Here, There and Everywhere

Map? Check. Suitcase? Check. Food? Check. Now, what's that nagging feeling, hmm...

Turns out it was me forgetting sunscreen and cream of any sort, but no matter. I wouldn't find that out till we were 5 hours and 500 km away, in remote l'Anse-Saint-Jean, tucked into a small chalet/condo at the end of a busy pier. Debby and I'd planned this road trip for weeks - me with my usual itching-to-go and Debby with her "do it! do it!" turned into a trip to kayak up the Saguenay fjords and catch a glimpse (or, hopefully, an eyeful) of one of the species of whales that live the length of the Saguenay river. I'd printed the itinerary, bought a Quebec road map, packed the food, double-checked directions. And still, still, we were in for surprises.

On the way to the Saguenay:

We started out late morning of Friday, dropping Cléo the basset hound off and heading to Tim Horton's for the obligatory Road Trip Cappuccino and muffin. Debby dubbed this the 3W weekend - Wayland, Whales and Wetsuits. So after Christening her Webby we were off to Quebec City, the first leg of the trip, choosing the long way around just cause and getting lost in some boonie part of the suburbs and finally winding our way back to the riverside. It's always so beautiful, the river, where it begins to widen out. The dirty St. Lawrence around Montreal stretches into this vast, clear-blue field - cut in two by Ile d'Orléans near Quebec, then growing wider and bluer and catching your eye, always, as you round each bend. From Quebec City it was a long ride to St. Siméon, then up the remote highway into l'Anse-Saint-Jean - St. John's Harbour - where we arrived near supper time. We unloaded the car into our conpact condo, then headed out to see the boats on the pier, the mountains, the beginnings of the fjord, the water, the clear-cut land across the harbour. All of it familiar, in that rural-Quebec kind of way, yet different. The cut of the mountains, carved by glaciers, unlike any we'd ever seen. We looked, took pictures, then headed back to make supper, catch a quick swim in the heated pool, brave the what-if-they-peed-in-it jacuzzi, then off to bed.

l'Anse-Saint-Jean:

The next morning, ever the early bird, I got up and tip-toed out to see the place in the sunshine. The water had that diamond-sparkle look, quiet and peaceful. I popped by the kayak place to see what we should wear that afternoon, then peeked out at the boats waking up, and finally headed into town on foot. There were tourists everywhere, easily spotted by their English, their Montreal French, their quiet speech. The locals, friendly and accommodating, spoke with flat, broad accents at the top of their lungs - "des bleu-ah" for "bleuets" and "saaah-lu!" for the simple "salut". It was odd, and endearing, and Debby and I spoke together in broken, horrific Italian because everyone seemed to be fluent in English, everywhere.

I headed back to find Debby ready to go, and so we headed out to a few local artisan shops, bought a few things for our homes, then crossed the river over the covered bridge to the other side of the harbour. The 30+ year old pottery shop had closed for good the day before, so we settled on a few pictures and went back to change for our kayak trip.

Crafts!

The covered bridge:

We'd started the planning as a 3-day trip by kayak up the fjords, but expense and inexperience got the better of us, and we opted for a three-hour beginner course around the area. Our guide Louis (dubbed Luigi in our attempts at Italian) dressed us up in neoprene pants, jacket and booties (Debby nicely matched, me looking like a fashion catastrophe) and stuck an oar in our hands, pointing down to the tandem red kayak stuck in the sand. Twenty minutes and 5 more people later, we were ready to be instructed - here are the pedals, here's how you paddle, here's how to tie and pull off the skirt, here's where to lift, carry, put the kayak down in the water, and finally, finally we were off. The wind was strog and relentless, tricky. Louis promised us a reprieve at every turn, but still the wind was there, and we fought against it, shoulders burning and stitching up until Louis told me to paddle in smaller movements. Very unDraonboat-like. Much easier.

First we crossed the harbour, then we hugged the side, and then we went out into the open water, the fjord walls rising straight and high and the waves crashing over the sides of the kayak. It was on the edge of scary, yet exhilerating. We looked for white seals, and Louis told us stories of sharks caught in ice-fishing season, glacier waters flowing hundreds of metred down, just-pregnant first colonists waiting impatiently for the priest to show up when the ice broke in spring. The couple from France who were on a tedem next to us commented on the scenery, how beautiful it was - how unlike anything they'd seen. And it was true - this extension of home, this 5-hour trek from Montreal, more beautiful and inspiring than things I'd seen far, far from home.

Wetsuits drying on the line:

The weary paddlers return!

The next day we were up and out early, car packed and ready to drive the hour and a bit to Baie-Sainte-Catherine to board the cruise ship to see the whales. And so down the windi groad we went to the lonely highway, and I pointed right, Est, east - the logical way, in my head, to head back down to the St. Lawrence. But a half hour in there was something wrong, nothing familiar, and a too-late check of the map told us we'd gone the wrong way. And although we tried, and hurried, and made up for lost time, it wasn't to be. We'd missed the boat by 10 minutes, despite the rare buffer we'd given ourselves.

Still, there it was. The St. Lawrence. Blue and wide and dotted wth rocks at low tide, the sun shining off the waves, the houses srtung with washing lines, running up the coast. Home, depite being hours away. All we have to do is come back.

The only whale we saw on this trip:

The little Swiss climber on the Price is Right just doesn't do it justice. On the train ride in, 7 hours from Luxembourg, Neal and I marvelled and turned our heads at the mountains - one after the other, each one taller and greener and metting in valleys filled with little towns and typical Swiss chalets. So strange to see them, like up north in Quebec - except here they are everywhere, bulging with flowers, impeccibly clean and kept. Getting off the train at Interlaken West, we were stopped by the colour of the rivers, running between the lakes that border the city. They were the clearest blue, yet running cloudy, filled with glacier minerals and looking clean enough to tip into and drink. I never quite got over the colour, no matter how many times we stopped just to touch and see.

Our B&B was just down the street from the station. I was a bit wary of train-pratical accommodation, like the scary little two-bit place Debby and I stayed at in Rome. But this one, B&B Rugenpark, was exceptional. The owner greeted us by name, with two big glasses of iced tea. She picked out Neal's accent and told us of her time in Galway, introduced us to the resident pup (was it Buddy? Or Manny? He sneakily stole someone's cake while we were there, but he was too affectionate and beautiful to scold), and took us up to our room. It was wonderful - white linen, bright windows, and a huge balcony all our own. "You can't quite see the Jungfrau," she said. "It's still cloudy." So we looked and saw the greenest, highest mountains and wondered what the largest of all could possibly look like. So with map and restaurant guide in hand we headed out - across the rivers, where we stopped and stared, then into the typical Swiss town. At some point I turned around, curious to see Jungfrau, and there it was. Like a picture. It looked impossible. It wasn't among the other mountains, but high above them. Covered in snow. Far back behind them. I pulled Neal's sleeve and we stared and stared and wondered if we weren't mistaking it for clouds. But no, there it was, unmoving. It was almost unreal.

Neal and I went to a small restaurant that the B&B owner recommended, and spent a small fortune on cheese fondue, sausage, rösti, and white Swiss wine. It was all delicious, especally the wine, which the Swiss aparently keep to themselves. Then it was back out to stare at the rivers, point at the mountains, and spot the skydivers here and there in the sky. Everyone seemed to glow with a kind of outdoors healthiness - like they'd just returned from yet another long hike and a hearty meal. So we nodded and smiled and made our way back to the hotel, ready to get a good night's sleep and set out hiking ourselves.

Breakfast was a feast - toast and Nutella (which we get at home - but it's still wonderful!), with cold cuts, cheese, preserves, fruit, and wonderful, wonderful coffee. After a quick stop for a bottle of water and some snacks (more chocolate, of course), plus a run-though of our hiking itinerary, we made our way to the train station - first to Interlaken Ost, then around the mountainside, then up the Grindelwald gondola to the first bit of hiking trail. The views were amazing - mountains and snow and valleys and houses, one after the other, unable to fall it in the camera lens. We got off and started to walk, at our reular fast pace, and were out of breath in no time - first Neal, then me, lagging behind. "It's the air," I said Neal. And so we slowed, took deeper breaths, making up for the thinner oxygen. But we were passed time and again by people way older than us, clad in backpacks and looking the picture of typical health. The people, like the place, were clean and cleansed and hearty. And so we trotted along, happy to be passed, knowing age is mind over matter and wishing for the same.

Just down the path we could hear clanging - not a rhythm, but a chorus. Cuh-clank, cuh-clonk. Cuh-clink. And then there it was, a field of dairy cows, each with its own cow bell, nodding into the grass or walking about. They were making what should have been an awful ruckus, but instead was a kind of Alpen symphony. So out came the camera, and the jiggling of buttons, until I finally figured out how to hit record. Only when I got home did I realize my camera doesn't have sound, but here is the old-time movie version with cue cards:

Neal: Here we have a field of Swiss cows.
Cows: Moo. Clink-clank.
Neal: That one over there is Joe. He's the leader.
Cows: Moo. Moo.
Neal: Do I have to keep talking?
Me: Yes! Say something about the mountains.
Neal: The mountains are nice.
Me: Grr.
Cows: Clank, clank, moo.
Me: Up there is Jung-Frau-Jock. We'll be headed there tomorrow.
Neal: It's "Young-frow-yock".
Me: Grr.

And so we continued through the mountains, going through village after village, wondering how in the world people got all the way up here and passing a few weary souls (mostly backpackers) who'd been climbing for hours to bring groceries up to their hostel. Still, there were frighteningly steep roads carrying cars up and down, and we followed the signs till we were barely able to walk, finally flagging a man to have Neal ask him, in English-German, how to get back down. And that's how we ended up walking down a dirt staircase for almost an hour, with my pitiful knee (the one I mucked up years ago before heading to Spain - the one that's never hurt me since) protesting at every step while getting quickly out of the way of the occasional group of dare-devil downhill BMXers. At the bottom, finally, we found ourselves in a valley - miles and miles away from where we started. So we walked, and took in the view - the bottom-to-top version of what we'd seen along our hike. Then we found a bus back to the train, and headed for a bite - the first in 5 hours since we started walking without a break. It was wonderful, if a bit too ambitious, at least for me. But where else could you see anything like it?

I even stopped for a pic just for Gelli, as Neal explained where it was from:

And this wasn't originally for Gelli, but what the who:

Plus a sign warning of cartoon cows:

And the Canadian flag, according to the Swiss:

The next day we headed up Jungfrau to the Jungfraujock - the lookout point on the glacier. The price was enormous; without rail passes, we were both paying full tickets up. But it couldn't be missed, and we reasoned were were here, and perhaps we wouldn't be back, and that's what credit cards are for. So we set out early, back to the train, then another, then another - 2 and a half hours' worth till we reached the top. Along the way we went from trees to tundra, and still there they were, the elderly hikers, walking up steep hills and across narrow paths, not even out of breath. And so we stared and pointed and wondered until the train went underground and, for an hour, all we did was wait as it chugged up the cog-railway to the peak - with a stop or two for a lookout. The crowd in the train was enormous - and it was worse at the top. But, like magic, we were up where we'd been pointing for days - a little spot of a lookout, surrounded by glacier and snow, blusteringly cold on the open-face side and warm enough to go sleeveless on the ground.

From the top we saw the cities, the Swiss countryside, and out past the mountains into France. But it was on the glacier itself that we stayed longest. They had a rappel line, dog sledding, a small ski hill with a t-bar lift, sliding, hiking, even a giant inexplicable snowball in the middle of it all. In the sun it was warm and comfortable, but when the clouds went by the temperature dipped and I was glad for my wool sweater. It was incredibly bright, an Neal asked at one point if the sled dogs were green, and so we shared my sunglasse and took turns squinting and going just a tad sunblind.

I'm not cold! Honest!

Then we braved the crowds again (including the large Indian family who'd never seen snow, or revolving doors, apparently) to catch the ice castle (just a hole in the ice, really) before deciding we were hungry and not prepared to pay $6 for a cookie. So down we went, back on the train, stopping halfway for raclette and beer and watching the rain come rolling back in, this time to stay. So we headed back to the B&B, went for a quick swim at a nearby lake (well, a swim for Neal and watching the swans for me), then napped awhile, dressed, and headed back out in the pouring rain for supper.

The next day we walked in the rain, along the shore, finding ourselves at the dead-end of a rocky dock in a small gale, having to brave the swan couple hidden in the grass (those things can be nasty!), then crossing back to the lake again, wet and damp yet elated still at the rivers and the colours and the scenery.

They may be cute - but they have ulterior motives!

Yet we'd made up our minds - Zermatt was not to be. It was booked and on the list, but the rain was relentless and we'd been barely keeping ahead of it since Paris. We weren't equipped to hike the muddy paths in the rain, yet we weren't prepared to leave Switzerland so soon. But Marseille promised us the sun and they had a room free for an extra few days. And so we left early, not quite convinced we should go, but needeing to get out of our damp sweaters and admitting that Switzerland was harder on the wallet than wed expected. Still, it was the highlight, the most beautiful place I've ever been, and as the mountains receded in the train and the fields of sunflowers came into view, I knew we could come back to hike 50 years later and still fit right in.

Ah, Premium Class. I splurged when I bought my plane ticket (I'd clicked OK and got a giddy, guilty feeling, but...), and I had visions of glassware, stemware, white linen napkins, a menu... all those classy things I used to see when the curtain opened to reveal those stuffy uptights in First Class, while I gnawed at my knees for hours on end. So it was heaven to skip the Economy line, and my stomach fluttered to be called to board among the first, and oh, but those 6 extra inches of legroom were bliss - bliss! But who am I kidding? I didn't mortgage the house for a ticket - I paid a low-fare airline supplement. And so, along with endless glasses from the box (yes, box) of wine the flight attendant passed around, those were the perks. Still, they were lovely - and I could cross my legs without putting my shoe up my nose. Could I really ask for more?

Neal met me early in Paris. He'd arrived the day before from Luxembourg and checked in to the hotel I'd stayed at 4 years ago. Going through the Métro was like déjà vu - everything seemed so familiar, like each stop was on the tip of my tongue. "Wait till we get out," Neal said to me, and he was right. The street outside Convention was bustling and noisy and we fit right in. Does Paris every really change? Here at home, buildings are torn down, new ones go up, and within a few years the old familiar is barely recognizable. But Paris? Change a store here, a name there, a colour or two - I'd reconize it anywhere.

We spent the first day, half exhausted, just walking. Around the Pompidou Centre, along the Seine, through the Latin Quarter, up the steps across the river from the Eiffel tower. I have a picture of my mother, from 1968, leaning against the lookout, the tower in the background. I never got the angle quite right the last trip, but Neal found just how to mimic it. My mother and I - almost 40 years apart. One for the livingroom wall.

The next day we headed to Père Lachaise. It's where Neal and I met, in September of 2003 - he going one way, and I the other. So without a map (how could we forget the spot!), we headed to the back, on the left - searching for Oscar Wilde. The pathways are mazes - running in circles, like Paris streets. Neal and I tugged each other up and down the wrong paths for an hour, until I finally spotted a small crowd and we went looking that way. Oscar Wilde's grave is covered in a greasy tribute of lipstick kisses, but we opted not to add our own. We simply read the epitaph, held back from repeating our how-we-met story to the unsuspecting German couple next to us, and went on to search (in vain) for Jim Morrission's grave. It was nice to come back.

By then it was well past lunch, and we had yet to even have breakfast. In a fit of nostalgia (and hunger), I bought a banana-Nutella crêpe from a road stand, only to have a rogue chocolate-covered slice fall right into the 1-inch opening in my purse I'd forgotten to zip shut. Messy stuff. We then headed for Sacre Coeur (I won the should-we-walk-or-take-the-funiculaire argument, only to discover the lift was closed for repairs). Then we went back to eating, this time at some far-off place where we had Tartiflette (yum) which was served to us by a stinky waiter (ick). {I saw a TV ad in France for a deoderant that claimed to keep one fresh and dry for 48 hours. Which sounded nice, until you realize...wait...did he just say... 2 days???} Still, with the food and the wine, you hardly notice.

And so back to the hotel, and up early, and then it was off to Luxembourg. Neal has been living there since September, so it was nice to be headed somewhere where I could sit back and follow. The TGV was fast, although - rediculous, I realize now - I thought the scenery would go by in a perfect blurr. From the train station, it was a short bus ride to Neal's - a big, bright, bachelor-messy place on a street that reminded me of Florida. Each house was painted in different bright colours, and there were trees everywhere. Luxembourg is like a strange mix of city and woods. We then headed through the forest to the old town - a rambling, Hansel-and-Gretel-looking place that was right out of a fairy tale. Between the rock face, the abundance of trees, the river, the old buildings, the aqueduct, and the stone wall, it was breathtaking. I even marvelled in revoltion at the huge slugs that crossed our path, and vowed never to eat a snail again. (I don't care if they shrink and taste yummy with garlic - they're hideous!) We stopped at a pretty bar and sat along the river, soon joined by Neal's roommate and 2 of his co-workers. It was nice, and familiar, and welcoming. And the beer was lovely.

The next day, the rain started. And settled in. It never got much warmer that 11 C, and the two sweaters I'd brought with me didn't come off once for the next 4 days. Nevertheless, we toured the old city, outside the palace (with a few pics of the poor guard on duty, who looked all of 12), down around the river (where we spotted people wrapped in plastic wrap, painted white, lying around in garbage bags, and even one poor soul crawling across the river wall in his tighty-whities - turns out they were making a short film...some movie!). We spent hours at the grocery store (wine is cheap! cheese is cheap!) and I shopped for my birthday gift (and bought another sweater). It felt like fall, except for the lush trees - but for that I remember it just like a fairy tale, with the wind and the bundling up and the mystery of it all.

Neal decided he wanted to take me to the border, so I could cross into Germany. So we took the bus to Remich, along the Moselle - which divides the two countries. It was raining and blustery, but we crossed the bridge and spotted the "welcome to Germany" sign and I added another country to my "been-there" list - only... there was just a gas station. And tents. Not even a restaurant or a landmark or place to sit. Just... "You took me here to see a campground?" I asked Neal, to which he replied "But you're in Germany". To which I repsonded "I'm in a campground in Germany", but he wasn't to be fazed and nodded to the "welcome to Germany sign" again and we walked back, him elated, me in a bit of a huff.

Still, we checked the local map back in Remich and discovered a vineyard up the road so we walked and walked and missed closing time for the tour but sat outside the restaurant and ordered a Riesling for Neal, and a Gerwerstraminer for me. Only I pronounced it "gerswish-swish" or something ungodly and the waiter nodded and Neal smirked and I huffed again. "It won't stick in my brain," I said. "The German." So he pronounced it impeccably and I tried again but the consonants kept getting in the way, and by now the waiter had come back with two small pitchers and glasses and we each took a sip. Lovely. "Gerwisterstister?" But he shook his head again. "Ger-verts-tra-meaner - like that." But it was no use, really.

The next day we headed to Germany - this time for real. We took the train to Trier and spent the day walking around the old square, stopping for more wine ("YOU order it!"), marvelling at how everyone obeys traffic sigals (even the pedestrians!), and buying Neal running shoes (he finally acknowledged that jogging in shoes you get at the grocery store isn't great for his knees). We met another of his colleagues for a drink (Riesling this time), and then a fellow Irish colleague for supper, where I was the only one who didn't speak at least some German and managed to muddle up "water," of all words. Still, lovely, lovely food, and wine, and company. The next day we were on to Switzerland - the main part of our trip, the place we wanted to see most.

And Gerwerstraminer? I finally got it right - in Marseille. But that's for later.

Less than 3 weeks to go and I've just remembered that I forgot to buy a new backpack. As it stands now, I have the choice between the awkward lug of a pack that already weighs too much when it's empty - or the threadbare thing my parents bought me when Leanne and I headed to Springfield, Mass back in 1995. At least I have a lovely new compact 360-degree-spin suitcase that will face the ultimate will-I-kick-you-up-and-down-the-train-aisle test. Results remain to be seen!

This will be the most adventurous trip yet - from Paris to Luxembourg, Interlaken, Zermatt, Marseille and back to Paris again in 18 days. Neal - who will meet me in Paris - insists we can fit a bit of Germany in there as well. I gave him the wait-and-see speech, but it would be nice.

It's also the first trip where we won't be scraping pennies the whole time. Neal no longer has to skim off a slim student's salary, and we've managed some good deals - a Premium-Class flight for me (same price as Economy on Air Canada - yay Zoom!), plus First-Class TGV tickets back to Paris (cheaper than Economy, however that works). Switzerland will eat into the budget, but great deals everywhere else mean we can splurge a little. All I really want is to see the Alps and eat an indecent amount of Raclette. Neal, of course, will be deliriously happy no matter what we do.

First, though, the backpack...

Neal and I picked Cuba because: it's cheap, it's cheap and it's cheap. We were looking for some nice, ocean-side place that wouldn't break the bank, and Cuba is packed with all-inclusive resorts that let you overdo it on everything. Aparently its possible to get bored with too much free booze (sort of).

Our resort was in a small city called Jibacoba, in the province of Havana. The place was barely half full, since August is so warm here at home and people tend keep Cuba for the winter. Still, more than half the guests were from Toronto, which might as well have been the other side of the world. There are two faces to Canada, too.

We arrived on a muggy night, sometime after supper, and I had to convince Neal that bringing our luggage to the room before going to the beach was a good idea. We made it to the water just in time to catch the biggest, reddest sunset I've ever seen - the sun just sitting on the water, twice its size, and sinking by the second. Neal went in, I marveled at how white sand is so much nicer than rocky brown pebbles, then we headed out to eat. The buffet was huge and varied, although as the week progresses you realize you eat the same thing every day, just with a different sauce. Still, it was good.

The next day we tried snorkling - one of those things you have to build yourself up for. First, get over the fear of touching sea grass. Then, get over the fear of curious fish. Then get over the fear of swimming over the deep chasm of coral reef, where the sea bed suddely, unexpectedly drops some 15 feet and you feel like you're falling. But, that conquered, it was breathtaking. So many fish, in so many colours - and coral of every shape and texture. Neal and I developed a system of tugging and frantic pointing to catch the other's attention at something that swam by. There was even the odd eel and flatfish, and the infamous school of jellyfish on our last day that called an abrupt end to my snorkling adventure (those things hurt, little buggers).

The rest of our days were spent much like spoilt, beached walruses. Eat, lounge, nap, drink, drink, pool, drink, eat, HBO, drink, shower, dress for supper, repeat. There's something blissfully mind-numbing about doing sweet-diddly-nothing all day long, day after day. It was like a routine of non-routine, setting everything back to 0. After a week of it you start to feel the twinges of boredom and monotony, but I can see why people go back to Cuba again and again, year after year...

Then there's the other side of Cuba - the one you only ever get a glipse of. Ramshakle houses, the kind that look long abandoned, are everywhere. People are sun-burnt dark, roaming the roads, talking to one another, calling you over, asking for a peso or a caramello, looking almost destitute yet purely, simply happy. And so began the debate with no answer: what do the Cuban people think of Cuba? They have complete health-care coverage, complete dental coverage, their food and housing is heavily subsidized by the government, and their education - to whatever degree they choose to achieve - is absolutely free. Even their funerals are paid for by the state.

Yet they lack so many of the basics. Our guide to Havana explained that the Cubans have two currencies: the non-convertible peso, and the convertible peso. The former is what every Cuban gets paid, which they can use at subsidized markets to pay for food and other necessities. Yet anything on the open market is only available for purchase with convertible pesos - which only those in the travel industry make through tips. And 60% of their necessities are purchasable only with convertible pesos. And there's the paradox. They have money, but they can't spend it on many of the things they need. The guide told us that here are as many opinions as there are Cubans, and that we'd have to make up our own minds on the matter.

Havana was beautiful - and incredibly poor. Crumbling houses, peeling paint, bicycle taxis, camels, and people everywhere, in places that would be condemned here at home. Yet there were magnificent cars - leftovers from the 50s - and music, markets, restaurants, odd characters, stray dogs, the occassional refurbished building. The Christopher Columbus cemetery was huge and gleaming with white tombstones, and revolutionary square was covered in cracked pavement and lacking the pomp I was expecting for such a sacred place. There isn't any advertising in Cuba, just revolutionary billboards - remembering heors, criticizing Bush, praising Cuba's policies against child labour.

It's a city unto itself - unique in the world. I realized how the endless, relentless construction of Wal-Marts and McDonalds and the like are making the world a predictable, monotonous place. That's what was so disappointing about New Orleans - its jazz history turned into a gimmick to sell the same old stuff you find anywhere else you go in North America. What must the world have been like before franchises made every place feel exactly the same? I expect it felt as genuine as Havana - as untouched as Cuba.

Whether or not Cubans are happy with it all is another story, though.

A trip just isn't a trip if it doesn't start at the airport. At least that's how it usually feels to me. Unless I'm in for a long, cramped ride over lots of water, I'm not so much travelling as not going to work, or - at the very most - escaping for a weekend.

And so I forget how much there is to do here at home. Montreal is a huge, vibrant city - I've really never seen a place like it anywhere. Walk downtown and you'll hear every language, see people of every colour, admire every style of dress and haircut (with the unfortunate mullet, or "coupe Longueuil" popping up now and then). It's easy to forget what we have in the winter, when it's 30 below and the longest you want to be outside is the 5 seconds you need to sprint to a warm, waiting car.

But summer...I realized today, with Neal arriving in just a few hours, that we're in for a summer of seeing Montreal all over again. There's something about Neal's enthusiasm for the city that makes me want to show him all the little corners, off the beaten path, that I've seen maybe once or twice in my entire life. And so I rediscover my city, and the province, all over again.

So far, we've got a long weekend in Quebec City planned next week. Old Quebec is beautiful - long, cobble-stoned streets; old stone buildings; the Chateau Frontenac; the boardwalk; the St. Laurent with Ile d'Orleans in the background; a stop at Pape Georges for maple paté and a glass of wine; the sound of the caleches; the tight, touristy feel of Quartier Champlain. I've seen it dozens of times, but I love it each and every time I return.

And then the rest of the summer is left for Montreal: the Old Port with the rapids of the St. Laurent; the locks; the Cirque du Soleil tent; the incredible sangria at Jardin Nelson; the museums and street vendors and the crash of novice Rollerbladers.

And the festivals: the Jazz Fest, with hundreds-of-thousands of people lining the streets; the Just for Laughs Fest; the World Fil Fest; the Carrifesta; Shakespeare in the Park (which I've never ever gone to see); the Food Fest; and more that I can't remember for the life of me.

Then there's Little Italy, with the best coffee in the city; Ferraris parked in front of the fancy restaurants; Milano's grocery with imports that make me dream of Rome; football shirts in every window; and the best-dressed people in the city. Neal will insist on a few trips to Little India for Vindaloo at the BYOB place. There's a hike up Mount Royal and, on Sundays, the Tam-Tam jam at the foot of the hill - hundreds of bongo players and people dancing to a rhythm you can feel for a mile.

Even right here, near home, there's the Pointe-aux-Prairies park, with miles of walking paths through the last of the woods here in the east; bogs full of frogs; wild birds; and, if you're lucky, the occassional deer. It leads all the way to the old cemetery, with old war graves and a day's worth of reading tombstones. I haven't been in ages, but I'll take Neal and it'll be like new to me again.

How easy it is to forget that people come here, to the city I see every day, to visit. They actually sit down and plan a trip to Montreal - plotting the sights to see, places to stay, where to eat...I could never understand it - why people would come here for their only 2 weeks of vacation, when it's no Paris or Rome or London. But sometimes I get a glimpse of it.

If I were to live somewhere else for a long time, and if I took the plane home, I'm sure Montreal would feel like a trip for me, too.

Apparently, it rained non-stop here at home from the day we left until the day we came back. Ha! Two weeks in Italy and not a drop - not a single drop - of rain to be had. Just sunny skies, soaring temperatures, toxic diesel fumes, men (and even one prococious 3 year old) who make you feel like the centre of the universe, more food than can possibly be good for two people, even more wine, long road trips, and one suitcase now fit for the trash. I have no luck with luggage.

After a sardine-like flight on Air Transat, Debby and I arrived in Rome exhausted and elated. We made our way on the train from the airport to Termini station - me saying how much a train ride feels like the perfect start, and Debby exclaiming that this is exactly why she never takes trains. Oh, well. We'd rented (OK, I'd rented) a small apartment a short walk from the Termini station - a strange, dank, mildewy place smack in the middle of the courtyard of an apartment complex. It was like being in a big box in the centre of a cement yard. It was eerie but clean, although Debby felt the need to "boobytrap", as she calls it, the place before going to bed: chairs and cans in front of the door, bread knives under the mattress, and, before entering the building at night, loud discussions about our long-overdue holiday from the Police force. (For my paranoid part, I clutched the car door handle in panic and fought off nausea wherever we drove - while Debby multi-tasked and steered the car with her knee, on one occassion, fitting in like a Pro).

Rome was beautiful, historic, busy, and smelled like pee. I mean everywhere. We had to hold our breath to walk up the street to the main boulevard. And although I'd heard about driving in Italy, you honestly have to see it to believe it. There are aparently no rules, and that goes fourfold for scooters. People park everywhere, stop anywhere, cut in all over the place - but no one seems to get too upset. They simply (and I mean everyone) give what we called the "mah - what?" gesture: fingers of one hand pointed upward, in a bunch, and moved back and forth towards the chest. It was a flashback to our largely Italian highschool days.

We started with the Spanish steps, the Trevi fountain, a stop to eat, a gelato (gelAto - not juh-latto, if you please), some walking around, and finally supper. We also saw the Colisseum, where we met a guy from Calgary, travelling with his mother, and a guy from Dublin taking a side trip after attending his sister's wedding in Tuscany. We went to supper with them, and Debby (Italian and tri-lingual and having been to Italy before)introduced them to Mozarella di Buffallo - which was excusably mistaken for a plate of hard-bolied eggs and pecked at carefully. But oh, what mouth-watering cheese that is. (I think I can get it here, in Montreal's Little Italy, for some $15 for the tiniest bit. Dang.)

The next day, we booked a rediculously early (even for me) tour of the Vatican museums, and waited in the longest line I've ever seen (pushed and cajoled by a throng of middle-aged tourists - and they claim younger people are rude!). The tour was nice, if rushed and packed. I hate crowds - more specifically, I hate being touched and bumped into by strangers. It makes me cringe. One (middle-aged) lady even tried to bump me out of the way to see the Sistine Chapel first, and I had to grab Debby's hand not to tumble down the marble stairs. But, it was all very beautiful, very historic, and with that done, we took the car and drove - for 7 long hours (1 1/2 of which were spent, immobile, waiting for an accident to clear) to Venice.

What can I say - Venice is stunning. Packed with tourists (like us) so as to be just about farcical, but like nothing I'd ever seen. We arrived at night, almost 10, and the apartment owner met us at one of the Vaporetti stops to take us to our place. It was a strange walk: desolate, dark, and eerie - with strange people at every turn - yet clean, almost magical, and so quiet without the sound of cars. Such a difference from Rome. It was almost like stepping back in time. The apartment, called Ca'Maria, was beautiful: sparklingly new, with every amenity you can imagine, and a fridge full of food and drink for us. It was less that half the price of even the cheapest hotels, so we'd hit the jackpot. We went for a walk to the Ponte Rialto, had a quick look around, then stumbled onto the only remaining restaurant open at 11. They rushed us thorugh our meal, and the waiter tried to interest Debby in a night cap followed by who-knows-what, so we decided to call it a day.

I was up early the next morning, and made my way alone through the alleyways and sidestreets for a few hours. I love the look of a place in the morning - there's something so clean and promising about it. I crossed from one side of the Rialto bridge to the other, turning here and crossing another canal there, and finally made my way to our meeting point, where I waited a good while for Debby (a late sleeper if there ever was one) and was rudely and briskly felt-up by a middle-aged man in a suit. Instinctively, I gave him the "mah - what?" gesture and stared him down while secretly revelling in the fact that I'd been fondled in Italy - although I was hoping for someone a bit younger. We spent the day walking around, eating (one restaurant promised "Spaghetti with carpet shells" - a strange translation for clams - and we couldn't resist), splurging on a gondola ride (with the handsome and charming-without-being-pornographic Mauro as our guide), taking a quick look at San Marco, a Vaporetti drive to Maurano (where the glass was rediculously expensive), and eating again. I didn't want to leave Venice - although Tuscany wasn't a bad alternative.

After another long drive and plenty of getting lost (Italy has this thing about putting up road signs that say "X - straight ahead", and when you go straight ahead you find a four-forked crossroads with no further indications), we found our villa, just outside San Casciano, some 20 minutes from Florence. The villa is on a property owned by the Corsini family - a rediculously-large acred vineyard that was like something out of the Godfather. No kidding. We also had the place - I mean the whole place, enough for some 15 guests - all to ourselves for 4 nights. It was gorgeous, with our room facing the not-yet-budded vinyard and smelling of old wood, stone buildings and olive and grape fields. There were even fireflies at night - the first I've ever seen in my life. Such fascinating things, lighting up whole corners of paths and gathering in the small valleys between rows of trees. But supper awaited - and we went into San Casciano to the only restaurant still open and had the best meal yet.

We spent the next few days touring the cities around: Sienna, Florence, San Casciano. We spent a whole aftrnoon at the pool right next to the villa, feeling like the only people in the world. We also booked a tour of the villa, given by the extremely knowleagable Australian nanny, and had an absolute feast for lunch outside the cantina: capers the size of olives, marinated zuccini, home-made pasta with artichokes from the owner's garden, a cheese-fruit-and-jam plate, with biscotti and Vino Santo for dessert - all washed down with a bottle of their popular Corti wine and a half-bottle of their more exclusive Don Tomasso. Just as we were digging into dessert (well, trying to get it all to fit in), a car drove up - the only other car we'd seen there in 3 days, mind - and out came two Quebecers for a wine tasting. So we sat with them for an hour, and learned we were all on the same flight home. Small world!

From there we took a long, terrifying drive down to Praiano on the Amalfi coast. I say terrifying, but it was so stunningly beautiful you hardly noticed the sheer drop some several hundred feet down to the sea. Imagine a whole set of cities perched - and I mean perched - along the rock face of a set of gorgeous, steep mountains. There were lemon orchards everywhere - layed out in rows all down the side of the mountains. The roads were stupifying, winding around and around and around, so that you're able to see around the bend of a one-lane/two-vehicle road only by means of a mirror - IF said mirror was still in place. There were signs everywhere indicating that honking was strictly forbidden (although all road rules appear to be flexible), which we later realized was for the benefit of tour busses and trucks, who honked to indicate when they were coming round the bend lest they surprise (aka squish) some unsuspecting motorist or maniac on a scooter. At least the traffic flowed at a slowish pace, so I didn't feel like losing my lunch all too often. We stayed at the Hotel Margharita in Praiano, the village over from popular Positano. What a gorgeous hotel - something out of Florida, filled with couples in whte shorts and knee-socks-with-sandals, with walls painted pink-and-white and rooms that - thanks to a particularly high bed - gave you the most stunning view of the sea when you woke up. We walked down the steet (and I mean literally - you either walk straight up or straight down in the Amalfi) to a small pizarria, and I dragged Debby to a local bar to try to get her introduced to a local. There were slim pickings, though, and we stumbled back to the hotel and off to sleep.

The next day we took the bus to the beach - my preferred mode of transport, although Debby is a die-hard car fan. The water was gorgeous - all blues and greens - and we stung our eyes silly with salt water (the beaches around Montreal are mucky - not salty!) and worked up yet another appetite. Debby tried the next day to rent a scooter (there was no way, shape or form that I was getting on one of those things), but the rental guy (the most pretty Italian I'd ever seen) just about had an anyurism when he discovered she'd never ridden one before. So, in accordance to his vehemenant wishes, she decided to join me at the beach (I went on foot and she by car), which - as we were warned - was some 400 steps down the rock face. What a workout in 32 degree heat! At least, unlike Montreal in the summer, the shade provided some relief. It felt good to stretch my legs after too many days in the car, though, and we spent the day going from one beach to the next, eating in between and thinking about where to go for supper.

The day after, we went to Pompeii - my one concession to visit something death-related on the trip. Although I was disappointed that all the artifacts were at a seperate museaum - in Naples, I think it was - the remains of the city were fascinating and the audio-guide gave us lots of background. There were still beautiful paintings visible on the walls, and the sheer size of the city - and the way it was created (the road system, built deep for water and sewage to pass with stepping stones created for pedestrians and large enough for cart-wheels to fit through) - had me enthralled. Finally, the heat and the school groups getting too much, we once again headed out to eat, this time served by the most rude and surly waitress, I would venture to guess, in all of Italy. Her dialect was too much for even Debby to decipher, but a few well-placed "manage!"s made it clear to us that she wasn't a happy camper.

Afterwards, promped by a call from Debby's mother that morning, we headed out to Torre del Greco to try and find the house where she'd lived for a year when Debby's mother was 12. After asking some 400 people for directions, we finally found the street - a grassy, winding lane that took us, with sudden swiftness, from the busy city to a expanse of vineyards. We found the address, and a run-down but still beautiful - almost ruin-like - two-story place with a curious man peeking at us shyly. Steeling her nerve, Debby walked round to the back and called out to him, and discovered he was, indeed, her mother's first cousin and remembered the family's stay some 50 years before. It never ceases to fascinate me that, the more I travel, the smaller the world gets. We took some pictures, declined a very shy invitation for coffee, and headed back to Praiano. Like meeting the lovely woman who drove me to St. Aubin to see the beach my grandfather landed on, this unexpected bit of connection to the country - to parts of who you are - was the highlight of Debby's trip.

After the Amalfi, it was back to Rome for one more night. We arrived in the late afternoon, and I wanted to see St. Peter's - as the line up weeks before was rediculously long. As luck would have it, there were very few people there at all. We went right in, during a mass (at the front of the church - miles away from the front entrance, if that gives you an idea of how big it all is). The sunlight was streaming in the windows like a Rembrant painting, and the organ music was everywhere. It was so unexpectadly moving I had to fight away tears - here, in the church of all churches, I discovered that a lapsed Catholic is apparently always a Catholic. Even if I can't remember whole bits of the Nicean Creed anymore, it's still a part of who I am. I went to see the Grotto, where the bodies of past Popes are kept, and was severly disappointed at how museum-like and marble-y the place was. I was expecting a climb down some rickety stairs to a dank, dark catacomb-like place where they hand you a flashlight and claim they're not responsible for any mishaps. I then decided to climb to the Cupola - Debby had done that the last trip and claimed once was enough - and, after talking myself out of a panic attack in the winding steps that seemed to be going nowhere, I finally emerged at the very top of St. Peter's, able to see every side of Rome in all its glory. It was incredible. I was suddenly sorry to leave Rome, which was so dirty and smelly just a few weeks before. There was still so much left to see.

We later met up with one of the friends Debby met last time round. He took us for (our second) supper at this little out-of-the-way restaurant, where we sat eating chocolate-covered steak at 2 in the morning and trying desperately not to fall asleep in the semi-freddo. A quick wisk back to the hotel, a change, and it was off to the airport to catch our sardine flight home, where we slepped through the handing out of customs forms and probably snored away like the Dickens.

Grazie, Italia! But, moreover, arrivaderci!

It's 6 days and counting till we leave for Rome, and Debby has bronchitis. She's been bed-ridden all week (which explains why she hasn't been answering my e-mails) and is avoiding going the hospital route for fear of having an x-ray. Apparently, too many are bad for you, and she gets bronchitis more than the average person. Fluids and bedrest are her remedy, although I've threatened to drag her to the hospital by the hair if she's not better by Sunday.

So I've got my fingers crossed and I'm knocking on wood. And I'm busier than I've been in a year at work - the good busy, the creative kind. Isn't it always the way? Just when you're about to leave, about to clear your mind, you end up with the best projects and a lot of juggling.

So tonight I'm off for shopping and supper with Leanne - a bit of pre-birthday celebration since I'll be away in mid-May. Must pick up a book for the flight (I can't, for the life of me, sleep on a plane) and some decent sandals that don't make me feel like I'm walking on cardboard.

Six days, six days! I hope to never stop loving the giddy, nervous excitement of finally leaving, after all that planning. Sincerely, I never want to be stinking rich. Let me save and love it all and never take it for granted.

Amen.