If you painted a couple of hundred of children’s blocks white then spilled them randomly out, you would have Ojen’s town plan. It also looks a bit like Montreal’s Habitat development, only whitewashed and placed on a steep narrow valley. Ojen is not pronounced owe-en, but owe- back of throat phlegmy-en. This sound is very difficult for an English speaker to make. In Canada, it is a sound that is usually followed by a gob not another syllable. So here we were in a town whose name we could not pronounce. Nothing new there.
If the wind was blowing in the correct direction in Ojen, you can smell the sea, which is about 5 km directly south. The bustling coastal town of Marbella in the Costa del Sol is also located directly south. Ojen’s elevation at about 200m above sea level in a narrow valley means that you can see the Mediterranean, not Marbella. Ojen’s population is about 2000 and they are fiercely proud of their village. So much so that one of the local restaurants discourages tourists. Fortunately, we were warned. Somehow, Ojen has also avoided the expatriate invasion and remains nicely isolated from the over development on the coast.
Leslie is more adept at languages than I am and she quickly took to Spanish. Soon, she was inflecting with a throaty, phlegmy vigour. She took flamenco lessons and her hair seemed to grow in thicker and longer and darker. I would often awaken to the sound of her practicing on the castanets. On Sundays, she was also starting to wear the beautiful tight fitting traditional Spanish dresses with the matching high heels. She practiced dancing until her little feet were sore. Her English even became tinged with a Spanish accent. With her newly acquired large brown eyes, she looked into my eyes and said, ”Signor, chou would make a great bullfighter.” Actually, none of this paragraph is true, I made it up. But I still think it should have happened, then the year off would have been truly worth it.
Yea, there was flamenco in Ojen and we went to see it live, honest, no guff. There were posters, all in Spanish, advertising it as a fund raiser for a charity. It was held in the Ojen flamenco studio and was attended by locals and one other tourist couple from France. We went expecting flamenco dancing. We did not know that in Ojen the tradition of flamenco singing dominates. To tell the truth, we had never heard of flamenco singing.
The show did not start until about 9:30pm which is early by Spanish standards. Nobody could speak English. The locals were friendly as best we could tell. The number of children present easily equalled the number of adults in spite of the late hour. The charity was certainly a worthwhile one as we sat in a crowded, smoke filled auditorium, our thirst quenched by the cheapest alcoholic drinks in our entire journey. It was kind of a self perpetuating process as they plied cigarettes and liquor on us as if to say you’ll be giving this year but receiving next. The fundraiser was for cancer victims, yet they seemed to endorse some of its more obvious causes, alora, as we “Italian” Canadians now say!
The first male singer and guitarist were introduced with no fanfare. They looked at each other dramatically and queued the first song. These people know how to emote. Anguish was conveyed easily with no translation necessary. I know the look of a man in pain and this guy obviously had a gouty big toe with a bamboo shoot tucked under the nail. I almost rushed on to the stage to help him.
They say the guitar player is subservient to the singer, who basically seemed to dictate the cadence of songs. The songs ended with a flourish, their heads held high, proud and content, applause being the obvious next step.
The majority of the singers were young males, early 20-30s but all age groups were represented. There was only one woman who sang and she was very good. They were all locals from Ojen. The pride was palpable in the audience. We were struck by the sense of tradition which must power these songs like a vein of silver through the generations. I don’t know how they do it. As we left, ladies at the door gave us a yellow sunflower and thanked us with a gentle touch on the shoulder. It was a wonderful performance and a privilege to have seen it.
Obviously, this leads me to the tradition of the virgin and the goat. Shortly after we arrived in Ojen, Leslie met an Irishman who lived 3 houses down. Leslie claims that he said there was a yearly festival in Ojen starting the next Thursday. It included a parade led by a goat and a virgin. Please bear with me as I swear I couldn’t make this stuff up.
I duly went to downtown Ojen (about 2 minutes away) with my wife on the appointed night. It was suspiciously quiet considering the magnitude of the event. We did not spot any goats, virgins or parades. Please also keep in mind there is almost no English spoken in Ojen. In retrospect, I’m quite glad there wasn’t, as our questions would have been difficult to explain. Leslie doesn’t give up easily and she continued to be on high alert for goats and/or virgins. More posters were put up in the village but they were difficult to decipher although they did give hints of an upcoming celebration. My enthusiasm was recharged and I too was now on alert.
My butt was still a tad sore after the cycling sojourn over the Alps; bear with me again as there is a point to this. This led me to a Marbella bike shop in search of a comfortable saddle. Diego, who worked in the shop, spoke fluent English and he was from Ojen of all places. I decided to ask him about the festival but carefully left out any mention of goats or virgins. Leslie was angry about this but does not realize what it is like for a man with a sore butt to go about asking questions with respect to either goats and/or virgins without seeming a little conspicuous. I managed to calm her down when Diego told me that their annual festival was approaching the next week from Tuesday until Sunday. He also cautioned, rolling his eyes, that school closes and they party until dawn on most nights. His house was right in the thick of the action on the small town square.
Well, they certainly can party and yes, they can make it until the sun is rising the next day. The festival was a combination of tradition as seen from the photos in the blog and fairground games and rides. Another unconscious theme but obvious to us was the inclusion of all age groups. The seniors had the best seats for the musical performances and games.
The terrain of Ojen is similar to a hike to Everest base camp up and down with many serpentine steep pedestrian pitches between the whitewashed houses. The frail elderly are only assisted if they have some obvious disability. Otherwise, the seniors risk life and limb every day negotiating the terrain once they put a foot out the front door. Our elderly neighbour, Anna, looked as if she would fall over any moment, yet I would see her perched on the steepest cobbled slopes, cane in hand, several blocks from her home. One false move and she would be in Marbella. I used to think it was cardboard cut out of Anna that somebody shifted from place to place to give the illusion of an energetic senior adrenalin junkie. However, there was no mistaking that this was the real Anna. You could tell by her shrill voice and raised cane as she made a point to someone.
Anna terrified me, all four and half feet of her. One day when Leslie was out, Anna dropped by to visit me. She was determined to convey something in Spanish. I did not understand a single one of the 600 Spanish words she uttered, although “capito” seemed to be the most frequent. I said “no espanol”, which only encouraged her to shout louder and louder as if somehow the increased volume would trump my incomprehension. I am sure she thought I was both deaf and stupid.
Unfortunately, Anna has an erosive carcinoma right smack in the middle of her nose which hasn’t been attended to. Through the 2 cm symmetrical gaping hole, you can see her nasal septum perfectly dividing her nostrils. When she was shouting at me, I can’t be sure but I think something went flying out of there towards me. I tried not to stare at it but it was literally a black hole that sucked light and my vision directly towards it.
When she had enough of my “deafness”, she brusquely pushed me aside and walked directly into our kitchen. She repeatedly flicked a switch for an outside light as she continued my lesson. I finally said “ah, ah, me capito” in my best Spanish. I thought that Anna wanted the light turned on so as to make her return journey at night safer. She smiled back at me with a twinkle in her eye thinking “the dumb, deaf Canadian finally gets it”. I thought we had been leaving it on already but as I watched her teeter off and I dutifully turned the light back on.
The next day, she started screaming at me again “capito, capito” and pointing towards the light. With the aid of a translator a day or two later, we learned she wanted me to keep the light OFF to save electricity, alora! I never found out what “capito”meant. I think we were still friends. Whenever I saw her again she screeched a friendly “hola” followed by 599 other words. I never saw her without a twinkle in her eye.
p.s. The annual parade was led by a saint who was headless. Fortunately, he found his head and carried it with him under his arm. Leslie remains on high alert for any parades led by a goat and virgin.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Glesga tae Lawnzarrrrteh
In Canada, you can get on a bus in Vancouver and go to sleep for about 5 days before getting to the east coast. You would arrive, wake up smelling the worse for wear and scare the shit out the locals with your West coast Birkenstocks and “lord tundering” lululemon exercise gear. They would know you were from “away”. You would also thoroughly understand the difference between the east and west after having your butt jammed into a bus seat for close to a week. You would have stopped for donuts and coffee in the prairies where they know about all things that are flat. You would have stopped to use the washrooms in T.O. (That is Toronto, Ontario not Timmins, Ontario) where they know everything about everything. There would have been one last pit stop in Quebec for a coke, a smoke and some poutine. It may seem obvious but Canada is a vast country with clearly defined geography and cultural heritages strongly linked by a long road and a series of Tim Horton Donut franchises.
In Scotland, there also is an east versus west, north and south distinction that some would call a friendly rivalry. However, the east- west rivalry is a wee bit friendlier than Celtic playing Rangers in Glasgow where there may be lives, religious heritage as well as a football match at stake. A country doesn’t have to be big to have disagreements.
The Scots also pretend that it is long distance between the two coasts. “Yool no be goin’ that ferr, laddy in one day’s drive,” my Scottish alter ego advised. However, a bus ride between the Scottish coasts would leave you sleep deprived as it takes a little over an hour at the level of Glasgow and Edinburgh. It seems like a shrunken country, maybe dehydrated; just add some water and it will quickly expand to Canadian proportions.
Leslie and I were constantly caught out by the closeness of everything here. We would just settle in for a car trip and arrive shortly after pulling out of the driveway. No coffee or pee stops, amazing, a great way to save on petrol (aka gas). Our Canadian sense of distance had to be recalibrated constantly. There is no shortage of water on either side or in between, so it is definitely not dehydrated. The Scots keep themselves well hydrated from a plentiful variety of alcoholic and caffeinated beverages and water from burns and lochs.
The advantages and disadvantages of east and west are hotly debated by the Scots. Glaswegians sense of humour versus the Edinburgh culture and lack of sense of humour? Edinburgh’s active art scene versus Glasgow’s faded industrial heritage and rapidly expanding art scene. A Glaswegian described the city of Edinburgh as “dressed up in ah fur coat an nae knickers”. Another Glaswegian asked “Whas the best thing tae hae coom oot o Embra?”(What is the best thing to come out of Edinburgh) Answer - The Glesga (Glasgow) train.
They have also conveniently developed different accents, on purpose I think, to help them differentiate between the regions and therefore be able to argue about the differences. It all gets very complicated although on a smaller scale than Canada. The thick Glasgow accent can be very difficult to understand. I lived there for three years and have retained the ability to understand the thickest brogue. I had to translate for Leslie many times whereas in the rest of Europe she translated for me.
The “study” of Glasgow patter is called “parliamo glesga’’ originated by the comedian Stanley Baxter in the 1960s. For example if,” ya ken wit I meen” (if you know what I mean), “whit aboot this wan” (what about this one), “yur heeds fulla mince” (your head is full of mince ie you are out of it) or “och aye fur the noo” (doing OK). Or one of my favourite of Stanley’s, “air a pare o’ pears lyin’ oer thare oan the flare” or “There is a pair of pears lying over there on the floor”. The Scots generally have a great sense of humour and way with words.
The Scots had almost a 100% literacy rate early in the industrial revolution. It was promoted to read the bible. However, its effect was far-reaching. For a small country, Scotland has produced a disproportionate amount of academic thought, inventions, business and art contributions that benefited the rest of the world.
We are currently in Lanzarote, or Lanzagrotty, as some call it because it is overrun with Brits on package deal holidays and two unemployed (skivers in Scots patter) Canadians. We had considered migrating south to Australia or New Zealand before choosing Lanzarote to nest in for the winter. Some local birdwatchers mistook us for the last of a “breeding” pair of some extinct African bird species blown off course onto the island. We explained we were just Canadians and pointed to the northwest out over the Atlantic Ocean.
The wind seems to blow all the time in Lanzarote from a west to east direction. Here, east to west is only about 10 km. The temperature is moderate in the 60s (high teens in C). It blows so hard that sometimes I think it might flip the entire island over where east becomes west and vice versa nullifying any regional debates. Therefore, it is not a good place for comb-overs or cheap toupees. If whatever tethers the island here breaks, Lanzarote would be blown quickly eastward and bump into Morocco, (which is littered with lost toupees and lost windsurfers) which gives you an idea of where we are. It could be worse, as Nigeria and the Congo are a bit farther south around the big bump on Africa’s west coast. However, we do seem quite well anchored, at least we hope so as we plan on spending 12 weeks here. My first exploration on my bike reveals a stark volcanic landscape dotted with classic cones which we hope will see no action while we are here.
This may not sound too adventurous but we have decided to give ourselves what may be the ultimate luxury, extended time in one place to get back into some semblance of a routine (minus the work part). The rest of the world will have to wait for another year. No pressure to explore, just sit back, meet some Brits, read, ride bikes, new recipes, learn to kite surf (although I have been advised that the learning curve involves planting your face in the sand while being dragged by an oversized kite, “say lavy” as Stanley would pronounce C`est la vie?) We will plan and dream up new adventures, professional and personal, after a year of indulgence, we may volunteer in----- or ??? We also have our first visitor coming over in early January. That’s it then, weer away fer the noo.
In Scotland, there also is an east versus west, north and south distinction that some would call a friendly rivalry. However, the east- west rivalry is a wee bit friendlier than Celtic playing Rangers in Glasgow where there may be lives, religious heritage as well as a football match at stake. A country doesn’t have to be big to have disagreements.
The Scots also pretend that it is long distance between the two coasts. “Yool no be goin’ that ferr, laddy in one day’s drive,” my Scottish alter ego advised. However, a bus ride between the Scottish coasts would leave you sleep deprived as it takes a little over an hour at the level of Glasgow and Edinburgh. It seems like a shrunken country, maybe dehydrated; just add some water and it will quickly expand to Canadian proportions.
Leslie and I were constantly caught out by the closeness of everything here. We would just settle in for a car trip and arrive shortly after pulling out of the driveway. No coffee or pee stops, amazing, a great way to save on petrol (aka gas). Our Canadian sense of distance had to be recalibrated constantly. There is no shortage of water on either side or in between, so it is definitely not dehydrated. The Scots keep themselves well hydrated from a plentiful variety of alcoholic and caffeinated beverages and water from burns and lochs.
The advantages and disadvantages of east and west are hotly debated by the Scots. Glaswegians sense of humour versus the Edinburgh culture and lack of sense of humour? Edinburgh’s active art scene versus Glasgow’s faded industrial heritage and rapidly expanding art scene. A Glaswegian described the city of Edinburgh as “dressed up in ah fur coat an nae knickers”. Another Glaswegian asked “Whas the best thing tae hae coom oot o Embra?”(What is the best thing to come out of Edinburgh) Answer - The Glesga (Glasgow) train.
They have also conveniently developed different accents, on purpose I think, to help them differentiate between the regions and therefore be able to argue about the differences. It all gets very complicated although on a smaller scale than Canada. The thick Glasgow accent can be very difficult to understand. I lived there for three years and have retained the ability to understand the thickest brogue. I had to translate for Leslie many times whereas in the rest of Europe she translated for me.
The “study” of Glasgow patter is called “parliamo glesga’’ originated by the comedian Stanley Baxter in the 1960s. For example if,” ya ken wit I meen” (if you know what I mean), “whit aboot this wan” (what about this one), “yur heeds fulla mince” (your head is full of mince ie you are out of it) or “och aye fur the noo” (doing OK). Or one of my favourite of Stanley’s, “air a pare o’ pears lyin’ oer thare oan the flare” or “There is a pair of pears lying over there on the floor”. The Scots generally have a great sense of humour and way with words.
The Scots had almost a 100% literacy rate early in the industrial revolution. It was promoted to read the bible. However, its effect was far-reaching. For a small country, Scotland has produced a disproportionate amount of academic thought, inventions, business and art contributions that benefited the rest of the world.
We are currently in Lanzarote, or Lanzagrotty, as some call it because it is overrun with Brits on package deal holidays and two unemployed (skivers in Scots patter) Canadians. We had considered migrating south to Australia or New Zealand before choosing Lanzarote to nest in for the winter. Some local birdwatchers mistook us for the last of a “breeding” pair of some extinct African bird species blown off course onto the island. We explained we were just Canadians and pointed to the northwest out over the Atlantic Ocean.
The wind seems to blow all the time in Lanzarote from a west to east direction. Here, east to west is only about 10 km. The temperature is moderate in the 60s (high teens in C). It blows so hard that sometimes I think it might flip the entire island over where east becomes west and vice versa nullifying any regional debates. Therefore, it is not a good place for comb-overs or cheap toupees. If whatever tethers the island here breaks, Lanzarote would be blown quickly eastward and bump into Morocco, (which is littered with lost toupees and lost windsurfers) which gives you an idea of where we are. It could be worse, as Nigeria and the Congo are a bit farther south around the big bump on Africa’s west coast. However, we do seem quite well anchored, at least we hope so as we plan on spending 12 weeks here. My first exploration on my bike reveals a stark volcanic landscape dotted with classic cones which we hope will see no action while we are here.
This may not sound too adventurous but we have decided to give ourselves what may be the ultimate luxury, extended time in one place to get back into some semblance of a routine (minus the work part). The rest of the world will have to wait for another year. No pressure to explore, just sit back, meet some Brits, read, ride bikes, new recipes, learn to kite surf (although I have been advised that the learning curve involves planting your face in the sand while being dragged by an oversized kite, “say lavy” as Stanley would pronounce C`est la vie?) We will plan and dream up new adventures, professional and personal, after a year of indulgence, we may volunteer in----- or ??? We also have our first visitor coming over in early January. That’s it then, weer away fer the noo.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
The City of Lights
Hello again,
Just a quick word as we are in Paris, discovering the “City of Lights” for the week. We fly to the Canary Islands on December 11 and since we’re staying there for a few months, we’ll have more time to add to the blog. Aren’t you lucky!
Our last entry in October was from Ojen, Spain. November was busy exploring London and visiting family in Scotland.
I was excited to return to London. We rented a lovely sixth floor flat with views facing south over the city. The building did not have an elevator so the 100+ stairs provided the stairmaster. We could see the London Eye and St. Paul’s Cathedral and even on overcast days, the place was very bright with its huge windows. (www.vrbo.com/52647) It was close to Hampstead Heath, a great place for runs and walks...and outdoor bathing ponds open year round. More like duck ponds, I’d say and no, we did not partake in this fine London tradition. Many people did though!
Our last visit to London was ten years ago when we witnessed a monumental event...the FIRST London Starbucks opening! Now, they’re everywhere! This time, we went on the London Eye, the city’s enormous Ferris wheel, enjoyed two great plays; “Zorro” at the Garrick Theatre and The Norman Conquests – Round and Round the Garden at the Old Vic. We visited the National Portrait Gallery for Annie Leibovitz’s presentation, brushed up on our knowledge at the Science Museum, enjoyed both the Tate Modern and Tate Britain galleries and wandered around looking at all the Christmas decorations in the stores. We also reconnected with a friend from Vancouver, last seen seventeen years ago.
The month’s highlight was celebrating David’s Aunt Margaret’s 80th birthday in Dunoon, Scotland. David’s mom, Kathleen (Margaret’s sister) and her husband, George (are you still with me?) flew over from Toronto so it was a real family celebration.
After a week in Dunoon, eating and drinking much too much with David’s cousin Neil and his wife, Rhona, we went back to Glasgow for a few days to recuperate. We then spent four days in Carnoustie, Scotland, a golfer’s paradise on the coast just north of St. Andrews. Do we golf? No, but we couldn’t resist the great deals offered by the hotel. Even better, we were upgraded from a standard room overlooking the parking lot to a two room suite overlooking the golf course and North Sea! We also enjoyed some sunny weather...cold but clear. We’ve been joking that Scotland has been the sunniest country we’ve been in!
Paris has been magical. Our flat is in the Marais district, the 4th arrondissement www.vrbo.com/69232. We have wandered the hallowed halls of The Louvre and the Musee d’Orsay, travelled along The Seine on a tour boat, listened to (enjoyed? no, not really) an avant-garde organ concert at Notre Dame Cathedral, climbed to the top of the Arc de Triomphe to admire the view and puzzled over modern art at the Centre Georges Pompidou. Oh, and enjoyed much eating and drinking.
The Paris lights beckon us once again, so off we go. Au revoir!
Just a quick word as we are in Paris, discovering the “City of Lights” for the week. We fly to the Canary Islands on December 11 and since we’re staying there for a few months, we’ll have more time to add to the blog. Aren’t you lucky!
Our last entry in October was from Ojen, Spain. November was busy exploring London and visiting family in Scotland.
I was excited to return to London. We rented a lovely sixth floor flat with views facing south over the city. The building did not have an elevator so the 100+ stairs provided the stairmaster. We could see the London Eye and St. Paul’s Cathedral and even on overcast days, the place was very bright with its huge windows. (www.vrbo.com/52647) It was close to Hampstead Heath, a great place for runs and walks...and outdoor bathing ponds open year round. More like duck ponds, I’d say and no, we did not partake in this fine London tradition. Many people did though!
Our last visit to London was ten years ago when we witnessed a monumental event...the FIRST London Starbucks opening! Now, they’re everywhere! This time, we went on the London Eye, the city’s enormous Ferris wheel, enjoyed two great plays; “Zorro” at the Garrick Theatre and The Norman Conquests – Round and Round the Garden at the Old Vic. We visited the National Portrait Gallery for Annie Leibovitz’s presentation, brushed up on our knowledge at the Science Museum, enjoyed both the Tate Modern and Tate Britain galleries and wandered around looking at all the Christmas decorations in the stores. We also reconnected with a friend from Vancouver, last seen seventeen years ago.
The month’s highlight was celebrating David’s Aunt Margaret’s 80th birthday in Dunoon, Scotland. David’s mom, Kathleen (Margaret’s sister) and her husband, George (are you still with me?) flew over from Toronto so it was a real family celebration.
After a week in Dunoon, eating and drinking much too much with David’s cousin Neil and his wife, Rhona, we went back to Glasgow for a few days to recuperate. We then spent four days in Carnoustie, Scotland, a golfer’s paradise on the coast just north of St. Andrews. Do we golf? No, but we couldn’t resist the great deals offered by the hotel. Even better, we were upgraded from a standard room overlooking the parking lot to a two room suite overlooking the golf course and North Sea! We also enjoyed some sunny weather...cold but clear. We’ve been joking that Scotland has been the sunniest country we’ve been in!
Paris has been magical. Our flat is in the Marais district, the 4th arrondissement www.vrbo.com/69232. We have wandered the hallowed halls of The Louvre and the Musee d’Orsay, travelled along The Seine on a tour boat, listened to (enjoyed? no, not really) an avant-garde organ concert at Notre Dame Cathedral, climbed to the top of the Arc de Triomphe to admire the view and puzzled over modern art at the Centre Georges Pompidou. Oh, and enjoyed much eating and drinking.
The Paris lights beckon us once again, so off we go. Au revoir!
Friday, October 17, 2008
Switzerland, Prague, Salzburg and Lake Como
The fully loaded Renault Kangoo, all 85 horsepower, is an able performer even in the Swiss Alps. Only operator error will result in a diesel-induced wheeze up a steep grade if the correct gear is not selected. There are no dramatic belches of black smoke of the old diesels, just a distinct lack of power until it sorts itself out. I apologized in Italian to my French car and my Canadian wife for my mistakes, hoping they will understand and be more forgiving if I do it again.
While I’m on the subject of lack of power and wheezing, Leslie picked up a cold in Davos, Switzerland. We sneezed, wheezed and dribbled our way towards Prague, Czech Republic and then on to Salzburg, Austria. Prague is a bustling modern city trapped in a museum of architecture haunted by Kafka and many other artists. It’s difficult to believe it was only the late 60’s that the USSR invaded Czechoslovakia because of its modest attempts at liberalization. There is a painted outline at the spot where a student (Jan Palach) died after lighting himself on fire as a desperate protest to the Soviet occupation; he is considered a national hero. Many students, artists, intellectuals and workers protests were quickly put down. The contrast with my life as a Canadian student in 1969 couldn’t have been more extreme.
Old areas in European cities are like theatrical history; open to the tourist audiences during the day but daily life goes on elsewhere. Prague’s architectural beauty is so extensive that the city stages life as a never ending play. The buildings, streets and squares ooze history and breathe the bustle of modern consumerism. The Frank Gehry designed building is a wonderful contrast to classic structures of Prague. It is referred to as the “dancing building” which will be self explanatory once you see it. It has been called other things as well, according to your taste.
For an unbelievable example of Art Nouveau style architecture, Prague’s Municipal Hall must be seen. A tour is essential to appreciate the design, craftsmanship and pride in community required to propel a project of this scope. It also reflects one of the many resurgences of Czech culture and economics before the 20th century took hold.
Salzburg’s claim to fame, according to Austrians, is as Mozart’s birthplace. On the other hand, a recent survey stated most tourists came because of the association with the movie “The Sound of Music”. The locals are stubbornly sticking to the sophisticated Mozart version of events.
The old town of Salzburg is one of the focuses of tourism, capped by yet another castle. The history of the area is unique, characterized by salt mining which resulted in considerable wealth. The wealth, in turn, attracts “bad guys” which, in turn, necessitates big castles, torture chambers and the weapons of war. The castle has a tremendous collection of antiquities, including torture devices and a study in the development of ancient weapons. The instruments of pain are juxtaposed with works of art, further illustrating the complexities of the human race, which is capable of creating stunningly beautiful works of art and science; at that same time perpetrating atrocities that leave you speechless. Although I just glanced at the combination finger and testicle squeezer on display, I released an endless stream of confessions to Leslie, some of which I regret. I would not have held up well to torture.
Salzburg is the only city in Europe that we have been in where they continue to allow smoking inside restaurants. We forgot what it was like trying to have a meal while the thick smoke hung like smog over an Ohio coal town. At one meal, exhaust from laughing Austrian smokers would escalate uncontrollably into a cacophony of bronchitic spasms, only to be joined in sympathy by Leslie in the last throes of her virus. The Austrian group seemed pleased with Leslie’s sense of humour when she involuntarily joined in.
Mozart was born in Salzburg and it is my understanding that he made some wonderful noises. We had hoped to hear a performance of his work while in Salzburg but that will have to be saved for another time. Instead, Leslie was inspired to sing a constant melody of “The Sound of Music” tunes. It was a wonderful performance although the lack of rehearsal time was apparent.
The fall weather had become chilly as Salzburg is an alpine town. We hunkered down in the Sheraton Salzburg as a treat and respite from the cold. Our king size bed had three pillows, each of varying sizes and densities. To me, this meant there must be a resident pillow sommelier. But Leslie tried to tell me there is no such thing and not to bother phoning the front desk to enquire for pillow advice. However, I did enjoy some of the local food in the hotel including goulash, bratwurst, potato pancakes with a fruity dry Austrian wine, great comfort food.
Actually, our first premonition of winter was in Davos, Switzerland, an alpine town famous for skiing, hiking and economic conferences. We stayed there courtesy of the Kaelin family of Neschwil, Switzerland, friends I met originally in Vancouver. Switzerland lived up to its reputation of beauty, manicured lush green valleys and towering alpine mountains.
Neschwil is a small village where Barbara Sporri Kaelin grew up and the family now live. Neschwil lies in rolling green Swiss countryside with great access to biking, hiking and skiing. We spent a special week with them and met their children, Oliver and Sara and her mom, Hilde. Barbara took us to Zurich one evening and we were really impressed. The downtown has no towering high-rises and is built to a very human scale. I can’t believe the Zurich gnomes (bankers) have resisted or been prevented from building huge symbols to their success. There were lots of outdoor restaurants and cafes full of locals enjoying the older area of Zurich.
Markus Kaelin took us on a spectacular hike high into the Swiss Alps. Sections of the hike had fixed metal assists to lend confidence as the exposure was intimidating. The Italians refer to this as via ferrata (iron way or road) which allows non-technical climbers access to areas they might not otherwise go. On the descent, we rounded a tight bend in the trail and were immediately confronted by about eight ibex. Markus, who has been hiking and climbing in the Alps for years, had never been so close.
Switzerland has none of the signature scruffiness of Italy, France or Spain. People apologize for not speaking English and then launch into an easily understood conversation. The cut wood is piled neatly as if by a government directive, roads are in excellent condition and everyone dutifully turns their car off at construction delays or long red lights. Why they would want to join the European Union, I don’t know. It may be to ease trading restrictions and lower high consumer prices. They seem to have the best of both worlds, proximity to multiple hard scrabble countries with a reassuring comfort and order in their own living room.
With the Kangoo and Leslie spluttering, and me blethering in nonsensical faux Italian-Swiss, we headed towards a rendezvous with Leslie’s parents in Lecco, Lake Como region. In one day, we drove through five countries; Switzerland, Austria, and Lichtenstein, Czech Republic and Germany. The order that we did it in is lost forever. On the final descent from St. Moritz towards Lake Como, we were engulfed in a beautiful valley which highlighted the trip.
Leslie and I had booked an apartment in Varenna, about twenty minutes north of Lecco on Lake Como’s eastern side. We weren’t sure when or if we’d be able to meet up with Don and Joyce so we made a last minute booking. When you book blindly on the internet, it is always a leap of faith that there will be four walls, a roof, a door and at least one window. Serendipity struck again. The apartment in Varenna, owned by a local Italian couple, had much more than the requisite walls and roof. The owners spoke no English but were very enthusiastic in helping us settle in and explore.
With Leslie’s parents in Lecco and us in Varenna, this also provided the opportunity to explore both places. Lecco is a small prosperous town filled with the typically stylish Italians, both locals and weekenders from Milan. Varenna, much smaller still and lakeside, had only one way to expand and that was up. We had a tiny switchback road as an approach to our apartment with its large deck and a view over the lake.
It was a real treat seeing my in-laws out of context. Even though we had planned to meet them, you still pinch yourself and ask “How did they get here and how did this happen?” Joyce and Don celebrated their 49th wedding anniversary which we all spent on a beautiful, warm, sunny Varenna restaurant deck overlooking Lake Como. It was one of those meals you don’t want to end, great views, easy conversation and, of course, wine. After lunch, we parted ways, Don and Joyce went off to their place in Lecco, easing into their 50th year of marriage. We met and did it all over again in Bellagio and Lecco with nothing in particular to celebrate other than it was lunchtime again in Lake Como.
While I’m on the subject of lack of power and wheezing, Leslie picked up a cold in Davos, Switzerland. We sneezed, wheezed and dribbled our way towards Prague, Czech Republic and then on to Salzburg, Austria. Prague is a bustling modern city trapped in a museum of architecture haunted by Kafka and many other artists. It’s difficult to believe it was only the late 60’s that the USSR invaded Czechoslovakia because of its modest attempts at liberalization. There is a painted outline at the spot where a student (Jan Palach) died after lighting himself on fire as a desperate protest to the Soviet occupation; he is considered a national hero. Many students, artists, intellectuals and workers protests were quickly put down. The contrast with my life as a Canadian student in 1969 couldn’t have been more extreme.
Old areas in European cities are like theatrical history; open to the tourist audiences during the day but daily life goes on elsewhere. Prague’s architectural beauty is so extensive that the city stages life as a never ending play. The buildings, streets and squares ooze history and breathe the bustle of modern consumerism. The Frank Gehry designed building is a wonderful contrast to classic structures of Prague. It is referred to as the “dancing building” which will be self explanatory once you see it. It has been called other things as well, according to your taste.
For an unbelievable example of Art Nouveau style architecture, Prague’s Municipal Hall must be seen. A tour is essential to appreciate the design, craftsmanship and pride in community required to propel a project of this scope. It also reflects one of the many resurgences of Czech culture and economics before the 20th century took hold.
Salzburg’s claim to fame, according to Austrians, is as Mozart’s birthplace. On the other hand, a recent survey stated most tourists came because of the association with the movie “The Sound of Music”. The locals are stubbornly sticking to the sophisticated Mozart version of events.
The old town of Salzburg is one of the focuses of tourism, capped by yet another castle. The history of the area is unique, characterized by salt mining which resulted in considerable wealth. The wealth, in turn, attracts “bad guys” which, in turn, necessitates big castles, torture chambers and the weapons of war. The castle has a tremendous collection of antiquities, including torture devices and a study in the development of ancient weapons. The instruments of pain are juxtaposed with works of art, further illustrating the complexities of the human race, which is capable of creating stunningly beautiful works of art and science; at that same time perpetrating atrocities that leave you speechless. Although I just glanced at the combination finger and testicle squeezer on display, I released an endless stream of confessions to Leslie, some of which I regret. I would not have held up well to torture.
Salzburg is the only city in Europe that we have been in where they continue to allow smoking inside restaurants. We forgot what it was like trying to have a meal while the thick smoke hung like smog over an Ohio coal town. At one meal, exhaust from laughing Austrian smokers would escalate uncontrollably into a cacophony of bronchitic spasms, only to be joined in sympathy by Leslie in the last throes of her virus. The Austrian group seemed pleased with Leslie’s sense of humour when she involuntarily joined in.
Mozart was born in Salzburg and it is my understanding that he made some wonderful noises. We had hoped to hear a performance of his work while in Salzburg but that will have to be saved for another time. Instead, Leslie was inspired to sing a constant melody of “The Sound of Music” tunes. It was a wonderful performance although the lack of rehearsal time was apparent.
The fall weather had become chilly as Salzburg is an alpine town. We hunkered down in the Sheraton Salzburg as a treat and respite from the cold. Our king size bed had three pillows, each of varying sizes and densities. To me, this meant there must be a resident pillow sommelier. But Leslie tried to tell me there is no such thing and not to bother phoning the front desk to enquire for pillow advice. However, I did enjoy some of the local food in the hotel including goulash, bratwurst, potato pancakes with a fruity dry Austrian wine, great comfort food.
Actually, our first premonition of winter was in Davos, Switzerland, an alpine town famous for skiing, hiking and economic conferences. We stayed there courtesy of the Kaelin family of Neschwil, Switzerland, friends I met originally in Vancouver. Switzerland lived up to its reputation of beauty, manicured lush green valleys and towering alpine mountains.
Neschwil is a small village where Barbara Sporri Kaelin grew up and the family now live. Neschwil lies in rolling green Swiss countryside with great access to biking, hiking and skiing. We spent a special week with them and met their children, Oliver and Sara and her mom, Hilde. Barbara took us to Zurich one evening and we were really impressed. The downtown has no towering high-rises and is built to a very human scale. I can’t believe the Zurich gnomes (bankers) have resisted or been prevented from building huge symbols to their success. There were lots of outdoor restaurants and cafes full of locals enjoying the older area of Zurich.
Markus Kaelin took us on a spectacular hike high into the Swiss Alps. Sections of the hike had fixed metal assists to lend confidence as the exposure was intimidating. The Italians refer to this as via ferrata (iron way or road) which allows non-technical climbers access to areas they might not otherwise go. On the descent, we rounded a tight bend in the trail and were immediately confronted by about eight ibex. Markus, who has been hiking and climbing in the Alps for years, had never been so close.
Switzerland has none of the signature scruffiness of Italy, France or Spain. People apologize for not speaking English and then launch into an easily understood conversation. The cut wood is piled neatly as if by a government directive, roads are in excellent condition and everyone dutifully turns their car off at construction delays or long red lights. Why they would want to join the European Union, I don’t know. It may be to ease trading restrictions and lower high consumer prices. They seem to have the best of both worlds, proximity to multiple hard scrabble countries with a reassuring comfort and order in their own living room.
With the Kangoo and Leslie spluttering, and me blethering in nonsensical faux Italian-Swiss, we headed towards a rendezvous with Leslie’s parents in Lecco, Lake Como region. In one day, we drove through five countries; Switzerland, Austria, and Lichtenstein, Czech Republic and Germany. The order that we did it in is lost forever. On the final descent from St. Moritz towards Lake Como, we were engulfed in a beautiful valley which highlighted the trip.
Leslie and I had booked an apartment in Varenna, about twenty minutes north of Lecco on Lake Como’s eastern side. We weren’t sure when or if we’d be able to meet up with Don and Joyce so we made a last minute booking. When you book blindly on the internet, it is always a leap of faith that there will be four walls, a roof, a door and at least one window. Serendipity struck again. The apartment in Varenna, owned by a local Italian couple, had much more than the requisite walls and roof. The owners spoke no English but were very enthusiastic in helping us settle in and explore.
With Leslie’s parents in Lecco and us in Varenna, this also provided the opportunity to explore both places. Lecco is a small prosperous town filled with the typically stylish Italians, both locals and weekenders from Milan. Varenna, much smaller still and lakeside, had only one way to expand and that was up. We had a tiny switchback road as an approach to our apartment with its large deck and a view over the lake.
It was a real treat seeing my in-laws out of context. Even though we had planned to meet them, you still pinch yourself and ask “How did they get here and how did this happen?” Joyce and Don celebrated their 49th wedding anniversary which we all spent on a beautiful, warm, sunny Varenna restaurant deck overlooking Lake Como. It was one of those meals you don’t want to end, great views, easy conversation and, of course, wine. After lunch, we parted ways, Don and Joyce went off to their place in Lecco, easing into their 50th year of marriage. We met and did it all over again in Bellagio and Lecco with nothing in particular to celebrate other than it was lunchtime again in Lake Como.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Photo Album
Ojen, Spain
We are in Ojen, Spain for October, a small hilltop town of 2000, close to Marbella on the coast. Every year, Ojen celebrates its patron saint with a five day fiesta frenzy, complete with food, drink, music, drink, dancing, rides for the kids, more drinks, a couple of parades, fireworks, more music and drink, noisemakers (many!), traditional games and singing. School is cancelled, work must be too, and the celebration starts mid-morning. It continues all day, with a slight lull during the afternoon siesta but it roars up to full speed again after naptime and carries on until 5 am. Yes, that's right, 5 AM!
For David and me, where a late night is 11 pm, this has been somewhat of a challenge. However, we find ourselves morphing into Spanish time and enjoying the festivities. We haven't quite made it to 5 am but after a few drinks and tapas, we are good for a few "Olés!"
Girona's river houses. We stayed in the tall, thin yellow building, just above the mass of yellow flowers.
Markus explaining to David about Swiss cows.
Coming around the corner and seeing the ibex! Wow!
We are in Ojen, Spain for October, a small hilltop town of 2000, close to Marbella on the coast. Every year, Ojen celebrates its patron saint with a five day fiesta frenzy, complete with food, drink, music, drink, dancing, rides for the kids, more drinks, a couple of parades, fireworks, more music and drink, noisemakers (many!), traditional games and singing. School is cancelled, work must be too, and the celebration starts mid-morning. It continues all day, with a slight lull during the afternoon siesta but it roars up to full speed again after naptime and carries on until 5 am. Yes, that's right, 5 AM!
For David and me, where a late night is 11 pm, this has been somewhat of a challenge. However, we find ourselves morphing into Spanish time and enjoying the festivities. We haven't quite made it to 5 am but after a few drinks and tapas, we are good for a few "Olés!"
First day of Festival with Ojen's Patron Saint leaving the church to be paraded around town. People are dressed in their traditional finery and follow the statue, accompanied by a marching band.
The children are dressed up too. The woman in the blue skirt is a flamenco singer and she sang a song with her castanets while her students danced.
The marching band brings up the rear of the parade.
Three cute kids...seconds after David took the photo, this little guy yanked the hair of the girl in the blue dress.
Beautiful women dressed up.
And more! (ok David, that's enough.)
The balloon man nearly bowled over these two little old ladies as he tried to beat the crowds back to the main square.
Varenna, Italy
Leslie's parents were in Italy in September and we met up for five days in Varenna and Lecco, on Lake Como. This photo of Varenna is taken from the town's castle, high on the hill.
Mom and Leslie on the drawbridge of Varenna castle.
David, Joyce and Don at Varenna Castle
Leslie with her parents in Varenna.
Girona, Spain
After leaving Italy for Spain, we stayed in Girona for three nights. Our flat was great, overlooking the river on one side and the pedestrian "rambla" on the other.
Girona streets and stairs.
Girona's river houses. We stayed in the tall, thin yellow building, just above the mass of yellow flowers.Prague, Czech Republic
Lost in Translation - Leslie admiring David Cerny's sculpture "Proudy". The two figures are piddling into a puddle that's in the shape of the Czech Republic. They are spelling out famous quotes from Czech literature with their "pee" and yes, they move back and forth.
A gargoyle adorning Prague Castle.
Switzerland
We had a wonderful visit to Switzerland. We had a fun week in Neschwil, pop. 150, visiting Barbara and Markus and their children, Oliver and Sara. David met Barbara and Markus in the early 1980's in Vancouver. Markus took us on an amazing hike where we saw ibex, a type of mountain goat. Markus said he had never seen them so close so it was a great thrill. We learned that Markus' motto is "Just one more hill!" Funny enough, on a bike ride with Barb, she had the same motto! It must be a Swiss thing.
Ibex, up close and personal. We saw a herd of eight!
Sara and Oliver at a backyard barbeque.
Leslie and David holding tight in a crevice.
Markus explaining to David about Swiss cows.
Coming around the corner and seeing the ibex! Wow!
Barb and David in Zurich
Markus and Barbara offered us their vacation home in Davos, Switzerland. We spent 10 great days there, hiking, biking, running and napping. We also watched the Davos Hockey Team beat Geneva in their opening season game.
David adding just one more stone to the pile.
Oops, one too many!
Hiking in Davos with a village below.
France
Chamonix, France. Watching a line of hikers ascending the col.
Alpe d'huez, near Grenoble, France. This famous climb on the Tour de France was David's challenge. I drove up ahead and waited for him, enjoying coffee, sunshine and a book!
Nice, France - our Kangoo inching into the car elevator. TRICKY!
August 21, 2008 - On top of Mt. Blanc, Chamonix. Our 20th anniversary!
Thanks for reading!
Leslie and David
Blog Time, Billionaires, Brangelina, Beaches and Bodies
Officially, in real time, we have been to Chamonix and Grenoble France, Neschwil and Davos Switzerland, Prague, Salzburg, Varenna on Lake Como, passing through Cannes, Girona and Valencia on the way to Ojen in the Andalucía region of Spain. But on Blog Time, I am still on Cote d’Azur, that is I have not written on the blog since then, primarily because I am still in shock after Leslie’s U-do hair do.
The Cote d’Azur of France was home for five weeks, Nice in particular, which really expands to include Antibes, Villefrance, Eze, Cagnes-sur-Mer, Cap Ferrat, Bealieau-sur-Mer, Monaco and probably a couple more that I didn’t see. You can safely ignore Monaco unless you are a Formula 1 fan, monarchy fan, looking for a tax haven, or need a mooring for your super yacht. We didn’t ignore Monaco and I’ll leave you to guess the reason we went there.
The Cote d’Azur may seem intimidating with the ever-present referrals to artistic geniuses who haunt the place, such as Chagall, Renoir, Picasso and Matisse, but when it comes down to it, the artists were there for the same reasons that everyone goes. Glorious sunshine days constantly rearrange the blue hues on the ocean of a serpentine coastline with protected bays with steep hills as a backdrop and, as a result, geniuses and tourists pack the towns.
An escape from the masses is easily accomplished by driving inland towards the hills and then mountains. I often went on my bike and within one hour, the cars were scarce and the scenery amazing. Panoramic views toward the sea on clear days competed with rugged mountain landscapes over your shoulder. Leslie often drove inland and I would meet her for lunch in a small town, drinking just enough wine to enhance the view and the meal.
The sea side towns (sur Mer) plod their way uphill, step by step, villa by villa, to some wonderful hilltop conclusions. Eze-en-Haut or the high village, sister town to Eze-sur-Mer, is a stunning example of medieval architecture mixed with shops and restaurants placed in what seems like a giant eagle’s nest.
Like most high villages, its location originally evolved as a good defensive position to pour boiling oil and throw pointy objects at unwanted house guests. The ruins of the fortress provide expansive views of the Mediterranean coastline and a place to reflect on the stresses and comforts of modern Canadian life versus the medieval maelstrom.
The historic inhabitants had to deal with the constant threat of attack from aggressors; such was the competition for food, land and other precious resources. Most of the small towns and villages have remnants of their ancient defensive capabilities. Small slit-like windows, good to shoot arrows from but difficult to shoot arrows into, are beside holes to pour the hot oil should the arrows not keep the marauders at bay. The fortresses were also used to keep people out suspected of having disease that could inexplicably spread to the inhabitants.
I don’t remember historical dates well but I’m sure all this fighting was over by the time most of the artists arrived, otherwise their artistic output would have been severely reduced. The creative process would have been interrupted with defensive responsibilities. Chagall would likely have thrown oil paint instead of boiling oil on the aggressors which would have resulted in early performance art. Not an effective means of defence. After a successful battle, I picture them all sliding around on the oil as in a ball-bearing factory gone mad which would have also helped celebrate their victory, safe until the next attack, failed crop or infectious disease passes by. In the meantime, they could have drunken debates on whether the earth was flat, why wasn’t the sun extinguished in the sea and other pressing subjects of that era.
Since I have some extra time on my hands (too much, says Leslie!), I tried counting all the stones on Nice’s beaches and reached 450 million. That is correct; the beaches are stone, not sand. I would have still been counting unless Leslie helped me. I wouldn’t even have attempted a count if the beaches were sand because that would have been giga-billions and I don’t know how to count that high.
Stone beaches demand a different strategy than sandy ones. There are no carefree sprints into the water as the stones hurt your feet. No romantic strolls hand in hand for the same reason. You do not bring buckets and spades as they are useless. Instead beachgoers carry padded cushions to prevent the stones from sticking into their ribs and vertebra, which would spoil slumbering possibilities. It has also spawned the beach lounge chair rental industry. The rental stations are conveniently located close to their restaurant and bars, which result in more lounge chair time and so on and so on.
Four hundred and fifty million is also an important number because that is what a Russian oligarch paid in Euros for a property above Villefrance. It is reputed to be the most expensive private property in the world. I have trouble picturing 450 million of anything, except Nice beaches stones, let alone dollars.
I happened to ride past Leopold, the property he purchased from the widow of a Lebanese banker. I recognized a small sign on a gate with the property name on it after reading an article regarding the sale. From a higher viewpoint, you could see the entire sprawling estate and ponder what you get for that amount of money. It looked like an awful lot of garden and lawn to cut and weed. The house is large enough to hold mine and Leslie’s relatives plus our entire staff of body guards, which would result in an interesting sociological experiment. The helicopter landing pads were a bit too far from the main house for my liking. The walk to put the garbage cans out was also rather excessive so after a brief fling with oligarch jealously, I cycled on content with my lot in life.
Our base in Nice was a celebration of bodies and activities on the waterfront promenade. Interestingly, it is called the Promenade des Anglais after some smart and wealthy aristocrats in the Victorian period that enjoyed the mild sunny winters. Every size and shape of body is displayed on the Cote d’Azur beaches with many of the women topless. For prudish North Americans, this can be a bit of a shock as we witnessed a couple of American women who seemed quite taken aback and had clearly had not been forewarned. It was refreshing to see a group of French teenagers surrounded by topless women but clearly non-plussed by it all. We did witness another side to it as we saw a twenty-something male openly taking photographs of only attractive young topless women. Do the pictures end up in a private collection or on the internet? Nevertheless, it is a great place to stroll with the joggers, oligarchs, stunt rollerbladers, seniors and tourists from around the world. There must have been some artistic geniuses amongst them but we couldn’t spot them.
PS- Tid-Bits on France
- You have to love a country where a small supermarket with 7 aisles has 2 completely dedicated to wine!
-The following was on the EasyJet web site that I booked my flight from Nice to Geneva. I am pleased to report the plane successfully defied gravity and flew on schedule. “Special allowance of 10 kilos in addition for the titular of flybaboo abonnament” -and if that wasn’t clear, “We accept a maximum weight of 20 kg per person at the swissport desk.”- no specific mention whether this referred to luggage weight or ?
-Brangelina stayed down the street from us in Nice. The paparazzi and mainstream media were set up for a close encounter with the pregnant couple. We were not able to drop in to say hello and thankfully, the press did not recognize Leslie and me.
-We had an indoor secure parking spot in Nice that was accessed by car elevator. The Kangoo barely fit and required a twenty point turn to manoeuvre into the allotted space. The lift broke down one day, trapping Leslie and I for a short time. We were not able to get our car out until the next day. What about the residents who had to get to work?
PPS
-Leslie’s father Don, who is my communications guru, was kind enough to inform me that the word “blog” is derived from “web log”. This definitely helps clear up those issues I had with the word blog. I apologize for my prejudices against that particular arrangement of letters and the close relatives affected by my statements. Don, who is retired from the communications business, really knows what he is talking about. When Don started his career they were still using the Gutenberg press and they wrote something called a Glog. Thanks again Don, your input is always expected... I mean, appreciated!
The Cote d’Azur of France was home for five weeks, Nice in particular, which really expands to include Antibes, Villefrance, Eze, Cagnes-sur-Mer, Cap Ferrat, Bealieau-sur-Mer, Monaco and probably a couple more that I didn’t see. You can safely ignore Monaco unless you are a Formula 1 fan, monarchy fan, looking for a tax haven, or need a mooring for your super yacht. We didn’t ignore Monaco and I’ll leave you to guess the reason we went there.
The Cote d’Azur may seem intimidating with the ever-present referrals to artistic geniuses who haunt the place, such as Chagall, Renoir, Picasso and Matisse, but when it comes down to it, the artists were there for the same reasons that everyone goes. Glorious sunshine days constantly rearrange the blue hues on the ocean of a serpentine coastline with protected bays with steep hills as a backdrop and, as a result, geniuses and tourists pack the towns.
An escape from the masses is easily accomplished by driving inland towards the hills and then mountains. I often went on my bike and within one hour, the cars were scarce and the scenery amazing. Panoramic views toward the sea on clear days competed with rugged mountain landscapes over your shoulder. Leslie often drove inland and I would meet her for lunch in a small town, drinking just enough wine to enhance the view and the meal.
The sea side towns (sur Mer) plod their way uphill, step by step, villa by villa, to some wonderful hilltop conclusions. Eze-en-Haut or the high village, sister town to Eze-sur-Mer, is a stunning example of medieval architecture mixed with shops and restaurants placed in what seems like a giant eagle’s nest.
Like most high villages, its location originally evolved as a good defensive position to pour boiling oil and throw pointy objects at unwanted house guests. The ruins of the fortress provide expansive views of the Mediterranean coastline and a place to reflect on the stresses and comforts of modern Canadian life versus the medieval maelstrom.
The historic inhabitants had to deal with the constant threat of attack from aggressors; such was the competition for food, land and other precious resources. Most of the small towns and villages have remnants of their ancient defensive capabilities. Small slit-like windows, good to shoot arrows from but difficult to shoot arrows into, are beside holes to pour the hot oil should the arrows not keep the marauders at bay. The fortresses were also used to keep people out suspected of having disease that could inexplicably spread to the inhabitants.
I don’t remember historical dates well but I’m sure all this fighting was over by the time most of the artists arrived, otherwise their artistic output would have been severely reduced. The creative process would have been interrupted with defensive responsibilities. Chagall would likely have thrown oil paint instead of boiling oil on the aggressors which would have resulted in early performance art. Not an effective means of defence. After a successful battle, I picture them all sliding around on the oil as in a ball-bearing factory gone mad which would have also helped celebrate their victory, safe until the next attack, failed crop or infectious disease passes by. In the meantime, they could have drunken debates on whether the earth was flat, why wasn’t the sun extinguished in the sea and other pressing subjects of that era.
Since I have some extra time on my hands (too much, says Leslie!), I tried counting all the stones on Nice’s beaches and reached 450 million. That is correct; the beaches are stone, not sand. I would have still been counting unless Leslie helped me. I wouldn’t even have attempted a count if the beaches were sand because that would have been giga-billions and I don’t know how to count that high.
Stone beaches demand a different strategy than sandy ones. There are no carefree sprints into the water as the stones hurt your feet. No romantic strolls hand in hand for the same reason. You do not bring buckets and spades as they are useless. Instead beachgoers carry padded cushions to prevent the stones from sticking into their ribs and vertebra, which would spoil slumbering possibilities. It has also spawned the beach lounge chair rental industry. The rental stations are conveniently located close to their restaurant and bars, which result in more lounge chair time and so on and so on.
Four hundred and fifty million is also an important number because that is what a Russian oligarch paid in Euros for a property above Villefrance. It is reputed to be the most expensive private property in the world. I have trouble picturing 450 million of anything, except Nice beaches stones, let alone dollars.
I happened to ride past Leopold, the property he purchased from the widow of a Lebanese banker. I recognized a small sign on a gate with the property name on it after reading an article regarding the sale. From a higher viewpoint, you could see the entire sprawling estate and ponder what you get for that amount of money. It looked like an awful lot of garden and lawn to cut and weed. The house is large enough to hold mine and Leslie’s relatives plus our entire staff of body guards, which would result in an interesting sociological experiment. The helicopter landing pads were a bit too far from the main house for my liking. The walk to put the garbage cans out was also rather excessive so after a brief fling with oligarch jealously, I cycled on content with my lot in life.
Our base in Nice was a celebration of bodies and activities on the waterfront promenade. Interestingly, it is called the Promenade des Anglais after some smart and wealthy aristocrats in the Victorian period that enjoyed the mild sunny winters. Every size and shape of body is displayed on the Cote d’Azur beaches with many of the women topless. For prudish North Americans, this can be a bit of a shock as we witnessed a couple of American women who seemed quite taken aback and had clearly had not been forewarned. It was refreshing to see a group of French teenagers surrounded by topless women but clearly non-plussed by it all. We did witness another side to it as we saw a twenty-something male openly taking photographs of only attractive young topless women. Do the pictures end up in a private collection or on the internet? Nevertheless, it is a great place to stroll with the joggers, oligarchs, stunt rollerbladers, seniors and tourists from around the world. There must have been some artistic geniuses amongst them but we couldn’t spot them.
PS- Tid-Bits on France
- You have to love a country where a small supermarket with 7 aisles has 2 completely dedicated to wine!
-The following was on the EasyJet web site that I booked my flight from Nice to Geneva. I am pleased to report the plane successfully defied gravity and flew on schedule. “Special allowance of 10 kilos in addition for the titular of flybaboo abonnament” -and if that wasn’t clear, “We accept a maximum weight of 20 kg per person at the swissport desk.”- no specific mention whether this referred to luggage weight or ?
-Brangelina stayed down the street from us in Nice. The paparazzi and mainstream media were set up for a close encounter with the pregnant couple. We were not able to drop in to say hello and thankfully, the press did not recognize Leslie and me.
-We had an indoor secure parking spot in Nice that was accessed by car elevator. The Kangoo barely fit and required a twenty point turn to manoeuvre into the allotted space. The lift broke down one day, trapping Leslie and I for a short time. We were not able to get our car out until the next day. What about the residents who had to get to work?
PPS
-Leslie’s father Don, who is my communications guru, was kind enough to inform me that the word “blog” is derived from “web log”. This definitely helps clear up those issues I had with the word blog. I apologize for my prejudices against that particular arrangement of letters and the close relatives affected by my statements. Don, who is retired from the communications business, really knows what he is talking about. When Don started his career they were still using the Gutenberg press and they wrote something called a Glog. Thanks again Don, your input is always expected... I mean, appreciated!
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Hansel and Greytel
Not so long ago, far, far away, a Canadian girl and her travelling companion explored foreign lands.
One morning in Switzerland, she peered into a looking glass. She was shocked to discover that her head had been invaded by foreign, squiggly grey hairs. “Zut alors”, she exclaimed! This will not do! Something must be done!”
The Canadian girl visited the town’s apothecaries and beauty shops. She rejected many of the magic potions as some were for long hair, some were for black hair and some were for curly hair. Finally, she saw the magic box she needed and took it home.
Quietly, the Canadian girl started preparing for her transformation. She unfolded the instructions. Pages of foreign words swirled in front of her eyes. (Part of the problem of the swirling words was due to the Canadian girl’s recent need for reading glasses. Sadly, she did not have any of her own and did not want to borrow, yet again, her travelling companion’s glasses. This matter, however, is for another fairy tale.)
Brow furrowed, she looked at the German, French and Italian directions. “How hard can this be?” she wondered. Armed with her Italian and French dictionaries, she deciphered the cryptic words while following the pictures. Gloves were donned, cream and powder were mixed carefully and shoulders were garbed with towels. She did not want to alert her travelling companion to the important task she was about to undertake. He would just laugh at her silliness. What did he know? His head was already covered with the foreign, squiggly invaders.
The Canadian girl started applying the magic potion to her hair. One streak here, another carefully placed there. “Ahhhh, if one streak is good, another must be better!” she reasoned. Soon, her head looked like it had been iced. Taking one last look at the foreign words (was that leave on for 20 minutes from the start of application or from the end?), she waited breathlessly for her transformation.
Washing out the magic potion, the Canadian girl excitedly peered into the looking glass again. And, what to her wondering eyes did appear but orange hair! And the invaders were still prominent! Zut alors!
And, the Canadian girl’s travelling companion still laughed.
The End.
One morning in Switzerland, she peered into a looking glass. She was shocked to discover that her head had been invaded by foreign, squiggly grey hairs. “Zut alors”, she exclaimed! This will not do! Something must be done!”
The Canadian girl visited the town’s apothecaries and beauty shops. She rejected many of the magic potions as some were for long hair, some were for black hair and some were for curly hair. Finally, she saw the magic box she needed and took it home.
Quietly, the Canadian girl started preparing for her transformation. She unfolded the instructions. Pages of foreign words swirled in front of her eyes. (Part of the problem of the swirling words was due to the Canadian girl’s recent need for reading glasses. Sadly, she did not have any of her own and did not want to borrow, yet again, her travelling companion’s glasses. This matter, however, is for another fairy tale.)
Brow furrowed, she looked at the German, French and Italian directions. “How hard can this be?” she wondered. Armed with her Italian and French dictionaries, she deciphered the cryptic words while following the pictures. Gloves were donned, cream and powder were mixed carefully and shoulders were garbed with towels. She did not want to alert her travelling companion to the important task she was about to undertake. He would just laugh at her silliness. What did he know? His head was already covered with the foreign, squiggly invaders.
The Canadian girl started applying the magic potion to her hair. One streak here, another carefully placed there. “Ahhhh, if one streak is good, another must be better!” she reasoned. Soon, her head looked like it had been iced. Taking one last look at the foreign words (was that leave on for 20 minutes from the start of application or from the end?), she waited breathlessly for her transformation.
Washing out the magic potion, the Canadian girl excitedly peered into the looking glass again. And, what to her wondering eyes did appear but orange hair! And the invaders were still prominent! Zut alors!
And, the Canadian girl’s travelling companion still laughed.
The End.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
A Note From Don, Leslie's Dad
Leslie you must check your geography. You mentioned that Cinque Terre was located on the Adriatic coast. It is not- it’s on the Mediterranean side, to be more specific, Mar Ligure! Needless to say I was rather humiliated by your statement since the error is definitely a reflection on your parents and your upbringing.
Love,
Dad
(Note from Leslie: I stand corrected!)
Love,
Dad
(Note from Leslie: I stand corrected!)
Confused in Nice...snail mail or blog?
The Top of a Col Before the Descent
Dear Mother (and others?),
I don’t write personal letters or post cards any more as Leslie says I have to contribute to the blog. Initially, I wasn’t quite sure what a blog is. Blog is a rather awkward word with some close relatives which don’t really help clarify its meaning ie. blob, gob, snog, glob. I am not quite sure why anyone would want to read my rubbish; in fact I’m not convinced anyone is reading this other than you. The trouble with blobbing Mum, is that anyone can read this. Therefore, I will not be discussing any private matters. I will also not be my usual silly self as this would tarnish my stellar reputation in a public forum.
Just to address your previous concerns, I am eating all my vegetables and Leslie is treating me fairly well. I would also like to clear up any issues raised by the reference to my leg shaving made by my lovely wife in her recent blog entry which I might add was not OK’d by me. I can assure you that my interest in feminine grooming starts and stops with leg depilatory actions.
I have long resisted the cycling tradition of leg shaving. Number one, my legs are roughly the same diameter all the way up, two, I am not a fast cyclist and I thought by shaving my legs I would be obliged to ride faster than I am able, three, I quite like the way my leg hairs stick through my nylons.
In Bologna, there was a small bike shop called Ciclo Clinica run by a man called Scarponi. I asked him his second name and he just repeated the name, Scarponi. I wanted to ask him if he was related to Madonna, Pele or Prince but this would not translate well and I wanted to escape with my life. He informed me that I should shave my legs and I was not about to argue. He was a great guy and very helpful. I bought some very comfortable Italian cycling shorts from him for my upcoming cycle across the Alps. He started the shop after a bet with his father. He also sells Canadian Cervelo bicycles, a great testimony to a Canadian company that so many people ride them here in Italy. He rode a Cervelo but he was in the process of getting a bike handmade by a craftsman his father knows in a small Italian town which is quite an honour.
The alleged advantages of male leg shaving are to make it easier for a masseuse to massage your legs after a ride. I have never had a post ride massage. Supposedly, road rash heals faster if you are unlucky enough to fall off your bike. This will not happen to me as I put those children’s training wheels back on as you instructed.
I basically shaved my legs to fit in, as virtually every male cyclist seems to do it over here even if they have a pot belly. Of course I was also following Scarponi’s directive. I can also pretend I am a racer as Scarponi allowed me to wear his team jersey. However, I didn’t fool anybody into thinking I am a real cyclist by removing the old growth forest on my legs. I also had a great deal of difficulty deciding where to stop shaving. Due to privacy concerns,I will not elaborate on where I stopped shaving.
Leslie also included a picture on the blog of our new vehicle, a Renault Kangoo. I am not kidding about the name. It is not Kan-go , Kangaroo or Kan-of-goo. I promptly renamed it The Particle Accelerator due to its very high tech appearance, Leslie and I being the particles that require accelerating around Europe. We drove to the Cinque Terre after picking it up in the fashion centre of Milan. Through the marvels of physics and diesel internal combustion, its 0-100kph time is about 3.25 minutes. This made for some interesting on-ramps to the Autostrada until I learned how to vigorously stir the gearbox. We also had trouble at first deciding which was the front end due to its square shape. We did a couple of experimental high speed trial runs and Leslie was right that the slightly pointy end is the front. Typically, it did not faze the Italians at all seeing us hurtle down the road backwards even though we were in a spot of bother.
It is a very practical vehicle with excellent fuel economy and it is a great relief able to throw all our luggage in the Kangoo after hauling it around on trains. We are looking forward to driving through the Alps to visit friends in Switzerland.
I have been through the Alps once already bicycling with a British tour group from Geneva to Nice. A man named Lance (from Victoria) mentioned he was signed up and I decided to join him. The route would be approximately 700 km with 15,000 meters of mountain climbs or cols.The Lads Posing
I thought I trained hard in Bologna heat and hills but struggled over the first four days and then proceeded to struggle even more over the next two. I had pictured myself tired yet resolute as I sailed over the cols knowing I was representing my country and Oak Bay. Instead, my trip became “Mr. Bean Cycles the South of France”. I got lost twice, which you don’t want to do because it means more kilometres. I lost my wallet and then the only day when I knew where I was going and arrived before the group (nobody followed me as they didn’t trust me), I couldn’t remember the code to my cell phone and missed the group in Antibes.. Sorry Mum for tarnishing the family name. I really found it a great challenge and camaraderie among the riders was strong. I hope to do another with a wee bit more style
When I was riding, Leslie stayed in our apartment in Nice and signed up for French lessons. She also explored the museums and restaurants every day as I “Mr. Beaned” my way toward Nice.
Mum, I have to go now as I have more “research“ to do comparing Italy and France before reporting back. It is great responsibility and one that I don’t take lightly.
Au revoir
David
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Red, White and Blue in Nice, France
Bonjour from sunny, warm Nice! We’re in the Cote d’Azure for five weeks, trying to figure out how to drive, dress and eat like the French. Eating has been no problem. Oh la la!
The internet has been a problem though so we have not been able to add to the blog very easily. Fingers crossed that now all is well.
Before leaving Italy, we travelled to Milan to pick up our new Renault Kangoo. Yes, I know it looks like we should have 11 kids travelling with us but with our two bikes, we wanted something with enough space to store them. Renault has a great program for long term visitors to Europe. You “buy” the car and then return it to the company so they can sell it second hand. You only pay for the days you use; it includes unlimited mileage, both drivers and insurance. Much cheaper than renting.
After Milan, we explored Cinque Terre (“five lands”) for a few days. Wow! What a beautiful part of Italy. These five, ancient villages cling to the cliffs along the Adriatic Sea.
We walked between the villages on trails that varied from a flat, wide, autobahn to a steep, narrow, goat trail. Our studio was a teeny tiny place but had a huge terrace for relaxing and enjoying the view over Manarola to the sea. Upon arriving in Nice, we were stunned to see paparazzi lurking about our street. Photographers, tv cameras, buzzing helicopters, hoards of gawking people. Had our reputations preceded us? What was going on? Was the Tour de France recruiting David? After glancing at the local paper’s headlines, we realized that we had famous neighbours. The Brangelina twins were born the day after we arrived at the hospital in the next block.
We had mixed feelings about leaving Bologna. We were looking forward to exploring a new city but Bologna had provided us with the language and cultural challenges that we had been looking for. During our last month in Bologna, we stayed in a great flat with all the comforts of home. I took a Bolognese cooking course at a school run by a mother and her daughter, http://www.lavecchiascuola.com/ It was delicious and I LOVE being able to eat my homework! We made tortellini (pork and mortadella stuffed pasta, shaped like the navel of Venus...who knew?), tortelloni (spinach and ricotta stuffed pasta), tagliattelle, long, thin, strands of yellow pasta, first made to honour the marriage of the golden locked daughter of a wealthy Bolognese merchant. The width of proper Bolognese tagliatelle is somehow related to the height of Torre Garisenda, the city’s tallest tower. The food obsessed Italians have strict controls and annual competitions for cutting the pasta. My offering was cut nowhere near this consistently thin. My favourite pasta story was about the “priest stranglers”, the plain flour and water pasta made in lean times without using the expensive eggs. The priests, being used to eating the very best of foods as contributed by their congregations, were reported to have choked on this poor version of pasta while eating!
David has continued to train for his 700 km bike ride from Geneva to Nice through the Alps.
As all serious cyclists do (so he tells me), he decided to shave his legs. I warned him that once he started shaving them, it would be an ongoing job. (Mom, do you remember telling me this years ago?) David was surprised to feel his leggy stubble two days later. I was also surprised, but not in a good way. We now share leg shaving tips. Good grief. Being of British and Scottish ancestry, it has really hit home here in Nice that my skin does NOT like to tan. Freckles? No problem. Sunburn? Even easier. Despite thinking that I had put sun cream on everywhere, the tiny bit that I missed is now a shocking red. But tanning? Nope. I slather on 50 SPF, trying to stave off the burning rays in hopes of becoming an even golden brown. However, I think it has finally hit home that it’s just not going to happen. In this land of sun kissed goddesses (and there are many, David keeps telling me!) I have renounced my tanning attempts. I vow to stay covered with sun cream, crowned in a big brim hat and stay under my beach umbrella. I realize that my white skin will glow on the beach, but I will glow proudly.
Except, unfortunately, when I glow blue. Embarrassingly, my last foray to the beach with a new navy and white striped beach mat had the blue come off all over me. My legs looked like they were horribly bruised. David was getting nasty looks as we walked home afterwards. My big hat and sunglasses didn’t help matters either!
Well, I’m off to buy more sun cream.
Au revoir!
Leslie
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Blethering in Bologna
Scooters in ItalyThe first thing I have noticed is that Bologna is not like Oak Bay. I mentioned this to Leslie and she says that I have keen powers of observation and not to bother her anymore.
The basal metabolic rate of Bologna is much higher than Victoria’s. In fact, Italian paramedics would probably declare Victoria cold but not quite dead. Defibrillator paddles would be quickly slapped on Victoria and energy would be applied in the hopes to revive the youngster. A rapid transfer to Italy’s Intensive Care would follow.
Canadians would be alerted that we should expect the worst but Italian doctors would try their best. Intravenous lines would be thrust into Victoria’s limp extremities with a bolus of Adrenaline, Fashion Sense and Fearlessness. Her Tilley hat, Gortex and practical shoes would be discarded as unrecognizable objects, not necessary for life. Victoria would pull through but she would never be the same again. On discharge she would swivel out to the parking lot in high heels, hop on a scooter and rocket off.
The best and worst features of Bologna are its porticoes, the covered sidewalks. They provide shelter from the scorching sun, now about 35C on average. They also sheltered us from the torrents of daily rain that were present when we first arrived. The thousands of scooters which ply through Bologna streets occasionally take to the sidewalks and dodge through the pedestrians but that isn’t the problem. Unfortunately the porticoes also have an acoustical magnification property. This dials up the already noisy steeds to the upper reaches of human tolerance when a pack of them goes by at breakneck speeds. The scooters tend to show up everywhere – in the piazzas, going the wrong way on a one way street and often sailing through red lights. Easing the pain is the fact that 80% of them are driven by stylish young women wearing miniskirts. Their helmet colour and sunglasses often match their outfits. I have even seen lipstick and helmets of a matching colour. I repeat, this is not Oak Bay.
Bologna has the oldest university in Europe and its buildings are spread throughout one section of the city. The porticoes originally provided a cool place for intellectuals to stroll and think, something we don’t do much of in modern life anymore. I offer this blog as proof.
If Cavalieri, a Bolognese scientist and colleague of Galileo’s, could have time travelled to 2008, he would have been puzzled as to how these two-wheeled, horseless buggies can go so fast in all directions yet never seem to collide with each other. This may have delayed his and Galileo’s work on the solar system as they pondered the puzzles of scooters. The miniskirts would have also provided a significant distraction for them. This would have been a good thing as they were working on the thesis that the sun was central in the universe. Unfortunately, this conflicted with Papal doctrine at the time and Galileo spent the later years of his life under house arrest as a result.
The number of near misses between pedestrians, motorists, scooters and cyclists is amazing. However, after spending nearly two months, I’ve noticed that the Bolognese have a different perception and tolerance of space. We Canadians will protect our space, even to the extreme degree of road rage. In Bologna, they share space much more intimately. A Canadian “road rager” would have a full time job here stressing and shouting his way around town. The Bolognese psychological scaffolding is erected differently from ours.
They have an unfailing belief that you won’t be hit by the vehicle closing fast behind you. I am out there cycling almost every day, leaving the busy historical center for the hills around Bologna. I am not sure as to the Papal position on this issue is but I try to believe I won’t get hit, ”Lordy, I believe, I believe! “
I have seen grandmothers, businessmen and fashionable women on bicycles weave their way alertly through a busy intersection, often passing within inches of scooters, buses and cars, without flinching. The risk levels they assume would have the average Canadian running for cover.
The intimacy of space also extends to walking. Leslie and I were developing an inferiority complex, thinking that nobody gives way for us as we walk. But we realized that the same sensibility on the road applies to the sidewalk. The pedestrians do not give way easily but will budge ever so slightly. They just wait until the last possible microsecond to move. It’s not really a visible motion but a slight shift of weight, much like a boxer slipping a punch. There can be some machismo involved, not wanting to yield lest this reveal a weakness. A couple of polite Canadese like ourselves make little progress. In the passagietta or evening stroll, we apologise and give way constantly, and, as a result, throw off the subtle moves of passersby. A ripple passes through the crowd like a wake off a boat as we make our way.
The porticoes also seem to magnify the amount of people on the sidewalks, like a corral fence concentrating cattle. The passagietta participants are branded with Gucci, Dolce & Gabbana, Prada and knock-offs. There are fashion themes but one doesn’t seem to dominate. The busines men have an eye for style often with a dramatic touch in their eyeglasses.
The women emphasize colour and femininity. They wear impossibly high heels with the ease of a pair of sneakers. Leslie and I were slacked-jawed as we saw one woman run at a full speed sprint for a bus with not the slightest wobble. We cringed expecting the worse, a horrible high speed accident with heels and skid marks everywhere. Predictably, no one else raised an eyebrow and I think, at one point, she actually passed the bus.
The Bolognese remove and put on layers of clothes out of proportion to the slight fluctuations in temperature. Initially, they clung to long pants, jackets and even down vests during the rains we experienced even though it was quite warm at times. As the temperature nudged a bit higher, layers were abandoned with tremendous rapidity. Middle aged men and women in short- shorts were spotted like the last breeding pairs of an otherwise thought extinct species. According to my observations, I have extrapolated the data and calculated that if the temperature ever hits 37C, everyone will be nude. I plan on watching this phenomenon as a scientific observer in Piazza Magiorre if a hotter spell is forecast. I mentioned this to Leslie and she said “Alora, I thought I said not to bother me anymore!”
Arrivederci, ciao!
Pier Francisco
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Inglese in Bologna
The following blog contains real or imagined collections of thoughts structured into sentences (hopefully) describing events that may or may not have happened to individuals that may or may not resemble The Warnocks. If any part of the blog resembles someone or some place you know, this happened completely by accident and is not meant to offend any party. This blog does not reflect the opinions of management i.e. Leslie.
Me Tarzan, she Jane. No, Tarzan and Jane, no Africa. We Canadese. No, Tarzan and Jane have no little Tarzans e Janes. Tarzan e Jane fly to aeroporto from Canadese. I gesture with my hand a perfect arc meant to clarify our flight from Victoria to Europe. This seems to confuse them even more.
Tarzan is who I feel like when I try to speak in Italian. A sentence containing all the correct elements is impossible. I feel like I have been raised by apes and suddenly plucked from the jungle and dropped into Bologna as some sort of experiment. Unfortunately, I don’t have Tarzan's confidence, only his lack of command of sentence structure. The thought is there, it just cannot be transferred to my tongue, which should waggle automatically as it does in Victoria and convey the appropriate words to the recipient. Is this what a stroke patient with aphasia feels like?
Leslie and I wander around Bologna, occasionally meeting someone with as little English as we have Italian. The result cannot be called a conversation...more like a phone company trying to explain the hieroglyphics of their unintelligible bill to a frustrated customer. We usually say “goodbye, ciao” to each other, neither party knowing who said what to whom.
Unlike Florence or Rome, you rarely hear English being spoken on the streets of Bologna. This is what we wanted and now we have it. We had hoped the lack of English would push us into the challenge of starting to learn some Italian. We thought this might be fun.
We enquired at several different language companies and settled on a small family run firm called Madrelingua. It is owned by a couple - Daniel is English and Stefania is an Italian from Rimini on the Adriatic coast. Leslie told me I had to take a skill test assessing my level of Italian before we began lessons. I try to tell her this is absurd as other than mamma mia, alora, grazie, prego and scuzi the vessel is empty, bone dry, finito, no Italiano. Fortunately, Stefania agreed and spared me the embarrassment of handing in a blank sheet of paper, something I hadn’t done since an exam in grade 12 quadratic equations that I had not studied for.
One of the rules of the school is to speak as much Italian as possible and preferably no English. This basically means I cannot talk at school. I just stand there in my loin cloth, embarrassed, sounding like Tarzan. Now, I have never been a man of many words but with no outlet other than Leslie, the English is starting to build up. The pressure must be relieved before spontaneous conversation occurs due to excessive verbiage containment ( E.V.C.). Talking to yourself in Canada is considered to be pathological and I am afraid as it is impossible to tell what will come out should my EVC reach a critical level in Bologna.
The Italian language can be beautiful although not as smooth and as sexy as French. It has an expressive rhythm and melody. I want to soar and sing much like Pavarotti as I express myself. I am disappointed to find out in class that instead of soaring, I squeak. Pavarotti never squeaked.
It didn’t take me long to figure out that somebody who tries to teach me Italian must know English. Therefore, the teachers have some English conversations stored up somewhere inside of them. The only problem is that I am paying them a lot of money not to speak English to me.
I start to plot ways to get at the English in them. The teachers are smarter then I think they are. I try to nudge a conversation slowly but surely toward English. I try telling them an “amusing anecdote that I have to explain in English”. Lucia, our teacher, doesn’t laugh. She just says “No! Back to Italia!” This isn’t as fun as I thought it would be.
I start to plot ways to get at the English in them. The teachers are smarter then I think they are. I try to nudge a conversation slowly but surely toward English. I try telling them an “amusing anecdote that I have to explain in English”. Lucia, our teacher, doesn’t laugh. She just says “No! Back to Italia!” This isn’t as fun as I thought it would be.
For people who have studied languages, it may not be a surprise that whoever made the rules decided there should be masculine and feminine nouns. Not only that, but their sexuality affects what precedes and follows in sentence. This was a shock to me and school was getting really confusing. I had no idea that words would eye each other longingly and then want to be rearranged in a sexually appropriate manner. I just wish they would do it themselves without needing my help.
I asked Lucia if there are any homosexual or bisexual words. Again, Lucia didn’t laugh. When I took my first language lessons as a two year old, my mother didn’t tell me about the birds and bees of language. Puberty was difficult the first time through, now it seems like here we go again, alora! I thought I had learned my lessons well. I am maschile and Leslie is femminile, end of discussion.
During class, I find myself staring out the window, dreaming of quadratic equations and the fast approaching happy hour, not a dangling participle in sight. I refocus on Jane (Leslie) to see her sitting bolt upright and focused with her usual enthusiastic expression. I try refocusing again and concentrate on finding my inner Italiano. I know he’s in there somewhere. We are having so much fun.
Yours truly,
Pier Francisco Warnocko
Monday, June 16, 2008
Blogging From Bologna
Buongiorno from Bologna, Italy!
Ok, a few words of warning...this is my first blog so I'm not sure how things will turn out. Will I remember to save it? Will I ever find it again? Will photos be uploaded properly? Labelled? Added where I want them to go? Jane and Rod, I hope I'm able to channel your knowledge! Fingers crossed, here goes! And thanks for reading! Leslie
David and I are well and having fun! We have been in Bologna since the end of May and are here until mid-July when we drive to Nice, France for five weeks.
So, what have we been up to? Well, great times visiting family and friends, lots of amazing sights, delicious food and wine and some hilarious language mix ups.
As this is our first posting (and thanks for your gentle...and not so gentle...nudges to get the damn blog going!), we'll give a quick summary of what we've done so far. We then hope to post more regularly!
We left Canada on March 31, flying into Gatwick, London then onto Manchester. It was the weekend of the huge snafu at Heathrow Airport, where over 20,000 bags went astray! We managed to avoid all that by choosing the right airport, one of the many examples of our travel angels looking out for us.
We decided to spend our first night at the airport hotel in Manchester to try and catch up on our sleep, rather than subject our friend to our sleep-deprived stupours. Struggling to stay awake until 9 pm, we finally fell into bed, not bothering to set the alarm. Fifteen hours later, we awoke dazed and confused! Apologizing profusely to the front desk for missing the check out time, we went around the hotel roundabout a few times before figuring out where we were going. We spent our first few days in Bolton, near Manchester, visiting Kathy, a lively 91 year old family friend.
We then headed up to Glasgow...in sleet and snow. Of course, we Canadians were blamed for the weather! David grew up in Glasgow as a teenager, so at least HE was able to understand people! Most of the time, I didn't have a clue! We stayed with David's Aunt Betty and had a lot of laughs with her and her friend, Pete.
After Glasgow, we took the ferry to Dunoon to stay with Neil and Rhona, David's cousin and his wife. More laughs and much wine. (Not that there is any relation between the two.) We were back in the land of dogs as Neil and Rhona have Molly, who looks a lot like Saturn. David's Aunt Margaret, Neil's mom, was in fine form. She turns 80 in November and is throwing herself a ceilidh. If we're still in Europe, in the land of 10 euro flights, we'll be there!
David holding up Lamont Castle
We flew from Glasgow to Barcelona and then caught a train to Servian, France. We stayed in Servian for two weeks, a small hilltop town with about 3500 residents. I dusted off my high school French from over 25 years ago and we managed fairly well. I did have one major glitch though...when asking a local fellow where he was born, I either asked him if he had a nose or if he was nude! (note to self...clarify glitch with Denise D).
Servian seen from the vineyards.
Swan's House in France, our home in Servian.
We explored the area by bike and bus. David linked up with a local fellow, Frances, (Frances of the nude nose) and they had some great bikes rides in the mountains. I ran on the paths beside the vineyards, enjoying the views and wishing mightily that my running buddies were there to share the views and the post-run coffees and croissants. Kirsten, thanks for your warning about the pastries...you were right! They ARE scrumptious!
Servian has a market in its town square three times a week. As we cooked at the house, we bought most of our food at the markets, becoming addicted to tapenade, baguettes and the cheeses. Oh, and local wine too.
After Servian, we flew to Sicily, the Italian island off of the country's toe. For two weeks, we stayed in Taormina, a fancy schmancy resort town hugging the coastline in the shadow of Mount Etna. And yes, Etna suffered a small eruption while we were there.
Taormina was definitely a popular destination for Italians. We enjoyed watching well-dressed, well-coiffed, well-jewelled and well-heeled people stroll and strut during the passegiata, the lovely Italian custom of an evening stroll.
Leslie and David shopping at the market in Catania, Sicily.
Taormina's Greek Theatre with Mt. Etna in background on right behind clouds and ash!A university friend, Lisa Bahan, joined us in Taormina for a week. A stage of the Giro d'Italia, Italy's version of the Tour de France, came through town and it was incredible to see it. The huge number of vehicles involved in the event was astounding! Sponsor cars, team cars for people, team cars for equipment, police escorts, ambulances, media cars, VIP vehicles and event organizer cars...they all took about 90 minutes to hurtle past us. And then the racers went by in a 90 second, noisy blur!
Lisa and David enjoying the cafe life and discussing the finer points of espresso.
Leslie at the Greek Theatre in Taormina.When David left town to do his own version of the Giro, Lisa and I were often found comparing gelati flavours and discussing the merits of Sicilian wines. The three of us then rented a car to drive up to Bologna for a few days before we parted ways. Ciao and grazie, Lisa!
David and I continued by train to Nice, France for five days for the Monaco Formula 1 Grand Prix. Many of you know that David is a HUGE F1 fan and the Monaco event is the jewel in the F1 crown. Set in the streets of Monte Carlo, with the glittering blue of the Mediterranean Sea on one side and the Grimaldi castle perched on other, the race is quite an event. It was fun to people watch, yacht watch and absorb the energy of the masses.
Fashionista Leslie in Monte Carlo.
In Nice
Flowers in the street of Old Nice.
Roller blading along the Nice waterfront, trying to minimize the effects of the delicious French food!
After Nice, we settled into life in Bologna. We chose this northern Italian city as the area is known for its incredible food and wine (lasagne, Parma ham, Parmesan cheese, tortellini, balsamic vinegar...even Italians swoon over the food from here!), it's the middle of a train transportation hub so easy access to Florence (55 min), Milan and Venice and it isn't too well known to tourists. This walled city also has the oldest university in Europe. For John Grisham fans, his book, The Broker, is set here.
Asinelli and Garisenda Towers, Bologna
Bologna is also famous for its porticoes, miles of covered sidewalks that provide shelter from rain, sun and snow. Thank goodness for the porticoes! When we first arrived, they sheltered us from the most rain that the area has experienced in 200 years! "Rain" doesn't quite capture the phenomenon. Deluge, downpour, torrents do. Our green plastic ponchos, although not quite the Dolce & Gabbana image we had hoped for, helped somewhat. Now, the porticoes are welcome protection from the searing sun.
There is a 3.5 km portico that leads from one of the ancient city gates up the hill to the Madonna di San Luca Basilica. It's a great place to run as it's scenic and sheltered.
Portico leading up to the San Luca Basilica.
We started Italian lessons as we felt our brains needed a workout too. And, gasp, we have homework! We have quickly learned that we need to do the homework BEFORE the wine.
I am a member of a wonderful book club in Victoria. (David calls us a wine club with a book problem. And his point is?) The first international book club meeting was held in Florence with Donna and Andy Carswell. David and I met up with them for a great afternoon. I think the only thing we read was a menu but we certainly lived up to the wine club reputation!
The first international Book Club meeting, Florence, Italy.
David and Leslie (gripping tightly) on top of the dome of Florence's duomo.
David descending the dome.
David and David, Florence.
So, this first entry is a long one but we wanted to bring you up to date. Although we have our laptop with us, some places we stay in do not have internet access (quelle horreur!) so we try to get to an internet cafe every few days. We love getting news from home.
Ciao!
Leslie and David
Are you still with us?
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