ON THE AVENUES: Breakfast is better with those gorgeous little herrings.

"A kind word is no substitute for a piece of herring or a bag of oats."
-- Sholom Aleichem

Other people go berserk about social media postings on politics and religion, but the ones that really annoy me go something like this:

Q: Hey guys, what’s the weirdest restaurant experience you ever had in a foreign country?

A: Well, one time we were in a McDonald’s in Beijing, and …

STOP. RIGHT. THERE.

You what?

You went all the way to effing China and ate in a McDonald’s?

Why on earth would you do something like that?

I mean, it’s bad enough to stuff Chick Fil A down your unresponsive pie holes here in clueless L’America, but why waste your time patronizing wretched genero-chains when you’re enjoying the good fortune to be able to travel overseas in the first place?

(gurgling sounds are emitted)

Wait -- what was that?

You’re asking me if I think the Chick Fil A in Beijing serves Peking Duck Bites?

We can only hope, seeing as folks like you apparently need Peking Duck Bites to populate your nauseating “gotta try” Instagram moments, and so if I’m lucky enough to last another two decades before cashing out, you can rest assured I won’t be spending a solitary dime at Chick Fil-WTF, anywhere in the world.

Now if you’ll kindly excuse me while I take great pleasure in BLOCKING you from my life … on social media, at least.

Enjoy your flavorless reeking muck.

---

What do these beige people have against basic human decency, anyway?

It reminded me of my 1985 stay in Salzburg, chatting with a forlorn and utterly terrified Texan who surely has since devolved into a staunch backer of Donald Trump -- or Ted Cruz. The Texan was depressed to the point of a nervous breakdown because he couldn’t find any beer to drink in the lovely mountain city.

Pitying this disoriented Lone Star fool, I tried to talk him off the ledge: cheer up, mate, because it’s your lucky day as a beer lover. You’re in Salzburg, and Germany’s just over those mountains; meanwhile the brilliant Augustiner beer garden lies a few blocks away, they have sausages, and the beer there is just glorious.

He looked at me like I was a mutant space alien.

“But there’s no Miller Lite. It’s my favorite beer. These beers are awful. It just isn’t the same.”

That’s true, friend. It isn’t the same.

IT’S BETTER, YOU ABYSMAL COWARDLY FOOL. WHO IS DUMB ENOUGH TO COME TO EUROPE TO DRINK AMERICAN LIGHT BEER?

Well then, I suppose there’s only one recourse.

Maybe it would be better if tucked tail and fled back to Dallas, renting an efficiency apartment upstairs at Hooters and taking your meals at Arby’s before repairing to Applebee’s for a night cap.

You know, a dullard’s paradise by the gnash-bored Lite.

---

Now that I’ve gotten all that off my chest, is it time for breakfast?

You may recall that I prefer fish for breakfast -- but not just any fish. Among the rotating selections from the pantry at dawn’s early light are pungent smoked kippers with crackers; piquant pickled herring on buttered rye bread; and on special occasions, lox with the requisite bagel, cream cheese and just a light sprinkling of capers.

On special occasions, just for garnish, there’ll be a garlic-stuffed olive.

Happily there are repercussions to such culinary preferences. From nowhere, impatient cats find me as I’m walking down alleyways, and they make an eager, impromptu parade.

Even better, some mornings I get in a hurry, forget to brush my teeth, and inadvertently breathe on a prim, proper, crisply suited banker -- and he promptly wilts, as though beaned on the noggin by a stray aesthetic revelation. If it doesn’t render the banker entirely unconscious, I’ll breathe on him a second time.

That usually does it.

Let’s be clear. I like deceased marine life in the morning. Captain Crunch isn’t even close. Pop Tarts need not apply. Eggs will do, generally when pickled.

Breakfast fish is real food for real people.

Obviously, these dining strategies are best complemented by stiff, aromatic black coffee, such as that produced through the saving grace of our home Saeco espresso maker. As for side orders and balance amid the oil, vinegar and brine, there’s properly bitter orange marmalade on toast and the occasional serving of Greek-style yogurt with fruit. Both work quite well.

Indeed, pungency settles the humors. Until the pallid likes of Bob Evans and Cracker Barrel grasp the eternal wisdom of treats like these, it’s hard for me to take them seriously as contenders for my early morning dollars.

May these franchised monuments to white bread, Velveeta and decaf never, ever besmirch the shining shores of Scandinavia, where so many years ago I learned to eat breakfast the right way.

---

It was July, 1985 in Oslo, Norway. Thanks to an exchange rate highly favorable to Americans, Scandinavia briefly became almost affordable, and when I stepped off the overnight train from Copenhagen to explore Oslo’s main station in search of a bite to eat, the handy restaurant with its all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet actually was reasonably priced.

(As a side note that for budget travelers, buffets meant two or perhaps even three meals, not just one. A clean freezer bag could be stuffed full of meat and cheese when no one was looking and reserved for duty later in the day.)

While industriously filling my plate (and bag) I saw three ceramic pots positioned on a narrow shelf. Innocently imagining they were filled with jams or jellies, I scooped out a spoonful of … rectangular silvery-gray piquant vinegary fish parts.

Inadvertently, I had been introduced to pickled herring, a delicacy that hitherto had eluded me. Quickly I realized it was time to put up or shut up, because what possible goal would have been served by traveling all the way from Hoosierland to Norway and then being too timid to taste the damn difference between the two?

Right there in Oslo, with every corn-fed Indiana olfactory receptor sounding a red alert -- “BEWARE, Midwesterner: Ocean products not fully processed into paste to make Filet O’Fish sandwiches … do not compute … WARNING!” -- I piled the pickled herring onto a flat, dense and nutty slice of rye bread.

The funky aroma tickled my proboscis. I hadn’t eaten pickled herring before, not even once, but it was love at first chew.

Later that week in Bergen, Norway, I treated myself to a culinary splurge. For three hours at lunchtime, a renowned local eatery ran an all-you-can eat seafood buffet for the equivalent of $15. Bearing in mind that my daily budget for lodging, meals and alcohol was $25, this was a budget-buster.

The fact that it has lingered in my memory three decades later attests to the correctness of the decision to abandon fiscal rectitude.

The buffet served as a Nawbany rube’s introduction to smoked salmon, something quite rare in the rural, corn-fed Indiana of my youth. In 1985, I had no way of knowing the same-but-different confluences between Norwegian smoked salmon and Jewish lox (the latter cultural norms being as uncommon as Vikings in Baptist-laced Hoosierland), or the meticulous strategies for preparing such treats, which are every bit as traditional, proud and locally varied as American barbecue methodology.

I could say only that I liked it, a lot, along with mussels, oysters, flounder and all the rest of the bounty.

The summer of 1985 was an introduction to all things European. I became enamored of the continent, and always will be. Food in general captivated me, especially those items and recipes we didn’t commonly experience at home at the time, like moussaka (from Greece), North African cuisine (in Paris) and even Nutella (rare in Louisville back then).

Specifically, engaging in strange, subversive encounters with un-American fish became a thread running through most subsequent journeys, from pie, mash, eel and liquor (gravy) in London in 2013, to the snack tray at Suzanne’s wedding on the Baltic in 1996, which also included eel, this time smoked, or black scabbard fish with bananas at the island of Madeira last year.

But my single proudest moment of all came when I enjoyed the distinction of being the oddball foreigner who introduced my Danish pals to the grandeur of the Faergekro restaurant at Nyhavn (“new” harbor) in their own city of Copenhagen.

The daily herring buffet was and remains a highlight of western civilization. At least ten varieties of pickled herring (with sour cream, curry and Madeira sauce, among others) are offered, along with dense dark bread, butter, and garnishes like raw egg, onion and caper berry. Whole smoked herrings are carved from the bone and replenished.

Beer is available, as well as Akvavit (Scandinavian schnapps), along with the wonderful northern custom of providing house-made infusions of herbs and spices for flavoring the firewater and washing down the tasty pickled and smoked morsels.

You can spend whole days in a joint like this, and one time in 1989, I did just that, starting a tab at Faergekro for lunch, and finally arriving back at my temporary Danish doorstep in a taxi well past midnight, pea soup fog choking the street as well as the inner recesses of my cranium, fully tempted to join WC Fields in returning to the eatery the next day and asking:

“Was I here last night, and did I spend $300?”

(Insert whatever the words are for “yes, you did” are in Denmark.)

"That's fine. I was afraid I lost it."

Fishies and Akvavit were far better than losing the money, and it may have been a wonderful evening.

---

Recent columns:

August 8: ON THE AVENUES: Unless you open your eyes, “resistance” is an empty gesture.

August 1: ON THE AVENUES: The whys and wherefores can drive a man to drink; our lives just ARE, and that's that.

July 25: ON THE AVENUES: Until philosophers become kings, beer and food work just fine.

July 18: ON THE AVENUES: I'm a citizen of the universe, but I can't take a photo to save my life.

You know Freddie Mercury and Queen stole the show at Live Aid, but what the hell WAS Live Aid?

I spent three hours last night contemplating lost youth, so allow me to explain.

On the one hand, I'm no fan of biopics, and I probably won't watch Bohemian Rhapsody.

Bohemian Rhapsody is a 2018 biographical film about the British rock band Queen. It follows singer Freddie Mercury's life, leading to Queen's Live Aid performance at Wembley Stadium in 1985.

I find it interesting and instructive that since the movie was released, there has been so much discussion about Queen's performance at Live Aid, but unless you're over forty years of age, it may not be clear to you what Live Aid even was.

The videos pasted here are two parts of a single three-hour BBC documentary, an hour and a half each, and the whole Live Aid story is recapped. It's solid and filled with information in spite of the many too-cute visual flourishes.

Verily, July 13, 1985 was a bizarre cultural landmark. Flawed, but indisputable. It's unclear if the millions raised that day accomplished very much in terms of famine relief for Ethiopia, and yet if you were a music fan at the time, Live Aid cannot be forgotten -- whether you loved it or hated it.

The following was pulled from my 1985 European travelogue and lightly edited for context. One thing that rings true about the documentary are those memories of walking the streets of London and hearing the concert from every window. I was in Ireland at the time, and the interest level was comparable. It was an amazing thing, indeed.

If nothing else, Live Aid will be remembered as a pioneering use of satellite transmission technology. As many as two million people around the globe tuned in, and while we're now connected in far more sophisticated and immediate ways, it's difficult imagining state-of-the-art technology bringing people together in quite the same fashion.

Because: we don't desire being brought together, do we?

---

At one of the pubs in Sligo, I’d overheard a conversation about a big concert on Saturday, July 13. At first I thought they meant a show in Sligo itself, but then it became clear it was to be televised from Wembley Stadium in London – and finally I made the connection with the magazine I'd previously spotted at the hostel in Paris.

It was Live Aid, Bob Geldof’s epochal day-long, worldwide gig to raise funds for Ethiopian famine relief. I was about to learn the importance of being Irish; Geldof was born and raised near Dublin, and as the guiding force behind the punk-era Boomtown Rats, he doubled as curmudgeonly social critic.

It was a quality Irish conservatives found disconcerting – until the hometown boy made good on a larger stage.

So, never discount the power of national pride. Live Aid was the project of an Irishman, and Ireland was preparing to be quite enamored of this fact, whether or not any of them liked the Boomtown Rats.

On Saturday morning I asked Gerry, who with his wife Mary was my host at their informal bed and breakfast, to direct me to the bus headed for Strandhill. It was a settlement by the ocean at the foot of Knocknarea (nock-na-ray), a 1,000-foot tall limestone hill overlooking the Bay of Sligo. My plan was a morning hike to the top, where a Neolithic burial cairn is located, and then a return to Sligo to watch Live Aid.

As it turned out, Gerry was preparing to drive to the golf course, and so he deposited me at the trail head near Strandhill. It was hazy, muggy and fly-infested, and the path well-traveled. The view from Knocknarea was worth the effort, with majestic vistas of green fields, rocky hedgerows, shimmering sea and the ever-present Benbulbin.

I caught a bus back to Sligo after lunch, showered, and found a seat at a nearby pub. Live Aid was showing on a projection TV. The Irish national television channel had preempted all other programming, and between acts, there were cuts from the live feed to the studio, where an older presenter and Phil Lynott, Thin Lizzy’s singer and bassist, provided what amounted to color commentary.

It struck me that whenever a set ended, and the two television commentators began talking, voices in the pub would be lowered, and the drinkers would pause to listen. This was interesting, though it still was relatively early in the day.

Live Aid was the most ambitious international satellite television production of its time, and Geldof’s creation was subject to rightful criticism: Wasn’t it the very same group of pious pop stars, pumping up their own album sales by means of a charitable “cover,” with little of the money raised ever actually making it to the intended beneficiaries in Ethiopia?

More pointedly for Live Aid’s connection with Africa, why were the acts almost entirely white? Stevie Wonder is said to have refused a slot at the American venue because he had no intention of being the token black.

Ironically, Lynott was a black Irishman, born in London, and he was in the television studio precisely because his band hadn’t been invited to play. How could Bob do that to Phil? They were mates. Still, as Live Aid unfolded, my fellow pub goers were united in praise for the idea – after all, it was Geldof, an Irishman, who’d organized it.

Unfortunately, illness and heroin addiction killed Lynott barely six months later. Did he and Sir Bob ever make up?

At some point later in the afternoon, I walked back to my room to get more money from the secret cash stash. I heard familiar sounds coming from the kitchen, where Mary sat watching U2 begin its star-making Live Aid set.

“It’s U2,” I said. “I love this band. Are you a U2 fan, too?”

“I’ve no idea,” she replied. “But they’re our lads, aren’t they?” We watched together

Just as I re-entered the pub, Queen started playing. Like much of the rest of the planet, I was spellbound as Freddie Mercury worked the crowd of 75,000. I’d been only a casual follower of the group, and had not witnessed it on stage.

Queen’s 20-minute set at Live Aid is routinely rated among the most memorable live performances in rock history, and while it may have not been the music I came to Ireland to hear, it’s a personal memory I’ll always cherish.

It gets hazy after that. Back in my room, I listened to the some of the Philadelphia portion of Live Aid on a small radio I’d brought along. I fell asleep, and it would be many years, well into the Internet era, before I ever saw video of what I'd missed.

Photos of Meteora in Greece, 1985, reclaimed from slides via a nifty scanner.

From 1985 through 1994, a period comprising six trips to Europe, some of them quite lengthy, most of the 2,500-plus photos I took while on the road were committed to slide film.

This seemed like a good idea at the time.

The 1970s-vintage slide projector that sufficed for viewing into the 1990s ceased functioning two decades ago, so after all these years of not being able to see these images, I finally purchased a decent quality scanner for Saturnalia.

The process of digitizing these images (and a few thousand more non-slide photos) probably will last the remainder of my life. Short term goals are more modest, as it has come time to write the narrative of the 1987 trip, something currently existing in fragments only. Being able to see the photos will be of tremendous value when it comes to collating memories.

The photos here are of Meteora, monasteries and rock formations.

The first was Kalambaka, itself a nondescript modern town, but the functional gateway to the spectacular, otherworldly monasteries of Meteora, which are man-made complexes of Orthodox holiness and isolation perched like Technicolor mushrooms atop tall shafts of sheer volcanic rock – accessible by local bus thanks to the wonders of 20th-century roadway engineering, but previously reached exclusively by rope and basket conveyances, pulleys and profuse prayers.

I'm a dismal photographer. Here's the lowdown about the up-high.

The Metéora (Greek: Μετέωρα, pronounced [mɛˈtɛoɾɐ], literally "middle of the sky", "suspended in the air" or "in the heavens above" — etymologically related to meteorology) - is a formation of immense monolithic pillars and hills like huge rounded boulders which dominate the local area.

It is also associated with one of the largest and most precipitously built complexes of Eastern Orthodox monasteries in Greece, second in importance only to Mount Athos.^[1] The six monasteries are built on natural conglomerate pillars, at the northwestern edge of the Plain of Thessaly near the Pineios river and Pindus Mountains, in central Greece.

Metéora is included on the UNESCO World Heritage List under criteria^[2] I, II, IV, V and VII.^[3]

The nearest town is Kalambaka.

50,000 words later, my 1985 European travelogue is finished. I think.

How many words are in a book? Estimates vary, though at the low end of the range, I'm close.

Perspective is a condition impossible to gauge without the passage of time. Given what we can see now about the way the world has changed since the Berlin Wall fell, those bits of Europe I saw in 1985 were considerably closer to 1945 than we are today, by comparison to 1989.

At least it seems that way to me.

Not a day passes without my being thankful for being able to commence my foreign travels in 1985, when a place like Leningrad (now St. Petersburg) wasn't merely located in a different country, but a different galaxy.

Sometimes I try to imagine an alternative reality, in which the European bug didn't bite. It's an American Dream sequence, filled with signposts from the sort of conventional family and professional life portrayed on the television shows we all grew up watching.

There was a time when I aspired to such a life, but it would have been a mistake. In fact, I can't even imagine this alternative reality, and in saying so, I'm not copping an attitude or being snobbish. I'm not implying that the way I turned out is better or worse than anyone else's path.

I always knew something about me was different, that's all. This was clear to me long before Europe entered the scene, and while much of it remains a mystery even after all this time, I know that whatever the nature of the itch, Europe enabled me to scratch it.

Enables.

---

AFTER THE FIRE: Euro ’85, Part 34 … The final chapter, in which lessons are learned and bridges burned.

THE POTABLE CURMUDGEON: Euro ’85, Part 33 … All good things must come to a beginning.

THE POTABLE CURMUDGEON: Euro ’85, Part 32 … Leaving Leningrad.

THE POTABLE CURMUDGEON: Euro ’85, Part 31 … Leningrad in three vignettes.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 30 … Or, as it was called at the time, Leningrad.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 29 … Helsinki beneath my feet, but Leningrad on my mind.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 28 … A Finnish detour to Tampere for beer and sausages.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 27 … Stockholm's blonde ambition, with or without mead-balls.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 26 … The Hansa brewery tour, and a farewell to Norway.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 25 … Frantic pickled Norway.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 24 … An aspiring “beer hunter” amid Carlsberg’s considerable charms.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 23 … A fleeting first glimpse of Copenhagen.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 22 … It's how the tulips were relegated.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 21 … A long day in Normandy, though not "The Longest Day."

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 20 … War stories, from neutral Ireland to Omaha Beach.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 19 … Sligo, Knocknarea, Guinness and Freddie.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 18 … Irish history with a musical chaser.

The PC: Euro '85, Part 17 ... A first glimpse of Ireland.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 16 … Lizard King in the City of Light.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 15 … The traveler at 55, and a strange interlude.

The PC: We pause Euro '85 to remember the Mathäser Bierstadt in Munich.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 14 … Beers and breakfast in Munich.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 13 … Tears of overdue joy at Salzburg's Augustiner.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 12 … Stefan Zweig and his world of yesterday.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 11: My Franz Ferdinand obsession takes root.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 10: Habsburgs, history and sausages in Vienna.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 9 … Milan, Venice and a farewell to Northern Italy.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 8 … Pecetto idyll, with a Parisian chaser.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 7 … An eventful detour to Pecetto.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 6 … When in Rome, critical mass.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 5 … From Istanbul to Rome, with Greece in between.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 4 … With Hassan in Pithion.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 3 … Growing up in Greece.

The PC: Euro '85, Part 2 ... Hitting the ground crawling in Luxembourg.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 1 … Where it all began.

_

My Euro '85 travel writing reboot is meandering toward a conclusion.

Weenies in Copenhagen.

It used to be a stock comedic gag that returning vacationers would force friends to view photos of their holiday, prattling for hours while the unfortunate victims plotted their escape routes.

This joke probably hasn't survived the advent of social media and ubiquity in communications, seeing as all our photos are available, all the time, for immediate viewing. Now we look to the exclusion of reading.

Upon returning stateside from my first European jaunt in 1985, I couldn't view my visual souvenirs right away. I'd taken slides, and had to get back to work first to amass the money necessary to develop them. Having done so, I staged numerous viewings with projector and screen. Beer was necessary in order to keep the audience fixed in their seats.

In a few months it will have been 31 years, and these reminders remain trapped; I've never gotten around to digitally transferring them, and the 40-year-old projection apparatus doesn't function properly. Your suggestions to inexpensively rectify my sloth are welcome.

In April of 2015 it occurred to me to pick up a ball I'd dropped in 2005, and to reboot the 1985 travel narrative. It had flared up briefly in 2009 during my tenure as newspaper guest columnist, then fizzled again.

Through all the weird changes of past months, I've kept chipping away at the travelogue. To date, 28 installments have been written (I guessed it would require 25), and three or four probably remain. Having written about the trip in other places and contexts over the years, this effort has represented the opportunity to weave it all together in one place.

The purpose isn't high art. It's really about me, and remembering a summer that permanently changed my life. Yes, it was only a three-month pleasure trip to Europe, and fairly inconsequential in the larger scheme of life. However, from ouzo to train travel and from urbanism to pickled herring, I've never been quite the same. My post-traumatic stress derives from where I continue to choose to live, not where I visited.

The chapters are being posted on or around Mondays at my Potable Curmudgeon blog. Part 29 might be ready the day after tomorrow, though I doubt it.

Here are the links to date.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 28 … A Finnish detour to Tampere for beer and sausages.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 27 … Stockholm's blonde ambition, with or without mead-balls.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 26 … The Hansa brewery tour, and a farewell to Norway.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 25 … Frantic pickled Norway.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 24 … An aspiring “beer hunter” amid Carlsberg’s considerable charms.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 23 … A fleeting first glimpse of Copenhagen.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 22 … It's how the tulips were relegated.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 21 … A long day in Normandy, though not "The Longest Day."

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 20 … War stories, from neutral Ireland to Omaha Beach.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 19 … Sligo, Knocknarea, Guinness and Freddie.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 18 … Irish history with a musical chaser.

The PC: Euro '85, Part 17 ... A first glimpse of Ireland.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 16 … Lizard King in the City of Light.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 15 … The traveler at 55, and a strange interlude.

The PC: We pause Euro '85 to remember the Mathäser Bierstadt in Munich.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 14 … Beers and breakfast in Munich.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 13 … Tears of overdue joy at Salzburg's Augustiner.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 12 … Stefan Zweig and his world of yesterday.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 11: My Franz Ferdinand obsession takes root.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 10: Habsburgs, history and sausages in Vienna.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 9 … Milan, Venice and a farewell to Northern Italy.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 8 … Pecetto idyll, with a Parisian chaser.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 7 … An eventful detour to Pecetto.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 6 … When in Rome, critical mass.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 5 … From Istanbul to Rome, with Greece in between.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 4 … With Hassan in Pithion.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 3 … Growing up in Greece.

The PC: Euro '85, Part 2 ... Hitting the ground crawling in Luxembourg.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 1 … Where it all began.

Of cuisine, great and humble.

This morning I cooked this recipe for West African Vegetarian Peanut Stew, and it's delicious.

I think I’ve just discovered the most satisfying, hearty vegan recipe known to mankind. Imagine what you get when you cross an Indonesian satay with an Indian curry—you end up with a West African peanut stew. This traditional stew (also known as groundnut stew, domoda, or maafe) is usually made with meat and vegetables. My version forgoes the meat but bolsters it with a bounty of sweet potatoes, eggplant and okra. The vegetables are enveloped by a silky sauce of tomatoes, aromatics, a mouth-tingling spice mixture and, the magical ingredient, peanut butter.

Throughout 2015, I've been writing about my first trip to Europe in 1985 (last week's installment at my beer blog was about Ireland), and even when other memories seem lost, I can recall many of the meals.

Perhaps this owes to experiencing so many different varieties of food for the first time, including Leberkäse, curry, Moroccan tagine and couscous, steak tartare, stuffed tomatoes, moussaka and pickled herring. I was able to eat well on a strict budget, and it opened my mind to world cuisine.

Then again, I've missed most of the rest of the planet.

Not all cuisines are created equal, so which country has the worst food?, by Adam Liaw (The Guardian)

We have no problem scoring restaurants, ranking them or handing out awards, but what about an entire cuisine? Can we really say that one country’s food is better than another’s? Personal preference counts for a lot but it can’t obscure the truth that not all cuisines are created equal ...

 ... A country’s cuisine is a part of its cultural identity. It can be a source of pride, a catalyst for tourism and even a vehicle for soft power. As such, criticism of it can be dangerous territory, exposing the critic to claims of ignorance, poor taste or even xenophobia. Yet we needn’t be so thin skinned.

The author seems to lean in the direction of Cuba as chief offender, although those of us fortunate enough to reside in or near Louisville have several fine eateries to choose from, including Havana Rumba and New Albany's own Habana Blues.

I wouldn’t go back to Cuba for the food right now, but give it a decade and I might be on to a winner. In the meantime, if someone could point me in the direction of a decent Gabonese buffet, it’d be much appreciated.

Back in the 1980s, once I'd started traveling abroad, it became evident that if I wanted certain meals back home, they'd have to be DIY productions. Fortunately, the raw materials and directions could be acquired with a bit of  diligence, and this is how I discovered Lotsa Pasta.

Meanwhile, our library had a sizable Russian cookbook written by a food writer who'd left the USSR for the USA. In the introduction, she spoke of her career in the Soviet Union, invariably describing meals made with ingredients seldom found there, at least among city dwellers. She concluded that she'd never be able to write the ultimate Russian cookbook unless she moved to a country where recipes were more than theoretical constructs.

I suspect Cuba's been a lot like that, too.

I'd like to go and eat my way through the possibilities.

A future mayor? An ex-brewery owner? 30 years later, there's another fork in the road, and I'm pumped.

Thirty years ago, I closed my eyes wide shut and jumped -- not so sure where or even if I'd land, but firm in the realization that I needed to do something to change my life.

I packed a gym bag, converted my life's savings into traveler's checks, bought a plane ticket and a rail pass, and went to Europe for three months.

It doesn't sound like much, and in the cosmic scheme of things, it wasn't. Millions of human beings have done the same, in different ways in different times. I'm just a speck, but it's the only speck I have, and I needed to relaunch the whole process of figuring out exactly who I was, because back then, the mechanism had stalled.

I was fortunate, and the plan worked. Europe made me what I am today, or more accurately, my stubborn determination that Europe would make me what I became actually bore fruit. It has been one hell of a ride, with only a handful of negligible regrets.

Three decades later, it's time for another jump, and another relaunch. It's been time for quite a while. The public end of this process began this morning with the publication of an article by Kevin Gibson at Insider Louisville: After a quarter century, Roger Baylor will move on from New Albanian Brewing Company.

The private side has been cogitating for a very long period. True, the devil's always in the details, and numerous stories might yet be written about how we got here, but there are three main bullet points that matter to me right now:

I want to be mayor of  New Albany, because this city desperately needs challenging from someone like me, and it's our time.

If not mayor, then I'm looking forward to a "solo" career as yet uncharted; NABC has been and will continue to be, so don't worry.

I am quite serene about these and other developments.

Thanks to everyone expressing support today and in the weeks to come. If not for that first leap back in 1985, I'd have gotten to know precious few of you, and be the poorer for the omission.

The following was published last week at Potable Curmudgeon. I may even have intended it as prelude. The 1985 travel series will continue in fits and starts, as I have the opportunity to write.

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The PC: Euro ’85, Part 15 … The traveler at 55, and a strange interlude.

A weekly column by Roger A. Baylor.

(Fifteenth in a series chronicling my travel year 1985)

In 1985, I wasn’t a very good flier.

Given my lack of experience in the air – in life itself – perhaps this is understandable. Up until then, I’d made only two round-trip flights ever, and the first one was when I was a small child. It was a prop plane, and the destination was Detroit. We taxied forever.

That’s all I’ve got.

The second was in 1978, to San Francisco and back, and it was unpleasant in the extreme. I probably required sedation. My problem wasn’t an aversion to enclosed spaces, or to the Hare Krishna devotees still roaming airports back then, but a fear of heights, which plagues me to this very day, even if I’ve gotten better managing it.

Consequently, the prospect of leaving on a jet plane instigated a fair share of anxiety. Everything about it made me nervous, and to make matters worse, I’d gotten absolutely hammered in Chicago the night before the flight.

Boarding Icelandair for Luxembourg via Reykjavik, and the long-awaited adventure of a lifetime, I was in the throes of a brutal hangover, immune to any hair of the dog, constitutionally and existentially challenged, and with certain doom lurking just around the corner.

Was it too late to call the whole thing off?

At least there was a bright side. I wasn’t in the smoking section, which in those days still existed in the back of the plane. Strange, isn’t it? Using the toilet meant cutting through a wall of cigarette smoke, and of course, one couldn’t just step outside for a breath of fresh air.

Later I realized that for a nicotine addict, being deprived of cigarettes stood to greatly compound the sort of fears gripping me, and in physically wrenching ways I’d mercifully never understand because I didn’t smoke.

However, the Rubicon was ripe for crossing. After the usual pleasantries, instructions and delays, we took off and soon reached cruising altitude. The trip was inexorable and irreversible. Europe finally was coming, and I could feel the level of stress slowly ebbing.

Then there was a random act of turbulence, and the plane abruptly took a big, swooping roller coaster dip.

WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE.

Pulse skyrocketing, my heart pushed into my throat, and with a panic attack about to ensue, at least I had the presence of mind to look around the cabin, where dozens of fellow passengers were snacking, reading, talking and napping, utterly serene and oblivious to the commonplace.

Relief yielded to chagrin as I worried whether anyone else had seen me lose my composure.

In short, it was my life of naïve underachievement in a nutshell, but a good lesson for a hick from somewhere near French Lick: Fake it until you can make it. Just stop, look, listen and imitate. I tried mightily to apply it once on the ground, and for the thirty years since, with only varying degrees of success.

Eventually I became a better flier, although it didn’t happen overnight. By the 1990s, I actually began looking forward to transatlantic flights as the only time I could be untethered, relax and not be bothered. Nowadays, these commuting hours are sacred times for decompression and meditation. I’ve come a long way in this regard.

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As noted previously, one of the factors most influencing my decision to spend three months in Europe in 1985 was an absolutely debilitating level of self-doubt. It’s nice knowing you’re capable of connecting with reality just enough to get by, but sheer hell being bright enough to realize you’re doing nothing and going nowhere.

Would I return to university and get my public school teaching credits? What about law school? I’d done relatively well on the LSAT. Maybe get a real job at last, instead of stringing together part-time gigs?

In fact, I was damned fortunate to have the space for dawdling rumination. There were no wars to be drafted into fighting, no nearby mines with coal for extracting, and no babies with mouths to feed. I worked, ate, drank and slept alone, because it hadn’t yet occurred to me that the opposite sex’s interest in knowing me just might be enhanced by me knowing something about myself.

Looking back after three decades, it’s quite clear that once I’d made the decision to spend time in Europe, it was necessary to up the ante. To be sure, it was a legitimate fork in the road for me, but one I didn’t randomly encounter. It was self-engineered.

I’d never spent so much time working toward something tangible. Traveling simply had to be an act of self-redemption. There was no Plan B, apart from returning home and following meekly into the mundane world of home, car, job and IU basketball season tickets.

I had to jump, damn it, and trust the parachute would open.

Fortunately, it did.

---

Thirty years later, with the consummate luxury of perspective, there are times when I’d like nothing more than to return to the blissful, uncomplicated life of the 24-year-old me (who celebrated his 25th birthday in Leningrad), except I’d have to retain what I’ve learned since, and there’s the eternal rub.

No debt or encumbrances and dumb as a rock, or achieving periodic glimpses of wisdom amid being mortgaged to the hilt, both literally and figuratively.

I’ll settle for the latter, because in 2015 it comes equipped with my partner in life, without whom little of it would make much sense. Her presence does not prevent me from trying to imagine a simpler all-around existence, one allowing for a return to those long-ago fundamentals – and that’s what they were, too: Fundamentals.

It was about fundamentals, basics, and growing into a conceptual framework for interpretation of much that followed 1985. Eventually I witnessed the collapse of the post-war European order, stumbled into a career in beer, experienced the transformational impact of the wider-wired world, raised my share of hell, learned, fought, loved, lost and even sometimes won, and now, 30 years on, it seems that I’ve arrived at another of those forks in the road.

Once again I’ve gamed it, because a change has to come, but this time there’s a twist.

The fundamentals that most interest me are currently are undervalued in my career in beer, but they’re sorely necessary in a broader sense in my city, New Albany.

That’s the first fork, and it’s irrevocable. I’m running for mayor, and soon, I intend to be an ex-brewery owner, although I know it will take time to complete the forms.

The next choice is just over the horizon, and depends on the whim of the electorate. Win or lose, it’s time again to jump, and trust the parachute will open.

I trust it will.

---

Previously:

The PC: We pause Euro '85 to remember the Mathäser Bierstadt in Munich.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 14 … Beers and breakfast in Munich.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 13 … Tears of overdue joy at Salzburg's Augustiner.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 12 … Stefan Zweig and his world of yesterday.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 11: My Franz Ferdinand obsession takes root.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 10: Habsburgs, history and sausages in Vienna.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 9 … Milan, Venice and a farewell to Northern Italy.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 8 … Pecetto idyll, with a Parisian chaser.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 7 … An eventful detour to Pecetto.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 6 … When in Rome, critical mass.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 5 … From Istanbul to Rome, with Greece in between.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 4 … With Hassan in Pithion.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 3 … Growing up in Greece.

The PC: Euro '85, Part 2 ... Hitting the ground crawling in Luxembourg.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 1 … Where it all began.

The Euro '85 travel writing reboot.

It used to be a stock comedic gag that returning vacationers would force friends to view photos of their holiday, prattling for hours while the unfortunate victims plotted their escape routes.

This gag probably hasn't survived the advent of social media and ubiquity in communications, seeing as all our photos are available all the time for immediate viewing. Now we look, and we don't read.

Upon returning stateside from my first European jaunt in 1985, I couldn't view my visual souvenirs right away. I'd taken slides, and had to get back to work first to amass the money necessary to develop them. Having done so, I staged numerous viewings with projector and screen. Beer was necessary in order to keep the audience fixed in their seats.

It's been 30 years, and these reminders remain trapped; I've never gotten around to digitally transferring them, and the 40-year-old projection apparatus doesn't function properly. Your suggestions to inexpensively rectify my sloth are welcome.

Three months ago, I decided to pick up a ball I'd dropped in 2005 by rebooting the 1985 travel narrative. It flared up again in 2009 during my tenure as newspaper guest columnist. If I manage to finish this time, there'll probably be close to 25 installments. Having written about the trip in other places over the years, this represents the opportunity to weave all of it together in one place.

The purpose isn't high art. It's really about me, and remembering something that changed me forever. It was just a three-month trip to Europe, and fairly inconsequential in the larger scheme of life, and yet I've never been the same.

The chapters are being posted on or around Mondays at my Potable Curmudgeon blog. Part 12 is due tomorrow.

---

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 11: My Franz Ferdinand obsession takes root.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 10: Habsburgs, history and sausages in Vienna.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 9 … Milan, Venice and a farewell to Northern Italy.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 8 … Pecetto idyll, with a Parisian chaser.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 7 … An eventful detour to Pecetto.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 6 … When in Rome, critical mass.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 5 … From Istanbul to Rome, with Greece in between.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 4 … With Hassan in Pithion.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 3 … Growing up in Greece.

The PC: Euro '85, Part 2 ... Hitting the ground crawling in Luxembourg.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 1 … Where it all began.

ON THE AVENUES: Breakfast is better with kippers.

ON THE AVENUES: Breakfast is better with kippers.

A weekly web column by Roger A. Baylor.

Scoff if you wish, but I like to eat fish for breakfast.

Among the rotating selections from the cupboard at dawn’s early light are pungent smoked kippers and crackers; piquant pickled herring on buttered rye bread; and on special occasions, lox with the requisite bagel, cream cheese and just a light sprinkling of capers. On special occasions, just for garnish, there’ll be a garlic-stuffed olive.

Yes, there are repercussions to such preferences. From nowhere, impatient cats find me as I’m walking down alleyways, and they make an eager, impromptu parade. Some mornings I get in a hurry, forget to brush my teeth, and inadvertently breathe on a prim, proper, crisply suited banker – and he wilts, as though beaned on the noggin by a stray aesthetic revelation.

If it doesn’t render the banker entirely unconscious, I’ll breathe on him a second time. That usually does it.

It’s clear: I like deceased marine life in the morning. Captain Crunch isn’t even close. Pop Tarts need not apply. Eggs will do, when pickled. Breakfast fish is real food for real people.

Obviously, these dining strategies are best complemented by stiff, aromatic black coffee, such as that produced through the saving grace of our home Saeco espresso maker. As side orders, just for balance amid the oil, vinegar and brine, properly bitter orange marmalade on toast and the occasional serving of Greek-style yogurt with fruit work quite well. Indeed, pungency settles the humors.

Until the pallid likes of Bob Evans and Cracker Barrel grasp the eternal wisdom of gustatory treats like these, it’s hard for me to take them seriously as contenders for my early morning dollars. May these franchised monuments to white bread, Velveeta and decaf never, ever besmirch the shining shores of Scandinavia, where so many years ago I learned to eat breakfast right.

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It was in Oslo, Norway, that I experienced pickled herring for the very first time, almost 30 years ago. Thanks to a tremendous, short-lived exchange rate in 1985, Scandinavia briefly became almost affordable, and when I stepped off the overnight train from Copenhagen to explore Oslo’s main station in search of a bite to eat, a handy restaurant with an all-you-can-eat buffet actually was reasonably priced.

For the budget traveler, buffets meant two or maybe even three meals, not just one. A clean freezer bag could be stuffed full of meat and cheese when no one was looking. I went for it, and during the course of gorging on the goodies, noticed three ceramic pots positioned behind the rest of the food.

My guess was jam, and with curiosity aroused, I removed the lid and reached for the spoon … which was a fork. It didn’t smell anything like fruit, and the funky aroma tickled my proboscis. I hadn’t ever eaten pickled herring, not once, but I knew what it was when the filet was impaled on the fork. It was love at first chew.

Later that week in Bergen, Norway, I treated myself to a culinary splurge. For three hours at lunchtime, a renowned local eatery ran an all-you-can eat seafood buffet for the equivalent of $15. Bearing in mind that my daily budget for lodging, meals and alcohol was $25, this was a budget-buster, but the fact that it has lingered in my memory three decades later attests to the correctness of the decision to abandon fiscal rectitude.

The buffet served as a rube’s introduction to smoked salmon, something quite rare in the rural, corn-fed Indiana of my youth. In 1985, I had no way of knowing the same-but-different confluences between Norwegian smoked salmon and Jewish lox (the latter cultural norms just as uncommon as Vikings in Baptist-laced Hoosierland), or the meticulous strategies for preparing such treats, which are every bit as traditional, proud and locally varied as American barbecue methodology.

I just liked it. A lot.

The summer of 1985 was a veritable appetizer, and an introduction to all things European. I was enamored of the continent, and have remained so these many years hence. Specifically, engaging in strange, subversive encounters with un-American methods of consuming fish became a thread running through subsequent journeys, from pie, mash eel and liquor (gravy) in London just last summer, ranging back to the snack tray at Suzanne’s wedding on the Baltic in 1996, which included a different species of eel, this time smoked.

But my single proudest moment came when I enjoyed the distinction of being the oddball foreigner who introduced my pals, the Copenhagen residents, to the grandeur of the Faergekro restaurant at Nyhavn (“new” harbor) in their own city.

The daily herring buffet is a highlight of western civilization. At least ten varieties of pickled herring (with sour cream, curry and Madeira sauce, among others) are offered, along with dense dark bread, butter, and garnishes like raw egg, onion and caper berry. Whole smoked herrings are carved from the bone and replenished.

Beer is available, as well as Akvavit (Scandinavian schnapps), with the wonderful northern custom of providing house-made infusions of herbs and spices for flavoring the firewater and washing down the tasty pickled and smoked morsels.

You can spend whole days in a joint like this, and one time in 1989, I did just that, starting a tab at Faergekro for lunch, and finally arriving back at my temporary Danish doorstep in a taxi, pea soup fog choking the street as well as the inner recesses of my cranium, fully tempted to join WC Fields in asking: “Was I here last night, and did I spend $300?”

(Whatever the words for “yes you did” are in Denmark)

That’s good. I thought I lost it!

Travel Music 3: Foreigner in a foreign land, 1985.

Kiddies, here's the way it used to work, before personal devices, downloads and YouTube: A song was released, became a hit, was played in endless repetition on a limited number of radio stations, and could not be avoided. You made your peace with it, or you plunged knitting needles into your ears. I've been known to embrace both strategies.

Foreigner's "I Want to Know What Love Is" was released as a single at the close of 1984, and proceeded to hit number one in early 1985 in the United States, the UK, Australia, Ireland and several other countries. As I prepared for my first trip abroad in the spring of 1985, the song was everywhere.

When I arrived in Europe in May, it invariably was heard on virtually any radio I encountered at a time when there weren't any satellite stations or iPod playlists. Nowadays, about the only way a song becomes an ear worm is to be used to promote a mass market product. Then, a hit could be painfully ubiquitous.

Much to my surprise, I actually liked "I Want to Know What Love Is." Still do. Go figure.

From inception in the 1970s, Foreigner had been a guitar-oriented, hard rock kind of band -- fodder for the testosterone-laden. Mostly I was bored, because to me, Foreigner generally sounded corporate and derivative. But the sound slowly seemed to mature, and with "I Want to Know What Love Is," the group became the equivalent of the journeyman pitcher who throws a perfect game.

The lyrics are the least of it; basically, the structure is verse/chorus/verse/extended chorus and fade. The guitar is relegated to rhythm status, with layers of keyboards and synthesizers throughout. Vocalist Lou Gramm is in fine fettle, but of course the stars of the show are the gospel choir's singers. Their backing vocals are muted to the point of absence in the first chorus, submerged beneath the ethereal synths. The choir comes to the front of the mix during the first half of the extended second chorus, and then there's a barely noticeable bridge; then the choir sings the lead vocal, and Gramm offers great fills.

It's gorgeous, and utterly inexplicable. How did the band get from "Feels Like the First Time" to this? No matter; the relevance to me is that I cannot think back on 1985 without "I Want to Know What Love Is" bobbing up to the surface.

Travel Music 1: Pole-vaulting a borderline, 1985.

My musical tastes never were particularly avant-garde. They are what they are, influenced heavily by early exposure to swing and big band music, which is to say I'm a very melody-based type of guy. As an adult, I've learned to appreciate and enjoy atonality, bebop and the Bulgarian women's choir. But when I was a kid, it wasn't quite the same.

Straight up: Pop isn't a dirty word in my lexicon. Never has been, never will be.

Back during the 1980s, my entire life was organized on a 24-7-365 travel footing. If not actually wandering the European continent, I was reading voraciously and planning another trip, working multiple low-rent jobs to save enough money to make my dreams come true. There simply wasn't cerebral time remaining to actively seek out new music, and besides, how quickly we forget the relative paucity of options in the prehistoric, pre-Internet planet.

There was some MTV, and later VH1. There was local radio, and at the time, quite a lot of classical music, then as now on WUOL 90.5 FM. There were people close to me who'd make suggestions. So it went. I'm surprised I ever learned anything at all.

All of this is prelude to the startling revelation that of all the world's music that might have settled into the weird archive between my ears, where music plays all the time and has done so for as long as I can remember, the song I always associate with my first overseas journey in 1985 is Madonna's "Borderline."

I heard the song numerous times just prior to departure, and it never really went away. In fact, in a metaphorical sense, that initial foray out into the world did indeed involve stepping across a considerable borderline -- I'd done nothing, been nowhere and was in the process of embracing the notion of "late bloomer" and straining it into comic incredulity. As noted previously, in spite of all the laborious planning and research, I was well aware how remarkably terrified I was of the interactions necessary to make the trip work ... and how equally cognizant I was of absolutely having to do it, or else resign myself to complete a homeland trek to irrelevance.

A bouncy Madonna pop song may not deserve to be fiercely metaphorical, and yet one's sub-conscious sometimes does the choosing for you. Maybe it worked, because that very first trip in 1985 certifiably changed my life, and it's why I smile every time I hear the song.

The Smiths on my birthday, and a Soviet recollection.

Yesterday was my birthday, and a whole slew of Facebook friends wished me a good one. For these greetings, I'm sincerely grateful.

Clint Ackerman set the tone by providing a song by The Smiths: "Heaven Know I'm Miserable Now, " and that was enough to send me diving into the back catalog. The video above obviously isn't the original of "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out," but it's a favored cover by Neil Finn and Friends, including Smiths guitarist Johnny Marr.

A weekend spent listening to The Smiths was a very good thing, and some of the 1980s memories dislodged are quite remarkably fresh, like the story of how I first heard of the band.

My 25th birthday dinner in 1985 was taken with Mark, an Australian, one of a couple dozen fellow travelers on a four-day tour of Leningrad USSR (not Moscow, as I previously misstated on Facebook). He'd decided that a birthday should be celebrated the right way, and so we bribed our way into a restaurant. In typical fashion, the food was an afterthought, and the main course was limitless vodka.

Before Mark ebbed away into some deep cups (how did we get back to the hotel?), he was telling about his adventures working his way across the Commonwealth, and time he spent bartending in the UK, where fashionable new music was on the rise. Trying to explain what The Smiths sound like without any of the music handy for listening is about as useful as it (doesn't) sound. But at least he tried, and in the years to come, I learned about The Smiths.

Thanks again to all my birthday well-wishers.

ON THE AVENUES When in Rome.

ON THE AVENUES: When in Rome.

A weekly web column by Roger A. Baylor.

Woody Allen’s 2012 film, “To Rome With Love,” received middling reviews, but it is impossible to fault the director’s choice of inspired locales. The Eternal City is sumptuously depicted in the movie, and as the wine pours freely in almost every scene, we all can be forgiven for wanting to pack our bags, chuck the daily grind and go frolic.

The Mediterranean has featured only sporadically in my travels, and it may seem a strange emotion for me to be yearning for Rome, but to be truthful, in spite of herculean efforts to wean myself from the European continent, the tug remains so strong that the ultimate destination right now quite frankly is up for negotiation: Bucharest, Bath, Berlin or Bologna; the destination doesn’t matter to me, as long as a plane deposits me somewhat close to it.

It’s been almost a quarter-century since my last visit to Italy, and there were plenty of good times to remember, none more so than the time in 1985 when I wandered into a church in Rome, and a city fairly swooned.

Trust me: It was a complete accident.

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I’d breezed into town after the better part of a day spent riding the ferry from Greece to Italy, pausing momentarily in Brindisi to commence a lifelong love affair with garlic-laden clam sauce before napping upright in a seat, sardine-like, aboard the overnight train to Rome. One persistent memory from the rail journey is waking at dawn just in time to glimpse Montecassino Abbey, as rebuilt after its destruction during the famous World War II battle.

Well, at least I think it was Montecassino Abbey. It might have been Downton Abbey for all I know, given a bone-rattled grogginess borne of two too many days aboard trains and boats, the effect of mediocre Italian draft beers washing down the previous night’s repast, and long, sun-baked hours shared with thirsty backpacking Aussies and Germans, all of us cross-legged in the ocean breeze on the ferry’s open peanut gallery deck, with me teaching them how to play the familiar Hoosier drinking game called Drachma Bounce, using a metal camp cup and alternating portions of Retsina and Ouzo either as penalty for winning or reward for losing.

Arriving early at Rome’s Termini station, I hit the ground running toward one of the $25-A-Day book’s suggested budget pensions – not low rent retirement stipends, but small family-run hotels, usually located upstairs in urban residential blocks. The first one was booked, but the second had a vacancy. It was four flights up on a Thursday morning, and I settled in for a five-day stay. By Friday, I was a sidewalk café veteran, nursing Nastro Azurro lagers and watching the girls go by.

The usual tourist’s high points came and went, but what’s a poor atheist to do on a Sunday morning in Rome, when so many attractions are closed? The answer came to me during a Saturday morning stroll along the legendary Appian Way, when I ducked behind a 2000-year-old mausoleum to take a leak.

People go to church on Sunday, right?

What’s more, being in Rome meant not having to settle for a lowly chapel somewhere in the suburbs, because the Yankee Stadium of organized religion was right there in the middle of the venerable city: St. Peters.

Sunday morning would entail a pilgrimage to the Vatican, and mass at St. Peters. Quite literally, it was time to don my cleanest dirty shirt.

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I tiptoed away from my pension before the rolls, jam, butter and coffee came out to the communal table. It was a pleasant, albeit weirdly quiet walk to Termini, where I stopped for espresso and a pastry and boarded the subway, eventually hopping off a few blocks away from the Vatican.

There were plenty of people moving in ragged columns down the sidewalks, passing the occasional loose-footed vendor of souvenirs, novelties and artifacts. I merely followed the crowd into the vast expanse of St. Peter’s Square, feeling overwhelmed to see for the first time the mountainous grandeur of the cathedral and numerous other historic structures ringing the piazza.

Then it hit me: It wasn’t so much the architecture as the throng. There must have been a couple of thousand visitors milling around, and most of them were queuing into a series of crowd control stanchions intended to impose some degree of order on the situation. It looked as though everyone in Rome intended to attend mass at St. Peter’s.

Would an earnest young unbeliever like me even be permitted inside? Would they be able to tell that I was pagan?

Striking what I imagined as a pious pose, I readily observed that at least the lines were steadily moving. It was a huge building, after all, one meant to accommodate Catholics from all over the world, many of whom were about to experience the very highlight of their lives. As a matter of principle, I shuffled headlong into the scrum, because there was no reason why I couldn’t pretend to be one of them.

The attendants were patient and friendly. At regular intervals deep within the labyrinth, someone would greet me in a variety of languages, from Croat to Tagalong, and ask whether I had a ticket. I’d specify English, smile, apologize for my negligence, and be told that it was okay, just go this or that way, and follow the next worker’s directions.

These diversions routed me steadily toward the right, followed by a big left turn into an immense doorway on the side of St. Peters, and when the dust settled I was told to take a seat in the club-level pews behind the altar. Evidently my disguise had worked, and I relished my role as pilgrim for a day.

Meanwhile, it was standing room only inside St. Peter’s, and the atmosphere didn’t seem very sacred at all. The expectant, edgy vibe was not unlike a football stadium just prior to kickoff, with nervous energy and mounting excitement. Having had little experience with religious ecstasy, I worried that perhaps a dosage of peyote would have helped to properly align me.

I’d brought along my trusty workhorse camera, a fully manual Pentax, but left the flash apparatus back in the room. I didn’t want to be disrespectful to the solemn premise of the church service, and so it shocked me when suddenly, hundreds of flashbulbs started popping. Heads tilted and turned, and I saw a nun climbing onto the shoulders of another nun, hugging a stone column and snapping photos with a snazzy automatic. Inexplicably, Sunday mass at St. Peter’s had morphed into a rock and roll show.

And then, finally, I saw the reason for the bedlam.

Advancing slowly down the aisle, no more than 20 feet away from my assigned seat, walked the Pope himself -- John Paul II, the former Karol Wojtyła – amid universal clamor and unrestrained adoration, throughout which perhaps the sole prim and proper person in the whole holy joint was me … the heretic!

And so it was that I went to mass in Rome with the Pope, and he wasn’t even in Guido Sarducci’s renowned pizza.

Or, for that matter, Woody Allen’s.

Today's Tribune column: "Tears of joy at the Augustiner beer garden."

BAYLOR: Tears of joy at the Augustiner beer garden

Coming of age in the Ohio Valley in the 1960s and '70s meant witnessing on a depressing, first-hand basis the very nadir of beer culture in America.

In Colonial times, our beer making and drinking customs reflected English origins. Later, when Germans began coming to the United States in large numbers, their traditions traveled with them and remained intact. All big American cities and most of the smaller ones had breweries that took procedural, technical and atmospheric cues from the time-tested Central European playbook. It was a lovely thing, while it lasted.

Today's Tribune column: "History and sausages in Vienna."

There are no kangaroos in Austria, and for an outsider who doesn't speak German, the Viennese can seem a bit detached. In spite of a zealous tourist industry and its status as an internationally connected city, Vienna remains firmly itself -- self-aware, smart, and world weary.

Even now, decades past its imperial prime, there is a cosmopolitan reserve and a daily recognition of the past's influence on the present, neither of which stand in the way of innovation and forward thinking. The attitude of the Viennese is deserved, and as a sandbagging visitor of long practice, it has never offended me. The coffee's pretty damned good, too, and no one, nowhere, serves it quite the same way.

BAYLOR: History and sausages in Vienna

... later on the very same day in 1985, I saw Franz Ferdinand's blood-stained tunic and the restored automobile in which he rode to his death, both on display at Vienna's military museum, itself filled with relics of far more battles lost than won. The Habsburgs didn't conquer their empire through battlefield prowess. Rather, they married into it, piece by piece.

Photo credit

Today's Tribune column: "Italian idyll--Pecetto to Venice."

The 25th anniversary travel series continues today in the Tribune. In unrelated news, yesterday at Potable Curmudgeon, I posted what would have been the next LEO beer column, and intend to do weekly long-form Wednesday pieces in lieu of Mug Shots. In fact, I fully intend to keep shedding responsibilities (and sanity) until I get it right. New Albany's the perfect place for that, don't you think?

BAYLOR: Italian idyll--Pecetto to Venice

It was June 1985, and I'd somehow reached the village of Pecetto in the northern Italian hills. The ensuing six-day sojourn with my cousin Don and his friend (and host) Scott provided an ideal chance to stop, relax and enjoy a slice of rural Europe in temperate summer.

Today's Tribune column: "An eventful detour to Pecetto."

It's the second in my summer series of travel recollections from 1985, although not without a moment's pause for venting exasperation.

BAYLOR: An eventful detour to Pecetto

“Why me? Why must I be the one to correct the ignorant American? And on this perfectly gorgeous summer's day, when I might be tending my garden plot or enjoying a lovely wine on the terrace?”

Some of you quickly will recognize the skeleton of this story, it having appeared here at the blog long before my current Tribune column ever originated. Much has been altered, although not at the expense of the gist of the tale. As a writer, I'm prone to compulsion in rewriting my own work. More importantly, faced with a 900 word limit for these columns, essences must be distilled.

Therefore, these stories from '85 appear in different form in the newspaper. However, their key elements remain pecisely the same, unless -- as I've now learned -- they're overruled by prevailing standards of moronic morality here in the Open Air Museum, to wit: Those of you who know Dr. Donald Barry will recall that one of his most famous and recurring observations is quite simple: "Goddamn." Not "Damn," by "Goddamn."

Please read the story to see what I mean by pointing to this distinction. Apparently, when school children who hear the F-word dozens of times daily on the tube read the epithet "Goddamn," they (more likely their parents) are scandalized ... assuming, of course, that the kids were even able to wade through 875 previous words, the likes of which consistently stump adults, themselves supposedly educated, and presumably taught right here in river city.

Kindly note that this vitriol isn't necessarily directed at the Tribune itself. The newspaper generously was consultative before bowing toward the dictates of local pulpits. Rather, my agreeing to censor "Goddamn" into the historically inaccurate "Damn" was something freely offered, so that I might do my little bit to appease our community's simpletons, and as such, I'm given the chance to scoff at "prudishness" all over again, which makes me quite happy.

Too bad. Too bad about something in all this, although it's hard for me to tell exactly what. I hope you enjoy the story.

Today's Tribune column: "Hassan in Pithion, 1985."

We approach the 25th anniversary of my first pilgrimage to Europe, which began in early May, 1985. Vignettes like the one recounted below, some of which first appeared in different form some years back in this blogspace, will appear periodically in Tribune column form throughout summer, 2010.

BAYLOR: Hassan in Pithion, 1985

There were valuable lessons to be learned from finding myself conversing with a Syrian traveling salesman during the hot morning hours of an aimless day in a tiny border town with more rail sidings and goats than humans.