Author: cdrbill34@gmail.com

Got into Rome late afternoon yesterday 50 years ago. Most comfortable train yet. Got a hotel on the second try and moved into the Pensione Esedra, located at the Piazza della Repubblica (lots of doubles there).

The circular piazza used to be called Piazza dell’Esedra and may have been known by that name 50 years ago. At its center is a fountain, known as the Fountain of the Naiads, constructed in 1888. In classical mythology, naiads were predominantly female water nymph spirits. The fountain is circled by statues of four naked naiads, which apparently caused quite a stir when they were added to the fountain in 1901.

We ate, that first night, at a place called Piccadilly, “a budget place” (duh), and then spent the rest of the evening on the Via Veneto — walking, sitting, drinking, people-watching. On our first two nights, Fritz, the hotel night manager, had to get up to let us in.

Rode the Metropolitano, Rome’s subway, next morning. Journal: “Not a whole lot better than NYC and only one line.” Rome’s metro is one of the smallest in Europe, with only three lines covering fewer than 40 miles overall. 

We spent the afternoon visiting the Colosseum and roaming around the Forum. Below are galleries of photos from each.

We went other places nearby, too, only proved by photos I took, not memory.

One was Capitoline Hill, one of the “seven hills of Rome.” There we saw the Palazzo Senatorio, designed in large part by Michelangelo. It is fronted by a statue of Marcus Aurelius, a replica of one sculpted by Michaelangelo. The original is in a nearby museum.

Also visited the Pantheon, completed in the Second Century and one of the few buildings from ancient Rome that has stayed intact. It has been a Catholic church since 609 AD.

This is a gallery of other photos I took in Rome, but I can’t really assign them to a particular place, e.g., museum, etc. They’re interesting, though.

It was a very hot day, temps in the 80s. All the walking around in the heat tuckered us out. We went back to the hotel and took a nap. Then we repeated our first night — Piccadilly and Via Veneto. And Fritz had to let us in again.

The Vatican and Saint Peter’s Cathedral was the focus of the next day. Photos inside the cathedral and Sistine Chapel were not permitted. Journal: “Sistine Chapel wasn’t really as much as I expected. It seemed kind of small.” (Psst, it’s a chapel.) The photos I have are all exteriors, including views from the roof. Here’s a gallery.

At some point, we had also seen the Victor Emmanuel Monument, which commemorates the unification of Italy in 1861 and the first king of Italy. It was built 1888-1911. With its ornamentation, it’s also called the “wedding cake.”

From the Vatican, we returned to the hotel and I spent some time reading The Magus, a 1965 novel by British author John Fowles, that I think was in vogue at the time. We skipped the Piccadilly that night and went to another restaurant. Oops. Kevin ordered a steak and, when we got the bill, learned it cost L2400, which neither of us had expected. The total came to L5000-something! (The exchange rate at the time was US$1=583L so the steak was under $5 and total less than $10. We were used to cheaper.)

We went to the Forum to see it under lights and learned, to our disappointment, they didn’t do that in June at the time. So back again to Via Veneto. And Fritz had to let us in again.

Our last full day in Rome was marked by two significant events. I went to the Embassy and got my new passport. I gave them US$20 in traveler’s checks and got US$8 in change. Then, Kevin and I went to Wimpy’s. I had a Wimpyburger and a strawberry milkshake that came in an eight-ounce glass. I don’t believe I had ever before been to a Wimpy’s and have not gone to one since. And my one time was in Rome!

I read some more of The Magus that afternoon. We went back to the Piccadilly and Via Veneto and got back to the hotel before Fritz had gone to bed. I finished The Magus.

Trip from Venice to Florence was relatively short, as map indicates. Under 130 miles and, reflecting the less-than-speedy nature of the trains of that era, a little over three hours.

Arrived in Florence in early afternoon on this date in 1972. We got a room at the Pensione Il Magnifico on Via de’ Ginori near the Medici chapels. It was there I learned something that would take a lot out of our tourism time — I no longer had my passport.

It was the practice then that you handed over your passport to the hotel or pensione and they held onto it for a day or so. I discovered I had misplaced mine or perhaps it had been stolen. I was fortunate that my Navy identification card was sufficient for the hotel. I still needed to get a replacement passport and that bureaucratic process was “interesting.” I’ll talk more about it at the end of the post and focus first on what we saw and did in Florence.

(Kevin and his wife, Debra, have spent “a great deal of time” visiting Italy over the years since. It’s one of their principal destinations and they’re heading back later this month. On a trip to Florence in the 1990s, Kevin said, he spotted the Il Magnifico and “got ridiculously excited. Deb thought I was crazy.”)

Our visit that day to the Uffizi Galleries, one of the most prominent museums in Italy, was unsuccessful. It was closed. Visiting the Duomo, the cathedral, we saw the “Gates of Paradise.” So termed by Michelangelo, they are the gilded bronze doors created by Lorenzo Ghiberti in the 15th century at the Baptistery of San Giovanni.

After dinner, we went to that famous Italian entertainment venue the Red Garter. Walked in and saw the group from Texas again. “Said hi and chatted. Two girls came in and sat across from us. They were Linda and Tricia from Northern Illinois University. . . . Closed the place and weaved home.” (FYI Red Garter is still there! There’s one in Florence and one in Barcelona.)

After several hours on passport duty, we walked to the Ponte Vecchio (Old Bridge), a medieval arched bridge over the Arno River. It’s notable for its age and for the many shops built along it, which was common practice long ago. Closed to vehicular traffic, it gets a lot of pedestrians because it connects popular areas of the city.

We used it to cross over to the Piazzale Michelangelo, which was supposed to offer a great view of Florence, especially at sunset. The photo at the top of the post was a little before sunset, but the sun at that angle certainly lit up the Arno.

The view means you’re elevated and that means you’ve climbed up. The Poggi Stairs offer an attractive route. But it’s still a lot of up.

We spent some time in the nearby Boboli Gardens. One of the features of the gardens is the Buontalenti Grotto, featuring unusual 16th century art, some of which are made of stalactites, stalagmites, and sponge-like rocks. It’s different and here’s a gallery.

The Boboli Gardens also feature an “unusual” statue. It’s a 1560 sculpture by Valerio Cioli of an obese naked man sitting on a turtle. Hey, Italy in the mid-1500s was weird, man! It was reportedly inspired by an actual member of the court of Cosimo I de Medici. Here you go.

Our last morning in Florence was at least productive. We arrived at the Galleria del Accademia Museum shortly before it opened at 1000. At the end of a long line, we were pleased to see it move along soon after, but a bunch of folks got off tour buses and just cut in and the line disintegrated into a pushing, shoving mob. Tourists!

Accademia is most famous for the statues by Michelangelo there and the most famous of those is “David.” I took a close-up.

A copy of the full statue was also at Piazzale Michelangelo.

The nearby Medici Chapels featured tombs sculpted by Michelangelo in the mid-1500s for two members of the Medici family. They each feature two figures representing the four periods of the day:

Back to the passport affair. I had been able on our second day in Florence to get to the American Consulate on Lungarno Amerigo Vespucci. (Interesting in that the term “America” was derived from Amerigo’s name.) Learned I needed to file a report with the local police and also get three more headshots of me.

Made the report to the police at the train station. They were going to type out the report, but they needed “official paper.” And I was to provide that paper. I had to go to a tobacco store and pay L500 for the paper. Brought it back to the station and the police typed up the report. Also got the pictures. Went back to the Consulate with everything and they said they wanted to wait a couple of days to see if the passport turned up. They suggested I visit the embassy in Rome on Friday and have them check back with Florence.

On to Rome!

 

Another overnight train ride, leaving a little after midnight in Lucerne and arriving in Milan at 0545. Switched trains and pulled into Venice at 0930 50 years ago today.

After checking into the Pensione Zecchini (Journal: “Not bad, but we may have the smallest room in the place.”), we took Vaporetto  Line #1 (the public water bus system) to Piazza San Marco and then hit the beach. The Lido. Pretty sure I stuck my toe in the Adriatic. (Kevin confirms: “We were determined to take our shoes and socks off so we could say we were actually in the Adriatic . . . and so we did.”)

St. Mark’s Square is the main public square in Venice. It attracts lots of tourists and even more pigeons. One of its principal visual features is the 323-feet-high Campanile (seen in the photo at the top of the post). (Sather Tower on the campus of UC Berkeley is also known as the Campanile because of its similarity to the one in Venice.)

The Campanile is adjacent to St. Mark’s Basilica, a massive church.

The square was also the site of earthly power, manifested in the Doge’s Palace. Doges were the chief magistrate and leader of the Republic of Venice 726-1797. Each was elected for life by members of the Venetian aristocracy.

The Lido is a seven-mile barrier island in the Lagoon of Venice, with a town also called Lido.  “Sat around Lido, had a couple of Italian beers, and came back.”

After naps and dinner, we returned to the Lido to see if its nightlife was more interesting. We noticed the double-decker water bus we had taken in the afternoon had stopped running and we took a smaller boat. We should have gotten the hint. After another couple of hours sitting around, we closed that adventure.

Our second and last day in Venice was spent shopping and chatting with two girls from Canada. Dinner on the last evening was on the Grand Canal and just about everyone in the restaurant was US.

Here is a gallery of other photos from Venice. 

I know Switzerland has cultural and historical elements of significance, but I’m quite sure the dominant memories Kevin and I have from our visit to the Lucerne area 50 years ago are of its physical grandeur. Especially Wengen, pictured above.

As Kevin recalls, we had first learned of Wengen from a Canadian waitress in Boston, who, overhearing our conversation about where we might go in Europe, told us of its beauty. And the Harvard Coop travel guide we used said of Wengen, “When they remake the movie Shangri-la, they will do it here.”

We had missed the train for which we had reservations (surprise!), and had left Munich in early afternoon on this date 50 years ago. We had the compartment to ourselves for a change, but it was a relatively short trip, about six-and-a-half hours.

In preparing this post, I noticed a slide of the photo above. Until I looked up the location Bregenz, I had not remembered that we had gone through Austria on the way. I assume we had passports checked, etc.

Arriving around 2100, we found a hotel. “Really nice, and $6 a night apiece.”

The next day was Wengen-centric. I remarked in my journal that our train to Interlaken definitely climbed, but that it compared in no way to the steep climb we had from Lauterbrunnen to Wengen. Kevin recalled that segment was by cog railway and was “a bit frightening.”

The initial impression of Wengen — the deep valley, with waterfalls spreading mist from hundreds of feet above, backed by the snow-capped 13,642-foot-high Jungfrau — is visually stunning. The weather was great — 80 degrees and sunny. My journal entry was “Wengen is indescribable (see slides).” Here is a gallery of said slides.

Kevin recalls “we were sitting on the hillside and a girl came along with a donkey pulling a cart full of flowers, and we said, ‘Holy sh*t — we’re in the middle of Heidi.'”

Wengen was then and is now car-free. Doesn’t mean you don’t have traffic jams, such as below.

I was curious how that massive rock Jungfrau got named “young girl.” Seems the term more commonly refers to a “maiden” or “virgin.”

One of the main summits of the Bernese Alps, the Jungfrau was reportedly named in reference to nuns who lived in the nearby Interlaken monastery. Another peak in the area is named Mönch (“monk”).

We returned to Lucerne about 2000 and later ran into that group from Texas we had met earlier, in Copenhagen. Seems as if a lot of Americans were using the same travel guides.

Our last day in Lucerne we spent “doing business.” Dropped clothes off at a laundromat where an attendant did the wash. Went shopping for gifts and walked around. Here’s a gallery of scenes from Lucerne. The church with dual spires is the “Jesuit Church.”

Shortly after midnight, we caught the train south. Avanti!

Our travel from Copenhagen to Munich 50 years ago was the longest of the trip. It was on two separate trains. Copenhagen to Cologne, Germany, was 400 miles and nine hours; Cologne to Munich was 280 miles, almost five hours.

The first leg was an overnight and the usual difficult sleeping conditions. This time, the seats didn’t fold down flat. Spent about two hours in Cologne and viewed the cathedral there, the most visited landmark in Germany. I wasn’t able to find a photo of it that I took, so the one here is from online.

(Some might wonder how “cologne,” a French fragrance, came from the name of a German city. In German, the city is Köln and the fragrance is, in French, eau de Cologne.)

The trip from Cologne to Munich was the rail equivalent of a river cruise down the Rhine River, going alongside it for some time. Below is a gallery of scenes taken from that train.

We arrived in Munich on June 9 at just before 1800. My journal notes that we “Got hotel on first try!” The Hotel Jedermann. Double room with shower for DM45, about $15 a night. “And an elevator!”

Munich is known for its beer halls. On our first night there, we went to what was described as the world’s largest beer hall — Hofbrauhaus. A liter of beer was DM2, less than a buck. As usual, many Americans in attendance. People we initially sat next to were from Illinois and Colorado. We joined another group later — a couple from North Dakota and two girls from Vermont.

Hofbrauhaus closed at midnight, so we went somewhere else before heading back to hotel. The Jedermann locked its doors at 0200!

Also as usual, our next day started late. Took a streetcar and spent the afternoon at a place I had known nothing about previously — Nymphenburg. It started as the 17th century “summer residence” of a  Bavarian ruler and his wife as they awaited the birth of son Maximilian Emmanuel in 1662. Max built up the place after taking over. A gallery of photos I took is below, but this is a view unavailable to us at the time that gives you a sense of the place. 

As you’ll see in this gallery, they had a thing about snow sleds. Really ornate sleds.

Back in the city, went out to dinner at the Augustinier and had schweinbraten mit sommelknödel und salat. “Pretty good,” according to my journal. “Pork and some kind of dumpling.” Frommer’s Guide said the Schwabing section of town was something like Greenwich Village in New York City. Had good bars, anyway. Tried a few and ended up at the Scotch Kniepe, a whisky bar. I tried schnapps, which I didn’t like. They also had Dinkellacher beer, which I did like. Beat the deadline at the hotel.

Must have been rested, because our last full day in Munich started at about 0930. Weather was lousy, though. We took the S-bahn, the electric rail system, to the Olympic grounds.

The photo above shows some of the residences intended for athletes participating in the summer games of the 1972 Olympics, due to begin a couple of months after this was taken, in late August. It was to become the site of a Palestinian terrorist attack and the murder of Israeli athletes that sadly defines the 1972 Olympics.

Early on the morning of September 5, 1972, a group of Palestinians, members of “Black September,” stormed the Olympic village apartment of a group of Israeli athletes, killing two and taking nine others hostage. The Palestinians demanded the release of more than 200 prisoners and two German terrorists in exchange for the hostages. This image of a masked terrorist on the balcony of the apartment became one of the iconic photos of the event.

Jim McKay was the host of ABC’s coverage of those Olympic Games. On September 5 and 6, he broadcast for 14 hours straight on the events surrounding the attack.

Black September demanded a plane to fly the hostages to Egypt. German authorities schemed to attack the terrorists at the airport and free the hostages. Events went terribly wrong, however, and, at the end of a firefight, all the hostages, five of the terrorists, and a German police officer were dead.

Those who watched the coverage likely have not forgotten McKay’s simple and poignant concluding statement, “They’re all gone.”

Stained by this event, the 1972 Olympics also featured the performance of American Mark Spitz, who won seven gold medals in swimming, and the debut of Soviet gymnast Olga Korbut, who won two golds in gymnastics.

Here is a gallery of other scenes of the Olympic grounds in 1972, the view of the stadium taken from a observation platform, two-thirds of the way up the 955-foot Olympic Tower.

We then visited Mariensplatz, to see the Rathaus, Munich’s city hall.

Had leberkäse, “liver cheese,” at the Cafe Imbiss. Similar to liverwurst, but not the same. “Hard to describe,” my journal said, “but good.”

Returned to the Scotch Kniepe to enjoy some more Dinkellacher. We missed the hotel deadline, but not by much, and the guy was still up and let us in. On to the mountains next!

Headed north to Copenhagen, as map shows, 50 years ago last night. Sun rose around 0430. How did I know? Because I hardly slept. Remember, we were in a train compartment with several other people. To sleep, we extended our seats and laid out, alternating feet and heads. Also didn’t help that passports and tickets were checked seven times.

The map also shows that rail access to Copenhagen from the west is more than difficult. The train brought us to a ferry at about 0500. Had some tea in the restaurant on the ferry. Arrived in Copenhagen at about 0830. The Hotel du Nord was nearby and in a neighborhood with several porno shops, as befitted its price and quality.

After a walk along the Ströget, a mile-long pedestrian street, we came back to the hotel and took a nap until about 1730. After dinner, we visited Tivoli Gardens. In my journal, I simply said, “It was amazing.” Sunset there and then was almost 2200, so my pictures in the gallery below are in daylight. When it was dark we were in bars, so the picture of Tivoli at night was purchased.

We stayed out late and imbibed, as was our wont. The next morning at breakfast, the morning manager at the hotel said he recognized us because, when he went to wake another guest at 0700, he found the door to our room wide open.

After walking around taking pictures, we went back to the hotel and took a nap until 1930. After grabbing dinner, we wandered about and found the Club Pussycat. Might as well say this now begins the expurgated report on our visit. We first connected with a couple from Seattle, a local named Sven, and about six or seven kids from Texas on a tour. Later, after spending some time with a guy and a girl from Finland, we walked home around 0530.

Next day started for us around 1330. Hours of unimportant activity later, we were back at the Club Pussycat. Hung around with Sven and met two girls from Seattle — Laurie and Dawn. They were on a post-graduation tour of Europe (but after high school!). They had also been in Amsterdam and loved it for the hash. At some point, Laurie said she was in Scandinavia to “find my Thor”! Well, Sven became her companion. Later, waiting for drinks, a girl at the bar asked if I was American and we struck up a conversation. Üna was 20 years old and from Greenland. I believe she’s the only person from Greenland I’ve ever met.

Next morning, we went to Sweden . . . for a few hours. Malmo, Sweden, is a short ferry ride from Copenhagen. Rainy day and inconsequential. Back at the Pussycat that night, we met a local who was a Buddy Holly freak and talked about American rock in the ‘50s and ‘60s. Kid was named Flemming Anderssen and he drove us back to the hotel around 0400.

Here’s a gallery of random photos from Copenhagen, including one of each of your intrepid travelers.

On our last day in Copenhagen, we did our duty. Getting up at 1130, we bought some post cards and went to the lounge of the Royal Hotel to write them. Our train to Cologne was to leave a little after 2100.

Kevin and I arrived in Amsterdam on May 31, 1972, and were met by cheers and celebration. We soon learned that the Dutch were jubilant because Ajax (pronounced eye-yacks), the Amsterdam futbol (soccer) team, had won the Europa Cup that day (its second consecutive win).

The celebration had been a little confusing at first to me. It seemed that the streets just suddenly filled with people running, yelling, and singing. A political protest? People were too happy for it to be that.

Kevin: “The victory of Ajax, as I remember, dominated everything that day. We took the trolley into the Dam Square, where people dressed in orange were hanging off the rooftops, drinking beer, and smoking dope. There were thousands in the square celebrating. At some point in Amsterdam, I bought a pack of cigarettes and the matches had a photo of an Ajax player on them — no name, because everyone in the Netherlands knew all the faces by sight. We were bought a few beers, and one bar had a phonograph and kept playing the Ajax song over and over again.”

We had left Boston on an Aer Lingus Boeing 747 late the evening before, delayed about an hour by weather. Movie on the flight was The Hot Rock, starring Robert Redford and George Segal. Remember nothing of it.

The flight arrived in London at 0845 (I’m going to use the European style for time) and our connecting flight in a Boeing 707 took off at 0930. We landed in Amsterdam about an hour later.

It took us quite a while to locate and walk to the Pension Weidemann. Once somewhat settled in, we took a walk around, had some rosbief broodjes (Dutch versions of sub/grinder) and Heineken, and then returned to the hotel for naps until 2030.

Here is a gallery of street scenes in Amsterdam. (Click on arrows to advance or go back. If you click on an individual photo, you’ll get a larger presentation. But you’ll need to click to see the previous page to go back to the gallery.)

Fortified by tosti (toasted ham and cheese sandwich), we started bar-hopping around Rembrandtplein, major square in the center of town. After a couple of stops, we went to a hotel bar into which we had seen a nice-looking girl enter with a friend. After a bit, we noted that it appeared to be a gay bar. Whatever. We saw the girl who had entered and she responded to our glances with a smile.

She inquired if we were American and that started a chat. Wilma came over to talk with us. (Her friend did not speak English.) Born in Holland, Wilma had emigrated with her family to Australia as a young girl, returning at age 19, six years earlier. The four of us left for another bar at about 0330. That was closed, so we got into line for the Club Privé.

A few moments later, someone in line behind us yelled in English, “I can’t believe it.” Turning around, we saw our high school classmate Brendan Montano. Whaaa? Made plans to meet the following day. 

Skipping the line at Club Privé, we finished the night at the Blue Note. After arranging to meet Wilma again, the girls took a taxi home and we walked back to the hotel at dawn. 

Of course, with accumulated jet lag, numerous beers, and dawn bedtime, we totally blew past the time we were to meet Brendan. And there was no way to get in touch with him or him with us. (The [literally the] mobile phone was invented in 1973 and common use was decades away.)

Starting the day in early afternoon, we made train reservations for Copenhagen and tried to secure another hotel. For dinner, we tried rijstaffel (Dutch for “rice table”), the Dutch adaptation of an Indonesian meal, at a restaurant named Bali. The meal consists of as many as 40 side dishes served in small portions, e.g., egg rolls, chicken, fish, fruit, vegetables, pickles, nuts, along with rice also prepared in different ways. I recall enjoying it, though I haven’t had it since.

Kevin: “Sixteen years after this trip, Debbie and I went to the Bali for rijstaffel and it was just as good. We always send people there (just gave the name to our neighbors who are starting a river trip in Amsterdam in July).”

My journal notes that at various bars later in the evening we met a girl from Saskatchewan named Jeannette, some people from South Africa, and Tony and Fritz Klein, along with a girl who had spent two weeks in Pittsfield, Mass. We walked back to the hotel again at dawn.

At the hotel in Volendam at which Wilma worked, we learned she had called in sick. Kevin was able to call her home and she sent her brother and a friend of his to pick us up. On motorbikes! 

At her house, we met another brother, Hank, who had just jumped bail in Australia. He had been picked up with four pounds of hash and had fled the country using a Swiss passport. He had also picked up hepatitis from a dirty needle, while shooting morphine, Wilma told us. Modern times, even then.

After a couple of hours, we exchanged addresses and bade farewell. This time, we skipped the motorbikes and took a bus, waving to Wilma and her two little sisters waving back as we left.

Spent our last full night in Amsterdam doing what and where we began — bar-hopping around Rembrandtplein. We donned coat and tie as we did often in the evening. Guess it was still the era when you “dressed up” to go out.

After a while at the Folies, we decided at about 0100 to check out the “Sailors’ District” — the Zeedijk. (Seems disparaging to use the term for us noble seafarers to describe a red-light district. Not inaccurate, just disparaging. It’s located adjacent to the harbor.)

This was during a time in that area when women prostitutes would sit in street-level windowed rooms with a red light on, “on display,” as it were. Over the years since, the area has apparently been cleaned up quite a bit and the red-light district confined to a smaller area. Prostitution in the Netherlands, nevertheless, remains legal and regulated.

After visiting a couple of bars, we got back to the hotel early . . . before 0400. Stopped in for one last one — at hotel bar — and met some US Army Airborne guys stationed in Germany. Had two beers — once again, the sky was bright when we hit the sack.

Our last day in Amsterdam was to be filled with history and culture. Finally! But, as usual, it started ahead of our preferred wakeup time. In fact, we were kinda hustled out of the hotel. Checkout time was again 11, at which time we were fast asleep. Knocks on our door. Woman looks in, “You know, it’s time for you to leave.” Okay. We checked out and checked bags in at the rail station for the overnight train to Copenhagen.

We had purchased Eurail Passes both for travel and, when possible, a place to sleep. According to a 1973 article in the New York Times, a pass for one month cost $160. There was also a “student” pass good for two months of unlimited second-class rail travel for $135. (The article said those prices were “slight” increases over 1972.) The student pass was also for “bona fide” students under the age of 26. I was technically still a student at Columbia and we were both 25, but I don’t remember which pass each of us got.

After rosbief and eggs, we took a tour of Amsterdam’s canals. Below is a gallery of scenes from that tour. They include what appears to be a canal-side “jail cell” and a “cat boat.” 

Following the canal tour, we visited the Rijksmuseum, national museum of the Netherlands and home to many “Dutch masters,” including Rembrandt’s “Night Watch.”

We also visited the Municipal Museum, which featured contemporary art (to my mind, not worth including).

By then it was after five, so we had steak at a little German place and went to catch the train. Our companions in the compartment were all US. One had known Kevin in Army Reserves. His wife was there. And a guy from Albany. Off we go.

 

Fifty years ago, on this date (a Tuesday then, the day after Memorial Day), classmate and longtime friend Kevin O’Malley and I took off from Logan Airport in Boston bound for a four-week tour of Europe. We left in late May because the airfare went up in June. I had left Columbia Journalism School a little early, missing graduation ceremonies in early June. (They mailed me the degree.)

Kevin had made all the plans — itinerary, hotels, etc. — for which I thank him effusively and very belatedly.

Here’s the list of locations, in order, and a map:
Amsterdam
Copenhagen
Munich
Lucerne/Wengen
Venice
Florence
Rome
Nice/Monaco
Paris

I kept a journal during the trip, which will be a source for posts about each of the destinations. And there will be some of what we remember (we have reputations to protect). Kevin will be contributing his recollections.

And there will be lots of photos. You’ll get to see what some of Europe looked like a half-century ago. The scenes were captured on positive film, 35-mm slides, using a Nikon F I had purchased in Japan in 1969 while in the Navy on deployment to the Western Pacific (still have it). Film was Kodachrome and Ektachrome, names totally unfamiliar to many younger folk.

Here are thumbnails of a selection of photos.

The flight from Boston was a red-eye, leaving late on the 30th and arriving in Europe on the 31st. Our first post on the trip itself will be tomorrow.

It’s EuropaTour ’72!