"...I really didn't expect our hotel to be like a disco on the outside and a pimpa's paradise on the inside! It's like George Clinton and the P Funk All Stars are in town all the time!"
"...Rocks on the beach? WTF? Someone said "let's go swimming" and I look like the last guy picked for the Competitive Indian Firewalking Team getting there."
The day started out innocently enough. Three-hour train ride from Geneva through Bern to Zurich, reading the daily paper in the abnormaly quiet train car, and seeing the regular student crowd board the train in Lausanne. Then it started. Getting off the train and onto the Zurich tram, we were witness to girls dressed in the "sexy policewoman" outfits running into a gaggle of real officers. We were there with camera in hand. It would get progressively better as the day wore on. My friend and I walked the Bahnhofstrasse and stopped into a bar to order some cordon bleu (the size of my head) and drank beer from steins the diameter of my thighs. At lunch, a guy in a leopard-print leotard and cape walked in. Turning heads and illiciting wide grins, several patrons asked him to have a beer with them at their tables.
Now getting shitfaced in the afternoon is something I don't typically do, but when you're in Zurich during the Street Parade, you have no reason not to. Watching the massive floats blaring techno music, you could barely hear the people offering you X or Special K. The drug scene during this party is so intense that the promoters have signs saying "No Drugs, Please" plastered over all of the floats. The local authorities have taken an alternative stance: rather than think they can put a stop to all drug use during the party, they provide mobile testing vans which test the quality of the drugs and determine if it is safe to take. They don't arrest anyone. Watching the dudes with t-shirts that made no sense was amusing enough for me.
Beer coming out of my ears, we headed over to the Baur Au Lac hotel (note: everything sounds better in French, even when you're in the German part of Switzerland). Not fully comprehending how posh this place was, we stood outside the velvet rope and waited for my friend's girlfriend to come vouch for us. Like a scene out of E's Wild On, we walked into a world of caviar, champagne, and beautiful people. We scarfed down nibbly bits while trying to seem uninterested in the wildlife bumping and grinding around us. Drunk and hanging with the high society of Zurich's 20- and 30-somethings, we scampered up the stone walls of the hotel's tea garden and watched the mashup of techno, gothica, raving, and alcohol meld together in a beautiful concoction until midnight. We finished off the night traipsing through the refuse-laden streets (think Preakness-size garbage, except with Heineken instead of Budweiser) and found ourselves downing Long Island Iced Teas at Drinx Bar. Violating the age-old addage of "beer before hard", we called it an early night and slept off our fun until 11 the next day. (Post note: the streets in Zurich were clean by 7am the next day).
The next day was more sedate - Cordon Bleu (again) at AlmodoBar, go karting near the airport, and fantastic Thai food at Lily's. My last drink in Zurich ended as wonderfully as my first: singing "My Way" like Sinatra's backup singers with 50 other strangers in Acapulco during karaoke night.
So I competed in a triathlon last week. To be specific, it was the 2006 Geneva International Triathlon, held in and by the lake in Geneva. And to be even more specific, I was a competitor that never actually entered the race.
The sprint distance (called "promotion") involved a 500m swim, 20K bike, and 5K run. For the US equivalents, it was a .3 mile swim, 12 mile bike, and 3 mile run. Now individually I could perform the distances asked, but the real challenge was linking them together in serial, surviving the transitions, and not puking (outside of the water). Growing curiousity in the sport over the past few years coupled with my general averseness to physical harm culminated in a do-it-or-don't online registration that had me sweating over my keyboard for a good 15 minutes.
For the days leading up to the race, I trained with a fellow co-worker by running the loop along the lake, swimming the approximate distances in open water, and even borrowing his more road-worthy bike. We weren't completely prepared, but were anxious to challenge ourselves and at least finish. We received our numbers (yours truly was registered as #1203) and rooted through our competitor goodie bags to find if they had given us any good swag for the 80 CHF we had paid as entry. The night before, we carbo-loaded on gigantor amounts of spaghetti and bread, went to bed early, and mentally steeled ourselves for the gruelling day ahead.
When I woke, it was raining and somewhere around 63 degrees F (17 C). I sighed, got my swimsuit on, slipped on street clothes, and rode my bike in the rain down to the triathlon start. The rain relented for a bit and ceased its downpour enough for us to hear the really annoying French announcers repeat "wetsuits are highly recommended". Knowing that neither of us had a wetsuit (nor any of our coworkers - thanks to a company-wide email plea for wetsuits the Friday before the race) my buddy and I knew we were in for some tough few minutes ahead of us.
We had jumped in 10-12 C water the weeks previous (see this post) but really had not prepared to swim in 15.5 C (60 F) water for an extended period of time. Watching my buddy get ready for the first heat (I was in the second), I was crushed but somewhat relieved to hear "wetsuits are now mandatory". We stepped away from the start line and spent the rest of the day watching people emerge out of the water with chattering teeth. Although it would probably be a super-small market, I think that vans filled with rental wetsuits that drive around to sporting events like this would make a pretty good profit. To add insult to injury, the skies opened up later in the day, creating perfect conditions for the bike-run portions. The water, however, never got above 18 C.
Officially, I have no idea what my finish was categorized as. The dreaded DNF (Did Not Finish) doesn't even apply in my case - I was a full-on DNS. The lessons learned have encouraged us to buy some Orca tri wetsuits off eBay and find new opportunities in the spring. Unfortunately, I will be back in the states by then and will have to hone my tri skills by ruthlessly dominating geriatric athletes and small children.
Revenge will be mine. 2007 Geneva International Triathlon, you are marked!
Flickr pics from the elite women and men races at TIG 2006 are here.
"Practicing" Italian (a.k.a. just saying "grazi" a lot).
Sitting on train back to Geneva with German train photographer who was trying his hardest to speak English.
Questionable:
Taking the last train from Geneva to Milan and into the Milan Centrale station around midnight.
The Senegalese bracelet scam at the Duomo train stop. For those that don't know about this - the Duomo is crowded with a handful of west African (usually Senegalese) men who walk around with a handful of homemade cloth bracelets. They attempt to sell you one and when you refuse, they offer one for free. When you still resist, they hold it out in front of you and drop it. Out of kindness, 75% of people will reach down, pick up the bracelet and hand it back. At which point, with your wrist exposed, the men will tie the bracelet to your wrist. Guilt about having the bracelet will set in, and you relent to giving away a few Euros.
Milan prostitutes hangin' around the hotel (harmless).
What you talkin' 'bout Alphonse?
Navigating the Milano Centrale station. El sucko.
Figuring out the Milan subway ticket system. Super confusing.
Getting scammed by crackhead who sits by the subway ticket machine waiting for confused tourists.
Staff at the Hotel Berna. Uber-hardcore rude. Heads and shoulders more rude than anyone we even saw in France! Handle with care!
Close your eyes and imagine a gigantic state fair, held along the edge of a lake with a view of the mountains. Replace the corndogs with crepes and double the size of the cotton candy. Do away with the Budweiser in favor of Heineken and mix in Thai, Spanish, Italian, South American, Swiss, German, Chinese, Malaysian, African, and other multinational food for good measure. Have multiple dance floors with various kinds of music. Leave the carnival rides, but have the carnies speak French (keep the scariness of the carnies, though). Keep the garbage output the same, but magically clean the city by the morning. Combine all of these things together, and you have the Fêtes de Genève.
The "Festival of Geneva" is a 10-day party (August 3-13) that has free nightly concerts, amazing food, carnival rides, a regatta, an annual waiter and waitress footrace, an airshow, and fireworks. The fireworks show at the end of the fête draws enough people down to the lakefront so that the floating bridges have to be buffered to handle the extra weight.
For three nights in a row, I managed to wander around from booth to booth, eating things like curry and dönner kebabs, cotton candy and homemade nougat (yes, all at the same time). I even stood politely and bounced my head (as is the proper Genevois-approved way of dancing) to a handful of the bands that played the Jardin Anglais.
Getting ready for our regular weekly swim last week, my buddies and I donned our Euro-swimsuits (something halfway between a speedo and swim-versions of tighty-whities) and edged our way into the water until our toenails made contact with the oddly chilly August lakewater. Machismo and testosterone edging us on, we dove into the water and experienced an involuntary cold-water gasp.
The water was somewhere around 10 celsius (50 fahrenheit). After a few days of rain and cloudy weather, the lake had dropped nearly 10 degrees over the course of a week. Nuts the size of pistachios, we exited the water like pirhanas at the shores of a nudist tanning colony.
Hypothermia in water happens much faster because of the larger surface area that the water is exposed to (and water's excellent ability to pull heat away from the body). We were planning on going for about a 750m - which in water that cold would have been torture equivalent to watching Numa Numa and Angry German Kid for 18 hours straight. Our cold, pale bodies would have been washed ashore somewhere in Nyon - poked incessantly by the business-end of a sharp stick held by curious children.
Fast "50" Facts:
An average adult person has a 50/50 chance of surviving a 50 yard swim in 50 degree (F) water.
A 50 year old person in 50 degree (F) water has a 50/50 chance of surviving for 50 minutes
We retreated to the comfort of our clothes and watched as a Russian woman (who undoubtedly was part polar bear), entered the water and swam for nearly a half hour. Desperately looking to reestablish our masculinity, we struck up conversation with a cross-dressing bicyclist who was wearing a tennis dress.
After a recent trip to France, I realized that my American friends were paying way too much for meals. As Americans, we generally become accustomed to including 15-20% tip on top of the meal as a customary tip. Not in Europe.
Of course, the philosophy on tipping depends on your own personal situation and beliefs. In general, the principles around Western Europe are:
Typically, the cost of paying the restaurant staff is built into the cost of your meal (which, anecdotally, is the reason why many waitstaff work at a restaurant "for life" and a salad costs 20 CHF).
A small tip is generally expected.
The tip should typically be no more than 10% of the meal (unless you personally believe that the waiter did a knock-out job).
Round up to the nearest whole dollar value of the meal to estimate tip.
Don't feel bad about not leaving an el-giganto tip.
Note to self: when travelling to Switzerland, don't take magic mushrooms, run naked through town, light historic bibles on fire, and jump into the lake. Except if you're Patrick Kennedy and wearing a Johnny Damon jersey.
French sales of wine have steadily been losing market share to international competition. Sales suck so bad that some French wineries are resorting to ruthless American and Austrlian tactics of giving your wine a catchy name (think: Fat Bastard) and a catchy picture (think: Yellowtail).
Trying to be progressive but not offensive to French oenophiles, one wine's name is "Arrogant Frog". The response from some wineries was that the name was "shocking". The Marketing Director for "Cheese-Eating Surrender Monkey" wine was not available for comment.
Bellagio. One word conjures up such great images of dice, free booze, sleazy strip bars, water fountain shows, and erupting faux volcanoes. But the REAL Bellagio is much more sedate.
The REAL Bellagio is a town situated on a peninsula on Lake Como in Italy. Think of the lake as an upside-down "Y". There's no terribly direct trains to the location, so we took the train to Como and poured ourselves into a taxi where the driver was the stunt double for "Crazy Driver 2" on the Dreamcast. After gnawing off 3 fingernails, we unpacked at the Hotel Belvedere (pronounce all of the letters) and spent the better part of a week soaking up the lakeside views, eating fresh fish, working on our tans, listening to British accents, getting hammered on limoncello, and subjecting ourselves to really bad European synth renditions of the Captain and Tennille.
Although Lake Como is home to reclusive Swiss billionaires and their flashy Italian mistresses, Bellagio doesn't give it away. It's mediocre shopping is more gelato- and pasta-based rather than Gucci. If you go, try haggling with the vendors across the lake in Tremezzo, eat at the terrasse at La Pergola (take the long way around), and be waited on poolside at the Grand Hotel Villa Serbelloni.
No trip to Lake Como would be complete without seeing the two attractions that every Hollywood-crazed American is looking to take pictures of: the Star Wars Naboo house and George Clooney's Italian bachelor pad. For some, the imagery of catching George dockside with his junk hanging out is enough of an enticement to hire private "boat taxis" that stealthily cruise the shore with hopes of grabbing that $1M photo that gets sold to Star magazine. This is a shot of his house.
Then there's the Naboo house.For those of you that don't know about this thing called "Google", the lakeside Naboo house in Episode II of the Star Wars saga is actually Villa Balbianello, a majestic mansion that was once a monastery. Sold to a number of owners throughout the years, including an American General, the villa was left to the Italian National Trust. It's served as the set on Star Wars, to the remake of the 007 Casino Royale, to the iffy chick flick "A Month on the Lake" (IMDB description conjures of images of "Under the Tuscan Sun" with potential for a MILF-hottie threeway, then possible catfight afterwards).
A few friends from work and I went swimming in Lake Geneva after work last week. Placing our wallets, watches, and other belongings in a backpack, threw a towel over them, and prayed to the patron saint of beat-downs to give us strength if we found someone rummaging through our stuff. As we ventured into the water, we were surrounded by a fleet of homemade boats flying flags protesting the international trade meetings that were going on a few hundred meters behind us at the World Trade Organization (OTC en Francais).
Once we navigated our way through the Korean fisherman naval blockade, we made for the open water and swam uncontested in the crystal-clear water. We made our way down to the Perle du Lac and turned around, making the complete excursion from entry to exit about two hours in total. As we neared the shore, a refreshing light rain started to come down. We emerged from the water to see a pack of Swiss hoods standing around our bikes and packs - they were identifiable by the coifs (cross between a semi-shaved head and a mohawk), shirtlessness, and smell of beer. Fear crawled up my spine. You can't exactly look tough emerging from the water wearing pink-lensed swim goggles and having your backup posse wearing speedos. We approached cautiously. As we edged our way through the gaggle of teens, we noticed that our bags were untouched. I let out a sigh of relief as I opened my bag and saw my bank card staring back at me. What was even more surprising was that the gaggle of rough and pierced hoods struck up a conversation with us. "Where did all the protestors go?" "Are they partying with the guys in the WTO?" We joked, smiled, and exchanged witty one-liner jokes about the protestors with them. "What are you guys doing for dinner?" one of the Mad Maxx crowd asked. "Do you want to come to my house for spaghetti?"
At this point in time, several hundred neurons in the far reaches of Ben's medulla oblongata exploded. The fact that I had completely overestimated Geneva youth's willingness to engage in mischief made me want to find a small cave and pull the blanket over my head. We politely declined the offer of spaghetti and quickly dried off. The boys freaked me out by telling me ghost stories of "duck fleas" in Lake Geneva - more commonly known as swimmer's itch. I nervously laughed and feigned being unconcerned but went home and performed a Silkwood scrubdown.
Stick the earbuds in or turn up the computer speakers, peep the pics of Lake Geneva at sunset (top) and sunrise (bottom), and listen to the retro- lounge-cool soundtrack of the day, brought to you by Luxuria Music (should auto stream through MySpace).
So I was awoken by the sound of a woman screaming. I at first thought that it was one of those outbursts (albeit politely short) that drunken Swiss teens are prone to in the wee hours of the morning. But realizing that it was 7:30am and the screaming continued for something like 5 minutes, I thought it best to roll out of bed and take a gander. What I saw was a cluster of cars, pedestrians, and bicyclists all standing in the intersection. Apparently, a pedestrian had been hit by a car. And from the best that other bystanders could tell me, it was a child.
Standing in shorts and bleary-eyed, I had flashbacks to my own man vs. car incident. A few months ago, I was hit by a car and the only thing that seemed to save me was 1) my skull and 2) the skin on the back of my skull. It was really eerie witnessing something that I had experienced. It's sort of like seeing yourself on TV: you remember being filmed, but seeing yourself on TV gives you all sorts of awkward feelings that you didn't necessarily feel when you were being filmed.
There were people redirecting traffic and others trying to help console the unconsolable woman. People were on cell phones calling 117 (911 Swiss equivalent) and people down the street redirecting traffic so that ambulances could pass. For as much flak as the rest of the international community give the Swiss for being a seemingly uncaring and vanilla-flavored peoples, THESE Swiss folks were actually DOING something. I've been known to give the Swiss a fair share of rib-jabbing for mindlessly coloring within the lines like Oprah bookclub zombie-groupies, but this incident gave me a sense of relief that if the shit goes down, the Swiss got yo back. Not to say that it wouldn't happen in the US, but I'm willing to bet that the entire neighborhood wouldn't get out of their building to help.
Standing there watching Swiss businessmen and stay-at-home mothers taking on their new roles of traffic cops and triage nurses reminded me of a quote by an Irish political philosopher, Edmund Burke: "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." It makes one think of how many opportunities you have been in a position to do something and chosen not to: either out of sheer laziness, unwillingness, or the thought that someone else would do it.
Or maybe you knew that already. This guy needs to get new research interns or something. This is just an example of blatantly making shit up to try and sound good on the spot.
From Media Matters: "Bill O'Reilly falsely claimed that the Red Cross 'historically ... adopted' its emblem 'because of the Christian philosophy of giving alms and giving assistance to people in need.' In fact, according to the American Red Cross website, it was '[i]n honor of the Swiss ... [that] the symbol of a red cross on a white background (the reverse of the Swiss flag) was identified as a protective emblem in conflict areas.'"
From Wikipedia: "The Red Cross on white background was the original protection symbol declared at the 1864 Geneva Convention. It is, in terms of its color, a reversal of the Swiss national flag, a meaning which was adopted to honor Swiss founder Henry Dunant and his home country. The ideas to introduce a uniform and neutral protection symbol as well as its specific design originally came from Dr. Louis Appia and General Henri Dufour, founding members of the International Committee. The Red Cross is defined as a protection symbol in Article 7 of the 1864 Geneva Convention, Chapter VII ("The distinctive emblem") and Article 38 of the 1949 Geneva Convention ("For the Amelioration of the Condition of the Wounded and Sick in Armed Forces in the Field"). There is an unofficial agreement within the Red Cross and Red Crescent Movement that the shape of the cross should be a cross composed of five squares. However, regardless of the shape, any Red Cross on white background should be valid and must be recognized as a protection symbol in conflict. Of the 185 national societies which are currently recognized by the ICRC, 151 are using the Red Cross as their official organization emblem. In addition, the Red Cross is currently used by the national society of Tuvalu which has applied for official recognition."
You've probably all seen this before, but it gave me a chuckle seeing it again. It's so much more comical when you see stereotypes acted out in real life.
In the past, I've written about how Western Europe seems to shut down during July and August (bringing with it a huge influx of summertime butt sweat and forehead sheen). But a new article out by the Wharton School of Business tries to offer some possible explanations to the divergent work and leisure perceptions between Europeans and Americans.
Two interesting statistics:
As recently as the 1960s, Europeans worked more than people in the U.S.
When it comes to quality of life, Geneva is #2 (snicker). According to a survey by Mercer Human Resource Consulting, Geneva ranks just behind Zurich for the world's top city for quality of living. The study evaluated 250+ cities on several criteria:
Political and social environment (political stability, crime, law enforcement, etc.)
Coffee is a zero-calorie drink. This includes the fantastic-tasting coffee produced by Nespresso. (This is not a paid advertisement, although I'm open to suggestion).
Click here for calories on popular foods. Click here for a review of Nespresso machines.
Does anyone else ever miss those self-indulgent childhood days of looking through your books just for the pictures and not the words - because you had no idea what any of the words said? Well if you were ever curious, that's what Swiss junk mail is like.
So I was watching German MTV this morning and really enjoying not understanding much of the blah blah blah between the "25 Years of MTV" celebration, when a commercial for a German ringtone company came on. Now these things are hugely popular in Germany and for one VeriSign-owned company in particular, Jamba, a single ringtone made them millions of dollars and gave it a widely-recognizeable European mascot with the controversial genitalia: Crazy Frog. Now the order-a-ringtone-by-SMS craze in Europe is still a big thing and you're constantly bombarded with infomercials during late night cable TV. Combine all the Billy Blanks and Christie Brinkley / Chuck Norris spots, add all of the Magic Bullet and Ginsu knives infomercials, and you have about the volume of SMS ads late at night.
Well, it was nothing all that odd to me. What WAS odd was the fact they were advertising a ringtone called, and I shit you not, "Crazy Arab". The "Crazy Arab" ringtone consists of a man yelling gibberish, apparently cracking fun at the nearly incomprehensible verbal patterns. Now at any other point in time of my life I may have considered that a bit amusing, but my prudish American sensibilities were abit taken aback. To validate my disbelief, I flipped up 10 channels to CNN International to see Hezbollah rockets fired into Haifa while Israeli ground incursions were happening. There are some people, I will admit, who proclaim themselves to be a "crazy arab" like examples of this on MySpace and YouTube. And although I'm thoroughly amused at the YouTube rendition of Fast and the Furious: Dubai Drift, I find it hard to believe that today's Arab youths want to self-identify with the phrase.
Want to download the ringtone and offend your friends? Website is here .
I had heard all about it, but wasn't quite prepared for what it would appear like: during the months of July and August, a vast majority of Europeans head on multi-week vacations, leaving their workplaces as empty as a cube farm in Omaha during a Huskers game. Needless to say, productivity has dropped to an all-time low. Emails sit unreturned, Out of Office notifications come streaming in like spam, and the 5:30 tram home is as empty as a bus tour of Beirut.
An artcile from the WSJ online from 2004 blames low European productivity (overall, not just during the summer) on weak management. "Managing for mediocrity," a study published by Proudfoot Consulting, observed workers in nine countries for more than 10,000 hours and found that bosses are behind low productivity, a notion that debunks the conventional wisdom. 'The blame can be placed squarely at the feet of management, which is accused of insufficient management planning and control and of providing inadequate supervision,' says a statement accompanying the study." Blog entry with excerpts is here. This view of weak European management is one that's also held by buyout firms in the US who, for the past few years since the dot-com bust, have been snatching up poorly-managed European tech companies, replacing the management with multinationals or Americans, and selling it for a hefty profit.
Couple the incredible workload with the soaring heat and you can imagine what kind of ennui it might create. As I'm writing this, I'm sitting in an outdoor cafe feeling the sweat condense between my bum and the cheap plastic outdoor chair as the outdoor air temperature hovers somewhere around 80 degrees - and it's 10PM. Interesting enough, the cafe is called "Central Perk" and its early dispute with Hollywood has become the stuff of legend. It has good dinner specials and free WiFi (in case you're wondering why I might sellout).
So this song has been haunting me ever since we beat it to death on our trek through southern France during Easter. Couldn't find the original Time-Life infomercial, however.
You have to appreciate the hilarity of the Elvis meets Johnny Cash meets Lee Majors appeal of this guy.
Last month, we hopped a cramped morning train in Genoa (Genova), Italy and traveled towards the Italian riviera with a bunch of working-class commuters (the body odor gave them away) and sun-worshippers wielding beach umbrellas like jousting lances. As we neared towns like Santa Margherita Ligure and Levanto, the train started to empty out until all that were left were tourists armed with well-thumbed Rick Steves books.
The Italian riviera is a narrow strip of coastline is divided into two sections: the Riviera di Ponente (to the west), from Ventimiglia to Genoa, and the Riviera di Levante (to the east), from Genoa to La Spezia. The former includes wide sandy beaches and the rather commercial seaside resorts of San Remo and Bordighera, while the latter boasts small bays backed by rocky cliffs and more exclusive retreats such as Portofino and Cinque Terre. Portofino is the best known, with its small picturesque harbour full of sleek yachts, its luxury clothes shops, and its romantic villas owned by the rich and famous perched on the hillside. The beach at Santa Margherita Ligure, just 3 miles south of Portofino, is an excellent place to swim, with a magical view of the surrounding cliffs and villas from the warm and crystal-clear aquamarine water. Nearby Rapallo, 5 miles south of Portofino, is less fashionable and subsequently less expensive. At the southern tip of the Riviera di Levante, lies Cinque Terre, a series of five picturesque fishing villages linked by scenic mountainside paths and surrounded by vineyards, and lemon and olive groves. The beaches here are less exploited for a reason - they're hella hard to get to and the rocky beaches are reminiscent of that Annie Lennox song about broken glass. We debarked the train at Riomaggiore, the eastern-most of the Cinque Terra and obtained our train passes (a great deal that includes the train rides between all of the Cinque Terra and the hiking path fees as well). As we got off the train, the entire train seemed to hop right onto the hiking path. We waited for the queue to subside and timed our entry between a couple from the US and a tour group of children from Italy.
The easiest of all the hikes was the walk from Riomaggiore to Manarola, coined the "Lovers Walk". Various parts of the paved hike were decorated with quotes inscribed in marble. After Manarola, the hike became adventurous. The towns were a pretty distraction from the true attraction: the path between the Cinque Terra. Although Rick Steve touts the virtues of each of the cities, I think that the shopping generally sucks. If you can navigate your way around the tourists in each of the cities, the photo opportunities are great as well. But for us, the real attraction was busting our humps on the challenging terrain of the path. Word of caution: do not attempt to bring your suitcases or rollerbags on this path. We saw some unwitting British tourists who were rolling their bags out of Vernazza onto the path and heard them mumbling "that train sure sounds good about now".
In Vernazza, we dined on pesto pizza and gelato and rubbed our tummies like overfed buddhas. As we exited Vernazza, we were running out of daylight and decided to jump the train to Monterosso and live out the rest of our day there. The first warning should have been the packed train station with drunk people singing to an accordion player. Then, like lemmings, everyone got onto our train. We stopped in Monterosso and got off the train - along with everyone else. Flashing each other looks at the mosh-pit anxiety that was sure to ensue, we jumped back on the train and headed for Levanto where we joined the World Cup-watchers.
Wandering around the streets of Nice, France, we heard some reggae coming out of a jewelry / headshop. Not listening closely to the lyrics, we assumed it was some random French reggae artist. But, in fact, it was none other than Damien Marley, the youngest son of the late Bob.
If this album doesn't make you want to get up out yo seat, then call the coroner, because you're dead. Picks:
"I exercise strong self control. I never drink anything stronger than gin before breakfast." W.C. Fields
After returning from a recent trip to Italy, I found myself daydreaming of the fantastic limoncello and how in the US there isn't a comparable substitute. In fact, digestivos or after-dinner drinks were something completely foreign to me before coming to Europe. The closest that most of my friends get to an digestivo is probably the random glass of scotch or the drunken shot of tequila off off of a sweaty female belly button in some hazy Adams Morgan bar after dinner. No, nothing quite compares with the sticky-sweet smack of the limoncello on the tongue.
Want to try your hand at making limoncello at home? Try this receipe:
10 lemons
1 liter vodka
3 cups white sugar
4 cups water
Zest the lemons, and place zest into a large glass bottle or jar. Pour in vodka. Cover loosely and let infuse for one week at room temperature.After one week, combine sugar and water in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil. DO NOT STIR. Boil for 15 minutes. Allow syrup to cool to room temperature.Stir vodka mixture into syrup. Strain into glass bottles, and seal each bottle with a cork. Let mixture age for 2 weeks at room temperature. Place bottled liqueur into the freezer. When icy cold, serve in chilled vodka glasses or shot glasses.
Want to try some wacky digestivos? Try Cynar, which is an infusion of artichokes in grain alcohol. You can also sample Fernet Branca, which is alcohol with St. John's wort and 39 secret herbs. It can also be added to espresso to make "caffè corretto". Branca Menta is a mint-infused version of Fernet Branca and can be served over ice or with water.
For those of you not yet ready for the digestivo plunge, try some Limoncello mashups:
Limoncello Martini: Combine 1/2 ounce limoncello and 1 1/2 ounces vodka, shake with ice, pour into a martini glass and garnish with lemon peel.
Limoncello Iced Tea: Pour 1 oz. limoncello in a tall glass over ice. Fill with unsweetened iced tea. Add sugar to taste.
Limocello Cosmopolitan:Combine vodka, cranberry juice and a splash of limoncello. Pour into a martini glass and garnish with a lemon wedge.
Limoncello Bellini:Pour 2 oz. peach nectar and 2 oz. champagne into a champagne flute. Add a splash of limoncello.
Being the quasi-adventuresome types we are, we pointed on a map of Europe and decided to head to Cinque Terra, Italy. Literally translated as the "Five Lands", the five cities of the Cinque Terra - Riomaggiore, Manarole, Corniglia, Vernazza, and Monterosso - were originally discovered by backpackers in the late 90s and then became the subject of an entire Rick Steve's episode, leading to the onslaught of euro-wielding tourists. We decided to do our part and laced up our hiking boots.
Considering that most summer rooms in the Cinque Terra are booked months in advance, explaining to hotel reservationists that we needed a room for the upcoming weekend was like trying to explain Final Fantasy VII to a cheetah. Looking north and south along the Italian Riviera, we picked Genoa as a base of operations from which to launch our campaigns into the Cinque Terra.
On Saturday, June 24th we arrived in Genoa and found ourselves in the midst of a gigantic party: The Cathedral of San Lorenzo in Genoa holds the alleged ashes of St John the Baptist, stolen during the Crusades, which are taken out and paraded through the city every year on 24 June, St John's feast day. The celebration takes place on the saint's day and involves a solemn mass, followed by a procession where the ark containing the saint's remains is transported through the city. During the procession, burly teams of men carry gigantic crosses - one man bearing the full weight of the cross at any time. Part Cique du Soleil balancing act, part World's Strongest Man Competition, these men were juggernauts: my trousers could probably be snugly buttoned around one of these men's forearms.
When the procession arrives at the city's ancient port, a ritual benediction of the Sea and the City takes place, following which the remains are taken back to the cathedral and the ceremony is solemnly concluded.
Saint John has been the patron saint of Genova since the middle ages, when the ashes arrived in the city courtesy of a band of roving crusaders. The crusaders (or bandits, depending on your point of view) had gone off in search of the bones of Saint Nicholas (or Santa Claus), which were preserved in a church in ancient Demre, or Myra. Miraculously, when they arrived in 1099, the tomb of Nicholas had recently been robbed by sailors from Bari, who abducted the remains and took them back to their hometown.
Peeved, the Genovese started tearing up the floor of the church and discovered another set of remains. Believing these to be the real Saint Nicholas, they packed the bones up and were about to leave, when they learned from the cries and lamentations of the monks at the site that the bones were actually the bones of Saint John the Baptist, a much holier prize than jolly old Saint Nicholas. The Genovese returned to Genova as victors, with their bags full of holy bones.
Whether the remains of the saint are genuine or not remains highly dubious. The saint being one of the most popular saints of the Catholic church, his head was one of the most sought-after relics on the market. At one point at least 13 heads of Saint John were being venerated around Europe. The most prized one was kept in the Vatican, but irreverent raiders apparently sacked the city around the 7th century, finding the time to play three-way football with the revered heads of St. Paul, St. Peter and St. John before taking them off to unknown and remote destinations in Asia.
So the Genovese weren't really raiding, they were "recovering" the stolen relics. Makes you feel better about the whole thing, doesn't it?
Flickr set from the Feast of St. John and Genoa are here and here, respectively.
Thanks to the www.isic.org website for some of this content.
We stood in the quasi line that snaked its way into the front of Notre Dame and basked in the cool, moist air inside. The church met all expectations: airy, light, bigger than life, and jam-packed with people from Kentucky. We sat, reflected on the existence of a higher power and the overarching meaning of life, then walked into the corner of the cathedral, dropped two euro into a vending machine, and retrieved our commemorative Notre Dame medallions. God bless corporate religious branding.
Our feet took us along the adjacent Seine at sunset and traipsed by the Hotel de Ville. Hungry and needing a respite, we found an out of the way cafe and dined on salmon, pate, awesome potatoes, and topped it off with Parisien coffee and a good dose of people-watching.
Dinner that night wasn't a letdown either. At Bistro du 7eme (in the 7th district), we had a decadent 20 euro, 3-course dinner that was divine. In bad need of some cardio following our meal, we walked out of the 7th and walked towards the Louvre pyramids along the Tuilleries and saw why they call it the city of lights.
The next day, we braved the crowds and headed for the Louvre. For 30 seconds, we were face-to-face with the Mona Lisa and no one else. We wandered through French paintings, the sculpture gardens, Egyptian relics, Napoleon the IIIs apartment and saw a handful of impressionists (although we would later find out that a majority of impressionists sit in the Musée d'Orsay). Museumed-out, we bailed out after four hours.
The end of the day found us sitting on the curb on a street off of St. Michele in the 6th district and eating gelato (not the best, that would be in Italy - watch for this post). We picked through the used book stores and headshops that lined the street and caught our breath under the shade of a few trees in the courtyard of a church.
After boarding the train home to Geneva, we reflected on our trip and were amazed that the service was so ridiculously good (and bilingual) - everywhere we went. I already miss it.
Flickr set from Paris is here. Thanks to my forgetfulness, digital camera batteries died on day 1. Remainder of pics are from disposable which are being developed.
This would be a trip of firsts. Venturing out of Geneva at first light, we took the TGV (Train à Grande Vitesse) to Paris and went a mindnumbingly fast 300 km/h (186 mph), which took us into the heart of the city in three and a half hours. You know you're going fast when the passing phone poles make you think that you're blinking uncontrollably.
We checked into our hotel, Hotel Le Trois Poussins, which turned out to be a little gem of a place in the Opera District (9th). My review of the hotel is here. After making hurried attempts at unpacking, we jumped onto the metro at St. Georges station and took the 12 train towards the river. Emerging from the subterranean underground, we blinked like moles in the blinding sunlight until we found our sunglasses and stumbled our way to the Tuilleries.
Wandering northwest, we walked up the Champs-Elysées, leaping between the patches of shade that lined the street. Powered up with a street vendor-supplied sandwich and too many cans of Coke, we ventured up towards the Arc de Triomphe, stopping only to pick through the meager English section of a Virgin megastore and watch the people who were people watching us.
We took pictures of ourselves but dared not venture to the Arc itself because of the mongol hordes of tourists that seemed to flock to it like carrion. We opted instead to stroll down avenue Kleber and found ourselves, still on the right bank, but on the western side of the city, where the Seine makes a sharp southern turn, in the Trocadéro district. Lolly-gagging through the parks, we gazed across the Seine at what looked to be the infield at Pimlico during Preakness: the Eiffel Tower. If you've never been to Preakness, imagine a NASCAR event where all of the people outside of the stadium are now in the middle of the track. We picked our way through the throngs of tourists underneath the shadow of the tower, took some pictures, and stared at the numerous hen parties (bachelorette) that were subjecting the brides-to-be to do some comedic routine. I patted myself on the shoulder for opting not to propose at the Eiffel Tower.
We fueled up on gelato and jumped onto the metro headed for Notre Dame.
We're engaged! I proposed in Talloires, France at L'Abbaye. Perhaps the most beautiful place I've ever stayed at (but I'm biased). The two pictures in this post, by the way, were taken out of the window in our room and can be placed edge to edge (using the mountain in the back) to give you an idea of the Talloires bay. Flickr pictures set from Talloires is here.
So I've noticed a lot of random traffic coming to the site from people looking to find out how to pronounce certain words in French. Although I'm unwilling to record poor versions of my own French pronunciation, there's a great website that everyone should know about.
The BBC website has a section devoted to learning other languages, with online learning material, mp3 downloads, and interactive lessons. Probably not as comprehensive as a Pimsleur, but nice (and free) nonetheless. Available languages are Spanish, Italian, French, German, and a slew of other ones.
The BBC French language site is here. The BBC language site is here. Tutorials also has a website on French pronunciation here.
Flying from the US back to Geneva, I took Air France and I have to give it 4 out of 5 stars to the US and 2 out of 5 stars back to Geneva.
Air France has a terrific entertainment system that panders to the geek in all of us. Movies, music, games, and a real-time map are all available through a personal entertainment system, complete with a game controller in the armrest. When you're on the ground, the pilots can even turn on a landing gear camera where you can see the ground crew work. The flight from Paris to DC had fantastic food: great cheese, coffee, and a choice of quality airline food. Parents with infants less than one year old could order a "skycot" which is a portable crib that latches to the undercarriage of the overhead bins. (Kind of weird seeing it for the first time). Even though there were six babies all screaming in stereo, the crew did their best to keep us entertained and well fed: I saw one stewardess scrounge up a salad for a passenger (from where, I have no idea) and bust into a 3 new dinners to retrieve the cheese for another. No way would that happen on an ATA flight from Detroit to Midway.
The flight back was a little nightmarish. The first thing I noticed was that fewer people were drinking wine in favor of Diet Coke. The crew seemed hurried and the meal distribution was carried out in a frantic manner. Once we crossed some midpoint line in the Atlantic, however, things resumed their normal European rhythm: coffee, cheese, and croissants. It was all okay until I arrived in Geneva to find that the front pockets of my luggage had been torn off by some errant piece of baggage handling equipment.
Getting off the train in the small village of Gruyères, (yes, where the cheese was named), I didn't expect to see a robot picking cheese. I also didn't expect to see sexually explicit cartoons. But I was in for a treat.
In my terrible French I asked the train conductor "Do you have Gruyères?" A brief, quizzical look overcame his face until he was able to affirmatively identify me as a tourist and say "Oui!". Our small train rolled through the quiet Swiss landscape until we came to Gruyères, a small blip of a town near the edge of the eastern shore of Lake Geneva.
Tourist mecca beckoned. A small electric train (Disneyland-esque) advertised rides around town. The menu for the restaurant outside of the station had the word "fondue" and "cheese" splashed on it like an overzealous Jackson Pollack. We walked past the restaurant and gazed at what appeared to be the Matrix on dairy. Robotic arms loaded and unloaded gigantic wheels of cheese onto racks in an enormous warehouse that stretched the length of half a football field.
We jumped on a bus in the attempt at making it to a gondola that we had seen in some tourist literature. Being the only people on a gigantic commuter bus, it must have seemed odd to the driver that my friend and I had chosen to sit knee-knockedly on the same bus bench together, Brokeback Mountain-style. He took us the 2 miles uphill until we came to the cog railway that was out of service for the winter. Defeatedly, we walked back to the bus and took it back to the main village.
If you've never had double cream with coffee in your life, try this experiment: dunk your head in a vat of butter. Remove head, pour coffee in cup and sip. Good, eh? Coffee was served with double cream in tiny thimbles that did not pour, but rather had to be scooped out. We saw people around us having double cream with strawberries. Decadent. We sat and watched the Ricola-esque horns and walked over to the HR Giger museum.
Having not seen the movie Aliens since my 8th grade birthday party, (which ROCKED by the way), I was ill-prepared for the HR Giger museum. The Swiss-born artist was the mastermind behind the scary aliens in the Aliens movies and was apparently a sufferer of night terrors: something that he had initially turned to art therapy to help relieve. His dark, sexual imagery was completely misplaced in this land of dairy, cows, and rolling hills.
We finished up Gruyères by doing a 30-minute breeze through of the chateau of the village. At this point, however, I'm beginning to get all chateau-ed out.
On the way home we stopped in Lausanne, grabbed dinner, walked through a street festival, got caught in a rainstorm we had heard coming across the lake (cool), and eventually found ourselves trapped in an all-too-small traincar with about 400 Spanish schoolgirls who apparently had found a new frequency to communicate on: somewhere between where dog's hearing begins and human eardrums rupture. We were glad to stumble back into Geneva with only minor injuries.
Hotel Mercure
Pebble Beach
