From the windows of our airplane, I can see the Mediterranean glistening in the morning sun.  Another sparkling day in one of my favorite European cities.  Today, people will walk the La Rambla, shop in the Mercat, eat paella, marvel at Gaudi’s architecture and indulge in some incredible Rioja wine.  But they will be doing it without us.

Raye and I settle in for the long airplane ride home, but not without reliving all the amazing things we saw, food we ate, people we met and roads we traveled.  It was better than we imagined, but at this stage of life, I have come to appreciate new motorcycle adventures for the uncertainty and unmatched sense of discovery you get when you make time for these kinds of experiences.

The last thing we discuss before drifting off to sleep is the one thing that will help me overcome the sweet sadness of leaving: when and where do we go next?  The truth is, I don’t really care.  Just as long as another ride awaits.

Since today is technically a rest day, we ride less than 100 miles and head back to the chateau from here.  Fortunately, though, it is not the end of the day, but only a welcome stop to change into clothing more suited for the hot afternoon sun.  Several of us decide to get back on the bikes and go into Carcasonne for something to eat and a visit to La Cite, a restored medieval citadel just on the outskirts of the city.

We grab small sandwiches, quiche, figs and olives at a small shop in the old part of the city, and then ride just a few blocks up a hill to La Cite.  Being on a bike has its advantages, and one of our companions leads us right up to the main gate, where there is parking for motorcycles.

La Cite is quite remarkable and one of France’s top tourist attractions.  A fortress within a fortress, the miniature city can only be entered by crossing a drawbridge. Complete with turrets and towers, La Cite looks every bit like you might imagine a medieval town should.  There are among other things many shops, narrow alleys, a cathedral and a chateau, which is preserved today as a museum.  We toured the chateau to see what life was like at the town’s zenith in the 12th century.  There were many rooms to walk through where we saw paintings and murals, terra cotta pieces and fragments from the cathedral.  We also walked along the tops of the outer walls, which connect the towers surrounding the chateau.  Here we saw numerous stations that were used by look outs to spot approaching enemies and from which they could fire canons or crossbows.

Leaving La Cite, a much smaller group of us set out on a small adventure to find one or two local vineyards.  While we passed several that looked promising, they were either too far down a gravel road (not great for motorcycles) or simply not open.  However, there was one near our chateau that was still open, so we stopped for a short visit and to sample the local wines.  We thoroughly enjoyed the experience with our friends as well as visiting with the owner, who could not speak English.  Just as in my other encounters with locals, she was delightful, however, and we had a marvelous time.

Dinner tonight was at the chateau restaurant.  I could not resist having the foix gras again, but chose the escargot, duck breast and strawberry soup this time.  If it’s possible, tonight’s dinner was even better than last night’s.  I will miss the magic of the chateau when we leave tomorrow.

The rest of the afternoon was filled with twisties – tight turns – leading us through the base of the Pyrenees Mountains. Today we just got our legs under us, so we only rode about 150 miles. We had a rest stop at a motorcycle museum that all the guys really loved. Then by early evening we arrived in a tiny town called Peramola, near a cross-roads that leads further into the Pyrenees. On the edge of town was our hotel, the Can Boix. www.canboix.cat.

This charming European hotel was a welcome site for us. There is a small church on the property, which is actually a farm, a vine-covered walkway, plenty of amenities like tennis courts and a pool – even a helicopter landing pad, which gives you an idea of its popularity as well as its remote location. Our rooms are very spacious, have hardwood floors, marble bathrooms and the view into the valley from our balcony is postcard-perfect. The hotel has a delightful history, built by the Pallares family in the early 1900s to attract families on holiday from the larger cities in the region. The Pallares family still runs it today, and the land has been in their family since the 1700s.

We spent the evening becoming much better acquainted with our fellow riders and found ourselves still laughing and talking well after 1 a.m. Of course European dinners don’t even begin until 8:30 or 9 p.m., so it’s not as bad as it seems. Plus, our companions are bright, engaging and accomplished individuals each in their own right, and our conversations about their work, their families, their lives — and most importantly their riding experiences! — was a pure joy. We met a Wall Street investment banker, an Oxford law student, a CEO, several attorneys, a successful real estate entrepreneur, an orthodontist, an endodontist (root canals) from California who is really a vintner-to-be, a construction superintendent, a gentleman who runs a plastics company, a lovely lady who used to work in public relations believe it or not, and several other unique and enjoyable individuals. On top of all that, one of our guides plays guitar and sings, so we were serenaded during our after-dinner espressos.

I leave dinner with a gratefulness about our companions. If you are very lucky in life, you might meet a few people like this, but rarely all at once and in such a magical setting like Europe. You come on the trip for the ride, so having a shot at making new friends like this is just a bonus. I think we scored big time.

How is it I have never dreamed of Barcelona?  It is precisely the kind of city dreams are made of.  This spicy Spanish town is filled with sights, sounds and smells that intoxicate the senses.  From musicians to markets, cathedrals to coffee, Barcelona is a vibrant, undulating place that you just simply give into – and enjoy every minute of it.

We have been here a mere 12 hours for our Pyrenees motorcycle adventure, landing at the city’s very contemporary airport after an all-night trans-Atlantic flight from New York City.  Jet lag doesn’t stand a chance here, as our early afternoon stroll turned into an all out walkathon through some of the most intriguing parts of the inner city.

Our nesting spot for the next two days while we acclimate in Barcelona is Hotel Regina, located just off Placa de Catalunya, a central plaza in the heart of the city.  From here, it is an easy stroll to reach La Rambla, a pedestrian street that runs east to the waterfront.  It is named after a riverbed that ran through the city in the 14th century – I can picture a rambling waterway making its way to the mouth of the Mediterranean Sea.  Easy to fast-forward seven centuries and see the similarities.  Crowds of people flow easily up to and then around florists stands, street vendors and fountains, slowing here and there to take a side trip through an alley, but always joining the larger throng.

We make two side trips: one to the Mercat de la Boqueria, an open-air market; and one to the Barri Gotic, the Gothic Quarter, an ancient part of the city filled with palaces, convents and cathedrals.

The Mercat is as much a treat for the eyes as it is for the palate.  We wandered around this emporium pretty much with our jaws slack, thinking how much the Food Network would have loved to tag along.  Every stall, whether it was seafood, chocolate or produce, was artfully arranged and dazzlingly displayed.  So many exotic things — I wasn’t sure what everything was.  We jumped right out there and bought an unusual pink fruit that tasted much like a kiwi.  Real dare-devils, those Mitchells.  Somehow we managed to resist the temptation to buy fresh eel, although the prawns didn’t look so bad.  But since we were saving our appetites for dinner in the Barri Gotic, I made a note of some of the nuts and chocolate stands I might stop back by tomorrow.

From the Mercat, we headed toward the Barri Gotic.  Diving off the main pedestrian walkway, we found ourselves winding our way through narrow streets with charming Spanish names such as Quintana, Portal de l’Angel, and Duc de Victoria.  Nothing is marked very well, so a compass head like me had to really work at getting and keeping my bearings.  Raye just followed along whenever I turned a corner, pretty much trusting I was going to get us “there” wherever there was.

There was La Catedral, the magnificent cathedral in the heart of the quarter.  Even though it is under an intense renovation, the immense building did not disappoint.  Built in 1358, the church holds dozens of shrines and places of worship.  I sat for a while in a quiet and secluded prayer room, thinking of how blessed we are and how grateful we have been lately for the health of our family and friends closest to us.  Life is a gift, lest we forget.

As was everyone else, I was quite taken with the elaborate architecture, stained glass and spires.  Such environments tend to inspire somber spiritual thoughts, no doubt.  But we enjoyed laughing at a flock of white geese who appear to live in the lap of luxury next to a courtyard fountain located just outside the main hall of worship.  People fed them freely and they had their own little house next to the water.  Like living in a sacred spa, I guess.

Our hunger finally got the best of us, and we were lucky enough to get an outdoor table at Taller de Tapas, a small restaurant that specializes in, well, tapas.  This is of course the famous Spanish style of eating appetizer-sized portions of a variety of foods, a little like indulging in dim sum but with a splash of paprika and anchovies to spice things up.

We ordered fried calamari, sliced artichokes, tomato and olive marinated salad, beef filet with chiles, and a chorizo omlette.  Top it off with an espresso and you have the near perfect early-evening meal.    Fortunately, I found a gourmet chocolate shop on the stroll back, and we enjoyed dark chocolate with pistachios and white chocolate with hazelnuts.  Bonus: I found some chocolate-covered ginger for my mom, which I intend to bring home as a small surprise.  She loves this rather unique sweet treat, and I hope she enjoys this sampling.

Once we made it back to the hotel, Raye just crashed and seems to be enjoying the comforts of our small but well appointed room.  Of course my heart skips a beat when I find wi-fi anywhere, and I immediately got connected so I could download photos and post to the blog.  So many images and thoughts are swirling in my head.  I learned on our last European motorcycle trip two years ago that there is too much stimuli to keep inside, and it’s much better to let it all flow out of my fingers and into the keyboard.  Otherwise sleep is slow in coming.

Speaking of sleep, I think I’ll succumb.  The city of dreams awaits.

I’ve always thought Labor Day was misnamed.  The last thing I want to do that time of year is celebrate my labor.  I’m tired by early September – and the heat just makes things worse.  So this Labor Day Weekend, leaving our toils behind, we set out for an all-day trip to nowhere.  As long as we made it back for the Razorback football game that night, I was good.

We met up with my husband’s father, another good friend and another couple just as the sun was  coming up, determined to get going before the heat might force us off the road.  Our self-appointed navigator is a born-and-raised Northwest Arkansan, so we fell in line behind his Harley and started out from Fayetteville.

The general idea was a trip through Newton County to do some highways quite popular among cyclists. Highway 7 and Highway 123 were our destination.  The first hour or two of our ride took us through small towns, some beautiful rural areas with tree-covered hillsides, sprawling farms and tiny churches with interesting signs like “We use duct tape to fix everything.  God used nails.”  A quick biscuit and a fill-up in Huntsville got us on our way.

By mid-morning, we decided to stop at a bend in the road called Fallsville.  The small gravel lot had a lone white building with a single glass door, and three old-timey gas pumps.  No credit card swiping here.  You’re gonna have to go in, which was our intention anyway.  We needed a stretch.

We discovered the only available bathroom didn’t require a key – outhouses apparently don’t need that much protection.

As we laughed about this, I noticed an old pick-up truck sitting under a tree.  An overall-clad gentleman was perched on the edge of the passenger’s seat with the door standing open.  Sprawling around the truck were piles of plump green-striped watermelons.  I didn’t need a cutting to know they’d been picked at the height of their juicy glory.  I decided to wander over.

Gentleman Gene, as I think of him now, broke into a smile at the prospect of a buyer approaching.  “How’s business,” I said, curious if he had – or if he really expected – to sell any melons that day.  “They’re beauties, and better than anything you’ve ever put in your mouth.”  No doubt a convincing argument to anyone other than a motorcyclist.  “You raise pretty melons,” I told him.

He got up out of his seat and leaned on the side of the truck.  The entire bed of the truck was filled with dozens more. “I’m just trying to get whatever I can for them today,” he went on.  “They’re not mine, they’re my neighbor’s.”

As I was to learn, Gene was a proud farmer himself who just couldn’t stand the thought of letting perfectly good watermelons rot in the field.  That morning he had driven over to his neighbor’s house and convinced him to let him load up his truck and come down to the gas station to try to find a home for as many as possible.

Why wouldn’t your neighbor bring them himself, I asked him.  Seemed like a strange thing to do, loading up your neighbor’s bounty and hauling it off.  Was his neighbor lazy, tired of eating melons, tired of giving them away?  His answer caught me off guard.  “He’s just not up to it this year.  He’s got cancer pretty bad.  He’ll never make another harvest.  This is his last crop.”

A new appreciation for the melons flooded over me, and their natural beauty just shone.  Gorgeous shades of green, smooth round skin, plump centers.  Just the way they were at rest on top of each other looked as if someone had carefully placed each one in a certain spot to catch the morning’s light through the trees.

Gentleman Gene went on to tell me about his neighbor.  An interesting guy who had lived off the land his whole life.  A farmer, he reaped what he sowed and scraped together enough along the way to feed and clothe 14 children.  An experienced chef after a fashion, he had taught all the women in the area to make homemade sorghum molasses, Gene grinned.  “I think the most he ever made in a year was $1,200.  Some of it from his melons.”

No doubt.

Our conversation was interrupted by the sound of a motorcycle engine starting up.  I looked past him to our group.  They were putting helmets back on and folding up maps.  Time to get going again.

I thanked Gene for his story and apologized again for not being able to take anything with me.  They don’t make saddle bags big enough for melons, I explained.  “But I want you to do something for me,” I said.  “Tell your neighbor someone thought his melons were beautiful, and that he does good work.”

Gene laughed.  That will make him smile, he said, “and I haven’t seen him smile in a long time.”

As we rode away, I thought about fall, but not with the welcome anticipation I’d felt that morning.  Harvest is a time of plenty but it’s also a time of endings.  Maybe it’s because I’m in my 40s now, but only recently have I begun to think about things winding down in life.  I’ve always been wound up.  But of course there is a time of harvest that comes for us all.  The real question is what are you harvesting?

Gentleman Gene had done his neighbor a favor, but he’d done one for me too. It may be a last crop, but it won’t be one that’s forgotten.

Raye is distressed to realize that today will be our last riding day. Neither of us is ready for this to end. We wake up to steady rain, which does nothing to lift our spirits. So we enjoy a long leisurely breakfast and decide to ride regardless of the weather at 10 a.m. Actually the break is welcome as we are a little more tired than we would care to admit.

This time we come to the bikes dry and covered in our rain suits so I am not that concerned about the rain from a passenger’s point of view. We determine to venture out slowly to avoid any last-day mishaps. As it turns out, as we ride into the region the rain is sporadic and we find dry roads fairly quickly. Gray skies remain but we are excited to be out again and I vow to memorize every site and scene of the ride.

Our ride today takes us up gentle mountainsides. We pass one waterfall that is stunning, but we keep riding. In just another minute, we pass one even larger and more magnificent. Then finally we come upon a waterfall bigger than the other two combined. Now we stop. It is truly awesome. Part of the park, this glacier waterfall is a major attraction as evidenced by the many cars parked in a roadside gravel lot. People are walking along hiking trails to the base of the falls. It is common to see people of all ages out walking these sorts of trails and each walker carries a pole in each hand similar to the types of poles snow skiers use. As well, we pass many bicycle riders going up and down the steep mountain passes. Raye and I love watching the Tour de France every year, and in fact we pass one or two riders sporting a team uniform as we drive the switchbacks. We assume they are third string riders who are practicing and hoping to improve their stock on their team. We lament Americans’ lack of interest in such activities. Europeans seem to take to physical exercise more readily.

Finally we go on just another ways to the road’s end, which is also a ski resort in the winter time. A 10-minute walk up the hill leads us to a bridge overlooking the “mutterberg” – mother mountain – waterfall. This water comes straight from the glacier. I can only imagine the water temperature. It does look good enough to drink. This water may flow all the way down into the cities hours below. It all starts here.

As we drive more leisurely down the mountain, we pass another common scene: beautiful gray dairy cows grazing along the road side. They wander freely through the fields and across the road – this  must be what we call “free range” livestock, although from the looks of their udders and pleasant faces they are clearly for milk production and not to eat. Each cow wears a brass bell around its neck. We hear clanging bells quite often as we drive through the villages where there are so many farms.

We stop for lunch at a gasthaus on a farm, and I get a cow photo series going that features two or three beautiful heifers as they eat along the driveway. They seem totally oblivious to me and I make sure not to get in their way as they move sometimes quickly between grassy spots.

Once again we enjoy the local house specialty featuring Tyrolian food – we have a beef and potato goulash topped with a fried egg and with grilled bratwurst on the side. Raye and I split these sorts of meals – we have learned they are big enough for two. Big glasses of water, no ice. These mountain regions dry you out very quickly so we have also learned to drink a lot of water during the day.

We stop in a small town on the way back that has a large ornate church. This is a special site to see, although churches are in every town regardless of size – and the church is always the tallest building in the town. Steeples are shaped either like an onion on a pole or in a narrow triangular shape with a ball at the top. Roofs are painted either red or green in Austria to indicate what regional church government it is under. In Italy, the roofs are painted black. All these churches are Catholic, which is clearly the dominant religion of the region.

The church’s graveyard is nearly as impressive as the building. Each gravesite is topped with a wrought iron marker standing at least four or five feet tall. These markers are all different but nearly each one features a figure of Jesus on the cross at the center. They are works of art, just like the wrought iron signs in the marketplaces. I wander through the yard and take many pictures – they are just too pretty.

We move inside the church to find beautifully painted walls, ceilings and altars of all kinds. These are reminiscent of large churches you might find in Rome. Candles are lit in front of  altars. We stand quietly in the back and move around the worship area just to study the paintings and to take some pictures. The ends of pews are carved wood and the stone floors are laid in carefully planned mosaics. No detail is left unattended to here.  I think of many of my Catholic friends and that they would truly appreciate this hall of worship.

Our ride home is as any other day, except this time it is the last. We gather early on the back porch to meet up with others for storytelling, and we all stay late after supper for more of the same. No one seems anxious to leave this idyllic setting, although talk turns to family and friends waiting for us at the next stop. Some are going on to other parts of Europe, but most of us are heading back to the states or home to Germany, where one of our companions is from. What can we take with us that will help us remember the way we feel this week?

iPod playlist: Sting, Styx, Tom Petty, Queen, Bruce Hornsby and the Range

Want to see more photos? Click on the set “Friday: Glacier Waterfalls and Churches” to see evidence of God’s hand in our lives and hearts.)

Today was our long awaited excursion to St. Moritz in Switzerland. We chose to make our way there via the Italian Alps.  After a hearty breakfast, we gather in the hotel parking lot overlooking the mountains and everyone climbs on board their bike.

As I soon discover on this trip, the mornings are my favorite part of the day.  The air is cool and crisp, the mist is still hanging in the mountains, and the sun is shining.  There is nothing like the moment you slide onto the back of the bike.  The anticipation of the day — what you may see in this incredibly beautiful countryside, the inspiration you know you are going to feel from just being in this moment.  Holding onto Raye, racing past life, the rush of the bike’s power, feeling the wind blowing by — it is hard to describe, but I can tell you it is an intoxicating feeling.  The experience made me feel like I can do anything.  That somehow there is still much of life to discover, something still amazing left for me to do and I can’t wait to get there.

Our first stop is an interesting site.  On the edge of the Italian/Austrian border is a lake that flooded a valley years ago.  You can still see the church steeple coming up through the water where the town stood.  Very reminiscent of the last scene in the movie “Oh Brother Where Art Thou.”

Out in the flats between passes, we come across two gigantic windmills positioned just beside the lake — this is such a windy spot and hydro-electric power and wind power are the two alternative sources of energy in this area.  I think about one of my clients in the oil and gas industry that is working to be a part of the energy solution in America by developing a new natural gas find in Arkansas.  Alternative fuel sources are great long-term ideas but not practical for all of us who love to sap up as much energy as we can to move at high rates of speed in our lives.  I don’t know many people, really, who would give up easy access to energy — even at today’s prices.  But a lot of the world’s problems wouldn’t exist if more people did have the affordable energy sources they needed.

We drive through an old town that has cobblestone streets and many old buildings.  Children holler “hallo” to us and wave as we go by.  Motorcyclists seem to be a common and welcome site through these communities.  In fact, we pass many other motorcycle groups throughout this trip. I’ve learned the biker’s greeting — simply drop your hand out off the side of your leg in a very nonchalant wave.  I knew of this gesture in the states, but I didn’t realize it was a sign of camaraderie that is universal.

Heading into the mountain passes, we encounter more switchbacks — kehren (turns) — that are numbered and also show the meter height.  We are about 2,500 meters high, which is the equivalent of 7,500 feet or so.  Nearly as high as Vail Pass I think.  But I don’t feel the effects of the altitute, probably because our base hotel is also in the Alps.

Our guide leads us through an interesting engineering creation found throughout the mountains of Europe.  They are open tunnels on one side called “galleries.”  As you ride through the tunnel, you can see out one side and down into the valley below.  There are a lot of these, and it’s fun to look out while you ride through them.  Frank tells us these are built to catch snowfall and prevent avalanches that close roads.  Passage through these areas is critical, and you can’t have major roads shut down for months at a time from snowfall.

We stop to eat lunch just on the other side of the Swiss Alps at a small “gasthaus” guest house (hotel) that has an outdoor café beside a creek.  This is very common, to round a bend in the road and see a gasthaus standing by the side of the road.  “Zimmer frie mit warmen kuche.”  Rooms available with warm cooking.  Then also the name of the family, “Familie Schmitt.”  We guess this is a longtime tradition of local families opening their homes to travelers for extra income to supplement whatever they get from their farming enterprises. On evening walks behind the hotel where we are staying, we follow a narrow road up to a hilltop and we pass no fewer than three or four of these small family inns.  In fact, the inn where we are staying is run by the Wilhelm family.

After lunch, Raye and I are tempted by the hammock hanging in the yard — riding through the Alps is hard on Raye to watch the road and we move around a lot as we speed up, slow down, turn right, turn left.  It’s great fun for me, but Raye watches the road and really concentrates.  Several friends said before we left on this trip: “Be sure to come back in one piece.”  As you grow older and have children, you begin to realize the importance of taking only calculated risks.  Those black diamond runs on the ski slope during our winter vacations used to attract our adventurous spirit, but we have come to appreciate the fact that someone has to raise our children — and we’d like it to be us.  So we don’t take as many chances on our trips like we did when we were in our 20s and invincible.  This trip is no exception.

Once the bills have been paid, our group sets out for dark-looking skies toward St. Moritz.  The ladies are determined to shop there.  We can see it off in the distance set in a stunning valley.  As we pull into town, the evidence of wealth is everywhere — in the cars, the hotels, the architecture, the shops — even in the sailing club set beside the beautiful lake that the entire town overlooks.

The ladies are given exactly 30 minutes to power shop, of which 10 minutes are spent climbing the steep hills to get into the middle of the shopping district from where we park our bikes down by the lake.  I am used to working at a fast pace, though, so we make quick work of a gourmet chocolate shop — gifts for family, friends and clients.  And I manage to grab a fleece jacket for myself with the town’s name stitched on the chest.  We simply window shop the expensive designer establishments manned by well dressed attendants.  Our motorcycle attire hides any sign of money any of us may have, but the way we looked I’m not so sure we would be that welcome anyway.

Just now at 4:30 p.m., we hop the bikes for the two-plus hours back to home base in Austria.  As luck would have it, we encounter not just rain but lightning and hail, which makes an impressive noise when it hits your helmet.  I know Raye and the other drivers are becoming concerned about the slickness of the roads.  They look a little frothy on the edges, which is surely an indication of the rain mixing with the oils and other liquids left standing on the roads since the last rain.

We stop in a small town under the only available covered spot and don our “frog togs” — rain suits.  This is no small feat to get these suits unpacked from the saddle bags and then pulled on over leather clothing and motorcycle jackets.  Everything sticks together, but finally everyone is covered the best they can be.  Even still, we are already wet and cold and for the first time I am wishing we were already back at the hotel.  My wet leather gloves stay wet and my hands never warm up the rest of the way back.

No one seems too excited about the rain as we ride through small town after small town.  People have disappeared from the streets for the most part.  Even at the Swiss border we are waved through without so much as a passport check.  After an hour or so and a painfully slow maneuver  through the Innsbruck evening rush hour traffic, the sun breaks through to light up the last leg of the way.  Tired and ready for dinner, our guide doesn’t hesitate to take on the last few miles. We race up the side of our mountain at 130 kph — at least 70 mph.  Conversation at dinner is quieter than usual as everyone is ready for a good night’s sleep.

iPod playlist: The Moody Blues, The Doobie Brothers, Steve Winwood, Santana, Steppenwolf.

Want to see more photos? Click on the set “Wednesday: St. Moritz” to see highlights of the hairpin turns and immense peaks.)

Today was a rider’s day.  Our main focus was on experiencing one entire mountain pass of nearly 50 consecutive switchbacks.  It sounded daunting to all of us, but really I think the drivers in our party were absoutely beside themselves with the challenge.  I wasn’t so sure how it would feel to ride on the back of the bike with absolutely no say-so in the speed or arc chosen for all those turns.  But I was set on putting it all in Raye’s capable hands and focusing instead on the thrill of the ride ahead. The switchbacks were carved into the Austrian Alps, the most beautiful mountain passes I have ever seen. As you look up the mountain, the road looks like a pile of ribbons, looping gracefully back and forth all the way to the top.  Raye maneuvered us carefully up through the turns without a hitch.  This was breathtaking and thrilling all at the same time since the sides of the road simply stop at the edges of the mountain.  Not much to catch you should you misjudge things too significantly.  We stopped at the peak near a dam holding back a beautiful “see” –- a lake — and enjoyed an espresso and some Austrian chocolate with our riding companions. Moving on, we passed through a quaint town with a chocolate factory, and you could smell the fruits of their labor all throughout the city. Frank took a pretty good ribbing from the ladies who couldn’t imagine not stopping at the chocolate factory gift shop.

Calling on my German more and more, today I successfully translated lunch menus for our table, and I can read many signs in the towns we pass through. Fierwehr – fire protectors, geminde amt – city hall, backeri – bakery, artz – doctor, apotheke – apothecary (pharmacy).

We stopped for lunch and ate sausages from the grill at an outdoor café on a mountainside. The weather has been warm, so we actually take off jackets, zip out the linings and sit outside under some shade to cool down. I never imagined the Alps region would be this warm but it is only like this when you are not sky-high.  At the top of the passes, it is quite cool.  And the mornings are always chilly regardless of where you are.

The ride up the next mountain is also filled with switchbacks and we see some minor incidents on this leg. One time we were riding too close to each other and our bike almost ran into the bike in front of us in the middle of a curve. The rider in front had to stop suddenly because an older man on a bicycle was just a few yards ahead of him but in the center of the road. Usually bicyclists stay to the edge of the road, but this one had wandered too far out. Fortunately no one was hurt, but the bike behind us had its rider slide off the back in the sudden stop. She hopped off but then hopped back on without too much trouble.  Believe me, you’re not going very fast in these curves, but the last thing you want to do is misjudge the apex of the curve.

Another time as we were riding down the mountain, we had to stop as a young man coming up the pass had just jumped off his motorcycle, put down the kickstand and jogged back down to the edge of a curve to help his female traveling companion with her bike. The young lady’s bike was off the road and up against the face of the rock wall, a victim of too much speed at just the wrong point on the curve. He helped her pull the bike back down to the road, and we slowly passed by them as he waved to assure us everything was under control and he did not need assistance.

We also find that, to move along in a timely manner, we have to pass slow-moving cars on these passes even when you cannot really see much ahead of you. This is always an interesting experience. Raye is very careful, but since I have no idea how fast the bike will go when we really need it, I just don’t watch at these moments. One of our fellow riders says his philosophy is that double yellow lines are just “suggested no-passing zones” as far as motorcyclists are concerned since we can move at a much higher rate of speed much more quickly than a car can.  Raye comments that on occasion the bike we are on sputters a bit when he turns up the juice. But otherwise I think it has been great fun to drive.

Dinner is always served at 7:30 p.m. in the dining room of the restaurant where we are staying. The cream of carrot soup and wienerschnitzel were sumptuous this evening. Raye and I have taken to the fresh salad bar and the cheese buffet afterwards – Austrian cheese is better than desserts.

iPod playlist: Steely Dan, Boston and Van Morrison

Want to see more photos? Click on the set “Tuesday: Switchbacks and Lakes ” to see highlights of the hairpin turns and immense peaks.)

Breakfast early this morning consisted of a buffet of sausages, meats, cheeses, breads coffee and cereal. Hearty Austrian food, I think. It nearly held us through until dinner. We left right at 8:30 a.m. with beautiful sunny weather, and a few wispy clouds, which seem to hang right at the tops of the mountains.

Our route took us into Deutschland – Germany – to see the famous King Ludwig’s two castles, Linderhoff and Neuschwanstein. The drive to the castles took all morning, and we cruised through many picturesque, small villages mostly farming communities. It must be harvest time for hay because everywhere farmers were on tractors mowing tall fields of grass and flowers. We also saw many people using scythes, cutting hay by hand with long, thin curved bladed instruments.  These hand reapers were mostly seen on narrow, steep hillsides where obviously tractors could not function without tipping over.  Some people we saw had even tied themselves to trees to keep themselves from falling down the mountainside while they worked.  Bales were rolled and piled sporadically across the fields at the bottom of the hills. As we came to learn, farmers here wrap their hay to make it ferment. Apparently cattle love it, and our riding companions from farm country in Wisconsin loved speculating about this.

The architecture in the Austrian alps is consistently simple and beautiful. Most buildings are white or a pale color stucco with pale shutters and gingerbread trim around the roofline. Balconies and windows are filled with flower pots — pink and red flowers always spilling over the edges of pots. House after house looks like this, even most buildings in small towns. We wonder if there is a strict building code that enforces this, or people here just have great taste and understand the concept of a cohesive design style for a community, and the graceful impact of well placed flowers. Many buildings also have painted murals and trim around the windows. Against the near neutral stucco, these designs — as well as the flowers and windows themselves — stand out like artwork on a wall. Nearly every scene could be on a postcard.

I am enjoying getting my German back. I took six years of it in high school and college, and lived in southern Germany for a summer as a foreign exchange student. I have worked up the nerve to order in German once and pay a gas bill at a convenience store using my German. So far, no missteps, but then I could be short a couple Euros in my pocket and I probably wouldn’t know it.

In addition to settling back into the language, I am also remembering how it felt to immerse myself in another culture. You have a strong sense of both anonymity and freedom when you do this. No one knows you here, so you can just relax and be yourself. No need to organize people or talk about your life. Just enjoy stepping into someone else’s daily life and be a casual observer or minor participant. The world is a big place, and it takes getting out of your cultural box to remember how small a role you really do play on this big stage.

The king’s castles were ornate and dramatic. As we neared Neuschwanstein on our bikes, I could see the castle hanging on the side of one of the mountains in all its glory. I had seen pictures of this castle since my high school German class days and had always dreamed of seeing it in person. It did not disappoint. We actually toured the smaller castle, Linderhoff, due to the hours of wait and tour time it takes to go through Neuschwanstein. The building was full of extravagances of every kind, including tapestries that took women years to make because of the finery of the stitching. Gold-plated furniture, mirrored halls, tables that were lowered up and down through floors carrying food to the king, even a throne room.

But the grounds were even more beautiful in my opinion. Gardens were filled with statuary, pots, fountains and manicured flower beds and lawns.

Really, this king was over the top in all he did. A loner who let few if any to come into these magnificent buildings. He died young and by himself. Many of us wondered how his subjects felt when they finally got to see his estates after his death. Apparently they came in droves. Think of all the good he could have done with his wealth had he been less ego-centric. Yet the irony is even today people still flock to see the monuments he built, and we thoroughly enjoyed viewing the extravagance.

iPod playlist: Phil Collins, Neil Young, Dave Brubeck, Diana Krall

Want to see more photos? Go to   and click on the set “Monday: All the kings’ castles” to see highlights of the ornate buildings and grounds.)