Tom Kando
For various personal and circumstantial reasons (aging; Covid, etc.), my travel habits are changing.
Before 2020, I used to go to Europe a lot - usually twice a year. I have crossed the Atlantic one hundred and one times altogether. It could be a few more, I’m not sure. While I traveled between Europe and America several times before 2000, the frequency of such trips rose a great deal after the turn of the century. Let me explain why:
My family of orientation comes from Hungary. We moved from Budapest to Paris when I was seven. Then we moved from Paris to Amsterdam when I was fourteen. I went to America for one year when I was nineteen in 1960 and I moved there permanently in 1965, when I was twenty-five. My (single) mother (Ata) stayed in Holland until 1977. By then, I was a US citizen, a professor in California and I had my own family of procreation. That year, my wife Anita and I moved Ata to come and live near us in Sacramento, and she stayed here for over twenty years.
Then, she moved back to the Netherlands. This made sense: She was eighty-six. She could not drive. She was still a (naturalized) Dutch citizen. Like most Western European welfare states, the Netherlands provide excellent, affordable and generous medical services, much better than the US. Other public services such as elder care, transportation and retirement benefits are also far superior to America’s.
Therefore, moving back to Holland was the right decision. Ata’s extended family pooled together our resources and bought her a wonderful apartment in a high-end retirement home in the fairy-tale like seashore community of Bergen, just thirty miles North of Amsterdam.
For the following near two decades, until her death in late 2017 at age one hundred and four, Ata lived a wonderful, happy and productive life in Bergen. Before her twenty years in America, she had established herself as one of Holland’s premier photographers. Upon her return, she revived her career and gained major recognition (check her out in Wikipedia). She even dined with the Dutch king Willem-Alexander.
By the beginning of the twenty-first century, our family had undergone a worldwide diaspora: One of my twin sisters lived in Spain, the other one in Boston. All three of us had children and grandchildren. Ata had seventeen descendants (and counting) living in Europe, America and Asia. But she herself remained the family’s epicenter: There were frequent family re-unions, always in Bergen. These were attended not only by our family, but also by dozens of friends, the media, artists, celebrities, former high-school and university friends of mine and my sisters’ whom we had not seen since we left the country decades earlier. We celebrated every single one of Ata’s birthdays this way.
Between 1999 and 2018, I went to Europe at least twice a year, for a total of thirty-six round trips. I did this not only to spend time with my mother, but also to help her out with this and that, as a good son should. Typically, I took one of my biannual European trips by myself, and the other one with my wife Anita. Each trip lasted about a month.
Anita and I had taken our children to Europe several times when they were still young, before Ata returned to Holland in 1999. By then, our children were adults. Even so, they frequently joined me and Anita at Ata’s birthday celebrations in Holland.
Whenever Anita and the children joined me in Bergen, we stayed with Ata for a couple of weeks and then Anita and I would spend the other two weeks driving to various parts of Europe. Sometimes, one or both of our daughters would join us, as they did for example in Paris, Vienna, Monte Carlo, the Mont Saint Michel and Scandinavia. But most of the time, this was just for Anita and me.
As I said, I also went to Ata by myself once each year. On these occasions, I drove her to many spectacular places all over Europe. Being in her nineties and never having driven a car, she thus enjoyed fabulous trips which would not have been available to her otherwise.
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For a brief one or two-day outing, we would drive to Belgium, the next country over, to visit Liege or Namur and sleep in a beautiful bed-and-breakfast in the picturesque Ardennes mountains.
We drove to Paris repeatedly. After all, the “City of Lights” was our old stomping grounds, where I had spent nearly a decade of my formative years. And by the way, French remained our family’s primary language. My sisters and I continued to speak French and only French with our mother for the rest of her life, no matter where she lived.
Driving to Paris from the Netherlands was easy. Driving IN Paris was a challenge. Try to circle the Arch of Triumph. You’ll never get off the merry-go-round!
These were the early days of GPS. I used an old Garmin, with the Eurochip. Ata was mesmerized by the lady who kept correcting me and “recalculating.” I would yell back, telling the machine to “shut the f... up,” and Ata would admonish me not to be so terribly rude to this nice lady...
We’d stay in Paris for four or five days, usually in a Left Bank hotel, somewhere near the Boulevard Saint Michel and Notre Dame. We would go to some of the museums such as the Musée d’Orsay, attend a classical music recital in divine places like the Sainte-Chapelle and eat incomparable food. We also did a pilgrimage to our former residence, out in the suburbs. We even rang the bell, and lo and behold, our former landlady Madame Godard came to the door. She was quite charming, serving us tea and wishing us well.
Some of our trips were more far-reaching: I had a cousin named Hans in Switzerland. He and his family lived in a fabulous chalet at the foot of the Weissenstein, one of the Jura mountains. We were their guests on several occasions. My cousin’s wife Esther ‘s cooking was unsurpassed. The raclettes and fondues she served belonged in the Michelin guide.
The Alps were one of our favorite destinations. We also had distant relatives in Chambéry, a medieval Alpine town in France’s Savoy department. There lived my cousin Paul and his mother Rie. They were the salt of the earth.. I remember joyfully cavorting in the snow not far from the Mont Blanc, at nearly 16,000 feet the highest mountain in Western Europe.
After being wined and dined and housed by Paul and Rie for several days, I pushed on in my little Twingo. This was a compact Renault model, very comfortable and plenty large enough for my little mother and myself. That year, I wanted to return to the Riviera with her. We had camped there when we still lived in France. I was nine back then. Now, we took one of the world’s most magnificent routes - the fabled Route Napoleon. It begins in Grenoble and meanders for about two hundred miles to the Riviera, ending in the glitzy town of Cannes. It goes through one jewel of a city after another - Gap, Sisteron, near-by Moustiers-Sainte-Marie, one of the most beautiful towns in France, carved out of the mountain side. That year, I treated my mother to many of the Riviera’s glamourous sites - Nice, Monte Carlo, Saint Tropez, etc.
Another year, we completed an even more audacious trip: We drove all the way to Venice. We slept in a fine little bed–and-breakfast bordering a calm canal away from the crowds, silent but for the pigeons’ cooing.
And then there was Hungary and the rest of Eastern Europe. We had to pay homage to our origins. I took Ata to Hungary on several occasions. One time we flew, connecting in Prague. I remember pushing her wheelchair across the tarmac to the airplane.
On another occasion, we drove. That time, I had academic business in Budapest. I was establishing a student exchange program between my university in California and a university in Budapest. So we stayed there several weeks..
During our stay in Hungary, we took side trips to adjacent countries. We drove to Prague (Czech Republic) , Bratislava (Slovakia) and Krakow (Poland). The latter excursion was an adventure. It was mid winter and the direct route from Budapest takes you across the Carpathian mountains. Returning to Budapest from Krakow late at night, we almost bailed. The road was snow covered and slippery. It was a close call, the car stopping just before the precipice.
So now you know why I went to Europe 36 times in 19 years. Unforgettable experiences. Made my mother happy. We did it all. Then, Ata died, She was 104. And then Covid happened.. So no more Europe, for the time being.
It’s time for me to grab a map of the US. This country has unparalleled magnificence. It’s time for Anita and me to refresh our acquaintance with the beauty of the West. I look forward to (re-)visiting Arches, Mesa Verde, Denali,
Rocky Mountains, Yellowstone and other treasures.
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