A Greek Tragedy? Phyllo Pastry and Protests

Whizzing through the whitewashed maze of streets at lightning speed, the creaking of the careening bus competing with the anti-EU commentary of our very own ‘Zorba the Greek’ lookalike tour guide.

“Funny, the Germans are putting us in debt when they stole all that money under the Nazis. What if we asked for that money back? They occupied our homeland and now they think they can tell us what to do!”

Through the windows we see the early morning sun beginning to warm the cool stone pavements around us and we catch glimpses of open shirted men, heavy gold crucifixes catching the light as they resume their positions on flimsy chairs lining the streets. Hands constantly in motion weaving worn, decorative worry beads between their fingers weaving in a rhythmic pattern, these men seem to immediately launch into animated conversations which continue even as the condensation on their iced coffees mark the old wooden tables.

The juxtaposition of the tense political, social and economic climate alongside the almost timeless carefree nature of city life here and was a theme that would echo throughout our very eventful day in Athens.

So many images stand out in my mind when I think back to our day in the homeland of democracy. The peaceful beauty of Athenians taking their morning swim before a day of work, diving into the cool turquoise water right overlooked by their three and four storey city apartments. The whisper of the wind through the pillars of the mighty Parthenon, rising above Athens from its majestic perch on the Acropolis – the sheer genius of its scale, structure and white beauty mesmerizing even the rowdiest tourist crowds. And of course, the huge and impossibly sluggish fans above the restaurants, doing absolutely nothing to cool the perspiring patrons who, despite the heat, do not stop for even one second before tucking into their fresh, steaming spanakoptika. Yes, the only thing that cools you off here is the Mythos beer.

Ah, Athena. The noise, the traffic, the religious knick knacks, the shopping along the Plaka and the smiling Greek Orthodox priests in their flowing black robes. We walked the streets of the city attempting to soak it all up and make the most of our time here. One stop I had to take Gary to was, of course, Syntagma Square and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Years ago on a family holiday my brother had mortally insulted the Greek people by mocking the unique walking style and sheer pom-pom shoeness of the Greek guards at the Evzones. We simply had to return to the scene of the crime! Besides, any tourist worth their weight in salt has to pose with one of said guards in the blazing midday heat.

The changing of the guards was interesting but we sensed something more exciting was in store when an increasingly large number of riot police began erecting temporary barricades. Asking one of the journalists who had suddenly appeared on the scene what was going on, he informed us that Syntagma Square was about to play host to an anti-austerity measure protest by students against cuts in funding for universities. Now, we had mastered the art of free guided tours and it was time to take this up a gear – catching a little history in action, gratis.

The arrival of the protesters was heralded by an eerie quieting of the streets, as weary shopkeepers and newsstands in the vicinity began boarding up their windows and wares. From the bowls of the city raised voices began chanting and the sound of wooden sticks being beaten on cement carried across the square. Now, although I’ve organized a few protests on parliament in my day, when it comes to anti-austerity measure etiquette, I was at a bit of a loss. We didn’t know what to expect and we were met with a little more than we bargained for when the students began descending on Syntagma. These guys were showing up for duty - black balaclavas, gas masks, sticks and poles and raised fists in gloves. No jovial toyi toying and cheering, the anger and frustration was visceral. The riot police were also out in force by this stage and within a few minutes of a water bottle being thrown from the crowd we were met by a short sharp round of rubber bullets as a tear gas canister was lobbied into the masses.

After spending some time amongst the students hearing about their grievances and reading what we could from their banners, and darting across the street to miss any stray rubber bullets, we decided to walk back to the ship and leave unscathed. However, this was not before Gary was asked to hand over his camera by one of the protest organizers. Apparently they were concerned that his photos would be used by the police for identification purposes. Greek charades in a protest gathering under pressure is not easy, but Gary somehow managed to charm his way out of this situation too.

On our way back from the city I was struck by the sight of resigned and dejected shopkeepers slowly coming back to their shop windows after the protestors had passed. With wipers and buckets of soapy water in hand, they seemed to wash off the graffiti as if on autopilot – this spectacle was obviously a regular occurrence. ‘Wanted’ posters of the faces of Greek parliamentarians who had voted for financial bail-out packages lined the intersections, and the feeling one got that day was that this incredible place where the theories of power to the people had emerged was home to a population who now felt marginalized and voiceless.

Some of today’s most current event stories where playing themselves out against the backdrop of ancient ruins belonging to one of the oldest civilizations in the world.

'Leave the guns, take the cannoli'

Sicily - salty royal blue surf and searing heat pelting down on dusty piazzas and domed churches. The birthplace of cannoli and Mafioso, arriving on this sun kissed island is like being transported to a scene of the ‘old country’ in a Mafia movie.

Indeed Messina, the town of our Sicilian stop, was the actual location for the filming of ‘The Godfather 2’. So much of the timeworn buildings, stereotypical residents and ‘rough around the edges’ atmosphere conjured up vivid images of a forgotten era.

With most of the ship’s guests, over half of whom hailed from Italia, still on board the ship and packing the pool and gym areas to maximum capacity, spending a day in Messina was a chance to step out of the luxurious sophistication and crowds of a cruise bubble and into an authentic and humble world. We wandered the streets, curiously peering into every grocer, café and deli along the way and taking in the lazy hazy afternoon ambience of a region that holds so much mystery and infamy.

Despite our secret wish of stumbling upon a car chase complete with large shiny black vehicles or a shoot-out between men in tailored black suits and fedoras, the town was rather unassuming and relaxed. I was intrigued by the exotic mix of Moorish, Venetian, Spanish and Italian influences in the architecture, religion and cultural life of the island, not to mention the dialect, and would truly love to explore more of this area in the future.

Carrying the striking mental pictures of exquisitely delicate and gold flecked mosaics of Madonna and child that bathed the roof and beams of the main basilica, Messina was a relatively monotone detour sprinkled with moments of remarkable beauty and perplexity.

A note on European parking

After nearly two months of driving on the wrong side of the road less travelled, through France, Spain and Italy, we have come to some incredibly profound and universally powerful conclusions.

The key to road safety in Europe can be summed up in three deceptively simple words: hard, fast and dangerous. With lots of swerving. Lots.

Now it some of these tips may seem counterintuitive, but here are some of my top driving/parking/ vehicle points to keep in mind. Thank me later:

1. Paying for parking is for suckers – it’s expensive, your car will get dented and it’s harder to find than hen’s teeth and unicorns. There is never any excuse to pay for parking in Europe: just pull over into an alley, put on your hazards and head on out. Everyone’s doing it?

2. Nudging the vehicles in front and behind you to get that perfect parallel position is a special kind of art. Master it immediately.
3. I recommend Smart cars, which in Europe can be parked horizontally and vertically into any roadside space.

4. Driving lanes are mere suggestions and when rounding corners on blind rises, feel free to pop on over to the other side for a bit (this is especially popular along coastal corniches).

5. Speed limits are minimum recommendations; the only real limitation is your imagination and whatever horsepower you’re packing.

6. Hooting is obligatory and seems to be a cheery way of greeting fellow motorists.

7. Do not trust scruffy men wearing takkies at toll booths. They will rob you, and yes I speak from experience.

8. Violent hand gestures are a must and really do add to the calm and soothing environment around you.

9. Stopping for pedestrians is frowned upon, under any and all circumstances.

10. Vespas have right of way, always and no matter what.

11. And if you have more than one or two pieces of hand luggage, do not even think of hiring a Fiat 500. (If by some evil stroke of karma you do end up with a Fiat 500, quickly swop it out during a beer break at the rental car place and do not, I repeat, do not look back).

You're welcome!

Just Cruising!

Okay, the magnitude of the sheer awesomeness of this little adventure is now getting obscene. With immense thanks to our travel guru extraordinaire and the woman known to many simply as ‘The Mother’, our very own Janno, our hopes of somehow hopping past Sicily, Greece and Turkey were filled beyond our wildest expectations. Yes you guessed it, enter an Eastern Mediterranean cruise aboard the ‘Navigator of the Seas’!

Gary and I love cruising. I’ve had the privilege of cruising with my family on previous occasions and across various cruise lines (Celebrity, Oceania and Royal Caribbean) whilst Gary got his first taste of it on our Celebrity South American honeymoon adventure earlier this year (which only whet his appetite for more!). Cruising combines all of our favourite things in one sinfully luxurious ship – for me, meal times which blur into each other, a daily rotation of exotic destinations and dirty Martinis as far as the eye can see; for Gary, bingo, bingo and did I mention bingo? We were both so excited to jump on board at Civitavecchia. What a week it’s gonna be!

Roma, La Citta Eterna

Roma, non basta una vita! A lifetime is not long enough for Rome … but we definitely packed a lifetime worth of memories and experiences in the dreamy week we spent there, in a hotel right around the corner from the spectacular Trevi Fountain.

Surviving the challenge of handing Luigi back at Leonardo da Vinci airport and taking a shuttle into the city, we arrived on a steamy Sunday and both the temperature and our love of this Eternal City just kept rising from there.

The Spanish Steps, the Coliseum, the Island of Tiber, the Vaticano, Piazza Barberini, Piazza Venezia and Circus Maximus and so much more. We lazily made our way through the cafes and gelati shops of Trastevere, and took in the charm of relatively unknown spots like the suburb of Monti. We sat in ristoranti near the Parliament and watched politicians and protests come and go. Each area of this city takes your breath away with its juxtaposition of places made famous by romantic ‘dolce vita’ era films against ancient Roman ruins exuding power and greatness even today. Modern and the ancient past live and breathe today side by side in Rome, and the pizzazz and personality of its locals give the city such flair.

Some special moments here included taking an evening stroll to the gorgeous Piazza Narvonna to find Bellini’s magnificent fountains lit up with bright colours and smoke machines, with the shards of light dancing to the sound of Italian opera. Every night in Rome during the time we were there, end of August, was packed fill with incredible and mostly free events and performances. We caught the end of an opera and dance performance on the Spanish Steps, just in time to view the incredible fireworks display here which celebrated the Italian holiday of Ferragusto or Assumption Day. We spent an evening at the outdoor cinema festival, which took place along the sides of the river, watching Italian films under the stars and enjoyed the bars and nightclubs along the banks which had relocated here from the city centre for the summer. Shabbat was spent under the shade of the trees lining Villa Borghese, and we saw our week in Roma end by standing on the steps near Via Popolo and watching the pink and purple hues of sunset rise above the roofs, domes and monuments of this city.

I particularly loved the Pantheon, such an ancient building that still remains a marvel of engineering and ingenuity today. The resting place of famous artist raphael, the Pantheon has so many layers of history - Roman, Christian and modern Italian. We also spent time in the Jewish area of Rome, with its beautiful synagogue and chequered history.

One of the amazing moments Gary and I shared in Roma was sitting together on the pavement along one of the avenues cutting through Villa Borghese's gardens, cheering on the local inline skating crew and their Saturday tricks and performances. A motley crew if there ever was one, the young teens flaunted their strength by jumping over beacons and twirling between the cones to the blaring sound of dance music, whilst the older men skated under ropes precariously balanced just above the street itself. The showmanship, camaraderie and competition between these old and new friends was quite something. What a wonderful hobby and a quite touching spectacle to watch!

Napoli

You cannot help but feel alive in Napoli – the traffic, the noise, the garbage, the energy. You either love it or hate it, and we absolutely loved it! One of the world’s most misunderstood places, we had been warned to brace ourselves before our visit and I must say that I was completely charmed by it all. From the derelict churches and monuments, all spray painted and burnt out with vegetation growing from its roofs, to the dirty and winding alleys with colourful washing lines strung up above, Naples is infectious.

Of course, we loved the day we took a leisurely drive along the Amalfi coast, unable to take our eyes off the gorgeous towns and villages along its cliffs such as Sorrento, Positano and Amalfi. We sampled the roadside ‘granita’ stands with their limone wares of the most delicious fresh lemon ices. We went into the mountains and found the art and music oasis of Ravella, and spent a very hot but very very interesting day wandering the ruins of Pompeii with our trusty audio guides. But it is Napoli that for me deserved its own post.

Of all the quirky and amazing things that happened there, one story stands out for us. On a mission to track down what we had been told was the best pizza place in the whole city, an obvious must do in the birthplace of pizza, we found ourselves standing outside a very closed pizzeria shut down for the August holidays. As we were contemplating our next move, determined to watch someone stick a pizza margarita in an oven, a very elegantly dressed woman marched up to us and said with great authority, ‘Come with me, I’ll show you were the locals go’. With no arguments, especially after we found out she was Sicilian, she grabbed Gary by the arm and next thing we knew we were following her and her friend and their oversized designer shopping bags down alley after alley in search of the perfect pizza.

Just at the point where I started imagining that we were going to be the next storyline on an episode of ‘Banged Up Abroad’, we were led around the corner and confronted with a massive crowd of people pouring out onto the street in front of a traditional pizzeria and fritteria. This was a people watching opportunity with no equivalent, and we spent ages there gawking at the crowds queuing for croquettes, pizza and all sorts of other fired goodies, the dynamics at the pizzeria itself and the speed, agility and skill with which the margaritas were made. The smell alone was heaven itself!

And what to say of the Neapolitan? The people here have a unique attitude and stride which can only be called 'swagger'. The tight white t-shirts and very short skirts, the tanned and toned bodies with record amounts of gelled hair and thick eyeliner. Distinctive, passionate, absolutely crazy drivers ... Gary and I fit right in!

Amalfi

Amalfi, Amalfi, Amalfi. Rocky, raw, expansive – unruly vineyards and fishing villages of terracotta hues. A truly stunning part of the world that has no comparison.

… and the hairiest drive of my life. I took hold of Luigi as we departed Pulicaro and headed towards Napoli and the Amalfi coast. Besides for being scammed out of our money by a ‘helpful’ crook standing at one of the many tollgates (you know, as you do), the route had been relatively uneventful until we hit the outskirts of Naples. Trying to negotiate the uneven and ‘under construction’ highway flanked by Valentino Rossi on my left and with taunting orange beacons on my right, attempting to respect the temporary speed limit of 60kph (when everyone else was doing 130 plus!) was enough to bring happy hour half a day forward. Or so I thought, until I realized quite how extreme things could get as we passed Naples and got onto the coastal Amalfi road suspended between the mountains and the sea. In this world, lanes are ignored, overtaking into oncoming traffic to edge just one car ahead is the norm and hooting and rude hand gestures is encouraged. This gives new meaning to the words ‘road rage’ folks.

Now don’t get me wrong, our GPS had been a lifeline on more than one occasion during this trip and Chiara, with her nasal Italian accent, was paying her way on the journey. But good old TomTom doesn’t stand a chance when it comes to the backstreets of this part of the world. Unable to recognize the difference between streets and teeny tiny Vespa pathways, following Chiara can lead one to a fair amount of peril. And so it was that we passed by a sign, at some speed I might add, which had some curious red numbers on it and that we later understood indicated the maximum width of the upcoming road. Well we were a bit late on that lesson and soon found ourselves down an alley which was so tight that even the turned in wing-mirrors were being engraved by the stone walls on either side. With no chance of reversing back through the winding maze, I had no option but to keep moving forward and hope to the heavens that at some point we would find a driveway or exit or even a POSTAGE STAMP to at least turn the car around. As my claustrophobia began to rear its ugly head, Gary managed to exit the vehicle through the window and catch the attention of a man sitting on the top of one of these stone walls (What the dickens he was doing on the wall we will never know. Perhaps it’s a local sport, watching ridiculous tourists abandon rental cars in bicycle alleys? Who cares why, I have never been so grateful in all my life!) After laughing at our predicament and mimicking a scooter for some time, he kindly offered to open his gate and let us turn around in his garden. Just in the nick of time, as I had now all but suspended the entire car in the middle of this paper thin street. Reversing in front of this delightful gentleman’s entire family having their Sunday lunch, we handed out some SA key rings as a gesture of goodwill and rode the clutch all the way to our agritourismo.

Now this family-owned agritourismo, ladies and gentlemen, was unlike no other. A bright yellow little house from the 1800s perched directly on the corner of a turning blind rise, with its little farm of tomato plants and vineyards (and the cow, which later kept the entire neighbourhood awake due to being in heat for two days – who even knew cows did that?) spilling out haphazardly down the hill. With billowing smoke and the overpowering fumes of our burning clutch signalling our arrival, a worried son and manager Salvatore rushed out to greet us. Strapping Salvatore, and his slightly more robust brother Angelo who was the cook, were both ginger-haired and the splitting image not only of each other but also, strangely enough, of the hand-painted ceramic angels above our bed. Kinda creepy, but cute.

These two young guys run the agritourismo in the most sincere and charming way, along with the rest of their family who each have a role in the running of the restored house. Being the English speakers, we got to chat and get to know Angelo and Sal, who took to sitting with us each day at the end of our breakfast to help us plan the day’s adventure. On Friday evening they even cooked a homemade Italian dinner for the guests, complete with their farm’s limoncello, marmalade and pastries. Sitting with Gary having a drink on their veranda under the grapes of the ripe vines above, with a stunning view of the sun setting over the Amalfi coast, was a very special memory. However, even this perfect moment in time was not without the quirks we’d come to expect from our agritourismo, as the vapours of the neighbour’s clutch in reverse were only just overpowered by the burning of the electric fly trap and drunken guests at the party next door swiftly rammed their car into the wall of the agritourismo.

Never a dull moment. NOW its a party!

Lazy in Lazio

Meeting Marco and Chiara for the first time was like being reunited with old friends. This young city couple exchanged the hustle and bustle of Roma and Milano for the peace and beauty of the country. Having converted an old sprawling farmhouse on their working farm (which produces everything from milk, eggs, jams and breads to homemade wine) into a lovely agritourismo with a handful of small ‘rooms’ or little apartments, they have managed to create an experience which truly feels like you’re living with an Italian family for a few nights. From the old wooden cabinets and worn rugs to the communal wood fire oven with its smoky scent every evening, Pulicaro was a surprisingly authentic experience.

We stayed in Lazio as our stop between Umbria and Amalfi, and adopted the little nearby town as our own – complete with our favourite supermercato and a series of crazy landmarks for navigational purposes. We spent a fantastic and lazy Shabbat with a cheese and antipasti picnic under a large canopy tree in the agritourismo’s garden and toured the surrounding area, even visiting an incredible historic village that is under threat of literally falling off the side of a cliff. This hanging wonder on a corroding hilltop in the middle of a ravine was something neither of us had ever seen before! Sunday night dinner was also a special treat and Marco and Chiara cooked an entirely homemade Italian feast with all the guests sitting down together with them at their dining room table to enjoy. During the meal we got chatting to the young Swiss and Lithuanian varsity students who had been staying on the farm as part of a working holiday - their perspectives on life in Italy and their home countries, and the future of the youth Europe, was fascinating.

During our time in Lazio, we celebrated an exceptional milestone – our first year anniversary! We both took time the evening before to write each other letters and poems and Gary painted, and the next day he organized for us to go to the natural thermal springs in the mountains close to Pulicaro. We spent the day bathing in the healing and refreshing waters and soaking up the rejuvenating air of this distinctive place.

Taking the time to read, write, just sit together and have long and passionate conversations, surrounded by the simple natural beauty of Italian farmland, was slow living at its best. The only thing better was Gary’s home-cooked pasta in our little apartment …

Pace e bene - Assisi

After leaving Cecilia’s farm outside Greve-in-Chianti, we spent a night outside the Tuscan village of Castellina and then headed south towards one of my favourite places on earth – the home of St Francesco, or St Francis, Assisi. This oasis of inclusive spirituality truly lives up to its name as the ‘city of peace’. Assisi attracts people of all religions, ethnicities and creeds and brings them together in this UNESCO World Heritage Site on the ancient hill of mystical Mount Subito.

The image of this town which always comes to mind for me is turning down a cobbled stone pathway, pink bougainvillea tumbling out of the apartment windows above, and walking into the billowing robes of a group of sandaled-Franciscan monks hurrying to one of the historic churches. The haunting echo of church bells and the sound of chanting fill the heavens here, and a respect for the holiness of this area an d each other seems to really have an effect on visitors to the town.

With only GPS coordinates to guide us and getting completely lost on the way there, we thought we found our accommodation when we staggered across an old and eccentric abandoned manor house. Thankfully, the broken windows and doors hanging off their hinges was not destined to be our accommodation. We stayed in a truly special agritrourismo, which consisted of a group of ancient buildings on the sole hillock of the flat plain which extends between Assisi and Perugia, two historically powerful and competing towns. This hillock, located as it is by the foot of Mount Subito, was used by the Assisi army as a defensive base for many of their conflicts with the Perugi and the agritourismo is made up of the look-out tower and storage house from the 1100s, and with barracks from 1200s converted into the main house. Gary and I stayed in the historic barn (yes yes, very apt I know). It was fantastic to have such a remarkable base from which to explore this area for three nights, and we really made ourselves feel at home. From spending time in the still and sun-speckled forests and mountain sanctuary on Mount Subito where St Francis and his Franciscan monks meditated on nature and G-d to just picking a dusty country road and following it into the hills (which happened to be a pilgrimage route that St Francis took from Assisi to Gubbio), we savoured and rejoiced in every second.

As I’ve mentioned before, a big part of the agritourismo experience is partaking in the local produce from the farm itself or the surrounding community, and with a vineyard and wine shop right down the road form where we were staying, we had to take a look. SAIO has vineyards across the plains and right up to the foothills of Assisi, and we were lucky enough to have a private olive oil tasting there with one of the sisters running the estate and shop.

We really soaked up the days here, basking in a warm calm that the rich and spiritual air seemed to permeate everything with. The history, the transcendent air and the delicious delicacies all worked their magic on us and it was very very hard to drive away … but Lazio beckoned.

Under the Toscana sun

So we pick up the tales of our travels from the Sunday we left Firenze, piling into the fully extended boot of Luigi (have I mentioned how we secured this delight of a vehicle? A 2 door microwave on wheels had been brought to us in the Europcar lot of Venice’s Marco Polo airport. It didn’t even take three blinks of Gary’s doe-eyes before we had talked our way into a free upgrade which could actually hold us AND all our luggage. An essential) and hitting the Italian highways to head into the heartland.

It was here that we stumbled across the five most useful syllables ever created – Agritourismo.

Mostly family owned and run B&Bs which are a combination of a historic restored (sometimes) home and a working farm, these little gems are scattered across the Italian countryside and provide a unique, memorable and authentic lodging experience for any traveller. Most Agritourismo are off the beaten track (literally, on dusty white roads over hill and dale) and produce many of their own local goods which are on sale to the guests (everything from honey and marmalade to cheeses, milk, fresh fruit and veg and even limoncello).

Our first foray into the Agritourismo world was in Greve-in-Chianti, a gorgeous Tuscana town in the Florence surrounds. From here we planned to find two or three spots in the country to stay at for at least a few nights each, the first one being in Tuscany of course, before our deadline of handing the hire car back in Rome a few weeks later. Granted our first day of ‘slow living’ got off to a slightly stressed start as the sun began to set on Sunday afternoon and we still hadn’t found a place to stay. Leaving the town square armed with the lengthy list of farmhouses in the area, but with no idea of their availability, we veered off into the hills and fortuitously found the wonderful farm of Cecilia with her two cute dogs Rocky and Luna.

This farm was everything from a Hollywood produced movie on Tuscany and more. Creaky old gates covered in ivy set against crumbling stone walls. The warm sun illuminating views of tumbling hills and vineyards as far as the eye could see. The smell of the garden’s ripe tomatoes wafting into the beautiful cottage where we were to stay, with lace lined windows and worn shutters. Overstuffed and embroidered bed linen on an enormous wrought iron framed bed and a vintage chest of drawers beside it. A gorgeous fireplace and even homemade sherry by the bed. Cecilia welcomed us with open arms and a kiss, introducing us to the dogs and showing us to our rooms after inviting us to help ourselves to the veggies in her garden. Stunning!

After putting our things down we headed down the little valley to the hilltop village across from Cecilia’s farm – an entirely walled stone hamlet that seemed to me to be a time travelling portal into the early parts of last century. Drinks overlooking the fiery sun casting dusty hues on the horizon were the perfect end to a wonderful day.

Musings on super glue

It was during a conversation about our latest lifestyle philosophy (day drinking as a way of life, for those of you who were wondering) that we discovered that my darling husband had super glued his Nokia cellphone together so that it no longer slides open to reveal the QWERTY keyboard underneath.

It’s a fascination with superglue the likes of which I haven’t seen since my Dad.

I simply cannot tell you how many backstreet alleys across Europe we have walked down in search of this cohesive substance. Gary ordered it as a special delivery to the local Spar in Villefranhce and promptly glued his own fingers together. This current mishap, however, is not something I can fix with hot water and a nail file ...

Our 'Slow Living' Philosophy

Europe is a trap, a siren calling you towards her from the shores. There is more to see and do and experience here than can ever be done in one three month long meander. And yet the beauty, mystery and allure of this place and its people pulls you in with every step and makes you attempt to experience it all nonetheless.

During the time we spent across France we really put in a solid effort, packing in as much sight-seeing, museum-traipsing and city-hopping as was physically possible. Don’t get me wrong, we also had plenty of time to truly savour the moment and appreciate every day, but following a week of training through Switzerland we decided that we needed more opportunities for quiet contemplation of life and our place in it.

Italy was the perfect place to slow down the pace, put the guidebooks to one side and simply live la dolce vita. And the sweet life it has truly been … waking up not to alarm clocks but the sound of a farm stirring to life, letting lunches linger for an hour or two (like the locals here do even in the big cities) and taking time to really converse with the people around us and adopt our own little grocery, café etc. It was about turning our focus away from the destinations and towards the journeys each day brought.

We are currently so astute at slow living that most of the time our efforts cannot be easily distinguished from sleeping, and we have regularly found ourselves in states of such severe relaxation and oneness with the universe that one of us had checked the other’s pulse. Joking aside, slow living is not about doing nothing and needs to be spiced with fun, crazy, memorable moments and we have been blessed with many of these too.

The next few blog posts will do their best to give you a glimpse into the last two weeks of slow living across the countryside of Tuscany, Umbria, Lazio and Campania.

Embracing a detour of a different sort ...

Ciao a tutti!

We interrupt our regular 'Embracing the Detours' chronicles of Alana and Gary trekking through Europe to bring you news of a detour of a different sort ...

A love of adventure and globetrotting obviosuly runs in the family (shout out to Jan and Al) as my very awesome and very brave brother, Benjamin Pugh-Jones, and his equally crazy and awesome mate Martin Zietsman, or 'Dutch', are less than a week away from throwing caution (and technology ... and modernity ... and ABS braking) to the wind and taking on the untamed wilderness in a second hand tuk tuk across Sri Lanka as part of the famous Lanka Challenge 2011.

The Lanka Challenge (for more info go to http://www.largeminority.com/) is a combination of timed legs and challenges, where teams from all over the world compete against each other in a race across Sri Lanka in standard issue Indian made tuk tuks. The Lanka Challenge supports its local partners and much of the proceeds generated go to the race's partners, the Red Cross Society of Sri Lanka and Land Owners Restore Rainforests in Sri Lanka.

What an epic adventure! We wish these two intrepid travellers the best of luck - show 'em what South Africans are made of! I only wish we were going with you (tuk tuk sherpers maybe????)

x

A Weekend in Firenze

Battling to tear ourselves away from remarkable Verona, we eventually managed to depart and launched ourselves head first into the picture-perfect countryside of Tuscany.

Tuscany is truly something to behold – the definition of Italy’s dolce vita or ‘the sweet life’.

However, with Shabbat on the horizon we headed straight for our weekend stop – a place that surpasses all the clichés and incessant praise. The cradle of the Renaissance, the home of Michelangelo and the Medici family and a unique concentration of humanity’s masterpieces – it could only be Firenze.

Overwhelmed by all the incredible places to visit and art to absorb, my favourite memory of Florence was the view from our hotel window – overlooking Santa Croce (I felt like I had been transposed onto a page of A Room With A view) with the bells tolling and the dusty pink sun sinking behind the blue and lavender sky.

We did it all, don’t you doubt us for a second: window shopping along the jewellery stores of the ancient Ponte Vecchio; running through the deserted alleyways and turning a corner to be literally bowled over by the scale, magnificence and the sheer detail of the Duomo (AND catching a free tour in English, to boot); walking between the statues of the great in the Uffizi; gate-crashing yet ANOTHER wedding shoot in the grand Piazza Della Signoria; taking a seat and catching our breath in the Palazzo Strozzi and gaping at the beauty of the Chiesa di Orsanmichele. We also rubbed the legendary snout of the piglet statue at Mercato Nuovo, with its leather market enarby, and clapped with encouragement for random buskers outside the Basillica di Santa Maria Novella, whilst walking ever so slowly so as not to miss a glimpse in the Basilica di Santa Croce (where Machiavelli, Michelangelo, Galileo and Dante amongst others, have all taken their earthly rest).

We also visited the impressive shul of Florence, and had a most interesting, open and inclusive Shabbat dinner with the Chabad there (housed in an Evangelical building with many of the guests being non-Jewish). Of course, we brought a little of our own entertainment to the Friday night by getting absolutely, completely and hopelessly lost in the back streets of Florence for ages until some poor young guy in a yarmulke happened to walk past us and we literally accosted him for directions (he, in good turn, sent us on a wild goose chase but we got there eventually).

My only word of caution for this great city is to the picnickers – armed with our Shabbos lunch, we thought we would find a manicured and cultivated part of Florence’s parks to have a lunch together in the sunshine. Surprisingly, all of the green spaces we came across in our 2 hour walk of the city needed an entrance fee and ticket, so just keep this in mind! We also saw quite a few young tourists being reprimanded by the Carabineri for taking their shoes off in public spaces - proper ‘decorum’ is highly valued and policed here.

Romance in Venezia and Verona …

Ciao Bella!

Giro d’ Italia. We are currently embarking on around three blissful weeks in one of the most beautiful countries of the world – Italy! And I am beyond privileged to be doing it all together with my incredible husband. Perfection!

After tumbling out of our last SSB train in a chaotic pile of luggage, packets and backpacks and kissing our much-loved Swiss Passes goodbye, we looked up from the station platform and were immediately grabbed by the bustling and intoxicating sights of Venezia – an exotic gateway into Italy.

Walking out of the train station in Venice gives a traveller one of the best first impressions of a city from a transport hub that I have ever had the pleasure of seeing, opening as it does right onto the main waterway of the city. Glistening sunshine on the water, exuberant crowds of people and ancient Moorish arches all hit you with full, breath-taking impact as you step out of the building and begin standing in line for your water pass. Can this all be real?

Venice completely enchanted us. We loved the walkways and the array of unique and beautiful bridges; the shape, colours and facades of the mysterious buildings and the quirky boat drivers and gondoliers. The cool pastel colours of Venice at dusk, with the sight of San Marco Square, its striking tower and the gilded tips of the Basilica, was the perfect light to become acquainted with the city on our first stroll. Everything seemed to glow in a softer hue.

Our last evening there was spent standing under a shared umbrella, in the humid summer drizzle, facing the deserted Square and listening to both the lapping waters making the gondolas fall against each other and the sounds of a jazz band playing a haunting ‘Time to Say Goodbye’. So Special.

Our second stop in Italy was no less magical – Verona. A city well known for the timeless romance of its famous ‘star-crossed lovers’, we learnt so much more about its fascinating past from a city walking tour that highlighted its history of occupation (Roman, Venetian, French and Austrian) and ruling family feuds. We also saw first-hand the damage down to Verona in recent times, by retreating German troops. Of course we did indulge in some of the ‘Romeo and Juliet’ pilgrimage too, writing our names on the specially designated area at Juliet’s home and touching her statue to ensure, as legend has it, luck in love for eternity.

It was during this first week in Italy that Gary treated me to two of the most romantic experiences anyone could ask for – a trip for two around Venice and under the Bridge of Sighs in a gondola and seeing my first opera, La Traviata, performed at night in Verona’s ancient Roman Teatro. The sights, sounds and intensity of these two special events will stay with me for many years to come …

Hanging from the Heavens

As those of you who know me will attest, I’m not the world’s biggest daredevil when it comes to heights. Okay, I’m not even a mediocre daredevil. The words I am about to pen regarding our life and death experience are indeed a living testament to how much I love my husband and all that I would do to make him happy.

One of Gary’s most looked forward to experiences in Switzerland was to get up close and personal with the Alps. However, having missed the dizzying heights of training to the top of the Jungfrau due to rain, cloud and winds whilst we were in Interlaken, we were very keen to seize our last and thankfully sunny morning in Zermatt and tackle the mighty Matterhorn in the best way we could – the Glacial Paradise Cable Car.

Now I must clarify a few things at this stage: firstly, by ‘we’ I mean Gary .You see, I have had some previous experience of Alpine cable cars before and I knew a little of what we were in for and; secondly, by ‘Paradise’ they mean hell. Literally. Whoever runs that contraption should be arrested for false advertising.

So, with Gary chomping at the bit and me a little less so, we set out to find the start of the cable car at the very top of Zermatt, paid for our tickets and preceded to bundle up as best we could for two South Africans who packed for a European summer adventure. I already knew that my Woolies secret socks and my trusty pair of jeans, rapidly and worryingly splitting in the crotch area, were woefully inadequate for the task that lay ahead but the look of sheer excitement and anticipation on Gary’s face was enough to bolster me and get me on the car. Time to put on the big girl panties Pugh-Jones, let’s go ...

The leisurely cable car which approached the isolated ramp (maybe a sign Lan?) where we were waiting to begin the journey rapidly sped up as soon we stepped foot inside it. This little cubicle of glass, plastic and chrome then catapulted us into the heavens as soon as the doors closed shut, and before I knew it the world had fallen from under me and we were climbing into the skies at a 45 degree angle. I will also mention here that I do not appreciate the sensation of being carried high above forests, rivers, hamlets of chalets and jagged, rocky mountain peaks attached to a cable which I cannot see.

Things got worse very very quickly.

It was only as we hit the first connecting pole, shuddering what I had by now termed our ‘glass cage of emotion’ up and down vigorously, that the full meaning of a 45 minute cable car ride into the glaciers of the Matterhorn hit home. We were 2 minutes 30 into this thing and the rising panic of an anxiety attack was already crawling out of my chest and up my neck.

Just breathe, just breathe.

It was here that Gary first turned to grab his camera and take a pic of Zermatt flying into the distance behind us. My voice, coming from a deep, dark place within and summoning all the venom of a B-Grade character in an exorcist movie, hissed, “Do not move in the cable car. Keep very still”.

Suddenly a glacial breeze whipped up into a frenzy around us, and our hurtling cable car began swaying from side to side.

It was at this point that Gary shared the truly ‘good’ news, “Lan, did you know this is the highest cable car in Europe!” Oh wonderful Gary, just dandy my dear.

4000 meters above sea level.

Minus 9 degrees celcius.

32km winds.

And I’m in a bloody flying TUPPERWARE BOX!

But the story doesn’t end here ladies and gentlemen. After arriving at the so-called ‘Glacial Paradise’ and freezing our little cardigans off in the admittedly spectacular snowy views, we had a quick coffee break in the panoramic café and began to make our way back to the dreaded cars and towards solid earth in Zermatt.

Unfortunately, there were only two ways back down the mountain – snowboots and hiking (that’s a big ‘can’t do’ right there folks) and that damned cable car. The sheer terror in the pit of your stomach when, having very ungraciously braved a very hairy ride up, you realize that the whole endeavour must be repeated downwards - simply indescribable. And to really up the ante, upon climbing back into the cable car from the ramp a whole host of sirens went beserk in perfect synchronicity and the entire operation ground to a halt.

Everyone else seemed to be super relaxed or on another planet, as I looked around wildly and urgently gestured to the young teenager manning the control room, who had his feet up on the desk and his iPod in his ears. Just as suddenly as the whole mechanism had stopped it all began humming to life again. By now it was a tad too late for me to launch myself out of the closing car and so, freaked out and armed with the bad omen of the halting cable, we set off downwards to skim the slopes.

This time the earth below us, serrated icy peaks and desolate volcanic valleys, was not falling beneath us but rushing up towards me at a rate of knots. Looking to the horizon, I could not see anything but blue skies in my peripheral vision. Awe-inspiring stuff.

However, at the highest point of the ride, and on cue with the wind that was beginning to build up again, the unthinkable happened.

OUR CABLE CAR STOPPED. Dead still. I could hear a pin drop.

I could write novels on the grisly intricacies of what transpired next and will try not to do so here, save to say that there was a lot of heavy breathing and white knuckles on my part; Gary kept trying to tell me how everything would be okay (his increasingly croaky voice giving the game away) and the whole scenario was repeated no less than 3 more times as the cable car kept lurching forward and grinding to a halt – each time making the damn thing sway harder than a mambo dancer.

For the love of all that is holy. I just kept thinking, “And we paid in Euros for this???”

By the time we got to dry land, feeling more than a little wobbly, and I had got off my knees from kissing the linoleum floor of the cable car ticket office, I had already tried to register complaint and the need for an inquiry. Mam, if I had known that the cable car might stop and not to be alarmed by this, then I would have mentally prepared myself for it!
With a splitting migraine from using the sheer power of my mind to keep us attached to the cable and moving downwards at a slow smooth pace, and with Gary also looking a little shattered, we walked the streets of Zermatt looking for gluwien.

Wont be doing that again in a hurry …

Cheese and Chocolate - A week in Switzerland!

Switzerland, the land of Toblerone and cowbells; snowy peaks and chalets; a place where people dunk chunks of bread into boiling hot pots of melted cheese ... in short, my happy place! This country is an eclectic mix of German, French and Italian influences but with a truly unique and Swiss flavour all of its own!

We spent a whirlwind week training across the amazing countryside, an incredibly easy and convenient way to see the breath-taking views and towns here. Below is a brief description of where we meandered:

Montreux – home to a famous jazz festival and perched on the far side of the gorgeous Lake Geneva. We stayed in a very old fashioned and quirky mansion which had been converted into a hotel, and visited the amazing Chillon Castle with its vivid history of conquest and kings that really brought Swiss history to life. I will never forget standing next to Gary in the fading light of the sun setting over the lake, surrounded by ducks and the lapping waters.

Luzern – a gorgeous old city with its iconic wooden and flower-adorned Chapel Bridge and Water Tower. It was here that we took another petit train to learn of the city’s past and nearly set an entire wooden fondue restaurant alight.

Zurich – a day trip here initially made us feel like we’d entered the Twilight Zone, so quiet and pristine was the city (and with no places selling food in sight!). However, we soon got our groove back quickly though and loved walking down the main Bahnhofstrasse, window-shopping and tasting the magnificent chocolate which you could buy by the gram. We strolled along the water, exploring the narrow alleys of the artists’ district and admiring the stained glass windows of Chagall.

Interlaken – arriving back here after my two previous visits was a major experience in de ja vu and I am almost sure that we stayed in the same hotel I had been in with my family nearly ten years ago. Interlaken has a smaller ‘feel’, nestled between the mountains. The Jungfrau is just a train ride away but, due to the inclement weather, we decided to take to the nearby lakes and had a wonderful ride on an old-fashioned paddle steamer which gave us incredible views of the powerful waterfalls and traditional hamlets dotting the shores.

Zermatt – a mountain wonderland in the shadow of the awe-inspiring Matterhorn, this town with its pedestrian-only centre and wooden chalet buildings gave us a very special Shabbat. We spent quite a bit of time in the Matterhorn Museum and walking through the mountain climbers’ memorial in the town cemetery – a humbling experience which chronicles the bravery and tragedy of young lives lost, as well as the power of nature.

Lucarno – perched on the edge of Lake Maggiore, we spent two days in this town and the Italian part of Switzerland (although don’t make the same mistake we did and ask where to get Swiss food, we were told very strongly that the people in this region have Italian heritage and blood). It was a great bridge to the next part of our trip, Italy, as the food, language and people were so Italian-influenced. We took a very old funicular ride up to the mountains above Locarno and visited a holy site where visions of the Virgin Mary had appeared many decades ago. The gorgeous grottos and views of the lake from this part of town were spectacular!

An Alpine Themed Exit

Onwards and literally upwards as we tackled the great French Alps with all the steely determination and skill of a Tour de France cyclist. Gary took the wheel for this part of the journey and masterfully kept his cool through the chicanes from the coast to the mountains as we began our trek towards our next destination, Switzerland.

I believe I may have been to blame for leading us off the GPS recommended path, for most of our trip from Villefranche to Briancon was along a uneven route where we scarcely saw another vehicle, besides for a loner biker or cyclist. This was some of the most hair-raising but spectacular driving we had ever seen, as the landscape changed from mountainous sheer drops and wooded hamlets below to rocky moonscape, complete with glacial lakes, as we reached a dizzying height of around 2700 meters above sea level.

We spent a wonderful Shabbat in a large self-catering ski apartment just outside the walled old city of Briancon, and marvelled at the incredible ancient fortifications in the landscape around us. We then spent our final night in France in Annecy, one of the 2014 Winter Olympic bid-cities, with its network of freezing cold but crystal clear canals and pedestrianized centre.

Dropping off the General was a traumatic experience, not least because it took us nearly an hour to find the drop off point on the French side of the Geneva Airport and we mistakenly crossed the Swiss-French border innumerable times. That old car had been good to us and in turn we had put it through its paces and showed it much of France.

3742kms travelled.

1000’s of calories consumed.

I love the traditions, the food, the language, the people, the culture but most of all the pride of France.

Au Revoir!

Now it's a party ...

We soon headed out of the Cote D’ Azur with heavy hearts, but not after one of the strangest nights in living memory.

Villefranche celebrates Bastille Day the night before on July 13th, where the decorated and brightly lit up local boats do a circuit around the harbour and throw carnations to the crowds lining the water. This was all very traditional and lovely and special to see but it had nothing on the real festivities we were to witness.

We managed to find a table at a restaurant for a drink, granted it had an amazing view from which to watch the boats, that was straight out of ‘Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares’. The frazzled and sweaty dad was rushing back and forth to and from the kitchen whilst the mother stood between clients and screamed at the disinterested daughters to set up table after table after table in the smallest spaces between already occupied chairs and tables. The daughters’ husbands/ boyfriends were working as chef and bartender respectively, but spent more time making out with their respectively partners in public than doing anything resembling work.

In the street outside the restaurant, a rather large African-American man was channelling a laryngitis ridden Barry White to the sounds of a tinny background tape whilst a local kid with exactly 2 dances was breaking dancing alongside a man in very tight white jeans in his mid-50s who was grabbing passing women and rubbing up against them to the rhythm of music. On the other side of our table was a dirty staircase leading up to a set of old apartments. On the steps outside the block, sat two ‘little people’ one on either a children’s play-guitar or a ukulele and the other on synth, who were trying to out-sing and outshine ol' Barry. They were accompanied by a little white dog (I named him Spot) who then decided to attack Gary’s chair at random intervals, and little Spot was being followed around my two little girls who then did a gymnastics routine for us.

The restaurant across from ours was in the aptly named ‘Obscure Street’, and here a drunken and particularly ragged-looking old man with a guitar was also performing, or rather weeping, into his empty beer can with hat askew.

Gary and I didn’t talk for the entire 2 hours we were there, sitting with our mouths slightly a gasp at the sights we were witnessing and, after the little people and the dog led conga-line between the tables, couldn’t help but fall about laughing at this crazy night.

I shot the sheriff

Okay I didn’t, I’m exaggerating slightly. But hopefully that title caught you by surprise, peaked your interest and will make my actual law-breaking actions detailed below pale into socially acceptable insignificance.

So there we were 2 crazy kids out on the road, French Christine on GPS and General de Gaulle. We were heading to Monaco for a day of pretending to be wealthy oil tycoons interested in purchasing a yacht the size of a small Caribbean island. I took the wheel as we left our home-base of Villefranche, keen to let the General loose on the famous Moyenne Corniche. First mistake.

The sun was warm and bright, the sky crystal clear and reflecting the sapphire colour of the sedate Mediterranean waters below. As we rounded the last curve before our destination, Gary was rendered speechless not only by the speed and agility of my driving, but by the striking Grimaldi Palace and sophisticated Monte Carlo high-rises which seem to soar out of the jagged rocks below and pierce the skies above. The contrast between the previous series of petite French fishing villages with their ancient old towns and salty cobbled streets, and the extravagant modern metropolis clinging to the cliffs was immediate and powerful.

As we drove down into the heart of Monaco, with passing cars whizzing past us on the hairpin bends at F1 speeds, I began to lose all bearings of where exactly we were and precisely where we should find a parking. Remembering a wonderful lunch by the harbour with my family on a previous visit, we decided to head to the yacht bowl and find a public garage there. With all the overhead highways, underground tunnels and one way side streets, and the fact that we had cleverly (in the interests of being authentic) set our GPS to French, Christiane was battling to give us any direction. Other vehicles on the road made it impossible to slow down and look for street signs, which seemed to also be on summer vacation, and so we began to panic as I took the same route out of the principality and then back in again for at least the third time.

It was at this point that I decided some assertive action was necessary. We were fast approaching a small circle and Christiane was motioning for us to take an off-ramp. As I swerved the car to the right, I asked Gary if I was taking the correct road. ‘I don’t think so’ was his harried reply. By this stage it was too late to turn back into the circle, and so I went with the exit. At the exact moment that my brain registered that I had just put us on the course of a very small and rapidly climbing one way road lined with solid yellow lines on either side, I heard the shrill sound of a Policeman’s whistle piercing my ears. Gary, ever cool and turning around just in time to see said cop waving his arms hysterically above his head and running after our car, screamed in nearly as high pitched a voice ‘This is a no entry point, that cop was telling us to stop!’. Already 300 meters up the road and out of earshot of the cop, I gripped the wheel and frantically looked from side to side to see if there was anyway on G-d’s green earth I could pull a U-turn. Access denied.

As the car kept climbing higher and the road showed no sign of sending us a convenient place to turn around, my stomach flipped at the cold hard realization that we were going to be in some trouble for this. The beautiful palm trees lining the path, which incidentally had an amazing view of the harbour and Monte Carlo casino, soon gave way to royal flags and ornate gates and arches. ‘Love, I think we are about to cause an international incident’. Before we knew it the road had turned in a hairpin bend and we were hurtling towards the Royal Palace. Ah. Second Mistake.

As the General peaked over the rise we were faced with an interesting sight – a fleet of shiny police cars lined up next to each other, a bus filled with government official types chatting with their leather briefcases and clipboards in hand, and a number of perturbed looking cops waving us down. Steadying my shaky hands, I slowed the car down as I unrolled my window and immediately went, against my feminist inclination, into my best helpless ‘damsel in distress’ mode. “Try not look like a terrorist” was my only advice to Gary. “Don’t worry dear, it’ll be okay” was the subdued reply. As we pulled level with the policemen I mustered up my most nonchalant tone and began blurting out ‘I’m so sorry, we are so lost, please can you help us Sir’.

“Pull over and turn off your vehicle”.

Okaaaaay, the damsel ain’t gonna fly. Cue waterworks?

I duly obeyed the orders and as I went to lean out my window to chat to the gentlemen in uniform I saw another cop jump out next to Gary’s side.

“You heard the policeman at the bottom of the road tell you to stop. Why did you not listen to him?”. I obviously had ‘bad cop’ as I could overhear Gary’s conversation next to me go more along the lines of "There are a lot of police here, we like to protect people". Funny, not feeling so safe.

My words fell over each other as I began imploring him, with just a little more than a hint of desperation, that I had heard him by the time it was too late, there was no way to turn around, it was a mistake, we didn’t mean to cause any trouble, I’m so sorry etc. etc.

“I need your driver’s license and the papers for the vehicle”. Ah. Third Mistake.

I turned back to Gary who met my gaze with a steely blank look. We were both thinking the same thing. As we motioned to my handbag on the passenger floor and pretended to rummage around a bit, I tried to remain calm. I never go anywhere back home without my driver’s license, and we had gone to the mission and cost of us both getting international drivers licenses (only valid when carried with your domestic license) so that we could both drive around. I blame the hysteria around pickpocketing in Europe for making me so paranoid about carrying my legal documents that I had very cleverly locked both of my licenses, along with Gary’s license, into the hotel safe in Villefranche.

Disobeying a police officer, going into a high security restricted zone unauthorized, driving in a foreign country without a valid domestic or international license.

I was riding dirty.

I handed the policeman Gary’s SA driver’s license and before I could explain myself he began taking down the details. Okie dokie, there’s no need to draw his attention to the immediate problem, let’s just see how this progresses. After a few questions of the type I’d seen on enough “Law and Order” episodes to know I was suspected of something, he asked why the picture on the license was of Gary and not of me and where my license was. Under his very serious glare, and with the other policeman walking around the vehicle inspecting it for anything untoward that we were trying to force into the Palace, my nervousness prevented any smooth talking and I blurted out the ridiculous truth that I did have all the correct documents but in the country next door to this one. No I didn’t have my passport with me (also in the safe) or any credit cards or other forms of identification to prove I was who I said I was (also in the safe).

Needless to say, this was the longest half hour of my life. The questions kept coming, the full extent of my absent-minded travellers stupidity was being uncompromisingly unravelled (why do we seem to lose basic mental capabilities in a foreign country?) and I believe it was only Gary’s sweet-talking to good cop and the fact that we were South African that saved a trip down to the tjoekie. Nay, we even escaped without a fine (although our details were captured and stored in some kind of database. Ask no questions).

“Do you know Durban?” he chirped. You better believe we worked that Oyster Box wedding!

“Are you on the way to visit Charlene?” As I saw that look dawn on Gary’s face, the one that had persuaded a Tunisian bouncer to give us free entry into the Nice Jazz Festival to see Seal performing live and which meant he was about to ask if an audience was at all possible, I got us the hell out of dodge.

We eventually found a parking, ironically enough directly opposite the police headquarters, and we had a wonderful day roaming the streets of Monte Carlo. Although I couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone was looking at us like I we were criminals, and we were very very careful not to jay-walk …

Bonnie and Clyde '11?

Okay, so I agree with what you’re thinking – that last blog post was a little too rosy, a little too perfect and you want the dirt. Well here is the sordid truth. Before I begin, I must stress that I do not normally condone breaking the democratically elected laws of a country, unless one is fighting in legitimate struggle for justice, but sometimes things just happen out on that open road …

Yes, and we still cannot for the life of us figure out how the frosty this happened; on the day we visited Cassis we set out to traverse a foreign countryside without a cent on us. Not a sausage. Although we did have beer, Gary pipes up as I type this. In our defence, we did have about 6 credit cards between us and we had used these successfully on French toll roads in the past. Anyway, on that particular day the French were having none of it. It will be a while before I forget that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as yet another harried French vehicle in the searing midday heat pulled up in the now rapidly growing queue behind us and the toll machine rudely spat out our credit card YET AGAIN onto Gary’s lap. ‘Carde payment non possible’. Hhmm, Nedbank? Non possible. Investec? Non possible. Discovery? Non possible. Realizing where this path was now going, we quickly moved to the obvious next step: piling out the car, opening all the doors (and the boot for extra dramatic effect) and searching the floor of General de Gaulle on our hands and knees searching for ANYTHING that resembled a coin.

After coming across a few empty cans, tons of maps and a bottle of jam, we also had a small handful of coins and returned to the machine where the assistant, who had by now been called out of her air-conditioned booth, needed some explaining from us. After a frantic conversation via Charades, we had eventually convinced her that yes, none of our cards would work we had in fact tried that and no sorry, we really did get onto a national freeway without having even 2 Euros 60 on us. Plying her with whatever we had, she grumpily (but granted, very generously) accepted our symbolic payment and hurriedly waved us through.

After a few mandatory high-fives and victorious fist pumps, we turned back to the car and decided that the only responsible course of action after our very lucky break would be to take the very next off-ramp, find a little town and a working ATM and withdraw some … bugger! ANOTHER FRIGGING TOLLGATE! We were now truly caught between a rock and a hard place … I wanna see you try to ‘undrive’ a road you just sped through! Of course, ‘The Enforcer' at the last stop had taken our clammy 1 Euro 10 and immediately radioed the next gate to warn them of our imminent and bankrupt arrival. As I began to strategize just how strong those boom gates could really be, the full facts dawned on us - we now owed the French state more cash and had absolutely nothing on our persons. More credit cards into the machine, more non possible and even more irate drivers behind us hooting at the idiotic tourists from the last stop holding everyone up again. At least we did the honourable thing and pretended to get out of the vehicle and search for coins. Gary then began an epic episode of sweet-talking and the tollgate assistant here, either motivated by pity for two tourists or sympathy for two idiots (maybe both) took a coin I had found lodged under the aircon and waved us through the second gate. As we high-tailed it at some speed into the distance, I did notice him man hurriedly taking down our details. I just hope we don’t get held at the airport and blacklisted …

Well, the story doesn’t quite end there. After searching the surrounds of cassis for hours in a car taking out its revenge against its drivers by simulating the greenhouse effect, we finally found a municipal parking lot outside the city which had a bus taking people into the town and back to the parking. Perfect! Not thinking twice, we hopped on. It was really and truly only once we had taken up our seats and the bus started creaking down the hill that we realized this trip would cost us 2 Euros each. More of Gary’s famous sweet-talking and an armed escort from the bus to the ATM to pay the toll and we were safely in Cassis. I have never been escorted as a suspected flight risk, but luckily our guard realized that two such incompetent people were unlikely to make a great escape and chuckled at our luck.

And then there was Monarco and my first real near arrest.

To be continued …

A Week in the French Riviera

Azure seas, azure skies - the Cote D’ Azur. Part legend, part dream, the French Riviera must be one of the most beautiful and alluring places on earth and can make even the most demure and serious of us feel like a movie star. We were lucky enough to spend 5 days there, day-tripping up and down the coast from our gorgeous base of the cliffhanging terracotta fishing village of Villefranche-Sur-Mer.

In St Tropez and Saint Maxime, we were living it up with the rich and famous along yacht lined harbours with too many passing Bentley coupes, Ferraris and Porsches to count.

Cassis is a lovely little village on the Riviera straddled by crystal blue waters on the one side and rocky vineyards on the other. In the hazy heat of a summer Sunday afternoon, we found traditional marble courtyards and gardens and sat with the locals playing boulle for some respite from the sun.

Cannes, with enough star-power to fuel a million paparazzi cameras, has a sophisticated glamour all of its own. The boulevards, the luxury shops beneath majestic hotels and the Red Carpet of the Palais de Congress, this town has retains the atmosphere of its famous film festival all year round.
Nice, the packed Promenade de Anglais lined by glitzy casinos and imposing hotels on one side and wide stretches of beach on the other. This is where we spent the night of Bastille Day, standing amongst the crowds and gazing up at some of the most intense and lingeringly beautiful fireworks I have ever seen.

Eze, the famous medieval town teetering on the brink of dizzying heights which captures the most sweeping and awe-inspiring views of the Mediterranean. The steep and unending path from the village itself down to its sister town is where Nietzsche’s daily walks gave him time to consider some of his most famous works.

Antibes and Juan les Pan, this part of the Riviera reminds me of my parents and their song ‘Where do you go to my lovely?’. Two very small villages which have all but merged into one, we stumbled upon an Israeli expat hub in Juan les Pan where we had a wonderful lunch there sitting right above the private beaches.

St Paul de Vence, the walled village on the hill where even the rocks and pathways are steeped in art and you can feel the presence of its famous inhabitants, especially Chagall, can still be felt. With incredible views of the Provencial countryside and homely galleries next to those of famous artists, as well as the local craft shops housed in the small ancient houses of its winding cobbled streets, St Paul is itself an inspiration.

We also spent the day of Bastille Day in Monarco, the principality which juts out of the merging mountains and sea in all its highrise splendour. The streets were still lined with South African flags from the wedding, so it was a really special time to walk Monte Carlo with its Grand Prix route and take pics on the Casino red carpet.

Ah, this is the life!

Shabbat amongst the 'Red Rocks' - St Raphael

Travelling in France (or anywhere in Europe for that matter) in July and August has some special challenges, particularly when it comes to accommodation availability. If, like Gary and myself, you prize spontaneity and destiny over planning, or in other words are just downright disorganized, then booking your hotel, pension or apartment after your arrival in a town during the summer high season may pose a problem or two. Aix-En will be remembered for some frantic internet searching moments, including but not limited to, trawling travel website after website for places to stay, weighing up prices in homemade spread sheets only to log back onto said website and lose the hotel, you had JUST finally decided upon, to a last minute confirmation from someone in Sweden. One of my biggest regrets in this regard was losing out on the opportunity to spend a night at the dubiously unclassified and ridiculously cheap Hotel California (C'mon, who wouldn't right?).

It was in one of these moments of blind terror that we stumbled across our accommodation for Shabbat on the Riviera, a place which drew the gliterrati in a time before the razzle dazzle of Cannes and St Tropez.

St Raphael . A mysterious and enchanting town perched just on top of the rocks under the mighty shadow of Massif de l'Esteral. This town conjours up all the glamour, coolness and sophistication of the 1920s jet set. The home of F. Scott Fitzgerald when he wrote his famous 'flapper' novel The Great Gatsby and about which he based his other masterpiece Tender Is the Night. Intertwined as it is with the bustling seaside hub of Frejus, St Raphael today is known for its natural beauty and its wealth of scuba diving and hiking trails adventure but we both loved the gorgeous old mansions in their half-tamed, half-manicured gardens facing the ocean. Driving along the Corniches which take you past Frejus and St Raphael on your way down the Riviera, you can spot isolated beach coves, some just big enough for one family to fit in.

Our hotel was in one of these isolated pockets, clinging to the rocks overlooking the waves. Unusually, the rocks in this part of the region are a deep red colour and known as the roches rouge - red rocks, so named because of the colour these rocks turn when water interacts with their iron minerals. From our balcony, where we spent most of Saturday, we felt as if we could dive into the pristine waters below and we made good use of the ladder on the small pier leading down into the salty surf.

The beauty of Provence

So the next day we ‘Sete’ off (okay, last time I’ll do that promise) and headed into the heartland of traditional Provence – Arles and Aix-En-Provence.

I must say upfront that I have an incredibly soft-spot for Provence, and it’s a place that I have travelled to many times with my family and have many special memories there. Provence, to me, is all that is France – traditional stone villages with lace-curtain windows, purple seas of lavender fields as far as the eye can see and delicious gastronomic delights and wines.

Our first stop into this cultural and historic heartland was Arles – the city which inspired the colours and light of Van Gogh. Arles is a truly beautiful place, with pristine trimmed gardens and flowerbeds everywhere one looks and gorgeous little streets, open and bright and bustling with tourists and shopkeepers and cafés. The Roman ruins in this ancient town, a Forum and a glorious Coliseum, are in wonderful condition and easily accessible in a day’s touring. We ended up finding a gorgeous creperie in a sheltered courtyard as a hideaway from the baking midday sun, and inadvertently spent our time in the courtyard of the old ‘Hospital of Arles’ right next to where the Van Gogh Museum now stands. The courtyard is the subject of one of this master’s most famous paintings and we were both moved by the beauty and light of this space - the rare gentle and gold light of Arles.

Next stop Aix-En-Provence. Much bigger, grander and more elegant than we had expected for a notorious university town, there is nothing quite like arriving in a place you’ve never been to before at 6.30pm and having the tourist officials laugh at you when you ask for accommodation advice. “This place is booked up a year in advance, even for one night, and is certainly more expensive than Paris”. Ho hum. Whilst I began to work out just exactly how we were going to repack General de Gaulle in order to fully extend the front seats overnight, my gallant husband had already found us a lovely hotel in one of suburbs of the city, Le Mozart. Triumphantly opening the curtains and waltzing onto the balcony of our room, I couldn't help but ask Gary, "Why are there so many tress right in the middle of this city?". It was then, after much looking at upside down maps and GPS directions, that we realized we had based ourselves completely outside the city limits. A bit of a walk to be sure, but up until that point we had not been happier to see a clean, safe bed.

The following day we took the petit train tour of the city of a hundred fountains, each more beautiful and intricate and meaningful than the next. We walked in the footsteps of giants such as Cezanne and Zola, and saw the sights which gave them their inspiration. The air here is just intoxicated with creativity. What a superb city and one that I could easily spend weeks, months or even years in! Despite buying a dud EuroMillions ticket there, we even adopted a breakfast café spot, just like the locals. Aix-En (pronounced ‘ex-on’ as we conveniently found out just before we left) is well worth a stopover if you are ever passing through Provence.

Ready, Sete, Go!

Think of the ultimate hot, humid, bustling port town and you have Sete. On first arrival, this town can seem like every other gritty working harbour, complete with malodorous fishing trawlers and salty seadogs outside rundown cafes and bars. However, if you dare to take a few steps back into the ancient alleyways or manage to drive out to the strips of white sandy beaches, you will discover a very different place.

The drive into Sete is itself an adventure through some of the most spectacular scenery in France –the Camargue. The home of pink flamingos, wild bulls and white horses roaming the salt pans, the Camargue is a swampy desert and hot as hell. Peering through the heat haze are isolated stalls selling fresh produce from the area – rice, salt, cheeses, wines and herbs. A road trip dreamland!

Gary and I stayed at a family-run hotel on one of Sete’s outlying beach areas. When we arrived, the quaint hotel was being manned by the owner and husband, who did the French trick of speaking to us fast and fluently in his mother tongue, knowing full well that we didn’t speak a word but hoping that by just carrying on we would at some stage get the drift. Apart from some contention over the the ‘obligatory’ breakfast for an extra seven euros each which we could not get out of, we managed to decipher the conversation and settled in.

That night, we strolled along the ancient canals in Sete proper, having drinks in the harbour overlooking the setting sun whilst a little orchestra played across from us - so special, so French!

PS although we thought that a forced breakfast would not taste that great, it was actually a wonderful memory sipping our coffee together on our private little balcony overlooking the morning waves.

Carcassonne- Of Gazpatcho and Witches' hats

Today was an interesting one. I took the driver’s seat and we headed out of Espana and into the wild, rocky and windblown countryside of Languedoc France.

After a few hours on the road, we began to worry that we would find ourselves in a potentially lethal situation we had been in many times before – caught in the desolate wasteland between lunch and dinner. In France, as in many other Western European countries, lunch time has strict hours – between 12pm and 2pm. After 2pm its siesta time and lunch for the restaurateurs themselves, so if you want more than a café, you had better leg it or pack your own!

We were not close to any little towns and decided to turn-off at an industrial park to try our luck. Squeezed in between the factories, we found a little bistro and decided to quickly grab a table and umbrella and look as if we’d been waiting there for at least 20 minutes. Sitting in the rain with my smelly and broken bag, the lovely waitress walked passed to greet us and proceeded to accidentally tip an entire bowl of fresh tomato and garlic gazpatcho into it. Yes, in every pocket, nook and cranny. Of course, paralyzed with laughter at this unbelievable turn of events, I was helpless for about half an hour, sitting there with a silly little napkin in my hand trying to mop up an entire bowl of soup. It was like trying to stop an artery haemorrhaging with a little plaster. The good news was that this incident revealed to us a ground-breaking phenomenon - bazpatcho gag, what happens when one is sitting downwind of me. Way to make friends and influence people Lan ...

Arriving in Carcassonne was not the welcome back to France we had hoped for. After a massive detour that took us 25 minutes away from the town only to drop us in the middle of nowhere (it’s a special kind of adventure when the detour road-signs run out!), we arrived at the Tourist office to be greeted (or rather grunted at) by a woman who I can only imagine has the personality to be better placed working in taxidermy rather than in tourism.

The hotel we found is definitely a humdinger. As Gary quipped upon entering the room and banging his toes on the bedside table, he has seen stables with more stars than this. The floor has unidentifiable and innumerable stains and suspicious marks on it, the walls are caked in a nondescript black dust and the bathroom is mostly taken up by the cupboard, with the bathtub being more of a pit in the ground with the broken hand-shower lying on the floor. The only saving grace is that the smell from my bag only slightly offsets the smell of the room.

The actual town of Carcassonne however, is a dream. Truly Disneyworld come to life – soaring turrets, moats, drawbridges and witches’ hat topped spires. The walled medieval town sits high and proud on a hilltop and dominates the landscape around it. The streets leading up to La Cite, as the walled town is known, make up the area of La Ville Basse - rickety, quirky and beautiful in their own right. Various parts of the La Cite's castle are used for theatre and music stages, and during the summer months especially, traditional restaurants and street perfromances are serving up all kinds of delights on every corner.

There is a special romantic atmosphere here, and Gary and I loved walking up to the huge stone walls that seemed to breath with history and take pictures of the surrounding views in the fading sunlight. As the dusk sets in, La Cite is lit up in magnificent floodlight. This incredible place was unquestionably worth the journey!

Viva La France!

'I do not seek, I find' Picasso

Sitges. Iridescent blue waters, piping hot white sand and the twisting, ever-climbing passageways between whitewashed houses with blue shutters and balconies. Across the old town, the tourist area is filled with humid nights of teeming crowds strolling along the palm-lined promenade, nightclub queues and fresh tapas served with sangria at every turn. And finally our balcony, a respite from the heat sitting above local gardens and terraces and a window into daily life in this sea-side town.

On Saturday night, a stroke of luck allows us to be a part of the town for a few hours. We sneak into the local festival, the night of San Pedro, and walk amongst the residents, watching the children compete in toy fishing competitions and win their first goldfish, old men sitting at the street bar with cold beers in hand, couples swaying together on the makeshift dance floor to the sounds of local bands playing traditional hits.
Sitges - a constant buzz of the trains going to and from Barcelona and fireworks at all hours of the day and night. Church processions practicing their street parade and drum routines along the boulevard.

And then the main attraction, Barcelona. Filled with Gaudi’s primary colours, crazed shapes and challenging structures. Snaking around the La Sagrada Familia and seeing something new, something disturbing, something enlightening with every new rotation. Dali, Goya, Picasso. The Spanish Civil War and ETA. Markets and lingering drinks at local bars. Catalonia Art Nouveau.

La buena vida.