Category: Uncategorized

August 23: Things have been conspiring against me for the last few days, and I think I “hit the wall” (metaphorically speaking – thankfully) and needed a bit of down time. Five weeks of travel sounds like great fun until you pack and unpack 35 times in a row.  But I’m sure my protests fall on deaf ears.. Here’s some random stuff with the promise of something more thoughtful soon.

This is a shot of the north shore of Lac Leman just coming into Montreaux. At the right edge of the shot is Chateau Chillon where Lord Byron and Mary Shelley hung out. She wrote Frankenstein here in 1816. * Next is the main rail line from Geneva to Italy, and points south. Some vineyards, a few houses and the auto route running up the Rhone valley. The former city planner in me is amazed at the land use relationships people tolerate. There’s not a lot of room and they sure make use of every inch.

This is a shot from just west of L’Alpe d’Heuz (Alp Dooez). The Alps are used extensively by the Tour de France: long runs down the valleys and climbs over the Cols. L’Alpe d’Heuz is frequently a finishing stage because it is a ski town atop 29 switchbacks and effectively, the end of the road. It was on my “bucket list” of places to see but was strangely disappointing. Without men in spandex (OK, there were quite a few trying to prove they could ride the Tour), no crowds, and no excitement, it really is just a ski town and not a very pretty one at that.

This is St Martin Vesubie just about an hour north of Nice. This is where I stayed when I exchanged the car / bike. I left headed west and along the way went further up the mountain to a small town called Rimplas. There, I met a 91-year old man who remembered when there were no cars, no road and no electricity in the town. He went on to work for Air France and had flown on the Concorde. A much younger 82-year old told me about collecting milk and mining salt for sale in Nice. Having to haul it down the mountains and 100 or so kilometers into town was quite and ordeal. People have amazing stories if you have the patience to hear them.

And finally, this is St. Martin’s church in Donzenac where I have been for the last 2 days fighting off a case of Delhi Belly. Not fun, but then nobody said that travel was always fun. Hopefully, some potions and a couple of days and I can get “over the wall” and back to some good eating.

 

• When I was in Germany, I would frequently find myself remembering bits from Mel Brooks’ version Young Frankenstein, or his other classic Blazing Saddles. That tells you everything you need to know about my appreciation for the arts….. Frau Blucher.

August 15: When the BEST part of the day is a 30 Euro, ten minute taxi ride, you know you’re in trouble.

It started well enough. The usual continental breakfast and on the road from St Martin – Vesubie to Nice earlier than I had hoped. Pretty much straight into town and down to the airport which is like Pearson, only a bit smaller. And they speak another language. And they follow practices that nobody but them understands. But that aside….

I went round the terminals (both of them) twice looking for the TT Car drop-off. When that proved futile I decided to follow the signs for the rental returns, although there was no sign for TT Cars. That should have been my first clue. Of course, you pass through an automatic gate to get into the rental car return parking garage. There’s no escape route for idiots looking for TT Cars. Once inside, I parked and walked a brisk 10 minutes to the end of Terminal 2 where I found the empty TT Cars booth, with a helpful sign directing me to, essentially, the far end of the parking lot. (Lest you think I’m a complete idiot, I DID look online for the location but found nothing but the address of the airport, which proved to not be that helpful.)

Once in the TT Cars trailer, I discovered that I was supposed to return the car to Paris, not Nice, and that it was impossible for me to be in the rental garage. After some more time waving arms, I’m told to get the car and follow the signs for the bus depot. Go right to the end where there’s a sign that says you must not enter under penalty of being shot and pissed upon from a great height. “Just ignore it and come through.”  And you will need a ticket to get the car out of the rental lot, and we can’t give you one of those…

After a further 10 minute walk back, a kindly rental guy from the company in whose lot I had illegally parked gave me said ticket and I escaped the lot. Two signatures later and the car was back in the hands of Peugeot. Two suitcases out of the trunk and a further 5 minute haul across the parking lot to the taxi stand leads to the high point of the day mentioned off the top.

Arriving at the bike rental place I’m told that the guy will be there soon. With the bike. Soon. In the meantime we do some paperwork which essentially involves signing forms printed in French and thrust across the counter with a helpful “La et la.” While we wait, I change in the basement storage room.  The bike arrives and it’s not the one I ordered – it’s a BMW 800 with small sport bags and a top box. When I ask about the tank bag I specifically requested, I’m told that they don’t work on the plastic gas tank (in a tone one uses on a first-grader…).

There being no other option, I mount up and ride back to St Martin. In the rain. Did I mention the rain? Showers actually, but still, another element of stress. An hour of that, including a nice side slip on a metal grate in the road and I get back to the hotel where the key for the top box breaks off in the lock. (By the way, the top box comes fully loaded with a 20 lb. chain lock which, in addition to weighing 20 lbs. takes up the better part of half the top box – kind of defeating the purpose of the additional piece of luggage.)

The guy at the bike shop takes a bit of time but finally calls back with the name of a locksmith who can make a key. He’s 20 minutes down the road. And by God he does make a key from the two pieces that seems to work fairly well.

So day one has not been entirely fun. But on the bright side, I have 27 more, including 7 with my best buds. And if this is the worst, then I have a lot to look forward to… Tally ho.

 

August 15: Many years ago Melinda and I travelled through Interlaken after a rain storm. We were on a pass and I looked down through the fog and mist and saw a little village sitting in a meadow about 300 metres below. It felt unreal – as though we were flying.

Like many people, I tend to look at the countryside going by and accept it as scenery, and on this trip, I’ve been staggered by the beautiful places I’ve visited. In the past I have tended to rush past towns and villages because there would always be “a better one” just around the corner. This time, I’m trying to make time to be physically present and in the moment and take in some of the things I see in more detail and with more understanding.

Walt Disney famously drew inspiration for his “Fantasyland Castle” from Neuschwanstein Castle in Germany*. And I think many people see the towns and villages and churches here in that way: there’s an element of fantasy or unreality to them. But of course, they aren’t. That picturesque village clinging to the hill is there because several hundred years ago, the villagers were shepherds or woodcutters and they needed a place to live. They were merchants on a trade route or part of the country’s defenses. That church was the centre of their daily life.

And when you actually stop and look and listen, you discover that people are still there. Half-way up a mountain, at the end of the road, they still live in those houses and go to that church. Far from a fantasyland image, they are in fact, part of people’s daily reality.

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* This is as close as I got to Neuschwanstein Castle. I expected a lot of people but was amazed to find dozens of tour buses and hundreds of people waiting for the shuttles to take them up to the castles. I suspect it would have taken the better part of the day to see it all, so 3 or 4 quick shots and I headed out. I can always go to Florida …..

August 7:  I will leave the whole metaphysical / mythological thing for someone with a taller forehead than mine and simply say that I have a thing for mountains. It started when I was in Lausanne many years ago because I would see the French alps on the other side of Lac Leman on my way to school. The view changed every day; one day clear, one day with the tops in the clouds, and at night, little twinkling lights from the homes and villages.

So here I am back in Switzerland watching the mountains. I like the way they change colour and shape as the sun moves across them. I like the way they change the weather. It can be clear and sunny lower down and foggy up top because the passes are always cooler. I like the fact that horizontal and vertical are concepts rather than reality; that place you are standing isn’t flat at all. And of course, the views are sensational.

I’m not sure how many I’ve taken so far, but if I had a dollar for every picture of a village on a far mountain slope, I could pay for my trip. I include a few random shots here as part of my apparently futile attempt at a “weekly” batch of pictures.

This is on the Gerlospass east of Innsbruck, Austria and I’m headed toward the Grossglockner Hochalpenstrasse.

 

And this would be the view from there. The Grossglockner was built as a private road in 1935 and remains so to this day. That means that you pay 34 Euro for the privilege of using your gas to go up and over. It really is a fantastic bit of engineering and ultimately, I found it worth doing – but then, I am biased.

On the road between Pieve and Cortina, there is a series of “perched” towns hanging over the rim of the valley. They all have churches, and a certain “artistic” look to them. It was impossible to go more than a few kilometers without spotting another one, so here’s a sample.

There’s a “figure 8” of passes just west of Cortina, and this is from the Falzarego. Despite my best efforts at keeping up a good pace, between stopping for pictures and a picnic lunch, it took the whole day to do them all.

Another look from a pass, this time the Jaufenpass.

 

 

 

Here’s the grand-daddy of them all: Stelvio. This is  looking down the south face where the climb takes 35 hairpin turns, all of them numbered. A truly great experience but pretty busy between tour busses, cars, motorcycles and those men in spandex that I wrote about.

And finally, a gratuitous shot of Lake Como. There IS a mountain in the background. I can see why George Clooney lives here….

 

 

August 3: I have always preferred predictability. Consistency is comfortable for reasons I now think I understand more clearly. A friend calls it fear, and he may be right. Whatever the reason for my frame of mind, predictability is not usually associated with travel. Things go wrong, and that’s part of the adventure. But I add stress to the situation by thinking that I have to fix it – to make it perfect again.

I can – and have been known to – drive myself crazy trying to force things to happen in a certain way. I drive past restaurants and hotels thinking that there’s a better one just down the road. But recently I’m trying a different approach.

Every day I write directions for where I’m going. Obviously, I need some sort of guide to see the things that I want to see. So following the route I planned today got off to a good start with a quick trip up and over Falzarego and Pordoi Passes. I missed the turn for the Sella Pass, although it was really pretty obvious if I had been attentive. Lunch in a small medieval town and some fiddling around in Merano wasted a good bit of time.

My directions ended with “4km south turn Grampenjoch Pass etc.” Normally I would target a specific destination not ”etc.” So after turning onto Grampenjoch at about 4:00 I felt like it was time to quit, and I took a turn for a town off the main road even though there were no signs for hotels or pensions. About 1.5 km later down a one-lane street with buildings crowded along the edge, I turned up the Gasthof Schwartzer Adler founded, if the sign is to be believed, in 1659. It has been in the current owner’s family for more than 80 years. Nice spot, good meal, a comfortable bed with a down duvet and all for 58 Euro.

This is not the first time this sort of thing has happened on this trip. When I stop trying to make it perfect and just listen to my gut, sometimes, maybe even often, things turn out for the better. It’s fascinating that letting go of control can make things happen for the better. When I focus less on perfection and simply trust that the right thing will happen I am truly in a better place.

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I wrote that last bit yesterday afternoon. I found the hotel partly by heading for the church that turns out to be just across the street. What I didn’t know is that the church bells toll the time: one every 15 minutes and then the hour.

All. Night. Long.

July 29: Cass Eliot passed away in London on this day in 1974 of a heart attack. Cass was one of the Mamas and Papas, a band that was unusual for the 60’s since they were all singers. (OK, I lied: John Philips played guitar.) Cass was a big girl and she had a strong voice that really anchored the band and gave it a unique sound. I’ve been humming “This Is Dedicated (To The One I Love)” all day. She was recording her own stuff after the band broke up but could never seem to get away from being Mama Cass. Gone at age 33.

On a happier note, Elton John is celebrating 25 years of sobriety. Many of his songs are part of my sound track from the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s.  He was a bit “out there” and with his performance costumes, and his lifestyle was subject to speculation for a very long time. It seemed to me that he was set to crash and burn, or parody Liberace in Las Vegas . Fortunately he got his act together and has become a role model, not only for sobriety, but for gay men and women. Thanks to (Sir) Elton we now have a growing LGBTQ community in Toronto and across the globe. And that’s a pretty wonderful thing. His openness about both his sexuality and his addictions is remarkable and courageous.

And he continues to make history one day at a time.

July 25: I have not travelled widely in Germany. I am finding a beautiful and friendly country with a strong culture and lots to share. At least part of the reason I haven’t spent more time here is the language. There’s something about words like thisisthedoortocomein that put me off. But I have found that people are generally kind; if you make the effort, there’s usually a shared vocabulary and pantomimes that get me what I want.

What is harder to accept is the loss of self that having no language brings on. Language is a powerful tool to convey who we are: our views, our experience and our sense of humour all convey important aspects of our character. Without a way of taking part in that social interaction through language we are isolated and cut off. I may get lunch and the outlines of what is going on around me but without a way to take part, I’m essentially an observer, and probably a bit suspect at that.

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Where are the police ? Admittedly, I am travelling a little off the beaten path but I think I have seen perhaps 3 police cars in the last week. Living in a busy city and having been fed a constant stream of nonsense about imminent attack by radical weirdo’s by our beloved leader, I’m accustomed to routinely seeing police on patrol and in cars. Not so here. That said, there is an obvious and strong belief in the rule of law. When driving in the country, traffic moves at the limit and usually not a lot more, and when coming into even the smallest town, all of the traffic slows to bang on the 50 km/h limit (in some cases 30 km/h). There are no gangs roaming the streets and armed thugs driving Citroen Traction Avant aren’t robbing banks. People seem to be going about their daily lives in a peaceful way and society seems to accept that they can do that without the police watching their every move. Refreshing.

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This part of Germany is quite agrarian, a fact with which my nose becomes intimately familiar several times a day. I can now say with certainty that cow shit smells the same here as in Canada. Like the old debate about whether German dogs would  understand Canadian dogs, I expected it to somehow smell different. If the French have terroir to describe how the growing conditions affect their wines from one clos to the next, wouldn’t the same be true of cow shit ? Cows eat terroir after all. Maybe my nose is not yet adequately attuned to the subtleties between one cow and the next.

July 20: Many people call this area the “bread-basket” of France, and it’s easy to see why. The wheat fields extend to the horizon in all directions. A tennis ball dropped at your feet would go nowhere. So it’s easy to see why the invading Germany army expected a fast passage to Paris when they invaded in 1914.

For the first while, it went well for them (as wars go), and then the French battled back. At the Meuse they held a line and the long war of attrition began in earnest. As a boy I never understood “trench warfare”. If armies were constantly moving, when did they find the time to dig a 2 metre deep trench?

In fact, the front line barely moved during the 4 years of the war. The enemies confronted each other across no-man’s land and the slaughter continued throughout that time. It is said that this was the first “industrialized war”. New weapons appeared including machine guns, grenades, poison gas, tanks and gigantic flame-throwers. There is a very poignant photo in the museum at Albert showing troops going “over the top” standing fully upright, walking straight into machine gun fire. One wonders about their ability to follow orders when it had been clearly demonstrated that it was a deadly approach. One also wonders about the morality of continuing to send men to a certain death for days in a row, repeating a strategy that was obviously futile.

It is said that 4 million men – for it was virtually all men at that time – died during the war. A generation of scientists, artists, doctors and teachers lost forever. One wonders what they might have accomplished for the world had they lived.

Canada lost about 60,000 men. The names of the battles are familiar: Ypres, Beaumont Hamel (where all but 68 men of a battalion of Newfoundlanders were killed), Courcelette, and of course Vimy. Each of these sites has it’s own monument and cemetery. It seems that there are cemeteries and monuments everywhere.

Canada’s national monument is at Vimy. It is tremendously emotional to visit the monument and see the names of these men inscribed on it’s four outer walls. Something I will not soon forget.

July 16: Well Toto, we’re not in Kansas any more. Sorry, in my sleep-deprived state, I couldn’t resist.

After talking about it for more than a year, after imagining what it will be like, after trying to contain my excitement and focus on the here and now, it feels a bit strange to actually be here. No more talk, no excuses.

I am still bemused by the fact that more people don’t see airline travel as something more than a cattle-call. It would all be so much more comfortable if people just treated each other with a bit more class and consideration. I thought of the old black and white photos of women in dresses and men in suits boarding a Super Connie as I watched one guy in a tank-top tee shirt and shorts, cut in front of a bunch of folks already  in line without the slightest bit of concern or shame. Class.

Much is familiar about France. I guess not a lot changes when your building stock is several centuries old. Somehow it seems more prosperous than when I was here last, but that may only be due to proximity to Paris. Something to consider as the days unfold.

View from the hotel -first night.