Lagos

That's it. That's the title. Lagos. (That's Lagos, Portugal, and not the one in Africa.)

As our hostel owner said, there's not much to do in Lagos but eat, drink, and hang out on the beach or do watersports.

So we did (everything but the watersports -- it's November, after all).

First, we sought out a beach. We found one. For some time, it seemed we were the only ones to find it that day. Then some other people came along. But in the meantime, there was only the sounds of the waves and the gulls. And us.

The sand was golden, the sky blue, the sun warm, the water... not too cold. (I didn't swim, though I might have if there hadn't been what seemed to be a respectable undertow. I just waded.)



Then, later, we went for dinner. Again, at the recommendation of our hostel owner, we sought out a local favourite where the two specialties we were told to ask for were prawns in the house sauce and a large dish of pork and clams. The former was apparently no secret -- we sat next to the open kitchen and a steady stream of platters filled with huge, saucy prawns came off the counter. We found them amazingly tasty, if salty.

When you order the second dish, the waiter laughs and warns you that there's a lot of food. No, really, a lot of food. Like, more than enough for two people (even though it's only priced at about 9 Euros, which is the standard price range for a single entree). We protested that David could eat his way through almost anything -- the night before we'd had two whole fishes (a grilled seabass and a grilled silver bream... mmmm...) and at a churrasquiera in Lisbon we'd had a whole grilled chicken plus a dish of spare ribs (though that had been shortly following my gastro issues, and I was, no exaggeration, starving).

The waiter shrugged and put the dish on the order. When it came up behind David on the counter, my eyes widened. "That's a LOT of food," I hissed. He glanced up over his shoulder. "Mmm-hmm."

To our table came a heap of saucy, salty, oily pork cubes, sausage, clams, potatoes, pickled cauliflower and carrot, and small black olives. We stared at it. We poked at it with our forks. We even ate some. It was delicious (if salty -- are you sensing a theme yet?).

At some point, David sat back, looked at the plate, and said, "Have we eaten any of this?" There was still a heap of saucy, salty, oily pork cubes, sausage, and potatoes (we had picked through the clams, veggies and olives by this point).

Laughing, the waiter wrapped it up for us. It's sitting in the hostel's fridge at the moment, and will make a good brunch all fried up again.



Chef grinned at us from behind his counter, madly flipping salty-meaty-seafoody ingredients in his pan and setting bursts of oil on fire for the benefit of me and my camera.


David watched, thoroughly enjoying the show.



After so much excitement (and food), all we could do was go to sleep. So we did.

SUPER BOCK IS THE BEST!!!

So many names for this post.

Tropical Storm Dumbass.

The Day I Thought I Was Going to Die.

Thickie Comes Alive! (Like Frampton, but I'm not sexy in that 70s way (unless you were into the cop or leather guy from The Village People), can't sing and I have a shaved head (though I am hiding/harbouring curls currently) and I'm not from Down Under.)

Stepping Out. (I sorta wish I was Joe Jackson. The singer, not the baseball player. But I think he has bad teeth, which is not something I aspire to have.)

I decided on Super Bock is the Best! because that was the one that was most accurate. More on that later.

Jodi's been having some gastro-intestinal issues, and thanks to our friend Brigit, Rachel, Zarya (alphabetically!) and Zisimos (a Greek doctor we met in Barcelona at our hostel), she's been taking it easy and getting activated charcoal and acidophilus into her system to help her get better. We didn't see much in Barcelona (where the problems started) and Madrid (they continued) and while I felt like I shouldn't be out/about whooping it up, I was feeling cooped up. My primary concern was her health and happiness, since a wise man (Oren Rozen! BTW: If you're looking for a mortgage in Toronto/area, get in touch with him. He can be reached at 416.917.2346 or orozen@northwoodmortgage.ca and will work for your business!) told me that if his wife wasn't happy, he had NO chance at being happy.

Sage words indeed.

For a married man they rank up there with The Golden Rule.

So, we took the overnight train from Madrid to Lisboa/Lisbon Friday night and got in early Saturday. I've been looking forward to Portugal for a number of reasons. I have several Portuguese friends, two of whom are among my favourite people in this world, or any other. Spending time with James and Marcos is such a treat, and something that I miss dearly. I wanted to experience the people, the food, the pastel de nata (sweet egg custard tart) where they started and the port. OH THE PORT!!! Not to mention that after some expensive cities along the way, it would be nice to be somewhere that wasn't.

After a relatively on/off sleeping experience on the train (ear plugs don't help with rocking/stopping/starting of the train!), and a bit of a nap/lounge/chippy chap (AKA chit chat) with Jodi in our room, I decided I would venture out on my own. Bear in mind, I like to go places in North America (my “area of expertise” up to this point in my life) and overhear other peoples' conversations, and talk to strangers. I seem to have not listened to much my parents taught me - talking to strangers and all! Well, I do always show up at a function with something in my hand(s), I try my best to wear clean underwear (they're called “pants” in England!), I do have very good table manners (but don't always use them!), and I do VERY good laundry.

The truth is that most people speak a little bit of English in Europe, and if not, as my pal (and long-term/former platonic roomie) Emily said, facial expressions, pointing and using your arms/hands wildly comes in handy.

That doesn't change the fact that I don't speak Portuguese, even though I'm pretty good at impersonating Pedro, Marcos' dad. Mind you, I've never met him, but I think I do a pretty good job of impersonating Marcos impersonating his dad. Taking into consideration that Marcos' voice is 3 octaves lower than mine. I also like to use the “sh” and “zh” sound for “s”. “sh” if it comes before a vowel and “zh” if it comes before a consonant. This is someting I learned from Marcos.

I think I'd love to be here in Lisboa with Marcos, but that's a different story.

In any event, I wandered out of the very nice (up three flights of stairs) hostel in the city centre near Baixa-Chiado station.





I had a tourist map and conferred with the hostel lady (NOT hostile at all. All the women here are VERY helpful and friendly. Jodi watched Portuguese Idol with one of them, but she can tell you about that!) I had my camera(s). I had my umbrella. It called for “Light Rain”. (foreshadowing)

I didn't have any money.

FYI: All the pictures from the walk are up on Facebook.

I LOVE LISBOA!!! I love the roads/sidewalks. Mind you, they're marble/cobblestone and REALLY slippery (“Slippy” if you're Dylan from our HelpX stay!) if you're wearing Nikes and it's wet. Remember, “light rain”.

I felt alive and invigorated to be out/about and wandering around. Much like I do in NYC when I was there pre-Jodi/traveling companion. Mind you, I've done it a few times since we've hooked up, as she will do things that I'm not interested in. Like getting her hair done with the girls. I “do” my own thanks.

I was planning on heading towards the Santos Design District. It seemed funky and fun and I could window shop. Something we've been doing a lot of on this trip, since I'm not about to buy stuff (minus the bottle of 12 year old Cardhu for 30 euro ($200 CDN back home) in the Pyrenees – which was 22 euro in Barcelona!) and carry it around with me. I did buy a 2 euro t-shirt in Glasgow. And a 10 pound (that's UK money, not weight) shirt in London. I don't think there's a picture of me with my Stonewall shirt. I'll have to do something about that at some point.

So, no REAL shopping.

At first I went the wrong way, which was the right way, but I went the wrong way after the right way and after going the wrong way after the wrong way after the right way, I was going the right way.

Got it?

I was now heading in the direction. Down towards the water. The rain was still “light”. The roads/sidewalks were still slippery and I was happy. (I feel like I'm writing “The Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstein. “And the tree was happy.”)



My tourist map isn't the greatest map, but what can expect from a free map? Mind you, I'm not usually the map reader. Jodi's really good at it, and I'm usually driving, so she's usually reading the maps. This is something I should probably do more often. (foreshadowing).

I saw a bank machine and after fishing my new special travel wallet out – it's the velcro-closing, small-but-big-enough-strap-to-go-around-my-belt Eddie Bauer travel cutlery holder (minus the travel cutlery) and it goes in my pants (that's jeans/dungarees/trousers/MEC long-legged apparel and my not undergarments – unless I put it in too far, in which case it makes me feel “special” in a WHOLE new way). Getting it out at times can be a challenge. As I was trying to fish it out, a woman came up and said something to me in Portuguese. I did a Charlie Chaplin/Laurel & Hardy head/facial expression job, and waved her ahead of me. As I not-so-blissfully tried to figure out where my wallet was.

A-HA! (not the 80s Scandinavian (Swedish?) band) I found it! I felt like a baby that just discovered their feet. But different.

I got my money and was back on my way. After taking a picture or two of art work and palm trees.





Palm trees. Tropical. Tropical storm?

As I walked I saw a bunch of big squares with statues dedicated to military folks (AKA men) and lots of street names that weren't on my map.





I wanted to get down to Avenida Vente e Quatro de Julho. I eventually got there. The sidewalks are quite narrow at times and it's pretty commercial/industrial and not so “window shopping” friendly.

I sensed that I should be “up” from the street I was on, but I saw IT. A bridge. When I'm in NYC, I love to walk across the bridges. LOVE LOVE LOVE to do it. That was what I was going to do. Get to the bridge (the one at Ponte 25 de Abril), go up and take pictures from there. So I was on a mission. To get to the bridge.

Lesson: Don't always try to duplicate what you do in one city/country when in another.

I saw “Banco BiG”. Big Banks really do exist in Portugal!



I saw PAINFULLY crooked/messed up stairs. Several times.



I saw fun graffiti – and I do love my graffiti! (not an example of the really good graffiti I saw, but it was fun nonetheless. Since I don't think of the Beach Boys as Portuguese, but there are beaches here, with boys.)



I saw a really fun rainbow-type design on the side of an on-off ramp.





I saw a very amateurish looking street cover/plate/thing.



I wasn't really paying attention to where I was going, other than chasing the bridge. The bridge that I couldn't get to. So I turned right in an attempt to get to the bridge, not noticing that the landmark that I wasn't looking at (The Museu do Oriente) was there, and I thought I was somewhere else. (Again, foreshadowing and crappy map reading and me just being....ME!)



I figured, that much like Toronto, Lisboa would allow me to go north, south, east, west easily. NOT! I thought I was going north, but I was going north-east. I thought I was going east, but I was going north-east. Before I knew it, I was walking through a bit of a restaurant/bar area.

The skies opened up. And I mean they bloody-well OPENED UP LARGE AND IN CHARGE!!! The light rains were now heavy rains. And a bit of wind to throw in the mix. After all, Lisboa is on the Atlantic. So I was getting soaked. But I was prepared, in that the camera was in my Goretex MEC jacket (which held up VERY well thank you, for the second time on the trip in rain), I was wearing my lightweight MEC pants (MEC is Mountain Equipment Co-Op for those non-Canadians) which dry quickly, and I was wearing my Nikes, 'cause they seemed more appropriate/lighter/more comfy for walking than my hiking boots. But not as water resistant. Oh well. Can't win 'em all. Oh ya, there was also my wee umbrella, which held up well and my $3 hat that I figured I would have chucked by now, but it seems to be THE trip hat.

The smart thing to do would have been to go to a little restaurant/sandwich shop, have a sammich and a beer and then head back. Am I smart? NOPE! I decided I should walk along the road that wasn't going east, but north-east.

I went up a hill and to what I thought was a dead-end. I thought I was going to get mugged or hit by a car. I didn't. I went down the hill and ended up at the railway lines. I could have turned around, but figured I'd get mugged or hit by a car, so I crossed them. I looked both ways. SEVERAL TIMES. No trains. I remembered the third rail is the electrified one, but that's in Toronto. It was raining. If any of them were electrified, I figured I shouldn't step on them. I crossed. I went back to take a picture.

It seemed right.



Instead of turning left and going back, I went right and carried on. Why go back the way you came in a city you don't know, with a map that doesn't show all the streets, when you can carry on going north-east when you think you're going east? Geez, DUMB QUESTION!!!

I went by what looked like assisted housing/projects/government housing/social housing, call it what you want. They were bright and pretty but looked depressing/depressed. (This shot is not the best example)



They were in the middle of nowhere (where I was mind you), by highways and train tracks. People didn't willingly live in places like this. Since I teach in a government-housing neighbourhood that has a VERY bad reputation (some of it rightly deserved) I figured that as an outsider I was at risk. I was going to get mugged, stabbed, shot, beaten up. You name it. I was done for.

But I continued to take pictures. Like the bridge that goes over the road, the steps that lead up to the bridge and the grass worn away on the median where the people jay-walk to get to the bus stop.







If I was going to die, I wanted to at least have a chance of my photo story being told. I know, it's overly dramatic, but hey...I have a vivid/active imagination.

I thought about how I needed to get over the next little rise, so that I'd see stores and restaurants and bars and city life. It didn't happen. I kept saying to myself that I should turn around. Not listening to myself shouldn't come as a big surprise, since I've never seemed to listen to anyone.

The sidewalk ended. Shel Silverstein reference #2.

I kept walking.

I passed places that weren't on the map.

I seemed headed for a highway on-ramp. This would not be helpful at all. I'm not about to try and hitch-hike (nor take the bus) when I don't know where I am, in a country where I don't speak the language.

I sucked it up and turned around.

I stepped in the same muddy patches I had going there, until I decided to run across the three lanes of road to get to the middle/median and the grass. There's no mud in the grass, but there sure is a lot of water ON the grass. My feet were soaked. My pants were soaked. My jacket was soaked. But the camera was dry and I walking fast. Why walk slow when you think you're going to die?

I thought about the fact that I couldn't die. No one would be able to tell Jodi. She'd be in the room, wondering where I was. That couldn't happen. I couldn't die because there was no way that my parents, ESPECIALLY my mother would be able to handle that. She's tough, but at this point, not that tough. I thought about how I couldn't die, because I hadn't bought any port in Portugal. How I hadn't had a tour in Porto. How I hadn't toured through Italy with Jodi. How we were both looking forward to her parents meeting up with us in Spain. How we were going to our family and friends in Israel. How we were going to Greece.

I wondered about the affect it would have on my friends – but I've always wondered about that. About how people in my life would react/be affected by my death. I'm not the lynch-pin for my friends the way that an ex-girlfriend's friend was in her social circle, and when she was killed in an accident it sent several of them into orbit. I know my death would affect my friends, the same way that their death would affect me.

How I felt like I hadn't done enough with my life.

My life started to get amazing at 30. I have/had a sense that my life was going to get better at 40. That's two months away. My aspirations of becoming a professional baseball player are gone. I wouldn't have made it at 20, and I'm not going to make it at 40. I have a few dreams that are VERY much alive. To do something with my baking professionally. To be involved in the opening of an Urban Nutrition Education Centre, so that I can really make a difference. More of a difference than I can as a classroom teacher.

I realized while walking fast, in the grass, in the rain, with my umbrella either over my head or closed up as a “weapon”, that if I return to the classroom I want to be the best kindergarten teacher I can be. Yes, I want to go back to kindergarten. I want to be Jean Rehder and Geremy Vincent and me – I can only dream of being Agnes Hanna – all in some super hybrid.

When I got back to the area of restaurants and bars, I took a few pictures. Some of the locals were really surprised at the time spent in lining up the shots that I wanted. Partly because of things in the way, and partly because I just needed to do that.





I took pictures of the street intersection where I turned the right/wrong way.





The wrong way to get back to where I thought I was heading, but the right way for me at this stage in my life. I needed a bit of a wake-up call. Something to invigorate my soul and sense of self. Spending time in the Pyrenees with Jon and Deb and their boys showed Jodi and I that we could have some purpose in our time over here, without necessarily having to be in a big city. That was great for both of us. We're eternally grateful for them opening their doors and lives to us.

As I was walking on Av. de Ceuta 6 towards wherever, I wanted a Super Bock. Not because it was some kind of mythical beer that I had always wanted. Not because it was from a region of the country that was near and dear to me. This was not a hajj like I had been on in Scotland, in search of where my grandmother first lived. This was about my being alive and desiring a beer.

So, as I turned back on to Avenida Vente e Quatro de Julho, I wanted to find some place that I could walk into and say, “Ola, Super Bock per favor.”. Which is what I did. After a car swerving intentionally to spray me with water. I didn't care. I was alive and was already wet. All I could do was smile and laugh.



The half-pint was one euro. Even better! It wasn't the best beer I've ever had, but it was one of the most satisfying.

On the way there and back I took a few pictures for Jodi's blog (her paying gig) about knowing the roots of words and how it can help you in multiple languages.





I continued with my theme of taking pictures of roads/the ground.







I took pictures that reminded me of friends.











I took pictures of The Beatles.





I took pictures of street scenes.





I took pictures to be a s**t disturber.





I'm still me, but I'm better for the experience of having done what I did yesterday. I don't expect to repeat the same thing. Mind you, I'll still chase after bridges and wander around cities, but I'll be a little less hap-hazard about it in the future. Hopefully.

As I was walking back towards the city centre I realized that I had left around 1:00 and it was after 4:00. I hadn't eaten anything before leaving, and I hadn't eaten anything since.

I saw a fruit/veggie store and headed towards it. I got a couple of apples and saw they had wine. I went in to the store. I asked if the woman spoke English and she grabbed her co-worker. I said, “Dry, inexpensive (not the best word to use for non-English speakers! DUMBASS!!!) port?” She pointed at two for ten euros. She showed that they had open bottles and sampling glasses. The first was really good and the second was even better.

Quinta do Infantado Joao Lopes Roseira Reserva Especial is the one that did it for me.

But I still didn't have any food.

I decided I was going to get something from one of our guidebooks. That just seemed right. After the day I'd had, to do something simple. I got under an awning – yep, still raining, but back to “light rain” - and looked up what sounded good/cheap/fast.

The winner was a few doors down from where I was standing on Rua Augusta.



It just felt right. In Toronto, in Kensington Market, there's an Augusta Street. In Portugal, it's pronounced Aw-guzh-tah. I'm not sure if Augusta in Toronto was named by the Portuguese, but I don't care.

(The deep-fried fish pancake sandwich and pork/veal/mystery meat sandwich, along with a cod fritter and a hot dog fried log thing that tasted like liverwurst were delightful. The pastel de nata were heavenly.)

But I still didn't have sport drink and water for Jodi, as she had requested before I left. Nor did I have any sort of soup stuff, which also would seem to be a good idea. I spent an hour criss-crossing the neighbourhood, trying to find sport drink. Water wasn't too hard to find. Sport drink was PAINFULLY difficult.

Until I got down the street from our place.

**sigh**

I also found a couple of good Sagres beer. The Preta and Bohemia Reserva 1835.

Dinner in our room was GREAT! Jodi had some soup and I ate all the other artery-clogging/heart-stopping food.

And I started to dry off.

I haven't told her much of this story, other than I was happy to be alive, I had a Super Bock and I had an AMAZING day.

Now I feel like I need another kind of adventure. So I'm going to get ready to go out and wander somewhere. This time making use of the map a little more. It should be easier with a lack of rain.

Happy Sunday everyone.

It's good to be alive!

Mucking about in France

On the day we arrived at the gite, Deb took us up behind the building to her vegetable garden plot and asked us to weed it out. At the time, it was a few small squares of turned-over and de-rocked soil bounded by a nice little slate border. Only one section still had growing vegetables -- cabbage and broccoli -- the other two, about the same size, were weed-covered and had a few last dried-out stalks of plants.

"Any rocks you find," said Deb, "just toss onto the wall. If you get a chance, you can pile the dead leaves from that big pile there onto the beds and cover the leaves with soil so they'll be ready for spring."

And so began an odyssey in soil.

Once the garden was weeded out, the soil turned, the leaves and soil piled back on, we realized that we could keep going. Beyond the prepped beds was at least three or four times as much ready space for a really big garden -- the soil just needed to be dug up and turned.

"Just."

Here is a photo of David turning the soil in the existing bed on, I think, the second day. You can see the massive pile of leaves on the right-hand side of the photo. The soil under it all the way back to the far corner was mostly unturned -- Deb had turned the very corner part earlier this year, but it had gone unused and in this photo is still covered in weeds.



We had gotten good and underway when we were hit with two or three days of more or less constant rain. Although there were a couple of breaks in the weather where we could work outside, we didn't make much headway until the weather turned fine again. In the meantime, we did indoor stuff like helping around the house, looking after the kids, and cooking (OK, mostly it was David doing the cooking). I even went to a yoga class with Deb one evening!

Then a few days ago we were finally able to get back to work. This photo is pretty deceptive -- it looks like a lovely garden plot. The pile of leaves is mostly gone, there appears to be a nice soil surface.


Ah... what lies beneath...

Rocks.

Lots and lots of rocks. Big rocks.

At one point, a tine snapped off the garden fork. At that point, David turned to the pickaxe to manhandle the rocks out of the soil.


This worked much better, and he was able to open up trenches that really seemed more rock than soil.


He really had to get in there.


It made a mess of his jeans.


Most of the rocks were about fist-sized, ranging up to about football-sized. A good number were watermelon-sized. But every little while, David, with much cursing and muttering, would haul a real doozie out -- there were seven or eight rocks each the size of one of those old computer monitors that were such a pain to have to move every time you wanted to untangle the cords behind them -- but much heavier and correspondingly awkward to move (we mainly just rolled them with much heaving).

Here's a photo of one of the "watermelons":


Mixed in with the soil and rocks was all kinds of detritus left by the previous owner(s): mostly broken terracotta roof tile and concrete chunks, probably dumped there when one of the buildings had been renovated; but also just plain junk like plastic bottles, bits of metal, old building material packaging; and enough roots that the handsaw came in handy on a couple of occasions. Deb and David agreed there was an element of archeology to it -- we even found an old shell casing!

Finally, yesterday afternoon, the whole plot had been dug up. Our co-HelpXer, Joey, had raked more leaves that had been added to the soil. At this point, David looked (deservedly) pleased with himself.


But we were left with a huge pile of all those rocks! So our last task today was to heave them over the wall and add them to the side facing the footpath that passes by the garden. Let me tell you, I have a newfound admiration for people who construct dry-stone walls (we saw a lot of those in Ireland) and even more so for various pioneering people who ploughed entire crop fields out of stony ground. I suppose we should have realized how much stone might be lying under the surface of a plot of land lying directly under a mountain, but it all looked so innocent when we started out!

So, now... go back to that second photo in this post. Now imagine that all the rocks that lie beneath the surface are part of a newly-enhanced wall. The largest ones hem in the cabbage-patch in a small feat of decorative landscaping.

Now imagine that that entire plot of land is filled with every manner of gorgeous vegetables. That's the image we've had in our heads, thanks to what we've (half-)jokingly called "The Vision" that David started out with whem all we were doing was weeding.

We hope Jon and Deb send us photos!

Remembrance Day, 2009.

As some of you may know, we're currently in the French Pyrenees at Base Calames (http://www.basecalames.com/index.html)in Bédeilhac, helping out with reworking the garden, odd jobs, cooking/baking and helping out with the children. It's a beautiful part of the world, and Jon and Deb and their two little boys are great. Jon and Deb have come over from England to open a gite/guesthouse/B&B for people interested in staying in the area (FYI, the wine is SUPER DUPER inexpensive and really quite good!!!), but more importantly this is a mecca for rockclimbing, and Jon is able to give lessons and he and his ex-pat buddies are always up for a climb when the time and weather is right.

Jon asked if we wanted to go to the church that is pretty much in the backyard for the Remembrance Day service. I felt it important to represent Jon/Deb, but I was interested in seeing what the service was going to be, since it was outside of the church and in France. I've sat/stood through a lot of Remembrance Day "events" in my day. As a student and as a teacher. They've always been in school. Today though was the first time I was able to really pull something relevant out of what was going on. Mind you, it was in French, which I don't understand well at all.

We in Canada have not been attacked or bombed in our lifetimes. We in Canada have not had our country occupied. We in Canada have not gone to war with imminent danger at the front door. In France, regardless of how you feel about the French, their army or their language, this has been the case. Jon said he was told that every village in France has had someone killed in fighting in one of the two World Wars.

I carry a bag, and on it reads, "I will only believe war is the answer if as much money is spent on peace and it fails." I truly believe this. Please don't tell me about Afghanistan and how Canada, the U.S., the UK and others need to be there for any reason. Please don't tell me that the U.S. needed to return to Iraq after Operation Desert Storm. It's all about greed, ego and money. And about testosterone. Women don't start wars. In large part having to do with many countries (wrongly) believing that women can't lead a country, that women aren't equals and that women shouldn't vote.

I understand why there are armies in the Middle East, where neighbours fight neighbours. I don't understand why it's necessary in this day and age for war to continue with no rhyme or reason.

More than twenty years ago I wrote a poem. I was in high school and idealistic. I still am idealistic. I believe in the good of people. I believe that war is not the answer. For once the boys and their toys need to put up and shut up. George Bush/Barack Obama, Tony Blair/Gordon Brown, Jean Chretien/Paul Martin/Steven Harper need to strap on fatigues, a helmet and go into battle in the trenches with a rifle against Saddam Hussein, the Taliban, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and/or Kim Jong-il.

I'd like to see what they have to say about war after that.

There was recently an awful killing by an unbalanced man in Texas. He was a psychiatrist who treated army personnel returning from battle. He knew from hearing their stories how awful the realities of war are. Regardles of his religious affiliation, he came unhinged and shot more than 30 people, killing 13 of them, at last count. This was a personal war he was fighting in his head. Now think about all those men and women who are sent to war by the leaders of their country.

Some come home in a flag-draped coffin. Some come home with limbs missing. Some come home with a time bomb ticking in their head.

We're unleashing them on our society.

Still believe in war?

I believe in peace.

I hope that today you reflect on what you "have". The people in your life and your material possessions. What would you be willing to do to protect your way of life, the people that are important to you and the things you have? People all over the world have been faced with that question many times, with another country crossing their borders. I consider myself lucky not having faced the issue, and I suspect/hope that in my lifetime I won't have to deal with it.

Most people (back home) who will read this are still asleep. Most people in North America are quite asleep to the realities of war. Peace is something we know. I'd like to keep it that way.

d.

A moment on the farm

We interrupt this blog to bring you a moment of farminess. Here's David in this video to tell you more:



The pigs eat more than just apples -- they eat almost any vegetable waste generated on the farm: kitchen scraps, pulled weeds, etc. Just no meat or animal products (verboten), potato peelings (not good for them, apparently), or citrus (they turn their piggy noses up at it). Walking garbage disposals!

David is quite disappointed that they won't be slaughtered until probably February, when it's good and cold to hang the carcasses. Maybe we should come back through before heading home?!

There's cold in them there hills!

So, having left the big cities of Lyon and Paris behind us, we're still alive, and have arrived at a "gite" (guesthouse) David found through a new website, Helpx (as opposed to WWOOF, with which we were having zero luck). It's in a small village called Bédeilhac, outside the main town of Foix in the Ariège department, which is in the Pyrenees, very close to the Spanish border. It's most known for Neolithic caves, Cathar strongholds, and being on the Pyrenees leg of the Tour de France route.

Our hosts are a young (early 30ish) British couple, Jon and Deb, who met while working at a ski resort and decided to start a climber's gite here. They've been here for just over a year, and have just opened the gite for business, although it still needs renovation work (which is something we expect to be working on -- painting, plastering, etc.). They also have two little boys of 2 and 3, and there is another "Helpx helper", Joey, from the Boston area, who has been here almost a month. We are staying in the gite in a very cosy room -- DEFINITELY an improvement on the caravan we stayed in in Ireland! There is a nice common room with a wood-burning stove and a kitchenette upstairs, and Deb has already given David the go-ahead to make use of anything he finds in the main house, including the kitchen, so you know there will be plenty of kitchen activity in the days to come!

Just outside the gite and the main house/cottage where Jon and Deb themselves live is a huge precipice, going almost straight up. Apparently this is a prime location for rock-climbing, and it's easy to see why. There should also be some good leisure activities for those of us who don't scale sheer cliffs, like walking and biking, provided the weather lets up (it's been rainy for the past little bit, but apparently was glorious over the weekend, so fingers crossed). Beyond that, there is a small garden, some chickens and pigs, probably hanging out with the kiddies, and, as I mentioned, the renovation work. You can see the photos of the place and the area on the website, but I'm sure we'll have plenty of our own in no time!

I seem to have gotten over the homesickness and upset stomach that plagued me toward the end of our stay in Paris and arriving in Lyon. Corinne (my mother's cousin's sister-in-law, who lives in Lyon) took us out for a lovely dinner on last night in Lyon at one of her favourite restaurants, Olivier's, and we had a great time. It would have been a shame to miss out on Lyon gastronomie, one of it's main claims to fame, so I'm glad I had recovered in time to have a delicious fish dish. She also took some time to show us around the city a bit when we first arrived.

We are quite encouraged by the Helpx site, where people seem a bit more welcoming and flexible than those we encountered through the WWOOF website. Even better, membership at the site includes several countries/areas, as opposed to WWOOF, where each site and its membership was discrete. We are going to start looking for places in Italy ASAP, and ideally will have the remainder of our travels/timeline sketched out by the time we leave here.

In the meantime, my parents have started planning their own trip to Spain in a few weeks, and we will meet up with them to spend some time exploring the area around Malaga.

OK, I've been a bad girl, lounging in bed while David helps Deb take the older boy to daycare and go food shopping, and I should get myself some breakfast and get ready to earn my keep!

Paris.

Paris.

Not the fulfillment/redemption capital of Ontario, but the City of Lights. Paris, France.

I don't know what I was expecting.

Well, that's not entirely true, I was expecting a few things. Style and culture, which was available in abundance. Mind you, the musicians coming on to the Metro and playing accordions (Unless it's Klezmer or They Might Be Giants, I REALLY F**KIN' HATE ACCORDIONS!!!! And they're in every European city, and they were in the UK too!!!), violins and clarinets was NOT what I was expecting. There is a very interesting style of coat that women are wearing in Paris this season that is tres “cool” (Apparently it's the same in English and French, and that's according to Jodi. She speaks French.) I believe I took a picture of a woman wearing one. It's like a patchwork coat full of coolness. Jodi says it's got brocades, but that's a word I wouldn't use, so I'm not going to. Regardless, way cool. Did I say they're cool? Just checking.

Tonnes of children here wear eyeglasses. TONNES!!! I don't know if the French have vision problems in general, but their children wear very stylish glasses. That's fer sure.

The cheese was TOP NOTCH!!!

The bread was.....well.....I could have eaten just bread, but hey, that's just wrong.

The mussels were superb.

The fruit and veggies were fresh and really tasted like fruit and veggies and not watered-down, genetically reproduced copies of fruit and veggies.

We did not eat any meals out. Sadly, that was the case. Mind you, I did a pretty good job of feeding us, and like I said, there was bread, cheese, chocolate (forget to mention that!), mussels (that I made in two different sauces – one with wine and one with beer) and....we missed out on the Paris restaurant/cafe/bar experience.

In fact, while we did have an amazing hot chocolate, for which I'm sure I can find the information on, plus the places we shopped in Montmartre - where we stayed – across from the produce store from Amelie (YES!!! I love that movie and only bought a crappy can of beer there.)

Oh, I haven't mentioned that French beer pretty much sucks, in that I couldn't find good beer. I tried. I bought Jenlain, Fischer, Saint Omer, a Heineken product made in France that has Scotch Malt Whisky in it and....OH WAIT!!! The Kronenburg 1664 was pretty good. Also there was a brown-ish beer that had added sugar (I should have read the ingredients!) that wasn't too good.

Also, the problem with going to Paris on a budget is that wine drinking becomes problematic. I don't tend to spend a ton of money on bottles of wine at home, usually between $12 and $17, but more often closer to $15. I don't speak/read French very well, and the wine shops/grocery stores near us were either cheap ($6-$8 )or more expensive $20+. In retrospect, I should have gone to a wine shop, told the dude/dudette that I was looking to spend about $12 and wanted something dry and bold. Red or white, I wouldn't have cared. So, we got a cheap “Fuzion-esque” (For those of you familiar with Fuzion, you'll know what I'm talking about – leave it in the decanter for a day, and the $7.45 bottle of wine drinks like a $12 bottle of wine.) red that ended up being used in salad dressing (in lieu of vinegar), and in a sauce for ground beef. Only after the quality had been established.

Then we also found a relatively acceptable white on the cheap, that was easy to drink, and wasn't offensive. It was the white used in the mussels. Blah blah blah. Jodi told me that I'm talking too much about booze, and my mom told me in an email that I seem to do is take pictures of breweries.

Women.

Anyway, back to Paris.

As I said, I don't speak French. I took it until grade 10, and after encountering a teacher who was not my favourite, dropped it in favour of.....well, maybe it was Dance. :) For those of you who have heard about my high school dance experience(s), you'll know I made the right choice. Maybe not for aiding communication in Quebec, New Brunswick, France and French-speaking Africa, but it certainly aided my life otherwise. Wearing tights in Dance class, and having a fire drill builds a certain amount of character. Arts-based school or not, when you're in grade 12 and really just starting to get your sense of self, having the whole school seeing you in dance tights in front of the school puts a little steel in your spine. FAST!!!

So, I wasn't really able to communicate with the masses in Paris. That was mildly soul-sucking. I like to talk to strangers. I like to compliment people on their fashion choices, hairstyles, and just shoot the s**t with the peeps out there. Alas, that was not to be for a week. Oh wait, we're not going to be an “English-speaking” country until January. That's London for a bit and than Israel, where most people speak English. Sure, most people can speak a little English in Europe, but it's not their first language and it's not their responsibility to speak English for my comfort. I know this. That said, it doesn't necessarily make it any easier for me to be.....well....me.

If you're reading this, you most likely know me, or know of me through Jodi, and you know that I like to talk. Sure, I'm a good listener (at times), but I'm a talker. I'll take up the oxygen in the room and make you pass out in no time flat. I have that ability. I talk about anything. I talk about stuff I love, stuff I hate, stuff I know a little bit about and stuff I know Bo Diddley 'bout. That's me. Love it or hate it....it's not apt to change any time soon.

I live life with a passion. Most of the time. Sure, I'm indifferent to things. In fact, the word “sure” is an issue with Jodi and me, since she'll ask me a question and I'll answer with, “Sure.”.

Not usually her fave answer. (It's also the tone in which I say it that pisses her off, hey....can I always sing, “Confident, confident, dry and secure. Raise your hands, raise your hands if you're Sure.” Oh wait, that's an antiperspirant commercial. Oh, by the way, Tom's of Maine wasn't quite doing it for me with their all-natural deodorant, so I bought Sure and I'm poisoning myself with aluminum and other nasties. But I don't smell.)

I'm trying.

Anyway, back to my feeling like an immigrant. Ya, I know I didn't say it yet, but I suspect I have a pretty good idea of how an immigrant would feel in coming to a country they've never been to, with a bag of clothes/belongings that they consider relatively important, and an inability to speak the language. While I'm better off than most immigrants (Or am I?) in that it's a temporary situation, and my partner speaks the language well enough for whatever we need to happen to get done, I still feel/felt isolated.

It's a feeling I wasn't used to. We spent five weeks in English-speaking countries, and while accents come in to play in Ireland, Northern Ireland, Scotland (Glasgow, as I've already mentioned) and England, they speak/understand English. So my ignorance about what I was going to encounter (only having been in Europe once before, for my friends Sheila and John's wedding in '99 when I was relatively sheltered amongst Canadians, Americans and bilingual Italians for ten days) was/is HUGE!

I don't want to be the North American who expects everyone to speak English to make me feel better. I've tried where possible, with my “pigeon” French, to communicate. It seems to have been appreciated, especially by the cute young women in the boulangerie around the corner, where I would go to get the tasty thin baguettes.

So, I got some culture. Two churches, big landmarks/monuments, cemetaries, and museums. Here's my take on what I saw. I don't care if you like what I have to say, because it's my take on things. I think by now you know I'm not like the other boys. (Oh geez, there's another Michael Jackson reference. Speaking of Ola Ray, Playboy Playmate and “girlfriend” in the “Thriller” video, Pigalle, which is right next to Montmartre and where the Moulin Rouge is, really just resembles a sad version of Yonge Street. Between Dundas and Gerrard. Back in the 70s and 80s. Or a sad little version of Times Square when it was seedy. Very feh, and not “red light” at all. Just so ya know. Also, Fashion Television in France, which is a network (surprise, surprise) has “Midnight Haute” (pronounced “hawt” in this case) from 12 AM to 1 AM. They show topless fashion shoots for calendars and Penthouse Pet shoots. It's mildly amusing, but really tame. Oh, and they showed “Caligula” in French a few nights ago at about 9 PM. It was funny to see a mud/oil slapping/wrestling match between two women in a “historical” movie. But that's me.)

Okay, culture. The Notre Dame Cathedral was pretty cool, but the see-through confession rooms was weird to see. I thought it was supposed to be through the wooden wall/shielded opening. Oh well, that's the Jew in me showing through. The River Seine smelled like urine, probably because French men/dogs (not necessarily one-and-the-same) seem to find it necessary to relieve themselves on cement and not grass, which allows the urine to enter the ground and not be smelled. Oh well. The Champs d'Elysees was disappointing, and the Tuileries was different/enjoyable. The Arc de Triomphe was big. The Eiffel Tower was big and interesting. I was surprised that Paris is not as “green” to view as Toronto. I've also come to realize that Toronto is not a world-class city, but a smaller version of a world-class city. I'm not slagging Toronto, but it's not a major world city size-wise and certainly not up there with other cities for things to do.

The Catacombes (bones under the city) were closed, owing to vandalism. F**KERS!!! I really wanted to see that. I hope a dog pisses on your new fabric sneakers and then the cats does likewise on your pillow. The Jardin du Luxembourg was nice, but not overly interesting. Probably because it was the end of October and not-so-in-bloom. I didn't go into Shakespeare & Company, 'cause I'm still reading Tucker Max's “I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell”. I do not recommend you read it, but it's..umm...well...he's an ass. He treats women worse than he treats his liver, and that's not very well at all. I won't tell you who suggested I read it, but I will say that he works in the book/publishing/reading/entertainment business, and I only reading it for one reason. He said that he doesn't read books, and he read this. He also said he would read James McBride's “The Color of Water” if I read this. I'm trying. Lord, I'm trying.

Don't get me wrong, there are parts that make me laugh out-loud, but there are also parts that make me wonder if it's true or not. He swears it is, but there have been more important liars and embellishers of the truth before him.

We saw a few famous graves in Pere Lachaise, like Jim Morrison and Jodi took pictures of Heloise and Abelard – no clue who they are, don't care who they are, and Cordelia apparently would never forgive Jodi if she didn't. Whether they were under scaffolding or not.

St. Chapelle was another church, and really lame. TONNES of stained glass, but it was overcast and I'm SUPER DUPER glad I didn't have to pay extra (we got a museum pass) or have to stand in line for a long time to get in there. Otherwise I'd be making more noise than a wolf howling at the moon with rabies, while hungry and in heat. Georges Pompidou was a really cool museum, where Jodi and I had an extended “debate”/discussion about my finding some of Matisse's work to look like kindergarten cut and paste, and whether or not Keith Haring's work was in some inspired by what I saw of Matisse's, that I was interested in learning about Matisse. Sure, there are some Matisse pieces of work that I like, but I'm not fond of everything. I LOVE Damien Hirst, but his paintings suck. S-U-C-K!!! At least the blue skulls at the Wallace Gallery.

We went to the Jewish Museum, which would have been much more enjoyable if I wasn't Jewish. There were a few interesting things, but I knew most of what was explained in the audio tour, and the pronunciation SUCKED!!! It's not Ha-noo-kah, but CH-ah-noo-kah. I expected MUCH better, and in fact was pretty much offended at how non-Jewish the names/word sounded.

The Picasso Museum was closed for renovations. Don't plan on going for three years. Three years to reno a museum? That seems overly long, but Jodi tells me everyone goes on strike in France. Maybe they're just building in extra time in case of the inevitable.

The Louvre. BORING!!! Yep. BORING!!! SUPER BORING!!! I felt like an 8 year old at the ROM (Royal Ontario Museum) or AGO (Art Gallery of Ontario), but without anything modern or dinosaurs to look at. It's all old stuff, and the Mona Lisa is 2' x 3' and the Venus de Milo was good only 'cause she's got plumbers buttcrack showing. The best part of the Louvre was the floors. Yep, the floors.

Now seems like a good point to once again point out that I don't find Paris to be an overly attractive city. ESPECIALLY around the Louvre, where it's all monochromatic and blah/grey. There are parts of the city that are really funky 'n fun, but generally it's old. I'm a modernist, in that I like variety. I don't like the Upper West Side of NYC (Sorry Zarya) for the same reason. It all looks the same.

I'm a heathen, a simpleton and a cretin. And I'm okay with it.

The Orangerie was pretty cool, in that the Monet paintings (“Water Lilies”) are really well displayed, with four paintings in a room, and two rooms. Four directions, morning in one room and night in the other. There were also a bunch of paintings I liked from Rousseau, Renoir, Matisse, Picasso, Gauguin and maybe some more.

The D'Orsay was also good, because there was a lot of more modern stuff and a number of famous paintings. It was cool because it used to be a train station (like my house of worship, the Summerhill LCBO store in Toronto) and there are several different kinds of paintings, which pick up time-wise from where the (boring) Louvre leaves off.

Finally, the first Sunday of the month in Paris means free museums. We were kind of “museumed out”, so we headed to the Cinematique Museum, which was dry (mind you, it was raining!) and I'm glad I didn't have to pay to get in, otherwise I'd feel ripped off.

WARNING: I can't speak for all of Paris, but in Montmartre, almost everything is closed on Sundays. Or they close very early on Sunday. So, if you're planning on preparing meals, either be prepared to scrimp and scavenge for ingredients, or plan on eating out. Walking around in the rain, looking for ingredients for an unknown meal, is not my favourite thing to do in the world. Jodi was enjoying it even less than me.

We're headed to Lyon now on the TGV (The High Speed train that is supposed to go 300 km/h, but it sure doesn't seem to be going that fast.) for a couple of days of whatever, and visiting with Jodi's cousin's sister, who lives in Lyon. After that, we're looking at several different options for France, as we (thanks to Lavinia!) stumbled on a website that seems much more active than WWOOF. HelpX.com has both hosts and helpers look to meet up, while WWOOF just seems to be helpers contacting hosts. In fact, just after signing up for the site ($35 for 2 years), we got a message from a host in Spain, looking to have us come.

It looks like the troubles we had in finding something in France are changing, as we had someone from France contact us this morning, and HelpX.com includes France, Spain and Italy, which will make things more interesting/easy for us in the long-run. Or so I hope.

Bonne journee for now.