Easy Rider

For a person who mounted a two-wheeler only once in a near fifty-year span between adolescence and senior citizenry -- stationary machines excepted, of course, on which the reading is easy -- is it possible that a pair of week-long cycling excursions, one in the Fruili Region of Italy, the other in Ireland's Connemarra, featuring eighty-kilometer loops, twelve percent inclines, harrowing traffic, and brutal rainstorms, could have created a veteran as jaded as the title suggests?

In fact, the hardest riding JSG and I encounter on our recent European journey to the Czech Republic, Bavaria, and Austria is of the motorized variety, hardly a revelation to anyone familiar with the vagaries of air travel or prearranged group transport. And much more strenuous than pedaling the placid trails along the Vltava and Danube Rivers is our courageous but futile attempt to reconnoiter on foot every major attraction of the two glorious cities which bookend our itinerary, Prague and Vienna, in the meager ten hours allotted to each.

One subscribes to either the theory that "We're here, and we might as well take advantage of it," or "Ten days is long enough to be away from home," and, as JSG gently reminds me one weary evening, it was I who proffered the latter as grounds for swiftly dismissing both optional two-day add-ons.

Considering his time constraints, surely a seasoned traveler heading overseas for about the tenth time would surrender to common sense and peruse the preparatory materials provided for his edification, sample the recommended literature on his destinations, or research any of a multitude of web sites available at the click of a button. But habits die hard, and not even my embarrassing recollection of purchasing a glossy illustrated guide to the history, culture, and artifacts of ancient Egypt upon exiting the country and of enjoying Jan Morris's Trieste and the Meaning of Nowhere and The World of Venice weeks after they could have been of real value can overcome my inertia.

Finally, two days before liftoff, insistent prompting by JSG compels me to print out a three-page list of Prague Sights and Attractions A-Z and stuff it my all-purpose duffel bag. The crucial question is whether we will arrive in time to see any of them.

Since this is an all-inclusive package, economics has placed us at the mercy of our tour company for our flight bookings; an apparent concession from Delta Airlines routes us from Richmond (an inconvenient two-and-a-half hours from home, not to mention the cost of extended parking) through JFK and overnight to Prague with a scheduled arrival at 11:00 AM. Our one stroke of good fortune is that our arrival and departure gates at JFK are nearly adjacent to each other; the bad news is that we are at the far end of the terminal, where there are only about one hundred seats in the waiting area to accommodate three hundred and fifty passengers.

We find ourselves submerged in a sea of yellow tee shirts, small, medium, and large, all flaunting the imprint of the "Foster Family 50th Anniversary Celebration." Grandpa and Grandma are treating their son, daughter, spouses, and grandchildren to two weeks in Prague, Vienna, Naples, and Rome, and one aboard a Mediterranean cruise ship. "My son-in-law is a Foster," I proclaim to the patriarch. "Maybe we are related."

Nearby, an animated group of Jewish preteens sporting their own NFTY apparel (National Federation of Temple Youth, of which I was once a member) catches our attention, an ominous foreshadowing. Because just as we are settling into our Boeing 767 seats, where the leg room  is scarcely more generous that that of our all-too-familiar Dash 8 commuter prop jets, our pilot politely reports that one of those youngsters has misplaced his passport; not only will he not be allowed to board, but his luggage must be located in the storage compartment and banished as well.

By the time we are able to taxi out on the runway, we are far back in the pack. "Just twelve planes ahead of us," exudes the captain," only twenty-five minutes to takeoff," which, after seven-and-a-half cramped hours in the air, will deposit us in Prague exactly one hour late.

Emerging from our cocoon bleary-eyed yet, like distance runners, invigorated by a second wind, we are greeted by Barbara, our stocky, rough hewed, local contact, who shepherds us onto a van and merrily launches into a Czech math lesson. Flush with euros supplied to me by a frequent European flier, I am disappointed to learn that they are as useless as monopoly money -- although the native currency, the koruna, once purchased, at the rate of twenty per dollar, does offer the illusion of wealth. "Now, how much is sixty korunas worth?" quizzes Barbara. Whipping out my Droid calculator, I announce, "Three dollars," to which one of my companions quips, "That's a lot of Mexican beer."

And just who might this presumptive comedian be, who will continue entertaining us with his extensive -- often informative, occasionally trivial -- monologues for the next week, as well as serving as our resourceful and relentless guide with assistance from the omnipresent Rick Steves?

Deploying her infectious enthusiasm, JSG actually recruited three other hometown couples to join the party. One had a scheduling conflict, but liked the idea of researching their German roots (and practicing the native tongue) so much that they scored a two-month jump on us, returning with glowing testimonials, particularly the hard-core husband, who modestly recounted speeding to the daily destination before doubling back to meet his wife for a more leisurely finale. Another fellow succumbed to a balky hip -- postponing the inevitable replacement and too prideful ever to expose himself to the sag wagon should pain incapacitate him.

Which leaves us in the capable hands of the indefatigable GWD -- retired hospital executive, cancer survivor, prolific raconteur, amateur historian, wine connoisseur, master chef, budding artist, gentleman farmer, accomplished skier, durable cyclist, imaginative photographer -- and his elegant wife RCD. GWD's reputation as a micro-manager is well-deserved; he attacks sightseeing with the same analytical precision, exhausting deconstruction, unabashed gusto, and authoritative demeanor which defined his forty-year reign as visionary, architect, and impresario of Central Virginia's renowned health-care system.

In fact, as he leads us from our hotel toward the Charles Bridge, which I'm glumly focused on in the distance ahead, his eagle eye spots a bright red garbage truck emblazoned with the insignia "Centra," a photo op he cannot resist forwarding to his former associates under the caption: "One of America's (or the Czech Republic's) top one hundred heart hospitals."

When I told my daughter-in-law I was in Prague, she asked, "Did you see the Astronomical Clock?" "Well, no," I said (although, on second thought, yes; I just didn't know that's what it was). "Did you see the Jewish Museum?" (And she's Catholic.) "Well, no," I said again (although, actually, we did, but arrived moments after it and the adjacent cemetery, where graves are stacked to eight levels, locked their doors).

Four curiosities even I can't overlook are the "Before I Die" mural, a thirty by thirty metallic chalkboard upon which passers-by inscribe their bucket wishes, the most memorable of which is "I want to eat KFC"; a couple of faceless, creepy, crawling, oversized black marble babies, the work of the famous sculptor, David Cerny; a gold-plated Porsche, obviously not endemic to Prague but nevertheless a first for me; and the Michael Jackson inspired jazz cruise boat "Beat it."

As we stroll back and forth across the sixteen arches of the ancient cobblestone bridge commissioned by King Charles IV in 1357 (although not named after him until 1870), browse the water colorists and jewelry vendors thirsty for korunas, toss a coin to a sidewalk quartet, and pay homage to the thirty saints whose Baroque statues (mostly replicas of the originals) are mounted to the balustrade in two rows, GWD, guidebook in hand, directs us to St. John Nepomuk. Poor St. John was thrown into the river by his king, Wenceslas IV, when he refused to disclose the Queen's confession. We dutifully rub the bronze plaque depicting the execution, adding to its shine and hoping it will bring us a promised dose of good luck.

Four famished folk foraging for sustenance in a foreign city are as dysfunctional as three siblings trying to run a family business. The menus exhibit a depressing similarity; each restaurant is either filled to capacity or uncomfortably vacant; we're in a tourist neighborhood, yet we prefer to avoid the masses. After several false starts, RCD, JSG, and I are happy to defer to the decider, and indeed GWD lands us under an awning in the Lesser Town Square in the shadow of St. Nicholas Church, surrounded by pubs, shops, and Baroque buildings, and fascinated by the quiet, smokeless trams gliding over the cobblestone streets.

And the food is good, too. I opt for pizza, the others salads, but the piece de resistance is a cheese plate featuring camembert and four other varieties, enough for a meal, and we have ordered two. The surfeit prompts a youthful reminiscence from GWD about ordering a cup of soup at a cafe in Chartres and being swamped by a huge pot.

In spite of having been provided with an all-day transportation pass, we choose to make the long trek up the steep hill to the Prague Castle -- founded in 870, the largest such complex of Medieval Europe, covering eighteen acres of courtyards, gardens, churches, alleyways, and palaces that would take days to penetrate. At this point we have about one hour. Almost every building seems to be closed, except the St. Vitus Cathedral, a Gothic triumph and the spiritual symbol of the Czech state, commissioned by Charles IV in 1344 but not completed until 1929 -- a time requirement that reminds GWD of Lynchburg's interminable Combined Sewer Overflow Project. Regaining his solemnity, he rotates one-hundred-eighty-degrees and points up to the resplendent stained-glass rose window over the entrance which I would surely have missed, so entranced am I by the grandiose interior.

Back outside, circling to the rear, we marvel at the massive buttresses and delicate gargoyles decorating the exterior, and are amused by a virtuoso version of "YMCA" pounded out on a beer-bottle xylophone by a duet of heavy drinkers.

On our downhill jaunt, we pause at several vantage points for panoramic views of the City with a Thousand Spires and ten times as many red-tiled roofs sheltering a veritable Lego land of muted colors rendered in classical Gothic and Renaissance designs. It's a city of juxtapositions -- relaxed yet cosmopolitan, traditionally religious yet increasingly secular, an historic fortress softened by its bohemian temperament.

What could be a more fitting sunset to our abbreviated sojourn than a classical chamber concert in the old world atmosphere of the Romanesque St. George's Basilica on the Castle grounds -- even though, after another uphill trudge and a water closet detour that causes me to miss the first piece, it's not easy to maintain consciousness; after all, we've been awake thirty-six hours. The ambiance enchants while the strings and soprano deliver soaring interpretations of Dvorak, Handel, Mozart, and Brahms. Forte would be proud of me.

We finally try the tram on our way home, and at a nearby recommended restaurant RCD and I trump our meat-eating mates with our delicious vegetarian pot pies (more like a mixed salad of arugula, tomatoes, zuchini, and squash on baked flat bread). GWD, after expounding on the origins of pilsener (not far from where we are sitting), is more intent upon which local beer is most highly regarded, and before the evening is done has sampled the three prime contenders: Pilsener Urquell, Essenberg, and Budweiser (not the Bud we know, although Anheuser-Busch seems to have stolen the formula and the name.)

Our next morning's destination, by bus, is the Czech Republic's second most visited: the picturesque town of Chesky Krumlov. Nestled in a double horseshoe bend of the Vltava River, its magical realism, natural beauty, romanticism, crooked pathways, and slanting terrain -- to quote our pleasantly sardonic guide Stanislaw -- are emblematic of a Czech character that is flexible, creative, and soulful. Displaying a subtle, self-deprecating humor, he touts his own baldness, beer belly, and perpetual frown as its physical template.

Like a passing thundercloud, a lingering regret for "what might have been" casts an occasional shadow over our Czech hosts and easily justifies their stoic disposition. Having suffered mightily under the Nazis -- 350,000 slain, hundreds of thousands more sent to prisons or concentration camps -- they merely traded one malevolent regime for another in 1945, when U. S. troops on the outskirts of Prague were compelled by prior agreement to watch helplessly while first the Germans quashed an insurgency and then one day later the Soviets liberated the city. Within months an Iron Curtain descended with somber finality, leaving the innocent populace ruthlessly quarantined from its Westernized German and Austrian neighbors and the victims of a half-century of Communist political repression and economic mismanagement.

Stanislaw's ninety-minute walking narrative is seasoned with such tidbits as: "The average Czech consumes 137 liters of beer (and seventeen books) a year"; "Look for the linden tree, which like the Czech nation, is almost indestructible, and consumes large quantities of liquids"; "If you get lost, just think of horny, as in Horni Street"; "Our country is Prague-o-centric, so whatever you see here, no matter how beautiful, comes in second"; "Fine dining consists of carp, potatoes, and duck swimming in your stomach (beer)"; "No foreigners ever conquered us until the Japanese invaded with their cameras";  "Since the fall of Communism in 1989, real estate prices have risen by a factor of fifteen," which is understandable, considering the pristine spectrum of color and design shimmering around every corner; and "Now I leave you on your own -- the best part of the tour."

But not for long. Because for our late afternoon activity we are handed off to a younger version of Stanislaw, who illuminates for us the three grandest galleries in the former Rosenberg family castle perched atop the town -- the mirrored Library, housing 40,000 volumes; the Dancing Hall, the walls and ceiling of which are lacquered with a mural of one-hundred-thirty-five eighteenth-century revelers; and a still-operational Baroque Theater, the proscenium of which, when viewed from the balcony where we stand, appears deceptively deep due to the perfect optical illusion of its painted background. Fifteen hundred original props and costumes have been preserved as well as the amazing mechanism of pulleys and gears below the stage which, as demonstrated to us, enabled scenes to be retracted and replaced in ten seconds.

The highlight of our thirty-mile ride that day is -- what else -- lunch in the village of Plav at pink house number 16, the Rial family farm, actually a well-furnished inn, where we savor spicy goulash and superb apple strudel with vanilla creme sauce, admire the outdoor frescoes painted by the proprietor's father-in-law, wander past a vegetable garden and open-air bedroom toward a bubbling creek, try to keep the allergic GWD away from the honeybee hives, and compete against each other in a friendly game of Czech bowling, in which the pins are toppled from the rear by swinging a rope-suspended ball in a gentle arc -- not as easy as it sounds.

The two low lights are having to dismount for a short walk up a twelve percent incline and the embarrassing scenario which prompts GWD's limerick of the day: "There was a biker Marc Schewel, who thought riding ahead was so cool; until reaching the town of Radostice, he went where he was not supposed to be, and ended up as far back as a mule."

Later on, as we slake our thirst back at the hotel bar, like a magician with an endless bag of tricks, he extracts the joke of the day, the one about the prim and proper British gentleman who, having refrained from intimacy throughout courtship, begins to disrobe in front of his presumed virgin on their wedding night. Exposing his gnarled toes, he attributes them to an attack of "tolio," not polio. Baring his wrinkled knees, he blames them on being stricken with "kneesles," not measles. And thus, when his full nakedness is revealed, what should his bride riposte but, "I see you've got a bad case of smallcox."

That evening we ingest a full serving of local color and cuisine at "The Jail," where we are lured by the sizzle, scent, and smoke wafting from the exposed grill dominating the dusky interior. We sit outside where, while I am forswearing my pseudo-vegetarian vows and engorging myself on a beef, pork, and chicken combo, we spy cam on a dance of debauchery at the next table. A gang of rowdy Czech men are taking turns making overtures to a pair of comely Asian females half their age -- buying drinks, soliciting phone numbers and emails, rubbing shoulders, and infatuating themselves with their one-way conversations.

Mystified by the girls' patience and calmness, I begin to wonder who's seducing whom.

Our next day's ride is the sweetest of all -- despite three wrong turns and, when I make an ill-advised downshift accelerating uphill, a jumped chain which JSG repairs like a pro. Twisting and turning through the lakes, peat bogs, and primeval forest of the Czech Sumava Park, I almost forget the one hundred korunas burning a hole in my pocket, and so we pause at a roadside cafe for an espresso and cappuccino, leaving a generous tip.

Only a few kilometers further, everyone poses beside the "Willkommen in Deutschland" greeting for a border crossing opportunity, except me. "Germany's not my favorite place," I mumble. "Just shoot me from the other side" -- perhaps a poor choice of words -- beside the "Vitejte v Ceske Republice" sign.

From there, in a matter of hours, we delight in the kaleidoscopic variety of the Bavarian landscape, hardly breaking a sweat as we pedal along a ridge surrounded by dense greenery from above and below, climb gentle slopes leading to breathtaking vistas of rolling hills and isolated settlements, and cruise through scattered villages populated with an occasional shop, a busy pub, and a whitewashed church. A sumptuous buffet lunch at a family tavern includes a homemade vegetable soup that earns a unanimous five stars from everyone in our group.

Our destination is Passau, a warren of colorful Baroque-style townhouses set at the confluence of three rivers -- the Danube, the Inn, and the Ilz -- and the site of some notable ancient and modern history. The town's heyday occurred during the Renaissance, when sword manufacturing made the local burghers quite prosperous. But just last month five hundred years of devastating floods, the crests of which have been duly delineated on the wall of a prominent waterfront building, were eclipsed by the most recent one, which rose to a level at least ten feet higher than its closest predecessor.

Dare I confess that cycling along the Danube -- aside from its breadth, blueness, and barge traffic -- reminds me of Lynchburg: the flat, monotonous Blackwater Creek Trail coupled with the familiar mud, potholes, and detours left behind by the receding flood waters. After all, we pass a dam, a power plant, a campsite, a university, a golf course, and some serious construction equipment.

It must be these parallels -- as well as visions of euros converted to dollars -- that germinate a seed of entrepreneurship in the fecund brain of GWD. "I have an idea," he says, "BS (for Bike South) Tours. Experience the heritage and beauty of Central Virginia at a fraction of the price of a European adventure. Relax in luxury at the Craddock-Terry Hotel; dine in style at the Dawson Family Mini-Farm; explore the wonders of the James River, Poplar Forest, the Blue Ridge Parkway, and Appomattox. Bikes, helmets, and rail transportation included. Group discounts available." "Sounds like BS to me," shouts a voice from the rear.

Back in town, at the advice of some friends, we hike up to another cathedral, St. Stephen's, whose  luminescence shines a few shades brighter than the last two we have seen (including one surprisingly planted in the fields of Vornbach) yet is destined to be surpassed, or maybe it's simply a matter of the newer model being better. Whatever the rationale, I leave with a jaw sore from a sudden six-inch drop and a neck strained from peering skyward at the gorgeous frescoes and the world's largest organ, which, I whisper to GWD, JSG definitely does not want to miss.

Since one cannot live on superlatives only, we descend from the celestial to the mundane, and, enticed by the catchy slogan "You'll never wok alone," find acceptable fare at Sensasian (Is this an international chain?), where we conclude our pun-filled day.

Beware to the traveler who fails to read his handbook, in which it clearly states: "Some things may not always go exactly according to plan . . . at which times it's best to draw on one's sense of humor." And thus our spectacular Wachau Valley River cruise is foiled by some nasty lock operators who decide to stage a twelve-hour mini-strike but at a most inopportune time for us. Our consolation prize is a sixty-minute meander up and down the Passau shoreline, the most interesting part of which is watching the captain employ the intersecting currents to navigate his two-hundred-foot vessel through a three-hundred-sixty-degree turn.

An even grimmer snafu awaits us the next day after another leisurely riverside junket, during which we pass through a summer retreat of cabins and tents bordered by immaculately groomed postage-stamp lawns and gardens, stop in Aschach for a pastry and coffee snack (since we're now in Austria), and finish up with beer and gelato under the shadow of the church tower in the cobblestone town square of Ottensheim.

Weary and warm, we clamber aboard our motor coach, lean back, relax, and reach up to adjust the overhead vents, only to realize that the hot air blasting through them is not abating, nor will it for the two-hour duration of this insufferable interlude, nor will any relief be provided by the side windows, which are sealed shut tighter than a coffin. Alas, even the most resilient optimist is at pains to make Kool-Aid out of this lemon.

Once again, though, our nimble guides have arranged worthy recompense for our sauna trauma (so labeled by one witty passenger). We are in the charming village of Weissenkirchen for a two-night stay, and, after checking into our spacious manor house suite, we amble around the corner to a hueriger for a private tasting festival, in which three varieties (with increasing alcohol content) of home-fermented white wines are speedily consumed along with plentiful plates of salami, bread, and cheese. It's just a prelude, however, to a family-style feeding frenzy a few blocks away, as copious quantities of beef, chicken, ravioli, boiled potatoes, squash, and broccoli pour forth from the kitchen of a Renaissance inn.

Thus, we are well-fortified for our final ride of the week, and it is a most satisfying one -- challenging, scenic, adventurous, and enlightening.

About six miles (actually eleven kilometers) down the road (actually the ubiquitous Bike Trail 6), our route instructions direct us to TR (turn right), park, and walk up the stairs to view the Venus of Willendorf, a life-size replica of a limestone Palaeolithic statuette unearthed on this very spot in 1908. Having outpaced my mates once again, I miss the signage (after all, it's in German) and pedal uphill an extra kilometer before reversing course and rejoining them at the obscure shed which serves as a museum.

According to archeologists, certain features of the Venus -- omitted face, tapering legs for implantation in the soil, female traits realistically replicated -- identify her as a skillful work of Stone Age art and possible symbol of fertility. Others, I'm afraid -- gross obesity, protruding hips and belly, heavy breasts, shortened thighs and legs -- merely predate by about 25,000 years the lamentable epidemic which is sweeping across America.

From here it's ten miles to a Danube River crossing and the site of the majestic Benedictine abbey at Melk, now primarily a museum but also utilized as public secondary school. An articulate former student is well-qualified to give us what can be considered no more than a cursory introduction to this Baroque masterpiece.

A four-hundred-ninety-six room (one more than GWD's unconscious guess) residence with a collection of priceless treasures seems a little extravagant for a handful of monks sworn to the credo, "Pray, work, and read," although in all fairness Empress Maria Theresa demanded adequate accommodations for her three hundred courtiers when she deigned to pay her respects. If what we see is any indication, she should have had no complaints: the palatial eastern facade, crowned by the Melk Cross and flanked by the apostles Peter and Paul; the six-hundred-forty-three foot long Imperial Corridor, lined with portraits of the Austrian rulers; the Blue and Green Rooms, showcasing exquisite historical and religious objects; the (faux, mostly stucco) Marble Hall, covered by a marvelous ceiling fresco depicting the wisdom and moderation of the Hapsburgs; the Library, housing 100,000 volumes in bindings sewn to match the inlaid wood bookcases; and finally, unbelievably, the most magnificent Church we have yet seen, a Baroque orgy of religiosity, executed in a thousand shades of intricate gold woodwork, marble, stucco, metal, and glass.

On our next leg -- about fifteen miles with no turns -- I'm primed for an intense workout, or as intense as it can be for a sixty-four-year-old novice. I settle in behind Dave, now unleashed as his wife Rachel has opted for the van, whereas I, obviously, have no qualms about leaving JSG to fend for herself. Pedaling hard, I shift to the higher gears, which enables me to keep pace until we reach a natural rest stop. "You go ahead," says Dave, after which he proceeds to fall in about six feet behind me, the precise distance for him to benefit from a perfect draft, according to racing authority GWD. Blinded by this spurious competition, I can only nod in mute concurrence with JSG's subsequent glowing reviews of the terraced vineyards, lush apricot groves, and luxuriantly flowered cemetery beds that draw her eye and camera.

Spying our green barn marker and the conspicuous blue church spire on the far bank of the river, Dave and I pull off the road to await the arrival of the rest of our crew, whereupon all ten of us, bicycles in tow, step gingerly aboard a ferry no bigger than a raft. Poor Jim can't swim, and is totally unnerved by this precarious water crossing, although it deposits us within minutes safely on the opposite shore at Durnstein. JSG and I set out to scale the steep incline leading to the ruined castle which towers overhead -- where Richard the Lionhearted was imprisoned in 1193 -- but lose our way, perhaps by design, search fruitlessly for the highly-touted Schmidl bakery, and end up wandering for an hour through the another maze of pastel pink, lime green, and sun-kissed yellow buildings before heading home for our farewell dinner.

As if a restored wine cellar isn't authentic enough, our two precocious escorts -- young enough to be our offspring yet wise beyond their twenty-something years -- have donned some traditional Bavarian garb, lederhosen for him, a dirndl for her, although she, with a twinkle in her eye, advises us not to put much stock in the central placement of her sash's bow, signifying the wearer's virginity.

Other than her being a smart blonde, Hana's petite vivaciousness, innocent maturity, engaging chatter, and determined gait remind me of my brilliant brunette stepdaughter ASB. "I love Americans," she gushes on our first evening together, "because they smile a lot, and everything they see is awesome." She gained an appreciation for their culture while spending a year in Denver as a fifteen-year-old exchange student -- and admittedly shocked her host family with her Czech tales of smoking, drinking, and staying overnight at her boyfriend's house. Now she wants to share the beauty and customs of her own country with visitors like us.

She's a law student with an exceedingly inquisitive mind, and fluidly converses with us on a plethora of subjects, ranging from health care to slavery to Communism to merchandising a furniture store. And after having that discussion, why do I feel she knows more about my business than I do?

More reserved, yet equally knowledgeable, is Jan. His standard remark after every one of his partner's exhaustive soliloquies -- "Well, Hana has just about covered everything there is to say" -- captures in a nutshell the difficulty of following another person never at a loss for words: GWD.

Jan has traveled widely, and worked at such jobs as manhandling freight in Scandinavian dockyards. One would never guess he's a software programmer for the international firm AVG -- and may in fact be sniffing out viruses on this very computer as I write -- but his real loves, he says, are history, literature, and the eighteenth-month-old daughter he sorely misses after eight days absence. He's no naif when it comes to wine either. He reveals a poignant intellect when I half jokingly inquire why he declined to join us for the Melk Abbey tour. "It all seems too ostentatious and costly for a religious order committed to asceticism and simplicity," he says.

Over the past week a congenial covey of strangers has bonded into a polished peloton: Bill the banker, whose most audacious loan was to finance a race horse; his wife Chris, a former magazine publisher now selling clothes for "women who weren't born yesterday," who was disappointed to learn that her retail margins would be only ten percent (about twice mine); Dave and Rachel, mates since their Princeton undergraduate days, now twin executives at elite private schools, although fortuitously not competitors, as one is all-male, the other all-female; another Chris, the chiropractor, a back savior of sorts, which may explain the roster (and name badge) typo erroneously christening him "Christ"; his wife Pam, a psychologist investigating the incipient dementia of senior cyclists; Jim, a Wisconsin family doc and Packer backer, who whips out a miracle anti-bacterial salve to treat a minor ankle scratch I incurred from a fall while trying to avoid a front-end loader; his wife, Jane, a health care consultant whom Jim is trying to convince to purchase the specs she no longer needs after cataract surgery because, he says, he's always liked women with glasses; their daughter Allison, who valiantly endures her parents' unwavering resolve to climb every mountain (including the one in Durnstein) and follow every byway so as not to miss a single sight in Northern Europe; Gladys, a speech therapist, who stays in practice by coaching Hana on the proper pronunciation of the "t-h-r" phoneme; and finally, another Rachel, a schoolteacher in search of an audience, who rolls along blithely lecturing to herself.

The next morning, after a shuttle to Vienna, we are all off on our separate ways, to see who can absorb the most culture in the remaining ten hours -- and we four Lynchburgers, once again under the firm guidance of GWD, will not be denied. "Look for the McDonald's," he says, "then turn left, and head uphill," toward, predictably, another church, St. Stephen's Cathedral. Haven't we seen this one before? Well, no, that was in another country and was Baroque, while this one's Gothic, a repository of eight centuries of architectural history, all massive gray masonry walls, pillars, towers, vaults, and buttresses accentuated with sandstone and clay sculptures and stained glass mosaics.

Soon we're strolling through the Graben, Vienna's hub, half street, half square, where GWD is looking for a toilet -- actually the famous underground Art Nouveau marble-paneled gilded cubicles built by Alfred Loos in 1905 -- while I'm in dire need of caffeine. Both are temporarily postponed until we locate the important Plague Monument and the statue of a humbled Emperor Leopold I kneeling in gratitude to the heavens for having exorcised the Black Plague of 1679 (after it had taken 75,000 lives).

Further on I pay a modest premium to sit beside the boulevard in the Julius Meinl coffeehouse and sip rather ordinary espresso while my companions lose themselves in the endless aisles of this international gourmet supermarket.

Moving along to window shop the luxurious boutiques lining the pedestrianized Kohlmarkt, is it likely we would resist the sugary confections beckoning from the shelves of the Demel Konditorei, once the Royal pastry cook's and now Vienna's most elite cafe? As if the gauntlet of strudels, cakes, and tortes weren't tempting enough, one is allowed to watch the master bakers hand-crafting their Tiffany boxed cupcakes and other proprietary delicacies in a glass-enclosed kitchen. Maintaining our diets, dignity, and discipline, we emerge on an imaginary high.

We make our way to the Imperial Palace -- it's not that hard to find, comprised of eighteen buildings housing 2600 rooms sprawled over fifty-nine acres, although I'm surprised to learn that one vast wing was constructed by Franz Joseph only twenty years before his empire's demise and that he was outraged when a brash financier erected a very contemporary office building opposite his Herculean Michael Gate almost simultaneously. I have little sympathy for the excessive vanities and stubborn pride of the Hapsburg monarchs, whose ill-conceived retaliation for the assassination of their heir in 1914 sparked a conflagration which can rightly be deemed the prime source of the woes which have afflicted Western Civilization ever since.

Disappointed that the Spanish Riding School is on summer break, and declining to ogle any Royal bedchambers, we traverse a couple of the campus's nineteen courtyards to reach Maria-Theresien-Platz -- in the center of which, bordered on two sides by semi-palaces, now museums, sits the Empress herself atop a huge pedestal -- before doubling back across the Ringstrasse for a light lunch almost under the gaze of another memorialized Viennese luminary, Mozart.

What trip to Europe would be complete without at least two hours of great art contemplation? Leaving GWD and RCD to scope out the Opera House, JSG and I, intrigued by its reputed collection of Dutch Masters, retrace our steps to the Kunsthistorisches. The architecture alone is significant; no expense was spared either in materials or interior embellishment despite the state's near insolvency during the period of construction (1871-1891).

With our time limited, we choose to spend it in the Picture Gallery -- foregoing even a glimpse of the Egyptian-Oriental, Antiquities, Sculpture, and Coin Collections. While I am no connoisseur, one cannot help but be impressed, even awestruck, by the tableaux on display, grand works by Vermeer ("The Art of Painting"), Bruegel the Elder ("Children Playing," "The Tower of Babel," "The Peasant Wedding"), Van Der Weyden ("Crucifixion Triptych"), Van Dyck ("Samson and Delilah"), and Rubens ("The Little Fur Coat," "The Calydonian Boar Hunt," "Stormy Landscape with Philemon and Baucis") -- although after all this immobile concentration, I'm thinking I'd rather be cycling.

Enough of the sublime; rendezvousing with GWD and RCD, we are now ready for the ridiculous -- Film Festival 2013 Viennese style, free concerts (actually they are televised on gigantic screens) held nightly in the large square, Rathausplatz, in front of City Hall, at which thousands of natives (mostly three decades younger than we are) swarm like frenzied cicadas, hover like ravenous vultures over the limited seating (about five hundred) in the vain hope of scoring a kill, swill foaming liters of homegrown brew drawn on draft by a bevy of buxom beauties, inhale the delicious odors percolating from fifty food vendors while evaluating which lines are worth the wait, and around nine o'clock shake, clap, and dance to the scintillating sound and light show emanating from the overhead monitor. It's like Friday Cheers on steroids.

GWD proceeds to flush out a pair of young lovers engrossed in their raging hormones by rudely planting himself at their table, leaning over, and licking the girl's ear (or so he claims). After several circuits of the premises, I suggest Indian to JSG; it's close, and rather than trying to decipher the menu one can simply point to his choice of the four curry selections -- lamb, chicken, veggie, or combo -- sizzling before him, all very tasty.

And once the headliner turns up the volume -- he's a middle-aged hard-rocking accordionist/singer named Hubert von Goisern, who apparently has quite a following in these parts -- we contrive respectable impersonations of free-spirited minglers having a good time.

Walking back to our hotel, we pass scores of restaurants, cafes, and stalls catering to a late-night crowd, which convinces me that the preeminent characteristic of this city -- or at least the one I will carry home -- is not music, history, architecture, or treasure; it's food, all the varieties, flavors, and national specialties we've eyeballed this evening -- from curries to burgers to fries to sausages to noodles to pasta to rice bowls to shish kabob to pastries to pizza to crepes to gelato, ad infinitum, not to mention hundreds of finer dining establishments known only to the sophisticates.

Our travels the next day are a travail. Arriving at the airport at 6:00 AM, we are panic-stricken when Austrian Airlines cannot locate our reservation; it's been made by Delta, but the two don't talk to one another. We hold our breaths while the agent attacks his computer with a vengeance. "I'm a genius!" he exclaims, and produces a pair of tickets, but only as far as Paris, where we must traipse from Terminal Two to Terminal Three (about a mile), find an equally competent representative to check us in again, but only as far as JFK, and be re-screened for explosives, weapons, and hand lotion.

If we manage to nap any on our eight-hour trans-Atlantic flight, we awaken to the nightmare that is JFK: frustrating baggage retrieval, interminable immigration and security (for the third time) lines, shuttling from Terminal C to Terminal E when the signage is non-existent, and four commuter flights funneled through the same gate at the same departure time.

We make it to Richmond on schedule, and if there have been any recurring themes in this travelogue, the perceptive reader will recognize that it ends as it begins. Because upon landing it's time to eat, and GWD knows just the place -- Whole Foods in Short Pump. I'll have to admit it's an inspired choice, but he'll have to admit, for once, countermanding his instructions, I drive us there by the shortest route. And that's no BS.