Planning a travel vacation at our age is risky, but our luck has held and we have just returned from a tour of eastern Europe that included a visit to Auschwitz in Poland, a four-hour hike through the splendor of the sixteen lakes and countless waterfalls of Plitvice Lakes National Park in northern Croatia, the crowded Charles Bridge in Prague and the sleepy lake town of Bled in Slovenia’s Julian Alps.
It wasn’t just sights; it was experiences like being serenaded in a winery in the Hungarian countryside by a feisty old (and good) violinist who brought tears to my eyes when he ended with American the Beautiful. (The wine might have had something to do with it.) Or Peter and I frantically trying to make the monumental decision of how to spend our last 400 florints before crossing from Hungary into Croatia. (We blew them all on a large Snickers bar.) Or eating all the fatty foods (like the grilled pig’s knuckle in Prague) that we would never touch at home.
We’ve loved our respite from e-mail, the news of the world and the parade of decisions and worries of our daily life, but we’re happy to be home.