"We're looking for Pineola," I said, giving the town an extra syllable.

"That's Pine-ola," the man said.

"No wonder I couldn't find it."

After he told me where it was, I asked how far we were from Boone. "Did I pronounce that right?" I asked. "Now I may take offense at that," he said, almost smiling.

He'd been here since 1973. "This place is paradise," he said.

"Where are you from originally?" I asked. "Charlotte." "I meant the town, not the womb." (Actually, I didn't say that.)

He asked where I was from. "Originally, New Jersey." "That's your problem," he said. "Half the people here are from New Jersey. They go to Florida first and then come up here."

"Guess where I live now," I said. He gave me a perfect "Lord-help-us" look.

Give it your best shot: Where is Tom Swick?

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If you're in New York City tomorrow, stop by the South Street Seaport around 10 a.m. to see the launch of The New York City Waterfalls.

The art work, created by Olafur Eliasson, consists of four falls, all of which are on the East River and visible from the South Street Seaport. Perhaps the most dramatic is the one under the Brooklyn Bridge (artist's rendering left).

Sort of like Chicago's Cloud Gate sculpture, this is one of those art works that makes you wonder: How come nobody thought of this before?

The waterfalls will be up through Oct. 13.

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People often ask me this question. Well, I'm off tomorrow on a 10-day trip with my wife. I won't be writing every day, but I will be sending in occasional reports. So forget about that morning TV guy and check in here to find out where in the world is Tom Swick.

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My friend Ellen, a traveling mom, sends in this advice:

If you're planning to cram everything you own into a carry-on bag this summer, your first stop should be Bed Bath & Beyond's Sawgrass Mills Mall store.

I found more than 200 small blue bins with just about any toiletry you'd need in a TSA-approved size: Dozens of soaps, shampoos, conditioners, pain & burn relievers; sunblocks and rain ponchos, grooming aids and deoderants, tiny Lysols and Febreezes and so much more. Even a visiting TSA worker was impressed.

For outward bound types seeking creature comforts, there are small rolls of Charmin in hard plastic dispensers. If you want to fill your own, there's a quart sized ziplock with 15 little empty jars and bottles. And if all this first aid has you overwhelmed by what could hamper your journey, reach into the last bin in the first aisle and grab the most important travel item of 'em all: A camera.

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I don't know when WLRN started carrying The Vinyl Cafe . All I know is that a few months ago I became aware of a strange voice coming from my radio on Saturday afternoons.

My first thought was: Who's that - the poor man's Garrison Keillor? But very quickly the voice grew on me. It had an insistent quality, an unpolished earnestness, that distinguished it from the affected tones of Keillor.

The man behind the voice, Stuart McLean, mixed stories and essays and music (no skits, thankfully), all with a strong Canadian identity. A couple weeks ago he was riding the train through the western provinces; last week he was on Prince Edward Island. And I was right there with him.

But nobody I know has ever mentioned the show. Has it not caught on here? Is Canada too exotic? In these days of exorbitant airfares and rising gas prices, a show like The Vinyl Cafe is one of the best means of virtual transportation.

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I just got back from Giorgio's on 17th Street, which I'm rediscovering after a long absence that followed years of being a Friday regular.

The reasons for that absence had nothing to do with the place. And imagine my delight on finding it pretty much exactly as I left it - with the same great service (Serge has been voted Best Waiter in Broward County more than once) and delicious food (today's tomato basil bisque should be voted the best in Broward County).

Giorgio's is small and bustling and has that friendly, neighborhood feel that is not that easy to come by here. I sat there, waiting for my food and watching the staff rushing about but also taking time to talk and laugh - with customers and each other. Everyone seemed to be having a good time.

The only negative note were the two men at the table next to me who at one point both talked on their cell phones. But they did it in a way that I had never seen before: one in English and one in Spanish.

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Friday I got so wrapped up in La Fete de la Musique that I left out quite a few other things.

First of all, today is World Refugee Day, a day to consider the 40 million refugees worldwide. This evening at 8, Books & Books in Coral Gables is hosting a discussion of the international refugee situation with Irwin Stotzky of the University of Miami, Denise Wallace of St. Thomas University, and the staff of the International Rescue Committee.

Sweet Mango Tours is offering a trip to northern Thailand December 20, 2008 - January 4, 2009. Price is $2,750 (not including air) and the trip involves a homestay in a rural rice-farming village. Linda Wheatley, who leads the tours, wrote: "I did this with my two kids when they were 10 and 14 - we trekked through northern jungles and spent Christmas in a host village. Then we celebrated New Year's with my friends in Northeast Thailand - lighting fire-crackers, sweating in the tropical heat and wandering an enormous city fair. I'm hoping to engage other American families in trying a different kind of holiday season - for those looking to give of their hearts and receive in kind."

Some big names are coming to Miami: The Rhythm Foundation is bringing the great Brazilian singer, songwriter and, more recently, cultural minister Gilberto Gil to The Fillmore Miami Beach at the Jackie Gleason Theater Saturday, July 5.

Three days later (July 8), Salman Rushdie will speak at Temple Judea in Coral Gables (the crowds he attracts are too big to fit in Books & Books).

If you're traveling, the wonderful klezmer duo of Deborah Strauss and Jeff Warschauer will be performing and teaching at the Jewish Culture Festival in Krakow, Poland, June 28-July 6. I've been to the festival twice, and it is a fascinating event.

And - now for a little self-advertisement - if you're in Australia next month I'll be speaking, and teaching, at the Melbourne Festival of Travel Writing July 19-20.

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Our tennis writer Charles Bricker sent this dispatch just before the start of Wimbledon:

The British rail system is onto something, but it’s not cost-cutting.

The cost of traveling around this island is beyond an arm and a leg. We’re into other body parts, including your stomach if you’re nervy enough to buy anything in the café car.

However. . .(pause for effect) . . . there is internet on many of the National Railway cars. You’re thinking, “If Amtrak had this, and of course didn’t arrive more than two hours late for every trip, I might consider riding the rails more often in the U.S.”

I’m going to have to admit to my biggest mistake on this two-month European holiday/work odyssey. When I ordered my Brit Rail pass from one of those online companies in the U.S., I sloppily ordered the four-day “consecutive” pass rather than the four-days-in-a-month pass. Or maybe they made the mistake. I’m not sure. I’ll have a talk with them when I get back.

In the meantime, I found out rather quickly on my initial journey, from Euston Station London to Windermere, that this pass ($369, all in first class), could only be used on four consecutive days, beginning with my first trip. Don’t you make the same mistake.

I dealt with it when I got to Windermere, and it didn’t turn out too badly, though it could have. It’s only recently that the British rail people corrected the glitch in their ticket machines, which sold you the most expensive ticket possible for your journey.

If you still don’t trust the reprogrammed machines, and I don’t, go directly to a ticket agent at the station and tell him, in distinct terms, “Hi, I’d like the cheapest possible ticket(s) from here to there.”

So I purchased three trips – Windermere to Glasgow; Glasgow to Nottingham; and Nottingham to London.

It was about $20 from Windermere to Glasgow; $90 from Glasgow to Nottingham; and another $90 from Nottingham to London. It would have been twice as much if you went to a ticket machine and had no idea how to cheapen the ticket.

And so I’ve had my holiday time, from the Lake District to Glasgow and Nottingham and I arrived in London after a brisk, two-hour ride from Robin Hood country to St.Pancras station, just short of 9 a.m.

It was an easy ride on the Underground from St. Pancras to Gloucester Road, two blocks from my hotel. It’s good to settle in, unpack the bags, find things I thought I’d lost along the way and hang up some clothes that had been gathering wrinkles for weeks.

To regress to Glasgow, this was my third trip there and it hasn’t changed much, which is good. There’s wonderful contrast in this vibrant, very alive city. There’s old Glasgow and new Glasgow. There is striking contemporary architecture along the main streets, adjacent to 17th and 18th Century buildings. It’s still less expensive than England, right down to the free Kelvingrove Art Museum, which had an astonishingly fine display of celebrity photographs by the noted Scot Harry Benson.

This is a hard-drinking city and it wasn’t unusual to drop into a bar/restaurant near the rail station about 4 p.m. and find it jammed with a lot of very heavy and unhealthy looking people throwing down pints.

It’s gotten so bad the government is taking measures to curtail rampant drinking. Somehow, I find that effort laughable.

I spent most of one day in Glasgow on Byers Road, which had been shut off to vehicle traffic for Scotland’s version of Mardi Gras. No floats and no one throwing beads. But there were bands everywhere and tens of thousands having a great time.

It’s now Saturday at Wimbledon, two days before the start of the tournament, and it’s the first time I’ve encountered real, persistent rain since I arrived in the UK on June 9. I recall telling myself, “This great weather can’t go on. Wait till I get to Wimbledon.” Sure enough.

The pound is lingering at $1.97 and it’s brutal, but I just have to keep telling myself, “I’m not buying gas. . .I’m not buying gas.”

Cheers.

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La Fete de la Musique began in France in 1982 as a way to recognize musicians and entertain the public during the summer solstice. The thinking, clearly, was that maypoles just didn't cut it anymore.

I was in Paris once for the event, which was like nothing I had ever seen. You wandered the neighborhoods, stumbling upon solitary folk singers, classical trios, R&B bands, African drummers, French chanteurs. Music seemed to emanate from every street, and carried on long into the night. It was as if the city had been turned into an endless series of open-air studios, with the public passing freely from one to the other.

The festival was so popular it has now spread around the world. Tomorrow, from 6-11, the Alliance Francaise in Miami will hold its own Fete de la Musique at its headquarters on Calle Ocho. And, as in Paris, there is no charge.

It's a start. But wouldn't a Fete de la Musique be great for the city of Miami? Imagine starting at the Arsht Center (where else?), strolling up Biscayne Boulevard serenaded by sounds, and then heading into the Design District, where the normally quiet streets would be animated by singers, bands, people, life.

Just a thought.

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I wrote a column last Sunday on international street food - gyros, bratwurst, crepes, tacos - (available at www.sun-sentinel.com/travel - the column, that is, not the food). Monday I got a message from a woman in Lake Worth kindly alerting me to an item I had missed: falafel.

I've had some great falafel around the world, which was part of the reason I left it out: Like the empanada, it is so common it's hard to pick one country as its home.

I e-mailed this to the woman in Lake Worth and soon got a message telling me she was traveling in Lithuania. I messaged her back, telling her to have a bowl of saltibarsciai for me.

Saltibarsciai, or cold borscht, is not a street food, but it's one of the world's great soups. It's as important to the Baltics as gazpacho is to Spain. The Lithuanians, the Poles (who call it "Lithuanian borscht"), the Russians, the Latvians all, come summertime, turn beets into chilled bliss, mixing the juice with kefir, sour cream, buttermilk (depending on the region) and adding to the chopped beets (also depending on the region), pickles, radishes, spring onions, a hard-boiled egg, meat (sometimes), shrimp (rarely), but, always, always, lots of dill.

I made a big bowl a number of years ago and took it to a party, where it sat suspect and mostly untasted. People were alarmed by its flamingo pink surface, the result not, as they suggested, of artificial coloring, but of the simple mixing of beet juice and buttermilk.

Too bad for them. It's not often you find a food that's delicious, refreshing, filling, and healthy. I may make a batch this weekend - and eat it during the summer solstice.

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Last night at Books & Books, Alan Furst, the popular novelist of Second World War intrigue, read from his new novel, The Spies of Warsaw.

I had read it quickly over the weekend, carried along by the story of a French military attache working in his country's embassy in Poland in 1937. What attracted me to the story was not just the setting - Warsaw, where I lived in the late 70s and early 80s - but the subject. In 1979, during an interview about my visa, I was offered an extension if I became an informer. I declined, and left the country three days later.

About 60 people gathered in the bookstore last night to hear Furst speak. He prefaced his reading by saying that, of all his novels, this was the one with the most resonance to today. I was surprised at first, as the book's pre-war atmosphere kept taking me back to the Cold War.

But he described this as his "9/10 book." And he explained that the military attache gathers vital information about an impending German attack on France which none of his superiors take very seriously. Hard evidence is presented and the people in power opt to ignore it.

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Travel broadens the mind but it also, less famously, connects the heart. You visit a place and it becomes real to you in a way it never was before. If it shows up in the news, you listen more closely; if the news is bad, you feel it more deeply.

I've been thinking about Iowa lately because of the floods, and because it was the first Midwestern state I ever visited. It also was an election year, about the only time - barring natural disasters - that the coastal commentators pay any attention to the people in the Heartland.

I rented a car in Des Moines and for the next 10 days discovered a cornucopia of rich Americana: the Surf Ballroom in Clear Lake (where Buddy Holly had his last performance), the National Hobo Convention in nearby Britt, the Field of Dreams in Dyersville, Grant Wood's old artist colony in Stone City.

I skipped through Cedar Rapids but stopped in Iowa City, which quickly became one of my favorite college towns, with one of my favorite independent bookstores, Prairie Lights. I assume the bookstore's OK, but I heard about the people forming a chain to move books out of the first floor of the university library, where I spent a quiet June afternoon just three summers ago.

Everywhere I went in Iowa, on both my trips, people lived up to their reputation as friendly, considerate, decent - the kind of folks you'd like to have as neighbors. I always thought that if foreigners really wanted to learn about this country, they should visit Iowa.

It pains me to think of all the destruction - to houses, communities, lives - that the people of Cedar Rapids and other towns are now having to endure. It seems unfair that such a disaster should befall such good people. Yet if there's anyone with the dedication, fortitude, and good samaritanism to bounce back from such a blow, it's Iowans.

AP Photo by Hannah van Zutphen-Kann

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A press release just arrived in my inbox and I'm not sure what intrigued me more: the picture or the deal.

As you see, the Whitelaw Hotel - which is at 808 Collins Ave. - is advertising a summer special of $69 for stays Sunday through Thursday and $99 Friday and Saturday. Bookings must be made through the South Beach Group. And presumably neither the girl nor the gun is involved.

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My friend and fellow travel writer Sophia Dembling responded to my birthday wishes to Jonathan Raban and Colin Thubron with a little story about the time she did a phone interview with Raban.

She found him "surly and intimidating," and he chewed her out for calling him a "travel writer."

I met Raban in Seattle in the mid-90s and also found him unpleasant and imperious. Wrtiers sometimes are but, in my experience, travel writers aren't.

Jan Morris has made "kindness" something of a theme, not just in her work but in her life. The first time I met her, at the Key West Literary Seminar in 1991, she apologized for keeping me waiting for our interview. I had waited for about five minutes, watching her graciously talk to admirers and sign her books.

Pico Iyer is another travel writer who is keenly aware of the feelings of others, as befits a man whose most recent book is about the Dalai Lama.

Colin Thubron, when I interviewed him in Philadelphia a number of years ago, was modest and gracious, a true English gentleman. Even Paul Theroux, so often thought of as snide and condescending, was, during our meeting, friendly and open, one of the few people I've ever interviewed who actually asked me questions.

Raban, for some reason, stands out from the crowd. But then, he doesn't want to be thought of as a travel writer anyway.

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Lake Worth is to Palm Beach County what Hollywood is to Broward: an earthy, unpretentious, mildly bohemian oasis in a land of glitz. (Instead of Eastern Europeans it has Finns.)

Hania and I went up Friday and met friends, Vivian and Steve, for dinner at the Pelican Restaurant on Lake Ave. The Pelican is a typical American breakfast and lunch place that, because the owners are from the subcontinent, serves Indian food on Friday evenings (the only evenings it's open for dinner).

On our way there we passed a man walking down the avenue with a snake around his shoulders. We sat outside and munched on papadum while sipping chardonnay. More interesting characters paraded past. Across the street a young man sat on the sidewalk strumming a guitar. A horse-drawn carriage clopped down the avenue, driven by a young blond woman.

The food - curried chicken, 10-vegetable curry, curried potatoes and spinach, dal - was brought by a stocky man from Brooklyn who made sure that the naan on my plate wasn't facing the plate of Hania, the celiac. (The waitress from Michael's Genuine Food should come here for lessons.)

It was the best Indian food I've ever had at an American restaurant.

As we left, we heard someone singing Ol' Man River. We followed the music and came to a puppet theater set up on the sidewalk. Steve had told us about the theater, which usually features opera music. Tonight, it was American musicals. Children sat on the sidewalk, with their parents, watching with interest.

We wandered over to Les Beans Coffeehouse on Second Avenue where a co-worker of Vivian's sister-in-law was performing. Words painted on the front window read: "Organic Fair Trade Coffee." Inside, the singer, Guendolyn Joy, was talking to people between sets. She was a tall woman with long red hair, originally from Barcelona and now living in Boynton Beach. Then she took the small stage, with her guitar, and sang in a large, lovely voice.

When she finished, we strolled some more, passing cute cottages on postage stamp lawns, a bar with a band, a bar with a singer, a place called Havana Hideout with a cigar garden (first I'd seen) and chaise longues sitting in a row along the sidewalk as if at a pool and not the main street. No one reclined in one, though I think the next time I go to Lake Worth I will.

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The grateful pilgrim writes:

We arrived in Santiago de Compostela yesterday around noon. The walk seemed to end quickly--one minute we were gazing raptly down on the city from Monte de Gozo, the next minute we were striding into the vast square in front of Santiago cathedral and Carlos was embracing his wife Ana. And then, right after that, we presented our pilgrim´s passports--stamped in churches and pilgrims´hostels in every stop along the way from St. Jean Pied-de-Port, on the French side of the Pyrenees, to Arco do Pino, thirty-one days of stamps!--on the second floor of a church office and in turn received our Compostela, the official certicate of completion of the walk.

I was happy to have finally arrived, yes; but I also felt a little confused and melancholy, too, knowing that I´d come to the end of something important in my life, but not feeling quite sure of what it was, because, at least at the moment, it seemed still beyond my grasp.

We went to a pilgrims´mass today in Santiago Cathedral. It was packed--I saw Jan, the young Czech, and Ilson, the Brazilian, and Antonio, the lawyer from Saragossa, all met along the Camino. An American bishop from Tyler, Texas, officiated. I was finally able to say, Here I am. I´ve arrived. Thank you for my life and the people I´ve known and loved.

At the end of the service, they lit incense in a giant silver censer, which was attached to a thick rope from the cathedral ceiling. Then they swung the censer back and forth across the nave in an ever-widening arc. The censer is so massy that of course I worried that it would break loose and crash to the floor like some ecclestical Sputnik, but the censer swung safely in its giddy, astonishing, finally joyous arc.
- David Beaty

Photo: Carlos (left) and David

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In a nice literary coincidence, two of the greatest living travel writers were born on the same day - June 14: Raban in 1942 and Thubron in 1939. (I'm celebrating today because tomorrow I'm off.)

Raban's field of specialty is the United States. In Old Glory he took a boat down the Mississippi - from Minneapolis to New Orleans - and captured the essence not only of the river but also the Midwest. Unlike a lot of British observers, he took America seriously. In his next book, Hunting Mister Heartbreak, he moved about the country - Manhattan, Alabama, Key West, Seattle (which he eventually made his home) - and depicted the immigrant experience. Like Paul Theroux, he gave the travel book something of the shape of a novel, but he brought to it much more depth and insight. Unfortunately for lovers of travel, he now focuses on fiction.

Thubron has cut a wider swath, with books on western Russia, Siberia, China, central Asia and, most recently, the Silk Road. He is among the most dedicated of travel writers - learning both Russian and Mandarin - as well as the most rugged. He brings Raban's fierce intelligence to his work but complements it with a generous heart, so that he is able not only to interpret the landscape but connect with the people. Pick up Among the Russians or Behind the Wall or Shadow of the Silk Road and you will see what great travel writing is. And be thankful for June 14th.

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It's hurricane season, and there's one part of Florida that feels so safe from hurricanes that it's offering a "Storm Free Guarantee." That would be Amelia Island Plantation, which promises the same rate on a return trip if the first is disrupted by, I don't know, Hanna. Plus $100 credit at the resort's restaurants. It's been more than 40 years since Amelia Island, off the northeast coast of Florida, experienced hurricane conditons. I remember in St. Augustine a few summers ago, people telling me that hurricanes just don't come ashore there either. We shall see.

Every time I open an envelope that's got "Tower Theater-Miami Dade College" written in the top left corner I find something interesting inside. The latest was a notice about a guitar concert by Dr. Rene Gonzalez (the chair of the guitar department at the University of Miami), Jose Alfredo Fernandez, and graduate students. It's June 26 at 7 pm, with a reception at 6:30. Afterwards you can have a nice dinner on Calle Ocho. Call 305-649-2960.

If you're going to San Francisco (or if you're already there) the city is presenting free concert and film series this summer. These include the Del Monte Square Film Festival (Aug 3-24); Film Night in the Park (now through October); Golden Gate Park Band (every Sunday through Oct. 12); and Jewels in the Square which takes place at Union Square and features, among other groups, the "original Spanish Surf Mexican Gypsy Pirate Pop Band" (through the end of October). You know it's summer in San Francisco because the film festival notes that hot beverages will be available for purchase.

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Today Spirit Airlines is starting non-stop flights from Ft. Lauderdale to Port-of-Spain, Trinidad. In celebration of the new service, fares today (flight leaves at 8:55 pm, so you still have time) and tomorrow are $9.

Though if you want to reserve an aisle or window seat, you'll have to pay $10 more. (See below.)

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The wonderful local jazz singer Adriana Samargia will be performing tomorrow (Friday) at the City of West Palm Beach Library from 5:30-7:30. The library is at the corner of Clematis and Flagler, and the event is free.

I heard Adriana in Fort Lauderdale a few months ago, backed by her trusty quartet, and was totally captivated by her voice, her presence, her sweet-and-sultry rendition of jazz classics. She is a little-known treasure in South Florida, and deserves a wide and faithful following.

Adriana's new CD, Both Sides, will be for sale at the library. It is also availabe through her website.

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Yes, it now costs to reserve a seat when flying Spirit.

And while discouraging, this move does finally put out there in the open what we all knew: some seats are more valuable than others.

Middle seats are going for $5, window and aisle seats for $10, and exit row seats for $15.

Which seems logical, except that not all window seats are created equal. There are window seats over the wing and there are window seats from which you can actually see something. For those of us who love to watch where we're going, these latter are much more desirable.

Even aisle and middle seats divide into good and not so, the first being toward the front of the plane (now that passengers will be taking more time to remove from the overhead bins the overstuffed bags they didn't want to pay to be checked).

So don't think these additional costs are over yet. They've only just begun.

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Pilgrim's progress:

We're almost there. We've walked 724 kms in 30 days and we should arrive in Santiago tomorrow sometime just after noon.

At the moment we're in a town called Arco do Pino, watching football on television in a bar. It's too late and too hot to travel the final 19 kms to Santiago today. The bar is packed with football fans, Portugal is playing the Czech Republic.

The weather has been bright and sunny, so these days we start early in the mornings and finish in the early afternoons. I'm waiting until I actually arrive in Santiago before I try to comment on the meaning of the trip. I'm glad I've done it. I'd recommend it to others, but I wouldn't do it again, or so I think at the moment.

Carlos has been a great traveling companion, and I have a lot to thank him for. His wife Ana will be in Santiago to meet us tomorrow. Tonight we'll have supper with Antonio, a friend from Saragossa we met along the way, and then to bed by ten oclock, so we can be up bright and early. I'm walking slowly because of problems with my right foot. Also, I'm generally tired. I look with longing whenever a bus or a taxi speeds by, but so far I've resisted the temptation.

- David Beaty

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Charles Bricker writes from Ambleside:

I’m out of Paris with 11 days to myself before I storm the All England Lawn Tennis Club.

I decided months ago to return to the Lake District of England. I don’t deal well with crowds. I need beauty, quiet, nice people, no honking horns from impatient motorists, no rap music and, more than anything, a sense that there is still some respect for nature in the world.

It’s all there in the Lake District, and this is my fourth trip. I’ve stayed in Bowness-on-Windermere, which is quite full of holiday makers and day trippers throughout the summer. And I’ve stayed in Grasmere, where William Wordsworth lived, and died. It’s a beautiful village, but a village nevertheless and not bubbling over with hotels and stores.

This time, Ambleside, about five miles east of Grasmere and just large enough.

The Lake District this time of the year is a fascinating mix of young and old tourists. I’m not sure why the elderly come here, like the 60ish Scottish couple who sat at the adjacent table as I dined at Mathews Bistro the other night. They seemed surprised to find out I was off on another hike in the morning.

“Oh no, we don’t hike,” she said with a thick Scottish accent. “We just like it here.”

As do I. But this place is fundamentally for hiking and I’ve had some memorable walks here, including one two years ago that took nearly six hours to complete. Before you compliment me on my stamina, know that the hike should have been four hours.

You do get a bit lost, for two reasons. First, the well worn paths you start on become more than a little vague as you get up with the mountain goats. In fact, it’s easy to lose a trail where they’re nothing but rock.

Also, the walk guidebooks you can buy at the local Tourist Information shops for a couple pounds are outdated. I’ve done hikes where I followed the book directions to the last dotted i and gotten temporily lost because, for one reason or another, the trails change.

The six-hour hike left me scratching my head after four hours, but I fortunately ran into one of those classic Lake hikers – real boots, walking stick, jaunty cap.

“Can you help me find my way back to Grasmere?” I inquired. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Just walk across this meadow here and when you get to the edge, look down and you’ll see a tarn (a small body of water in the mountains). Go down to the tarn and you’ll see a footpath around it, and it will take you straight back to Grasmere.”

He was spot on with the directions, but there was no path down to the tarn. I had to slosh my way down a small creek, stepping on rocks until I reached the bottom, and it took an hour. But I got back all right, had a pint of something or other at the Lions Inn pub and was in bed and sleeping soundly by 9.

I’ve got three more days here and, while the weather has dropped into the high 50s, it’s dry and I’m a happy puppy. I might go fishing again, as I did at the trout farm south of here. Caught three, one at 2.25 pounds, and released one. Went back to Mathews and for 10 quid the chef grilled my trout and told me how he holds the record out of that lake – a 26-pounder that took more than an hour to land.

It was a bit of cheat by me. This was, after all, a stocked pond. But, hey, a trout is a trout and I need my protein.

Go fish. Notice the swan behind me, waiting for the fish to be gutted so he can be fed.

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I'm not a big soccer fan, but I follow the World Cup every four years because I enjoy the international aspect. And now I'm watching the European championships - Euro2008 - because it's a mini, Euro-centric World Cup.

I cheer for countries where I've had good experiences. I do a little of this in baseball - always partial to the Twins, because I have such fine memories of Minneapolis-St. Paul.

But with soccer, a sport to which I bring no other baggage, the attractiveness of the country is everything. I was really torn Saturday, when Portugal was playing Turkey - as both were the settings of two of my best trips.

Sunday I grieved as Poland - where I married and taught English for two and a half years - lost 2-0 to Germany. At one point one of the announcers talked about Germany's "historic domination of Poland" - words that I thought were particularly ill-chosen, even if he was only referring to soccer.

AP photo by Alessandra Tarantino

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I woke up not even realizing it, but when I arrived here at the office I found an e-mail alerting me to the fact that June 10 is Portugal Day.

I should have known, as Portugal is one of my favorite countries. I first went there in 1989, after having visited most of Europe. And from the first day I had a good feeling about the place. I got the impression I was being treated not like a tourist - as is usually the case - but like a guest. The people had a sweet, relaxed, considerate disposition.

This is reflected in their national holiday. Unlike many countries, whose national days commemorate independence or constitutions or military triumphs, Portugal honors a poet: Luís Vaz de Camões, who died on this day in 1580.

Camões' great work was The Lusiads, an epic poem about Vasco da Gama's voyage to India. Camoes himself was, as the translator Landeg White writes in his introduction to the Oxford World's Classics edition of the poem, "the first European artist to cross the Equator and experience Africa and India at first hand."

So here's to a great country, with a great tradition of travel.

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We haven't been going to expensive restaurants lately, but Saturday was a special occasion so we drove down to Michael's Genuine Food & Drink in the Miami Design District.

I dropped Hania off in front of the courtyard and went to park. Entering the restaurant a few minutes later, I found her sitting by the window with two other people. She's friendly, but doesn't usually work that fast. Then I noticed there was a space of a couple inches separating our table from our neighbors'.

The waitress arrived and Hania gave her spiel: that she is a celiac and cannot eat any food that has wheat, barley or rye in it. The waitress looked slightly pained by this news, not for Hania but for herself. Another diner with weird dietary requests.

This happens a lot. But celiac disease is as genuine as Michael's food. People who have it must avoid gluten, as it destroys the lining of the small intestine. It is becoming better known, and yet the people who have it are often, at restaurants, made to feel like nuisances.

Part of the problem at Michael's was the fact that the waitress couldn't get close to Hania to discuss her diet - because of the neighboring table - and so had to hear about it from over my shoulder (and filter it through the music and noise). Hania would ask her about a specific item on the menu and she would give her (not all that authoritative) assessment. A good waitress would go and ask the chef what foods were gluten-free, come back, and give the customer a choice - plus a feeling of assurance.

In the end, our meal was fine. I had ceviche and chargrilled octopus and Hania had oysters and duck confit. But we didn't leave a big tip.

Postscript: Driving down Biscayne Blvd. after dinner, we saw, close to downtown, a sign in a storefront: "Coming soon: Bengal - Modern Indian cuisine." Indian food, like Thai and Vietnamese, is usually fine for celiacs (as long as they stay away from the bread).

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Born in Istanbul on June 7, 1952. (A diverse group of people share this birthday - Nikki Giovanni, Anna Kournikova, Prince, me - though of this quintet only Pamuk and I were born in the same year.)

Primarily a novelist, the Nobel Prize winner is also the author of Istanbul: Memories and the City, a beautiful memoir and an evocative hymn to, and lament for, his hometown. "For me it has always been a city of ruins and of end-of-empire melancholy," he writes. "I've spent my life either battling with this melancholy or (like all Instanbullus) making it my own."

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A few ideas:

Prince Edward Island is celebrating the 100th anniversary of Anne of Green Gables with the opening of a new theater - the Montgomery - which will be presenting works by writers who influenced Lucy Maud Montgomery.

Gray Line of Seattle is offering eight different culinary tours of the city throughout the summer. A chef from a top restaurant boards the bus, takes participants to a market to shop fo dinner, and then brings everyone back to his (or her) restaurant to eat it. $99.95 per person.

Churchill, Manitoba is often billed as the "polar bear capital of the world," and you can go there with The Great Canadian Travel Company. (I told you last week there was something about that name.) There's a six-day trip scheduled for Oct. 30 and a three-day trip on Oct. 31. Price for the first is $1,969, for the second $1,589.

An e-mail arrived this week from the Department of State urging me to tell everyone that, beginning June 2009 - in other words, in one year - Americans will need "a passport or a passport card, or some other way to prove you're an American citizen" - no matter how you travel outside the United States. Because of this, they recommend that people who need passports apply for them now. Visit www.travel.state.gov/passport

The French Open (OK, I'm a little obsessed) reminds us that the U.S. Open is just a couple months away (Aug. 25-Sept. 7). The Bryant Park Hotel in Manhattan is offering special U.S. Open rates starting at $289 a night (plus taxes) for two people for a superior room. That ain't bad for New York.

A company with the nearly all-encompassing name of Global Eco-Spiritual Tours is offering a trip to Leh-Ladakh, India, to work on low imact ecological projects in the Himalayan Mountains.

Here in Florida, the Lower Keys are getting ready for the 24th annual Underwater Music Festival, a salute to the November "eel-ections" when "Reefpublicans" run against "Democrabs." Saturday, July 12.

And Thursday, June 12, the Fort Lauderdale Historical Society will host jazz drummer and composer Reuben Hoch at 6 pm at the New River Inn. Free for Gold Coast Jazz Society members; $5 for everyone else.

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If like me you've been watching the French Open, the most grueling of the four grand slams because it's played on clay, you've probably been struck by the sight of athletic young men and women doing what so many Americans find so difficult: speaking a foreign language.

True, that language is always English, which we already speak. And English is the so-called international language. But these are jocks who, minutes after a grueling match, are able to express themselves intelligently and sometimes eloquently in another tongue.

The other day I watched an interview with Dinara Safina. She is not one of the top players and so not often interviewed on American TV. So I wasn't expecting much. But she spoke very good English, an English that was free of the cliches many of our own athletes tend to feed on. (I loved when she said that, sometimes watching her older brother Marat play at his best, she cries.)

Safina, by the way, is from Russia and trained in Spain, so English is her third language. In her match against Elena Dementieva, Dementieva threw up an errant toss on her serve, caught it, and yelled "Sorry" to her fellow Russian. Dementieva's second language is French.

Announcers are always bemoaning the poor performances of Americans on clay, but the excellent showings of Europeans - not only on the court but in the studio - always make me bemoan our poor performances with foreign languages.

Of course the one exception seems to be the Spaniard Rafael Nadal, whose English is pretty rudimentary. The Swiss champion Roger Federer, on the other hand, speaks colloquial English. And if he ever wins this tournament - the only one of the four to elude him so far - he will be able to wow the fans anew by giving his victory speech in French.

Allez, Roger.

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A pilgrim's progress:

As of today we´ve walked for more than three weeks and 560 kms. If all goes well we´ll arrive in Santiago eight days from now.

My feet are wrecks. I am, of course, no exception. An obsessive topic of conversation among fellow pilgrims is blisters, and what to do about them(the only solution: stop walking).

I´m in a town called Villafranca Del Bierzo; we´re still in Castilla and Leon, but about to cross into Galicia. Tomorrow we face the last big challenge of this walk: a climb straight up (it´s called The Ramp)into the hills, to a town called El Cebreiro. I look forward to this part of the walk being over.

Today we visited a church in this town dedicated to Santiago. In the middle ages, pilgrims too sick to travel on to Santiago, if they passed through the west doors of this church, would be absolved of their sins - or so the story goes. Today, the west doors of this church were shut and locked, so my hopes of limping through them on my blistered feet came to nothing. Now I´ll have to soldier on to Santiago.
- David Beaty

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Sunday, the New York Times Book Review asked a bunch of writers to recommend books for the presidential candidates to read.

Predictably, no travel writers were invited, and even more predictably, no travel books were recommended.

So I offer my own modest suggestions. Let's start with something by Freya Stark, perhaps Beyond Euphrates or Baghdad Sketches. The candidates could learn a lot about this now pivotal part of the world by reading a woman who got to know it intimately and loved it passionately. A woman whose faith in the development of democracy in the region, at least when brought by a foreign power, also proved to be unfounded.

Since everyone agrees on the importance of China, I recommend learning about it from Peter Hessler's Oracle Bones: A Journey Between China's Past and Present. A former Peace Corps teacher, Hessler has become one of the most insightful interpreters of China for the West.

And since candidates endlessly praise their fellow citizens (their potential supporters), I recommend Henry Miller's The Air-conditioned Nightmare. This account of the novelist's journey through his homeland in the early '40s, after a long stint in Paris, is a harsh and sobering look at some of our national faults, and would be a helpful corrective for two men who, over the next five months, will criticize administrations and systems but never, never, the American people.

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The great comic novelist Peter de Vries once wrote: "The food in museums is usually on a par with the murals in restaurants."

But things have changed in the last few decades. Even in Fort Lauderdale. Or perhaps especially in Fort Lauderdale.

The folks at the Museum of Art seem to have a vision of downtown and what it could be. If you've driven by on your way to work, you know that they are now serving free coffee in the morning. If you're a South Florida oenophile, you may know that they've been holding wine tastings.

And now they're serving lunch in the cafe-cum-wine bar in the lobby. They seem intent on becoming not just a great cultural institution but a gathering place in a city which is in desperate need of one.

The menu includes two soups - yesterday's were mushroom and brie and roasted red pepper and tomato. There were also a few wraps and paninis - I had the smoked turkey and swiss cheese - plus a spinach salad and an asparagus and leek frittata. Everything was under $10. Marlene Dietrich sang softly in the background (from the CD of one of the young men behind the counter).

I just wish Peter de Vries were still alive so I could invite him to lunch.

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Tennis writer Charles Bricker found some time - during a rain delay perhaps? - to send this quick snapshot, and helpful tip, from the French Open:

Four weeks into my European trip, one week into the French Open, three weeks before the start of Wimbledon and five weeks to go before I open the front door and Mackie and Murphy, the German shepherd terrors of the neighborhood, welcome me home with a thousand licks.

I was just thinking as I rode the No. 123 bus from Place Marcel Sembat to the tournament site this morning that one of the most important things I took on this trip was in my left pocket.

This is not a commercial for Bath and Body Works, disguised as a letter from Paris. But, hey, that’s where I bought this stuff and so naturally I’m going to give full details on where I got it as well as what it does.

It’s called “Japanese cherry blossom” and it’s an anti-bacterial moisturizing hand lotion. Heavy emphasis on “anti-bacterial.”

Let’s talk germs.

They’re everywhere, and not just in Paris. But you have to be acutely aware of them in this city because you’re not in your car, where the vast majority of lingering germs are your own. You’re on buses. You’re on the Metro. And you’re handling bread products, which are routinely handled with unprotected hands by workers in boulangeries.

I might as well begin with the bread shops, since I seem to be in one every day. I’m a croissant addict. Sure, I’ll admit it, but I’m smart enough to have weaned myself away from consuming too many croissants which are made with prodigious amounts of butter and am now taking one or two croissant nature (“kwah-sahn nah-choor”), which, as the name suggests, have very little butter, if any at all. I can’t really tell the difference. It’s like Coke and Pepsi. It’s all the same to me.

There are a growing number of upscale breaderies in this city where workers use tongs or plastic gloves in handling your food. But most boulangeries are small neighborhood shops where hygiene is some governmental nuisance. You have to swallow hard, even before taking a bite, when you shop there.

“Bonjour. Deux croissants natures, s'il vous plait.” The person behind the counter, who has just handled someone’s germ-ridden Euros is now picking up your croissants with a bare hand.

You hand over the money (1.80 Euro) and walk away wondering whether you’ll have hepatitis by evening. So far, so good though. I’m still feeling OK. But there’s a germ out there with my name on it. I know it, just waiting for me.

There are five streets that angle off Place Marcel Sembat, like spokes on a wheel. I cross two streets, the smell of fried chicken wafting out the door of the KFC, and wait for the No. 123. I’m in luck. It’s here quickly and I climb aboard, flashing my carte orange – the one-week pass to unlimited rides on the buses and trains that negotiate Paris.

No seats, of course, but that’s fine because part of the pleasure is just standing there watching the French parade. Little old ladies gingerly pick their way through the thicket of standing customers until some kind soul offers them seats. And the school children, well-behaved and happy little buggers, off to the elementary school just two stops from the tennis grounds. Friends meeting on the bus and shaking hands or kissing cheeks.

The buses rock and hang corners, so you have to get a good grip on the metal poles or overhead grips, knowing that hundreds of people have gripped the same poles or grasped the same grips.

This is where Japanese cherry blossom comes in. As soon as I’m off the bus, I squeeze a little lotion into my palms and spread it liberally on hands and face.

I know you’re out there, germs. But you’re not going to get me.

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This weekend I visited a friend who lives near one of Florida's great hotels, and frequently enjoys the amenities. He told me a few months ago that he had just spent a pleasant afternoon in the hotel garden reading Edmund Spenser's The Fairie Queene.

I assumed that he had taken out some sort of membership given to local residents that allowed him onto the property. But no, he just walks in. The other day, one of the employees called him "chief." He recently presented some complaints to the concierge.

The key, he said, is to get a towel. If you walk around with a towel, everyone assumes you belong. You're unapproachable, untouchable, as long as you've got a towel.

Something to keep in mind as hotel rates rise. Though, of course, he always goes home to sleep in the evening.

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