On the Party Plane to Greece

There is nothing sexy about the flight from Geneva to Zakynthos. Rather the opposite, as a matter of fact, as the screaming, sneezing, snuffling toddlers at the back of the plane are enough to put one right off.

After the shock of the almost completely empty Geneva airport (where only the smoking areas were jammed chock-a-block full), it is a wondrous scenic ride as you majestically pass over the Alps into the flat Po valley of Italy and down the coast of Croatia to the Ionian Sea.

The passengers are youngsters with buzzed hair (men) and casual top-knots (women).  Everyone sports bare limbs and tattoos. To pass the time, you count the moles on the head in front of you. His companion lifted her mask frequently in order to bite her fingernails. Nerves are on edge as the pilot tells you NOT to turn on the over-head air-blower and that masks must be worn at all times EXCEPT when the emergency oxygen masks pop out.

Most passengers sport ear buds and with blank eyes make small vibrational movements. They are already dancing in their heads.

At least with the 150-minute ride, you do reach a real destination, unlike the planes that are flying in circles these days. (The Quantas “flights to nowhere” are selling like hotcakes.)

Going to Zakynthos is going back in time. Back to the ‘50’s perhaps …. and simple excitement abounds.

Our hosts warn us immediately about the shooting around the house every morning. These are the fall hunters whose sport is to dress in camouflage gear and blast shot in the direction of small birds. Hosts are quite sure that they never hit any of them (as no bodies have been found), but it is quite dangerous and going for a swim or to collect figs from the fig tree is best left until they have run out of ammunition.

There were old-fashioned visit-the-kitchen restaurants, a swim on a turtle-nesting beach, delightful retsina, ruby-red tomatoes, bricks of feta, an ice cream parlour, and souvenir shopping.

Then there was the boxy airplane that flew low over us on the road and disappeared into the sea. This it turned out, was Canadair fire-fighter as there was a blaze in the dry country to the north.

The bush fire was definitely doused by Cyclone Ianos that landed and stuck for a few wind-whipped days. There was no electricity, no water, and, most importantly, no coffee. It was quite a relief for the birds, however, as the hunters all disappeared and dozens of swallows came to our balcony to discuss affairs and dry off.

The airport re-opened and we regained our seats amongst the weary strong-lunged toddlers. My prized souvenir had been confiscated of course, as the customs man, obviously a hunter in his spare time, had taken away my little olive-wood rolling pin.

I suspect marital problems; or, more optimistically, perhaps it was the wife’s birthday?

 

 

In Praise of See-Through Bags

Driving along in an automobile at the Swiss-French border where the cable-car comes down from the Salève (the mountain backdrop to Geneva) I was treated to a blink-of-an-eye vision that transported me back to pre-COVID19, pre-grandchildren, pre-job, pre-motherhood, almost pre-adult days.

Trudging from the Swiss border bus stop was a young couple, a man and a woman, who each pulled a small wheeled suitcase. Bags and other accoutrements were slung around their necks. They wore light summer clothes, hats, sunglasses and sandals. Their attitude was of pleasant purpose as they strode towards the “teleferique”.

In her free hand, the woman carried a big transparent bag full of fat carmine-red tomatoes.  They were off to have a picnic to the top of the Salève. They were going to fill their minds and spirits with the twin bird’s-eye views of the Lake of Geneva on one side and Mont Blanc on the other. They were going to eat the tomatoes!

And it was those tomatoes that punched me backwards into summers past: Catching the ferry out of Piraeus to the Greek island of Samos; hiking through the parched landscape of Göreme in Turkey; climbing up the jungle-draped ruins of Guatemala; canoeing to One Bear Island in Algonquin Park.

The lady had a food bag.

Most of my travelling career has involved food bags of one sort of another. On Geneva train trips down to southern Italy there was the exciting combination of equally-important daughter, dog, husband and food bag. There were tins and openers and wine bottles. There were Cornish pasties and meat balls and cucumbers. There was the can of coke that accidentally drenched a nun in a train compartment while pulling out of Rome (No. She did not turn the other cheek, but left in a drippy, sticky huff.)

There were Swiss army knives and rolls of toilet paper and bread and chocolate bars. There were matches and raw potatoes and tortillas and squished fruit. There was a grapefruit that lasted an entire trip.  There was cheese, kirsch in a baby-food jar, and an earthenware pot and a fondue in the snow. There was a 30-franc apple and a bag of seaweed crackers.

Having a food bag is almost as good as having a camper van. It represents independence and commercial freedom. A food bag gives your life gravitas; you are dependent on no one. As you eat your sandwich beside the hiking trail or the ski run, you are wished “bon appetit”. You have risen beyond the world of tacky restaurants and mundane tables and chairs. You are lightened and liberated and filled with untold potential.

So, grab a food bag and head off. Pick a clear day and view-rich destination. Take some buns and sausages with chocolate cookies for dessert. If possible communicate your intent to others by packing it all in a transparent bag.

And don’t forget the mustard

 

 

A Short Trip to Burgundy — Time Going Backwards

Back in the recent past, a trip used to mean choosing a destination anywhere in the world. The fat UNESCO “bible” was consulted so none of Earth’s best sites would be inadvertently overlooked.

Airlines were smoothly contacted to buy tickets using pretend money called “Miles”. Hotels of charm, grace or geographic expedience were booked simply and easily through booking sites with best prices guaranteed. Afterwards, perhaps an on-line photo-book was made to fix memories as one palm tree does resemble another.

The major dilemmas were hand luggage or hold? Rent a car? or trust to public transport?  Is there an Iron Man competition somewhere to be avoided?

All that has come to a COVID19 end.

Growing up in 1960s Canada, vacations in our house were momentous, Rockwellian events:

  • the black Ford Comet
  • the handmade wooden car top carrier (with a handy hole for the tent poles to protrude)
  • the green canvas tent (with porch)
  • the Coleman stove
  • the melted-ice-cube cooler, nylon sleeping bags and rubber air mattresses.

The parents were in the front, often with a baby on the lap of my mother who did not drive. Instead, she spent her days drying cotton diapers out of the little corner triangle window.

On the back vinyl bench, hot and slippery, were the unseatbelted three or four of us. Parents’ good Sunday clothes were hung in plastic bags on hangers on a hook above the windows. Our back-seat vision was limited.

We drove to the west coast: the Rockies, Jesus Saves (green stamps!). We drove to the east coast: the high tides of the Bay of Fundy and the Magnetic Hill. We drove to Quebec to spend the summer at a colleague minister’s house in a paper-mill town that was by the sea.

We sat in sticky unairconditioned cars for hours on end as our father covered hundreds of miles a day. In the evenings we pitched the heavy, damp tent at a camp-site with smelly quicklime toilets and went for a swim in a freezing cold lake. We rarely stayed more than one night, and there was usually hot cream-of-wheat for breakfast. It was tedious, uncomfortable and exciting all at the same time.

Our recent weekend trip to Burgundy was not of the same epic magnitude, of course, but it did set the same tone. There was the natural wonder of the stupendous underground caverns of Vallorbe and the Cistercian cultural wonder of the Abbey and Forge of Fontenay.

We did not camp, but booked rooms at a small chateau and an old water mill. Breakfasts were croissants and cheese and fruit. There were no kids in the back seat, but there was a 60s feel to the trip: Long stretches of small rural roads with endless cows and rolls of hay; eating half a sandwich for lunch at a roadside picnic table.

It was quite lovely to go forward to the past. Not a plane, not a taxi, not a line-up in sight.

 

 

The Problem with Flags and Statues

I know exactly where there is a Confederate flag on public display just over the border in France. It is nailed to the wall of a seedy bar/restaurant that changes ownership regularly. The establishment is at a crossroads of two mountain valleys and the site was once of vital important to the Dukes of Savoy in the 15th century.

It is now important to almost no one. The pub sports a perpetually “open” sign and is usually closed.

The flag is a relatively recent addition. Decades ago, before they got the flag, the place was a rowdy truck stop where you could get a not-bad 3-course hot meal and a jug of red wine for 25 French francs.  You sat with your back against the wall, and it was the closest thing I’ve seen in Europe to a Montana Saturday-night fist-fighting bar.

These days, there is a huge Harley-Davidson motorcycle gathering in the valley every summer, and the large Confederate flag seems to serve as an enticing element to try to attract the wild spirits of the grey-pony-tailed French motards to come in and drink a can of pop.

I suppose it’s a really bad thing, but I’m also pretty sure that everyone around here thinks it’s just another piece of foreign (American) junk cluttering up the countryside and of little real relevance. I mean, we have much more important things to worry about, such as getting the speed limit permanently back up to 90 kph on those steep and windy mountain roads.

And I don’t think anyone has Facebooked it and turned it into a galvanizing political issue as has happened in my sister’s town in southern Ontario.

In case you’ve missed all the drama, Stratford, Ontario, home of the Shakespeare Festival, has been called out for having red-necked racist elements lurking in it, as an actor (they’re not busy working as usual because of COVID19 this season) photographed and posted on social media a Confederate flag on display in someone’s front window.

Displaying flags or symbols is not against the law in Canada, but can be rather outrageous, to say the least. Canadians, by the way, LOVE their national flag, and it is displayed loudly and proudly all over the place. I can only conclude that it must be an American who lives behind the offending Confederate window display. He/she might even have a Harley—or at least wish for one–and aspire to attending the next H.O.G. Rally in the French Alps.

Of course, the overwhelmingly liberal and culturally-intellectual population of Stratford is appalled at being painted racist pigs for the whole world to see, and the last I heard my sister was organizing a demonstration to push over the head of Shakespeare in the Shakespeare Gardens in protest.

Without the magical distraction of the theatre this year, everyone has time on their hands to get into trouble. Falstaff would love it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aqaba and Beyond

Upon arrival there was an international incident concerning the binoculars. A little known fact is that in Jordan binoculars are right up there with machine guns and grenades as instruments of war. Security was called, and under intense questioning and promises of never ever to take my binoculars out of my suitcase no matter how many interesting birds were flying past, and much swiping for powder traces, and much examination of the stamps and visas in my suspicious Swiss passport, I was finally allowed into the kingdom.

Aqaba town is small and in a state of arrested development. There are mom-and-pop shops selling blown up plastic buoys and sea-horses. These are known as “swimming tools.”  There are relaxing terraces under mimosa trees where men lounge around with their bubbling hookahs. There is a faint smell of petroleum in the air.

Restaurants are quite friendly even though there are no alcoholic refreshments to be had. Sometimes there are no toilets or hot drinks to be had either. The filled falafels and flat breads were delicious.

And then came the highlight of our short sojourn—our one day road trip to Petra. The rental was picked up the evening before; a boxed breakfast was arranged; and we set out in the deep dark before dawn for the 2-hour drive north.

Now, I really should have been paying more attention to the Aqaba population stocking up on Chinese quilts, blankets, ski jackets, hats, mittens and Bedouin fleece-lined capes the day before. Something was definitely up.

As it turns out, I guess I must be about the only tourist in the whole wide world (except perhaps for Lawrence of Arabia who was busy waving a switch and riding a camel side-saddle) who has travelled long and hard to Petra and has not had her picture taken in front of ANYTHING. Not the Treasury, not the Monastery, not the Theatre, not even a donkey.

I didn’t even really SEE the towering sandstone carvings as my glasses were so wet and fogged-up due to the driving sleet and rain. The mists were hanging low over the biblical wilderness. You couldn’t actually look UP as drowning was a hideous possibility.

Before the camera got totally water-logged and gave up the ghost, there is one scowling snap of me wearing a too-small “one-size-fits -all” blue plastic raincoat bought from the souvenir stand for about $600. (US) (The umbrellas were double that.) It stopped well above my knees.

My pants were frozen, sodden and sticking to my legs; my fingers were like carrots wrapped around my walking sticks; I am standing ankle-deep in the river running down the Siq to the wonder-of-the-world Nabataean necropolis. The temperature is hovering just below zero degrees. The High Place of Sacrifice was snow-dusted.  

Arriving at the centre of the site we were met with filthy-tempered drenched camels and unmanned souvenir stalls. The colourful painted bowls were overflowing with ice-water and the head-scarfs hung sodden and dripping.

I have surprisingly fond memories of Jordan in January. We might even go back.

 

 

The 2,363 Kilometre Road Trip

The elephant family looked like walking boulders: grey, round, and almost still as they slowly made their way to the Dolomite Point water-hole. There had been no rain in Etosha Park for more than 150 days. This is not climate change; this is normal Namibia.

In our cabin on the rocky outcrop, we strung our freshly washed underpants on a string across the doorway. They flapped a bit and were instantly dry. The red-dust spools of sand wind hoses blew into the room and the elephant group stopped as the little one needed a nap. In the middle of the flat leafless plane mom stood firm, her shadow her baby’s tent.

The teenage elephant was bored and chewed on some dried twigs. If she had had a comic book, she would have been reading it. The kid elephant looked like he wanted to lie down too—sibling rivalry flapped its ears. And the huge matriarch stood apart, keeping her eye out for trouble brewing on the horizon. Our small group of five, made infinitesimal water-hole progress.

We chased the resident mouse out of room #18 and inspected nibbled bags of nuts and raisins, ripped-apart tissues and shredded shirt collars. Sadder but wiser, with all suitcases firmly closed, we hiked to the observation point through the white-hot late afternoon sun. The friendly python was nowhere to be seen.

The giraffes and springboks skittered off as the elephant group approached. The baby had to be pushed into his new medium, water, as mom hosed him down and gave him some drinking lessons. He was just starting to get his aim straight when grandma signalled that time was up and the family backed out of the water-hole–all except for the little one who wanted to stay. Mom gave him the old heave-ho with her massive forehead.

As the sun set, our elephant family started its long hot amble back into the bushes for the night to get a couple of hours sleep.

This is my favourite memory. Of course there were other encounters with rhinos (one fell in love with our little white car), giraffes and their calves standing tall and chewing on trees, wart hogs kneeling at the roadsides, impalas frozen in the middle of the sandy path, hippos hogging the water hole, and even a honey badger who was on an important mission so did not have time to stop and spray us.

In the park, it is the humans who are in the cages. You are warned never to get out of your car. You must not walk about outside at night. At a (rare) toilet stop on the park road you have to enter through a locked wire fence and close the gate after you. Once inside, a huge grey rock just by the entrance turned into a lone bull elephant who stood still as a statue for a time before wandering off.

There was no water in the toilets or taps. The sinks were full of sand.

 

 

 

 

Namibia Nerves

When the nightmares came to get me last night, I was being chased by a giraffe.

Now, this just might have to do with reading an article about food in Namibia. It seems the braaivleis is very popular, and ostrich, springbok and crocodile are all delicious delicacies that can feature in this mixed-grill BBQ. In the traditional three-legged hot-pot bubbling over the open fire (the potjiekos), you can find just about anything. There doesn’t seem to be much of a vegetarian option except in May and June when Kalahari truffles MIGHT appear.

There is a diverse range of opinion concerning our upcoming Namibia trip. As usual, it is home-planned. There is no group, no guide, no guru. There is a map, a tube of Cenovis and a bag of caramels. I got binoculars for my birthday.

The children, of course, think we are mad.  The grandchildren think we are lucky ducks and have asked for a manatee to be brought home.

Friends have offered various pieces of advice and practical information. Yvonne gave us the tip to smear peppermint oil up our noses to deal with the stink of the seals in Skeleton Coast. Helen said to take tons of warm clothes as she almost froze to death at night. Nick said to beware of slippery, dusty, blind corners. And Charles just took out his phone and reeled through hours of videos of galloping herds and flocks of birds.

We will rent a car and drive. And drive. And drive. All lodges are booked and people keep sending cheerful messages that they are waiting in great anticipation for our imminent arrival. They seem friendly and concerned.

The usual Namibian desert disaster is getting a punctured tire due to the gravel roads. We must check the rental for the spare, and make sure there is a jack. In Namibia there are almost no people and gas stations are as rare as hens’ teeth, so you must change the flat yourself while the zebras, elephants and antelopes look on in wonder and admiration.

But we are old hands at this. Some years back, they reluctantly rented us a minuscule car in Hokkaido, northern Japan. It was not much bigger than those toy cars you see rich children driving around in Doha airport. The tires were the size of dinner plates, and sure enough, the inadvertent sudden presence of a misplaced curb, resulted in a busted tire.

Yes, there was a spare (it was the size of a saucer) but no jack. As one of us held up the little car and the other went scavenging for rocks to hold it up, we were saved by a nice man in a pickup calling out “Jack-o? Jack-0?”

We dropped the rocks and the car and smiled warmly.

So let the adventure begin! Heat, dust, and punctures will be offset by quiver trees and wildebeests and lilac-breasted rollers. They also say that the Brötchens and the beer are delicious.

 

 

 

 

The Cottage Chronicles

Nestled in the soft bellybutton lint of the southern Ontario summer holiday fantasy, is the primordial concept of “the cottage.”  It is a crisp-aired yet dreamy place, where you escape for a week or two. It is always “up north.” Much more than a building, it is a dose of mental medicine that untangles your knotted mind from quotidian urban preoccupations and draws you back to the cry of the loon.

The cottage is built on the tranquil shores of a mussel-fresh lake. It is made of wood and surrounded by trees. There is no lawn, but rather a deep carpet of pine needles with the occasional trillium or jack-in-the-pulpit poking through. There is a stony path leading down to the boat house where there is a crumbling dock and an old canoe. The shore is pebbly. There are braided rugs and painted wooden chairs.

I vividly recall my first childhood cottage: it had no refrigerator. Instead, the iceman came with a block of sawdust-crusted ice that with a great forceps-type instrument he placed in a drawer underneath a smelly cabinet.  It took a week for the block to swelter slowly away. It was magic.

So, with great interest and excitement, I have lived the cottage life vicariously this past week, as my sister took an assortment of family members “up to the lake”.  It seems things have progressed in my absence.

A cottage now needs to have a lake in the vicinity, and, sure enough, Lake Huron was a short walk away from the bungalow that was part of a cottage development neighbourhood. However, municipal by-law rules on the beach can be a real party-pooper: no drinking, no smoking, no glass, no pets, no noise, no picnics, no games, no drones, no fishing. So, after finally getting to the wave-lashed beach with the kids, it can be quite challenging to have a good time.

In my sister’s party, no one was actually arrested or imprisoned, but it was a close call as an unmarked police car stopped the small family group on their way back home to inquire if alcohol was being consumed ON THE SIDEWALK by the adult male. Fortunately, the beer bottle had been emptied and discarded prior to the question, so it was moot. That the youngest child was being carried, screaming and kicking away from the water, was also a useful distraction.

Of course, there was the initial family squabble about who had to sleep in the laundry room. Then there was the visiting monster child who bashed through the rented cottage screen door threatening to kill people with the kitchen knives. This was followed by the teenager hogging the bathroom while a 6-year old had to go #2, and the inevitable rainy day monopoly game with smoked turkey thigh in a shrimp sauce for supper.

The cottage holiday is almost over now, and my sister assures me she, as ever, will be most refreshed and reinvigorated when she gets back home.

And so, the myth lives on.

 

 

Hit by Lightning

Well, it was the night of Canada Day (July 1st) and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse (or an Elk on a golf cart, but you have to actually be in Canada for that.)

We were settled down in the chimney corner in the Shack (old Haute Savoie farm house) and happy to be back at altitude (1100 m), on holiday, and away from the sizzlingly humid summer day we had spent in the heat-wave of the lowlands.

We had beat the black clouds of the approaching storm driving back in the evening at the tail end of the commuters who work in Geneva and live in the French Alps. Bursting with moral satisfaction after a day in charge of a highly-active, closely-related 3-year-old, we were equally exhausted and exhilarated.

As night fell, the storm broke in the valley and I was called away from the repetitively riveting French news that featured the “canicule” which kept telling viewers to drink four litres of water every day and wrap wet towels around their pets.

There was no rain, and the valley was ablaze with sheet lightning, fork lighting, blue jets, sprites, bolts, cloud-to-clouds, streamers, spiders and elves.  I didn’t see any balls, but I’m sure they were out there bouncing merrily around.

It was just as we were stepping back into the safety of indoors, that the solid, deep WOOP! of a lightning strike hit the top of the chimney and the clean cozy fireplace corner became an instant mountain of chimney stones and greasy black goop.

Just to make sure we knew who was in charge, the tornado-wind then blew off part of the roof and the rain poured in.

In case you ever need to know what to do if this happens to you, do not panic. You must immediately call the fire department (#18) and not approach the strike zone. There could be serious structural damage and a loose chimney stone could fall on your head.

We, on the other hand, grabbed flashlights and fire extinguishers and ran up two flights of stairs. The super-deluxe paddling pool with its two basins and slide bought earlier in the day would sure have been useful to collect the cascading water; sadly, the evening’s events and demands had not been foreseen.

Finally, the bed was pushed into the middle of the room, and much like the Bucket grandparents in Charlie and Chocolate Factory, we spent the long dark night waiting and hoping.

We are now back in alpine holiday repair mode. We have renewed contact with the valley’s finest stone mason and carpenter who dropped everything to help. The insurance lady remembered us from the tree-through-the-house Incident three years back and gave us her condolences. The French news is no longer covering the heat wave, but is devoting itself to the drought.

And so it goes … summer holidays in France.

 

 

The Calabrian Car Crash

Well, we had successfully motored south from Naples on the autostrada. There were the usual minor thrills: the exciting instant narrowings from two lanes to one, the huge transport trucks suddenly veering out in front to try to pass something large like themselves, and smokers (think Waterworld) tearing up from behind to stick to the back bumper flashing and honking their impatience

Just the usual uneventful Italian jaunt down to Tropea to catch a few days of sun, buy some sweet red onions and  soak up some Mediterranean blue.

During the drive we made a few interesting social observations. For example, the latest successful Calabrian businessman’s automobile-of-choice is no longer the black Mercedes, but the elegant Maserati.  (The onion business must be booming.) Also, be warned. If you pull off into a small scenic Italian village expecting lunch, you will be lucky to find yourself eating a slice of old cold pizza with a bunch of bored teenagers as all proper restaurants have closed.

About twenty kilometres from our destination, we peeled off the motorway and came to the merge of the coastal highway. And right there, there was a crunching crash.

We had been rear-ended.

By the time the police arrived, the young man perpetrator had calmed down considerably.  As he had been driving his mother’s car, there had been many urgent calls home with all the latest updates. Friends, family members, and total strangers all arrived at the junction to express distress and dismay as the sun was setting into the sea.

The young man claimed he had been blinded by the sun. This might have been true, but he would have had to have been looked backwards over his right shoulder.

The cops had been called as our car papers did not belong to our rental car. The family rejoiced and dispersed, as they thought they had won on a technicality.

The police couple arrived with their red lights flashing and parked importantly in the middle of the road.  He was standard, but his female partner was wicked. Imagine a young Cher in a uniform. Her hair was long, straight and black with bangs down to her eyeballs. No silly hat. Her lipstick was fuschia. Her eye makeup was, for sure, dark and sultry but impossible to see as she was wearing aviator sunglasses with mirror lenses. Her long fingernails matched her lips and she was studded with jewellery—bracelets, rings and necklaces. Improbably, she also wore firemen’s boots.

But her attitude was the best. She was unfazed by the small amount of damage. She seemed to care little about the erroneous car papers. She wanted to get back to where she had been before the tourists had interrupted her life. A bagattella.

The sun had long-since set into the wine-dark sea and Stromboli was puffing gently when we finally reached our hotel. Climbing hungrily up the hill to the village restaurant, our holiday had finally begun.