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.
Friday, October 17, 2008
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!
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