Day 6 - In Memory of Herbie Hollywood

On the outskirts of Rimini, Italy, on September 12th, 1944, with the Allied Seaforth Highlanders of Canada (5th Canadian Armoured Division), Herbert J. Hollywood was taken down in the line of duty in what was the heaviest week of fighting experienced since Monte Cassino. His older brother, Russell, fighting on another WW2 Italian front, heard the news and immediately went AWOL to be with him. Arriving in Rimini on September 17th, Russell did not make it to the military hospital on time, as Herbert had passed away, mere hours before Russell's arrival, and FIVE days after he had been taken down. Russell, still alive, is my Grandpa, and Herbert, rest in peace, was my Great Uncle.

EZ and I gave ourselves one day to get from Roma, to Riccione (a small town close to Rimini), to the Coriano Ridge Canadian War Cemetery, and then into Firenze (Florence). No one in my family had yet had the chance to personally pay their respects to Herbert and I was honored to be the first. I was quiet on the train ride to Riccione, thinking of the war stories that Grandpa Hollywood was finally beginning to share with the family, if you asked him. 50 years of Post-traumatic stress diagnosed as Parkinson's, going AWOL and hitching rides across Europe, driving tanks in North Africa, seeing his Captain's head get blown off, a tale of his other brother Ken getting shot in the left eye and having the bullet exit through his neck. Ken SURVIVED, is still alive today and you can barley see the scratch.

One short story in particular stuck in my mind. He was 'in the thick of it' on a front outside Ghent, Belgium. The Germans were advancing by land and air and he was retreating through a farm field. He came upon a trench and hopped in. The trench was occupied by two other allied soldiers who immediately gave him the boot. There wasn't enough space. So Russ jumped back out into the openness of the field where he then spotted several large bails of hay. The enemy was getting close, so without hesitation he ran to the closest bail and jumped inside. There he hid, overnight, surrounded by the sounds of the hell all around him. Waiting until the noises had past, the next morning he slowly came out of his hay bail. The area was safe. Suddenly, he came upon the trench to see the dead bodies of the soldiers who the day before had kicked him out. They had been obliterated by panzer gun fire. If my grandfather had fought to stay in that trench, no one in my family would be here today.

We arrived at the Riccione train station, and The Canadian War Graves Commission website is not very detailed with instructions on how to get from Riccione to the Coriano Ridge War Cemetery, so we were left to our own devices. We took the wrong bus twice as we slowly made our way into the country. We asked locals, who spoke no English, how to get to the Canadian War Cemetery in Coriano, an even smaller hamlet on the outskirts of Riccione. They tried their best to help us, and it was not easy getting there, but considering the circumstance, hardly worth complaining about.

Finally we arrived at the site, and the driver of bus 20 shooed us off and pointed us in the right direction. We entered through the gates, past through a very well-manicured garden and into the property that contained the final resting place of some of my nations greatest heroes. The place was very well cared for and we nodded thanks toward the groundskeeper who was working in one of the gardens. He smiled proudly, and seemed happy to see people visiting the remote site. The Canadian War Graves Commission gave me the plot, row and grave number, so we made our way down the rows and rows of names looking for Herbies. Plot 10, Row D, Grave 9. There it was, lying in the shadow of a Canadian Maple Tree. Uncontrollably, my eyes welled up, for a man I had never met. I turned to EZ, who was documenting the trip for my Grand Pa. Neither of us expected such a swell of emotion. I kneeled down behind the headstone to video a message.

"Hi Papa and Nana, and everyone in the Hollywood family. Erin and I have made our way... just a couple kilometers east, no west, of Rimini, and we've come here to visit, Papa your brother Herbie. And this is where he is lying to rest. (here's where I start to lose it) And, uh, we're going to give him a Canadian flag. Anyways... it's really sad... I'm sure it's really hard to lose a brother... and we'll remember everything you guys did... cause I'm... cause Phil (my brother) and I will never have to do anything like that, because of what you guys did"

Obviously, those words alone can't capture what it felt to be there, but this experience is one I would take over any jungle adventure or jeep safari. Take the time to make the trip to visit your nations fallen. You'll be amazed at what you'll learn about yourself and the world from just a simple headstone. It just requires a small detour between the major sites.

The trip back was much easier and the ride to Firenze for us was peaceful and full of pride. Thanks to my Papa and his brothers.

Day 5 - Valentines Day in Luang Prabang

Preface. Today begins 4 months earlier at the train station in Florence, Italy. EZ and I were waiting patiently in the main hall for our platform to be announced for the train that would take us to Venice. Our train was delayed and there was some confusion in the hall as to what was happening on the tracks beyond the station. There were a number of muffled messages, in Italian, over the stations public address system, but nothing we could decipher. Suddenly, after one such public address a mob of people started to charge the ticket booths. I thought it best I do the same, so I left EZ with the bags and went to line up. Rumors in line were that our train to Venice was now leaving from another station and we would have to board another train here, go to the other station and connect with the Venice train there. My line mates were an older English women and a younger couple who looked Swedish, but, I didn't ask. We were all in it together. I got to the window and the fellow behind the glass was very helpful and gave me very clear instructions on where I needed to go. The young couple was not having much luck with their customer service associate so they ended up leaning on me for help. We had to hurry as we got this information at the last minute. I ran as fast as I could through the crowed station and yelled to EZ to grab the bags, we had to run to make our connection. The young couple, the english lady, EZ and I charged to the train and got in just as the doors were closing. Whew! We settled our sweaty frames into some seats and we were on our way to Venice, hopefully.

Which brings me to Luang Prabang, Laos, 4 months later. A French colonial jewel smack-dab in the middle of Northern Laos. Chalk full of Europeans, who appear to have never left since the 19th century when the town was incorporated into the 'Protectorate' of French Indochina, Luang Prabang is a sleepy romantic town on the banks of the Mekong River. We arrived on Valentines Day and after we settled into our guesthouse, we ventured out to connect again with the mystical Mekong. We sat where the low tides met with the sand, and watched what was definitely a 'top five' sunset vanish behind the palm tree line. Fishermen balancing on their long boats confidently cast their nets into the water, while youngsters played Thai volleyball on the shoreline. We even got to speak to a couple monks who wanted to practice their English.

As dusk settled we left the shore and made our way to the town centre for a lovely Valentines Day dinner. At the time, having been on the road for 10 months, days of the week, and Western occasions for feast, were somewhat bypassed with a shrug, but, nevertheless it was a lovely meal.

Afterwards, we took a walk down the main drag which closed itself to cars at night and featured a night market full of gaudy Asian tourist artifacts and a cast of equally colorful characters. We chatted with locals and playfully bartered for a pair of flip-flop sandals. It took a couple hours to navigate up and down the street. Eventually, we were ready to head back to the guesthouse, when out of nowhere, a young couple, approached us. "Hello", said the young man. "Do we know you from somewhere?". Having been in Asia for a few months already, I was used to the locals taking my photo and declaring me everyone from Matt Damon to Michael Schumacher (neither of which I even remotely resemble), but, this was the first time a Western couple approached us out-of-the-blue. The four of us simply stared at each other for what must have been two minutes.

"Have you been to Moscow?"

"No."

"Have you been to Singapore"

"Not yet."

We stared a little longer and continued to name cities of the world. They did look familiar. Suddenly, it dawned on me, as I'm sure it already has on you; this was the young couple that we had a brief 'run-in' with in Florence 4 months earlier. What are the odds that we run into them again, in Northern Laos no less? We exchanged brief recounts of where we had been since Florence and where we were going. It turned out we were going in opposite directions, so we left it at that. Both parties going their separate ways. Nevertheless, I was flummoxed at such a chance encounter.

I suppose all of us travelers are on essentially the same route (no matter what your desire to reach the unexplored corners of the earth) and the odds of running into the same people twice in one year could be quite low if you're both doing extended travel, but, it's moment like this, that make this world seem so small, and all of us incredibly connected to the fates of each other. The train station in Florence, Italy and the night market in Luang Prabang, Laos will forever be intertwined in my mind. I know that we shared with them two very insignificant moments (I don't even remember their names), just an encounter and a revelation of that previous encounter, but I'll always remember it as an example of the fact that we are all a part of the same silly story.

They were from Iceland.