Summer Photos: Places

Belfort, France

Colmar, France

Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic

Phaffans, France (house exchange)

Equisheim, France

Chateau du Haut-Koenisbourg, France

Prague, Czech Republic

Paris, France

The Alsace Region, France

Strasbourg, France

TGV Station near Belfort, France

The Algarve, Portugal

Near Salema, Portugal

The Algarve, Portugal

The Alfama, Lisbon, Portugal

Cascais, Portugal

The Algarve, Portugal

Lisbon, Portugal

Lisbon, Portugal

Cape St. Vincent ("end of the world)", Portugal

Baden-Baden, Germany

Phaffans, France

Prague, Czech Republic

Lucerne, Switzerland

Prague, Czech Republic

Porrentruy, Switzerland

What Happens In Europe (doesn't stay in Europe)

I  wear a funny hat on the beach. It is black, decidedly shapeless, and has the word Bali sewn in white thread on the brim. The kind of hat you would be embarrassed of if even your mother was wearing it. Greg insists on staying a minimum of 20 meters ahead of me when I am sporting this floppy, tied-with-a-string-beneath-my-chin lid. I usually spin it so Bali is on the back. The hat blocks the sun. I am 50, and wrinkling. 'Nuff said.

This is our final full day in the Algarve ... the edenistically beautiful stretch of beach towns along Portugal's southwest coast. Not far from here, the great Portugese explorers set sail during the Age of Discovery. Yesterday I saw the church where Vasco da Gama stopped to pray before he hoisted the sails. (No gift shop; this pleased me.) I also went to the end of the world, Cabo de  Sao Vicente ... as far west as a body can venture on this great continent without falling 75 metres -- almost straight down -- into the stewing Atlantic. I hiked there with a 62 year old Dane. Sigrun. She has lived here 13 years. I learned a lot from her, including how to crack almonds with rocks. The 30 kilometre hike -- over challenging, bum-scooting, cliff-climbing, sun-searing, bramble-scratching, shepherd's-dog-dangerous and nudist-bedecked secret beach terrain (oh, hi Greg!), took 8 hours. It was my longest hike ever. Also my best.

We are in Salema. A true fishing village, still, and barely. Tomorrow it is back to Lisbon, then back to Canada, after six weeks (and five countries) in Europe.

Much has happened during this partially Rick Steves-inspired, partial home and car exchange holiday. I write from the very balcony of the very apartment -- with a glorious sea view -- of the one-and-the-same A Mare guest house Steves champions in his book-tv show-DVD empire. Steves is a Demi-god here. There's a photo of him standing beside our favourite local grocer (Romeu) in the store where we buy late-night snacks. Everyone knows of Steves. Countless thousands of his aficionados arrive here every year, guidebooks kept to the page with their thumbs.

What have we covered, Steves' style? Colmar, in France's Alsace region. We even stood before the recommended Isenheim altarpiece ("Crucifixion") by Matthias Grunewald in the Unterlinden Museum. I was expecting to "break down and sob with those in the painting," but did not. I was also terribly conscious that Greg was not enjoying himself. I took a photo of him, standing before a religious painting. Something famous as all get out. He looked as if he were truly captivated, but I knew the truth."If I were to name this photograph of you," I said, "I would call it 'I don't give a fuck.'"

We did "Petite France," in Strasbourg, but only on our second trip to that fabled and fought over city. The first time, en route back to our home base in the ancient village of Phaffans, France from Baden-Baden (that story is for another time), via the Black Forest (again, another time), and Freiburg, Germany (we almost had a head-on with a tram, trying as we were to avoid hitting cyclists ... but we loved you, Freiburg!) we got so terribly lost for several hours looking for our B and B (on Rue de Bitche), I ended up in tears and Greg was positively flammable.

It was bad-bad; at one point we invited a stranger into our car and showed him the address. He got us to the correct address ... in the wrong freaking town! We decided that Strasbourg didn't like us much. Nay, she REVILED us. I don't think Greg and I spoke to each other for three days after that navigator vs. driver brouhaha. It took us three weeks to muster the nerve to return. This time, my Swiss sister-in-law, Susannah, and niece Kyara came with. And Susannah drove us in HER car, not our traded-for Cadillac.

We hit Steves' recommended Equisheim and Riquewihr villages on Alsace's Route du Vin, and partook in the various samples of white wines produced in small, family operations. We also enjoyed several of our own discoveries in this medieval string of bergs skirted in vineyards, namely the storybook town of Bergheim. You can't believe that a village can be this pretty. Or that people live here --  REAL people, not characters out of a Hans Christian Andersson tale.
Not Hansel and Gretel. Not gingerbread people.

Castles? Mais oui. Taking yet another page out of Rick Steves' advice,  we hiked up to a grand-daddy:  Haut-Koenigsbourg. It crowns the Stophanberch mountain, encompasses 1.5 hectares, and was first mentioned in the 12th century. You can see this son of a gun for miles. The castle brochure says "the present Haut-Koeningsbourg is typical of the architecture of the castles of the 15th and 16th centuries in the south of the Rhine basin." It was a lot of walking. A load of photos. I should have worn better footwear; flip flop hell.

We were in Switzerland. We flew to Prague. (Now that I have been there, I prefer to call it Praha.) Five-out-of-five-star Prague -- I mean Praha --deserves its own essay, and I am recording this on an IPad with one finger while the wind whips hair into my eyes, so she will wait.

Cesky Krumlov, sorry, you will have your hour another time, too.

But I will share this. Final hour in Praha, Greg and I leave the excellent Hotel Tyl and rush with our bags down the steps to the I.P. Pavlova metro. We have this city's metro and bus systems all figured out (take that, Strasbourg!), and, as is too often the case, you untangle the knots of a city's public transportation systems and voila: it's time to go.

So there we are, proceeding to the gate with our tickets in hand, when I stop at the sight of a sort-of-familiar-looking man coming toward us. "Greg," I say, "that's Rick Steves." Without even a "No! Are you sure?", Greg about-faces, scrambles after the tall, blonde stranger, and asks: "Excuse me, are you Rick Steves?" "Yes I am," RS replies, and he looked genuinely pleased to be interrupted on his own way -- with his Prague/Praha guide, whom I also recognized from TV -- to buying tickets.

We chatted. He was kind. Friendly. Said his grandparents homesteaded near Edmonton! I told him our travel motto was: What would Rick Steves do?Fortunately, I thought to take photos. Unfortunately, and quite idiotically, I have no way to get them on my blog whilst traveling. Later.

We forgot to tell him that we would soon be in Paris, and we would follow his advice there, as well. We neglected to share that we were going to Salema, in the Algarve, and staying at A Mare!

We parted ways, got on our metro, our bus, our plane back to Basel, and into our exchanged car ( left in longish-term airport parking) back to the Phaffans house. "Did that really happen?" I asked Greg again and again. I was in a state of semi-shock. So was he. Rick Freaking Steves. Got to love it.

But that's not all, folks. I could also tell you about the sex club in Paris; the gypsies that tried scamming us at every turn and eventually had us yelling "Nyet!" in their faces whenever they dropped a gold ring in front of us; the bar-hopping night in Praha; or the wild "arrest" in Portugal (Greg and moi in a paddy wagon with five cops, sirens blazing as they transported us suspected criminals from Estoril, Portugal, to Lisbon. Normally Forty minutes by train, they hightailed it -- barely missing cars, loudspeaker warning people to get out of the way, and those ear drum shattering sirens going off like a WW2 air raid the entire way -- in a third of that time. They had Greg for about 3.5 hours, me for 2.) "And don't lie to us!" the only English-speaking cop said as we were eventually transferred from the paddy wagon into a police car, "Or you will spend the night in jail!"

I could tell you, but I'd really rather you buy the book of travel essays I am compiling. Adventure has a way of finding some people ; I am ever surprised.

Now back to Salema. When we arrived here, via Lagos, we stepped off the bus into the sunlight and sea breeze, and an elderly, well-tanned Portugese woman immediately assailed us. "Rooms? Zimmer? Sleeps?" We thanked her and wished her a bom dia, but we already had our (Rick Steves-made-famous) accommodation lined up, a few hops (uphill) from the idyllically-aquamarine ocean.

This morning I woke at 4:00, as I have been most mornings here. Too damn excited about this "pinch me" locale to sleep. I hiked when the sun rose. I found the ruins of a home in the countryside -- picture a crumbling stone house, a few centuries old, with evidence (bottles, old couch, toilet paper) of recent human life -- that gave me the heebie geebies. Even the trees around that shack screamed "Blair Witch". I went in. I am still here to write about it (with one finger).

Then the beach, the silly hat, the last-day washing-of-clothes-in-the-sink. (Oh more, of course, but Greg is waiting to check a hockey blog, and this is HIS IPad.) I started walking up to our pension -- with the balcony, and an ocean view even when I am standing at the sink scrubbing 5-days-worth of panties (lost my bathing suit bottoms in Lisbon, have been wearing panties in public all week) -- and the señora from Day One was sitting on a bench in the shade. Oh, but she's a quick one.

"Rooms? Zimmer? Sleeps?"

Maybe next time, Misses. Maybe next time.


Sent from my iPad

France.

It is irrational how much I enjoy hanging clothes on a line anywhere, but especially here, in the French village of Phaffans. 

Today I am alone with my thoughts and the laundry; Greg has returned to the delicious beach at Brognard. 

It takes me longer to settle in when travelling than it used to (I blame much on age), but we have been in Europe since July30th and I am getting into the rhythm of it now. Queuing at the patisserie in the morning for melt on your tongue croissants ... white Alsatian wine in the afternoons ... you get the idea.

Desperately seeking a floor lamp.

(Bouclair home, $99.99 on sale)

We needed a floor lamp. The upstairs' lamps were going downstairs
-- where all our better furniture and accoutrements end up -- for the use of our tenants. Who knew it would be such a chore to find a lamp that was (emotionally) stable, not too hard on the wallet, and ungrotesque?

Three weeks ago I went on a lamp-shopping rampage that left me with less oomph than a Raggedy Ann who's been through the wash. I patronized some 30 different retail outlets (and I fiercely dislike shopping, so you can imagine) from high-end lighting boutiques and decorating stores to Canadian Tire and Rona. I did much online browsing, and even checked out Kijiji.

Nada.

It was part I-can't-make-a-decision, part there's-nothing-decent to buy, and part you-have-got-to-be-kidding! When I finally found a rather elegant lamp I could live with -- the twisty sculptural detail added a certain je ne sais quoi -- at Sears, I was told it was back-ordered and wouldn't be available for weeks.

Patience is not one of my virtues.   

(Gen-Lite Sublime Floor Lamp, Sears, $152)

 

So I found myself in the south end of Edmonton after one my of radio copywriting shifts. I zigged and zagged between stores, truly despising the traffic and all the time the task was taking. (Over 4 hours on a hot and humid day ... and this was my second lamp-looking excursion).

 

Eventually I found myself at the new Target store in Millwoods. Ah, there was a lamp I liked. A large, contemporary, swooping thing with a white shade; I could see it fitting in nicely with our decor.

 

Here's the sequence of events that followed:

 

     1. There was no price on it.

     2. I had to track down a sales attendant to check the price.

     3. Sales attendant had to find a manager.

     4. The manager said there were no more in stock.

     5. I said I would buy the floor model (approximately $150, but no

          one knew for sure).

     6. Manager tells sales girl who tells me that they cannot sell the

          floor model.

     7. I tell sales girl that this is ridiculous. If it's displayed in the

         store, it should be for sale. That's false advertising. Or

         something.

     8. Sales girl shrugs, and commences chatting with another sales

         girl about the weekend. Or something.

     9. I say you'd better get that off the shelf, and leave.

 

Guess who won't be returning to Target?

 

All I wanted was a floor lamp that would look reasonably good, throw a circle of light, and not break the bank account. Was that too much to ask?

 

Apparently.

 

There were lamps that didn't know if they wanted to be a coffee table, a lamp, or some kind of uncomfortable chair.

 

(Target, $84.99)

 

 

Lamps that begged to know: am I a magazine stand, a table, or a lamp?

 

 

(Lowe's $89.98)

 

Lamps that had scoliosis.

 

(Lowe's, $349.20)

 

Lamps that were too minimalist.

 

 

($74.00, Lowes)

 

 ($97.99, Rona)

 ($99.99 Target)

And lamps that were too much like pods (a la "Invasion of the Body Snatchers").

 ($34.99 IKEA)

This lamp made me think of a weighlifter. Or a weird syncronized swim move.

 

 

 (Ashely Furniture, don't know the price)

This one was too gothic:

 ($10,917.85, Park Lighting)

There were giant eyeball lamps,

 

 

 ($34.20, Target)

and let's-make-a-movie, Baby lamps:

 ($349.80, Park Lighting).

There were futuristic deals that left me speechless ....

($1029.42, Park Lighting)

and landed UFOs:

($89.99 IKEA).

Feel like a little 1950s Hollywood frilliness?

 

($129.00 IKEA)

 

Or perhaps this "Victorian nightgown thingy" is more to your taste.

(I have erased all details from my mind).

 

There were furry floor lamps ....

 

($69.99 IKEA)

And lamps that needed to go to the bathroom:

($387.00 Lighting Universe) 

Apparently the "Tiffany" never gets old.

 

($210.70, Lighting Universe)

 

There were pretty lamps with pretty names -- the Leonina Chrome Fire (below) and I could not afford them.

 

 

($246.36 Ethan Allen)

The two-lamp lamp seemed all-the-rage:

 ($64.98, Lowes)

But then again, why stop at two?

 ($134.99, Target)

Once in a while I found a lamp I believed I could live peaceably with, but alas, it was never available.

 

$129.60, Lighting Direct Dot Com

 

Is it just me, or is there something slightly Jewish about this one?

 

 

($645.00 Lowes)

There were all kinds of takes on nature, from trees ...

 

 ($214.20 Lighting Direct Dot Com)

to elk adornments.

 

($92.65 Lighting Direct Dot Com)

There were two prong "what-the-hell's?"

($449.99, doesn't matter where it's from)

and Three s Company for this white light:

 



($308.51 Lowes)

 

I could have selected a lamp with Mickey Mouse ears, or pom poms, or lamps that played music.

 

I almost bought something at Lowe's, but thought it might quickly "date".

 

I was in the queue at IKEA with a floor and table lamp combo, but chickened out before the cashier got to me.

 

I returned to Home Depot. Changed my mind.

 

I found nothing at Pier1, Urban Barn, Structube, The Brick, Leon's, or the 25 other retailers I darkened the doors of.

 

Finally, on the verge of hysteria, I returned to WalMart. I was done. I stood before the lamps, shifting from foot to foot, palms sweaty, knees a-shake. I selected a floor lamp. I chose a table lamp, too, and spent a good 30 minutes deliebrating which shade to buy for it.

 

All those wasted hours. All that mania. And here's what it came down to:

 

 

 

Total cost? I don't freaking care.

 

But hmm ... that lamp shade on the glass-globed lamp. Don't you think it's a little too small?

 

 

 

 

 



To enter one's garden ....

Sometimes

 

On rain-sodden days, my lover

finds me transfixed

at the window, arms crossed on the sill,

chin cupped. He understands

it’s about the garden,

but he knows nothing of seedlings

and I don’t try to explain

how the neighbouring lupines—bleeding crimsons

into one another—prove

a higher power exists. Volunteer pansies—

they do this, too. A kind of tie-dyed

coalescence, each slightly different

and ever beyond mortal artistry.

 

 

 

To be civilized, truly, is to enter one’s garden

of a morning and take time

to cut and arrange flowers

for the dining room, the unremarkable sill

above the sink, the piano-top.

Perhaps to sit a while on a bench or step—

                      still damp with dew—

and be present

with the heralding birds.

 

                         —Do I make too much of this?

Gardens don’t prevent wars

or heal shattered relationships, but sometimes

on a rain-sodden morning

this modest patch of inner-city gumbo—

        immune to the hovering police helicopter,

        the perpetual siren-screams—

fills the heart of a watching woman

like a glass vase

                            left on the patio table

through the hours of a nine-day rain.

 

-Shelley A. Leedahl