Montenegro, and the back of the Walloon bus

The Bay of Kotor

We were up nice 'n' early for our tour; it was neat to walk against the stream of commuters to Dubrovnik's Old Town at that hour. There was a bit of a mix-up with the tour, such that we ended up on a bus with thirty or so French-speaking Belgians. Luckily there were two guides, so the half dozen English speakers were segregated to the back of the bus for translations in the silences. As both Tea and I understand French reasonably well -- particularly the guide's perfectly enunciated Montenegrin-school French -- we got the best of both worlds, with quick questions to our guide where we faltered. (Incidentally, we both agreed that what I'm assuming was Walloon French is very difficult to understand. Before I discovered they were Belgians, I seriously suspected that their native language wasn't French, and that they'd simply booked said tour for its accessibility, etc.)

The Cathedral of Saint Tryphon, in Kotor

Let there be no doubt: the Belgians know how to vacation. After clearing the two border crossings -- Croatia's and Montenegro's -- the agenda called for a quick stop at a petrol station to pick up our local guide; 15 minutes for the toilet, a stretch, etc. I blink, and the station patio bar is full of Belgian couples raising glasses of the local Nik Gold. (Obligatory review: I tried Nikšićko pivo in Budva later that day; unpleasantly metallic at the outset, with no finish -- the latter being a selling point, according to the warped reality of beer advertisers.) And this continued at each of the stops! Živjeli!

Montenegro is, simply, beautiful. Driving around the Bay of Kotor was incredible. Cypress trees darken the awesome Dinarides -- hence the country's name, "black mountains" -- leading down to the mirror-like, deep blue bay; it actually resembles a fjord, blocking all wind from the Adriatic. With towns and villages at the water's edge -- the best defence against the main threat of the time: invading Ottomans from the mountains -- it really reminded me of a lush Lake Como; indeed, the Dinarides (is it just me, or does that word conjure up this epic mix of Easy Rider and dinosaurs?) are properly called the Dinaric Alps.

You can just make out the city wall above

The city of Kotor was our first significant stop. Words fail me. That wall 'round the old port, rising up the mountains in the most imposing fashion, was the highlight of the tour. Unfortunately, given the lushness of the terrain, I feel my pictures too have failed to capture it. (This will probably sound simple and odd, but, staring up at that wall, I felt like the greatest of cities from the Romance of the Three Kingdoms video game were alive before me; ah, a childhood bowed before Nintendo.)

This trip has really illuminated how paths diverged following the dissolution of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, and on a spectrum of Croatia to Bosnia, a good example of mixed blessings is Montenegro generally, and the route to our other stop, Budva, specifically.

Relaxing in Budva

The division of the South Slavic language known as Serbo-Croatian was largely a political construct, and while Montenegrins understand Croatian, officially they use a Cyrillic alphabet, whereas the latter use a Latin one. (Incidentally, our guide admitted that she struggles with official, largely government-related, correspondence, as the reality of Montenegro's reliance on tourism means that a Latin alphabet carries the day.) I raise this because our guide pointed out that, on said road to Budva, and throughout the town itself, it's the Russian alphabet, not the Serbian one, on the road signs and shop fronts. This, the large mansions (outside UNESCO protected areas, at least), and (abandoned, in many cases) factories blighting the greenery, reflect Russian exploitation of a newly-independent (since 2006), but poor, country. (For example, unable to afford a currency of their own, Montenegro requested, and received, permission to use the euro, even though they aren't part of the Union.)

I've always had difficulty putting news from this region (e.g., Kosovo's declaration of years past) in context, so it was particularly fascinating and rewarding for me to learn about its history in such beautiful surroundings. Tour guides are no different from any of us, of course, burdened with a set of biases; still, for me, it's tough to beat a few hours with a good storyteller.

The small islet and hotel resort of Sveti Stefan (Saint Stephen)

Check out our album for more pictures from the tour.

La Plagne: those dreaded diamonds

[It's been a busy time. After hosting a great crowd at Christmas, we made our way to Edinburgh for New Year's celebrations. (You should check out Jodi's post on the trip too!) We pick up my journal mere days later, in the French Alps.]

January 8, 2012: 4:20 p.m.

Just woke up from a most luxurious nap. We had our first time on the slopes this morning.

It was like skiing for the first time.

Yes, I've skied in Canada. But this scenery must be unrivalled the world over. The way you'd see these incredible peaks around you, and then the sun would break through the clouds, putting far, distant peaks in glorious relief, was, well, simply stunning. I just found myself holding up, having these moments of feeling ever so small on such a truly awesome planet.

Of course, I'd be stretching artistic licence to breaking and beyond if I didn't say that utter exhaustion held me up just as many times, particularly as the morning progressed. And while I certainly didn't have my Wheaties this morning, it's my conditioning (or lack thereof) that's landed me in this pickle, I'm fairly certain.

Before leaving, I was chatting with a friend who's a big skier, and amongst his excitement and envy, he asked:
So, you've been doing a lot of squats and whatnot, getting ready? When did you say you're going again?
Uh, Mike, I'm leaving tomorrow. And, nope. Nothing.
(With the utmost sympathy and lament) Oh, JJ.

My quads aren't feeling it just yet, Mike, but I know I don't have long; oh, no. (And I did pack lots of Ibuprofen, as you advised, a la Plan B.)

This UCPA... community, for lack of a better term, is fantastic! (I was going to say 'resort' because it goes with 'ski' like peas 'n' carrots, but that's the last word you'd use to describe this.) The communal eating -- including clearing away your place afterwards, loading the dishwasher rack, etc. -- communal places to socialize, store your ski equipment, play video games, the list goes on, is truly wonderful. Everyone is so friendly, helpful, and patient with our limited French. My rental equipment, while clearly well used, is in good condition, and, thanks to their well-oiled machine, took no time to procure and fits me perfectly.

I should probably hold up here and point out something I mentioned to Tea earlier: while these facilities are certainly clean and functional -- I would definitely recommend this place to friends -- I am aware that they probably don't warrant so much gushing. Clearly I have some sort of deep-seated need to belong that this place is filling admirably. (For context, I did no extracurricular activities in school, be they band, sports of any sort, clubs, etc. Probably a lesson in that.)

Oh, I haven't mentioned the food: French and fantastic! Simple, delicious stuff, done so well -- for so many! The bread is great, of course, but also the ratatouille and gammon I had for lunch, for example. And the cold stuff is great too: I had this delicious goat's cheese at lunch as well, and an excellent bow-tie pasta salad with smoked salmon throughout; it's those little touches that impress me. There aren't enough hot drinks, though; that'd probably be my one, minor complaint. (See! I'm objective!)

The drive up yesterday was gorgeous. We flew to Geneva and met up with Tea's friends, then took a bus to Aime, France. It went past Lake Annecy, which was spectacular, and reminiscent of our trip to Lake Como last summer. Similarly, the second bus we took up to La Plagne could've been driving through Mittenwald or Innsbruck -- with more snow than that German and Austrian odyssey of 2010, mind. [Speaking of Innsbruck, La Plagne hosted Olympic events as well, in 1992.]

So many good memories. I'm so... blessed, really, to have had all these opportunities. I dreamed about going so often, and yet Europe is all that I imagined and more, as it turns out.

Ski lessons start tomorrow. Wish me luck!

* * *

January 10, 2012: 4:40 p.m.

Man, I'm pooped! There's nothing quite like exhaustion after exercise, particularly when you can reflect on the sorts of vistas I've taken in these past two days. You know that backdrop to the Paramount Pictures logo? It's real, and probably near here, if I'm not smack in the middle of it, with Mont Blanc there, out my window. [Yes, I now know that that's actually the Wasatch Range, and part of the Rockies. Sort of obvious, really, but I stand by the resemblance.]

Thankfully my performance on the slopes is now well above that disaster of a first day. I'm putting that down to my terrible diet on the travel day. I've been stuffing myself three times a day -- plus snacks -- since, and it seems to be doing the trick.

I know I've been saying this a lot over the past year, but I truly believe this is one of the best ways to spend a week. Those moments on that first day have continued, with my jaw dropping at the surrounding scene: snow-covered mountains as far as I can see -- which is pretty darn far with these clear blue skies; most unmarked, or sprinkled with animal tracks, like great ridges and mounds of meringue. (Others are covered in these hypnotic patterns cut by the off-piste skiers.) We're talking about trying to return regularly once we're back in Canada. We'll see.

Well, gotta grab a shower. Can't believe it's only hump day tomorrow; we've done so much already!

* * *

January 11, 2012: late

Wow, long day: we were out by half nine this morning, went straight 'til half one, then had a 90-minute lesson starting just after three. What an amazing day! Just gorgeous weather again. [We later learned that this season is their best in 20 years(!), and that it'd been snowing for a month straight prior to our arrival. All 134 runs were open most of the week! Talk about timing.] Our bodies seem to be holding up as well, I'm happy to say.

We started at La Grande Rochette this morning, the gateway to the other side of the mountain we've played on these last three days. From the plateau at the gondola drop-off, the blue run quickly fell away along a narrow course; a bit of a tough proposition, first thing out. I could hear our instructor Yann's "Courage!" (coo-RAJ) as I went over the lip. The course then continued in curves around small peaks, still narrow. At each turn, I'd drift, like some human rally car; it was awesome! I was shaking from the adrenaline at our first stop, sucking down wind and laughing alternately.

Liv and Tea walking to the Grotte (3250 m)

[So ends my notes. Between naps and Hearts -- that's the subtitle pun, by the way: we had the Queen of Spades go out on the 4♦ three times in one evening's session alone -- there was little time off-slopes for writing. But what a trip! Two more days of great skiing, then the bus, a quick flight back to Brum, and a short drive home.]

Check out our Picasa album for more pictures from the week.

Belgium: dichotomous Brussels and divine Ghent

As on previous occasions, I've decided to post these notes in the present tense, under the dates when their bulk was penned.

April 19, 2011: Brussels

[I never warmed to Brussels; however, I came to truly appreciate the balance it represents, in Belgium and the rest of Europe.]

Leisure class on the Eurostar from London was very nice; with a full meal, unlimited wine, and only one other group in our whole cabin, it's truly an affordable luxury.

The view from our apt.

While the walk to pick up the keys was a bit far to drag luggage, we found the office, and then our apartment, with little difficulty. Our apartment is amazing: so spacious, and a block from the Grand Place. At night, I simply stare out our corner window on the scene below, sipping gueuze; television can't compete.

There's a nice, big grocery store on the next corner; the only hiccup was milk. They only carry various flavours of UHT. I wonder if this is normal. We picked up some breakfast stuff, meats and cheeses, and some local beer:

• Cuvée René Grand Cru Oude Gueuze: the Good Beer Guide Belgium gives it four stars. My virgin palette -- yes, this is my first lambic -- found it to be like a witbier, with a tang. Like, oh, the best of the limited champagne I've tried.
• Mort Subite Gueuze, which I don't believe is made in the traditional way. (The style isn't protected, unlike the German styles, for example, so corners are often cut to save money.) Either way, I enjoyed it; a bit darker than the Cuvee Rene, with ginger notes.

This city has such life. Like Dublin. Maybe more so. The clusters of kids on the cobblestones of Grand Place; so many different conversations and styles of music drift out on the street and up to our windows.

In the Grand Place, with chocolate shops all around, it's Bruges, through and through. At times, staring down a narrow cobblestone alley, it's like Venice. Seafood on the tables enhances this. Near our apartment, with the Asian grocers, Japanese restaurants, and, at night, the lurid neon, one could be forgiven for replaying Blade Runner. The trash helps with this. As do the homeless, laying out on mattresses under scattered canopies.

I thought we arrived on garbage day, but this veritable army of trucks operates continually, including in the wee hours. This dichotomy, the trash and dirt beside the Grand Place and European politics, reminds me of Athens; extremes of excess and beauty, and then whole blocks forgotten, no doubt populated by those same elements each night. I'm of mixed feelings, it must be said. We've met some fantastic folks, but there are certainly areas where you should keep your map out of sight and your head down.

The restaurant area facing St. Catherine's Church reminded me of La Rambla, particularly when Spanish guitar could be heard from a big top tent further down, earlier on. Barcamoule was where we had supper, and my mussels were excellent. Very friendly staff. So many languages around us. A group that seemed to be winding down from a conference included a woman from Lisbon (now living in Sao Paolo), an Irishman and an Englishman. The city is crawling with suits and purpose.

Who needs sleep? This city surely feasts on them. It's Tuesday night!

My strangest observation, however, and another dichotomy, has to be the amount of pollen you see in the air, against all the concrete. Where does it come from? And yet, strangely, I'm fine; clearly it isn't ragweed. If this turns, I will be miserable.

* * *

April 20, 2011

It's so warm. Unseasonably so -- by ten to fifteen degrees Celsius, according to a gentleman at the train station. We haven't packed for it, but we'll happily make do with the shorts we have.

First, to the Grand Place to witness its transformation to a garden centre; oh, to be here for the flower carpet. Then, to the boot sale/flea market in Vossenplein Square. So many old board games, Tintin books, paintings and records. After a snack on the patio of a bordering cafe, we're off to the Cantillon brewery and museum.

We almost missed the place, it's large, wooden warehouse doors are so unassuming. The front area, for there's no room to speak of, opens to the basement where they clean the barrels, so our first smells are heavily laced with a dampness, and mustiness, just under the expected yeasts. I was immediately a boy, back in the Bussey's basement before they'd finished it. I have good memories of summer explorations there, the coolness welcome after the midday heat. (Little wonder I lose days in secondhand bookshops.)

All are free to wander; the only tour is the pamphlet they provide. Once you've finished exploring, it's back to the 'bar' at the front for samples of their gueuze and kriek (flavoured with cherries or raspberries). The spontaneous fermentation that is at the heart of these lambic beers is a hefty subject, but all can appreciate the "holy" cooling tun, where wild yeasts and bacteria living in the Senne river valley are allowed to blow over its open top; pictures of the resulting foaming barrels really do appear miraculous.

I bought a bottle of their Grand Cru, and a bottle of Gueuze Boon at de Bier Tempel shortly thereafter [before I realized that Favourite Beers, in town, stocks the latter; Leigh has a fantastic selection of Belgian beers].

We walked back such that we'd pass the Manneken Pis, to see the little guy, yes, but also because the GBG Belgium recommends the pub next door: Poechenellekelder. We enjoyed a few lambics -- Girardin Gueuze 1882 for me, and some faros for the ladies (sweetened with sugar and caramel vice fruit, normally) -- as the ebb and flow of Pis lovers washed over the patio area. Make sure you go inside, should you have the chance: the puppetry displays are amazing (and a little unsettling, if I'm honest).

A bit tuckered out from the walking, we elected to have a kip before supper and further exploring. Sushi delivered by train was the consensus later that night, followed by another recommendation: Delirium. I don't know how many different bars they have in that place, but be warned: the menus -- books, really -- are different for each. While the ladies sampled various fruity Floris options, I went for a Rulles Estivale, followed by a Grande. The place was hoppin', and we enjoyed checkin' in periodically with the marine, Paul, and his friends as they attempted to meet every person and beer on offer.

* * *

April 21, 2011: Ghent

Leaving Brussels for Flanders, you quickly realize that the guides aren't exaggerating: it's a different country. I'd never considered that I should've felt many reminders of our trip to Bruges by this time. I hadn't -- other than the Grand Place, as stated -- until we went to Ghent. The French of Brussels gives it a familiar feel to anyone who's spent time in the Outaouais region. Both Bruges and Ghent, however, while very welcoming, are clearly foreign when it comes to communicating. And, much like Czech, I found that the limited Dutch in our guides was useless without pronunciation details.

Our pace to date is beginning to show: in between nodding off on the train, I looked over at Tea and noticed a red fleck on her eyelid. Confused, I made many pawing attempts for it before concluding, "It looks like you have cheese wax on your eyelid." This kicked off many waves of overtired hysterics before we reached our destination.

The entrance of Sint-Pieters station is truly beautiful. After a few minutes of gaping and snapping pictures, we eventually found a working vending machine and bought tram tickets to town. Not even half a dozen stops later, we were in the heart of gob-smacking Ghent: the Graslei. Based on yet another recommendation from the GBG Belgium, we made our way straight to the Belga Queen, securing a table on the patio while lunch was still on.

We saw many disappointed groups turned away as we supped on delicious steak and lamb, and, in my case, many glasses of unfiltered Palm. Belga Queen was a footnote in my guide -- with a joke about the communal toilets with translucent doors (prior to locking) -- but I cannot recommend it highly enough: the staff were so friendly and helpful, and the food was the best to date [and of the whole trip, looking back].

Next, we stopped at the tourist information centre in Sint-Baafs, and picked up a recommended walk. Happily, it intersected with another recommendation, Dulle Griet or 'Mad Meg', named after the cannon of the same name in the square known as Friday Market. I witnessed the famous basket being raised to the roof, only later learning that they ransom shoes to ensure tabs are settled. [Correction: Tea has informed me that the shoes are actually collateral for a particular beer that's served in a very expensive glass. Ah, Belgians and their custom glasses.]

A few more stops, for ice cream, and the famous Tierenteyn-Verlent mustard --

"What types of mustard do you have?"
"We have our mustard."
"Ah... I'll take two jars then."

And we were back for sunset on the Graslei, a sight I'll never forget. On the way back to Sint-Pieters, we walked through the beautiful Citadel Park, and the immense Sint-Pietersplein (St. Peter's Square). As it was on the way, and uniquely situated on a moored houseboat, we took in one final recommendation -- De Planck -- and some of their own 'huisbier'.

* * *

April 22, 2011: Brussels again

With the ladies shopping, I find myself with some time at À la Mort Subite, intriguingly referred to as possibly "the best surviving fin de siècle long bar on the planet" by the handy GBG. It means "in sudden death" and is named after a card game, I gather. While reading about all sorts of Belgian beers and breweries -- the outrage at Flemish institution, Hoegaarden, temporarily becoming "a Wallonian lager" is a favourite -- I sampled Lefebvre's Hopus, a beer of the month that was pleasant, with currant notes; the bar's gueuze "sur lie", which was tastier than the stuff I bought in the grocery; and Alken-Maes' Hapkin. (Incidentally, Alken-Maes owns the Mort Subite line, and have been bought out by Heineken.)

After lunch on "kebab street" -- as it's called in Use-It Europe, Tourist Info for Young People, a neat map with commentary that Tea found -- near Grand Place, we spent some time in the comic strip museum before hitting up one last recommendation: Bier Circus. I have another book on beers of the world that includes three tours of beer meccas, one of which happens to be for Brussels; it chooses to end at Bier Circus. I take that to be a (well deserved) compliment. (Although I guess some could say that few would remember it then.)

Oddly enough, it's where my evening ended as well. But before that, with rain threatening, I finally sampled Geuze Boon Mariage Parfait -- and it really was -- with the ladies, wondering whether the nearby film crew would get their shot before the skies opened. When they did, I enjoyed a Rochefort 10 inside.

All was fine 'til, standing, we noted that the rain still had an edge. U2's Rattle and Hum is playing on the television too at this point, and I'm shocked to realize that while I've listened to the album hundreds of times, I've never seen the footage that accompanies the candid interviews between the tracks. It was so obvious that the barman came up behind me, saying, "You don't have to leave."

Another then. And what do I choose? De Dochter van de Korenaar's Embrasse is on special. Oh, so beautiful, but at 9% and 66 cl, not a nightcap. I was fine -- Tea and Kae support... u'm, no, back me up on this -- 'til we hit the stairs of our apartment -- the many, many stairs -- at which point, with the blood a-pumpin' through my veins, I had myself a little sit down. The ladies then went shopping for one of those five-minute hours, returning with pizzas for themselves and a kebab for me. One bite of that wrapped napalm later, I packed it in.

Up next: Amsterdam

If you're interested in more pictures, there are 90 between our Picasa albums of Brussels and Ghent.

The French Riviera: Villefranche and Nice

Our cruise got off to a rough start: as we sailed away from Barcelona, listening to the captain's log over the intercom, the phrase "extremely uncomfortable" caught in our ears. With Tea's double-take and nervous laughter as a backdrop, we learned that we would be skirting a storm on our way to Villefranche, and wouldn't find calm waters again until 5 a.m. or so.

What followed was probably our worst night on a cruise ship; certainly the equal of our return to Miami on our first cruise, where most of the staff were trying to serve us between bouts of illness, and tumbling displays and dishes were the norm. Thanks to Nancy and Stephen -- who'd kindly switched rooms with us -- we were lower in the ship (Deck 2) and centred this time: probably the best place of all, in truth. (To skip ahead for a moment, none of us where surprised when the captain's log for the following day highlighted much worse conditions than he'd expected, with winds in excess of 100 miles per hour and waves in excess of 40 feet.)

Still, we survived, and were greeted by the picturesque bay of Villefranche the following morning; paradise, it seemed. As beautifully dreamy as the previous night was nightmarish. Despite a hearty breakfast on the ship, we weren't long off the tender before our hands (and, soon, our tummies) were full of wonderful oranges, sandwiches made with delicious tomatoes (and French bread, of course -- ah, memories of Paris), quiche, and even some sausage rolls, if memory serves. We ate all this while climbing steps through the beautiful neighbourhoods, pausing often to take in the view behind.

We could've made it as far as Cannes or Monaco in the time allotted to us, but decided to make the short trip to Nice instead; 15 minutes by train. Here, as in parts of Paris, I was surrounded by a way of life that really spoke to me. The cafés, the chatter, the beach (in this case)... One could really get used it.

One encounter summed up the day for me: Tea and I were sitting on a low wall outside a hotel while Nancy and Stephen went in to confirm our directions. A couple walking their dog crossed the path of another man walking his dog, and, turning, exchanged a few words in French before smiling and stopping right in front of us. While the couple was clearly fluent in French, the man struggled after noting that their terriers were of similar breed.

Immediately the gentleman in the couple said, "English?" which the relieved American (unless I miss my guess) acknowledged. The couple, it turned out, were Swedish, and they had a great conversation about various breeds and local dog shows. At one point, Tea or I laughed, and, realizing we understood English, they then included us in the conversation. For me, this couple, fluent in many languages and so polite and friendly, was better than my best visions of Europe -- which were over the moon to beginning with, it has to be said.

From there we found a 'boot sale' to beat them all; so much history and beauty at these things over here. If you'll allow me a nose in the air moment, I fear the Great Glebe Garage Sale will seem like a collection of so many Barrhaven driveways after all this. I could've come home with armfuls, but limited myself to a few fantastic pins -- UPDATE: one of them is definitely the insignia of the 13e Régiment de Dragons Parachutistes -- no doubt dating from the middle of the last century.

The tables were in the middle of a square that was surrounded by little restaurants with shaded patios, so we decided to stop for some wine and food. (This was one of the few days that I took crib notes versus making a full entry, and they've failed me here: I know I had a delicious omelette, and Stephen had pasta, but the rest escapes me.) After lunch, we went down to the busy, rocky beach, and then up to a lookout well above it with a lovely park. (I hope I'll be able to share the fantastic pictures we got from this vantage shortly.)

We caught the train back to Villefranche with plenty of time to spare.

Up next: Firenze! (As Stephen loved to say.)

Vacation: Day 1: Barcelona, via London and Paris

Note: Due to technical difficulties, it will be some time before I'll have access to the pictures from the first part of our cruise. Over the coming days, I'll blog about our stops, and then (hopefully) update these posts with pictures at a later date.

What a posh title, eh? I feel slightly more important for writing it, I must say. I kept a journal during our two-week cruise of the Mediterranean, and I'll be posting the entries as they are dated there, with some additional exposition, as appropriate. For example, this post is about our overnight train to Barcelona, which might strike you as an odd choice of transportation. However, what I don't mention in my journal is that we booked this cruise right around the time that volcanic ash from Eyjafjallajökull was messing up most of Europe's airspace, and we had visions of missing the ship as it left Barcelona. Oh, the irony, as you'll soon learn.

Saturday, June 19, 9:45 a.m.

We're still at least an hour outside Barcelona. The train seems to pause often; don't know whether that's normal.

In one of those funny coincidences, I've just heard a conversation outside our compartment (in English, amazingly enough) about what has happened: we hit a car at some point in the night, dragged it for 200 metres, and are now on our way back to meet another locomotive, I believe. All told, we will be between six and seven hours late. Tea's managed to fall asleep again; I don't think I'll wake her to give her the bad news. Apparently that staff member has never heard of this happening before. Oh well, this is why you don't plan to travel on the day you sail.

It's really exotic: this mix of French, English and Spanish (with both the soft 'c' that I'm used to, and the heavy 'th' of the north that sounds like yet another language to my ears). The staff really manage very well. I guess the list of destinations contribute to that exotic feeling as well: London, Paris, Barcelona... and all in less than 24 hours. (Well, according to the original plan.)

I still find it hard to believe that we hit a car! We're far back in the train, but I'd still expect to feel something. Thankfully it seems like no one was hurt too badly, otherwise I can't see the police allowing us to continue so quickly. Tea's awake now, and commented that that's probably the horrible diesel smell that filled the cabin (briefly, again, thankfully) in the middle of the night.

2:30 p.m.

The green continues to roll by. I pause as a tunnel blacks out the world. The chaos of the countryside is interrupted every so often by the perfect lines of groves and vineyards. My mobile tells me we still haven't hit the border yet. A few minutes later we stop in Cerbère.

4:20 p.m.

We're still in Cerbère. Apparently our conductor has left. There are rumours that he took some heat about the crash, and by leaving us at this border town at the end of his shift, a mere ten minutes from another station with plenty of drivers, he's really fixed us. It's difficult to get here by road, although the remaining crew assure us that we will be in Barcelona in three hours.

As the other passengers mill about out on the platform, with no one around and plenty of rusty old trains, I find myself speculating on our chances, were we the last humans on the continent.

I may come to regret my fascination with dystopian fiction and movies, particularly if we end up spending the night here; there are some really creepy tunnels just a few hundred yards down the tracks.

* * * * *

Epilogue

My journal skips ahead to our first stop, Villefranche-sur-Mer, at this point, but I won't leave you hanging: we made it to Barcelona; eight hours late. Still, we had time to walk along La Rambla -- stopping for some fantastic seafood paella along the way -- and down by the port with Nancy and Stephen before getting on the Brilliance the next day.

Up next: the French Riviera

Tea and Jae... and Kae! in the city of lights

If Dublin has a pulse, Paris has grace; and such grace. At no time have my thoughts and words felt less adequate, or A Moveable Feast more impressive.

She is a lady: in the young woman standing outside her shop, "un café" in one hand, a cigarette in the other; in the older man in a tweed coat hopping on his bicycle, his thin scarf flapping in the breeze.

Chillin' at our apartment

We got an afternoon train to London, and the Eurostar to Paris, arriving in the early evening. We spent a few hours exploring the neighbourhood around our apartment that first morning. Our arms full of warm bread, and delicious meats and cheeses, we congratulated ourselves on this breakfast fit for any Parisian. One point on the local grocery store: the milk that doesn't need to be refrigerated seems to be very popular in Paris; it was all we could find in our neighbourhood. And I was pleasantly surprised to learn that it's all "facile à digérer." With the sheep's milk cheese, I was good to go!

The Sully wing of the Louvre

Fortune smiled on us as we ducked in and out of the rain that first day. One of our favourite ways to begin a trip is a city tour, to get our bearings and change our itinerary as sights grab our eyes. This trip was no different, and we had excellent (sheltered) seats on the double-decker bus for most of the tour. That done, it was time to see a bit of Louvre – with kilometres of galleries, we didn't kid ourselves about seeing more.

Looking down on the Sully courtyard

We'd planned to take one of the tour boats on the Seine that evening, presuming the weather cooperated. The rain was light as we left the Louvre, so we decided to have a bite to eat near the Pont Neuf quays and catch the last tour of the evening, around 10 p.m. The restaurant of the same name was warm and quaint, as were our hosts. Up to this point, Kae had been a bit self-conscious about her French – which Tea and I took as perfect, incidentally, and a life-saver on more than one occasion. At the end of our meal, Kae admitted as much to our hostess, who assured her that she expressed herself very well. I think that left her tickled for hours afterwards.

The next day we caught the Metro to Montmartre, in the eighteenth arrondissement. The view from the steps of the Sacré-Cœur was wonderful. Walking around the cobblestoned plazas, past cafe seats facing out on artists sketching folks and cutting their silhouettes out of paper, was more than a little surreal; similar to other experiences I've had – in Quebec City, for example – in that I could now understand what they were imitating. It was so natural here; like drawing breath, for them, I'm sure.

In Montmartre Cemetary

We stumbled upon the Montmartre Cemetary; literally an awesome sight: above-ground tombs and mausoleums, most more elaborate than I'd ever seen, stretching out to the horizon. The avenues through it are named, and compost bins for the many, many flowers sit at every corner.

Moulin Rouge was our next stop, in the heart of the 'red light' district. Obligatory photos taken, we decided to find some sustenance to get us through to the evening's entertainment: a fondue house that Tea had read about. Tea had onion soup – yes, Stephen, they drop the French part here :-) – and Kae enjoyed a cheese plate, as we took in the foot traffic; Paris really has some of the best people watching I've seen: everyone is so different, from their dress – formal or casual, it is always deliberate – and mannerisms, to their features; I could've been imagining things, but it seemed that I'd never seen such a variety of noses, chins, skin tones, facial hair... tall and lanky folks beside others so small you could only think 'miniature.' Silly, I know, but it's true!

The fondue house was fully booked, but the owner assured Kae that he would find a spot for us a bit later. We consoled ourselves with more wine at yet another brasserie, and by the time we returned, there was a significant queue. Thankfully, Kae is very memorable – as we all know! – and we were seated without too much fuss. Well, what a restaurant! I barely had time to take in the raucous atmosphere in what really amounted to a narrow room before a baby bottle of the vin rouge was thrust into my hand. Ah, hold on to your hat, I thought to myself.

I lost time that night.

I figure it's important that a writer acknowledge that up front. I remember moments right up to my head hitting the pillow, but many of them seem more like last grasps at dreams as I write this. I'm told I was very happy throughout, managing against all odds to avoid making a fool of myself. Thank goodness I had two lovely ladies looking after me, otherwise I surely would've left all my belongings behind as I hopelessly wandered the streets of Paris.

The next day was a bit rough.

I turned a year older, and felt all of those 365 days over the course of that morning. Then it was off to the Latin quarter, walking around the old haunts of Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Orwell. The market streets were just as Hemingway described them so many years ago: narrow and chock full of carts offering fruit, cheese and seafood, with amazing pâtisseries and book shops in between. Oh, and a rack of rotisserie chicken, with the potatoes roasting away in the drippings tray at the bottom. (It smelled amazing!) And the vendors warmly greeting their regulars with a kiss on either cheek, and such joyful expressions that you'd swear they'd been years apart.

The Panthéon

We then made our way to the Panthéon and the Sorbonne, through streets full of young life. It was at that moment that the last of the austre grace that had marked my first day in the city melted away: yes, the city of lights can be elegant, but no one who walks through Montmartre or the clusters of students around the Sorbonne could fail to feel its warmth.

With our train scheduled to depart at 3 p.m., we spent our last morning shopping in the Galeries Lafayette, taking in the stained glass of that amazing ceiling to the main building, and ladies' accessories worth the GDP of small nations.

No, Tea, our luggage isn't that big. ;-)

The briefest glimpse of pauperism

On a day of utmost frustration -- what's that, dear reader? You figured those days were behind us? -- I'll begin with an amusement. An oddity landed on my group's desk today, requiring someone who could speak French, of all things. Immediately, all head's turned to the Canadian, forcing me to throw up my hands and admit that, no, not all Canadians can speak even passable French.

This, of course, reminded me of my "Newfie French" story, which, incidentally, has received more than a few laughs over here -- poor sods. (For those of you who're tired of it, the next paragraph may be of more interest to you.) I grew up in Newfoundland, taking French as a subject all the way through grade school -- not immersion, mind you; that was much rarer in my day. When the family moved to New Brunswick, I was about to go into my last year of high school, and that summer I went to my future guidance counselor for advice on the subjects I should take. When we got to French classes -- and I'll paraphrase here for effect -- he said that my Newfie French wouldn't cut it in Canada's only officially bilingual province; now there was no malice in it, but he was firm. Incidentally, two of the courses I did take, Typing and Computer Science, helped me immeasurably in the coming years, and it was the former much more so than the latter, if you can believe it. (Although, to this day, I can't hear "Use your time wisely" without thinking of my CS teacher; Mr. Fraser, was his name, I believe.)

One final tangent -- yes, this could really be classified as a series of tangents -- I did test in the 95th percentile -- and you're better off asking Wikipedia what that means; I was rubbish at Stats too (I love writing that so much more than "sucked" or "crap") despite taking it long after my French lessons were done -- for the aptitude to learn languages a few years ago. Shows ya what those tests are worth. ;-)

And now, on to the frustration of the day. You may recall that we were worried about ensuring that there were sufficient funds in the proper account when the rent came due. Turns out we forgot a key point in the many briefings we got: that's supposed to be taken care of by the liaison office here, with an appropriate amount (read: cost of living over here accounted for) deducted from my salary before we ever see it over here. I say "supposed to" very deliberately, because we found out today that the standing order surrounding that transfer was never processed by Barclays. (Note that this is separate from the standing order to transfer the funds from our account to the landlord's account, which is all ready to fire at the end of the month, and a big part of the reason for our subsequent panic.)

Anyway, by the end of the day, we received the good news that the second standing order had been processed, but there were a good many hours in between where we were frantically writing our banker back in Canada about increasing our daily withdrawal limit, envisioning many trips for cash in the hopes of having enough in the Barclays account by the end of the week. (Remember: our massive cheques are still in electronic limbo right now, out of our Canadian account and firmly mired in this God forsaken 'negotiation' process they have over here.) Combined with our hotel booking problems -- try to book a hotel in London with a Canadian credit card and you'll be asked to produce identity documents or have the reservation cancelled -- this week has left me feeling at best, unwanted, and at worst... Well, I won't use the 'T' word, but you know what I mean. We are still literally worth nothing in this country, and it's just so upsetting. Especially when we find out today that a wire transfer -- which takes a week to set-up, and so was of no use regarding our rent problem -- would've had the funds in our Barclays account in no time (according to someone who's just recently come over and has had that experience).

I need a vacation. Luckily, one's on the horizon, and I'm hoping to treat you all to some blog posts on location. Stay tuned!