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.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Monday, December 22, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Glesga tae Lawnzarrrrteh
In Canada, you can get on a bus in Vancouver and go to sleep for about 5 days before getting to the east coast. You would arrive, wake up smelling the worse for wear and scare the shit out the locals with your West coast Birkenstocks and “lord tundering” lululemon exercise gear. They would know you were from “away”. You would also thoroughly understand the difference between the east and west after having your butt jammed into a bus seat for close to a week. You would have stopped for donuts and coffee in the prairies where they know about all things that are flat. You would have stopped to use the washrooms in T.O. (That is Toronto, Ontario not Timmins, Ontario) where they know everything about everything. There would have been one last pit stop in Quebec for a coke, a smoke and some poutine. It may seem obvious but Canada is a vast country with clearly defined geography and cultural heritages strongly linked by a long road and a series of Tim Horton Donut franchises.
In Scotland, there also is an east versus west, north and south distinction that some would call a friendly rivalry. However, the east- west rivalry is a wee bit friendlier than Celtic playing Rangers in Glasgow where there may be lives, religious heritage as well as a football match at stake. A country doesn’t have to be big to have disagreements.
The Scots also pretend that it is long distance between the two coasts. “Yool no be goin’ that ferr, laddy in one day’s drive,” my Scottish alter ego advised. However, a bus ride between the Scottish coasts would leave you sleep deprived as it takes a little over an hour at the level of Glasgow and Edinburgh. It seems like a shrunken country, maybe dehydrated; just add some water and it will quickly expand to Canadian proportions.
Leslie and I were constantly caught out by the closeness of everything here. We would just settle in for a car trip and arrive shortly after pulling out of the driveway. No coffee or pee stops, amazing, a great way to save on petrol (aka gas). Our Canadian sense of distance had to be recalibrated constantly. There is no shortage of water on either side or in between, so it is definitely not dehydrated. The Scots keep themselves well hydrated from a plentiful variety of alcoholic and caffeinated beverages and water from burns and lochs.
The advantages and disadvantages of east and west are hotly debated by the Scots. Glaswegians sense of humour versus the Edinburgh culture and lack of sense of humour? Edinburgh’s active art scene versus Glasgow’s faded industrial heritage and rapidly expanding art scene. A Glaswegian described the city of Edinburgh as “dressed up in ah fur coat an nae knickers”. Another Glaswegian asked “Whas the best thing tae hae coom oot o Embra?”(What is the best thing to come out of Edinburgh) Answer - The Glesga (Glasgow) train.
They have also conveniently developed different accents, on purpose I think, to help them differentiate between the regions and therefore be able to argue about the differences. It all gets very complicated although on a smaller scale than Canada. The thick Glasgow accent can be very difficult to understand. I lived there for three years and have retained the ability to understand the thickest brogue. I had to translate for Leslie many times whereas in the rest of Europe she translated for me.
The “study” of Glasgow patter is called “parliamo glesga’’ originated by the comedian Stanley Baxter in the 1960s. For example if,” ya ken wit I meen” (if you know what I mean), “whit aboot this wan” (what about this one), “yur heeds fulla mince” (your head is full of mince ie you are out of it) or “och aye fur the noo” (doing OK). Or one of my favourite of Stanley’s, “air a pare o’ pears lyin’ oer thare oan the flare” or “There is a pair of pears lying over there on the floor”. The Scots generally have a great sense of humour and way with words.
The Scots had almost a 100% literacy rate early in the industrial revolution. It was promoted to read the bible. However, its effect was far-reaching. For a small country, Scotland has produced a disproportionate amount of academic thought, inventions, business and art contributions that benefited the rest of the world.
We are currently in Lanzarote, or Lanzagrotty, as some call it because it is overrun with Brits on package deal holidays and two unemployed (skivers in Scots patter) Canadians. We had considered migrating south to Australia or New Zealand before choosing Lanzarote to nest in for the winter. Some local birdwatchers mistook us for the last of a “breeding” pair of some extinct African bird species blown off course onto the island. We explained we were just Canadians and pointed to the northwest out over the Atlantic Ocean.
The wind seems to blow all the time in Lanzarote from a west to east direction. Here, east to west is only about 10 km. The temperature is moderate in the 60s (high teens in C). It blows so hard that sometimes I think it might flip the entire island over where east becomes west and vice versa nullifying any regional debates. Therefore, it is not a good place for comb-overs or cheap toupees. If whatever tethers the island here breaks, Lanzarote would be blown quickly eastward and bump into Morocco, (which is littered with lost toupees and lost windsurfers) which gives you an idea of where we are. It could be worse, as Nigeria and the Congo are a bit farther south around the big bump on Africa’s west coast. However, we do seem quite well anchored, at least we hope so as we plan on spending 12 weeks here. My first exploration on my bike reveals a stark volcanic landscape dotted with classic cones which we hope will see no action while we are here.
This may not sound too adventurous but we have decided to give ourselves what may be the ultimate luxury, extended time in one place to get back into some semblance of a routine (minus the work part). The rest of the world will have to wait for another year. No pressure to explore, just sit back, meet some Brits, read, ride bikes, new recipes, learn to kite surf (although I have been advised that the learning curve involves planting your face in the sand while being dragged by an oversized kite, “say lavy” as Stanley would pronounce C`est la vie?) We will plan and dream up new adventures, professional and personal, after a year of indulgence, we may volunteer in----- or ??? We also have our first visitor coming over in early January. That’s it then, weer away fer the noo.
In Scotland, there also is an east versus west, north and south distinction that some would call a friendly rivalry. However, the east- west rivalry is a wee bit friendlier than Celtic playing Rangers in Glasgow where there may be lives, religious heritage as well as a football match at stake. A country doesn’t have to be big to have disagreements.
The Scots also pretend that it is long distance between the two coasts. “Yool no be goin’ that ferr, laddy in one day’s drive,” my Scottish alter ego advised. However, a bus ride between the Scottish coasts would leave you sleep deprived as it takes a little over an hour at the level of Glasgow and Edinburgh. It seems like a shrunken country, maybe dehydrated; just add some water and it will quickly expand to Canadian proportions.
Leslie and I were constantly caught out by the closeness of everything here. We would just settle in for a car trip and arrive shortly after pulling out of the driveway. No coffee or pee stops, amazing, a great way to save on petrol (aka gas). Our Canadian sense of distance had to be recalibrated constantly. There is no shortage of water on either side or in between, so it is definitely not dehydrated. The Scots keep themselves well hydrated from a plentiful variety of alcoholic and caffeinated beverages and water from burns and lochs.
The advantages and disadvantages of east and west are hotly debated by the Scots. Glaswegians sense of humour versus the Edinburgh culture and lack of sense of humour? Edinburgh’s active art scene versus Glasgow’s faded industrial heritage and rapidly expanding art scene. A Glaswegian described the city of Edinburgh as “dressed up in ah fur coat an nae knickers”. Another Glaswegian asked “Whas the best thing tae hae coom oot o Embra?”(What is the best thing to come out of Edinburgh) Answer - The Glesga (Glasgow) train.
They have also conveniently developed different accents, on purpose I think, to help them differentiate between the regions and therefore be able to argue about the differences. It all gets very complicated although on a smaller scale than Canada. The thick Glasgow accent can be very difficult to understand. I lived there for three years and have retained the ability to understand the thickest brogue. I had to translate for Leslie many times whereas in the rest of Europe she translated for me.
The “study” of Glasgow patter is called “parliamo glesga’’ originated by the comedian Stanley Baxter in the 1960s. For example if,” ya ken wit I meen” (if you know what I mean), “whit aboot this wan” (what about this one), “yur heeds fulla mince” (your head is full of mince ie you are out of it) or “och aye fur the noo” (doing OK). Or one of my favourite of Stanley’s, “air a pare o’ pears lyin’ oer thare oan the flare” or “There is a pair of pears lying over there on the floor”. The Scots generally have a great sense of humour and way with words.
The Scots had almost a 100% literacy rate early in the industrial revolution. It was promoted to read the bible. However, its effect was far-reaching. For a small country, Scotland has produced a disproportionate amount of academic thought, inventions, business and art contributions that benefited the rest of the world.
We are currently in Lanzarote, or Lanzagrotty, as some call it because it is overrun with Brits on package deal holidays and two unemployed (skivers in Scots patter) Canadians. We had considered migrating south to Australia or New Zealand before choosing Lanzarote to nest in for the winter. Some local birdwatchers mistook us for the last of a “breeding” pair of some extinct African bird species blown off course onto the island. We explained we were just Canadians and pointed to the northwest out over the Atlantic Ocean.
The wind seems to blow all the time in Lanzarote from a west to east direction. Here, east to west is only about 10 km. The temperature is moderate in the 60s (high teens in C). It blows so hard that sometimes I think it might flip the entire island over where east becomes west and vice versa nullifying any regional debates. Therefore, it is not a good place for comb-overs or cheap toupees. If whatever tethers the island here breaks, Lanzarote would be blown quickly eastward and bump into Morocco, (which is littered with lost toupees and lost windsurfers) which gives you an idea of where we are. It could be worse, as Nigeria and the Congo are a bit farther south around the big bump on Africa’s west coast. However, we do seem quite well anchored, at least we hope so as we plan on spending 12 weeks here. My first exploration on my bike reveals a stark volcanic landscape dotted with classic cones which we hope will see no action while we are here.
This may not sound too adventurous but we have decided to give ourselves what may be the ultimate luxury, extended time in one place to get back into some semblance of a routine (minus the work part). The rest of the world will have to wait for another year. No pressure to explore, just sit back, meet some Brits, read, ride bikes, new recipes, learn to kite surf (although I have been advised that the learning curve involves planting your face in the sand while being dragged by an oversized kite, “say lavy” as Stanley would pronounce C`est la vie?) We will plan and dream up new adventures, professional and personal, after a year of indulgence, we may volunteer in----- or ??? We also have our first visitor coming over in early January. That’s it then, weer away fer the noo.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
The City of Lights
Hello again,
Just a quick word as we are in Paris, discovering the “City of Lights” for the week. We fly to the Canary Islands on December 11 and since we’re staying there for a few months, we’ll have more time to add to the blog. Aren’t you lucky!
Our last entry in October was from Ojen, Spain. November was busy exploring London and visiting family in Scotland.
I was excited to return to London. We rented a lovely sixth floor flat with views facing south over the city. The building did not have an elevator so the 100+ stairs provided the stairmaster. We could see the London Eye and St. Paul’s Cathedral and even on overcast days, the place was very bright with its huge windows. (www.vrbo.com/52647) It was close to Hampstead Heath, a great place for runs and walks...and outdoor bathing ponds open year round. More like duck ponds, I’d say and no, we did not partake in this fine London tradition. Many people did though!
Our last visit to London was ten years ago when we witnessed a monumental event...the FIRST London Starbucks opening! Now, they’re everywhere! This time, we went on the London Eye, the city’s enormous Ferris wheel, enjoyed two great plays; “Zorro” at the Garrick Theatre and The Norman Conquests – Round and Round the Garden at the Old Vic. We visited the National Portrait Gallery for Annie Leibovitz’s presentation, brushed up on our knowledge at the Science Museum, enjoyed both the Tate Modern and Tate Britain galleries and wandered around looking at all the Christmas decorations in the stores. We also reconnected with a friend from Vancouver, last seen seventeen years ago.
The month’s highlight was celebrating David’s Aunt Margaret’s 80th birthday in Dunoon, Scotland. David’s mom, Kathleen (Margaret’s sister) and her husband, George (are you still with me?) flew over from Toronto so it was a real family celebration.
After a week in Dunoon, eating and drinking much too much with David’s cousin Neil and his wife, Rhona, we went back to Glasgow for a few days to recuperate. We then spent four days in Carnoustie, Scotland, a golfer’s paradise on the coast just north of St. Andrews. Do we golf? No, but we couldn’t resist the great deals offered by the hotel. Even better, we were upgraded from a standard room overlooking the parking lot to a two room suite overlooking the golf course and North Sea! We also enjoyed some sunny weather...cold but clear. We’ve been joking that Scotland has been the sunniest country we’ve been in!
Paris has been magical. Our flat is in the Marais district, the 4th arrondissement www.vrbo.com/69232. We have wandered the hallowed halls of The Louvre and the Musee d’Orsay, travelled along The Seine on a tour boat, listened to (enjoyed? no, not really) an avant-garde organ concert at Notre Dame Cathedral, climbed to the top of the Arc de Triomphe to admire the view and puzzled over modern art at the Centre Georges Pompidou. Oh, and enjoyed much eating and drinking.
The Paris lights beckon us once again, so off we go. Au revoir!
Just a quick word as we are in Paris, discovering the “City of Lights” for the week. We fly to the Canary Islands on December 11 and since we’re staying there for a few months, we’ll have more time to add to the blog. Aren’t you lucky!
Our last entry in October was from Ojen, Spain. November was busy exploring London and visiting family in Scotland.
I was excited to return to London. We rented a lovely sixth floor flat with views facing south over the city. The building did not have an elevator so the 100+ stairs provided the stairmaster. We could see the London Eye and St. Paul’s Cathedral and even on overcast days, the place was very bright with its huge windows. (www.vrbo.com/52647) It was close to Hampstead Heath, a great place for runs and walks...and outdoor bathing ponds open year round. More like duck ponds, I’d say and no, we did not partake in this fine London tradition. Many people did though!
Our last visit to London was ten years ago when we witnessed a monumental event...the FIRST London Starbucks opening! Now, they’re everywhere! This time, we went on the London Eye, the city’s enormous Ferris wheel, enjoyed two great plays; “Zorro” at the Garrick Theatre and The Norman Conquests – Round and Round the Garden at the Old Vic. We visited the National Portrait Gallery for Annie Leibovitz’s presentation, brushed up on our knowledge at the Science Museum, enjoyed both the Tate Modern and Tate Britain galleries and wandered around looking at all the Christmas decorations in the stores. We also reconnected with a friend from Vancouver, last seen seventeen years ago.
The month’s highlight was celebrating David’s Aunt Margaret’s 80th birthday in Dunoon, Scotland. David’s mom, Kathleen (Margaret’s sister) and her husband, George (are you still with me?) flew over from Toronto so it was a real family celebration.
After a week in Dunoon, eating and drinking much too much with David’s cousin Neil and his wife, Rhona, we went back to Glasgow for a few days to recuperate. We then spent four days in Carnoustie, Scotland, a golfer’s paradise on the coast just north of St. Andrews. Do we golf? No, but we couldn’t resist the great deals offered by the hotel. Even better, we were upgraded from a standard room overlooking the parking lot to a two room suite overlooking the golf course and North Sea! We also enjoyed some sunny weather...cold but clear. We’ve been joking that Scotland has been the sunniest country we’ve been in!
Paris has been magical. Our flat is in the Marais district, the 4th arrondissement www.vrbo.com/69232. We have wandered the hallowed halls of The Louvre and the Musee d’Orsay, travelled along The Seine on a tour boat, listened to (enjoyed? no, not really) an avant-garde organ concert at Notre Dame Cathedral, climbed to the top of the Arc de Triomphe to admire the view and puzzled over modern art at the Centre Georges Pompidou. Oh, and enjoyed much eating and drinking.
The Paris lights beckon us once again, so off we go. Au revoir!
Friday, October 17, 2008
Switzerland, Prague, Salzburg and Lake Como
The fully loaded Renault Kangoo, all 85 horsepower, is an able performer even in the Swiss Alps. Only operator error will result in a diesel-induced wheeze up a steep grade if the correct gear is not selected. There are no dramatic belches of black smoke of the old diesels, just a distinct lack of power until it sorts itself out. I apologized in Italian to my French car and my Canadian wife for my mistakes, hoping they will understand and be more forgiving if I do it again.
While I’m on the subject of lack of power and wheezing, Leslie picked up a cold in Davos, Switzerland. We sneezed, wheezed and dribbled our way towards Prague, Czech Republic and then on to Salzburg, Austria. Prague is a bustling modern city trapped in a museum of architecture haunted by Kafka and many other artists. It’s difficult to believe it was only the late 60’s that the USSR invaded Czechoslovakia because of its modest attempts at liberalization. There is a painted outline at the spot where a student (Jan Palach) died after lighting himself on fire as a desperate protest to the Soviet occupation; he is considered a national hero. Many students, artists, intellectuals and workers protests were quickly put down. The contrast with my life as a Canadian student in 1969 couldn’t have been more extreme.
Old areas in European cities are like theatrical history; open to the tourist audiences during the day but daily life goes on elsewhere. Prague’s architectural beauty is so extensive that the city stages life as a never ending play. The buildings, streets and squares ooze history and breathe the bustle of modern consumerism. The Frank Gehry designed building is a wonderful contrast to classic structures of Prague. It is referred to as the “dancing building” which will be self explanatory once you see it. It has been called other things as well, according to your taste.
For an unbelievable example of Art Nouveau style architecture, Prague’s Municipal Hall must be seen. A tour is essential to appreciate the design, craftsmanship and pride in community required to propel a project of this scope. It also reflects one of the many resurgences of Czech culture and economics before the 20th century took hold.
Salzburg’s claim to fame, according to Austrians, is as Mozart’s birthplace. On the other hand, a recent survey stated most tourists came because of the association with the movie “The Sound of Music”. The locals are stubbornly sticking to the sophisticated Mozart version of events.
The old town of Salzburg is one of the focuses of tourism, capped by yet another castle. The history of the area is unique, characterized by salt mining which resulted in considerable wealth. The wealth, in turn, attracts “bad guys” which, in turn, necessitates big castles, torture chambers and the weapons of war. The castle has a tremendous collection of antiquities, including torture devices and a study in the development of ancient weapons. The instruments of pain are juxtaposed with works of art, further illustrating the complexities of the human race, which is capable of creating stunningly beautiful works of art and science; at that same time perpetrating atrocities that leave you speechless. Although I just glanced at the combination finger and testicle squeezer on display, I released an endless stream of confessions to Leslie, some of which I regret. I would not have held up well to torture.
Salzburg is the only city in Europe that we have been in where they continue to allow smoking inside restaurants. We forgot what it was like trying to have a meal while the thick smoke hung like smog over an Ohio coal town. At one meal, exhaust from laughing Austrian smokers would escalate uncontrollably into a cacophony of bronchitic spasms, only to be joined in sympathy by Leslie in the last throes of her virus. The Austrian group seemed pleased with Leslie’s sense of humour when she involuntarily joined in.
Mozart was born in Salzburg and it is my understanding that he made some wonderful noises. We had hoped to hear a performance of his work while in Salzburg but that will have to be saved for another time. Instead, Leslie was inspired to sing a constant melody of “The Sound of Music” tunes. It was a wonderful performance although the lack of rehearsal time was apparent.
The fall weather had become chilly as Salzburg is an alpine town. We hunkered down in the Sheraton Salzburg as a treat and respite from the cold. Our king size bed had three pillows, each of varying sizes and densities. To me, this meant there must be a resident pillow sommelier. But Leslie tried to tell me there is no such thing and not to bother phoning the front desk to enquire for pillow advice. However, I did enjoy some of the local food in the hotel including goulash, bratwurst, potato pancakes with a fruity dry Austrian wine, great comfort food.
Actually, our first premonition of winter was in Davos, Switzerland, an alpine town famous for skiing, hiking and economic conferences. We stayed there courtesy of the Kaelin family of Neschwil, Switzerland, friends I met originally in Vancouver. Switzerland lived up to its reputation of beauty, manicured lush green valleys and towering alpine mountains.
Neschwil is a small village where Barbara Sporri Kaelin grew up and the family now live. Neschwil lies in rolling green Swiss countryside with great access to biking, hiking and skiing. We spent a special week with them and met their children, Oliver and Sara and her mom, Hilde. Barbara took us to Zurich one evening and we were really impressed. The downtown has no towering high-rises and is built to a very human scale. I can’t believe the Zurich gnomes (bankers) have resisted or been prevented from building huge symbols to their success. There were lots of outdoor restaurants and cafes full of locals enjoying the older area of Zurich.
Markus Kaelin took us on a spectacular hike high into the Swiss Alps. Sections of the hike had fixed metal assists to lend confidence as the exposure was intimidating. The Italians refer to this as via ferrata (iron way or road) which allows non-technical climbers access to areas they might not otherwise go. On the descent, we rounded a tight bend in the trail and were immediately confronted by about eight ibex. Markus, who has been hiking and climbing in the Alps for years, had never been so close.
Switzerland has none of the signature scruffiness of Italy, France or Spain. People apologize for not speaking English and then launch into an easily understood conversation. The cut wood is piled neatly as if by a government directive, roads are in excellent condition and everyone dutifully turns their car off at construction delays or long red lights. Why they would want to join the European Union, I don’t know. It may be to ease trading restrictions and lower high consumer prices. They seem to have the best of both worlds, proximity to multiple hard scrabble countries with a reassuring comfort and order in their own living room.
With the Kangoo and Leslie spluttering, and me blethering in nonsensical faux Italian-Swiss, we headed towards a rendezvous with Leslie’s parents in Lecco, Lake Como region. In one day, we drove through five countries; Switzerland, Austria, and Lichtenstein, Czech Republic and Germany. The order that we did it in is lost forever. On the final descent from St. Moritz towards Lake Como, we were engulfed in a beautiful valley which highlighted the trip.
Leslie and I had booked an apartment in Varenna, about twenty minutes north of Lecco on Lake Como’s eastern side. We weren’t sure when or if we’d be able to meet up with Don and Joyce so we made a last minute booking. When you book blindly on the internet, it is always a leap of faith that there will be four walls, a roof, a door and at least one window. Serendipity struck again. The apartment in Varenna, owned by a local Italian couple, had much more than the requisite walls and roof. The owners spoke no English but were very enthusiastic in helping us settle in and explore.
With Leslie’s parents in Lecco and us in Varenna, this also provided the opportunity to explore both places. Lecco is a small prosperous town filled with the typically stylish Italians, both locals and weekenders from Milan. Varenna, much smaller still and lakeside, had only one way to expand and that was up. We had a tiny switchback road as an approach to our apartment with its large deck and a view over the lake.
It was a real treat seeing my in-laws out of context. Even though we had planned to meet them, you still pinch yourself and ask “How did they get here and how did this happen?” Joyce and Don celebrated their 49th wedding anniversary which we all spent on a beautiful, warm, sunny Varenna restaurant deck overlooking Lake Como. It was one of those meals you don’t want to end, great views, easy conversation and, of course, wine. After lunch, we parted ways, Don and Joyce went off to their place in Lecco, easing into their 50th year of marriage. We met and did it all over again in Bellagio and Lecco with nothing in particular to celebrate other than it was lunchtime again in Lake Como.
While I’m on the subject of lack of power and wheezing, Leslie picked up a cold in Davos, Switzerland. We sneezed, wheezed and dribbled our way towards Prague, Czech Republic and then on to Salzburg, Austria. Prague is a bustling modern city trapped in a museum of architecture haunted by Kafka and many other artists. It’s difficult to believe it was only the late 60’s that the USSR invaded Czechoslovakia because of its modest attempts at liberalization. There is a painted outline at the spot where a student (Jan Palach) died after lighting himself on fire as a desperate protest to the Soviet occupation; he is considered a national hero. Many students, artists, intellectuals and workers protests were quickly put down. The contrast with my life as a Canadian student in 1969 couldn’t have been more extreme.
Old areas in European cities are like theatrical history; open to the tourist audiences during the day but daily life goes on elsewhere. Prague’s architectural beauty is so extensive that the city stages life as a never ending play. The buildings, streets and squares ooze history and breathe the bustle of modern consumerism. The Frank Gehry designed building is a wonderful contrast to classic structures of Prague. It is referred to as the “dancing building” which will be self explanatory once you see it. It has been called other things as well, according to your taste.
For an unbelievable example of Art Nouveau style architecture, Prague’s Municipal Hall must be seen. A tour is essential to appreciate the design, craftsmanship and pride in community required to propel a project of this scope. It also reflects one of the many resurgences of Czech culture and economics before the 20th century took hold.
Salzburg’s claim to fame, according to Austrians, is as Mozart’s birthplace. On the other hand, a recent survey stated most tourists came because of the association with the movie “The Sound of Music”. The locals are stubbornly sticking to the sophisticated Mozart version of events.
The old town of Salzburg is one of the focuses of tourism, capped by yet another castle. The history of the area is unique, characterized by salt mining which resulted in considerable wealth. The wealth, in turn, attracts “bad guys” which, in turn, necessitates big castles, torture chambers and the weapons of war. The castle has a tremendous collection of antiquities, including torture devices and a study in the development of ancient weapons. The instruments of pain are juxtaposed with works of art, further illustrating the complexities of the human race, which is capable of creating stunningly beautiful works of art and science; at that same time perpetrating atrocities that leave you speechless. Although I just glanced at the combination finger and testicle squeezer on display, I released an endless stream of confessions to Leslie, some of which I regret. I would not have held up well to torture.
Salzburg is the only city in Europe that we have been in where they continue to allow smoking inside restaurants. We forgot what it was like trying to have a meal while the thick smoke hung like smog over an Ohio coal town. At one meal, exhaust from laughing Austrian smokers would escalate uncontrollably into a cacophony of bronchitic spasms, only to be joined in sympathy by Leslie in the last throes of her virus. The Austrian group seemed pleased with Leslie’s sense of humour when she involuntarily joined in.
Mozart was born in Salzburg and it is my understanding that he made some wonderful noises. We had hoped to hear a performance of his work while in Salzburg but that will have to be saved for another time. Instead, Leslie was inspired to sing a constant melody of “The Sound of Music” tunes. It was a wonderful performance although the lack of rehearsal time was apparent.
The fall weather had become chilly as Salzburg is an alpine town. We hunkered down in the Sheraton Salzburg as a treat and respite from the cold. Our king size bed had three pillows, each of varying sizes and densities. To me, this meant there must be a resident pillow sommelier. But Leslie tried to tell me there is no such thing and not to bother phoning the front desk to enquire for pillow advice. However, I did enjoy some of the local food in the hotel including goulash, bratwurst, potato pancakes with a fruity dry Austrian wine, great comfort food.
Actually, our first premonition of winter was in Davos, Switzerland, an alpine town famous for skiing, hiking and economic conferences. We stayed there courtesy of the Kaelin family of Neschwil, Switzerland, friends I met originally in Vancouver. Switzerland lived up to its reputation of beauty, manicured lush green valleys and towering alpine mountains.
Neschwil is a small village where Barbara Sporri Kaelin grew up and the family now live. Neschwil lies in rolling green Swiss countryside with great access to biking, hiking and skiing. We spent a special week with them and met their children, Oliver and Sara and her mom, Hilde. Barbara took us to Zurich one evening and we were really impressed. The downtown has no towering high-rises and is built to a very human scale. I can’t believe the Zurich gnomes (bankers) have resisted or been prevented from building huge symbols to their success. There were lots of outdoor restaurants and cafes full of locals enjoying the older area of Zurich.
Markus Kaelin took us on a spectacular hike high into the Swiss Alps. Sections of the hike had fixed metal assists to lend confidence as the exposure was intimidating. The Italians refer to this as via ferrata (iron way or road) which allows non-technical climbers access to areas they might not otherwise go. On the descent, we rounded a tight bend in the trail and were immediately confronted by about eight ibex. Markus, who has been hiking and climbing in the Alps for years, had never been so close.
Switzerland has none of the signature scruffiness of Italy, France or Spain. People apologize for not speaking English and then launch into an easily understood conversation. The cut wood is piled neatly as if by a government directive, roads are in excellent condition and everyone dutifully turns their car off at construction delays or long red lights. Why they would want to join the European Union, I don’t know. It may be to ease trading restrictions and lower high consumer prices. They seem to have the best of both worlds, proximity to multiple hard scrabble countries with a reassuring comfort and order in their own living room.
With the Kangoo and Leslie spluttering, and me blethering in nonsensical faux Italian-Swiss, we headed towards a rendezvous with Leslie’s parents in Lecco, Lake Como region. In one day, we drove through five countries; Switzerland, Austria, and Lichtenstein, Czech Republic and Germany. The order that we did it in is lost forever. On the final descent from St. Moritz towards Lake Como, we were engulfed in a beautiful valley which highlighted the trip.
Leslie and I had booked an apartment in Varenna, about twenty minutes north of Lecco on Lake Como’s eastern side. We weren’t sure when or if we’d be able to meet up with Don and Joyce so we made a last minute booking. When you book blindly on the internet, it is always a leap of faith that there will be four walls, a roof, a door and at least one window. Serendipity struck again. The apartment in Varenna, owned by a local Italian couple, had much more than the requisite walls and roof. The owners spoke no English but were very enthusiastic in helping us settle in and explore.
With Leslie’s parents in Lecco and us in Varenna, this also provided the opportunity to explore both places. Lecco is a small prosperous town filled with the typically stylish Italians, both locals and weekenders from Milan. Varenna, much smaller still and lakeside, had only one way to expand and that was up. We had a tiny switchback road as an approach to our apartment with its large deck and a view over the lake.
It was a real treat seeing my in-laws out of context. Even though we had planned to meet them, you still pinch yourself and ask “How did they get here and how did this happen?” Joyce and Don celebrated their 49th wedding anniversary which we all spent on a beautiful, warm, sunny Varenna restaurant deck overlooking Lake Como. It was one of those meals you don’t want to end, great views, easy conversation and, of course, wine. After lunch, we parted ways, Don and Joyce went off to their place in Lecco, easing into their 50th year of marriage. We met and did it all over again in Bellagio and Lecco with nothing in particular to celebrate other than it was lunchtime again in Lake Como.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Photo Album
Ojen, Spain
We are in Ojen, Spain for October, a small hilltop town of 2000, close to Marbella on the coast. Every year, Ojen celebrates its patron saint with a five day fiesta frenzy, complete with food, drink, music, drink, dancing, rides for the kids, more drinks, a couple of parades, fireworks, more music and drink, noisemakers (many!), traditional games and singing. School is cancelled, work must be too, and the celebration starts mid-morning. It continues all day, with a slight lull during the afternoon siesta but it roars up to full speed again after naptime and carries on until 5 am. Yes, that's right, 5 AM!
For David and me, where a late night is 11 pm, this has been somewhat of a challenge. However, we find ourselves morphing into Spanish time and enjoying the festivities. We haven't quite made it to 5 am but after a few drinks and tapas, we are good for a few "Olés!"
Girona's river houses. We stayed in the tall, thin yellow building, just above the mass of yellow flowers.
Markus explaining to David about Swiss cows.
Coming around the corner and seeing the ibex! Wow!
We are in Ojen, Spain for October, a small hilltop town of 2000, close to Marbella on the coast. Every year, Ojen celebrates its patron saint with a five day fiesta frenzy, complete with food, drink, music, drink, dancing, rides for the kids, more drinks, a couple of parades, fireworks, more music and drink, noisemakers (many!), traditional games and singing. School is cancelled, work must be too, and the celebration starts mid-morning. It continues all day, with a slight lull during the afternoon siesta but it roars up to full speed again after naptime and carries on until 5 am. Yes, that's right, 5 AM!
For David and me, where a late night is 11 pm, this has been somewhat of a challenge. However, we find ourselves morphing into Spanish time and enjoying the festivities. We haven't quite made it to 5 am but after a few drinks and tapas, we are good for a few "Olés!"
First day of Festival with Ojen's Patron Saint leaving the church to be paraded around town. People are dressed in their traditional finery and follow the statue, accompanied by a marching band.
The children are dressed up too. The woman in the blue skirt is a flamenco singer and she sang a song with her castanets while her students danced.
The marching band brings up the rear of the parade.
Three cute kids...seconds after David took the photo, this little guy yanked the hair of the girl in the blue dress.
Beautiful women dressed up.
And more! (ok David, that's enough.)
The balloon man nearly bowled over these two little old ladies as he tried to beat the crowds back to the main square.
Varenna, Italy
Leslie's parents were in Italy in September and we met up for five days in Varenna and Lecco, on Lake Como. This photo of Varenna is taken from the town's castle, high on the hill.
Mom and Leslie on the drawbridge of Varenna castle.
David, Joyce and Don at Varenna Castle
Leslie with her parents in Varenna.
Girona, Spain
After leaving Italy for Spain, we stayed in Girona for three nights. Our flat was great, overlooking the river on one side and the pedestrian "rambla" on the other.
Girona streets and stairs.
Girona's river houses. We stayed in the tall, thin yellow building, just above the mass of yellow flowers.Prague, Czech Republic
Lost in Translation - Leslie admiring David Cerny's sculpture "Proudy". The two figures are piddling into a puddle that's in the shape of the Czech Republic. They are spelling out famous quotes from Czech literature with their "pee" and yes, they move back and forth.
A gargoyle adorning Prague Castle.
Switzerland
We had a wonderful visit to Switzerland. We had a fun week in Neschwil, pop. 150, visiting Barbara and Markus and their children, Oliver and Sara. David met Barbara and Markus in the early 1980's in Vancouver. Markus took us on an amazing hike where we saw ibex, a type of mountain goat. Markus said he had never seen them so close so it was a great thrill. We learned that Markus' motto is "Just one more hill!" Funny enough, on a bike ride with Barb, she had the same motto! It must be a Swiss thing.
Ibex, up close and personal. We saw a herd of eight!
Sara and Oliver at a backyard barbeque.
Leslie and David holding tight in a crevice.
Markus explaining to David about Swiss cows.
Coming around the corner and seeing the ibex! Wow!
Barb and David in Zurich
Markus and Barbara offered us their vacation home in Davos, Switzerland. We spent 10 great days there, hiking, biking, running and napping. We also watched the Davos Hockey Team beat Geneva in their opening season game.
David adding just one more stone to the pile.
Oops, one too many!
Hiking in Davos with a village below.
France
Chamonix, France. Watching a line of hikers ascending the col.
Alpe d'huez, near Grenoble, France. This famous climb on the Tour de France was David's challenge. I drove up ahead and waited for him, enjoying coffee, sunshine and a book!
Nice, France - our Kangoo inching into the car elevator. TRICKY!
August 21, 2008 - On top of Mt. Blanc, Chamonix. Our 20th anniversary!
Thanks for reading!
Leslie and David
Blog Time, Billionaires, Brangelina, Beaches and Bodies
Officially, in real time, we have been to Chamonix and Grenoble France, Neschwil and Davos Switzerland, Prague, Salzburg, Varenna on Lake Como, passing through Cannes, Girona and Valencia on the way to Ojen in the Andalucía region of Spain. But on Blog Time, I am still on Cote d’Azur, that is I have not written on the blog since then, primarily because I am still in shock after Leslie’s U-do hair do.
The Cote d’Azur of France was home for five weeks, Nice in particular, which really expands to include Antibes, Villefrance, Eze, Cagnes-sur-Mer, Cap Ferrat, Bealieau-sur-Mer, Monaco and probably a couple more that I didn’t see. You can safely ignore Monaco unless you are a Formula 1 fan, monarchy fan, looking for a tax haven, or need a mooring for your super yacht. We didn’t ignore Monaco and I’ll leave you to guess the reason we went there.
The Cote d’Azur may seem intimidating with the ever-present referrals to artistic geniuses who haunt the place, such as Chagall, Renoir, Picasso and Matisse, but when it comes down to it, the artists were there for the same reasons that everyone goes. Glorious sunshine days constantly rearrange the blue hues on the ocean of a serpentine coastline with protected bays with steep hills as a backdrop and, as a result, geniuses and tourists pack the towns.
An escape from the masses is easily accomplished by driving inland towards the hills and then mountains. I often went on my bike and within one hour, the cars were scarce and the scenery amazing. Panoramic views toward the sea on clear days competed with rugged mountain landscapes over your shoulder. Leslie often drove inland and I would meet her for lunch in a small town, drinking just enough wine to enhance the view and the meal.
The sea side towns (sur Mer) plod their way uphill, step by step, villa by villa, to some wonderful hilltop conclusions. Eze-en-Haut or the high village, sister town to Eze-sur-Mer, is a stunning example of medieval architecture mixed with shops and restaurants placed in what seems like a giant eagle’s nest.
Like most high villages, its location originally evolved as a good defensive position to pour boiling oil and throw pointy objects at unwanted house guests. The ruins of the fortress provide expansive views of the Mediterranean coastline and a place to reflect on the stresses and comforts of modern Canadian life versus the medieval maelstrom.
The historic inhabitants had to deal with the constant threat of attack from aggressors; such was the competition for food, land and other precious resources. Most of the small towns and villages have remnants of their ancient defensive capabilities. Small slit-like windows, good to shoot arrows from but difficult to shoot arrows into, are beside holes to pour the hot oil should the arrows not keep the marauders at bay. The fortresses were also used to keep people out suspected of having disease that could inexplicably spread to the inhabitants.
I don’t remember historical dates well but I’m sure all this fighting was over by the time most of the artists arrived, otherwise their artistic output would have been severely reduced. The creative process would have been interrupted with defensive responsibilities. Chagall would likely have thrown oil paint instead of boiling oil on the aggressors which would have resulted in early performance art. Not an effective means of defence. After a successful battle, I picture them all sliding around on the oil as in a ball-bearing factory gone mad which would have also helped celebrate their victory, safe until the next attack, failed crop or infectious disease passes by. In the meantime, they could have drunken debates on whether the earth was flat, why wasn’t the sun extinguished in the sea and other pressing subjects of that era.
Since I have some extra time on my hands (too much, says Leslie!), I tried counting all the stones on Nice’s beaches and reached 450 million. That is correct; the beaches are stone, not sand. I would have still been counting unless Leslie helped me. I wouldn’t even have attempted a count if the beaches were sand because that would have been giga-billions and I don’t know how to count that high.
Stone beaches demand a different strategy than sandy ones. There are no carefree sprints into the water as the stones hurt your feet. No romantic strolls hand in hand for the same reason. You do not bring buckets and spades as they are useless. Instead beachgoers carry padded cushions to prevent the stones from sticking into their ribs and vertebra, which would spoil slumbering possibilities. It has also spawned the beach lounge chair rental industry. The rental stations are conveniently located close to their restaurant and bars, which result in more lounge chair time and so on and so on.
Four hundred and fifty million is also an important number because that is what a Russian oligarch paid in Euros for a property above Villefrance. It is reputed to be the most expensive private property in the world. I have trouble picturing 450 million of anything, except Nice beaches stones, let alone dollars.
I happened to ride past Leopold, the property he purchased from the widow of a Lebanese banker. I recognized a small sign on a gate with the property name on it after reading an article regarding the sale. From a higher viewpoint, you could see the entire sprawling estate and ponder what you get for that amount of money. It looked like an awful lot of garden and lawn to cut and weed. The house is large enough to hold mine and Leslie’s relatives plus our entire staff of body guards, which would result in an interesting sociological experiment. The helicopter landing pads were a bit too far from the main house for my liking. The walk to put the garbage cans out was also rather excessive so after a brief fling with oligarch jealously, I cycled on content with my lot in life.
Our base in Nice was a celebration of bodies and activities on the waterfront promenade. Interestingly, it is called the Promenade des Anglais after some smart and wealthy aristocrats in the Victorian period that enjoyed the mild sunny winters. Every size and shape of body is displayed on the Cote d’Azur beaches with many of the women topless. For prudish North Americans, this can be a bit of a shock as we witnessed a couple of American women who seemed quite taken aback and had clearly had not been forewarned. It was refreshing to see a group of French teenagers surrounded by topless women but clearly non-plussed by it all. We did witness another side to it as we saw a twenty-something male openly taking photographs of only attractive young topless women. Do the pictures end up in a private collection or on the internet? Nevertheless, it is a great place to stroll with the joggers, oligarchs, stunt rollerbladers, seniors and tourists from around the world. There must have been some artistic geniuses amongst them but we couldn’t spot them.
PS- Tid-Bits on France
- You have to love a country where a small supermarket with 7 aisles has 2 completely dedicated to wine!
-The following was on the EasyJet web site that I booked my flight from Nice to Geneva. I am pleased to report the plane successfully defied gravity and flew on schedule. “Special allowance of 10 kilos in addition for the titular of flybaboo abonnament” -and if that wasn’t clear, “We accept a maximum weight of 20 kg per person at the swissport desk.”- no specific mention whether this referred to luggage weight or ?
-Brangelina stayed down the street from us in Nice. The paparazzi and mainstream media were set up for a close encounter with the pregnant couple. We were not able to drop in to say hello and thankfully, the press did not recognize Leslie and me.
-We had an indoor secure parking spot in Nice that was accessed by car elevator. The Kangoo barely fit and required a twenty point turn to manoeuvre into the allotted space. The lift broke down one day, trapping Leslie and I for a short time. We were not able to get our car out until the next day. What about the residents who had to get to work?
PPS
-Leslie’s father Don, who is my communications guru, was kind enough to inform me that the word “blog” is derived from “web log”. This definitely helps clear up those issues I had with the word blog. I apologize for my prejudices against that particular arrangement of letters and the close relatives affected by my statements. Don, who is retired from the communications business, really knows what he is talking about. When Don started his career they were still using the Gutenberg press and they wrote something called a Glog. Thanks again Don, your input is always expected... I mean, appreciated!
The Cote d’Azur of France was home for five weeks, Nice in particular, which really expands to include Antibes, Villefrance, Eze, Cagnes-sur-Mer, Cap Ferrat, Bealieau-sur-Mer, Monaco and probably a couple more that I didn’t see. You can safely ignore Monaco unless you are a Formula 1 fan, monarchy fan, looking for a tax haven, or need a mooring for your super yacht. We didn’t ignore Monaco and I’ll leave you to guess the reason we went there.
The Cote d’Azur may seem intimidating with the ever-present referrals to artistic geniuses who haunt the place, such as Chagall, Renoir, Picasso and Matisse, but when it comes down to it, the artists were there for the same reasons that everyone goes. Glorious sunshine days constantly rearrange the blue hues on the ocean of a serpentine coastline with protected bays with steep hills as a backdrop and, as a result, geniuses and tourists pack the towns.
An escape from the masses is easily accomplished by driving inland towards the hills and then mountains. I often went on my bike and within one hour, the cars were scarce and the scenery amazing. Panoramic views toward the sea on clear days competed with rugged mountain landscapes over your shoulder. Leslie often drove inland and I would meet her for lunch in a small town, drinking just enough wine to enhance the view and the meal.
The sea side towns (sur Mer) plod their way uphill, step by step, villa by villa, to some wonderful hilltop conclusions. Eze-en-Haut or the high village, sister town to Eze-sur-Mer, is a stunning example of medieval architecture mixed with shops and restaurants placed in what seems like a giant eagle’s nest.
Like most high villages, its location originally evolved as a good defensive position to pour boiling oil and throw pointy objects at unwanted house guests. The ruins of the fortress provide expansive views of the Mediterranean coastline and a place to reflect on the stresses and comforts of modern Canadian life versus the medieval maelstrom.
The historic inhabitants had to deal with the constant threat of attack from aggressors; such was the competition for food, land and other precious resources. Most of the small towns and villages have remnants of their ancient defensive capabilities. Small slit-like windows, good to shoot arrows from but difficult to shoot arrows into, are beside holes to pour the hot oil should the arrows not keep the marauders at bay. The fortresses were also used to keep people out suspected of having disease that could inexplicably spread to the inhabitants.
I don’t remember historical dates well but I’m sure all this fighting was over by the time most of the artists arrived, otherwise their artistic output would have been severely reduced. The creative process would have been interrupted with defensive responsibilities. Chagall would likely have thrown oil paint instead of boiling oil on the aggressors which would have resulted in early performance art. Not an effective means of defence. After a successful battle, I picture them all sliding around on the oil as in a ball-bearing factory gone mad which would have also helped celebrate their victory, safe until the next attack, failed crop or infectious disease passes by. In the meantime, they could have drunken debates on whether the earth was flat, why wasn’t the sun extinguished in the sea and other pressing subjects of that era.
Since I have some extra time on my hands (too much, says Leslie!), I tried counting all the stones on Nice’s beaches and reached 450 million. That is correct; the beaches are stone, not sand. I would have still been counting unless Leslie helped me. I wouldn’t even have attempted a count if the beaches were sand because that would have been giga-billions and I don’t know how to count that high.
Stone beaches demand a different strategy than sandy ones. There are no carefree sprints into the water as the stones hurt your feet. No romantic strolls hand in hand for the same reason. You do not bring buckets and spades as they are useless. Instead beachgoers carry padded cushions to prevent the stones from sticking into their ribs and vertebra, which would spoil slumbering possibilities. It has also spawned the beach lounge chair rental industry. The rental stations are conveniently located close to their restaurant and bars, which result in more lounge chair time and so on and so on.
Four hundred and fifty million is also an important number because that is what a Russian oligarch paid in Euros for a property above Villefrance. It is reputed to be the most expensive private property in the world. I have trouble picturing 450 million of anything, except Nice beaches stones, let alone dollars.
I happened to ride past Leopold, the property he purchased from the widow of a Lebanese banker. I recognized a small sign on a gate with the property name on it after reading an article regarding the sale. From a higher viewpoint, you could see the entire sprawling estate and ponder what you get for that amount of money. It looked like an awful lot of garden and lawn to cut and weed. The house is large enough to hold mine and Leslie’s relatives plus our entire staff of body guards, which would result in an interesting sociological experiment. The helicopter landing pads were a bit too far from the main house for my liking. The walk to put the garbage cans out was also rather excessive so after a brief fling with oligarch jealously, I cycled on content with my lot in life.
Our base in Nice was a celebration of bodies and activities on the waterfront promenade. Interestingly, it is called the Promenade des Anglais after some smart and wealthy aristocrats in the Victorian period that enjoyed the mild sunny winters. Every size and shape of body is displayed on the Cote d’Azur beaches with many of the women topless. For prudish North Americans, this can be a bit of a shock as we witnessed a couple of American women who seemed quite taken aback and had clearly had not been forewarned. It was refreshing to see a group of French teenagers surrounded by topless women but clearly non-plussed by it all. We did witness another side to it as we saw a twenty-something male openly taking photographs of only attractive young topless women. Do the pictures end up in a private collection or on the internet? Nevertheless, it is a great place to stroll with the joggers, oligarchs, stunt rollerbladers, seniors and tourists from around the world. There must have been some artistic geniuses amongst them but we couldn’t spot them.
PS- Tid-Bits on France
- You have to love a country where a small supermarket with 7 aisles has 2 completely dedicated to wine!
-The following was on the EasyJet web site that I booked my flight from Nice to Geneva. I am pleased to report the plane successfully defied gravity and flew on schedule. “Special allowance of 10 kilos in addition for the titular of flybaboo abonnament” -and if that wasn’t clear, “We accept a maximum weight of 20 kg per person at the swissport desk.”- no specific mention whether this referred to luggage weight or ?
-Brangelina stayed down the street from us in Nice. The paparazzi and mainstream media were set up for a close encounter with the pregnant couple. We were not able to drop in to say hello and thankfully, the press did not recognize Leslie and me.
-We had an indoor secure parking spot in Nice that was accessed by car elevator. The Kangoo barely fit and required a twenty point turn to manoeuvre into the allotted space. The lift broke down one day, trapping Leslie and I for a short time. We were not able to get our car out until the next day. What about the residents who had to get to work?
PPS
-Leslie’s father Don, who is my communications guru, was kind enough to inform me that the word “blog” is derived from “web log”. This definitely helps clear up those issues I had with the word blog. I apologize for my prejudices against that particular arrangement of letters and the close relatives affected by my statements. Don, who is retired from the communications business, really knows what he is talking about. When Don started his career they were still using the Gutenberg press and they wrote something called a Glog. Thanks again Don, your input is always expected... I mean, appreciated!
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