Monitoring the traffic.

On Google Sheep View.

Interlaken Gardens

 Interlaken, Switzerland, July 1971. Dad tries to find the right subject.

There's not much to do in a big city.

Vienna, Austria, July 1971. Dad admires the fountain near the Opera House. I like this clip because the movie camera captured some of Dad's mannerisms.

Roundabout Reunion

Vienna, Austria, July 1971. Visiting a large city is rarely relaxing.

Direction Reunion

Altdorf, Switzerland, July 1971. We should learn something from the Swiss about roundabouts.

Crosswalk

Interlaken, Switzerland, July 1971. Everyone should follow the rules.

Easter Manners: Consider what inspires you.

Milan, Italy, October 1983. Spires of the Duomo emerge from the dissipating fog.

Foggy

When I moved to Italy, I traveled with one suitcase. Since I would be living in one of the world's fashion capitals, there was no point in carrying dated American clothing. I also assumed that the weather would be moderate, and therefore, my trusty London Fog raincoat would be the only outerwear I needed.

I did not realize that I had arrived in a city, Venice, in which woman pull out fur coats when the temperature dips below fifty degrees Fahrenheit. It's always freddo in Venice (and all maladies arise from the fegato). The landlady from whom I rented a room—my padrona—was shocked when I suggested a raincoat would get me through the drizzly winter. She therefore arranged for the two of us to travel to Milan so that I could buy a modest Italian wardrobe, including a proper winter coat.

The padrona gave good advice. Although the winter temperatures remained moderate, the dank chill was miserable. It also didn't hurt that the new clothing helped me blend in more easily.

(Sometimes I even blended in when I spoke: because Lithuanian is my first language, I don't have an American accent when I converse in Italian. Most Venetians couldn't place my accent, and they assumed I was ... Finnish.)

Milan, Italy, October 1983. My padrona and I seek out those neighborhoods where the locals shop.

I never met a dog I didn't like (Summer 1967).

Suburban Chicago, Summer 1967. I don't remember to whom this lovely Brittany Spaniel belonged. I must have run out quickly to the driveway when I saw the dog, because I didn't stop to switch from my slippers.

My Dad's beloved Volvo sits in the garage. It was our first car with shoulder belts. Good thing: in 1972, Dad and I were in the Volvo, stuck in morning, rush-hour traffic on the Eisenhower Expressway. A disoriented driver hit us, at full speed, and the impact rippled on through five vehicles ahead of us. The Volvo was a goner, but Dad and I were fine.