It was a year of strange places–and the familiar.
Going, in one day, from one of the highest, most mountainous countries in the world (Bhutan) to one of the world’s lowest and flattest (Bangladesh) was a kick. But there was also something wonderful about arriving in a new way in a town I’d been in hundreds of times before (Dubuque, Iowa) and, even, in seeing a new wonder in our own back yard (Chicago).
London was just a stopover–twice, on the Asia trip and again on another exotic journey to the Indian Ocean islands of Mauritius and Reunion. Not that London is ever “just” anything, even on a 24-hour break from jet-lag.
Business trips also took me to Switzerland, San Antonio, Vancouver and New Orleans. Some business . . .
And for fun–besides that family trip on the Mississippi River that took me to Dubuque–I went to Cleveland. No joke there.
Smallest “room”: A tiny, tiny cabin on the Delta Queen, shared with my 86-year-old mother on a cruise from St. Paul to St. Louis. Guess who got the upper bunk?
Americana at its best: “Waiting for the Robert E. Lee” on the calliope, “Mark Twain” reminiscing in the salon, lazy days on deck and river lore under the stars (including an explanation of the real “mark twain”). All that on a last-of-its-kind real wooden riverboat while the magnificent scenery and tiny towns along the upper Mississippi pass by. Hard to beat the Delta Queen for this.
Americana at its worst: Seeing what’s happened to some of the downtowns along the way. While Burlington, Iowa, and Hannibal, Mo., still have their charms, their business districts (except for tourist stuff) are forlorn. In Davenport, Iowa, I could count my fellow pedestrians on two hands during a weekday walk through downtown (there are, however, good things happening down on the riverfront).
Most prominent signs of dying small-town business districts: Tattoo parlors, used-everything stores, no McDonald’s–and directions to the Wal-Mart.
Is that all there is? The Mall of America in Bloomington, Minn., is as fascinating as . . . a very large mall.
Best little town on the river: Red Wing, Minn. It’s alive! And a good place to buy shoes.
Best dock-side attractions: Dubuque, Iowa. A dandy new aquarium, terrific river museum, splashy water park, historic steamboat to tour (or spend the night on) and other good stuff–all at the end of the ramp. Plus gambling for the excitement-challenged. (Full disclosure: My family farm/home is 20 miles east of here.)
Worst way to see Bhutan/India/Bangladesh: Because of delayed and cancelled flights, I spent six hours at the Paro (Bhutan) airport, eight hours at the Calcutta (India) airport and eight hours at the Jessore (Bangladesh) airport.
Most fascinating place to spend election night: In the airport lounge in Calcutta last May on that unplanned layover, when the Indian election results came in on TV. They have blue states and red states too.
Most incomprehensible bureaucracy: India. Heh, I wasn’t planning to spend all that time at the airport; even so, I did have a transit visa. So why did the immigration guy track down me and my local travel guide/handler later, and give us the third-degree? Beats me. If I’d come to India on sneaky business, I sure wouldn’t be hanging out in the Calcutta airport.
Best waiting-room reading: The only thing I recognized at the newsstand at Jessore’s airport was Hillary Clinton’s book. It was in Bengali.
Best of Bhutan: With fewer than 10,000 tourists a year, this is about as end-of-the-world as it gets–yet its home to some of the most dramatic mountains in the world. Not that I actually saw them. Wrong season; in May, at around the 11,000-foot level, the Himalayas disappeared into the clouds. But what I could see of “the hermit kingdom” was spectacular on its own: the distinctive Bhutanese architecture of villages and dzongs (temples) in the valleys; the amazing–and sometimes flat-out scary–1 1/2-lane, guardrail-free roads twisting and turning along the mountainsides; and a way of life that seemed divorced from modern times and reality (never mind the cellphones).
Least likely to be acquired taste: Yak butter tea in Bhutan.
Best of Bangladesh: All we hear about Bangladesh is floods, famine and ferry accidents. Sounds like . . . fun? Well, maybe not that exactly, but if you want a “learning experience” vacation, this is one place to go. I’ve been in plenty of Third World countries, but never before had I actually ridden on one of those overstuffed buses with people hanging out the windows and doors, or taken an overnight boat with hundreds of people on deck (OK, I had a cabin, but still all those eyes . . .). Because there’s little tourism infrastructure, you do see the real Bangladesh. Like Mt. Everest, you tackle it “because it’s there”–and, when you come down from the high of the challenge, you know you’ve been somewhere special.
Back to “civilization”: Bhutan, Bangladesh, Bangkok. . . . On this “three-B” trip, Thailand felt like coming home.
Why Mauritius and Reunion? They were the farthest my British Airways miles would take me for free. Also, the beaches in Mauritius are lovely, with fabulous resorts and famous chefs, while Reunion is a little bit of France with active volcanoes.
And why not? Even with free air, these are awfully expensive outposts. Plus, for Americans, it’s a long way to go for what is basically a beach-and-sun escape for Europeans.
Best-known inhabitant: The dodo. Which is extinct.
Closer to home: Vancouver reminded me how well Canada does cities.
How many times can you see the Alamo? For moviegoers, once apparently was enough; I arrived the day after San Antonio hosted the premiere of the new version of “The Alamo”–which subsequently bombed. But, on a third visit in a decade, the real Alamo still was impressive–and still oh, so small.
. . . or New Orleans? As Samuel Johnson said, “When a man is tired of New Orleans, he is tired of life.” Or am I getting my cities mixed up?
Still gorgeous after all these years: Switzerland. After a 15-year absence, I marveled at Lucerne for the first time and rediscovered St. Moritz. Don’t tell the Kiwis, but this place may be even prettier than New Zealand. That says a lot.
Best place to buy an altimeter: Switzerland. I got my $90 Swiss Army knife-version 32 meters below my hotel in St. Mortiz.
Best meal: Dinner at the chef’s table in the kitchen of the Kempinski Grand Hotel des Bains in St. Moritz. Salmon confit with beetroot and horseradish foam, capuns of quail breast with foie gras, medallions of monk fish, Swiss beef filet with oxtail ravioli, cheese with figs–and, of course, Swiss chocolates for dessert. All served with commentary from the chef.
Most expensive meal: Petrus in London. This is the place where a few years back six young, hot-shot bankers were fired after trying to charge their firm for a $63,000 wine bill. I, too, spent too much on the grapes, but got away for a bit under $300. Oh, wait . . . that was 300 pounds. But, no (attention: bosses), it wasn’t on an expense account.
It helps to know the language: Having been warned about the Londoner way to pronounce the Berkeley Hotel, I clearly told my cab driver to take me to the “Barclay”–and ended up at the Park-something-or-other.
Most crowded museum: The Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland. It seemed like a good idea–to me and every other rock fan in town to see Springsteen and R.E.M.
Worth a trip: Millennium Park (The Bean and all)–even if it weren’t right here in Chicago.
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Randy Curwen prefers the lower bunk. E-mail: rcurwen@tribune.com
