A mantra for wine lovers!
unfinished business leads to april in paris
In Paris's wonderful Musee d'Orsay.
When I was 18, I travelled to Europe with two high school friends. It was 1972 and we had each worked part-time jobs for more than a year to save for the trip, which we decided was more important than to head straight into university after our graduation.
To make a long story shorter, we left in September, then travelled throughout the United Kingdom before boarding a hovercraft from Dover to Calais, France. Because by then it was October, we decided to head northward before the weather turned too cool. Oslo was as far north as we got and then we made our way southward. Eventually, I tired of the endless negotiations involved when three people travel together. It was in Florence that I said goodbye, hopped on a train and made my way to London, then flew home.
Later, among my regrets for having left at that point and time was that I didn’t get to Rome, Paris or anywhere in Spain. It took me more than 30 years to get to Rome, a city I have since come to rate among my favourite of all places.
Last November, Angela and I had only just began talking about another European trip. That discussion got more serious when we walked out of the Tivoli Theatre, having watched a Friends of the Cinema presentation, Midnight in Paris, the charming Woody Allen film.
“I want to go to Paris,” I said. Then added, jokingly, “Paris in the 1920s.”
Well, the latter wasn’t possible, but the former was, and we began to narrow down our preferred destinations. Paris isn’t all that far from Spain and, over the last couple of decades I’ve become an admirer of the great architect Antoni Gaudi, so Barcelona became part of our focus. It didn’t hurt that the city also has a lot of history in common with two of my favourite artists, Salvador Dali and Pablo Picasso.
We added a week at the start of the trip so that we could visit friends in Bristol and then spend a few days in London, in part because we both like the city and have spent time there — but not since 1976 — and more so because we could see an opera in the famed Covent Garden opera house.
By sheer coincidence, I booked seats at Paris’s Bastille Opera for the night after we would see Rigoletto at the Royal London Opera. We enjoyed the very fast 135-minute train ride to Paris, took a cab to meet the owner of an apartment we had rented in Montmartre, familiarized ourselves with the area and soon were on our way to the opera — Bastille, the more modern of Paris’s two main opera houses is wonderful, by the way, as was the production of Don Giovanni.
Over the course of the following week, we walked our proverbial butts off, taking in many of the expected sites. Musée d’Orsay, with its fabulous collection of impressionist artwork, was my clear favourite over the Louvre, which is enormous and packed with tourists running from one major piece to the next. Among our most satisfying hours were spent in cathedrals. We are not normally churchgoers, but we love going into churches, and we attended an evening service in Montmartre’s Sacré-Coeur and then followed up the next day by standing for a mass in Notre Dame. I am fascinated by stained glass, architecture and history, and attending a service in a church provides welcome time and context for all.
When we travel, we rarely take cabs, preferring to walk and use public transit. On this trip our only cab rides were to meet our apartment owners in Paris and Barcelona. I fell in love with the Paris Metro, the underground train system that sets a high standard for cleanliness and efficiency. Five minutes was a long wait for a train on the several routes we took.
But walking is really what city travel is all about. Most European cities, while they may be large, are concentrated in the centre, where most of the historical attractions can be found. And the real joy is to become familiar enough with one’s environs to put the map in the back pocket and just wander without fear of getting hopelessly lost. We were able to do just that in Montmartre and in the Born area of Barcelona, walking and window-shopping and looking up at spires and domes and people-watching, too, which is one of our favourite pastimes.
In Barcelona, my fascination for Gaudi has only been further fueled by visits to at least seven of the buildings he designed. Most notable is La Sagrada Familia, the almost indescribable cathedral that has been under construction for a century. It is surely among the most spectacular and admirable of all construction projects during its time. It really is one of those places that must be seen to be believed.
The chance to take in the sights, sounds and smells of these two amazing and very different cities, to sit in sidewalk cafes and observe the culture, has been a treat. And it really does, for me, feel like the completion of something I should have done 40 years ago. It is, thankfully, never too late.
April 2012 - This is the Life, Creston Valley Advance
To make a long story shorter, we left in September, then travelled throughout the United Kingdom before boarding a hovercraft from Dover to Calais, France. Because by then it was October, we decided to head northward before the weather turned too cool. Oslo was as far north as we got and then we made our way southward. Eventually, I tired of the endless negotiations involved when three people travel together. It was in Florence that I said goodbye, hopped on a train and made my way to London, then flew home.
Later, among my regrets for having left at that point and time was that I didn’t get to Rome, Paris or anywhere in Spain. It took me more than 30 years to get to Rome, a city I have since come to rate among my favourite of all places.
Last November, Angela and I had only just began talking about another European trip. That discussion got more serious when we walked out of the Tivoli Theatre, having watched a Friends of the Cinema presentation, Midnight in Paris, the charming Woody Allen film.
“I want to go to Paris,” I said. Then added, jokingly, “Paris in the 1920s.”
Well, the latter wasn’t possible, but the former was, and we began to narrow down our preferred destinations. Paris isn’t all that far from Spain and, over the last couple of decades I’ve become an admirer of the great architect Antoni Gaudi, so Barcelona became part of our focus. It didn’t hurt that the city also has a lot of history in common with two of my favourite artists, Salvador Dali and Pablo Picasso.
We added a week at the start of the trip so that we could visit friends in Bristol and then spend a few days in London, in part because we both like the city and have spent time there — but not since 1976 — and more so because we could see an opera in the famed Covent Garden opera house.
By sheer coincidence, I booked seats at Paris’s Bastille Opera for the night after we would see Rigoletto at the Royal London Opera. We enjoyed the very fast 135-minute train ride to Paris, took a cab to meet the owner of an apartment we had rented in Montmartre, familiarized ourselves with the area and soon were on our way to the opera — Bastille, the more modern of Paris’s two main opera houses is wonderful, by the way, as was the production of Don Giovanni.
Over the course of the following week, we walked our proverbial butts off, taking in many of the expected sites. Musée d’Orsay, with its fabulous collection of impressionist artwork, was my clear favourite over the Louvre, which is enormous and packed with tourists running from one major piece to the next. Among our most satisfying hours were spent in cathedrals. We are not normally churchgoers, but we love going into churches, and we attended an evening service in Montmartre’s Sacré-Coeur and then followed up the next day by standing for a mass in Notre Dame. I am fascinated by stained glass, architecture and history, and attending a service in a church provides welcome time and context for all.
When we travel, we rarely take cabs, preferring to walk and use public transit. On this trip our only cab rides were to meet our apartment owners in Paris and Barcelona. I fell in love with the Paris Metro, the underground train system that sets a high standard for cleanliness and efficiency. Five minutes was a long wait for a train on the several routes we took.
But walking is really what city travel is all about. Most European cities, while they may be large, are concentrated in the centre, where most of the historical attractions can be found. And the real joy is to become familiar enough with one’s environs to put the map in the back pocket and just wander without fear of getting hopelessly lost. We were able to do just that in Montmartre and in the Born area of Barcelona, walking and window-shopping and looking up at spires and domes and people-watching, too, which is one of our favourite pastimes.
In Barcelona, my fascination for Gaudi has only been further fueled by visits to at least seven of the buildings he designed. Most notable is La Sagrada Familia, the almost indescribable cathedral that has been under construction for a century. It is surely among the most spectacular and admirable of all construction projects during its time. It really is one of those places that must be seen to be believed.
The chance to take in the sights, sounds and smells of these two amazing and very different cities, to sit in sidewalk cafes and observe the culture, has been a treat. And it really does, for me, feel like the completion of something I should have done 40 years ago. It is, thankfully, never too late.
April 2012 - This is the Life, Creston Valley Advance
Relying on the kindness of strangers
Artists, and ghosts, come out at night near Sacre Coeur in Montmartre.
We haven’t been in London, except to pass through Heathrow Airport, since 1976. Angela spent quite a bit of time there in 1974-75 and I visited several times in 1972, when I was fresh out of high school and ready to see the world. Some things seemed different when we spent several days in a bed and breakfast on Great Titchfield Street, but most seemed unchanged.
I agree with Thomas Wolfe, who wrote, “You can’t go home again.” But London never was home and I was once again experiencing it as a visitor.
We were wandering in the bright sunshine, coming back from a look at the London Eye and a disappointing visit to the Tate Modern gallery (perhaps the first major art gallery I have ever disliked — building and collection included) and stopped into a pub near Trafalgar Square to rest our weary legs. I bellied up to the bar to order a pint of English stout for me and a half of lighter beer for Angela (she once preferred “medium” sherry and if the publican couldn’t accommodate the order, I would ask him to simply mix dry and sweet sherry together), and we sat in a snug, watching the activity around us.
Suddenly, I was back in a pub near St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was 1972 and, with my two travelling companions from high school, I sat savouring the first of many pints to be consumed in the weeks we travelled around England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland before venturing over to the mainland. Like most Canadian kids travelling then, we had sewn small Canadian flags onto our jackets. Better to never be mistaken for Americans, we were told by those who had gone ahead of us. Canadians were much better liked by most Europeans.
So we sat, maybe a tad nervously, sipping our beer and taking in the atmosphere. Eventually, we were drawn into a conversation by three fellows in those frumpy and frayed suits that were favoured by British working men. They were probably about 50 and they pumped us about Canadian life — Indians and the Rocky Mountains being oh-so-exotic to them. They stood us for a round or two and we thoroughly enjoyed their company and the sense that we were being initiated into genuine English pub life.
When it was time to head back to our nearby youth hostel, one, perhaps a bit into his cups, insisted on driving us. He was a chauffeur for executives of a light and electric company, and soon we were piling, grins a mile wide, into a limo. A couple of minutes later we pulled up to the door of the hostel, where our new friend insisted we wait until he could open the limo doors for us. It was a great introduction to how the friendliness of others that can make lifelong memories.
That memorable evening was a wonderful introduction to London and pub life and the travel we were about to experience. And it was hardly a one-off experience. Angela and I have been favoured by the kindness of strangers wherever we have travelled. I’ve always attributed that to our insistence that we don’t impose our own values or expectations on others. We take things as they come, smile and make an effort to respect the people we come across.
In Nova Scotia, we were among the first guests of the year to stay at an inn connected to the Glen Breton whisky distillery. When we arrived in the restaurant expecting dinner, we learned it wouldn’t open for the season for another day or two. A few minutes later we were offered dinner by the chef, who was busy organizing his kitchen. “We aren’t fussy,” we told the server (who was running the pub). Two hours later we walked out, having enjoyed one of the best meals of our lives. “The chef isn’t sure what to charge,” our server said. “Is $20 OK?” I made sure I got into the kitchen to thank him personally.
Once, in Venice, baffled by the instructions we had been given on the telephone to get to our rental apartment, we stood on a bridge, trying to make sense of a map. “Can I help you?” came the American voice of a woman. I told her that we were trying to find our apartment and then gaped in amazement when she said, “Oh, I’ve been staying there for the last week. I’ll show you.” She walked us right to our door.
Then, last week, we arrived without incident at our apartment for a week in Paris. The owner gave us a rushed explanation of the facility and he was gone. We wandered around Montmartre for a few hours to get a feel for the neighborhood, then arrived back at the building’s main door, only to find neither of our keys would fit any of the four possible locks. And a five-digit keypad code that was on our booking form didn’t produce any results either. Suddenly a young woman walked up and asked if she could help. When I told her of our predicament she asked, “Have you been in there before?” Yes, this was definitely the place, but the keys don’t fit. “Do you have the owner’s phone number?” Yes, it is in the apartment. “You need the code.” I have one but it doesn’t work. She tried punching in the numbers, to no avail. Then she stuck her head in the tiny dress shop next door and asked the proprietor, in French, if she knew the code for the keypad. Ten seconds later, the door popped open. Once again we had been rewarded by the kindness of strangers.
April 2012 – This is the Life
I agree with Thomas Wolfe, who wrote, “You can’t go home again.” But London never was home and I was once again experiencing it as a visitor.
We were wandering in the bright sunshine, coming back from a look at the London Eye and a disappointing visit to the Tate Modern gallery (perhaps the first major art gallery I have ever disliked — building and collection included) and stopped into a pub near Trafalgar Square to rest our weary legs. I bellied up to the bar to order a pint of English stout for me and a half of lighter beer for Angela (she once preferred “medium” sherry and if the publican couldn’t accommodate the order, I would ask him to simply mix dry and sweet sherry together), and we sat in a snug, watching the activity around us.
Suddenly, I was back in a pub near St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was 1972 and, with my two travelling companions from high school, I sat savouring the first of many pints to be consumed in the weeks we travelled around England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland before venturing over to the mainland. Like most Canadian kids travelling then, we had sewn small Canadian flags onto our jackets. Better to never be mistaken for Americans, we were told by those who had gone ahead of us. Canadians were much better liked by most Europeans.
So we sat, maybe a tad nervously, sipping our beer and taking in the atmosphere. Eventually, we were drawn into a conversation by three fellows in those frumpy and frayed suits that were favoured by British working men. They were probably about 50 and they pumped us about Canadian life — Indians and the Rocky Mountains being oh-so-exotic to them. They stood us for a round or two and we thoroughly enjoyed their company and the sense that we were being initiated into genuine English pub life.
When it was time to head back to our nearby youth hostel, one, perhaps a bit into his cups, insisted on driving us. He was a chauffeur for executives of a light and electric company, and soon we were piling, grins a mile wide, into a limo. A couple of minutes later we pulled up to the door of the hostel, where our new friend insisted we wait until he could open the limo doors for us. It was a great introduction to how the friendliness of others that can make lifelong memories.
That memorable evening was a wonderful introduction to London and pub life and the travel we were about to experience. And it was hardly a one-off experience. Angela and I have been favoured by the kindness of strangers wherever we have travelled. I’ve always attributed that to our insistence that we don’t impose our own values or expectations on others. We take things as they come, smile and make an effort to respect the people we come across.
In Nova Scotia, we were among the first guests of the year to stay at an inn connected to the Glen Breton whisky distillery. When we arrived in the restaurant expecting dinner, we learned it wouldn’t open for the season for another day or two. A few minutes later we were offered dinner by the chef, who was busy organizing his kitchen. “We aren’t fussy,” we told the server (who was running the pub). Two hours later we walked out, having enjoyed one of the best meals of our lives. “The chef isn’t sure what to charge,” our server said. “Is $20 OK?” I made sure I got into the kitchen to thank him personally.
Once, in Venice, baffled by the instructions we had been given on the telephone to get to our rental apartment, we stood on a bridge, trying to make sense of a map. “Can I help you?” came the American voice of a woman. I told her that we were trying to find our apartment and then gaped in amazement when she said, “Oh, I’ve been staying there for the last week. I’ll show you.” She walked us right to our door.
Then, last week, we arrived without incident at our apartment for a week in Paris. The owner gave us a rushed explanation of the facility and he was gone. We wandered around Montmartre for a few hours to get a feel for the neighborhood, then arrived back at the building’s main door, only to find neither of our keys would fit any of the four possible locks. And a five-digit keypad code that was on our booking form didn’t produce any results either. Suddenly a young woman walked up and asked if she could help. When I told her of our predicament she asked, “Have you been in there before?” Yes, this was definitely the place, but the keys don’t fit. “Do you have the owner’s phone number?” Yes, it is in the apartment. “You need the code.” I have one but it doesn’t work. She tried punching in the numbers, to no avail. Then she stuck her head in the tiny dress shop next door and asked the proprietor, in French, if she knew the code for the keypad. Ten seconds later, the door popped open. Once again we had been rewarded by the kindness of strangers.
April 2012 – This is the Life
