Chantilly Castle brings to my mind images of lace and thick whipped cream. A gorgeous castle complex on the outskirts of Paris, it’s a Beauty and the Beast kind of castle, with stables filled with thoroughbred horses, tiny little ponies and a myriad of sad looking donkeys. But don’t worry; even amongst the luxury, splendor and rich history of a European castle – I still kept my eyes peeled for whipped cream.

Some of the best pasta I have ever eaten was not prepared in Italy, (though I’ve had my share of life-altering meals there); but instead, in Budapest. I had thought that Budapest fare was all goulash and paprika and sweet Tokay wine. But, I was to find that my pre-conceived notions of Hungary were dead wrong.

I blame the American fascination with castles. I think because we don’t have any bonafide royal palaces in the States, we’ve developed an extreme obsession with them when touring countries abroad.

I live in Houston, Texas, so I usually take air conditioning for granted. Everywhere I go – from the car to the grocery store, back to my little townhouse – is excessively air-conditioned to the point of necessitating socks and a sweater in summertime. It’s always hot here, even in the “winter,” when we might only see three days when one can non-ironically wear a jacket.

When one ventures to Budapest, one really must visit the spa; which should be simple, as there are 18 of them, not to mention the various smaller, private baths lurking around the city. In all, there are 118 springs churning out 70 million liters of thermal water each day, at temperatures ranging from a cool 68°F to a broiling 172°F (ouch).

In the course of my world travels, I have run into a lot of advice from other explorers. It mostly boils down to this: travel like a local.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions, but I think the same can be said about the road to second language mastery.

Let it be known that I do not condone stereotypes. Not negative ones, certainly, or even positive sounding ones. But, alas, they do exist, and if you think Europeans don’t stereotype Americans, you’re dead wrong. Believe it or not, we’re not known internationally as “The Greatest Nation on Earth.”

In my mind, west Texas evokes scenes of austere loneliness … of stately cacti daring to be touched, a tumbleweed blowing, wheeling endlessly in through the center of a deserted town. Cowboys on horseback, and leather boots, lariats and spurs.

My family is Italian. Super-Italian. Like, we own red and white-checkered tablecloths, everyone has at least three garments bearing an Italian flag, and growing up I thought it was normal to eat spaghetti on Thanksgiving. It was what they served at Plymouth Rock, right?

When I set my mind to thinking of a night out in Ireland, I think of a cozy pub and a tall pint of dark stout. I think of warm sweaters, scarves and caps and perhaps a crackling fire. In my mind is the singing of wild Irish songs of love lost and legends of kings of old. To me, this is Ireland … the pub life, the community, the gathering, the kindred-ness.

Unfortunately, some hotel beds don’t live up to the hype. Especially in Europe.