Monkeying around in Montreux

A few weeks ago, my buddy JP and I took the train from Geneva and walked along the Montreux promenade under the watchful eye of Freddie Mercury where he said, "If you want your soul to find peace, go to Montreux." Went into the famous (now rebuilt) Casino that burned down and inspired Deep Purple's lyrics "Smoke on the Water".

Got our chill-on at Chateau Chillon, which inspired Lord Byron to write "Sonnet to Chillon". His graffiti, amusingly enough, is now a tourist attraction in the dungeon.

The Flickr set from Montreux, Gruyeres, and Lausanne (postings to come) is here.

View from Saou

On top of the dungeon in Saou, France.

Videos are up

First YouTube posting: Siesta on the Drome River in France, outside of Die. Enjoy!

Birthday Hijinks

My birthday started out innocently enough: coffee and a croissant. If I had known what sort of craziness would ensue in the hours following, I probably would have sprung for an extra danish.

My visiting friend from the US and I hauled ourselves out of the corner cafe and rented mountain bikes near the train station. We boarded the #20 bus and rode it south to the end of the line - a small town at the edge of the French border called Veyrier. We rode across the border and boarded the cable car up to Mt. Saleve. With spirits running high, we strapped on our helmets and began our descent down the marked path.

It was about 50 yards into our ride when we realized that this probably wasn't a great idea. The path made an ugly turn: the gentle downward slope that we were hoping for mutated into a downhill orgy of death. The path was wet and paved with leaves (read: slick) and where there were no leaves, gargantuan rocks surfaced from the center of the earth.

We had come to a particularly difficult pitch when it all went wrong. In an attempt to stop, I jammed on the rear brake. As I continued to skid downhill, I put both of my feet down in an attempt to slow my descent. I seemed to be picking up speed when my left hand went to the oh-so-convenient front (disc) brake. The scene played out in slo-mo: touching the sensitive front brake stopped the wheel and threw the rear wheel upwards, thrusting the handlebars into the tops of my thighs. The back wheel, now free from the oppressive confines of gravity, elevated skyward and the mass of dirt, metal, and flesh that were so neatly separated seconds earlier, smashed together in the equivalent of a BMX falafel.

We decided not to continue down the path. And it started to rain.

Cruising down the road wasn't nearly as gruelling as the path, but we were able to wear our fair share of road grime as bugs, rocks, and mud were kicked up by our front and rear tires. By the end of our descent, we had road-acquired Hershey Highway pants.

We descended through the clouds at the base of Mt. Saleve and rode into a town with a small church. We tried to find an easier way down with no luck, so we followed the road further downhill and deeper into the French heart of darkness. Not knowing how to navigate back to Geneva and with no Euros to pay the stray gypsy cab with, we ventured towards the one town name that I recognized: Annemasse. If you thought that riding a bike down a 45 degree pitch was deadly, try riding your bike on any French road. With every passing semi, a year of my life was pinched off. We found the train station and took the embarassingly short 10 minute train ride back across the Swiss border.

When we returned the bikes to the station, it must have looked like we were returning from the front lines at Omaha Beach: we were bruised, muddied, and markedly less upbeat. Grit and rocks sat in the crevices of our face and my bike was missing a front reflector. It had been 3 hours since we had rented the bikes.

We grabbed a quick lunch at the train station, took a quick shower, and decided to indulge ourselves for the rest of the day. Our self indulgence took us to the Bains de Cressy, a clean, spacious, and upscale spa on the outskirts of Geneva. Its giant, heated (34C, 93F), bath area is surrounded by several smaller "coves" all of which had massage jets in various locations. We sat and luxuriated in the bubbles. Although the water was not as hot as one would think for a spa, it was relaxing nonetheless. We ventured into the coed (but clothed) hammam (wet) sauna and sweat out our pride (and sucked in our gut) with a handful of older ladies. The finishing move was when we signed up for massages. The masseuse understood just enough French to understand "it's my birthday" and rubbed a little more enthusiastically.

De-stressed and pruned, we gorged ourselves at La Ruota in Carouge and had Côte du Rhône with a mixture of cakes from A. Pougnier. I feel asleep that night full, massaged, and half-drunk. It was a fantastic birthday.

(Pictures coming soon)

Le "Monsieur Mackey"

The Genevoise, Swiss French, and some French speakers have an interesting (albeit amusing) habit of what I call the "Monsieur Mackey-ism".

• Pronunciation: The Monsieur Mackey-ism (or Mackeyism for short: OED here I come!) is where you jam together the words, "hmmm" and "yes" or "okay" together to form a word that sounds more like a gastrointestinal adjustment than a form of verbal communication. In the Monsieur Mackeyism, the words are spoken in French, obviously, and sound akin to a duck quacking with a sinus infection. The words "hmmm" and "oui" are concatenated together in the Monsieur Mackeyism to be prounced: "mmm-WAAAHH".
• Usage: Used in place of "ah yes" or "uh huh" when listening to a person ramble on or give directions.
• Warnings and Contraindications: Be sure to pronounce the last syllable with an open "aahh" clearly. French speakers who also understand English may confuse the Mackeyism with the "mmm-WHAT" response that many non-French-speaking newbies often use. The "mmm-WHAT", however, is often associated with a blank stare or the tilting of the primary ear towards the speaker.

The Monster that is Migros

Okay, I'll stop complaining about Super Wal Mart now. I've never seen a single brand in so many seemingly disparate lines of business than a Swiss company called Migros. Take a look at what they have gotten into:

• Migros: Supermarkets
• LeShop.ch: Online supermarket
• Migrol: Petrol stations
• M-electronics: Electronic stores and internet music download service
• OBI: (DIY) Do-it-yourself stores
• FitnessPark: Fitness centres
• Do it+Garden Migros: DIY stores and garden centres
• Micasa: Furniture stores
• MigrosBank: Bank (fifth-largest in Switzerland)
• Golfpark: Public golf courses
• Ex Libris: Bookshops
• Migros Klubschule: Adult education centres
• SportXX: Sporting goods stores
• Eurocentres: Language schools
• Frey: Chocolate manufactures
• Migros Magazin: Sales magazine
• Hotelplan: Travel / vacation company
• Florissimail: Postal flower service

Fête de la Musique

June 16, 17, 18 - Geneva

So the more that I hear about and research this festival, the more excited I become. During four days in June at the annual Fete de la Musique (music festival), hundreds of bands play at makeshift stages all over town. Jazz, classical, punk, rock, ska, classical, you name it. Vendors of all nationalities display their wares and sell food, clothing, jewelry, artwork, and other trinkets in tents all over the Old Town until the wee hours of the morning. I haven't even been to it and I'm excited!

Photo album from past events is available here. Official website here.

Siesta Across Southern France - Final Episode: Saou to Crest

We rose groggy from the siesta and ventured down the road towards our day's final destination: a small working farm a few kilometers outside Saou. On the way, we found that the most treacherous part of our journey - aside from Mr. Die and Die Junior - was dodging German RVs along busy roads and listening to stories of mikvas in Israel. We crossed fields on unmarked paths and found our way to the farm.

Farm sounds and smells greeted us. The farm was owned by the families of two brothers whose family had kept it for nearly 300 years. Shaking their hands felt like lacing up boxing gloves - they were immense. We saw a basketball hoop (7 ft or so) and were immediately overcome with the need to dunk. We started up a game against the locals and the two Americans quickly began wreckin' shop Wu-Tang style. The Americans were annihilating the French team (consisting of a small bespeckled child and a roughneck Frenchman) when a game delay was called and the ball had to be fished out of a stagnant trough.

Dinner that night was a feast of 5-6 courses topped off with a heavy helping of homemade cheeses. We had our fair helping of fromage blanc, which is not porn speak for anything. Our siesta master was so pleased with the meal, the next morning his ass decided to voice its approval in a loud, unadulterated monologue. The moving story awoke all of us. One last photo op for the Brokeback Drome tourism board and we were on our way.

We headed to Autichamp the next day, our second to last perched village. We approached from the South and found a semi-civilized, quasi-modern setup: tended fields, irrigation, fountains, and a few sunlit-drenched (read: roofless) homes to buy in the middle of an upcoming neighborhood (read: demolished ruin), steps to Central Park (read: see the tended fields part). We walked up through the remains of the city, saw stunning views of the surrounding mountains, found a nice rocky courtyard overseen by a statue of the Virgin Mary, and took our last siesta of the trip.

Our path to Crest was not very direct. We crossed fields, unmarked paths, and hoped we were headed in the right direction. We passed dozens of dog kennels that unnerved our Spanish compatriot so much he took to carrying a large rock in the event of random dog attack. "The country dogs", he would say, "these are the worst." The only unfenced dog we were greeted by was perhaps a breed somewhere between a Furby and a Tribble. The Spaniard's grip on his rock tightened as we passed the 180-decible, walking toupee.

We picked our way across our last dusty field and finished at an outdoor cafe at the foot of the largest attraction in the city of Crest: a medieval dungeon. Creepy and exquisitely kept, the dungeon felt like a fun house with all the goofy staircases and passages. Speakers piped in creepy-crawly-creeky sounds and added a nice touch when accompanied with the authenticity of the 1900s-era graffiti. The views from the top of the dungeon were amazing.

We boarded our last bus to get to Valence and headed back towards Geneva. We sampled the new European Coke Black (which tastes like a carbonated, sweet, espresso) and witnessed the equivalent of French white trash - who looked oddly like the woman from Throw Mama from the Train, with glasses and a sandpapery-hoarse French voice.

Our faces were sunburned, our feet were sore, and our buns were toasted. We wanted to do it all over again. And plan to. Stay tuned.