Travel Biography - Week 115.

Plausible? Perhaps, but too impractical.

Last week, I ended my travel blog by commenting on the 1998 visit to the Boston USS Constitution - spoilt by following a group escort in a mandatory ranger-led tour. I then referred back to 1982, when I paid to visit the underground Catacombs of St John in Siracusa, Italy. Back in 1982, I had the freedom to wander through the tunnels on my own and at my own pace. I then compared my second visit to the same catacombs 24 years later in 2006, when I had to join an escorted tour. I then briefly remarked about the Corridor trails leading into the Grand Canyon becoming restricted to ranger-led hiking tours sometime in the future.

That wasn't a glib shot at sarcasm. Rather, I thought it through before making the statement. Considering the rate of erosion caused by thousands of feet treading the same area each year, the rate of accidents, illness - especially heatstroke or hyponatremia, along with exhaustion, and even death, I'm somewhat surprised that, unlike the USS Constitution and the tunnels of the Sicilian catacombs, anyone could casually stroll down, or serious hike the Canyon trails unescorted.

No escorts here! Start of lone GC hike in 1978.

Ranger-led hikes into the Canyon? How could that be possible? Considering that, for example, only 1% of all visitors hike all the way down to the river to spend the night on the Canyon floor on a typical day, thus, installing a secure gate at the trailhead of both the Bright Angel and South Kaibab trails. Phantom Ranch, on the floor of the Canyon, accommodates up to 90 guests, hence four or five groups could be led by bus to the South Kaibab trailhead, hike down, spend the night at the ranch, and then after a hearty breakfast, be led up back to the rim via Bright Angel Trail.

As plausible as it seems, escorted hikes would never work in practice (thank goodness!) First of all, with the large number of escorts required for duty days and days off for recovery, each ranger must be thoroughly fit and fully trained, having knowledge of every crook and cranny of each trail and surrounding environment, including the names of every butte and other rock features visible, along with the names of different species of vegetation and wildlife. Furthermore, there will always be hikers who would discreetly break from the group to do their own thing, others tiring and needing to rest, especially on the ascent, and some falling ill, thus in need of rescue and medical care, and holding up the group.

Indeed, the idea of ranger-led escorted hiking groups into the Grand Canyon and along trails through other National Parks is so unrealistic, that I doubt that would ever happen. To that, I'm relieved.

About to board the ferry to Provincetown.

We sail past the Boston Bay NP Islands.

A crowd of casual sunbathers on board.

How a Ferry Sailing to Provincetown reveals my heart's inner core.

Therefore, how gutted I felt when, after publishing last week's blog, my curiosity for updates on the USS Constitution led me to browse the website Tripadvisor under the heading, USS Constitution. Since my visit to the frigate docked at the Boston district of Charlestown in 1998, much has changed by the time I wrote this blog in 2024. That is, at present, each visitor is free to wander unescorted around the decks and the interior of the ship. How I felt gutted - despite the tightened security! 

Before boarding the frigate, each visitor must pass through an airport-style security system and show their ID. As an overseas visitor, I would have to show my passport before boarding. In 1998, none of that was there, as to be led by an escort, it wasn't needed. Thus, my dayhike along the Freedom Trail ended with a feeling of humiliation after I was ordered off the ship after wandering alone from the group.

The next day was warm and sunny, after the cloud that made the overcast sky that hung over the city, dispersed. From the hostel, I made my way to the harbour. At one of the docks, believed to be where the tea was thrown overboard in 1773, a ferry was moored, taking on passengers before a three-hour, 50-mile sailing to Provincetown, on the tip of Cape Cod Peninsula.

Once on board, the sailing was smooth and uneventful. After pulling out of Boston, the ferry sailed past several islands that make up the Boston Harbour National Park. But what struck me was the crowd of mostly young people sunbathing topless on the deck. I had never seen any of that before, and I cannot imagine anything like this on a British ferry, especially those which cross the Channel. There was no rowdiness, no drunken debauchery. Instead, everyone sunbathed quietly while the crew concentrated on getting the ship safely docked in Provincetown Harbour.

Boats in Massachusetts Bay.

The ferry docks at Provincetown Harbour.

Provincetown Dock.

Cape Cod is a peninsula jutting out of the southern stretch of the Massachusetts coastline near the border of Rhode Island. On the map, it resembles a human arm with its hand clenched in a tight fist - as if America is shaking its fist in anger at Britain across the Atlantic Ocean. Cape Cod is a striking geological and geographical symbol of the Boston Tea Party and the American Revolution.

The town of Provincetown is built on the southern side of the 'fist' - the terminus of the 65-mile (105 km) peninsula. The town was the vacation resort for President Clinton during his term of office. I saw no skyscrapers there. Instead, each building was two to three storeys high. I found that the sunshine brought out a cheerful atmosphere, with the main street swarming with pedestrians strolling casually along. In all, I would say that Provincetown resembled more of a spruced-up Olde West settlement than a modern American city.

Throughout the few hours I spent at Provincetown, I did little other than explore the town and its sandy beach and its ugly, industrial-looking dock on which the ferry was moored. Some small boats were anchored in position on the bay, each one rocking gently in the near calm sea. Unfortunately, at the time, I knew very little or next to nothing about the town or Cape Cod itself, except that there was an alternate way to get to Provincetown from Boston. The main freeway, Route 6, enables the motorist to drive the whole way. However, it would have been possible to hike from Provincetown to Race Point Beach, a beautiful stretch of sand backed by a sandbank covered with beach grass. Race Point Beach is on the 'knuckle' of the 'fist' and faces directly north, and it's approximately 3 miles (5 km) from Provincetown.  

 

However, for me to complete the Knuckle Dayhike, as I would affectionately call it, I would need a full day on Cape Cod. Since six hours of the day was spent on board the ferry, to enjoy the hike without feeling pushed, I would have needed two nights spent at Provincetown. The hike would be completed on the second day, between the two nights.

The afternoon turned to early evening, and it was time to board the ferry for the return sailing to Boston. In all, I liked Provincetown, and its casual holiday environment presented an alternative and a break from the hustle and bustle of city life, even if Boston was more quieter and sedate than Manhattan. The sunshine brought out the colours to their full glory, hence allowing me to see the resort at its best.

Provincetown. The town hall is to the right.

Walking along the main street, Provincetown.

A lively resort.

On the ferry, I was leaning on the parapet, looking out to sea, when I was approached by a pretty woman close to my age. She opened the conversation to find out our backgrounds. She was impressed when I said that I was from the UK and backpacking. Her American drawl was obvious and I knew that she was local. Her name was Sarah.

Sarah and I talked for the whole of the three-hour duration of the journey. When the ferry docked in Boston, I was expecting her to part, so I could return to the hostel. Instead, we stayed together until we found a coffee shop. There, we sat for a long time, talking, and I was amazed at how interested she was in me.

She eventually left, making her way to Boston North Station to board a train to her home in the city's outer suburbs. But I was shaken all over emotionally. My thoughts flashed back to 1994. That was the year I was a volunteer at Stella Carmel Christian Conference Centre in Isfya, near Haifa in northern Israel. It was at Stella Carmel where other volunteers treated me as a pariah.

The source of this dreadful putdown and humiliation was Josephine, one of the Christian volunteers who disliked me for being 'old school' and that I believed that appropriate tasks should be assigned according to gender. In other words, during one of the weekly meetings with the permanent staff, I said that domestic work should be assigned to the girls while we boys tackled the heavier maintenance tasks. When the manager knew that I was right, he made that known to all of us. This shocked Josephine and the other female volunteers, and I was verbally bullied and came close to a physical attack. Eventually, I was dismissed from the centre before my time and spent a full month in Jerusalem before flying home in a dreadful emotional state. My Christian faith was almost permanently destroyed.

Wind forward four years and here I was, on a ferry to Boston, and I was approached by a friendly American who seemed interested in me. There was an inner clash of emotions. 

The next day, I was alone as I walked the streets of the city. I looked around. I was standing at Quincy Market. I was about to cry, to shed tears. Sarah's friendliness has broken me down, and the deepest secrets of my soul, of which I was unaware, came to the fore. In desperation, I phoned the number she had given me, in a public phone booth. The call was answered by a male voice. When I asked for Sarah, he said that she was not at home. Suddenly, a rush of relief filled my soul. After the phone call, I felt much better, and I was able to continue with my stay in Boston. Sarah's power over me was broken.

But a light has illuminated my soul. I was in my forties and still single. It wasn't right. Something was missing. It was love. Physical love. Not only to be loved but to love and cherish another person. Someone to love and protect, to care for, to cherish. And to be loved, cared for and cherished. A two-way relationship with another human, a female, someone to alleviate fear and loneliness. Instead, as a singleton approaching middle age, I thought about my school classmates of the sixties. I wouldn't be surprised that by 1998, over thirty years, many of them would already be grandparents. And here I was - single, lonely, and childless. Furthermore, I was at the end of the family generational line.

No wonder I resorted to world travel! Yes, all that was good, as I still had in mind another Round-the-World backpacking trip planned in the next few years. But as I grow older, my legs weaken, my facial complexion starts to wrinkle, and in need of a walking aid, what would I have? An extra large photo library to revive a fading memory? Unfortunately, I'll be leaving all that behind the moment I step off the planet. 

Hence the dramatic contrast between Josephine and Sarah, four years and thousands of miles apart. A churchgoer takes away all sense of personal worth. A secular woman helps restore it.

But in Boston, I knew nothing of the coming life-changing set of circumstances. Back in our hometown, another interested female also has her eyes on me. And so, as I look ahead, would South Africa become a reality, as Australia already has?  

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Next Week: A visit to the Aquarium, whale watching, and preparing to fly home.

Risks Can Be Richly Rewarding.

Lately, I have been reading about how our Prime Minister Boris Johnson is planning to "burn all the Covid restrictions in the bonfire." That is, no longer having to self-isolate if tested positive for Covid, doing away with all mandatory mask-wearing, and the scrapping of free lateral tests. I thought I would witness a sense of national rejoicing, a resounding "Hurrah!" Instead, according to a poll, it looks like the majority of participants are more cautious, along with the scientists who make up SAGE, or Strategic Advisory Group of Experts, warning us all that this move towards pre-pandemic freedom was decided too soon.

Mt Huashan Trail leading to a monastery, China. Er, No!

Maybe it's this adverse to risk or the Woke culture, especially among those born after 1990, who knows. But here in the UK, where restrictions are comparatively liberal compared with other countries, I have seen facemasks worn outside in the street or one worn by a solo car driver. Or on one recent occasion, watching a graduate I knew, socialising maskless with a group of maskless men around a table at a leisure centre, then donning his mask as he rose to leave the group to make for the exit - after all, he should be cautious not to raise the risk in infecting any passerby...

Maybe it's just me. However, with this leisure centre chap, along with those wearing their masks in the breezy open-air or driving a car without any passengers, together with the warning from SAGE not to lift all restrictions whatsoever, warning us that the infection rate could rise by 80% if complete freedom were to be ushered in - indeed, all these fears, anxieties and sense of caution hangs on one word - Could.

Indeed, a new vaccine-resistant variant could infect the population, bringing death to up to 30% of those affected. Maybe a dangerous variant that has the potential to wipe out all mankind could arise from a Covid mutation.

Like the time I flew across the Atlantic. The plane could have suffered engine trouble or the pilot suffered a heart attack, and we all could have been in big trouble! Or what about the time, in 1978, to make a snap decision to hike the Bright Angel Trail to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and spend the night there? And a repeat hike in 1995?

During those hikes, I could have suffered dehydration, I could have been bitten by a rattlesnake, I could have fallen off the edge and plunged to my death in the ravine. I could have suffered cardiac arrest, I could have suffered from heatstroke, or I could have simply collapsed with exhaustion. After all, back in 1978, I was overtaken by three mules whilst still on the trail. The first mule was ridden by the park ranger. The second beast had some luggage on its back, while the third carried an exhausted female hiker. As with all hikers, I had to stand aside and allow the mules to amble past. Such a scenario could befall anyone taking on the challenge of the trail and facing potential hazards.

With all these possibilities, perhaps I should have stayed at home. One interesting scenario occurred whilst dining with some church-going friends at a restaurant. This was just before I flew out to New York in 1995. I made known to them that my main intention for visiting the States was to hike the Canyon. One mate gasped, But what about the rattlesnakes there? Implying: You're foolish to hike down into the Canyon. It's way too risky!

To which I replied, If I was to think in the same vein as you, I would never even leave the house!

I wonder whether this averse to risk is the reason why nearly all Christian singles I had known personally preferred escorted holidays, especially with a Christian firm such as Oak Hall? Or as one of my friends will be going with - the more upmarket firm Richmond's. 

I have nothing against escorted tours. In fact, during 2006, whilst on holiday with Alex my wife, we booked a day's ranger-led coach tour of the island of Lanzarote in the Canaries. I wanted to see more of the island than just the beach hotel we stayed at. And we did not have a car that many tourists hire at the airport. The tour was well-organised and included lunch at a large dining hall, not unlike a school or conference canteen. We've experienced some very interesting attractions, such as a pond that was deep within a lava tunnel, a decorative pool used only by the King of Spain, and some spectacular caves, along with one or two other points of interest, including wine tasting.

The whole holiday was a package. That is, both flights and the hotel were booked beforehand in one package, and we as clientele were looked after. But great as that holiday was, something was lacking. It didn't fit my kind of character.

Grand Canyon Hike, 1995. Colorado River.

For me, there is something about risk-taking that I find inspiring. For example, as a neophyte traveller outside Europe in 1976, I amazed many at my workplace when I announced to them that I was heading alone to the Middle East, specifically to visit the Biblical city of Jerusalem. Indeed, after arriving at Ben Gurion Airport, I took a taxi to Jerusalem, and I was left to book a room at a hotel. After settling in, from outside came a loud sound of gunfire. Thus, I have arrived, not at a popular holiday resort but at a warzone, thus exacerbating my sense of travel adventure. Especially when finding out that the very hotel I spent the night at was also used by the Israel Government to hold a conference there, 18 years later in 1994, to decide if East Jerusalem should be handed to Palestinian control under the gesture of Israel's worst enemy, then PLO leader Yasser Arafat.

It was no surprise that the Jews were furious, and they held a massive demonstration at Ben Yehuda Street fronting the hotel. With TV cameras placed here and there, along with the setting fire to Palestinian flags and Arafat banners, the size of the crowd made me feel somewhat claustrophobic, and I had to carefully wend my way through the mass of mostly male crowd until, at Jaffa Gate onwards, I was able to amble through the dark medieval street of the Old City back to the Arab-owned backpacker's hostel and the safety of my bed.

All that, along with watching a sheep skinned alive at a family wedding reception, learning how to say No to pushy Arabs offering "tours" for a fee and risking making enemies in a land I knew little of, yet such experiences had opened my eyes on life in the Middle East and its strong religious affiliation. Also to add that in 1976, I went down with a fever for three days, and how I was nursed back to health by an Arab family, whose house was built on Mount Moriah, the site of the City of David just south of Jerusalem. It's the sort of experience hardly known by those visiting with a Christian tour group, which seems to be the norm for westernised churchgoers.

Travelling on my own always carried an element of risk. At least that is what other people thought. Such as my work colleagues who were impressed with my trip to Israel in 1976, and I became the talk of the town. Or how I was called "brave" by two work colleagues who saw me stroll through the streets of New Orleans French Quarter in 1978, and again, 17 years later, by the air stewardess on the 1995 United Airlines flight from London to New York. Or the time I found myself walking alone between Sea World and Downtown San Diego late in the evening, after dark, again in 1995. This was due to missing the last bus back to the city where my hostel bed was. Fortunately, I stopped a passing cyclist and asked for directions. Just as well, as I was heading the wrong way, to begin with.

Or the walk from Downtown Los Angeles to the Greyhound Bus Terminal east of the city to prepare for the journey to San Francisco. I passed some iffy characters lounging around as I walked along East 7th Street, but nothing of significance happened. But it was still risky, yet the memory of this I treasure for life.

The taking of risks for a rich reward. And there is one chap at our church whose trip to the States included a hike with his two daughters up Angel Landing, a mountain at Zion National Park in Utah. The hike is described as dangerous, as it involves holding on to a safety chain while navigating a trail on a narrow precipice over a sheer drop into the valley below. As I studied the stock photo, I gasped and asked myself if I would be willing to navigate such a daring stretch of the trail. With ideal weather, my answer to that is a yes, as long as my camera is fully functional and ready. The reward for such a hike is an album of spectacular photos, especially of the valley below with mountains on the other side, thus forming a canyon in between.

I checked its accessibility on the internet. Little wonder that during my visits to that part of the world, I knew nothing about Zion National Park, although I might have been aware of its existence. Apparently, there is no public transport to it, unlike that of the Grand Canyon NP where transport is arranged at Flagstaff Bus Station.

Angel Landing Trail, Zion NP. Stock photo.

Sometimes I wonder what is riskier, using public transport or driving your own car? Especially in the States. No doubt, with a car, the whole of the USA is accessible. Not only the Grand Canyon but Zion NP, Canyonlands in Utah, Yellowstone Park, Yosemite in California, and others. These are places not reached by the Greyhound Bus, according to my experience. But at least bus travel is more comfortable and risk-free. But with hiring a car, on top of the rental fee, the hirer has to pay Collision-Waver Insurance, fuel and oil, and perhaps a fee to keep the tyres inflated. And with the risk of collisions and possible hospitalisation, nevertheless, the rewards for self-drive must be far richer when considering visiting these parks armed with a camera.

1995 is typical. From New York, my journey on the Greyhound Bus was "fast" - that is, I didn't alight except at service stops until I crossed the Mississippi River to alight at St Louis, Missouri, the home of the 630-foot high Gateway Arch. All the other cities - Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Colombus, and Cincinnati as examples, looked very much the same, a smaller version of Manhattan with its rows of cuboid tower blocks rising from the otherwise flat countryside. After a journey which was about the same distance covered as that of London to Rome, St Louise was worth spending a few days for its history. However, far more interesting for me is the mountainous country west of the Mississippi.

Finally, how far would I push my luck on a dangerous hike? Well, definitely not on the Mt Huashan Trail in China! That's the pic under the opening paragraph of this blog. It looks very rickety, doesn't it? Yet its purpose is not originally for leisure hiking but to provide access to a monastery. But at present, daring leisure hikers now use it! No, no matter how far I might push myself into the realm of high risk, this one is a definite no-no!

The Death of Innocent Travel.

Our recent trip to Paris, highlighted in last week's post, has confirmed what I was expecting is taking place in the world of Travel - the slow death of trust in the visitor by those at work in the tourist industry, and particularly by the management of a specific attraction. No longer perceived by them as a visitor respected for playing a minor role for the upkeep of the venue through payment of his admission fees. Instead, as I see it, rather to be perceived as a burdensome modern-day tourist: Complaining, annoying, dissatisfied, impatient, a nuisance, and worst of all, a potential source of a terrorist threat. In the back of the mind of every staff member, each one of us visitors could be a suicide bomber intent of blowing the attraction sky high, with the cost of his own life as well as taking the lives of everyone else within the vicinity.

And all this became immediately apparent when we approached the Eiffel Tower, indeed the very symbol of Paris, on our wedding anniversary. At both at the north and south approaches, there were some things present which certainly weren't there the last time I was in Paris in 1985 - Security gates, where the bag belonging to each visitor was searched. This together with long queues at the Tower entrance gates snaking along switchback-style to hide its off-putting true length. Fortunately for us, due to our morning arrival, this queue wasn't very long, and we estimated around a ten to fifteen minute wait as we watched three or four tellers busy selling admission tickets. However, credit goes to one of the staff members for noticing my wife's wheelchair and singling us out for fast-track admission, bypassing the queue.

The whole set-up was quite different to that of 1985, my last visit to Paris. Back then, on my own, people milled around the base of the Tower after arriving from both Champs de Mars to the south and from the Trocodero, north across the River Seine, without coming across any security barriers. Hardly any queues for the lifts going up, my ascent to the very top to admire the dizzying views of the city was quite uneventful by comparison to the efforts needed to get up there at present.

Whether it's to do with the stereotypical view of the panicking Italian, with his arms gesticulating in an emotional tirade over something which has no evidence of ever having occurred in his country or vicinity, there was one significant change when visiting the ancient Catacombs de San Giovanni, in the Sicilian city of Siracusa in 2007, also as part of our wedding anniversary celebration. Here we saw something which wasn't there when I last visited the attraction as a lone backpacker in 1982. It was a recently-completed departure lounge, not too dissimilar from an airport lounge except it being smaller in size and capacity. After paying the entrance fee, the visitor would wait in the lounge until the right time for the tour escort to arrive. By then, a significantly-sized party would have assembled in the lounge, which would then be led by the escort through a locked door into the Medieval churchyard and its ruins, and into the ancient tunnels. Furthermore, photography was forbidden during the tour.

Catacombs of St John, Sicily.

Alex, who was on the tour with me (no wheelchair back then), seemed quite happy, as were everyone else in the party. But I wasn't. Because in 1982, during my first visit, there were no tour escorts, no waiting lounge, no restricted sized parties. Instead, I along with everybody else, simply paid the entrance fee and then was free to enter the churchyard and underground tunnels at will, and I was allowed to saunter along at my own pace, taking photographs, and remaining until I was satisfied in seeing the better part of what was originally an ancient Greek aqueduct, before the early Christians used the tunnel walls to carve out what looks to be hundreds of niches to bury their dead. So how did I feel about the 2007 experience? Simply this: I, as an adult tourist, cannot be trusted to wander through the tunnels on my own like I did in 1982. It added to what I could clarify as a personal insult. The rest of the party, including my wife, did not appear to be in anyway unsettled by the comparatively short timeslot the escort allowed for the duration of the tour.

By checking on the Internet, it does look as if Italy had gone into panic mode where trust in tourists are concerned. Before 2007, my last visit to Italy was in 1982. Back then I had a wonderful backpacking trip throughout the length of the whole country, using the Ferrovie de Italia national pass ticket, allowing me to use any train without limit throughout the three week duration in Italy. Starting and finishing at Milan, Siracusa was the furthest point south I managed to reach, which also took in stops at the holiday resort and historical town of Taormina, with its famed ancient Greek and Roman theatre and spectacular vista points, and also a hike up to the rim of the active crater of Mount Etna. And I also stopped in Rome, like I did in 1973 and 1975. On both these occasions I was able to walk directly into the Roman Colosseum as easily as walking into a superstore, as well as amble without any restriction into the Basilica de San Pietro, and for a fee, made my way up to the Cupola.

Looking at recent Internet photos, I was not at all surprised at the now-limited entry into the Colosseum. Although tour parties seems to be well encouraged, unlike the Catacombs in Sicily, according to what I have read, one can still enter the attraction alone and as an individual. But the one significant change is the erection of fencing at all but two of the arches, the entrance and exit, whereas before, one can enter the Colosseum at any arch, just as countless generations did before.

Roman Colosseum - with fenced off arches.

The fencing off the multiple entrance arches, in my mind, has brought something of a shameful sense of distrust to the present tourist, if there's no better way of wording. Furthermore, there is an airport-style security check at the entrance, and according to the latest news, there is talk of forbidding entry of day-packs into the monument, let alone a traveller carrying a rucksack. Really, the magic in travel has evaporated. How fortunate that I was born at a time when it was not too late to travel whilst in my early twenties, and did what countless generations did before me, just amble into the Colosseum, free, even if just to while away the time.

The same applied to the Basilica de San Pietro, at the Vatican. Even in 1982, while stopping at Rome for the day on my way to Milan on an overnight train, I chose to visit the Vatican. I recall sauntering casually through the main entrance door, and a while later bought a ticket to climb all the way to the Cupola, the circular balcony on the summit of the dome, where there are excellent panoramas of the city. At present, although as with the Colosseum, one can enter the church as a lone tourist, and entry is still free, nevertheless, everyone has to go through a security check, where bags are constantly searched, causing long queues to form.

The pros and cons of modern travel! Just two weeks prior to writing this, we were on the super-fast, non-stop Eurostar train journey from London St. Pancras to Paris Gare du Nord. (And there were airport-style security gates at both St Pancras and Gare du Nord stations.) To me it was an exciting experience to whiz under the English Channel at 100 mph 162 km/h through a tunnel which entrance is located in England and its exit is already in France. Yet I recall with nostalgic fondness of the old boat-trains which pulled out of London Victoria, rattled through Kent to terminate at Folkstone Harbour, then to board a ferry to cross the Channel (a proper ship with bars and restaurants, and not a catamaran, as it is now), then to board an awaiting train at the French port of Boulogne, and remaining on the train as it first pulls into Paris du Nord terminus, then shunted around the edge of the French capital to Paris Gare de Lyon terminus, then sent on its way to Italy via the fast route to Dijon, then after stopping at Modane to have our passports checked, passing through the tunnel of Mont Cenis Pass under the Alps to emerge in Italy, with Bardonechia being the first Italian stop. By the time our train pulled into Roma Terminus, it has been roughly 24 hours after leaving Boulogne. The old boat-train to either Rome, or to Milan through Switzerland, was my means of European travel up to and including 1982. 

All that, along with easy access to all the ancient attractions, made Travel a source of simple, innocent joy. Nowadays the presence of security gates everywhere I visit, the lack of trust towards the tourist by the industry as a whole, as well as introduction of entry fees at sites that were once free for anyone to enter, has spoiled the joy of innocent travel to those born in the Baby-boom generation. But at least I can say what it was like to have experienced it.

I guess our younger generation has grown up with our present form of travel, and has never given it a second thought on what it might have been like during bygone years. For example, a present-day student visiting the Catacombs of St. John in Sicily would be glad to be part of an escorted tour group, without the slightest thought that some 34 years earlier, the same student would have had the opportunity to amble freely in the tunnels at his own pace and duration.

But in another way, I'm thankful for the extra security now in place. After all, I would feel very queasy if I saw a group of Muslims board the plane I have just boarded. It makes me think about how these site managers must feel when a group of Muslims enter their historic premises, especially if Islam consider these sites as "offensive to Allah" - and therefore must be blown up and demolished. This has been happening recently to ancient archaeological sites across the Middle East. Let's face it: It is the threat of these Islamic terrorists that has robbed Travel of its innocent joy.

I think all this could be a start of a partial fulfilment of the prophecy made by Jesus Christ, when he warned:

On the earth, nations will be in anguish and perplexity at the roaring and tossing of the sea. Men will faint with terror, apprehensive on what is coming on the world, for the heavenly bodies will be shaken.

Luke 21:25-26.