Simple pleasures of a Hungarian train

Magic hour at Keleti train station, in Budapest

The train has only pulled out of the station a few minutes ago, and it already takes on the familiar feeling of a Hungarian train.

The polite exchange of seats, as those with reservations ask those without reservations to get out of their seats.

The sound of a can of Dreher being opened. Then another. Then another. 

A lady sitting down across the table from us, pulling out a tin-foiled bundle and unwrapping a sandwich.

At the next station, a man sits beside her. As the train pulls out, he too pulls a tin-foiled sandwich from his luggage, unwraps it, and takes a bite.

We already finished our snacks and sandwiches.

Train travel is easily romanticized, as if it's still like solving mysteries on the Orient Express or watching the world blur past you on a bullet train.

But for most of us, it's a necessity. No Belgian detectives solving mysteries. And it's the local, so there's plenty of stops and no bullet speed.

So if you must take the train, why not make the most of it and stretch out and crack open a beer? You have to pay for the train ticket, so pay for train food when you can eat a delicious sandwich?

Any kind of travel doesn't need pricey upgrades or faux luxury. Often, it's the simple pleasures that make the trip worthwhile.

A ride on a Hungarian train is a refreshing return to that grounded normalcy. 

Once, on a flight from Budapest to Rome, I unwrapped my own tin-foiled wrapped salami sandwich. The old lady across the aisle from me nodded in approval. The flight attendant man gave me the stink eye.

It's not his fault. Airlines have managed to monetize every last bit of enjoyment of travel, while removing the last shred of dignity from the experience of flying. 

Passengers are treated like cattle, milked for every cent.

In the process, they've priced out the simple pleasures. Can you really, truly enjoy a $10 beer? Or do you feel compelled to tell yourself that it's a good beer?

And what about those sandwiches made under questionable circumstances with unidentifiable ingredients?

Train companies have yet to crush the joy of traveling and the simple pleasures that come with it: leg room, a homemade lunch, and cold beer. 

These things aren't sacred or even necessary, but they add something unmistakable to a train ride. That's something Hungarian train passengers haven't forgotten.

The places we want to visit

I was going to write a post about how Florence had changed since the last time I visited the city.
  
I'd write about how the price to walk around the roof of Duomo jumped in just a few years from 8 € to 30 €. I'd write about the enormous hordes of tourists descending on the markets, tavernas, and tourist sights. Buying every little knick-knack and drinking the town dry of Aperol spritz.
  
I'd write about how on my first visit, I bought a wallet for 15 € from the leather market that was made in Florence. And how the same market was choked with tourists perusing suspiciously identical-looking, marked-up leather goods.

But I'm not writing that post. 

I've been thinking more about the impact of my traveling decisions. Especially my purchase decisions while I travel. 

Do any of us visit a place like Florence for the cheap magnets, the machine-crafted leather goods, the silly Panama hats, the shot glasses, miniature Davids, cheap sunglasses, or anything else arrived on a super-freighter from a faraway sweatshop? 

Yet, we mindlessly buy this shit. Myself included. I bought a same-same machine-made leather wallet to replace that older wallet I bought years earlier from the same market. I instantly regretted buying it. 

 

We can loathe the pushy street sellers and roll our eyes at the ridiculous novelty items, but they're selling them because we're buying them. 

Worse, we're buying things we don't need from people who like as though they don't want to be selling these things.
 

We can lament the death of neighborhoods in Lisbon, Barcelona, or Florence and wonder why Dubrovnik or Venice doesn't feel "authentic." 

But, we're the ones staying in cheap Airbnbs, putting our money into souvenir shops, and pretty much avoiding the local businesses that cater to the local and made that neighbourhood in that city worth visiting.

What can we do?

We can stop believing that tired argument that buying garbage from a souvenir shop is putting needed money into the local economy. We can start making purchase decisions that will leave the place we're visiting a little better off than when we left it. Let's use our judgment, before we use our money.

  

Bringing a toddler to Florence

So, you want to go to Florence with a toddler. 

Are you sure? Yes? It will be tough. But, tough doesn't mean it's bad. It's actually pretty great.  So, here's a few things we learned while we were in Florence.

Early mornings.

We woke up early every morning to the sounds of street cleaners and garbage trucks. An adult usually mumbles something, rolls over, and falls back asleep. Not a curious toddler. They're compelled to investigate these things and when they're awake, they're awake. 

So, to let his mom get some sleep, I'd take him out for a walk around the piazza to watch Florence's city workers do their street cleaning thing. The grumpy part of me wanted to say it was difficult, but it's hard not to admit how refreshing it is to walk the tourist-free streets of Florence at 6am.

A 6am stroll at the Duomo. 

A hotel with a history.

Once upon a time, our hotel was a palazzo. Built in the 1700s, it was owned by dukes and princesses until it has turned into a hotel.

We had breakfast beneath a 17th-century fresco. We climbed grand old staircases. We explored  all sorts of hallways, stairwells, long corridors, dead ends, and mysterious little corners. I'm certain there are some secret passages and the website confirmed that a ghost haunts the premises. 

It was a playground for a toddler. Levi raced up and down the corridors, explored the stairwells, and tried every closet to see if it was unlocked.

Our hotel's grand old breakfast room. 

Early, early evenings. 

A spring evening in Florence is close to perfection. The setting sun casts long shadows across the piazzas. The city truly comes alive as the sun sets. Locals gather in the squares. The tourists sip their Spritz's on cocktail bar terraces. 

Of course, you won't see any of this with a toddler. It's bed time. 

You'll need to shower the toddler, wrestle on the pyjamas, and read a few stories. When he finally falls asleep, that's it.

You're sitting in a dark hotel room. No cocktails. No setting sun that evokes some Longfellow verses. Maybe a movie on the iPad, but more likely you crash before 9pm... because you were up watching street cleaners in front of the Duomo at 6am. 

Your stroller might not make it.

I don't think the medieval Florentines had strollers in mind when they paved their streets with cobblestones. You'll develop strong forearms from bumping along the street. Then blow out a knee as you try to pivot the stroller off the street onto a narrow, uneven sidewalk to avoid a car. Then back onto the street because the sidewalk is impassable with all the parked Vespas. 

But! The stroller is a valuable tool. He fell asleep while we toured through the Uffizi. Whenever his feet got tired, we coaxed back into the stroller. 

When to say enough

The problem with old Italian cities is also what makes them so lovely: the walking. You can spend all day walking around the city, discovering new things, poking around ancient churches, walking up stairs to the top of some church tower, romantic strolls along rivers, walking and gazing at masterpieces in some huge palatial art gallery. Then more walking. 

A toddler is tough, resilient, and has the endurance of an ultramarathon runner. But, at some point enough is enough. You must know when to call it a day. So, plan what you want to do, but don't plan too much on the day. He'll need breaks, gelato, and a visit to a playground.  

Our structure was a playground in the morning, then some tourist-y activity after an early lunch. Nap (hopefully). Then supper between 4-5pm. Then back to the hotel room for the night routine.

Yes, it Is worth it.

There was a point where the toddler walked into the Medici chapel, looked around at the sculptures made by Michelangelo himself, and asked, "Where's the ice cream?"

It's hard to know if he will remember much of this. He slept through the Uffizi, but he enjoyed the playgrounds and waving to the pigeons. He developed a love for Spaghetti Carbonara, which the waiters, who are accustomed to requests for Spaghetti Pomodoro for the kids, instantly respected. You could see him taking it all in, and processing it.

This experience might be imprinted on him, without the memories. It might develop into an inexplicable appreciation for Michelangelo. A love for Carbonara. Some Italian language skills that stick with him. Grazie! Prego! Ciao bambino! Or something deeper, like a willingness to try new things. If it's just one of those things, then the struggle was worth it.

Come prepared to the restaurant.

Why Dessau isn't a Disneyland

Why doesn't Dessau push its Bauhaus heritage a little more?

For a few glorious years in the 1920s, it was here that some of the most influential work was done at the famed Bauhaus school. Its workshops pushed out texile, interior, and industrial design brilliance. Artists like Paul Klee, Wassily Kandinsky, and László Moholy-Nagy were lured into teaching positions. Even the city joined the Bauhaus-ing craze and commissioned a work office and a housing estate.

Yet, they only finished a museum to Bauhaus' influentia output last year. The Masters' Houses are five homes inspired by Bauhaus' design concepts. They look lovely on the outside -- gleaming white concrete blocks in a stand of pine ona quiet residential street -- but, they're underfurnished on the inside. They designed furniture, after all!

The exception to this underappreciation is the original Bauhaus building. Long since re-purposed for tourists, it houses contemporary art exhibition spaces, a Bauhaus store, and a canteen in the basement. You can even spend the night in one of the old student dorm rooms.

Why isn't more of the city optimized for taking toursitic advantage of its Bauhaus awesome-ness?

First, it might only be design and architecrure nerds interested in making the pilgrimage to Dessau. That's not a big demographic, so the town might be as optimized for Bauhaus tourism as it can get.

That reality check aside, let's remember Bauhaus was a design school at the local university, and Dessau is still a university town. In fact, it feels like a calm, rich university town that's comfortably cashing in on some of its Bauhaus fame.

But, that's not the only side of Dessau.

The city is modernizing its old, dreary East Bloc pre-fabricated apartment buildings, or Plattenbau's, but the DDR's clumsy fingerprints are all over this town, from the ramshackle sidewalks to questionable city planning that puts a playground beside a highway.

This is a blue-collared town, and it feels like it. Just a few blocks down from the Bauhaus building is a magnesium smelter. The folks you meet here aren't just university professors and design nerds. They're workers and 9-to5-ers. Guys in coveralls drinking a beer at their local kiosks or taking their kids to a playground beside the highway before supper. Or both. My kind of people.

A good Discovery Walk reveals a lot more of Dessau. The beautiful nature parks. The winding bike paths along the Elbe river. The old, princely palaces. The friendly folks. The tasty local beers. Bauhaus isn't the only star in town.

And some Bauhaus architectural landmarks aren't treated like fancy architectural landmarks. They're still used for their original purpose. The work office is still a work office. I was chased out by a security guard when I poked my head inside. The Kornhaus is still a lovely restaurant on the banks of the Elbe, perfect for a lunch and a cold Weizenbier. 

Wasn't that the spirit of Bauhaus? Architecture and design made for the people. Accessible for everyone.

It's refreshing that Dessau hasn't Disney-nified its Bauhaus heritage or put tourism before its own residents. It's a better place to visit when Dessau itself is able to shine. 

One of Dessau's many beautiful nature parks.

Travel in the Time of Covid

A rare sight: No one taking in thr East Side Gallery

When I checked into my Berlin pension, the desk person told me I was the only one staying in there that night. Travel restrictions were still in place, so you could only book a hotel room if you were on business, which meant budget lodgings, like my pension, in the heart of Berlin's touristy shopping district wasn't a a big draw.

Just outside, along the shopping strip in Charlottenburg, shoppers ignored the 1.5 meter of social distancing to line up in front of their favourite brand name stores, which still had to maintain a capacity limit inside. Some shoppers wore masks, but a freakish amount of people didn't bother with masks. For someone who had been locked down for two months, this was disconcerting.

That Saturday was the first day that Berlin loosened its quarantine laws. It was also a warm, sunny spring day. A powerful combination for people cooped up for two months in their flats. So people gathered outside in the parks and patios to walk, drink, flirt, and simply walk around.

Yet, the country was still locked down, even as restrictions were lifing in Berlin. This meant the city belonged to the Berliners. They sat along the Spree and sipped beer in the sun. They shopped, or at least they lined up to shop. The crowded onto patios to eat burgers and kebab. The tourist spots, on the other hand, were deserted.

On my way to an apartment viewing, I walked along the East Side Gallery. Usually there are hoards of people snapping selfies in front of the murals on the old sections of the Berlin Wall. I had the gallery to myself. The Berliners had no time for something they see every day.

Later I came back to my lodgings. The desk clerk had already left for the night, leaving me alone in the dim pension (unlike a hotel, there's no 24/7 staff on-site). 

In the morning, I ate breakfast in the grand old dining room alone - the old hardwood floor creaking loudly underfoot as I refilled my coffee. Through the tall windows, the city was already coming to life. Chairs and tables scrapped pavement as they were being laid out in the cafe below, currywurst stands were opening, and traffic was humming along.

Inside, the pandemic seemed like it still was going on. Outside it seemed like it was over.

What we learned from dragging a baby all over Greece

Traveling is all about learning things, opening your eyes to new possibilities and experiences. Bringing a baby along for a trip to Greece was definitely a learning moment. A whole new experience that, at times, kept my eyes open all night.

We flew into Corfu, stayed a night there, took a ferry to the mainland, stayed a few nights in Plataria, went to a Greek wedding in Paramythia, then took the ferry back to Corfu, drove to the remote village and settled in for almost a week. Just writing all that exhausted me. I know it exhausted the little person we dragged along. Here are a few things I learned from traveling around Greece with a baby.

1) No more unscheduled schedules

We're the type of travelers that don't wake up with a plan in mind. We usually have a goal, like a place to visit or a neighbourhood to discover, but it's not scheduled down to the minute or even hour. You can spend a day discovering something or realize it's a mistake and find a patio to order a few drinks. With a baby, that changes. You're constantly working around the baby's schedule: feedings, naps, and early morning awakenings.

2) Naps are not accidents

The great part of traveling with goals instead of itineraries is you get lost and discover wonderful things you might not have experienced if you were going from point to point. But that takes a small to medium-sized time commitment. One of the not-so-wonderful things that we discovered early in the Greek vacation was if a baby skips a nap, then the rest of the day and a chunk of the night is now planned… for crying, screaming, and all-purpose misery.

Sure, you might think he'll nap in the car or pram, but that can't be planned or predicted. Plus, the moment you stop for a pee break or a car honks as it passes by, the nap is over and you have a cranky baby for the rest of the day.

3) Babies can sleep anywhere, but not everywhere

After I turned 25, I just couldn't sleep on friends' floors like I used to. When I turned 30, crashing on couches became a pain in the neck. Now that I'm into my late 30s, I've realized I need my pre-bedtime rituals, like reading a book, stretching a bit, or a warm shower. I'm getting fussy in my semi-old age.

A baby is no different. Sure, he often nods off in some weird positions in car seats, but staying overnight in three different places in Corfu and Plataria made him as fussy as a 37-year-old man-baby who skipped his all-important neck stretches.

Our budget didn't help either. We booked accommodation like we were traveling without kids. It's not like we were couch surfing in yurts – we were staying in well-reviewed 3-star-ish places – but our little man had to adjust to each strange place with their different noises, heat, air conditioning, bed softness, and crib comfy-ness. Not so easy for someone who was born less than a year ago.

4) All about the amenities, man.

Both of us were never type of people who slept in 40-person hostel dorms when we traveled. We’ve rested our weary bones in pretty spartan rooms with few amenities, thin walls, lumpy beds, and more than a few bathrooms down the hall. I also really liked having loud bars with patios nearby and rates so cheap that you earn street cred for staggering through the neighbourhood at night.

You know what I appreciate now that I travel with a baby? A kitchen. Elevators. Thick walls. Peace. Quiet. A small beer on the balcony. Decent sheets. Our own bathroom where you don't have to bring your own towels.

5) Luggage. So much luggage.

When we're packing, we fall into the common trap of thinking "Oh, we might need that winter coat." And we pack it. Even if it's August, you never know. I've worked on that impulse, so I often pack less and fit more Duty-Free booze into my carry-on bag.

When packing for a baby, that impulse to pack for every conceivable eventuality is life or death, sleep or no sleep, which is pretty much life and death. Everything goes in. So, as the father, I'm carrying a gigantic duffel bag on my back, pulling along a wheely suitcase in one hand and carrying mine and the baby's carry-on bags in the other. Duty-Free booze? Not anymore.

6) The struggle is worth it

Does this seem like a complainy post? It isn’t, because all this struggling is worth it. When you watch your baby son touch some huge Ionian flower for the first time or smell the salty sea breeze for the first time or happily dig his hands into sand at the beach, well your heart melts just a little… before you look at the clock and wonder how you're going to get him down for a nap in the middle of a beach.

Visiting Eltz Castle

If you don't have access to a car, it isn't easy to reach Eltz Castle. There's no train access, since it's a castle up in the hills. Bus service is intermittent because it's partway between Koblenz and Trier – which means it's not near anywhere. For a normal plebs like us, visiting the castle at Eltz was a distant goal. Until the Hungarian family arrived in a car for a visit and were easily convinced to take on a road trip to Eltz Castle.

It's a two-and-a-half drive from the Dorf to the entrance of gravel parking lot on the Eltz estate where you pay the old man a couple of euros to park. If you roll past him, as we saw a Dutch family do, he will shake his fist at you until you return to his booth and pay him.

Then you walk into a nature reserve and hike a half kilometer along a forest trail that goes around a hill, edging a deep ravine. Eventually, you turn an outcropping of basalt and there's the castle, standing on a rocky crag in a valley.

It's then that you appreciate the difficulty to reaching this place. As a veteran of Neuschwanstein Castle, I was half-expecting crowds of people, sausage vendors, pretzel pushers, and kiosks serving frosty glasses of Weissbier. There's none of that tourist nonsense near Eltz castle. It's just a castle surrounded by nature.

Into the Harz of Germany

Glad to be standing at the top of Brocken after a crowded steam train-ride. 

Ever hear of Goslar? It's fine. You likely haven't. But you should drop by this town if you're in the neighbourhood, which also isn't likely because the only thing in Goslar's neighbourhood are rocks, trees, and the Harz Mountains.

The places that usually draw people to Germany are on the country's fringes. From Hamburg to the north, down to the southwest to the Dorf, Cologne – then further down the Rhine, you can reach Frankfurt, Heidelberg, the Black Forest, never straying to far from the border. Then turning east into Bavaria, you'd reach Munich with the Alps on your right. which are shared between Germany, Italy, Switzerland, and Austria. To the northeast, you reach Nuremburg, Dresden, and Berlin – every city close to Germany's borders.

The Harz Mountains are in the middle of that fringe. It's rugged country, where Germanic myths of witches and dwarves and bridge trolls come from. Kings ruled from castles here to guard the silver mines, the Nazis built V-1 and V-2 missiles in bunkers beneath the mountains, and the Iron Curtain ran through it. Most people flock to the fringes without really seeing the heart, or Harz, of Germany.

Express trains run around the Harz, so it took two train changes to reach Goslar. Then we got lost in the town. This is no cookie-cutter rebuilt town with a shiny old centre. Goslar wasn't carpet-bombed during the war, so most of the old town is as it was, with all its twisty, not-so-modern-German streets and its old timber houses. 

Sure, Goslar is a touristic draw. There's a Kaiserpfalz – an Imperial palace/castle from the medieval days – and old mills and German-style breweries. But the untouched old-timey centre is big enough to absorb them, so you get wonderfully quiet moments to yourself on these old, twisted cobblestone streets and alleys, hemmed in by ancient wood houses.

Having Goslar to yourself is a common feeling.

Down the rail line is Wernigerode, the starting point for tourists who take a crowded steam-powered train to Brocken, the Harz's highest peak, and back down again into town, where they crowd souvenir shops and Eis cafes. The buildings are also old, but the town is completely given over to tourist kitsch, which was disheartening and uninviting. We were ready to write off Wernigerode completely until we walked down a residential street, past a plague for Paul Renner, the typographer behind Futura. So not all bad, after all.

On our last night in Goslar, we we sat in our apartment deciding on our next destination as Empire Strikes Back dubbed in German played in the background. We had planned to go to Dessau to see the Bauhaus sights. But a Bauhaus Design and Architecture Museum was still a few years from completion and there were no architecture tours in English. It's astounding that Dessau hasn't embraced its Bauhaus heritage. We had to change trains in Berlin, so instead of changing trains, we stayed in Berlin.

One day in Berlin

What do you do when you have one night in Berlin? We had no time for anything, so we planned as much as possible for the rest of the afternoon. Kata suggested we visit the Boros Bunker to see some contemporary art. We got turned away because it's appointment-only. Berlin amateur move. Kata used to live in Neukoeln, so we went there for dinner, but choked and couldn't agree on a restaurant. We rushed hungrily into a joint that, to put it lightly, sucked. Another amateur Berlin move. We should have known better.

The next day, we walked along the Spree in the sun, had a cool drink by the river, and ate amazing burgers in the Mitte. We had no plans. We didn't make it to another museum and that didn't matter, strolling through the Tiergarten was enough. We threw away our plans and the expectations that come with them. And we were reminded that Berlin has nothing but rewards for the relaxed visitor.

Berlin views.

Our DIY Wedding in Denmark

The beige waiting room was like something out of a modern fairy tale.

It's the morning of our wedding and I'm picking wild flowers in a field an island in the Baltic Sea. The flowers are for Kata's floral hair arrangement and my lapel. In less than an hour, we will walk to Aersokobing's town hall and stand before the registrar to be married.

It wasn't an easy journey to this field on Aero island. We took a plane to Amsterdam, another plane to Bilund (of Lego Land fame), then a bus to Vejle, a train to Odense, a local train to Svendborg, and finally a ferry to Aeroskobing.

But the journey began months earlier when we walked into Düsseldorf's city marriage office and saw the couples lined up out of the waiting room, into the hallway, down a flight of stairs and into the lobby. As if that wasn't enough, a newly married couple and their wedding guests were navigating through this snarl of waiting not-so-nearly weds.

We'd later learn that couple, if they were both foreigners like us, would have spent hours talking to bureaucrats in their embassies and the German government, gathering important documents from their homeland, getting them translated and certified, and then waited a year for the honour of pushing their way through a crowded government building to be allowed to the privilege of being married.

We wanted none of that.

One alternative was Denmark, the Las Vegas of Europe, because of the ease of getting married. Especially for a couple of foreigners living in Germany who had neither the time, patience, nor inclination to gather their required papers and wait months for an appointment to find out more papers would be needed before they could get on an eternal waiting list. There's a baby on the way, after all.

We found one of several businesses whose sole purpose is applying for a marriage on your behalf in either Copenhagen or Aero Island. In a matter of weeks, we had an appointment to get married.

We weren't the only couple running to Denmark for a quick and easy town hall wedding. After our comically long journey to Aeroskobing, we saw couples everywhere. Some were mixed race couples – an obvious sign of two people from different countries dodging huge document requirements and embassy visits, like us. We'd see others strolling the old town, the women with noticeable baby bumps, also like us. There was also a young-ish, extremely grumpy couple staying at our hotel, who we'd see later at the town hall just after their wedding, still looking miserable, unlike us.

So, ours was not a unique decision. The staff at the town hall knew the drill. When we arrived to confirm our marriage and get a time for the next day, the elderly lady behind the desk made copies of everything and gave us our appointment quickly and efficiently. A rarity for city government.

The old town of Aeroskobing.

So, the next morning, after picking our flowers, I return to our little cottage in the compound we share with mostly Danish retirees. It starts to rain as we finish getting ready – a few attempts with my tie for me and Kata fixing her hair – and return to the town hall, a little wet, but punctual.

We wait in the little grey, government-issue waiting area and watch one young couple come out, with their parents and a few others, and watch another young couple pace impatiently around the town hall office. Kata gets up to the bathroom, maybe because she's nervous and maybe because she's pregnant, and while she's away they call our name. I wait at the door of the office for Kata to finish up and she rounds the corner directly down the hall from the office. So, I whistle "Here comes the bride..." and Kata walks down the aisle... well the hallway.

There are three elderly ladies in the room. One is the registrar, who will marry us, and the other two are our witnesses, who will, you guessed it, witness the ceremony and snap photos with Kata's phone. The whole thing will last fifteen minutes. After a bit of small talk, the registrar reads a prepared statement, asks us do we, which we do. We put on the rings and we're married. There's a kiss, papers to sign, and a quick toast. Then we're outside in the rain, which we've been told is good luck in Denmark – these marriage office people know their stuff.

When the rain clears up, we spend the afternoon with Kata's nice camera and a tripod, DIY-style, snapping photos around the island's famous beach houses. We eat a steak dinner at a local restaurant. We spend the next two days exploring the island. We mentioned our plan to the registrar, who was surprised because people don't spend any more time here than is necessary to get married. They get in and get out. That is a shame.

Aero island is beautiful!

The old town is lovely, with its 200-year-old houses and post offices and stores and restaurants, but a walk away reveals so much more. The Danish islanders grow lovely gardens filled with neat rows of blooming flowers and apple trees. The entire island is covered with long, golden grass that swishes around in a sea breeze that rarely stops.

The place is clean, and not the German-style of clean where it gets dirty and workers clean up the mess at dawn, but clean in a way that it doesn't get dirty because people take care of it. We saw very little litter. Most people rode their bikes. And they smiled and waved as we took our wedding photos on the beach, totally at ease with marriage tourists wandering their shores.

Like any island, the pace is relaxed. We found ourselves getting into that groove. Our only tasks was breakfast and then one errand (registering at the town hall one day, getting married the next, mailing documents another day). The rest of the day was spent visiting the beaches, another town at one end of the island, eating freshly smoked salmon, or cooking in our cottage and watching TV where the English isn't dubbed, but subtitled so we can enjoy it without straining.

Yes, it would have been fine to get in, get married, and get out, but lingering here turned it into a mini-honeymoon with a wedding in the middle of it. We missed our family and friends. We wished our loved ones could have been here for it. But in the end, it was just the two of us, and that's all we needed to make it perfect.

Newly weds.