Lord love a Canadian

So, what is it with Canadians and their maple leaf fetish? Everywhere I went in Europe, I could spot Canadians by the little maple leaf tags sewn on their back packs. I know the reason for the identifiers, but who really cares if I'm mistaken for an American? It's not like Americans are everywhere (well they are, but more in a military/industrial sense than as tourists in Europe). Most the tourists I encountered were European and were not necessarily a more pretty lot than the Americans. Perhaps, the scourge of the ugly American tourist has passed or everyone else has come up to speed making all tourists equally vulgar. What gets me about the Canadians is, who are they trying to impress their Canadian-ness on anyway? The doorman at their hotel? Their waiter? Who cares what a doorman or a waiter think?

Behind the Opéra Garnier, I went to a multi-media show on the history of Paris and found myself sitting next to a couple resplendent in T-shirts, wristbands (wristbands??!!), and baseball caps all with maple leaf motives. I'm sure they were a very nice couple, but there was enough foliage on these tourists to qualify as camoflage gear! Also, they are sadly misinformed about how pre-occupied Parisians might be about the nationality of these two (I'd say, not a bit). I was really tempted to lean over to them and say, "So, what part of Michigan are you from anyway?". Naturally, the first thing I did when I returned to my hotel room was rip all the maple leaf tags off my luggage.

Now I'm back in Canada and having a reverse laugh at Canadians and their quaintly self-conscious ways. In the bank today, I overheard an American tourist trying to get some money from an overly helpful teller. The American tourist told the teller that he was from Los Angeles and she chirped, "Welcome to Canada. I hope you have a wonderful stay". That impressed me because I couldn't imagine a European bank teller being that friendly. Polite yes, but not so singsongy about it. I was also struck by the farm-folksy way she asked the American if he would like his cash in "loonies and twoonies". I couldn't believe that she, a bank teller, would not know that "loonies and twoonies" don't really constitute Canadian currency and that our little pet names for our money are not known universally. Not surprisingly, the American just sputtered, "I have no idea what you're saying". Vive le culture shock, eh?

Land of hops and glory

Busy time in London and no internet access. Got an insiders view of London on account of staying with Nancy-Rose and Kara. So instead of London Bridge and Madam Tusaud's we visited Camden Town (went to a rock concert in Regent's Park), Soho, visited the National Gallery (why is it that medieval paintings means you get the gallery to yourself?) and finished with a night at the Proms (Royal Albert Hall). A real heighlight. London is super-grotty, but it can easily grow on you. It's very invigerating.

Adieu Paris, adieu France

Thank heavens for official bilingualism in Canada or I would never have managed speaking French half as well as I did. How else, with such a otherwise limited vocabulary, would I have managed to buy soap for "mon peau sensible" or to be able to describe my first ride on the Métro "Je suis bien agiter". Still can't understand why the shop keeper looked so confused when I asked for "de frommage 'old-fort'"... so much to learn I guess.

Anyway, here are some long awaited pictures from Périgord and Paris.

This first is Bergerac, I somehow missed taking a picture of either of the statues dedicated to Cyrano. Unlike Perigueux and Sarlat, Bergerac is a little gritty even in its gentrified old town. I like that, because it gives me a true sense of the age of the place. By the way, the people of this region are extremely polite and think someone from Canada is very exotic indeed.

Here's the lovely country inn I stayed in Sarlat. The menacing tree that caused me so much grief is just to the right of the photo. It too is scarred for life. I guess I should mention that I returned the car to the Toulouse train station at 1 minute to 8 (my deadline), so no questions were asked about its well-being. Je suppose que je recevrai une lettre d'un avocat français.

Here is the now famous restaurant where I had the best lunch of my life. It's at the foot of a cliff that has a vertical town that crawls (give me some poetic licence here) up the cliff to a medieval castle on top. The view from the restaurant looks out to the Dordogne valley and river with kayakers and flat bottomed boats. On the other side of the valley, an opposing castle could be seen. I was at the better castle of the two I'm sure.

The view from the castle is even more spectacular. Here is the castle from the top. Sorry, I have forgotten the name of this castle, but it's in Beynac for anyone interested with good googling skills.

Now to Paris, a few of my favourite photos:

Of course I had to visit the Paris Opera (really called Opéra Garnier, because there's a local need to distinguish it from the Opéra de la Bastille and the Opéra Peletier (which burned down in the 1873 causing a need for a new opera house)). Note the graffiti on the van to the left. I think graffiti is for modern cities what the plague was in the old days. It's spreading everywhere.

Here's the interior of the Opéra Garnier with the Chaggall frieze on the ceiling. Despite it being relatively modern, it completely works in the opera house. Chaggall matched the colours and captured the spirit of the building itself without being beholden to the style of a different age.

Isle de la Cité looking toward Pont Neuf (just beyond the bridge picture I think), the Tuileries, and the Louvre. Oh ya, the Eiffel Tower too. Paris has really good sunsets all the time. It's like Le Petit Prince - if you need to cheer yourself up, just go find a sunset to watch. Hence all the painters attracted here.


The best photos would have been from the Arc de Triomph, mais malheureusement, my camera died. So it's a bit ironic that I was on top of one of the best viewing places in one of the most viewed cities in the world unable to take photos. All I could do was enjoy the view. Things are so simple sometimes, aren't they?

Après-Louvre

It was only after I got up extra early, ate a good breakfast, packed some water and trail mix that I realized I was using my Whistler skills to negotiate my way around the Louvre. You see, the Louvre is huge - it's really huge - it's bigger than Whistler and Blackcomb combined (even including Creekside!). And the similarities don't end there.

When you enter through the glass pyramid, there are four 'lifts' that, once you show your pass, carry you up to the galleries. Colour coded maps are provided to make it easier to find your way around, and a smart art connoisseur knows to take lunch early in one of the museum restaurants or face huge lunchtime crowds. To take the metaphor just a little further, I would re-organize the Louvre in the following fashion:

All paintings that are not French or Renaissance would be classified as Green run (Colline de Lapin). These would include Flemish masters, any prints and drawings, and all art from the Middle Ages. Add to this, works from Mesopotamia, Persia, the Levant, and anything 'oriental' that is not Egyptian.

Blue runs would include Greek, Etruscan, Egyptian, Roman sculpture, French paintings of the 18th and 19th Centuries with the possible exceptions of works by Delacroix and Jacques-Louis David which would be classified as Blue-black.

Black Diamond runs would include the Venus de Milo, The Winged Victory of Samothrace, anything relating to Napoléon I as well as the Napoléon III apartments. The reigning Queen of Mogles would be, of course, the Mona Lisa. Only experienced art lovers could be expected to make their way through these galleries and anyone able to view all in one day would probably be Olympic material.

After all the jostling, photo taking, gawking, and the like, the fun part would begin Après-Louvre when everyone would descend from the galleries down to the surrounding cafés, put their sore feet up, order rounds of beer, slap themselves on the backs in a congratulatory manner, and swap stories of their art-bum adventures.

Je suis desolé mais...

Some French words that look like English words can be very misleading. Take for example, "Je suis desolé". I really hoped I would never have to utter those words in French. They sound so last-ditch. I could perhaps imagine myself saying I'm desolated that I smashed my rental car into a tree, but it would be very difficult using those words if all I did was step on someone's foot or bounced a cheque. Perhaps this explains why the French would sooner shrug than apologize - evidence of a shortcoming in their language.
Europeans are so much more conscious of saving energy than North Americans. In public places, such as restaurant lavatories, lights are on timers giving you a couple of minutes to do your business illuminated before having to fumble in the dark. This is also true of hallways in hotels, which is a bit of a hazard given the uneven floors and stairs. As I was leaving my hotel room I bounded down the stairs in the dark (hey, I'm practically a native now) only to miss a stair. Had I not been quick, I might have pitched down a couple of flights, but as it was, I grabbed the handrail using the same hand I was using to hold my plastic key card and caused the key to nearly crack in two. The remaining four flights gave me the time to compose my best French so I could explain to the concierge what had happened to the key. "Excusez-moi monsieur, mais j'ai tomber sur les escaliers et cette clé est cassé."
Then the heavens parted and I got to say it... "Je suis desolé." I half expected the concierge to look at me like I was some hysteric, but he just smiled and said that it was not a problem and the key could be fixed.

Off the Toulouse lauTrack

Okay, bad jeux de mots, I know. I've returned to Toulouse from the Périgord region where I had a few rural days. Despite the rumours of the entire population of France being there for their summer holidays, I didn't find it that crowded or crazy.
I think I should get some form of honourable mention for being able to find my hotel on a back country road, in a small town I’d never visited before, in the dark. And after a harrowing 14 hour trip trying to get there from Barcelona.
My troubles started really the day before when the baggage handlers at the Barcelona airport went on strike. I wasn’t planning on taking the plane, but thousands who were headed off to the train station bought up every available ticket to Montpelier. This left me with the slow train to Cérbere (on the Spanish border) instead. There followed two more train trips (one sizzling hot) before I arrived in Toulouse. Being late, I decided to rent a car to get to Sarlat (my destination), but had another shut down with my credit card (see previous entry), phoned VISA and finally got the car at twice the cost (the other car was now gone so I had to take the last ginormous one with seating capacity for eighteen. There ensued a madcap drive though Toulouse and onto the French equivalent of the Autobahn (toll booths and all) all the while me not knowing how to put the car in reverse (should I need to). Finally, I stopped at a rest stop and asked some kindly Frenchman if he could show me how to put the car in reverse. Can you Imagine? Moi, ¨Escusez-moi Monsieur. Est-ce que vous m’aider? Je me sens trés stupide.¨ Humility 10: masculine pride 0.
The Dordogne Valley deserves at least three weeks of my full attention - it's so beautiful AND tasty. Had the best lunch of my lifetime at a café underneath a medieval castle (pictures to follow). There is a good reason why French cooking is considered the world's best.

Notes to Self

Things I did right on this trip:
Bought the Keen shoes (excellent choice)
Prebooked first part of trip
Packed light
worked on language skills
created web log
rented car when public transport became unreliable

Things I did wrong on trip:
Didn't notify bank of travel plans
Didn,t have adequate back up plan when they shut down ALL my cards
Should not have run rented car into tree

In conclusion:
I'm a little stressed, but reminding myself that no holiday is complete without a touch of the unknown. All is well.