Nine months, five continents, twelve countries, one principality, eleven currencies, thirty-eight cities and waaaaaaaay too many drinks later, I’m finally ‘home’ in Australia. I put home into ‘ ‘ because I’m not entirely sure what home is right now, never mind where. But that’s a new blog for a new beginning. In the meantime, let’s summarise the travels that were.
A smattering of highlights:
- catching up with old friends and family
- making new friends and then meeting up with them again in various locations
- meeting Dr Jaime Lerner (thank you for showing that visionary leadership and politics are not mutually exclusive) and seeing his city (Curitiba)
- seeing Garth Brooks play in Las Vegas
- dancing in Brazil (I won’t limit it to classes in Rio because festivals in Paraty were also excellent dance experiences)
- seeing New York City for the first time, including the uproariously hilarious Book of Mormon on Broadway
- conquering the Grouse Grind in Canada
- wine tasting in the northern hemisphere
- road trips in the USA (one from Northern California through Yosemite to Las Vegas and one from Dallas through Austin to San Antonio)
- feeding ‘gators marshmallows in the Bayou in Louisiana
- ballooning above the Loire Valley
- spending so many months just doing whatever took my fancy on any given day - freedom is not at all over-rated.
Great innovations and general good stuff spotted along the way (warning: contains matters subject to nerd alerts):
- Galeria Malta in Poznan has an outstanding system of signs with number of available spaces and lights in the car park which glow red for filled spaces and green for vacant spaces, making it easy-peasy to locate a parking spot.
- Signage in Singapore is both entertaining and thorough. Singapore wins the World Signage Wars hands down. There is never an excuse to not know something in Singapore.
- Singapore ties first place for public transport excellence with their brilliantly designed MRT. Fast, efficient, frequent, clean, well sign-posted (there is a route map above each door with lights indicating where you are as well as audible and understandable audio information) and trains level with the platforms, the SMRT is a winner. Curitiba takes equal first with their excellent bus system - a metro above ground. Special attention needs to be paid to the fabulous bus-stops which are designed with passenger comfort and efficient loading/un-loading in mind. Honourable mention to Switzerland for their very useable public transport system.
- San Antonio’s riverwalk and floodworks deserve major cudos. As well as providing a fabulous public space full of art works of various kinds and a brilliant tourist experience on board the frequent punts, the renovated and highly engineered river provides extraordinary flood protection. It recently saved the city from a 1 in 100 year flood event.
Speaking of public spaces, New York’s High Line Park is the hands-down winner for urban planning brilliance. ‘Nuff said.
- Austin’s 6th Street. It’s not the only “music street” in the world but it is the most pleasant I’ve seen, the one with the most diversity and the funnest crowd.
Dallas’ multi-storey roads need to be seen to be believed. Public transport is a better ideal (sadly, not in Dallas) but these roads are really quite extraordinary in their own right. And they remind me so much of the Jetsons that it makes me happy to see them.
- Las Vegas entertainment. There’s too much to list but for entertainment value, Vegas wins.
- Best effort at providing tourist information goes to Prague. They really do try. Actual success in providing tourist information goes to Singapore.
- Rio wins the “best lifestyle” award for constant music, dancing and festivals.
- Paraty, Brazil wins Best Small Town and Best Music Festival categories.
- City planners of Vancouver need a big nod of appreciation. Creating wide boulevards lined with trees and a city of glass was a stroke of genius.
- Skype and wifi need to be thanked.
- Mad Men, True Blood and Pan Am. It may be television and not documentaries but they are a great experience. The Tudors also needs a wave, even though it is almost a documentary.
- Rio’s Copacabana foreshore walk and bikeway with periodic work-out stations needs big celebrations both for encouraging citizen health and providing beauteous aesthetics to appreciate.
Minus points have been awarded as follows:
- Poland - road and driver quality. Democracy is not a synonym for anarchy, people. You are not more important than anyone else on the road, I don’t care who your father is or what brand of handbag you sport. And councils please note, dirt is not an adequate road surface. Poland also gets a dishonorable mention for pumping out groundwater in order to lay sewer pipes under a roadway. Dear Engineer, next time, re-route.
- “Computer says no” winners are Jetstar in Singapore and Gmina Czerwonak in Poland. And the whole of France.
- Lack of signage. Yes France, I’m looking at you (although Rio’s bus stops could do with a revamp).
- Design flaws, such as trains that are several steps up from platform level - why was this ever a good idea? Even prior to trolley-cases this can’t have been convenient. Toilets in airports that are not big enough to accommodate an accompanying suitcase. Aeroplane seats that do not recline. Carpet near check in counters at airports that make it difficult to wheel your bag through.
- Inefficiency is a large category - there was so much of it, so I’ll limit it to the overall winner: the payment system in Brazilan shops. Is it really necessary to send customers to three different counters in order to buy one thing?
- Bad public policy. Again, a very well populated category. I’ll settle for naming and shaming open water delivery channels in the desert in the USA.
- Random room numbering dis-awards go to hotels in Prague (room 401 on the fifth floor) and London (room 507 on the third floor). I cannot even begin to imagine an explanation for this kind of chaos.
It’s surprising that some of the following haven’t been addressed yet:
- suitcases haven’t come a long way since they were first invented and even the latest versions from high quality brands such as Samsonite have serious design flaws. Are they paying cats to design these things?
- luggage weight allowances - why isn’t there an average per person overall weight allowance that includes your body weight?
- un-controlled numbers of car sales in countries where the road infrastructure is not designed to accommodate them. Why? No one wins.
- electing politicians that lack vision - it is a world-wide epidemic. Why do we demand so little from our leaders? Why do we tolerate so much? I’m disgusted.
- standardising clothing and shoe sizes according to measurements, rather than arbitrary numbering. When is a 36 not a 36? When it’s in Mexico rather than Europe or when it’s referring to a shoe size rather than a clothing size. Similarly a 3.5 in the UK would be a 5 in Australia in shoes while an Australian 10 would be an American 6 in clothing. Usually. But sometimes it’s a 4. As for Brazil, well, they just helpfully use letters - P is a small and S is a medium in case you need to know. For goodness sake manufacturers, just measure in inches and centimetres and whack that on the label.
Things that used to exist that sadly no longer do:
- a volume button on the external housing of Nokia phones - why would you remove this? Now what am I supposed to do when the ambient noise exceeds the vocal projection of the speaker?
- a camera where the switch to video was made via the top control. Now it is in a spot where you tend to hold when taking a photo (constant loss of gigabytes for the unsuspecting, inattentive or digit-ally challenged (thank you English language for the ability to do that!)...)
- sensors/displays that tell you how fast to travel (within the speed limit) in order to optimise your travel time and reduce unnecessary stop-starting at lights (apparently this used to exist in Poland in the 70s - if my father is to be believed)
All in all: 9 months well spent. I’d love to tell you something profound, but I think my experiences are still percolating and I suspect the real insights will come as I try to shoe-horn my penchant for enjoying freedom into some semblance of a normal, sensible life (at least for a while...ooo, I smell a sequel). In the meantime, the most profound thing I can tell you is that wherever I went, despite the differences in language, culture and landscape, it’s a true fact that we’re all pretty similar. The Thai t-shirt vendors had it right all along: the world at large is same, same but different.
Monday 16 January 2012
Monday 26 December 2011
Stop the clock! December is nearly over?? Huh???
When I started this blog several weeks ago, I began it by saying I had been no where and done nothing and then proceeded to give a description of all the books I’ve read during that time. As fascinating as that was, it’s now irrelevant because since then, I’ve been everywhere and done lots.
I’ve conquered an overland train journey from Poznan to Bytom (just over 300kms and almost 7 hours duration.....somebody’s maths and transport planning went horribly, horribly wrong), have been to London for a weekend (with my sister, now visiting from Australia - yay!! and my cousin who experienced her first plane journey), been back to Poznan for a few days and, well, there you go, it’s now Boxing Day and I’m in Ireland again.
Christmas Eve and Day passed in a champagne-fueled delight that no amount of noisy children’s toys or stray glitter could dampen. My only objection to Ireland is when they wish me the wind at my back - do they have any idea how annoying it is to have your hair blow about your face and stick to your lip gloss? Wind aside, Ireland is always great craic and this time was no different. And it was a special thing to spend this traditionally family-oriented time with family who have kindly adopted me as one of their own. Particularly honourable mention to Ryan for largely no other reason than he requested it and because he has a nice sword. No snickering now, you lot. The sword in reference is literal.
Because it is the festive season, there isn’t much time between drinks so I have to wrap this edition up fast. There’s so much more I want to say but there isn’t time today. So I will end with a cheat, something borrowed from my fellow travelers, The Great Danes, who wrote in their Christmas Eve edition: “We have made so many new friends, that my holidays are pretty much scheduled for the next 30 years, but I can´t forget all you guys back home. We miss all of you so much and especially since christmas is coming up we been thinking a lot about our family(ies). Foremost I realized during this trip that it is not about the places you see, you know that we seen so many breathtaking places, no it´s about the people you meet.”
And that’s the nub of it all. Forget 49 or whatever the number was. The answer to the mysteries of the universe is simple - it absolutely is all about the people who matter to you. Just because I’m traveling and you read all about the wonderful time I’m having (true story) doesn’t mean I have forgotten you. Quite the opposite, in fact. The more I travel, the more I appreciate you. If you’re reading this, I’m flinging a whole lotta love your way. Boom.
So, to borrow a phrase from Clarkson, with my heart beating like a washing machine full of wellingtons, I bid you adieu for now, hoping that the indigestion following festive indulgence didn’t overwhelm you and that you have a cracker start to 2012. May the road rise to meet you, etc, etc.
I’ve conquered an overland train journey from Poznan to Bytom (just over 300kms and almost 7 hours duration.....somebody’s maths and transport planning went horribly, horribly wrong), have been to London for a weekend (with my sister, now visiting from Australia - yay!! and my cousin who experienced her first plane journey), been back to Poznan for a few days and, well, there you go, it’s now Boxing Day and I’m in Ireland again.
Christmas Eve and Day passed in a champagne-fueled delight that no amount of noisy children’s toys or stray glitter could dampen. My only objection to Ireland is when they wish me the wind at my back - do they have any idea how annoying it is to have your hair blow about your face and stick to your lip gloss? Wind aside, Ireland is always great craic and this time was no different. And it was a special thing to spend this traditionally family-oriented time with family who have kindly adopted me as one of their own. Particularly honourable mention to Ryan for largely no other reason than he requested it and because he has a nice sword. No snickering now, you lot. The sword in reference is literal.
Because it is the festive season, there isn’t much time between drinks so I have to wrap this edition up fast. There’s so much more I want to say but there isn’t time today. So I will end with a cheat, something borrowed from my fellow travelers, The Great Danes, who wrote in their Christmas Eve edition: “We have made so many new friends, that my holidays are pretty much scheduled for the next 30 years, but I can´t forget all you guys back home. We miss all of you so much and especially since christmas is coming up we been thinking a lot about our family(ies). Foremost I realized during this trip that it is not about the places you see, you know that we seen so many breathtaking places, no it´s about the people you meet.”
And that’s the nub of it all. Forget 49 or whatever the number was. The answer to the mysteries of the universe is simple - it absolutely is all about the people who matter to you. Just because I’m traveling and you read all about the wonderful time I’m having (true story) doesn’t mean I have forgotten you. Quite the opposite, in fact. The more I travel, the more I appreciate you. If you’re reading this, I’m flinging a whole lotta love your way. Boom.
So, to borrow a phrase from Clarkson, with my heart beating like a washing machine full of wellingtons, I bid you adieu for now, hoping that the indigestion following festive indulgence didn’t overwhelm you and that you have a cracker start to 2012. May the road rise to meet you, etc, etc.
Saturday 3 December 2011
Hair of the Dog
Hair of the dog is one of those peculiarly English expressions that many people use but not many know the origin of. My vote was that it was somehow Cockney rhyming slang for ‘grog’. Turns out I was wrong. Again.
According to Wikipedia, "Hair of the dog" is a colloquial expression in the English language predominantly used to refer to alcohol that is consumed with the aim of lessening the effects of a hangover. The expression originally referred to a method of treatment of a rabid dog bite by placing hair from the dog in the bite wound. Why is this relevant? Because it goes to the heart of the Tri-Nation 2011 Prague Tour. Let's start at the beginning.
After only a couple of days in Poland, I was once again on a plane. Destination: Prague. Purpose: convening with friends. Mission accomplished. But that would be a short blog wouldn’t it? While some of you may be sighing with relief I’m afraid I won’t let you off the hook so easily.
Firstly, let’s meet the cast. Me, you know but I’m just a supporting actress. The stars of the show are Uncle Mike who I used to work with many moons ago in England and the very lovely Jo, who I met relatively briefly in Rio and Paraty in May/June this year. Uncle Mike is English, but we don’t hold that against him because he travels so much doing good environmental work in difficult countries that he is English in name, sporting allegiance and good manners only. Jo is Swedish but lives in Denmark where she is studying to gain her 10,612th Masters.
Perhaps I ought to have predicted what would happen when I brought together two scary-smart, well-travelled, highly entertaining conversation lovers but I have to confess, I just didn’t really think it through. Had I thought it through, I may have considered procuring some chemical stimulants to enable me to keep up.
On Friday, Uncle Mike and I convened for drinks and dinner while awaiting the arrival of the lovely Jo. After several hours of catching up about travels world-wide, we concluded that I was barking mad. Coming from an Englishman, that’s almost a term of endearment, so it in no way spoiled the excellent Thai curry we were enjoying. After having first been sent to the wrong restaurant by the hotel concierge, Jo located us and joined us for after-dinner drinks. Despite being several drinks behind, she put in a stellar effort and the conversation continued unabated. Deciding to brave the cold and the diabolically unsafe cobblestone streets (a.k.a. after the restaurant politely threw us out), we found one of the few bars that was open and continued solving the world’s problems. The fact that there was little open should have suggested to us that it might be late, but apparently we didn’t much care.
Later that morning, we convened for coffee at a place that sold specialty chocolate - including cannabis-flavoured chocolate. We would have been better off with one of Claus’ gin/cointreau/lemon juice heart-starters. Feeling slightly worse for wear (speaking for myself), we nonetheless persevered and explored the city of Prague. As I think I’ve already mentioned in an earlier blog, Prague is a very beautiful city. Perhaps a little less so in November than it was in May, but since it was slightly less crowded in November, I’ll recommend that as a good time to visit. As a bonus the weekend we were there, the Christmas market had started which created a twee olde world atmosphere in the old town square. Alas, I had agreed to Uncle Mike's terms and conditions without reading the fine print and discovered too late that there was a ban on shopping. Too bad, marketeers. You could have profited were it not for the legally binding contract.
To be fair, Prague is a lot more than just pretty. The buildings are quite stunning and the old city is quite large. Unlike many other European cities where what is left of the old town is a town square, the old part of Prague goes on for ages. It started me wondering how this could be given world wars in the vicinity, so I did some research. Again thanks to Wikipedia (libraries aren't open in Poland on a Saturday), I discovered that Prague suffered considerably less damage during World War II than some other major cities in the region, allowing most of its historic architecture to stay true to form. It contains one of the world's most pristine and varied collections of architecture, from Art Nouveau to Baroque, Renaissance, Cubist, Gothic, Neo-Classical and ultra-modern. True fact – we saw all that architecture and more. No doubt the fact that all those lovely buildings survived has helped Prague become such a tourist hot-spot. In fact, uninteresting fact number 47: almost 25% of the Czech Republic's GDP comes from Prague and much of that is thanks to tourism.
So, like so many well-behaved tourists before us, on Saturday afternoon we did a boat cruise on the Vlatava River. It was a nice boat, serving nice beer with an audio guide in six languages. What a shame that the English audio guide didn’t speak English. “Welcome-en en are boat en baoarda...scenic overalls.” Huh? I felt I was revisiting chest pains of turkey. Luckily for us, Jo speaks 112 languages, give or take, so we managed to piece together most of what we were seeing. Speaking of lost in translation, there were some excellent faux pas in Prague. Seen on a toilet roll holder: “Big Willy Sanitation Services”. Uncle Mike was in room 401, which was, naturally, on the 5th floor of the hotel. The Mucha exhibition included a poster showing “Weiner Chic” with a picture of a dapper looking art-nouveau-style lady - not exactly sure what it was advertising.
And while on the topic of advertising, let me explain that Uncle Mike takes exception to misapplied monikers the world over. For example, in Australia, the Great Ocean Road should be renamed to the Nice Ocean Road because great is overstating it. In Prague, there was an issue with the astronomical clock. We didn’t find it at all astronomical. It was definitely over-sold by its name, even if it did come with the rather exciting tale of the clockmaker having been blinded upon its completion so he couldn’t replicate it elsewhere. Also, the Church of Our Lady before Týn should be renamed the Scary Church, not just because that would be easier to remember. We were constantly looking over our shoulders, afraid it might release gargoyles from its scary turrets. Too much specialty chocolate perhaps?
When we weren’t eating chocolate, or just eating, or indeed drinking, we were talking and walking. The curious thing about Prague is that there are hoards, yes, hoards, of tourists. Well, that’s not curious in itself. The curious thing is that you take just a small detour away from the main “sights” and the streets become delightfully deserted. Dandering along these streets was much more pleasant than becoming boxed in by a tour group following a monkey on a stick (not a real monkey - no animals were hurt in the making of this blog).
Following a very late (er, early) return on Sunday morning after a Saturday night out in an Italian restaurant and a British pub, we met somewhat later in the day the day than we ought to have done and discussed the pressing topic of the day: hair of the dog. Since we had no idea where the saying came from, we added it to the long list of post-holiday research to be undertaken and headed back out into the city where we dandered some more before finding a cafe near the castle, overlooking the city. In the waning sunlight, we saw Prague glow. An ethereal, golden glow. It was pretty nice of them to put on such a show for us.
And so, we had one important thing left on our agenda. One of the legendary Prague-ian jazz clubs. Ignorance is bliss, or so the jazz man sang that night. Musicians and such artist-types are usually at least slightly outside the mainstream. They’ll be ones that turn up to the party not wearing shoes or without having combed their hair. But why judge? Watching talented people do what they love is a pleasure. Musicians jamming is one of the most euphoric scenes on earth - like puppies playing, but with less shoes involved. When they play, they transcend themselves (the musicians, not the puppies). Percussion is not just bashing some pots. The finesse of a jazz percussionist hitting the rim versus the flat of the drum or cymbal with the tip or the edge of the drumstick is, unlike the clock, quite astronomical. Being able to eek out just the right note, tone, timing, nuance out of a lump of wood or piece of pipe is an extraordinary gift. Why isn’t the use of such gifts promoted as a valuable activity? It makes me sad that all people can’t pursue their own wondrous abilities with their whole souls. But not as sad as it made me to bid Uncle Mike and Jo farewell.
Alas, Monday came too soon and despite the fact that we minimised sleep to wring out every last minute from the weekend, it still went by faster than it should have. And so the Tri-Nation Tour was over for 2011 and we returned to England, Denmark and Poland as conquering heroes, ready for a nice afternoon nap.
Jo and I, with the astronomical clock in the background. I think you'll agree it's not terribly astronomical.
The Scary Church
PS,
In case you are wondering why there are no photos proving the presence of Uncle Mike, that too is part of the terms and conditions. I'm not entirely sure, but I think there is a danger he might explode if he's captured on film, so I daren't try.
According to Wikipedia, "Hair of the dog" is a colloquial expression in the English language predominantly used to refer to alcohol that is consumed with the aim of lessening the effects of a hangover. The expression originally referred to a method of treatment of a rabid dog bite by placing hair from the dog in the bite wound. Why is this relevant? Because it goes to the heart of the Tri-Nation 2011 Prague Tour. Let's start at the beginning.
After only a couple of days in Poland, I was once again on a plane. Destination: Prague. Purpose: convening with friends. Mission accomplished. But that would be a short blog wouldn’t it? While some of you may be sighing with relief I’m afraid I won’t let you off the hook so easily.
Firstly, let’s meet the cast. Me, you know but I’m just a supporting actress. The stars of the show are Uncle Mike who I used to work with many moons ago in England and the very lovely Jo, who I met relatively briefly in Rio and Paraty in May/June this year. Uncle Mike is English, but we don’t hold that against him because he travels so much doing good environmental work in difficult countries that he is English in name, sporting allegiance and good manners only. Jo is Swedish but lives in Denmark where she is studying to gain her 10,612th Masters.
Perhaps I ought to have predicted what would happen when I brought together two scary-smart, well-travelled, highly entertaining conversation lovers but I have to confess, I just didn’t really think it through. Had I thought it through, I may have considered procuring some chemical stimulants to enable me to keep up.
On Friday, Uncle Mike and I convened for drinks and dinner while awaiting the arrival of the lovely Jo. After several hours of catching up about travels world-wide, we concluded that I was barking mad. Coming from an Englishman, that’s almost a term of endearment, so it in no way spoiled the excellent Thai curry we were enjoying. After having first been sent to the wrong restaurant by the hotel concierge, Jo located us and joined us for after-dinner drinks. Despite being several drinks behind, she put in a stellar effort and the conversation continued unabated. Deciding to brave the cold and the diabolically unsafe cobblestone streets (a.k.a. after the restaurant politely threw us out), we found one of the few bars that was open and continued solving the world’s problems. The fact that there was little open should have suggested to us that it might be late, but apparently we didn’t much care.
Later that morning, we convened for coffee at a place that sold specialty chocolate - including cannabis-flavoured chocolate. We would have been better off with one of Claus’ gin/cointreau/lemon juice heart-starters. Feeling slightly worse for wear (speaking for myself), we nonetheless persevered and explored the city of Prague. As I think I’ve already mentioned in an earlier blog, Prague is a very beautiful city. Perhaps a little less so in November than it was in May, but since it was slightly less crowded in November, I’ll recommend that as a good time to visit. As a bonus the weekend we were there, the Christmas market had started which created a twee olde world atmosphere in the old town square. Alas, I had agreed to Uncle Mike's terms and conditions without reading the fine print and discovered too late that there was a ban on shopping. Too bad, marketeers. You could have profited were it not for the legally binding contract.
To be fair, Prague is a lot more than just pretty. The buildings are quite stunning and the old city is quite large. Unlike many other European cities where what is left of the old town is a town square, the old part of Prague goes on for ages. It started me wondering how this could be given world wars in the vicinity, so I did some research. Again thanks to Wikipedia (libraries aren't open in Poland on a Saturday), I discovered that Prague suffered considerably less damage during World War II than some other major cities in the region, allowing most of its historic architecture to stay true to form. It contains one of the world's most pristine and varied collections of architecture, from Art Nouveau to Baroque, Renaissance, Cubist, Gothic, Neo-Classical and ultra-modern. True fact – we saw all that architecture and more. No doubt the fact that all those lovely buildings survived has helped Prague become such a tourist hot-spot. In fact, uninteresting fact number 47: almost 25% of the Czech Republic's GDP comes from Prague and much of that is thanks to tourism.
So, like so many well-behaved tourists before us, on Saturday afternoon we did a boat cruise on the Vlatava River. It was a nice boat, serving nice beer with an audio guide in six languages. What a shame that the English audio guide didn’t speak English. “Welcome-en en are boat en baoarda...scenic overalls.” Huh? I felt I was revisiting chest pains of turkey. Luckily for us, Jo speaks 112 languages, give or take, so we managed to piece together most of what we were seeing. Speaking of lost in translation, there were some excellent faux pas in Prague. Seen on a toilet roll holder: “Big Willy Sanitation Services”. Uncle Mike was in room 401, which was, naturally, on the 5th floor of the hotel. The Mucha exhibition included a poster showing “Weiner Chic” with a picture of a dapper looking art-nouveau-style lady - not exactly sure what it was advertising.
And while on the topic of advertising, let me explain that Uncle Mike takes exception to misapplied monikers the world over. For example, in Australia, the Great Ocean Road should be renamed to the Nice Ocean Road because great is overstating it. In Prague, there was an issue with the astronomical clock. We didn’t find it at all astronomical. It was definitely over-sold by its name, even if it did come with the rather exciting tale of the clockmaker having been blinded upon its completion so he couldn’t replicate it elsewhere. Also, the Church of Our Lady before Týn should be renamed the Scary Church, not just because that would be easier to remember. We were constantly looking over our shoulders, afraid it might release gargoyles from its scary turrets. Too much specialty chocolate perhaps?
When we weren’t eating chocolate, or just eating, or indeed drinking, we were talking and walking. The curious thing about Prague is that there are hoards, yes, hoards, of tourists. Well, that’s not curious in itself. The curious thing is that you take just a small detour away from the main “sights” and the streets become delightfully deserted. Dandering along these streets was much more pleasant than becoming boxed in by a tour group following a monkey on a stick (not a real monkey - no animals were hurt in the making of this blog).
Following a very late (er, early) return on Sunday morning after a Saturday night out in an Italian restaurant and a British pub, we met somewhat later in the day the day than we ought to have done and discussed the pressing topic of the day: hair of the dog. Since we had no idea where the saying came from, we added it to the long list of post-holiday research to be undertaken and headed back out into the city where we dandered some more before finding a cafe near the castle, overlooking the city. In the waning sunlight, we saw Prague glow. An ethereal, golden glow. It was pretty nice of them to put on such a show for us.
And so, we had one important thing left on our agenda. One of the legendary Prague-ian jazz clubs. Ignorance is bliss, or so the jazz man sang that night. Musicians and such artist-types are usually at least slightly outside the mainstream. They’ll be ones that turn up to the party not wearing shoes or without having combed their hair. But why judge? Watching talented people do what they love is a pleasure. Musicians jamming is one of the most euphoric scenes on earth - like puppies playing, but with less shoes involved. When they play, they transcend themselves (the musicians, not the puppies). Percussion is not just bashing some pots. The finesse of a jazz percussionist hitting the rim versus the flat of the drum or cymbal with the tip or the edge of the drumstick is, unlike the clock, quite astronomical. Being able to eek out just the right note, tone, timing, nuance out of a lump of wood or piece of pipe is an extraordinary gift. Why isn’t the use of such gifts promoted as a valuable activity? It makes me sad that all people can’t pursue their own wondrous abilities with their whole souls. But not as sad as it made me to bid Uncle Mike and Jo farewell.
Alas, Monday came too soon and despite the fact that we minimised sleep to wring out every last minute from the weekend, it still went by faster than it should have. And so the Tri-Nation Tour was over for 2011 and we returned to England, Denmark and Poland as conquering heroes, ready for a nice afternoon nap.
Jo and I, with the astronomical clock in the background. I think you'll agree it's not terribly astronomical.
The Scary Church
PS,
In case you are wondering why there are no photos proving the presence of Uncle Mike, that too is part of the terms and conditions. I'm not entirely sure, but I think there is a danger he might explode if he's captured on film, so I daren't try.
Thursday 24 November 2011
It’s Been 2 Weeks Since My Last Confession
Well, only if you consider this blog a confessional. Since I last sat down to confess my travel sins, I’ve visited two more countries. Three if you count transits.
After France, my next stop was ‘home’ to Poznan, Poland (via Germany). You’ll be positively thrilled to hear that the paperwork I was waiting for was sorted in my absence and I’m now officially recognised as existing again. Lucky that - I was beginning to feel faint around the edges.
The big news in Poland of course was the Lot Airlines aeroplane that landed in Warsaw the week before - sans wheels. Apart from the general excitement of it all, the reason this is significant is because the pilot flying that craft is the good friend of my step-family. Fame by 600 degrees of separation is still fame. Happily for the world at large, I shun fame and therefore shan’t bother to make anything of this connection other than to give major kudos to El Capitano. Since I was in France at the time of the accident and officially holidaying, I didn’t see any of the news. In Poland it was much harder to escape. Which isn’t a bad thing because actually, the footage and interviews were quite interesting. Managing to land that plane with barely a bump was quite extraordinary. Of course, he says it’s all in a day’s work and is very nonplussed by all the attention but there’s at least a couple of hundred people who had busily bid farewell to their loved ones who will be forever grateful that he is jolly good at his job (and flies gliders for fun). It led me to wonder how many critical decisions were made in those moments of overwhelming fear. How many relationships were saved? How many were ended? How many lives have now been redirected? How many have a greater confidence of being on the right track? What realisations did they have as their life flashed before their eyes? We are told by philosophers and pop psychologists alike to live each day like our last. Easy to say, hard to practice. I bet that NY-WAW flight reminded a heap of people about the importance of that. As well as all that deep stuff, it also made me wonder about the truth of those allegations that mobile phone interfere with the plane's equipment. Unless it was mobiles that stopped the landing gear popping out, they didn’t seem to have much of an impact on one of the most delicately executed emergency landings performed in aviation history. (Allegedly, just before landing most of the passengers were texting their loved ones madly, or perhaps telling their bosses how they really feel about work or whatever else was weighing on their minds at that moment. Probably not the fact that they'd left the car service too late but possibly wishing they had gone to that party last week.)
With my faith renewed in pilots world-wide, I barely gulped when it was again time fly. This time to Geneva (via Germany). (Germany gets a big workout with three transits, but no love - the airports are not worth blogging about.)
Switzerland is a fascinating place. It’s land locked. Surrounded by alps. Traditionally neutral in times of strife. Maintaining that neutrality economically by not being part of the Eurozone. Mostly self-contained. Very punctual and well organised (despite being bordered on two sides by the chaos that is France and Italy). It’s both globally irrelevant (small population, economy) and the centre of world affairs (through the UN and banking). Geographically and by its nature, it would seem that if any country in Europe was going to have a strong and unique cultural heritage it would be Switzerland, but somehow it escaped getting it’s own language. Some argue that the Rumantsch Grischun is proper Swiss. Sure it is officially one of the four national languages but less than 1% of the population speak it and within it there are also several dialects. There is Swiss German, except that there isn't really such a thing as they speak different Swiss German in each canton. And the cantons aren’t very big. And it’s only spoken in the cantons that are in the bit of Switzerland that’s German Switzerland, not the French or Italian bits. Despite the fact that culture and language are usually so intertwined, in Switzerland there is no common language and yet there is still an undeniable and distinctly Swiss culture. You can’t mistake it. Even if you didn’t pass a checkpoint you’d know if you were in another country. Italy is very different from the Italian part of Switzerland, even if it’s only separated by a train platform. I’m sure the same is true of the French and German bits. Switzerland gave me a very strong sense of people just getting on with what needs to be done. And so with everyone just getting on with it instead of letting a little thing like communication get in the way, it’s little wonder things work so well.
Geneva is, as I’m sure you all know, in the French-speaking part of Switzerland. Luckily for the Swiss, they didn’t adopt the cultural norms that go with the language on the other side of the border. Things work in Switzerland. Things are easy. Places are open. Signage is regular and reliable. Hoorah! Geneva pleased me. OK, so it’s not as pretty as Paris, although I’m not exactly sure why not. The backdrop is made up of alps, and a beautiful lake, the streets are clean and tidy, the individual buildings are mostly attractive. The only thing I can put it down to is uniformity and geometry. The Parisian city scape is quite uniform - most buildings are shades of the same colour. And Paris has a more geometric layout than Geneva. Maybe it’s just my eye. Prettiness scale and opinion aside, Geneva is a pleasant city. It’s soooooooo easy to get around. Whether by public transport (the hotels hand out free public transport cards) or by foot, even for a first timer it did not present any problems. Of course the best thing about Geneva is that I had two friends there, one of whom I caught up with for lunch (John) and one who I met for fondue and (outdoor!!!) ice-skating (Yvan). And thus, on the basis of ice-skating alone and abetted by fondue, Geneva has been added to my list of cities I would be happy to call home. There’s something quite adorable about a city who’s number one tourist attraction is a big jet of water that started as a simple engineering necessity to stop the city’s pipe network from blowing a gasket. Those Genevans are my kind of zany.
Although Geneva was a hard act to follow, the rest of Switzerland didn’t disappoint. I caught the train from Geneva to Zurich. Bear with me a minute while I have yet another nerd-alert moment and get excited about the public transport. From buying a ticket onwards, it was all just so simple and pleasant. The ticket centre had helpful staff - a miracle in itself. The trains are lovely - clean, comfortable, sympathetically designed for the over-loaded traveller, well sign-posted and all announcements are in French, German and English. The bliss of traveling without struggle cannot be overstated. And naturally they are all on time. Swiss trains are also helped somewhat by the beauty of the landscape they traverse. Glorious alpine vistas. Chubby cows contentedly chewing in lush meadows. Fields of vines, sunflowers, corn, cabbage. I know cabbage doesn’t sound romantic but it really does look very twee when there are rows of plump, round, deep green cabbages in a field. And of course, there are river valleys cutting dramatic swathes through forests and the obligatory pert little villages dotting the countryside. If I was a fairytale creature, this is where I’d choose to live. No wonder the hills are alive with Julie Andrews.
Like Geneva, Zurich is perched on the edge of a big lake and surrounded by mountains. Zurich by foot is wonderful - lots of lovely winding, cobbled streets, lined by elegant restaurants and shops, leading you around and around like a labyrinth. For a compulsive walker and window-shopper, it was heavenly! Overall, Zurich is a bit prettier than Geneva but my lack of German made it harder to find my way around and read menus, so Geneva is winning livability by hair’s breadth. Of course, “more difficult” is relative and getting around is still miiiiiiiiiiiiiiles easier than anywhere else. I had the added benefit of my intrepid guide (Sally) who without a word of complaint, facilitated both the sightseeing and menu negotiations. And, even more fabulously, facilitated a couple of rolicking nights out (made all the more fun by her excellent friends), one of which ended in salsa dancing in a bachata bar in the red-light district and a very bad hangover the next day. So bad that even fast food wasn’t going to cut it as a cure. Pineapple (????) turned out to be the winning curative but alas, all that did was temporarily stave off the pain. Eventually the pain came but I think that was just because I had to leave Switzerland. It’s never the champagne.
And so I returned to Poland for a couple of days where it is so cold my face wants to detach itself from my skull every time I step outside. A few francs poorer but some very happy memories and new friends richer. A week well spent, I say.
Geneva's best-known tourist attraction:
One of Geneva's streets in the beautiful old town:
Zurich:
Zurich at twilight:
Shortly before my face fell off from cold:
After France, my next stop was ‘home’ to Poznan, Poland (via Germany). You’ll be positively thrilled to hear that the paperwork I was waiting for was sorted in my absence and I’m now officially recognised as existing again. Lucky that - I was beginning to feel faint around the edges.
The big news in Poland of course was the Lot Airlines aeroplane that landed in Warsaw the week before - sans wheels. Apart from the general excitement of it all, the reason this is significant is because the pilot flying that craft is the good friend of my step-family. Fame by 600 degrees of separation is still fame. Happily for the world at large, I shun fame and therefore shan’t bother to make anything of this connection other than to give major kudos to El Capitano. Since I was in France at the time of the accident and officially holidaying, I didn’t see any of the news. In Poland it was much harder to escape. Which isn’t a bad thing because actually, the footage and interviews were quite interesting. Managing to land that plane with barely a bump was quite extraordinary. Of course, he says it’s all in a day’s work and is very nonplussed by all the attention but there’s at least a couple of hundred people who had busily bid farewell to their loved ones who will be forever grateful that he is jolly good at his job (and flies gliders for fun). It led me to wonder how many critical decisions were made in those moments of overwhelming fear. How many relationships were saved? How many were ended? How many lives have now been redirected? How many have a greater confidence of being on the right track? What realisations did they have as their life flashed before their eyes? We are told by philosophers and pop psychologists alike to live each day like our last. Easy to say, hard to practice. I bet that NY-WAW flight reminded a heap of people about the importance of that. As well as all that deep stuff, it also made me wonder about the truth of those allegations that mobile phone interfere with the plane's equipment. Unless it was mobiles that stopped the landing gear popping out, they didn’t seem to have much of an impact on one of the most delicately executed emergency landings performed in aviation history. (Allegedly, just before landing most of the passengers were texting their loved ones madly, or perhaps telling their bosses how they really feel about work or whatever else was weighing on their minds at that moment. Probably not the fact that they'd left the car service too late but possibly wishing they had gone to that party last week.)
With my faith renewed in pilots world-wide, I barely gulped when it was again time fly. This time to Geneva (via Germany). (Germany gets a big workout with three transits, but no love - the airports are not worth blogging about.)
Switzerland is a fascinating place. It’s land locked. Surrounded by alps. Traditionally neutral in times of strife. Maintaining that neutrality economically by not being part of the Eurozone. Mostly self-contained. Very punctual and well organised (despite being bordered on two sides by the chaos that is France and Italy). It’s both globally irrelevant (small population, economy) and the centre of world affairs (through the UN and banking). Geographically and by its nature, it would seem that if any country in Europe was going to have a strong and unique cultural heritage it would be Switzerland, but somehow it escaped getting it’s own language. Some argue that the Rumantsch Grischun is proper Swiss. Sure it is officially one of the four national languages but less than 1% of the population speak it and within it there are also several dialects. There is Swiss German, except that there isn't really such a thing as they speak different Swiss German in each canton. And the cantons aren’t very big. And it’s only spoken in the cantons that are in the bit of Switzerland that’s German Switzerland, not the French or Italian bits. Despite the fact that culture and language are usually so intertwined, in Switzerland there is no common language and yet there is still an undeniable and distinctly Swiss culture. You can’t mistake it. Even if you didn’t pass a checkpoint you’d know if you were in another country. Italy is very different from the Italian part of Switzerland, even if it’s only separated by a train platform. I’m sure the same is true of the French and German bits. Switzerland gave me a very strong sense of people just getting on with what needs to be done. And so with everyone just getting on with it instead of letting a little thing like communication get in the way, it’s little wonder things work so well.
Geneva is, as I’m sure you all know, in the French-speaking part of Switzerland. Luckily for the Swiss, they didn’t adopt the cultural norms that go with the language on the other side of the border. Things work in Switzerland. Things are easy. Places are open. Signage is regular and reliable. Hoorah! Geneva pleased me. OK, so it’s not as pretty as Paris, although I’m not exactly sure why not. The backdrop is made up of alps, and a beautiful lake, the streets are clean and tidy, the individual buildings are mostly attractive. The only thing I can put it down to is uniformity and geometry. The Parisian city scape is quite uniform - most buildings are shades of the same colour. And Paris has a more geometric layout than Geneva. Maybe it’s just my eye. Prettiness scale and opinion aside, Geneva is a pleasant city. It’s soooooooo easy to get around. Whether by public transport (the hotels hand out free public transport cards) or by foot, even for a first timer it did not present any problems. Of course the best thing about Geneva is that I had two friends there, one of whom I caught up with for lunch (John) and one who I met for fondue and (outdoor!!!) ice-skating (Yvan). And thus, on the basis of ice-skating alone and abetted by fondue, Geneva has been added to my list of cities I would be happy to call home. There’s something quite adorable about a city who’s number one tourist attraction is a big jet of water that started as a simple engineering necessity to stop the city’s pipe network from blowing a gasket. Those Genevans are my kind of zany.
Although Geneva was a hard act to follow, the rest of Switzerland didn’t disappoint. I caught the train from Geneva to Zurich. Bear with me a minute while I have yet another nerd-alert moment and get excited about the public transport. From buying a ticket onwards, it was all just so simple and pleasant. The ticket centre had helpful staff - a miracle in itself. The trains are lovely - clean, comfortable, sympathetically designed for the over-loaded traveller, well sign-posted and all announcements are in French, German and English. The bliss of traveling without struggle cannot be overstated. And naturally they are all on time. Swiss trains are also helped somewhat by the beauty of the landscape they traverse. Glorious alpine vistas. Chubby cows contentedly chewing in lush meadows. Fields of vines, sunflowers, corn, cabbage. I know cabbage doesn’t sound romantic but it really does look very twee when there are rows of plump, round, deep green cabbages in a field. And of course, there are river valleys cutting dramatic swathes through forests and the obligatory pert little villages dotting the countryside. If I was a fairytale creature, this is where I’d choose to live. No wonder the hills are alive with Julie Andrews.
Like Geneva, Zurich is perched on the edge of a big lake and surrounded by mountains. Zurich by foot is wonderful - lots of lovely winding, cobbled streets, lined by elegant restaurants and shops, leading you around and around like a labyrinth. For a compulsive walker and window-shopper, it was heavenly! Overall, Zurich is a bit prettier than Geneva but my lack of German made it harder to find my way around and read menus, so Geneva is winning livability by hair’s breadth. Of course, “more difficult” is relative and getting around is still miiiiiiiiiiiiiiles easier than anywhere else. I had the added benefit of my intrepid guide (Sally) who without a word of complaint, facilitated both the sightseeing and menu negotiations. And, even more fabulously, facilitated a couple of rolicking nights out (made all the more fun by her excellent friends), one of which ended in salsa dancing in a bachata bar in the red-light district and a very bad hangover the next day. So bad that even fast food wasn’t going to cut it as a cure. Pineapple (????) turned out to be the winning curative but alas, all that did was temporarily stave off the pain. Eventually the pain came but I think that was just because I had to leave Switzerland. It’s never the champagne.
And so I returned to Poland for a couple of days where it is so cold my face wants to detach itself from my skull every time I step outside. A few francs poorer but some very happy memories and new friends richer. A week well spent, I say.
Geneva's best-known tourist attraction:
One of Geneva's streets in the beautiful old town:
Zurich:
Zurich at twilight:
Shortly before my face fell off from cold:
Monday 7 November 2011
France - it’s just so hard to explain
In fact, it’s not just hard to explain. It’s a downright conundrum. How can one explain a country that has the highest cheese and wine consumption in the world and a lot of smoking to boot and yet one of the lowest rates of heart disease? How does a country that works a 35 hour week and goes on strike every second day maintain its status as one of the world’s largest economies? It just doesn’t make sense. And yet, it works for 63 million French people. One against 63 million isn’t great odds so I doubt I’ll convince them to change their ways but it hasn’t stopped me railing against them.
France is a very pretty country. No disputing that. I do dispute the images published in scenic calendars of Provence - looks nothing like those images (someone needs to sue someone for false advertising), but it is pretty nonetheless. But why does everything within it have to be so darn hard? My favourite car reviewer, Jeremy Clarkson, often rails against and about the French. Their cars don’t work, their GPS systems go on strike whenever you want to turn them on, their road rules are too European - he goes on. And it’s all very funny when he writes about it. I assumed, since he is British, that he was exaggerating. It’s no secret there’s no love lost between the Frogs and Brits. But after 2 weeks in France, I’m starting to side with JC. More than that, I think I may have uncovered the mother of all conspiracy theories. More on that in a moment.
Firstly, let me tell you about our trip beyond the chateaux and balloons. We set off with some trepidation for Auvergne - cheese country. The trepidation didn’t relate to cheese, but our lack of GPS (though if Clarkson is to be believed, it wouldn’t have mattered whether we had one or not - if it was French, it wouldn’t have worked regardless). We also didn’t have a map and Simone had declared early about her map reading skills. Since I was driving, navigation would be reliant on what I could remember from google maps, reviewed that morning. In the end, none of our challenges related so much to us as much as they did to the way the French do stuff. Where to start?
Well, firstly, Simone wasn’t completely incapable of reading a map at all. I’d never been so pleased to discover her to be wrong. Once she knew where she was and which direction we were heading, she proved to be an excellent navigator. No thanks to France’s signage. Or lack thereof. Very, very large lack thereof. Evidently everybody knows exactly where they are going and therefore signage is irrelevant.
Sure, we made it harder for ourselves by not buying a road map. But even a road map does not help when there are insufficient signs to orient yourself against. And before someone goes all Man Versus Wild on me, let me just point out that using the sun was not a viable option - it rained almost the whole 2 weeks.
As well as the signage issues, there are a couple of other little French foibles relating to roads. For example, tolls. Loooooooots of them. And no e-tags either. Pay when you roll up - unless of course you’ve discovered that you’re in the credit card lane, which when you eventually back out of, you realise why you made the mistake. The sign telling you it’s a credit card lane is on the side of the lane, which you can only see once you’re alongside it. How could we miss it? Another example, unmanned petrol stations. While we’re talking petrol stations, let’s add, no (or at the very least, extremely sporadic) highway services. Unmanned petrol stations are probably very efficient for the business owner - no pesky people to pay wages too. Excellent. How does one pay at such a place with cash? One can’t. Ergo, if one’s card is not liked by the machine, one can’t get petrol. Anyone else see a problem here? Sporadic services.....when they appear you may not be able to use them..... any takers want to work out how the story is likely to end....? Well, don’t worry, we didn’t run out of petrol. We’re two organised, highly capable women so we were fine. But again, no thanks to the French.
Other issues include a lack of public toilets. Scratch that. Let’s tell it like it is and say that the sanitary facilities in every place we’ve been to in France are substandard when they are available but mostly they aren’t. Average grade achieved by French toilets was a C-, buoyed by the fact that we occasionally found one in a restaurant.
So, back to cheese country. Interesting segue because our adventure in cheese mis-fired thanks to a tummy bug picked up by Simone. I’ll spare you the details but it made for a slightly tense drive to Provence as we tried to make sure rest stops could be timed to fit need to the aforementioned sparse services. The countryside in this part of France is beautiful. Lots of ancient villages nestled amongst craggy hills. Simone and I agreed that cheese country warranted a return visit for further exploration and cheese consumption. Alas, lured by the promise of the abundant beauty of Provence and the Cote d’Azur, we left behind the cheese uneaten and drove on. And on. And then some more. It turns out it’s a long drive to Provence.
Arriving in Provence late in the evening, we still had our joyful expectations in tact when we checked in to our excellent hotel. What we hadn’t counted on was that the next day was All Saints Day. Guess what that meant. Oh, something fresh and new for France - everything was closed. As we wandered around Aix-en-Provence and found most things closed, it occurred to me that the town looked nothing like those scenic calendars claimed. Sure it was pretty, but hardly the stunningly charming pictures I saw in the calendar. Given everything was closed, we elected to go to the movies that night and saw Ides of March.
The next day, given that All Saints Day was over, we decided to drive through the countryside to explore the allegedly quaint villages dotting the countryside. By now, you won’t be surprised to hear that they were also full of nothing. Closed nothing. So, word up - if you’re traveling to Provence, try another season.
Day 3 we had a little more luck back in Aix and found some markets. Since the town now had life, it’s calendaric quality rose a smidge. We were however, completely sick of rain so we headed south to Nice, where there are 300 days of sunshine a year.
You know where this is going don’t you? There may be 300 days of sun but none of them coincided with our visit. In fact, just for fun, the region decided to have unseasonably heavy storms instead. Undaunted, we did what one does when the going gets tough - we retreated to a day spa for some serious pampering.
Scrubbed, oiled and refreshed, we emerged ready to take on Nice. But not before almost anything that could go wrong went wrong at the hotel. I won’t even bore you with the details but after all the nuisances France had thrown at us, I’m not sure why I was at all surprised. On balance, its perfectly reasonable (in France) that a 4 star hotel only provides room service for 5 hours a day during what they believe to be established and immutable dining hours. Evidently wanting to eat at 3.30 is simply ludicrous. What was I thinking?
As the spa had been done and the tough kept coming, the next day we decided to leave the country and hop across the border to Monaco. Now this, I’m pleased to say was a success. We had an immensely good time and only got a little cold and slightly wet.
Monaco was not as grandly glamourous as I expected. There were some beautiful Belle Epoque buildings in Monte Carlo (and lots of heart-breakingly beautiful super cars and yachts), but the old town, including the Royal Palace were quite modest. The old town had the usual European Old Town charm but the palace was the biggest surprise. The surprise wasn’t that it was closed (it was closed but this was no longer a surprise). The surprise was that at least the exterior was very plain, quite sombre and not at all royal looking. It could have been an ancient country keep or even an old jail. Unfortunately, Al and Chaz weren’t in, so we couldn’t go to tea. Probably lucky. Tea would be awfully tense after that whole forced wedding controversy thing. Must say, the souvenir photos don’t tell a happy tale. Assuming the royal photographers would have taken thousands of shots, the fact that they chose the ones they did as presumably the best ones does not bode well for the couple.
I didn’t realise until I got there just how small this country is. Two square kilometres. With 400 law enforcement officers (police and royal guard). If they all joined hands, they could almost encircle the country. But small geographically doesn’t mean small personality. Lots of very rich and beautiful people, high-rises, an interesting custom of putting streets underground to save space and of course, the very famous F1 track, which we did a loop of.
We also had a great time seeing the wonderful selection of aquatic life in the Museum of Oceanographie. Jacques Cousteau was curator there for some 30 years and when you get a glimpse of the world beneath, it's easy to see why he was so very passionate about it. Those fish and things are really quite fascinating.
Now, the best for last. On our tour, we stopped at the medieval village of Eze. Oh my, how beautiful! Its a little time capsule, albeit with some tourists dandering about. The architecture is magical. Pedestrian only, the village houses a permanent population of 42. The buildings’ ages span the 1300s to the 1700s, with the “new” church being the youngest building in town. Perched on top of (yet another) craggy hill, the town is picturesque from every angle and exploring each street just provided view after view of a place time forgot. You can almost smell the history in the air. Not in a bad sanitation kind of way (although they only got running water in the 1930s) but simply that it seems so untouched. There is no visible imprint of modernity. The very stones felt alive with untold stories. One day, I would like to return and spend a few days there to find the stories.
And so I wrap up this blog on a high note but with one thing still requiring explanation. The conspiracy theory I believe I have uncovered which relates back to that long standing English-French rivalry. Having lived in England for a couple of years, I know it’s strengths and foibles. And when you distill the long-held rivalry between the two nations it largely comes down to 2 things: food and weather. I’ll agree that the French make better wine than the English but in terms of variety and quality of food availability (including the production of artisan cheeses), I don’t think there’s much between them. The French have been better at marketing themselves (refer to earlier observation about misrepresentative calendars) but in reality, England isn’t that far behind. Which leaves weather and that is a true sore point for the English who suffer terribly from Seasonal Affective Disorder and flock by the hundreds of thousands to warmer climes to try to make up for their lack of sunshine hours. That the English weather is terrible is a fact that cannot be tampered with. That the French have better weather is, as I have revealed, a myth. Therefore, I think it’s an obvious conclusion that for the last 1000 years, the French have just done a marketing snow-job. Their weather is no better - they just pretend it is to annoy the Brits.
So, if you fancy a European holiday in late October/early November and want to enjoy picturesque countryside, eat lovely artisan produce and imbibe a delicious, locally-produced beverage, go to Gloucestershire. The weather can’t be worse than we’ve had in France, things don’t close down for days at a stretch and you can be assured of being able to read the menu. Plus, for us Aussies, they drive on the correct side of the road in GB.
France is a very pretty country. No disputing that. I do dispute the images published in scenic calendars of Provence - looks nothing like those images (someone needs to sue someone for false advertising), but it is pretty nonetheless. But why does everything within it have to be so darn hard? My favourite car reviewer, Jeremy Clarkson, often rails against and about the French. Their cars don’t work, their GPS systems go on strike whenever you want to turn them on, their road rules are too European - he goes on. And it’s all very funny when he writes about it. I assumed, since he is British, that he was exaggerating. It’s no secret there’s no love lost between the Frogs and Brits. But after 2 weeks in France, I’m starting to side with JC. More than that, I think I may have uncovered the mother of all conspiracy theories. More on that in a moment.
Firstly, let me tell you about our trip beyond the chateaux and balloons. We set off with some trepidation for Auvergne - cheese country. The trepidation didn’t relate to cheese, but our lack of GPS (though if Clarkson is to be believed, it wouldn’t have mattered whether we had one or not - if it was French, it wouldn’t have worked regardless). We also didn’t have a map and Simone had declared early about her map reading skills. Since I was driving, navigation would be reliant on what I could remember from google maps, reviewed that morning. In the end, none of our challenges related so much to us as much as they did to the way the French do stuff. Where to start?
Well, firstly, Simone wasn’t completely incapable of reading a map at all. I’d never been so pleased to discover her to be wrong. Once she knew where she was and which direction we were heading, she proved to be an excellent navigator. No thanks to France’s signage. Or lack thereof. Very, very large lack thereof. Evidently everybody knows exactly where they are going and therefore signage is irrelevant.
Sure, we made it harder for ourselves by not buying a road map. But even a road map does not help when there are insufficient signs to orient yourself against. And before someone goes all Man Versus Wild on me, let me just point out that using the sun was not a viable option - it rained almost the whole 2 weeks.
As well as the signage issues, there are a couple of other little French foibles relating to roads. For example, tolls. Loooooooots of them. And no e-tags either. Pay when you roll up - unless of course you’ve discovered that you’re in the credit card lane, which when you eventually back out of, you realise why you made the mistake. The sign telling you it’s a credit card lane is on the side of the lane, which you can only see once you’re alongside it. How could we miss it? Another example, unmanned petrol stations. While we’re talking petrol stations, let’s add, no (or at the very least, extremely sporadic) highway services. Unmanned petrol stations are probably very efficient for the business owner - no pesky people to pay wages too. Excellent. How does one pay at such a place with cash? One can’t. Ergo, if one’s card is not liked by the machine, one can’t get petrol. Anyone else see a problem here? Sporadic services.....when they appear you may not be able to use them..... any takers want to work out how the story is likely to end....? Well, don’t worry, we didn’t run out of petrol. We’re two organised, highly capable women so we were fine. But again, no thanks to the French.
Other issues include a lack of public toilets. Scratch that. Let’s tell it like it is and say that the sanitary facilities in every place we’ve been to in France are substandard when they are available but mostly they aren’t. Average grade achieved by French toilets was a C-, buoyed by the fact that we occasionally found one in a restaurant.
So, back to cheese country. Interesting segue because our adventure in cheese mis-fired thanks to a tummy bug picked up by Simone. I’ll spare you the details but it made for a slightly tense drive to Provence as we tried to make sure rest stops could be timed to fit need to the aforementioned sparse services. The countryside in this part of France is beautiful. Lots of ancient villages nestled amongst craggy hills. Simone and I agreed that cheese country warranted a return visit for further exploration and cheese consumption. Alas, lured by the promise of the abundant beauty of Provence and the Cote d’Azur, we left behind the cheese uneaten and drove on. And on. And then some more. It turns out it’s a long drive to Provence.
Arriving in Provence late in the evening, we still had our joyful expectations in tact when we checked in to our excellent hotel. What we hadn’t counted on was that the next day was All Saints Day. Guess what that meant. Oh, something fresh and new for France - everything was closed. As we wandered around Aix-en-Provence and found most things closed, it occurred to me that the town looked nothing like those scenic calendars claimed. Sure it was pretty, but hardly the stunningly charming pictures I saw in the calendar. Given everything was closed, we elected to go to the movies that night and saw Ides of March.
The next day, given that All Saints Day was over, we decided to drive through the countryside to explore the allegedly quaint villages dotting the countryside. By now, you won’t be surprised to hear that they were also full of nothing. Closed nothing. So, word up - if you’re traveling to Provence, try another season.
Day 3 we had a little more luck back in Aix and found some markets. Since the town now had life, it’s calendaric quality rose a smidge. We were however, completely sick of rain so we headed south to Nice, where there are 300 days of sunshine a year.
You know where this is going don’t you? There may be 300 days of sun but none of them coincided with our visit. In fact, just for fun, the region decided to have unseasonably heavy storms instead. Undaunted, we did what one does when the going gets tough - we retreated to a day spa for some serious pampering.
Scrubbed, oiled and refreshed, we emerged ready to take on Nice. But not before almost anything that could go wrong went wrong at the hotel. I won’t even bore you with the details but after all the nuisances France had thrown at us, I’m not sure why I was at all surprised. On balance, its perfectly reasonable (in France) that a 4 star hotel only provides room service for 5 hours a day during what they believe to be established and immutable dining hours. Evidently wanting to eat at 3.30 is simply ludicrous. What was I thinking?
As the spa had been done and the tough kept coming, the next day we decided to leave the country and hop across the border to Monaco. Now this, I’m pleased to say was a success. We had an immensely good time and only got a little cold and slightly wet.
Monaco was not as grandly glamourous as I expected. There were some beautiful Belle Epoque buildings in Monte Carlo (and lots of heart-breakingly beautiful super cars and yachts), but the old town, including the Royal Palace were quite modest. The old town had the usual European Old Town charm but the palace was the biggest surprise. The surprise wasn’t that it was closed (it was closed but this was no longer a surprise). The surprise was that at least the exterior was very plain, quite sombre and not at all royal looking. It could have been an ancient country keep or even an old jail. Unfortunately, Al and Chaz weren’t in, so we couldn’t go to tea. Probably lucky. Tea would be awfully tense after that whole forced wedding controversy thing. Must say, the souvenir photos don’t tell a happy tale. Assuming the royal photographers would have taken thousands of shots, the fact that they chose the ones they did as presumably the best ones does not bode well for the couple.
I didn’t realise until I got there just how small this country is. Two square kilometres. With 400 law enforcement officers (police and royal guard). If they all joined hands, they could almost encircle the country. But small geographically doesn’t mean small personality. Lots of very rich and beautiful people, high-rises, an interesting custom of putting streets underground to save space and of course, the very famous F1 track, which we did a loop of.
We also had a great time seeing the wonderful selection of aquatic life in the Museum of Oceanographie. Jacques Cousteau was curator there for some 30 years and when you get a glimpse of the world beneath, it's easy to see why he was so very passionate about it. Those fish and things are really quite fascinating.
Now, the best for last. On our tour, we stopped at the medieval village of Eze. Oh my, how beautiful! Its a little time capsule, albeit with some tourists dandering about. The architecture is magical. Pedestrian only, the village houses a permanent population of 42. The buildings’ ages span the 1300s to the 1700s, with the “new” church being the youngest building in town. Perched on top of (yet another) craggy hill, the town is picturesque from every angle and exploring each street just provided view after view of a place time forgot. You can almost smell the history in the air. Not in a bad sanitation kind of way (although they only got running water in the 1930s) but simply that it seems so untouched. There is no visible imprint of modernity. The very stones felt alive with untold stories. One day, I would like to return and spend a few days there to find the stories.
And so I wrap up this blog on a high note but with one thing still requiring explanation. The conspiracy theory I believe I have uncovered which relates back to that long standing English-French rivalry. Having lived in England for a couple of years, I know it’s strengths and foibles. And when you distill the long-held rivalry between the two nations it largely comes down to 2 things: food and weather. I’ll agree that the French make better wine than the English but in terms of variety and quality of food availability (including the production of artisan cheeses), I don’t think there’s much between them. The French have been better at marketing themselves (refer to earlier observation about misrepresentative calendars) but in reality, England isn’t that far behind. Which leaves weather and that is a true sore point for the English who suffer terribly from Seasonal Affective Disorder and flock by the hundreds of thousands to warmer climes to try to make up for their lack of sunshine hours. That the English weather is terrible is a fact that cannot be tampered with. That the French have better weather is, as I have revealed, a myth. Therefore, I think it’s an obvious conclusion that for the last 1000 years, the French have just done a marketing snow-job. Their weather is no better - they just pretend it is to annoy the Brits.
So, if you fancy a European holiday in late October/early November and want to enjoy picturesque countryside, eat lovely artisan produce and imbibe a delicious, locally-produced beverage, go to Gloucestershire. The weather can’t be worse than we’ve had in France, things don’t close down for days at a stretch and you can be assured of being able to read the menu. Plus, for us Aussies, they drive on the correct side of the road in GB.
Sunday 30 October 2011
Up in the air I fly...
I’m not sure if this is technically an addendum to my last post or a pre-emptive strike at the next, but either way, I couldn’t wait to write again.
As those who know me would be aware, I’m quite seriously afraid of heights. I believe there is a good reason I don’t reach much over 5’ - any taller and I’d be afraid to stand up. But today, I put on some serious brave pants and managed to keep from soiling them. Today, I went up in a hot air balloon. Yep, I swallowed some serious fear and I spent the morning floating up above the earth something resembling an over-sized knitting basket, held up by a large version of a children’s party decoration, slightly fearful my hair might combust as the naked flame roared above me. It was freaky but what a great way to see the Loire!
Our peak was 1000 metres, which was well above the clouds. While very serene when the hot air wasn’t being pumped, I found the ascent very alarming. Thankfully, as he has on other occasions, Chris de Burgh helped me out by singing Lady in Red in my head. Something about that song is very soothing when I’m high above the ground and feeling a little like I may lose control of my bodily functions. Thankfully, we descended back below the cloud cover before I could do any serious damage to my under things and we were able to observe the valley from a rather special vantage point.
Hot air ballooning is a very tranquil way to travel and gives you lovely bird’s eye views as you waft serenely through the air. As you can imagine, doing so over the very charming Loire valley was another one of those eye-wateringly beautiful moments. My eyes seem to be watering a lot on this trip.
Quite apart from the views and the thrill of wafting, the entire ballooning experience is really very interesting. They pulled the balloon out of a bag that was probably around 1 cubic metre or so in size. Once they began stretching it out, I wondered when it would end. And then when they started blowing it up, two things were surprising - (1) the size (wow, it’s really big) and (2) how quickly it was blown up (I’ve taken longer to blow up decorative ones). After they fired a few rounds of hot air into it and it stood to attention, we all hopped into the basket and before I could steel myself properly, we were up, up and away!
The rise was fast. Quite frighteningly so. But Mr de Burgh chimed in and before long I could pry my fingers away from the handles long enough to take a few snaps. Looking down was not a favourable activity yet, but I could relax long enough to appreciate the stillness of the sky all the way up there and other-worldliness of the experience.
The descent and subsequent wafting were much more to my liking. How funny that going down is better than coming up. Er, perhaps not. Arguably that applies to many other things in life, innuendous or not. But I digress. Just for a bit of fun, our Balloon Captain took us down to the Loire River for a water landing. For several minutes, we floated on the current as he kept us just touching the river’s surface. It’s remarkable how precisely the balloon can be controlled.
After another burst up into the air and some more frightful rising, we eventually had to come down in a field and be collected. But not before we were able to help with the packing up. Packing up takes longer than unpacking (how true that is of traveling too...) but both were done in fairly short order. Once we started squeezing the air out of the balloon and putting it back in its carry bag, I was dubious about whether we’d be successful. It was hard to believe the little bag we were stuffing it in would every close. But after a lot of stuffing and a bit of sitting and jumping up and down on it, we managed to get it all in and shut (definitely reminds me of my suitcase).
So there you go, another activity ticked off the bucket list. I’m very glad I did it, although I must say I would take a lot of convincing to do it again. While the fairly low-level wafting was sheer delight, the ascent was frightening enough that I’m happy to keep it as a memory of fear conquered. Enjoy the photos!
As those who know me would be aware, I’m quite seriously afraid of heights. I believe there is a good reason I don’t reach much over 5’ - any taller and I’d be afraid to stand up. But today, I put on some serious brave pants and managed to keep from soiling them. Today, I went up in a hot air balloon. Yep, I swallowed some serious fear and I spent the morning floating up above the earth something resembling an over-sized knitting basket, held up by a large version of a children’s party decoration, slightly fearful my hair might combust as the naked flame roared above me. It was freaky but what a great way to see the Loire!
Our peak was 1000 metres, which was well above the clouds. While very serene when the hot air wasn’t being pumped, I found the ascent very alarming. Thankfully, as he has on other occasions, Chris de Burgh helped me out by singing Lady in Red in my head. Something about that song is very soothing when I’m high above the ground and feeling a little like I may lose control of my bodily functions. Thankfully, we descended back below the cloud cover before I could do any serious damage to my under things and we were able to observe the valley from a rather special vantage point.
Hot air ballooning is a very tranquil way to travel and gives you lovely bird’s eye views as you waft serenely through the air. As you can imagine, doing so over the very charming Loire valley was another one of those eye-wateringly beautiful moments. My eyes seem to be watering a lot on this trip.
Quite apart from the views and the thrill of wafting, the entire ballooning experience is really very interesting. They pulled the balloon out of a bag that was probably around 1 cubic metre or so in size. Once they began stretching it out, I wondered when it would end. And then when they started blowing it up, two things were surprising - (1) the size (wow, it’s really big) and (2) how quickly it was blown up (I’ve taken longer to blow up decorative ones). After they fired a few rounds of hot air into it and it stood to attention, we all hopped into the basket and before I could steel myself properly, we were up, up and away!
The rise was fast. Quite frighteningly so. But Mr de Burgh chimed in and before long I could pry my fingers away from the handles long enough to take a few snaps. Looking down was not a favourable activity yet, but I could relax long enough to appreciate the stillness of the sky all the way up there and other-worldliness of the experience.
The descent and subsequent wafting were much more to my liking. How funny that going down is better than coming up. Er, perhaps not. Arguably that applies to many other things in life, innuendous or not. But I digress. Just for a bit of fun, our Balloon Captain took us down to the Loire River for a water landing. For several minutes, we floated on the current as he kept us just touching the river’s surface. It’s remarkable how precisely the balloon can be controlled.
After another burst up into the air and some more frightful rising, we eventually had to come down in a field and be collected. But not before we were able to help with the packing up. Packing up takes longer than unpacking (how true that is of traveling too...) but both were done in fairly short order. Once we started squeezing the air out of the balloon and putting it back in its carry bag, I was dubious about whether we’d be successful. It was hard to believe the little bag we were stuffing it in would every close. But after a lot of stuffing and a bit of sitting and jumping up and down on it, we managed to get it all in and shut (definitely reminds me of my suitcase).
So there you go, another activity ticked off the bucket list. I’m very glad I did it, although I must say I would take a lot of convincing to do it again. While the fairly low-level wafting was sheer delight, the ascent was frightening enough that I’m happy to keep it as a memory of fear conquered. Enjoy the photos!
Saturday 29 October 2011
France. It’s very French
France, as everyone knows, is beautiful. It’s just one of those indisputable facts like the fact that the Earth goes around the sun, which will rise in the morning. As emphasis for my point and to limit the need to go on about just how beautiful, I threw in two facts.
Nevertheless, I probably will go on because it’s an important fact and quite integral to why France is even worth visiting at all. Goodness knows it’s not because it’s easy to get around. Or is tourist friendly. Or is well priced. Or many other things that might influence you to choose a holiday destination.
I flew into Paris, Charles de Gaulle, on Saturday morning. Those who know me well know my feelings about CDG Airport for I cannot keep them contained. Nary a travel story goes by without a dishonorable mention of that mess. Indeed, not a mention of Europe, even in the most general and unrelated terms, can be made without tears welling in my eyes as I recall my previous visits to CDG. We are not friends. Imagine my surprise then when I rolled in on Saturday morning and emerged into the frigid Parisian air 10 minutes before my plane had been scheduled to land. A miracle officially happened. Someone call the German in charge of the big Italian Prayer House with the pretty ceiling. Someone needs to fire somebody out of a cannon (er, that is what being cannonized means, right?) in celebration of an impossible scenario coming true.
Not long thereafter, I met Simone at the hotel and we spent a fabulous day walking around beautiful Paris, drinking tea, then champagne and catching up on the last six months apart. By midnight Sunday, we’d covered week 1 of our separation. By the next morning, I had tonsillitis. I was displeased. Nevertheless, I ignored the affliction and carried on. We wanted to see the Musee d’Orsay but in typical French style, the museum staff were striking. Indefinitely. So instead, we went to the Musee de L’erotisme. As you’d expect from the French, this one wasn’t on strike and it only closes for about 5 hours in any 24 hour period. It was an interesting place. I think both Simone and I learned about things we wish we now didn’t know about. Amongst the less seedy things we discovered is that vintage pornographers apparently didn’t much care what their subjects (or is that objects?) looked like and that people’s kissing and other love skills have improved immeasurably over the years. As has personal grooming. At least in the porn industry. It was quite an education. On that highlight, we had to leave beautiful Paris for our next stop: the equally beautiful Loire Valley.
For those non Frenchly-inclined, the Loire Valley is chateaux country. It was the playground of French kings and nobility for quite a few centuries before they all got their heads chopped off by that short fellow with the bad temper. And because they all had an over-developed sense of entitlement and were big on demonstrations of their importance and prestige, the shacks they built along this beautiful river valley are quite spectacular. It has been on my bucket list for a long time to cycle through the Loire Valley, chateaux hopping with a couple of baguettes bouncing in my basket and a beret set at a jaunty angle atop my head. Alas, my bucket list dreams did not account for autumnal weather and my beret is less jaunty and more limp due to rain or at least the constant threat thereof. Undaunted by such trials, we have chateauxed on, but from the comfort of buses and trains rather than velos.
The first stop was Blois Castle, conveniently located in the town we’re staying in. It’s impressive on the outside and has some very interesting architectural styles mixed together, dating from between the 13th and 17th centuries. Vital statistics: it was the residence of several French kings and it is the place where Joan of Arc went in 1429 to be blessed by the Archbishop of Reims before departing with her army to drive the English from Orléans (go Joanie). It has 564 rooms and 75 staircases, although only 23 were used frequently. The other staircases became jealous and mounted an uprising. Just checking if you’re reading carefully. There is a fireplace in each room. There are 100 bedrooms - ie, it’s just a small weekender. I give Blois 6/10. Convenience was a high score, first impressions scored high, external appearance scored high. Interior renovations let it down. The man who went nuts with gilding in the 1800s needs a stern talking to. And the 70s-like floor tiles were very distracting. Simone was unhappy with what she describes as “fake renno” and also gives it a 6/10.
Second stop was a chateaux long held on my list of places I had to see or else feel incomplete for eternity - Chambord. Not just because of the liqueur either. Chambord appeared in my coffee table book of Chateaux of the Loire Valley like an apparition. I had never seen anything as eye-wateringly beautiful as this castle. It looked just as pretty in real life. Construction of this little hunting lodge began in 1519. No one knows who the architect was but there is speculation that it could have been someone as exciting as Leonardo da Vinci himself. The double-helix staircase that forms the central point of the chateaux keep certainly looks like something Leo might design. Poor King Francis who commissioned the build never got to see it finished. Indeed, stop-start building due to wars and such meant that it took over 100 years before it was re-loved enough to be completed. Some argue it is still not complete. It doesn’t have an altogether happy history as a home, truth be told. Over the course of it’s almost 500 year old life, it’s probably been lived in for a total of around 50-odd years. I give it 8/10. It’s beautiful, there are quite a few tastefully appointed rooms to visit, the audio tour is comprehensive and the AV explanation of the castle’s history and archictecture was excellent. I deduct a couple of marks because there were no pretty pottager or flower gardens to go wandering in and because the on-site food offering was of disappointing quality. Simone concurs with the mark.
Next stop was the very charming and comparatively compact Cheverny. It was built in the Louis XIII classical style and has very symmetrical architecture. Built in the first part of the 17th Century, it has belonged to the Hurault family for more than six centuries and the modern-day Marquis and his family still live in it. It’s most famous for being the model upon which the chateaux in Tin-Tin comics was based but it deserves more cred than that. I gave it 7.5/10 because it was charmingly presented, had a pack of puppies and a tour of the grounds included both a boat and golf-cart ride. Simone gave it 8/10 because the grounds were nicer than the other two and because it had a boat ride and a family living in it.
The last castle on our tour was Chenonceau, which has become our undisputed favourite. Firstly, it has a moat. Well, actually, it’s built spanning a river so it’s probably not technically a moat, but it looks like one. It’s looks like something straight out of a fairy tale, which a Rapunzel tower and a Sleeping Beauty quality to the location. It’s on the site of an old mill, which became a fortress but the currently standing building was built between 1515 and 1521, which a range of later additions. It’s referred to as a manor house, but it looks pretty castle-like to me. It was the beloved house of Henri II’s favourite mistress but when he died, his queen got a bit shirty and took it off her, deciding to live there herself. Who says mistresses were acceptable back then? Katie De Medici obviously didn’t think so. The gardens are beautiful, the design is lovely, the internal displays are fabulous (including a rare glimpse at the kitchens and staff areas), we had fabulous food at the restaurant (including amazing chocolate mousse), there was a big pottager garden to enjoy and to my great delight, there was a small herd of donkeys. Simone was very excited by the labyrinth but it turned out to be far too easy to navigate to really have fun in. It’s easy to see why this is one of the most visited chateaux in France. Simone gives it a 9.5/10 and I give it 9/10. I would have given more if I could have patted the donkeys and we were all given a puppy as a farewell gift.
The Loire Valley has been beautiful indeed and I would highly recommend a visit. While the weather hasn’t been superb, the autumnal tree displays more than make up for the chill in the air. The Loire has, however, continued the very French traditions of poor signage, rest room shortages, hoards of tourists interrupting perfect postcard vistas and a general disregard for efficiency or ease of use.
Tomorrow, we hope to do a balloon tour over the valley, weather permitting. After that, we will be driving the only automatic in France down to Provence and the Cote d’Azur. Since Simone is missing the map-reading gene and we have no GPS, I believe we may be in for an adventure. Stay tuned.
Nevertheless, I probably will go on because it’s an important fact and quite integral to why France is even worth visiting at all. Goodness knows it’s not because it’s easy to get around. Or is tourist friendly. Or is well priced. Or many other things that might influence you to choose a holiday destination.
I flew into Paris, Charles de Gaulle, on Saturday morning. Those who know me well know my feelings about CDG Airport for I cannot keep them contained. Nary a travel story goes by without a dishonorable mention of that mess. Indeed, not a mention of Europe, even in the most general and unrelated terms, can be made without tears welling in my eyes as I recall my previous visits to CDG. We are not friends. Imagine my surprise then when I rolled in on Saturday morning and emerged into the frigid Parisian air 10 minutes before my plane had been scheduled to land. A miracle officially happened. Someone call the German in charge of the big Italian Prayer House with the pretty ceiling. Someone needs to fire somebody out of a cannon (er, that is what being cannonized means, right?) in celebration of an impossible scenario coming true.
Not long thereafter, I met Simone at the hotel and we spent a fabulous day walking around beautiful Paris, drinking tea, then champagne and catching up on the last six months apart. By midnight Sunday, we’d covered week 1 of our separation. By the next morning, I had tonsillitis. I was displeased. Nevertheless, I ignored the affliction and carried on. We wanted to see the Musee d’Orsay but in typical French style, the museum staff were striking. Indefinitely. So instead, we went to the Musee de L’erotisme. As you’d expect from the French, this one wasn’t on strike and it only closes for about 5 hours in any 24 hour period. It was an interesting place. I think both Simone and I learned about things we wish we now didn’t know about. Amongst the less seedy things we discovered is that vintage pornographers apparently didn’t much care what their subjects (or is that objects?) looked like and that people’s kissing and other love skills have improved immeasurably over the years. As has personal grooming. At least in the porn industry. It was quite an education. On that highlight, we had to leave beautiful Paris for our next stop: the equally beautiful Loire Valley.
For those non Frenchly-inclined, the Loire Valley is chateaux country. It was the playground of French kings and nobility for quite a few centuries before they all got their heads chopped off by that short fellow with the bad temper. And because they all had an over-developed sense of entitlement and were big on demonstrations of their importance and prestige, the shacks they built along this beautiful river valley are quite spectacular. It has been on my bucket list for a long time to cycle through the Loire Valley, chateaux hopping with a couple of baguettes bouncing in my basket and a beret set at a jaunty angle atop my head. Alas, my bucket list dreams did not account for autumnal weather and my beret is less jaunty and more limp due to rain or at least the constant threat thereof. Undaunted by such trials, we have chateauxed on, but from the comfort of buses and trains rather than velos.
The first stop was Blois Castle, conveniently located in the town we’re staying in. It’s impressive on the outside and has some very interesting architectural styles mixed together, dating from between the 13th and 17th centuries. Vital statistics: it was the residence of several French kings and it is the place where Joan of Arc went in 1429 to be blessed by the Archbishop of Reims before departing with her army to drive the English from Orléans (go Joanie). It has 564 rooms and 75 staircases, although only 23 were used frequently. The other staircases became jealous and mounted an uprising. Just checking if you’re reading carefully. There is a fireplace in each room. There are 100 bedrooms - ie, it’s just a small weekender. I give Blois 6/10. Convenience was a high score, first impressions scored high, external appearance scored high. Interior renovations let it down. The man who went nuts with gilding in the 1800s needs a stern talking to. And the 70s-like floor tiles were very distracting. Simone was unhappy with what she describes as “fake renno” and also gives it a 6/10.
Second stop was a chateaux long held on my list of places I had to see or else feel incomplete for eternity - Chambord. Not just because of the liqueur either. Chambord appeared in my coffee table book of Chateaux of the Loire Valley like an apparition. I had never seen anything as eye-wateringly beautiful as this castle. It looked just as pretty in real life. Construction of this little hunting lodge began in 1519. No one knows who the architect was but there is speculation that it could have been someone as exciting as Leonardo da Vinci himself. The double-helix staircase that forms the central point of the chateaux keep certainly looks like something Leo might design. Poor King Francis who commissioned the build never got to see it finished. Indeed, stop-start building due to wars and such meant that it took over 100 years before it was re-loved enough to be completed. Some argue it is still not complete. It doesn’t have an altogether happy history as a home, truth be told. Over the course of it’s almost 500 year old life, it’s probably been lived in for a total of around 50-odd years. I give it 8/10. It’s beautiful, there are quite a few tastefully appointed rooms to visit, the audio tour is comprehensive and the AV explanation of the castle’s history and archictecture was excellent. I deduct a couple of marks because there were no pretty pottager or flower gardens to go wandering in and because the on-site food offering was of disappointing quality. Simone concurs with the mark.
Next stop was the very charming and comparatively compact Cheverny. It was built in the Louis XIII classical style and has very symmetrical architecture. Built in the first part of the 17th Century, it has belonged to the Hurault family for more than six centuries and the modern-day Marquis and his family still live in it. It’s most famous for being the model upon which the chateaux in Tin-Tin comics was based but it deserves more cred than that. I gave it 7.5/10 because it was charmingly presented, had a pack of puppies and a tour of the grounds included both a boat and golf-cart ride. Simone gave it 8/10 because the grounds were nicer than the other two and because it had a boat ride and a family living in it.
The last castle on our tour was Chenonceau, which has become our undisputed favourite. Firstly, it has a moat. Well, actually, it’s built spanning a river so it’s probably not technically a moat, but it looks like one. It’s looks like something straight out of a fairy tale, which a Rapunzel tower and a Sleeping Beauty quality to the location. It’s on the site of an old mill, which became a fortress but the currently standing building was built between 1515 and 1521, which a range of later additions. It’s referred to as a manor house, but it looks pretty castle-like to me. It was the beloved house of Henri II’s favourite mistress but when he died, his queen got a bit shirty and took it off her, deciding to live there herself. Who says mistresses were acceptable back then? Katie De Medici obviously didn’t think so. The gardens are beautiful, the design is lovely, the internal displays are fabulous (including a rare glimpse at the kitchens and staff areas), we had fabulous food at the restaurant (including amazing chocolate mousse), there was a big pottager garden to enjoy and to my great delight, there was a small herd of donkeys. Simone was very excited by the labyrinth but it turned out to be far too easy to navigate to really have fun in. It’s easy to see why this is one of the most visited chateaux in France. Simone gives it a 9.5/10 and I give it 9/10. I would have given more if I could have patted the donkeys and we were all given a puppy as a farewell gift.
The Loire Valley has been beautiful indeed and I would highly recommend a visit. While the weather hasn’t been superb, the autumnal tree displays more than make up for the chill in the air. The Loire has, however, continued the very French traditions of poor signage, rest room shortages, hoards of tourists interrupting perfect postcard vistas and a general disregard for efficiency or ease of use.
Tomorrow, we hope to do a balloon tour over the valley, weather permitting. After that, we will be driving the only automatic in France down to Provence and the Cote d’Azur. Since Simone is missing the map-reading gene and we have no GPS, I believe we may be in for an adventure. Stay tuned.
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