Trieste

Our arrival in Trieste marked a low point in our Christmas travels. The GPS betrayed us, first sending us on a shockingly sharp right onto a vertiginous and narrow slope, so angled I had to back up twice to complete the turn. Thereafter, the road curved and narrowed further and ejected us onto a city grid whose one-ways had a year ago become other-ways -- baffling the GPS and throwing us into paralysis. We were too ignorant and too unskilled to negotiate the Trieste streets in so wide a van, and Dad and Wendy, after we finally found our hotel on the curve of a disappearing sidewalk off a speeding descent, graciously took the vehicle from me but then spent more than an hour failing to park it.

Below you see a moment in which Dad surveyed the street, including the fallen motorbike in the foreground, to determine whether or not I had clearance to proceed, which captures our anxiety and intestinal pace.

When Dad and Wendy took too long, I went out in search of them; and while I encountered much of the beauty of Trieste, the anxiety of our first contact narrowed my focus to the presence of graffiti and vandalism. 

But then we were reunited, and the van was parked. The children loved their hours in a loft above our kitchen in an apartment it was easy to love, and everything fell into place. In the end, we had one of our best nights here in this humble port city far from the famed canals and dazzling windows of Venice.




Trieste, humble as it may be in comparison to other tourist destinations, had a lovely walking street leading to an inviting and generous central plaza that opened onto the Adriatic Sea.








Perhaps it was wandering around in the dark, perhaps it was the finality of our journey, perhaps it was the security of a late evening meal reservation, or a simple contrast to the minute terrors of parking the van, but we relaxed and enjoyed the sea air and quirky, lived-in city.

The final meal of our traveling vacation was a warm and festive affair. We were put off by the pig leg in iron vice at the doorway and the framed sketches of fleshy bottoms in flossy bloomers above the girls' heads (which you may see by clicking on the second picture below), but here was a family restaurant, the ease and warmth of which settled us completely.




Besides Amelia, who fell asleep in her chair in the late hour, we had a wonderful time, in varied and satisfying dishes and in our own company. Maisie loved a dish of thinly sliced cow tongue in a spiced pear chutney. My sauerkraut stew put all the world right. Eight Euros bought a liter of wine. And after a journey across continents and canals and down corkscrew streets, after months apart and then two weeks in a frenzy of life, it was good to have this last breaking of Italian bread.

Back at the hotel, Maisie climbed in to a crib at the foot of our bed. She made herself cozy, and fell asleep.

The next morning, we hiked up the hill to the castle, from which the view of the city and sea was utterly and finally clear. Amidst churches and Roman ruins and mighty statues (which inspired Dad to return to a gym), said our last to Italy.










The way back through Slovenia in the clean dry air was a far different thing than the sleet and hash of rain we encountered on the way in.



The Alps. The Alps! My God, what does one say. For the record, one thing I would like to say is that Austria and Switzerland monopolize far too much of the Alpine consciousness for Americans. On a related note, the eldest Von Trapp daughter died a few days ago, at the age of 97.

Returning to Barcs, after six days of musical beds and restaurant hunts and force-marched girl legs over miles of cobblestone in unrelenting rain in spongey parkas, was a happy thing. We were home. But it was also Dad and Wendy's last night with us, and I think none of us wanted to look at that too squarely.

I had one last thing I wanted to try before they left, and that was to dine out in Barcs the same way we had been dining the past week. We went to Csillag Étterem, a place Stephanie and I had been once before. The Hungarian language had somewhat deserted us over the past week, and the menu was more refined than we could translate and our German and English were of little use; but the waiter was a gentleman and Stephanie carried the language burden for us all. But when we threw a few darts at fate, we won: it was a great, great meal. Dad and Wendy ate a wrapped turkey dish with dumplings, Sophie and Amelia ate stew, and Maisie had a savoury pancake and slaw; our desserts were delectable and utterly Hungarian. From the other room, a group of women were blowing a hole off the roof with their smoke and laughter. The welcome of a nation and the rightness of our journey -- in bright lights on the occasion of this visit about to end -- was abundant and good.

Grandma Wendy and Grandpa Barry, we miss you!