For once, the USPS isn’t entirely to blame. I’ve experienced equally poor service from the Royal Mail.

Once, while standing in a long, slow Post Office queue, I heard a lady say, “the Queen would be ashamed.” The English, at the least the over 60s, really believe the Queen runs the mail. In fact, an effort underway to curb pensioner fraud had to address the misperception that anything that comes through “the Queen’s mail” is trustworthy.

We know better. As you can see, some of the postcards I sent were lost in the mail and have only recently surfaced. There are more out there, but at least the postcards from Brussels, Hvar, Vieques, Casablanca, Bath, Paris and Cambridge finally showed up.

More postcards to come, if the Queen ever bothers to deliver to them.

Clare Bridge across the River Cam, in Cambridge, England

Hi-

Pinch me, I live here. I’m looking for Harry Potter and his friends around every cobble-stoned corner.

Surprised (and annoyed) to find this town is a major tourist destination. I need to stop projecting the tourist vibe so that the guys in straw hats no longer me if I “fancy a punt” every time I enter the market to buy groceries.

Lots of love,
A

Inside Musée du Louvre in Paris, France

Hi-

Remember how we always made fun of the French? Well, now I sort of love the place*, but I’m embarrassed and disappointed that I didn’t fall in love with Paris during our first visit. Perhaps it was too much hype?

For Nick, it was love at first sight. My feelings are trying to catch up, but sometimes the love that take longer to develop is the most deep and lasting. (Ew, maybe this City of Love stuff is getting to me after all.)

Miss you,
A

*In particular, I love the wine, chocolate, pastries, butter…

Roman Baths and Bath Abbey, in Bath, England

Hi-

Another beautiful town ruined by tourist traps. The proliferation of High Street shops is nauseating. (Zara and H&M are the CVS & Starbucks of Europe.)

We’ve opted to skip the shopping and are instead running the risk of pickling ourselves by trying to fit in as many spa treatments and thermal bath time as possible in 48 hours.

Lots of love,
A

Deconsecrated L’Eglise du Sacre-Coeur in Casablanca, Morocco

Hi-

This place is like the Roman ruins of Art Deco.

It seems the culture values the old ways, but not old things. We walked through/around/over construction – street rails being installed in the central city and business parks near the port – but progress was hard to see. Perhaps the Casablanca of the past and the future is better than its current iteration.

Lots of love,
A

Beach in Vieques, Puerto Rico

Hi-

The only traffic jams on this island are caused by goats and horses wandering onto the two paved roads.

Took the Jeep to the old U.S. military base and did donuts before heading to down rutted, unpaved, overgrown paths to the beaches on both the Atlantic Ocean and Caribbean Sea sides of the island. But for the feeling that the smoke monster from Lost would start trailing us, we had everything to ourselves.

It’s only a matter of time before this place is spoiled, but we got to experience it before it is.

Lots of love,
A

Harbor on Island of Hvar, Croatia

Hi-

If you want to buy an ancient stone building, sans roof, on a beautiful island in the Adriatic, I saw some for sale. For a moment, I tried to imagine what the real estate listing would say, but from the back of a scooter, my mind was quickly distracting by the sweeping views.

I’ve never been on a motorcycle before – do you think riding on the back of this scooter counts?

Lots of love,
A

Stratford-upon-Avon, Ontario, Canada

If there’s a gene that prevents map reading, then I inherited mine from mom. Want to know what direction to go? Just ask either of us and then head away from our pointing fingers.

Going unfamiliar places is a challenge for my mom, but it doesn’t hold her back. When I was small, she’d brave the fear head-on by dressing Emily and me in pinafores, patent leather shoes and hair bows for a lunch date with dad. After a final check-in with my dad before leaving the house, the yellow cord of the kitchen phone twisted and swirled as she reviewed the detailed written instructions and map, we’d pile into the Mercury and point its big yellow hood south. As we approached downtown Cincinnati, we were hushed into silence as she concentrated on the exit signs in rapid succession and complicated lane markings. For a farm girl, the sights of one-way streets, pedestrian crossings and parallel parking made Cincinnati look like New York City.

In reality, we lived less than 15 minutes from the heart of downtown. With my dad behind the wheel, we frequently entered the city to visit museums and attend sporting events, concerts and festivals. The geography of Cincinnati made these trips even easier – drive on I-71 until you hit the skyscrapers. If you go over the Ohio River, you’ve gone too far. Downtown’s small grid of east-west numbered streets makes it one of the U.S.’s most accessible cities.

Despite how easy it should have been, the fear was real for mom each time she made a solo trip. But thanks to her bravery, we always arrived safely for our Skyline lunch, even if we missed a turn and had to circle the block.

I can imagine her relief when we would spot dad in a sea of downtown workers on the corner of 4^th and Main Streets, flagging down the car with one hand while holding his tie down in the breeze with the other. As soon as my dad jumped into the driver’s seat and my mom slid to the passenger side of the bench, he assumed parking duties and Emily and I could talk again.

As I got older, trips with mom continued, but the places started getting more exotic: spring break in the Bahamas and Florida; Mom’s weekends in Athens, Ohio; girls’ weekends at the Shakespeare Festival in Stratford-upon-Avon, Ontario; Washington, D.C. and even New York City. She braved all these places to be with me and although we always spend part of the trip a little bit lost, it’s also part of the fun.

Galeries Royales Saint-Hubert in Brussels, Belgium

Hi-

This city has multiple personality disorder and I don’t like most of them. What do you expect from a city that made a peeing little boy its icon?

Drinking would be an option, but Nick insisted that we visit a lambic brewery, where they take incredible pride in their flat and bitter beer that should be drunk warm. I need more Delirium and less madness.

Lots of love,
A

Rebuilt Bombe at Bletchley Park in Milton Keynes, England

The ancient preserved structures in Europe are so abundant that they are almost easy to take for granted. “Another Gothic church from the 13th century …. another Roman ruin from the 1st century … another rock pile from 2,000 B.C. …”

Last weekend I stayed in a hotel in the Champagne region of France that dates its structural foundation to the 1100s. This past weekend I stayed in a former Welsh country home that was built starting in the 1500s. But sleeping somewhere old and beautiful wasn’t the highlight of either weekend. For two weekends in a row, quite unexpectedly, I experienced living history that was more interesting than the sum of all the castles and palaces I’ve visited. These people we met connected us to VE Day 67 years later after the fact. I’ve heard called them history bridges. In fact, they are living links to the past.

During our trip to Champagne, we visited the off-the-beaten-path cellars of Drappier. Our tour concluded with a tasting and two flutes into it, the patriarch of the Drappier family, Andre, joined our small group. His visit was unexpected to us, and even the staff seemed surprised, but we made room for him and were delighted with his first-hand accounts of his former neighbor and frequent customer, Charles de Gaulle. The champagne house sells a brut created to CDG’s taste preferences. So there we sat, discussing the upcoming French election and whether the voters would choose the Socialist candidate while drinking Drappier Cuvee Charles de Gaulle Brut. Our friend translated Monsieur Drappier’s observation that “Sarkozy is drinking more water than champagne these days.” Surreal.

Little did I know, our history lesson wasn’t complete. On our way back from Wales this weekend, we stopped in Milton Keynes to visit Bletchley Park, home of the famous World War II code breakers. I was a reluctant visitor; Nick’s enthusiasm overcompensated. In the end, I was the one who didn’t want to leave because we met a woman who spent the war years working in complete secret on an effort that helped end the war two years early. Chosen for her ability to reach the top rows – only the tall girls who were at least 5’4″ qualified – she set the dials and ran the machines that unlocked the German battlefield and maritime messages.

Looking these history bridges in the eye, hearing their personal accounts of familiar stories, and thanking them for rising to the challenges of the day so our freedoms could be preserved – that’s better than a pile of ancient Egyptian wine jugs.

Be sure to wish a happy VE Day to the history bridges in your life who breathed a sigh of relief and celebrated on the streets nearly 70 years ago today.