In the Alps - Adelboden, Switzerland

A trip to Adelboden in the Swiss alps was a requirement for me. In 1932 the World Association of Girl Guides and Girl Scouts built a chalet as the their first World Center and I was anxious to visit. As part of my visit, I earned the "Our Chalet Experience" badge and as part of that challenge, I was to write an essay about my visit. I've copied it here and thought you would enjoy it.

High Up upon a Mountain, I found “My Chalet.”

My name is Karen Hening-Speedone and I am 56 years old, which is probably not the usual age for visitors to Our Chalet. I have six children, five of them girls, four of the girls now adult Girl Scouts, five granddaughters with two in Scouting and I was a Brownie Girl Scout leader for 18 years. Because I have heart problems, I use an electric “rollstuhl” as they say in German, or scooter. But I am A Girl Scout and never shy away from adventure, so I came to Our Chalet to see a bit of my own history. My experience at Our Chalet was unique and at the same time it was run-of-the-mill, to coin a phrase. First, let me explain why my visit was “run-of-the-mill.”

“Run of the mill” means expected, nothing unusual or out of the ordinary. And this visit was nothing new in the way I was treated by the staff and volunteers here. “Be a sister to every Girl Scout” is part of the Law that girls and women all over the world take seriously. They reach out to extend a hand of friendship, kindness and help to all people. Girl Scouts and Guides never stop and ask, “Bg pardon, may I see your current WAGGGS membership card?” Everyone offered to help with carrying bags, running upstairs to fetch my scooter key, bringing me food to my room or to my table in the dining hall - they extended their hand of friendship to me as I knew they would. It was exactly what I expected from a place like Our Chalet. Girl Scouts and guides never let you down!

For me personally, this was like a journey back home to my grandparents’ home in Port Washington, New York. My grandfather, Robert Schnepf had a knack for being in the right place at the right time - or sometimes at the wrong time. One day he decided to take a drive to New Jersey to see the arrival of the huge airship Hindenberg. As he watched it slowly descend to the ground, it caught fire in a terrible loss of life. Another happier time he was the first diver in line to enter the Holland Tunnel which connects New York and New Jersey under the Hudson River.

And in 1939, at the World’s Fair in Flushing, New York, he was able to purchase a piece of Girl Scout history - an exact replica of Our Chalet. Mrs. Helen Storrow had dedicated Our Chalet only seven years before and WAGGGS had the Chalet copied to use as a Welcome and Information Center at the fair. My Grampy took measurements, had a foundation laid and concrete poured and the basement built, and when the Fair ended, he had Our Chalet loaded onto a flatbed truck and it became the Schneps family home for the next 46 years, until his death in 1986.

I was a little girl when I spent summers with Nanny and Grampy, and some of the Girl Scout/Guide spirit must have soaked into the walls of that chalet. Today I am a committed Girl Scout and every experience like my visit to Our Chalet further validates my contention that Girl Scouting and Girl Guiding is as important as ever to the people of this planet Earth living together in peace. As WAGGGS says, “One million girls, one voice.”

I hope you will find a moment to write or e-mail me at:

Karen Hening-Speedone

3407 Menlo Drive

Baltimore, Maryland 21215

Kheningspeedone@aol.com (Watch the spelling - only one “n” in Hening!)

Rome in a Day - 5 November 2009 (Part One)

Back when I was planning our adventure, not knowing that having "an adventure" was a designation Glenn considered bad, we decided to add Rome to the Grand Tour because he wanted to see the Sistine Chapel. I had no real interest in viewing the chapel for a number of reasons. First, when I visited an art exhibit in the Smithsonian once, I was able to see work of Johannes Vermeer up close. And I mean I could get within inches of these canvases. It was stunning to see how Vermeer got light to seemingly flow out of the canvas. I kept thinking it was as if they were backlit. The second time was when Van Gogh's works had a "once in a lifetime" showing - the Museum in his native Netherlands was closed for a major renovation, and the paintings were going on a once-in-my-lifetime tour. Again, I could immerse myself in the brush work that have such life in them. The third "spoiler" for me was the work of Dalí being shown in Philadelphia. I remember being stunned at how he painted a miniature of his wife so detailed, Dalí must have used a paintbrush with maybe three hairs in it!

So seeing Michaelanelo's greatest work from two stories away held no appeal. I think I would get more out of the National Geographic special which concentrated on the restoration of the ceiling. And Glenn and I were looking forward to some alone time.

We arrived at Roma Termini station around 9 in the morning. Glenn found lockers for the bags, and we parked the bulk of our stuff. Glenn decided that a taxi was the best way to go, so we piled in, Odie stuffed in like a sardine in the back. I don’t know why Glenn refuses to break it into four pieces, which always makes life so much easier, at least from my perspective. He always stops at three. I like to go “all the way” as we say.

Our cab driver zipped and zapped around one of the most insane driving experiences of my life. At one point, a police motorcycle escort, sirens blaring, pulled along side and gestured for us to move over to the right. Seven cars, Chevy Suburbans, BMWs, and the like drove past. Our driver commented, “ There goes Berlusconi. He always has seven cars in his motorcade.” “I wonder why,” Glenn mused. “Two for the police, one for him, and four for his women,” I muttered.

We stopped a block from the Great Synagogue, the epicenter of the Jewish Quarter. With a hug and kiss from Big Brother, we parted ways - he was walking to the Vatican, and I was about to enter the world of Italy’s Jews, a world that dates back to before Jesus was born.

The Grand Tour Blog continues. . .

. . . but not as a day-to day journal. At least not posted in chronological order.

Rather than hang up on putting each experience in the proper sequence, I will be posting experiences in random order. I have an idea on how to keep everybody on "the same page." Let me know if it works for you.

By the time I finish this story, it will be ready for editing and putting in its correct time line. But for now, I hope you enjoy!

GLENN BAILS ON THE GRAND TOUR AFTER WEEK FOUR - FILM AT 11!

Actually, it will take a while to compile film, but my brother Glenn bailed out on the last two weeks, leaving me to fend for myself. Which in the bigger view, isn't a bad thing at all!

It became apparent that Glenn, who candidly spoke about his deliberate decision to live in a small oceanside town in California, has little if any tolerance for: big cities, crowds, tourists, Japanese tourists, local people, traffic, busses, or "bumps in the road." And at every bump in this road, from a train reservation losing my "handicap" designation, to just getting on a bus, caused Glenn to erupt in anger and irritation, "blowing off steam" as he called it. But as I pointed out to Glenn, when a person "blows off steam" it's the people closet to that person that get burned.

I saw this most clearly as we boarded the train from Rome to Zürich. Despite our checking and rechecking our reservation instructions, "top down, bottom up" as my former programmer brother liked to say, we arrived at the train to find that: a) there was no handicap cabin on the night train; and b) the couchette we were assigned to had four others joining us for the bulk of the trip. It was also the worst couchette in that you could not sit up on the bottom bunk because the middle bunk was in the exact middle of the wall - not enough headroom. The other couchettes in the rail car were designed to allow passengers to sit upright on the bottom two bunks while the top four bunks were occupied.

Glenn ordered me to "get in" the train as he usually did - rather nastily. So I did as I was told and went to the couchette and sat down. Glen then proceeded to take apart my scooter, and when he bought the seat portion into the couchette, he threw it some five feet across the cabin where it landed on top of the bunk ladder with such force that I flinched and jerked back, expecting to get hit by flying metal. He walked off to get more scooter parts, which were brought in and dumped in the couchette.

The train conductor, a large towering fellow named Remy, was wise enough to leave Glenn to his own devices. I can only imagine the interaction between the two, but Remy came to me once the train was under way, and explained to me - and to Glenn who was listening, but was being left out of our conversation - that we could put the scooter at the end of the train car, by the door to the bathroom. So Remy and I took the pieces to the end of the car and reassembled Odie - poor, dear scooter who had been senselessly abused, and while Glenn scoffed at my anthropomorphization of an electric travel scooter, I saw it more as an unfeeling victim of Glenn's childishness.

Glenn promptly carved out his space in the top bunk which, it turned out, had a ton of storage space above the hallway. He changed into pajamas, put in his earplugs, put on his sleep mask as was about to go to bed when he commented on my having plugged in both Odie's battery pack and my laptop, saying that I shouldn't monopolize both plugs. Now Remy had told us that the other four passengers were joining us in Florence, an hour away by train. So I had at least one hour to charge both items before anyone would even be there to ask to use an outlet. But there was just something about how Glenn thought I should be considerate of total strangers, which is how he sees things in his world. I calmly told him that I didn't give a bad word is someone wanted an outlet, when I was done with one I'd let them know. And Glenn found my attitude incomprehensible. But after three weeks and two days together, I wasn't surprised that Glenn saw his behavior as totally fine. Man, Zürich was going to be great - Glenn stays in the hotel I booked for him, I stay at Judy's family's house, I go to Adelboden, Glenn goes to Lausanne and when we get back together on Tuesday at the airport, maybe he will have mellowed somewhat.

But the next bump in the road turned out to be a fork. And as I continued on, Glenn decided to quit the Tour and head for home.

16-17 October 2009 The Sabbath

Today is “Get ready for Shabbos” day. The word Shabbos means sabbath. From just before sunset Friday until one hour after sundown on Saturday, the Sabbath takes everyday life and puts it on the shelf. It’s a time for revitalizing oneself, both spiritually and physically. No phones, no shopping, no television, no work, no worries as they say in England. For those who don’t “keep” the Sabbath, it seems like a lot of restrictions and limits. For those who do, they don’t know how the non-observant world manages without that one day of total rest.

We do my shopping. I’m having a delicious deli Shabbos - more chicken pate, some turkey breast. It turns out that there is a small shul only three houses down the block from where we are staying! What good fortune for a girl who’s booking a vacation over the Internet from 3,000 miles away! But what is it we say? There are no coincidences!

Glenn heads out to explore London by night, as opposed to London’s nightlife, in which he has no interest. He ends up at Trafalgar Square, where he takes videos of people hanging out. The interest or intrigue fails to ring a bell with me. But to each his own. . .

I light my candles and enjoy a quiet dinner alone. Really this is nothing new for me - I spend almost all my Friday nights and Saturdays alone. It seems to be my lot in life. It’s ironic that I designed this house remodel back in 2005 with the idea of one day having my children and their spouses and my grandchildren over for visits and meals and enjoying the noise and the laughing and joking, the Sabbath songs and joyfulness, and now I sit alone. But I am determined to make some really fine lemonade out of these lemons.

So Shabbos in London turns out to be really lovely. In the morning, Glenn is already out the door by 8:00 on his way to GMT - Grenwich Meridian Time, and the Royal Observatory (Yes, she even has her own telescope, for pete’s sake!). As soon as he reports in, I’ll give you an update. Me? I overslept, prayed in my room with a beautiul view overlooking the trees in the back yard, ate lunch, read the newspapers and napped the afternoon away. As I said, a really lovely day.

The Tower of London - 15 October 2009

The Tower of London seems like a great place for Glenn and I to tour; he, the teacher of history, and I, the buff of history. I had found out about the Ceremony of The Keys through my reading of Rick Steves’ book on London. Rick has been traveling throughout Europe for the past 20+ years and his books are updated yearly to keep current on sights, tours, activities, prices and shortcuts.

The Ceremony of the Keys has been going on for the last 700 years. It has evolved over time to a locking of the doors of the Tower of London every night at 22:00 hours - 10:00 p.m. for us colonials. Just getting tickets to be admitted was no small effort.

According to the web site, the tickets are free. But this is a monarchy that puts a lot of stock in tradition, so even though there is a Tower of London website, don’t think they have been swept up into the 19th Century! The tickets must be requested in writing. The request must list two dates in order of preference. The request must include a self-addressed envelope with postage on it to pay for mail from London to one’s home town. In Royal Mail stamps. (Yes, she also has her own Postal Service!) So how does a nice Jewish girl living in Baltimore, Maryland buy British stamps? On E-Bay?

Ah, the glories of technology - and Facebook! I put out an all points bulletin on the Internet and before I can sneeze, a Girl Scout comes to the rescue. Lorraine, my good friend, sister Girl Scout and PhD. meteorologist with NASA, has friends in all places. An e-mail from her to Tamara in the U.K. gets the wire buzzing and BINGO! Tamara sends the request to the Tower, the Tower sends the ticket to me and here I am with Brother Glenn at the appointed hour to enter.

The Yeoman Warder in charge of us is named Allen. He has spent some 23 years on active duty, a requirement for application to be a yeoman warder. He is delightful, funny, informative and considerate. The entire ceremony is scheduled to last a mere six minutes. The active duty personnel are charged with accepting the Queen’s keys from the yeoman. Our part is answering to “G-d save the Queen” to which we all loudly reply “Ah-men” as instructed. We are not about to flub our one and only line! Allen escorts us back out the small door in the gate and I am able to present him with our special tokens - the two lapel pins of the flags of Maryland and California. Our adventure ends on a high note - then downhill the evening goes.

15 October 2009

We slept in until 10 a.m. Boy, did we need our beauty sleep! By 11:30 we woke up and my scooter battery charger had two pretty green lights glowing and we were off. We followed Rick Steves’ travel advice and packed our lunch.

Off to the Tube and Golder’s Green. The two station attendants came over to warn us about “minding the Gap.” We replied that we were professional Gap Masters - we actually could try this at home. We jumped on the first train that was sitting on the track - only to realize that we were on the Waterloo train when we wanted the London Bridge train. My bad. we had to change trains at Camden. Once we were on the right train we arrived at London Bridge station, negotiated the cliff face, I mean the Gap, and found ourselves on the sidewalk along with 10 or 20 million of our nearest and dearest friends. I mean it. The sidewalk was actually officially teeming with people. I’ve walked on many a crowded street, but this was a serious bunch of very busy people! I had to wait for an opening to enter the stream of Londoners all busily doing whatever it is they do. It was a portent of things to come.

We managed to get to the Thames river. Does everybody know that only in Baltimore is it pronounced “thaymes” and not the British pronunciation of “tems?” We found a bridge We crossed the bridge. We got to the other side, just like the chicken who crossed the road.

The day was so beautiful we decided to walk along the Thames to Westminster Abbey. At the ticket booths for the river cruises, we stopped on a bench and ate our lunch, feeling positively smug. Here we were, sitting on the Thames riverbank, as if we had no worries, noshing away on kosher chicken paté on Ryvita crackers, drinking tap water.

I found the Cabinet War Rooms, having ended up at the non-accessible entrance. We scootered around to the accessible entrance, which is where I found out that my London Pass had to be picked up from the Tourist Information center. The lively young man directed me to Victoria Station. Nice young man, wrong station. It turns out that I need to go to Lower Regent Street near Piccadilly Circus. Up until now Glenn had avoided the busses like like a kid with H1N1. I, the intrepid, if not impetuous one, decided to take a bus. It pulled up, I got on and had a great time. Got there, got the passes from Sabina the greatest receptionist in England, and back to Churchill's War-time digs. Glenn stayed so long inside, that Paul the manager issued him a pass to return the following day for free. The staff there were just “loverly” as Eliza Doolittle would say.

The rest of the evening was a run up to our one appointment - The Tower of London at 21:30 sharp. As the invitation stated: “Latecomers will not be admitted.” So stay sharp for the next update - DON’T BE LATE!”

A trip to Windsor Castle, 14 October 2009

Windsor. A beautiful picturesque town. No wonder Windsor Castle is Queen Elizabeth’s favorite castle. Glenn and I are duly impressed. But we are mostly impressed with Galahad, the trusty scooter. It seems to have good power, great handling, and Glenn can’t get over how easily it disassembles. We putter down High Street, which leads directly to a statue of Queen Victoria and the visitor’s entrance to Windsor.

Breakfast is the fist item on the agenda. This army definitely travels on its stomach. I sit at the café table on the sidewalk and Glenn orders breakfast. The price is a little high - but we chalk it up to eating within hailing distance of the castle moat. Little do we know that this is just the first salvo.

We reach Queen Victoria and it’s Mom’s big moment. “Wait a minute, Glenn, there’s one more person for the photo.” And he’s tickled pink as Mom arrives, straight out of 1954 and looking great!

Standing outside Windsor’s entrance, We hesitate at the price - $15.50 each. We’re both wavering. At our artificially agreed-upon exchange rate, that’s $62 to look at the British version of the Vanderbilt house in Newport, Rhode Island. You know, the one with a $10,000 bathtub in 1920’s dollars, with hot and cold running fresh water and sea water! Then emotion takes over - or maybe it’s Mom who got taken out of the box for her first photo opportunity. We decide to take the plunge.

At the ticket window I utilize the Rick Steves “Always Ask” philosophy. I say, “And my companion” meaning Glenn as my travel assistant, bootman, valet and all-around Sancho Panza. And it works! Glenn gets in for free! We enter and we walk up “the long and winding road” to the castle gate. You marvel at the sense of a massive 13th century edifice that is occupied by 120 people. It’s not just the Queen and Philip in the empty nest. They have ladies-in-waiting and valets and bootmen and Sancho Panzas stacked up like cordwood. What do they all do all day? Not half as much as my dear brother, who makes this all worth while and possible.

Still, they do a whole lot, let me tell you. This place is just huge with every kind of specialty room you can imagine. There’s the China room. As in place settings. Entire walls of floor-to-ceiling cabinets with lighted shelves of every place service they have received or commissioned since the 16th century. Every service beautifully displayed and not a speck of dust, not a fingerprint in sight! I particularly liked a dessert service that was a gift to the Prince of Wales and his wife, Princess Alexandra on the occasion of their marriage. In 1863.

This was a magical experience for someone who has always read about the lives of the Royal Family since the time of Queen Victoria. Just to see their dishes was to bring them to life as flesh-and-blood people, not as characters in a multi-volume fiction. And every room of the tour is like that. If you can ever go there, don’t miss it!

14 October 2009

At last, my passport gets a stamp in it! I am officially an international traveler, having landed at Heathrow airport. The wonderful service on British Airways has made me a passenger for life. I’ve spent enough time on cattle-car airlines to qualify for a herd discount. From now on, if I can afford a better airline, I’m spending the money.

The BA attendant is Pakistani by background and British by birth, so while he is wheeling me around, he constantly refers to me at “Luv.” Makes me feel like Ringo Starr is channelling Mohandes Gandhi. We get to the area outside customs, Glenn’s and my pre-arranged meeting place. I’m worried that he is frantically looking for me, not yet realizing that Glenn operates on International Surfer cosmic mode. His flight from Los Angeles arrived at 8:51 a.m., some three minutes after my flight from Baltimore did. I take my 2 foot by 2 foot by half-inch “Mom” poster box and on the back in marker I write “Glenn Robert” just like the limo drivers do for all the business travelers coming in. And I sit and wait. And wait. And wait.

I panic. He’s lost. We missed each other. There are two entrances to the post-customs area, and I’m sitting outside the wrong one. He’s going to get mad and it won’t be pleasant. The whole trip is shot - I might as well go home. 90 minutes go by and every employee I meet assures me that he’s probably still in customs and will be coming out soon. What do they know.

Another 10 minutes go by and suddenly, here he is, cool as a cucumber and thrilled to see me. It took the plane an hour and 40 minutes before Glenn could disembark. I breathe deeply, trying to keep my heart beating as I calm down. We organize our gear and we’re off.

Tickets are bought, the bus is found and boarded, our driver Martin is cheerful and a great tour guide, and for half the journey to Windsor we are the only passengers. Martin jokes, “There are 57 seats to choose from. Get comfortable.”

As we come to the stop where Martin leaves work for the day, I hand him my little stab at international relations. (Get ready for the pun.) I have lapel pin of the state flag of Maryland and another pin for the state flag of California. Martin is surprised, and genuinely touched. Glenn views all this and smiles broadly - he thinks it’s a great move on my part. He gets Brownie points for the California pin and he didn’t have to do anything to get it! What a deal! What a county! What a sister!!

October 13-14, 2009

The adventure begins!

For those of you who have been the unwilling victims of domestic air travel, I want to assure you that courtesy, comfort and service are alive and well in the friendly skies over the Atlantic ocean, where British Airways is truly the queen’s airline.

I arrived at BWI chauffeured by Prince Moshe Shaul a.k.a. Michael Grossman in his faithful red chariot. My travel scooter got into the trunk easily. As I approached the check-in counter, a BA customer representative walked up to me and welcomed me. She had been waiting for Galahad the scooter and I, Gueniviere the fair maiden, to arrive. In that lovely British accent they are famous for she asked if I would mind checking Galahad in at the counter. She would provide a wheelchair for me to get to the plane.

This was my first test and I hadn’t even checked in yet! I remembered what Rick Steves’ co-author said, “Be assertive! The Accessibility for the Disabled Act is on your side. Demand that you be allowed to take your wheelchair or scooter directly to the door of the plane.” But didn’t they know how nicely Priscilla of BA was going to be? It would make things so much easier for everyone! How could I say no? I smiled my best smile - and caved. “Certainly, I don’t mind. Of course I won’t be able to get around while I wait to board. . . “

“Oh, ma’am, you’re being so kind, we’ll let you wait in the lounge.”

And that, folks is where heaven awaits. Luxurious seating. Attendants to bring you a coffee, soda or perhaps a glass of wine. Pastries, cheese and crackers, little peppeidge Farm packets of Milano cookies. And all, of course, on the house. Gratis. Free. And my own personal BA chauffeur comes to collect me in my wheelchair and escort me to the door of the plane. And the flight makes me want to come back next month. Wait - I’ll be coming back on British Airways! G-d save the Queen!!

T minus 20 hours and counting!

It's one in the morning and I am completely worn out, stressed out and excited!

I log in to check in online. What should have only taken two minutes goes on for almost a half hour. First, I have to provide my passport number. Remember all those nightmares about not having a passport? Well, I do indeed have a valid passport made out to Karen Janey Hening-Speedone. They ask for the name exactly as it appears. I type it in and hit "continue." British Airways immediately drops the hyphen. The British don't believe in hyphenated names? Puhleeze!! They invented the hyphen, for goodness sake! I try putting it back in, and the web site keeps taking it back out! This goes on for several minutes, during which all the already logged-in hyphenated-last-name passengers get all the decent seats!

Next is the disabilities option. Mine says I need a wheelchair at departure and arrival. Wrong, I have my own electric scooter to ride to the door of the plane, which they will subsequently stow in the cargo hold, to be returned to the airplane door when I disembark. I try to fix that, only to finally give up. I hope you're ready, British Airways, but you're not known for flexibility!

Finally I get to pick my seat. 23D looks most promising - it is at the end of the row, where there appears to be an aisle behind it as well as next to it. The seat directly in front of it is empty so there's a prayer of a chance I survive.

Michael is taking me to the airport at 5:00 in the afternoon. I am leaving plenty of time to get through security. Between the carry-on bag full of electronic gear, the electric scooter, the foot brace and the cane, I will set off alarms that will register in the Pentagon!

Tomorrow morning I go to the bank to move money around, head to Towson to get my iPod resynched, and then wait for the FedEx guy to deliver. More on that tomorrow!

The Schizophrenic Tourist

She sits at her computer, looking over the itinerary for the hundredth time. The room reservation with the elderly German lady in picturesque Bacharach on the Rhein; did she make it for one room or for two? The site for the website for Eilat, Israel, keeps crashing and won't let her sign on. What was it Glenn said when she mentioned staying at a youth hostel? "We're not youths, Karen." This from her brother, the eternal surfer? He's not a youth? Peter Pan has grown up? What will Wendy say?

It's T minus 13 days, and Eisenhower got the US Army to Normandy with less fuss. I am alternately calm and panic stricken. I am going to the airport four hours early so when I suddenly remember what I forgot, I can send my dear friend Michael back to my house to retrieve: my passport, my medicine, my camera, my airline ticket or whatever other item I have left out on the breakfast nook table.

Back to how we got here. Mom passed away very unexpectedly on October 1st in 2007. All of us were stunned - she was in perfect health despite her minor complaints. (Once, after gall bladder "band-aid" surgery, Mom moaned to me on the phone, "Karen, you CANNOT imagine the pain!" I replied, "Well, let me think, Mom. One band-aid for you, five C-Sections for me." "Oh," Mom muttered, "That's right. I forgot.") Glenn and I almost instantly became bonded together-just as Mom had always hoped and prayed. One year later, as we were commiserating on the phone, I said, "Let's do something really special. Mom always promised us that one day she'd take us to Europe. Let's use the last of the inheritance and go see the sights she always wanted to show us."

And as quick as you could say "Bob's your uncle" I had mapped out four weeks in Europe and two weeks in Israel. At first, I kept pestering Glenn with my ideas, asking for his opinion. After a while he finally said to me, "Karen, you're the tour guide and you're in charge. All I care about is the Churchill Room, the cathedral in Chartres and the Sistine Chapel."

Should I tell him I've already booked all three on our trip?

The Grand Tour - how we got so lucky.

I don't if I can call us lucky - it seems in almost sacrilegious or at least disrespectful. But how this adventure came to be is the first chapter is a long family story.

My mom was born in 1928 in New York. When she was nine months old her mother, Liesl, shipped her to Germany to live with Liesl's parents and siblings. Mom got shipped back to New York in 1940, when the United States ordered American citizens to leave Germany. On the face of it, it would seem a fairly simple thing. But Mom was not a piece of porcelain, a Rosenthal china or a bronze candlelabra. The damage done to this tiny baby, this budding teenager was incalculable.

Mom always promised Glenn and I that one day she would take us to England to see the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. She would show us the town she grew up in, the house that was her Oma and Opa's home. She would show us the grave where so many of our cousins and relatives were buried together when the American bomb fell on their air raid shelter on March 1, 1945. Mom never really forgave the United States for that bombing, coming so late in the war. "They were winning the war, it was only a matter of time. Bruchsal was so far from the front line, almost at the border of France. They did it to be cruel."

And now Glenn and I were two weeks away from taking this trip. Six weeks in all, we would be like a Jetson version of the Hearsts or the Roosevelts. Taking a jet instead of a trans-Atlantic crossing saved us almost four weeks right off the bat! And I'll let you in on a little secret - it wouldn't be just the two of us on this trip!