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Portovènere is pretty much the epitome of Ligurian resorts, meaning that there's nothing on the Med that can top it, only a few places that can even equal it. It's got a row of pastel houses facing its cove, the requisite handful of old churches, some ruined fortresses, a sign commemorating Lord Byron's visit, one small beach, two or three mussel farms, a few great seaside restos, a swank strip of shops, a regular ferry to Cinque Terre, and the world's best pesto.
We arrived today in Livorno, Italy, which is generally known as the port of Florence. Instead of taking the 1.5-hour shuttle to Florence, however, we went to Lucca, which was the only city republic in Tuscany that was never conquered by Florence. It's a charming walled city about 4 km in diameter, making it eminently walkable. Great shops, fantastic cafés, and fragrant restaurants compete for your attention in the streets, while every piazza has a polychrome church or palace facade that flirts with the photographer in you.
Another island caught between France and Italy, Corsica is a physically spectacular amalgam of white sand beaches, sun-sipping mountain peaks, olive tree orchards, terraced vineyards, and easy-going poverty. There are least two ski-slopes where you can see white sand beaches as you ski. It must feel like you can ski right into the ocean.
I love a parade. Ever since my childhood in the days when the local floats and firetrucks would throw candy to the children (before we worried that the candy might be tainted), I have loved watching bands, cheerleaders, and random assemblies of uniformed individuals march past. So you may naturally be surprised that in my four years in Quebec, I have never gone to the parade for St. Jean Baptiste... until today.
But first, a little history... The festival for St. Jean Baptiste is also known as the Fete Nationale du Quebec. Even those of you not fluent in French may be wondering... the National Holiday of Quebec? I thought Quebec was only a province, not a nation? Well, according to our fair Prime Minister Stephen Harper among others, Quebec is a great nation within a united Canada. As far as I'm concerned, if this language makes the separatists feel better, so be it.
Even though I'm not a big flag waver, I am a big fan of this province where I live, so I dressed MGP for the occassion.
Papa looks on as Mitch kicks around wearing his "Fait au Quebec" (made in Quebec) bib.
Then off we went to watch the festivities. We saw large effigies of some of Quebec's best known leaders.
That's a 30-foot effigy of Rene Levesque on the right - and probably the only time he's been seen without a cigarette.
But then Mitch got a bit overheated, so we needed to head into the shade and take in some cool breezes:
"Mama, I'm hot. And I don't just mean good looking..."
And finally, after gazing at such a handsome baby all afternoon, I saw Quebec nationalism looking for a place on the "don't wear this" section of the style page:
Quebec pride meets Cat in the Hat.
If you've been paying any attention to what you've been eating during the past few decades, you've probably noticed what we have: the US's relationship with what and how it eats is unhealthy--and it's getting worse. Stressed by foolish management practices, soil quality in the US has been declining, meaning that the nutritional punch of crops grown in the US has been declining apace. Perhaps as part of a confused attempt to compensate for this decline, agribussinesses have laced the US food supply with a broad spectrum of literally thousands of additives, pesticides, and other toxins. Also, most of what you eat likely contains ingredients which have been genetically modified in a lab. It's become harder and harder to find good food Stateside.
Despite the fact that American food isn't much good, we eat too damned much of it.
When you say, "Super size me!" to a MacDonald's employee, you just might get what you ask for.
And on top of all that somatic nastiness, the collective psychic relationship with food in the US ain't none too good neither. All in all, it's not easy to eat well in the US if you can't afford The French Laundry (often called the best restaurant in the US; currently priced at USD $240 per head per meal).
But here in Montréal, it's different. How different? Very different. With 1.9 million inhabitants and some 12,000 eateries, Montréal can boast the extraordinary per capita restaurant density of 1 eating establishment for every 158 residents. If that seems really dense, it is. Chicago offers a restaurant for every 359 residents; and Paris, surprisingly (since they can claim credit for inventing restaurants in first place) provides only one restaurant for every 742 residents. At the other end of the spectrum, Tokyo offers its 12.8 million residents an almost unbelievable 190,000 restaurants--which yields a mind-boggling per capita density of 67. Few cities of comparable size offer a better per capita restaurant density than Montréal--certainly none in North America do.
But the restaurants are really only an indicator of the culture's interest in and concern for excellent food. The gems in Montréal's culinary crown are its fabulous open air markets, from which the restaurants receive their ingredients. Can't make good food without good ingredients. The market closest to H and me (there are officially four such markets in the city) is the marché Jean-Talon, located near the Jean-Talon metro station.
Nothing pictured here traveled more than 100km to reach you, except maybe the furniture.
J-T (as H and I have nicknamed it) is open year-round, but its late summer offerings are second to none. I'd put its produce up against anything else I've ever seen. Not Paris's--nay, not even Strasbourg's markets can top it. To help you picture it all, I've prepared a little photo tour, a brief exercise pamphlet for your salivary glands, if you will. And remember that the city's master chefs have yet to get their hands onto this stuff. As astonishing as it seems, everything you see here will actually taste even better once they're done with it.
If you can't think of what you could possibly do with all those berries, you're one more victim of supermarkets and agribusiness.
Ever wonder what it might feel like to palpate a rainbow?
You might even learn a little fractal math--if you don't eat it first.
J-T's coup de grace: tomatoes. Lots and lots of tomatoes.
Yes, even the tomatoes come in a rainbow of flavors.
Half-sunny? Half-shady? Who cares, 'cuz it's all tasty.
For all its old-world charm, Montréal often feels a lot like North America. Wide, straight boulevards. Rectilinear street grid. Ridiculous steel and glass skyscrapers clustered in a downtown core. But sometimes the fact that you're living in Québec is suddenly thrust upon you in the form of some inimitable sign. No, not that kind of sign. This kind.
"Don't you touch 'Bill 101.'"
You're wondering, perhaps, what Bill 101 is. And perhaps also you want a little background, which would help explain why all of these people seem so motivated to protect it. That's what those links are for. And if you're still confused, try imagining the USA--just as a thought experiment--attempting to manage an analogous situation (this last article is extremely helpful for Americans).
As a general rule, H and I don't worry too much about the French language thing. We assume that both French and English are necessary, and the more completely we master both, the better life will be for us here. But living in two languages isn't always easy. When people ask us about language difficulties vis-a-vis McGill, for example, we have to explain that the whole situation is rather a long way from cut and dry. You see, McGill is an English-speaking university in a bilingual city in a French-speaking province in an English-speaking country.
Let me assure you that there is no English Now movement in Montreal.
There are those who, evidently, believe that the whole situation should simply be rationalized. If everyone would just learn English, for example, things would sure be easier for your average American tourist. Then again, if all those Anglophones would just speak French the way God intended, this whole mess would just blow over.
Ever get the feeling that some of your neighbors have a HUGE chip on their shoulders?
There's more behind the history of Bill 101 than meets the eye. It's never been simply a language thing. There are interrelated histories of cultural dominance and exploitation, economic power, wealth, and political power. Still, H and I believe that bilingualism represents the sanest and surest way forward. As any young montréalais will tell you, and as we're verified through our own experience, two languages are most certainly better than one.
This past Saturday, our good friends JPB and AP called us up--a bit out of the blue--and asked us if we might be interested in accompanying them on a Sunday daytrip to visit a labyrinthe de maize just outside of Montréal. Let's see here, that would mean a corn maze? Yes, a corn maze. (Maize--also sometimes written maïs--is one of the French words for corn, not for maze; all further puns are fully intentional.) A maize maze, if you will. Hah!
Regular readers know that H and I are almost always game for these sorts of adventures, and JPB and AP are fantastic company, so of course we said we'd go.
In case you didn't know what you were getting into.
Mid-August is fairly late in the growing season for corn in Québec, so the corn was astonishingly tall. We took a few random turns and immediately found ourselves... not exactly lost. But not exactly found either.
"Hold on. Did we turn left or right at the last intersection? Hey, those two look like they know where they're going. Follow them!"
Well, at least we a map. (And yes, they really do plant the corn in this pattern. No mowing. Pretty cool, eh?) Looking at it, perhaps you're wondering what all those little clearings are. We wondered the same thing. Turns out the maze was full of surprises--"a maze to amaze!" Hah! Of course, some of the surprises were hardly surprising.
If you happen upon a beautiful woman eating corn in the heart a corn maze, you're not exactly astounded, are you? Especially if you brought the beautiful woman with you.
But then, other discoveries were less predictable.
It's not every day you chance upon a toadstool princess wielding a quarterstaff.
Turns out that the corn maze is organized as a quest. There are little "stations" set up all over the labyrinth, and at each little station you watch a minimalist performance which contains a bit of crucial information. At the end, you meet the Black Knight, who tests your knowledge with Sphinx-like riddles. (On the order of, "What color were the caps on the witch's toadstools?" Sphinx-like. Oh, yeah.) Wait a second. A Black Knight?
If Elvira and Paddington Bear met for a single, searing night of unprotected passion...
Yes, a Black Knight. And if you "defeat" him by answering his riddles, he gives you directions to the exit. Just imagine how these young Quebeckers are going to treat US tourists when they grow up. "The nearest border crossing, eh? Can you first tell me the number of fleurs de lys there are on the Québec flag?"
On your way out from the Black Knight, though, you are treated to a small wonder.
Each "leaf" is a wish, if I understood correctly.
There is nothing so humble that it cannot inspire wonder, if only our hearts are ready to receive it. Even a wishing tree in a corn maze. Yes, even that.
If you're into Brazilian art--and you know who you are out there--you might be interested to know that a very good friend of mine, GK, has just announced the official opening of his new art gallery, Atelier do Brasil, situated in Forest Knolls, California (due west of San Rafael). Visits are by appointment only--check the website for contact details. Writes GK about the gallery:
Since returning from Brazil last summer, where my life was changed by my encounter with Brazilian art and culture, I have been working to create a venue to share the beauty of Bahian culture with Americans. Now, thank God, we have officially begun. We are starting out by presenting the work of two remarkable Brasilian artists- Chico Liberato and Gabriel Arcanjo- and myself. It is my hope that this work touches your heart.
Seen in a Copenhagen bar:
I'll bet you 5 kroner that this Carlsberg is probably the best beer in town.
Well, I don't really have an opinion about whether Carlsberg is or isn't the best beer. But someone--and I mean someone who has money to spend--clearly isn't 100% certain on the quality of Carlsberg. I mean, in the US, every frickin' thing is "the world's best" or "Number 1" or "Unbeaten in its class" or whatever. The Danes, by contrast, are so... unassuming. (Click to enlarge...)
Jens, Ulf, Niels, and I have been talking, and we're pretty close to 70% sure that København doesn't yet have any beer superior to Carlsberg.
To be honest, I have no idea which beer is in the glass. It's the other thing in the glass which motivated me to snap this photo. Look more closely:
Honey, please stop blowing bubbles in your beer. There are enough in there already.
Who drinks beer with a straw? I mean, is this a bar or a soda fountain? We really liked this bar, so we'd like to think that it isn't the fault of the owner--it's just that the Danes prefer slurping to sipping when it comes to beer. On the other hand, it may simply be that this guy is really fond of straws. Another mystery left unsolved in Denmark.
Sergei Prokofiev's (1891-1953) Romeo and Juliet (1936)
When asked why the slide existed, he said that it was well-used during the children's performances they have at the Operahuset, like a Pippi Longstocking performance they present regularly. I further inquired how or when one might have the opportunity to go down the slide (presuming that he would tell me, "It's just for little people, big girl."), and he said that I might ask the mustachioed man across the lobby to see if I might be able to have my turn that very evening.
The mustachioed man was amused by our love of slides, and even offered to take both of our photos on the way down.
Synthetic fabrics move more quickly and make their wearers decidedly less photogenic on steel slides.
Now that I was blushing even more fiercely than Juliet, J asked to take my photo with Ralle, the man who won my (platonic) affection at the Operahuset.
H with her new friend Ralle. Maybe he'll let J's mom use the slide when she visits in April?
It always seems to surprise people to some degree that I love ballet. Not that there's anything wrong with that... Perhaps I just give off a strong non-ballet vibe?
In any case, my wonderful wife H knows that I love ballet, so she had tickets to the Kungliga Baletten (Swedish Royal Ballet) waiting for me when I arrived in Stockholm. On Friday 2 Feb. 2007, we went to see Tristan. The music is drawn directly from Wagner's Tristan und Isolde, but the overall piece is greatly shortened for ballet. Legs tire more quickly than lungs.
The Operahuset (Opera House) is one of Stockholm's architectural treasures, so I was doubly delighted to go. For the most part, I didn't even try to photograph the building, since I'm certain others have already done the job equipped with better training and a better camera. I did, however, note that H had done a particularly good job of choosing our seats. Notice which section she selected for us:
H raises the Nerdy--er, Nedre--Raden roof.
When I first saw the sign, I thought it couldn't possibly be real. We were going to sit in the Nerd-e (i.e., Nerdy) section!? Well, it wasn't true, because it was the Nedre section after all. It was a silly mistake, too, because while nerd has its own, special meaning in English, its phonetic cousin nedre raden evidently means something quite different in Swedish--something along the lines of, "considerably higher than your average mizzen-mast." At least we had a great view of the chandelier.
How ceiling frescoes see the world.
But I digress. H and I both thought that Act II was far superior to Act I. Indeed, at the very end of the piece, H turned to me and enthused, "J, that was so beautiful!" At first I was touched, since it was obviously the first time H had actually been genuinely moved by a dance performance. Then I was deeply flattered, since, if this was H's first real experience of ballet, she's shown a lot of forbearance by accompanying her nutty husband to so many dance performances from which she's gotten essentially nothing. She's a quite a woman, my wife is.
Though we didn't know it when we arrived at the Operahuset that evening, we were in for a very special episode of the Kungliga Baletten. One of the troop's best and most loyal performers, Göran Svalberg by name, who apparently got his start with the Stockholm more than 20 years ago (1985!), was being fêted by his peers, presumably upon his imminent retirement. (We don’t speak Swedish, so who knows.)
Göran's the man in the skirt up in front--no, no--the other man in a skirt.
Let me emphasize how delighted we were to be able to enjoy a series of appreciative speeches--about someone we'd never heard of--for almost an hour--in Swedish. I used to think that the Swedish Chef on the Muppet Show was an unfair (if funny) joke at the Swedes' expense. I can now state with perfect certainty that, for Anglophones at least, Swedish really does start to sound like bork-a-bork-a-bork once you stop trying to understand it and just let the language wash over you.
We did our ambassadorly duty, however, and applauded Mr. Svalberg as I’m sure he deserves. Like H, I thought that Act II of the ballet was moving, so I was delighted to have attended. The cherry on top of our wonderful evening out, however, presented itself in an unexpected form. For reasons which passeth our paltry understanding (and yet tickle our overactive imaginations), the current administration of the Operahuset has installed a large, wavy, steel playground slide right in the middle of the entry's grand stair.
A fireman's pole was discussed, but ultimately dismissed as "lacking in dignity."
Naturally, having in all likelihood paid an unconscionable sum of money to see this deliciously incongruous device installed, the administration then proceeds to rope it off, so that no one can enjoy it. Either they have liability issues (I'll admit this seems the most likely scenario, even though everyone knows that even the clumsy kids can use the slide) or they're saving themselves for that one special night. Either way the whole roping off thing comes off a bit prudish. We almost jumped the rope and slid down, but we have tickets for another ballet in a few weeks, and we didn't want to earn reputations as scuffers of the opera house slide. Perhaps, however, a day or two before we depart...
