“She told me to take a left, but there’s an empty lot there!” my husband, Francis, barked from the driver’s seat.

“Just ignore her and follow signs to the autobahn!” I snapped back.

The “she” that was causing our marital discord was the other woman in the minivan, our GPS. Although her aristocratic British accent implied a top-notch education, she had no flipping idea how to get us out of Berlin.

The weekend was over, and we were tired and cranky. Three days of dragging our three kids from monument to museum, and every filthy public bathroom in between, had taken its toll.

Traveling with the kids while we were stationed overseas definitely had its difficulties. After moving to Stuttgart, Germany, we made elaborate plans to “educate” our three children through travel. We wanted them to experience history, architecture, music, art and nature firsthand.

Our first major trip was to Venice and Verona, and on the 12-hour drive to Italy, we listened to Italian language tapes and I read our guidebooks aloud in the car. I couldn’t wait to hear the kids say their first “Prego” and watch their eyes light up at the sight of the cerulean Adriatic Sea.

However, a few hours later, we peered over the bridge leading to fog-covered Venice, watching a Pepsi can and cigarette butts float past a rusty 55-gallon drum. ”No-a boat-a today — workers on-a strike-a,” the man behind the ticket counter replied when we tried to buy the water taxi tickets necessary to avoid the garbage-strewn walk into Venice.

We persevered. We fed pigeons. We ate pizza. We rode in a gondola. We bought Murano glass souvenirs. Despite the fog, trash and touristy kitsch, we exposed our kids to all the underlying beauty that is Venice.

The next day in Verona, I made the mistake of trying out an automatic toilet on the edge of a quaint city park. The door opened like magic after I inserted the required coins, so my daughter and I entered.

Once inside, the door slid shut behind us, and fluorescent lights blinked on. We glanced around, horrified. Despite the contraption’s self-cleaning mechanism, the stall was clogged, dripping and reeking of a heinous stench. Gripping each other, we squealed and attempted to pry open the automatic door. After several terrifying minutes listening to Francis giggle at us from outside, the door finally gave way.

We tried to keep this traumatic event from tainting our experience in Verona. Again, we persevered. We climbed the pink marble steps. We ate pasta. We stood under the whalebone. We bought more souvenirs.

On a trip just north of Barcelona, we waited out record-breaking April storms in the “Land of Sun.” To quell our disappointment in the cold, rainy weather, we applied the principle that “Food = Happiness” and treated ourselves to an expensive Spanish restaurant. Although we felt out of our league at the white linen-sheathed table, the food was delicious and eased our pain.

Wiping sangria from his chin, Francis leaned over the table and whispered, “Hey kids, this is the nicest place I’ve ever had to tell you to shut up in.” It was hard work, but we completed another family trip. Box, checked.

We persevered through more holidays in France, Switzerland, Czech Republic, Austria, Holland and Belgium. In each locale, unexpected variables threatened to spoil our experience, but we dug our heels in and pushed through.

Prior to our excursion to Berlin, the inevitable annoyances, rip-offs and bad weather were ignored lest they spoil our vacations. But in Berlin, forced family fun somehow authenticated our historical understanding of the German people’s past struggle under communist rule.

At Checkpoint Charlie, among dreary communist architecture, we stood in frigid long lines as if we were waiting for rations, to buy tiny fragments of questionably authentic fragments of the Berlin wall from a man clad in a bearskin hat and a permanent scowl.

After experiencing some semblance of the famed fight for freedom, we sought refuge in a Starbucks across the street from Checkpoint Charlie. Overpriced hot beverages in hand, we trudged on, determined to overcome all family vacation adversity and appreciate the wonderful diversity of culture.

Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com