France
As John and I sit on the train to Italy, it is hard to believe that one week has already flown by. It has been a good week, as we adjust to traveling through Europe for four weeks. We arrived in Nice without any lost luggage, our flight only an hour late from Montreal. Collecting our rental car, we set out to my girlfriend Catherine's home in Speracedes, near Grasse.
Staying with Catherine and her husband in their summer villa on the side of a mountain has been voted by John and I highlight number one of our week in France, (WOW factor 10- more on my rating system later). They were extremely generous hosts, serving delicious Provencal meals and amazing wines, including an 82 Sauternes. Their beautiful villa, designed by Catherine and built just ten years ago, included a pristine pool where we swam away our travel fatigue. A picturesque walk up to the village of Cabris offered a panoramic view of the region. A beer at the local pub amongst the locals quaffed our thirst as the weather was very hot. Unfortunately throughout our whole stay here we never got to see the Mediterranean due to persistent low cloud cover. Perhaps next time.
After two days, we traveled the local highways to St. Maximin la Sainte Baume, excited to stay in converted convent. However, while the convent was beautiful, the 12th century stone building had it's drawbacks. It was extremely hot and the fan in the room was on a one hour timer, so that we would awaken in the middle of the night sweating. The staff were less than welcoming and the town itself did not have a lot to offer. The highlight of our visit in this town was one night's dinner: la pizza forrestiere, full of many different kinds of mushrooms. Sold out of a mobile truck with a wood oven, there was always a lineup of people waiting for the delicious pizzas. A bargain at ten euros.
Another of our highlights was reconnecting with our friend Simon who met us at the Fontaine Rotonde in Aix en Provence. It was great to see him after four years and we spent a lovely lunch on a terrasse, discussing all the changes in our lives. Aix en Provence is a lovely city, one that I would love to visit again.
Friday night, the mistral winds blew in, giving us some much needed respite from the heat. Saturday found us traveling the coastal highway from St. Raphael to Cannes. The Cote d'Azur is stunningly beautiful and yet rugged at the same time with mountainous terrain. The Mediterranean sparkled invitingly but we forged on to Nice despite the desire to stop and swim at one of the many local beaches.
The second top highlight of the week was our two days spent in Nice, (WOW factor 9). After a rough start (we searched the city for over an hour to gas up the car before handing it back in), we checked into the lovely Hotel de Flore in downtown Nice. Donning our bathing suits and grabbing our towels, we headed for the beach two blocks away. Or should I say, beaches. There are ten of them to be specific, all side by side. Let me tell you about the beaches. Most importantly they consist of small rocks and pebbles. There is no sand. I can't think of anywhere else in the world where people lay down their towels, then make a feeble attempt to smooth down a semi-comfortable area to lie on. And they come by the thousands to do this. Planes fly by us all afternoon, landing every fifteen minutes or so. Of course, if you are willing to pay fifteen euros for the afternoon, you could rent a beach bed in private areas. But as this is a month long trip in Europe, frugality is the order of the day.
Another surprising thing is that every woman on the beach wears a two piece, irregardless of age or size. I only brought my one piece so I feel very out of place. Supple young girls with firm breasts give way to middle aged women, followed by wizened old ladies whose skin has taken on a leather tone. John and I take turns swimming in the very warm and salty Mediterranean. Large waves pound the shoreline, sometimes making it a challenge to get in and out. But the feeling is sensational, especially after a day in transit. Cooled off, we sat back and ate our picnic lunch: sandwiches and beer. Yummy.
Our mornings in Nice were spent walking the narrow streets of Old Nice and visiting the local market filled with fresh flowers, spices, olives, grapes, garlic, bakery goods, homemade soaps and candies, meat products and fish. I love the Nice architecture with it's ocre colored apartment buildings with purple flowers hanging from the ornate metal balconies. Laundry fluttered from others. Nearby, a street artist plays an accordion. Every so often, we would stop for a European coffee in little tiny cups, yielding about three sips. But they are so good. I try to make the sips last so we can just sit and watch the world go by.
Then back to the beach. This time armed with recently purchased water shoes to protect our tender feet. We sit and watch sunbathers burn themselves black, all the while smoking one cigarette after the other. It made us wonder about their future health with the double whammy. Nearby four middle-aged men play cards on a communal mat. A beer-walla comes by selling cold drinks. Children squeal as they ride the waves, reminding me of my children when they were young.
Later in the afternoon, we headed back to our hotel room and open a bottle of rose that we bought during our touring of some of the wineries a few days ago. Provence is renown for its rose wines. A taste of summer, the crisp and fragrant wine quaffed our post-beach thirst. Some phone calls home on Skype to our loved ones make us feel connected again, then we are off to sample another dinner of traditional Provence fare, with more wine of course!
France behind us now, I will miss speaking French but look forward to Italy, especially visiting Cinque Terre. But that is another story. Next stop, la Spezia.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
Algonquin Park
Algonquin Park, July 2010
One of the highlights of this summer has been a camping/canoeing trip to Algonquin Park with my daughter Meg. She and I were very excited to finally be doing this trip, after talking about it for at least three years. Leaving the steamy, hot city behind, we headed out from Ottawa. Sweating profusely, we hit the highway, dreaming of cooling lake waters. As we progressed past Renfrew and Pembroke, the eight lane highway becomes four, then two, until eventually we were driving on a gravel road, dust rising like a plume behind us. Meanwhile, the landscape became more barren and remote.
As we drove, Meg and I discussed life dilemmas and our mother/daughter similarities: how we both love the Group of Seven, reading maps and crushes. We both love history, teaching and relating music to certain periods of our lives. Our closeness contrasted with the isolation outside the car window. After about two and a half hours, we stopped at a shack to pick up our life jackets, paddles and safety gear and headed another thirty kilometers towards the park. The sun continued to beat down, it was thirty-one degrees in the shade. Checking in at the park gate, we made our way to the beach front where we found our rented orange canoe waiting for us. It was aptly called the Alchemist.
The pristine Grand Lake beckoned us to swim, but first we had to load our gear: tent, sleeping bags, food for three days, rucksacks filled with clothing and camping utensils, and of course, our mosquito repellant. Oh, and two folding chairs. Our canoe ready, we paused to jump into the lake. The water cooled our burning skin. But we could not linger as we had a campsite to get to before dark. Slathering ourselves with sunscreen, we grabbed our paddles and launched our canoe. As we set off across the lake, the sun continued to beat down relentlessly, a haze rising in the distance. A couple of false starts caused us to return to shore to adjust the weight load in the canoe, its tippiness making us a little nervous. Soon however, we fell into a rhythm, the swishing of water echoing each stroke.
With map in hand, Meg searched for the first portage point. Eventually, the lake narrowed into a series of meandering curves, reminding me of life when we cannot see around the next corner, don’t know what to expect or exactly where we are going. Water lilies flutter on the water’s surface like dreams in our mind.
Soon we spotted our first portage, marked by a large yellow sign with a person carrying a canoe on his back and a measurement written underneath. Thirty meters, a piece of cake. Unloading all our gear, we carried it to the other side and then did the same with the canoe. Reloading, we paddled the narrows until we passed under an old train bridge and were greeted with the stunning vista of Stratton Lake, lined with towering forests of pines on all sides.
The sun continued to beat down and we splashed each other with our paddles to stay cool. Stopping at a beautiful camp site, we swam and I dozed off on a rock. We contemplated staying there but since we were not booked to stay on this lake, we knew we had to carry on. With a sigh, we struck out in search of our next portage at the far end of the lake. Forty-five minutes later, we found the rocky traverse. Sweating profusely, we stumbled over roots and rocks, back and forth until everything was on the other side of the rapids that had blocked our way.
St. Andrew Lake was pristine and clear. Delaying getting back into the canoe, we sat crouched in the refreshing water. We had no watch. Both teachers, we are used to looking at the wall to know the time. But there are no walls here and no clocks, so we were moving to our own rhythms. Refreshed, we canoed further into the interior; we appeared to be the only humans out there.
On and on we paddled. Fatigue set in and my shoulder blades began to ache. We canoed to the far end of the lake in search of a campsite as nice as the one we had seen on Stratton Lake. There was one lovely one, but for some reason there was a red cooler sitting by the water’s edge. I conjured up ideas for its existence there: campers were marking their spot and returning, or perhaps someone left it behind, or perhaps there were body parts in it, my macabre imagination kicking in. As much as we loved the spot, neither one of us was willing to investigate the red cooler. So we paddled on.
Eventually we settled on one of the sites that we had passed earlier, which of course meant paddling back. But it was worth it. Set in the pines, it had a sandy beach and a huge patch of lily pads. Happily we set up camp, pitched the tent, took a swim and poured ourselves a rum and coke. Clinking our glasses, we toasted our first day. Later, a visit to the ‘treasure box’ was a new experience for me, relieving myself while I sat on the wooden box looking into the forest. Back in the camp, the solitude was wonderfully peaceful. We collected firewood and filtered some water for the night. Meanwhile, I salivated at eating baked beans out of a can.
After dinner, Meg and I sat with our feet in the water and talked about life. About the males of Meg’s generation who are not ready to commit, who are reluctant to enter into adulthood with all its responsibilities. I wished that I had the answers to her nagging questions.
Dusk fell all too quickly and we scrambled to clean up. I tied our barrel of food high in a tree away from the campsite. We lit the fire but only sat for a few minutes, driven into our tent by the mosquitoes and fatigue. Settling into my sleeping bag, I contentedly anticipated a restful sleep. That was a delusional thought. Remember those lily pads? I should have clued that they were home to the noisiest bull frogs ever. All night long, they called out to each other with increasing crescendo, or was that just my fatigue making them sound like bullhorns? As morning dawned, I stumbled out of the tent, blurry-eyed and stiff.
After breakfast, Meg and I spent a couple of hours reading and writing. Eventually we grabbed our towels, packed a lunch, and headed out for a day trip, sans all our heavy gear. Gliding through the water, the canoe required less effort to propel. Our destination was Barron Cannon. Meg warned me that there would be lots of portages, which I was very excited about. The hours whiled away as we fell into the rhythm of paddle, portage, swim, paddle, portage, swim… The portages got longer, but each time we took on the challenge. I, in particular, loved this part of the trip. I had not portaged a canoe since I was sixteen years old. At 49, I was thrilled to see that I could still heft a sixty-five pound canoe over my head and hike the distance.
Lunch by a rushing falls, sitting with our feet in the water, was heavenly. Then back in the canoe. Paddle, portage, swim, paddle, portage, swim. By mid-afternoon, we finally made it to the Barron River. The canyon rose up on both sides, jagged sheets of rock ages old. Time immortal. Towering pines grow out of small crevices, defying nature. The river wound around, the sun continued to beat down. I leaned back on the gunnel of the canoe, closed my eyes and tried to imagine members of the group of Seven canoeing down the same canyon.
My reverie was soon broken by a darkening sky and worried, I suggested heading back to our camp site. We turned around and searched on the other side of canyon for first of the six portages that would lead us home. The traverse found, I volunteered and hefted the canoe over my head. Just as we reached the next body of water, the heavens opened and it began to teem rain. Gleefully, we stood there getting drenched. But there was no time to waste, so we loaded the canoe and paddled, rivulets of water running down our skin. Paddle, portage, paddle, portage; each time the portages becoming more and more difficult. The last one was the worst, with a daunting steep incline at the water’s edge. Sharp rocks glistened with rain. We haul the canoe up to slightly flatter land, then I portage it 850 metres, swatting the mosquitoes all the way. Back into the canoe. Paddle, paddle, paddle. Shoulders screaming, we finally arrived back our campsite, soaked to the skin but happy.
The second night, I slept better, the sound of the rain on the tent lulling me to sleep, my exhaustion drowning out the bullfrogs. As morning dawned with still no letup in the rain, we broke camp and headed back to civilization. But I vowed that I would return to Algonquin Park soon. The Canadian landscape will be forever etched into my mind.
One of the highlights of this summer has been a camping/canoeing trip to Algonquin Park with my daughter Meg. She and I were very excited to finally be doing this trip, after talking about it for at least three years. Leaving the steamy, hot city behind, we headed out from Ottawa. Sweating profusely, we hit the highway, dreaming of cooling lake waters. As we progressed past Renfrew and Pembroke, the eight lane highway becomes four, then two, until eventually we were driving on a gravel road, dust rising like a plume behind us. Meanwhile, the landscape became more barren and remote.
As we drove, Meg and I discussed life dilemmas and our mother/daughter similarities: how we both love the Group of Seven, reading maps and crushes. We both love history, teaching and relating music to certain periods of our lives. Our closeness contrasted with the isolation outside the car window. After about two and a half hours, we stopped at a shack to pick up our life jackets, paddles and safety gear and headed another thirty kilometers towards the park. The sun continued to beat down, it was thirty-one degrees in the shade. Checking in at the park gate, we made our way to the beach front where we found our rented orange canoe waiting for us. It was aptly called the Alchemist.
The pristine Grand Lake beckoned us to swim, but first we had to load our gear: tent, sleeping bags, food for three days, rucksacks filled with clothing and camping utensils, and of course, our mosquito repellant. Oh, and two folding chairs. Our canoe ready, we paused to jump into the lake. The water cooled our burning skin. But we could not linger as we had a campsite to get to before dark. Slathering ourselves with sunscreen, we grabbed our paddles and launched our canoe. As we set off across the lake, the sun continued to beat down relentlessly, a haze rising in the distance. A couple of false starts caused us to return to shore to adjust the weight load in the canoe, its tippiness making us a little nervous. Soon however, we fell into a rhythm, the swishing of water echoing each stroke.
With map in hand, Meg searched for the first portage point. Eventually, the lake narrowed into a series of meandering curves, reminding me of life when we cannot see around the next corner, don’t know what to expect or exactly where we are going. Water lilies flutter on the water’s surface like dreams in our mind.
Soon we spotted our first portage, marked by a large yellow sign with a person carrying a canoe on his back and a measurement written underneath. Thirty meters, a piece of cake. Unloading all our gear, we carried it to the other side and then did the same with the canoe. Reloading, we paddled the narrows until we passed under an old train bridge and were greeted with the stunning vista of Stratton Lake, lined with towering forests of pines on all sides.
The sun continued to beat down and we splashed each other with our paddles to stay cool. Stopping at a beautiful camp site, we swam and I dozed off on a rock. We contemplated staying there but since we were not booked to stay on this lake, we knew we had to carry on. With a sigh, we struck out in search of our next portage at the far end of the lake. Forty-five minutes later, we found the rocky traverse. Sweating profusely, we stumbled over roots and rocks, back and forth until everything was on the other side of the rapids that had blocked our way.
St. Andrew Lake was pristine and clear. Delaying getting back into the canoe, we sat crouched in the refreshing water. We had no watch. Both teachers, we are used to looking at the wall to know the time. But there are no walls here and no clocks, so we were moving to our own rhythms. Refreshed, we canoed further into the interior; we appeared to be the only humans out there.
On and on we paddled. Fatigue set in and my shoulder blades began to ache. We canoed to the far end of the lake in search of a campsite as nice as the one we had seen on Stratton Lake. There was one lovely one, but for some reason there was a red cooler sitting by the water’s edge. I conjured up ideas for its existence there: campers were marking their spot and returning, or perhaps someone left it behind, or perhaps there were body parts in it, my macabre imagination kicking in. As much as we loved the spot, neither one of us was willing to investigate the red cooler. So we paddled on.
Eventually we settled on one of the sites that we had passed earlier, which of course meant paddling back. But it was worth it. Set in the pines, it had a sandy beach and a huge patch of lily pads. Happily we set up camp, pitched the tent, took a swim and poured ourselves a rum and coke. Clinking our glasses, we toasted our first day. Later, a visit to the ‘treasure box’ was a new experience for me, relieving myself while I sat on the wooden box looking into the forest. Back in the camp, the solitude was wonderfully peaceful. We collected firewood and filtered some water for the night. Meanwhile, I salivated at eating baked beans out of a can.
After dinner, Meg and I sat with our feet in the water and talked about life. About the males of Meg’s generation who are not ready to commit, who are reluctant to enter into adulthood with all its responsibilities. I wished that I had the answers to her nagging questions.
Dusk fell all too quickly and we scrambled to clean up. I tied our barrel of food high in a tree away from the campsite. We lit the fire but only sat for a few minutes, driven into our tent by the mosquitoes and fatigue. Settling into my sleeping bag, I contentedly anticipated a restful sleep. That was a delusional thought. Remember those lily pads? I should have clued that they were home to the noisiest bull frogs ever. All night long, they called out to each other with increasing crescendo, or was that just my fatigue making them sound like bullhorns? As morning dawned, I stumbled out of the tent, blurry-eyed and stiff.
After breakfast, Meg and I spent a couple of hours reading and writing. Eventually we grabbed our towels, packed a lunch, and headed out for a day trip, sans all our heavy gear. Gliding through the water, the canoe required less effort to propel. Our destination was Barron Cannon. Meg warned me that there would be lots of portages, which I was very excited about. The hours whiled away as we fell into the rhythm of paddle, portage, swim, paddle, portage, swim… The portages got longer, but each time we took on the challenge. I, in particular, loved this part of the trip. I had not portaged a canoe since I was sixteen years old. At 49, I was thrilled to see that I could still heft a sixty-five pound canoe over my head and hike the distance.
Lunch by a rushing falls, sitting with our feet in the water, was heavenly. Then back in the canoe. Paddle, portage, swim, paddle, portage, swim. By mid-afternoon, we finally made it to the Barron River. The canyon rose up on both sides, jagged sheets of rock ages old. Time immortal. Towering pines grow out of small crevices, defying nature. The river wound around, the sun continued to beat down. I leaned back on the gunnel of the canoe, closed my eyes and tried to imagine members of the group of Seven canoeing down the same canyon.
My reverie was soon broken by a darkening sky and worried, I suggested heading back to our camp site. We turned around and searched on the other side of canyon for first of the six portages that would lead us home. The traverse found, I volunteered and hefted the canoe over my head. Just as we reached the next body of water, the heavens opened and it began to teem rain. Gleefully, we stood there getting drenched. But there was no time to waste, so we loaded the canoe and paddled, rivulets of water running down our skin. Paddle, portage, paddle, portage; each time the portages becoming more and more difficult. The last one was the worst, with a daunting steep incline at the water’s edge. Sharp rocks glistened with rain. We haul the canoe up to slightly flatter land, then I portage it 850 metres, swatting the mosquitoes all the way. Back into the canoe. Paddle, paddle, paddle. Shoulders screaming, we finally arrived back our campsite, soaked to the skin but happy.
The second night, I slept better, the sound of the rain on the tent lulling me to sleep, my exhaustion drowning out the bullfrogs. As morning dawned with still no letup in the rain, we broke camp and headed back to civilization. But I vowed that I would return to Algonquin Park soon. The Canadian landscape will be forever etched into my mind.
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