Rick Steves Travel as a Political Act

by Rick Steves

  A huge thunderstorm hit with enough fury to keep the automatic glass doors opening and closing on their own. Nothing drained—a torrent ran down the stairs outside the front door. With the rain, a backed-up sewage smell drove me out of my room. And just as I sat down for a cup of coffee in the lounge, the lights went out. Peering past the candelabra on my table, the overwhelmed receptionist explained with a shrug, “When it rains, there is no electricity.” The man who runs the place just looked at me and said, “Cows.” (I think he meant “chaos.”)

  Montenegro’s Bay of Kotor rewards the curious traveler.

  Eventually the rain stopped, the clouds parted, and I continued exploring. The first major stop in Montenegro when arriving from Dubrovnik is the Bay of Kotor, where the Adriatic cuts into the steep mountains like a Norwegian fjord. And there, at the humble waterfront town of Perast, young guys in swim trunks edged their boats near the dock, jockeying to motor tourists out to the island in the middle of the bay. According to legend, fishermen saw the Virgin Mary in the reef and began a ritual of dropping a stone on the spot every time they sailed by. Eventually the island we see today was created, and upon that island the people built a fine little church.

  I hired a guy with a dinghy to ferry me out and was met by a young woman who gave me a tour. In the sacristy hung a piece of embroidery—a 25-year-long labor of love made by a local parishioner 200 years ago. It was as exquisite as possible, lovingly made with the finest materials available: silk and the woman’s own hair. I could trace her laborious progress through the line of cherubs that ornamented the border. As the years went by, the hair of the angels (like the hair of the devout artist) turned from dark brown to white. Humble and anonymous as she was, she had faith that her work was worthwhile and would be appreciated—as it is, two centuries later, by a steady parade of travelers from distant lands.

  I’ve been at my work for more than three decades now. I also have a faith that it (my work, if not my hair) will be appreciated after I’m gone. That’s perhaps less humble than the woman was, but her work reassured me that we live on through our deeds. Her devotion to her creation (as well as to her creator) is an inspiration to do both good and lasting work. While traveling, I’m often struck by how people give meaning to life by producing and contributing.

  I didn’t take a photograph of the embroidery. For some reason, I didn’t even take notes. At the moment, I didn’t realize I was experiencing the highlight of my day. The impression of the woman’s tenderly created embroidery needed—like a good red wine—time to breathe. That was a lesson for me. I was already mentally on to the next thing. When the power of the impression opened up, it was rich and full-bodied…but I was long gone. If travel is going to have the impact on you that it should, you have to climb into those little dinghies and reach for those experiences—the best ones won’t come to you. And you have to let them breathe.

  Monks, Track Suits, and Europe’s Worst Piano in the Montenegrin Heartland

  Most tourists stick to Montenegro’s scenic Bay of Kotor. But—inspired by my back-roads Bosnian experience—I was eager to get off the beaten path and headed deep into the rugged interior of the “Black Mountain.”

  I climbed 25 switchbacks—someone painted numbers on each one—ascending from the Montenegrin coast with its breezy palm trees, bustling ice cream stands, and romantic harbor promenades into a world of lonely goats, scrub brush, and remote, seemingly deserted farmhouses. At switchback #4, I passed a ramshackle Gypsy encampment. I thought about how, all over our world, nomadic cultures are struggling; they’re at odds with societies that demand fences, conventional ownership, and other non-nomadic ways. I wonder how many nomadic cultures (American Indians, Eskimos, Kurds, Gypsies) will be here in the next generation.

  At switchback #18, I pulled out for a grand view of the Bay of Kotor and, pulling on my sweater, marveled at how the vegetation, climate, and ambience were completely different just a few twists in the road above sea level.

  At switchback #24, I noticed the “old road”—little more than an overgrown donkey path—that was once the mountain kingdom’s umbilical cord to the Adriatic. The most vivid thing I remember about my last visit, decades ago, was that a grand piano had literally been carried up the mountain so some big-shot nobleman could let it go slowly out of tune in his palace.

  As I crested the ridge, the sea disappeared and before me stretched a basin defined by a ring of black mountains—Montenegro’s heartland. Exploring the poorest corner of any European country can be eye-opening—but Montenegro’s is more evocative than most. Desolate farmhouses claim to sell smoked ham, mountain cheese, and medovina (honey brandy), but I didn’t see a soul.

  I came into a village that looked like it had no commerce at all. Stopping at a lonely local tavern, I asked the bartender, “What do people do here?” He led me to a big, blocky, white building resembling a giant Monopoly house. He opened the door and I stepped inside, under tons of golden ham aging peacefully. It was a smokehouse—jammed with five layers of hanging ham hocks. My new Montenegrin friend stoked up his fire, filling the place with smoke. More industry than you realize hides out in sleepy villages.

  Up here, the Cyrillic alphabet survives better than on the coast. Every hundred yards or so, the local towing company had spray-painted on a rock, “Auto Šlep 067-838-555.” You had a feeling they were in the bushes praying for a mishap. Pulling off for a photo of the valley, I noticed a plaque marking where Tito’s trade minister was assassinated in a 1948 ambush.

  At the end of the road was Cetinje, which the road sign proclaimed as the “Old Royal Capital.” I’m nostalgic about this town, a classic mountain kingdom (with that grotesquely out-of-tune grand piano) established as the capital in the 15th century. Cetinje was taken by the Ottomans several times. The rampaging Ottomans would generally move in and enjoy a little raping, pillaging, and plundering. But, quickly realizing there was little hedonism to enjoy in Cetinje, they basically just destroyed the place and moved out. With the way clear, the rugged and determined residents filtered back into the ruins of their town and rebuilt.

  Today Cetinje is a workaday, two-story town with barely a hint of its old royal status. The museums are generally closed. The economy is flat. A shoe factory and a refrigerator factory were abandoned with Yugoslavia’s breakup. (They were part of Tito’s economic vision for Yugoslavia—where, in the name of efficiency, individual products were made in one place in huge quantities to supply the entire country.) Kids on bikes rolled like tumbleweeds down the main street past old-timers with hard memories.

  At the edge of town is the St. Peter of Cetinje Orthodox monastery—the still-beating spiritual heart of the country. I stepped in. An Orthodox monk—black robe and beard halfway to his waist—nodded a welcome. A service was in progress. Flames flickered on gilded icons, incense created an otherworldly ambience, and the chanting was almost hypnotic.

  I stood (as everyone does in Orthodox worship) in the back. People—mostly teenagers in sporty track suits—were trickling in…kissing everything in sight. Seeing these rough and casual teens bending respectfully at the waist as they kissed icons, bibles, and the hands of monks was mesmerizing. If you saw them on the streets, you’d never dream that they’d be here standing through a long Orthodox service.

  For the first time, I understood what the iconostasis (called a “rood screen” in Western Europe) is all about. Used long ago in Catholic churches, and still today in Orthodox churches, the screen separates the common worshippers from the zone where the priests do all the religious “heavy lifting.” Behind the screen—which, like a holy lattice, provides privacy but still lets you peek through—I could see busy priests in fancy robes, and above it all the outstretched arms of Jesus. I knew he was on the cross, but because of the height of the screen, I only saw his arms. As the candlelight flickered, I felt they were happy arms…wanting and eager to give everyone present a big, Slavic bear hug.

  Standing through an Eastern Orthodox service there, in
a humble church in the forgotten historic capital of a mountain kingdom, I was thankful I had zigzagged to that remote corner of Europe. All those switchbacks earned me the chance to witness a vibrant and time-honored tradition surviving the storms of globalization and modernization.

  The Monastery of St. Peter of Cetinje is an integral part of the community.

  In the middle of this Montenegrin nowhere, I met an American family traveling with their 91-year-old grandmother. We shared stories of beautiful times we’ve each enjoyed and lessons we’ve learned getting to know the people in this region. The grandma said, “Traveling in places like this inspires me to keep going when I should be staying home.”

  Sitting on the square in Cetinje, I nursed a bela kava (“white coffee,” as a latte is called here) and watched kids coming home from school. Two older girls walked by happily spinning the same kind of batons my sisters spun when I was a tyke. And then a sweet younger girl walked by all alone—lost in thought, carrying a tattered violin case.

  Even in a country without its own currency, in a land where humble is everything’s middle name, parents can find an old violin and manage to give their little girls grace and culture. Letting that impression breathe, it made me happier than I imagined it would.

  Traveling in war-torn former Yugoslavia, I see how little triumphs can be big ones. I see hardscrabble nations with big aspirations. And I see the value of history in understanding our travels, and the value of travel in understanding our history.

  Chapter 3

  Europe Unites: Successes and Struggles

  Europe’s “Big Government”: High Taxes with High Expectations

  Europeans Work Less

  An Integrated Economy: Pros and Cons

  Europe’s Internal Marshall Plan

  Europe Wants Peace

  Fewer Borders, but More Ethnic Diversity

  Planting People Brings a Painful Harvest

  European Challenges: An Aging Continent Grapples with Immigration

  Tolerance and the Futility of Legislating Morality

  European Flesh and the American Prude

  How Europeans View Us

  While I dabble in the rest of the world, my true love is Europe. Since my first trip there in 1969, I’ve enjoyed gaining an appreciation for Europe’s history, art, culture, cuisine, music…and politics.

  The big news in Europe over the last generation is unification. Hosting two world wars within one lifetime inspired European nations to understand the necessity of working together. With the advent of the European Union (EU), its 28 (and counting) member nations have succeeded in attaining their two key goals: avoiding intra-European war and integrating their economies. Now they’re moving on to new challenges: forming a common foreign policy and an integrated legal system. Of course, it’s dangerous to generalize about “Europe” because, even with all its “unity,” individual countries still have different solutions to the same problems. And across the Continent, “Euroskeptics” mock the EU’s high-minded ideals in light of its obvious failings. But despite foot-dragging in certain quarters, Europe as a whole is moving forward.

  The Old World comes with a youthful energy.

  Europe is the part of the world most similar to the USA. That’s why I consider it the wading pool for world exploration. Americans and Europeans are both affluent, well-educated peoples who love their freedom. But, while we have much in common, we also have fundamental differences. I learn a lot about America by studying Europe. Europe does some things better than we do. Some things, they do worse. And most things are open to debate. Europe doesn’t have all the answers. But neither do we. Considering innovative European approaches to persistent challenges that vex our own nation can be constructive. This chapter assembles a few of my favorite examples.

  Europe’s “Big Government”: High Taxes with High Expectations

  While Europe has its share of economic woes, there’s no denying that Europeans have created a vast free-trade zone that’s designed to keep the Continent competitive with the United States and the emerging economic giants of China and India. With the unification of Europe, hundreds of millions of people now have the same euro coins jingling in their pockets.

  While in past years it seems Americans have been given two options (big, bad government or little, good government), Europeans strive for a third option: big, good government.

  In American politics, “socialism” is often perceived as an all-or-none bogeyman, evoking the stifling Soviet system of the Cold War. This thinking, which fixates on a Stalin-style oppression that has nothing to do with today’s European socialism, ignores the reality that socialism is a spectrum. Every country on earth—including our own—includes some socialistic elements (such as our progressive taxation and the entitlements that we’ve come to see as the mark of a caring and civilized society).

  Like us, Europe is enthusiastically capitalistic. Europeans are just more comfortable with a higher degree of socialism. Most Europeans continue to favor their existing high tax rates because they believe that collectively creating the society of their dreams is more important than allowing individuals to create the personal empire of their dreams.

  While American culture tends to be individualistic—inspired by “up by the bootstraps” and “rags to riches” stories—Europe is more focused on community. While as a society we are more religious, Europe is more humanistic. In Scandinavia—the most highly taxed, socialistic, and humanistic corner of Europe—you don’t find a church with a spire on the main square. You find a city hall with a bell tower. Inside, a secular nave leads not to a pulpit, but to a lectern. Behind that lectern, a grand mosaic tells epic stories—not from the Bible, but celebrating heroic individuals who contributed mightily to their community.

  In Stockholm, like elsewhere in humanistic Scandinavia, the city hall’s bell tower rather than a church spire marks the center of town.

  Europeans pay high taxes to buy big, good government…and expect results. Those results include an extensive social-welfare network that puts the financial burden of childcare, healthcare, education, and retirement on the collective shoulders of society, rather than on individuals. I once asked Olle, my Swiss friend, “How can you Swiss people be so docile about paying such high taxes?” Without missing a beat, he replied, “Well, what’s it worth to live in a society where there is no homelessness, no hunger, and where every child—regardless of the wealth of their parents—enjoys equal access to quality healthcare and education?”

  Olle and Maria pay high taxes with high expectations… high in the Alps.

  The benefits are everywhere. A Slovenian friend of mine who had a baby was guaranteed a year’s maternity leave at near-full pay…and was given a state-subsidized “starter kit” with all the essential gear she needed to care for her newborn. If anyone (even a foreign traveler) goes to a public hospital for urgent care in Europe, they often won’t even see the bill. Higher education in Europe is subsidized; in many countries, it’s entirely free, and students even get “pocket money” while they are learning. Hundreds of thousands of students and professors have traveled to other EU countries to study, teach, and build a sprawling network of intra-European relations through the EU-funded Erasmus Program.

  Don’t get me wrong. Most Europeans grumble about paying sky-high taxes as much as anyone, and tax evasion is a national pastime for many. But philosophically, they understand that when it comes to taxes, the necessity outweighs the evil. European politicians don’t have to promise tax cuts to win elections. Many European voters support high taxes and big government because they like what they get in return.

  A flipside of this system is that Europe doesn’t have the ethic of individual charitable giving that we have in the US. We go to auctions and bake sales to support a good cause. We help our children raise money to subsidize school projects. Our local orchestras wouldn’t exist without financial gifts from donors committed to that slice of culture. And public television is made possible through generous support
from viewers like you. You don’t see that so much in Europe. Europeans expect the government to care for the needy and fund the arts, youth groups, and foreign study opportunities. Europe’s tax-funded alternative to charity auctions, pledge drives, and school car washes works for them.

  In our system, the thinking is that, after we all get wealthy, we’ll be sure to make charitable contributions to the places where the fabric of our society is frayed. But Europe is more socialistic. Rather than a thousand points of light emanating from generous community members who care, Europeans prefer one compassionate, well-organized searchlight from their entire society as orchestrated by elected officials. While we care individually, they care collectively. What’s perceived as good for the fabric of their community (such as having bike lanes, heroin maintenance clinics, public broadcasting, after-school childcare for working parents, paid maternity and paternity leave, and freeway art) trumps business interests.

  The United States and Europe are similar in many ways. But I’ve noticed a fundamental difference: We’re both enthusiastic about “government by, for, and of the people.” But in America this is by, for, and of the people via the corporations we own. In other words, we think a primary role of government is to create an economic atmosphere where the corporations we own can prosper. I was raised with the business mantra, “What’s good for GM is good for America.”

  In Europe, on the other hand, they choose government by, for, and of the people in spite of the corporations they own. Their government would be more likely to go to bat for the environment, the poor, the future, and the long-term interests of society.