Lanzarote, an Island of Surprises

As I write this, Lanzarote and the Canary Islands are in the middle of a calima...a Saharan dust storm. It’s mid-day but the sky is very overcast with a muddy brown hue. The Sahara Desert, 125 km to the east of us, had its sand kicked up in a huge windstorm and the fine particles of reddish brown dust have blown over here to obscure the sun and cover all surfaces with a thorough layer of grit. Canarians tell their children that calimas occur when Africans are cleaning their house and beating their carpets.

David and I have been on this volcanic island since early December. We came here for the heat (haven’t seen it much), the dry weather (same thing) and to spend some time reading on the beaches in the sun (ditto). However, Lanzarote, much like the rest of Europe, is experiencing one its wettest, coolest winters ever. One old-timer said that it has not rained this much in 67 years. Of course, he said this in Spanish and we don’t understand Spanish. Maybe he just said he was 67 years old. Or he has 67 children.

Despite the weather, we are really enjoying our time here. Only 60 km by 25 km with its narrowest point 7 km across, Lanzarote is small but has an enormous diversity in plants, especially so with the recent rains. The North end of the island is very green with valleys of palm trees and fields of wild spring flowers. The south end of the island, more of the touristy side, was arid brown and desert-like when we first arrived, but the rains have teased out hints of greenery from the soil.

Viniculture is unique here. Farming practices must protect plants from the wind and capture precious moisture. The island’s sandy soil itself won’t support too many crops. Instead, the soil is covered in a top layer of black volcanic lapilli. Lapilli, also called picon, ranges in size from a few millimetres to 2 or 3 centimetres across. Very porous, it acts like mulch, keeping weeds at bay and collecting moisture from the dew at night to drip it down to the roots. Individual grape vines are planted in their own crater, about 1.5 m across and about a metre deep. The roots are in the soil but the vine is pruned to stay low to the ground and rest on a thick layer of picon. Surrounding each crater is a zoca, a semi-circular rock wall to protect the plant from wind. Harvesting the grapes has to be done by hand by reaching down into each crater. And the result? Delicious!

I have also enjoyed hiking on the island with Canary Trekking (www.canarytrekking.com). One day, we explored Les Volcanes National Park where we climbed over lava flows and onto lava lakes, wandered along jameos (a volcano tube whose roof has collapsed), peered down into craters and searched for olivinia, the green semi-precious stones found in volcanic rock.

My favourite hike combined brilliant sun with crystal clear skies, fields of colourful wildflowers, and breathtaking scenery along the cliffs (didn’t realize that heights gave me the heebie-jeebies!)

Fantastico!

Ergonomics in Europe

Design with the human requirement in mind is something Leslie had to think about at work before we left for Europe. For those of you that didn’t know, Leslie worked for The Neil Squire Foundation where she helped spinal cord injured adults adapt to the work place or at least home work stations. For example sip and puff straws could be used to control a computer for a victim of paralysis. She also did private consultations for RBC helping employees fit their particular environment without causing or aggravating physical problems. This may have involved rearranging a work station to alleviate lower back pain rather than increase lumbar support. She also helped me adapt to my work environment with vocal coaching. She often gently but firmly nudged me to “Go to your work place and adapt.”

So you can see, ergonomics is a complex, often psychological business. Leslie anticipated leaving this behind for at least a year.

Now, as I type at this work station I have almost forgotten what my point was. The reason for my forgetfulness is I have bumped my head so many times in Europe that my short term memory is worse than when I left. I have hit my head in every possible way imaginable. It started in France where the stairs were often an inconsistent height and tread length. The uneven stairs would precipitate a lurching gait which was part gorilla or Quasimodo like. The lurch would gain in intensity in direct proportion to the length of the staircase. Just as my knuckles dragged the ground, a low ceiling or archway would suddenly come out of nowhere and bop me in the noggin.

In Ojen, Spain, moving between the five floors of our casa was also a highly risky manoeuvre with uneven stairs and low ceilings. I would try to empathize with the 17 century designers of our abodes as they had no building codes or straight timber and likely were short in stature from poor nutrition but after the fourth bump I could have personally wacked the builder’s head with a crêpe pan.

Taps continue to present a particular challenge both intellectual and physical. Standing in the shower shivering in my birthday suit on a chilly spring day in France, I stared at an arrangement of levers and taps that should require some sort of licensing procedure to operate. With a random series of movements I established a trickle of water. The shower became colder which in turn caused me to rotate faster. A pivoting lever, more like an on-off switch, was cleverly placed at the height of my bottom by a French plumber with a fiendish sense of humour. My ass struck the lever which caused an instantaneous increase in temperature that was dangerous. The only option was to protect my tender nether region with my hands as I used my head as a battering ram to open the shower door. I believe after millions of years of evolution heads are not supposed to be used in such a manner. We seem to stay in a country just long enough to figure out the idiosyncrasies of its plumbing before moving on to the vagaries of another system.

After all that you would think we could do with a rest but even that isn’t easy. I came to dread Leslie saying “David, could you help me with this?” If she was standing by the fold-out couch, this usually meant she was going to have a little nap, usually after a trying session with set of taps or puzzling over which side of the road to drive on. There is nothing intuitive about opening most fold-out couches in Europe. It is a pure combatative sport, requiring strength, athleticism and, above all, tenacity. We became very competitive about it; Leslie says it’s “us versus them.”

Our first opponent was feisty small Italian sofa-bed, stylish and white in colour, but black in disposition. It fought out of a small studio rental in Manarola, on the Cinque Terre. It punched well above its weight class utilizing some classic jujitsu moves as well. After some gentle coaxing we could get it to a half up or down position where it would stubbornly remain. Staring intently at its complicated mechanism had no apparent effect. Leslie, full of aggression, would suddenly throw herself at the upright portion as I steadied the horizontal section. This was a booby trap as it would then toss me skyward in such a manner that I would inevitably bump my head. A flurry of activity would follow, brutal in its intensity. The Italian sofa-bed would finally submit but we had no idea how we had accomplished it.

The Spanish sofa-beds are strong but can usually be opened by careful logical moves only with the threat of violence and only with occasional temperamental flare-ups. The French sofa-beds seem to know there are two of us that will gang up on it. They are very stubborn but stylish, unlikely to give at all, but afraid of outright violence. They are not beyond squeaking loudly when put into a position they don’t want to be in. The French sofa-beds never have instructions in English nor would they accept them even if they did.

I try to follow clear instructions. Give me an easily understood highway sign and I will do my darndest to comply, with the exception of speed limit of course. Well designed road signs are part of ergonomics as they help us steer hurtling 2000 kg blocks of metal through urban mazes and rural racetracks.

We share the road with Russians, Canadians, Brits, Americans, Norwegians etc., none of whom have the slightest idea where they are going or how to read a foreign country’s signs. Most of them are looking at the scenery anyway, not the signs.

In many European countries, signs would be better described as weather vanes as they seem to point in random directions dictated by weather or folly. The sign often points firmly between the several options at an intersection, leaving you to gamble. Trying to determine the direction signs are pointing while negotiating a roundabout with a vehicle two inches off your rear bumper, on the wrong side of the road while your wife is pointing out scenic views off to left, is a bit of a challenge.

We tried to look for some sort of pattern. For example, an arrow pointing towards the heavens seems to mean continue straight ahead. Then the arrow mysteriously moves to a horizontal position. This would seem to imply right or left turn, but no, this appears to mean they ran out of screws that hold the arrow in the upright position.Fortunately, most European vehicles get excellent gas mileage; this is out of necessity as you constantly have to backtrack because of wrong turns.

France is in the process of changing their road name designations, A, E, N followed by a number or whatever, pfffftt!. No maps seem to correlate with the sign designation or they change in midstream. The French and Italians cope with these little inequities with a shrug and/or a few hand gestures. However Canadians, Germans and Swiss are near suicidal with Ergonomic Inequity Disease (or E.I.D.) by the end of a short drive. Leslie and I have yet to experience northern European signage because we were limited in our travel due to an embarrassing emotional breakdown caused by an acute case of E.I.D.at the Czech Republic’s border after a day traversing several countries.

All this blogging has triggered my post traumatic stress syndrome so I going to “sign” out and have a glass of Lanzarote wine.

Notes from a Really, Really Small Island

We are now in Lanzarote, Canary Islands, having decided to spend three months here to read, write, reflect, relax and rejuvenate. On our journey, I’ve kept a little notebook with me and scribbled down interesting jots about what I’ve seen and heard. As they’re so scattered, I thought I’d just expand on them a bit here.

Canary Islands
-I know I’m not in Canada anymore when paying for a fill up at a Lanzarote gas station, frozen baby octopus are being sold beside ice cream bars.

-Last week, I wandered into an “English” grocery store, curious to see what was sold. I was bemused to hear a local Canarian man, speaking English with a strong Spanish accent, asking the German woman who worked in this English store if she sold Japanese wasabi. Ahh, truly an international moment.

-Ow’rite? This term is one I’ve only heard here in Lanzarote, although it’s spoken as a greeting by the many Brits. I initially thought it was more of a “Everything all right?” or “How are you?” type greeting and would typically launch into a “Yes, I’m fine thanks, and how are you?” response. When I repeatedly got puzzled looks, I realized that it was just their way of saying hello. Oh.

-As a Canadian exercising in a warm climate, I tend to wear shorts and a sleeveless shirt. Yes, 18 degrees C may be cool for Lanzarote but for me, it’s warm! I’m always bemused by other peoples’ attire and figure that the ones wearing long pants, socks, a fake fur lined coat, hat AND scarf, are locals and are finding the recent cold spell absolutely frigid!

Nice
-the bigger the belly, the smaller the bathing suit.

Scotland
-20’s plenty...a speed limit sign in a Glasgow neighbourhood

-Pedestrian Crossings – also known as zebra crossings. The most imposing one I saw was on a dual carriageway or divided highway. A 70 mph (not kmh... MPH) dual carriageway! A highway sign announced its presence, about 1 mile before. Ped x-ing ahead. Good heavens. The countryside must be raising a nation of sprinters!

London
-Tube (subway) announcements:
“Please keep your loins with you at all times”. David and I looked at each with eyebrows raised. We think she really said belongings.

“We are offering good service on the Northern Line.” Well, I’m relieved. I mean, isn’t that what’s supposed to happen? Mentioning this auditory oddity to a London friend, he laughed and said that the tube is notorious for having terrible service so whenever they can broadcast that all is well, they’ll do it!

Paris
Spoon Sizes – on the whole, Europe is not a continent of breakfast cereal eaters. The exceptions are the Swiss and their muesli. This means that when David and I sit down at the start of our day to tuck into a bowl of grains, we face a dilemma. Do we eat the cereal with the diminutive demitasse spoons that hold an oat flake and a small raisin? Or, do we wrestle with the enormous soup spoons, wedging them sideways into our mouths, clanging teeth against metal?

Door Keys – We have encountered some interesting and somewhat memory-challenging keys and combinations to our various accommodations. In Paris, our third floor walk up required a 4-digit combination to get through the enormous door from the street, a second 4-digit code to get through the another huge door into the central courtyard, up a very uneven and crooked oval staircase and then unlocking three different locks on the front door. In Taormina, Sicily, our front door was unlocked by a gigantic, heavy key that I had to lug around all day. Our London flat was on the 6th floor...and no elevator. By the time I got up the stairs, all 103 of them, I was so out of breath that I had to pause to remember which of the three keys went into which lock. However, the place that challenged me the most was Prague. Access to the building was easy, just one key. However, getting into the flat was another story. It too was just one key but required a magical, two handed touch that frequently eluded me. The door handle had to be held just so and at the same time as the key held perfectly poised in the lock. A quick turn of the key (was that clockwise or counter clockwise), then readjust the handle for the final two and a half turns. Of course, it never worked properly if I was in a hurry to have a pee!

Clothing Store Change Rooms – In Paris, they do know how to encourage sales. The change rooms I encountered were large, with multiple hooks and bars to hang the hangers on, adjustable three-way mirrors, not too hot, great lighting (nothing is worse than horrible, overhead fluorescent lighting that highlights all the wobbly bits), a properly closing door AND a call bell for assistance. How great is that!

Bologna
I attended a Rotary meeting in Bologna, Italy. My home club meetings usually involve lengthy and often passionate discussions about our fundraising efforts and charitable causes to support. The meeting in Bologna was also filled with heated discussions, although, because they were conducted in Italian, I wasn’t quite sure what charity they were talking about. When a Bolognese member leaned over to ask me in English if I was following the conversation, I admitted that I wasn’t but it certainly sounded important. He agreed that it was very important. The members were arguing about the type of pasta that was served as the first course. Many felt that the sauce and the pasta shape were not compatible and they were arguing that their president MUST speak to the chef.

Blaht On!

Perhaps because of the last nine months of travel and an aptitude, Leslie and I are now incredibly sophiscated. This is our steadfast opinion. There has been no independent objective agency evaluate our claim mainly because nobody is interested, I suspect. If I was a lawyer representing us in our sophistication claim, I would present the following case.

Exhibit A, is the fact that we attended an avante garde organ recital in Paris. Albeit this alleged sophistication occurred rather quickly in one evening. The sophistication-inducing event was preceded by a day spent viewing modern art at the George Pompadou Centre (Madame Pompadou was his wife), which lends weighty credibility to our claim. Yes, I know it all sounds very pretentious but when you live in the fast lane like Leslie and me, it is merely another day, pfhht (as the French say). This sophistication has happened with absolutely no effort on our part. Therefore, I suspect that it is largely superficial and may be gone by sometime this afternoon.

Madame Warnock, as she is now referred to at least until the end of this blog, got the super idea to attend a virtuoso organ performance at Notre Dame Cathedral. A splendid way, she said, to top off our day, with some boppy little Christmas tunes, as she put it. Madame also said there would be singing, probably Gregorian chants. Madame Warnock’s advice and guidance are usually very reliable. So the stage was set for another adventure.

Admittedly, I was not interested in the concert to the level of watching a stage of the Tour de France on the telly but perhaps to the level of a British touring car race. You can see I had a way to go in the sophistication spectrum. I was definitely game though, this was gay Paris after all. Culture and sophistication are infectious. I figured it is almost the same as catching a cold, if you’re around enough people who have it you’ll catch it. I reckon it also requires about the same effort level.

It was a chilly rainy night, requiring a jacket and toque of all things, pfhht. We could see our breath rhythmically condensing, like a Scottish steam engine, as we hurried along. The area of Marais, which we stayed, was a short walk from Notre Dame.
The performance started easily enough with seven singers, beautiful a cappella, very atmospheric. The singers quietly retreated to a darker area as their voices faded. The cathedral’s vast interior had wonderful haunting acoustics.

The organist commanded a huge instrument which was above and behind the audience. He started with a giganote, voluminous and initially projectile, then it hung. It could only be described as a Blaht. This is going to be great, I thought to myself. Then it was followed by a seemingly random series of Blahts. They were lobbed out of the organ pipes and reverberated before hanging. It was like eavesdropping on an industrial process.

I can do this, I thought, as I sturdied myself, much in the same way when as when viewing modern art for the first time. I dug deep into my pre-existing sophistication stores but, as expected, I came up dry.

Madame and I have really enjoyed the art galleries of Europe, in particular a mix of modern and older works. The audio and personal guides provided by the galleries are incredibly informative, in particular placing a painting in a historical context. This often transforms a piece that, at first glance, looks ambiguous and awkward into a compelling work of art. This recital would soon fall into place in the same way. I thought patience would serve me well in catching some culture.

I was wrong. Not one of the sequences of notes resembled a melody. Now, I love some jazz that even Leslie finds painful. But this was not Miles Davis or Martin, Madeski and Woods. I tried taking Miles’s advice and tried to “listen” to the spaces where the notes weren’t, but while it makes a great sentence, this proved much too difficult. Jimi Hendrix on acid, having a bad trip was the first thing that sprung to mind, but this would be an insult to Jimi whose music I like.

Suddenly, I had a lot of time to kill, so I scanned the audience. A few people looked distraught, a few looked amused and the remainder, lost and bewildered. I had just signed up for the latter category. However, on closer examination there appeared to be a consistent thread of people who seemed mesmerized. They even appeared to know when a particular piece would end! How could that be? Egads, this music might be good!

I decided I needed to concentrate more. With my eyes closed, I tried to lose myself in the music, but the veins on my forehead bulged with effort and I started to get a headache. I could “get” this just like I thought I “got” the art of Francis Bacon in London.

A quick look told me that Leslie was locked in the same struggle. A smile was germinating in the corner of her mouth. There was a clear danger of it propagating into a full blown belly laugh. Madame, this was not a time to giggle. I said to myself, please no giggling. Jean Paul Sartre never giggled, I happen to know that as a fact. Please “JP”, give me strength. He would understand this music or, at the very least, understand the existential struggle we were locked in. Man, this was getting deep real fast.

I don’t like deep. I like easy. I once almost learned Italian very easily. When we arrived in Bologna with our friend Lisa from Calgary, we got a two bedroom hotel suite. Lisa’s room was downstairs and also had a TV. Lisa and I had been following the Giro d’Italia after seeing a stage of the bike race pass by our place in Taormina, Sicily. I was watching the Italian coverage upstairs and went down to talk to Lisa. As I entered her room, she excused herself briefly. The coverage resumed as she left and I understood every word. It was if it was in English! Obviously, I had reached a previously unknown critical mass or tipping point in Italian immersion and suddenly I was fluent, wow! Unfortunately, upon Lisa’s return she let me down, she said it was English. We had a great laugh and double checked the TV upstairs and there was no English coverage upstairs, alora!

I had plenty of time to ponder that memory at the concert and I thought, maybe this music would suddenly make sense. Every now and then we got a brief respite from the organist with the singers. Madame leaned over as yet another couple was making for the exit, she said that the first intermission was approaching. It may be her” first intermission” but I thought it was going to be my last.

Leslie was only kidding and the concert ended after the next Ode to a Blaht. The remaining audience, including us, leapt to their feet and immediately oriented our applause backwards toward the organ. After thirty seconds, a very conservative looking gentleman extricated himself from the bowels of the organ and peeked around one of the organ pipes, which caused another excited crescendo of applause from his “knowledgeable” fan base. With our newly found sophistication, we “got it.“

I rest my case.