Stops Along the Way

Travelling is hard work. And I don't mean the heavy lifting of finding the right terminal, the right road, the right house or even the packing/unpacking, lifting, walking and waiting. It's the differentness of everything; the toilets and undrinkable water, the keyboards and road signs, the language and the customs but mostly it's the changed routines, of doing things differently because you're in a different place. I wrote a piece I intended to post last night but when I went looking for it, it was gone. I'd mostly finished it the night before, waxing eloquently about socks, or rather, their absence for the last two months and then highlighted it and copied it and went to bed. So there it sat, minding its own little electronic business until Deb got up to do her thing on our shared iPad. Because I'd left it highlighted, the first keystroke wiped it out. It's backup on the clipboard was erased as soon as she copied something and several hours of brilliance disappeared. That's the hard work of travelling, shared space and equipment, working your new routines into the routines of the people you're with. It's massively outweighed by the joys of the company I share but you're not going to hear about my socks.

We're now in the Algarve, a large region that covers all of southern Portugal. Specifically, we're in a villa atop a hill overlooking the town of Loule´ about 20K from the shore but beautiful in the distance. I'm now typing on my Kobo cum word processor and enjoying some independence (though  if I wasn't travelling I'd have the advantage of a mouse) and wishing I'd thought of this sooner. And look, now I can use italics... We came here from Lisbon and, like our move from Porto to Lisbon, made several worthy stops enroute. Betwixt Porto and Lisbon we explored Bacalhau Buddha Eden and Ovidos. Bacalhau is salted cod and can be found on the menu of any self-respecting Portuguese reastaurant so not sure what it had to do with this well-groomed park or what the emphasis of the statuary on Buddhism had in common with a predominantly Catholic country. But there they were, Buddhas galore, big and small with dragons and hundreds of Terra Cotta soldiers only in bright blue. The woods were littered with hundreds of gnomes and the acres of lawns sloping towards the lake were pockmarked with modern art like the headless guy standing on his, well, neck. I liked the two curvy statues made of wine bottles and the sea of hands reaching out of the sand but indifferent to the spinning diamond and intimidated by the giant ant. The exit, like most tourist attractions, was through the souvenir shop but here the only thing on offer was wine and the specialite was a blue concoction as incongruent with red grapes as a buddhist garden in Portugal. Still, it was a nice walk.

Our second stop was Ovidos, a medieval town with enough of its bones intact to make restoration worthwhile. The Roman cobblestones were repaired, the walls rebuilt in (mostly) original fashion and electricity was added to run the airconditioners. The original layout was maintained so the 'feel' was as if you were there several hundred years ago and the view from those walls was undeniable. It was a nice spot for lunch and a taste of their special concoction "Ginja". It's basically a cherry liqueur with lots of cherries in the bottle and goes spectacularly well with chocolate. So well, in fact, that it's served in 1 oz chocolate cups which are consumed immediately after the bevvie. I had to buy a bottle but suspect it won't make its way back to Canada.

Our second abode in Portugal was a penthouse suite in Monte Estoril and I told you about our time there in my last post but not about our crib. The last on was a mansion out in the country but now we were in a penthouse suite that overlooked the ocean. There was a pool and deck below but why go there when you can bikini watch a few minutes away? We tried a day at the pool but Bob was there courtesy of the peacocks next door and there were no pounding waves, no ocean to entertain the eyes, ears and nose. The ocean at Monte Estoril is the north Atlantic, so not particularly warm but a refreshing counterpoint to the 37 degree heat.

The light festival was on in Cascais while we were there so Lui and I thought we'd check it out. We hadn't actually spent any time there so it was a good opportunity to explore its attractions and see what a light show was - it wasn't fireworks. It was better, lighting technicians and artists combined their strengths to bring some 'whoah!' displays to the common man. Imagine a three story antique building used as a backdrop for multi-coloured light projections in multiple shapes in sync with the tune that kid is playing on a piano or another building covered in spyrograph shapes that change with the movement and figures held by the childen under those lights over there. Dancers and walkers were followed by lights on the rink-sized floor that changed with their speed. Wish I was stoned. Sprinkled amongst the wanderers were beer stands, burgers and bacalhau. I especially liked the first beer stand that sold me a beer for 3E in a solid plastic cup. When I brought it back its refill was 2E. Great idea, great party.

But now we're in Algarve and spent today at a beach 26K away which we achieved with our rented bus. But about that and our stops to get here I'll tell you next time cuz the Kobo's out of gas, my eyes are weighing heavy and I still have to figure out how to get this from here to the blog. Cheers.

Loving Lisboa

So what have I been up to? Let's see, I last wrote about our mansion near Porto where we did battle with Bob, enjoyed Fado and port and celebrated a birthday. We divided the week there between pool days and excursion days and have done the same with our week in Estoril. Tomorrow someone's picking us up to take us a few more hours south as we chase the warm weather so tonight when we get back from dinner I'll have to start restuffing my bag. It's 8:15 and the rez is for 8:30 so I'll fill you in on the last week when I get back.

We're back and dinner was fabulous, thank you very much. We shared sangria on the boardwalk as waited for our seafood kebabs to arrive. The almost full moon sent its rippled trail right at us, the waves caressed the beach and a warm breeze brought the  ocean scent to our table. It was a perfect setting for our last meal in Monte Estoril. It's got its own train station; not quite Estoril, not quite Cascais (KashKISHE) but walking distance to both. We got on the train the night before last for the forty minute ride into Lisbon because we had a Fado (FAdoo) craving. We'd been hooked on our first serving and like drug addicts chasing that first high we were left wanting. The singers were ok but not as good as what we'd seen and felt. The food was ok but overpriced and service was lousy but none of it ruined our trip into the city. We deciphered the ticket purchase machine (sort of, we got it wrong and had to squeeze 6 people into the handicap booth to get on the train), clickety-clacked down the rails to the big city and promptly got lost. We had arrived a few hours early to experience the market we couldn't find so we found a patio instead and enjoyed cocktails watching Lisbon (Lisboa) harbour. With a half hour before our rez we discovered there was a taxi strike on (they have Uber here and they're pissed) so it got complicated. Four of us got in a TukTuk for his last fare of the evening while the other two waited for an Uber to make an appearance. Both the TukTuk and the Uber got lost trying to find the restaurant but adventure is as much getting lost as it is getting found.

We didn't actually get to see much of Lisbon but that's ok cuz the next day Juao (zhuWOW) arrived. That's John in Portuguese and my new name for the rest of our time in Portugal. "Wow Juao" has become part of our lexicon. We'd met Juao when we presented ourselves to Sintra, a district with castles, palaces and history but soon realized it was spread out and we're a group of old folks with limited mobility and even more limited knowledge of what to see. Enter Juao who saw our perplexed faces and ushered us into his oh-so-cool van. Spacious and air conditioned with a fridge and a seat that gave massages. He took control and told us what we didn't want to see, where we wanted to eat and quizzed us on Portuguese history. He declared that the biggest and best of damn near everything was right here in Portugal, this guy loves his country. Our first stop was the Palace of Queluz. I'd been to Versailles and this was identical in layout, gardens and architecture but without the crowds. Then it was a 'real' Portuguese restaurant well off the beaten path and I think lunch is becoming my favourite part of our go and see days.

Our next stop was back to where we met Juao to battle our way through the throngs to see a colourful castle atop a hill. It started out as a chapel built by the Hieronymites in the Middle Ages and was popular with pilgrims but over the years lightening and earthquakes took their toll. King Ferdinand thought it would make a nice summer residence so he outlawed the religious order and started throwing money at it. It turned into a disneylandesque structure with bright colours and billion dollar views. He eventually gave it to some Duchess he had the hots for but she didn't feel the same and donated it to "The People" around 1900. It's now a Unesco World Heritage site and if you don't mind shuffling slowly like cattle through its interior it's worth a visit. Or you could just go to Disneyland.

Then it was off to the countryside through the tiny towns with their tiny streets to get to Cabo da Roca , the westernmost tip of continental Europe.  The backing soundtrack as we stared out the windows was Juao asking "Did you know..." and "What do think that is?" Windy, beautiful and thick with Chinese tourists, Cabo was worth the effort and the effort would have been significant for those fearless drivers who maneuvered those massive buses through those tiny streets. I'm told the proliferation of Chinese tourists is due both to their booming economy and their government's strategy of allowing tax cuts to companies that keep their employees happy with free trips and such. Happy workers don't revolt.

As promised, Juao showed up the day after our Fado outing to show us the Lisbon we'd missed the day before. We pulled up in front of a monastery with a 200 meter lineup to see tiny rooms and he said "No,no that's stupid. We're going to the Mariner's Museum right next door. The height of Portuguese history was there and we had it all to ourselves. Vasco da Gama and the other early navigators that unlocked the new world were there. They'd rounded the tip of Africa to establish trade routes with India and China. They found the Azores out in the middle of the Atlantic, they visited Newfoundland and said "Uh, no thanks" and sank their culture deep into South America. For a few hundred years they were king of the ocean followed closely by the French, Spanish and Dutch and eventually the British who took most everything from them in the 1800's. "We were too nice", said Juao who then found another delicious restaurant off the beaten path, something we'd never have found on our own.  We started with the fish and spicy rice, washed it down with vinho verde and then the meat platter took over the centre of the table. I think most of the planet's creatures shared space on the that plate, a vegetarian would pale at the sight.

The waterfront with its sights and sounds was followed by a visit to the top of the city where we found another cathedral but this one had a side chapel with all the interior walls covered in ceramic tiles. They're everywhere here and it was explained that the pictures are painted on the assembled tiles in the factory, painted in various designs, reglazed and shipped. These tiles showed the violence of the Moor invasion with praying Christians looking like porcupines from all the arrows in them and women having their breasts cut off with big scissors. Kind of unusual for a church.

We got to Estoril from Porto courtesy of Antonio, the same fellow that will be arriving shortly to take us south. Yes, it's the morning after the night before and it's time to get this show on the road. Bags are packed, last minute checks have been done and Deb's tapping her toe by the door. We'll stop at a few places on our way to Loule just as we did on our way here but I'll have to tell you about it later. The future beckons.

In the Shadow of Fado

The Big Slow Down is upon me. The less I do the less I want to do. Getting up from poolside to trudge into the house to get another beer feels like a lot of work. But I did and I see the iPad is partly charged so maybe it's a good time to hide from the sun, let the skin cool and tell you what we've been up to.

I woke up to an email this morning from Airbnb informing me that they had provided all my personal details regarding our listing on their service to the State of Vancouver and my listing was inaccessible and unalterable. Hmmm. At first I thought it was something to do with the bedbug situation; the guest that alerted me to the bug's presence was unhappy with the refund I offered her and has lodged a formal complaint with Mother Airbnb. But no, Ami in Bombay informed me via chat service that the info was requested by the Vancouver and they were obligated to comply. Fortunately, I had taken out a license to do what we're doing and he sent me a screen shot of our listing showing the license number.  So I guess I'm good. There's a new guest in our home and if the exterminator has done a good job I won't be getting an itchy email telling me they want their money back too.

So...Porto. We've been here a week and I haven't shared any of what we've been up to other than the impressive digs. As planned, we were picked up at our boat at 6:15am last Sunday and the large taxi took us and our mountain of luggage to the train station in Beziers. The train took us to Toulouse. A plane took us to Lisbon where we waited for 5 hours for another plane to take us to Porto. There was no taxi large enough for us and our luggage so guys in one, girls in the other. The girls had the address so it was written on a scrap of paper for us with instructions to pick up groceries en route. The taxi driver couldn't read the handwriting on the scrap of paper but he could read the phone number so he called the hostess who was able talk him in, not unlike an air traffic controller. The addresses here are kinda random so even the GPS's have trouble as we discovered several times with the rented car's GPS. And there's lots of 'Rua da Igreja' (Church street) in the small towns surrounding Porto. We thought we were in Maia, we're actually in Muro so the return to the house from the rental agency (at the airport where we started out) took an extra hour or two.

But we made it and the next day decided to check out Espeniho. It's another small town, south of Porto but on the ocean and it was market day. With a couple of souvenirs and some chorizo in our bags it was time to look at the ocean. It was big, choppy, cold and windy; a dramatic change from the canal that had held us in its narrow grip for two weeks. A beachside cafe agreed to let us in at the unheard of hour of 5:30. Many restaurants don't open until 8pm and dinner goes to midnite but I grabbed a table, held up 6 fingers and they saw the value in the early business. Food was brought out before we ordered as is their custom. Bread, prawns, melon with prosciutto were laid out with the idea being if eat them you pay for them. We pushed it aside, found things on the menu we thought we'd prefer and enjoyed a pretty average meal in an above average location.

Miss me? After that last paragraph I returned to poolside to resume baking. I had hidden for a few moments in the cool of the interior to escape the blazing exterior and heck, it was my birthday so felt entitled to come and go as I pleased.

I had skipped the 2nd car rental day to write and float in a vat of silence as my 5 travelling companions piled in for a tour of Porto. I finished my last post mentioning my first Uber ride and a 'wish me luck' but neither me nor the driver heard you. Like us, he got lost, took an extra hour to find me but managed to get me to the restaurant in Porto for a reunion of the balcony people and an evening of Fado. Now this was something. The restaurant sat 32 people (I counted) so it was an intimate environment to hear folk opera or Portuguese blues or Country without the twang. It's a unique musical experience that began with a blend of Portuguese classical guitar (lute-like with 12 steel strings) overlaid on the rhythm laid down by an acoustic guitar. I swayed to the gentle rhythm and the more vinho verde I drank, the more I swayed. There were several beautiful instrumentals - then the singing began.

The young man that had just brought my wine and appetizer took a position between the two guitars and composed himself. Hands clasped together, he lowered his gaze, took several slow, deep breaths and opened his mouth to let the sadness out. He sang of the pain of wanting something he could never have, of lost love, of suffering and the depth of his sorrow mingled with mine. He touched a place I thought I'd buried so deep only I could touch and gave it a voice. I cried and I couldn't understand a word he said. And he was just the appetizer. 

He was followed by a young woman whose voice soared as she paced the room and looked hard into our faces, accusing us of infidelity, of stealing her children. Powerful stuff, no? Then the main attraction slowly made his way to the centre of the restaurant, his jacket hung over his shoulders Hollywood style circa 1950. His grey-haired composure exuded confidence as he smiled gently, gazing around the room and nodding at the smiles. He started slow and low forcing his listeners to listen hard. He drew us in like an angler jiggling his bait and just as you go to chomp down he lifted his head, his arms, his voice leaving us slack-jawed, wide-eyed and looking up. He sang a number of numbers with the liveliness increasing as he went. Soon we were clapping and tapping and so happy to be following the Pied Fado as he led us down his musical trail. 

The last day of the rental car was used to get us back into Porto to check out its namesake - Port. On the south shore of the Douro river that divides Porto are the wine caves and I was expecting caves; you know, damp, dark and cool. They're not, they're warehouses, lots of them, that feature wine tasting rooms with staff that know their stuff. We tried tawny and ruby and 30 yr old stuff and agreed it was much better than the ten year old rubbish. We got snobbish real fast and even bought a bottle which we enjoyed at my birthday dinner which I'll have to tell you about later because tonight Deb and I are cooking and she's already started, tapping her toe in the kitchen and wondering where I am (I'm hiding in the bedroom). I'll tell you we're now in Estoril (outside Lisbon) and enjoyed a few 'wow' moments enroute. But more later.

Portucool

The new living arrangements could not be more different than what we've at times endured and at times enjoyed for the past two weeks. The flow of scenery past our Le Boat along with our concerted efforts to get along overpowered the cramped quarters and its potential to create crankiness.

But now we're in a mansion. A massive mansion, with a bigger pool than I've seen in most hotels. The pool is just this side of the tennis court which is separated from the 'guest house' by peach, apple and kiwi trees. I visited the owner in the guest house which is at least the size of the main house, maybe bigger. The purpose of the visit was to inform her that the key didn't fit the lock. Keys here are three dimensional with serrated edges on 4 sides unlike the 1 sided serrated edge in Canada. Seems I only tried 3 sides before lodging a complain because there's a small notch on the top of the part you hold indicating that's the top and proper orientation for entry of the key. 

I should have known. It'll be emblazoned in a tattoo  when I return. Arne says I should have known the hotel in Castelnaudary would charge me for a full breakfast even if I only have coffee. The guy at the pension office said I should have known that if I get paid for working one day in a month my pension is delayed for the entire month (I retired Aug 3rd). I should have known that Airbnb would not honour my claim for damages related to a bedbug infestation of my home courtesy of one of my guests or that they would threaten to delist me if I didn't prove I'd taken care of it. There's been lots of examples since leaving Vancouver and pointing out there was no way to have known only gets me a shrug. 

But I digress. The house was built a few hundred years ago and was enlarged in the last century. It's three stories tall though I've seen vents to a basement but have no idea how to access it. If there's a problem with the hot water tank I should have known it's down there and only accessible by a trained professional who's available the 3rd Thursday of the month. The property is protected from the rabble by a 10' stone fence with its 10' iron gate (they look a lot like the locks on the canal) In days gone by, servants would rush to the gate to turn a massive wheel to allow troops to enter or the lord to leave but today we have a remote control. When we arrived, the taxi took us through the gate that opened majestically a la Disneyland and we entered our kingdom.

There are Christian statuary ensconced in alcoves and ceramic tiles put together like jigsaw puzzles to create pictures of Jesus and his family decorate the walls inside and out. This is a very religious (Catholic) society but I'll write like an expert about that once I have my tiny exposure to it. The door to the imposing structure is ornate iron backed by opaque glass and the 3 dimensional door lock is 8 inches off the ground. Right beside the door knocker.

A heavy iron chandelier attempts to reduce the size of the cavernous lobby. The walls are covered in intricately detailed ceramic tile, the floor is marble and cool to the touch even in this heat. There's a bedroom tricked out in antiques with its own bathroom to the left and another on the right only much larger with a private jacuzzi. These are claimed by sisters A and B so Deb and I climb the dark wood stairs to the main floor where we find our gorgeous room. It faces north so stays cool and gives an outstanding view of the valley below. It doesn't have an ensuite (ahh the hardships we endure) but with everyone else a floor below, getting up naked in the middle of the night to piddle isn't a problem. We also have closer access to the kitchen. And the summer lounge. And the winter lounge. And the tv room with its bar and the two dining rooms. And the outside decks. 

The rear deck faces south and overlooks a  field freshly harvested of its corn. It's decked out with a table for ten thoughit's kind of bright and warm for breakfast but the Italian feast that Anita and Lui prepared was devoured there. There are stairs to the next floor and I went up once; more bedrooms. We have more house than people.

The west side of the house abuts a small farm where a rooster lords over his chickens and announces sunrise a half hour early. But Bob likes him. We first met Bob in Galatas which was odd considering the amount of debris on display in Paris and Athens. But Bob prefers a more organic setting, hanging with the chickens, horses and other creatures who spread their offal with impunity as they walk. Our hotel in Galatas was in farm country so Bob said Hi. Our boat floated down an open sewer thanks to the thousands of boats who also spread their awful offal with impunity. When we asked when they would be pumping out the sewage tank we were informed there was no need.

We killed Bob as soon as we met him. Then his brother - also named Bob - showed up. So we killed him too. The family was not deterred, maybe we should have put their heads on toothpicks. They came and come in droves and we've created swatters from everything at hand but they have the strength of numbers. It's a battle you can't win but can endure with a little mediation and chant "there are no flies, there are no flies..." It's their cousin Mary that creates the problems. She visits silently but leaves after a peck or two. If only she would take that itchy bump on my skin with her when she leaves.

Our not-so-humble abode is well away from the bustle of Porto which has necessitated the rental of a car. A big car. A car so big the a/c doesn't reach the back seat where the junior members of the crew are sequestered. We've discovered that not all GPS systems are created equal or think the same way and has led to a few getting losts which were quickly followed by getting founds but I'll tell you more about that next time. Right now I have to put on some clothes and join the others in town via Uber. It'll be my first time, wish me luck.

Sans Permis

                                    Kruunch!  

Fiberglas has a distinctive sound when it takes a direct hit. The dried resin shatters like a saltine only snappier, crispier. Some boats are only Fiberglas which had been layered over a form kinda like the strips of newspaper strips we dipped in goo and put on balloons when we were kids. The form is then removed and you're left with a lightweight boat. For sturdier boats like these, the form is generally made of wood and remains (thankfully). The fiberglas waterproofs it while giving a nice, smooth surface for painting logos. The outside of the fiberglas is lined with long strips of wood which are covered with  dense rubber, perhaps not as dense as me, and inflated bumpers hang from ropes every 4 feet. What could go wrong? I'll tell ya.

I was getting cocky. The passages beneath these old bridges aren't much wider that the boat so you have to nail the middle, not be in mid swing from one side of the canal to the other as you struggle to keep it in a straight line. It's best to take it real slow. Top cruising speed is 8 knots which isn't fast - unless you hit something that isn't moving at all, like a stone bridge. I'd decided that my several hours at the helm meant I could take on the small gap ahead at full speed. 

If you're not perfectly straight the corner of the lowest stone gives the boat a gut punch and puts your passengers on their asses. It's hard to keep the boat straight when you're peering up at the underside of the bridge through the steering wheel. The bridges are so low you have to crouch and cower as you slip under.

Newsflash! I just got an email from a guest that had stayed in our home recently. To help finance this trip, Deb n I put our home on Airbnb for the 2 1/2 months were away. Well it seems one of the guests brought some tiny friends with them. Who stayed when they left and said hi to the next group with a love bite. Lots of love bites actually and they want their money back. I want the biters out so called a pest control company who said "Yup, you got bedbugs".              I had to stop typing there for a few moments to let that settle in and let out the animal growling within. I'm back. The next guest had to be cancelled ($1,000), arrange for the bug guys to do their thing ($1,000) and contemplate the refund ($1,000). Airbnb says they have an insurance policy for damage. Who wants to bet I'll be left holding an empty bag?

Now where was I...  Ah yes, 'Sans Permis'. It's a sticker on all the boats that essentially  means unlicensed and is a big selling point with the companies that rent out these floating mobile homes. It means anyone with a pulse is entitled to take one of these massive machines, stuff it with their family or friends and push off into the sunset. My brother Tony, a semi-professional boater, would be appalled. But the boats are sturdy and everyone else is as untrained as me. It's a lot like those bumper cars at the PNE where you try to give the other guy whiplash and not get trapped in a cluster. The locks cause clusters much as traffic lights do and if the guy that gets out of the lock first is in super chill mode, well, that can ruin your afternoon if you value the destination over the journey.

We left Narbonne - seriously, you gotta get a map out - which was down Canal Robine and an easy one day cruise. Getting back was a LOT harder. When you go downstream you enter the lock at the same height of the canal. It closes and lowers you to the next level. When you're going upstream, you enter the lock and get raised to the next level so how do you tie the boat off when the top of the lock is 20' over your head. Well I'll tell ya.  A crew member gets out before you enter the lock and climbs the stairs beside the lock. Someone on the boat climbs to the top of the boat and heaves the rope overhead. With some luck and practice the rope is caught secured to the forward bollard and repeated for the back end. Stern, sorry Tony. Some of the tallest locks have poles recessed into the walls so you just wrap a rope around one, fore and aft, and let them slide up as the water enters the lock.

It's a lot more work going up and the sun seemed that much hotter. That short stretch between du Midi and Narbonne took twice as long to return. With twice as much swearing and sweating. After the 4th or 5th lock Deb said "I'm Done". We'd managed to get back as far as Salelle and were happy to announce cocktail hour and a quiet dinner on board. 

We've been taking turns doing the dinner thing. Deb's a fabulous cook and I'm a pretty good sous chef (I chop and clean) and we made mousakka the other night, Pave and Arne treated us to curried turkey last night, and Luigi celebrated his heritage with his homemade sauce served over pasta with Anita's assistance. All these meals were interspersed with equally yummy meals on shore. Two days ago we enjoyed Algerian in Narbonne (so effing good) and there were a couple of hohum charcuteries but I think the best was in a town called Puicheric. 

We trudged the kilometre into town and found it deserted as are many of these small villages. The people are there but hidden behind tightly closed shutters like people refusing to open their eyes when you're talking to them. It felt like a zombie apocalypse (without the zombies) but did find the one restaurant noted on our map, Chez Modeste. It was 2:15 and their lunch hour ends at 2:00. I could write a whole piece on the unpredictable work hours here. The waitress informed us we were too late for lunch and the chef had retired upstairs.  With a flow of French here, and a little more there she retired to talk to him. He appeared a few moments later and I learned through Deb that he had a few leftovers from lunch he had intended to serve at dinner hour. If we were all willing to have the same thing we could have lunch. There were massive meatballs served with grilled veg and excellent wine in the warm French countryside. He was so disappointed when we initially declined his offer of dessert that we relented and agreed to accept one for each couple; two panacotta and one creme brulle. "Toute organique" he explained and I don't care if they used pesticides, they were the best I've ever tasted.

The food here has been a principal part of the journey. I hate to admit it but the Camembert is better, the chèvre vulnerable to time but exquisite, the bread - well you just have to breathe it in. Coupled with the camaraderie and excellent wine I couldn't afford to buy in Vancouver and you come to the perfect marriage of sights, sounds and smells. Contentment. It outshines the bedbugs and the visa bill. 

But creating those moments requires effort. Travel is busy and it's  happening again in a couple of hours. A taxi is picking us up at 6:15 am (it's now 11:15 pm) to take us on the next leg of our journey. Next stop Portugal, Porto to be precise, and a different way of living. I'll lose my crab walk, luxuriate in more spacious surroundings and write about living in a villa with my favourite peeps.

Hope you're enjoying the reading. Struggle through the cumbersome rigamorole of leaving a comment (needed to repel the robot advertisers) and let me know what you think.

Cheers,

John

Canalicious

Every journey is exciting because of the unknown. A lot of people go to all-inclusives because they don't want excitement, they want to relax, there's enough excitement in the morning commute. But a little excitement adds spice to an otherwise bland day of tanning and recovering from the most current hangover. It can be as whimsical as swallowing a fly or as concerning as losing a crew member.

Adherents of Jainism are required to sweep the ground in front of them and keep their mouths covered lest they swallow a fly or step on an ant. All life is sacred.  Perhaps Pave should consider a new religious path. We had pulled over at a small town that had an imposing church that had been converted to a winery. It was like a magnet. Inside they had free wine tasting - we tasted them all - and cool air so we lingered before deciding bottles were too small. We purchased 2-5 litre containers with taps and had them filled in gas pump fashion with rose and red. As we lingered, a fly landed on Pave's lower lip. Suddenly startled she gasped and vacuumed the fly to the back of her throat. The throat thought food was on the way and instantly swallowed. It took a moment for her to realize what had just happened and as the truth of it took hold she changed colour. Knees got soft and shaky, sweat glowed on her skin, left hand on her stomach and right hand clutching her cane, now fully responsible for keeping her upright. The wine guy saw what was happening and said "You cannot throw up in 'ere! You will 'ave to clean eet up!" She was able to make it to the edge of the canal before donating her stomach contents to the canal gods and I credit that for the smooth sailing ever since.

We're now on Canal du Robine having decided to leave the main canal, Canal du Midi, to search out Narbonne. The map describes it as "the leading Roman colony outside Italy" so it's got some cred. As we floated down the Midi, the locks were manned by a lock keeper, a position that's handed down father to son, or as in many places, father to daughter. This canal is self-serve so the bottom end of a whole new learning curve for us; the excitement of travel. It's not that tough really, you push a button for the direction you want to go and another to start the cycle. If the lock isn't full when you're going down the canal (with the flow) the cycle starts with a rush of water to fill the lock up to your level. Then the Gates of Mordor open and with the use of bow thrusters and an alert crew you guide the boat into the lock. The gates are about a foot wider than the boat but many can accommodate date 3 boats are size (42') because they widen in the middle like a big egg. You tie off to keep the boat from smashing into others or the gates and the gate closes to form your temporary prison. The water drains out, the other gate opens and you drift off to the next lock. Sometimes the next lock is a few kilometres away and sometimes they're clustered together so you float into the next lock and repeat the procedure. At several of the locks there were three and four locks adjoined.

Locks open at 9am, close from 12-1 for lunch (even the self controlled) and close for the night at 7. We found we could be more efficient if Luigi stayed on shore with a bicycle to push the buttons then pedal to the next lock to get it ready for us and it was a good system. Briefly. After the third lock we diverted to Robine and we have a map so we had a good idea of where the next lock was but didn't consider the impact of the Aude river. The canal was constructed in the 1600's to provide a consistent highway for traffic that wasn't subject to flooding, rapids, low water and more but more or less followed the route of the river. Many times the canal became an aqueduct that flowed over the river. It's consistently 6' deep and varies in width from 40' to 70'.

Shortly after turning onto the Robine we came around the bend to see the canal flowing in waterfall fashion into the river. There were no signs to indicate it was coming or advising to stay away but good sense prevailed and we kept to the right. We found the next lock a few hundred meters away but now Luigi was on the other side of the river and the other side of the canal with no map. He has even less French than me so asking questions was out of the question. He had invested in a Vodaphone SIM card as had everyone but me so we called him.

"Where are you?"

"Uhhh"

He had pedalled off on the path that followed the canal but it quickly turned into the woods then acres of vineyards. And he kept going. He found the town of Cusac D'Aude, several kilometers from us but a sign pointed to a highway which went to Narbonne. And away he went riding high on the same rickety bike I took to get cassoulette but now on a shoulderless highway competing for space with trucks and impatient drivers.

We went through the next lock without Lui's assistance and entered the town of Narbonne. Absolutely beautiful on approach but we wanted the dead centre of action and that meant one more lock. We passed by a red light but no sign of a lock so kept on going. When we got to the lock I jumped off and pushed the usual button. Nothing. I pushed again. And again. Finally I pushed the communication button and French came out. Dang, back to the boat to get Deb; our tourguide, navigator and translator. A guy tells her we were supposed to stop at the red light and push a new button. "When you are driving in zee car and come to a red light do you not stop?" He suggested Aperol (a drink before dinner) was to blame and, interestingly enough, the woman at the tourism office also suggested all we needed was a bottle of scotch to get us through the uncertainties that were coming. As he righted our wrong Luigi pedalled up and our full complement was restored.

It was Sunday, so everything was closed including the capitanairie where we usually pay moorage fees and get access to water and electricity. But that didn't stop us. We found a spot downtown that happened to be the only one with an electrical and water hookup. At some of the mooring sites I'd seen access was credit card controlled and you tapped the machine with your card for every 100kw of power you needed and were given an adapter for access to water but here there was a plug and a tap just like home. Easy peasy. 

The next day Frank, the mooring don, showed up with an official looking binder. He quickly informed us he was a former soldier, pilot, parachutist and deep sea oil platform diver and had pictures to prove it.  He had a little bit of English, I have a Canadian's take on French so I was mostly able to keep up with his conversation with Deb which ended with him having 42E and our email in his pocket in case he ever came to Vancouver. He's not on Facebook. So we settled in to this under-appreciated site and set our sites on exploring. Which we've done. Since this writing we've moved on and staked somewhere's else. But about that, later.

SUNtorini

We are now the proud owners of a casserole dish. As luck would not have it, the restaurant that 'loaned' us the dish for an 8E deposit was not open when we attempted to return it so now something from my one piece of luggage will have to yield its space.

Life on a boat has demanded a new way of being. Sharing limited space with five other adults is like 6 bees, taken from their unlimited outdoor environment and put in a jar. The frantic flying means unavoidable collisions, occasional flare-ups and the development of a new movement culture. I now walk sideways when aboard and have to restrain myself when on land. 

Well that was interesting; we spent last night staked to a bank just past Redourte as part of our staccato rhythm of nights away from people with dinner onboard and nights moored in interesting sites with hopefully a good restaurant. As we attempted to pull away we couldn't. Our prop was mired in mud and in spite of repeated efforts by today's captain, Arne, it refused to do its job. My go to position is panic and instantly envisioned a day spent waiting for a 'technician' to arrive and save us, maybe even bring a new boat. We've had 2 visits thus far and are on our way to Homps, a Le Boat facility where yesterday's technician promised to replace the part he failed to bring with him. "Zeeriously, it weel take ten minoots".

A little shove, shove here and a little push, push there and we managed to extricate ourselves and resume our journey. The plan is to get the bow thruster switch replaced, take on some water and get back on the canal asap. We'll see, but first let me tell you about our last week in Greece.

Santorini. 

The name evokes images of blue-domed roofs interlaced by white stairs. I didn't know Santorini wasn't a city, it's a whole island of cities. Well not cities in the common useage of the word, more like tourist milking sites. Ours, on the southern tip of the island, was (and still is) called Perissa. The pictures you see in travel brochures are Oia (eeyah) and Fira where the structures cling to the cliffs with prostate constricting fearlessness. Perissa is a beach town known mostly for its beach which has been sub-divided into parcels (sub milking stations) controlled by adjoining restaurants and hotels. The water is clear and warm and the black sand so hot it can melt your sandals. 'Twould be easier to walk across the burning coals featured in meditation videos.

Our hotel, as in Galatas, had a pool and was a welcome respite from the world of travel. We shared it with Sister Anita and her husband Luigi but our 2 bedroom unit turned into a 1 bedroom upon our arrival as there was ostensibly a plugged toilet in the intended unit. I slept on the floor sans A/C and the next day inquired at all the other units - I think there were nine - and couldn't find the clogged toilet. Ah well, a night of discomfort became a free car rental which we used to discover the rest of the island.

A day of sandal burning was followed by a day by the pool so day three was discovery day. Debbie Tourguide planned a route across this tiny and heavily travelled island that would take in all the major sites in a single passing. The single lane road was narrow, twistier that the Hope/Princeton and clogged with quads, scooters and cars. First stop; Boutari, that wine brand we've enjoyed in Vancouver, is based here and for a mere 15E you can taste 1 1/2 oz of their best. At 30E per couple we looked at each other and said "never do that again" but did learn they never water their vines. The moisture comes in from the ocean as dew and leaves the salty aftertaste they're known for. We also learned that the flying volcanic stones, courtesy of the island's constant wind, bruised the grapes so vines are circled in a nest on the ground.

From there it was off to Kamari, the pricier side of the big rock that jutted out into the ocean and separated Perissa and Kamari. Much the same as Perissa but nicer souvenir stores and hotels and the boardwalk along the beach gave great views and welcome shade. It's been in the high 30's most days so shade is in high demand and going out without a hat is a death defying feat. One side of the boardwalk is restaurants and hotels and the other is endless seating for the guests who enjoy the view, beer and food while waiters dash back and forth dodging the strollers. We christened the spot with a beer, kalamari and another group foto before resuming our exploration. Next up Fira.

Now this is what I thought our accommodations were going to look like but if it did our trip would have been two weeks instead of 2 1/2 months.  I swear to god (small 'g' I'm not a believer) I'm going to figure the picture thing out and you'll see me peering fearfully over the glass railing as we enjoyed yet another beer amongst some of the best scenery Greece has to offer. A little shop shopping and it was back in the car to participate in the most popular activity on the island; sunset in Oia.

But it wasn't shoulder to shoulder camera holding for us - no, no - Deb had booked dinner at an exquisite restaurant months ago and it was a reverse balcony people situation. Look back in the blog for a piece called The Balcony People, I'm travelling with the same group now. Then we were enjoying the benefit of a balcony that afforded us a preferential view of a parade and the peons below. On this night we were perched on a patio, wine glasses in hand, perfect view ahead as the masses above peered down and said "that's the way you do it". I enquired at the desk as to how much a room here would cost, seems they start at $750/nite.

Okay, enough already, I'm starting to bore you but I have to tell you about the ride home. I was the only one foolish enough to say "yeah, I'll drive". Deb was navigator and signs there were plentiful even if they were in Greek. So had we driven from the southern tip to the northern edge without any stops it would have taken about an hour. We assumed the drive home would be just that but nooo. With the sun down, no moon or streetlights and hairpin turns every 50 meters it was a different experience. Frightening. I hadn't driven a standard in ten years and of the 5 gears supplied only three were used. And it's so much easier to get lost in the dark. Which we did so when I pulled a uturn to try again I was curious as to why all the white lights were coming at me and why was everybody honking? A motorcyclist flashed his lights - I thought he was a cop - so I stopped and he waved his arms "You're going the wrong way!" I couldn't change my underwear 'til we got home.

And that was Santorini. A few days later we flew to Rome, had an Italian beer this time, switched planes and went on to Toulouse where we were met by Arne. He'd left sister Pave at the hotel in Castelnaudary and - god bless him - drove the 40K to Toulouse to pick us up and transport us to the launching site of this floating adventure.

So your almost up to date. We've been on the water for a week with a week to go. Stay tuned.

John