At three in the morning, the internet suddenly worked. How did I know this? Because I was awake and anxious about the fact that I couldn't contact the numerous people I had to before I got to Venice. For some reason, I thought I'd check the internet and there it was; working. Oh well. I wasn't going to second guess my luck, and so I emailed who I needed to - and checked any messages. I also watched Sachin Tendukar go out. Yes, my life - at three in the morning - is very, very small.
At eight, Myles and I were up - packing, organising and getting our kids ready. They were up and going because I said they could spend all our credits in the vending machine. For some reason, this was a big draw card and Niccolo got dressed as fast as anyone I have ever seen. Poor Paris was barely up for the challenge of being vertical. It's hard being a teenager (as he reminds me).
We left with almost no hitches (except Paris left his toy red panda and we had to go back for that; and Niccolo - once we had arrived in Venice - realised that he had left not only his miraculous stick in Milan, but also the new one he had picked up in Antibes. He was almost inconsolable). It was January 6; and everything was closed. Is this the festival of La Befanna? I'm not sure, but it was a public holiday which meant that the trains ran infrequently. We had left with plenty of time though, most of us having very bad plane/train fever. So we were at our economically train to Venice in good time. These trains are a bit of a mystery. You book five seats but can take them on any scheduled 'economic' train between two set dates. I guess this means that the train can be well and truly overbooked. We were early, and we were also getting on at the very beginning of the trip so we not only got seats, but enough space for our luggage. As the hour rolled on, and the train stopped at various stations along the way, other budget travellers were less fortunate. Me and the kids sat in a seating of four and Myles sat across the aisle with some Canadian travellers. Me and the kids played cards games from a book called 'Parlour Games for Modern Familes'. It's a winner. After a while, we decided to read - Zelda (Dracula), Paris (Wuthering Heights) and me (Moral Disorder) while Niccolo drew in his journal. Myles, in the meantime, was chatting to the Canadians. They were appalled that his first stop in Italy was Milan. They thought it was the worst town they had come across. So we were not the only ones. Not that you always need confirmation of these things, but it is nice to get it.
The landscape was flat and mostly agricultural. At points, we got to see the Swiss lakes (for a moment or two), but all up, the landscape didn't grab the imagination. After three and a half hours (and very flat bottoms), we clattered over the spit of land that connects the mainland with Venice, and there we were.
The sun was out again, and out we walked from the train station and into a wilderness of beauty. I've been to Venice a few times, but it always hits me hard when I see it again - the light and the colours, you can hardly believe it. And things sound different in Venice, softer somehow - muffled by the stones and the water.
We had arranged to meet the manager of the apartment just in front of the station, and there she was. I wasn't thinking that I wouldn't like Venice - I had after all loved it before - but I'm convinced now that the first couple of hours in a new place are critical. And having the person who is to meet you actually be there and walk you to your apartment is a good beginning.
We are staying in Santa Croce, and not too far from the station, which is good because our luggage is appalling. We are staying in a nineteenth century palazzo called Casa dei Pittori that has been converted to apartments. The entry is a grand, tiled hallway and a courtyard, with gates to the two canals the palazzo sits on. Then we went up marble stairs to the first floor and our apartment. It is lovely, with terrazzo floors and a terrace overlooking a canal. Our bedroom overlooks two canals and the light is so amazing.
It was about four by the time we had put everything away. We hadn't eaten since breakfast. I wanted to email my family in Venice about where I was but ... look! ... no internet here either. What was going on?
We had to feed people so we went around the corner from our place to Campo San Giacomo dell'Orio, and a little cafe on the corner that was still serving food. We ate a tonne, and ordered verdure which came with eggplant and artichoke (ah, the artichokes in Venice, how I have missed you). With half a litre of red wine, we were feeling fine. It was time to go for a long walk. This is a very groovy part of Venice - the cafes were particularly cool and we liked that it was drink o'clock and people brought their dogs with them. Outside there was a little stall set up for kids to do some painting, but it was, I think, quite political. It was something about saving the city - though from what, we couldn't be sure.
I know Venice a little, but I didn't know this part very well. But once we looked at a map, and I could get us to Campo dei Frari, I was good to go. From here, we walked to Campo San Polo (where there was ice skating and a Christmas market), and then onto the Rialto. The sun was just setting when we arrived and, along with other tourists, we all posed at the top of the bridge. God, Venice is incredible. It is difficult to both describe or properly remember when you are not there. But the way in which there is always movement because of the water, and the way that movement works against the sit-up-straight buildings that line it; all shoulder to shoulder with their mellow colours is something to behold. You can gaze forever.
We walked the kids to Piazza San Marco and showed them the Basilica San Marco, Cafe Florian, and the Bridge of Sighs. We weren't getting much traction from them; they were tired and grumpy. Niccolo needed to go to the loo; Venice is a notoriously difficult place for toilets. I asked a waiter at a cafe in Piazza San Marco where the nearest public toilets were and he kindly let Niccolo use the toilets in his restaurant. Ah, kindness. It makes your day.
We tapped our way back to the apartment; hard heels on hard stones and listened for the new sounds of a city without traffic; or road traffic anyway. After we dropped the kids at home, Myles and I went shopping for food and water (literally). On the way back, he decided he wanted to have a crack at getting us home without my help. He was close too; but for a wrong turn at the last moment. But the crazy sense of the structure of Venice was making some inroads on him.
Still no internet when we got home. I was really fretting because I had promised family I would call and I couldn't because the phone numbers were on emails that I couldn't access. Myles and I went out again looking for an internet cafe or free wifi and had no luck there either. There is something called Access Venice (or something) which is free wifi in the city of Venice. But in that perculiarly Italian way of bureaucatic nonsense, you required an Italian phone number to access it, plus some other identification number I didn't have. Grinding my teeth; I left the whole thing alone after about an hour. This dependency will have to be killed off.
The day ended with Myles finding some terrible eighties video marathon on the telly and the kids watching some idiotic show that Paris had downloaded at some earlier point. I went to read.
The quiet in which you go to sleep in Venice is something apart. The only things we heard were bells.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Milan, day two
We were to begin with fresh hearts and a new attitude. Things in this city couldn’t the THAT bad, could they? We woke early and went to the local supermarket to buy not only breakfast but lunch and dinner too. We were not going to be caught out again. We also went around to the local café to ask if they had wifi. The response was initially ‘non ho capito’, and then, after some persistence from us, ‘no’. Hmmm. With food, and the provisions from the vending machine (I’m not sure if this is specific to this very strange Bed and Breakfast, or if this is true of Italian Bed and Breakfasts, but here, the breakfast part of the Bed and Breakfast is a vending machine with packaged croissants – yum … - and vending coffee. And a curt note in English on the machine saying that the laws in Italy prevent the owners from serving proper breakfast and may we remind you that if you had rented an apartment, you would have received nothing. Well, some might prefer nothing to paying more for a B and B with a vending machine. But I digress.), we were ready for the day. But we still really, really needed wifi access. Why? Because we have no phone and it is our only way of connecting with the world. Most of my information is stored in my email, and I not only needed to confirm the booking with the people in Venice via email, I needed to email my cousins in Venice to tell them when I was arriving. It was all getting messy. Paris also had a friend in Milan on exchange and he wanted to meet with her; again organisation that had to occur over the internet. We are so hostage now to this device.
In the end, we decided to take a laptop with us and hope for a wifi connection somewhere in the city. We caught the train into Cardorna, and then the Metro to Centrale. Here we wanted to get information from a tourist office about a few things including The Last Supper (‘impossible’ I was told), find wifi and buy train tickets to Venice. Trains stations; is there nothing they can’t do? Turns out, yes. The wifi was out across the whole station. The Last Supper was booked out weeks in advance (and I thought that there were only twelve invited anyway), and the line to buy the cheapest tickets possible to Venice was five deep and a mile long. Perhaps everyone was desperate to leave Milan.
We waited. When we got to the window, I was pleasantly surprised that I could actually buy tickets to Venice in Italian. Perhaps things were looking up. So we had tickets. Now we needed internet and someone to cancel their booking to see The Last Supper. Too much to hope for?
In the end, we found an internet café and tried our best to make the connections we needed to. Of course, we couldn’t then check …
Paris was the most affected and the crossest. He was very much looking forward to seeing and talking to someone other than his family. And it looked like this might not happen.
Off we went to Cenacola Vinciano with pinkies crossed to see if we could get a last minute invite to the Last Supper. But there was a big sign, in black letters, saying ‘NO CANCELLATIONS’. The Gods were not with us. The weather Gods were still smiling though, so through the streets we went, with some sun slanting in to us. Not much though. The streets here don’t welcome the light too much. We went back to the Duomo to see inside.
It is a majestic place, all tall and gothic, with stain glass and statues and dead saints in glass coffins around the walls. Most pleasant. But I couldn’t help but compare to the Sagrada Familia. Now perhaps I’m going overboard here, but the light and the optimism that the Gaudi cathedral has, is missing here. This is all dark and gloomy, and while there is a soaring ceiling, it feels forbidding. The Sagrada Familia, with its kooky plant and fruits and animals, and a feeling that all things are blessed, is a place where I could almost be convinced of God. Here, I couldn’t. I loved the building, but the sentiments within was not something I could really embrace. Myles, on the other hand, rather likes the prohibition of the gothic giants. The kids were a bit yawn about the whole thing and were really disappointed that there was no donkey in the Nativity scene. We watched the confession line for a while. Paris liked the idea that you could do active evil and be absolved. He also liked the idea you could be a recidivist and be absolved. Perhaps, he said, this religion thing had something to it.
Zelda and I decided we would like to go to the roof. The boys, in highly predictable ways, all opted out. And Myles convinced Zelda that she should walk to the roof because it was cheaper. You can catch an elevator too if you choose. The man in front of us did just that at the ticket booth – ordered a ticket to the roof via the elevator. He did this in Italian so I can’t imagine that he had a problem understanding, but perhaps he was just inattentive. But he was told by the tickets seller that to take the elevator, he had to go out the door and around the building. The man just ignored this piece of information and began to walk up the stairs. You would have thought that he had urinated on a sacred object the way in which the ticket seller dealt with this. It took him quite a while to come down from his rage against the inattentive man to sell Zelda and me our tickets. We were careful to follow all instructions.
There is, apparently, ticket control and we had to hold onto our tickets. But the men in the booths that were scattered about in various locations on and about the roof were mostly asleep so the tickets got nothing like a work out.
But the roof is wonderful and the sun shone on us, and we hung high in the sky; the cold marble against our backsides, and the colours of the Duomo moving as the sun did. We studied as many statues as possible, and decided on mood and behaviour for each. Some were a little sacrilegious. But we were careful to speak in lowered voices.
Then we descended through the dark tract of the Duomo staircase. I clutched the tickets in case we met with the original ticket seller. But when we finally emerged from the darkness, he was gone. Lunch break? Anger management course?
Zelda and I loitered, waiting for Myles, Paris and Niccolo to arrive. Which they did. And then, the miracle. Paris’ friend, on exchange to Milan, also suddenly appeared. What were the chances that in the city of 1.3 million, we would see her? But there she was, in real life. Paris couldn’t have been happier. He plucked a fifty euro note from Myles’ wallet, agreed to meet us in a couple of hours and disappeared.
We went shopping. How this makes sense, I’m not sure. But Zelda needed a skirt to wear to a family lunch on Sunday and this might be our one opportunity. It was hell, at least as bad as our shopping experience in Paris, but this time I was a little more bolshie and I had a bit more language to use. We were successful, which was a relief, and then walked through the city, looking about. Now, I might be surly and have seen too many beautiful things in two months, but Milan is singularly unlovely. And (and I believe that I’m not alone in this belief) home to the rudest people in the world.
Ice cream was the one thing that made the kids happy and as they ate, we watched dogs and people. Another surprise for me. Milan is, is it not, the fashion capital of Italy. But after the studied formalism of Parisians and the casual cool of the Barcelona residents, this was serious boganville. Never have I seen so little taste crammed into one space. And if not terrible bogan clothing, then the most extravagant fur coats ever seen. The ghosts of a thousand bludgeoned furry animals must haunt this city. On one woman alone I saw a coat that might have represented one hundred poor little creatures. I had a bad taste in my mouth.
The light on the Duomo calmed me. There are a thousand shades of pinks and yellow and greys to stare at, and they change second by second.
Paris was late. The Metro was crowded. We fell into our weird B and B, and Myles cooked up a storm. I was feeling incredibly sick – not sure why – and ended up being sick later on. Must have a bug.
Should we resent this bad experience? We have had very few, it must be said, but Milan has been a real low light, and we are wishing we had just bypassed it, and gone straight to the incontestable beauty of Venice. But the bad experience can be kind of good in a way; an important contrast for one thing, but also a valid experience in and of itself. Ruth Reichl, a food writer who wrote a great memoir called 'Tender at the Bone', wrote about her mother’s cooking and how she was the ‘worst’ cook in the world. Actively – a poisoner. But then she provides recipes to some of her mother’s dishes. What are we supposed to make of this? We wouldn’t cook them (of course, I want to add here), but there is validity in ‘badness’, in eye rolling disappointment. And this is Milan – well, for Myles and I. And it might have been bad planning too. We hadn’t had a great experience in the place we had booked to stay in, and we had done little or no research about the city. Having said, that, we knew nothing about Antibes either, and had loved that. I don’t really know that answer. I’m aggrieved by the experience, but, as I have written about it, sort of think that it is all part of the tour. And, as I say, it is really only Myles and I who have hated it here. Paris liked it because he got to hang out with a friend for a whole afternoon, and Niccolo liked it because he thought the vending machine was a tip top idea (oh, to be eight). Zelda was unmoved on all accounts. But she liked the walk up the Duomo.
Oh, and the camera died too. So only a couple of photos of our first night of this most horrible time in this most horrible city.
We packed early, and were planning our escape for early the next day.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Moutiers, day three; Milan, day one
[Sorry this post is so late; we have been in the dark in terms of internet access for a couple of day and have only just come online again. Hence ...]
We are not natural travellers, in the sense, that we are not keen to move about all the time. We have discovered that we like to arrive and remain for at least a week, make some claim to the space in which we find ourselves and then we are able to move on. So moving on so quickly, from Antibes, to the Alps, and then to Milan, we putting us out of sorts in a big way.
We dragged the kids out of bed before nine; we had already been on a journey around Moutiers to find some kind of food for breakfast. The rain had come again, and we were getting wet. We had a chat about what it was that you did once before the internet came, about accommodation. We have booked before arriving, and while there have been some glitches with this system, by and large, we know we have rooms, and we have receipts to prove it. But before this system, we would just turn up to a town and hope to find somewhere to stay. I remember doing this once in Kuala Lumpur; it was ten at night and dark as anything, and we had nowhere to stay. The Lonely Planet guide (which we are carrying for this trip too, but I’m seriously considering junking it soon) told us to go to Chinatown, but there were not rooms at the inn. We then caught a taxi to the YMCA and there were no rooms there either; but around the same area there were some hotels and we finally found somewhere to stay, late at night. It turned out that these hotels were mostly for rent for the hour, and we were some of the few who took whole nights. When you don’t know what you don’t know …
On the road again. We drove out of Moutiers in the same horrible weather we drove in. The sparkling day we had had yesterday was long gone. It was the luck of the weather again. We drove back through the spectacular landscape of the Alps on our way back to the Italian border. This would be our last few hours in France for this trip. We said goodbye with a luke-warm hot chocolate in plastic cups and a pain au chocolat from a petrol station. Ah; romance.
The tunnel of Frejus takes you from the French side of the Alps through to the Italian side. It is a monster of a thing; you drive for some time through this cave like road. Anyone with any kind of phobia about confined spaces or lack of daylight might suffer in this place. We did a bit and we are not particularly phobic.
We decided to drive straight through to Milan. It was about 3 and a half hours, and we figured we may as well get there, and settle in. We had to return the car too, and this must be done (according to the God Hertz) at particular times.
We arrived in Milan. We are staying in the outskirts; a bit of a first for us. But we are only here for two nights and we thought, what the hell? Milan is expensive too, and finding somewhere for five of us that was more than a box with beds was pretty interesting. We are in Novate Milanese (which, as we heard later from a friendly bloke on the train) is considered very déclassé by ‘true’ Milanese. He thinks that Milanese are the biggest snobs in the world … but more about this later).
The bed and breakfast in which we are staying had been booked a while ago, but I had received an email from the owner to tell me that she was going away but there would be someone else to help. This is always a sinister message to get (I have a similar one from the host in Tuscany, and I’m already sweating bullets over it.). When we got to the place and rang as many doorbells and suggested by the notes beside them, we established that our contact did not live there, and there was no knowledge about when she might be on the premises. I did have a phone number, but we have no phone, so it was to find a phone booth, plus a bank and a toilet – degree of difficulty: 9.9. I managed to have a very stilted conversation with my host and established that she would meet us there in ‘two minutes’. We found a bank; the toilet was unsolved. Back at the B and B, we finally connected with our host, made our way into our place, and paid. All was wellish.
Time to return the car. I don’t really want to go into this horrible mess, but suffice to say that when we got to the car place, we were told that we were 45 minutes late and would therefore incur another day of charges. These car companies deserve to go out of business. Added to the stress Myles suffered to hire the thing in Carcassonne, this might have been considered the ‘last straw’. I kinda had to calm down both Myles and the bloke behind the counter (they had no language in common but anger – I had a bit of Italian). There will be some complaints made, but really it is a bit of hot air. We will go through some kind of process back in Australia, but no one will really care.
We came out of Hertz and found ourselves in the middle of a Milan suburb. No map, no idea. We followed a tram line until we reached a kind of terminus and I asked a few liked lads wearing what looked like conductor uniforms how we might get into the centre of town. After the horrible man at Hertz, this was very pleasant. Through my terrible Italian, we established where and how we would get into town. And so it was. Once on the tram, I asked some kids opposite us the stop that we should alight at. And they were helpful too. Not everyone is evil. But sometimes, the evil ones are so overpowering, that they block out the sun for a while.
Off the tram and there was the Duomo. In the late afternoon light, it is amazing; yellow at the bottom, and all pinks at the top. The square was humming with people (by the looks of what they were carrying, it was mostly about shopping). We were having a hyperglycaemic crisis (Myles and Zelda) so food had to be procured. Why do we always default to fast food in such a state? We stood in Burger King for way too long. I ate nothing. In the end, neither did Zelda. We then found an overpriced restaurant just in Piazza Mercantile and ate there.
You might detect some distaste with Milan at this point, and you would be right. I dunno about first impressions; I am beginning to think that anywhere can be terrible if the organisation is rotten (as it was here). For the next three hours, we were hostage to the train system. This is not an exaggeration. We have become use to (one might even argue spoilt by) the metro systems in London, Paris and Barcelona. We were expecting something similar here. Well, not to be. Where we are staying (not too far out; but clearly far enough for the Milanese to think that we are second class citizens) is not on the metro line, which means that you have to catch another system, and our line, for some reason, had all kinds of limitation on it. We also wanted to see if we could buy tickets to Venice for the Friday; and all this took hours. After having to BUY (if you can imagine that) a map of the metro, we found our way to something like the right line, but it was only really with the help of a very kind bloke who spoke excellent English, that we were able to find our way home. I guess I would put this down to just being not familiar with the city and a bit green, but we have had no trouble finding our way around other large cities (and without the language in at least two cases) so this feels like bad systems rather than faulty tourists.
Everything was shut when we finally returned to our rooms. There was no milk for tea. We could have done with a wine; nothing doing. And then the wifi didn’t work.
The karma is clearly running low.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Moutiers, day two
I hadn't loved Moutiers last night. It was cold and slushy, and we were wet and I haven't been as cold as that for a long, long time. But in the light of blue and radiant morning, things were sparkling and lovely. The town is ringed by achingly vertical mountains some powdered by snow, others strangely bare. Without rain, the town itself was welcoming and sweet. We ordered breakfast from our lovely host and sat to croissant and break and very good jam, and tea and juice. It would fortify us just enough to get up the mountain to see Myles' brother David.
David is staying at a resort at 2100 metres, much higher than any of us had been before. We quizzed our host, and the tourist office about driving that high, and everyone told us that it would be fine, the road were clear, the day was fine. We would make it. We considered the bus; I was for this - but the car ended up being the choice.
We cruised up the first bit, past Aime, and then into the hills proper. Everything was very fairytale, and the snow did actually sparkle - I always thought that was a Disney touch. Up and up we went. The roads stayed clear, no one else appeared to have chains. Things were looking good. And then we turned to go up the last bit to La Plagne and things went bad. The road was suddenly slippery - perhaps no salt here - and we were gliding and fishtailing all over the shop. At the first carpark, we turned in. Or tried to. A car was coming the other way, so Myles had to stop in the middle of the road. And then couldn't get traction to get going again. Paris and I had to get out and push the car across the road and into the carpark.
After some research and discussion, it was decided that Myles would drive back down to Aime and leave the car there, and come back on the bus. The kids and I would find our own way to David's resort and meet him there. Anyone see the points of failure?
There was a bus to the top of the moutain, apparently, and there were even signs with a bus and the word 'Navette' underneath. I always thought a navette was either a boat or a turnip - but here; a bus. Paris and I were dubious about what constituted a bus stop so we walked a little way up the mountain with Zelda and Niccolo until we came to the town centre proper. Here, we asked at the tourist office and discovered that we could catch a free enclosed chairlift (that carried about twenty people) called the Telemetro. So this is what we did. The boys are very frightened of heights so they weren't thrilled - it was quite a confronting trip over a deep valley and lots of carparks, but we made it. I didn't take very long. Then we had to find the right resort. Much trudging about in deep snow later and asking a series of people, we wandered into the Club Med. At reception, they knew nothing, so we went up to the bar and turned in circles a few times. Luckily we had cards. I decided that we could order hot chocolates and play cards and see what happened. And then we ran into Tanaya; Myles niece. Hooray, we were saved!
She told us that everything was free, we just needed to order whatever (trying to pay would have us deported apparently) and sit and wait for them. Which we did. Paris again kicked me senseless in Gin, and Niccolo was beginning to be a late runner for gin player of the year. The hot chocolate, I can report, we quite good.
We then hooked up with David and Gemma, and Gemma's children, and we waited and waited and waited for Myles. The many flaws in the plan settled on just this one - we had no way to contact him if we needed to leave or go somewhere else. After about an hour, he showed up, having had many adventures in the meantime; like coming close to driving over the edge of the mountain, and struggling to find the bus. The driving over the mountain problem rated slightly higher, but the bus problem was what held him up the longest.
We all had lunch - I thought Paris might genuinely hurt himself at the buffet, but he is stronger than I thought, and then it was time to get out in the snow. Zelda wasn't keen on skiing after the other experience, and elected to toboggan. When Niccolo saw the toboggans, he abandoned his plans to ski with Myles and Paris and decided to toboggan with Zelda and I. Paris and Myles glidded away into the startling whitness of the snow slopes, Zelda, Niccolo and I were left to try and find the suitable slopes for tobogganing. The problem with the toboggan is that it is a low priority vehicle on ski slopes and I was worried not only that we might tangle with a Swiss ski champion, but also that we might come to grief with some kind of ski police. So we found a small slope (peopled, unfortunately, with small children who might be flattened by our quite out of control toboggans, but not matter) and began our adventure.
[more to come]
David is staying at a resort at 2100 metres, much higher than any of us had been before. We quizzed our host, and the tourist office about driving that high, and everyone told us that it would be fine, the road were clear, the day was fine. We would make it. We considered the bus; I was for this - but the car ended up being the choice.
We cruised up the first bit, past Aime, and then into the hills proper. Everything was very fairytale, and the snow did actually sparkle - I always thought that was a Disney touch. Up and up we went. The roads stayed clear, no one else appeared to have chains. Things were looking good. And then we turned to go up the last bit to La Plagne and things went bad. The road was suddenly slippery - perhaps no salt here - and we were gliding and fishtailing all over the shop. At the first carpark, we turned in. Or tried to. A car was coming the other way, so Myles had to stop in the middle of the road. And then couldn't get traction to get going again. Paris and I had to get out and push the car across the road and into the carpark.
After some research and discussion, it was decided that Myles would drive back down to Aime and leave the car there, and come back on the bus. The kids and I would find our own way to David's resort and meet him there. Anyone see the points of failure?
There was a bus to the top of the moutain, apparently, and there were even signs with a bus and the word 'Navette' underneath. I always thought a navette was either a boat or a turnip - but here; a bus. Paris and I were dubious about what constituted a bus stop so we walked a little way up the mountain with Zelda and Niccolo until we came to the town centre proper. Here, we asked at the tourist office and discovered that we could catch a free enclosed chairlift (that carried about twenty people) called the Telemetro. So this is what we did. The boys are very frightened of heights so they weren't thrilled - it was quite a confronting trip over a deep valley and lots of carparks, but we made it. I didn't take very long. Then we had to find the right resort. Much trudging about in deep snow later and asking a series of people, we wandered into the Club Med. At reception, they knew nothing, so we went up to the bar and turned in circles a few times. Luckily we had cards. I decided that we could order hot chocolates and play cards and see what happened. And then we ran into Tanaya; Myles niece. Hooray, we were saved!
She told us that everything was free, we just needed to order whatever (trying to pay would have us deported apparently) and sit and wait for them. Which we did. Paris again kicked me senseless in Gin, and Niccolo was beginning to be a late runner for gin player of the year. The hot chocolate, I can report, we quite good.
We then hooked up with David and Gemma, and Gemma's children, and we waited and waited and waited for Myles. The many flaws in the plan settled on just this one - we had no way to contact him if we needed to leave or go somewhere else. After about an hour, he showed up, having had many adventures in the meantime; like coming close to driving over the edge of the mountain, and struggling to find the bus. The driving over the mountain problem rated slightly higher, but the bus problem was what held him up the longest.
We all had lunch - I thought Paris might genuinely hurt himself at the buffet, but he is stronger than I thought, and then it was time to get out in the snow. Zelda wasn't keen on skiing after the other experience, and elected to toboggan. When Niccolo saw the toboggans, he abandoned his plans to ski with Myles and Paris and decided to toboggan with Zelda and I. Paris and Myles glidded away into the startling whitness of the snow slopes, Zelda, Niccolo and I were left to try and find the suitable slopes for tobogganing. The problem with the toboggan is that it is a low priority vehicle on ski slopes and I was worried not only that we might tangle with a Swiss ski champion, but also that we might come to grief with some kind of ski police. So we found a small slope (peopled, unfortunately, with small children who might be flattened by our quite out of control toboggans, but not matter) and began our adventure.
[more to come]
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Antibes, day five; Moutiers, day one
Moving day; another horror.
However, we were gratified to see that the weather had changed when we woke and it was now beginning to rain. Good weather and a common feature; us. Packed, met with the manager, got our deposit back. Went to the local supermarket in the rain to get ski pants for some of the party. We were off to the Alps to meet up with Myles' brother David and his family. Well, skiing was so much fun the first time ...
We sadly drove away from the south of France and within a short amount of time were in Italy. The coast stayed the same, but somehow the towns changed; it was now much more industrial and agricultural. As if the French in this part of the world were just about pretty towns and yachts and bathing, and the Italians were all about making the land pay in other ways.
The weather was horrible - rain and grey and miserable. If you have to move on any day, this was the one.
The trip was about five and a half hours and it was so boring we were all going a little crazy. We had stocked up food at the supermarket and there were very few moments that the children were not eating something. It is shocking; really shocking.
For some reason, nothing really presented for us to stop - the problem of motorways that bypass any kind of town, big or small. So finally, when we were about to enter the Alps in a major way, we stopped at a petrol station with a small cafe attached and got out. It was snowing. I don't think I have ever seen snow actually falling - or if I have, I have forgotten. It is very pretty, even falling on petrol pumps and a very ugly cafe. But it is wet. Now this might be self evident, but when you are a little mesmerised by something you have not yet seen (and that is all of us), you tend to stand out in something (wet or not) for the experience. A little known, but crucial fact about the puffy jackets is that they are not waterproof. Yes, strange. But the jackets that were waterproof were about ten times bigger and we would have needed another whole suitcase and even we were self aware enough to realise that this wasn't a good plan. But neither is puffy jackets that are not water proof a good plan; and certainly not standing in snow. Ha. Next time we do this, we will not buy a damn thing in Australia, but wait until Europe and buy coats that are not only cheaper but actually designed for the conditions (unlike our jackets that are designed for overly anxious hikers who are strolling in Yellowstone National Park - with kilos of trail mix).
In Italy, as we were at this cafe, I am the communication giant. Really? I hear you ask. Well, yes. So it was me asking about toilets and ordering coffee and hot chocolate and working out the ticket we needed to go through the tunnel to the Alps. And in my defence, we got our drinks and had our wees and bought something approximating the correct ticket. I think.
Perhaps slightly more exciting than this, we passed back into France and suddenly we were driving through the route for the Alps stage of the Tour de France. Sad perhaps, but as soon as we saw the sign for the Col de la Galibier, we all got silly and had a long conversation about what the riders might think as they are riding up what looked like a razor sharp, completely vertical climb. Despite the weather (disgusting) and the approaching darkness, I poised like a cat up on the dashboard with the camera for the next sign and took a photo.
At points as we drove through this part of the Alps (completely beautiful and huge), we were struck by strange little buildings that were just stuck fast to the top of knobbly peaks. How and why a house was built here or there is unexplained. But it would be a bugger getting a litre of milk.
It was just getting dark as we pulled into Moutiers and began looking for our hotel. There is something of a leap of faith booking a room online with only photos to guide you. But this is what we had done. And arriving in a small French town on a rainy evening had not gone well for us in the past. We walked up the street our hotel was on (reputedly), a sweet little cobble stoned affair, with the rain coming down and our jackets soaked. And there was our hotel, on our second pass; and it was as closed as anything has ever been. Sigh.
Myles seemed to remember that one of the conditions of the hotel was that we couldn't check in until 5pm. We confirmed this with the stuff we had. So there was some talk of driving up to where Myles' brother was staying (we were effectively in the valley and he was on the mountain), but I thought it wise to hang around to try to work out the hotel room. So we took a quick turn through the town, found the tourist office, asked some particularly banal questions about chains and driving in snow (which the woman in the office looked bewildered at). And then, back to the hotel. It was warmly open, all yellow light and welcoming. Like every other hotel in this town, the front room was full of men drinking. Where the women are is a major mystery.
And then, the moment of reckoning. Would she have our booking? Does the internet actually work? While we have done this several times before, there is a minute between arriving at the door and recognition from the one with the key when everything is still in limbo, and things could go wrong.
But not this time. We were brought in, and sent to our room. Now were are close to the ski slopes and paying very little for a room with five beds, so I was frankly expecting a terrace with five cots. And perhaps a tarpaulin. Most of the photos on the website had been of the bar. But it was altogether not too bad. The sheets were clean and cotton, it was quite warm and there was a bathroom.
We fed the kids at a little restaurant down the road and then came back for some cards before bed.
Myles was threatening us with an eight o'clock wakeup call. It was time to fall down the deep dark tunnel to sleep. I was restless though and dreamed long and hard that the bed was a medieval castle that could only be negotiated by moving in one direction (like IKEA). Makes little or no sense I know, but it made for a tiring night.
However, we were gratified to see that the weather had changed when we woke and it was now beginning to rain. Good weather and a common feature; us. Packed, met with the manager, got our deposit back. Went to the local supermarket in the rain to get ski pants for some of the party. We were off to the Alps to meet up with Myles' brother David and his family. Well, skiing was so much fun the first time ...
We sadly drove away from the south of France and within a short amount of time were in Italy. The coast stayed the same, but somehow the towns changed; it was now much more industrial and agricultural. As if the French in this part of the world were just about pretty towns and yachts and bathing, and the Italians were all about making the land pay in other ways.
The weather was horrible - rain and grey and miserable. If you have to move on any day, this was the one.
The trip was about five and a half hours and it was so boring we were all going a little crazy. We had stocked up food at the supermarket and there were very few moments that the children were not eating something. It is shocking; really shocking.
For some reason, nothing really presented for us to stop - the problem of motorways that bypass any kind of town, big or small. So finally, when we were about to enter the Alps in a major way, we stopped at a petrol station with a small cafe attached and got out. It was snowing. I don't think I have ever seen snow actually falling - or if I have, I have forgotten. It is very pretty, even falling on petrol pumps and a very ugly cafe. But it is wet. Now this might be self evident, but when you are a little mesmerised by something you have not yet seen (and that is all of us), you tend to stand out in something (wet or not) for the experience. A little known, but crucial fact about the puffy jackets is that they are not waterproof. Yes, strange. But the jackets that were waterproof were about ten times bigger and we would have needed another whole suitcase and even we were self aware enough to realise that this wasn't a good plan. But neither is puffy jackets that are not water proof a good plan; and certainly not standing in snow. Ha. Next time we do this, we will not buy a damn thing in Australia, but wait until Europe and buy coats that are not only cheaper but actually designed for the conditions (unlike our jackets that are designed for overly anxious hikers who are strolling in Yellowstone National Park - with kilos of trail mix).
In Italy, as we were at this cafe, I am the communication giant. Really? I hear you ask. Well, yes. So it was me asking about toilets and ordering coffee and hot chocolate and working out the ticket we needed to go through the tunnel to the Alps. And in my defence, we got our drinks and had our wees and bought something approximating the correct ticket. I think.
Perhaps slightly more exciting than this, we passed back into France and suddenly we were driving through the route for the Alps stage of the Tour de France. Sad perhaps, but as soon as we saw the sign for the Col de la Galibier, we all got silly and had a long conversation about what the riders might think as they are riding up what looked like a razor sharp, completely vertical climb. Despite the weather (disgusting) and the approaching darkness, I poised like a cat up on the dashboard with the camera for the next sign and took a photo.
At points as we drove through this part of the Alps (completely beautiful and huge), we were struck by strange little buildings that were just stuck fast to the top of knobbly peaks. How and why a house was built here or there is unexplained. But it would be a bugger getting a litre of milk.
It was just getting dark as we pulled into Moutiers and began looking for our hotel. There is something of a leap of faith booking a room online with only photos to guide you. But this is what we had done. And arriving in a small French town on a rainy evening had not gone well for us in the past. We walked up the street our hotel was on (reputedly), a sweet little cobble stoned affair, with the rain coming down and our jackets soaked. And there was our hotel, on our second pass; and it was as closed as anything has ever been. Sigh.
Myles seemed to remember that one of the conditions of the hotel was that we couldn't check in until 5pm. We confirmed this with the stuff we had. So there was some talk of driving up to where Myles' brother was staying (we were effectively in the valley and he was on the mountain), but I thought it wise to hang around to try to work out the hotel room. So we took a quick turn through the town, found the tourist office, asked some particularly banal questions about chains and driving in snow (which the woman in the office looked bewildered at). And then, back to the hotel. It was warmly open, all yellow light and welcoming. Like every other hotel in this town, the front room was full of men drinking. Where the women are is a major mystery.
And then, the moment of reckoning. Would she have our booking? Does the internet actually work? While we have done this several times before, there is a minute between arriving at the door and recognition from the one with the key when everything is still in limbo, and things could go wrong.
But not this time. We were brought in, and sent to our room. Now were are close to the ski slopes and paying very little for a room with five beds, so I was frankly expecting a terrace with five cots. And perhaps a tarpaulin. Most of the photos on the website had been of the bar. But it was altogether not too bad. The sheets were clean and cotton, it was quite warm and there was a bathroom.
We fed the kids at a little restaurant down the road and then came back for some cards before bed.
Myles was threatening us with an eight o'clock wakeup call. It was time to fall down the deep dark tunnel to sleep. I was restless though and dreamed long and hard that the bed was a medieval castle that could only be negotiated by moving in one direction (like IKEA). Makes little or no sense I know, but it made for a tiring night.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Antibes, day five
It was the first day of the new year. I'm slightly, though not overly, wedded to the idea that this is somehow an important day in the calendar which has a potential to set the tone for the whole year. I really must give this up as a bad joke.
The day dawned bright and sunny - a good beginning. We had nothing to deal with, no sore heads, no ugly behaviours as we had been at home for most of the time. The kids were keen to sleep late though as they had been up after twelve, and some of them had been running around the neighbourhood lighting fireworks.
I wanted to see if the world was up and about in Antibes - if we would be able to feed the hungry hordes or if we were in serious trouble. It was relatively sleepy, but certainly it was open, and there was bread to eat, and fish to buy. Even the market was open - though it was not as busy as it had been the day before. But there was enough to buy - vegetables, and fruit, pastries, deli stuff (no meat, but who cares?).
We shopped for breakfast - bread and pastries and, for me, a slice of pissaladiere (which I CANNOT pronounce no matter how often the person serving me tells me). Onions and anchoives early in the morning - it is surprisingly wonderful.
The sun was really up and shining - the day actually felt quite hot.
We decided on the walk that we would revisit a little town (really, an extension of Antibes) that we had driven through when we had returned from La Plage de la Garoupe called Juan les Pins. I knew nothing about it except it looked rather lovely as we drove through and the beach looked great. And as it was the new year, and a Sunday to boot, the beach might just be the place to be (if you see what I mean). Paris tested the weather on our terrace and decided it was hot, and he would wear shorts. He ducked out of this decision at the last moment and would come to regret it.
Off we went. We drove past a building that I think read 'Medical Albert Camus' (obviously the 'medical' bit is wrong, but it did seem to have something medical about it). What an extraordinary thing! Perhaps a institute to explore body dysmorphic disorder or something. Hmmm.
Juan les Pins is a little beach with a couple of eight or nine story beach front apartments and little houses behind it, and a couple of ricketty little restaurants scattered around the place. The day was warm, people (crazy people, addmittedly) were swimming, but we were all in tee shirts and the kids were paddling in the water (hence the regret about shorts - they all got soaking wet). The sand was warm and we walked up and down the beach while the kids built castles and had sand fights and got wet and built dams. The water was dark and clear, and I would have swum had I had the guts (I did put my foot in, and it was cold; very, very cold).
We forgot the camera, and I'm sad about that.
There is a quite interesting theory about World War One, and the amazing flowering of writing that happened in the trenches (quite unlike most wars). The theory is that the men in the trenches in 1914 to 1918 were more literate than any generation before them, and were no yet dependant upon the new medium of film. So they were literate and keen to record what they saw, and they had to do it in words. It is not surprising, given this theory, that lots of these men chose to use poetry. It is short and can be both direct and emotional, as well as oblique and metaphorical. You could write it between battles, unlike a novel, and on small pieces of paper. Poetry aside, the theory here is that film (and still film like photos) have changed the way we record our experiences; we are more likely to take a photo of something we see or experience rather than record it in words. I guess it is because it take longer, and photos can give detail that perhaps words cannot (or do not).
Why am I banging on about this? Because I didn't take any photos (because we forgot the camera) of one of the happiest two hours of my life. I would like photos to tell the story, but it is not possible.
But words are pretty good back ups - warm sun pouring down your front, and stamping on your back, and the kids laughing - shouting with laughter - and running between sand and sea. There is something about a beach that provides entertainment for all; it is an amazing thing.
If this is the beginning of 2012; it bodes well.
Once the kids were really wet, we decided to go back to the apartment and get them dry. We had considered eating at the restaurant that is not only right on the beach, it is in the beach, with the tables and chairs balanced on the sand and banana lounges right on the water's edge, as waiting room for those who seek a table. But everyone was too wet.
Back at home, we showered and cleaned and then headed into Antibes for lunch. It was, by now, three o'clock, but this is a tourist town and there is 'service non-stop' here. We stopped at Square Sud, a restaurant right on the square that gets the afternoon sun beautifully. The waiter was hilarous (or we were in terrific moods). We ordered half a litre of white wine, and steak or whatever we so desired, and soaked up the sun. At the table down the way, there was an old woman with her drink, chatting away to herself in the sunshine and occasionally getting up to dance a bit and chat. What I loved about this was that she was completely part of the scene. Other diners chatted to her, she was not moved on by the wait staff, and the kids who were running around the tables (not ours, but others), we charmed by her.
After lunch, we walked to the rides, and Niccolo had a turn on the chair swings - we now had a camera so I could record this. The others ate churros. Then a turn around the town and down to the sea. On the way, we bought a loaf of bread, and I thought that, considering we had not really had a celebratory drink on new year's eve, we should on new year's day. So we went into an unlikely establishment - an Irish pub that advertised a Cave d'Vin. I figured that this might be like 'le bottleshop' and that if anyone understood the concept of the takeway, the Irish did. Of course, there were not Irishmen in the pub, but the young man I spoke to had a little bit of English and completely understood what I was all about. He offered us a bottle of white wine for ten euros and then had to search around his bar for a cork in about a dozen tiny drawers (what were in them?).
We went to the beach. It was still quite warm, though the sun was sinking. On the beach were a couple parallel eating nuts with that quiet intensity that makes you really want to eat what they are eating. They were rugged up like they were off to the snow. Beside them were a group of young people who had a guitar and decided to go swimming. When they went in, the rugged up couple and us clapped. It was pretty impressive.
We wandered back home (noting as we went that yacht clothing - as advertised in a shop - involves grey jumpsuits; sign me up).
It was our last night here is this little paradise and we were sad. I had some wine and bread and enjoyed it immensely.
And then we began to pack. It was all too much like real life.
The day dawned bright and sunny - a good beginning. We had nothing to deal with, no sore heads, no ugly behaviours as we had been at home for most of the time. The kids were keen to sleep late though as they had been up after twelve, and some of them had been running around the neighbourhood lighting fireworks.
I wanted to see if the world was up and about in Antibes - if we would be able to feed the hungry hordes or if we were in serious trouble. It was relatively sleepy, but certainly it was open, and there was bread to eat, and fish to buy. Even the market was open - though it was not as busy as it had been the day before. But there was enough to buy - vegetables, and fruit, pastries, deli stuff (no meat, but who cares?).
We shopped for breakfast - bread and pastries and, for me, a slice of pissaladiere (which I CANNOT pronounce no matter how often the person serving me tells me). Onions and anchoives early in the morning - it is surprisingly wonderful.
The sun was really up and shining - the day actually felt quite hot.
We decided on the walk that we would revisit a little town (really, an extension of Antibes) that we had driven through when we had returned from La Plage de la Garoupe called Juan les Pins. I knew nothing about it except it looked rather lovely as we drove through and the beach looked great. And as it was the new year, and a Sunday to boot, the beach might just be the place to be (if you see what I mean). Paris tested the weather on our terrace and decided it was hot, and he would wear shorts. He ducked out of this decision at the last moment and would come to regret it.
Off we went. We drove past a building that I think read 'Medical Albert Camus' (obviously the 'medical' bit is wrong, but it did seem to have something medical about it). What an extraordinary thing! Perhaps a institute to explore body dysmorphic disorder or something. Hmmm.
Juan les Pins is a little beach with a couple of eight or nine story beach front apartments and little houses behind it, and a couple of ricketty little restaurants scattered around the place. The day was warm, people (crazy people, addmittedly) were swimming, but we were all in tee shirts and the kids were paddling in the water (hence the regret about shorts - they all got soaking wet). The sand was warm and we walked up and down the beach while the kids built castles and had sand fights and got wet and built dams. The water was dark and clear, and I would have swum had I had the guts (I did put my foot in, and it was cold; very, very cold).
We forgot the camera, and I'm sad about that.
There is a quite interesting theory about World War One, and the amazing flowering of writing that happened in the trenches (quite unlike most wars). The theory is that the men in the trenches in 1914 to 1918 were more literate than any generation before them, and were no yet dependant upon the new medium of film. So they were literate and keen to record what they saw, and they had to do it in words. It is not surprising, given this theory, that lots of these men chose to use poetry. It is short and can be both direct and emotional, as well as oblique and metaphorical. You could write it between battles, unlike a novel, and on small pieces of paper. Poetry aside, the theory here is that film (and still film like photos) have changed the way we record our experiences; we are more likely to take a photo of something we see or experience rather than record it in words. I guess it is because it take longer, and photos can give detail that perhaps words cannot (or do not).
Why am I banging on about this? Because I didn't take any photos (because we forgot the camera) of one of the happiest two hours of my life. I would like photos to tell the story, but it is not possible.
But words are pretty good back ups - warm sun pouring down your front, and stamping on your back, and the kids laughing - shouting with laughter - and running between sand and sea. There is something about a beach that provides entertainment for all; it is an amazing thing.
If this is the beginning of 2012; it bodes well.
Once the kids were really wet, we decided to go back to the apartment and get them dry. We had considered eating at the restaurant that is not only right on the beach, it is in the beach, with the tables and chairs balanced on the sand and banana lounges right on the water's edge, as waiting room for those who seek a table. But everyone was too wet.
Back at home, we showered and cleaned and then headed into Antibes for lunch. It was, by now, three o'clock, but this is a tourist town and there is 'service non-stop' here. We stopped at Square Sud, a restaurant right on the square that gets the afternoon sun beautifully. The waiter was hilarous (or we were in terrific moods). We ordered half a litre of white wine, and steak or whatever we so desired, and soaked up the sun. At the table down the way, there was an old woman with her drink, chatting away to herself in the sunshine and occasionally getting up to dance a bit and chat. What I loved about this was that she was completely part of the scene. Other diners chatted to her, she was not moved on by the wait staff, and the kids who were running around the tables (not ours, but others), we charmed by her.
After lunch, we walked to the rides, and Niccolo had a turn on the chair swings - we now had a camera so I could record this. The others ate churros. Then a turn around the town and down to the sea. On the way, we bought a loaf of bread, and I thought that, considering we had not really had a celebratory drink on new year's eve, we should on new year's day. So we went into an unlikely establishment - an Irish pub that advertised a Cave d'Vin. I figured that this might be like 'le bottleshop' and that if anyone understood the concept of the takeway, the Irish did. Of course, there were not Irishmen in the pub, but the young man I spoke to had a little bit of English and completely understood what I was all about. He offered us a bottle of white wine for ten euros and then had to search around his bar for a cork in about a dozen tiny drawers (what were in them?).
We went to the beach. It was still quite warm, though the sun was sinking. On the beach were a couple parallel eating nuts with that quiet intensity that makes you really want to eat what they are eating. They were rugged up like they were off to the snow. Beside them were a group of young people who had a guitar and decided to go swimming. When they went in, the rugged up couple and us clapped. It was pretty impressive.
We wandered back home (noting as we went that yacht clothing - as advertised in a shop - involves grey jumpsuits; sign me up).
It was our last night here is this little paradise and we were sad. I had some wine and bread and enjoyed it immensely.
And then we began to pack. It was all too much like real life.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Antibes, day four
If the joy of saying; 'we are off the Cannes' was rather nice yesterday, it was eclipsed today but telling the kids that we were catching a short train to Monaco. We are all feeling a bit self satisfied; like James Bond without the car, or the girls, or the assignments. Actually, we mustn't feel anything like James Bond now that I put it like that.
I was very keen to get out about about in Antibes in the morning and as the children are a little like slow moving boats in the morning, we abandoned them with food and the sunny terrace and computers, and went for a walk through Antibes in the morning air. After Cannes, I'm really convinced that good luck led us to this town; I just think it is wonderful and if anyone is considering the south of France, you could do much worse than hanging out in Antibes. Having said that, I'm not sure about the beach - and because the beach doesn't feature in our plans, it is not a big deal to us. Summer is for another adventure.
It was New Year's Eve and the town of Antibes was heaving. There were people lining up at each and every boulangerie and charcuterie, and at the fish stall, and everywhere really. It being a Saturday and all, I figured that this was just the usual Saturday shopping frenzy - the French and food after all - but Paris, later, put a more sinister twist on it, suggesting (probably rightly) that nothing would be open on the morrow and people were stocking up. This suggestion was made much too late for us to do anything about it - and indeed later in the day when we went to do some shopping, everything was closed like a clam. But to return to the morning. All bright sunshine and people doing their business. Old men eating oysters for breakfast, drinking some kind of digestive, at the local fish shop, dogs lining up patiently with their owners in the boulangerie and charcuterie (that must be agony for dogs), well dressed ladies with their shopping trolleys having a quick coffee and chatting to the cafe store owner on their way home. This is a town. It is touristy, no doubt, but it is also living and breathing, with everyday life going on in earnest. We made it to the Marche Provincale at last and it was wonderful. This market runs every day but Monday and is as serious a market you can get. There is a fish monger who has a long line running for his wares - you choose a fish and then he magically guts and scales and presents in beautifully wrapped for you; like a gift. There is a wood fired pizza place, again with a long line; many vegetable stalls with lushly presented vegetables. (We like to think that fruit is the star of any market show, but the French are all about the radishes - gorgeous pinks and whites - and the potatoes.) There was a potato man who just had about 10 different kinds of potatoes, a mushroom man with the same variety, a spice stall that had at least 10 different kinds of salt and 10 different kinds of pepper corns and all things beside. A few cheese stalls that had one or two cheeses each, clearly very serious cheeses, and then quite a lot of stalls with large bowls displaying all kinds of tapanade, and marinaded vegetables and stuffed whatnot. All smelled great. We hadn't come prepared to shop and we regreted it badly. In fact, we were notionally seeking a pair of shoes for me (the shoe thing has not quite worked out for me on this trip). We turned off and walked along the beach for a while, and then went back into the softly coloured alleys to buy breakfast for the kids, and possibly to find shoes for me. The breakfast was no problem - the boulangerie was very busy and that looked like a good sign. This bakery has goblets fashioned from bread, and bread trees, and everything looked so good. No sign of the pain au chocolat so there were crossiants only. And a photo of Picasso crammed up on a shelf. If only we could speak French ...
Coming back into the open square where the other market happens - the clothing market - we saw some shoes that might work, on a little table. In we went. I apologied for not speaking French, and the tiny, old woman would have none of it; sat me down immediately and found the right size for my foot. I had managed to haltingly stumble out 'quatre. zero.' Then she removed my shoes swiftly and, with a shoe horn, had me in the new shoes as if she were stroking soft butter onto bread. It was really extraordinary. The shoes are great, but I think I just bought them because of the service. So I wandered out in some lovely shoes.
It was time to go to Monaco.
True to form, the children were in pajamas when we arrived home, and it was fully 12noon before we could get them out of the apartment (I bet the shoe woman could have them going in a jiffy). We got to our station - a lovely building that is painting Venetian red - bought our tickets and discovered there would be an hour and a half wait for the next train. Bloody French lunch hour. So back into town for a walk and some food. More dog sighting, balloons, old drunk guys chatting to themselves in the sunshine, Paris's ominous warning about the dearth of options for new year's day, and then to the train. Happily, the children suffer train fever as badly as I do, so we were in sync in terms of having to get back to the train well before it was due.
French trains are comfy with lots of seats. We found some, and were happy to see that many people had also bought along their chiens for the ride. This, like our drive of yesterday, was a breathtaking journey along the coast. Worth the price of the ticket, plus some. Really, the most glisteningly blue place in the world, with ugly names like 'Biot' and 'Eze' (Niccolo thought that was great). And then we were pulling into the station at Monarco/Monte Carlo and were wondering if we would be a car chase soonish.
Monaco is a little like Hong Kong, but smaller and prettier. But it is a town latched onto an impossible hillscape. This was difficult for Myles later in the day when we were walking high up in the town through the streets and we suddenly came to gaps in the buildings only to discover that we were about thirty stories up on a road with little support and a tiny fence to optomistically keep you from stepping into air. The rest of us thought is was enchanting. Myles was all wobbly and anxious.
But initially, we went to the port. Anyone care to see millions and millions of dollars worth of boats bobbing about in sunshine? Here is where you want to be. There was the obligitory Marche de Noel in the port, with an ice rink, and something we had not seen before - a ride in which you are placed in a plastic ball that is then blown up with air and you run, in the ball, around a circuit. Zelda and Niccolo couldn't pay money fast enough to enjoy this pleasure.
We walked up the hill to Monaco Ville. Monaco Ville is a little mini town at the top of the hill on the right side of the Monaco if you are facing the sea. I had no idea this was a town of two faces, but there you go. Monaco Ville is like toy town, it is hardly credible that people actually live here. Everything is so perfect and clean, and olde worlde. And at the end of this little utopia is the Prince's Palace - all pink in some lights, and yellow in others with a rather odd, Disneyesque extension on one side, and a guard pacing the ground as though he had lost a contact lens.
We weren't invited for tea. So we bought our own from a little shop called La Pampa. I was charmed, enchanted. If only I was four foot, and thin, and wore an apron with a heart shaped bib, I'd be perfect. But alas ...
We left this strange place, but not before we learned the secret to the Grimaldi rule. Apparently, the first Grimaldi, took the throne when he dressed as a monk 700 odd years ago, and knocked on the door of the palace. The former rulers were clearly pious and possibly charitable and they let him in. He did something then that secured him the crown (it might have involved slaughter) and they have ruled merrily ever since. No wonder we weren't invited for tea.
We decided to walk across the port to the heart of Monte Carlo. This is all glittering hotels that block the view of some really beautiful apartment blocks and villas. There must have been much fist shaking when that all happened. The beach is really nice, clean like crazy with little kids playing soccer under a sign that banned the playing of any and all balls. Then we walked up the public staircase to the town above - this was some climb and Niccolo was in two minds about completing it.
Then we walked through this breathtakingly rich township where everyone we passed was wearing real fur and daintily carrying a Chanel shopping bag. There was some concert being piped onto the streets; Christmas lights everywhere, all the shops glittering with hyper expensive clothing, and one shop with a dog in the window - live (gave me a fright) - watching the passing parade.
We learned from the tourist office that there would be no fireworks until midnight. The woman in the tourist office looked at us with some pity when we suggested there might be an earlier display for 'families'. We slunk out. We checked the train schedule and there would be no trains that would accommodate us and any desire to watch fireworks. Hotels, we fancied, would be beyond our budget. So we bid farewell to this somewhat creepy, fairytale town and took the train back to the very sane Antibes.
No wonder the Monaco royals are all mad. It must be a very odd place to grow up, and a rather dispiriting place to rule over. There were pictures of Princess Grace on what felt like every corner doing something for the people of Monaco, cutting a ribbon to a new road, breaking ground with a golden shovel for a new motel, peering over the shoulder of some privileged child reading a book and so on. You'd take to the drink as soon as possible.
Myles and I considered going for a drink in the town, but it turned out we were not in the mood (not being either royal or from Monaco). No shops were open either, when we went for both a drive and a walk. It was to be a quiet night with one can of beer and the remains of a bottle of quite good local white wine.
Aren't we the last of the red hots?
I was very keen to get out about about in Antibes in the morning and as the children are a little like slow moving boats in the morning, we abandoned them with food and the sunny terrace and computers, and went for a walk through Antibes in the morning air. After Cannes, I'm really convinced that good luck led us to this town; I just think it is wonderful and if anyone is considering the south of France, you could do much worse than hanging out in Antibes. Having said that, I'm not sure about the beach - and because the beach doesn't feature in our plans, it is not a big deal to us. Summer is for another adventure.
It was New Year's Eve and the town of Antibes was heaving. There were people lining up at each and every boulangerie and charcuterie, and at the fish stall, and everywhere really. It being a Saturday and all, I figured that this was just the usual Saturday shopping frenzy - the French and food after all - but Paris, later, put a more sinister twist on it, suggesting (probably rightly) that nothing would be open on the morrow and people were stocking up. This suggestion was made much too late for us to do anything about it - and indeed later in the day when we went to do some shopping, everything was closed like a clam. But to return to the morning. All bright sunshine and people doing their business. Old men eating oysters for breakfast, drinking some kind of digestive, at the local fish shop, dogs lining up patiently with their owners in the boulangerie and charcuterie (that must be agony for dogs), well dressed ladies with their shopping trolleys having a quick coffee and chatting to the cafe store owner on their way home. This is a town. It is touristy, no doubt, but it is also living and breathing, with everyday life going on in earnest. We made it to the Marche Provincale at last and it was wonderful. This market runs every day but Monday and is as serious a market you can get. There is a fish monger who has a long line running for his wares - you choose a fish and then he magically guts and scales and presents in beautifully wrapped for you; like a gift. There is a wood fired pizza place, again with a long line; many vegetable stalls with lushly presented vegetables. (We like to think that fruit is the star of any market show, but the French are all about the radishes - gorgeous pinks and whites - and the potatoes.) There was a potato man who just had about 10 different kinds of potatoes, a mushroom man with the same variety, a spice stall that had at least 10 different kinds of salt and 10 different kinds of pepper corns and all things beside. A few cheese stalls that had one or two cheeses each, clearly very serious cheeses, and then quite a lot of stalls with large bowls displaying all kinds of tapanade, and marinaded vegetables and stuffed whatnot. All smelled great. We hadn't come prepared to shop and we regreted it badly. In fact, we were notionally seeking a pair of shoes for me (the shoe thing has not quite worked out for me on this trip). We turned off and walked along the beach for a while, and then went back into the softly coloured alleys to buy breakfast for the kids, and possibly to find shoes for me. The breakfast was no problem - the boulangerie was very busy and that looked like a good sign. This bakery has goblets fashioned from bread, and bread trees, and everything looked so good. No sign of the pain au chocolat so there were crossiants only. And a photo of Picasso crammed up on a shelf. If only we could speak French ...
Coming back into the open square where the other market happens - the clothing market - we saw some shoes that might work, on a little table. In we went. I apologied for not speaking French, and the tiny, old woman would have none of it; sat me down immediately and found the right size for my foot. I had managed to haltingly stumble out 'quatre. zero.' Then she removed my shoes swiftly and, with a shoe horn, had me in the new shoes as if she were stroking soft butter onto bread. It was really extraordinary. The shoes are great, but I think I just bought them because of the service. So I wandered out in some lovely shoes.
It was time to go to Monaco.
True to form, the children were in pajamas when we arrived home, and it was fully 12noon before we could get them out of the apartment (I bet the shoe woman could have them going in a jiffy). We got to our station - a lovely building that is painting Venetian red - bought our tickets and discovered there would be an hour and a half wait for the next train. Bloody French lunch hour. So back into town for a walk and some food. More dog sighting, balloons, old drunk guys chatting to themselves in the sunshine, Paris's ominous warning about the dearth of options for new year's day, and then to the train. Happily, the children suffer train fever as badly as I do, so we were in sync in terms of having to get back to the train well before it was due.
French trains are comfy with lots of seats. We found some, and were happy to see that many people had also bought along their chiens for the ride. This, like our drive of yesterday, was a breathtaking journey along the coast. Worth the price of the ticket, plus some. Really, the most glisteningly blue place in the world, with ugly names like 'Biot' and 'Eze' (Niccolo thought that was great). And then we were pulling into the station at Monarco/Monte Carlo and were wondering if we would be a car chase soonish.
Monaco is a little like Hong Kong, but smaller and prettier. But it is a town latched onto an impossible hillscape. This was difficult for Myles later in the day when we were walking high up in the town through the streets and we suddenly came to gaps in the buildings only to discover that we were about thirty stories up on a road with little support and a tiny fence to optomistically keep you from stepping into air. The rest of us thought is was enchanting. Myles was all wobbly and anxious.
But initially, we went to the port. Anyone care to see millions and millions of dollars worth of boats bobbing about in sunshine? Here is where you want to be. There was the obligitory Marche de Noel in the port, with an ice rink, and something we had not seen before - a ride in which you are placed in a plastic ball that is then blown up with air and you run, in the ball, around a circuit. Zelda and Niccolo couldn't pay money fast enough to enjoy this pleasure.
We walked up the hill to Monaco Ville. Monaco Ville is a little mini town at the top of the hill on the right side of the Monaco if you are facing the sea. I had no idea this was a town of two faces, but there you go. Monaco Ville is like toy town, it is hardly credible that people actually live here. Everything is so perfect and clean, and olde worlde. And at the end of this little utopia is the Prince's Palace - all pink in some lights, and yellow in others with a rather odd, Disneyesque extension on one side, and a guard pacing the ground as though he had lost a contact lens.
We weren't invited for tea. So we bought our own from a little shop called La Pampa. I was charmed, enchanted. If only I was four foot, and thin, and wore an apron with a heart shaped bib, I'd be perfect. But alas ...
We left this strange place, but not before we learned the secret to the Grimaldi rule. Apparently, the first Grimaldi, took the throne when he dressed as a monk 700 odd years ago, and knocked on the door of the palace. The former rulers were clearly pious and possibly charitable and they let him in. He did something then that secured him the crown (it might have involved slaughter) and they have ruled merrily ever since. No wonder we weren't invited for tea.
We decided to walk across the port to the heart of Monte Carlo. This is all glittering hotels that block the view of some really beautiful apartment blocks and villas. There must have been much fist shaking when that all happened. The beach is really nice, clean like crazy with little kids playing soccer under a sign that banned the playing of any and all balls. Then we walked up the public staircase to the town above - this was some climb and Niccolo was in two minds about completing it.
Then we walked through this breathtakingly rich township where everyone we passed was wearing real fur and daintily carrying a Chanel shopping bag. There was some concert being piped onto the streets; Christmas lights everywhere, all the shops glittering with hyper expensive clothing, and one shop with a dog in the window - live (gave me a fright) - watching the passing parade.
We learned from the tourist office that there would be no fireworks until midnight. The woman in the tourist office looked at us with some pity when we suggested there might be an earlier display for 'families'. We slunk out. We checked the train schedule and there would be no trains that would accommodate us and any desire to watch fireworks. Hotels, we fancied, would be beyond our budget. So we bid farewell to this somewhat creepy, fairytale town and took the train back to the very sane Antibes.
No wonder the Monaco royals are all mad. It must be a very odd place to grow up, and a rather dispiriting place to rule over. There were pictures of Princess Grace on what felt like every corner doing something for the people of Monaco, cutting a ribbon to a new road, breaking ground with a golden shovel for a new motel, peering over the shoulder of some privileged child reading a book and so on. You'd take to the drink as soon as possible.
Myles and I considered going for a drink in the town, but it turned out we were not in the mood (not being either royal or from Monaco). No shops were open either, when we went for both a drive and a walk. It was to be a quiet night with one can of beer and the remains of a bottle of quite good local white wine.
Aren't we the last of the red hots?
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