Pack your patience ... a lesson long time coming

Those of you who know and love me, family, colleagues, friends and fellow travelers, I hope will say I possess several virtues.  Without opening that debate, one virtue we can all agree I do not possess is patience. 

Travel is by definition is full of potholes and road bumps (pun intended). Months of careful planning and arrangement can be thrown askew by a delayed flight or an attraction closed for renovations. The usual patience platitudes of 'go with the flow' and ' it is what it is' has in the past sent me into a fit of rage.  Friends, I am a control freak.

Admitting you are a control freak is one thing.  Learning to let go over the anxiety and angst over that which you can not change is another.  These lessons have come via a Dublin flight delayed 6 hours at Heathrow due to fog.  Waiting for the next train in the Metro an announcement in French that obviously meant the trains were stopped indefinitely and to trudge out into the dark raining night with hundreds of work day weary Parisians.  And to be told in Savannah, 'Good news!  We've upgraded your room.  Bad news Pauly Shore stayed in it last night and he sort of trashed it.  Head out to dinner for a few hours... should be ready by then".  And a bunch of other times that just run together in the life of a traveler.  And I am 100% sure each and every time I was at least slightly put out.

What I failed to realize is every detour off the plan gave me another unexpected experience.  The 6 hours spent at Heathrow resulted in the to this day hotly contested Scrabble marathon.  Trudging down the rainy Parisian boulevard, the street lights were ringed in a heavenly golden halo.  And Pauly Shore?  Well nothing, it was Pauly Shore.

Today, after four hours on the tarmac at Metro airport where we not only were the wings deiced once we waited so long they had to be deiced a second time...and without leaving the gate we had to refuel.  The Pam I know and love would have been on her phone frantically checking weather and estimated arrival times, calculating if we could still make our 10 am arrival.  It quickly became obvious the answer was 'nope'. So I settled in and watched all the movies over the last few months I didn't take the time to see.  Played a trivia game and practiced my Spanish in anticipation of my final destination. 

Travel and life itself are a series of little pearl moments strung together like a necklace.  Instead of grabbing breakfast and then departing at 9:45am, I found myself at 10:30am in a 10 person deep line at the transfer desk...waiting just outside the roped area was a gentleman and his Chihuahua.  I smiled as I got into the queue and my smile was returned. As the line suddenly stopped I found myself right next to the dog.  I asked if it was okay to pet her and he nodded.  I spent the next five minutes instead of fuming in line, cuddling and playing with that little dog.  As the line started to move I told them both what a pleasure it was to meet them,  Now almost 3 hours after my connecting flight jetted off without me, I sit in Amnsterdam Schipol airport with a Spanish family and a nice Ukrainian man at a ING charging station.  Little moments.

The rest of my travel day was fairly uneventful.  I had a lovely conversation in Spanish with our transfers driver (again thank you Sra. Horning-Cline).  He was so happy to have me speak to him in his native language, he gave us an impromptu tour of the Grand Via as we arrived at our final Madrid destination.  Tapas for dinner (my absolute favorite) and a fairly early bedtime.  Tomorrow I will report about Spain's capital Madrid.

One little postscript.  Some of my new found Zen comes from my friend Tatiana.  Tatiana and I on paper couldn't be more different, and I have always admired her musical talent.  She is also an extremely grounded person and has been coaching me on meditation.  While I wouldn't say I am any where near guru state, I think her lessons if not have made me change my old ways, at least acknowledge there are other ways. You may want to try it as well.

An Architect, A Lawyer and a Travel Agent Walk Into a Bar....

An architect, a lawyer and a travel agent walk into a bar… how language brings us together.

Majestic Colonial, Bavaro Beach, Punta Cana, Dominican Republic. It’s hot, Caribbean hot.  Salsa music is blaring, kids are jumping in and out of the very large pool, the blenders are non stop blending Pina Coladas and Margaritas… the typical location for a Spanish lesson at an all inclusive resort.  Several announcements are made over the loud speaker encouraging attendance. After a few minutes, it’s obvious the class will be two; another guest and myself.

The class is offered by the resort Activities department. Sporting a head full of corn rows mirrored shades my instructor ‘J’ leads us from the hot pool edge to the shaded dimness of the pool’s wet bar. We grab seats at one of the tables and begin. Clad in t-shirt with the resort logo and matching shorts, ‘J’ appears to be about 25.  My fellow student, ‘D’ about the same. I am definitely the senior of the group.  ‘J’ informs me ‘D’ attended the previous day’s class.

The lesson begins with the normal ‘good morning’ and ‘thank you’. After a few minutes it becomes apparent that both ‘D’ and I are way past remedial Spanish.  ‘J’ is now speaking in Spanish to both of us and with some stops and starts we are following and able to contribute. This leads inevitably to ‘how many languages do you speak’. In this group I am the beginner with my conversational Spanish and very basic Italian, both leave me in the language dust.  ‘D’ and ‘J’ both speak at least six languages, they have a lively exchange in Russian. ‘J’ explains that with the recent influx of Russian guests, the resort needed someone to speak the language, so management sent him to an intensive 3 month Russian course. That’s when the class shifts to something different and so much deeper. ‘J’ who at first glance is seems to be a 25 year old beach bum, is a 30 year old university graduate and practicing architect,  speaking no less than six languages. ‘D’s’ blonde side swept locks and baby face, masks a 33 year old corporate lawyer from Kiev, Ukraine. Switching back to English, ‘D’ remarks that Russian language, in fact Russian culture, is based in arrogance, and the Russian hotel guests that ‘J’ is now converses with must be the same.     I am mentally absorbing these amazing facts (and giving myself an internal lecture about judging a book by the cover) when J’ begins to explain how an architect is running fitness classes, kicking soccer balls with 10 year- olds and teaching Spanish in a pool bar.

“I was bored”.  Pushing up the aviator sunglasses, ‘J’s brown eyes are thoughtful.  “My uncle owns a firm here in the Dominican Republic, the plan was always for me to work for him. After I graduated, I sat in a cubicle, designing mansions and large resorts like this one…60 hours a week plus inside, while life when on outside. All I have ever wanted to do is dance.  During the day I run activity programs, but at night, I dance! I perform in all the shows. My uncle only speaks Spanish, so I still am responsible for English and French clients, but this is my passion”.   This amazing statement is followed by “Law is incredibly boring, that is why I am not practicing right now. I need to find what I too have a passion for”, ‘D’ chimes in.

‘J’ checks his watch and immediately stands up, says  goodbye and is gone, class is over. To boogie at night, ‘J’ runs Activities programs by day. The spell broken, ‘D’ and I gather our class notes and drift back to our respective families and loungers on the beach. I find my mother asleep on the opposite lounger, so I reapply my 70 sunscreen. As I do, I start to think about my own circumstances. How just five years ago if you would have told the lumber company marketing representative in the beige cubicle that I would not only break free of that cubicle just 15 miles from my home, but I would make my living as travel professional. Plying my craft not in a cubicle in Michigan, but all over the world… including a Punta Cana pool bar.

I love Christmas (markets)

This is my fifteenth visit to Europe my thirteenth as a tour escort.  Eleven years ago on a particularly hot and crowded summer day in Malta, I thought there has to be something better than this. Researching trip to Rome for the following year, a November departure was over 50% less than my prior summer trips. That was in 2004 and I have been traveling to Europe the week of Thanksgiving ever since. My original decision to visit Europe in November was originally financial, the reason every time since is purely seasonal , as in Christmas season (pun intended).  

Dusk was settling quickly over my last evening in Edinburgh as I trudged back to my hotel.  A bright alley off the darkening Prince's street showed small huts with crafts and food.  It was getting late and I didn't have time to stop; but  kept looking over my shoulder at the merriment.  I didn't know it then, but it was my first Christmas market, but definitely not my last.  Those first twinkle lights ignited (here I go with a pun again) such a feeling of holiday warmth, I found I craved it annually.  Christmas markets and big European cities go hand in hand. The best ones feature local handicrafts, food and regional mulled wine (often called Gluewhein).  The clunkers (and I am looking at you Paris) have cheap plastic doo dads from China. Leather goods in Florence, woolen items in Barcelona,  Fontanelli nativity figures in Rome, straw and dried fruit ornaments in Prague, they've all made their way back to Port Huron in my suitcase.  As lively and lovely as those markets were, it is the markets of Germany, Austria and Hungary that truly embody the spirit of the Christmas season. 

Harking back to the 17th century, Christmas markets were a welcome respite from the dark cold days.  The markets were also a financial boon to farmers who instead of selling their crops at local farmers markets brought handicrafts and food stuffs to small markets set up near the local cathedral. Today like in those early times German Christmas markets open the first Friday after the beginning of Advent. Austrian and Hungarian markets open earlier often around the third week in November. Unfortunately this year my Danube river adventure began on November 21st in Munich... a week before the beginning of Advent. German Christmas markets of Munich, Nuremberg and Regensburg were busy..not with commerce but with set up in advance of their November 28th  opening date, we'd miss these markets by a week.   

 Smokers and nutcrackers from Germany, Austrian crystal and pottery, beeswax candles and honey, handicrafts of all types, fresh greenery, and the food, good God almghty the food.These are just some of things you will find at the Christmas markets of Germany, Austria and Hungary. These markets are not only a shoppers heaven on earth, but foodies and photographers alike delight in all the sights, smells and sounds (local school children often entertain at the markets - trust me you'll never think of Santa's most famous reindeer after you hear a bunch of German speaking children sing 'Rudolph'). For those seeking a culinary experience; Gluewhein, (hot mulled wine), sausages, pretzels, chimney cakes (cinnamon dough rolled around a metal mould and then quick baked in a fire oven), candies, strudels,cheeses, mustards, as well as  gingerbread cookies of all shapes and sizes.  And the photographer has only to point his camera to find Christmas tableaus in every direction. 

I'm still reviewing all my photos, and will post images of the loot scored at the Christmas markets I visited at Stevensplatz, Vienna, Austria, Schronbrunn Palace, Vienna, Austria and Vorosmarty Square, Budapest, Hungary along with some of my favorite photos of this year's European adventure. 2015 visions of sugar plums are already dancing in my head... we'll have to see where next year's adventures lead me.

Bavaria triple play - Munich, Nuremberg and Regensberg

Germany's largest state area wise; Bavaria is its second largest state in population. The state's capital Munich, is the nation's third largest (behind Berlin and Hamburg). Nuremberg and Regensburg are Bavaria's third and fourth most populous respectively. All three cities can boast over 1000 years of history. 

Founded by monks in 1158, today Munich is a cool mixture of ancient and technology. Beer, brats and BMW, these are some of Munich's global legacy. In a two day whirlwind our time was spent experiencing Munich's more traditional side. Marienplatz the city's main square is the literal and figurative heart of the city. Museums, shops, restaurants and the city's  past pinwheel away from the gothic city hall with it's famous glockenspiel depicting the Bavarian royal wedding. In the winter months the glockenspiel only performs at 11am and noon. As the crowd grew restless about two minutes after the clock struck twelve, bells began to peel, but the life size figures remained motionless. Just as the crowd was beginning to turn away, the figures began to dance and the entire crowd collectively let out their held breath. One of my fellow travelers remarked , "'Oooh' is the same in any language and culture". Our lunch at the world famous beer hall, Hofbrauhaus included: oompapa music, liter beers, sausages and about 500 Munich soccer fans singing along. Saturday wound to a close at the Viktualienmarkt, Munich's popular outdoor market; boasting food stuffs, restaurants, crafts, flowers and greenery. The market teemed with beer drinking shoppers hurrying to make their weekend purchases in preparation for all stalls and stores to be closed on Sundays.  And closed they were on Sunday.  The historic center that just the day before was filled with shoppers, fans and revelers was eerily silent as we spent our final morning in Munich. With the streets virtually empty, it was easy to see all the beautiful details that make up the Marienplatz. My personal favorite, the department store windows in preparation for Christmas that depicted the land of fairy tales, by using Steiff plush animals in all size and species.

 

"...If the leaders of the Third Reich were sadistic monsters and maniacs these events would have no more moral significance than an earthquake or other natural catastrophes. But this trial has shown that under the stress of a national crisis, men even able and extraordinary men can delude themselves into the commission of crimes and atrocities so vast and heinous as to stagger the imagination." Spencer Tracy as Judge Dan Haywood /Judgment at Nuremberg . I stood in the field empty for several generations now. The grandstand and bleachers beginning showing the decay that only decades of weather and neglect can show. A soft and somber voice came through the wireless headset I was wearing. "Imagine a million people coming twice a year to Nuremberg. To hear the messages of Adolf Hitler. He personally chose Nuremberg as the place to present his propaganda messages". As we looked around the empty barren place, she continued "Today the citizens must make an important decision whether to spend the 7 million Euros necessary to maintain this place for history or bull doze it all and forget what happened here."  A few minutes later we stood in front of one of the wings of the Nuremberg Palace of Justice. Inside on the second floor, courtroom 600 where the Nuremberg war crimes tribunal took place is still in use today.  Like Berlin, 90% of Nuremberg was bombed by the Allies in World War II. Nuremberg chose to rebuild its city to celebrate its 1000 years of history while facing head on the small but darkest part of that history.  Our stay ended with a visit to the city's historic district,  complete with half timbered houses and an amazing view of the city below. As I wound my way down the cobblestone street to the bus that would take me back to the ship, I couldn't shake a feeling of sadness and regret for all involved in that terrible time, those who lost their lives to the sadistic madness of a regime, and those who live with the memories every day.

 

 Following Monika our Regensburg local guide through the narrow winding streets of the medieval city, it was easily apparent Regensburg while lively had none of the crowds or noise of Munich and with no military or political targets unlike Nuremberg, it was virtually untouched by World War II.  Regensburg’s slow economic recovery after World War II and the city’s sturdy stone construction ensured that while in other parts of Germany the old was torn down for the new and streets were designed to allow for motor traffic, Regensburg today remains as it was since the 1200s.  The twin symbols of the city, its stone bridge and cathedral began construction around the same time 1135. The Regensburg cathedral was commissioned to give thanks to God for the city’s prosperity – its construction took a little bit longer than that of the stone bridge – it was finally finished in 1841 or about 600 years after construction began. Regensburg’s stone bridge was the first of its kind across the Danube. Merchants would travel hundreds of miles out of their way to cross the Danube in Regensburg, assuring the safe passage of their goods (wooden bridges being susceptible to floods and ill equipped to handle the amount of passengers wishing to cross), bringing great riches to the city. One of my favorite Regensburg haunts, Wurstkuchl sausage kitchen has its history tied to the bridge. Over 500 years ago the bridge’s stonemasons and laborers would take refreshment of grilled sausages and beer from the tavern. Today it is a favorite with locals and tourists alike. Takeaway sausage sandwiches are still available daily from the 500 year old kitchen, with a sit down restaurant located just steps away serving the same grilled sausages the bridge builders of old enjoyed. My definition of ‘sausage’ changed with my first visit in 2008. Smaller than the bratwursts, hotdogs and kielbasa we normally enjoy from the grill – Wurstkuchl sausages are about the width and length of your index finger. Served with icy cold beer, homemade sauerkraut and potato salad, it is a feast that satisfies the same today as it did 500 years ago.

 

I'm sorry I don't speak German

I think of myself in many ways. Wife, friend, sister, aunt, daughter, traveler, travel specialist so many things that in my mind make up me.  These are things make up the present and future Pam. My past is a little more complicated.

I was born Pamela Ann Muehlhoff.  (The Sparschu of 'Angspar' comes from my step father when my name was legally changed at age 9). American first and middle names with a very German last name. My father Fred was born in Detroit to German immigrants . He was definitely an all American guy with American friends who married a born and bred Michigan girl whose state lineage went back to 1837. Fred's parents immigrated to the US over one hundred years later, just before both their sons were born. My mother's parents were the fun, doting grand parents. I was less thrilled to visit my German grandparents who seemed much more serious and taciturn. With my father's early death to cancer at 34 the gulf between myself and my grandparents became wider.  It wasn't that we disliked each other, we just didn't understand each other.

Travel and the wonderful things that go with it (language, culture, history, photography, gardening, entertaining and my personal favorite, feeling if even just for a little while a citizen of the world) are not only how I make my living but are my personal passions. I have always felt travel helped to make me a more well rounded person. Today, for the first time, I realized it is also a mirror to see your self reflected.  Thanks to Ella Horning and St. Clair High School, I can hold a basic conversation with Spanish and Italian speakers. I can also read French and fake speak a little (all three being Romance languages). What I cannot do is, read or speak German.

Sure I know I couple of choice German words. To horrify my father's mother I would saucily say dumkoff or even scheiss. Knowing I was traveling to Germany this week, I brushed up on my basics"Thank you, good morning, good afternoon'. And that was the entire extent of it. This morning as I stepped on the elevator of my Munich hotel, a young German woman got on the next floor. I said 'Guten Morgen' and she nodded. As we stepped off the elevator she turned to me and asked (what I later found out in English) where was the breakfast room. I quickly stammered, I am sorry I don't speak German. She looked a little taken a back re asked her question in English I answered and that was the end of that.  Except it wasn't for me.

"Could you tell we were American before you picked us up" I asked a Dublin cab driver once. He said 'I guessed English, Canadian or American' he admitted. Of all the places I've visited, I never thought I might be mistaken for someone else. No one has ever confused me for: French, Spanish, Mexican or Italian. I love those cultures and am very happy to visit them, but they aren't mine.  After my encounter with the woman in the elevator I scanned every crowd. Now Munich is a very cosmopolitan city and there are people from all over the world. But there were also people who looked like me looked like my grandparents and even looked like Fred Muehlhoff.

I promise the next blog posting will be more of my waxing poetic about the current European city I am in and less of Alex Haley's Roots. But while I am in Germany the next few days I am sure I will still look for glimpses of Pam, too.

Barcelona - Day 1 La Rambla - November 23, 2013

Feeling a little queasy I asked, "Este es pollo?" (Is this chicken?)  , "No, Senora ese..."  ( I later realized the Spanish word I couldn't translate was 'rabbit').  It was 2001, and this was my second European vacation.  After my first successful Western Mediterranean cruise the year before,  we eagerly signed  up for the Eastern Med.  Three days before we had departed from Rome and were now in the Spanish countryside just outside of Barcelona.  After touring the Cordorniu cava winery (Spanish champagne), our tour stopped for lunch at a local inn.  As we were led to our seats I passed a waiter wheeling in a large ham...with the former owners hoof and hair still attached.  The same waiter was now standing in front of me with a platter of tiny legs with tiny bones that was obviously not chicken. This was my first introduction to Spain.

As I scanned the crowd for the driver who would take us to our Barcelona home for the following week, I thought back 12 years to the single day I had spent in Spain.  As a more seasoned (and I hope sophisticated) traveler,  I now knew the 'ham' I had seen was an Iberico ham, net worth in the neighborhood of $1500 USD.  Also, while I may be considered a 'picky eater' in the US, in my 13 years of travel I had gotten much more adventurous, having enjoyed wild boar in Italy, local goulashes in Vienna and Prague as well as blood sausage in Ireland (ok, maybe 'enjoy' is a stretch with that one).  This trip was my chance to redeem myself gastronomically, culturally and historically to the Catalan capital.

La Rambla stretches from la Placa Catalunya (Cataluyna Square. Catalonia a region in northeast Spain has its own language, culture and tradition.  Barcelona is its capital) to the Mediterranean sea.  In between is a large, tree lined boulevard designed as as pedestrian zone; cars are secondary and forced into narrow side lanes.  La Rambla is home to shops, restaurants, street performers, artists and literally dozens of flower and bird stands.  It is here along with Passeig Gracia, Barcelona comes to stroll.  It would be our home for the next week at the La Meridien Barcelona.




Like real estate, travel is all about location, location, location.  From our La Rambla hotel we were within walking distance of the Barrio Gotico (Gothic District which housed both the Barcelona Cathedral and the Picasso Museum), la Eixample (literally 'The Expansion" Barcelona's Modernisma district with its buildings by local son, the famous architect , Antonio Gaudi), la Bouqeria one of the largest open air markets in all of Europe,  as well the beaches of Barcelonetta known for its many nightclubs and restaurants located along its boardwalk.

After check in at the hotel, we headed out for a tapas bar.  Tapas (or 'little plates') are prepared appetizers and are often enjoyed with cava (local champagne) or sangria - we happily enjoyed both.  Feeling the effects of both the cava and jet lag, we headed east towards the Mediterranean, where the great boulevard ends. There, high on an obelisk and pointing out to sea, is the statue of Christopher Columbus. (an Italian who finally received  funding for his explorations by the great Spanish King and Queen Ferdinand and Isabella, departed from Barcelona harbor August 3, 1492).  I stood in front of the statue, with the same view of Columbus, towards the new world.   As a very amateur genealogist, I am often amazed at all the people all over the world who had to meet, fall in love and have children so I could some day be born.  What Columbus did was even bigger without him literally billions of people would never have the same opportunities I know I often take for granted.

My Great Homance - The Grand Hotel, Mackinac Island, Michigan

Everyone has heard of romance.  I am sure you have even heard of 'bromance', I have been in a serious 'homance' since the fifth grade.  Yes, I have a major crush on Mackinac Island's Grand Hotel.

Right after lunch my fifth grade teacher would read a chapter or so of a book.  (That was the double whammy year of Charlotte's Web AND Where the Red Fern Grows, amazing I didn't need therapy, but I am getting off topic).  The book that would have the longest effect on me, I can't even remember the title.  It was a young adult mystery set on Mackinac Island, Michigan.  It involved a missing doll and a large fresh water pearl.  That is all I remember....except the Grand Hotel. This was a fairy story I could relate to, a castle right in my home state, with the world's longest front porch to boot!    Then came Somewhere In Time.  I read the book in anticipation of the movie's release.  Christopher Reeve!   Jane Seymour!  And the Grand Hotel!  I agree the story was cheesy, but the Grand Hotel shined!  My love affair with a place I had never been was in full force.

St. Clair County is a long way from Mackinac Island, almost five hours by car.  It would be many decades from fifth grade before I ever took the 16 minute ferry ride from Mackinaw City to Mackinac Island.  (Full disclosure, I was supposed to be checking out northern Michigan hotels for a work retreat.  But, when I saw the sign that said 'Mackinac Bridge' 19 miles - the island's siren song was too great for me and I found myself at Shepler's Ferry buying tickets. Don't feel too bad for my former employer,  I got my comeuppance and got  laid off...12 years later  :) )  As soon as David and I disembarked the ferry I made a beeline for the Grand Hotel.  As I wound my way around Mackinac's twisty streets I could see it glowing in the distance... until I reached the sign that said unless I was a registered guest, it would cost $10.00 per person to continue.  We took this photo and dejectedly headed back to the mainland and work.




As do the seasons so does life change.  Several years later, my company folded and now David and I had summers off together.  We decided to celebrate and return to Mackinac Island and the Grand Hotel.  We saved our pennies and were able to...eat dinner there (hey at least we got in this time).  After we checked into another, (not grand at all) hotel, we quickly changed and took a horse taxi to the Grand Hotel.  The evening began with a stroll on the famous porch and ended with dancing to the Grand Hotel Orchestra til early the next morning.  That night remains one of my personal bests.  It wasn't the food, it wasn't the service, it wasn't the decor it was all of it.  From the twinkling chandeliers, the ice -cold champagne, the diners dressed in their finery and the waiters dressed in their white tie and tails, it was like literally stepping back into the Roaring 20s. For one short evening David and I got to be Daisy Buchanan and Jay Gatsby!  The following day, just before our departure we returned to take our ritual, half way up the path in front of the Grand Hotel,  photo.

Number one FAQ for a travel agent "You get deals, right?  You travel for free,right?  Can you hook me up?"  The answers are:  "Sort of, no and yes."  I do get deals, and often they are the same ones that you can get too.  The difference is, I get them first.  Vendors will run specials and before they publish them to the general public, they email travel agents.  So while you may stumble upon a great deal on the internet, I was able to book it two or three days earlier.  One Sunday this August I opened my email to find an unbelievable treasure, on specific dates the Grand Hotel was offering "Celebrate Michigan Days"  approximately 85% their regular price!   Included in the hotel rate a full breakfast, five course dinner and entrance to Fort Mackinac!


There was a catch (of course), the deal was only available in specific weekday rates in September and October.  David was out and my Mom was in as a travel partner.  When we stepped off the ferry last week, my heart gave a funny thump when I spotted the mahogany carriage with its matching chestnut horses and top hatted driver waiting for me!  Mackinac Island's appeal to me is the opportunity to travel back to a more genteel time in  history. I have always felt Main Street with its fudge and t-shirt shops definitely miss the mark.  However, arriving at the Grand Hotel in a horse drawn carriage, being met by a pill box hat bell hop to take your bags, followed by a champagne reception and five course dinnered served by waiters in white tie and tails is spot on.

I am happy to report we made the best possible use of our time on the island.  From a private carriage ride (about double the cost for two people; but worth every cent not to be crammed in the same sized carriage with 20 of your  new best friends, and we got to determine the route as well), to visiting Fort Mackinac and those ubiquitous fudge and t-shirt shops.  Our afternoon was spent tasting all the Grand had to offer.   From drinks at the Cupola Bar (the highest point of the Grand is a 360 all window lookout, where you can see the entire island), afternoon Tea in the lobby, and finally as the sun set on the that famous porch our final five course meal in the dining room, we had it all.

A "Pam +  Grand Hotel" photo as we wound our way back to the ferry dock  headed home (our bags already transported to the ferry).  In this photo, I wasn't on the outside looking in or on the inside but not an insider,  I was a Grand Hotel Guest and I experienced all she had to offer.