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.

Notes from Ojen, Spain

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.

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.

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!