Seeing Europe as a Traveler, Not a "Tourist"

By Dennis Glaser

A Geezers Guide to Seeing Europe as a Traveler, Not a Tourist is precisely what the title implies. Based in a home he shared with a family in a small French village near Paris, Glaser traveled France, England, Austria, Hungary, Germany and Portugal. Not to just visit the many tourist attractions, but to meet and form relationships with the people who lived there.

He mastered the art of traveling on buses and the continents high-speed trains and, in most cases, with no definite destination in mind. His objective was to know the people, and through them, learn the lessons their cultures had to teach him. Two trips to Tunisia, in North Africa, brought him into contact with the Arab world that tourists never have the opportunity or inclination to experience.

Accounts of a trip on the Orient Express are mixed with reports on traveling to London by train through the chunnel. Often without a precise destination in mind and always without advance hotel reservations, Glaser was exposed to Europe in ways a tourist seldom would be able to experience its varied nations and cultures. For example, he visited the Normandy beachheads on the Fourth of July, and spent two weeks in a Portugal resort hotel primarily populated by German tourists. Drawing on an extensive catalog of pen pals, he often was exposed to life as it was actually lived and not just as described in a tourists guide book.

And everywhere he met interesting people: a schoolteacher in France, an American traveler on the European leg of his around the world journey, a native of Brazil who had married a man from Poland, and was now living in Germany, a writer in England who was a rural farm child during World War II and grew up to become the first model for a famous cosmetics company founder.

So, this is not your usual travel book. In it, youll meet people youd never expect to meet, and gain insights on life in other countries and other cultures. It is not a book that needs to be read cover to cover. Instead, just open to any chapterand enjoy!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 2, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462827213

Dennis Glaser

During Nashville’s seminal ’seventies--but not all at the same time--Dennis Glaser was an artist’s professional manager, music magazine journalist, record company vice-president of public relations, owner of a record-pressing plant, and mid-level advertising executive in Nashville. And managed a Music Row tavern in his spare time. A cousin of award-winning Tompall & the Glaser Brothers, Glaser had a first row seat to the origin of the Outlaws, the influx of the “street writers,” and the eventual evolution from “hillbilly” to today’s corporate culture

Book preview

A Geezer’s Guide to—

Seeing Europe

As a traveler,

Not a tourist

Dennis Glaser

Copyright © 2009 by Dennis Glaser.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

69884

Contents

Foreword

Introduction

From Tennessee to France

My first visit to France

Exploring France: Paris, the Riviera and Germany

A Few Days in Paris

A Guided Weekend in Paris

To Nice and on to Germany

My Week in Cannes

My Trip to Cherbourg

Without an Umbrella!

My Visit to Nimes

A Fourth of July Visit to the Normandy Beachheads

A Few Days in

Rennes and LeMans

Le Perigord Vert and

St. Jean Cole

My Visits to Merrie Olde England

My First Trip to London

Back to London to Meet Roberta

A Few Days in Chichester,

West Sussex

Rural England:

Penzance to Portsmouth

Other Destinations: Austria, Hungary and Tunisia

The Orient Express to Vienna

Two Weeks in a South Portugal Resort: Algarve

A Little of Munich and

Not Much More

My Trips to Tunisia

Epilogue:

Now It Is Ocean Cruises

Foreword

My travels about Europe were made more enjoyable by the kindness of friends. And most of those friendships originated as pen pals—a more popular pastime there than in the U.S. In fact, inter-cultural marriage is very common in today’s Europe. Those I met who could speak English told me that they benefited from our on-going conversations—by letter and in person—because they were determined to expand their knowledge of Americans by first-hand friendships. And of course I benefited equally if not more by experiencing life in foreign countries on a person-to-person level instead of just admiring the scenery and visiting the tourist attractions. And to those friends I met along the way and whose company I enjoyed, I dedicate this record of my travels.

Introduction

Mid-life, for me, was not a career change, but a button labeled Restart. I frequently said that I wasn’t retired—but re-wired. It was more a matter of moving from having a career to not having one. In retrospect, moving to France may have been the smartest move I ever made. And resulted in many subsequent changes in my life.

And so when I decided to sell my Tennessee farm where I’d lived the last few years of my employment, and the first few years of my retirement, it surprised my friends. But it didn’t surprise me! I never had conceived life as living the same life, day after day.

And so I moved to France for a few years. Lived in a small village near Paris, and likewise close to Europe’s amazing railroad system. And I’d go out on the road every few weeks, most often to meet a pen pal I’d found through the friendship books that are circulated by European letter writers, and sometimes to meet friends I’d met through a guidebook listing of Americans in France.

I found it more enjoyable and interesting to travel not as a tourist. Yes, of course, I did visit some of the usual tourist sites, but seeing the places I visited as a traveler gave me a better insight into how people lived. And gave me opportunities for experiences a tourist seldom finds.

In this book are accounts from a journal I would write each time I returned to my home in France.

From Tennessee

to France

My first visit to France

Who said getting there is half the fun? Not me! Perhaps if I had traveled first class—which I have done. Or perhaps if there was not such a long layover in Houston. Or maybe if the young yuppies with twin daughters who betrayed their lack of parental guidance even before we boarded the Continental flight in Houston had chosen to travel another day, or on another airplane.

But the best place to begin is always at the beginning. I departed from Nashville about noon on a Friday in May 1996, after being driven to the airport in my own car by my ex-wife Martha. She was living alone and said she likes to have a strange car parked in her driveway occasionally. Keeps potential evil-doers confused.

It was the beginning of the three-day (stretched to four days by those who could manage it) Memorial Day weekend, so the plane to Houston was filled with some of the many Texans who have left their home state to seek fame or fortune or just a mere living in the Volunteer State of Tennessee. We’re called the volunteers because most of the Texas army which won its war of independence from Mexico came from Tennessee.

After lunch on board, we landed in Texas on time—and then waited and waited until near evening. Houston’s tram system is nearly dead in its tracks, but the international flight terminal looked new and modern. But of course I had to go outside to smoke, and then re-enter through a security gate. Luckily, I was carrying a jacket because I discovered I could put all of my metallic objects in the jacket pockets and then send the jacket through with my carry-on bag. Saved being searched each time.

The plane to Paris was one of those monster ones with seat rows of two on each side with rows of six in the center. I was seated on the aisle (which I always request so I can at least stretch out one of my legs) and in the forward compartment with a good view of the movie screen. Later I discovered that the last 3 rows in back made up the smoking section, but I survived the 7- or 8-hour trip without my nicotine fix.

Luckily I’d brought along several of magazines and a book because the only hand-outs I saw were written in French. After drinks and dinner, I avoided watching the Ace Ventura: Pet Detective movie by reading, then sleeping. When I awoke about four hours later, the sun was shining and on the movie screen was displayed a map of Europe, showing our location to be just off the coast of France. The screen kept us updated until we landed, showing altitude, speed, location, and time of landing.

We boarded a bus for a short ride to the terminal at Orly—and a scene of mass confusion. French soldiers were much in evidence, armed with Uzi-type weapons. The trip through customs was quick and perfunctory; the agent took the visa card we’d filled out on the plane, glanced at our passport, stamped it, and we moved on.

Danyele had given me instructions, a map, and even a ticket so that I could ride the metro train to the railroad station. But there were so any people, and no signs that I could see directing me to the subway station. But right outside the door I could see a row of taxis, so I thought, why not? I’d like to see a bit of Paris anyway.

I didn’t know that French cabs also must have meters. The first ones in line had none. I asked the cost. 400 francs. I moved to the second car. 400 francs. So I returned to the first car, inquired if I could smoke (I could), and off we went to the railroad station. It was raining and overcast, but the weather cannot dampen the visual charms of Paris. After three cigarets in a row, we arrived at the station.

The driver, who spoke about 5 words of English, took me and my bags to the ticket counter. I was told to return at 1:20 to purchase my ticket to Tours. I then began searching for a restroom. The first man I asked looked puzzled. Toilet? I said, a word I’d found in my pocket language translator. He looked more puzzled. Pissour? a word I thought I’d remembered from somewhere. No response. I pointed to my groin, and crossed my legs while standing. He shrugged and walked on. Later my French friends laughed as they told me he probably thought I was gay!

Then I found an information booth, and was told that the WC (for Water Closet, but pronounced VC) was on the lower level. Maybe. I couldn’t find it. I wondered if I could smoke, because I saw no ashtrays. I asked. Yes, he said. Where should I put the ashes? On the floor. At 1:20, I purchased my ticket and followed a sign that pointed to the trains. The tracks were numbered—and there were a dozen of them—but there was no track number on my ticket. Car number, yes. Seat number, yes.

An elderly French gentleman tried to help me when I showed him my ticket. He found a conductor, who looked, and shrugged his shoulders, a method of communication that men in France seem to have been born to speak. Finally, my helpful friend led me to the small office which helps foreign travelers. There I was told to watch the giant electrical sign which would display the correct track number. Of course, I’d missed my train, but back at the ticket booth, a female agent who spoke English gladly exchanged it for the next train, due in about an hour.

That one I boarded successfully, and after a few minutes of zipping along at over 100 mph, discovered that the young woman seated across the aisle from me spoke fluent English. She was a hotel employee, going home for the long weekend. No, not Memorial Day. Monday in France was Pentecost Day, a national holiday. (Not many people in France still go to church, but they all observe the religious holidays!) We chatted for awhile, and I remarked at how flat the land was, and she said it was that way all the way to Tours.

In about an hour, I arrived, and walked the length of the platform. To my right, I saw Danyele at the same moment she saw me. We both smiled and I hugged her (not a local custom I later learned) and kissed her on both cheeks (but the local custom calls for a kiss on each cheek followed by another kiss on each cheek). At last, I had arrived!

Danyele lives in an apartment in a building owned by the school system and located on the campus of an elementary school, but not the one at which she teaches. The building is in a mixed neighborhood of multi-story apartment houses and homes, many of the latter being duplexes. Each has its own small fenced or hedged yard, most filled with flowers and