More about Life

Our final day. We got up late and checked out, forswearing breakfast in the hotel to grab tea, coffee and croissants at a café in the historic town of Lalinde. The coffee they served restored my faith in that great drink after a few days of our hotel's urn-brewed mud. The café was a curious mix of old men and loud urban music. We guessed the old men were there for the great coffee and not because they enjoy run-of-the-mill r'n'b played too loud.

We stopped at an Intermarché to stock up on some of the local goodies we'd discovered this trip. Mostly walnut related.

Dordogne airport leads a double life, I imagine. During most of the week, it is a quiet little flying club for enthusiasts, playboys and would-be terrorists. But two days a week, the airport becomes bedlam as half a dozen planes from budget airlines land, refuel, repassenger and take off again. Ironically, the time in the air is probably the least stressful for the cabin crew of these flights.

it is a tiny and chaotic airport with a management style that seems to be of the "manage by panic" variety. Several new airports use this method. Procedures and order are deemed too expensive and instead the staff react to everything second by second.

We arrived, checked in and tarried in the departure "lounge" for 20 minutes before the powers-that-be told us to urgently hurry to the gate. There only seemed to be one gate, and this is shared several other flights. So that the playboys, hobbyists and terrorists don't get disrupted too much - and so that they only hire staff for as small a period as possible - all the flights arrive and leave at about the same time. Sure, they would spread the flights out a bit and make it more relaxing for everybody, but airports don't make money from relaxing and money can be especially tight when dealing with bargain-basement airlines who cut costs at every single level.

Having been hurried to the gate, we had to wait some more because the panic wasn't justified as the plane hadn't even landed yet. In fact, we watched it land.

Dordogne airport is like a miniaturised version of a holiday town. For most of the week, it's a sleepy little place, a collection of sheds and a runway. But once a week, 5 groups of British budget tourists (as well as a couple of Beneluxian) fly into town and skew the local economy. Temporary customs officers, security officers and so forth are hired or sequestered for a small few hours. And then suddenly it's a sleepy little flying club again.

Of course it's not luxurious. You are herded from one room to another and when the plane lands you are herded onto that. But if you fly for the cost it takes to transport a cow, you can't complain that you are treated like cattle. Actually, cattle get better treatment as it is required by law that they feed them.

Plus, crammed into an animal pen for an hour I could take; but forced into a cramped chair and made to listen to screaming kids for an hour, is entirely another matter. For some reason our flight was the perfect one for families with babies. Everyone seemed to have with them a screaming, little brat as if it was the latest fashion accessory. And the louder your brat screamed, the hipper you were. (I think it's called something like "baby bling" or "bawling".)

It lead me to invent my latest device for improved air travel. The Sound-Proof Baby Capsule™. You know those headphones that eliminate outside noise so you only hear silence? Well, my idea is like that only in reverse and contained in a bubble. The ankle-biter sits (or stands) inside said capsule where he can scream, shout, yell, cackle, burble, call, bawl and drool to his little heart's content; but the sound is eliminated so we can't hear it. The capsule can be clear so that the parents can see their kid and the kid can see them. And I guess there should be some optional air-inlet apparatus because babies don't understand that their screaming uses up more oxygen than just shutting up. Anyway, this invention is patent pending, plus we need to do some health and safety tests – I mean, people could trip over them.

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Europe, Food, Transport, Travel

The usual breakfast maid must have been off today as the coffee was very weak indeed. Or they were expecting British people.

Apres le breakfast, we walked to the end of the hotel grounds and hopped over a disused gate onto a quiet country road. At the end of that, we recalculated and realised the forest we were heading for was further than anticipated, so decided to head up a narrow wooded path. But this soon began showing signs saying, "Private Property," or the French equivalent, and something about dogs. The signs were hand-written, which is always more ominous. After all, people who can afford fancy signs almost certainly have them there to keep you away from their nice stuff. Signs daubed on rough offcuts of wood seem to say, "please don't tempt me."

There was thick woodland all around us, but we found no paths in. The only one we did find ended in a small flat area of overgrown grass that was circled by bags on sticks. All very Projet De La Sorcière Blair.

We headed back along the country road. It took us to the outskirts of the village. At one point, we stopped off at one of those French cemeteries filled with concrete houses and ornate family tombs. In France, the dead often have better homes than many of the living.

One of the great finds this trip was cabécou, a goat cheese that Catherine does very well with. She has problems with cow's milk and sometimes even milks from other dairy creatures. She's not tried aphid milk. Once we found the main part of the village, we hunted around for places to buy this cheese in order to bring it back home and feast on it for the limited period it would keep.

As well as an inordinate number of hairdressers, the town has a vast collection of immobiliers, or estate agents, or (if you are American) real estate agents. I like the suggestion in "immobiliers" that they actually try to stop you moving.

Back at the hotel, our room was being cleaned so we sat and ate chocolate, watching the stream and admiring the bamboo forest. We were somewhat surprised to see a bamboo forest in Europe. Our conclusion was that the owner misses the colonial days of Vietnam or is harbouring a strange and terrible beast from South East Asia. (Perhaps a Malaysian vampire, a Myanma mummy or a Kung Pao Panda.)

After taking showers (pictures withheld) we wandered back into town. We made some young lass's day by spending a small fortune on French glamour in her cute little boutique and in return she told us her aspirations and long-distance relations. We then wandered and settled down by the riverside to paint and write. The sun was out, as it had been most of the day, and the scene was very conducive to artistic pursuits.

However, as we walked back, the rain started to do its thing. I also realised I was a little sunburnt. I burn very easily. My skin has the sunscreen factor of tissue paper. It is made almost exclusively of photolopustre cells that go instantly from bright off-white to a scary shade of lobster.

For dinner we ate at a place we'd seen earlier whose name I don't seem to have written down. However, I noted what we consumed because it was sumptuous: duck gizzards, filet mignon, cabécou, caramel d'Espelette (which I believe were something like caramelised hash browns). For dessert we had pear in wine and a great fruit and sorbet.

One of the key local fruits is the walnut. They use it to make cakes, oil and a great liqueur that we managed to have before pretty much every meal. If it had been available, we'd have had it at breakfast as well.

Wandering back past the Irish bar, we became fully aware of its lack of Irish credentials. The bar was open weekdays and nights, except Friday when it was only open during the day. Saywhatnow? An Irish bar that's not open Friday nights? Are they teetotallers? Is it a kosher thing? We were perplexed.

We walked back through the grounds of our hotel. One old stable had been converted into a games room and inside stood a fine table tennis table (where one could play table tennis tennis). The building was locked, although I'm sure we could have got the key. The trouble is it was so eerily dark and quiet in and around the almost certainly haunted stable, that we decided not to play. Instead we went skinny dipping at the old abandoned quarry. (That last bit wasn't true: we actually simply went to bed at the top of the old, old house.)

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Europe, Food, Movies, Shopping, Sport, Travel, Wildlife

Today there were actually people at breakfast. It rather spoiled the feeling that we had the hotel to ourselves. But we didn't take it out on them. We just said "Bonjour" politely. There was an older French couple and a younger one with a baby that expressed a general dissatisfaction with everything. It seemed a bit too early in life to be disillusioned. Give it a chance, baby. It even disapproved of the Brahms.

After breakfast, we drove to Campagne, a cute, little village with a church and castle and very little else. Then we went to have a look at the castle and village perched on the hill at Castelnaud, but the streets were filled with the staggering, undead hoardes of Vaykatiun, so we drove on. We passed by the PREHISTO Parc, which is something like an outdoor Cro Magnon Madame Tussauds (or Madam Ugg). We didn't stop, figuring it would be full of the modern world's Neanderthals, children. Instead we paid a wee visit to Sarlat, a medieval tourist town to buy shoes and bad chocolatines (or pains aux chocolates).

A very common thing on the menu in this area is Foie Gras. The word "Foie Gras" is derived from people trying to say "Fat Goose" with a mouth stuffed full of food. Foie Gras as you may know is the somewhat controversial liver of an overfed goose.

Après la, went we to Lascaux. This was somewhere well known to Cath, who has studied some art. It's the site of some of the best-known cave paintings (or peintures des caverns (I should really stop guessing at French translations)). The name didn't ring much of a bell to me, but the pictures were familiar. Cath was genuinely excited as she never thought she'd get to see them. Not that she actually ever did, because the originals started to decay some time ago and so the whole cave was recreated as accurately as possible in another cave next door. It's incredibly realistic, recreated using the old methods and materials. They had to keep reminding us this wasn't the real thing.



Since the discovery of the original cave in 1940, and the opening to the public in 1963, a little community of Lascaux cave-related exhibitions have sprung up. As well as the original cave (now closed to non-scientific humans), there is the recreation (Lascaux II), an interesting exhibit about how it was all done with possible interpretations of meanings and purposes of the pictures (Lascaux Révélé (a word which is clearly suffering from "acute overload")) and Le Thot. The latter we didn't make it to, but is the now-obligatory Madam Ugg-style museum with animatronic early humans doing all those things that people in that area would have done 17,000 years ago. Hunting, cooking, making animal-skin clothes, painting, and discussing the essential pointlessness of existence in between bouts of lovemaking. (They were still French after all.)

We drove back below La Maison Forte de Reignac. Basically it's a huge house hewn out of the side of a cliff. We didn't have time to go in, so drove under. But we suspected the most impressive thing about this was the view of it from the outside. Although apparently it is also impressive inside.

On our way home, we passed des châteaux, several fat goose farms, and drove through the pretty, pre-history-filled village Eyzies which seems to be hiding beneath an outcrop of rock.

We ate at the Restaurant next to the hotel. It was more expensive but not as good as the meal night before. My hard-to-read notes seem to say we had asparagus, foie gras and toad. I know what you’re thinking. "Asparagus, yuck."

Labels: Anthropology, Europe, Food, History, Language, Travel

Le Domaine de la Barde is a 3-star hotel in 5-star setting at 4-star prices. The breakfast was a little pricey, but respectable if little cold. It also has the decency to be available until 11. Most hotels think their guests are the sort of people who like to be up and out with the crowing of the cock. Decent hotels know that civilised people don't go in for eating breakfast at 8 am when they're on holiday. To accompany your food Brahms is piped in. All very civilised.

We walked around town, took in the tourist office and regarded the River Vézère. There is not a great deal to the village – it is, after all, only a village. It has 3000 people but a disproportionate number of hairdressers. To put it in perspective, we only saw 1 shoe shop, 1 clothes shop and 1 Irish pub on this wander yet 3 hairdressers.

High Tea (pain au chocolates, tea and orange juice) was consumed on the hotel terrace to the sounds of birds, running water and traffic. Most of the grounds are away from the traffic noises, but the terrace at that time, was not one of them. It was after all, a work day for those people who do that sort of thing.

Time Out Amsterdam called and asked if I wanted to interview a comedian the next day. Sounds glamorous, but it's the only time they ever called me. Probably because the first time they ever did call me, I gave the oldest excuse in the book: I'm in an old chateau in France.


Our room came with a basket of books in a couple of languages. One particularly excited me, La Grande Fenêtre. I'd only recently finished the original, The High Window, by a chap called Raymond Chandler. Of course in French, it's pronounced Raymon Sharndley. I never managed to finish the French version, as we'd have needed a week or two longer for that. But it felt good to do something to knock my French up a knot or two.

We had a good, well-priced dinner at the Hotel Le Cygne where the waiter even recognised me as the guy who asked for directions to a different hotel the day before. It was almost like a little jab to say, "I bet the people in your hotel don't remember who you are." I'm sure we tipped him well.

Labels: Books, Europe, Food, Language, Travel

Since retiring, my parents have become much harder to track down. It doesn't help that some years ago they bought a run-down little farm in the under-populated part of France (i.e. that bit which isn't Paris). So a couple of months of the year they are there, making the place habitable. Which two months of the year is anybody's guess. You never really know until the last minute whether they'll be there or not, because they answer to no one. No one, that is, except the bowls club in their local village.

So it happened that Cath and I who, at the time, were still answerable to the man, or I suppose more accurately, the men, booked our wee trip in advance only to find my parents couldn't be in France then and had to ship back to the UK. We could have gone to my parent's place without them being there, but it was quite a long way to go to end up surrounded by nothing but sheep. So we decided to not stray quite so far from the airport as all that. To this end we selected the village of Le Bugue in the Dordogne.

We flew on Transavia, which is the Dutch equivalent of easyjet. There is a Dutch equivalent of Ryan Air which is locking yourself in a car boot (trunk) and being driven there.

Bergerac airport is one of these tiny airstrips or air fields that have been hurriedly turned into an airport because of the increase in cheap flights. The list of airlines who use it is small and a summary of bargain-basement airlines. Most of which are British. Bergerac as you know was named after an ex alcoholic policeman based on the channel islands (or Les Malvinas as the French call them). A line of portacabins outside the shed where you collect your luggage represent all of the budget car rental companies. The portacabin for our particular firm was populated by a lone Englishman. A small queue formed but it didn't seem to bother him any more than he already was. It was not a great job, but in a country with so many English people with only adequate French, it's a rare "proper" job.

By the time we had our car it was dark. We had a couple of hours' drive along generally pretty good roads and through some great-looking villages before we arrived at Le Bugue. We drove around the village a few times and eventually had to stop and ask in Hotel Le Cygne where OUR hotel was. It seemed very insulting to do that. "Say you, man with a perfectly good hotel, where is the less conveniently-placed one that we picked instead of yours?" But the man was very friendly (and helpful) about it.

Our hotel for the next few days was the Domaine de la Barde, which we picked partly for the name, but mainly for it being a beautiful old place in plush grounds. The receptionist very kindly waited late for us and 'upgraded' us to a very large room in the loft with some curious furniture including a tiny rocking crib. The downside of the room was that the windows were very small but did offer a great view of one of the staff's motorbikes. A tree blocked the sumptuous gardens. On the plus side the bed was solid and firm and the room quiet and dark. We slept like two snug logs in a large ipod.

Labels: Anthropology, Europe, Geography, Transport, Travel, TV, Wildlife

"Anywhere I go, a fly girl will please me," NWA

Having checked in online, we didn't have to queue up at the check-in desk at the airport. However, as we had bags to check, we had to perform a queue up at the baggage-drop desk. The baggage-drop desk is a check-in desk relabelled "baggage-drop desk" at which you queue in exactly the same manner as you did when it was a check-in desk.

We were checked in, sorry: our baggage was dropped by Mevrouw Room (or Mrs Cream, which is clearly a name from some novel). After this we went through the security check, which is still called the same thing, but is now a much longer process.

Since shoes have been thrown at the last US president and belts have killed several actors and rock stars in hotel rooms, both are now considered deadly weapons and must be x-rayed. I am dreading the day terrorists hijack a plane by strangling the pilot with a pair of underpants. In fact in the 1974 sexploitation classic Deadly Weapons, I'm pretty sure Chesty Morgan kills a man with her enormous boobs. If the FAA in the US ever see this movie, I expect that boobs over a certain size will have to be kept in a resealable plastic bra.



After the regular security comes the extra travelling-to-the-US security, which employs the same travelling-to-Israel security techniques of X-raying things a second time and asking a lot of questions. They don't really listen to the answers, I've notices, but, I guess, to your nervousness in answering.

NWA is currently undergoing an identity crisis and can't decide whether it's called NWA or Delta. I think it should call itself something even more hip-hop like NWA vs Delta Posse featuring The KLM Crew.

The plane was from NWA, but the safety rigmarole (video) was from Delta. I hadn't seen Delta's safety rigmarole before; it's cute. In it a chirpy actress with an LA smile perkily tells you all the ways to avoid death. Or at least things to help you feel you can avoid it. It doesn’t help fill you with confidence when your ticket says, Destination: SEA. I preferred my first ever long-haul ticket that proudly proclaimed, Destination: SIN.

Labels: Anthropology, Europe, Movies, Science, Transport, Travel, US

I spent much of the day digitally scanning old slides from the 60s and 70s and ripping music from the 50s and 60s. It was clearly what you call a retro day. I remember thinking that as I sat there in my spats and zoot suit.



What wasn't retro was the edible bouquet that arrived in the morning. In these "Hard Financial Times" (as I believe the newspaper is now called), people consider flowers somewhat extravagant, not having a practical value. So the new thing is fruit in the shape of a bouquet of flowers. The fruits are peeled and shaped and stuck on plastic sticks. This being the US, some fruits are covered in chocolate. I'm not knocking it. In fact, the banana covered in black and white chocolate won several Saliva™ awards or the Droolies™ as they're known.

The county where Cath's parents live is dry. This doesn't mean arid, although Texas is somewhat desert-like; it means alcohol is not for sale. Anyone who wants alcohol and time, day or night, has to get in their car and drive as far as the next county. Although, in fact, the local law was recently relaxed and it is now possible to get some alcohol at certain places and times, although I'm not sure of the specifics. This was fine by me as I was using this week to have a rest from the old short-sighted devil called alcohol. It was a scheme that lasted nearly a week after I got back to Amsterdam.

The reason for all the earlier retro activity was that we were celebrating Cath's parents' 50th anniversary. There was a party, held at a nearby hotel. There was a bar, but it was not a bar-partaking group. Many of the kin being god- and beer-fearing folk. I can't say as I have ever been to a gathering like this where someone didn't get drunk, so that was a novelty.

There was a toast and everyone was given Champagne glasses. What was in the glasses was not actually Champagne, but cider. And it was not actually cider, but what Americans call cider, which is really fizzy apple juice. Even so, people had to be told this, as there was some concern that it was alcoholic. The uproar had they been told it was Champagne and they must drink it would be nothing compared to the uproar at a British wedding were they served alcohol-free fizzy apple juice.

The party had a lot of speeches and reminiscences about the happy couple, most often about how helpful and supportive they were. In Cath's family there are a lot of people who have seen and done a lot and paid witness to great social changes. To me it's a history lesson every time they get to speak.

The downside of many people being older is that they don't stay up late and party like they used to. Although for jetlagged people always looking for their next bed fix, that's not necessarily a downside.

We chipped in a bit to make sure the bar staff got some tips for the night. It's quite normal in America for bar staff not to be paid by the venue, but by them receiving the tips. To European eyes, it seems morally suspect, but Americans are generally happy with it as part of their culture as they tip almost everybody. I've put a jar by the bed just to see how strong this compulsion is in Catherine. Not very, it seems.

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Europe, Fashion, History, Music, Travel, UK, US

When I was a teenager cycling to school, I wondered at those kids who could cycle no handed. Steering a bike without direct use of one's hands seemed to be a form of magical control over one's environment. As a clumsy, awkward soul forced into a stringy, uncontrollable body, a state where any form of movement didn't feel like it resembled an epileptic ape break-dancing on ecstasy was something unobtainable.

Some people walk effortlessly into a room and the room makes space for them. I would walk in, barely missing the door frame and often even the air itself wouldn't part for me.

Many years lie between me and that self-conscious Kentish boy. I now find myself walking foreign cobbles and, more frequently, cycling on them.

A couple of years after coming to Amsterdam (supposedly for six months) I felt for the first time in my life able to try cycling with no hands. Amongst the Dutch, born on cycles and able to perform things on them that in the UK would only be done in a circus, it was a basic skill, but for me it was still a mystical overachievement.

On the first try, my hands tentatively left the bars; there was a wobble and they returned. They were off for less than a second but long enough for me to realise, despite the wobble, there was some small chance I could master this. After all, I had not instantly fallen off and been crushed by a passing steamroller. I worked at it; the brief period increased, but rarely got beyond a whole second. It was frustrating. The more I tried the less progress I seemed to make. I watched intently the people who could do it to see what I was doing wrong. They didn't seem to put any effort into it as if they were mocking me.

It was one of those wonderful late summer days where the leaves are getting excited about autumn but the clouds are still on holiday so that for a short period the sun is allowed access to every part of the city. It rests itself on the dark canal water that hides surprisingly well-fed fish. It shines in the stained glass above the doors of once-notable narrow houses. It glints off the cycle-bestrewn railings and follows you as you rise and fall over the bridges.

I was "fietsing" along a canal on a bike I loved despite being more rust than metal and having a propensity for punctures. The cool wind was in my hair, the sun on my face and I was surrounded by that pleasing combination of canal, narrow houses and gentle bridges. Suddenly it occurred to me I felt more at home here than in any other city I had ever found myself. Not that I belonged, but that here was a place that would happily accommodate me and that I could feel I owned in a way you cannot with larger cities. I was elated that a place could be seemingly as welcoming as a family and that, by accident, I had found a place with air that parted when I cycled through it. I was in such a state of contentedness I barely noticed I had taken my hands off the handle bars.

When I realised, I fought the urge to put them straight back. I made myself take in the achievement I had began writing off as impossible for someone like me. I asked my body what it was doing and it shrugged. It didn't know. It took a few times of doing it to realise that the secret is this: not to try. Just be relaxed, not worry and let the bike do what it does best.

These days I take my hands off the bars every chance I get. Sometimes to show off, I wave them around. When the mood takes me I celebrate the new confident, contented me by gesticulating like an epileptic ape break-dancing on ecstasy, just so that I know I never really did look like that.

Labels: Anthropology, Europe, Netherlands, Transport, UK, Wildlife

Today was the first day I managed a swim before breakfast. I think a definition of the active luxury lifestyle I aspire to is that of swimming before breakfast. Every time I do it, I think, I want to do this everyday. Then I forget about it for about 2 years before having the chance to think it again.

After a quiet day by the pool and a quick barbecue during which the next tenants arrived, several of us had to rush to the airport to wait for the Transavia (Latin for "late arrival") flight. Others were leaving in a few days, and Jochem and Claire were going off into the wilds of France to live in a tent.

The rich life in the Riviera hills is definitely a life I could get used to. It can be pleasant even when being clamoured all over by scores of children, which is saying quite a lot.

Labels: Europe, Food, Transport, Travel

It was another peaceful day high on the hills above the French Riviera. Even the noises that broke the silence, actually seemed to add to the peace. The constant cricket, the bird with a chirp that sounded like it was sneezing, the occasional jet and the odd child.

First and only port of call was St. Paul de Vence, a village on and almost behind the next hill, famed for being a haunt of artists. Nowadays it's a place for tourists and all the artists who live there, and plenty of others, have little shops. There are certainly some great places there for perusing art. And the town itself is a beautiful, old, walled affair and is particularly enchanting in the streets off the main tourist arteries. The latter are quite choked with international cholesterol.

After wandering around, we all met up for bieres et Oranginas at a large café next to a boules-playing area (pétanquerie?). Here we watched local characters demonstrate their skill at France's national sport. Chuck Norris and Deadly Pipe-Smoking Woman seemed to be thrashing the local mafia.

The trip inspired even more of us to do paintings. Our unimaginably generous host had bought a huge order of canvases of various sizes and invited us to perform art on them. It was one of those exercises that really shows you that putting paint on something and getting a pleasing result is not so difficult. Getting something great, is another matter, of course, but some of us succeeded. Us, not meaning me. Although I was pleased with my red background, that became a Rothko hommage.

Final game of the day was the name game, where names of famous people have to be described to members of your team.

For pictures see: Flickr

Labels: Art, Drink, Europe, Games, Sport, Travel

We all got off to an early start, although nobody as early as Ben who had slept in the treehouse and was awoken by the cracking of dawn which seems to crack in the treehouse long before it cracks anywhere else. Coffee was nabbed and then a taxi arrived to ferry us to the harbour town of Antibes.

French taxi drivers are consistent in that every single one will try to rip you off. It's part of their code. Like the code of black cabs in London which is to have an encyclopaedic knowledge of the city and political views somewhere to the right of Goebbels; and the code of mini cabs everywhere which is to only rob and murder you when absolutely necessary.

At Antibes, we hired two boats, as one wasn't enough for all of us. We even hired a captain. The larger boat left first and made its way to the bay of billionaires. Here, and elsewhere along the coast, were the houses of the very rich and the very famous. Many of these houses are surprisingly ugly, but all had a great view of the sea. These were the houses of the Heinekens and the BMW's of this world. Further along there were the houses of the Abramovich's and the Madonna.

The bay was a calm, clear area and a few of us jumped in to swim, watching out for the jellyfish that were then plaguing certain areas. In fact there was a lot of talk of these jellyfish, and their status had grown to that of some kind of alien invasion force. In the end a couple of loose ones were spotted, but not the floating mass many were expecting and certainly not the giant, laser-squirting mother-jellyfish I had been expecting.

We had quite a wait for the other, smaller boat as the first one didn't work and they had to get a second. When they eventually arrived, beer and champagne were ferried across by swimmer. After we'd had enough of being surrounded by the houses of the filthy rich, we moved along the coast past the mock Roman pile of Roman Abramovich. The house was the first one we saw with obvious security guards around. According to our captain, who has a story for every boat and building, Abramovich has a policy of only employing security guards who do not speak Russian. Which says a lot about who his enemies are. Our captain also had a Naomi Campbell story, and apparently she really is a bitchy diva, which was a little disappointing.

We passed other harbour towns and then sailed to a small bay between two islands where there is no current and the water awesomely clear. It's basically a parking lot for yachts. Million-, billion- and squillionaires park their boats in a small crowded area of water and show off their engineeringly-enhanced craft and cosmetically-enhanced wives. It's the ultra-rich equivalent of the car park on Skegness seafront. If your boat is not quite up to scratch, the water police come by and tell you it's too crowded and you have to move on. However, even if you have a huge yacht the size of Malta, if it looks okay, there will always be space.

After a little bit of sun bathing amongst the big boats, swimming in the Elysian waters and ogling the bellies of the rich, we moved on. The smaller boat went off for a bit of water skiing and we went to go round a couple of old sailing boats and the dock in another bay for more swimming.

The waters were pretty calm that day, which is good as I am not a great sailor, despite what some people might say. I was only a little queasy a couple of times. The kids faired a little worse.

After returning the boats, we grabbed ice creams and then a couple of taxis to rip us off back home. That night we played Werewolf until fatigue took us all to our various beds.

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Europe, Food, Games, Transport, Travel

The "dungeon" area where I was sleeping was devoid of windows and had nothing that could tell you what time it was. At the height of the day it gets no light or heat from outside and it is just as dark as it is in the middle of the night. It would be easy to spend half the day there thinking it was the wee small hours and emerge for breakfast only to find that dinner was being served. Fortunately, my body clock doesn't really like too much sleep and if I get more than I need I tend to feel worse than if I had got much less than I need. So I didn't emerge too late at all.

Mornings for me are pretty much as they were for my prehistoric cousins – who I am convinced lived in either Kenya or Columbia – foraging for coffee. Fortunately for me, things are easier now and I don't have to fight off caffeine-addicted monkeys to be able to pick, crush the beans and then spend four hours fetching water and building a fire. There are machines. Machines that not only, at the press of a button, crush the beans and find and boil the water, but also, I suspect, would fight off caffeine-addicted monkeys, if needed. And what's more I didn't even have to go and find and milk a cow – there was milk in the fridge.

It was a day for taking things easy. In fact, it wouldn't have mattered if I had had to do the monkey fighting, bean crushing and cow milking myself, there was time. And it was remarkable how in the warm bits of France breakfast almost merges into lunch into mid afternoon snack and into dinner. Between food and wine, people swam, painted, read and consumed sun. There was much getting to know our host's kids who are very hands-on and enjoy nothing better than climbing all over you or becoming a fast-flying "bommetje" heading for the water near you.

Soon it was time for a barbeque – one of the best ways to feed lots of people. In fact barbeques can always feed lots more people than you have. Once again the last event of the day was a game. Tonight, Apples to Apples in the palatial treehouse.

Labels: Drink, Europe, Food, Games, Travel

For the last few years, there has been an abundance of cheap flights to the south and middle of France from the UK. Recently the Netherlands has been starting down that route with its own cut-rate airline, Transavia. Transavia is very much in the easyjet vein, where the stewards and stewardesses are less and less waiters and waitresses but check-out assistants using the flight not to throw you a cubist meal, but to sell you train-station snacks.

There were five of us travelling together and we met up with two more at the airport. Two cars arrived to pick us up, driven by our hostess and an early-arriver. We were whisked out of Nice and into the nearby hills. Well, some people were whisked there. The sportscar went ahead with Jochem's hair blowing in the wind like a millionaire's moll, but the people carrier the rest of us were in decided to over take the sports car just as it turned off the motorway. Consequence was we missed the turning. We went on and on and on until the next turning. We paid the toll and came off; decided it was too complex to try to get there from this exit and got back on in the other direction. After driving all the way back to where the previous exit was, we discovered that due to one of those quirks that the French love to throw into their road systems, there was no exit on the other side of the payage (tolled motorway), so we had to go on to the next exit - pretty much just before the airport. We paid the toll drove round and came back on the other side. This time we drove somewhat less impatiently and took the right turning, paid the toll, and headed off towards the hills.

Obviously, we arrived much later than the occupants of the sports car, and they were already on the champagne, laid on for our arrival by our insanely generous host. Said host is the owner of said villa in said hill, which is a prime piece of real estate overlooking the coast and St. Paul de Vence. Even in the dark, the clear sky allowed us to look down and see the twinkles of lights that hinted of the playground of the rich and famous that is Nice.

As a side note, our flabbergastingly generous host had just been in Paris a day after Cath and I had (see previous entries). He had been there for the Bastille Day celebrations. The ones that we hadn't known about until we'd arrived and consequently missed.

Once the diffusion off to bed had started, a select few climbed up through the vineyard to the treehouse, which was larger than several flats I've lived in, to play perudo. The night was pleasant and there was talk of sleeping up there. But in the end everyone slept in their allotted places – including Ben and I in the "dungeon" in the bowels of the house - mainly because it involved only one trip.

Labels: Drink, Europe, Games, Transport, Travel

Between checking out and catching our metro, we had time for a brief wander about and to grab a perfect pain au chocolat and a santé which is a tasty almond cookie. The metro took us back to the Gard du Nord where we connected with the Thalys. On the metro, two tramps were discussing the state of they world and giving their view on national politics. The main thrust of their debate was summed up by one of them by saying, "Sarkozy merde."

The trip back was uneventful, except for the fact the whole train seemed to be filled with kids. As you may know I am a strong proponent of there being separate compartments in planes for families with children (or for just the children) and I am now going to add international trains to the remit. I have nothing against children, I just think they should have their own compartment, like smokers and plague victims used to have.

Despite being one of the shortest trips ever, it was great to get away and see one of the world's great cities again. Plus to speak some of my appalling French. Or Revwah, mez anfants.

Labels: Anthropology, Europe, Food, Transport, Travel

Saturday late morning, we arrived in Paris having had a very pleasant journey. We were fed and able to read, write and perform complex arithmetic. The reason we had decided last minute to wobble off to Paris was that Cath had relatives holidaying there. I'd met them the first time I went to Texas. They live in a huge house and their two kids have the whole basement as their play area. I'm seldom jealous of kids these days, but in this case I made an exception. We checked into our hotel and then soon arranged to meet them.

They were staying reasonably close by, but when you have kids, you don't just pop places, every trip is an exercise in logistics. Cath and I being unencumbered with offspring had just jumped on a train to have a mere 24 hours in Paris. Had we had kids, we would have had to tied them down so that they couldn't fall off things; and make sure there was enough food in their bowls.

We met them at the Bastille and immediately went to eat. Kids need a constant supply of food because as soon as they stop eating they start running around and burning it all up. We found a nicely placed but somewhat touristy café on the side of the square (which is actually more of a roundabout). A constant supply of ham sandwiches came in and various kids and adults had bits of them.

On the island at the centre of the traffic, a stage was being erected. This is because Monday was Bastille Day, when France celebrates the storming of the prison once held in the roundabout in front of us and the freeing of prisoners because they weren't rich. It's a great day to be in France, except we were leaving on Sunday.

Upon leaving the café, the traffic was stopped. Not for us, but because a large precession of people was coming down the street. Not anything to do with the Bastille, but as a protest against nuclear weapons and nuclear things in general, pretty much as all those years ago, gangs of people had marched by the very spot holding up placards stating "Ban The Guillotine," and "No Weapons of Mass Decapitation."



We had been given one recommendation by Claire the super-helpful, French girl from work, and that was the Promenade Planté. It's a raised walkway lined with flowers, bushes and the occasional pond. It's amazingly peaceful for aomewhere in such a big city. It was also a place the kids could run around and be relatively safe, apart from the risk of annoying a few Parisians.

After the walk to and along the Promenade Planté, it was time to refuel the kids. Nearby was a chain of Child-friendly cafes called Hippopotamus. In the end we only had a few Oranginas as time was pressing on. We had a date that evening with Alicia Keyes. Yes, Alicia Keyes. It hadn't been a plan to come all the way to Paris to see this wholesome, young arranbeer, but that's what happened. Or rather, what happened was that our kind hosts were already going to see her and bought us tickets.

The venue is a huge arena-style venue, and was packed to the rafters with enthusiastic French youth. The crowd was got into the mood by one of the Marleys. Old Bob stirred it up with quite a few little darlings and there are Marleys for every day of a fortnight. This one was Stephen and he certainly had his daddy's moves and voice. He had quite a lot of his songs, as well. And why shouldn't he? They'd otherwise only go to waste. Also running around the stage was a little kid waving the Jamaican flag for all he was worth. He seemed a natural on stage and was quite possibly a mini-Marley. It's comforting to know the world will never run out of Marleys.

Before the main act, there was a short film somewhere between the Blues Brothers and wholesome Disney comedy. It's purpose was to show that Alicia wasn't just another off-the-shelf R'n'B singer; She was on a mission, possibly from God. The video also plugged her charity, which does put her above most singers.

After the film came the girl herself with a show that had a lot of pizzaz in the modern R'n'B style. In fact the show often resembled a music video it was so slick and well-choreographed. From time-to-time one of Alicia's pianos popped up or in and she played along. Half way through, she declared that all she wanted to do was play her piano. This she did for three songs then it was back to the pizzaz.

We slipped out early to avoid the rush; waited for a taxi; and then went to a nearby hotel to have them call for one. As we were 6 people they had to call a people carrier, and for that they said they needed to collect 5 euros. It was clearly some rip-off she had just made up, but we were in no position to know that for sure and so handed over the cash. It must be quite sad to spend your day finding petty ways to con people out of piddling bits of money. We headed back to the area of the hotels. It was time for a late-night steak with onion soup. And to introduce the kids to snails.

Labels: Anthropology, Europe, Food, History, Music, Politics, Transport, Travel, US

SNCF is the French national train service. It is run, as far as I can see, for the benefit of its employees and as a cover for various fraudulent operations. One of its scams is the international ticket swindle and it works thus:
1. The website only allows you to order tickets for Thalys international trains, in this instance from Amsterdam to Paris.
2. The website gives you no option but to pick the ticket up before travel.
3. The only place to pick up a ticket bought via the SNCF is from the SNCF kiosk.
4. Whilst happily selling you a ticket from Amsterdam, the nearest SNCF kiosk is... in Brussels.
5. The con really kicks in here: Any form of cancellation only gives you a 50% refund.

So having ordered my ticket online via my slow work computer, and having tried to pick it up at Amsterdam station the day before, I found that I couldn't pick it up. I had to cancel it and order a new ticket from a reputable source. Believe me I had help to try and sort this out properly. The mother of a super-helpful French girl at work even went into a station in France on my behalf to argue it. It was a like a scene from "La Petite France," the French "Little Britain."

MOTHER He wants to cancel this ticket.
VACANT GIRL BEHIND DESK Why?
MOTHER Because he can't pick it up, because he is in Amsterdam and there is no Kiosk there.
VGBD I can give you the ticket.
MOTHER But he needs to have it in Amsterdam tomorrow.
VGBD He can go to the SNCF Kiosk.
MOTHER Do they have one in Amsterdam.
VGBD Oh, no. So what does he want to do?
MOTHER He wants to cancel this ticket.

In other words:
VGBD Ordinateur dit "Non!"

Anyway, despite the wonderful help from the most helpful French mother in the world, all she was able to do in the face of such faceless, circular bureaucracy was cancel the ticket (redeeming half the price) and give me the details to complain. I sent a complaint off, and have heard Sweet SNCFA. Next step is to use cyber-complaint techniques. More on this soon.

Anyway, with our new ticket we obtained entrance to one of the sleek Thalys trains. We were going first class because "first class" on Thalys trains is not much more expensive than "second class." This is because "first class" isn't really that much better than "second class" except they throw food at you and there are (sometimes) electrical sockets.

The staff are possibly the best in the world, except for perhaps Middle-Eastern market traders, at instantly determining someone's nationality and switching to it. They all speak French, Dutch, English and often German.

The train goes from Amsterdam to France via Belgium, which is the country in between in every way possible. To cater for tastes on both sides, breakfast included both hagelslag (chocolate sugar strands beloved by the Dutch on bread) and Laughing Cow (creamy processed cheese associated with the French, but actually seeming somehow more American).

Labels: Anthropology, Europe, Food, Netherlands, Transport, Travel

Following yesterday's Japanese Tea Garden disappointment, we decided to take no chances. Once we had dispensed with breakfast, we headed that way on the number 71 bus. The Japanese Tea Garden is an island of peace and serenity and expensive tea in the middle of a moderately relaxed city by US standards. It's only spoilt by occasional throngs of tourists of all nationalities. And the tea isn't really that expensive given the peaceful surroundings and the great snacks you get with it. There is even some tamelife (it can't be called wildlife when it's so placid) including fat koi, some happy crayfish (or crawfish, or crawdaddies if you're Texan), a myriad of pond skaters and even an oddly marked bumble bee that could only walk. What was great to learn was that in the Eastern European language of the two very Boratian gentlemen with 4 English-speaking kids "crawfish" is the word for crawfish. Maybe it was originally an Uzbek, Kazik or Tjerkminik word in the first place, but I doubt it.

Cath and I spent many hours discussing the way of dealing with homelessness. There is a lot of it. Many places have different ways of dealing with it. Most with some success, but the problems seem to be a) not too much is done, and often it's not initiated by the city but individuals who may or may not be able to get city funds; and b) the policy in each area is quite rigid and often somewhat different. And the fact is different people are on the street for different reasons and the best method to help them out is not the same for each person. Variable measures is even more expensive than a fixed, one-size fits all solution. I think it fair to say we failed to come up with the perfect solution.

On the way out of the park, curiosity took hold and we looked in to see the Shakespeare Garden. Fortunately, a pair of elderly cyclists were being told all about it by one of the park-keepers. It's a recreation of an Elizabethan garden. What was even more interesting to learn was the fact that whole park (Japanese Tea, Shakespeare and other gardens) is "built" on sand. (If you look on the (Golden Gate) park on the map, it goes right up to the sea). It apparently requires almost constant watering for it to remain a park and not become a huge dune.

We caught the bus to Haight (pronounced, The Bus to Hate - a great title for a terrible 1950s drama; although not as good as the sign on the tram "Haight-Casto" or Hate Castro! - great title for terrible propaganda movie).

San Francisco prides itself on its coffee. It considers itself the real home of coffee in the US and that Seattle is just the pretender who just gave us a lot of chains. In a minimarket (grocery store a few blocks off Haight, there was a selection of 5 coffees in flasks. People on the go can squirt out any one of these into a beaker, pay and continue to go. Five types of coffee is more than most bars offer. We had our coffee (okay, my coffee) over the street in The Sacred Grounds Café < http://www.sacredgroundscafe.com/>, a suitably hippy sounding name for an established but still somewhat disorganised eatery. There was a Hillary Clinton poster in the window which was now just ironic since she was out of the race. (That is at least until her assassins get to Obama.) The food was great. I had a sandwich with some great Sudanese chicken thing and Cath had falafel. On another table (the only other filled one for most of the time) a woman talked with a loud penetrating voice about the peace of meditation. She might have been ironic too.

The bathroom proved to be an adventure. To do it properly, you walked through the kitchen and on your left was a door unclearly marked Toilet. However, go through the kitchen and turn right, ignoring the scruffy barely-marked door on the left, and you end up in a cavernous area that leads down many paths. Some to stairs, another to an exit and a another one to a toilet marked "For pizza patrons only." This was locked. And anyway, we were in a cafe, not a pizza restaurant. I followed the thread of my jeans back and found the entrance to the lair. I fancied I heard what could have been screams far off in the distance. Presumably from the pizza place. Back in the kitchen I asked where the bathroom was. It was immediately on the left out of the kitchen. I would have felt stupid had not a girl appeared in the kitchen for the same purpose I appeared there a few minutes earlier. I let her go first and she immediately turned right. It wasn't me. The door was invisible.

We took 2 buses to the Golden Gate Bridge. (That is we changed, rather than went on separate buses.) The Golden Gate Bridge was once the longest suspension bridge in the world, and it is certainly one of the most famous. It's mainly recognisable because 90% of suspension bridges all look the same. From the look-out point, just before you get on the bridge by foot, you can look down and see an historic army fort. It's not obviously reachable from there, although it is clearly reachable by many people.

We walked about 1/3 of the way across the bridge and back mainly to say we'd done that. We had been expecting it to sway in the reasonably strong winds, as some guide books had suggested, but it didn't. Sometime around Portland we'd been past the bridge that sometime in the 50s or 60s swayed so violently in the wind it fell down. It's one of those piece of footages you never forget. And so when we read that the Golden Gate Bridge can sway in the wind, this is the image we had. We were both relieved and disappointed. Even so, without the swaying it was still not a casual experience for someone who is scared of heights.

I wasn't scared a bit.

We then took two buses to the coast to go visit the Seal Rocks. These are rocks where seals are known to hang out. At that time they were all rock and no seal. I guess the seals don't work after 5 pm. They must go to their night home and eat their fish suppers. Mind you, they're probably sick of fish.

We took another bus back to our hotel and steeled ourselves for dealing with nwa - navigators with attitude. Airlines, once companies of apparent generosity, are becoming very miserly and grasping. We booked two seats at the same time and when we came to check in, we were allocated seats miles apart from each other at different ends of the plane. Most available seats were in the aisle, but were "premium" seats, i.e. you had to pay to sit there. So they give you unacceptable seats and then make you pay to sit with the people you booked the tickets with. It was just a cynical, penny-pinching way of grabbing more cash off you. A complaint has been made.

We had dinner in a Vietnamese/Chinese restaurant not far from the hotel. The best thing about it was the aquarium display of potential dishes in the front. Of all the creatures only a couple of the shrimp showed any enthusiasm and were trying hard to get out of their tank.

On the way back, we encountered a chatty woman who was begging. That is she was sitting by the side of the sidewalk talking to passers-by in a friendly and kindly way. We spoke for a bit until she brought up the subject of kids. She explained she had 5, and that they were the greatest thing that had happened to her, but due to some mistake she could no longer see them. She burst into tears and it was clear she preferred us to leave her be. There was a story there and we were both curious to know and to help if at all possible. She was well dressed, well-groomed, and had she been walking along we wouldn't have thought beggar except that her shoes had seen better days. Sitting on a blanket on a city street is all you need to say beggar, it seems.

AAfter putting much thought into solving or alleviating the problem of homelessness, we came to few concrete conclusions, packed and went to bed. All we know is that there are people without any home and there are seals with two.

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Europe, Food, History, Politics, Transport, Travel, US, Wildlife

The US is a tipping culture. That is not to say it is a culture on the edge of a precipice, although in some ways that is true. I mean that tipping is a necessary part of social interaction. Much of the business you do will have some sort of tip/reward. It is different in the UK and other parts of Europe where tipping is limited to restaurants and cafes (and is roughly around an accepted mark but variable according to service, and often optional) and for bin men (who get a Christmas gift or else you rubbish isn't cleaned up so well in January). In the US it is customary to leave a gratuity for hotel room cleaners, give bellboys and door persons cash in their hand and even to tip taxi drivers. As a European it feels condescending and unnecessary to tip someone for doing their job, but Catherine assures me it is as part of the culture as haggling is in other cultures. It should be noted that wait staff in the US are often not even paid and rely on the tips which in most of Europe would be illegal.

Despite being one of the shortest flights since the Wright brothers flew for about 10 seconds, Catherine still managed to sleep. She is an inspiration to us all. We nabbed a fixed-price airport shuttle bus (plus tip, of course) to our hotel. The driver didn't speak a great deal of English and my Mandarin is not what it was, but we punched the address in the GPS and strapped ourselves in. On the way, a local also taking the shuttle bus warned us about dodgy areas. Don't go straight on or right out of the hotel, otherwise it was fine. The bus drove via the "straight on" route so we could see it wasn't the most salubrious sections of town. We vowed to avoid it during the small hours of night.

Having dumped our bags and freshened up, we decided to sample some nearby nightlife. We had two bars that seemed close in mind. The first, a blues bar had a Southern Swing band playing. But the $15 cover seemed a bit much for the one drink we were after.

The second place was further than it had seemed on the tiny map. It was closing up as we arrived. It was 10:30. Somehow we had expected better of somewhere of San Francisco's repute. As we wandered back, we saw that many restaurants and bars were closed by 11. It's not quite what we had expected. What WAS open was Borders bookstore and the Virgin record store (which I thought had gone out of business). So you can't get a beer at 10:30, but you can buy a book or classical CD. Is this really the message we want to give our kids?

So instead we grabbed a local beer from the late-night liquor store and partied in the hotel. Well, when I say partied, I mean Cath slept and I wrote jokes. Not being the cleverest of lambs, I had bought a bottle of beer, but had no opener. A sensible man with more attire on would have gone down and asked the porter, instead I used several coins and suffered a few lacerations to my fingers before I was able to get into the well-earned beer. Early settlers who had to wrestle bears for their beer would empathise.

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Europe, Travel, UK, US

A pretty lazy day due to heat and Keen not feeling 100%. Cath and I went for a walk through the woods just before the heat. There are two parts to the woods. In one part, according to local rumour, escaped Albanian prisoners hide out and attack everyone who enters. In the other part, on the other side of the road, animals scamper freely and birds eat seeds out of your hand. We went into the latter part. We didn't see many animals, especially not the wild boar that the posters promised, and nothing ate out of our hands, but on the other hand, we didn't see any escaped Albanian prisoners and were not robbed, kidnapped, raped or made to sing the Albanian national anthem under pain of death. I'm a bit sceptical as to the truth in these rumours, by the way. But not knowing the Albanian national anthem, it was best to be on the safe side.

In the evening, we walked into Tirrenia town centre. Keean decided he only wanted to be pushed half the way and would have loved to crawl the rest pushing one of his toy cars. As this would have made the journey last an hour, we (that is his parents) carried him.

In the trees, many a cicada (Italian: cicala) chirruped. We don't really have cicadas in the UK. They sound like crickets, but in the US they act more like locusts and every few years descend en masse to carpet the streets with their carcasses.

There was a funfair in Tirrenia. We all went on the kiddie roller coaster. It was about as cramped and bumpy as an easyJet flight, and Keean decided very early on it was not his thing. In a few short months, he'll probably be screaming to get on them, but not just yet. The merry-go-round was more to his liking. We then found one of those nice sedate racing cars they have outside random places that move about for 50 cents. Keean loved just sitting in it, spinning the wheel like a pro, but when we put the money in and the thing started moving, it was a different story. This he didn't like. He's certainly a cheap baby, in this respect. However, after a few more minutes just sitting in the thing, we had to make room for paying customers.

On the way back, we stopped off for a drink and a delicious home-made ice cream. I had fruits of the forest (Frutti Di Bosco, who sounds like one of the girls from the TV show) and pistachio (Pistacchio, who sounds like a little wooden boy with a nut for a nose).

Our evening hot drink of choice in Italy soon became orzo. This is a hot barley drink which tastes remarkably like coffee but with zero caffeine. That's less than decaffeinated coffee, which does have some caffeine still. Obviously during the day we were on the coffee which is great in Italy, of course, but usually served way, way stronger.

Labels: Drink, Europe, Food, Travel, TV, Wildlife

Where we are staying is one of those places where everybody knows each other. Actually, as we are staying in one of three villages that have grown and now over lap a little, I should say, where we are staying are three of those places where everybody knows each other, but that's just weird. On the street, in the bars and shops, people greet my brother and girlfriend warmly and make a great fuss of the little one. Along back streets are houses of cousins or aunts. It's a very cosy community. It's so welcoming that people have no problem to come into your garden if they want to speak to you and will turn up on your door and ring only if the door is not open. It's very different to the north of Europe, and in particular the Netherlands, where some families require several weeks notice of a visit, even if you are a son or daughter.

It helps if you have a toddler around. Babies and toddlers are great ice breakers. People who might have just said "hi," and wondered off, stop and inform the young-un how adorable he is, and how big and clever he is going to be. The kid, who on his most fluent days is only at the stage of shouting "car" repeatedly, accepts this with good grace, and will laugh whole-heartedly if he approves.

Even the house we're staying in is a big friendly place, where several parts of the family live on different floors. We were kindly put up in the room of an elderly relative who spends part of the summer upstairs with another relative. The room is full of pictures of Himself, as he is called in Father Ted. That is Jesus. A few are of him with his mum, the Virgin Mary. It's interesting that in many pictures we have seen of the two of them together, how big and grown up Jesus looks. It's presumably to give him some gravitas, but it does make it look like he is being carried around and breast-fed well into his teens.

We had never before experienced home Italian cooking. The stereotype is that there is lots of it, it's delicious, one portion is pasta and that as a guest you are encouraged to eat and eat. This all is fact.



The only stereotype I have for Italian TV is game shows with very hot women wearing very little. Again, the little we saw seemed to confirm this. One show that was on every night had two such women whose job was to smile at all times and wear negligible amounts. In between the bits where they presented things like prizes and doors to be opened, there were variety-style musical acts such as one-man bands, women who danced in an old style or tenors. There was also a confusing man in a Muppet-style suit who gallivanted around Mr Blobby style. Because he is not human (externally) he is allowed to molest the women, where as they are off limits to everyone else except the odd flirty peck on the cheek from the host. This law whereby Muppets are allowed to molest the womenfolk only applies in Italy, as those of us who remember the case of the State of California vs Mr Snuffalopogus will know.

It was interesting to note that in the UK, we would call the girls on that show, with the big smile, large chest and vacant expression, bimbos. It’s a word we heard a lot in Italy as it means baby or small child. In English, it wasn't always a derogatory expression towards women, it originally meant a bloke. By coincidence it came up in this context at this time as Catherine's holiday reading was a couple of PG Wodehouse novels. It's quite alarming how many words start off harmless enough but end up as derogatory expressions for women.

After dinner, we were introduced to a local lemon liqueur called Limoncello. Its a sweet after-dinner drink and is a wonderful way to wind up dinner and the rest of the evening. Ours was made by someone in the village so was pretty darn authentic.

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Europe, Food, Travel, TV

We arrived at Pisa airport to a good heat and were picked up by my brother and his mother-in-common-law. On the way back, we stopped off to buy several slices of pizza and two smells of cecina, thanks to a mix up in vocabulary. Cecina (pronounced checheena) is a flat Tuscan flan made of chick-pea and olive oil.

There are many stereotypes about Italy. One is that they drive small cars like crazy people on narrow streets. This is actually very true. The older people are, apparently, the more crazily they drive. The opposite to how it is elsewhere. We were told how recently a friend of the family was knocked down (but fortunately not too badly hurt) by an 83-year-old woman. The woman didn't even stop, or at least she wouldn't have if she hadn't hit another car. Fortunately the octogenooligan has since had her licence removed.

In the UK, it is the youngsters who drive likes bats out Surbiton and people get slower with respectability, perhaps with a brief fluctuation for some guys in their 40s. In Italy, young people too busy looking good to drive fast. It is the old folk, still vital due to good diet, who speed around like bats out of Livorno.

Another stereotype is that everyone is very stylish. Again, this is fact. Even in a small village, outside of a small town, people are stylish. Out for a walk on our first day we bump into a friend of my brother's girlfriend out walking her dog. She was better dressed than the average northern European girl on a night out. We later pass a jogger, perfectly colour-coordinated in black and white.

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I should mention that the trip to Italy is not random. It was in part to visit my brother who's staying there a month with his Italian girlfriend and their one-year-old son. Being half Italian, the kid usually looks pretty stylish, and even wears his nappies (diapers) in a jaunty, modish fashion.

Over the last couple of years, we have managed to just miss my brother several times when visiting the UK, and in fact had only managed to see the young-un once, shortly after he was born and merely a machine for turning milk into chemical weapons. Catherine had indicated it would be nice to see the little tyke before he starts college.

Keean is one. He loves animals, especially dogs, toy cars, digging and water. He also enjoys tasting local vegetation such as leaves and moss. He enjoys water so much that the lady next door calls him il pescino (the little fish). If there is a pool he can sit in, scoop stuff out of and pour elsewhere or lean in and simply splash, there you'll find little Keean.

Labels: Anthropology, Europe, Fashion, Food, Language, Travel

Time was, the aim of war was to lay waste to as much of the enemy’s land as possible, to was as much of the countryside with the blood as you humanly could and to leave no construction unburnt. This was all well and good in the days before flying began, but the world is different now. Last year’s war zone is this year’s holiday destination.

And this happens quicker and quicker. It took many years for Vietnam and Korea to really appear on the holiday radar, but Croatia, Serbia, etc have appeared much quicker after their spots of bother.

Given this and that despite being this year’s enemy, your neighbour could be the next top holiday destination for your citizens, it’s important not to leave a lasting legacy in the form of land mines and unexploded bombs. It’s also important to leave infrastructure in place and to not destroy too many hotels.

Plus people’s attention spans are much shorter these days. No longer as a species could we stand for a 100-years’ war. We want a quick, spectacular surgical strike taking out a handful of strategic buildings, plus the odd hospital to keep the sceptics happy, all ending after a few short days with a truce-signing ceremony at which Ashlee Simpson or Justin Timberlake will sing.

This may sound facetious, but actually this is exactly what Sun Tzu talks about in his early Chinese classic, The Art of War. He said “Generally, in war the best policy is to take a state intact” adding, “thus, those skilled in war subdue the enemy’s army without battle.” Almost exactly what I said. In fact the only difference is that at the truce-signing ceremony he wanted Coco Lee or Fish Leong to sing.

Labels: Books, Europe, War

Czech Out (Sorry, couldn’t resist)

Having checked out, we had breakfast at a place just over the road called Bohemia Bagels which is a real upmarket backpacker’s place, which is suitable given that we pretty much managed to keep on the tourists tracks our entire time here. There you can get unlimited coffee and great bagels for a few cents each.

After this we gathered our belongings and dragged them to the metro, passing on the way the theatre showing Golem the musical. The Golem is a tale of the old Jews of Prague about the time a Rabbi created a creature from mud in order to protect the Jews. In true Dr Frankenstein style, this playing God backfired and the monster ran amok. It’s now a musical (www.golem-muzikal.cz) although for a Jewish tale, it’s odd how in the logo the cross seems to be towering over it. Maybe it’s drawing our attention to the fact that Christianity is also a monster created by misguided Jews.

Again the metro and bus were very easy and there was very little waiting around. The tickets you buy have nice gold designs on them to stop counterfeits, but must mean they cost more than 80 cents you pay for them. It must be one of the easiest airports to get to despite having to change.

The flight was not too busy and fortunately Schiphol wasn’t too disorganised when we arrived. Of course we had a 20 minute taxi from landing to where the bus was waiting, and of course the bus from there rode over the kerb on its way to the terminal, because that is simply the route the bus has to take.

And we never did find out why there was a Church of St Paul at the Laundry. I guess it relates to the old carol...

While shepherds washed their socks by night,
All seated round the tub,
The Angel of the Lord came down,
And said, “Give mine a scrub.”

Maybe we’ll never know.

Labels: Drink, Europe, Travel

Cats

One thing that had been bothering us was the fact that every art shop, every bridge-side artist, every souvenir shop… all sell pictures, cups and sculptures of cats. Images of cats are every where in these shops, yet in the time we have been here, we have not seen a single one. How can the art establishment be so obsessed with an animal that is not there? There is a story there, we were sure. One clue was that many of them were in a particular style, with a crescent-shaped head. There was indeed a mystery afoot.

We climbed back up to the castle to check out one exhibit that sounded good. It was about alchemy, amongst other things. There was, however, no sign to it, but we found the building easily. The door was shut and unmarked, but was not locked. Inside, there was no mention of alchemy, the exhibit was announced as being about warfare. The box-office was closed, so we wandered by it and up the stairs to come to a glass door behind which several curator-type people were having a meeting. Probably about why the unsignposted exhibit was not doing well. Or to query the wisdom of turning the golden alchemy exhibit into a base-metal one about war.

On our way out of the castle, we noticed the history museum had closed too. Museums must be having a hard time. The toy museum seemed to be doing okay, though. We went back to the bridge via a different route than before and dropped in at the Kafka Museum Bookshop. The shop was bright and spacious, which seemed a little incongruous. Surely a dark, oppressive room would have been much more the thing. However the eagle-eyed, old woman in the corner eyeing everything you did was a nice touch. In went to buy a copy of The Castle, but there were at least three different translations into English alone and there seemed no choosing between them, nor reason to pay so much for such a book, so I left empty handed.

We stopped for coffee in the place next door and it turned out to be another in the Ebel chain. Here was the spot for a Café Metamorphosis or The Coffee Trial. The coffee was well earned as we hadn’t had any all day. After a huge bowl of latte the size of a soup, we crossed the Safe-Pocket Bridge and headed for the Jewish quarter.

It was Friday and getting dark so the functioning synagogues were busy with people celebrating the weekend. The main one had an armed bouncer on the door, and a few other heavy people hanging around the street. I recalled from the paper that there had been threats recently against Jewish targets from some terrorist faction.
Just down from the New-New Synagogue is the Old-New Synagogue. It’s a beautiful old building from the middle ages and looks more like a fort than a place of worship and has that haunted look.

Old-New Synagogue or Home of the Munsterbergs.



We scurried around for a bit to try to find stamps before we discovered that post offices here stay open late. We’re used to post offices considering themselves banks and opening for a few hours a day just so no one squats there.

Dinner was at our previous first choice, the Newtown Brewery, thanks to us reserving a place or, rather, getting the receptionist at our apartments to reserve. When we arrived the place was empty downstairs but reasonably busy on the indoor ‘terrace.’ So we wondered if booking had really been necessary, but when we left the place was packed again.

The food was typical Czech fare as in the other bars we had eaten. Plenty of meat; bread and potato dumplings with everything; some nod to other vegetables in the guise of sauerkraut or similar. All the menus we have seen so far have had a weight indicating the amount of food (or meat) you get next to each dish. This is the best menu idea I have had in a long time. Really avoids those annoying times when you order two dishes and find you have food in front of you for the whole bar.

The beer was good, too. They brew their own there, as the name suggests, and both the light and dark were tasty if a little weaker than others beers we’d had.

The downside to the place is it is on the tourist chart. Busses of Germans arrived while we were eating. On the plus side, they have a live accordionist playing while you eat. I think this is a plus. They seemed to think so. However he didn’t come over to our area and we only heard him, not see him.

Before we came here, we only knew one Czech guy. He is called Frantičak and now lives in Hong Kong. To me the name Frantičak is rare and exotic. In the Czech Republic, most of the men are called Frantičak. The accordionist in Novometský Pivovar was no exception.

Eventually, because we were tourists and these sorts of things send out tourist homing signals, we found ourselves back at the Racist Clock Square and decided to celebrate the start of Shabbat with a beer or two there on one of the several heated terraces provided for that purpose. They seem to be provided for tourists as no Czech-speakers seem to use them. The reason is clear when the bill comes. Having spent a few days getting used to Czech beer prices, it was a shock to suddenly find yourself paying airport prices.

In Prague, the real criminals are not in the metro which seems very safe, they are not on street corners, they don’t even appear to be on the Charles Bridge where they’re supposed to be. No, my friends, in Prague the criminals are running terrace bars on the Old Town Square.

Rip Off Square, Rascist Clock and Superspired Church.



We finished our drinks, soaking in the rich tapestry of accents around us, and then had a final night time wander around the area. We even cleaned up one mystery. In one art/tourist shop we saw a bunch of artworks of multicoloured cats many with crescent heads all by one artist, one Rosina Wachtmeister. She is very famous for these cute sorts of cats but seems to have no connection with Prague other than artists here are obsessed with her work. There seems to be no story of cats being carted off. Now the only mystery is what’s the story behind the Church of St Paul at the Laundry.

Labels: Art, Books, Drink, Europe, Food, Travel

Return of the Saints

Today wasn’t such a late start and began with a mission of food. We crossed the Pickpocket Bridge, which we are thinking of renaming as we haven’t seen hide nor hair of a pickpocket nor felt the rough touch of rogue fingers on our personals. I guess our fervent scanning for such ne’er-do-wells put them their guard. Pity as everyone else who has been here seems to have story about this sort of thing. I don’t even have the satisfaction of saying, “a petty pilferer picked the pocket of pickled Peter in Prague.”

Today’s levity was provided by some old guys playing jazz.

Czech Republic has a very enthusiastic navy for a land-locked country.



In the meantime, we have discovered that St. Goliath is in fact the patron saint of Czechs, St. John of Nepomuk who was thrown in the river and drowned by Wenceslas IV (not the good one). The good one, however, does appear several times. But apparently he’s not a king but a duke and not called Wenceslas but Václav. Personally I think there has been a mix up as I don’t know how a Good King Wenceslas could be confused for Bohemian Duke Václav. The duke made Christianity the state religion so it’s up to you to decide whether he was a good man or not. Wenceslas/Václav is depicted on the bridge at least twice and in none of these statues is he shown going out on the Feast of Stephen.

Other saints on the bridge include St. Jude of Thaddius, the patron saint of hopeless causes. It’s nice that if your cause is hopeless, you still have a figure to give you... well not hope, obviously, but I guess someone to moan at. Spiritually.

There’s even a patron saint of the godforsaken, apparently. Although what good a saint is going to do if God’s given up on you, I don’t know.

Saints here seem to be of the shepherd type (carrying a staff or crook) or the TV-repair type (carrying an aerial). This is presumably to reflect the old and new values we attribute to saintlihood.

Statues of an angel (l), shepherd (r) and TV repair man (c).



After the bridge, we climbed the steep road that goes up beside the castle, which was not nearly as steep as the one that goes up directly to the castle which has steps of Exorcistic proportions. There we located, as recommended by the local paper for non-locals, a Vietnamese Buddhist restaurant. Who’d have thunk it?

Inside was one of the most peaceful eating environments in the world. Soothing smells, music and half-light. It was the perfect time to renounce the meat and beer that generally constitutes the Czech diet. We had healing teas and overdosed on vegetables. It was one of the most calming, reflective and indeed healthy meals I’d had in a long time and we finished it up with some exquisite Halva. I left with an inner contentment but a serious need for a coffee.

As we were in that area, we meandered over to one of the city’s many monasteries. This one still (or rather again) partially in use, but also partially converted into a gallery and library. Not to mention a restaurant and a museum of microscopic wonders, but the latter was closed alas so we sulked off into a nearby park which has a maze at its centre. After about 30 minutes of rambling, we checked the map. Lonely Planet maps often have the feel of having been drawn late at night by two stoned Australians, but it was soon clear we had missed our intended target. In fact we were now back near the castle. We decided to give up on the maze. After all, if you can’t even find a maze, the last thing you should do is go into one - you’ll never get out.

Labels: Drink, Europe, Food, Travel

Boiled Sweets

Over the river is Prague Castle or Hradčany or Hardcandy if you look at it quickly. It’s a large, imposing affair on a hill overlooking the city, not unlike the castle in Kafka’s The Castle. It’s big. We didn’t go into any of the buildings, just wandered around the enclosed area.
As all good castles should, this one features its own convent and a toy museum. It also has a huge cathedral in the middle, complete with some of the most disgusting gargoyles protruding from it. Ugly, dog-like creatures some of them, other more human but with vast tongues hanging out. One or two were playing lutes. As has been previously established, the lute is the instrument of the pagans and evil-doers, a little like today’s electric guitar. These ones only needed white face paint to resemble a Kiss concert.
Gruesome Gargoyle





Kiss, Live in Prague




More Gargoyles




At the main entrance to the castle are those ceremonial guards that stand still for hours on end and display much more skill at it than those human statues although the public treats them quite differently. Despite the fact the human statues are not trained to kill.

Atop the gates, are some more statues. These depict saints engaged in Extreme Conversions. One holds a club aloft over the head of a sinner, the other is about to stab a second. None of this door-to-door pamphlets for these guys.
Human Guards dwarfed by violent saints




We wove our way down from the castle in the royal gardens. Built on a steep hill, they are layered and maze-like, connected by narrow steps. Partly restored by HRH Prince Charles (not wuite sure what he did exactly), it is a perfect place for a secret royal assignation. As said to Catherine on one of the secluded benches, this is exactly the sort of place a king would seduce a parlour maid. “Something like that,” she said. “Or perhaps where a queen would seduce a stable boy.” Something like that.

One of the garden areas is definitely in the French style (think of a bonsai Versailles). Here there was a fountain of a man astride a three-headed, water-spouting fish. As you’d expect he was just about to convert one of the heads to Christianity with big fat golden club.

Eight most common things to see in Prague

1. Marionettes
2. Black-Light Theaters (sic)
3. Churches
4. Russian Dolls
5. Absinthe
6. Chess Sets
7. Pictures of Cats
8. Cannabis Vodka

Gutenabend, eh

For dinner we tried a second time to get into last night’s first choice. We failed: again it was full. Popular place. We ended up, after a walk, eating at U Provaznice, a popular (mostly with tourists and ex-pats, I think) bar and restaurant. It translates as “At the Rope-maker’s Wife’s” and relates to the wife of a rope-maker who seems to have opened this or some other pub in order to meet men while her husband was away selling his rope. He came back found her at it and used some of his rope making skills to fashion a noose for her.
They had dark beer on tap, which was nice, and typical meat-heavy Czech dishes.

We shared a table with three jolly Swiss postal workers who made me think Switzerland must be the Canada of the German speaking world, covered as they were with Suisse/Zweis caps and the white cross on the red t-shirt emblem. I think I might start calling it the maple-cross. Or I might not.

After dinner, we caught the chiming of the Racist clock again, but this time in a better position to see the saints go marching by. Did I want to be in that number? Well I was. Saint Peter jerked by carrying a key.
Racist Clock: in action at night




On our further strolls we discovered the whereabouts of the fabled Sex Machines Museum but it was a little close to closing time and a little pricy to see instruments of pleasure that look like instruments of pain as well as all those devices of frustration: chastity belts, etc.

We also bumped into a drunken Irishman. What are the chances of that? He was looking for the fabulous bar of the end of the rainbow, or to be more precise, Harley’s bar, where apparently people eat fire and (according to the poster we saw later) men drink tequila out of the navels of young women. Anything to sell you smaller measures, I’d demand mine from the navel of a fat, old man.

Labels: Anthropology, Art, Drink, Europe, Food, Religion, Travel