Tierra de Tortugas

Summer 2013 Sojourn: Zagreb

Our initial plans to visit the popular Dalmatian Coast were dashed when we saw the prices (high) and the availability (none), so we changed plans and headed inland to Zagreb, the capital of Croatia.

The train pulled out of Ljubljana station, headed east through mountainous country toward the Croatian border and deeper into the heart of the Balkans. Again, images of the Appalachian mountains lingered as we followed the Sava river through a narrow ravine with farm houses and gardens until it gradually widened and we saw tidy river towns nestled on its banks. Fishermen lined sections of the river widened by small hydropower dams providing electricity to the train line we were on, among other needs. 

There were towns with names having few vowels, and soon we crossed the Croatian border at Dobova where the guards asked for passports. Ours were stamped quickly but two passengers were escorted off the train to wait in the station until the arrival of the next train back to Ljubljana. We left them on the platform calling on their cellphones. The story we overheard from the young lady just across the aisle was she's a Peruvian living in Germany who thought she needed no passport since Croatia is now part of the EU (since July 1).

Apparently that part of the new arrangement is still in transition. So is the use of Euros, and we would need to visit an ATM very soon for a fist-full of Croatian Kunas (about KN5 = US$1) if we wanted anything to eat or drink while in the country.

Just over the border we passed a Cemex (!?!) plant. At least some Mexican companies appear to be on the global track in Europe these days. Zagreb is close to the border, and we don't see much of the countryside before we're at the station. The little we do see leaves the question of why these people with similar languages felt compelled to separate so violently in the recent war. The rugged intervening mountains separated these people in centuries past and allowed the development of different dialects, but are they really so different today? We'd have to wait and see if we'd find great cultural differences during our brief stay.

While cruising the internet in Ljubljana, Carolyn found another fine small business hotel, this one located in a very nice part of Zagreb near Lake Jarun, a well-used recreation area. The Hotel Jarun is very quiet and comfortable and puts out a good breakfast to enjoy on their outside patio. It is also only two blocks from Zagreb's excellent tramway system, so getting to the center city is easy. 

 

We spend a very pleasant first evening walking by the lake along with throngs of joggers, skaters, and families with baby carriages. Teams in rowing sculls slice the quiet water, and swans feed in the shallows. There's an innovative, if odd, water ski tow line that whisks skiers around an obstacle course with ramps. It looks like fun – for 20- or 30-somethings.

 

Eateries and drinkeries line parts of the pathway. We decide it's time for dinner and discover that everybody is drinking and nobody is eating. We keep walking, our noses searching for whiffs of food, as we discover yet another interesting society and another quaint custom. 

Finally we leave the park, following our noses, and find a good pizzeria on a quiet street. Most people are drinking, but they serve food also. We order a vegetable-covered pizza and a glass of good red Babić. It's a pleasant end to our first day in Zagreb.

Zagreb, it's a medieval sounding name for a city. It rolls off the tongue like castles, dragons, trebuchets (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=06P_RNGP8LU), dungeons, and caves.

In the morning we take the tram into the center city to experience it first hand. The old center drips with charm and history as narrow streets meander around the hill where things began. We take the funicular to the top for the view and to begin our wander back down. There are many museums in Zagreb, including the Museum of Broken Relationships. We decide not to relive that best-forgotten era in our own lives and find the Museum of Naïve Art instead. They mean art by people unschooled in art, and the selection is quite good. It's well worth a visit the next time you're in Zagreb. (One of the artists represented, Ivan Generalić: http://pinterest.com/turkovich/ivan-generalic/)

There's a museum to Nicola Tesla, since both the Croats and Serbs claim him as their own. (An irreverent ode to Tesla: http://theoatmeal.com/comics/tesla) And in a dusty passageway an old iron mural leans against the wall waiting for a place of its own.

  The old city gate is an important source of legend as it is said when it was burned in a siege, the only thing to survive unharmed was a picture of the Madonna and Child. It hangs there now in a special shrine surrounded by ancient plaques honoring its many patrons.

 

Street cafes are plentiful, and small shops, and stores selling ties, especially red and white ties commemorating the legend that ties began here in Croatia when their soldiers first wore brightly colored scarfs into battle. The symbology continues on the blood-sodden battlefields of today's corporate world.

 

It's early afternoon so we enjoy an early dinner, not wanting to forage again for food late into the evening. And then a visit to the city's nearby soaring Cathedral. We appear to be some of the few wearing modest clothing (as in shoulder-covering) on a hot day, despite signs by the doorway. The power of religion seems to be waning here, as elsewhere.

 

Then it's back down the hill for a nice long walk past more ancient buildings, by a street-side park, past a pretty fountain to another park with heavy-duty exercise equipment, and through a Botanical Garden before catching the number 17 tram to the hotel.

 

The next day, our last, we grab a quick, cheap, and delicious lunch with beer at a local stand before catching the tram into town.

Today we'll visit the large Mimara Museum, a privately gifted facility. Among the important works is a large bronze statue called the Apoxyomenos recently recovered from a 2000 year rest in the Adriatic. It was discovered several years back by a scuba diver who reported it immediately, and the conservation work began. (http://www.louvre.fr/en/expositions/croatian-apoxyomenos—-bronze-athlete)

 

 

Ante Topic Mimara's personal art collection is an impressive and generous gift to the city, covering artifacts from ancient times through famous painters like Raphael, Rubens, Van Dyke, Renoir and others. Or, was he "The Master Swindler of Yugoslavia," and his collection a mishmash of forgeries, botched restorations, and looted art from the Second World War? None of this is mentioned in any part of the museum, and we were surprised at how few guards were there and how accessible the 'art' was. We noticed odd bits of Scotch tape on a few, and unglazed touch-ups to others, but we're not 'experts' in this. So in the end we'll let you decide, Dear Reader, with this ARTnews article from 2001: (http://www.lootedart.com/MFEU4T15383) 

In a distant room we heard the dissonant sounds of a piano being tuned for a concert later in the evening. We thought we might attend.

 

But after a long day of art we decide instead to make our way back past sculpture, the National Theatre (nothing playing in August), and up winding streets to the top of the hill again for a planned guitar concert in the open air.

 As we settled in with a tub of popcorn and two glasses of red Mediterranean, we felt a raindrop. Then a second. And soon we were scuttling for the stairs. At the bottom we found a passageway and hid from the torrents until it was safe to catch a tram for the hotel and a cheap dinner in our room. 

 

So after visiting two capitals of the former Yugoslavia, what have we learned about the decade of violence called The Yugoslav Wars? Not much. For one, we really didn't want to just bring it up and have to deal with an onslaught of recriminations. So we didn't ask anybody about it along the way. This long bloody civil war, a war of division and ethnic hatred is still a recent memory and it may require a generation or two before it's forgotten, like the US Civil War (oh wait!! – bad example). It's extremely complicated and involved at least six different ethnic groups, but if you want to delve into it, try this link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yugoslav_Wars

 Next: We continue eastward, on a night train through Serbia, to Sofia, Bulgaria. — PRW

Summer 2013 Sojourn: Ljubljana

In Verona they tell us there are no trains to Ljubljana. So we catch the train to Mestre and end up crammed into a full 9-passenger van for three hours, with no stops. 

We cross the northern Italian plains and at the Slovenian border we enter rolling mountains similar to the Ozarks of Arkansas or the Appalachians of West Virginia. The Julian Alps are farther to the north. A climb through forested ravines puts us in fertile valleys with small villages. The Slovenes are 'mountain people,' and the countryside is beautiful.

 

The van drops us off in Ljubljana at…the train station. There is no Tren-Italia service direct to Ljubljana, but we could have booked a train to Trieste and connected with another line at that point! We generally prefer trains so we can stand up and move around a bit.

 

In Ljubljana we find our hotel and relax. It's a nice, small, business hotel, called the "M Hotel," that Carolyn found online. A sign in the elevator says it's "Right Place for Right People." Good to know we're finally, "Right People." Cute B&Bs are nice, but these business hotels are a good value. They're usually well located, not too far from the center or near a good tram or bus line, and include breakfast.

  

We don't know what we expected in Ljubljana (a wonderful mouthful, pronounced Lyoob-lyana) but it's apparent the Slavic language will be a challenge, although they use the Latin alphabet and not the Cyrillic. And some signs even translate well into any language. But we're surprised that English is so widely spoken. 

Our agenda has changed due to high costs and lack of availability along the Adriatic Coast. We'll be traveling inland instead, through the heart of the Balkans, visiting capital cities and corners of the old Austro-Hungarian Empire; or we are now behind the former Iron Curtain; or this is the area that erupted into horrible ethnic killings after the collapse of a pan-slavic experiment called Yugoslavia. It's the Balkan tail that has often wagged the European dog, providing Bismarck, Churchill, and others with headaches well beyond its strategic worth. However you want to see it, this is 'the other.' (http://world.time.com/2012/10/08/the-balkan-wars-100-years-later-a-history-of-violence/)

Louis de Bernières' 2004 novel, Birds Without Wings, is set in a small town in Anatolia (now western Turkey) at the collapse of the Ottoman Empire in the early fires of the Balkan Wars and World War I. The once-peaceful co-existence of Turks, Jews, Greeks, Armenians and others is seen through the eyes of villagers swept into the simmering brew of the Turkish nationalism of Ataturk, the Greater Greece movement, and Christian-Muslim conflict. The horrors of Gallipoli, the Greek and Turkish expulsions, the destruction of Greek Smyrna (now Izmir) are descriptive of Balkan conflicts that will come again in the 1990s. (http://www.nytimes.com/2004/10/31/books/review/31KROINL.html?_r=0)

 We knew at least some of that tragic history going into this trip and also knew it would challenge our level of comfort. But the area is peaceful for now; this seemed like a good time for travel in the Balkans, and we began with Slovenia. We get a city map from the front desk and step onto the streets of Ljubljana.

 We're about a mile from the historic center, and the number 1 bus will get us there. But we decide to walk, finding our way through back streets and into the large Park Tivoli, which connects with a larger and wilder area beyond. A surprising amount of the city is devoted to parkland, and it is heavily used. People are jogging, exercising in groups, or just walking shaded pathways. There are great numbers of people riding bikes, and we learn quickly to stay out of the bike lanes – a dangerous place for pedestrians.

 

From the Park there is easy access to the center city through a fine and un-graffitied underpass, with a decent 'musician in residence'. I don't know if we expected drab grey buildings, polluted waterways, collapsing factory buildings and the other Cold War propaganda we grew up with (the other side had propaganda, too), but we're pleasantly surprised. There is good sculpture outside the Ljubljana Museum of Modern Art, well-organized curb-side recycling bins, rental bike racks, fine old buildings, and soon we're at the gorgeous Triple Bridge across the river.

 

 But this is just our first day, it's getting late, and a bit more wandering brings us to dinner at a place called Sokol, specializing in Slovenian cuisine. They start with local aperitifs followed by delicious platters of 'comfort food,' sausages and potatoes and grilled vegetables. And with a good local Refošk (pronounced 'refoshk'), an ancient red wine dating to the Romans, some say. (http://kawavino.wordpress.com/2012/07/28/refosk-by-rojac-slovenia/) 

Well-satisfied, we make our way through the night lights of Ljubljana to a jazz club for live jazz outside under towering trees. Afterward we return through the well-lighted underpass and through the Park to our hotel. Others are going home in the night, including several single women. Personal safety does not appear to be a big concern here.

Another day, another adventure. We find our way along back streets to a pathway through the woods into another section of Park Tivoli, the sculpture section – with joggers, and bikes. 

We stop at the art museum; they can be an indicator of what a people hold to be important, iconic, and defining.  This Balkan nation, long a pathway to conquest by larger powers, has been influenced greatly over the centuries. The layers of history, tragedy, and redemption are beyond my ability to decipher, so the art must tell the story.

Graphic art has been important in the nation's constant struggle with invaders. I ask a friendly museum attendant to translate the poster with the pointing gentleman. He tells me, "It says, 'I will fight for a new Europe!' But it is not in Slovenian. Maybe Serbian or Croatian." It's a fine point, but it may illustrate the divide between these peoples with similar Slavic languages. 

 

Just across the street is an Orthodox church, with its own lush and different take on Slovenian art. Carolyn mentions never having seen bloody crucifixion scenes in the few Orthodox churches we've visited. It's an interesting observation. 

A wander through side streets, some cold drinks by the Triple Bridge, and it's time for an early dinner – a fine platter of vegetables with ham and a glass (perhaps two) of good Slovene Babić red wine from the Dalmatian coast.  A fire-juggling street performer entertains us with skill and jokes (in English) and earns his tips. Then it's back through darkened streets and through the Park, and a soft bed to dream of the morrow.

On a new day we're off to Ljubljanski Grad, the castle overlooking the city. We dodge hordes of bike riders, duck down a few narrow winding streets and cross the Dragon Bridge to the funicular. The top station is an example of careful and creative Slovenian engineering. 

 

The castle is all we'd expect in a rebuilt medieval fortress, with porthole views over the city and a display of the oldest wheel and axle ever found – it's 5,200 years old – in a Slovenian swamp. The funicular gets us to the base of the castle and there's still a stairway or two to climb inside the old stone walls. We reach the top and look out over the red tile rooftops of the old city, with the winding river acting as a moat for the castle. Back inside are displays of castle history – its role as a dudgeon, among them – with the names of prisoners held at various tragic times through history. 

 

 

A return via intertwining "up" and "down" stairways gets us to the old main entry and a steep winding pathway back to the city. At the bottom we look back to see Ljubljanski Grad high above us in the waning afternoon, much like the one described in Kafka's The Castle. With all the drama, but minus the snow, and less difficult to reach. (In the book, "K" never does reach the castle.)

 

 

We find a place for dinner. I pick a platter of wild boar while Carolyn orders a salad that is beautifully shown and far more than ample. And two glasses of the house's good Babić red wine. We tend to order one main dish and a salad to share; otherwise, we end up with too much food! There are more vegetables on the menu in Ljubljana and better salads than we've seen elsewhere in Europe. And they pour good wine.

Afterward, we'll stop along the way for 'slegoledo' (ice cream), pause often to enjoy the city's plethora of fine street musicians, pass the university area and take in a few minutes of challenging "experimental" music in a dark outdoors street side venue, before arriving contented at the bedside.

 

Near the end of our stay, we stop at the "Hot Horse" food stand in Park Tivoli for, well, a horse burger. Yes, they eat horses in Slovenia, and so did I in the 7th or 8th grade – as did every kid in the Albuquerque Public School system in the late 1950s. The hamburgers had an interesting taste, then one day a banner headline in the Albuquerque Journal announced the 'scandal.' I didn't understand the problem since we eat cows and pigs and other animals. My folks said yes we do, and people used to eat horse meat when they were both kids. It's just that it was sold as cow meat. Whatever.

So this was my chance to willingly eat horse meat. And….It was pretty good. I don't eat many burgers anyway, but I think I can now recommend a good horse burger now and then. Here's a link for more discussion on the topic: (http://news.yahoo.com/e-u-horsemeat-scandal-ikea-swedish-meatballs-190216847.html)

 

On our last day in Ljubljana we take a bus to the end of the line to see local 'daily life'. The lady at the hotel front desk suggests a route to a modernist church designed by a local architect.

There's a downpour, but soon we're on our way. We can barely see out the rain-drenched windows and don't even know what we're looking for anyway, so we ask someone aboard (English is widely spoken) and find out we just passed our stop. Thankfully the rain quits and we get off at the next stop. It's a short walk back along the narrow road to see the odd little church and take a few pictures. It's a nice cool day for a walk, and the countryside is lush. But the clouds are still ominous and we don't want to miss our return bus. 

Back in town we pass an old marquee reading Komuna Kino and learn that 'Kino' is the Slavic word for cinema. It's an interesting revelation since we live in Kino Bay, Mexico (named for Padre Kino who lived long before cinema), and it's amazing what you'll learn by wandering aimlessly. After a sandwich and drinks at a local bar, we call it a night. 

 

 

Our time went quickly; it always seems to. Ljubljana is an interesting, surprisingly beautiful, and probably very livable small city; and we became more intrigued every day. Prices are reasonable, there's easy bus access to the nearby countryside, good train connections to all of Europe, the mayor has been putting great effort into limiting traffic and pedestrianizing the historic core, and there's a lively university scene. 

We'll be up early in the morning and heading for the train station. We had planned to visit scenic Bled and the lake at the foot of the Julian Alps in northwestern Slovenia; but this is August, all of Europe is on vacation and headed to the beach or the mountains. So we changed our plans and we're going further east, toward the heart of the Balkans. Next stop: Zagreb. — PRW

Summer 2013 Sojourn: Through the Alps to Verona and Venice

We drag our bags through the morning streets to Lyon's Part Dieu station. After a quick breakfast we're on the train and on our way up the valley of the Rhône River (http://rhone.riverama.com/rhone-river-map.php).

Soon we've entered the foothills of the Alps, passing picturesque villages and vineyards on our way to Geneva, Switzerland. We change trains at Geneva (the poster says,"The best-kept secret of Switzerland.") and skirt the northern edge of broad Lake Geneva (Lac Léman in French), western Europe's largest lake. The chiseled white mass of Mont Blanc, the highest point in the Alps, looms to the south, sparkling in the sunlight and marking the French-Italian border.

The sheer immensity of Mont Blanc has intrigued and challenged people through the years. Percy Shelley, the poet, said the Alps left him with, "a sentiment of ecstatic wonder, not unallied to madness." For much of our transit along the lake, the peak stood far in the distance, high and gleaming and impossible to ignore. 

At Lausanne we're joined by an exuberant family from Uruguay who are greatly enjoying their European holidays. And for us, it's nice to have someone to talk to – although not in English. We enjoy chattering in 'Uruguasho' and taking pictures as we pass ancient Chillon Castle at the eastern end and finally leave the lake behind. 

(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chateau_Chillon) Hills covered with grape vines and the jagged glory of the snow-draped alps grace our journey through Switzerland.

   

We leave the valley of the Rhône at Brig and enter the famous Simplon Tunnel, built over 100 years ago. It was a major engineering project at the time, and the entryway is architecturally beautiful. We entered so quickly I didn't get a picture, but here's the story: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simplon_Tunnel.

(And if you have excess money for a Bucket List item, consider a ride on the "Orient Express:" http://www.seat61.com/Venice-Simplon-Orient-Express.htm#.UgkECxZgvzI) 

 

After twelve miles of darkness, we emerge near Domodossola, Italy and soon we're at picturesque Stresa, on the shores of beautiful Lago Maggiore. Hemingway was beguiled enough to set much of the ending of his 1929 novel, A Farewell to Arms, here. We make a vow to return someday to Italy's longest lake; but after checking prices online, we quickly realize it will be only during the affordable low season. (http://janettegriffithsliterarylocations.blogspot.com/2008/03/ernest-hemingways-stresa-farewell-to.html)

 

It's been a long day when we arrive at Milano's Centrale station and our Uruguayan friends depart. But we still have another couple of hours to go. We had thought we'd be in Venice next, but high season in Venice leaves 'people like us' out on the curb. Verona, Shakespeare's setting for Romeo and Juliet, seemed like a good alternative, and we could take a day train to Venice for the trek around. Lake Garda, Italy's largest lake, soon slips past our window and we've arrived in Verona. 

 

It's late and our hotel is away from the core of the city, but they gave us very good directions about which bus to catch and the short walk to the hotel from the end of the line. We take a different bus because the schedule says it goes to the same place. We find out that indeed it does – but not this late in the evening. The bus stops at the end of its route and we are standing at the curb with all our baggage, nowhere near our hotel, and with no ability to speak Italian.

In a previous Euro-trip we found that to some Italians (maybe most), the ability to speak a second language is just not that important. And we've also learned that Italian is not Spanish with lots of hand-waving for emphasis. Luckily there was a nice gentleman who got off the bus at the same time and saw we had no idea where we were. He, of course, spoke no English or Spanish, and we made do with hand gestures. He called a friend (as best we could figure) who would get the number of a cab company and call him back. So we let life take its course and waited by the curb. The phone rang, and our friend wrote some notes. Then he made another call and told us, we guessed, that a taxi would appear soon. It did. We thanked him. And headed for the hotel – a very nice one, and affordable. It had been a long day.

 

In the morning, we caught the right bus to the center and spent the day wandering ancient streets. We passed a permanent excavation exposing the ancient Roman ruins that underlie much of the city on our way to the first stop: La Casa di Giulietta. It's an old stone house with a picturesque balcony, accessible through an archway off the main tourist drag. The archway has been love-bombed with layers of heart-and-love-note graffiti until it's become an arts object of its own.

 

This is the casa the city fathers and mothers have decided was the home of the fictional Juliet. In Verona the facts yield gracefully to a large dose of poetic license – especially if it's harmless fun, and there's money to be made. The small courtyard was packed with smiling people as we jostled for a camera shot, and relished the fiction. Given the fascination with this enduring story, it's appropriate that Alfa Romeo cars has long offered a model named the "Giulietta."

We had a very good meal, suitably overpriced, in the tourist-dominated Piazza dei Signori as the afternoon heat of August built in the ancient stone pavements. A group of Catalan celebrants was in town for a folk festival. Their engaging human pyramid was followed by joyful dancing round the Catalan banner.

 

 

Then we made our way down narrow winding streets to the old Arena di Verona, the third largest Roman amphitheatre in the world, past fur stores (?!) and other rich novelties, and learned the summer opera season runs to the end of August. 

 

We planned a day trip into Venice, and thought we could get back in time for a production of Aida. In a really cool Roman ruin. What's better than that? Well, maybe a quick stop for a gelato on a hot evening in Verona.

In the morning we're on the train to Venice, passing more vineyards, a large glass recycling operation, and the cruise ship dock. We exit the Santa Lucia station right into the heart of it all. There's a good long trek through endless narrow allies to Saint Mark's Square, but that's what we came for. And maybe to catch a bit of the Venice Biennale, the big arts fair that runs every (duh) two years. A friend had said we could see most of the important things in a good long day, so we crossed the bridge – just one of many to come – and began our trek. We never found the Biennale exhibits, as there was too much else to do amid the expected tourist crush; we ended at Piazza San Marco and took a 'city bus' (a floating one) down the canal back to the station. Much has been said (maybe too much) about this city on the canals, so we'll let the pictures speak for Venice.

 

 

We were back in Verona in time to score some cheap (and hard) stone seats in the 'plebeian' section of the Arena.

 

We wouldn't want it any other way. We entered early and watched as Patricians filled the seats below, with vendors in our section shouting, "Birra, soda, wine!" We had some water with us and planned to buy a cold bottle from the vendors – but they don't sell water! Next time we'll know. Meanwhile, riggers climbed two towers and strung lines, workers moved the kettle drums into place, Patricians ordered cold drinks at the bar far below, and we all lit small candles (a Verona tradition) to begin the show.

 

It was a spectacular show, as befits a Roman theatre, with a cast of at least dozens. The story: Aida is an Ethiopian princess in love with an Egyptian general in the middle of a war between the two nations. It ends badly, as all great operas must. There are colored lights, torch bearers on the ramparts, scarab beetle scooters, a mechanical elephant, Egyptian soldiers in 'haz-mat' suits beating hapless Ethiopians (who look more like a writhing tapestry on stage than people), an entire harp section in the orchestra, and me playing with my camera in the dark. At the end, after midnight and after the last bus, we're exhausted and gladly hail a cab back to the hotel.

 

We devote the next day to the laborious work of the 'ink-stained wretch' to prepare these notes for you, Dear Reader. And we top off the day with an evening visit to a cheap, friendly, and excellent neighborhood pizza joint before retiring for the night.

In the morning we depart for Ljubljana, Slovenia. — PRW  

 

Summer 2013 Sojourn: Lovely Lyon

 

 

It was time to leave Dijon behind, so we packed our bags and rolled them to the station. We bought a few lunch items and waited for the train. Again there were villages and farms and fields of sunflowers and old rail cars outside our window as the train sped south. And farmers bundling giant 'shredded wheat' rolls of hay. And sometimes a tree appeared just as I snapped a photo.

In Lyon the day was hot, with a scirocco blowing in from the Sahara, hot, dry and insistent. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sirocco) We dragged our bags through the heat about a kilometer to the Hotel Roosevelt and settled in for a rest before crossing the Rhône in search of dinner. Audrey Hepburn was among the first to greet us.

Yes, those are FRENCH fries!

An Australian couple told us what their taxi driver said,

"Today wee have thee weend, thee scirocco, hot from thee africaine desert. Tomorrow wee have the cold theengs that heet you on thee head and damage thee car." 

 Hmm, sounds like hail to me. Better bring my hat. But the new day broke with only a moderate cloud cover and a cool breeze. It seemed like a good day for walking.

We started with no particular plan. (Imagine that!) Lyon is at the confluence of the Rhône and Saône (pronounced "Sone-uh") rivers, and they demarcate various regions of the city. From here the river flows rich and strong south to the Mediterranean.

 

 

We headed westerly, over the Rhône, pausing for breakfast, and onward through old city streets over the peninsula of land that separates the rivers to cross the Saône, as a sailing boat with its mast down passed below us.

The imposing Basilique Notre Dame de Fourvière overlooks the city from the westerly heights and we thought we'd hike up there for the view. Or take the funiculaire, if it looked like an epic climb. The sound of a sports car rallye to the top caused us to pause again, as it brought back fond memories of the mid-1960s.

We never found the funiculaire, but passed a fellow with a dachshund and located a picturesque stairway that wound upward. About halfway up we paused to rest and the fellow passed us with his dachshund. He mentioned it was "enorme" — a vertical kilometer to the top. We briefly considered turning back, but if a dachshund's tiny legs could get to the top…. 

 

Our reward: an impressive view over the old city, Vieux Lyon. In the foreground, the Saône arced through the city, and a green stripe of trees followed the Rhône just beyond. A small odd replica of the Eiffel Tower shares the peak with the basilica. We passed a statue of smiling Pope John Paul (he visited here) as we entered the church grounds. 

 

The clouds were hanging more ominously now, but we felt no need to panic. We walked onward to the nearby Roman amphitheater and watched preparations for the evening's show until raindrops demanded our attention.

 

The downhill road beckoned as the rain fell, and we were soon completely soaked. Below the road a young couple shared a quiet moment in their shady yard perched over the medieval town.

 

At the bottom, the narrow and picturesque Rue du Boeuf in the rain was scant compensation for soaking clothes, and we found ourselves drawn to the dry Musee Gadagne. It holds an extensive display of Guignol, a beloved puppet character, and there are some amazing looms on display in homage to Lyon's long history with silk weaving and labor strife. There may well be more Lyon history arrayed over numerous floors than most people might desire. But it was dry inside the museum (did I already mention that?). 

 

Soon the museum closes, but at least our clothes are dry. We find ourselves on the street where the rain…is still falling. Heavily. We are soon re-drenched. We make our way back to the hotel in the rain, stopping at window displays to pass the time. We slept well that night.

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Often when we feel vegetable-deprived we'll put together a simple lunch 'at home' in our hotel room. It's cheaper, nutritious, and allows us time to read about our surroundings and work on journals. Then we'll go forth to experience more of the daily life of our latest stopping point. These experiences vary widely, from classic cars, to a quiet market, to a delivery being made to a top-floor apartment, to the latest in 'electro-ordering' – coming soon, I fear, to a mall near you.

 

Then there's a beggar with ferrets to feed, pirate puppets, a startling mannequin, fine art, some eye-opening instruments, and a late night jazz concert on the porch at the opera house. It's all in a day well spent.

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Then there's the subject of theft. We've spent much time being careful and are not easy targets for scammers and pickpockets. But even we are vulnerable. We try out a Starbucks in Lyon and are approached by a nice young man who puts a paper asking for help on our table. He asks us to sign it. We tell him we are not French and cannot sign it. He leaves with Carolyn's iPad which was under the paper. By the time she realizes it and I run out the door, he's gone. The Starbucks folks are alarmed; our next stop is the Police.

They take our info and put out a radio call to watch for the young man, but the iPad is gone. Based on our experience with scammers in Paris, we ask if the thief was a Roma, and the police woman discretely nods "Oui." Carolyn goes on-line to block it and we wait a day, in case it turns up. Then we head to the local Apple Store for a new one. It's an expensive lesson, since iPads cost about US$150 more in France than in the US. This time, Carolyn buys a case with a hole where we attach a tether. She wears it around her neck. Thanks to Apple and the iCloud, she recovered all her data!

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On our last day in Lyon we get away from the historic core and do a 'circuit' to get a better overview of this city of 500,000 people. We head to the Saône for the 'Vaporetto' ride down the river. Although it's a short ride, at 1,5 Euros it's worth taking.

We hop off at the newly-developing south end of town where the docks used to be, and find our way past challenging new loft-style buildings, old barges (now live-aboards), and old cars, to Lyon's fine tram system. We buy two fares to the north end of the line and relax as the city unfolds around us. 

At the north end we cross a busy street to enter a park/nature preserve along the Rhône and follow quiet trails back toward the city. The dense cathedral-like greenery grants a respite from the hardness of the city. The murmur of the Rhône mingles with bird calls and lingers in the background. 

 

But at the end of this peaceful interlude we see the Roma encampment below a busy traffic bridge. The fellow shown was not pleased his picture was taken and began to shout. Soon others appeared from their shacks with shouts and threatening gestures, and I put the camera away. But I was less than sympathetic after having been relieved of an expensive iPad.  

 

At the bridge, one large park segued into another – one natural and the other very formal. They were both well used on a Wednesday afternoon, with people enjoying summer in the open air. The lower park featured an extensive rose garden, a lake with rental boats, small canals, and plentiful wildlife. In a little pavilion in the woods a lady was playing a piano. In French. Lovely sounds drifted through the quiet air.

 

 

We were tired as we found our way back to the Roosevelt Hotel, and dinner just across the street at a fine little place called Aux Petits Oignons. They understood as much of our English as we caught of their Provençale, but we enjoyed a last fine meal with another bottle of good côtes du Rhône before departing in the morning, for Verona. — PRW

Summer 2013 Sojourn: Can you tell we loved Dijon?

We left Paris from the Gare de Lyon. It was a bitter-sweet moment, as Paris is hard to leave and we'd only seen a portion of what the city has to offer. But it was time to move on. We got to the station way too early and relaxed over coffee to wait for the fast train to Dijon. The last time we caught a train in the Gare de Lyon was about 27 years ago. The helpful ticket agent told me the train would be on track 'E.' He added, "That ees 'E,' monsieur, as een Eeetaly." This time, things were well posted on the schedule board and we knew which track the train was on. 

Many other things would be different now. We had embarked on a long trip through France and Italy, two of the world's more expensive countries on our way to several more easterly countries, with a rational budget very much on our minds. From here we would have no more free places to stay after leaving Annick's gracious hospitality in Bonneuil sur Marne. We would soon find out how affordable it would be.

 My attitude is, "There are actual Europeans living in Europe; they're not all rich; and they manage to travel without going broke." We'd travel like they do, and this next leg would test our abilities. Meanwhile Carolyn found a place online in Dijon, our next stop, that seemed to fit the bill.

 

 

We whisked past the industrial outskirts of Paris and into the countryside, past massive wheat farms and small villages, and soon found ourselves in Dijon. Outside the train station we tried to reconcile the guidebook map with one posted at the very modern and quiet tramway system that ran about every ten minutes. We found the street we needed but weren't sure how far it was to the hotel. We really hate to waste money on a cab, so we decided to drag the bags and see if things started to make sense. Soon they did. It was maybe half a kilometer to the hotel, which we chalked up to good exercise.

 

 

 

The Hotel Sauvage, dating from the 15 century, is set inside a charming, ancient, courtyard – in fact, much of the extensive central city has a middle-ages feel to it. The price for the hotel was right (52 Euros/night, about US$69) – there was no A/C, but we thought we could live with the warm temperatures if we left the window open. But a fan would have been nice. An outside restaurant in the courtyard just below our window promised to provide 'soothing' sounds of wine being served (one of our favorite sounds!) well into the night. We would see how it goes….

Across the street was a square filled with open-air eateries. Each evening as the night grew dark, lights cast an intriguing web-like pattern across the area that helped reduce the glare. We would enjoy many fine meals with wine under the summer sky and retire late into the evening to our hotel room waiting just steps away.

 

The restaurant below our room somehow didn't keep us from sleeping after a long day of walking the city, followed by fine dinner and good wine!

 

There were small food markets near the hotel, and a large colorful daily market just a few blocks away at Les Halles (designed by Gustav Eiffel), so we could easily grab a picnic lunch to enjoy in the park near the train station. Sadly, Les Halles in Paris was demolished in the 1970s and replaced by a monstrous shopping mall (http://www.aparisguide.com/leshalles/).

Lunch in the Jardin D'Arcy...

The winding streets of Dijon are probably like much those of Paris before Hausmann carved the Grands Boulevards through the old city. And the old buildings go on for many blocks. Not too surprising since Dijon is a very old city, first established by the Romans as a stop-over from Paris to Lyon. It has grown slowly, only doubling in population over the past 100 years to a modest 150,000+. The city was spared the destruction of most recent wars, so half-timbered buildings dating from the 12th to 15th centuries are common. The cathedral dates from the 1300s, and the palace of the powerful Dukes of Burgundy (or Bourgogne) dates from the 1700s and 1800s.

Then there was the seductive antique book shop just up the street from the hotel.

 

You can't visit Dijon without buying mustard. The Maille shop is a true gourmet experience, with flavors you'd never imagine. We didn't do the 'tasting', but bought some to carry along.

(Mustard: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dijon_mustard#Dijon_mustard)

 

We passed a poster for an organ concert in the 1000 year old Dijon Cathedral and decided to attend. All the chairs are turned to face to the rear, toward the massive organ high in the balcony. The Belgian organ maestro spent all his time behind the organ, only peeking out briefly to acknowledge applause, so I never got a picture of him; but he filled the ancient space with reverberating sound. It was a fine way to spend an afternoon.

Dijon is the center of the Burgundy region, and home to fine red wines. With dinner, we'd order a 'pichet' (37.5cl pitcher) or a small bottle (50cl) of the house wine and found it to be all we needed. I think that few places in Burgundy would dare to serve a poor house wine. 

Despite all the beautiful produce available at Les Halles, vegetables are rarely on the menu in most restaurants. We passed a Moroccan restaurant, remembered the excellent steamed veggies they serve in 'tajines,' and decided to have dinner there,  following it with a wholesome banana split! It was indeed a savory moment. 

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A DAY IN BEAUNE

A half-hour train trip south takes us to the charming old walled city of Beaune (pronounced "Bone" or Bone-uh"). The train leaves you right on the 'doorstep' of this town, and it's a short walk to the center where lunch and wine are awaiting. We normally skip the wine at lunch, but since wine is the main event in Beaune, this was an occasion for a glass.

After lunch we followed the meandering trail along the old city walls. It's not a long hike, but we stopped often to absorb the views. This small town (Pop. about 23,000) is a distinct change from the general bustle of Dijon. Tourists crowd the central square in summer, jostling for gifts and trinkets. But there were few who wandered the ancient city walls. 

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Back in Dijon, we spend our last night enjoying a light dinner in a narrow alley, and wandering back through the streets to absorb the magic of the nighttime. Have you ever looked up and wondered who lives in that well-lighted window on the second level, and just what their life is like? Yeah, me too.

We lingered to watch the play of lights in the fountains of the magnificent 'square' (actually a large half-circle) in front of the old Dukes Palace; the colors of the water call to the children while their parents enjoy a final sip or two of the fine wines of Burgundy.  

Dijon held a certain fascination for us because it's a true working city, with a university and numerous cultural events. But it's time to be leaving. In the morning, we'll take the train south through more of France's famous wine country, to the confluence of the Rhone and the Saone, to the city of Lyon. — PRW

 

Summer 2013 Sojourn: Last days in Paris

Our last days in Paris went quickly. There is so much to do in this city that we'd have to rent an apartment (somewhere affordable outside the city!) in order to see it all. I'm not sure when that could happen. Maybe someday. Meanwhile, daily life continues apace as we again make our way to the Metro, passing backyard gardens, a street sign, a man bringing home the baguettes, posters on the subway.

 

 

At the Reuilly-Diderot station there's a protective glass wall to keep people from falling (or being pushed) onto the tracks. Maybe they should try that in NYC.

We cross the Seine, past an odd tradition called "Parisplage" (Paris Beach), where they barge in loads of sand from the coast for people to sunbathe on along the river. But this particular day was mainly devoted to exploring the funkier, artistic and literary, St. Germain on the Left Bank. We passed the Beat Hotel (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beat_Hotel), where Kerouac, Burroughs, Ginsburg, Corso and others hung out in the 50s. Nearby, guys were hanging out with a beer to watch the drama of the last legs of the approaching Tour de France. Checking the window ads, you can get a 69 sq. meter (about 700sf) apartment for around 3,000 Euros (about US$4,000) a month. As if.

 

 

 

 

We wandered further, past art and recent history to Les Deux Magos, famous as a Hemingway hang-out in the 1920s, then onward to the hotel where Oscar Wilde who said, "Women are made to be loved, not understood," spent his last mortal hours in 1900. (http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/o/oscar_wilde.html)

Then past a small sign urging parents to check their children for fleas (!)(26), to the Cafe de Flore where the essence of Sartre and de Beauvoir still hangs in the air.

 

 

 

 

 

Soon it was time to head for Montmartre and a late lunch. We considered hiking the stairs (as we had done years ago), but we were tired and took the funicular instead. From the top, the city unfolds below and the daily summer carnival that is Paris continues; vendors selling tiny Eiffel Tower trinkets, a juggler balanced on a pilaster – with the 'industrial-art' Centre Pompidou, and the Cathedral de Notre Dame in the distant backdrop. The Eiffel Tower stands off to the west.

 

 

And finally we made our way back down through the old winding streets toward the Pigalle Metro station as the sun was setting.

 

 

 

 

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The next day will be our last in the city. We enjoy a sax player on the Metro (they audition to play on the Metro), and emerge at the Madeleine to find roads blocked off for the Big Event. The Tour de France arrives today.

 
 

We wait in a very long line to use the pay toilette (it self-cleans after each user), and listen to the railings of a crazy Spaniard about how his no-good wife threw him out. From the looks of him, it must have been decades ago and she had lots of good reasons.

 

The broad and famous Champs Elysees is closed for the Tour and there's a party mood in the air. We buy a bag with all the official goodies inside and wander behind the crowds already staking out territory at the curb. We'll leave Paris in the morning, and won't be able to stay until the Tour arrives, around 9:30 p.m., for that final triumphant ride down the Champs Elysees to the Arc de Triomphe, but want to get the feel of it, all the same.

 

 

We leave the Champs Elysees and make our way to the meandering alleys of the Marais, to a bar where we're to meet a friend. We don't manage to connect, but we enjoy a cooling drink...and the interesting stainless steel squat toilette.

 

Then it's onward to the Metro – before the crush of crowds – to a cheap kebab dinner in the suburbs followed by two glasses of vin rouge in a quiet bar as we watch the final moments of the race on the telly.

 

It's good to be in Paris in the summertime. — PRW

Summer 2013 Sojourn: More of Paris

 

So what do suburban Parisians, especially young ones, do when they're not wandering awe-struck among the most famous monuments and art in the world? Actually, many of them rarely get downtown, as our suburban friends tell us. Central Paris is where travelers like us go to wander awe-struck.

So what else is there to do if you're an actual Parisian? How about hanging out at the mall? 

We wandered off to get a few things for dinner and check out the local mall, as diligent reporters are expected to do on behalf of the readership. And…it looks pretty much like you'd expect, but in French. And I guess that alone adds a sort of cachet (French, again) to the experience. It's a well-known fact of travel that when you don't fully understand your surroundings, can't read much of it and really don't know what's going on – that's when it qualifies as exotic. Even if it's just a mall.

 

 

As you might expect (or not), Homer Simpson is alive and well in French malls. There are flowers galore to freshen the dinner table. And, since it's getting into late Summer, there are sales in almost every clothing store. How many ways can you spell Sale, and in how many languages?

No mall is complete without a huge food store, here known as Carrefour, with a massive cheese selection and yelling fishmongers. There are creative mannequins in the windows.

And the staring mug of "Whatsisname" is plastered everywhere. Glad to know the French have the 'mall thing' under control.

 

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It's another day and we're heading for the Metro and a quick ride into Paris. But we pass an open marketplace that popped up overnight in a parking lot. Annick, our host, tells us later it's an 'Arab market.' 

 

 

There was an African-Arab mix, and it reminded us of the colorful souks of Morocco. Carolyn waded in, and I followed with camera in hand. When the experience offers itself, you grasp it. It's why we rarely stick to a tight schedule.

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Soon we're on the Metro and we surface on a leafy street near the massive old hospital and war veterans home, Les Invalides. 

 

 

We're in search of the Musee Rodin and walk entirely around the imposing building to reach it. We're greeted by a light pole decorated with old entry stickers left by school children and other groups. I hope Rodin would approve.

 

Around the grounds there's much to ponder (OK, bad joke), as Rodin was one of the most prolific and talented artists ever. I read that Picasso once said, 'After Rodin, what's left for the rest of us to do?' (Note to Pablo: Don't worry. You'll think of something.) 

We took time for a quick lunch, and lunch at a museum (almost any museum) is usually a treat. We decided to skip the wine this time and enjoy that later. We had a long day ahead of us.

 

 

There's something special, almost regal, about being allowed to wander at will through beautiful grounds and to study, close-up, sculptures you've seen only in books – and so many others you haven't even heard of. Rodin produced so much work of such high quality that they almost appear as throw-offs…as if he had a few minutes to spare so he might as well do something else spectacular. 

 

 

Some visitors found shady spots for afternoon naps. That's what old people do, I guess. 

 

 

 

After wandering the grounds for several hours, we went inside to see his smaller stuff. Groups of students were writing critical reviews. I can't imagine a better place to be an art student – where the artist actually lived, seeing his works up front, as large as life. And the incredible view that sold Rodin on living here.

 

 

 

But it was time to leave. We promised Annick we'd be back in time for dinner at a place she knew, a 'typical French place,' far from the tourists. We headed across the Pont Alexandre, where we found a 'glacier,' an ice cream maker, from a venerable family. Then a drummer using pots and pans to, uh, drum up some business.

 

 

And there was a Danish bicycle club riding through the city, flying their famous colors (said to be the world's oldest: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flag_of_Denmark), ready for the arrival of the Tour de France. Did we mention the Tour de France would arrive in a day or two? 

(I swear, that womann on the left is wearing Perry's T-shirt! — Carolyn)

 

 

 

 

We got to the Metro and headed for dinner at a fine place where local people go for their favorite food and accordion music. A long freight train rumbled by just a few yards away to add more local character. And a gorgeous moon rose as the evening came to a close – another unexpected pleasure for two wandering souls. — PRW

 

There is one more blog coming about Paris — soon!