The Traveller Sees

Of Swedish Pancakes and Secret Cafes

2015-12-24T16:50:00.003-08:00

"This is what Sweden is - quiet people leaning over the newspapers and coffee cups, each one with his own thoughts and destiny."

~ Henning Mankell

Finishing our trip in Stockholm. We took a bus trip around the city, sitting on the top flight of a double-decker bus. We made note of those areas that we thought we may want to come back to. Stockholm has lots of parks and green swathes of shaded grass where it seems the Swedes like to gather and lay about of a sunny afternoon. The architecture was, again, phenomenal. Near our hotel we found a lovely little coffee shop where we could, indeed, lean over our newspaper and coffee cup, enjoying exceptional coffee and pastries.

While on this bus, we skimmed around Old Town, a part of Stockholm that we really wanted to see. Our brief glimpse of Old Town showed that the streets were clotted with tourists.

So, we continued along being told of the sea-faring history, notable history, the culture, and the art.

But . . . we did go back to Old Town after all. And found that if we went down the narrow side streets that we were away from the crowds. We also found all sorts of little treasures. Like the little cafe, down through a narrow arched street that had a lovely patio set up in the midst of 16th century apartments and shops - including a shoe maker that still did that - made shoes by hand. Wonderful!

The next day, our last day in Stockholm, and our last in Europe, we woke early and sat and people-watched in the small park outside our hotel. We watched as fit Swedes walked by us after their run, and as a gypsy woman bathed in the fountain.

We took a farewell walk around the area, finding more wonderful architecture, unique doors, and a lovely Turkish cafe with an effusive owner that was willing to talk to us about the weather, politics, Turkey, and the best coffee (his), while he smoked and smoked.

And on this last day, we treated ourselves to real, authentic Swedish pancakes with lingonberries. They were delicious !

On Stumbling into Art, and Eating Tapas

2015-08-25T18:15:00.001-07:00

“If Copenhagen were a person, that person would be generous, beautiful, elderly, but with a flair. A human being that has certain propensities for quarrelling, filled with imagination and with appetite for the new and respect for the old – somebody who takes good care of things and of people” – Connie Nielsen

While in Copenhagen, we took ourselves out to Den Bla Planet (the Blue Planet), Northern Europe’s largest aquarium. The architecture of this building is stunning. It was designed by Danish architects 3XN (3 designers, all with last name Nielsen thus, 3 X Nielsen). The spiral design (which is unique in the world) makes the building look like a whirlpool from the air, an eddy that disappears into the earth. Seeing as how it is so close to the airport, I would imagine a lot of people get to see its unique structure. The aquarium actually sits on an island, Amager, which is a suburb of Copenhagen. On the ground, surrounded by water, the building appears to be floating in a circular reflection pool and, because of its swooping lines, looks very organic – like a whale. It is so typical of the frequently cerebral architecture in Scandinavia that someone would design a building whose exquisiteness, uniqueness, and power . . . is seen best by being in the air above it.

While there, we were most impressed by the hugeness of the Manta Rays and the incredible length of their tails. I was also impressed by the quiet elegance of the wind turbines far out at sea, on the side of the aquarium where children are given poles and bait to catch crabs to put (temporarily) in the touch pools.

On taking a walk around the more residential areas of Copenhagen we happened upon a building called the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek. What the hell is a Glyptotek said we and went in. OMG. So much beautiful art - dozens of Rodins, some of his lesser works but right there at the beginning - The Kiss - one of my favourites! Room after room of marble sculptures and we practically had the place to ourselves. And we were ENCOURAGED to lay hands on the art and feel the vibrant life in the smooth marble.

This art museum houses over 10,000 works of art divided into two collections. One collection is works from the Mediterranean cradle of Western culture, the other of Danish and French art from the 19^th and 20^th centuries. It is usually advised that you plan out your visit to determine your priorities, so as to see what you want. Well, as we happened upon the museum serendipitously, we didn’t plan anything. I think we saw the majority of what was most pleasing to us, though. Bar went upstairs to the see the Danish and French art (Monets!) but I didn’t as my knee was still very painful. Instead I sat in a hallway where chess tables were set up, so that people could play chess under the watchful eyes of incredible sculptures.

It was in Copenhagen that we had a meal that was the tastiest since leaving Italy. And it wasn’t Scandinavian food. It was a lovely Spanish tapas bar called Tapas Huset. Lovely, dim, broody place, decent wine, and great food. We tried a little of this and a little of that, some cold tapas, some warm tapas. A very satisfying meal. It was a relief to note that the Danes were butchering the Spanish when they ordered as much as we were.

Tapas restaurants, jazz clubs, bicycles and more bicycles, edgy architecture, and centuries-old buildings. I loved Copenhagen!

Looking for Virgins

2015-08-17T18:11:00.001-07:00

“All the pathos and irony of leaving one’s youth behind is thus implicit in every joyous moment of travel: one knows that the first joy can never be recovered, and the wise traveler learns not to repeat successes but tries new places all the time.” - Paul Fussell

Early the next morning we disembarked at Denmark, in Copenhagen. Our hotel was wonderfully located so that we could walk to a lot of different areas of Copenhagen from it.

Just at the end of our hotel’s street was the City Hall Square (Radhuspladsen). It seemed a fitting place to begin our first day of exploration of Copenhagen. The Radhuspladsen is the very central part of Copenhagen and it is from here that all measurements in Denmark are measured. There is a stone post that says “0 km” and all distances to the north, south and west are measured from this point. It used to be an old hay market, then an exhibition area. The place is still a popular venue for a variety of events, celebrations, and demonstrations. The morning we were there, there appeared to be several weddings – such that we weren’t sure which wedding party was which. But the largest congregations of celebratory people in this square were when Denmark was liberated from the Germans in 1945 and when the Danish soccer team won the European Championships in 1992. The square is important, too, because it is the mouth of the famous walking street, Stroget (which I will talk about later).

There is quite a lot of statuary around the square.

There is, of course, the statue of Hans Christian Andersen. A young man took off his pants and crawled up into Han’s lap – I suppose for a bedtime story. Actually, once a number of pictures were taken of him (I did not take one), he clambered back down and put his pants on, amongst some hilarity.

There were a number of dragon statues along the balustrade of the city hall. These were a distant, but related, part of a fountain closer to the street that depicted a bull and dragon fighting.

Right on the corner of the square is a tower atop which is the Vejrpigen (the Weather Girl). This is a weather-telling sculpture. The sculpture is a golden girl that will tell you if it is going to be raining or sunny. If she comes out of the tower on her bicycle (ah, bicycles, I will tell you about later!), the weather will be clear. If she comes out of the tower with her dog and umbrella, it is raining. If you can see both at the same time, it will be an overcast day. This sculpture was created by Einer Utzon-Frank in 1936.

And finally, across the street are the Lur Blowers, atop a 20 meter high column. The statue was a donation by Carlsberg Breweries to the city of Copenhagen to celebrate the 100^th birthday of the brewer who started the brewery. Apparently the blowers will only blow their lurs when a virgin walks by. No one has heard anything from the musicians – ever.

The bike culture in Copenhagen is world-famous. I cannot speak to the beautiful prevalence of bikes more eloquently than the Danes themselves. The following is from the official website of Denmark:

Young girls in stilettos on their way to a party and businessmen in suits going to work - no matter the weather and no matter where they are going - Copenhageners go by bike. It is no wonder Copenhagen was elected Bike City as the first city ever. In Copenhagen 50% of all citizens commute by bike every day and there are more bikes than inhabitants.

Though cycling is the cheapest mean of transportation next to walking Copenhageners love their bikes no matter their financial income. Many middle class families with kids in Copenhagen don't even own a car. They use their bikes to commute to work, bringing the kids to kindergarten etc. In fact 25 percent of all families with two kids in Copenhagen have a cargo bike.

Even top politicians ride their bike every day to parliament. A majority (63 percent) of the members of the Danish parliament, located at Christiansborg Castle in the middle of Copenhagen, commute by bike.

As a first time visitor in Copenhagen the amount of bicycles on the streets can be overwhelming. But you will soon realize, that life in Copenhagen is based on bicycles as a very important means of transportation.

With 390 kilometers of biking lanes and traffic lights especially for bikes, the city's infrastructure is build on the fact that a bicycle is not only the cheapest, healthiest and fastest way to get around the city, it is also a very important factor in reducing carbon emission. Therefore bicycle culture is a vital part of the city administrations ambition to become the first carbon neutral capital in the world by 2025.

Facts on bikes in Copenhagen 2011

50 % of all Copenhageners commute to work or study by bike.

35 % of all who work in Copenhagen – including people who live in the suburbs and neighbouring towns but work in Copenhagen - commute to work by bike.

25 % of all families with two kids in Copenhagen have a cargo bike they use to transport the kids to kindergarten and for grocery shopping etc.

In total Copenhageners bike 1.2 million kilometers a year, which equals a trip to the moon and back, twice. In comparison Copenhageners only travel 660.000 kilometers by Metro.

In central Copenhagen there are more bikes than citizens. 520.000 inhabitans and 560.000 bicycles.

The busiest biking lane in the world is Dronning Louises bro in Copenhagen with up to 36.000 cyclist passing throu daily.

63 % of all members of the danish parliament, located in the middle of Copenhagen, commute daily by bike.

Copenhagen was elected Bike city 2008 – 2011 by ICU.

My own love of bikes has to do with their shape, their simplicity, their personalities. I cannot help taking photos of bikes.

Oslo, Opera, and Osteo-accidents

2015-08-13T20:30:00.001-07:00

“Well, it's nice to know that the Trolls made it this far south,' Ulath said. 'I'd hate to have to go looking for them.'

'Their Gods were guiding them, Ulath,' Tynian pointed out.

'You've never talked with the Troll-Gods, I see,' Ulath laughed. 'Their sense of direction is a little vague - probably because their compass only has two directions on it.'

'Oh?'

'North and not-north. It makes finding places a little difficult.”

- David Eddings, The Hidden City

At Myrdal we switched trains and rode on to the capital city of Oslo. Our train stopped at the old station (which has been made into a shopping mall but fronts on to a lovely square – with a large golden statue of a tiger in it). Our hotel was within walking distance so we quickly checked in and still had most of the afternoon and evening to explore.

We walked up and down some older streets of Oslo, thinking adamantly that we did not want to eat at a particular restaurant that advertised whale meat, seal meat, and reindeer meat meals. We then walked down into a park that was bordered by a fortress and a busy wharf. And here we started to see the ubiquitous bicycles that we would continue to see more and more of as we continued on our Scandanavian journey. As Barry said, now instead of riding them we were trying to avoid them as we trespassed innocently into bike lanes and across bike traffic.

We then wandered over to the cruise ship docks, scouting out where our overnight ferry would be leaving from the next day. Just as we were returning from the port, I took a bad fall – smashing my knee and cutting my face. We slowly (due to my hobbling) made our way back to the hotel. Our strolling (after only 8 km) was done for the day. With ice packed on my knee, numbed with pain killers and wine, and eating the sandwiches we had picked up earlier in the day, we watched the BBC (about the only station we could understand).

The next day we had reservations to see the phenomenal Opera and Ballet House, across the street from our hotel. I was in no shape to be climbing up and down stairs, or hobble along on marble floors so Barry went by himself and I stayed behind. He helped settle me in the foyer of the hotel and I made myself comfortable with a cappuccino and my notebook – quite happy with a morning of people watching. This is why I love people watching:

A man from Nairobi, approached the front desk near where I was sitting, to check out.

“Thank you for hosting me,” he said to the clerk. “I had a lovely time, you are nice people. But I am missing home. Home is where all of me is. Home is where I can wear my feet bare in the dust.”

He laughed self-deprecatingly.

“But thank you again for hosting me. Your country, Norway, is very green and fresh. But I am used to different colours. Good bye, kwaheri.”

That afternoon my knee was numb enough from rest and pain killers to venture a slow walk up the central pedestrian-only section of the area around us. We stumbled upon the National Theatre (which was a joy to find) and wished that we were closer to the Edvard Munch/Van Gogh exhibit that was on so we could see it. We found interesting statues in a park and I took pictures of people taking pictures.

Later that afternoon we walked ourselves and our luggage back over to the port (I was more than a little paranoid about falling again and stared intently at the sidewalks the entire way). Once we finally boarded and stashed our luggage into our (very small) cabin, we found our way around the ship and enjoyed the view as the ship lanquidly made its way through the islands and channels out to open sea. From the ferry we were able to see the Opera House from the other side - looking like a ship sliding into the water, much like the sculpture of the sailboat beside it.

During the night I woke a couple of times as I was practically being rolled out of my cot by the heave and swell of the North Sea. We had only one small porthole but I was infinitely happy for that. What with my claustrophobia and the tossing I was glad to be able to see out, even it was just to see the dark night, and the even darker water below it.

The next morning we would dock in Copenhagen, Denmark.

Of Huldras and Fossegrimmen

2015-08-11T22:24:00.001-07:00

“Even in terms of fiction, nothing in their lives became them like the leaving of it. King Fjolnir rose in the night to make water, fell into a vat of mead and drowned instead; Sveigdir ran after a dwarf when drunk and vanished into a boulder; Vanlandi was trampled to death by a nightmare; Domaldi was sacrificed for good seasons; Dag was struck on the head with a pitchfork when seeking revenge for his sparrow; and so on down to the fifth century.” Gwynn Jones (on odd deaths and Vikings)

We boarded a small ferry in Gudvangen bound for Flam. The ferry would bring us along the Naeroyfjord, the narrowest fjord channel in Europe. The weather was cold and rainy but the mountains were high, the water deep, and waterfalls plentiful.

We disembarked at Flam, the only village with a train connection. Flam is surrounded by steep mountains, deep valleys, and the ubiquitous waterfalls. We even saw a couple of Fjord horses. Population of Flam is only 450. However, over the course of a year, it receives almost 450,000 visitors, primarily due to the huge cruise ships that ply the fjord. Over recent years, villages like Flam have become alarmed at the consequences of such high tourist traffic. The number of people puts a huge strain on the village’s one public toilet (such that visitors use other means upsetting to the village folk) and the heavy oil/diesel pollution in the once pristine fjord is reaching alarming heights. Ships are also allowed to dump their greywater when docked in Flam and the locals talk about how the fish have disappeared from the waters. Flam receives over 160 cruise ships a year so it is easy to see how problematic that can be.

The next morning we boarded the train. The Flam line between Flam and Myrdal is 20 kilometers long. However, because it is one of the steepest railway tracks in the world and because it uses a system called ‘spiralling’ to ascend the mountain, it took us an hour to complete the trip. A railway spiral rises on a steady curve until it completes a loop, sometimes passing over itself as it gains height. It was a little disconcerting to see ourselves going as we were coming. And it was high, snow and ice was still in abundance.

At one point, the train stopped and one of the conductors ran up to the front of the train where he changed the shunt tracks by hand so that we and an approaching train would not be on the same track. That was a little disconcerting too, admittedly.

At another point, the train stopped again and allowed people off to take a photo of a magnificent waterfall. A Metallic Voice on the overhead intercom warned that the deck could be wet. An understatement! Barry went out (in pants and t-shirt only) to take a photo. I noticed that several people were donning rain coats, hats, and boots such that they looked like fishermen on a Newfoundland fishing boat. Barry came back a short time later, completely soaked. “The deck is more than a little slippery”, he dryly commented. Apparently the force of the waterfall is such that it washes great gouts of spray and surge completely across the deck, causing its own mini rainstorm in the process. The more prepared people had obviously either ridden this train before or had more informative trip guides than the information that was given to us.

We also noticed a phenomena that repeated itself over and over again on this trip. There are people that take photos of scenery, or landscapes, or buildings, etc.; and those that take selfies of themselves in front of the subject, reducing the spectacular to background. Strange, we thought.

As we chugged further into the deep forests and steep mountainsides, Metallic Voice told us of the existence of the Huldra. Norway is rampant with trolls of one kind or another, but Metallic said that this troll is particular to that area between Flam and Myrdal. The Huldra is a troll-like woman living in the abundant woods on the steep mountainsides and in the valley. She is un-troll-like in that she is fair and beautiful, but is wild and has a long cow-tail. She is a lonely, lost soul, doomed to live underground. She tries to tempt human passersby to remain with her so she won’t be alone anymore.

As we passed yet another series of waterfalls, pounding their way from the heights to the floor of the valley, Metallic Voice told us another story. This one was of the Fossegrimmen (also known as just Grim as that is the Norwegian word for waterfall). The Grim is a water creature. He is a young, handsome man who sits naked under waterfalls, playing the fiddle. He plays the music of nature itself; the sound of the water, the wind in the trees, it all comes from his music. He is said to teach humans how to play if they secretly brought him a stolen piece of meat. Torgeir Augundsson, better known as Myllarguten, was a famous fiddle-player from Telemark, Norway who was so good it was rumored he had sold his soul in exchange for Fossegrimmen’s skills.

So lots of trolls, and the Huldra, and the musical Fossegrimmen, but I have noticed a decided lack of wildlife in our travels so far. While out driving with Martin in Italy, we saw one lone deer – quickly, briefly. Martin’s excitement is indicative of how rare an occurrence this is. While climbing on the train through the Flam valley and mountainsides, I expected to see some sort of wildlife. However, though we passed enough ponds, pools, and lakes to slake the thirst of the world, there were no ducks bobbing on the surfaces, no animals drinking at their shores, no moose, no deer, no wolves, no mountain goats. We saw, instead, a few flocks of sheep. Perhaps a cow or two, and two Fjord horses. Nothing more through all that tangle and tumble of wildness.

Martin had told me, in explanation of how exciting it was to see a deer, that Europe is particularly bad for having pushed all of its wild things out – due to agriculture or development. He admitted that in those parts of Europe that humans found too challenging to live in, the wild may still be found. But certainly not in Tuscany, and sadly, it appeared also not in the mountains and valleys of Flam. That being said, there is no doubt that this part of Norway is one of the most beautiful places on earth.

Extreme Sports in a Bus

2015-08-09T17:30:00.001-07:00

“One learns more from listening than speaking. And both the wind and the people who continue to live close to nature still have much to tell us which we cannot hear within university walls”. – Thor Heyerdahl, Norwegian explorer and adventurer.

The next day we walked down to the train station in Bergen to catch our train to Voss. Voss is a small village. Until 1964, when it incorporated a number of neighboring villages, Voss’ population was less than 5,000 people. After the German invasion of Norway in 1940, Voss was the main mobilization point for the Norwegian Army. Voss was bombed late in April of the same year and sadly, it completely destroyed the old wood-built town centre (houses and guilds much like what we had seen in Bryggen). They then remained occupied by the Germans until 1945.

In the winter, the village is an Olympic sports centre, being an ideal place for biathletes, and alpine, Nordic, and freestyle skiers to train. A lot of our fellow passengers on the train were heading off on several days of hiking once they disembarked at Voss. The village is surrounded by mountains with snow slumped on their shoulders; thick, ominous forests, and more white water rivers than I have ever seen in one place. In the summer, it is home to rock-climbing, hiking, paragliding, and white-water kayaking. But we were there merely to board a coach bus.

However, as the bus travelled to Gudvangen quay – where we would be taking a ferry up the Naeroyfjord to Flam – we were to experience our own kind of extreme sport. That of negotiating hair-pin turns. Thirteen hair-pin turns to be exact. In the rain. And did I not mention the fog.

This road is called the Stalheimskleiva, considered one of Europe’s most dangerous roads. It is only open during the summer and closed to traffic in the winter. As we inched and lurched the large bus around truly the tightest turns (all downhill) I have ever experienced, I had not to wonder at all as to why they closed in the winter. It is one of the steepest roads in Northern Europe (built between 1842 and 1846). It is a very narrow and one-way (down).

The views over the side of the road and down to the valley bottom (the Naeroydalen valley, stunning and another UNESCO World Heritage site), and down to where waterfalls dropped from incredible heights was – interesting. Truly enhancing the feeling that though we sat in cushy seats in the comfort of a large bus, we were surely still having a hair-raising adventure. On one side is the Stalheim waterfall (126 meter drop) and on the other side of the road the Sivle waterfall (142 meter drop). Even had it not been raining and foggy, we would have gotten wet.

It was with a sigh of relief (but also a shiver of thrill) that we came to the bottom and pulled into the quay. We disembarked from the bus and queued for the ferry.

Bergen, Norway

2015-08-08T11:15:00.002-07:00

“We live in a wonderful world that is full of beauty, charm and adventure. There is no end to the adventures we can have if only we seek them with our eyes open.” – Jawaharial Nehru

From the train station in Firenze we went to Bologna. Our flight out of Italy was very, very early the next day so we wanted to stay overnight at some place very close to the airport. So we stayed at an “airport hotel”. You would never have known you were in Europe. I don’t know what it is about airport hotels that dictates that they all have to be extremely sterile and uninteresting. Even the food at dinner that night, though supposedly Italian, was flavourless and without interest.

Very early the next morning we arrived at the Bologna airport. Of all the places on our trip this place was the most confusing. The signage was either terrible or non-existent and we spent a good hour in the wrong line-up. It was a complete madhouse. Eventually, though, we did board the right plane to Bergen, Norway.

Bergen is a city on the Bergen Peninsula on the west coast of Norway. The core city, itself, was established before 1070 AD. It has grown a great deal since then and is now the second-most populous city in Norway, after Oslo. Bergen Port is the busiest port in Norway. There were quite a number of different kinds of ships in the afternoon we took a stroll around the piers. The smell of fish and boat diesel replaced the smell of olive trees and lavender that we had grown accustomed to over the past week. But it was bracing and fresh – and considerably cooler than Italy.

We stayed in a hotel just behind the remains of the quays, Bryggen, which is a World Heritage site. This area of Bergen is a series of Hanseatic (merchant guild and market guild) buildings lining the eastern side of the fjord. The original ones dated from 1100, but due to the fact that all of the buildings are wooden and have been subject to quite a few fires, the existing buildings only date back to about the 1700’s. The oldest and tallest building is St Mary’s Church, which was built between 1130 and 1180.

In our meanderings we stumbled upon a statue of Snorri Sturluson (born in the 13^th century), the Icelandic historian, poet, and politician who wrote the Heimskringla – a history of the Norwegian kings. A copy of which graces our bookcase, and has for years.

Later that evening we walked about the residential areas up behind the colourful, wooden buildings of Bryggen. Bergen is known as the ‘place of seven mountains’. As we wandered about, in and out of alleys and small streets, we noted a lot of ‘up’. The view out over the fjord was welcome reward, though.

And, in Bergen, we saw our first of many, many trolls.

Our last glimpse of Italy - the Firenze train station

2015-08-04T18:44:00.001-07:00

“Adventure is a path. Real adventure – self-determined, self-motivated, often risky – forces you to have firsthand encounters with the world. The world the way it is, not the way you imagine it. Your body will collide with the earth and you will bear witness. In this way you will be compelled to grapple with the limitless kindness and bottomless cruelty of humankind – and perhaps realize that you yourself are capable of both. This will change you. Nothing will ever again be black-and-white.” – Mark Jenkins

The next morning Jesse and Martin drove us to the train station in Firenze (Florence). It is nice to say that we were in Florence but, in truth, we only saw the train station. Parking was impossible and Jesse parked illegally so that we could unload the luggage. Because of that it was a hurried good-bye, hugs all around, and I admit to being a bit teary. These two were such wonderful, interesting, and engaged world-gypsies. Such lovely human beings. I wish them all the good fortune that could possibly come their way.

We were swept into the huge train station and sought a corner hopefully away from most of the hub-bub. With nowhere to sit for the next three hours we moved our suitcases into a small area in front of a billboard and sat on our suitcases. The air was stifling and hot and the noise constant and loud. Nothing to do but stare out at the world around us, fanning ourselves uselessly as our clothes began to adhere damply to our bodies.

I love to people-watch – and the train station in Firenze for a people-watcher is a great delight. So many odd people, so many stories – you get to reflect on what their lives may be like, where they are travelling to, and why. Firenze is an extremely busy train station with as many as fifteen tracks with local and regional trains coming and going constantly. There are places to buy tickets, and other places to validate tickets, and other places where I am not completely sure what to do – and the locals seemed as equally confused as myself.

There are gypsies begging for a Euro or two, and other more devout beggars with heads bowed and hands folded in prayer, their empty coffee cup placed discretely in front of them for change. There was one old gentleman who looked shabby and unkempt, his straggled and snarled hair pulled back in a pony tail, his shirt buttoned awry such that it hung out of his drooping trousers. He shuffled in beat up runners around and around the parameter of the station, each lap completed with a concentrated gaze that never wavered. He never once asked for money nor had any cup or sign. Perhaps he was just an old poor man who found that station a weather-protected place to walk.

I saw, too, very wealthy people, laden with designer shopping bags – all very large but light as each just contained one pricey scarf, or a small bottle of perfume – with their small dogs perambulating behind them. They moved from ticket kiosk, to validation machine, to cappuccino shop, to the toilets, back to the cappuccino shop, into the line ups for the train, and finally boarding the train – the little dogs boarding confidently and sedately.

I saw a tall, lanky bald man. He wore a bright yellow silk shirt, purple suspenders, lavender pants. His reddish suit jacket he carried over his shoulder. His voluminous scarf was paisley, his glasses vividly red-framed. He wore sandal on bare, hairy feet and his pants were a good three inches too short (perhaps he really didn’t need the suspenders). He carried a very conservative, obviously hand-made leather briefcase from which protruded several files. He caused not so much as a second glance.

I saw an East Indian family, with six children, laden with beach-going paraphernalia - buckets and spades, picnic hamper, and a large beach umbrella that kept falling to the floor and swung unnervingly near my head. They spoke in loud, rapid, staccato Italian; the mother wore a gorgeous turmeric-coloured sari; the teenaged girl wore large cross-shaped earrings. One of the boys carried a small poodle in one hand and played games on his cell-phone in the other.

I was too nervous to take photos, it would have been difficult to take shots discretely where we were sitting. I don’t think I will ever have the nerve to be a street photographer. Instead I wrote little notes about the people I saw and hope that you can picture them.

San Felice and Large Bumble Bees

2015-08-03T12:33:00.001-07:00

“You may have the universe if I may have Italy.” – Giuseppe Verdi

Our last day at our last villa (a converted monastery). I am exhausted after last night’s Palio abandon (and, in truth, all the extra walking trying to locate our restaurant around the bedlam). I tell Barry and the guys to go on without me and I will stay at the villa. They will be visiting the 12^th century village of Radda in Chianti and finishing with an exhilarating down hill ride of 20 kilometers through the oak and chestnut forests that cloak the steep hillsides.

I meander around the premises and out into the olive orchard. The gardener there takes the opportunity to take a break from his work and tell me about the olive trees. He tells me that the soil, type of tree grown, amount of sunshine (and for that matter, the amount of rain) all play a part in determining the flavor of the oil. Each of the different olive trees (though, to me, they all looked the same) has specific characteristics. He told me they grow best in clay soil though, actually, they will grow anywhere but then there is no guarantee of a crop. I told him I love the olive tree for its sculptural trunk and branches. He said he thought olive trees are particularly ugly. Ah well, each to their own taste. When I told him that I would really miss Italy he said that Italians drink a concoction of olive oil, garlic, and lemon juice in the winter to raise their spirits. I’ll have to try that.

I wander to the edge of the property and see the inevitable Cypress trees in the distance. Originally brought to Italy from Persia by the Etruscans, Cypress trees can live up to 2,000 years. We saw them everywhere – bordering fields instead of fences, lining the (very long) driveways up to red-bricked villas, and in strange little copses here and there where Martin told me the Etruscans had planted them around their sacred burial sites.

Mid-afternoon and all stills. The birdsong is less, and a slight breeze moves tree branches – though it is a warm breeze and offers no relief from the heat. The bell in the old abbey tower chimes two.

A cat lies curled under a bush, and does no more than give a soporific twitch of his whiskers when the birds hop close. The smell of olive leaves is faint but close. The villa is surrounded by frangipani, of all colours, and all sizes, the odour like fresh cut peaches. I take a deep breath, sit back against an olive tree and think – here I am in Italy, in magical Tuscany surrounded by the scent of frangipani and jasmine, mourning doves calling and pecking at the stones at my feet, the swallows (always swallows) swooping and diving and playing chicken with the top of my head. Earlier in the week, Jesse had told me about a bright blue/black bee, a kind of carpenter bee. He said it is a solitary bee, it doesn’t live in hives, but it does the same job – it is a pollinator. He hoped I would see one. As I sat reading a large object buzzed by and settled in the lavender. Very large, bright iridescent blue. An Italian Black Bumble Bee. Gorgeous. So happy I got to see one before leaving Italy.

The guys return from their cycling. Barry and I go to have a wine tasting at the villa’s own winery. The vintner takes us out to the vineyard and describes the different varieties and explains their method of only taking three bunches of grapes off of each plant. He then takes us through the cellars and talks about his oak barrels (Slovenian oak) and the methods to obtain different kinds of wine. It is fascinating stuff – and very complicated. He is also so very, very proud of his wines. It is obvious he loves his work. We drink some of the wine, stagger back to our room to dress for dinner.

After dinner we walk back to our room through the night-lit abbey grounds. Tomorrow we will be taken to Firenze (Florence) to catch our train out of Italy. A study in people watching and then on to Norway.

Siena and the Palio

2015-08-02T12:38:00.001-07:00

“A traveler without observation is a bird without wings.” – Moslih Eddin Saadi

The next day dawned hot and bright (of course!) and we were off to explore the crete sienese (literally means sienese clay) – an area mainly characterized by pure and untouched nature: hills, woods, waters and a semi-desert. The colours are unique to the Sienna area as it was covered by sea about two and a half million years ago. On the way we stopped at a mediaeval fortified village. Up on the old original wooden fortifications we could see all around to the Tuscan oak tree forests and the villages in the distance. “Look, I promised you more bells,” Martin said and just then the bells began to ring in two belfries.

We then drove to where Barry and Martin were to begin their cycle and Jesse and I drove off into the Sienese hills. I was fascinated by the type and colour of wheat in the fields – so different from my Canadian prairie experience. Jesse managed to find a place to pull off the road and he and I took cameras in hand and explored. I waded out into a wheat field and stood still – and breathed in the silence. Then slowly it dawned on me – it was so very silent. There was no traffic noise, nor conversations. But neither were there cicadas with their constant, temperature inflected chirr, nor were there birds, of any sort, of any song. It was just so very, very silent. By each of the villas there were the swallows, the cicadas, other birds and their different song languages. But here, up to my waist in golden, soft-headed wheat, not a single insect alighted on me (unlike the grasshoppers in the Canadian prairie wheat fields), not a bird sang nor flew across my vision. Other-worldly. Was this silence part of the Tuscan magic, or the result of too much pesticide. I hoped with all of my heart that it was the former.

As we drove on we circled back over some of the week’s previous roads and saw again some Chianina cattle (a very large breed of cattle, formerly used for draft work). There had been a small herd as we had driven up to our fortress villa. They were together on a small knoll that was just large enough for their number. There were about ten of them, including some calves. When had first seen them they had all been laying down in the last rays of the dying sun. Today, they were all standing, all facing out in a circle like they were their very own crop circle. Jesse told me that in all the times they have driven past that place, the cattle seem never to have moved from that knoll. They stared at us with that bovine look that is so very enigmatic.

That evening we went to the town of Siena, a town said to have been founded by the sons of Romulus and Remus. As it turned out it was the eve of the Palio, Europe’s most famous and frantic horse race. Seventeen different neighborhoods hurl themselves into traditional revelry and medieval abandon, each supporting a horse in the race. Neighborhood pride is evident in the parades, the childrens’ choirs, the flag throwing, the banners, the singing, the wearing of colourful scarves signifying their neighborhood. We found a place against a stone wall and just watched – it was fantastic. Each horse is led, surrounded by the citizenry that it represents, to the cathedral where they are led up to where the priest stands by the altar. He blesses them with “go and return victorious”. The jockeys themselves are considered hired guns . . . paid mercenaries. The race is a no-holds-barred affair, a bareback race held in the Piazza del Campo and it lasts all of seventy-five crazed, chaotic seconds. First horse across the line wins, even if it doesn’t have a rider by that time. Then one-seventeenth of Siena goes berserk for the next 365 days. This is not an event put on for tourists, it is instead the yearly competition for the pride of identity. The whole experience was wild – and we didn’t even see the actual race.

A little later, after several detours and back-tracking (whole sections are blocked off for either victory or sorrowful feasts), and exhausting ourselves pushing through the crowds we arrived at our restaurant for the night – the Antica Osteria “Da Divo”. It was unique in that it is in ancient Estruscan rooms cut out of the ‘tuff’ – the soft volcanic rock on which Siena is built. The murals and mosaics on the walls were truly beautiful and the food fabulous. Late that night we were driven back to our villa – all of our senses sated with fantastic food, Etrucan history and the Palio.

Chants and Sunsets

2015-07-25T13:01:00.000-07:00

“When a turbulent mind and wounded heart surrenders to grace, breathing is easy” – T.F. Hodge

Later that afternoon the guys returned to take us to the Abbaye of Sant Atimo, where resident monks engage in Gregorian chant. The monks are a community of Canons Regular of Premontre (also called White Canons). They are dressed completely in white and were founded by St. Norbert. The church itself is of Romanesque style, and the monks live in surrounding buildings leading the ‘common life’ as set out by the rules of St. Augustine – keeping their own bees and maintaining olive groves and food and lavender gardens.

Jesse made mention as we drove there that the monks had just recently turned the soil in their olive tree grove and that the colour of the soil was beautiful against the grey/green of the olive trees and he felt lucky that we were able to see the contrast before sun and heat turned the soil grey.

We arrived early. Indeed, the sienna brown of the soil made a very nice contrast to the trees. The monks would not be chanting for another half hour so we took advantage to muse about the grounds and look at the silent gardens – silent except for the hundreds of bees, of course. The church was massive and entering it was like walking into a cool cavern out of the heat. The bells chimed and seven monks came silently in and took their places. The beautiful chanting began. The acoustics of the high ceilings and the stone walls lent itself to magnifying the sound and harmonies all the more so. We felt quite privileged. The monks don’t sing for the tourists. They chant six times a day (lauds, terza-mezza, sest, nones, vespers, and compline) whether there are people there or not – it is part of their common living. We were honoured to have shared in such beautiful music.

Afterwards, we were driven back to the fortress for dinner. Both Jesse and Martin made me promise that I would get some shots of the Tuscany sunset, especially as we would be able to see it setting over Monte Amiata.

We were seated out on the veranda for dinner. From where we sat we could see the inevitable evening feeding of the swooping swallows. Hawks still floated far above on the breezes. As dinner progressed the sun started to fall behind the mountain in the distance. And I took the promised photos.

Of Fortresses and Bells

2015-07-24T13:40:00.000-07:00

“The Creator made Italy from designs by Michaelangelo” – Mark Twain

The next morning we said goodbye to Villa Cicolina. We drove a little ways to Montalcino. At a point that we were able to pull the car over (very, very rare spots along those narrow roads) Jesse and Barry took their bikes off of the rack and prepared for an invigorating ride to Rocca D’Orcia, a little hamlet considered the ‘capital’ city of the Orcia Valley for about 200 years. This whole area is famous for the production of Brunello, a very tasty wine. We were to lunch at a trattoria there. Martin and I would follow and look for good photo opportunities along the way.

Note Stan is NOT one of the biking awaiting a rider!!

Rocca D'Orcia in the distance

As we followed the bikes hurtling down at speeds equal to what we were doing in the car, I was able to see the torque that the riders had to use to wind first one way and then the other around the curves. The shake in the legs and the muscles bulging in the shoulders. I was so relieved not to be riding. Though I did envy the breeze that Jesse and Bar were generating for themselves because the temperatures were now in the mid-30’s. It was fairly early so there wasn’t much traffic and at a point we were finally able to pass them.

We stopped at several points along the way to the hamlet for ‘scenery’ shots, and at one point, through a parting in the forest of trees, we saw a deer sedately looking out at us, posing wonderfully. However we were on a stretch of road with no turn-out and were being pressured by traffic behind, so despite the deer being so photogenic I was unable to get a shot. Martin was so very excited to have seen the deer, a big grin on his face the rest of the way. I have to bring this man to Canada, I thought.

At one stop, way off in the distance we could see the hamlet we would be stopping at high up on a distant hill. Martin and I got to the hamlet first and took the opportunity to look around. The hill to the hamlet was quite steep and we had agreed that Jesse would text us when they reached the bottom and we would go down and bring them and the bikes back up to the village, rather than their cycling up. As we wandered about the cobbled streets, again the casual communal feel was pervasive. Over by an 11^th century well, two men played chess. Down a lane a woman washed the cobblestones with buckets of water. Martin and I were taking photos of the valley from a stone wall when suddenly the village was cacophonous with the peals of bells. Pigeons flew up in front of us as the bells proceeded to toll the noon hour. I looked to the source and saw great iron bells swinging in and out of a belfry.

“Real bells!” I cried. Martin looked confused until I explained. When we had been in Nuremburg last year, there had been a beautiful cathedral on a plaza. It was a Sunday and the bells pealed almost all morning. It was quite the disappointment when it was told to us that it was a recording and that the bells up in the cathedral bell tower stayed still and silent.

“I’ll find you more real bells,” Martin swore.

Real Bells!

Just at that point, Jesse texted that they were at the bottom of the hill and we drove down to fetch them. The trattoria we lunched at opened specifically for us as we were early (noon is early for lunch in Italy), but by the time we left if was busy. We asked the guys to join us again and ordered bottles and bottles of water – the thirst was almost unquenchable after riding in that heat. All the trattorias we frequented on this trip were very popular with the locals. That was one of the criteria the cycling tour used for choosing them – that they be authentic - proven by how popular they were with the local people.

After lunch, there was a brisk downhill coast for Jesse and Barry. There was then a fairly challenging uphill stretch, at the end of which we would arrive at our lodging for the night, the Castello di Velona. Originally this hotel was an 11^th century fortress. It has a spectacular 360-degree view of the surrounding landscape, including Monte Amiata, Tuscany’s highest peak. Martin left me there to go meet the others at the bottom of the (very steep), where the hotel staff had me sit in the gorgeous lobby, all large Roman doors thrown open to the air, with swallows flitting and hawks soaring on the thermals. They plied me with cold water with lemon slices.

The bees. The bees are what I have really noticed in Tuscany. One sits on the toe of my sandal now as I sip my lemon water and stare out the open floor to (very high) ceiling doors to the lavender gardens beyond. The sea of lavender moves and sways in the breeze. But there is no breeze. It is, instead, the plants bobbing and weaving with the weight of hundreds of bees swarming over the plants. Jesse and Barry arrived. The guys said they were off to scope out great places for the next day but would be back later to take us to hear Gregorian Chants.

Cooking - like painting or writing a song

2015-06-29T17:04:00.000-07:00

La cucine di un popolo e las sola esatta testimonianza sua civilta (the cuisine of a country is the the only exact attestation of its civilization) - anonymous

From Pienza we returned to the villa for an afternoon cooking class. The kitchen for the villa is in a building outside of the actual villa – once an outbuilding when the villa raised its own livestock. It now served as the cooking centre, very small, the doors and windows flung open to the outside as it also gets very hot. There, with another couple from Montreal, we had our Italian cooking lessons with the chef of Villa Cicolina, Mimmo. We were each given an apron, a glass of cold water, and a wineglass that we could fill as much as needed from bottles on the side table. Mimmo said, “Anni e bicchieri di vino non si contano mai” (age and glasses of wine should never be counted).

The view of the kitchen building from our room in the villa

Mimmo spoke no English and so the hostess of the hotel, Adina, translated for us while also organizing us and keeping us hopping. Quite a feat, but she did so without so much as breaking a sweat, her German accented voice smoothly switching from English to Italian and back again as she acted as Mimmo’s liaison. What surprised us what that were not just going to learn to make a bit of pasta, but that we were going to be preparing the meal for all of the hotel’s guests that night, and the staff, a total of 17 people! We were to make the appetizer, the secondo dishes, and the dessert. Mimmo would prepare the primo course himself later (thinly sliced beef fillets with pecorino cheese filling) because it needed to be freshly cooked as it was served.

With the four of us underfoot, Mimmo still managed to have us all chopping and cooking with six burners on a cast iron oven, and all busily doing the right things. Well, mostly the right things. I have always, for example, just sliced zucchini up and thrown it in the pan. That is wrong, apparently. One is meant to slice out all of the seeds first, the same with cucumber (not nice part, according to Mimmo). Tomatoes must be cut up a particular way so as to sweat out the most juice when making it into sauce. Eggs must never be cracked into the flour, but into a separate dish, in case one is bad. Pasta dough must be kneaded fermamente (firmly) and crepes must be tossed dolcemente (softly). Stalks of celery should be crushed with the back of a heavy knife to release the flavor, but should then be removed from the dish it is flavouring. Garlic should be crushed, never minced.

And don’t even start cooking until the wine bottle is opened and a fulsome glass ready at your elbow. Mimmo did manage to find enough English words to tell Barry – good chopper, no good crepe tosser. And Bar was scolded for too heavy a 'pinch' of salt, and myself for too light a pinch.

The appetizer was a bread and tomato pudding. One of the secondis was crepes filled with ricotta cheese and spinach and drizzled with the tomato sauce made from scratch. Another was one with eggs but I can’t remember what it was. And for dessert we made Panna Cotta. We also made pasta from hand and shaped it into ravioli, tortellini (very difficult to get the knack of folding them), cavatappi, and made acini di pepe pasta out of the scraps. They were not for dinner that night but just so we could say that we had made pasta.

Later that night, dressed up and mellowed with even more wine we went to dine at the tables set under the olive trees. Italian opera music played, the cicadas buzzed, the swallows dipped and dived, and occasionally the raucous call of the nocturnal Black-Crowned Night Heron out by the pool as he hunted rent the air. The presentation of each course, with added edible flowers, a grating of carrot, a drizzle of olive oil, made it hard to believe that we - four Canadians much too generous with the cooking-accompanied wine – with the help of Mimmo, had made the meal that the we and the guests were all eating, enjoying, and complimenting. We were pretty chuffed with ourselves, indeed.

The Poetry of Faces

2015-06-29T11:31:00.000-07:00

“No heirloom of humankind captures the past as do art and language” – Theodore Bikel

At dinner last night, the guys had offered some alternatives for our trip. Barry had mentioned to Jesse that I am a photographer. They offered that if I really didn’t want to ride (not even the downhills? – no), that one would ride with Barry and I would stay with the other and explore photo ops and such until time to pick up the cyclists at the end of the route(s). They even offered to mix up some of the routes such that there were more straight and downhill options. While we had gone back to the villa and soundly to sleep, the guys had spent the rest of the late evening scoping out potential areas. What lovely men!

This morning was a ride to nearby Pienza – home of the Pecorino cheese (a sheep cheese that has now become one of our favourites) and said to be the most beautiful village of Rennaisance design in Tuscany. It is the birthplace of Pope Pius II. Barry and Jesse rode and Martin and I drove to several vantage point around the area. We ventured through Castelmuzio and Petroio and stopped to see Sant Anna in Camprena, where scenes from the movie The English Patient were filmed. What was most wonderful about the alternative is that I got to know fascinating things about each of our hosts. One is from Australia and climbs upside down on jutting rock faces. He surfs in Australian waters though he knows of Great White Sharks in the area (it is all a numbers game, he says). He snowboards in the winter and is, himself, quite an accomplished photographer. The other is French, a cyclist and soccer player. He dreams of one day travelling throughout the world with just a soccer ball, a guitar, and a chess board. He feels that each of these items offers great potential for conversation and interaction with all sorts of different people. A philosopher at heart, I think. My conversations with these lovely young men as we meandered throughout the Tuscany countryside ranged from education to communism, from family values to the number of creatures that can kill you in Australia, from patriotism to the ugly tourist, from religion to politics, from what loss is to what tugs at the heart. From the yearning to see a hummingbird hawkmoth to how exciting it is to see a solitary deer.

We stopped for lunch in Pienza at another family-run trattoria before another ride in the afternoon. The food was excellent. We sat on the outside patio and watched people in the surrounding area. The trattoria was on the edge of a lovely square that had stunning statues of heads, of great exquisiteness and that I found very moving. What I truly love about Europe is how the art is treated. Art is not confined to art gallery walls or museums. Instead, you wander the streets and back lanes of cities and villages and just stumble upon beautiful art. These statues were out on the piazza. Children were climbing on them, people ate their picnic lunches at their base, and one pair of little girls danced round the statues to the sound of a violinist and guitarist playing around the corner.

Down an unassuming lane, we found a poster about the exhibit and later I did a bit of research. The work is called “The Gift of Harmony”, by Austrian Helga Vockenhuber. Pienza was chosen as a site because of the principles at the base of its architectural design (Renaissance) by architect Bernardo Rossellino . . . . . .

an emblem of the "ideal city", to pursue a scan of spaces and volumes in perfect balance, in search of harmony that allows man, center of the universe, to regain possession of their social spaces physical and inner. And it refers to the concept of harmony, and not only in the title, this also shows the Vockenhuber, harmony evoked that leads human person, through the perception of the beauty of the places that receive it, and the severe grandeur of his works, a touch with his inner and the intense spirituality that the artist manifests to live and pursue. The works on display are busts monumental whose intense expression bursts paradoxically immobility face, with his eyes closed and lips meekly in a state of inactivity that calls us to the interiority of each, place of spirit and single shore of peace , which it seems to warn the culture of our time tending to only materialistic hedonism, supported by the media technology that flattens everything and empty of true humanity.

The exhibition project The Gift of Harmony, edited by Joseph Cords and with the overall coordination of Patrizia Cerri, is in fact based on the idea of a dialogue between sculpture and architecture that surrounds it and is designed as traveling, just to say, at a time of deep urban aesthetic degradation, which has been and which might again become the union once pursued between architecture and sculpture, and what the potential of poetry that it may radiate.

- from the notes on the installation by the Civita Arte.

On to another ride and our Italian cooking class.

Fights with Bikes and the best Pasta ever

2015-06-28T19:05:00.000-07:00

“A journey is best measured in friends, rather than miles.” – Tim Cahill

The next morning it was a cab (with a different, sober, rather cranky driver) back to the Chiusi train station. We were a bit early and as we sat and waited, I made note of other people coming in and out and wondered which of them looked to be the sort that would make up the rest of our cycling group. It grew closer and closer to the time our guides were to arrive and the station had emptied of all possible companions. Our guides, Jesse and Martin, arrived. It was at this point I realized that Barry and I were ‘it’. There were no others in our group. Barry had been warned that this may happen but hadn’t said anything to me, not sure of my response. My response was that I wasn’t really sure if I liked this situation or not. Later it would come to be the best situation ever.

The young men were friendly and personable, though, and eager to show us to where we would start our cycling adventure. They helped to pile ourselves and our luggage into a small car that had three bikes on a rack at the back. As they chatted about the beautiful scenery around Tuscany and how marvelous the cycling would be, they drove us to where we would be staying the next couple of days. This was the Hotel Villa Cicoline. The Villa consisted of just 11 rooms and was once the summer home of a noble family. It stood in the midst of olive groves on a hill (of course, a hill), with vineyards at its feet. When we arrived a table had already been set out under the shade of the olive trees with a light lunch of bruschetta and cheeses and a launching, refreshing glass of Prosecco, the sparking bubbles in the glass reflecting the glints of sunlight off of the olive leaves.

Our first ride (a short one) of 19 miles (30 kilometers) was to begin right after lunch, and the guys brought the bikes round to the gravel apron in front of the villa. All through lunch I had had a niggling concern in the back of my mind that the surgery I had had and the resulting weeks of non-activity were going to impact negatively on my abilities. The niggle was starting to grow into a worrisome gnawing. The bikes were very nice – very expensive, very high-end, and totally unlike my beloved Flavia. My own bike, Flavia, is a townie bike, a good sturdy friendly bike on which I can balance confidently, has no bar but a lovely step-through (I can even wear dresses and skirts on Flavia no problem), a limited number of gears, and when I stop I can stand perfectly well and flat on my feet. This Tuscany bike, however, growled at me from the very beginning. As they were fitting the bike to me I hung suspended on the seat, which was, Jesse explained, indeed at the right height though my feet hung several inches above the ground. Flavia would certainly never countenance such a position! There was a high bar which meant I had to swing my leg high and up to get over it and onto the seat. I have mounted horses easier than I did that bike! The brakes were hydraulic and I was warned not to just use the front one or I would end up butt over head in whatever ditch was nearby.

“I hate you already”, I silently cursed the bike (which I had named Stan after an extremely difficult boyfriend I had had in high school). When I finally got going and pedaled a little way I felt like a lima bean on a guitar string. “You’ll get used to it”, I was assured by someone. Barry seemed to be having an easier time of it as he had ridden similar bikes before. I have only fallen off of similar bikes before.

The first ride started from the hotel door up a winding gravel road (note ‘up’ from the very beginning) with a drop on the right hand side to either a steep switchback below or a large shambly pen of large, shambly chickens gloriously rolling in the hot dust. Barry and Jesse rode a bit ahead of me (Martin already having left in the car to meet us at the other end of the 30 kilometers). I started off, the gravel making me weave from side to side and I very nearly joined the chickens over the edge. Stan and I were definitely fighting and the stress and heat were making me rapidly lose my breath. Halfway up the hill – and I couldn’t go any further. Halfway up the hill and Stan had already given me a vivid bruise on my calf. I was gasping and the world was whirling about my head.

Jesse came back to check on me. He immediately sensed my panic. He gave me a gentle lecture about this being my vacation, my time, and that killing myself on the first day was not the idea at all. He said further that because it was just Barry and me on this tour, we could customize the trip any way we wanted. I didn’t have to ride at all if I didn’t want to, he said. I felt such an enormous rush of gratitude that it almost did me in.

“I’ll take your bike back to the villa, can you walk there by yourself”, Jesse asked.

“Throw Stan over the cliff down to where the chickens are”, is what I thought, but I just said “yes”.

“I’ll tell them to show you to your room and to let you alone. You can gather your strength, maybe lay by the infinity pool with that incredible view of the valley. Spoil yourself. Do not feel bad. He told me that a previous client just had the guys drive her in to major centres to shop (he didn’t know me but for less than a day or he would have realized that shopping is not me). Nonetheless, I was so very, very grateful.

Barry returned later, very hot and wet, admitting that he hadn’t done the complete 30 kilometers either – he had succumbed to the heat about halfway up a very challenging hill. The heat, he said, and he didn’t need to explain further.

Later that afternoon, Jesse and Martin returned to take us to a wine-tasting at one of the local vineyards. It was a domaine that has been owned by the same family for over 200 years. We had to drive down narrow roads which became little more than narrow foot trails until we finally turned into the farmgate. The place smelled of grapes and olives. A litter of kittens played in the yard of the house as we traipsed down to the tasting room. We sampled their signature Vino Nobile, as well as their Vin Santo, an Italian dessert wine. We bought a few bottles to bring home with us (though I think we drank the majority of it in Norway, come to think of it, Norway not being known for its wines after all). The woman was very knowledgeable but what was most impressive about the winery is all the ecological measures they are taking. There was a garden of glass domes in the yard. We found later that they were actually a way of bringing natural light down deep to where the casks were fermenting. They had a wall garden that served instead of air conditioning, and many other such measures.

From there we went for dinner at an authentic trattoria in one of the villages nearby, Montefollonico – a little family-run place called Ristorante 13 Gobbi. We asked the guys to join us for dinner, and over wine and hand-made pasta tossed with pecorino cheese and olive oil – the very best pasta meal I have ever had, we all got to know each other better. Martin interpreted and translated for us the Italian that we couldn’t pick up on and fairly soon the warm, affable owner was treating us like family. A good first day after all. We may not have got a lot of miles in, but we were quickly making good friends of our guides, and the people they exposed us to.

Villa Il Patriarca, Chiusi

2015-06-27T19:30:00.000-07:00

“The first condition of understanding a foreign country is to smell it.” - Rudyard Kipling

Waving the very grateful and still tipsy cab driver off back to his tavern (and hoping he actually made it there in one piece), we entered the lobby of the Villa. Patriarca is a nobiliary villa which was constructed above the remains of an original ancient Etruscan structure. It has only 22 rooms and is very, very lovely. We were greeted by the desk clerk, Luigi (no!, I thought to myself, that is just too stereotypical), a gracious man who, with limited English made us feel very welcome. As Barry checked us in, I wandered about the lobby, furnished with a piano, beautiful paintings, and gorgeous inlaid ceilings. Luigi told me the history of things as I mused about – a man very proud of his hotel. When I stopped to stare down a floor window in the middle of the lobby, he explained that below were the ruins and that they had been built by the Etruscans 2005 years ago.

He introduced to us Christian, the man that would take our luggage to our room (which was up four flights of stairs - no elevator). Christian nodded curtly at us and before I could get out all of “those suitcases are very heavy”, he had hefted one in each hand, clean-jerked them off the floor (he was not a very tall man) and proceeded to run up the stairs. Barry and I crawled up the stairs after him. He opened the door to our room, threw open the drapes and shutters, nodded curtly again and left – all before we could utter one “grazie”. The inside of the villa is lovely but really the more beautiful are the grounds and the surrounding countryside. After hours and hours of travel, Bar and I just listened at the window for a bit. Nothing. A slight burr of cicadas, birdsong, and nothing else. There was the slight odour of burning cedar and poplar – as from a grill, and beyond that a predominant odour of lavender. And lemons.

We took an amble around the grounds. Banks and banks of lavender, lemon trees, a few tangled olive trees, lush Tuscany views of hills and vineyards.

Later that evening we opted for eating dinner in the hotel’s less formal trattoria rather than the more formal restaurant. At a table next to us a local man sat with his newspaper, a whole bottle of wine, and his little dog at his feet. I loved that we saw dogs in restaurants, on trains, on buses, and in bars throughout Europe. We ordered a glass of wine each. The waitress exhibited a little bit of consternation that we were not ordering a whole bottle. After all, I suppose, this nearby gentleman had ordered one all to himself. Barry and I were so travel-whacked at this point that I’m not sure what a whole bottle would have done to us.

The food was home-cooked and so served slowly. The man read his newspaper and drank his wine through five complete courses. Between courses he would take his dog out on to the nearby patio for a pee and have a cigarette. Occasionally he took a phone call. He obviously knew some of the people that came after us as he greeted them with a handshake. Eventually he left, his little dog following obediently behind, a cigarette quickly lit up and hanging from his lip, and his newspaper tucked under his arm. After a delicious meal, and a great deal of travel, Bar and I retired. The next day we were to return to the Chiusi train station to meet our cycling guides.

Chiusi

2015-06-27T17:41:00.000-07:00

“Traveling is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things – air, sleep, dreams, the sea, the sky – all things tending towards the eternal or what we imagine of it.” – Cesare Pavese

It was about an hour and a half train trip from Rome to Chiusi. When we arrived at our stop I wasn’t at all sure we were in the right place. It appeared to be in the middle of nowhere. We disembarked and stood on the wooden platform, feeling for all the world like a soldier returning home to a barren train station in the middle of 1940’s Saskatchewan. I expected tumbleweeds to amble by. There appeared to be no one about, it was quiet and still though it was the middle of the afternoon. By this time we had been travelling for a brutal number of hours and things were starting to feel a little Kafta-esque – especially when it came to dealing with the elevator.

The platform was a little lower than street level and so an elevator was required to get up to the actual station. It took us a bit to realize that once the elevator car had been called and had seemed to come down, that we were required to open a door to enter the elevator. We felt rather silly waiting and waiting for the door to open when all that was required was that we not take automation for granted. Once in, Barry figured out that to get and keep the thing moving, one had to push the up button and keep your finger on it until you reached the next level. Take your finger off and you stopped moving. The whole alien elevator was a little thing, but different enough in our travel-addled altered mental state to make us feel like strangers in a strange land, indeed.

We entered the station. There were a couple of other people around. A young couple looked like they were set for a holiday of hiking. They were from California and seemed very relieved to find an English-speaking person to help them with the elevator. We went out and stood by a tiny sign that had both ‘taxi’ and ‘taxi’ with an accent on it. No one in sight, though there were a couple of taxis parked haphazardly against the curb. A man drifted by, “taxi?”, he asked. We nodded and he disappeared around the side of the building. Back he came “He’ll come soon”. I took a peak around the corner where there was a small taverna attached to the station house. Several men sat with beers and cigarettes.

A few minutes later a short, stout man came round the corner. His cheeks were ruddy and only half his shirt was tucked in. “Scusi. Hot day. Need to finish my birra”. He was quite jovial and piled our luggage into his cab. We told him our destination – Villa Il Patriarca. “S’okay”, he slurred, jerked the car into gear and proceeded to drive us, at great speed, to the Villa. The way there was very hilly, with very windy roads, lots of curves, sharp hairpin turns, and at one point we encountered a section of the road that had fallen away such that it was down to one lane. I have no idea how drivers coming from opposite directions determine who gets to go first but in our case, we did. Perhaps because our driver was just so much faster than the van we encountered on that stretch (or couldn’t care less). The route to the Villa was very pretty, the taxi driver very jolly (and tipsy), the air conditioning jacked up to maximum a relief. The taxi driver pulled into the driveway of the Villa with a great spraying of gravel and cheerfully took our suitcases into the lobby. Barry tipped him very well, with a thank you. The driver looked at the money and his eyes bugged a bit. “Grazie, you!” I thought he was going to hug Bar. It wasn’t until later that we realized that tipping is rare in Italy.

Chiusi Train Station

Arrival in Italy

2015-06-27T14:25:00.000-07:00

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” - Mark Twain

Augustine of Hippo said “the world is a book, and those who don’t travel only read one page”. As my husband, Barry, and I are such inveterate bibliophiles it seems only appropriate that travel be the reality manifestation of the many mind trips we have taken with books of all ilk. My husband and I are in our sixties. Up until last year we had not travelled anywhere, except for a few camping trips with the kids, for forty years. Our world was feeling very small. Last year a river cruise along the Danube was a first tentative venture into travel. The historical and cultural richness took our breath away (and used up more than a few brain cells trying to absorb all that information). But you are very pampered on those river cruises and the exposure to the reality of the countries visited very controlled so we wanted to try something more adventurous.

So this year, it is to be a gourmet cycle trip to Tuscany, Italy and then a venture through Norway, Denmark, and Sweden travelling predominantly by train and ferry.

We had to book these trips last year to ensure a space and take advantage of various deals. I tend not to get too excited about trips until practically the day before we leave as I am always sure that something will happen to complicate things. Call me cynical or negative or whatever but I have never been let down in that respect. As writer John Steinbeck mused: “A journey is like a marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it”. I had major surgery less than 8 weeks before our departure and was not able to ‘train’ for our bike trip. I was hoping that the ‘reserves of fitness’ possessed before the surgery would be enough to still make cycling around Tuscany possible. To add to the worry, several people upon hearing about our upcoming trip made the same comments: “you do know that Tuscany is all hills, don’t you?!?” Well, no, actually, I hadn’t known.

Nonetheless, it was too late to cancel and no refund so the trip was on, regardless. Besides, I had learned all that Italian. I wanted to be able to use it. And I am so very glad it did go on, despite some ‘complications’.

Except for arriving in Rome and leaving from Bologna, the cycling tour was situated in the province of Siena. The itinerary was Rome to Chiusi, Montepulciano, Pienza, Castelmuzio, Petreio, Monticchiello, Montalcino, Rocca D’Orcia, Castelnuovo dell’Abate, Siena, Radda in Chianti, Castelnuovo Berardenga, Firenze (Florence) and Bologna.

We arrived a day before the cycling was to begin so as to get acclimated and to hopefully shake off any jet lag (I would suggest that two or three days for acclimation is more realistic). It was a long flight. We flew from Vancouver to Montreal, and then Montreal to Rome. We disembarked from the plane and immediately got on a train that would take us from the airport to the main train terminus in Rome. The route took us along some not very beautiful, mostly industrial places along the outskirts of Rome. It seems that it doesn’t matter where you are in the world, tagging is pervasive. Just the language was different. There were a lot of run-down little houses along the track. But though the houses themselves were disheveled, each and every one of them had a lushly growing garden, full of vegetables and flowers. In a couple I even saw the occasional lemon tree. We were served water on the train (still or sparkling? – a question that was asked in every restaurant or trattoria that we ate at, or train that we rode). Water came to be all-important in Italy. The heat was already oppressive and the non-stop travel to this point had made us parched. “Si”, we answered the porter gratefully. “We’ll have ‘still’, and grazie”.

We arrived at the Roma Termini about three hours before our connection to the little town that we would meet our guides at the next day. We were lugging two large suitcase and two backpacks (having packed not just for Italy but for the colder part of the trip later on). Laden with this and not really having enough time, we knew that this was all of Rome that we would see. The terminal was huge (29 platforms), it was a zoo, and it was architecturally beautiful. The building is of monumental dimensions, has immense glass walls, concrete ceilings with vaults and arches (mirroring the Roman barrel vault architecture of the ancient Roman baths across the street), the train sheds go on forever, and pigeons and swallows nest in the girders. The termini supposedly services over 150 million passengers a year. I think they were all there on the day we were. The pigeons have become very skilled at walking around and through thousands of feet as they go about looking for popcorn leavings and tearing apart cigarette butts (hundreds and hundreds of cigarette butts). We checked with an official looking man that we were in the right place and that the platform noted on our tickets was indeed the right platform. He assured us that all was well, to come back to the gate in three hours, and to watch very carefully for pickpockets. This was a refrain that we were to hear over and over again – watch for the pickpockets. So we found a couple of places in the (very hot) waiting room. And people watched – and dozed. I couldn’t remember when we were last ‘not moving’.

An Italian family next to us pulled a picnic lunch of lovely-smelling sandwiches out and sat and talked and ate as though they were on a beach. They hailed various people as they came in like it was a frequent event to meet at the terminus. An elderly gentleman in a black suit and bare feet in sandals sat and dozed with his small Dachshund dog in his lap. Three different denominations of nuns came in and out of the waiting room. One group very quiet and sedate, another garrulous and giggling, another pulling their own picnic lunch out of various baskets and containers, one offering a bun to the elderly man. The dog took it instead and the nun giggled as the man dozed on. One group in black habits, one group in brown habits, one group in blue and white.

Finally our train was called and we boarded wearily, on to the small town of Chiusi.