tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80195448575900043802024-03-16T14:50:06.727-04:00LifeisgrandA blog about travel, sailing and living life to the fullest. It's mostly true.Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.comBlogger644125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-42846787770349177842024-03-15T06:18:00.011-04:002024-03-15T10:46:41.765-04:00Domenico, the Italian Basement Dweller<div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />Domenico the Italian lives in our basement.</span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjoii2Wm-uttBiTVGLC5a_IRlRVXvKuicJLiFxtFxV7JWKbbXp5KTWM4LSWW1bLLmxv3hhPcCFJLI5ayw4y8Ec0yrp0Z6Ps8HAUT0bKiUsYKNXa0AhrIWqIxXWgHGutklv-8tjZEuAAXYKNzmGcCS3AV9W1FtqB-enIIk_NGV6slriGJ3Hzg5aFzzEROc/s4032/20231224_235309418_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjoii2Wm-uttBiTVGLC5a_IRlRVXvKuicJLiFxtFxV7JWKbbXp5KTWM4LSWW1bLLmxv3hhPcCFJLI5ayw4y8Ec0yrp0Z6Ps8HAUT0bKiUsYKNXa0AhrIWqIxXWgHGutklv-8tjZEuAAXYKNzmGcCS3AV9W1FtqB-enIIk_NGV6slriGJ3Hzg5aFzzEROc/s320/20231224_235309418_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Or I should say <i>used </i>to live in our basement as our strapping Italian exchange student moved out last weekend. Since early December Dom has been our adopted child and it's been a delight having him live with us for this short but memorable time. Especially since Magnus moved to Toronto in January, freeing a family slot.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Dom is from a town called Torre del Greco, located in the shadow of Mount Vesuvius, close to the large city of Naples. How can I describe Dom? For a 17-year-old Italian Mamma's Boy (all Italian males are mamma's boys, no matter their age), he is mature beyond his years with an overwhelming sense of confidence and an incredible sense of humour. He has thick, black hair which he fluffs religiously every morning to precise specifications and an inventory of cologne that would make Hugo Boss envious. When we first applied for the honor of hosting a Rotary International student, we expected English instruction to be one of our core responsibilities. Uh uh, not so. Dom's English was excellent when he arrived and even better by the time he left. His vocabulary was impressive, and not just limited to stuff he'd picked up from Marvel movies. He knew the word "narc". He knew the word "vociferous". He even knew the word "menopause" and its worst symptoms, which he saw on display in our household daily and nightly.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaRpQaJ5rIeV3miOhuIph8DK0XamCDpbygST0v2GTyrBiWCxdA0Bk-06yyJ4XHvzgHPtIUYr88DBTVbLmot5hlNxl1GXmHQ5lS_UavOwcYw-CChOcJdYHDLVXoGYNBIzhcL5T2q55R_OmD4uqBP36HXzvrCs3QlM8Zg5cnPYWNiC-hvbvbqApENUtF6Ro/s4032/20231223_024316107_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaRpQaJ5rIeV3miOhuIph8DK0XamCDpbygST0v2GTyrBiWCxdA0Bk-06yyJ4XHvzgHPtIUYr88DBTVbLmot5hlNxl1GXmHQ5lS_UavOwcYw-CChOcJdYHDLVXoGYNBIzhcL5T2q55R_OmD4uqBP36HXzvrCs3QlM8Zg5cnPYWNiC-hvbvbqApENUtF6Ro/s320/20231223_024316107_iOS.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />We gave Dom our basement and within hours he had exploded all over it, making it his own. He had a pretty sweet setup down there - his own bathroom and shower, the nicest in the house. A full sized fridge full of premium beer and non-premium soft drinks. A washer and dryer (but banned from use, like everybody else in the house not named Ana). My kick ass 1980's stereo and a five channel surround sound home theatre system. My two guitars and small, but impressive collection of Bolivian charangos. A cold room full of my father-in-law's home made Portuguese jungle juice wine, guaranteed to paralyze your brain cells and activate your bowels. Yeah, he was rocking in the free world down there. The first thing he did was to hang this giant Italian flag over the glass door. I thought it was to provide himself with privacy, but I soon learned it was not that at all. It was a daily reminder to us that he is from the greatest country in the world, from whence comes the greatest (insert any word here) in the world. And who were we to doubt it? Especially as he was living with us through the worst season of the Canadian year when the imported Mexican vegetables are completely tasteless and we are left eating white-limbed potatoes six times a week.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXnx7GF0EfqPDMd_SFkhtv1m0f2Rc-7-GA9c8IuPqPH_0VrE39F6mJUkYDoOsSJsGdMapkP50ngNI1q8jFISEUyddHckBtNmHCw926UZuj4t-Lf0hIx4Kw3Yvr6IyHDQUIIRV7NcIjXY5UPR27-pfIj2o0j4KJUF1Sj2Lk8VcL9fLXkV21SOh3RJnmcg/s2048/20240101_190755279_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXnx7GF0EfqPDMd_SFkhtv1m0f2Rc-7-GA9c8IuPqPH_0VrE39F6mJUkYDoOsSJsGdMapkP50ngNI1q8jFISEUyddHckBtNmHCw926UZuj4t-Lf0hIx4Kw3Yvr6IyHDQUIIRV7NcIjXY5UPR27-pfIj2o0j4KJUF1Sj2Lk8VcL9fLXkV21SOh3RJnmcg/s320/20240101_190755279_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />I expected we'd quickly tag him with a good nickname. The Dom-inator, The Italian Stallion, Rom Com Dom, Dom the Bomb - these were the obvious ones, but none of them stuck to his olive oil aura. So it was just Dom. Or "Domenico", when I had to </span>occasionally yell it into the basement as he was running late in the morning.</div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">The three months went by quickly. We were not able to do a winter fly and flop this year, but he won the consolation prize - a trip to the Ottawa region to my brother's place for New Year's. And for the first time in collective memory, the place was not buried in dozens of feet of snow. In fact, there was hardly any. But we had a great time and he loved the city and my brother's fairy tale gingerbread mansion over on the "dark side" (Quebec). He didn't see much for snow until January when had a snowstorm in Brantford under mild temperatures producing ideal conditions for snow packing, so Stella and I treated him to an old fashioned snowball fight. He had no snow skills whatsoever so we totally destroyed him. I connected with at least two shots in the groin and one on the forehead and Stella treated him to a snowy face wash. He seemed to enjoy it.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBPsZ9ch0ksCH0CBNhbG9h2svOtaS5AgsGXHxmVCbR9p7xhblCdompQ2d-0ZV5AIAFSrRNB_AkwxrCfaCz0rzDouP8KA7h5rMyWHq1_QsOV44Wpk_LlUZX7IDxwPnac6UuhIK41iRagVZsBUFV8YikRxuesoZBjRUrkqeX7hPU1Fo2p4mq-h0eLS2e2AY/s4032/20240219_182323849_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBPsZ9ch0ksCH0CBNhbG9h2svOtaS5AgsGXHxmVCbR9p7xhblCdompQ2d-0ZV5AIAFSrRNB_AkwxrCfaCz0rzDouP8KA7h5rMyWHq1_QsOV44Wpk_LlUZX7IDxwPnac6UuhIK41iRagVZsBUFV8YikRxuesoZBjRUrkqeX7hPU1Fo2p4mq-h0eLS2e2AY/s320/20240219_182323849_iOS.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />Dom was easy to have around. One thing did perplex me, though. We do a lot of cooking during the winter, and I'm not afraid to say that our kitchen produces some ass-popping good meals. Rib-eye steaks, beef stew, pork tenderloin, grilled salmon, slow-smoked ribs, roasted chicken, chicken biryani, Chinese stir frys, custom chili dogs, homemade bread, vegetables of all varieties. He was always satisfied, but never seemed overly impressed. Until, that is, Ana brought home a bag of Food Basic's cheapest frozen garlic bread as filler food one Wednesday night. Eight of them were placed on a sheet then after five minutes per side under the broiler they were tossed unceremoniously on the table beside the chicken tenders and microwaved brown beans. Dom's lovely blue eyes began to sparkle as he had his first bite. He was in heaven. The two slice quota per family member was obliterated as he tore into them like an Italian Cookie Monster. He told us with a straight face that this was the greatest food he'd eaten in Canada. Our cheeks burned red with the backhander compliment. And it didn't stop there. Ana brought home raisin bread one day. The expression on his face after taking a bite of extra-buttered raisin bread toast was one of great joy and unbelievable pleasure. Then, the ultimate discovery. And I'll say, I shouldn't have been too surprised, but I thought maybe it would be different with an Italian. Every international person we've ever introduced this dish to has fallen in love with it. What is this magical dish, you ask?</div></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><div><br /></div><div>Kraft Dinner. And in Dom's case, Kraft Dinner with Chopped Up Hot Dogs.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, all pasta he'd eaten in Canada up until his moment had been bunk. Dog food. Rat bait. But Kraft Dinner? Life changing. Awe inspiring.</div><div><br /></div><div>There was only one thing he would not eat no matter how hard I lobbied. And this one food was Hawaiian Pizza. That <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/bitesize/articles/z2vftrd">Canadian-created</a> gourmet pie with the ham niblets and fresh canned pineapple that is oh, so delicious. He would not touch it. My brother made his trademarked, gourmet pizzas one night during our stay there for New Year's. He cranked out a couple of Hawaiians and offered a slice to Dom. He just shook his head and winced, as if struck by a poison dart.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQciurMdZYkTKfySXv9GtiZsITlkbb2saxpczI-c5y8kS_hsK9XT1ZKMtbY7BBnm41dcsEqpCJPVjmYT510ZdltF-DlqBdXIansoWV0VxGcBn4eA5BAHZ87J0vre0TZvDVxio2UK3fz4QDi7034EiIggX6OwJl0jVvyE7WvvpUMqE3xwSKLg1rVXL-dSI/s4032/20240106_010337022_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQciurMdZYkTKfySXv9GtiZsITlkbb2saxpczI-c5y8kS_hsK9XT1ZKMtbY7BBnm41dcsEqpCJPVjmYT510ZdltF-DlqBdXIansoWV0VxGcBn4eA5BAHZ87J0vre0TZvDVxio2UK3fz4QDi7034EiIggX6OwJl0jVvyE7WvvpUMqE3xwSKLg1rVXL-dSI/s320/20240106_010337022_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />"What's wrong with him?" Marty asked me.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Something serious," I said. "He thinks pineapple shouldn't go on pizza."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well what the fuck else are you going to put it on?" Marty asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yeah," I said. "You're right. There's nothing else it <i>can </i>go on. Dom, just eat the pizza. You'll love it."</div><div><br /></div><div>"If it eat pineapple pizza, they won't let me back into Italy," he said, stone-faced.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Why not?" Marty asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>"You can't put pineapple on pizza. It's wrong. It's barbaric."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Says who?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Everybody. And my mom. She won't let me back in the house if I eat pineapple pizza. And my dad, he would disown me."</div><div><br /></div><div>"That's bullshit," I said. "Call them right now and we'll find out."</div><div><br /></div><div>Dom called them up on Facetime. We all got to meet his mom and dad. They were lovely. Until Dom brought up the pizza question. Then they turned sour.</div><div><br /></div><div>Despite not knowing a word of English, his mom mustered, "If...my...son...eats...pineapple ....pizza...he can't....come...home."</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXN4yAUdt0r5pRX1ZMRHUgTmXVRUz8xWi9uheT2zZLUCnHJkfd6EgtAnhFal7nOcKrHMRn6bJWiQlyc-SYMuhDh1ZdIExpW5_GpLL9Qic0uqULxXARt7WLPx-uVcKqTZo2B3pbZPe_kG4GOGMmcCJB1wdZ1PbqR3vfrQMvLoWSwmZl2_n6lOjc83BNYiE/s4032/20240219_182619091_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXN4yAUdt0r5pRX1ZMRHUgTmXVRUz8xWi9uheT2zZLUCnHJkfd6EgtAnhFal7nOcKrHMRn6bJWiQlyc-SYMuhDh1ZdIExpW5_GpLL9Qic0uqULxXARt7WLPx-uVcKqTZo2B3pbZPe_kG4GOGMmcCJB1wdZ1PbqR3vfrQMvLoWSwmZl2_n6lOjc83BNYiE/s320/20240219_182619091_iOS.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />We knew when we were beat. Marty gave him a few slices of the Meat Lovers Special and the whole conversation ended right there and we never spoke of it again.</div><div><br /></div><div>For one of our last weekends together, we took Dom to Cleveland, along with our friends Dave and Kira who would be Dom's final host family, and Magnus and Stella, packing the van to capacity.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5gZzzS0zVRLO8a1S9uJLDGRDj906NBtnVyJxXjmXIf9mZpYSq3ubYRVcTXvrDVEiUGpsf8IVlW3cTOVpw_iiZ5UtuoVwDEk0yd3xk0yYAm18mD1WGsI7zBPxRo4zU8RCTZ_6fIlARnExi8W7ZrwtOhUmxuDM-V29z3NUCF5pzi-3yzElAHgsCPGog2J0/s3088/20240217_123422596_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5gZzzS0zVRLO8a1S9uJLDGRDj906NBtnVyJxXjmXIf9mZpYSq3ubYRVcTXvrDVEiUGpsf8IVlW3cTOVpw_iiZ5UtuoVwDEk0yd3xk0yYAm18mD1WGsI7zBPxRo4zU8RCTZ_6fIlARnExi8W7ZrwtOhUmxuDM-V29z3NUCF5pzi-3yzElAHgsCPGog2J0/s320/20240217_123422596_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />We had an amazing time. We drove through snow squalls on the way to Detroit then had our van ripped apart at the border, where the guards even opened a bag of sealed popcorn to look for concealed drugs or Mexicans then spilled innocent kernels all over the seats while we waited patiently inside for the stone-faced agents of law to issue Dom a visitor visa. We saw an incredible Battle of the Bands competition at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. We visited two amazing art galleries. We had a rollicking foosball tournament. We played blackjack. Magnus got his ear pierced at a grisly tattoo joint. We ate out in restaurants. We went for a morning polar dip in the chilly waters of Lake Erie. And we ate fresh Krispy Kreme doughnuts. It was a magical weekend.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiflqCyHtDuUYnC6HzC2GuFnxLKqWQBkTnaplug8aVkC8M5EvoE6Uw8igkk-Jy-P5Q1cd4oXwYxDMUl9t1kgLTNOyuqozqockUvY06XdvD7_UTP0Vb979OPqDEGU2P7cK1JZC1J3hYxic6equDxIU5FL3W3QMFEs4MdRIVSqeFIxzJWdeM1s7akEC4_UWI/s4032/20240218_040440543_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiflqCyHtDuUYnC6HzC2GuFnxLKqWQBkTnaplug8aVkC8M5EvoE6Uw8igkk-Jy-P5Q1cd4oXwYxDMUl9t1kgLTNOyuqozqockUvY06XdvD7_UTP0Vb979OPqDEGU2P7cK1JZC1J3hYxic6equDxIU5FL3W3QMFEs4MdRIVSqeFIxzJWdeM1s7akEC4_UWI/s320/20240218_040440543_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />But now, it's back to just Ana, Stella, and I as Dom has moved on. The garlic breads have been piling up in the freezer because nobody's eating them. The raisin bread has gone stale. The Kraft Dinner...well, the Kraft Dinner's fine and we're still eating that.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fortunately, we'll still be seeing Dom as we visit Dave and Kira often, and we're finally heading into spring and summer which opens up plenty of opportunities for boating adventures and we hope he will join us.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCoOfgZS60dDZAW98AEoplcYQ3-7XqMH3pveGfnfWY5uO96zFPO9HBmZFuVraRcKPsH9nsqmuJjmg3n1hn9cQfnt3sPx2ABf-Z5m1PJ5pu9407cCB7MgPt0MdcacjAGyRNhqRCpZLo1-4xAStZevbLb9uLbQhZp2rQAPJQNGnvBEiH4J3yB7vZMX1kzyQ/s4032/20240310_152419569_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCoOfgZS60dDZAW98AEoplcYQ3-7XqMH3pveGfnfWY5uO96zFPO9HBmZFuVraRcKPsH9nsqmuJjmg3n1hn9cQfnt3sPx2ABf-Z5m1PJ5pu9407cCB7MgPt0MdcacjAGyRNhqRCpZLo1-4xAStZevbLb9uLbQhZp2rQAPJQNGnvBEiH4J3yB7vZMX1kzyQ/s320/20240310_152419569_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>It has been a pleasure hosting this fine young man and we look forward to see where his future takes him. We know it will be somewhere great.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><u>Denouement</u></div><div>I could not contain my excitement when <a href="https://www.cbc.ca/news/world/naples-new-pineapple-pizza-1.7107921">this </a>popped up in the news. I have been using it to torment Dom, sometimes daily. This pizza joint will be our first stop in Naples when we someday soon visit Dom and his family in Italy!</div></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-27147860425565803612023-10-29T06:25:00.001-04:002023-10-30T19:32:21.216-04:00France 2023 - Analysis of a Trip<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh15V3l2hO-z_ez5cqDj4yjZJetb62xlfKAPEBJ017orRlkKYuDHydG1jqQXIECWg0A7fiispDp3trKOxizoWn90KX10AdKCwHakrH_9N2Q7sHRnTJd181u7efyuuhx2jAJliClG_b9hv_-llr8oVBUWUUsyhUUTNRz3YyNzdVKXUqzor3ll6UqE5vDk00/s3088/20231014_095813963_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh15V3l2hO-z_ez5cqDj4yjZJetb62xlfKAPEBJ017orRlkKYuDHydG1jqQXIECWg0A7fiispDp3trKOxizoWn90KX10AdKCwHakrH_9N2Q7sHRnTJd181u7efyuuhx2jAJliClG_b9hv_-llr8oVBUWUUsyhUUTNRz3YyNzdVKXUqzor3ll6UqE5vDk00/s320/20231014_095813963_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />The closer we get to Canada, the more things start to break down. Maybe it’s just the current state of the travel experience or airports or something else. Things don’t work, we get overcharged for baggage, we get emails from the airline company with incorrect information, and people (Canadians) cut into lines in front of us and everybody else. As a grand finale, the two bottles of duty-free rum I buy on the flight are improperly packaged and I’m sent back by security to check them in, which I do in my small backpack. Then somebody in the depths of Montreal security or baggage handling steals them and I pick up an empty bag in Toronto and nobody there seems able or willing to do anything about it. I know, first world problems. But we made it home safe and sound.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">During this trip, Ana and I talked about what we missed from home. My immediate answer was always “Stella and Magnus”, but now that we are home I have a chance to think more about this, as I always do when we return from travel to other countries. We have a great life in Paris, Ontario. It is safe, uncrowded, we live in a big house with a big yard, we have a beautiful boat, and we have the greatest of friends. We both like our jobs and earn decent money and live close to family members on both sides. I really have no complaints. Except when we visit Europe and see the efficiency with which they do things – the transportation, city design, road design, immaculate public spaces. There are no ugly parking garages – these are built underground where they are easy to access and you don’t waste valuable space. There’s also their appreciation for languages, culture and history. And they never leave the house looking anything less than fabulous. We went grocery shopping today and there was a lady there wearing what looked like a two piece housecoat and furry slippers. Others wore filthy pants, baseball caps turned backwards, and sweat pants. You just don’t see this in Europe. People take care in their appearance. It matters to them.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">This does not come without a cost though. Taxes in Europe are generally much higher than here. People live in tiny homes and don’t generally have much space to themselves. Many don’t have vehicles. The public realm necessarily plays a much larger role in people’s lives.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I always like to do a little post trip analysis on the finances to know what our daily spending was like. Excluding flights the trip cost us about $160 per person per day which covered all expenses. Oh, and with the help of the Health app on Ana's phone, I know that we walked for an average of 10 kilometers per day.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Thank-you France for treating us so well, sharing your country with us, and being such a great host!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I will finish with some thoughts on Europe versus Canada using my rose coloured glasses, fresh off an amazing trip where we experienced all of the wonders and few of the everyday nuisances.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Europe is shared spaces; Canada is private property.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Europe is user pays; Canada is nobody pays while everybody pays.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Europe builds things to last; Canada takes the lowest bidder. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Europe preserves the past; Canada rips out and rebuilds</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Europe is small and dense; Canada is massive and sparse</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Europe celebrates languages; Canada wars over them</span></p><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-88630958291598530482023-10-27T05:47:00.003-04:002023-10-30T18:47:12.026-04:00France 2023 - A Roman Amphitheater, a Kind Pitbull, and our Final Night in Nimes<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_8HE0GE3RbKCuyw3_gVwKrLF761Z63c1IYhufsu5GT23wFVib8RPa9NI8gPNg5w9OprhNFWlx-IhHKgw62_PIE3tQtPdh5ZUk3dA9sTPVYOFFhhqPFlsGfR1YZ2rgoR_wILcsdo_I5PB7eNN_Dqrt688tA_Fi5oP7TBSLfR1eTCZycTdMW8DDljaEe1o/s4032/20231027_074220538_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_8HE0GE3RbKCuyw3_gVwKrLF761Z63c1IYhufsu5GT23wFVib8RPa9NI8gPNg5w9OprhNFWlx-IhHKgw62_PIE3tQtPdh5ZUk3dA9sTPVYOFFhhqPFlsGfR1YZ2rgoR_wILcsdo_I5PB7eNN_Dqrt688tA_Fi5oP7TBSLfR1eTCZycTdMW8DDljaEe1o/s320/20231027_074220538_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />Nimes central station is where we find ourselves shortly after our 9am car rental return. Our train to Paris departs shortly before 2pm so we have five carefree, unplanned hours to enjoy.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Our first stop is to visit the Roman amphitheater in the centre of town, built in the year 100 and somehow still standing. The audio guide we are given after buying tickets provides a surprisingly interesting and entertaining story of the arena and what life was like for the gladiators and the crowds who came to watch them fight. It's not hard to imagine as we sit on the rock seats at the top of the arena looking down – the blood soaked sand of the arena floor that had be turned frequently during event days to reduce the smell, the lions and bears chained to posts and fighting each other, the human prisoners chained to the same posts and executed by letting the animals eat them alive, then finally the highly trained gladiators themselves clashing, rarely to the death, typically until one was injured and could not continue. It is awesome.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTItS4DQMheW9iZGHRd-p054ydzTC35gpTMRJeErF4GId7izELnqr024LlfhyphenhyphenMDwOEXLx_2kNfxWN5dW5MLQoMPEcbfcxiWeAdz_UOyQKFxeIunXJ6UqWIRaDXizp7w94o9jzwrwy7GgUpc6Yo8DfhLYhyphenhyphen5cBgKvtMcqsT22-1GLygvV4nJdQjae6ZHms/s4032/20231027_084110835_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTItS4DQMheW9iZGHRd-p054ydzTC35gpTMRJeErF4GId7izELnqr024LlfhyphenhyphenMDwOEXLx_2kNfxWN5dW5MLQoMPEcbfcxiWeAdz_UOyQKFxeIunXJ6UqWIRaDXizp7w94o9jzwrwy7GgUpc6Yo8DfhLYhyphenhyphen5cBgKvtMcqsT22-1GLygvV4nJdQjae6ZHms/s320/20231027_084110835_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />The arena now is under a long process of rehabilitation to ensure it will stand for another millennium. Surprisingly, this ancient structure is used frequently for events such as concerts, bullfights, and the annual Great Roman Days in May where the glory days of Rome are reenacted. Sometime in the future, we will attend an event here.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We spend the rest of our time walking the town. Nimes is a beautiful place, with so many of the things we’ve loved in other towns we’ve visited during this trip, but with a few ancient Roman structures added in for good measure. We sit for a long while in one of the squares enjoying a coffee, the sunshine, and our last few moments in this incredible part of the world.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The high speed TGV train rockets us northward across France and we arrive at the Charles de Gaulle station in Paris then have a hell of a time trying to find our way out of the station to the taxi area, walking in loops and circles until we finally find somebody to point us in the right direction. It then takes about five tries to get an Uber driver to actually find us, but finally a fine gent from Mali collects us and drives us the short distance to our Air B&B, and we have an interesting conversation with him using our limited French, his limited English, and the help of Google Translate.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCNrfRCAWELNf1r7psU7BNitLkTX9_s0CIUl5hFKl6ylT9eL3N2b8OLGhwooloC_7bRtnYy-nqQFNOXon-nK90yuKiKEYtSXlUJIL2PI_SzwNGY-jUnvDK0_Pa7c7qommmqpnjgv0_6-RTGsuWG546wv0P8OL2laF5pbYSa8lo_5YA2Oxgu4Q-TPV_5lM/s4032/20231027_095246366_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCNrfRCAWELNf1r7psU7BNitLkTX9_s0CIUl5hFKl6ylT9eL3N2b8OLGhwooloC_7bRtnYy-nqQFNOXon-nK90yuKiKEYtSXlUJIL2PI_SzwNGY-jUnvDK0_Pa7c7qommmqpnjgv0_6-RTGsuWG546wv0P8OL2laF5pbYSa8lo_5YA2Oxgu4Q-TPV_5lM/s320/20231027_095246366_iOS.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />We are dropped off in front of our home for the night. It is raining heavily outside, very dark, and there is nobody around. We push through a large steel exterior door to gain access to a small courtyard and apartment access. It’s completely dark inside but I can feel a small creature pawing at my legs, so I reach down and put my hand on the unmistakable muscled head of a pit bull. Fortunately he is the happiest pit bull we’ve ever met and he sticks to us like glue and nearly sneaks into the apartment behind us but I manage to push him out and shut the door. Sorry fella.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbUY38n1HnlUj2dpMs6FZFXIlinVYykeadKQ0Qi0RIWKHxA1r-VKMLa14TcupmyaxjZeMX8loAERoAO6pzCEuGP-0nJPxhvg9zkuw5fSAycizhgFx6w7u23sgLBpFGjSc3mF11oP50O_hSwkz7PSuK9sN4tlokPe12es4miwBx2SKiWvdRq7iodFn7GcQ/s4032/20231027_091345505_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbUY38n1HnlUj2dpMs6FZFXIlinVYykeadKQ0Qi0RIWKHxA1r-VKMLa14TcupmyaxjZeMX8loAERoAO6pzCEuGP-0nJPxhvg9zkuw5fSAycizhgFx6w7u23sgLBpFGjSc3mF11oP50O_hSwkz7PSuK9sN4tlokPe12es4miwBx2SKiWvdRq7iodFn7GcQ/s320/20231027_091345505_iOS.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />After dumping our gear we head back out to the neighbourhood in search of food. We don’t have to go far – there are three restaurants on our block, and each of them looks to be completely devoid of customers. We decide on the Lebanese restaurant and are served a delicious meal of garlicy wonders. The waiter spends a lot of time visiting with us and explains the schools are on a two week “Halloween break” which he claims is the reason why the restaurants are so slow. I just can’t help myself and I look up school breaks in France and discover that they get five holiday breaks per year, each approximately two weeks long (All Saints, Christmas, Winter, Spring, Summer), except for the summer break which is eight weeks. These Europeans drive me crazy! With a lax schedule like that they still manage to come out speaking multiple languages, with art and music training, a deep appreciation for history, and are superior at math and science. I wonder if <a href="https://nationalpost.com/news/experts-suggest-math-scores-higher-in-quebec-because-teachers-are-better-trained">this </a>has something to do with it?</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We return to the apartment and do some final packing adjustments to our bags. Tomorrow, we leave for home.</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-887333827992041322023-10-26T19:37:00.000-04:002023-10-30T04:11:25.511-04:00France 2023 - Exploring Marseille and Cassis<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL60xTLbXS5RAN9w0lLo4Tq6mIO_TJGy8AZkcg5rnCxmsfwMiivFLJVZZKVfCIoGud-0DJmY3qy8l0mNBJmml-BISIS6lo1UgLt0bYIeQEcmzS8kpXBXrKpDfkZcsbhUNG_BDC839qDEc4O3wo20hvJ5u7GM6Udn7m1Nyi3d644j90gil8LtOg3kZvYtg/s4032/20231026_083524876_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL60xTLbXS5RAN9w0lLo4Tq6mIO_TJGy8AZkcg5rnCxmsfwMiivFLJVZZKVfCIoGud-0DJmY3qy8l0mNBJmml-BISIS6lo1UgLt0bYIeQEcmzS8kpXBXrKpDfkZcsbhUNG_BDC839qDEc4O3wo20hvJ5u7GM6Udn7m1Nyi3d644j90gil8LtOg3kZvYtg/s320/20231026_083524876_iOS.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />Our hotel doesn’t have much for early breakfast, but we did spot a snack bar across the street yesterday so we walk over there and are the only customers at Snack Time by Lou Lou. The man working greets us warmly in French, then switches to patchy English when he hears our French skills; nevertheless, we have a lovely conversation. After a 7 euro meal of croissants, coffee, and a breakfast sandwich we get in the car and point south to Marseille, which is a mere thirty minute drive.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Our first stop is at the Basilica which is a church and complex built at the top of the highest point of the city, and is the most visited attraction. We should have left a bit earlier as it is packed with tourists, the most we’ve seen anywhere on this trip by far. This is the type of thing we really try to avoid when traveling, and we were expecting that by the end of October things would be quiet. But not here. We have a quick look around and snap some photos of the impressive vistas, then Ana picks up a religious figurine from the gift shop for her mom and we get the hell out of there.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9OC9bLi5wScGIrYcFK6q9p2JucncmP2mqX9g_1f_bFOlVmhtaAB_SQm-FjgoyES7vv5FMPTrNcI7sdoXhaLqMmRDLATtqVATjZQhIyJEoln8mvNGrRsV4eYjLRd8ALMbxJCHZcQPVs_V6Qsdem9r9t1sc9oZmKFIJ3Kx2XG7GDGol1lwn6tbYwDuJKm0/s4032/20231026_125013883_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9OC9bLi5wScGIrYcFK6q9p2JucncmP2mqX9g_1f_bFOlVmhtaAB_SQm-FjgoyES7vv5FMPTrNcI7sdoXhaLqMmRDLATtqVATjZQhIyJEoln8mvNGrRsV4eYjLRd8ALMbxJCHZcQPVs_V6Qsdem9r9t1sc9oZmKFIJ3Kx2XG7GDGol1lwn6tbYwDuJKm0/s320/20231026_125013883_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />Down in the old port we find a massive marina with hundreds of boats and thousands of tourists. The place does have a cool vibe but the sheer quantity of tourists is a little off-putting and we can’t really understand why there are so many here compared to the other places we’ve visited in France.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We walk the old town, have bagels and fries for lunch, take a short ferry ride across the marina, then drive east to the town of Cassis. The last thing on my checklist is to swim in the Mediterranean, and this is my final chance as we leave for Paris tomorrow.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtuYyh4j2L5KNKlP7zylX36V6ZWPA8HtZ9k27QZXJ8DsCPmL3kyv9zXoGGAE_IYrqnrJdtsY1I7Rb3nNJjkGUoSTCYV9G1kHt2ZrPvLV9oMuLMaffcyc1YS985Su-iPacWHdbXEgreiNd2fZsl4aCzqt7b7AkWdkFuTTW4P4OCAy2RwvLRxVXnVkH2srs/s3088/20231026_143451037_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtuYyh4j2L5KNKlP7zylX36V6ZWPA8HtZ9k27QZXJ8DsCPmL3kyv9zXoGGAE_IYrqnrJdtsY1I7Rb3nNJjkGUoSTCYV9G1kHt2ZrPvLV9oMuLMaffcyc1YS985Su-iPacWHdbXEgreiNd2fZsl4aCzqt7b7AkWdkFuTTW4P4OCAy2RwvLRxVXnVkH2srs/s320/20231026_143451037_iOS.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />Cassis itself is quite nice and the view is spectacular as it is nested at the base of steep cliffs and has a cute marina. Fortunately, I am in luck as there is also a rocky beach with dangerous looking breaking waves presenting just enough element of risk. Ana patiently waits for me while I navigate my way into the ocean between massive waves and get out there for a quick dip then almost get pummeled on my way back in. Despite this, I am very satisfied with my swim.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0StuKu0hsWBLp_RlyCVJXzbzRH_nhDubZ5XDQpIh49W5-ctJ18X3LWFEZi8-U8ANOQqOHeaC4FvY0w_qgjrLQMGaCH6iLh-P6T2qxXiknjlFlMzu-Y5Zh9i1J_tVYRROGRnkr1TdRWxFkrD9OcVo4CBi0_t9KaIZysIOH_QRAiMJZzJXDlY8xZOsXSKs/s4032/IMG_0145.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0StuKu0hsWBLp_RlyCVJXzbzRH_nhDubZ5XDQpIh49W5-ctJ18X3LWFEZi8-U8ANOQqOHeaC4FvY0w_qgjrLQMGaCH6iLh-P6T2qxXiknjlFlMzu-Y5Zh9i1J_tVYRROGRnkr1TdRWxFkrD9OcVo4CBi0_t9KaIZysIOH_QRAiMJZzJXDlY8xZOsXSKs/s320/IMG_0145.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />We finish our day once again in Aix at the Irish Pub and I do something I never do while traveling – order the same dish twice. It is, of course, excellent and Ana’s fish in chips are equally good. For this last night in the south we take our time, watch people, watch some of the soccer on the pub tv, talk about our trip and enjoy these last moments in a country we’ve really fallen in love with.</span><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-77511711291994736842023-10-25T19:25:00.001-04:002023-10-30T04:51:34.432-04:00France 2023 - Antibes, Helicopter Rides, and Medieval Torture in Aix-en-Provence<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih3hXnf9Ul6Rr5xypNxtf8OC0LeL613le1a1OrQRFE-W3lh335NiC16K08v2UygoeSOglUoM46v1TB4LmURjDfkY-oYdoEJtkTkWRsXutjx52nvbYCbc2f0ItYtRpbApJVogmp9u1sHweoR3T-vnrpUpQSfK0FygOPOPtWKlskWzeVYiDWYh3Oaco1i10/s4032/20231025_083311561_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih3hXnf9Ul6Rr5xypNxtf8OC0LeL613le1a1OrQRFE-W3lh335NiC16K08v2UygoeSOglUoM46v1TB4LmURjDfkY-oYdoEJtkTkWRsXutjx52nvbYCbc2f0ItYtRpbApJVogmp9u1sHweoR3T-vnrpUpQSfK0FygOPOPtWKlskWzeVYiDWYh3Oaco1i10/s320/20231025_083311561_iOS.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />We pack up our stuff and say goodbye to Nice after an incredible three days. Our only plan is that we need be back in Provence tonight as we’ve booked a hotel in the town of Aix-en-Provence for the next two nights.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Heading southwest on the coastal road takes to the city of Antibes, of which we know nothing about, so we head to the port area and find a parking spot from where we can see an enormous mural on the side of a building, and we linger for a while to admire it. Past here are a series of marine stores, more than we’ve ever seen in one location before, but this all makes sense after we walk another block and find a gigantic marina, called Port Vauban – the largest marina in Europe, with space for some 2000 boats. Here, there is not just one Russian oligarch yacht; there is a whole neighbourhood of them. Besides these, there are all sizes, types, and makes of boats and along the harbour wall is a series of large signs explaining the history and evolution of the port.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Oh, and there’s a helicopter swinging people around by a rope. At first we think the helicopter is dropping a dummy down on a line then going for a joyride, but then we notice the dummies are waving their arms and legs. We walk to beach adjacent to the marina and see a lineup of people wearing uniforms, each taking a turn to put on a harness and get hauled up on a rope to a chopper then swung around the bay in a loop and then let back down to the ground. It must be safety or rescue training and it looks like a hell of a lot of fun.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSb9XgrO979V7j3Vr6u_caFihQh0uwVa8cZwJ2YHnZItWuRxd8erUXqVc_54rszl01u6-0wXH_t-Jr2yhBMHmBfXgTLGJOop9bqPwN_NVGhsjTyGdBV09v_d9ytQAJ0nptQvgRB9ioNUJe8gIRKqQzVYV5TcaHWkToyxgZu44I3oudfSJ8PXsCpcY7aJ8/s4032/20231025_081038308_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSb9XgrO979V7j3Vr6u_caFihQh0uwVa8cZwJ2YHnZItWuRxd8erUXqVc_54rszl01u6-0wXH_t-Jr2yhBMHmBfXgTLGJOop9bqPwN_NVGhsjTyGdBV09v_d9ytQAJ0nptQvgRB9ioNUJe8gIRKqQzVYV5TcaHWkToyxgZu44I3oudfSJ8PXsCpcY7aJ8/s320/20231025_081038308_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />The old town of Antibes is, of course, beautiful and full of shops, restaurants, cafes, and lots of people. The nautical theme is pervasive here and we see a lot of ocean themed items for sale and shops catering to yachts. After a big walk around and coffee in one of the many squares, we stop at the Professional Yachting Association office and have a long chat with a new fellow there about the professional yacht crew career option. During a visit to <a href="http://blog.lifeisgrand.org/2017/07/july-25-holriques-disband.html">Cambodia </a>we met a South African couple that worked on superyachts and we’ve been enamoured with the idea ever since. All I need now is a medical co-conspirator who can provide documentation to my employer that I have succumbed to a barely diagnosable yet believably serious ailment for which I will need extended leave.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The fastest way to Aix-en-Provence (or Aix for short, pronounced as simply “X”) from here is on the magnificent A8 toll road so we get on it, prepare a stack of euro coins and a credit card, and start driving. We could have gone further along the coastal road and visited more towns such as Cannes and St. Tropez, but we decide to save that for a future trip.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjloi0cZjRG08QV5jFYMyW0BoOnHWqE_AI2hmL5CEzpWrJ_0eU0NzGGRY2-R3Zq4PLUZPbHvES7h2JgkLWSuX-5QsPe1uLhFXwnqluEjM9XuhEZeGGuP98xX6pBFONlk4qdDTXKklp-r5DqUdqRwNJgNV-Vuhc17OihuUMrgZ8ZLX5u3iyN2b2EsaUI8zw/s4032/20231025_084717242_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjloi0cZjRG08QV5jFYMyW0BoOnHWqE_AI2hmL5CEzpWrJ_0eU0NzGGRY2-R3Zq4PLUZPbHvES7h2JgkLWSuX-5QsPe1uLhFXwnqluEjM9XuhEZeGGuP98xX6pBFONlk4qdDTXKklp-r5DqUdqRwNJgNV-Vuhc17OihuUMrgZ8ZLX5u3iyN2b2EsaUI8zw/s320/20231025_084717242_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />We check in at our hotel then take the 30 minute walk into the town center, which is full of chic young people being fancy. We are told it’s a university town, but one that’s clearly for people with money because these students are all wearing designer clothing, eating expensive meals, drinking pints, and having a rather great time.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Ana hits the shops while I walk over to the Granet museum (featuring paintings of dead fish, severed John the Baptist heads, and some nice medieval torture pieces), then the Jean Planque museum with more modern pieces, both of which I very much enjoyed.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgohd67dCoBCE2VGMCL-1p5WtF-WFYfvKDetyiYAZ1qXOYh5kyGIVfcXokTCO6qhy95Ln6fU3P1idiCyqLu1NMadR1oKk-8ZTKHEeusxXQUIxRLzDGmNtkcZjDPrOccjNOmtpIVK-pNQmSysBYx70UGrPumWMyGWhDAL0XUBShv1GFdQUMXMBjAgg81HLQ/s4032/20231025_144638627_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgohd67dCoBCE2VGMCL-1p5WtF-WFYfvKDetyiYAZ1qXOYh5kyGIVfcXokTCO6qhy95Ln6fU3P1idiCyqLu1NMadR1oKk-8ZTKHEeusxXQUIxRLzDGmNtkcZjDPrOccjNOmtpIVK-pNQmSysBYx70UGrPumWMyGWhDAL0XUBShv1GFdQUMXMBjAgg81HLQ/s320/20231025_144638627_iOS.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />We meet at 6pm and find a table at the Irish Bar. I know what you’re thinking. We’ll be eating Guinness and kidney pie or greasy fish and chips or some other dreadful food. But, as we’ve found, it’s really tough to find a bad meal in France and I eat the most amazing ribs of my life, prepared in a very unusual way. It didn’t even look like ribs, but the texture was right and the flavour was incredible. Ana’s meal too was delicious. By the time we leave it has gotten quite chilly and is raining a bit but we decide to walk anyway for some post dinner exercise and it’s all going great until Ana spots another rat on the street, then she starts moving so fast that I can barely keep up with her.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigpIkiiFJAUH6f8fYgoqi6SHJGAVBdkgyG3TrU8W8PyZ36yDIdVJahDWIlh-50g6-iVL0MUlNi263uBi-bLXSVwI3jPzN0nbfWKWhYthquwfHlr62AaXUkaTACmHV_FnN7_pfl5BzkC3ivg4tiHkhYZ4yg6TivjtmBPN-ocgKRzrgodw3AHuL2dnafr2Y/s4032/20231025_170523691_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigpIkiiFJAUH6f8fYgoqi6SHJGAVBdkgyG3TrU8W8PyZ36yDIdVJahDWIlh-50g6-iVL0MUlNi263uBi-bLXSVwI3jPzN0nbfWKWhYthquwfHlr62AaXUkaTACmHV_FnN7_pfl5BzkC3ivg4tiHkhYZ4yg6TivjtmBPN-ocgKRzrgodw3AHuL2dnafr2Y/s320/20231025_170523691_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-57186431132941099972023-10-24T19:18:00.000-04:002023-10-30T04:10:54.345-04:00France 2023 - A Quick Trip to Italy and Monaco<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCwiUTBpjEfZxD1hpIxSo-ylnh9W6IKKaHZN6t-QSSP86x9HrXfCrOZJDWOpjrZysyI3OtMDuvDXAGnOAJpIEZN2Fsfgq3tMt7x5w67POvNVsnalcrdn6PnRZ3MkQVAtcEoP53OHVW0Dmi8Vcey6vap6SK-mvNzVkApkJgmF-yum7fBlfFwZm-8lWH7MA/s3088/20231024_135316426_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCwiUTBpjEfZxD1hpIxSo-ylnh9W6IKKaHZN6t-QSSP86x9HrXfCrOZJDWOpjrZysyI3OtMDuvDXAGnOAJpIEZN2Fsfgq3tMt7x5w67POvNVsnalcrdn6PnRZ3MkQVAtcEoP53OHVW0Dmi8Vcey6vap6SK-mvNzVkApkJgmF-yum7fBlfFwZm-8lWH7MA/s320/20231024_135316426_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />We are in the car and headed east just as the sun is peeking up from the ocean, giving us enough light to enjoy the spectacular views from the high road cut into the mountain sides. We are driving along the French coastline, the Cote d'Azur, towards Italy and we pass by towns below us - Beaulieu-sur-Mer, Eze, Cap d’Ail. Soon, a coastal city appears and we see skyscrapers, tall hotels, densely packed apartment buildings, and roads somehow weaving through at all - Monaco. We continue along the winding road and pass through beautiful Menton, which sits right on the eastern French border, then we drive through a set of tunnels and bam, everything changes! The French radio stations we were just listening to seem to have all instantly vanished. And now I can practically feel the hands and fingers reaching out from the stereo, waving in front of my face, as the announcers pepper us with rapid fire Italian. It is pleasantly jarring.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We drive into Ventimiglia and it looks different than the French towns - it's a little more beaten up, the people don't look quite as fancy, and we don't see any ancient buildings. It takes forever to find parking and we finally score a spot in what feels like the edge of town. It is raining quite heavily so we pull out our umbrellas and walk back along the coastal road towards the center of town. We pass an old Italian man who says “Buongiorno!" and we reply with the same. The shop windows display Limoncello and Martini instead of Pastis and red wine. Signs are in Italian. But the density of cars and buildings is the same.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdZuPr13NGnqDi_YGcm-EiJp-BOOn-1K_f3yFOTuW_OGenmR40OszOL3CehnyfItBhTumO7VLltFXFjw_Jr-o3kRSysCgvJXvUidD83OV911Zo0IbDFhqsYKr3WWwholcqCyzHsan5HAA1XdKBVwtsAlk4qGZh4rYiCYR90R7ZnJVFR-PcRYBEajAw6zg/s4032/20231024_081731851_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdZuPr13NGnqDi_YGcm-EiJp-BOOn-1K_f3yFOTuW_OGenmR40OszOL3CehnyfItBhTumO7VLltFXFjw_Jr-o3kRSysCgvJXvUidD83OV911Zo0IbDFhqsYKr3WWwholcqCyzHsan5HAA1XdKBVwtsAlk4qGZh4rYiCYR90R7ZnJVFR-PcRYBEajAw6zg/s320/20231024_081731851_iOS.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />An Italian café awaits us. We sit down and order an americano and a cappuccino. The drinks appear almost instantly and they are delicious. Makes me wonder what all the hubbub is with baristas in Canada, seems like the Europeans can foam milk in their sleep. We watch the Italians coming and going as the town slowly comes to life. Ana checks out a few shops and reports that stuff looks to be generally a bit cheaper here than in France. I step into a tobacco shop and note you can get a pack of smokes for five euro, which may help explain the proliferation of smokers we’ve noticed here and in France.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4vhZb3D1O4KLdOFs785r7ImQNAAKm3MIOs-28gyjNk5CEjKfi0a8SFp3aQoiKvAFENrC0jED0dix9z6vJmggZjIHU1KiHAwES7vVPiSGibonsgpltz1Ss7He7CkP6pqb7Ibw0S7Y5em43AMSXVLHPyM_a1MPgbvRrA82X1h7XYOe6dNQhyphenhyphenbJkRtY8Nzo/s3088/20231024_115210023_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4vhZb3D1O4KLdOFs785r7ImQNAAKm3MIOs-28gyjNk5CEjKfi0a8SFp3aQoiKvAFENrC0jED0dix9z6vJmggZjIHU1KiHAwES7vVPiSGibonsgpltz1Ss7He7CkP6pqb7Ibw0S7Y5em43AMSXVLHPyM_a1MPgbvRrA82X1h7XYOe6dNQhyphenhyphenbJkRtY8Nzo/s320/20231024_115210023_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />Because distances are short, we dip into Italy a bit further, to the larger town of Sanremo, and find a parking spot near the city centre. There we browse a market and I’m tempted to buy an enormous brick of Parmesan cheese for ten euro but I change my mind as I don’t want to commit to babysitting fromage for the rest of the trip. A street vendor see Ana browsing purses and descends on her with a huge bag of knock-offs and they do battle. He doesn’t stand a chance – she knows her prices and he’s asking way too much.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU6nmyMncrFYbOUAaCUB_4GZIN1zklMhCswjW1jvydYKABhKvoq6IQT6LrZSLME_VlGaaNMUdtMwyk69Mc3F94ht_sbR3PnLRk5WYD42prkaekdrimx2an2zHYS09YzPlKI2FcCb9AUvuxnqLD-TJI07hBvjDyFIbfBN5bVWf0KiJJP9SAM0tooPPRo70/s4032/20231024_085227437_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU6nmyMncrFYbOUAaCUB_4GZIN1zklMhCswjW1jvydYKABhKvoq6IQT6LrZSLME_VlGaaNMUdtMwyk69Mc3F94ht_sbR3PnLRk5WYD42prkaekdrimx2an2zHYS09YzPlKI2FcCb9AUvuxnqLD-TJI07hBvjDyFIbfBN5bVWf0KiJJP9SAM0tooPPRo70/s320/20231024_085227437_iOS.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />The restaurants are all opening for lunch and we decide on a small one in a narrow walking street with only a couple of outside tables. The chef appears and explains each item on the day’s menu with care and detail. I decide on the rabbit ravioli with mushroom sauce and Ana goes for the truffle tagliolini. The food is delicious and the red wine she suggested (actually, insisted on) goes perfectly with my dish. This is Ana and my first lunch in an actual Italian restaurant and I hope there are more to come in our future.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaYH7z_7-67-khXd54b0Si2O85SpNy1n70HYg0Wuv9Bt9IJ5roPk31zZBRSYvkVIZnaWLzN9mt9WEcZ27MK-j-AwkmrL6QUUteEIbfE10fY2-remEHMmRNfK3dtNDTYNf6gd20ttH41efMaRo2VB-Lyv0B5Op-8VCf8prn3Ww0hyfOenoZsz2q9ypxbR0/s4032/20231024_110708122_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaYH7z_7-67-khXd54b0Si2O85SpNy1n70HYg0Wuv9Bt9IJ5roPk31zZBRSYvkVIZnaWLzN9mt9WEcZ27MK-j-AwkmrL6QUUteEIbfE10fY2-remEHMmRNfK3dtNDTYNf6gd20ttH41efMaRo2VB-Lyv0B5Op-8VCf8prn3Ww0hyfOenoZsz2q9ypxbR0/s320/20231024_110708122_iOS.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />On the way back to the car, a small boat docked in the marine catches my eye. It has a fancy colourful sign like an ice cream shop, but when I get closer I see they sell fish cones. Their most popular appears looks to be the sardine cone, which looks just like it sounds. Hey, I like sardines and I like cones, but that combo just doesn’t sound that great. Thankfully the boat is deserted so I’m not forced to try it.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMAm2EsUUCPtwt6GQBHVPCCVT3uOdQ_MXPY6ohwjLzzsI-TMgkqeX7CEdYi8jxpfC0-p1FkZKwAYj4k5DFk4xMbDLe4kBJlkNGN_HzIPh928ZKQvyY0mfLcU5ZSC1Bi-f4Eo-6yEYLzrH1SMZsGL2wUe7N8sopM1_xASldf4aB1xYEWdeYf8g2mzRu4_o/s4032/20231024_120737374_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMAm2EsUUCPtwt6GQBHVPCCVT3uOdQ_MXPY6ohwjLzzsI-TMgkqeX7CEdYi8jxpfC0-p1FkZKwAYj4k5DFk4xMbDLe4kBJlkNGN_HzIPh928ZKQvyY0mfLcU5ZSC1Bi-f4Eo-6yEYLzrH1SMZsGL2wUe7N8sopM1_xASldf4aB1xYEWdeYf8g2mzRu4_o/s320/20231024_120737374_iOS.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />With our Italian sojourn complete, I point the car back towards France and we drive to Menton. Along the coastal road are a series of gorgeous buildings painted pastel yellow, orange, and pink. If I were to translate the palette of my most amazing dreams to reality, this is what it would look like. Ana and I walk through the narrow and hilly passageways of the old town, mesmerized by the antiquity of it all, the colours, the cobblestones, and wonder what it’s like to live here, in this medieval setting, with Amazon delivery. We visit the Basilique a Sainte-Michel and are stunned by the ancient beauty of it, so much so that we sit in a pew for a while to take it in. I don’t remember ever being inside a church this beautiful.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdxAUoYN8EyXU7Uj0v8LZqM-9BpNZHLSwyiDBzpYj6jt-TRL3RZsGsYVAVq9XnAht3KDupT8XQU5O5nMuLRFRY5gKcj-0XaqzxsAFvmSkd-vj6EsHiGHzxFrYAZb6lw_1nVVQt9F__Cz_PngyLKV_uUM0zRRWlKUGpZdDiZQ05DMqudX2h7y9eCbhfpNY/s4032/20231024_134203057_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdxAUoYN8EyXU7Uj0v8LZqM-9BpNZHLSwyiDBzpYj6jt-TRL3RZsGsYVAVq9XnAht3KDupT8XQU5O5nMuLRFRY5gKcj-0XaqzxsAFvmSkd-vj6EsHiGHzxFrYAZb6lw_1nVVQt9F__Cz_PngyLKV_uUM0zRRWlKUGpZdDiZQ05DMqudX2h7y9eCbhfpNY/s320/20231024_134203057_iOS.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />After cruising the fancy shops for a while and realizing this town’s specialty must be lemons (lemon soap, lemon deodorant, lemon gelato) we decide this stop must include a food break so we grab a table at the Chez Lina Snack Pizzeria and order a chorizo and jalapeño flat bread. It is deliciously spicy and cut into perfect rectangles to make it easy to share. A pack of near-elderly Americans sitting next to us have brought their corn hole game on extended vacation and they toss bean bags around on the boulevard. They are joined at their table by a few other English speakers - this must be the local ex-pat hangout.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSEXlLgWSwijNObIIDOQxi3_zJSVEQ2WuC_hslZeegrAkvX9k2epguP1qxLL2RyVL4gElIhhEVW-N8Atvw5Bp7_WcR-onHp-yD6byUF2OCZ6WLKBtyDGgLiUn4DY71-P5Pr_xKDpOopFNUfaOzPMid7jvu_Co4XV18_WhiYw3wf8QNhxJyr3s63AQXHTQ/s4032/20231024_170448581_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSEXlLgWSwijNObIIDOQxi3_zJSVEQ2WuC_hslZeegrAkvX9k2epguP1qxLL2RyVL4gElIhhEVW-N8Atvw5Bp7_WcR-onHp-yD6byUF2OCZ6WLKBtyDGgLiUn4DY71-P5Pr_xKDpOopFNUfaOzPMid7jvu_Co4XV18_WhiYw3wf8QNhxJyr3s63AQXHTQ/s320/20231024_170448581_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />The day is winding down but we have one more stop to make. Monaco is a tiny, two square kilometer city-state and hangs off a tip of the French coastline. It has been politically independent in various forms for hundreds of years and is a famous tax haven as it levies no personal income tax on citizens. Because of its unique properties, Monaco lands on the “number 1” list in many areas:</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">-<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>highest number of millionaires and billionaires per capita in the world</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">-<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>second smallest sovereign state in the world</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">-<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>most densely populated sovereign state in the world</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">-<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>world’s shortest coastline</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">-<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>highest GDP per capita of any country</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">-<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>world’s lowest poverty rate</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">-<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>world’s most expensive property</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">-<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>has the world's most difficult Formula One racetrack</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">When Ana and I first met she gave me a small world Atlas in which we made a list of the places we’d like to visit together. At the top of the list was “South of France” and Monaco was always discussed as the one place in that region we needed to visit. And here we are. Deep underground in a parking garage changing clothes in our rental car. I couldn’t even get my pants off while sitting in the driver’s seat so I jump out of the car to switch into my fancy red slacks, hardly mindful of the cameras everywhere. Ana hides at the back of the car with the trunk open so nobody can see her change. High class, all the way.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMhGCSKJBCfD1W3x5HgdZl0sLv1qmCUJ-lyfjv-p0XZaIRLQqwkaEQ8HzDiyKSj_5IrGrmPMCnKT9rfBBwd3zimZt-Ebszqispm9xy9dGbFZ9g3BYm5L53Cp41l7RX1KdapkOKARoPoBA6H9WwmzyYEqlbybiwL_cAQk2bt2lgdmjx8DgX-1qk60whJi4/s3088/20231024_172111763_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMhGCSKJBCfD1W3x5HgdZl0sLv1qmCUJ-lyfjv-p0XZaIRLQqwkaEQ8HzDiyKSj_5IrGrmPMCnKT9rfBBwd3zimZt-Ebszqispm9xy9dGbFZ9g3BYm5L53Cp41l7RX1KdapkOKARoPoBA6H9WwmzyYEqlbybiwL_cAQk2bt2lgdmjx8DgX-1qk60whJi4/s320/20231024_172111763_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />The cool evening air smells of money and status and we walk right through it, towards the Monte Carlo Casino but are sidelined by the luxury shopping area next to it. Every single luxury brand I have ever heard of (and many I have not) has a classy storefront here. Ana may have wet her pants a little bit as she stood there dumbfounded, surveying the scene in front of her. The classy people walking around proudly carrying designer bags, the luxury Italian and French shops, the glass and steel condo towers, the expensive vehicles passing by. She admitted to me that this place makes the rich areas of New York look like homeless shelters in comparison.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We stride into the immaculate casino then stride right back out when we realize it costs 18 euro just to get onto the gaming floor and we weren’t planning on doing any gambling anyway. Ana finds a Zara store and buys a belt, just so she has something to show for this Monaco visit. I have a feeling she will treasure it, always. As I wait for her I see a fancy lady with pumped up lips, jacked up breasts, stretched out face, and fifty grand worth of clothing yelling at her phone for somebody to get his ass over here and pick her up. A short while later a sheepish man arrives in a sports car and whisks her back to Never Never Land.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ntK2AymUob8lwANUUohKAKdeU8nOKY1Q9ZO1Yqo-TA0KDxDora3Eo3vjHfKgpjyamye6KUk0qs6NHcuEs5GlfIPlv0prTxm7KJ34TMoLpFqZiK-xUJC3bihIZQB8iMszw-plPW_ZfCCcPsy12y9Zfz6FRET9IANNKa18hWt1rjnvcKqui3W9voYonL0/s4032/20231024_181845608_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ntK2AymUob8lwANUUohKAKdeU8nOKY1Q9ZO1Yqo-TA0KDxDora3Eo3vjHfKgpjyamye6KUk0qs6NHcuEs5GlfIPlv0prTxm7KJ34TMoLpFqZiK-xUJC3bihIZQB8iMszw-plPW_ZfCCcPsy12y9Zfz6FRET9IANNKa18hWt1rjnvcKqui3W9voYonL0/s320/20231024_181845608_iOS.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />There isn’t much else to do here besides walk around, so we do just that. The streets are surprisingly quiet. We even have trouble finding a place for a drink as nearly everything is closed except for the casinos and hotels. The waiter at Nona Maria brings two beers for us and we sit at a bistro table on the sidewalk looking and listening. An electric garbage truck passes by and the workers toss in bags from the street. One of the men at the table near us tells his friends how he met both Putin and Trump in Russia. This is an unusual place.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I drive our Peugeot back to Nice like I’m James Bond on the run from a villain. And still, suicidal French motorcyclists are passing me on the left and right. It’s a fun end to an extraordinary day. It’s not often that dawn to dusk affords you sufficient time to visit three countries.</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-63674154778497374482023-10-23T18:57:00.000-04:002023-10-30T04:10:41.098-04:00France 2023 - A Fine Day in Nice<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ3bWIcnTdFxkmgcBJXSuyVJ2DMG9tF68H_iR0FL_8kuCXln4CaqpPBnsTSNrwePALMDOiPpYdQD-spf_rOvNYTr9g0d7fXLtt9snZ4_qFLjj_XxAiJ-Zn20soHU9q-3oiB-xRPtDULNAaJUzGewZ1cr6LvpGGzghI9RvavyxqrXQcQiipTCOrp_Er-dw/s4032/20231023_090318276_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ3bWIcnTdFxkmgcBJXSuyVJ2DMG9tF68H_iR0FL_8kuCXln4CaqpPBnsTSNrwePALMDOiPpYdQD-spf_rOvNYTr9g0d7fXLtt9snZ4_qFLjj_XxAiJ-Zn20soHU9q-3oiB-xRPtDULNAaJUzGewZ1cr6LvpGGzghI9RvavyxqrXQcQiipTCOrp_Er-dw/s320/20231023_090318276_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />The pullout couch bed is surprisingly comfortable and we wake up not early but not late either. Last night we picked up a few food items from the Intermarche grocery store across the street so we enjoy a leisurely breakfast on our small balcony then walk into the port area. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">After browsing around in a marine supply shop (force of habit) we hike up the Colline du Chateau which provides a magnificent vista over the city and harbour. Our question of how these boats manage to stern into such narrow slips is answered when we watch dock staff in two separate boats tow and push a sailboat all the way across the entire marina and expertly shoehorn it in between two other boats.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We walk down the massive promenade into Nice's old city. It is magnificent. Architectural wonders at every turn, narrow streets lined with interesting shops and the regular assortment of cafes and restaurants full of chic Europeans drinking their little coffees, smoking, chatting with friends, and making full use of these incredible public spaces designed hundreds of years ago for just this.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJYg5bSoYcP6_Jo2pBmiBQXrV0zZ0WDD7TQZ1UiEZOGu5rDTHX0KGVfgavSuKS6fpmT4XycFLIngsrXchYZFcYqMl69-0aSZcdDI6zSRVRDhLXJRjytXAEodMd41LoIyxDnIvbtHk0FzP-u-31Udo6CV-Wvve8fGwJzdgyitiRn3uUg4rG_U7oi8jNHLY/s3088/20231023_071043804_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJYg5bSoYcP6_Jo2pBmiBQXrV0zZ0WDD7TQZ1UiEZOGu5rDTHX0KGVfgavSuKS6fpmT4XycFLIngsrXchYZFcYqMl69-0aSZcdDI6zSRVRDhLXJRjytXAEodMd41LoIyxDnIvbtHk0FzP-u-31Udo6CV-Wvve8fGwJzdgyitiRn3uUg4rG_U7oi8jNHLY/s320/20231023_071043804_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />As we're walking down one street we're rattled by the noise of an explosion. Everybody around us jumps, startled, then looks around momentarily, and immediately gets back to what they were doing. I have no idea what it was. Strangely, a block later we are passed by half a dozen French soldiers in full fatigue uniforms carrying assault rifles, but they were in no hurry, so I assume it's just a coincidence.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The long strip where we ate last night has been transformed into a massive goods market with everything from nautical antiques to records to soap. I take a pass on the market and instead walk down to ocean and lay down on the beach, which is a thick blanket of stones instead of sand. I look for shapes in the clouds for a while then when that gets tiresome I pull out my Boredom Solution Machine and make smart assed comments on others' social media posts.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We randomly select one of the hundred restaurants and sit down for lunch. Ana has a Nicoise salad for lunch to see if it's any better here in the dish's origin city. It is indeed good, but it seems there's only so much you can do with tuna, tomatoes, lettuce, olives, eggs, and oil all mixed together.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7yNfJZy498DHsBkzZNc24dkEEIXi6ONNvojhz_Cy4hrEuYXdahe56Bz7rjqXtQdUu4a7QBbisCqPBr06ShzaWspDYHmoeiBdXDiCYMEotjAwUo1vE2SZrCMKY2WVVicapIGcntHs82lncoykx2-k9JQ8DvyVwqTDE9IdHdEsYzWrFcOPjB1Zn96KJZCg/s4032/20231023_122438616_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7yNfJZy498DHsBkzZNc24dkEEIXi6ONNvojhz_Cy4hrEuYXdahe56Bz7rjqXtQdUu4a7QBbisCqPBr06ShzaWspDYHmoeiBdXDiCYMEotjAwUo1vE2SZrCMKY2WVVicapIGcntHs82lncoykx2-k9JQ8DvyVwqTDE9IdHdEsYzWrFcOPjB1Zn96KJZCg/s320/20231023_122438616_iOS.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />We decide on a post-lunch half-marathon and walk and walk and walk, taking a break only to visit the beach and dip our hands into the Mediterranean Sea for the first time. We come across a memorial to the 86 people who were killed (and 434 injured) in a terrorist attack here in 2016 where they were run down on the promenade by a angry young man in a van. It's impossible for me to imagine the horror of that day as I look out to the promenade today and see families walking together, couples in love, people walking their dogs. So much can change in a moment.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We finally return to the apartment around 6 or 7pm and can't bear the thought of leaving again for dinner so we instead make breakfast for dinner and enjoy bacon, eggs, cheese, baguette, and juice then watch a movie and get to bed early. Tomorrow is going to be a huge day. </span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-33170411837559844492023-10-22T02:40:00.003-04:002023-10-30T07:02:37.466-04:00France 2023 - Arles, Frejus, Nice, and a Rat<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9xF85wFf6mH5oFT4NVk625x8xuWzwgK5CKBxPSg9a8ceHwCVfvlYdDRgC9Btgfobquhr5IRLakdwsI9RzH3GFNyyH3KMPdIO2rY3YnVvARpJbQ0t6Lllrms2zgKVR2C7NRIRy5Volduu05wJuQ8xq9KEbrjdy5p03HBT4bZOrI-KdxlG87S0KFdaA49c/s4032/IMG_9896%20(1).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9xF85wFf6mH5oFT4NVk625x8xuWzwgK5CKBxPSg9a8ceHwCVfvlYdDRgC9Btgfobquhr5IRLakdwsI9RzH3GFNyyH3KMPdIO2rY3YnVvARpJbQ0t6Lllrms2zgKVR2C7NRIRy5Volduu05wJuQ8xq9KEbrjdy5p03HBT4bZOrI-KdxlG87S0KFdaA49c/s320/IMG_9896%20(1).JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">By 9am Michael and Anna have us to central Nimes where we will pick up our rental car and head east across the south of France. We hug each other and hold it a little longer than usual - we feel close to them and have had so many laughs and fun times over the past days. We are sad to leave. But within a week we will once again be within a 90 minute drive of each other, so I know we'll see them again soon.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">The rental car is a 2008 Peugeot. But it wasn't manufactured in 2008 - it's brand new - but I wonder who on earth came up with that idea for a model name. Maybe they released it in 2006 and it seemed brilliant at the time. It's a comfy four door model with space in the hatch for all of our luggage. We were scared we'd be driving around France in a soup can on wheels, but this one is a beauty.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">Our first stop is Arles, which is another medieval Roman town, and we walk towards the centre after parking. A stone wishing well full of fish and coins is alongside the stairs leading up to a walking street.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCPpCyQfdcaHQMG7PUAiwyyDqC95gLThyphenhyphenn20aDWeypWjL3Qd_hiLFCuQXEz82FXEksRUIDgg92rKi300sSIGHe4CAypT3mcet1Og9qILmuQQRo2Bh4ea8C-1hc4ZfhP0-UFH5rNYBmXD0NwYzJWxnEJtVyvayfWRrVQFRv2X6HfQb0FGecn0j85CqYJds/s4032/IMG_9884%20(1).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCPpCyQfdcaHQMG7PUAiwyyDqC95gLThyphenhyphenn20aDWeypWjL3Qd_hiLFCuQXEz82FXEksRUIDgg92rKi300sSIGHe4CAypT3mcet1Og9qILmuQQRo2Bh4ea8C-1hc4ZfhP0-UFH5rNYBmXD0NwYzJWxnEJtVyvayfWRrVQFRv2X6HfQb0FGecn0j85CqYJds/s320/IMG_9884%20(1).JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />"Let's make a wish," Ana says and tosses in a couple of coins. She then continues walking up the stairs as I remain well-side, throwing coppers.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"What are you doing? Do you need that many wishes?" she says looking down at me.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"Nah, I'm good. I'm making wishes for you instead, one for each of your menopause symptoms that I wish to go away," I say as I flip in another five eurocent coin. "So far I've got hot flashes, uncontrollable rage, night sweats, depression, muscle pain, joint ache, insomnia....hey, could you loan me a few more coins?</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">We continue into the centre and find a colossal coliseum. We've just walked into gladiator times and if I close my eyes I can hear the thunderous cheers of the gathered crowd, the roar from the lions, and the clashing of steel sword on shield. After walking the circumference we continue along a narrow street and grab croissants and coffee from a small bakery where we practice our French (we've lost our human translators...) with a lovely Lebanese boy and his father. In an ancient building just off the main squares is a free photography exhibition so we browse through and enjoy interesting prints of bulls, boobs, and old men.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuE3JxmOu697JvBwxlXSDX41vjAJQo4UA1OSmslggVFadngXawHTeE1qJNWKsNYkjSTjYXQnPT3U-ceVpSvuQZYP9JZ2VoNV3_vLqBIKfbWhp2j1cgLW0wFoVTHdSyUIyjHz28krV477jIiDaB53XVdqxzJWU7OGutPNP9wI1YZqxSt_ptmzAkQ6npMYQ/s4032/IMG_9896%20(1).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuE3JxmOu697JvBwxlXSDX41vjAJQo4UA1OSmslggVFadngXawHTeE1qJNWKsNYkjSTjYXQnPT3U-ceVpSvuQZYP9JZ2VoNV3_vLqBIKfbWhp2j1cgLW0wFoVTHdSyUIyjHz28krV477jIiDaB53XVdqxzJWU7OGutPNP9wI1YZqxSt_ptmzAkQ6npMYQ/s320/IMG_9896%20(1).JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />Back on the toll motorway I am once again impressed by French sensibility. The toll road is expensive, but the three lane roadway is immaculate and the posted speed limit for most parts is 130 kph, or 110 if the weather is poor. This makes sense as the road is designed to handle these speeds. Compare this to the stupidity in Ontario. The 407 toll road is an immaculate three lane roadway. The posted speed limit is 100 kph at all times. People typically drive from 120-130 and simply take the chance on getting a speeding ticket, which the police often do at random times. This is such stupidity. We set our speed limits artificially low on nearly every roadway in Canada - roads that were designed to handle higher speeds. Everybody speeds, because your senses are telling you to go faster. Why do we do this? Why can't we get something as simple as speed limits right? Even worse, we design roads in residential neighbourhood far too wide, which induces high speeds. The residential and urban roads in France are tiny - you wouldn't dream of driving fast so they don't even need to post speed limits. Every single posted speed limit I've seen in France has made perfect sense to me.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ce2MGC1hCpG3lZYDTq1RF-hi6P8HIHv1Qfv_E6tuB065t7-g2rjhJ56grWP4Dz0G404bYJvBqhQV9XC7V6dUD3eFjdZdLIsBUzJ0oQv-M6H6AgPPxR1hPj9hDBZBBfrZ8xozr4Y5JPw5T4AoGoVPe-mR6d3GCHm85m9LjB4EikeFW24t3STs3cX3AP8/s4032/IMG_9914%20(1).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ce2MGC1hCpG3lZYDTq1RF-hi6P8HIHv1Qfv_E6tuB065t7-g2rjhJ56grWP4Dz0G404bYJvBqhQV9XC7V6dUD3eFjdZdLIsBUzJ0oQv-M6H6AgPPxR1hPj9hDBZBBfrZ8xozr4Y5JPw5T4AoGoVPe-mR6d3GCHm85m9LjB4EikeFW24t3STs3cX3AP8/s320/IMG_9914%20(1).JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />Our next stop is Frejus, a town that's barely mentioned in the two guidebooks we have, but it's coastal and looks to have a sizeable marina. Well, the marina is big and it's awesome. The docks are open so we wander up and down, getting an up close view of the many boats. I'm intrigued by what's called the Mediterranean docking system where there are no finger piers so everybody backs in and use aft gangplanks to reach the dock. The front of the boat is held in place by lines that are anchored to the seabed and inflatable fenders between all the boats keep them locked together in place.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">We enjoy a nice lunch at a dockside restaurant, noticing that everybody here is French and we haven't heard any other languages being spoken. I imagine us sailing our boat to the Mediterranean and docking here for a few nights. It's possible.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">It's just getting dark when we reach our final destination - Nice. And yes, it is nice. Our Air B&B is small and efficient with its pull out couch, balcony just large enough for two people and a small bistro table, and a miniature kitchen that has everything we need for light meals (breakfast).</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE6IVdfZ3aMHd1ky9KR8t3Ioa1htZaqEe4p4A8tQsv4dLZnqvMryRTwNmyyLYok_TZuI8bescvuEASNyhJlOQbX6Z8p5Ku7pQmsNqYBVvOl_4G9mM9rmErHCjExAY2W69x7F5dK3siFmcvlZdpAGWGfXA8fgaAC0lbPY7yOshKcl0qggJIexBibTgZ6nU/s4032/IMG_5901%201.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE6IVdfZ3aMHd1ky9KR8t3Ioa1htZaqEe4p4A8tQsv4dLZnqvMryRTwNmyyLYok_TZuI8bescvuEASNyhJlOQbX6Z8p5Ku7pQmsNqYBVvOl_4G9mM9rmErHCjExAY2W69x7F5dK3siFmcvlZdpAGWGfXA8fgaAC0lbPY7yOshKcl0qggJIexBibTgZ6nU/s320/IMG_5901%201.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />It's time to do some evening exploring. The city is alive with lights and people. We walk past admiring the yachts docked in the marina. I look up Kaiser, a massive motor yacht docked with uniformed crew still busy cleaning. It's a luxury charter vessel, owned by a Russian oligarch and it rents for just over half a million euro per week (plus expenses) for you and 11 of your closest henchmen.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">Our walk takes us past the marina and we find a massive rock mountain with a war memorial carved into it, brilliantly lighted, overlooking the sea. From here we see the main centre of Nice - a long stretch of lighted wonders along a wide pedestrian walkway and a beach. The view is simply stunning, unreal, magical. We walk down the hill and into the frenzy and find thousands of cool people, most of them young, walking the boardwalk and, one street in, packed into the patios of the outdoor restaurants.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKywvxN-KDH_XghR4FJv0aVkIsl_YPHD0dRSEBf-zkzVkiF1lwcbi5CKuAJDxdwcDauPDtFz7tAgvcMOahOTJrB0BF57kjVTjCDNIQWawG_IqueBJmlLnQbOi-2iPDDxxeZxRAr0BpX7K8GpMoofP2IADD_cfJ1QByKK5b96apuVvKxcjk8l6DpVif7Ko/s4032/IMG_9934%201.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKywvxN-KDH_XghR4FJv0aVkIsl_YPHD0dRSEBf-zkzVkiF1lwcbi5CKuAJDxdwcDauPDtFz7tAgvcMOahOTJrB0BF57kjVTjCDNIQWawG_IqueBJmlLnQbOi-2iPDDxxeZxRAr0BpX7K8GpMoofP2IADD_cfJ1QByKK5b96apuVvKxcjk8l6DpVif7Ko/s320/IMG_9934%201.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />Now, if you were to sit down at a restaurant called "Mama Mia's" on the main tourist street, with dozens of other tourists, in any other city or country in the world, the food would be CRAP. I know. We've done this a few times. It usually sucks, but you're just there for the atmosphere so you don't mind too much, you tolerate the food, and just focus on the place. We order a pizza to share, and it's simply delicious. It seems nearly impossible to find a bad meal here, which is a real testament to the French dedication to quality. We enjoy our pizza, our drinks, and watch the fine looking French folks passing back and forth. This is a great place.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmLZaGrtNTkbV219jHLqPlQcfpbSNK-uiB-waADcB_V8C81-tJRgXJzERlojPHODK8D_6hzbW6ghPRGPOhGFhZh3o3u2ZLCW39HeABfbp6oN9Q3FKyeLJoqOb2ePDIO1YYeNa2w_qZufvSuI7z9avmXYfn64sN96wiqWbFgN9i72-xQcaJBU1ipD_m4cg/s4032/IMG_9945.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmLZaGrtNTkbV219jHLqPlQcfpbSNK-uiB-waADcB_V8C81-tJRgXJzERlojPHODK8D_6hzbW6ghPRGPOhGFhZh3o3u2ZLCW39HeABfbp6oN9Q3FKyeLJoqOb2ePDIO1YYeNa2w_qZufvSuI7z9avmXYfn64sN96wiqWbFgN9i72-xQcaJBU1ipD_m4cg/s320/IMG_9945.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />At whatever time it is, we walk back to our apartment and Ana spots a rat along the way which sends her into terror spasms. I try to get close to it so I can give it a little pat on the head but no dice, he's already slipped down into the spacious sewers.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">Tomorrow, we explore Nice in the daylight.</span></span><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_231026_082451_639.sdocx--></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-64196656978914077582023-10-21T02:05:00.001-04:002023-10-30T06:54:50.711-04:00France 2023 - Bullfights and Ramparts<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7rIlqJv2txMLmEDrS3jzHp089truFWY53ane7ZzQpvvIJMYVcy-BRUjwf8afDqtwMOhSMPLSXzukDgCshahDhcHfmO923AoLl5bAMKIEF-WmcK7rluTw4sV7ScnHKNHAhz9E_Y07If40Zp8qok2tOqTUihIdYAjxNHPXYu0QFhRAZvooUvwYkFYKGIb4/s4032/IMG_5843.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7rIlqJv2txMLmEDrS3jzHp089truFWY53ane7ZzQpvvIJMYVcy-BRUjwf8afDqtwMOhSMPLSXzukDgCshahDhcHfmO923AoLl5bAMKIEF-WmcK7rluTw4sV7ScnHKNHAhz9E_Y07If40Zp8qok2tOqTUihIdYAjxNHPXYu0QFhRAZvooUvwYkFYKGIb4/s320/IMG_5843.JPG" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">Before we arrived in France, I was curious if Michael and Anna had been learning any French. I didn't remember them ever mentioning it before, so I had assumed they were getting by with hand signals, a smile, and translation apps where required. What they've actually been doing is intensive Duolingo daily training, speaking to people as much as possible, and immersing themselves in the local community and culture. We were both very impressed with their language skills. Neither Ana nor I speak French, but I do know most of the words commonly found on the French side of cereal boxes. It is a little embarrassing being Canadian and not speaking French, but I'll blame Quebec politics for that and their perpetual assaults on the English language and English speaking Canadians. Language in Canada is a war, not a celebration and it's a shame. Spending this time in France has reintroduced me to a beautiful language spoken by kind and helpful people and I hope to improve on my ability to speak it in the future. Oh, one note to Quebec - in France their stop signs say "Stop" and not "Arret", so that visitors can understand them. It's what good hosts do.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">Aigues-Mortes is our destination for today and is a seaside walled city know primarily for its pink salt marshes. You may well have consumed salt that was produced here.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">We pull the VW into a sea of cars parked in a field and see a big stadium set up outside the city walls. There's definitely something going on here today. As we walk towards the city entrance we hear the crackle of voice on a loudspeaker mentioning the word "taureau" which can only mean a bullfight! Michael and Anna tell us that this region of France is also known for its cowboy/bullfighting/horse culture.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">Surprisingly, I'm able to slip between the bars of the steel gate into the rodeo circle. Inside is a centre area encircled by a steel fence with two separate piles of stacked up hay bales - refuge for the dozens of blue-jean wearing teenagers mulling around. Around the outside are wooden barriers with bleacher seats built on top of those. There is maybe twenty feet between the fence and exterior creating an open path around the track where one could race go-karts, but in this case I'm imagining a thousand pound bull running here, stomping teenagers or flipping them into the bleachers. This is going to be fun.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">There's not much going on here yet so we walk into the town. The walls are massive and the town walls look to be perfectly rectangular with huge turrets on each corner. The perimeter probably runs a mile or so and it looks like you can walk the entire span on the ramparts.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhScLeHyB6SAmLuNID0jE5uyYUglNCFK_mpylaBFFpA0-CnTRfLEE707oLOglIZ9rnMVcMnvfdXzHSuXoeW30N-zLmJYRTnlqGYN40eMztJxNq6tGwd_V6pXd-ESP6gyFDcxlwUwlxSszGDZIKTWAkJ1-czb2D2piTFHFVhKOsdufQpJXgYb-t4gajDKvA/s4032/IMG_5817%201.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhScLeHyB6SAmLuNID0jE5uyYUglNCFK_mpylaBFFpA0-CnTRfLEE707oLOglIZ9rnMVcMnvfdXzHSuXoeW30N-zLmJYRTnlqGYN40eMztJxNq6tGwd_V6pXd-ESP6gyFDcxlwUwlxSszGDZIKTWAkJ1-czb2D2piTFHFVhKOsdufQpJXgYb-t4gajDKvA/s320/IMG_5817%201.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />We turn our attention to the town and begin our wanderings. We find ancient buildings, narrow passageways, and dozens and dozens of shops, restaurants, bars, and cafes. I buy a lovely white long-sleeved shirt and a small bag of nougat, which not only tastes good but is also one of my favourite words. Ana picks up a scarf and some jewelry. We meet up with Anna and Michael for our 12:30 lunch reservation in the main town square which is jammed with people. There is a marching band playing Spanish sounding songs as revelers flush with wine and beer watch on. A band fires up on a stage and their ambitious setlist far surpasses the vocal ability of the singer, but she gives it her best. A crew of local hooligans swarm a few tables near the front of the stage and have brought their own bottles of Coke and rum and are mixing thick ones as they light off brightly coloured smoke bombs near the stage, obscuring everything and creating a horrible stink. We drink pastis and wine and eat shrimp, bull stew, bull fillet, oysters, soup, and fish as we enjoy the festival atmosphere. We see a single man with a bottle of champagne, dining on the seafood feast for two, piled high on a platter with crab, shrimp, fish, and oysters and we speculate on his story. Inheritance? Recent divorce? Rich bachelor? Or did he perhaps steal one of the An(n)s's credit cards an hour ago? In any case, he enjoys his lunch as do we.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">We buy our tickets for the rampart tour and climb the stairs. From here we can see the pink sea marshes in the distance with mountains of fine white salt piled up on the shoreline near the production facility. There are information displays in the various towers we pass through and we learn the history of this structure. Construction began in 1272 and the walls have stood since then. The ground on which we walk has a small drainage channel carved into it and I imagine what what have flowed through these in the middle ages - blood, piss, shit, and rainwater to wash it all out and down to the ground. We soon reach the part of the wall looking down on the bullfighting ground and each claim a gap in the rampart for optimal viewing.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9QWf3JtACToC7OVyaQE4blncRPscJCoo-c_eWZrQpAKWRCx4Tz8yAZtfnATgLhbCeTakJQ6wqtY7N-HoCrd-KPcmk6fypt6IselAh_l8w2CQL4C02gtAcUH5-MKwGpmW7LT8LC8QkVvgy6uAGkihz1ffEjjMafy8IHKDIxvcO5JwNbjn6SJVnQiCdzJY/s4032/IMG_5823.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9QWf3JtACToC7OVyaQE4blncRPscJCoo-c_eWZrQpAKWRCx4Tz8yAZtfnATgLhbCeTakJQ6wqtY7N-HoCrd-KPcmk6fypt6IselAh_l8w2CQL4C02gtAcUH5-MKwGpmW7LT8LC8QkVvgy6uAGkihz1ffEjjMafy8IHKDIxvcO5JwNbjn6SJVnQiCdzJY/s320/IMG_5823.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />In a stroke of luck, the event starts shortly after our arrival and a bull is set free in the stadium. He is pissed off! He gallops several loops around the outside track, taking runs at the people who taunt him by running close to him and trying to grab one of ribbons attached to his horns. He gets close a couple of times but the experienced kids always manage to leap onto the bleachers and hoist themselves up, just out of his reach. With no success on the outside track, the bull leaps the fence and lands in the inside area then chases a teenager around until he jumps to the safety of the hay bales. Not so fast kid - the bull rams himself into the stack and sends kids flying. A gasp erupts from the crowd, then cheering. Soon, that bull tires and another one is sent out in his place. He is bigger and meaner and is looking for somebody to stomp. He does the cartoon bull move where he lowers his head and drags his front hooves through the dust, snorting and grunting. One ambitious bullfighter runs across the field, hoping to snag a ribbon, but he trips and the bull tries to spear him with his horns, but misses and instead just tramples him, earning a loud reaction from the crowd. I'm not sure if they are cheering for the kids or the bull, but I'm for the bull mashing up his aggravators.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzipqOozY1cg0WAyWeWWLg3jHmZWlCAoYPqOqehRklR39w3qykrxpctKNu8T98pgtTKXnXjWMwj1J59EL3ntQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />This is great fun and we look at each other across the rampart gaps frequently, laughing, in awe of what we're seeing. We see several more close calls, another successful ribbon snag, and one final teen stomping then decide to move on and complete the circumnavigation of the mighty wall.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg80G_7fZkBCfzuNMpc9X2Wz-9XTxFbyPp9nk91oHhaaEX4MjbjydZSbOBxmB_FX5rZDGhaJiQ-DEAaf1CBkOcYRGRkORYwZuco6hGiIwWhNzeCKarf8-fnlmfOWpaRb7P4nGKgcQWXEFzsy0pdzI848SDcPdqccvyyvbi84ixOF0Ui-C7OBs1AP_uQ4GI/s4032/IMG_5847.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg80G_7fZkBCfzuNMpc9X2Wz-9XTxFbyPp9nk91oHhaaEX4MjbjydZSbOBxmB_FX5rZDGhaJiQ-DEAaf1CBkOcYRGRkORYwZuco6hGiIwWhNzeCKarf8-fnlmfOWpaRb7P4nGKgcQWXEFzsy0pdzI848SDcPdqccvyyvbi84ixOF0Ui-C7OBs1AP_uQ4GI/s320/IMG_5847.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />Back at Chateau Olson, apero is served on the back deck and we are bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun which creates a beautiful hue on the stone walls. Michael sends up his drone and catches a magnificent panorama of us and our French habitation.</span></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">We enjoy a simple and delicious dinner of burgers and coleslaw then move into the fireplace room for a final magical evening with our hosts. Anna and I play a game of chess. We all snack. The conversation flows as we laugh and joke. Ana tells us of the recent migration of American ex-pats to the Azores and how they can't find anywhere to get their eyelashes done. Fools! Portuguese ladies spent most of their waking hours removing hair from their faces, not adding to it, as any man married to a sumptuous southern European beauty can attest to. </span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8sPLgj08es8gRUwhLW8OSqHDt-FGEj1vBvIn-Ef8m7oIY5-pEnBcEtpO2tbhyphenhyphenYGw7BoeWh0R6SQ1Qj2VlDHvkQS1c6iZezfvHQZkhFpSPVEJcnzvYQQcV9oj8McX3GIuCYZKQkMprVWSxQ4vRjZmXQwlX9pQONSuljDJEtTELWDrfiu3V6SeycyS4pCA/s3088/IMG_9878.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8sPLgj08es8gRUwhLW8OSqHDt-FGEj1vBvIn-Ef8m7oIY5-pEnBcEtpO2tbhyphenhyphenYGw7BoeWh0R6SQ1Qj2VlDHvkQS1c6iZezfvHQZkhFpSPVEJcnzvYQQcV9oj8McX3GIuCYZKQkMprVWSxQ4vRjZmXQwlX9pQONSuljDJEtTELWDrfiu3V6SeycyS4pCA/s320/IMG_9878.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />Our last evening with Anna and Michael is perfect and caps off an amazing five days with them. Tomorrow, we begin phase 3 of the trip - driving a rental car across the south of France. I wonder what will happen next?</span></span><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_231025_075508_796.sdocx--></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-21428480807468835422023-10-20T14:36:00.002-04:002023-10-30T07:01:33.250-04:00France 2023 - Sommieres, Horsemeat, and Hooking up Justin Trudeau<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirsPCJdMu7uTPXEU0AQbz94dmcAAt448cUYf-V1E6wzgeVmat-03A8rEYwyFCZ6x3PqD7Yf1YmNqfKOYJSUHeYL09Kb1drhY-Dv5NNiP0oj79vIsYYsSepo5fJh9ZtPyAI_axSV10J8Z1-5QmSbHZq24up5bNYSNaRouT6M38Kl289gefy7bm2lYA15HU/s1024/a2930dbb-a128-4cad-a7bc-908ca1ebd9f9.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirsPCJdMu7uTPXEU0AQbz94dmcAAt448cUYf-V1E6wzgeVmat-03A8rEYwyFCZ6x3PqD7Yf1YmNqfKOYJSUHeYL09Kb1drhY-Dv5NNiP0oj79vIsYYsSepo5fJh9ZtPyAI_axSV10J8Z1-5QmSbHZq24up5bNYSNaRouT6M38Kl289gefy7bm2lYA15HU/s320/a2930dbb-a128-4cad-a7bc-908ca1ebd9f9.JPG" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">Michael and I begin the day by sharing Instagram fart videos. He finds the Top 10 Baby Farts and I laugh so hard that I decide to forego my morning routine of 1000 crunches, 600 situps, and 45 minutes of side planks becuase my abs already feel sufficiently exercised.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">We only have two days left here so I find some suitable writing paper (napkin) and put together my To-Do list. We have a lot to accomplish, but with the right level of determination and fortitude I think we might have a chance.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">Our daily van adventure takes us to the town of Quissac, but the restaurant Anna and Michael wanted to take us to was closed. The French are awesome, if they want to go on vacation they just tape a sign to their shop window saying CLOSED and take off. They do not feel the need to be open 16 hours per day and 365 days per year. I was a little sad, though. I've been looking around for horsemeat and Michael thought they might have it on the menu here. I've never much liked horses, but think if a portion of a horse were to be mixed with exciting spices and encased in pig intestines then put into a freshly cooked bun and sprinkled with dried onions then layered with mustard and mayonnaise, then I could see myself converting into a horse lover, like almost immediately.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUmPosw7sRJBkV62xaK7_nfT_KsTV28KQs3Sbd6Ma0gwK3xd8jruCBAExTwX3-GlGk2tdHMql_Ec-fEGd8pPedD0o87lnRYt8kXxBhFp0YmGnddwpeadjAc0Sdol0sZjB-3P2rfL4Hh_Vz4M142wHuJVxndx80kmPlPqzTwMHtY7IT0eOiaJfn2ioGIcY/s4032/IMG_5868.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUmPosw7sRJBkV62xaK7_nfT_KsTV28KQs3Sbd6Ma0gwK3xd8jruCBAExTwX3-GlGk2tdHMql_Ec-fEGd8pPedD0o87lnRYt8kXxBhFp0YmGnddwpeadjAc0Sdol0sZjB-3P2rfL4Hh_Vz4M142wHuJVxndx80kmPlPqzTwMHtY7IT0eOiaJfn2ioGIcY/s320/IMG_5868.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />We continue onto Sommieres, a standard-issue medieval walled city and notice the recent rainfall has swelled the river and is nearly overflowing the sidewalks that run beside it and has drowned out trees and plants that were happily growing in the parched riverbed just yesterday. The level of rainfall we've received over the past two nights is very unusual for this region and happens very infrequently.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirAWtyCYJ5mqyqFimwE2f9UF7nBbL9N5XXJ1i6ZvrB4pLktvuVtNtXSjwqZCsMGuEEb_IbqkJoDt6nTZevzg0ZzCj4gCB4JWVvx_OF0rbp7fQUp7lRYAHyR1nKqJAVPJSkyKHXGkfmke8fZPWPB8sQInoZIldmKoIR2WLtZVrFI5qJPsSbcESNNE3KCaE/s4032/IMG_5782.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirAWtyCYJ5mqyqFimwE2f9UF7nBbL9N5XXJ1i6ZvrB4pLktvuVtNtXSjwqZCsMGuEEb_IbqkJoDt6nTZevzg0ZzCj4gCB4JWVvx_OF0rbp7fQUp7lRYAHyR1nKqJAVPJSkyKHXGkfmke8fZPWPB8sQInoZIldmKoIR2WLtZVrFI5qJPsSbcESNNE3KCaE/s320/IMG_5782.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />Sommieres is incredible and I feel like I'm in Game of Thrones, except I'm a shit sword fighter and I don't have that classy English accent. So instead of strutting around looking all mean and kicking ass on serfs, I instead just take a few pictures, say "Bonjour" to everybody I pass, and try to focus on the small details. For example I notice a poster of a giant ear at a tattoo/piercing shop that identifies all the possible pierce points so you could load up your head with dangling iron and look real badass. Further down the street I see a real cool sign above a shop that says "Boucherie Chevaline" and has horsehead icons. Wait a minute, I say to myself, that's a horsemeat butcher! Happy days! I do a little jig on the street and walk in, but all I see are handbags, cute outfits, and fancy shoes - no horse sausage, no filet du horse, no horse muffins, no horse dogs, no horse pastrami, not even a single pot of horse pate. I am devastated. I look to the shop owner, point to the sign and, in French, say, "What the fuh?"</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYuyhGcbVj7lX2soxbDRXrXXt7SQVp4jvQrIscD6Z8WmboFNCrDMmdh__9VNd7z1DExmvSt1ZqBktHLxxVH7qRsWAO-TgRIuLUEZMZXbvhwzvy_F8EQeIPT9SJmDkmQ-XIg1t4ykMDyA91rMUyoqMSleXgH-xpJnDvwStbPXZIvUZh6W78-F0BDBH0Q9U/s4032/IMG_5779.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYuyhGcbVj7lX2soxbDRXrXXt7SQVp4jvQrIscD6Z8WmboFNCrDMmdh__9VNd7z1DExmvSt1ZqBktHLxxVH7qRsWAO-TgRIuLUEZMZXbvhwzvy_F8EQeIPT9SJmDkmQ-XIg1t4ykMDyA91rMUyoqMSleXgH-xpJnDvwStbPXZIvUZh6W78-F0BDBH0Q9U/s320/IMG_5779.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />She goes into this long winded story which I presume is about the history of horse butchery, the town's history, how her great grandfather's great grandfather was the original Sommiers horse butcher, and how he passed down the skills, tools, and stomach required for slicing up horses to his son, then that cascaded down the generations a few times and finally the last horse skewering patriarch in her family fell in love with a long legged but deadbeat vegan from San Francisco and she convinced him to get out of the horse business and into fashion. And that, I think, is why you can no longer get horsemeat in this town.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Uu7ltFop4pwAwBUYbneg2xvtIGfaVAKjUUWIGCvs-NZKKyuB1_zfWKdJsKs6E2BwnSomysCUO5yb2nTrK1IXpnu6oyuSW7frS531dmX3O5bxbXnvkq4wZW5EIr3Vgv5Uccb2M9g0wetWRTqU5AeAwDHS3ATvmvVY7smwYHbT54m0-ewVsiqvknH1ZaU/s4032/IMG_5771.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Uu7ltFop4pwAwBUYbneg2xvtIGfaVAKjUUWIGCvs-NZKKyuB1_zfWKdJsKs6E2BwnSomysCUO5yb2nTrK1IXpnu6oyuSW7frS531dmX3O5bxbXnvkq4wZW5EIr3Vgv5Uccb2M9g0wetWRTqU5AeAwDHS3ATvmvVY7smwYHbT54m0-ewVsiqvknH1ZaU/s320/IMG_5771.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />Back at Chateau Olson, Ana and I make ourselves some non-horse sandwiches and sit out by the pool to enjoy the glorious sunshine which has returned. But soon the clouds roll back in so we agree on a second pool option and go inside, head to the lower level, and rack up the balls on the billiards table and shoot a game. This room is amazing - besides the pool table there is a second foosball table, the door to the wine cellar, and a bunch of cool posters hanging on the wall. One is a signed picture of Pele shaking hands with an inferior opponent. There is a gold record by Madonna and a sexy picture, signed by the Material Girl herself. It's the ultimate dude quarters.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg24bsmyn1Jbf0VPtGz84fNjJGnwMWO49k2SCDdN5HCMHDlf3tq2Rai9lZqIbKudEavZjar4P8m4IVmN-w_z9GIAk-42H79nV63ntrhcLrzib51s70KNsjPFoY0MhYhvziD5ZX2m2MSCBou1yZMxkhjU0U2wZOaYHW2z5gsPl4ASxuFLlW7eevGaVuGumE/s4032/IMG_5794.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg24bsmyn1Jbf0VPtGz84fNjJGnwMWO49k2SCDdN5HCMHDlf3tq2Rai9lZqIbKudEavZjar4P8m4IVmN-w_z9GIAk-42H79nV63ntrhcLrzib51s70KNsjPFoY0MhYhvziD5ZX2m2MSCBou1yZMxkhjU0U2wZOaYHW2z5gsPl4ASxuFLlW7eevGaVuGumE/s320/IMG_5794.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />One of the items on my list is to eat a hot dog, so our immaculate hosts lead us up the medieval village hill to the Lookout Bar which is run by the most gentlemanly Frenchman you could imagine, and his partner who is an author. The only thing more amazing than the unobscured view over the countryside is the hot dog gratin. It is served in a soft bun and has been sprinkled with cheese then speed baked to crisp it up, and weaved on top are alternating strings of Dijon and mayonnaise. I didn't ask if it was a pork or horse wiener, but it was so good it must have been horse. We clank wine and beer glasses together and cheers to this magnificent moment in France.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNSF1o027EFNpXJf5KYwtk7XNolSWrPy2PYVkBqgtSm1nbN-WCimOMGiu2XASdOVF7PbTf8vnBA3CvHHe9FpBirLpUblqFEHq_JAMaa9xwfBKb1bvdPjv6q6Ovg5xHiqLKCss33hUFp45OJcXIgS8_0PyashiWY25Mt15Wmc49l0Q8XhFh8fHAflVV06A/s4032/IMG_5792.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNSF1o027EFNpXJf5KYwtk7XNolSWrPy2PYVkBqgtSm1nbN-WCimOMGiu2XASdOVF7PbTf8vnBA3CvHHe9FpBirLpUblqFEHq_JAMaa9xwfBKb1bvdPjv6q6Ovg5xHiqLKCss33hUFp45OJcXIgS8_0PyashiWY25Mt15Wmc49l0Q8XhFh8fHAflVV06A/s320/IMG_5792.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />Back at the Chateau, Michael and I get to work in the kitchen. This is hallowed ground for Anna and Michael and not just anybody gets to wield a knife, so I feel most fortunate. I am tasked with washing and cutting beans, dicing an onion, and peeling some shrimp. Michael shows me a little trick for making a sauce with the shrimp peels, stock, and butter cubes and I take mental notes. Like the greatest kung fu master who, with unfathomable generosity, may offer a slight nod to an exceptional student, Michael tells me the onion is well diced. I feel like I'm ready to go pro.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">We reposition to the poolside grill and get lubed up with 25 centilitre Kronenbourg infant beers as Michael cooks up a wallop of sausages and wild mushrooms.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"I'm not sure if I'm ready for dinner, still quite full from before," Ana says.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">Michael looks up from the grill, confused. "This isn't dinner, this is for apero."</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"I thought apero was that food we ate at the lookout bar," she replies.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"ARE YOU NEW HERE?" he shoots back, to uproarious laughter from Anna and me. "That was post-lunch snacks."</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">Sure enough we apero right there on the patio, jabbing toothpicks into the mushrooms and sausage pieces, sipping on our wines and beers. The temperature is rapidly cooling but the conversation is heating up so we head back inside.</span></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 17px;">"So who is Justin Trudeau going to hook up with?" asks Anna.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"His relationship with Sophie was cheesy and corny. So he needs somebody with less cheese and less corn," I say.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"Jacinda Arden, the ex-prime minister from New Zealand. She's straight up, no cheese, no corn, just results," says Michael.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"No good, she's married," says Ana. "What about Amanda Marshall?"</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"Oooh, good one!" says Anna. "I met her once, she's really nice. She said she liked my cookies."</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"Who doesn't? OK, but only one problem. She's not French. Trudeau is totally French. He can't even speak English properly. He needs a Quebecois," I say.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"Mitsou!"</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"Celine Dion!"</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"Jan Arden!"</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"Alannah Myles!"</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"Nelly Furtado!"</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">"Buffy St. Marie!"<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"Hold it!" Michael says. "Now you're all just naming every Canadian female musician you can think of. Nelly Furtado isn't French, neither is Alannah Myles or Buffy. And they wouldn't like him anyway."</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"I've got it! I know who!" I say.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"Who?"</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"Tegan. And Sara."</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"This is going nowhere," says Ana. "He'll probably just start dating Chrystia Freeland."</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"Why would she date him? She's a genius and probably already has like five plots in motion to get rid of him so she can take over," says Anna.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"Maybe he can find a nice girl in India?" I suggest.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"He's banned from India!" says Anna.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"This is tough," says Michael. "Kris, let's go outside and cook up the shrimp and fish while the girls sort this Trudeau thing out."</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrPpxiZFUKUQhbqUOAHNY9N6TaeO3ueJO7Epd8XSRjyRP_9xK4IzRA6vByo8btK0g_dcrD_ZNVUDR6dWxlfdqP5bNI7GmYa7h8RTagBXL0zXXctw-_pQJ0gsWpBeEmq3mDPHCA_O-ZFzGUIV5_-GMQ5G4JuB2aMuDNA_fesbQEF1zsf1vTxnS4i53xo2s/s4032/IMG_5766.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrPpxiZFUKUQhbqUOAHNY9N6TaeO3ueJO7Epd8XSRjyRP_9xK4IzRA6vByo8btK0g_dcrD_ZNVUDR6dWxlfdqP5bNI7GmYa7h8RTagBXL0zXXctw-_pQJ0gsWpBeEmq3mDPHCA_O-ZFzGUIV5_-GMQ5G4JuB2aMuDNA_fesbQEF1zsf1vTxnS4i53xo2s/s320/IMG_5766.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />The plancha is still hot so Michael tosses the seafood on it while I hold up the bar. We pound back about 6 baby beers while the food sizzles, and soon we are back inside and sitting around the table with a magnificent spread and, of course, the wine selections for the evening.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">I find myself in our room hours later after yet another fantastic evening. I challenge Ana to another foosball game. She agrees, but again, only up to 1 goal. We line up, I drop in the ball, and it rolls right into my goal.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">Lights out.</span></span><br />
<!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_231023_185744_386.sdocx--></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-81519017112503218652023-10-19T12:56:00.002-04:002023-10-30T07:00:21.497-04:00France 2023 - Hypermarkets, Wine Tastings, and Unsupported Breasts<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK0Lf9mE0767LGfoERq0Dn5S4io1X1gHAM0DsSIU_02jmOxE-IptNUTn8hHjme6BkC9vh-6lWf5rLfYIsf312Kgu58R-2fQ82JKaMeJ6lmRmeAVZgJy-MHgX9DNERFCQXtz_V8Sg7yHps_h_1VNk6LezdnU_ctSsmywFEOesBjdLh9IwOcwuOb7Cq293Q/s4032/IMG_9847.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK0Lf9mE0767LGfoERq0Dn5S4io1X1gHAM0DsSIU_02jmOxE-IptNUTn8hHjme6BkC9vh-6lWf5rLfYIsf312Kgu58R-2fQ82JKaMeJ6lmRmeAVZgJy-MHgX9DNERFCQXtz_V8Sg7yHps_h_1VNk6LezdnU_ctSsmywFEOesBjdLh9IwOcwuOb7Cq293Q/s320/IMG_9847.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">We wake up at the ungodly, but somehow appropriate hour of 9am. I think I have given up on my regular early morning routine for this trip as it's simply not working out. It's a fine trade off for these late night, magical evenings.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">I start the day with a morning swim and the pool water has been chilled by last night's downpour. It is refreshing beyond belief.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">After a leisurely breakfast, we meet Mark the property manager, who lives in a separate apartment within the house. He is a cool guy and speaks perfect English. He's there to let the cleaners in and they appear to be a local couple, and attack the cleaning job with vigour, moving rapidly from room to room with rags, vacuums, mops, and spray bottles. We do our best to keep out of their way.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn9PJ5S8MT546HORBO-GyNkB5VlbU2S2IYpiO6b_mUYnpz9ztudfKYLm4lD20iePYh8Fwd3Zk9YRk-ZGq_6fTAviMW8X1QeCfei8VJFGm14IfQvvQkYv8hNMpZPIIWJF3Vr71EcU9cTyv5yOLPnl8V4y3spauxuUPuTX6zM9pv90InHhmzWJNDZ99VAyI/s4032/IMG_5865.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn9PJ5S8MT546HORBO-GyNkB5VlbU2S2IYpiO6b_mUYnpz9ztudfKYLm4lD20iePYh8Fwd3Zk9YRk-ZGq_6fTAviMW8X1QeCfei8VJFGm14IfQvvQkYv8hNMpZPIIWJF3Vr71EcU9cTyv5yOLPnl8V4y3spauxuUPuTX6zM9pv90InHhmzWJNDZ99VAyI/s320/IMG_5865.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />Michael warms up the leftover veal from the first day and we have lunch before leaving for today's day trip to Ales, a nearby town north of here less than ten kilometres. There, we are welcomed by a canopy of braziers that have been hung on wires above the bridge for breast cancer awareness. I expect there are a lot of unsupported breasts in this town.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">The two An(n)as head to the pharmacy, renowned for its English speaking pharmacist and vast selection of herbal remedies for things like menopause and skin glitches and other afflictions that men don't understand. Michael and I just wander around the centre shopping area looking at fancy hats.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">We swing by a hypermarket to pick up a few supplies. Ana and I always enjoy going to supermarkets in other countries as we always see items that would be huge hit in Canada, but are not available. Here, we find several examples - containers of chopped up cubes of back bacon (perfect for adding as flavouring to meals), small packages of preserved mini sausages (meat snack to go with your bag of chips), boxes of 25 cl mini-beers (good for Tuesday evenings), and a half dozen varieties of pate (delicious anytime).</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhepyTQ255mMdDNM0N_Y88isrZah5p8af_6uAu6HuAchi37T-Y0xdAQzjMFun5ZfYL6PEzCVszHDGnDuVeoT-Sx6MAZaFhrATngWYL7t8SSPbxN_JFzNH5lxcjKV5aD2LXQXMObh-lozxs3WcFnrzcU_nCyq8loWnVrfiFAFjutyatqAicpVsw5xvOogTM/s4032/IMG_9866.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhepyTQ255mMdDNM0N_Y88isrZah5p8af_6uAu6HuAchi37T-Y0xdAQzjMFun5ZfYL6PEzCVszHDGnDuVeoT-Sx6MAZaFhrATngWYL7t8SSPbxN_JFzNH5lxcjKV5aD2LXQXMObh-lozxs3WcFnrzcU_nCyq8loWnVrfiFAFjutyatqAicpVsw5xvOogTM/s320/IMG_9866.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />Once back at the chateau, Ana and I head out for a walk into town and climb up and down some new streets. The town is again eerily quiet and we feel like we are the only ones here. We find a lovely forest path on the way down and walk through a section of woods then pop out near the bakery. We go in, have a chat with the lovely lady working the counter, and pick up tonight's baguette. I notice a small menu that lists hot dog so I try to order one but we are told they are only available from 7am to 1pm, so instead we share a piece of pizza and an orange Fanta. We feel so French.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">When we return home we have a rousing game of poolside ping pong and Ana wins, but it was close. She's also been beating me at foosball. I am challenging her to a game before bed every night, but she only agrees to play up to one goal. So far, every time I've dropped the ball in, it just rolls slowly into my goal without any contact, but she is a good winner and doesn't rub it in.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">Anna and Michael have prepared an amazing roast chicken and vegetables for dinner so we sit down at the table for our meal, after the mandatory apero snacking session of course. Meals at Chateau Olson are always accompanied by wine, and not just one bottle. They carefully select the best wines to accompany each dish and we have tastings so we can compare them and learn a bit more about wine. The variety of wine here is staggering and you can buy it anywhere. Ana and I are the furthest thing from wine connoisseurs and I compare our evening wine tastings to television shopping. TVs viewed on their own all look fantastic. But when you go TV shopping and see all these TVs lined up beside each other, you can spot small differences, and the smart assed TV salesperson will talk you into the most expensive one, but you probably would have been pretty happy with a cheaper basic model. For me, every glass of wine I've had here has been amazing, from the 5 euro bottles to the undoubtedly scary expensive ones Michael or Anna have been pulling out. Maybe I'm just easy to please.</span></span><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_231023_183305_622.sdocx--></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-15356927675264622602023-10-18T02:43:00.002-04:002023-10-30T06:52:23.185-04:00France 2023 - Perfect Hygge <p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3XbJaaM52uN4M5JQhhFmOZ6s8N4LvaMbQzDwcGMyrPQMAMiLfg1HSW8ltx6uUo09TKKier-H85wikSg_Dj8jRN5ZJ7TILYjXHBGOcxWF1iC5jQ72n_U63qIaqqLZK7lu5gD6877vxFz8FkLZEfHfo6mjckel9BHLuchnANvYlAOQHzqhz7rATSrIgk2I/s4032/IMG_5703.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3XbJaaM52uN4M5JQhhFmOZ6s8N4LvaMbQzDwcGMyrPQMAMiLfg1HSW8ltx6uUo09TKKier-H85wikSg_Dj8jRN5ZJ7TILYjXHBGOcxWF1iC5jQ72n_U63qIaqqLZK7lu5gD6877vxFz8FkLZEfHfo6mjckel9BHLuchnANvYlAOQHzqhz7rATSrIgk2I/s320/IMG_5703.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">My plan to get up early and go for a walk and swim is scuttled by a cozy duvet and inviting bed and we don't even wake up until 8:30. The weather forecast looks unstable for the next few days with plenty of rain and wind expected. But we didn't come at this time of the year for the weather; any sunshine we get will be a bonus.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">After a leisurely breakfast and coffee we pile into the VW and drive to Uzes, a town about 20 kilometres east of here. It is a gorgeous little medieval town and today is market day so there are dozens of vendors in the main square selling food items.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">Anna picks up a round of croissants from one of their favourite bakeries and we have a mid-morning snack in the shadow of architectural wonders. We learn about one of France's many interesting food laws - croissants made with pure butter (croissant au beurre) are always straight, while the lower quality ones made with margarine have the stereotypical curved shape. Care to guess which ones we eat?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">We arrive at Comptoir Numero 7 just in time for our lunch reservation. Our server is a very young guy and what a pro he is. Perfectly groomed, clearly spoken, impeccable movements - it's impossible to think we could be anywhere else in the world right now besides France.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">Our meal is incredible and we enjoy a slow, deliberate lunch. None of the other customers here are in a rush either. This is a real treat for Ana and I as we rarely go out for meals at home, and when we do it's simply nothing like this, as we can't get this quality of food and experience without spending a mortgage payment's worth of dinero at a fancy restaurant in Toronto.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">After stopping to pick up six bottles of carefully chosen wine at the local wine shop, two platters of charcuterie from the butcher, and some groceries at the hypermarket, we return home and Ana and I embark on a solo walking tour of Vezenobres. We muscle ourselves up the steep streets, winding back and forth, through narrow passageways and shadowed paths until we reach the viewpoint at the top of the village, guarded jealously by a free range cat, part of a gang of felines who patrol the town and keep the villagers in check.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvUae3CZOHS5u7pnmFj47AuykdrycGC0Z-eMdrwvgeVkv425Jp2L9eNjgDwZyDpjhgGwSGXdfud5rNH3FE7yFo8EPcz1wc_9glz6vposi078GUI0lmSR8SxtlaUCO9HeQIGvHfenvsZ6Z-cdYyF8HdmL-mQufiEfcqJMxFtU6Ypd0YbW-y48CMKOvNw6I/s4032/IMG_9824.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvUae3CZOHS5u7pnmFj47AuykdrycGC0Z-eMdrwvgeVkv425Jp2L9eNjgDwZyDpjhgGwSGXdfud5rNH3FE7yFo8EPcz1wc_9glz6vposi078GUI0lmSR8SxtlaUCO9HeQIGvHfenvsZ6Z-cdYyF8HdmL-mQufiEfcqJMxFtU6Ypd0YbW-y48CMKOvNw6I/s320/IMG_9824.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />We take the long way down and pass by the bakery to pick up a fresh baguette then return to Chateau Olson where I take a lovely dip in the pool while Ana chills out in our room for a bit.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">It is dark by the time we are into apero, this time around the coffee table in the primary living room, which is expansive and filled with custom furniture crafted from airplane aluminum. Anna's favourite spot is a curved desk which makes her appear either as a hotel concierge or as if she is sitting in a hot tub, depending on one's vantage point. There is also a Dr. Evil/Mork from Ork egg shaped chair with acoustics perfect for singing or humming to oneself. Michael's day perch is at the large aluminum table, on which is splayed out a rat's nest of video equipment, cameras, cords, converters, adapters, drones, and, strangely, tourist brochures.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqEJw5K705ezT3f_O7na1-0bDXoVIJk7awk4UUobWJjjgR-zeHJP-US5HgZvrx7_n-x6MhdFTrgm1JZW6y-G8OKbhspPBV2xRfYIezlYtx_WasjJV79bAwn3C1g8FH9Q3HVHsMgEsQpybvfZj4x53Eo0TK-ZamRfsMmLRtff-PPV4QWP6sgpPAZTGC-X4/s4032/IMG_5711.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqEJw5K705ezT3f_O7na1-0bDXoVIJk7awk4UUobWJjjgR-zeHJP-US5HgZvrx7_n-x6MhdFTrgm1JZW6y-G8OKbhspPBV2xRfYIezlYtx_WasjJV79bAwn3C1g8FH9Q3HVHsMgEsQpybvfZj4x53Eo0TK-ZamRfsMmLRtff-PPV4QWP6sgpPAZTGC-X4/s320/IMG_5711.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />But in this moment, we gather round the expansive wooden coffee table with our platters of charcuterie and drinks, while the weather outside gets progressively nastier, and soon the dark sky is alive with lightening flashes and strikes. The further into the night we delve, the stronger the light storm becomes. But what also strengthens is the perfect hygge - the now trendy Danish concept of coziness, something I learned about while living with my friends Martin and Marianne in Odense, Denmark nearly thirty years ago - and have never forgotten it.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEabWM1b1Bz4gU0-zqZ_90KbBxLNSvjHqgEI09f3XuZmk1ROxKzLLSc-lUvbMj_vWZsmalc9Omp1bjw0qLtjaNkEg7VGKefvT8w79PKj_zdxLBA-zAsJm-mPGihVZVGP026Kj8Zr6CzZPC5Jr32AhtjLDm_s6lU8Ku6er8nBItX2CzVJfa03sOWAtfaug/s4032/IMG_5712%20(1).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEabWM1b1Bz4gU0-zqZ_90KbBxLNSvjHqgEI09f3XuZmk1ROxKzLLSc-lUvbMj_vWZsmalc9Omp1bjw0qLtjaNkEg7VGKefvT8w79PKj_zdxLBA-zAsJm-mPGihVZVGP026Kj8Zr6CzZPC5Jr32AhtjLDm_s6lU8Ku6er8nBItX2CzVJfa03sOWAtfaug/s320/IMG_5712%20(1).JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />Chill electronic music spills from the Sonos system and a hardwood fire rages in the fireplace, the heat circulating through the living room by the quiet fan. Nine votive candles flicker and burn on the table, creating shadows on charcuterie snacks and wine glasses. Indirect lighting casts a perfect orange yellow hue and backdrop to the intense bolts that erupt in the sky, visible to us from the deep windows cut into the stone. Our conversation flows easily and dances from topic to topic as we laugh and tell stories. Time passes gently. There is no rush and there is nowhere else we need to be right now. We are living in the present, our best lives, in the company of people we love. And the moment is not captured by photographs, because it simply couldn't be. It will live only in our memories.</span></span><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_231022_082005_887.sdocx--></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-72306257685075930792023-10-17T11:54:00.002-04:002023-10-30T06:57:36.357-04:00France 2023 - Arrival in Vezenobres, it's Olson Time!<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK1gan7i143N54wV5LAE0-_675BP_kFAUyCMEJc6Ikut9zR9tiFjSrBep5VuYN9ePeIfT9eHZlKD1KN6lSkC3shFRN-Sn4r2Q4ulTNTuXlBuylAA4dX4Sr4rio5P-Vih_bjhQEPYhibJKaXSkXJslOdEGPVQrlvRam4YHUsJHnshfIyUWFksmjb7IdbPY/s4032/IMG_9800.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK1gan7i143N54wV5LAE0-_675BP_kFAUyCMEJc6Ikut9zR9tiFjSrBep5VuYN9ePeIfT9eHZlKD1KN6lSkC3shFRN-Sn4r2Q4ulTNTuXlBuylAA4dX4Sr4rio5P-Vih_bjhQEPYhibJKaXSkXJslOdEGPVQrlvRam4YHUsJHnshfIyUWFksmjb7IdbPY/s320/IMG_9800.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">You know what I've never done before? Bought a package of four eggs. In America Norte, eggs come in quantities of 12, 18, 24, and 48 so we can buy several week's worth of eggs at a time and hope that perhaps one or two of them will hatch and produce roaster chickens. In big European cities, refrigerators are small and shops are plentiful so there's no need to stockpile food - you just buy what you need for the day and you're good to go.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">Ana and I have a slow morning as we eat our four eggs, mini croissants, and apple then I do some writing and Ana packs up our things. By 10:30 we are walking out the door for the final time, headed for Gare du Lyon train station. It is a beautiful morning and the thirty minute walk gives us a chance to admire this dense urban wonder where curiosities exists around every corner and at the end of passageways, and whether you look up, down, or across.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">We walk into the huge station and I feel like Jason Bourne as I navigate through the crowd, eyeing the CCTV cameras everywhere. Unlike Jason Bourne, the only mystery I'm trying to solve is what platform we need to get to for the train to Nimes, in the south of France. As I'm pondering that, Ana sees a Starbucks sign and leaves to get a coffee, then comes back with a bottle of fancy hand cream.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"What happened to the coffee?" I ask.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"It was like 7 euro. The hand cream was half of that. So I went with the hand cream," she replies, overjoyed. My wife's brain works much differently than mine. I just can't see myself going out for a delicious hot dog and coming home with a bag of well priced grass seed and being very happy about it.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">The TGV, France's high speed train system, rockets us across the countryside at a speed that makes the cars traveling on the highway look like they are standing still. These trains can reach speeds of over 300 kph, but it's hard to say exactly how fast we are going. One may think that you'd need to be buckled in and hanging onto a rail for dear life, like on a theme park rollercoaster, but the ride is completely smooth and there're people in the dining car drinking espresso and standing casually as they visit.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">We arrive at Nimes Pont-du-Gard and my uncle Michael and aunt Anna are standing at the bottom of the ramp waiting for us. This is going to be fun.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">Michael is my dad's youngest sibling and is only 8 years older than Ana and I. Anna and us are even closer in age. They live in Welland, Ontario and we see them frequently, but not as much as we'd like to. Michael's first career was as an aspiring hockey star and went to a special high school in Wilcox, Saskatchewan to work on his wrist shots and face punches. But then he realized he wasn't very good compared to the rest of his teammates so instead traveled to Japan where he could be the best hockey player in the country since nobody there knows how to play hockey. Along the way he got a side job in a small restaurant gutting fish and taking out the garbage and realized his true passion was in food services. He returned to Canada and went to cheffery college in Toronto then easily found work gutting fish and taking out garbage in a series of fly-by-night restaurants across the province. Once he learned his chops he started stepping over all over the dishwashers, kitchen porters, chefs de partie, sauciers, sous-chefs, and clawed his way to the top chef job which entitled him to work even more hours, under more stress, making crappy money, but at least being surrounded by a bunch of other fun people that had all lost their regular friends because the only day they got off was Monday when all the normal people are at work.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">He eventually came to his senses and got a day job as a chef professor at Niagara College where he develops curriculum, creates programming, and teaches first year aspiring chefs how to not slice their fingers off or blow up the kitchen, all between the cozy hours of 9am and 3pm. But in his spare time he rebuilds meat slicers, pickles vegetables, collects knives, buys wine, ties fishing flies, produces amazing Instagram reels, writes cookbooks, creates recipes, and is a cameraman/video/audio expert for his favourite television personality - Anna.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCF_El5VEfg8lTlC5z88jMU4YCHtr0LXxFZEABFPoVLbQedivOjgd4CMxRCwmFfQxGcfv_0fCZ8USNieiq0TYtpHqWe-L31bDywyeyGlstfS76PQnCixNEdZe9rJksjFHmjFfdR9TTplPqDceZ3wJDKoi6tFjYVb3tl3VWUZL9oHBdOdyF7zJroGQfKzQ/s4032/IMG_9819.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCF_El5VEfg8lTlC5z88jMU4YCHtr0LXxFZEABFPoVLbQedivOjgd4CMxRCwmFfQxGcfv_0fCZ8USNieiq0TYtpHqWe-L31bDywyeyGlstfS76PQnCixNEdZe9rJksjFHmjFfdR9TTplPqDceZ3wJDKoi6tFjYVb3tl3VWUZL9oHBdOdyF7zJroGQfKzQ/s320/IMG_9819.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />Anna started out in the financial services industry but quickly realized her colleagues were all lame and she much preferred baking treats for herself and all her friends. So she went down the food services path as a pastry chef, ensuring herself a life of poverty and financial distress, lost weekends, burnt skin, relentless servitude, and an empty future. But then, she discovered the television industry and the television industry discovered her and she soon took over the Food Network and became the most famous baker and chef in the world and didn't have to wake up at 3 in the morning anymore to make doughnuts for ungrateful food nuffies.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">At some point along the way Michael and Anna met, worked together, fell in love, got two Beagle dogs, bought a house, started a bakery, and built a pretty good life, or at least what they thought was good. Their life now is way better. They have moved on from </span><span style="font-size: 17px;">regular burger flipping and to much more varied, interesting, and profitable careers, so much that they no longer knead much dough (get it?). The variety of things they do makes your head spin - Anna's many television shows, writing cookbooks, food festival appearances, European culinary tours, sponsorships, charitable work, specialty catering, writing articles, a Youtube cooking channel, and that's just the stuff I know about. They are simply amazing.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">We pile into their chubby brown VW cargo van and drive back to their fabulous fractional-ownership 350-year-old French mansion in the medieval town of Vezenobres. I know I like to call big houses "mansions" but this really is a mansion. There's an east wing and west wing. Eight bedrooms. Two kitchens. More couches than a vintage furniture store. There's a billiards table, two foosball tables, wine cellar, massive fireplace, outdoor pool, and a fig tree plantation. After touring us around the place and assigning us a room (which has its own foosbal table, of course), I realize that if I need to walk from the main lounging area back up to our room, I will need to pack a lunch, take some road pops, and would probably be wise to leave a trail of bread crumbs or empty beer bottles. As part of the visitor indoctrination session, we learn that this structure was built originally as a silkworm factory, and has probably been through many reincarnations since then.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">Anna and Michael take us for a walking tour around Vezenobres, which perches precariously on the edge of a hill. We walk through the eerily quiet narrow cobblestones streets, passing by stone buildings hundreds of years old. We stop to pick up baguettes from the local bakery and are instructed that two trips per day are required to the bakery - fresh croissants in the morning and fresh baguettes in the evening. I like this routine.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh598A-U92d9Q_9Tds1ZUYAw_Bhtko9igO8NE80Mf8QYsQMH18VViOU7uQykRs-N2aLUGtAY8_4GuLxYaNv5_amGBxfL2qfdwcScbqPbF5jNcIFUN2vj9Xz7zGZ8UF9z6PgCvu5Nk_yKJ3JDe8j_AB6WiL7AphUmOK9Vu3BuLT2W2_9JJJg1L3ToU57BN8/s4032/IMG_5697.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh598A-U92d9Q_9Tds1ZUYAw_Bhtko9igO8NE80Mf8QYsQMH18VViOU7uQykRs-N2aLUGtAY8_4GuLxYaNv5_amGBxfL2qfdwcScbqPbF5jNcIFUN2vj9Xz7zGZ8UF9z6PgCvu5Nk_yKJ3JDe8j_AB6WiL7AphUmOK9Vu3BuLT2W2_9JJJg1L3ToU57BN8/s320/IMG_5697.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />We return to Chateau Olson for apero, which is a mandatory daily pre-dinner ritual where you snack and drink. On the table are anchovy-stuffed olives, camembert-flavoured chips, multi-grain baguette slices, radishes with butter and salt, smoked salmon blinis, five varieties of cheese, and even a bowl of modest French-style bits and bites. Michael has a case of 30 Kronenburg beers, but the bottles are tiny and obviously designed for consumption by infants, so we just drink them fast to make it feel like a real beer.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">Dinner itself is amazing - Veal Blanquette ladled onto gnocchi grilled with onions, garlic, butter, and fresh wild mushrooms with a beautiful plum and prune tart for dessert. And there're several bottles of fantabulous wine rapidly uncorked. We eat slow, talk fast, lurch from topic to topic, laugh, share stories and settle into the unfathomable fact that we have five entire days of this yet to come.</span></span><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_231020_171750_865.sdocx--></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-60799758969580966702023-10-16T06:17:00.001-04:002023-10-30T06:48:44.625-04:00France 2023 - Arcs, Art, Rugby, and Pho<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVN_VO7DT6Xk8PQmLX5DjxoF6FxMbtx-lLSgdn4ZvlCb7ZeVwsUgSWUKJ4CumeWPcBD6Bsa77mbQ80mk-gYklrf2plTH3rm-RoZq8CfxEll6452CMWLwIceYXK_Ck5kbc3B9efLSO_GyaXHuH_Qyl9fj0Kd8JottAsilj34Ee0CxwjyQrkGH1Y1cksGSY/s4032/20231016_090906606_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVN_VO7DT6Xk8PQmLX5DjxoF6FxMbtx-lLSgdn4ZvlCb7ZeVwsUgSWUKJ4CumeWPcBD6Bsa77mbQ80mk-gYklrf2plTH3rm-RoZq8CfxEll6452CMWLwIceYXK_Ck5kbc3B9efLSO_GyaXHuH_Qyl9fj0Kd8JottAsilj34Ee0CxwjyQrkGH1Y1cksGSY/s320/20231016_090906606_iOS.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">I had set my alarm for 6:30am but somehow we wake up at 8:30 - so much for the early start I was hoping for.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">For our last full day in Paris we decide to start by taking the metro to the Arc Du Triumph. As I am usually the poor sucker heading off to work Monday morning, I took great pleasure in watching the working folk all sour and flat faced sitting on the train seats on their way to work. Not that I relish in other peoples' misery, but I relish in the absence of my own personal misery, and nothing makes me appreciate my lack of misery more than seeing other people in misery. So make of that what you will.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">The Arc was a lot bigger than I remember it. It's in the middle of a gigantic roundabout that doesn't seem to have the same roles as other roundabouts as it looked like a real free for all. We walked through an underground tunnel to the middle of the roundabout and encountered a huge line of tourists. We walked right up to the front of the line, up a few stairs, and there we were in front of the Arc. I have no idea what they were lining up for. Maybe they were just English.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbIvCBm6juo2c1cAM2yPhe3uJn4OBpEsuF_P3pW9S0Up3SzPMRm2fwUFUVXWC2Ua-s0tFQp7LwtseYfC8rF9sMxkwEV4TiDEx051MjvxYXX2B84iXJylNs_ZjufR8bIyF-Siy_OdxZH_3BomWWIjG7B8gD-8yHKsVYluJFox5LRZg4uycgvWKV1pt_UtU/s3088/20231016_095225778_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbIvCBm6juo2c1cAM2yPhe3uJn4OBpEsuF_P3pW9S0Up3SzPMRm2fwUFUVXWC2Ua-s0tFQp7LwtseYfC8rF9sMxkwEV4TiDEx051MjvxYXX2B84iXJylNs_ZjufR8bIyF-Siy_OdxZH_3BomWWIjG7B8gD-8yHKsVYluJFox5LRZg4uycgvWKV1pt_UtU/s320/20231016_095225778_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />After walking around the structure, taking a few pictures, and speculating on what the purpose of it may have been (we assumed a huge vanity project that probably bankrupted the country for generations as these colossal public works endeavours are prone to do), we started the long walk down the Champs Elysees, a rather famous street in Paris.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">We pass a few more panty shops and some designer retail, then reach the Place de la Concorde which has been transformed into the Rugby World Cup event centre. Throughout our first day in Paris we noticed a bunch of people wearing leprechaun costumes, which seemed odd, but I figured it was just autumn fashion from the latest haute couture collections. Then the next day I kept seeing Afrikaners all wearing Springbok jerseys and finally the bells in my triceratops brain went off - rugby! Sadly, it is closed, but I have a feeling we missed a mighty big party last night.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIehWBT0vSDW8LacZOcFFJIgse2Q75jeyIZlVZfCfF9ZO38jsZs0TgSbgr4ajVc8MXWUkk5NHOBkFugmKaRVG2J7mbHsi9P4mGt50GNgv-yjbj1c-udooVd6KAy4nKncH8wzlG90-6zUfg_v5z5qKkN9FYS0om8oRdlWEboDIRvyNz5XKTNCZZNXr9aG8/s4032/20231016_102512541_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIehWBT0vSDW8LacZOcFFJIgse2Q75jeyIZlVZfCfF9ZO38jsZs0TgSbgr4ajVc8MXWUkk5NHOBkFugmKaRVG2J7mbHsi9P4mGt50GNgv-yjbj1c-udooVd6KAy4nKncH8wzlG90-6zUfg_v5z5qKkN9FYS0om8oRdlWEboDIRvyNz5XKTNCZZNXr9aG8/s320/20231016_102512541_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />We continue on our way and pass through a massive garden with a series of really cool public art pieces. Then, we reach the Louvre, but this time from the other side. It still has a tremendously long line, but we weren't planning on visiting today, so we head into the side streets and find a lunch place that has a bunch of local Parisians queued up so it seems like a good bet. And it is.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">Here, we decide to split up. I am keen on visiting the Centre Pompidou, a huge modern art gallery, while Ana wants to check out some vintage shops (without me standing in front of the store, waiting, like a lost puppy). I take a meandering route and walk through the Palais Royale and find a large fountain circled by chairs. To continue my celebration of Monday I kick back in a chair, put my feet up on the stone fountain edge, and just look around. I listen to the French conversations happening around me. I watch the birds. I enjoy the sun and cool wind. I close my eyes and relax for a good long while, but eventually my back starts to moan and creak so I get up and get moving.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb0hhyphenhyphen0p47Pb6r_mvvla8tn7MpJnXoDX8uv5-uQXBa3c-IsdFjHNa2g3gn3LhTuXDVqwwhGlYj2xBYLymZI1fqY_b47NqokmIcMx5eSU3-tZ27D8PBz6mr7sevR6xh_Yi-Q1K71xKGf_vpCDdiEgyqFwLoYo3XIULXwvwWv8ju5irWMtUTe2AEVbraDtM/s4032/20231016_122709717_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb0hhyphenhyphen0p47Pb6r_mvvla8tn7MpJnXoDX8uv5-uQXBa3c-IsdFjHNa2g3gn3LhTuXDVqwwhGlYj2xBYLymZI1fqY_b47NqokmIcMx5eSU3-tZ27D8PBz6mr7sevR6xh_Yi-Q1K71xKGf_vpCDdiEgyqFwLoYo3XIULXwvwWv8ju5irWMtUTe2AEVbraDtM/s320/20231016_122709717_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />After a random walk up and down streets, passing by dozens of cafes I would like to stop at, I arrive at the Centre Pompidou and....it's closed due to a "social movement", which I take to be understatement for a good old fashioned French strike. I continue along my way and pull up the Wife Tracker 2000 app on my phone and find Ana digging through vintage clothes in a shop on the Rivoli. Shockingly, she has struck out and is empty handed, but not for lack of trying.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhay_smlvkMvt4SyFhk0hqUX7plT7ylIbN-dUqLTvXYVUFaG39fvUYNO25A5fFf_yOmTD35FGYMxgyMXeADFV-vCNDkGrex-o9G9mXaxk-fRtSjZVlwCggfVZ0hoHqLGTJ8By8wqgWlKm3hzVAAo0U2_I7u4T1P8p7dvmWWfBFdcImCU8jQoFNOs9UEsGI/s4032/20231016_123955741_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhay_smlvkMvt4SyFhk0hqUX7plT7ylIbN-dUqLTvXYVUFaG39fvUYNO25A5fFf_yOmTD35FGYMxgyMXeADFV-vCNDkGrex-o9G9mXaxk-fRtSjZVlwCggfVZ0hoHqLGTJ8By8wqgWlKm3hzVAAo0U2_I7u4T1P8p7dvmWWfBFdcImCU8jQoFNOs9UEsGI/s320/20231016_123955741_iOS.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />We walk back to the apartment and have a video session with Magnus and together submit his online application for residence near George Brown college in Toronto where he will be starting a program in January. After this and a short chill out session, we walk back down towards Bastille station and pick up some chocolate and biscuit gifts for my aunt and uncle (who we will be seeing tomorrow) then sit down at a Vietnamese restaurant for pho and noodles. Yumm.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">And for our last night in Paris? We watch a movie in bed. After walking 43 kilometres since we arrived three days ago, we're ready for a night off.</span></span><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_231019_121050_156.sdocx--></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-92214850717096421192023-10-15T03:27:00.005-04:002023-10-30T06:59:16.853-04:00France 2023: From Markets to Museums to Catacombs<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJFgelN8RL3TJRRXOkzPYp0GOA_g_nyIKkwJRqzvbbRVGDETR-7GK0ZYM10fVymVUUUNRFXnS4yGjwpwXDiSl2AQ-ogVGVSPnxuU_CDMjD5MarNrPIUUpcubzdZyjR5JT6uHs2Tx1taruxKzVSl3J21b-4W6wUjMkPX2nvXrvHugpAfkzukGi6ZEMUr7I/s4032/IMG_5654.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJFgelN8RL3TJRRXOkzPYp0GOA_g_nyIKkwJRqzvbbRVGDETR-7GK0ZYM10fVymVUUUNRFXnS4yGjwpwXDiSl2AQ-ogVGVSPnxuU_CDMjD5MarNrPIUUpcubzdZyjR5JT6uHs2Tx1taruxKzVSl3J21b-4W6wUjMkPX2nvXrvHugpAfkzukGi6ZEMUr7I/s320/IMG_5654.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span style="font-size: 17px;">There is nothing quite like walking a few steps to a bakery in the early morning to pick up fresh croissants and coffee and reaping the spoils of somebody else's fine baking, which all happened while I slept. I also pick up some muesli, milk, fruit, and marmalade from the grocery shop and Ana and I have a lovely breakfast together.</span></span></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></span></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">We walk to the Bastille market. What was yesterday a long, empty boulevard is today a metropolis of nutrition. Fresh food vendors lined up in perfect rows sell a bewildering array of items - fresh fruit and vegetables, seafood, prepared foods, fresh meat, cold cuts, a gazillion types of cheese, bread and pastries, then also some clothing, jewelry and household goods. People cram into the spaces between the rows and everyone is a buyer. As we slowly walk though the passages the smells are overwhelming. Spanish paella being cooked in an Olympian-sized wok. The tang of ripe cheese that nearly knocks me over. Fish odours from the flounder, sea bass, sardines, crab, squids, shucked oysters and sharks. One team of guys has a huge chicken roaster running with at least fifty birds at a time in rotation. There is the unmistakable smell of Thai chili and fish sauce coming from the green curry and spring rolls at one counter. Ladies at the creperie fold up remarkable packages full of Nutella, fruit, and jam, the smell of which is drawing a huge crowd. The wafting air from fresh cut flower stalls and lavender vendors tickle the nosebuds.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZv_Jgj3cNZ0EWB12ZDnlNJa7UoRkXQlvrYvDAzxHuUmI4xebhD7A4qvC47W2PGEjoBUcenoHjG6sKQzOovrgPkyBlNapqm6VK8Y147q9Ak84FszbSJQo97Ps83ZuSWIt1972gG8aUkSZtmGTOJ8w5ZJMTPvutqCX5eUOAi0ijqLgPTzCRFe7Gewmj3h8/s4032/IMG_5609.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZv_Jgj3cNZ0EWB12ZDnlNJa7UoRkXQlvrYvDAzxHuUmI4xebhD7A4qvC47W2PGEjoBUcenoHjG6sKQzOovrgPkyBlNapqm6VK8Y147q9Ak84FszbSJQo97Ps83ZuSWIt1972gG8aUkSZtmGTOJ8w5ZJMTPvutqCX5eUOAi0ijqLgPTzCRFe7Gewmj3h8/s320/IMG_5609.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />This is likely the most amazing market we have ever visited. Sure, some in Asia are larger, but the quality of the food here is simply unparalleled. And the damn thing didn't even exist yesterday! And it will be gone tomorrow.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">From here, we walk, and find a café in front of the Hotel Sully where we stop for a coffee. We have a video chat with Magnus, who is in Kuala Lumper on a backpacking trip and has just booked a flight to Tokyo. We check in with Stella too, as she traveled with some friends to a northern cottage for the weekend. I realize with glee that this is the goal we have wanted to achieve since our children were born - having two independent, confident kids that spread their wings and explore the world...while we do the same. I feel a tear develop in my eye, then realize that it's actually from a bird that just pooped all over me. Ana wipes me up and we continue our walk.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcF_XFr2i8ejE5Q-zpktng6OSIpkj7wb6PTPHm50CbuIcVJMwmN3rGwpdUuv28ghu8H1wIvS3olGhckiomKi8XCRmwf5coHtoIRwqWg3uxMojWoYC5grVnY8EkgUzAAmzqxBJz0O5ncyWVqqgyzzoWpjObLtBrNsmCyYIhjn9CpGCVpOBEDHe_Ag4nVL4/s4032/IMG_5608.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcF_XFr2i8ejE5Q-zpktng6OSIpkj7wb6PTPHm50CbuIcVJMwmN3rGwpdUuv28ghu8H1wIvS3olGhckiomKi8XCRmwf5coHtoIRwqWg3uxMojWoYC5grVnY8EkgUzAAmzqxBJz0O5ncyWVqqgyzzoWpjObLtBrNsmCyYIhjn9CpGCVpOBEDHe_Ag4nVL4/s320/IMG_5608.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />As we approach central Paris there appears more and more retail shops. I don't recognize any of them but Ana knows them all. Half of them look to be panty stores, or I guess lingerie as it's known here. There're all sorts of panties on display in the windows, some that contain no fabric whatsoever and seem to be made of knitted fishing line.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"Do you need new panties?" I ask.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"No, I already have drawers full of them," Ana says.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"But those aren't the lingerie type, I presume?"</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"You're dumb."</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">You'd think a sandwich shop right across from the Louvre would be dreadful, but in true testament to French quality, our meal is amazing. We walk to the Louvre entrance but you can barely see it for the thousand people in line. So we skip it and instead cross the river to the Museo D'Orsay and after a short wait are welcomed in. It's culturey as shit. We see paintings by Monet, Renoir, Van Gogh, Cezanne and incredible sculptures by Rodin, including the Wall at the Gates of Hell that must have taken years and a lot of opium to complete. The entire building is an art piece - the structure, the walls, the ceiling, the floor. I love to visit galleries and museums when we travel but b</span><span style="font-size: 17px;">ecause Ana spends most of her conscious hours in an art gallery, she is generally less enthused, so she generally goes </span><span style="font-size: 17px;">shopping while I'm arting it up. But today, she very much enjoyed it too.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijda6sy8RLzSnxlAErgc5x7Q6QZIPB__lq-VYo7kCQTuoJQTONdPWPVzqv7FHVpqWYEWHXasHRTWX6Evosbk6uJN-1BMZPB6PvoxdwZQQvBZCkQBvbj9ulMDPhwbK_ONzhVgAdC56HoO8CASG7E5GZeA2mdMUbmb_q2vub2DMqkbs_9IYOV_7ew5SP8tc/s4032/IMG_5641.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijda6sy8RLzSnxlAErgc5x7Q6QZIPB__lq-VYo7kCQTuoJQTONdPWPVzqv7FHVpqWYEWHXasHRTWX6Evosbk6uJN-1BMZPB6PvoxdwZQQvBZCkQBvbj9ulMDPhwbK_ONzhVgAdC56HoO8CASG7E5GZeA2mdMUbmb_q2vub2DMqkbs_9IYOV_7ew5SP8tc/s320/IMG_5641.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />We continue on to Saint Germain des Pres, yet another mile of designer fashion shops and find the Louis Vuitton store where Ana bought her original handbag so many years ago. We just finished paying it off.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">Because we'd already walked halfway across the city we couldn't stop now so we keep on going and strut all the way down to the Catacombs of Paris, stopping only for a quick round of drinks at a theater café along the way. This is the one tourist attraction we both wanted to see so we had prepurchased tickets for a 6:15 time slot.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOYdpewpa0NWqrDryKg9F2-65corArmSV1td7cFKScvx4OXOMIvXa1ygCwAGG9fLTWb2wlwaABM8e84HNcpEQl-chxpTtScDS7EKk1D3Cti_UPeGEJPiQCLoaf1xZZIUE5Vhic5iIGE3412n_yR64kp1mojCOw3GpQRvy0Cu40FxhIYKOMwneMzuXofi8/s4032/IMG_5630.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOYdpewpa0NWqrDryKg9F2-65corArmSV1td7cFKScvx4OXOMIvXa1ygCwAGG9fLTWb2wlwaABM8e84HNcpEQl-chxpTtScDS7EKk1D3Cti_UPeGEJPiQCLoaf1xZZIUE5Vhic5iIGE3412n_yR64kp1mojCOw3GpQRvy0Cu40FxhIYKOMwneMzuXofi8/s320/IMG_5630.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />It was an experience. Imagine claustrophobic tunnels deep underground passing through the stacked up bones and skulls of millions of long dead Parisians with ominous Latin and French etchings in the stone column supports. My thoughts as I walked these tunnels? We will all end up a pile of bones, probably sooner than we'd like. So let's not waste any time.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">The Latin Quarter is a 30 minute walk back towards home so we again shun the public transport options and leg it there until we find the perfect place for dinner - Le Cercle Luxembourg restaurant. Our meal is amazing - onion soup, fish of the day, pesto penne, crepe Suzette. The atmosphere is classy and the server is great. We linger for quite some time, people-watching through the window, talking, listening, taking it all in.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUA9RdJEAaOP08uRyXhyphenhyphen_Cy-dWVxjDMbkCrsSbrrBVcJ1pafBfu7A8GFK_zAC3_SG8vWs-G4TyeT6Ti8dkq8GrBD6OBH5lZljxENL9tbxDACmqYfSucTYgRfHzOESx2YQ5wKa8dyv1aSR305YYRd4l-w1ZI6vmHLWvHmrgS1TYdIWiK9vJILhuXEdJ9os/s4032/IMG_5623.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUA9RdJEAaOP08uRyXhyphenhyphen_Cy-dWVxjDMbkCrsSbrrBVcJ1pafBfu7A8GFK_zAC3_SG8vWs-G4TyeT6Ti8dkq8GrBD6OBH5lZljxENL9tbxDACmqYfSucTYgRfHzOESx2YQ5wKa8dyv1aSR305YYRd4l-w1ZI6vmHLWvHmrgS1TYdIWiK9vJILhuXEdJ9os/s320/IMG_5623.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />We decide to take the metro home, but first we stop at McDonalds to check two things: Ana wants to see if the coffee good and I want to confirm that a Big Mac is called a Royale, as I learned from Vincent in Pulp Fiction so many years ago. It was a yes on both counts.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">After 17 kilometres of urban street walking, we finally reach reach the apartment and collapse.</span></span><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_231018_084532_008.sdocx--></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-10021756079770170282023-10-14T06:45:00.007-04:002023-10-30T06:40:16.030-04:00France 2023: Arrival in Paris<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVfWvak0Fw97mo3FkkJ7LUdAYcwAK8CcX7hN8SOSjdqUlN38Nz-pmSwCMyB5mLishijwJ6pKsYx38XQWu_TdhF1wzKskF26ZFXFfmW9yJDSTRK52LYQyCau_8BXyzxo5VAuRToi4ksTb1ensfD7QmSnuOYL5urEobRPfOkLbLA3JV6nFJVPf-KakYUSuc/s4032/IMG_9618.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVfWvak0Fw97mo3FkkJ7LUdAYcwAK8CcX7hN8SOSjdqUlN38Nz-pmSwCMyB5mLishijwJ6pKsYx38XQWu_TdhF1wzKskF26ZFXFfmW9yJDSTRK52LYQyCau_8BXyzxo5VAuRToi4ksTb1ensfD7QmSnuOYL5urEobRPfOkLbLA3JV6nFJVPf-KakYUSuc/s320/IMG_9618.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><br /></span><span style="font-size: 17px;">"What is that white thing hanging off the top of the suitcase?" I ask Ana as we walk up to the check-in counter.</span></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 17px;">"What do you think it is?" she says.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"Looks like your garter belt from our wedding."</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"You're right! It'll help us spot our generic black bag when it rolls down the luggage carousel with all the other ones in Paris."</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">I eye her suspiciously as I have my doubts. I sniff it and it does not smell anything like her leg. Then, it hits me.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"That's a doily off your mom's coffee table! Brilliant!"</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">We arrive to security and put our stuff into the white baskets and wait. They're not moving. There must be a log jam in the scanner. The security staff start yelling at the guy working the machine. Meantime, Ana and I go through the metal detector and pass through, then I see the problem. The dude at the machine has his eyes closed and is smiling as he hammers buttons, spins dials, and pushes levers on the scanning machine. I think he's practicing for his Saturday DJ gig at the club. A passenger yells at him and tells him to wake up.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"Yo man, show some respect," he says as he snaps back to life and advances a few bags without looking at the screen. "You should be thanking me for keeping you all safe."</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">Um hmm.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">It feels like night within the airplane. The window shades are all closed and most passengers are sleeping. Time on an airplane takes on strange qualities during an overnight run. Economy class plebs sleep sitting up, fitfully, but it usually feels like you haven't slept at all and have instead spent all night with your eyes glued to the entertainment system in the seatback in front of you, and occasionally that of your neighbours when some nudity or excessive violence pops up on whatever they are watching. The concept of night itself collapses, especially flying east as the earth's rotation seems to double, thereby halving the hours of darkness.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">On this flight from Paris (well, actually Toronto) to Paris, our sleep is indeed shallow and uncertain. But the hours pass and when Ana opens the shade I am blinded by the light and shield my eyes and skin like an unearthed vampire as I hiss and curse.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">The airplane lands and parks. We walk down the stairs, smelling jet fuel exhaust, and plant our feet onto French asphalt.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"We're here!" I say.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">"Viva la France!" Ana responds. I kiss her right on the lips and realize we have come full circle. Last time we were here in around 2002 was as a couple with no kids. After nearly 20 years of child rearing and taking those little suckers everywhere we went, we now find ourselves alone again. It's a good feeling.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">After collecting our bags at the surprisingly small and quiet Terminal 3 of Charles De Gaulle airport, we buy train tickets and spend a very long time riding trains, transferring trains, walking up and down station stairs and escalators, and finally arrive at Voltaire station then walk a short ways to our apartment, a modest studio at the end of a narrow courtyard filled with potted trees and bicycles chained to iron piping. The studio apartment has exactly what we need; no more, no less - two plates, two forks, two cups, kettle, corkscrew, tiny fridge, one serrated knife, one bed, and a classic European WC with no sink and a toilet that has no immediately obvious way to flush it. Perfect.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">After unpacking we contemplate our situation. It is 1pm and we are exhausted, but there is no time to waste. We step out from the courtyard and find at least four eateries within one block of our studio. We check the menu of the first one, pass on that and go to the second. Looks okay, but maybe the third is better. We go there and have our doubts. Then we go back to the second, which is a Lebanese fusion place. That's when I feel the h'anger taking over so I tell Ana we have to sit down before I grow muscles, turn green, and start clobbering people. The cold beer, delicious food, and bill that does not add 13</span><span style="font-size: 17px;">% </span><span style="font-size: 17px;">tax and 20% gratuity fix us up completely so we can now begin exploring. We start walking down the first street that points towards the centre.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis20dmIJaV_PNkBrB4D2jIlulqyaN2jz88uiiukte5e9dU2xZHCPzm2Vk2ycj-RguKAsPBv50NQUCwoIGgBKNBoAEb5FsFFfc9xnw82oKwXvg2LHsVg0T3_SJ0hYQiIYTZ99YqMgfBSiV2_1rGTUIGOzh5zNjfRWMGaB8fzTlBjEp4V-pyqxJbH5VBoIA/s4032/IMG_5564.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis20dmIJaV_PNkBrB4D2jIlulqyaN2jz88uiiukte5e9dU2xZHCPzm2Vk2ycj-RguKAsPBv50NQUCwoIGgBKNBoAEb5FsFFfc9xnw82oKwXvg2LHsVg0T3_SJ0hYQiIYTZ99YqMgfBSiV2_1rGTUIGOzh5zNjfRWMGaB8fzTlBjEp4V-pyqxJbH5VBoIA/s320/IMG_5564.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />We reach the Bastille neighbourhood, which has a long and wide meridian lined up with metal frames for the huge market held here twice weekly. There is an outdoor art exhibition with huge, vibrant paintings that challenge your social conscience. From here we see a wide canal with boats, so naturally our feet lead us that way. Most of the boats are large, live aboard canal vessels, very long and somewhat narrow, and most have outdoor patio furniture, potted plants, and bicycles amongst the ropes, chains, dinghies, and life rings.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">We follow the channel out to the mighty Seine and walk the concrete shoreline until we reach a bridge, which we cross. From here we see the scaffolded profile of Notre Dame, under reconstruction since the huge fire that consumed half of her. All around us are mighty and ancient buildings, typical of European power capitals, but perhaps none quite so majestic as those in Paris.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">Along the left bank of the Seine are kilometers of green wooden cabinets, tended by the Bouqinistes of Paris - the book sellers, who have been at it since the 16th century. Books, comics, photographs, and tourist kitsch are amongst the items for sale. I could have filled a bag with purchases here. I could have filled a second bag with gear from a record shop I found that sold exclusively heavy metal products - cd's, DVD's, albums, comics, posters, figurines. Rock on.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">After cutting back across the river and passing through Notre Dame (and masses of tourists) we walk along the Rivoli, a beautifully wide street that demonstrates everything wrong with urban planning in Canada. Going from left to right we find a wide pedestrian strip with many café and restaurant patios, then a series of classy black lane separator poles, then a bike lane wide enough for two streams of bicycles, then a single lane for traffic (which bikers also use), then a meridian space for pedestrians to stop as they are crossing the street, then another car lane, bike lane, and pedestrian space mirroring that on the other side of the street. The total space dedicated to vehicles is less than one third of the width. What does this result in? People. Lots of people. And all manner of human powered vehicles zipping around - bicycles, bicycles towing trailers, skateboards, in-line skates, scooters, but also electrically powered ones like ebikes, mono-wheels, and electric scooters. On the side streets where parking is available we see electric chargers everywhere, which results in - guess what? Thousands of electric cars and electric motorcycles. As I stand on the street admiring this beautiful scene before me I realize something else. I am not overpowered by the stink of car exhaust. The fuel powered vehicles that remain are ultra efficient and many use alternative fuels like propane and maybe natural gas. It is truly inspiring and this is by far the most profound change I see in Paris since we last visited more than twenty years ago.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">We visit an incredible church. I feel like I've been here before, but we've visited a lot of medieval churches. The stations of the cross adorn the interior walls, but what's this? One of the stations seems to have fallen off and there is only broken plaster hanging off the wall, perhaps now devoted to Jean Tabernac, Patron Saint of Concrete?</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSJ4v4XleAQwqyYI-R7B0ZZJyjvMhGuRIPwnlFdBrTFcOLEjDGxkrpoPq16S_jolu10s5x_TPd-uIvDOSxP7zWvM4GmghEKheNwXKu3MIfigYGWftdCaIF3z7ufANCnMnX0puxCBwz47EsTHZ7-IWAKNHXInW1BiuzIKAOD1INlhqODTtx16A-l4HcXSg/s4032/IMG_5595.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSJ4v4XleAQwqyYI-R7B0ZZJyjvMhGuRIPwnlFdBrTFcOLEjDGxkrpoPq16S_jolu10s5x_TPd-uIvDOSxP7zWvM4GmghEKheNwXKu3MIfigYGWftdCaIF3z7ufANCnMnX0puxCBwz47EsTHZ7-IWAKNHXInW1BiuzIKAOD1INlhqODTtx16A-l4HcXSg/s320/IMG_5595.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />After a glass of champagne and pint of beer at one of the many cafes on the Rivoli, we walk back to our neighbourhood on exhausted legs navigated by overtired brains. At the Carrefour we find a huge block of brie and bottle of red then visit the bakery for a baguette and focaccia and enjoy a lovely backpacker dinner in our room. We are exhausted beyond belief but I talk Ana into one last evening walk around the neighbourhood then we return to the room and collapse. Day 1 complete.</span></span><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_231017_122257_183.sdocx--></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-28175588630368355722023-08-04T10:40:00.002-04:002023-08-08T15:37:05.247-04:00July 30 – Back Home to Newport<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJA5rUFFnZ6wYtnUYih7XxBy0XdRQyilq4GCS_EwaaOi_i9Wqf2Zdubv2grRQ8gzNY4vMbE5lJ3FtaHiU1p6xsyObxyWSPVZbceWyZ0DTJeT3DOIoD1IPvUz3ZC8WfCbTgygMnRRINH6YovCsxk5FiU8pD00awCCpLkj2W2Aov_DWL9xZiS-SW0TzZepQ/s4032/20230731_103435233_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJA5rUFFnZ6wYtnUYih7XxBy0XdRQyilq4GCS_EwaaOi_i9Wqf2Zdubv2grRQ8gzNY4vMbE5lJ3FtaHiU1p6xsyObxyWSPVZbceWyZ0DTJeT3DOIoD1IPvUz3ZC8WfCbTgygMnRRINH6YovCsxk5FiU8pD00awCCpLkj2W2Aov_DWL9xZiS-SW0TzZepQ/s320/20230731_103435233_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />It’s 1:30 pm on Sunday. Ana and I are sitting on the bow of SeaLight as the sun shines down, the wind blows directly in our face, and the autopilot drives us home. It the first time we’ve done this during the trip and it gives us a chance to reflect on the amazing times we’ve had with our family and friends over the past 18 days and all the new places we’ve explored.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgosoiiNS8e2w378IcPsP01S4-2lDRvE_blYEJP9dL7vB6TsV57B-7X065CfmVmALPAkDX0M_3T3lW7v882PpYCQ4ORke9Vvtpax07sk4_J_iL3drMPuTqk181wkVt2YzBtwkOtHBthLHGx_M_IggyJvOxG3ERqF0bnBD5wS0_ulTeTOyPIyjzJK3bJfDk/s3088/20230730_163536654_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgosoiiNS8e2w378IcPsP01S4-2lDRvE_blYEJP9dL7vB6TsV57B-7X065CfmVmALPAkDX0M_3T3lW7v882PpYCQ4ORke9Vvtpax07sk4_J_iL3drMPuTqk181wkVt2YzBtwkOtHBthLHGx_M_IggyJvOxG3ERqF0bnBD5wS0_ulTeTOyPIyjzJK3bJfDk/s320/20230730_163536654_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />During this trip we covered 804 kilometres or 404 nautical miles which translates into approximately 72 hours of sailing. This averages out to just over four hours of sailing per day, but of course much of this came in larger passages which gave us time for down days where we didn’t sail at all.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">This is now our fourth major sailing trip on Lake Ontario and I feel like we’ve achieved a pretty good feel for the lake. There’re a few spots left to explore on the US side of the lake, plus a number of marinas and yacht clubs in our neighbourhood in the western end that we’re yet to visit. Next time around we might decide on a slower pace and focus in on fewer stops with more time to fully explore each area. Saying that, I will admit we tend to get bored quickly. When we’ve had more time allocated on earlier sailing trips, like the longer 4 week trips we’ve done up to the North Channel, we’ve always just expanded the range of where we went instead of focusing in on smaller areas, but I guess that’s just what we like to do.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRjXgzrq7v8BRsHaSrYOvS_ONpPQ6465hBHLRdMHpEy0cG47m7O2PRXj8LXZJZOp46g4k9m_c2m1_33EjsccSTmj4pRZ_sOQt0KjWbyw8UQZK-QdBBB6ITPDS5t8-6eHF41xhhugWt7j_YoteotgvmqEAu98JgKexC3--DFhcqDdMBjBgd15Tz3RWZ-Vk/s3088/20230730_170745117_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRjXgzrq7v8BRsHaSrYOvS_ONpPQ6465hBHLRdMHpEy0cG47m7O2PRXj8LXZJZOp46g4k9m_c2m1_33EjsccSTmj4pRZ_sOQt0KjWbyw8UQZK-QdBBB6ITPDS5t8-6eHF41xhhugWt7j_YoteotgvmqEAu98JgKexC3--DFhcqDdMBjBgd15Tz3RWZ-Vk/s320/20230730_170745117_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />Along the way we defrost both the fridges (and pick more coffee grounds out of the top loader), clean and vacuum the boat, pull off the bedding, pack up our stuff, so by the time we arrive at Newport we are nearly ready to head home. Earlier in the day after breakfast, Magnus headed back downtown to hang out then took the train back to Aldershot, got the van, then meets us at the marina just as we are arriving. We take a few photos of us and Lydia, Daryl, and Chili then we were off, just as a big thunderstorm passes overhead and drenches everything. That’s been the story of the trip – sun to rain to wind back to sun back to rain. It’s all good.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">And thus ends the 2023 sailing trip.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8iyG9qAo06U1GPO7nPb9tZwTaMiquLpNpHBi7VHoXPPkbiOsgcOdbVxTaq-6pcH-KqGtsLf-aeN5eKkufwcNipg67Tc1Y4DqKHNs2a-6YM42tsIdXyUNrOdelrFOdoF_n7xtSa69I7tmkzDN_tPrA-E9-vbdpudMshSer6awApdi-1YxIiqxIPyfkN14/s788/2023%20sailing%20trip%20map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="364" data-original-width="788" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8iyG9qAo06U1GPO7nPb9tZwTaMiquLpNpHBi7VHoXPPkbiOsgcOdbVxTaq-6pcH-KqGtsLf-aeN5eKkufwcNipg67Tc1Y4DqKHNs2a-6YM42tsIdXyUNrOdelrFOdoF_n7xtSa69I7tmkzDN_tPrA-E9-vbdpudMshSer6awApdi-1YxIiqxIPyfkN14/s320/2023%20sailing%20trip%20map.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-19130177713991380722023-08-03T07:28:00.003-04:002023-08-03T07:28:36.791-04:00July 29, 2023 – Rainy Day in the Big Smoke<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsdc8Ug3vYgF0-w2syH1o1fivqNX1ibsMoJJq6gD60Oo1DfbEu_mulhiPnxM6EfIGUImGypRpQdm9ygLpLKgRTJPDnIfNzc9PI9LgKWB_6aW0H-7VXYZO2O0dqygThZHrTlg-fez1rfMwAc7FdjSB8ifKXkB2Jb-bLUvhpkLVWWPwyxZBYoJB3gj_kxLQ/s3088/20230729_135741684_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsdc8Ug3vYgF0-w2syH1o1fivqNX1ibsMoJJq6gD60Oo1DfbEu_mulhiPnxM6EfIGUImGypRpQdm9ygLpLKgRTJPDnIfNzc9PI9LgKWB_6aW0H-7VXYZO2O0dqygThZHrTlg-fez1rfMwAc7FdjSB8ifKXkB2Jb-bLUvhpkLVWWPwyxZBYoJB3gj_kxLQ/s320/20230729_135741684_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />We didn’t see much of the kids during last year’s boating season. With Magnus driving and Stella working every Saturday, it just didn’t work out very often and we thought they had both really lost interest. Which is why we were so happy they both decided to join us for parts of this boat trip. They are both at or near a junction in their lives where they are making big decisions so we always have plenty to discuss, as we do over breakfast this morning with Magnus. He is on the tail end of a gap year and looking to make his next move, which will likely be school, and he wants to get started on something in January. So we decided last night to walk over to George Brown college today and have a look around as they offer some programs he is interested in.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqpvt3yf5TJaA7h6ofiHZUTjn1f1ehI-8P-pgLQsdL_vC_mK9O_D3bs8KWiHG950CrouTir86vio06uCNQ7kApK5TMb-DEQo807349s065LZ2LcqLnANZ738EnzcDd53KwKdPdzFIjW1GnQ5DH5Za56fWo8mQTYxidhMVJ8hJNQBZgWzwZ6l7gAqBf86Q/s4032/20230729_162438871_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqpvt3yf5TJaA7h6ofiHZUTjn1f1ehI-8P-pgLQsdL_vC_mK9O_D3bs8KWiHG950CrouTir86vio06uCNQ7kApK5TMb-DEQo807349s065LZ2LcqLnANZ738EnzcDd53KwKdPdzFIjW1GnQ5DH5Za56fWo8mQTYxidhMVJ8hJNQBZgWzwZ6l7gAqBf86Q/s320/20230729_162438871_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />A big nasty system rolled in last night and it is pouring outside. I dress up in my full rain gear – pants and jacket, which Ana and Magnus just wear jackets. After walking for a short while through the torrential rain we slip into Shopper’s Drug Mart to pick up two umbrellas as Ana fears a major makeup malfunction. From there we have a long, drawn-out coffee stop at Aromas Espresso Bar then continue on our long walk to George Brown through half empty streets, unheard of for a Saturday in Toronto.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The first George Brown college building we reach looks closed but we find a back door entrance and give ourselves a tour. The entire building is deserted and there are construction works in progress, giving it the feel of a set on a zombie apocalypse movie. We go over to the culinary arts building which isn’t hard to find because we can see people through the streetside windows in there wearing kitchen whites and making bread and cookies.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We walk in and it smells heavenly. There is a single administrator working and she gives us a brief overview of George Brown and points us in the direction of the adjoined Business department which offers the program Magnus is interested in. We take a quick walk around then decide it would be best to continue our discussion over lunch so we find a nearby Thai restaurant and go crazy with the curries. Magnus positively loves this area of this city as it right in the middle of all the action – Front Street, St Lawrence Market, the Financial district, and within walking range of the entire downtown.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Ana finds a thrift shop and thrifting ensues. I duck out early with a big bag of our purchases and Ana’s umbrella which I am charged to protect and go outside to sit in the park. The rain is finally letting up and bits of sun are peeking through the clouds. When Ana and Magnus come to get me I, of course, leave her umbrella hanging on the back of a chair and don’t realize it until we’ve walked a couple of block, so I race back and of course it’s gonzo. I creep around the park hoping to yoink a similar umbrella from another hapless doofus who left one lying around, but no such luck so I return empty handed and feel great shame.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We make the long walk back to the boat then have a nice chill out session in the cockpit for a couple of hours, then Magnus heads back into the city for a solo coffee and Ana and I go over to a nice lakeside seating area in the marina that has a firepit, Bluetooth speakers, comfy loungers, and a resident mink that peeks out from under a planter every once in a while and scratches the back of his head on the wood while he looks up to the sky with glee. We have a drink and enjoy the beautiful sunshine that’s finally made its full appearance. Life is good.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0WBEl01LUw7wHA69p_o8mNQWiCkuVVIyibDbb81PqPHdG0aAae0nrMZfHVCyu_7bhbBk0umlCovGo1qFi6GpApk0P4lufAIIu1vNwMfIe_TyHwsEYZKj5iMY1OQAqRoLg1Nbb8RE1QDrQ2Ub2K6SmX5b87EAh1bBXtAgBoaOILb0BVXvkVq0ISvAdweE/s4032/20230730_001126141_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0WBEl01LUw7wHA69p_o8mNQWiCkuVVIyibDbb81PqPHdG0aAae0nrMZfHVCyu_7bhbBk0umlCovGo1qFi6GpApk0P4lufAIIu1vNwMfIe_TyHwsEYZKj5iMY1OQAqRoLg1Nbb8RE1QDrQ2Ub2K6SmX5b87EAh1bBXtAgBoaOILb0BVXvkVq0ISvAdweE/s320/20230730_001126141_iOS.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />Soon the Thai curry wears off so we walk back downtown, meet Magnus, then have spectacular rotis from my favourite place to eat in Toronto – the Indian Roti House, just across from Amsterdam Brew House. Ana goes for a slice of pizza instead as she claims Indian food turns her insides upside down and we don’t want to risk any permanent damage to the boat’s plumbing.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">It’s getting close to dark when we get the call from our friends still moored in the islands. Our presence is required. So we jump in the dinghy and accidentally motor right through the restricted zone beside the airport runway. The giant white marker buoys which are so easy to see during the daytime are much less so at night and we get totally confused with where we are. Fortunately no police boats come chasing after us and there’s no botched plane landing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhApJBpQZWFcIXN207ERUHpUuvjRuV85kxvT5e7pPyyGBdIT31dR9pvsgq0tyRNZWm07IhzLMonXXGw4BNSY3mryGntr4Ns087y7eLgK8Scl5_0sunFUzbhssXF4qxGYW3jEmIwTjTXinU2CjLm2fgPF8vrCDwvGkcB5WJCQy2cOgnDjFpBzXrrDWKRWRs/s4032/IMG_9328%201.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhApJBpQZWFcIXN207ERUHpUuvjRuV85kxvT5e7pPyyGBdIT31dR9pvsgq0tyRNZWm07IhzLMonXXGw4BNSY3mryGntr4Ns087y7eLgK8Scl5_0sunFUzbhssXF4qxGYW3jEmIwTjTXinU2CjLm2fgPF8vrCDwvGkcB5WJCQy2cOgnDjFpBzXrrDWKRWRs/s320/IMG_9328%201.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />We settle on Chris and Miriam’s boat for a drink and visit and confirm that yes, Daryl and Lydia were stalking us last night, but gave up and went out drinking and clubbing instead. Man, those guys have energy.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We play it safe on the dinghy ride home and take a wide berth around the buoys but still manage to accidentally cut through half of the forbidden zone, but now we just feel like marine commandos on a midnight mission.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">As we pass by the phenomenal Toronto night skyline headed to the boat I think again how incredible this city and this moment is.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">And tomorrow, we will head home.</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-59115211565235553442023-08-02T07:21:00.001-04:002023-08-02T07:21:30.092-04:00July 28, 2023 – Coffee Mishap, Exploring Toronto, and a Midnight Visitor<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK2uOiqTpRBZRz1biCln9zpDls1X8RWfPpSuyvzDsOe03hwpVC6FtiK5Kuo02yJurmqCQnjptIRBjl4YVxLZVdfZvK2I2aMIg_xd8wxGJ-DtnjpViFZPoWuHcWLGomlb544rX7wtN5M-A9AVcsdbQ3h7QiJ4OyLYu_MDq5qzlFbDP5rzLHApQSeRQLqQQ/s4032/IMG_9307_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK2uOiqTpRBZRz1biCln9zpDls1X8RWfPpSuyvzDsOe03hwpVC6FtiK5Kuo02yJurmqCQnjptIRBjl4YVxLZVdfZvK2I2aMIg_xd8wxGJ-DtnjpViFZPoWuHcWLGomlb544rX7wtN5M-A9AVcsdbQ3h7QiJ4OyLYu_MDq5qzlFbDP5rzLHApQSeRQLqQQ/s320/IMG_9307_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />We drink instant coffee on the boat. It’s easy, it’s fast, and it tastes pretty good. We do, however, have the capability to make great coffee on the boat and that is done with the Aeropress, a type of French press, but with the capacity of only a single cup. Whenever we have boat guests I always crack out the Aeropress to make coffee. Angela’s coffee comes out perfectly and I serve it to her in the cockpit. Now, Sheila’s. I set the Aeropress down on the top loading refrigerator, dump at least two tablespoons of coffee into the chamber, pour in boiling water, then mix it up with a spoon. As I flip the Aeropress on top of the coffee cup to do the plunging, something goes wrong and it falls and comes apart, spilling boiling hot coffee ground water all over the counter and into the edges of the fridge, splattering all over the food and drinks within. It is a goddamn mess and over the next 3o minutes I go through half a paper towel roll and several rags to clean it up. It’s all Sheila’s fault.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">After breakfast we toss the lines and motor into Toronto’s National Yacht Club, where we will spend the next two nights for the low, low price of free as they offer gratis slips to reciprocal members of other yacht clubs. We have a hugfest on the dock with Angela and Sheila then they are off to retrieve their car and drive back into Brantford. Which leaves Ana and I all alone with a full day ahead of us in this amazing city.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQmE9vm0WqgK0RiU-X6U83AiNQoh8u23fx1TrSwFgKKh3_Z0JoewtqacVZEfC0MIPgsYsb8czDGHnUT0vdSBiydCDFLdIZgCXsjU7zDMRPzUCDjIc_fnZtI1rqQyWun6iGZzBE8z70cj1bJvS-Bmbssft0aMjcCrSVs5D2_QvkuMDx34Oybvo8iQzW2pA/s4032/IMG_9295.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQmE9vm0WqgK0RiU-X6U83AiNQoh8u23fx1TrSwFgKKh3_Z0JoewtqacVZEfC0MIPgsYsb8czDGHnUT0vdSBiydCDFLdIZgCXsjU7zDMRPzUCDjIc_fnZtI1rqQyWun6iGZzBE8z70cj1bJvS-Bmbssft0aMjcCrSVs5D2_QvkuMDx34Oybvo8iQzW2pA/s320/IMG_9295.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />We begin by jumping in the dinghy and motoring across the harbour to the Dock Shoppe to return a boat part I didn’t end up needing. From there we go on the outside of the Toronto islands to the beach on Ward’s Island. Once again, there’s an incredible amount of activity on the water – little kids in sailing school, that giant three masted ship, and dozens of sail and powerboats. We dinghy right into the beach, lay out a towel, and sit in a sand for a while watching all the action. Once sufficiently heated up, we go for a swim to cool off then hop back in the dinghy and continue the circle tour around the islands. As we are motoring on flat water, at the perfect temperature, with an inviting breeze on our faces Ana says, “Remember this moment, this exact moment right now,” and she leans over and kisses me. “We’ll come back to this memory in January when we’re suffering through winter.”</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I love my wife. She is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me and she makes me so happy, especially at moments like this.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We make the full loop around the islands and end up back at the boat where we quickly change clothes then head out to walk Toronto. It is hot as Hades so we stick to the shady sides of the streets where we can and we take it at a slow pace – there’s no rush.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicIagdyxZtDg5AOCVowpLbDvX71zDWGfOBE81ujl44GxByaeELUz9bguGTSW9dLWx6cQs8a6yxXO_mev3R40Q5yi7Ul4bO-NLMC6QyqJ3zaUQz81InfYWy3Iyn3Y099iYWX8oTO8d1sB9lekquhf8urGgkzd62I_Q_RRnPAVWqoCeqCwD8-5cj0ucjSAE/s4032/IMG_9298.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicIagdyxZtDg5AOCVowpLbDvX71zDWGfOBE81ujl44GxByaeELUz9bguGTSW9dLWx6cQs8a6yxXO_mev3R40Q5yi7Ul4bO-NLMC6QyqJ3zaUQz81InfYWy3Iyn3Y099iYWX8oTO8d1sB9lekquhf8urGgkzd62I_Q_RRnPAVWqoCeqCwD8-5cj0ucjSAE/s320/IMG_9298.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />As we are walking down Queen’s Quay a young girl holding a clipboard and flyers stops me.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“Have you ever heard of the Little St. Nick children’s charity?” she asks me, smiling widely and suspicously.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“Sorry, what’s that you say?” I reply as I squint through my sunglasses at the brochure she’s holding and am horrified to see an image of Santa Clause.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“Little St. Nick, it’s a children’s charity,” she explains.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“I hate Christmas,” I say bluntly and we walk away. Ana’s surprised as I’m usually pretty kind to strangers interrupting my free time with things I don’t care about, but today, on this beautiful hot day, in July, seeing an image of the Christmas elf reminds me of the 6 painful months of the year in which I despise the weather and complain endlessly as I question our life and residency choices.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We stop for cold drinks, walk around for a while, then find two free Adirondack chairs on the fabricated, but still lovely, HTO beach near the Harbourfront Centre. As soon as I lean back in that comfy chair, I am out. When I regain consciousness, I see Ana’s been eavesdropping on some other beachgoers. One dude and his buddy are flirting hard with a girl and we can hear everything they are saying. Before long, a well dressed dude walks up on the other side of us, sees a pretty girl sitting alone on a bench and says, “Mind if I sit here?” He starts chatting her up, then we hear, “I like your look,” and man is she digging it! She slides a bit closer to him and they get engaged in deep conversation. Over on the other side of Hook Up Beach one of the first dudes is now touching his target’s arm, then her leg, and she’s laughing and having fun.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjydmujCIDaUOCrvaDZ2AUICy3MdD30P01NigmIQ0T7WpnZPH3VfpvdnYz2DCj4223uIxG32g32J6qTIpFe3JBywOeH27FiTxruV6DapT5_YDMcX0JDwBIZhJwlDn3OfYS6ImPa1XVttmxp997gbL9mu3lhSsk-I5crbPqE8TGPcceJ2weUuRpuavSY0/s4032/IMG_9321.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjydmujCIDaUOCrvaDZ2AUICy3MdD30P01NigmIQ0T7WpnZPH3VfpvdnYz2DCj4223uIxG32g32J6qTIpFe3JBywOeH27FiTxruV6DapT5_YDMcX0JDwBIZhJwlDn3OfYS6ImPa1XVttmxp997gbL9mu3lhSsk-I5crbPqE8TGPcceJ2weUuRpuavSY0/s320/IMG_9321.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />“I didn’t think people knew how to do this anymore,” Ana says as she looks back and forth at the pick ups in progress.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“And they’re doing it without the use of an app. Amazing.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We head back to the boat as we’re expecting Magnus – he is taking the train out to spend the weekend with us. I pick him up in the dingy at Trillium Park around 8 and we have a great visit with him as we make a dinner of Korean short ribs, sweet potato fries, and salad. We consider taking a walk into Toronto and finding somewhere to go for a drink but he’s pretty tired out from a busy week at work so we just hang in the boat and I go to bed at the ridiculous hour of 10 pm. Normally, this would not be possible when Lydia is around as she is this innocent looking thing who, on the first day we met her, claimed her bedtime was 10:30 and she never stayed up beyond that. Well, what a scam that was. We learned very quickly that she likes drinking wine, laughing, and telling stories until 2am and forces everybody in the vicinity to have fun right alongside her. Since she is isolated on the islands, I don’t miss the opportunity for a few extra horizonal hours.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSQ1GHnpKMsmSD7KRZUvPlUJSsb8wlLA1UDdxR9Lo58Meawab6cqo9ZnwJV4gZUfpBzfUlEjt3OWY18IF7M5nypB2RHELtaNsKHJGQ0xGFdTgpJ6MBlOnBWtegL0t5V4ZJktw5yFXwCJTnolXiOIibBSsgbgxk3ObfMfa0jKXCqbV-XC9XeIyX0zW56ls/s4032/IMG_9323.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSQ1GHnpKMsmSD7KRZUvPlUJSsb8wlLA1UDdxR9Lo58Meawab6cqo9ZnwJV4gZUfpBzfUlEjt3OWY18IF7M5nypB2RHELtaNsKHJGQ0xGFdTgpJ6MBlOnBWtegL0t5V4ZJktw5yFXwCJTnolXiOIibBSsgbgxk3ObfMfa0jKXCqbV-XC9XeIyX0zW56ls/s320/IMG_9323.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />Just after midnight I am woken up by Ana’s poking finger.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“What? Huh? What’s up?” I ask all groggy like.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“There’s something outside,” she whispers. “An evil presence.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I listen carefully. There is a slight sloshing of water against the boat. Maybe a duck? Or a goose? Or some carps making love?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Then, the squeak of dinghy PVC against the hull and an unmistakable laugh.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“Shit!” I hiss into Ana’s ear. “It’s Lydia. Don’t move, don’t make a sound.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh no,” Ana says as she freezes and pulls the blanket over her head.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Her and Daryl have found us. She could probably sense from miles away that we were trying to go to bed early and is here to put a stop to it. We can hear them moving alongside the boat, undoubtedly peeking into the windows looking for signs of life.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Then, “Kriiiiiiiiissssss. Aaaaaaaanaaaaa. Come out and play.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We are frozen with fear. She’s an unstoppable party machine and she’s here to destroy our good night’s sleep. We keep quiet and motionless. My mouth is dry and I start to picture how nice a beer would taste right now.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“Damnable voodoo! Devil woman! Now she’s invading my thoughts!” I whisper to Ana as I shake the image out of my head.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“Be strong,” she says.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We hear them circle the boat, then get off the dingy and up onto the floating dock. They won’t give up. But we wait them out, and soon we hear some yelling and screaming and laughing coming from a boat, probably on the other side of the marina. A pattering of feet. A splash of water as they jump into the dingy. The sound of an outboard engine firing up. They take off to investigate the party noises, and within minutes will be in somebody else’s cockpit making friends, laughing, and having fun.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The danger has passed.</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-25916067634726749212023-08-01T07:27:00.000-04:002023-08-01T07:27:35.236-04:00July 27, 2023 – I Want To See Your Peacock, Cock, Cock, Your Peacock, Cock<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZfpOEPY_fUAyn_gqyQcNi_krykTo5HVYvTtrQk16k_o1nI-niD1zG-fWHUqof9BgB9P0oivZyd44_sYz2-c29hEf9Z3LiHWBk7-RKK-KzczzGFlq25DT_2UJEUvaq_ZDx2Y3pbrW2czIj1fPa8UT40dPbuT98kdr7025SO9naLXBwJRSjRP3SfpA6FnY/s400/Beautiful%20Peacocks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="291" data-original-width="400" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZfpOEPY_fUAyn_gqyQcNi_krykTo5HVYvTtrQk16k_o1nI-niD1zG-fWHUqof9BgB9P0oivZyd44_sYz2-c29hEf9Z3LiHWBk7-RKK-KzczzGFlq25DT_2UJEUvaq_ZDx2Y3pbrW2czIj1fPa8UT40dPbuT98kdr7025SO9naLXBwJRSjRP3SfpA6FnY/s320/Beautiful%20Peacocks.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />I wake up at a gloriously late 6:30, happy that we don’t have to travel anywhere for a few days. It is a clear, warm morning and I get set up in the cockpit with a hot chicory drink and my laptop and do some writing.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Spending so much time on the boat really tunes your ears to the sounds the boat should and should not be making. The hum of the engine while underway should be just so – if it wavers, then something is going wrong, or about to go wrong. The sound of the wind on the sails (not that we’ve heard much of that this trip…) changes with different points of sail and you can hear when you are getting at too close of an angle to the wind. The air conditioner produces a symphony of sounds and it becomes easy to tell when it’s sucked up a wad of lily pads and is about to choke.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The one sound I notice this morning is the bilge pump. Or rather, no sound of it. It should be running periodically to drain the water created by the air conditioner. But this morning it is not so I open up the bilge to investigate. Sure enough, it is underwater and not working. I wiggle it. I flip the breaker on and off. I check the wiring and the voltage. I clean the impeller. Everything looks fine but it just does not work properly. I can get it to run if I turn it upside down, but when I flip it back over it sucks for a second then stops.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Time to go bilge pump shopping.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Daryl is up for the ride to the Dock Shoppe as he never passes up an opportunity to blow some coin at a marine store. But before leaving, our friends Chris and Miriam from Newport arrive in their 37’ Marinette aluminum cruiser powerboat and we help them to get docked. They’ve been cruising around for a week or so and decided to come and join us for the weekend. Their condo is right next to where our boat is docked at Newport and they can look down on us from their deck. I sometimes see Miriam peeking down at me through the bathroom window when I’m taking a shower and she’s usually giggling. I suspect I know what she’s giggling about, but I usually just wave then slowly draw the curtain.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Daryl and I jump in the dinghy and motor out of the islands and across the frantic, wavy Toronto Inner Harbour to the marine store which is located on a small barge at the end of an industrial jetty on the easternmost side. Unless you are a boater in need of parts, you would never, ever be able to find this place, nor just happen to pass by it. It is also past a prehistoric lift bride, which happens to be going up as we enter to let through a tug pushing a barge, who is coming up on us fast.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We pick up the parts we need then motor back to the boat but take the winding island route this time which is a bit slower, but scenic and calm. After installing the new bilge pump and discovering it is behaving exactly the same as the old one, I give up and take the dinghy back across the bay to pick up our friends Angela and Sheila from Brantford, who are coming out to join us for a day. I find them waving at me from beside the Empire Sandy schooner so they load into the dinghy and we cruise back to the boat for a burger lunch then an extended chill out session at the pool.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">As we’re walking back to the boat we bump into our friends and learn they have been scavenging (and perhaps plucking?) feathers all afternoon from the pimped out male peacock. Miriam has a handful of four foot long feathers, that she’s strutting around like Mrs. Thurston Howell the Third. Lydia has one between her teeth and sashays like a matador down the dock. Daryl has one pinned in his dapper hat, complementing his million dollar smile. Chris has one slid into the belt buckle loop of his shorts, inviting pelvic glances just like Robert Plant did with that red rose in his low cut jeans when Led Zeppelin played Stairway to Heaven, but Chris’s version is way sexier. I haven’t seen the daddy peacock today but I expect he now looks like he’s got the mange, patchy and unkempt, with half of his feathers missing. After seeing this bonanza of colour, Angela decides she needs a feather as a fashion accessory for an upcoming event so Ana finds two dock rats and sends them off plucking.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFeK8sK_cCGY8dVgiu3bITQDxJBkwli02dhtClXCLwqQato-Aae2_uLFN1j8eAa6Kz_bbt7Z4ewy0xnfIxacN956nOOLOHXUykW9tKFopCRjapg0n2SRFfsMsKpXHnsMjUZ23opXY70tQQmgJWqf1v1G4TGMFT6_Wz5kRThdKCzOkXQrwueO1P284plTc/s4032/IMG_9279.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFeK8sK_cCGY8dVgiu3bITQDxJBkwli02dhtClXCLwqQato-Aae2_uLFN1j8eAa6Kz_bbt7Z4ewy0xnfIxacN956nOOLOHXUykW9tKFopCRjapg0n2SRFfsMsKpXHnsMjUZ23opXY70tQQmgJWqf1v1G4TGMFT6_Wz5kRThdKCzOkXQrwueO1P284plTc/s320/IMG_9279.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />After a dinghy ride through the islands, the four of us enjoy a slow and relaxed dinner and drinks at the yacht club restaurant like the fancy folks that we are, then we all meet up in the air conditioned inner digestive system of SeaLight, otherwise known as the main salon. We usually gather in the cockpit, but tonight we try something new. I pull up Spotify on my phone and start with the most appropriate song I could think of as we reflected on today’s events, a new one from Katy Perry, and I turn it to maximum volume:</span><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>I want to see your peacock, cock, cock, your peacock, cock. Your peacock, cock, cock, your peacock.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>I want to see your peacock, cock, cock, your peacock, cock. Your peacock, cock, cock, your peacock.</i></span></p></blockquote><p><i><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></i></p><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Well that really gets the party going. People start jumping around, arms pumping, hips gyrating, going crazy to the beat. A couple of the ladies whip their shirts off, then one of them rips off Daryl’s shorts and, adding fuel to this techno fire, we are rewarded with a beautiful peacock feather peeking out of his boxers which really drives the chicks mental.</span></div><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I notice the huge bottle of Kraken that Marty and I tried to kill back in Kingston still has a bit left so I split it into two cups, four ounces each, keeping one for myself and giving one to Chris as I don’t think he’s ever experienced a Kraken smackdown, but I think he’s going to really like it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The party is really heating up as my playlist winds through other high octane fowl tunes and there are more clothes being tossed around, but then Daryl asks me about the electrical problem on the boat and the three men start discussing battery terminals, short circuits, breakers, then we start taking the boat apart and testing stuff, which just kills the mood. Someone mentions mapping out the electrical schematic and that instantly drives Sheila and Angela to bed and they don’t even bother gathering up their clothes so I guess I’ll have to sweep up all the bras, garter belts, and stockings later and return them to their respective owners.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The remaining partygoers move over to Chris and Miriam’s boat where the conversation focuses on the burgee (this is a flag for recreation boating clubs) we need to create for the LOL – Lake Ontario Loopers, which will be awarded to anybody from the club who does a similar circumnavigation of the full lake. We’re thinking it should have images of a gas can spilling fuel onto a goby fish and a swan, the earth on fire, definitely a peacock, and maybe an extra long wiener dog wrapping around the whole thing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Man, that Kraken produces some good ideas!</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-84311618641461636732023-07-30T11:39:00.002-04:002023-07-30T11:39:48.697-04:00July 26, 2023 – Toronto’s Islands, Rubber Pirate Cannons, and a Tremendously Good Nap<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdetO9MsNdfzsuqME7c-Q_28DKZf_OjzFW21TDtBp95Ko9C7HV2AYjuOMr-8JVuSJd5PceHPgkY444CAMs8gipZqNBJVI1F7Va-dt9WbxNeQcgs-ZkHJfJ2jRdNgtmd7sMsi6v1JBGQRx8uMepntd6YQb8P4CH0YDNV94il0jzg6xWMoatVKPAO9RTP4Q/s4032/IMG_5161.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdetO9MsNdfzsuqME7c-Q_28DKZf_OjzFW21TDtBp95Ko9C7HV2AYjuOMr-8JVuSJd5PceHPgkY444CAMs8gipZqNBJVI1F7Va-dt9WbxNeQcgs-ZkHJfJ2jRdNgtmd7sMsi6v1JBGQRx8uMepntd6YQb8P4CH0YDNV94il0jzg6xWMoatVKPAO9RTP4Q/s320/IMG_5161.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />At 4am the Cobourg marina casts a beautiful scene. There are six other sailboats anchored here, each with a single masthead light glowing as the boats sit motionless on the flat water. Two fishing boats are slowing motoring through the channel with their red, green, and white navigational lights on, headed for the lake in pursuit of the salmon that live in it. I hit the button on the windless and it sparks to life, piercing the morning silence with the sound of thick chain banging against the bow pulpit as the anchor is retrieved.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The lake too is calm and glassy but after an hour of motoring a thick fog sets in and a slight breeze rises. I flash the spotlight periodically to ensure any surrounding boats hidden in the fog can see us. As dawn approaches, the warm air on my arms and face rapidly cools and is replaced by what I call the dawn chill. It is a strange time on the water. As the air cools, the blanket of stars overhead slowly disappears, popping away one by one, and though the sun is not yet visible, a suspicious grey light every so slowly builds in the east. This stage of the day lasts for an hour and I’m always glad when it is replaced by full dawn when the morning sun appears on the horizon. Today, the heat of the sun quickly burns off the fog as the wind steadily gains momentum and the waves build. Soon, the water is rough and as usual, the wind is directly on our nose rendering our sails useless in our anticipated ten hour sail to Toronto.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The boat takes a beating as we motor into the meter high waves, some much larger, some smaller. The longer wave periods typical of Lake Ontario are much shorter today and the bow of the boat rises then crashes down, jarring everything and anybody inside. As the route to Toronto is a straight line there is not much navigation or steering to be done so we simply watch for boats or hazards on the water.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">For the last few hours of the trip we are trailed by the Amy Lynn – a large tug boat towing an enormous barge. We motor at the same speed, sailing in parallel, both pointed for the mouth of Toronto Harbour, which we finally reach around 2pm. As usual the harbour is full of activity – dozens of Sunfish sailing boats piloted by 8-year-olds from the sailing camps, freighters, a three masted tall ship, Tiki taxis, Pirate taxis, party boats, paddleboarders, kayakers, sailboats, all participating in a seemingly orchestrated ballet of motion, but in reality, it’s every ship for herself.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We reach the Island Yacht Club and a young dockhand is there to grab our lines. We have never been to this club before, but we have tied up in past years at Hanlon’s Point which is directly across the channel. After sucking a large quantity of weeds into the intake, the boat’s air conditioner bombs out and I have to take apart the hose connections and remove the foliage. It is a very hot day so once settled we make our way over to the pool, along the way seeing a family of resident peacocks which seem completely at home wandering the grounds.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The pool is cool and refreshing and we take up residence on two of the incredibly comfortable padded pool chairs which populate the expansive deck. I immediately fall asleep and have a glorious afternoon nap in the shade of a willow tree while Ana reads and relaxes.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Lydia and Daryl arrive a few hours after us and they’ve had a rough and tumble trip as the lake conditions have only worsened since we arrived and the inside of their boat looks as if it’s been shaken like a margarita so Lydia gets to work unscrambling the mess while Daryl joins Ana and I on a walk to explore the island. After finding a beaten up basketball court and throwing a few baskets we find a little used grassy trail and follow it. Despite being only a kilometer or two from the largest city in Canada, it feels wild here. It is quiet, the trees canopy is thick with branches and leaves and the smell of the forest, the grass is long, and spiderwebs are sewn everywhere. We walk the perimeter of the small island, ending up in the boat storage yard near our dock then vigorously check for ticks. If there are tick on this island, one of us would have picked one up, and so far we all come up clean, but a closer examination will be required in the solitude of a shower stall.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1jMSKgkq8fxv28oMz_zYYo5RnncKP3W5UPKoLMO_7qaMauPwcxtlyKjJeyElv5pWodtVTdyhS_ojfcuFBz0rS3tM9ncn_0rTiX5VWQesDJjlL8yyREAn3Zn-bqzjnWqXJjFg5xxvI4--fUj5DV3ujM5HIb_VBgeXbA-wsaKJNsaymklwCtB5xDTWkzos/s4032/IMG_9272.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1jMSKgkq8fxv28oMz_zYYo5RnncKP3W5UPKoLMO_7qaMauPwcxtlyKjJeyElv5pWodtVTdyhS_ojfcuFBz0rS3tM9ncn_0rTiX5VWQesDJjlL8yyREAn3Zn-bqzjnWqXJjFg5xxvI4--fUj5DV3ujM5HIb_VBgeXbA-wsaKJNsaymklwCtB5xDTWkzos/s320/IMG_9272.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />We gather on SeaLight for a dinner of vegetarian curry and shrimp pasta. They tell us more of their trip here from Cobourg.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“On the way into the channel,” Lydia says, “we saw this beaten up old pirate boat with these long flaccid penis-like rubber things hanging off the side spraying streams of water everywhere. Daryl said, ‘That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.’ As we got closer we saw that it was full of Down Syndrome kids and they were all smiling and waving at us. Daryl then said, “Well, I guess it’s kind of cool.’”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIaGPEvAq2-h-dCWwnl90FgzJftJGRv9WQDhleypZdcNXpvjcvJcgJG9R5OGkvCZ5LTFfHkaAvPjordPWnAR2S2acr4y4CnoihlsJg27u9IKB0NMAU9BukYamUrJEx4QdMIrJZR3U-LPpbb7KV8W246nTQ2gZ4WBKGtEriOa2Wc0jxQRNX3QHkCSq9Rrw/s4032/IMG_9290.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIaGPEvAq2-h-dCWwnl90FgzJftJGRv9WQDhleypZdcNXpvjcvJcgJG9R5OGkvCZ5LTFfHkaAvPjordPWnAR2S2acr4y4CnoihlsJg27u9IKB0NMAU9BukYamUrJEx4QdMIrJZR3U-LPpbb7KV8W246nTQ2gZ4WBKGtEriOa2Wc0jxQRNX3QHkCSq9Rrw/s320/IMG_9290.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />It wasn’t long before one of said pirate ships passes our marina and yes, the rubber things hanging over the side do look ridiculous and hardly capable of striking pirate fear into the hearts of onlookers.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We enjoy the rest of the evening, happy that we’d made so much progress up the lake the past couple of days and are now within striking distance of our home marina with four days to spend in and around the incredible city of Toronto.</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-23090151848170590722023-07-29T18:18:00.004-04:002023-08-01T07:34:38.467-04:00July 25, 2023 – Bare Bum, Lake Coagulate, and a Lovely Cheesecake<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHdKfCJiGdnbeFucVIqAR2-tuVOJsWwlY-J8-0f05XBWl1OGxGcocXaZsg4hCShLeqv2BE7ohM270NQrIPdiOYNq_cc0ykSFML3ENS6Gp-B3I9Fn_gCN9tzdiLnxpAKsssD9BWMCNdJi7hx_LMKKCX_AswgwpZyMbniXIx6eAq-A7VQAnQRUFYw_Uhv44/s4032/IMG_5141.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHdKfCJiGdnbeFucVIqAR2-tuVOJsWwlY-J8-0f05XBWl1OGxGcocXaZsg4hCShLeqv2BE7ohM270NQrIPdiOYNq_cc0ykSFML3ENS6Gp-B3I9Fn_gCN9tzdiLnxpAKsssD9BWMCNdJi7hx_LMKKCX_AswgwpZyMbniXIx6eAq-A7VQAnQRUFYw_Uhv44/s320/IMG_5141.JPG" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />We have a lot of miles to cover to make it back to our side of the lake so our plan was to leave at 3am for Cobourg. I wake up on time then climb the stairs to the cockpit and find total overcast blackness in the skinny harbour as well as cockpit windows that are heavy with dew and impossible to clear. I’m not comfortable leaving in these conditions so I go back to bed then wake up every 30 minutes and repeat the procedure until 5:30 when there is enough light to make it out safely. There is no wind and the lake is glass. Ana naps in the cockpit while the autopilot takes care of most of the steering and I keep watch.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The ride through the channels of the Bay of Quinte is enjoyable but there are a few shallow areas to navigate through as well as two fixed bridges that we easily fit under, but every time we do that it looks from the cockpit like we are about to be dismasted so my heart always pounds no matter how high he charts say the bridge clearance should be. Our trip is interrupted only by a balmy clothing optional lake swim and morning bath in one of the warm bays near Trenton with the water temperature topping out at over 28 degrees.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We reach the Murray Canal which is the final stretch before entering into Presqui’le Bay and Lake Ontario. The canal is quite narrow, but has plenty of depth and you need to pass by two swing bridges. On the second one there is a staffer who holds out this basket on a ridiculously long pole and you are supposed to deposit $5.25 in Canadian funds. We didn’t have any cash so instead Ana drops in a can of sardines in oil, a bag of microwave popcorn, two granola bars, a handful of Smarties, a peach, and some semi-fresh basil, which totals out to just over $5.25 so I think the girl collecting it is pretty happy.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVrXwIBdTSnARFjxcXnQUhG7qYQVHLOLgSQzSPybZg_hW8ygqbfX46iaW14KowVMsgoAc__tuXjIoIzSO0zYrQWh_cL1djNoE6xh9fxJdLEkad9oQFg6VqNnurJlvg48dm3mpbMxm1xG1R30wnWEr8cl_gNTJ8L3ik2t79cnq3POHEKMDBHFTG29W5I6U/s4032/IMG_5130.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVrXwIBdTSnARFjxcXnQUhG7qYQVHLOLgSQzSPybZg_hW8ygqbfX46iaW14KowVMsgoAc__tuXjIoIzSO0zYrQWh_cL1djNoE6xh9fxJdLEkad9oQFg6VqNnurJlvg48dm3mpbMxm1xG1R30wnWEr8cl_gNTJ8L3ik2t79cnq3POHEKMDBHFTG29W5I6U/s320/IMG_5130.JPG" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />Once we clear the canal we are into Presqui’le Bay and I immediately remember the last time we came through here and why I disliked it so much. The bay is shallow, weedy, windy, rough, and the channel to get out is very narrow. I like it even less this time with a keel that is two feet deeper than that on our last boat Bella Blue which we sailed through here years ago.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We get out on the open lake and straight-line it for Cobourg. Of course, the goddamn wind is at 30 degrees so difficult to sail without tacking, which means zigging back and forth and adding unneeded time to the already very long trip. So we power on through and make it to Colbourg by around 5pm. Along the way Daryl and Lydia pass us, but in typical power boater style they got nice and close to maximize the wake thrown at us so I pull down my pants and show them my arse and I know they had a good look because Lydia took a photo, which I hope they enlarge and frame for display on their living room wall. Daryl was enraged with the backside insult so he cut right in front of us and threw a lovely wake we had to chop through.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">In Cobourg we get gassed up then while getting pumped out by the nice lady dock attendant, Lydia and Daryl come walking by and Lydia says, “Kris, you look different with your pants on!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXf4EdoZ4qRYlBg-BdDZJjXyQYlj919NAyVwKbKKlI-U8nfvlKxIRPiw_dp9CKrBWOiaVkhzdESq6reqnV9fA_d4P1vj58W-jSUhEhbHBSLk6siU9hRqoV5NzHBYEyxZ71NQppYhtTuUNXn2WMVTC_hSeyjMhPWcouU7l4UIcLSJde_nXnp-gYzA8Gy0/s4032/IMG_5144.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXf4EdoZ4qRYlBg-BdDZJjXyQYlj919NAyVwKbKKlI-U8nfvlKxIRPiw_dp9CKrBWOiaVkhzdESq6reqnV9fA_d4P1vj58W-jSUhEhbHBSLk6siU9hRqoV5NzHBYEyxZ71NQppYhtTuUNXn2WMVTC_hSeyjMhPWcouU7l4UIcLSJde_nXnp-gYzA8Gy0/s320/IMG_5144.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Now look, I’ve been known to have some pretty snappy comebacks for the frequent insults I receive, but today I have nothing. Totally draw a blank. I could have said, “That’s what all the girls say” or “I enjoyed last night too” but instead I just smile weakly at the gas girl and say, “I don’t even know them. My name’s not even Kris.” But then Ana goes over and starts talking to them so my cover is blown.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Since we want to leave very early again tomorrow we choose to anchor out in their perfectly protected harbour. After getting the hook down we actually jump in for a swim to cool off from the heat as it is far away from the docks and the water looks pretty good. The swim is refreshing beyond belief.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRmfMcrvX4NemnJlTsyQojPp2K2ngJ2nZ-EkyheaGl4lzTh61CNVKPF3EzJZjxREpArpzhKQeRfBR3VMhZIx6cCj_I-w0wN-lxFuC1oQOZB_cslAwGNR29xJL9-PEa6etOVswKiKtNq-dLF8h9gQdoygCWv8PnOMtwN9vOAfqZ7h985ROrfnwcmDLmlMg/s3088/IMG_5138.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRmfMcrvX4NemnJlTsyQojPp2K2ngJ2nZ-EkyheaGl4lzTh61CNVKPF3EzJZjxREpArpzhKQeRfBR3VMhZIx6cCj_I-w0wN-lxFuC1oQOZB_cslAwGNR29xJL9-PEa6etOVswKiKtNq-dLF8h9gQdoygCWv8PnOMtwN9vOAfqZ7h985ROrfnwcmDLmlMg/s320/IMG_5138.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />After our swim Ana and I sit on the swim platform with a drink to watch the world go by. But what we actually do see going by in the water are these brown globs of what I imagine to be a toxic coagulation of goose poo, gasoline, fish slime, and rotting algae. I imagine Ana getting one of those stuck in her hair and do a silent prayer to Neptune for his graceful timing.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1DPAzqsqhjwz_dTl6asLgUzhwQLVVh_K3_XwRI3yyoY57S6jQM4M-19MP5NG4iIUfx-jJnKorY3YxZkSbbolV9sRi03PYFJ2Zo-8sXWsVec3Etab-ocq2WwQnRfoxL-7sovhYXAkIDZJq0D1rzSCmegT4pE3jVPfUb8RiNpsKDNWNQWzB_aPb5bUThUs/s4032/IMG_9262.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1DPAzqsqhjwz_dTl6asLgUzhwQLVVh_K3_XwRI3yyoY57S6jQM4M-19MP5NG4iIUfx-jJnKorY3YxZkSbbolV9sRi03PYFJ2Zo-8sXWsVec3Etab-ocq2WwQnRfoxL-7sovhYXAkIDZJq0D1rzSCmegT4pE3jVPfUb8RiNpsKDNWNQWzB_aPb5bUThUs/s320/IMG_9262.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />Lydia and Daryl come by in their dinghy and we have a lovely cockpit dinner of burgers, salad, and this unbelievable blueberry cheesecake they found in a bakery here earlier this afternoon. At dusk the lighting is just magical and I once again feel so very fortunate to be on this amazing trip on this incredible lake. </span><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-5028604502841361812023-07-29T08:03:00.004-04:002023-07-30T07:58:19.547-04:00July 24, 2023 – Twinkle Toes, Child Meltdowns, and an Amazing Dinner<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvdmWZHRqX1iV8wuMsxV0bsYhLkrjviqh9aXGc88NaqPAAuLdgLOPVGzxJAHzekiAFTWxFP9lrxZTXn5o-NJyoSAvqJVwplrcKxjuRrLbDL-rstKtbupEQR-mHq9nt3OI40QUMPesdjhTzIcqciSlfj6rpGpT-iWuFAXmg5aDhVJY1SaWDm-cMfKHwvNU/s3088/IMG_5112.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvdmWZHRqX1iV8wuMsxV0bsYhLkrjviqh9aXGc88NaqPAAuLdgLOPVGzxJAHzekiAFTWxFP9lrxZTXn5o-NJyoSAvqJVwplrcKxjuRrLbDL-rstKtbupEQR-mHq9nt3OI40QUMPesdjhTzIcqciSlfj6rpGpT-iWuFAXmg5aDhVJY1SaWDm-cMfKHwvNU/s320/IMG_5112.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />By 6am we are back on the water and headed for Picton. There is barely a breath of wind which is fine as I’ve pretty much given up on my sails at this point of the trip with all the bad wind luck. The ride to Picton is easy and trouble-free. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Picton is located in the Bay of Quinte region which is a long inland stretch of channels, bays, and waterways stretching from near Kingston and west to Presqu’ile Bay. After a 7 hour sail we dock at the Picton Bay Inn which is at the southern end of the long narrow harbour leading to the town. Lydia and Daryl arrive just minutes after us so once we are all tied up and plugged in, we head into to town to see what we can find.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Daryl and I settle on beers at the 555 Brewing Company while the ladies plunder the many shops, and there are a lot of shops here, which is why Ana loves this town. We take our time and enjoy a couple of crafties and await further instructions. Instructions do come in the form of a text message from Lydia to Daryl advising him to go directly to a shoe store to pick up a pair of Sperry boat shoes. Now Daryl already bought a pair of Sperry shoes back in Clayton but in a moment of moral righteousness he chose vegan shoes. I didn’t even know what that was, thinking the word vegan was reserved for overpriced and strangely textured foodstuffs. But no, I was told this footwear is made by ethically pure and enlightened forest hippies living in Bhutanian cave communes. There are two sources of materials for these shoes. The first is ethical leather. This is where local witch surgeons graft skin from the backsides of pygmy possums then stitch it together with strings of prickle grass marinated in human saliva. This is vegan because the scalped asses of the possums eventually scab over but remain furless and the creatures are said to enjoy the carefree abandon of bare bums. The other way they make the materials is with PVC (polyvinyl chloride, a synthetic plastic polymer) harvested by Dow Chemical Company from the decomposed organs of long dead dinosaurs, but they don’t count as real animals because nobody’s ever seen one in real life. The other important aspect of producing vegan footwear is to ensure there is no testing done on animals. Traditional shoe makers employ homeless orphans in third world countries in shoe testing. They have the kids put on the shoes then test the durability by kicking local street dogs. With this they can measure how long it takes to break in the shoes, but also after mauling attacks they can analyze the bite patterns in the leather and ensure sufficient material thickness. The hippies aren’t allowed to do this to animals so instead they just kick each other.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWbb9-0xypCAFsub2x3G3f7HLAZfOCAkSEOBiF49WHyW79S_d3j-yHUfbVl9ouEikfcr4lNGiQo76yceoipx-8BIVpF06fH6fVQSU1pcWLb1LkBT5Tu7iRBvtn15mvp6ZFYLVrJ8jaoTcsjalmFhRcRs5RTs_ZkPzN-glZWaF7DlylUJCEv3-NbOTfqaA/s4032/IMG_5111.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWbb9-0xypCAFsub2x3G3f7HLAZfOCAkSEOBiF49WHyW79S_d3j-yHUfbVl9ouEikfcr4lNGiQo76yceoipx-8BIVpF06fH6fVQSU1pcWLb1LkBT5Tu7iRBvtn15mvp6ZFYLVrJ8jaoTcsjalmFhRcRs5RTs_ZkPzN-glZWaF7DlylUJCEv3-NbOTfqaA/s320/IMG_5111.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />Anyway, Daryl’s vegan shoes didn’t work out. In fact, they were total garbage. They left his feet blistered and bruised and cut so he had to go back to wearing dock slippers for a while. We find the shoe store and within five minutes he is sporting a brand new leathery pair of Sperrys and man is he happy. He tap dances right out of that place, then jives down the street and bee bops right into the Naval Marine Archives where we browse the dusty books, ship replicas, maps, charts, and uniformed mannequins and he keeps right on dancing until we finish up then waltz over to the Giant Tiger and find the ladies. Lydia can see immediately how happy he is with those new shoes by the spins, hip dips, flosses, moonwalks, two-steps, body rolls, electric slides, macarenas, and robots. Ana looks at me standing here in my flip flops and asks if I’d like to get a pair of Sperrys.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“No thanks.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We grab a few critical supplies from the shelves (black licorice for me, Jiffy Pop for Ana) and are really entertained by this kid having a DEFCON level 1 meltdown. The kid is screaming and coughing and yelling and crying, then at one point drops spread eagle and pounds his fists and feet on the floor. The parents pretend like nothing’s happening despite their child being under the possession of a very powerful demon.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I say to Lydia, “You know, if they piped that sound through fertility clinics I bet a lot of those people sitting there waiting would just get up and leave.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“Adoption agencies too,” she says.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9MeWBV08fhN-eK5pSkVHG3ufxAhzI6RSh8-gDZCEyx_wAGMpDnWWfjrhYEbgsF22Q9UqmJ-X76AVe9U5zaMac-UVrTcnjHR6bJ0MiiN4vnGnFxT718IdRx_YCuazSoZeRnkqkIvbBGi9IP0-WEE6ys9XHnqr6LUJfj1bkHx_XwuKCEFEFpvYY4R4hzOo/s4032/IMG_5114.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9MeWBV08fhN-eK5pSkVHG3ufxAhzI6RSh8-gDZCEyx_wAGMpDnWWfjrhYEbgsF22Q9UqmJ-X76AVe9U5zaMac-UVrTcnjHR6bJ0MiiN4vnGnFxT718IdRx_YCuazSoZeRnkqkIvbBGi9IP0-WEE6ys9XHnqr6LUJfj1bkHx_XwuKCEFEFpvYY4R4hzOo/s320/IMG_5114.JPG" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />By now we’re all getting hungry so we return to the boats and craft an amazing meal of grilled pork tenderloins, honey pepper squash, zucchini, goat cheese salad, green beans and potatoes and dine like the rich and famous on the picnic tables beside the dock. Lydia makes Daryl take off the shoes so he’s not trying to dance through dinner but promises to give them back to him tomorrow.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">And thus ends a fine day in Picton.</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-86807569448469263742023-07-28T19:59:00.002-04:002023-07-28T20:05:23.670-04:00July 23, 2023 – Let’s Get Smokin’<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcNasU1G7P31KFlj8-7oxq4E62ThXLvnBGui-6HIXaOe-tMnC5FXDBtbpjomKmHRHzel2-1-UIGa8W-tPnAJkP3Jx3Cup-eoqzOEfISrBLuqGi7vQNu_abrZ0bmQ6mhuUu4jF22IT0Y5H-mbMOb1-wIx5gkFK7jnvNTNfoZXYE-H8iUmIWnu1OBco1ocs/s4032/IMG_5096.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcNasU1G7P31KFlj8-7oxq4E62ThXLvnBGui-6HIXaOe-tMnC5FXDBtbpjomKmHRHzel2-1-UIGa8W-tPnAJkP3Jx3Cup-eoqzOEfISrBLuqGi7vQNu_abrZ0bmQ6mhuUu4jF22IT0Y5H-mbMOb1-wIx5gkFK7jnvNTNfoZXYE-H8iUmIWnu1OBco1ocs/s320/IMG_5096.JPG" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />I wake up feeling better than expected. I am usually struck with a paralyzing headache after evening adventures at Holmes Castle. Somehow before collapsing into my alcohol-fueled hot coma last night I remembered to drink a litre of water and molar grind two ibuprofens. And I flossed my teeth too.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I walk up to the house and find William already there deep in conversation with Andrew, which is quite an accomplishment as Andrew’s not known for his patience with children who are not named Magnus or Stella. Andrew and I move out to the deck with hot coffees and have a lengthy morning chat while the rest of the gang scattered amongst house and boat sleeping quarters slowly, every so slowly, start to get mobile. At some point Daryl and Lydia take off for the Confederation Marina in Kingston and Bob comes back to collect his helicopter. Everybody is noticeably less animated than last night...</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">By 11am or so we are all assembled in the kitchen and start formulating a plan for the day. But we take so long coming up with the most efficient plan that we run out of time to do any of it and instead Marty volunteers to take Magnus and Stella for a quick tour around Queens University, then drop them off at the train station before driving back to Chelsea with Mom and the boys.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">As we are all out in front of the house saying our goodbyes, Andrew and Victoria’s dog Emma, who is a golden retriever and expert swiper, grabs my mom’s sweater from the top of a bag, runs around with it in her mouth for a while then drops it in the grass and starts rolling on it, with her eyes gleefully rolled back in her head and her legs pawing the sky as she twists back and forth like a caught fish. We’re all laughing so hard nobody thinks to rescue the sweater until Mom yanks it out from under the dog and shakes it out.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The rest of the day is gloriously relaxing. There are short visits from Adrian and Sara, the new neighbours Mike and Deborah, and we stop by Don and Jan’s to help them launch their boat. By dinnertime it’s back to the four of us and Vic has been smoking racks of the ribs all day so we add in a few steaks and have an amazing meal together before firing up a really bad horror movie which puts me to sleep.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We’re so happy that Andrew and Victoria have such a cool group of friends here in Kingston and we always have so much fun with them all during these visits. It’s a great tribe and they’re a unique and crazy bunch.</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8019544857590004380.post-69908481191142042242023-07-27T08:45:00.005-04:002023-08-01T07:34:13.684-04:00July 22, 2023 – Get To The Choppah!<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI1em4AfKD8iuQdk8sRTujUsmL8pGELsYVN0xxXFjO-nEp-nG7NCfrNcdlT0riJ6YjJWSFG_fBUQizHivg3AR8o6z4wFyBYuPsh1YrFo_gcQN6XjRwHIKp0rXVp8QBTojx1NvAEnXrf4WChT-5x282Kwz6Llv2AXvzHqTN2LN0zTVLTiWo6VvKf0XPICA/s4032/IMG_5158.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI1em4AfKD8iuQdk8sRTujUsmL8pGELsYVN0xxXFjO-nEp-nG7NCfrNcdlT0riJ6YjJWSFG_fBUQizHivg3AR8o6z4wFyBYuPsh1YrFo_gcQN6XjRwHIKp0rXVp8QBTojx1NvAEnXrf4WChT-5x282Kwz6Llv2AXvzHqTN2LN0zTVLTiWo6VvKf0XPICA/s320/IMG_5158.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />My favourite time of the day has always been the morning. And my favourite kind of morning is being at Andrew’s place. I am always the first person up on the boat, and no matter what time I get up, I will walk up to the house and Andrew will be there making coffee. We will sit down on the comfy chairs on his deck overlooking the water and talk and laugh. We never run out of things to talk about. And that is exactly what we do this morning.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">After breakfast on the boat we head townward in two vehicles on two missions – Andrew and I to get boat stuff and everybody else to explore downtown Kingson. Between Marine Outfitters and two Canadian Tire stores we find everything we need, except for a Ninja CREAMi Ice Cream, Sorbet, and Milkshake maker which Victoria asked him to pick up. Well, I learn that Ninja makes about a hundred different models of blenders, most of which seem to me to be indistinguishable, but what do I know? I just use a fork to mix stuff up.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We make it back to the house sometime around 2 and get settled on the top level of the dock house with drinks and snacks. It is a perfect day – sunny, warm, and just a touch of wind. Daryl and Lydia were on their way to Kingston and Andrew offered for them to stop by and see the property. By 3 they are tied up at the dock and join us on the deck. Other people start arriving too. My brother Marty and my two nephews Leif and William, then a bunch of Andrew and Victoria’s friends - Adrian and Sara, Terri and Bob, and Don and Jan. Soon the top deck is full and everybody is goofing around royally.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I asked Adrian, who is a boat broker, to come down and have a look at our keel bolts. He checks it out and doesn’t think the damage is too bad at all but does think it’s worthwhile to put in a claim and get it fully inspected and repaired if necessary. This is a relief.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">People spread out. William and I go for a little snorkeling adventure in the waters surrounding the dock. Some jump on Sea Light for drinks. Andrew gets out the Sea Doo rocket death machines and takes people for high speed rides. The kids bounce back and forth between the house, dock, and yard. At one point Leif loses his ring in the grass and when I hear about this I race to the deck and scream, “Daryl! Ana! We have a metal detector emergency!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhflDAfWY6YEaixBT_CLToZxrIh2TdIizK-T4JV-MaGJ0rknRsG12P_LQGRvKER1sqR4vQF5XRiSwdt4sg7-aPY4tL_wL5FOixZrnIG4mEffrZMCjg3VOKtlHPiT-gYTQX2DyWoLQVuGiqDUxQIdHlIeniVvbK0L7OyUwaLNOAETRyVticCgZzYt2enKzg/s4032/FullSizeRender.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhflDAfWY6YEaixBT_CLToZxrIh2TdIizK-T4JV-MaGJ0rknRsG12P_LQGRvKER1sqR4vQF5XRiSwdt4sg7-aPY4tL_wL5FOixZrnIG4mEffrZMCjg3VOKtlHPiT-gYTQX2DyWoLQVuGiqDUxQIdHlIeniVvbK0L7OyUwaLNOAETRyVticCgZzYt2enKzg/s320/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />Ana’s eyes light up and Daryl races to his boat and gets the metal detector. This is the moment she’s been waiting for, fine tuning her skills back on the Rochester beach, all leading up to this. A test. A mission. Her destiny. Well, after 45 minutes of scanning, digging, combing, recalibrating, and witness interrogation they come up with a beer can tab, a washer, an electrical box knockout, but no ring. Leif is scared for his safety as his girlfriend gave him the ring, but after more intense questioning he’s not 100% that he dropped the ring, or that he had a ring in the first place, or if he does indeed have a girlfriend. Crazy kids.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Back on the deck we are debating the magical properties of the case of Yuengling Daryl bought back in Wilson.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“Is the case still full?” I ask.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“No man, there’s only a few tins left. What the hell? I thought you said it was a magic case?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“I said mine was a magic case and hopefully yours would be. But to be honest, I started having doubts after that case broke open and fell apart in the mud puddle in Wilson. That didn’t seem like magic.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“You know, I do seem to have a never ending supply of whiskey on the boat. You could say I have whiskey coming out the Yuengling.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Uproarious laughter ensues. I keep the liquor puns going.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well Marty, let’s get Kraken!” I say and we head back to SeaLight for Kraken and cokes.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDNNbZ8Q9Sm1YpuhkmD6lVg93PNvsUaFYiKLplUFYWVWY0S4jyDYhUBLCg98k4cOn42wd6f4isePsK7brUpnJiuNJbkN5qCPLqJooBr8cYrT1Unl8hmjoVDKZunx2Q4y163vpDCxuMiyizUlJu_trFJTXd6mQkz4W8VOeOiGm-j397JkaH0sexvdBGK04/s1024/IMG_0734.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDNNbZ8Q9Sm1YpuhkmD6lVg93PNvsUaFYiKLplUFYWVWY0S4jyDYhUBLCg98k4cOn42wd6f4isePsK7brUpnJiuNJbkN5qCPLqJooBr8cYrT1Unl8hmjoVDKZunx2Q4y163vpDCxuMiyizUlJu_trFJTXd6mQkz4W8VOeOiGm-j397JkaH0sexvdBGK04/s320/IMG_0734.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />This party is really humming now. Back on the dock we formulate a plan that involves the use of Bob’s helicopter and a couple of Don’s classic Corvettes. These are Andrew’s neighbours and they are mostly crazy and hopefully drunk enough to sacrifice their vehicles.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">This plan is this: we need six to eight of the party goers to get their cameras rolling from all different angles of the property. I am going to climb on top of the roof of the dock house, run across the span of it and jump off. Bob will be hovering in his helicopter just close enough so I can latch onto the landing gear. Running behind me will be Marty, who will also jump, but as the helicopter is starting to leave he only manages to reach my legs so there will be two of us hanging off the chopper. As Bob starts to spin it to try and shake us off I will pull Marty up with one hand and swing him into the cockpit where he will punch Bob in the face then fling him out into the water then take over the controls. As all of this is happening, Magnus and William will come speeding down the yard in a red Corvette, spinning grass and dirt everywhere, and in hot pursuit will be Leif and Stella in the yellow Corvette, which will be on fire. Magnus and William will hit the shoreline retaining wall at full speed and launch the car into the air, probably doing a high five or saying something clever as they are at maximum altitude, then they will land right onto the dock and come to a screeching halt just before it reaches the end. Stella and Leif in pursuit will also launch off the retaining wall but they will both jump out of the sunroof and latch onto the helicopter landing gear with me as the flaming car explodes in mid-air then crashes into the lake and sinks. Then we’ll all climb into the helicopter cockpit and fly off into the distance.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The whole plan falls apart when I’m unable to climb onto the dock house roof. I even have Marty boosting me but there’s nothing to grab and anyways I’m already tired. Bob, however, does get the chopper and lands it on Andrew’s lawn. Then he offers to take me for a ride so I jump in and get a glorious tour of Howe Island from the sky. And yes, as I was climbing into the cockpit somebody did say, “Get to the choppah!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR_Hfz-h1onE1CObUS4D9ctyXINJR5A3Dcp4HBxa9jDVFjhtUczlewvfznQOrzlS4KxqGP2P-ZBFR3noE52j9P8wQ4gkGobmOWDHZo9ePGK7Lr2FvjCK71mpkgIcT61WMh12Md9T_P8G0oXRlNZl13CAlCu8snyqjNv_jWizpkeHYGHwiSAAN7UcnJSJw/s800/IMG_0741.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR_Hfz-h1onE1CObUS4D9ctyXINJR5A3Dcp4HBxa9jDVFjhtUczlewvfznQOrzlS4KxqGP2P-ZBFR3noE52j9P8wQ4gkGobmOWDHZo9ePGK7Lr2FvjCK71mpkgIcT61WMh12Md9T_P8G0oXRlNZl13CAlCu8snyqjNv_jWizpkeHYGHwiSAAN7UcnJSJw/s320/IMG_0741.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />The shenanigans continue until late into the night. Bob and Daryl have struck up an intense bromance and as they are standing on the swim platform of SeaLight, having a smoke and a vape, the few of us remaining in the cockpit are watching as they slowly inch closer to each other then we see their pinkies touch and curl. It is a magic moment. Daryl then offers to give Bob a dinghy ride back to his place and they take off. We hear the dinghy engine stop. Then a long silence.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“Do you think they’re okay?” Lydia asks.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh yeah, they’ll be fine. Daryl’s one eye was still partially open and Bob only had 27 beers, and Coors Light at that,” I reply.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“They seem to be getting along very well,” Lydia says as she tops up her wine. “Can you see them over there?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I step off the boat onto the dock and look over to Bob’s place.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well, I can see two men making passionate love on Bob’s dock, but I’m pretty sure it’s not them.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“Ok, that’s good. Another beer?”</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://twitter.com/share" class="twitter-share-button" data-count="vertical" data-via="kristoforolson">Tweet</a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>Kristofor Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00206619109570555919noreply@blogger.com0