Christmas 2006

Stewart and grandson Grayson, somewhere around the Spokane environs.  A moment after this photo was taken Grayson bent over and planted his face in the snow, presumably to better experience it, and to make it more real, as the rest of his insulated body wasn't quite able to absorb the full effect of Winter.   Or he could have been hungry, who knows.   

European Catch Up, Part 1

In February Stewart and I were, more or less, retired.  I was continuing to fly and consult, although the work ebbed more than it flowed.  Stewart was supporting his environmental remediation company with a handful of hours each week, but otherwise we were living routine if not contented lives. 

On the 27th a friend e-mailed me out of the blue.  A Captain position was opening up at his company:  yacht-based, hi-tempo, flying a twin-engine, instrument-capable executive helicopter.  It was based in Europe, meaning I would be, too.   It sounded exciting to us, and a little exotic; we had barely even thought about vacationing in Europe, much less living there and me leaving retirement and taking up a new full time position.  And so after some brief contemplation, a little soul-searching and some wide-eyed discussions between us, I submitted my CV. 

Weeks went by, and we heard nothing.  I halfway forgot about it.

And then I received an official e-mail.  The Company had pared the applicant field down to ten, and I had made the cut.   I completed an online interview that involved extemporary speaking and personal character discussions, two things (among others) that I am uniformly terrible at.   That and the San Diego sun, the arc of which I had miscalculated when selecting the spot in my home to set up the videocam, gave me the impression that I hadn’t made such a great impression. 

But two days later I was notified that I had been one of three candidates selected, and that I was being flown to London for the final round of interviews.  It was, needless to say, a little nerve-racking, and Stewart’s and my decision to pursue what was for us such an unorthodox path was now feeling very real.  I flew to the UK, and met with the interview team the next morning.   If I recall correctly the meeting took the better part of four hours, after which they thanked me and I returned to my hotel room.   

A few hours later the Chief Pilot called me, and indicated they would like to fly me to the Isle of Man to meet the CEO.  And so, after an early-morning flight the next day and several hours of discussions, introductions, and lunch, I was offered the job. 

I was elated, and shell-shocked.   But I accepted. 

 And then the race was on, a thousand things to do before it all started.  I won’t enumerate everything here, but suffice it to say we worked full tilt, nonstop, to get all of our worldly belongings stored (we only took clothes, more or less, to Europe), our home rented, and the mountain of paperwork processed before our one way flight to Nice, France.  With the help of our good friend Mark, and our neighbors, we kept from losing our minds completely during the process, although I had to leave Stewart to wrap up all the loose ends when I left for Europe early for training.   And there were a lot of loose ends:  for weeks on end all he did, from the time he woke to time he went to bed, was work on the move.  By the time he drove away from our home for the last time, he was mentally and physically exhausted.

But finally, on the 24th of July, Stewart landed in Nice and we were on our way, on our European adventure.

Fast forward through lots of crazy stuff that would take entirely too long to describe in this narrative, but we are now settled in our good friends’ home in Ponterania, Italy, just outside of Bergamo, which is just outside of Milan.  I travel for work, often to Cannes, France, but as I am yacht-based it might as easily be Spain or Southern Italy, or…wherever.   During my off time Stewart and I have been traveling as well, to Aberdeen/Edinburgh; Venice/Florence/Milan and many local sights around Bergamo; London; and Munich/Innsbruck/Vipiteno. 

So much to see, and to experience, it has been a great ride so far. 

Christmas Cheer

Stewart and I have been careful in the purchasing of non-consumable things while in Europe, with the expectation that we would eventually be returning to the States and would, subsequently, have to schlep all of our collective crap back.  

We made an exception to our cautious purchasing habits this week, though.  I really enjoy the Christmas season, more than any other occasion of the year, and so we bought a live Christmas tree, lights, and some ornaments.  Plus some small decorations to put around the home.  And a German Christmas pyramid, lol.  

It's all been worth it.  Our home has a little bit of that holiday feel, and given the lull in my job during the past month I have been home quite a lot and have been able to enjoy it with Stewart.  And perhaps more importantly, our whole journey to Europe has been about creating memories, about experiencing new things but also finding out what grounds us from day to day.  And Christmas, and the memories of Christmas past, are one of my unique connections that I want to keep hold of.  

Plus who knew IKEA sold live Christmas trees for 14 Euros.  

Imperius Googlus

This was going to be a post extolling the wonders of Google Maps.  It is, even in 2015, an amazing achievement, both in its worldwide breadth and functionality.  Plus the fact that it's free, and that its nearest competitor Apple Maps is so god-awful terrible, gives it an enduring wow factor.  So I am loathe to criticize.  

And yet. 

And yet on numerous occasions--today for example--Stewart and I have found ourselves in the Google Maps deception zone:  those areas of smaller, typically older European villages where Google knows where the roads are, and their names and directionality, but doesn't know that they aren't used for autos anymore, or at least that being the case a good portion of the time.  This afternoon we found ourselves on a cobblestone street in Vipiteno, Italy, that was packed with pedestrians shopping and celebrating the season, but not a single car in sight, and clearly no room for any.   But there we were, popped out of a narrow alleyway and nowhere to go.  Heads bowed and no other option before us, we continued.  It took us nearly ten minutes to travel the 150 meters of shame, with all those pedestrians staring coldly and disapprovingly at us, to get to a normal roadway.

Google doesn't let on that it knows where the deception zones are, and so it doesn't route you around them or otherwise provide warning.  You have to be on high alert, keenly sensitive to the often subtle changes of pedestrian traffic, the asphalt turning into brick or cobblestone, or the already narrow streets of Europe getting progressively more narrow.  That's the other thing Google seems not to be aware of:  the width of streets.  We have been on more than one street in Italy, following the direction of the Google Maps Lady, when we got so nervous that we had to pull in the side-view mirrors on our Toyota YARIS.  A YARIS.  

One additional critique, speaking of the Google Maps Lady.  She is always polite, never shrill, and she never lets doubt creep into her voice.  She is prompt, and she unfailingly states what her algorithm tells her is the correct route to go.   But to her, every word is an English word, pronounced using English grammar rules.  And so with every trip I take with her, she is a constant reminder of what I must sound like to the Europeans who silently wince as I butcher my way through their their language.  

All right, that's it.  I do not want to bite the hand that navigates me, because Google Maps has saved my collective and figurative bacon on innumerable occasions.  Despite her flaws she knows far more than I do--most of the time--about where I am and what lies ahead.  But I've now developed a healthy suspicion, a cautious tone to counterbalance the undeniably confident voice emanating from my iPhone.  Because the deception zone is not a good place to be.  

druckebergergassi

"During the era of National Socialism (1933-1945) many of Munich's local citizens avoided going near the eastern side of the Military Commanders' Hall (Feldherrhalle) on Odeonsplatz.  Situated on Odeonsplatz was a memorial for those who died taking part in Hitler's Putsch on 9 November 1923.  Two uniformed and armed SS guards struck up a pose there day and night as a guard of honour.   Anyone passing by was required to raise his or her arm in the 'Heil Hitler' greeting.  A large number of people who would otherwise have passed the guards therefore took the detour through the Viscardigasse in order to reach Odeonsplatz.  This led to the street being called 'Druckebergergassi' or 'Shirker's Lane' in the everyday language of the locals.   With this winding trail of bronze set into the cobblestones on the lane, [artist] Bruno Wank reminds us of this silent form of opposition among Munich's population."

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Munich's Christkindlmarkt

Germany might well best the U.S. in the celebration of Christmas.  Plazas all around town, flanked by historically imposing buildings such as the Marienplatz, lit up with holiday lights and filled with midieval huts selling traditional holiday crafts and food.  A lot of food, including all types of sausages, Gluwein (a warmed wine concoction with which--spoiler alert--one must pace oneself), and of course gingerbread.   Thousands of locals, plus two Americans clearly not acclimated to the weather, all sharing in the Christmas spirit.  

And they seem to largely pull it off without the plastic, commercialized brittleness that seems to creep into many American attempts to do the same.  

Speaking of weather, we probably overdid it our first fill day.  After dropping off our holiday cards at the Austrian post office, we spent the greater part of the afternoon and evening outside. We didn't realize how cold we had gotten until is was a little too late (the Gluwein didn't help), and we shivered our way back to our Air BnB a little less-happy than what we would have liked.  

 

 

The Duomo

The Duomo in Milan is a staggeringly large church, even by European standards.  All of the midevil church accoutrements inside have proportionately expanded as well--there's just an overwhelming number of intricate sculptures, stained glass windows, and renaissance art, all embedded in massive Roman columns and stonemasonry that leaves you gawking.   Below is the front door, adorned with impossibly intricate metal work, and guarded by the Italian military with fantastically awesome hats.  

Cinquemila (Five Thousand), Part I

I am slowly eking my way towards 5,000 total flight hours, so I thought it would be interesting to show what I've been doing all that time, aside from being slowly shaken to death.  

Flight Hour Breakdown

My Navy experience still takes up the largest minority of time, part of it deployed doing anti-submarine warfare (ASW) and a little too much Search and Rescue (SAR), and the other part as an instructor to new pilots coming into the fleet.  Helicopter Emergency Medical Services (HEMS) is the next chunk, most of with Air Methods but some in a death-defying stint in a Bell 206 Long Ranger.  VIP stands for Very Important Person, and if you are wondering what constitutes a Very Important Person then you aren't one, lol.   The "other" section I will need to parse out, but not on a Swiss train to Milan at 9 o'clock at night, which is where I am now.  It includes a good deal of non-VIP charter, off-road racing support, and local news support.  It also includes about a 100 hours of flying a Cessna 152 in Lexington, KY, where I learned to fly.  

Overall, I consider myself quite fortunate in what I've been able to experience, and the different environs in which I've flown.  There have been lows, no doubt, and lots of spikes of blood pressure, but so far it's been a magical trip for me.   With no offense to KPMG Peat Marwick and Booz Allen Hamilton, I am so thankful I left financial consulting in the early 2000's and returned to the cockpit, and so thankful Stewart supported and encouraged the move.