Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 210
April 25, 2015
Nice - Gordes - Embrun
Click to enlarge
The view of the courtyard from my hotel window in Nice
The Riviera - summer already!
The Nice flower market and my favourite flowers, renoncules.
A small selection of the spices offered.
Candies and little bowls, just what everyone needs.
A presence everywhere in France - young soldiers with machine guns.
The streets of vieux Nice. See those Matisse colours? He lived here for a long time.
Just to show that the Italians do not have the corner on over-decorated churches ...
On one side of the barrier, the 10% who pay for the privilege of sitting on chairs. On the other, the rest of us.
After my trip to Avignon to meet Lynn and Denis, on the way to Gordes we stopped at a market stand. Fresh garlic.
Lynn and Denis's garden in Gordes. Very old stone fence and many olive trees.
L, D and I had lunch with Bernard and Isabelle in the Alps. A spectacular wisteria.
The view of the courtyard from my hotel window in Nice
The Riviera - summer already!
The Nice flower market and my favourite flowers, renoncules.
A small selection of the spices offered. 
Candies and little bowls, just what everyone needs.
A presence everywhere in France - young soldiers with machine guns.
The streets of vieux Nice. See those Matisse colours? He lived here for a long time.
Just to show that the Italians do not have the corner on over-decorated churches ...
On one side of the barrier, the 10% who pay for the privilege of sitting on chairs. On the other, the rest of us.
After my trip to Avignon to meet Lynn and Denis, on the way to Gordes we stopped at a market stand. Fresh garlic.
Lynn and Denis's garden in Gordes. Very old stone fence and many olive trees.
L, D and I had lunch with Bernard and Isabelle in the Alps. A spectacular wisteria.
April 24, 2015
the second last stage - Montpellier to Paris
It's Saturday morning - I'm in Montpellier about to haul the enormous suitcase to the train station - the second last stage, the trip to Paris, one night there, and then tomorrow - HOME. Can't wait.
I wrote this to begin a catch-up a few days ago:
Thursday. A moment yesterday – standing in a grocery store in a small skiing town in the French Alps, talking on my cell to my daughter who was giving me details about her pregnancy and latest doctor’s appointment. I could not have felt further from home, the craggy snow-tipped mountains looming all around outside, a shelf of fine wine and Champagne in front of me – at a small ski resort grocery store! - and my daughter in Toronto talking in my ear.
And soon, soon, I will see her face.
But first, my Tuesday morning in Nice, where by noon it was full-on summer and the beaches were filling up. Sadly, as I’ve said, I could not visit Matisse or Chagall, as all the museums were closed – I had to stroll along the Promenade to the old town, visit the flower market, and buy piles of lavender as a gift. Found a hardware store that had been open for more than a hundred years, and from the clerk – who’d been working there 50 years – I attempted to buy a classy French chef’s knife for my son. But he advised me that it’s not done to buy knives as gifts, so I bought Sam something else, and something for Anna, and found other gifts. A good time. Sat on the beach in the hot sun to eat lunch of the bun I’d made from what was offered at breakfast. Back to the hotel to get my suitcase and to the train station, for a painless journey, again along the Cote d’Azur and then up into Provence. Well, almost painless. First I got on the wrong train and had to rush off, and then when getting off my own train I almost forgot my backpack. But otherwise painless.
Late Tuesday afternoon, friends Lynn and Denis picked me up in Avignon and we drove to the famous mountain village of Gordes, where they raised their five children in a huge stone house I’ve visited many times. We had dinner – as usual, Lynn can whip together something delicious and healthy in no time, with much wine and cheese and talk.
Wednesday morning we packed up and drove through the glories of Provence in spring, gold stone villages full of budding green trees, pink and white blossoms and spring flowers, to the town of Embrun in the Alps, where we had lunch with an old friend, Isabelle, and her husband Bernard. A magnificent view of the mountains that ring their town, which Bernard told us is very near where the German co-pilot drove the plane into a wall of rock. He said people living nearby didn’t hear a thing.
And then on through the growing mountains to the alpine town Vallouise, the reason for this trip. Those who’ve read my memoir know that in 1964, shortly after my family arrived in France for a year, my father arranged for me to leave Paris on the day of my 14thbirthday with a troupe of Belgian girl guides for a camping trip in the French Alps – in Vallouise. I hated every minute – didn’t speak French, loathed camping, didn’t know anyone. When Denis read my memoir, he wrote to say his family chalet was very near Vallouise, he should take me back some day.
So he did. as we strolled around the small town, I remembered being small, frightened, bewildered and lost, and was happy I’m now none of those things. Something new registered – the fact that the mountains there are not magnificent and snowy, just big, brown and rocky. I didn’t know France, and I also didn’t know mountains. They must have terrified me. They almost did yesterday.
On to Villeneuve, where Denis’s parents built a ski chalet in the 50’s, to which he and his siblings have continued to come with their children and now grandchildren. A simple house with no internet (AAAGH!) and no TV, just mountains and air. We ate and talked – and talked and talked, because this is France, and that night, lungs full of mountain air, I slept more soundly than I have for weeks.
This morning we went for a more than two hour walk along an alpine path, miles of jagged snowy mountain and fields on all sides, tiny flowers poking through, animals to be seen by the sharp-eyed – a few mountain goats in the far distance, an eagle, a puddle full of tadpoles, a family of marmots keeping an eye on us. What an array of experiences I've had this trip!
Home to read and rest – I MISS THE INTERNET – and then out tonight to eat fondue. Because – another part of the story – on the second last night in Vallouise with the Guides, we marched to a nearby village for a special treat, fondue. Only this 14-year old Nova Scotian hated the strong cheese and only ate the bread. I’ve always wanted to fix that loss, so tonight, Denis drove us to Briancon, an ancient mountain town, and we ate fondue – three kinds of cheese mixed with wine, heated in the centre of the table as we dunked the bread in the thick melted cheese and swirled it around our sticks. The giant pot vanished in no time. So so good. I have remedied a forgivable mistake made in 1964. A great feeling.
And mostly what’s a great feeling is that these are people I’ve known most of my life – Lynn, a best friend since 1967, and Denis, since Lynn introduced me to her fiancé in 1971. What Lynn is famous for is her laugh, and laugh, and laugh, we do. Today – trying to remember the profound lyrics to “My baby does the hanky panky.” Twisting in the kitchen. Remembering absurdities of our youth. Singing and dancing and laughing, these two grandmothers – though I only of one and a half grandchildren and she of seven and a half.
I wrote this to begin a catch-up a few days ago:
Thursday. A moment yesterday – standing in a grocery store in a small skiing town in the French Alps, talking on my cell to my daughter who was giving me details about her pregnancy and latest doctor’s appointment. I could not have felt further from home, the craggy snow-tipped mountains looming all around outside, a shelf of fine wine and Champagne in front of me – at a small ski resort grocery store! - and my daughter in Toronto talking in my ear.
And soon, soon, I will see her face.
But first, my Tuesday morning in Nice, where by noon it was full-on summer and the beaches were filling up. Sadly, as I’ve said, I could not visit Matisse or Chagall, as all the museums were closed – I had to stroll along the Promenade to the old town, visit the flower market, and buy piles of lavender as a gift. Found a hardware store that had been open for more than a hundred years, and from the clerk – who’d been working there 50 years – I attempted to buy a classy French chef’s knife for my son. But he advised me that it’s not done to buy knives as gifts, so I bought Sam something else, and something for Anna, and found other gifts. A good time. Sat on the beach in the hot sun to eat lunch of the bun I’d made from what was offered at breakfast. Back to the hotel to get my suitcase and to the train station, for a painless journey, again along the Cote d’Azur and then up into Provence. Well, almost painless. First I got on the wrong train and had to rush off, and then when getting off my own train I almost forgot my backpack. But otherwise painless.
Late Tuesday afternoon, friends Lynn and Denis picked me up in Avignon and we drove to the famous mountain village of Gordes, where they raised their five children in a huge stone house I’ve visited many times. We had dinner – as usual, Lynn can whip together something delicious and healthy in no time, with much wine and cheese and talk.
Wednesday morning we packed up and drove through the glories of Provence in spring, gold stone villages full of budding green trees, pink and white blossoms and spring flowers, to the town of Embrun in the Alps, where we had lunch with an old friend, Isabelle, and her husband Bernard. A magnificent view of the mountains that ring their town, which Bernard told us is very near where the German co-pilot drove the plane into a wall of rock. He said people living nearby didn’t hear a thing.
And then on through the growing mountains to the alpine town Vallouise, the reason for this trip. Those who’ve read my memoir know that in 1964, shortly after my family arrived in France for a year, my father arranged for me to leave Paris on the day of my 14thbirthday with a troupe of Belgian girl guides for a camping trip in the French Alps – in Vallouise. I hated every minute – didn’t speak French, loathed camping, didn’t know anyone. When Denis read my memoir, he wrote to say his family chalet was very near Vallouise, he should take me back some day.
So he did. as we strolled around the small town, I remembered being small, frightened, bewildered and lost, and was happy I’m now none of those things. Something new registered – the fact that the mountains there are not magnificent and snowy, just big, brown and rocky. I didn’t know France, and I also didn’t know mountains. They must have terrified me. They almost did yesterday.
On to Villeneuve, where Denis’s parents built a ski chalet in the 50’s, to which he and his siblings have continued to come with their children and now grandchildren. A simple house with no internet (AAAGH!) and no TV, just mountains and air. We ate and talked – and talked and talked, because this is France, and that night, lungs full of mountain air, I slept more soundly than I have for weeks.
This morning we went for a more than two hour walk along an alpine path, miles of jagged snowy mountain and fields on all sides, tiny flowers poking through, animals to be seen by the sharp-eyed – a few mountain goats in the far distance, an eagle, a puddle full of tadpoles, a family of marmots keeping an eye on us. What an array of experiences I've had this trip!
Home to read and rest – I MISS THE INTERNET – and then out tonight to eat fondue. Because – another part of the story – on the second last night in Vallouise with the Guides, we marched to a nearby village for a special treat, fondue. Only this 14-year old Nova Scotian hated the strong cheese and only ate the bread. I’ve always wanted to fix that loss, so tonight, Denis drove us to Briancon, an ancient mountain town, and we ate fondue – three kinds of cheese mixed with wine, heated in the centre of the table as we dunked the bread in the thick melted cheese and swirled it around our sticks. The giant pot vanished in no time. So so good. I have remedied a forgivable mistake made in 1964. A great feeling.
And mostly what’s a great feeling is that these are people I’ve known most of my life – Lynn, a best friend since 1967, and Denis, since Lynn introduced me to her fiancé in 1971. What Lynn is famous for is her laugh, and laugh, and laugh, we do. Today – trying to remember the profound lyrics to “My baby does the hanky panky.” Twisting in the kitchen. Remembering absurdities of our youth. Singing and dancing and laughing, these two grandmothers – though I only of one and a half grandchildren and she of seven and a half.
April 22, 2015
onward
In France, on the road with Lynn and Denis, no internet. More anon. Suffice to say: the cheese is good.
April 20, 2015
Chris Cameron's piece in the Globe
Chris Cameron, once a writing student and now a friend and sometime editor of mine, has a beautiful piece in today's Globe. He wrote it for class, refined it for our So True reading series, and rewrote it once again for the Globe. A great piece of writing. Don't miss it.
http://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/facts-and-arguments/no-hands-on-deck-embarking-on-a-task-without-a-set-idea-of-the-result/article24009214/
And for another dose of delight, the marvellous John Oliver has produced a video about the end of the world:
http://www.thestar.com/entertainment/stargazing_blog/2015/04/john-oliver-s-doomsday-video-is-the-best-thing-of-the-day.html?fb_ref=Default
http://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/facts-and-arguments/no-hands-on-deck-embarking-on-a-task-without-a-set-idea-of-the-result/article24009214/
And for another dose of delight, the marvellous John Oliver has produced a video about the end of the world:
http://www.thestar.com/entertainment/stargazing_blog/2015/04/john-oliver-s-doomsday-video-is-the-best-thing-of-the-day.html?fb_ref=Default
Nice.
Monday. I took a sleeping pill last night, had a very full sleep and feel human today. A day of train travel with a heaving stomach would not have been fun.
Instead this is a new kind of pleasure – a slow-moving Italian train heading northwest, and I’m sitting on the left side, of course, the Mediterranean side, as we follow the sea from Riomaggiore all along the coast of Italy to Ventimiglia, at the border with France. Seaside towns, palm trees, resort hotels, tall pink, cream or yellow buildings with dark green shutters. Wisteria, hanging in huge purples bunches; cacti, oleander, lemon, orange, redbud trees, and always churches, and, sparkling just beyond, sometimes only a few metres away, the sea.
I have the car nearly to myself. A few towns back, a group of Americans got on, and the woman scrabbled in her bag and discovered her phone and money had been stolen as she got on the train. “A bunch of kids were pushing me,” she said, “there were two young girls must have managed to open my bag and help themselves.” She went to look for them but not surprisingly, they'd disappeared. “Oh well,” she said. “They didn’t get my cards.”
A cautionary tale. Everywhere I go in transit, since the terrifying experience of leaving my handbag on the train in Montpellier, I’m always counting, “One two three.” My suitcase, my backpack, my purse. Keep them close. Plus there is a 20 euro bill in my pants pocket. That time in Montpellier I was left without even 50 cents to go to the bathroom. The one and only time in my life I’ve thanked the lord for Mcdonalds.
Of course it is a perfect sunny day. Poor BK and I had poor weather in Cinque Terre, cold, grey and wet, but we made the best of it – it wasn’t raining much, and we piled on layers and went out anyway. I will miss Brucie, but the two of us are such independent and solitary souls that though we fit so well together, we’re also happy on our own. What’s really marvellous is that we are neurotic in the same way – both of us thinking ahead nervously, anticipating difficulties, getting to stations very early, avoiding any possible stress – and yet stress hits.
Now he’s headed back to Firenze, tomorrow off to Venice for the day, then later to see a Piero della Francesca exhibit somewhere, and other day trips – an amazing man, making a life for himself every year in Italy, working hard – he has a teacher in New York with whom he Skypes weekly – to teach himself Italian. Such a fine appreciation for great art, which he teaches me. Luckily, there’s stuff I know that he doesn’t, so we balance, like when we’re listening to music in a restaurant and he says, Who’s that? And I say, That’s Chris Martin of Coldplay.
He is a warm, kind, funny man and I will miss him. But another treat’s in store – one of my oldest and dearest friends, Lynn, whom I’ve known since 1967, and her husband Denis. Three days with them. And I can do laundry. At last.
Later: I'm in a wonderful little hotel in Nice, once patronized by Chekhov which is why I chose it, and Lenin. In the little lounge where they put books left by guests, there are lots of books in Russian. A painless day of travel, except in Ventimiglia where I got a ticket to go on to Nice, dragged my bag in the subterranean passage to the train with ten minutes to spare, settled in and then realized I had not stamped the ticket as you are required to do. Had to drag my bag back down the passage and up to the station, stamp, and haul it back. Just made it in time. I hate that stamping business. Stress!
Arrived in Nice, asked a nice man at the station where my street was - rue Gounod - he accessed Google maps on his iPhone and pointed it out. A five minute walk and here I am, a lovely little room with a kettle. Made a cup of blessed tea and went down to ask some questions. SADNESS: I am walking distance from the Chagall Museum, which I wanted to see tomorrow, but it turns out that every museum in Nice is closed on Tuesday. Every single museum. Oh well, I said to the clerk. I guess it's the beach for me. There's a market, she said, and made my day.
I walked along the Promenade des Anglais, such a splendid avenue, had a bite to eat outside near the hotel - my stomach completely restored - and here I am.
One of the cream puff hotels on this huge avenue
I happened on an event on the Promenade- a red carpet with cameramen and these two as hostesses ...
cadaverous, criminally thin young women wearing almost nothing -
thin young men allowed to wear clothes and flat shoes.
Stick legs in very high shoes.
It was the pilot for a new TV show, apparently: semi-naked women starving to death and tottering in sky-high shoes with callow skinny young men. Sounds fab. Can't wait to see it.
The casino, or one of them.
The view from my restaurant table. I had a salade nicoise, of course - and two glasses of wine. Of course.
I am barely aware of news as I float about, but I did hear the terrible story of another immigrant tragedy off the coast of Italy. In every city here there are crowds of Africans who seem to have no means of support except selling bits of stuff - and yet they're desperate to get to the west. What can be done?
Instead this is a new kind of pleasure – a slow-moving Italian train heading northwest, and I’m sitting on the left side, of course, the Mediterranean side, as we follow the sea from Riomaggiore all along the coast of Italy to Ventimiglia, at the border with France. Seaside towns, palm trees, resort hotels, tall pink, cream or yellow buildings with dark green shutters. Wisteria, hanging in huge purples bunches; cacti, oleander, lemon, orange, redbud trees, and always churches, and, sparkling just beyond, sometimes only a few metres away, the sea.
I have the car nearly to myself. A few towns back, a group of Americans got on, and the woman scrabbled in her bag and discovered her phone and money had been stolen as she got on the train. “A bunch of kids were pushing me,” she said, “there were two young girls must have managed to open my bag and help themselves.” She went to look for them but not surprisingly, they'd disappeared. “Oh well,” she said. “They didn’t get my cards.”
A cautionary tale. Everywhere I go in transit, since the terrifying experience of leaving my handbag on the train in Montpellier, I’m always counting, “One two three.” My suitcase, my backpack, my purse. Keep them close. Plus there is a 20 euro bill in my pants pocket. That time in Montpellier I was left without even 50 cents to go to the bathroom. The one and only time in my life I’ve thanked the lord for Mcdonalds.
Of course it is a perfect sunny day. Poor BK and I had poor weather in Cinque Terre, cold, grey and wet, but we made the best of it – it wasn’t raining much, and we piled on layers and went out anyway. I will miss Brucie, but the two of us are such independent and solitary souls that though we fit so well together, we’re also happy on our own. What’s really marvellous is that we are neurotic in the same way – both of us thinking ahead nervously, anticipating difficulties, getting to stations very early, avoiding any possible stress – and yet stress hits.
Now he’s headed back to Firenze, tomorrow off to Venice for the day, then later to see a Piero della Francesca exhibit somewhere, and other day trips – an amazing man, making a life for himself every year in Italy, working hard – he has a teacher in New York with whom he Skypes weekly – to teach himself Italian. Such a fine appreciation for great art, which he teaches me. Luckily, there’s stuff I know that he doesn’t, so we balance, like when we’re listening to music in a restaurant and he says, Who’s that? And I say, That’s Chris Martin of Coldplay.
He is a warm, kind, funny man and I will miss him. But another treat’s in store – one of my oldest and dearest friends, Lynn, whom I’ve known since 1967, and her husband Denis. Three days with them. And I can do laundry. At last.
Later: I'm in a wonderful little hotel in Nice, once patronized by Chekhov which is why I chose it, and Lenin. In the little lounge where they put books left by guests, there are lots of books in Russian. A painless day of travel, except in Ventimiglia where I got a ticket to go on to Nice, dragged my bag in the subterranean passage to the train with ten minutes to spare, settled in and then realized I had not stamped the ticket as you are required to do. Had to drag my bag back down the passage and up to the station, stamp, and haul it back. Just made it in time. I hate that stamping business. Stress!
Arrived in Nice, asked a nice man at the station where my street was - rue Gounod - he accessed Google maps on his iPhone and pointed it out. A five minute walk and here I am, a lovely little room with a kettle. Made a cup of blessed tea and went down to ask some questions. SADNESS: I am walking distance from the Chagall Museum, which I wanted to see tomorrow, but it turns out that every museum in Nice is closed on Tuesday. Every single museum. Oh well, I said to the clerk. I guess it's the beach for me. There's a market, she said, and made my day.
I walked along the Promenade des Anglais, such a splendid avenue, had a bite to eat outside near the hotel - my stomach completely restored - and here I am.
One of the cream puff hotels on this huge avenue
I happened on an event on the Promenade- a red carpet with cameramen and these two as hostesses ...
cadaverous, criminally thin young women wearing almost nothing -
thin young men allowed to wear clothes and flat shoes.
Stick legs in very high shoes.
It was the pilot for a new TV show, apparently: semi-naked women starving to death and tottering in sky-high shoes with callow skinny young men. Sounds fab. Can't wait to see it.
The casino, or one of them.
The view from my restaurant table. I had a salade nicoise, of course - and two glasses of wine. Of course.I am barely aware of news as I float about, but I did hear the terrible story of another immigrant tragedy off the coast of Italy. In every city here there are crowds of Africans who seem to have no means of support except selling bits of stuff - and yet they're desperate to get to the west. What can be done?
April 19, 2015
our last supper
We went! I got out of bed and put on all my layers of clothes, because despite the sun, it was a chilly evening - going down to zero degrees in the night. We were perched outside right over the water, watching the sunset. A beautiful end to a beautiful week. Bruce got a two for one deal, because I could hardly eat any of my dinner. Couldn't even photograph it - pasta with shrimps and zucchini. But his was amazing, and he liked mine too.
A record - we ordered a quarter litre of wine and didn't finish it. That has never happened to me in the history of my life. Shocking.
I'll be back to my old self tomorrow. And alone. How I shall miss my dear compagnero. But not alone for long - tomorrow I get an Italian train to Ventimiglia and then a French train to Nice - I'll be able to speak fluently, at last. Get to the hotel about 8 p.m. Have the morning to explore Nice - I assume a walk on the Promenade des Anglais - then a 2 p.m. train to Avignon, getting in at 5, where my friend Denis will meet me and drive to Gordes, one of loveliest villages in France and where he and one of my oldest friends, Lynn, have lived for many years. Lynn says she'll be waiting with aperitif and dinner - two of my favourite words. I hope to be able to enjoy both by Tuesday. Wednesday we may drive to the Alps to visit a mutual friend and stay at Denis's family chalet, and who knows what, until Saturday when I get the train to Paris for my last night. Sunday HOME.
Only three more beds before I leave. By this time next week, I will be in my own bed. At least, that's the plan. I've learned to say that.
click to enlarge
A record - we ordered a quarter litre of wine and didn't finish it. That has never happened to me in the history of my life. Shocking.
I'll be back to my old self tomorrow. And alone. How I shall miss my dear compagnero. But not alone for long - tomorrow I get an Italian train to Ventimiglia and then a French train to Nice - I'll be able to speak fluently, at last. Get to the hotel about 8 p.m. Have the morning to explore Nice - I assume a walk on the Promenade des Anglais - then a 2 p.m. train to Avignon, getting in at 5, where my friend Denis will meet me and drive to Gordes, one of loveliest villages in France and where he and one of my oldest friends, Lynn, have lived for many years. Lynn says she'll be waiting with aperitif and dinner - two of my favourite words. I hope to be able to enjoy both by Tuesday. Wednesday we may drive to the Alps to visit a mutual friend and stay at Denis's family chalet, and who knows what, until Saturday when I get the train to Paris for my last night. Sunday HOME.
Only three more beds before I leave. By this time next week, I will be in my own bed. At least, that's the plan. I've learned to say that.
click to enlarge
last day with Bruce, boat trip, sick
I'm sick - got slammed in the night with a stomach bug, not nice. However - it's my last day with Bruce and we had planned a boat trip along the coast, so I thought I could manage that, and I did. He was very kind to the feeble old lady who accompanied him. And it was not actually raining, with a little sun every so often. The trip, despite everything, was glorious.
The boat stops at all the 5 little towns until it gets to Porto Venere, a much larger and less picturesque town at the end, where we all got another boat for a trip around some islands - not too interesting, but the sun was almost out and the air was wonderful. Then a great fish lunch right on the water which unfortunately, tragically, I could not share. And then back. BK knew I was really sick because I had no interest in food or shopping - a true test. I'm now in bed. He has taken the train back to Manarola, which we'd planned to visit before I lost my sea legs.
I hope I'm well soon because I've planned to take Bruce to a spectacular place for dinner, to thank him for everything. If not - next time. Get well, silly stomach. Right now, I am extremely glad to be in bed, moving only my fingers.
Click to enlarge.
Vernazza this morning
Corniglia, where we walked to our first day
Manarola, which we'd intended to visit together and Bruce is now. I'll have to come back, that's all.
The boat stops at all the 5 little towns until it gets to Porto Venere, a much larger and less picturesque town at the end, where we all got another boat for a trip around some islands - not too interesting, but the sun was almost out and the air was wonderful. Then a great fish lunch right on the water which unfortunately, tragically, I could not share. And then back. BK knew I was really sick because I had no interest in food or shopping - a true test. I'm now in bed. He has taken the train back to Manarola, which we'd planned to visit before I lost my sea legs.
I hope I'm well soon because I've planned to take Bruce to a spectacular place for dinner, to thank him for everything. If not - next time. Get well, silly stomach. Right now, I am extremely glad to be in bed, moving only my fingers.
Click to enlarge.
Vernazza this morning
Corniglia, where we walked to our first day
Manarola, which we'd intended to visit together and Bruce is now. I'll have to come back, that's all.
Boat trip part two
Riomaggiore
Hope you can see the houses and farms clinging to the mountainside - unimaginable to live there
Il Bruce
Porto Venere, where the boat stopped for us to load another the other boat, for a tour around 3 islands 
Old castles and amazing rock formations
And of course, everywhere, churches, even in the least likely places. And virgins on buoys in the water.
Bruce's wonderful lunch of the freshest fish soup in a fantastic fish restaurant on the waterfront
I took a few bites of the plainest pasta imaginable. So sad. What a waste!
This is the place BK and I are meant to dine tonight if my stomach settles - on that balcony, right on the water, watching the sunset.
April 18, 2015
If it's Saturday, this must be Monterosso al Mare
Click to enlarge
The view from my bedroom window in Vernazza. We are at the very top edge of town, where the cars come in on a tiny road and must park, because there's no room for cars in Vernazza.
We took the long - three minute - train ride to Monterosso to the north. Raining and chilly today, which we've decided makes it more pleasant as there are few tourists. But it's too risky to hike - the trails are almost all closed (as was the one we took yesterday, we found out!) That's our excuse, anyway, and we're sticking to it.
Another view of Monterosso. Apparently all the houses are a different colour so the fishermen could see their own homes easily from the sea.
The municipal building of Monterosso.
Fish nets. I don't remember the nets in Nova Scotia being red and purple and pink.
Can you see those crazy young tourists climbing down the cliff? Bruce refused to look.
But he did look at lunch, at the lovely Cantina del Pescatore I'd read about in TripAdvisor - a simple lunch of divine bruschetta - could I live on bruschetta? Yes I could if the tomatoes came from Italy. Mine had olives and anchovies caught here. Then tiramisu and espresso for dessert.
Our host. Bruce and I both wanted to marry him. Unfortunately his wife was behind the bar. I bought a package of risotto al limone from him to take home. So many people here look like faces from paintings - Giotto, Botticelli, Caravaggio.
Stairs stairs always stairs. Always flowers, plants and greenery and colourful houses.
There's a basketball net here. What if the ball goes over the edge?
On our way up to a church where, Bruce was happy to learn, there was a crucifixion painted by Van Dyke. We found the tiny little church way up on the hill. I refused to look much at the Van Dyck tho' BK told me this one did not have the usual blood dripping down. But I do not want to look at that man hanging there any more.
For confezione. (Guessing at the Italian here...)
While we were there, a group of people with a white-robed priest disappeared into the back, and Gregorian chant started. It was enchanting, magical - we were alone in this lovely little church, Bruce entranced by Van Dyck and then both of us by the centuries-old sound echoing around the centuries-old walls. I wept. Of course.
On the beach in the drizzle - there's a sculpture in the background carved out of the rock face of a man holding something up. We met Maryann, who it turned out lives in the West End of Vancouver three blocks from Bruce. Coming to Italy has been her lifelong dream. "See you in the Safeway!" he called as we left.
Always with the flowers.
A glass of blood-orange juice from the Pirate cafe just below our apartment. "The best you'll ever taste!" he said, and it was.
Right now, I'm listening to Nessun Dorma from next door, on BK's computer, music to die for. How could you not fall desperately in love with a country that has given the world so much beauty?
The view from my bedroom window in Vernazza. We are at the very top edge of town, where the cars come in on a tiny road and must park, because there's no room for cars in Vernazza.
We took the long - three minute - train ride to Monterosso to the north. Raining and chilly today, which we've decided makes it more pleasant as there are few tourists. But it's too risky to hike - the trails are almost all closed (as was the one we took yesterday, we found out!) That's our excuse, anyway, and we're sticking to it. 
Another view of Monterosso. Apparently all the houses are a different colour so the fishermen could see their own homes easily from the sea. 
The municipal building of Monterosso.
Fish nets. I don't remember the nets in Nova Scotia being red and purple and pink.
Can you see those crazy young tourists climbing down the cliff? Bruce refused to look.
But he did look at lunch, at the lovely Cantina del Pescatore I'd read about in TripAdvisor - a simple lunch of divine bruschetta - could I live on bruschetta? Yes I could if the tomatoes came from Italy. Mine had olives and anchovies caught here. Then tiramisu and espresso for dessert.
Our host. Bruce and I both wanted to marry him. Unfortunately his wife was behind the bar. I bought a package of risotto al limone from him to take home. So many people here look like faces from paintings - Giotto, Botticelli, Caravaggio.
Stairs stairs always stairs. Always flowers, plants and greenery and colourful houses.
There's a basketball net here. What if the ball goes over the edge?
On our way up to a church where, Bruce was happy to learn, there was a crucifixion painted by Van Dyke. We found the tiny little church way up on the hill. I refused to look much at the Van Dyck tho' BK told me this one did not have the usual blood dripping down. But I do not want to look at that man hanging there any more.
For confezione. (Guessing at the Italian here...)
While we were there, a group of people with a white-robed priest disappeared into the back, and Gregorian chant started. It was enchanting, magical - we were alone in this lovely little church, Bruce entranced by Van Dyck and then both of us by the centuries-old sound echoing around the centuries-old walls. I wept. Of course. 
On the beach in the drizzle - there's a sculpture in the background carved out of the rock face of a man holding something up. We met Maryann, who it turned out lives in the West End of Vancouver three blocks from Bruce. Coming to Italy has been her lifelong dream. "See you in the Safeway!" he called as we left. 
Always with the flowers.
A glass of blood-orange juice from the Pirate cafe just below our apartment. "The best you'll ever taste!" he said, and it was.Right now, I'm listening to Nessun Dorma from next door, on BK's computer, music to die for. How could you not fall desperately in love with a country that has given the world so much beauty?
April 17, 2015
Globe personal essay contest
Friend and student Rita just sent this:
For those of you who may not have seen it, the Globe announced today that, in honour of the Facts & Argument section turning 25 in June they are launching a contest.
For the week of June 8 - 12 they will run the best five personal essays they receive on the theme Moment of Truth.
“Maybe for you it was the the straw that broke the camel’s back, or perhaps you reached a pivotal point and made a huge change in your life - quit your job, left your spouse, moved home or away.” Sounds like some of the pieces some of you read in class.
DEADLINE: 6:00 p.m. May 15. Check out tgam.ca/essaygyude and send submissions to facts@globeandmail.com
For those of you who may not have seen it, the Globe announced today that, in honour of the Facts & Argument section turning 25 in June they are launching a contest.
For the week of June 8 - 12 they will run the best five personal essays they receive on the theme Moment of Truth.
“Maybe for you it was the the straw that broke the camel’s back, or perhaps you reached a pivotal point and made a huge change in your life - quit your job, left your spouse, moved home or away.” Sounds like some of the pieces some of you read in class.
DEADLINE: 6:00 p.m. May 15. Check out tgam.ca/essaygyude and send submissions to facts@globeandmail.com
