THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS Rick Steves AND Independent Travel

Keukenhof Gardens, outside Amsterdam, Best of Belgium & Holland tour, 2024

If you kids don't behave, this is the last time we're ever going on a vacation!

threat yelled by every mother

Raise your hand if your parents ever said that. We heard it so often that we laughed it off. Despite the fear she tried to instill in us, we knew it was an empty threat. They enjoyed the trip just as much as we did. The frequent arguments and fights in our cramped quarters were a small price to pay for memories that would last a lifetime. (FYI: thankfully, we have never had a Rick Steves tour guide yell these words at our group.)

As kids, we learned that not all classrooms have walls. History, science, and nature come alive when you hit the road. Travel inspires what made childhood so much fun: curiosity. Kids constantly explore the world around them. Why does this have to stop when we become adults? The stress of modern life beats curiosity out of us. We're too busy running like hamsters on a wheel to appreciate how amazing life is.

Clippety-clopping on the cobblestones in Bruges, Best of Belgium & Holland tour, 2024

Yes, Rick Steves tours are active. Contrary to what some people believe, Rick's tours don't require you to lace up your track shoes every morning. However, if your idea of a wonderful vacation involves lounging on the beach with a drink in hand or 24/7 shopping, then a Rick Steves tour isn't for you (this isn’t to say you won't have the chance to do those things, but they aren’t the focus of his tours). Ibn Battuta, the 14th-century Moroccan scholar and explorer, once said about travel, "It leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller." If your eyes light up when discussing your travels, then chances are, a Rick Steves tour is perfect for you.

The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.

Augustine of Hippo, 5th-century North African philosopher and theologian

Our local Bosnian guides (Best of the Adriatic tour, 2024) endured the devastating war of the early 1990s. Kofi Annan, The UN Secretary-General, referred to it as, "scenes from Hell, written in the darkest pages of human history." Thirty years have passed, yet the past remains evident in the bombed-out and bullet-ridden buildings of Stolac (Stow-lats) and Mostar (pictured).

Mili Kapić (below) was only 16 and lived just a block away from the frontline snipers in Mostar. One day, there was a knock on the door. He was taken straight to prison. He was released two weeks later. after his cousin bribed the immigration authorities. Soon after, Mili received an envelope containing money and a plane ticket. It was only then that he discovered he was going to Norway, where he spent the next 12 years in a refugee camp that also functioned as a mental asylum. He returned home to Bosnia 15 years ago.

Edo Buzdaljkp (below) our guide at the medieval tombstones in Radimlja, recalls when he was ten years old and Croatian soldiers told the residents they had 15 minutes to evacuate Stolac before bombing began. He, his sister, and mother embarked on the difficult 35-mile journey to Mostar in 80-degree heat. After the war, Edo became a teacher at a grade school. Muslim kids were required to enter through the back door and were placed in segregated classrooms. Edo complained to the principal, only to be promptly fired.

As a child, Edo remembered playing with his Catholic and Orthodox classmates after school in the playground of the Catholic church. After the war, he approached the mayor to request funds to rebuild the Catholic church and the playground that had been destroyed. The mayor asked him, "But you're a Muslim." Edo replied, “What difference does that make? It's in my neighborhood, and I loved playing there as a child." The mayor declined his request.

The Rick Steves tour had a free afternoon in Mostar. On the way back from visiting a new Orthodox church under construction (the original was flattened during the war), Ann and I saw an elderly woman in her 70s (named Almsa) feeding the neighborhood's stray cats. We paused to watch her feed them. She startled us when she asked, “Are you American?" Her excellent English floored us, and we learned she had lived in Colorado Springs. Then, she shared her harrowing story.

Her brother had been sent to a concentration camp. He was one of the fortunate ones and somehow survived. Many young men were shot and buried in mass graves. He immigrated to the U.S. and worked in Colorado Springs. Almsa ended up in a refugee camp in Turkey. Her brother paid off a guard at the camp, allowing Almsa to join him in the States. She had been a teacher in Bosnia, but in the U.S., she cleaned people's houses.

After the war, she returned to Bosnia. Almsa is still fighting in court to reclaim her house. She lives alone in her sister-in-law's house, who moved to Italy, vowing never to return. We asked Almsa why she came back. She said, as did Mili and Edo, that Bosnia was her home and that she belonged there. Despite what they have been through, all three are willing to forgive; what other option do they have? But they will never forget.

Hopefully, it’s becoming clear that a Rick Steves tour isn’t your typical European bus tour. Are you looking for unforgettable vacation experiences and a chance to immerse yourself in a culture? Look no further than a Rick Steves tour. You don't get these kinds of experiences by sitting at your hotel bar or sunning yourself at a beach.

Sue Redican, happy resident of Blasket Island (pictured)

Depending on the length of your Rick Steves tour, there are at least a few days built into the tour that are free to do as you like. As many of our Rick's tour guides say, it's a "vacation from your vacation" day. You could kick back and do nothing. Of course, I'm always looking at what my options are. Rick's guide book mentioned a trip out to the Blasket Islands. Here is a link to the company we used. Just a heads up: we booked our tour months ahead of time. When we told other group members what we were doing, they wanted to do the same, but only a few people could do so because the boat ended up selling out.

The Blasket Islands were among the few fishing villages that managed to avoid the Irish famine. They harvested from the sea rather than relying on potatoes. The hardy and isolated island population reached a peak of 150 in the late 1800s (today, it has only a handful of part-time residents). Each family owned a cow, a few sheep, and tended a small garden. There was no priest, no doctor, and no pub. They heated their homes with peat cut from the hills. Using a specialized shovel, they sliced the dense soil into bricks and dried them in the sun. This spongy organic material served as an excellent heat source, burning like a log. The population gradually decreased until 1953, when the government relocated the remaining residents to the mainland.

Bucking that trend is Sue Redican. Originally from Wales, she visited the area on vacation and fell in love with it. She quit her job and decided to move to Ireland. She converted one of the brick buildings into a home and workshop, where she spends most of her day spinning wool and weaving. She is told at least once a day that she is crazy. She chooses to live on the isolated island for six months each year and has been doing this for 25 years.

Most of the time, and often for weeks on end when the weather is terrible, she is completely alone, without human company. Living on Blasket Island means living without electricity, TV, or newspapers. She absolutely loves it. An American tourist once remarked that her modest home was just one step above a cave. "Most people don’t understand why I choose to live this way. They think that I have nothing on the island. But I feel rich just by being there.”

You wouldn't know by looking at her that she is a world traveler. When I mentioned that I was from Northern California, she exclaimed, "I love Monterey and the Pacific Coast!" People often ask her what she misses about the mainland, and she replied, "The truth is that I don’t really miss anything.” After a brief pause, she conceded that she misses Murphy's ice cream (Scott and Ann give a high five to that!).

This is another excellent example of what Ann and I cherish about travel. Rick Steves tours allow us to schedule these types of activities independently. Our close encounters with the locals are special memories that last a lifetime.

Reflections of Mont St. Michel

The dream-like Mont Saint Michel, among the top pilgrimage sites in Christendom, floats like a mirage on the horizon. An elevated causeway connects the tiny island surrounded by mudflats. Today, the town has a population of fifty. Mont St. Michel has held strategic fortifications since ancient times and has been the seat of the monastery from which it draws its name since the 8th century AD.

As an amateur photographer, I often wake up early to capture sunrise shots and images of a town without tourists. These photos tend to be some of the most memorable from the trip. Our Rick Steves tour guide mentioned that we had the option the next day to wake up early and walk to St. Michel Church to hear the monks perform Gregorian chants before sunrise. Equipped only with flashlights from our iPhones, a few hardy tour members made the steep climb over cobblestones in the pitch dark.

I knew I'd be cutting it close to capture my treasured sunrise shot AND listen to the chants, but I was willing to try. As soon as the monks started singing we knew we had made the right decision. The Gregorian chants echoed through the dimly lit church, illuminated by only a few candles. It was magical. Some might say en-chant-ing (sorry).

Sweat began to bead on my forehead as the sunrise peeked through the stained glass windows. What I didn't realize was no one could leave the church early. The monks didn’t unlock the doors until the end of the chants. I could see my sunrise shot slipping through my fingers.

Thankfully, the singing ended in time for me to race all the way down the hill to get some pictures. I swear I had sparks flying off my hiking boots. After running through town, I crossed the bridge and made my way onto the marsh. There's no way to confirm this, but it felt like I ran a four-minute mile. My heart was pumping so fast I nearly passed out, but my time was running out.

After taking nearly over 80 photos, I left the marsh and the herd began to follow me as if I were their shepherd. I tried to explain to them Rick's tour was leaving that morning, and there wasn't any room for them on the bus.

It was at this point I looked down at my feet... I couldn't see them. In my excitement, I hadn't realized I was up to my ankles in mud, slowly sinking in quicksand... and sheep poop (a lot of it). Eventually, I extricated myself from the pungent muck. I'm sure other tour members noticed my unusual perfume at breakfast, but they were polite enough not to say anything (to my face, anyway). In the end, I missed the sunrise shot, but I’m really happy with the shot of Mont St. Michel with the sheep at dawn.

To this day, it remains my favorite photograph. A four-foot by three-foot framed print hangs over our fireplace. If I'm fortunate enough to reach the pearly gates, I'm bringing the picture along to show off. I hope the guardian at the entrance says, "Isn't life beautiful? Sorry about the earthquake, but it helped you discover the meaning of life. Most people don't figure it out until it’s too late. Come on in.”