderate amount of money to survive a few months and thus pursue his dream. Law school can be deferred. Handily, there's a contact out west who may be able to provide some connections.



In the three plus decades since those dramatic days, Glen Ballard's musical talent has permeated popular music as one of its most accomplished producers/songwriters and arrangers. With more than 150 million records sold world-wide, he's collaborated with such artists as Alanis Morissette, Michael Jackson, Aerosmith, Christina Aguilera, Barbra Streisand, and Josh Grogan. The winner of six Grammy Awards, Glen wrote the Oscar-nominated song "Believe" for Polar Express.

Glen's grandfather and my daddy were first cousins. We share a strong Irish background with ancestors who moved to Mississippi in 1874. I know of no others in our family tree with such significant musical acumen.

For several years, each time I saw cousin Sallie, she updated me on Glen's newest project. With Dave Stewart as a partner, he was immersed in writing music and lyrics for Ghost The Musical. Premiering in London last summer, the play attracts audiences with lingering fond memories of the popular movie from 1990.

During our visit to London in late April, Henry and I decided not to see Ghost in that location but rather to get tickets for the newly opened Broadway production. Our few days in New York became more crowded than usual and it seemed wise to delay the play until another time.

So it was that on May 16th, coincidentally Henry's birthday, we walked to the Lunt-Fontanne Theatre to take a few photos of the billboard to share with multiple cousins.



While I'm standing amidst the gathering matinee crowd, a charming lady apologizes for getting too close and perhaps being captured in one of the photos. I assure her that she is just fine and further explain, being my usual talkative self, that we are intent on photographing my cousin Glen's name.

"Do we have tickets for the show?" she inquires. Saying more than is at all necessary, I respond that we do not and are, in fact, planning to see Porgy and Bess that evening as a special birthday treat for Henry.

"Would we like tickets for the matinee, no charge?" my new acquaintance asks. I pause, say nothing. I'm thinking this is some kind of a scam. One with which I am not familiar, but it just doesn't sound right. I call Henry over and share the lady's question. He, too, is puzzled. We realize that the performance will be starting in about 15 minutes. We're committed to meeting Carol and Steve at 5:30 for dinner prior to the play for which we do have tickets. Is there enough time for two shows and dinner squished in-between them?

Our benefactor watches us and opens a large business-sized envelope. She begins rifling through about thirty tickets. "Where do you like to sit?" she says. By now we are comfortable that the proffered tickets are truly free but equally convinced that they are located in the very back of the balcony.



We are wrong, really wrong. Smilingly, the nice lady offers us two seats at the end of Row N. Gosh. We graciously accept this amazingly generous gesture and proceed into the theater.




Wanting to share our theater experience with a cadre of cousins, we spend time prior to the musical overture collecting an abundant number of Playbills. They'll be mailed to relatives scattered across the country.



With the original London leads ably carrying the show, we're impressed by the quality of their voices, ample energy and evident connection with each other. Da'Vine Joy Randolph portrays Oda Mae Brown, the unforgettable character whose voice the departed ghostly Sam uses to communicate. Her performance has garnered a Tony nomination.

We definitely enjoy the music and think the critics are mistaken in their assessment of its worth. The technical aspects of the show are superb. Recently 'deceased' actors appear to levitate and leave the stage while their 'bodies' remain inert. Laudable lighting allows Manhattan scenes to permeate the stage and we recognize many of the sites.

Around us, the nearly full theater resonates as the audience claps with abandon. During intermission, I speak with several ladies seated nearby. They're clearly enjoying themselves and so are we. It is a very special afternoon with a sense of serendipity.

The luck of the Irish is certainly with us and maybe, just maybe, the spirits of my Junkin ancestors hover nearby. How proud they must be.

Relying On the Kindness of Strangers

Guilt-ridden women often join a group of fellow sufferers, even welcome the occasional similarly afflicted man. With a common focus, those assembled patiently listen as an expert suggests ways to curtail a weighty trait. Attending just such a presentation, I left with copious notes and renewed zeal to travel light. Regrettably, I continue endangering body parts and crowding hotel rooms with ponderous suitcases. My decades of excessive packing form part of our family history.

It's not the suitcases that shoulder the blame and cause the most distress. It's really hauling them from place to place. What a pleasure to relinquish said suitcases at an airline counter and be reunited (hopefully) at one's destination. However, a trip which includes multiple train segments offers fresh challenges.

Europe is replete with train tracks and schedules that can accommodate almost everyone. Tickets are reasonable, seating is comfortable, service is generally very pleasant. As miles roll by, passengers enjoy views very different from those seen when driving along a highway. On board there are people to meet, meals to order and enjoy, photos to create and time to write in a journal. Some trains offer WiFi, thus allowing traveling and technology to co-mingle agreeably.

Recently Henry and I spent a day going from Prague to Salzburg. During that five hour journey, we changed trains in Linz. With a tight connection and three suitcases, plus a camera bag, my commodious cotton carry-all and a regular sized purse, we fervently hoped that the station would have either an escalator or an elevator to make the transition less burdensome.



Off the train, we soon saw that steep concrete stairs were the only way to exit the platform. More than likely, another set of such stairs must be mounted to reach the platform where the train bound for Salzburg awaited. With no viable choices, we breathed deeply and walked to the edge of the stairs.

At that moment, a charming young man came up behind us. He saw the situation and immediately asked, "May I help you with your luggage?" "Oh, no, we will be fine." came our response. He is so genuinely eager to help this seemingly hapless older (After all, we are old.) couple, that we accepted his gracious offer.

Standing to his side was a beautiful, elfin young woman with long dark hair captured in a swaying pony tail. She appeared a bit burdened herself with equally large packs strapped to her front and back. He, too, was toting a significant pack but appeared nonplussed by its weight.

The four of us clunk down the inhospitable stairs without incident. Once we reach the main station, we discover an elevator which swiftly swooshes us to the proper platform. All the while, the new foursome is chatting.

He is Bernard. She is Rena. Newlyweds of one year, hailing from Perth, Australia. They've been in Prague and loved it as we did. Prior to that special city, they toured London and Paris. We share remembrances of both metropolises. Rena and I laugh when we extoll the virtues of London's famous discount store, Primark. Bernard agrees with Henry that it is a place to be avoided, if possible.

Conversation never ceases as we stand beside the train until departure time. Separating into our designated carriages, we hug briefly and offer our sincere thanks once more for a fortuitous rescue.

We meet again in the Salzburg station and I scribble my e-mail address on a small piece of paper. Naturally we invite Bernard and Rena to visit us in the desert.

During our splendid stay in Salzburg, we mention our Australian friends several times and cannot help but wonder if they are enjoying the city as much as we are. On our second evening in town, we choose to return to a restaurant with a menu that each of us likes. Owned by an Italian whose native accent is still pronounced and situated on a pedestrian street replete with stores, bars and restaurants of great variety, the cafe is especially welcoming. The margarita pizza is delicious and Henry wants more. I choose a salad topped with grilled chicken and lightly seasoned with homemade Italian dressing, flavored with wine. Scrumptious. We're dining al fresco in deference to the unusually hot temperature. A languid evening unfolds as we eat and I watch people wander along the winding street.

Suddenly I notice a lovely young lady walking toward a nearby store. Can it be? Yes, I believe it is. We only 'know' two people in this town and she is one of them. Hastily explaining to Henry who I think I have seen, I hop up from my chair and hurry in her direction.

Not too loudly, I am calling her name but she keeps walking. Maybe I am wrong. It's somebody else. Then I see him coming toward me. Bernard notices me almost instantly and begins saying "Jackie" with a smile. She turns, sees me and quickly moves towards me. I was right. It is them -our new Perth friends.

The reason she didn't acknowledge me when I called her name is that I had misspoken. In our brief introductions two days prior, I thought she said she was 'Rennie.' In fact, her name is 'Rena.' I apologize and the three of us walk back to where Henry is sitting at the restaurant table.

As if there has been no disruption in our interaction, we talk animatedly about our Salzburg experiences. They've taken the "Sound of Music" tour. Rena bought an authentic Austrian costume. She's thrilled with this acquisition and insists that I hold it up to myself to see if it will also fit me. Soon she realizes that she's left the bodice in her bag and we laugh at this omission.



Bernard and Rena plan to depart for Venice the following morning. We will be on our way to Zurich. With train schedules that do not mesh and geographically distant destinations, we promise to stay in touch and perhaps to visit each other's hometown someday in the future.

On Saturday, we say good-bye to the beautiful Hotel Bristol and climb into a taxi, bound for the train station.



As we arrive and gather our luggage, we're astonished to see a familiar face dashing towards us. This is not possible. One coincidence maybe, but two? Yet it is indeed Bernard. He and Rena were already at their assigned platform when he decided to make a quick trip to the adjacent McDonald's. He's been told that the seven Salzburg McDonalds sell beer and he wants to verify that story with an iPhone photo. [Inquisitive Henry visits the McDonalds a little later and asks an employee if beer is indeed on the menu. He learns that though that particular beverage is not listed, it can be purchased simply by making a request. I suppose an order might be, "I'll have an Egg McMuffin and a bottle of beer." Sounds awful.]

More hugs with Bernard and a 'Hello' for him to transmit to Rena from us. Separating for what is surely the final time, Henry and I continue along into the train station. Within a few minutes, Bernard pops up again. He has his phone out and snaps a silly photo of us to share with Rena. We giggle and wave enthusiastically. He's runs off as Henry departs to inquire about upgrading our tickets to Zurich.



I'm sequestered against a station wall with the luggage. We have time to waste. Oh my goodness, sweet Rena is breathlessly bounding towards me. She's smiling and instantly flings her arms around me before hastening back to her about-to-depart train.

In an iconic scene from Tennessee Williams' famous play, Streetcar Named Desire, Blanche says with sweet enunciation, "I've always relied on the kindness of strangers." I'm wondering if we had traveled with less luggage, would we have met the delightful Bernard and Rena? What a pity to have missed them altogether.

Train Tales

Sleepy is not a desirable state for making decisions. When the wake-up call rings at precisely 5:27 am, Henry is already in the shower. I'm opening one of our much-traveled purple Richardo suitcases and arranging space for our cosmetics. Lamentations fill my struggling brain and I renew my vow to pack less in the future. For now, we must struggle with multiple pieces of oversized, weighty luggage.

Prague's magnificent Hotel Boscolo, lavishly built at the end of the 19th century and first utilized as a bank then as the city's main post office, welcomes guests into its soaring rooms and along polished marble floors. At such an early hour, we do our best to muffle the noise created by the rolling luggage as we approach the elevator. Once in the lobby, we're greeted by an alert staff member who readies our bill and asks if she can assist us further.

We're going to the train station which is only about 300 meters away. We're told that we can easily walk there. No doubt we will have the streets and sidewalks to ourselves. However, those thoroughfares are fashioned of uneven cobblestones and there are several tram rails to cross in the brief journey. Additionally, the station sits atop a medium-sized hill which must be climbed.

With genuine Czech hospitality, we're offered an alternative. The security officer on duty will drive us to the station for 100 Czech Korunas. He'll even carry our mammoth luggage down the two flights of stairs at the entrance of the hotel. There's not a moment's hesitation before accepting this generous offer.

Settled into a sleek black BMW, within a few moments the driver is parking the car as close to the station's entrance as possible. He easily lifts three suitcases from the trunk and then proceeds to walk into the station, dragging the two largest pieces. We follow.

As is our practice, we're very, very early and have about 45 minutes to wait before our train departs for Linz, Austria. Once there, we'll board another train that will take us on to Salzburg. The entire trip is expected to last about five hours.

Surrounded by so much luggage that anyone observing us knows instantly that we're American (even without wearing white tennies), we check the monitors, seeking the platform number for our train. Curiously, a man wearing a small metal tag identifying him as an employee, asks if he can help us. Mysteriously, he knows that we are bound for Salzburg and that we are traveling first class. We ponder this information and are very cautious, declining his assistance.

The platform number is posted and we move toward that location. The mystery man walks a few paces behind us. At the door of the first class train carriage, he insists on lifting the heaviest suitcases. Henry tips him and then he vanishes.

Our train is almost ancient. The compartment consists of two long seats facing each other. Above, there is a rack for luggage. Gamely we lift two suitcases and then practically sink into the very lumpy seats. Across from us, a cleaning brigade attired in babushkas, boots, and cotton work clothes, totes well-worn mops and buckets filled with some liquid. Three or four from the group enter each train car and begin scouring floors, fluffing seats, removing debris. Each person is intent on the work to be done and moves swiftly and efficiently. That particular train appears to be even older than ours and may have survived the Communist era. Regardless, it is treated with respect and its dignity reclaimed by the cleaning crew.

At exactly 7:16 am we're underway, exhausted already. Only one other person occupies our carriage. He is Matthais, a young college professor from Perth, Australia, traveling throughout Europe on a six month hiatus. He looks wan from perhaps too many cities and too little rest. Soon the conductor checks our tickets and we close the door to the compartment, welcome the reduction in train noise and with the not-so-gentle swaying soothing us just enough, we snooze.

Someone's banging on the door, speaking in rapid Czech. Incoherent words float over us and make no sense at all. We were deeply asleep. Quickly we realize the train is still. Did we sleep hours in an instant? Consulting our watches, we realize that only about 30 minutes has elapsed.

What's happening here? In retrospect, these moments seemed like part of a film noir with Agatha Christie writing the script and Alfred Hitchcock directing. We have no time to think of such things and try really hard to understand what we are being told to do. Uneasily awakened Matthais is equally confused.

Finally we realize that we are being directed to leave the train quickly and that there are buses alongside waiting to ferry us somewhere. The suitcases are snatched from their lofty perch. Clumsily we maneuver towards the carriage door and join fellow passengers stowing luggage underneath the adjacent bus. Still clueless, we climb aboard.

Immediately after we are seated, a vivacious young redhead begins talking to us in exquisite English. She assures us that everything is fine and that this is a routine occurrence. Construction on the tracks necessitates detours. The buses belong to the train company and will take us over back roads, through villages and to the town of Tabor. There, a new train waits to receive all the passengers. We fret, or rather I do. The connection between the our original train from Prague and the one from Linz to Salzburg is only 15 minutes. Will we make it? What if we don't?

With absolute calm, we're assured that we should not worry. As green hills and charming structures pass by the bus's windows, we introduce ourselves. She is Vladka, a professional tennis player. A native Czech, she attended the University of Texas, Austin on a full athletic scholarship and turned pro upon graduation. Just returned from a match in Spain, Vladka is traveling to her hometown with her father and will be there for a few days before going on to Rome and yet another tournament.



Ranked as the number 22 doubles player in the world, Vladka is an amazingly perceptive and well-informed young woman. She can easily discuss politics, history, economics, cultural anomalies, traveling light (I should listen intently.) and so many other topics. Now we're hoping that Tibor is days away so that this random connection can have time to flourish.

Mentioning our home in the desert, we ask about the BP Parabis tennis tournament held locally each spring. Yes, she played there this year and will be back in 2013. We exchange e-mail addresses, snap a few photos and promise to stay in touch. As promised, Tabor is reached after half an hour's bus ride and the new train is exactly where Vladka said it would be.

The luggage is no lighter but must be lifted onto the alternate train. It's much newer and more comfortable than its predecessor. We're rolling and no time has actually been lost.



Here's Vladka again. She's walked through the carriages to find us and gently reiterate that we will make the transfer in Linz with time to spare.



Reminiscing about the dramatic changes within her country, Vladka tells us that she was eleven when her country became free of its decades old occupiers. She recalls that period vividly, embraces the new freedoms but is equally as realistic about the imperfections of the current government. We learn that on the night of Czech rebirth, people across the country gathered in towns large and small. Almost simultaneously, they shook keys, signifying independence.

The conversation drifts to her experiences as a tennis pro. A grueling travel schedule, coupled with continuous practice and physical training, prepare Vladka to meet new opponents. Her doubles partner, Natalie, is South African.

We talk about luck, keeping one's perspective, staying healthy, winning and losing. While chatting, Vladka uses the familiar phrase, "Knock on wood." She touches her backhand to her teeth. Henry remarks, "Oh, you have wooden teeth." Our new friend patiently explains that in her country, the phrase is demonstrated a bit differently. We are puzzled. She then tells us that you never knock on something that can burn.



In another carriage, her elderly father waits. Vladka is obviously a devoted daughter and she doesn't tarry with us for very long. Once she's comfortable that we are relaxed about the duration of our own journey, she is gone. Her hometown is a few stops yet in the distance.



During the next few hours, as we travel through the verdant Czech Republic,



we reflect upon our good fortune being rousted from a deep sleep and thrust into the care of such a remarkable individual.



Already we are planning a reunion in the desert in March 2013. She is considering accepting our offer of housing during the tennis tournament. E-mails continue to be exchanged as we chart Vladka's tournament progress from Rome to Strasbourg and now the French Open.

We know that this train tale is totally true and it might make a good movie.