"The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page." - Augustine of Hippo

When I was a little girl I wanted to be an archeologist. Not because I am particularly fond of brushing and sweeping through dust and dirt (my house will attest to that!) but because I wanted to go to exotic places like Egypt, Turkey, and Transylvania. Well, life happens and some things don't happen but finally, now, I am starting down the road to 'other places' - one step at a time.

In May and June of 2014, the love of my life, Barry, and I took a trip to Europe. Our first real vacation in the 41 years of our marriage. My art practice of late has been photography and Bar bought me a lovely little Nikon CoolPix (my usual Nikon D1500 being too large and heavy to lug around). I confess to going just a little mad with it and took pictures of everything from the cobbles at my feet to bicycles in doorways, and castles, and cathedrals, and more castles, and more cathedrals.

Mark Twain Said, "Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime".

We were ready for our minds and our hearts to be open and opened wider.

Our travels through the Czech Republic, Germany, Austria, and Hungary were just the baby steps on what I hope will be a sea change in our lives. To echo Isabelle Everhardt, now more than ever I realize that I will never be content with a sedentary life, that I will always be haunted by thoughts of sun-drenched elsewhere . . . .

From cobblestones to castle, goulash to pivo, Prague turned out to be a wonderful city to start a European adventure. The weather didn’t agree and tried, with cold temperatures and rain-laden skies, to ‘dampen’ our spirits. I hadn’t brought warm enough clothes and by the end of our couple of days in Prague, equated the experience with shivering. However, the beauty, and history, and the artistic culture cannot be denied. After all, there is a Café, the Kafka Café no less, where Kafta sat and wrote. Well!