We enthusiastically lug our bags onto the street and scan the area calmly for signs, reading over the directions we saved to our phones on how to get to our room. But the directions (or our sense of them) are whack, so we pull out a terribly unhelpful tourist map and spin around in a few more circles, a little less calmly. Eventually, we pick a direction (usually what was our first instinct) and start walking, luggage in tow.

Then it happens. Without fail, Amy pulls out the handle on the top of the case she is carrying and begins dragging it behind her on it’s wheels (as any sensible person would). And since almost every walkable ground surface in Europe is some kind of cobblestone or tile or brick, it begins.

CLACK CLACK CLACK CLACK CLACK CLACK.

The wheels of Amy’s suitcase are unforgiving on each break of the sidewalk. Our movement through the city sounds out like machine gun fire as Amy’s wheels pass over the intricate patterns of small tiles or stones.

CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK!

We have the loudest luggage in the world. The bright red bag is an acoustic masterpiece. A nice touch in our performance is the way the rhythm gets slower as we become more unsure of where we are going. At every street corner the beat slows to a long rest.

CLACK-CLACK—CLACK—–CLACK———-CLACK—————–CLACK.

Only to be picked up again with gusto when we’ve figured out where to go next.

CLACK——-CLACK—–CLACK—-CLACK—CLACK–CLACK-CLACK-CLACK!

I hate calling attention to myself, especially in unfamiliar surroundings. To me, nothing is worse than sticking out, let alone sticking out as a tourist. But there we are, every time, bright red suitcases clacking away as we alternate our gaze from map to street sign.

I begin to think, “Why oh why haven’t we invested in proper backpacking gear? At least then we would look like seasoned travelers.” I’m certain people are staring. The tension within me builds alongside the rhythmic pounding of our tourist walk of shame.

CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK…

Amy does not think this way. Amy would clack on forever without a care. She’s a natural performer and the spotlight follows her. If her case wasn’t clacking she would be finding another way to be loud – she’s full of boisterous life and I love her for it. But usually I do take that damn bag away from her and tell her I’ll just carry it.

I don’t care if it’s ten more miles, that clacking has to stop.

Music: Jingle Bells (Dan the Automator Remix)

Music: Best Christmas Yet by Stellar Art Wars Free License, Creative Commons “BY” 3.0 license.

But a few weeks before that, St. Nicholas and his two travelling companions make a visit to all the children in the country. The three are not just invisible, imaginary figures who come and go while you sleep. They show up after dinner to give you treats, and/or…. scare the crap out of you.

An animated explanation by Dennis, narrated by Amy’s friend, Josef.

Trash talking. Candy grabbing. Bow ties. Gingerbread construction is serious business.

Five years ago I wanted to throw a Christmas party. Following my family’s tradition of decorating a gingerbread house every year, I suggested a gingerbread decorating party. Dennis veto’d it, but immediately suggested the same thing, only changed the word “decorating” to “construction.” Suddenly, things got cool, and Gingeropolis was born.

This is the second time we’ve hosted Gingeropolis in Prague, and our most international year yet – Czech Republic, Japan, England, Australia, America – five nationalities vying for the prize of best build.

Apparently, when you bring that many nationalities together, things get, er, sloppy. We had a gas station with a nearly-overturned log truck, a metro station with gummy bears making out on the escalator (because that’s what people do here), a block of Communist panel houses, the Colosseum complete with a gladiator-lion mauling (there was actually a lot of blood in Gingeropolis this year), and, the winner, a gingerbread trailer park.

It takes three things to win a gingerbread construction build-off. Grit. Determination. And a damn good explanation as to what the heck you built. Oh, and door shots.

Hope you enjoy some photos of our fifth-annual Gingeropolis Christmas party.

Full House

Everybody loves G-town

Door shot

Door crew

The build

Precision

Supplies

Bowl of Icing

Concentrating

Also concentrating

For Real concentrating

Czech Christmas carp... with blood

Not bad for a newbie

Log truck headed to the gas station

'Splainin'

Beautiful bank

Modern school

Amazed!

Prague Metro

Panel houses

The Winner: "Snatch" in gingerbread

Photobooth: Totally Normal

Mini B.O.M. love

The Hosts

Amy and I had just spent an amazing day in the seaside town of Porto Venere, goofing around as we do. But for the last 40 minutes of our day there we walked up and down the pier trying to find the perfect place for dinner. We were hungry, shoeless (Amy’s sandal broke), and increasingly stressed because our last night in Italy HAD to be good.

But nothing looked good. Our train back to our home base in Cinque Terre didn’t leave for another couple hours, and we needed food. With tension rising between us over making a decision, we stopped in front of a completely empty seafood restaurant to gather our thoughts.

Our soon-to-be waiter saw us lingering and barged into the fray, practically pushing us toward a table. Both of us were tired and beyond resistance. We sat down, silent.

Ha. Isn't life tough in a place like this...

Down for the count?

I’m a laid back guy. As it pertains to life abroad, Amy and I are more and more comfortable rolling with the punches.

You know, taking it in stride. When you don’t know what the hell is going on, just keep moving forward and eventually it will fall together. When you know exactly what’s going on, keep moving forward until you realize you don’t actually know what’s going on, and keep moving forward again. Don’t sweat it. Just stay calm, be open, have faith, etc.

This way of life has its merits, but it’s also deceptive to say ‘things will just work out.’ I don’t think that’s totally right. And actually, it’s not even in the spirit of what we set out to do by moving to Prague.

Deciding to move was anything but laid back. We didn’t react to external circumstances to end up here. Quite the opposite. We kicked the idea around for eight months before Amy sat us down at a Starbucks and forced a decision. In her wisdom she realized that some things require action. Make a move, or you ain’t gonna be moving.

Sometimes you’ve got to be the one delivering the punches.

Float like a butterfly, sting like a bread basket

That greasy waiter reinforced this insight. As he went off to get us a basket of bread, we looked over the menu. It was expensive. We looked around. The staff outnumbered us 5 to 1. We were both tired and grumpy. I envisioned the last night of our trip to be a celebration – a culmination of the week’s victories. This felt like a let down.

After what seemed a very short amount of time, the waiter marched up, dropped the bread on our table, and demanded an order. It wasn’t friendly, or accommodating, or nice. This wasn’t nice. As he looked down on me waiting for us to choose a wine, I could only think one thing: I wanted to punch him.

Maybe it was his smug look. Maybe it was just the sinking feeling that I was settling for second best. Whatever it was, something in me snapped. Why were we here? Didn’t we have complete control over this situation? No one was forcing us to dine here, but here we were, unhappy. We were done in this village. Why did we have to wait for a train to take us back? We had only paid a couple bucks for the train tickets, not some huge loss. We could take buses, taxis, water taxis – any number of ways – to get back to Cinque Terre.

Defying all of my programmed rules of engagement, I clenched my fists, stood up, and announced that we had to leave (you thought I was gonna punch the guy?). We told the waiter thanks but no thanks, gathered our stuff, and left.

Would you believe that leaving a restaurant prematurely without ordering didn’t cause the building to implode on itself? Sure, it felt a little rude at first, but seriously, everyone survived it just fine. Except maybe the basket of bread. They may have thrown that away.

Adventure! Romance! Thrilling conclusion!

Luckily we caught the last water taxi to Manarola. It cost 500% more than our train tickets, but that was the last thing on our minds. We traded our train for the sea. With the wind in our hair and Amy squealing that she was cold, it became one of the best moments of our trip.

Back in Manarola we found a bustling restaurant overlooking the marina, ate and drank the evening through, and later walked Lovers Lane back to our room in Riomaggiore. The sun had long since set, so we strolled along the walkway by moonlight. We stopped to star gaze (make out) and listen to the roaring surf below us (more making out). Better best moment of our trip.

We tried to get a picture of the stars looking up from the Lover's Lane. Obviously didn't work.

Our traveling adventures have challenged me. Trying to be in control all the time isn’t good, but neither is letting go of the wheel. Be proactive; make something happen. Then take in stride what life throws at you as a result.

And be sure to enjoy the cool stuff you’ll experience because you threw a punch or two. You wouldn’t want a good bread basket to go waste for nothing.

A tale from the trail in Cinque Terre:

Dennis: Here’s what happened. We were hiking along the trail and Amy was attacked by a snake.

Amy: Here’s what happened. We were hiking along the trail, I heard something rustling, thought it was a big lizard (which I like), so I stuck my head in the bushes.

D: Yes, but it was a trick. Snakes are crafty. Probably heard us talking about lizards, because we were seeing a lot of them. He set his trap, then sprang. Attack!

A: Correct, it was not a big lizard. Had it been a lizard it would have run away from me. Instead, a snake’s head appeared and he came right for me! But he was just crossing the trail. He did not attack.

D: Um, yes. If it wasn’t an attack, why did you run away screaming? That snake lept from the bushes and tried to strike your face. You squealed and bolted.

A: I did not. Did I? I may have moved quickly in the other direction. Anyway, Mr. Calm & Collected, he slithered across the trail right in front of YOU, who didn’t run, and he didn’t attack you, did he? I don’t think he had attack on his mind.

D: Why would he attack me? I didn’t fall for his trap. Anyway, I glared at him pretty hard, so he decided not to give chase. Good call, snake.

A: Haha. Well. Well done, then, Hadley. Thank you for saving my life from a harmless snake.

D: No problem. Anytime, really.

We spent two days hiking the ridge that skirts the coast between the five villages. It was hot, steep, and sweaty.

And it was breathtaking.

Word has gotten out about this beautiful little corner of the earth, so we certainly weren’t charting new territory. But my thighs thought we were. Thanks to my conniving husband, I hated every last lunge and blasted squat I did leading up to the trip, but I was grateful for every last lunge and blasted squat I did once we were on the mountain.

(Reading this in an email? Click the link to see the embedded video.)

It definitely made it worth it that each leg of the hike rewarded us with another amazing old Italian village.

It does seem that Melissa beat us to it.

But that’s okay because I bet Melissa didn’t have this delicious lunch of salami, focaccia bread, hunk of unidentified cheese, and olives. (I know it looks like it’s all gnawed on, but I swear it’s not. My food styling skills could use some improvement.)

Or get this exact same picture of the bell tower in Vernazza.

Or see this bike.

She may have rented a chair and umbrella on the beach at Monterosso. I’m not sure… we don’t believe in renting beach plots, so we didn’t stop to look for Melissa. I bet she was there.

But anyway, it’s not a race. So you may have made it there first, Melissa, but I had the world’s best company.

(And yes, people, I am wearing a top. A tube top. Get your mind out of the gutter.)

Ho.Ly.Wow. Completely, absolutely, utterly amazing.

Cinque Terre is a series of five villages dotting the northwestern coast of Italy along the Ligurian Sea. (The whatta-whatta sea? It’s an arm of the Mediterranean.) They are little towns that have been practically carved into the mountains, surrounded by terraced farm land for lemons, grapes, and olives. Mmmmmm. The whole area is part of the Cinque Terre National Park, which has been named a Unesco World Heritage Site. Heritage of the world. A treasure of the human race. Thirtieth birthday spectacular.

So where does the training and exercising and getting in shape that Dennis required come in? Well, the five villages are linked by both sea-side trails that meander along the cliffs, and steep trails that wind through the mountains. Guess which one we did yesterday? Let’s just say I got very used to the tickle of sweat rolling down my back. And front. And face.

We went on the most memorable hike of my life. Not because of the huffing and puffing, and thankfully not because we needed the first aid kit, but because of the stunning views. Everything from sun-scorched vineyards overlooking the sea (which was, of course, deep blue and sparkling), to shaded forest with a thunderstorm grumbling almost literally on top of our heads (turned out to only be a tease).

And now, sun screen re-applied and water bottle refilled, I’m ready for Day Two!

I’ll give you all my clues, and see if you can figure it out. (I didn’t.)

1. I had to save all my euros from tour guiding.

2. Unesco.

3. 5 in 1.

4. A riddle that’s a clue for what I should pack: It can enter water without getting wet. (Answer is at the end if you want to work on this one.)

And then the gift clues started coming in.

5. A “technical day pack” from REI. I don’t know what a technical day pack is, but I am happy to report you can’t fit a sleeping bag or cooking ware in it.

6. First aid kit. You can imagine my excitement over this one.

7. A geocaching app for my phone. Intriguing.

8. And last but not least, bikini shopping. Not sure how bikinis and first aid kits go together, but I’m excited a swimsuit is part of the equation.

Let the guessing begin! We’ll let you know tomorrow if you were right.

And for the answer to number 4, scroll down.

Light. Pack light. Oh boy.