For a while I’ve this always-present sense of my time here counting down. It started maybe a week after returning from the Christmas and New Year’s holidays. I suddenly became aware of the imminence of leaving. It reminds me of the last-days-of-vacation feeling, when you realize something good is coming to an end.
I find it interesting to notice the change in perspective from when I first arrived. Take something simple like walking to the bakery. At first the sense was, “wow, this is where I’m going to be able to buy all this great stuff.” Over the weeks this transformed into simply a walk to the bakery to buy bread. And now it’s, “I’m going to miss walking here.”
It’s been this way with so many things: eating at the cafeteria at work, riding the train around town, walking through the neighborhood, riding on now-familiar roads, getting my hair cut. Everything is new, then things blend into the background, then suddenly it’s at the end and I notice all these things I’ll miss.
When I came here in July it seemed like there was so much time, and in a flash it has passed. Isn’t it always this way?
On Sunday I visited my friend and co-worker Viktor. He had invited me out to breakfast – something called a “Bergisches Kaffeetafel”. This is a custom local to the “Bergisches Land” – the hilly area that begins just to the east of our office. We ate waffles, milk rice, different kinds of sweet breads with preserves and sour cream, and drank coffee served in a special type of coffee pot.
Afterwards we visited the Schloss Burg -- the local castle -- then went back to Viktor’s for tea and more cake. It was very sad when it was time to leave. He and his wife have been very nice to me.
I walked through the neighborhood in Oberkassel, to mail a letter and buy coffee cream. Church bells rang off in the distance. I love how the streets are narrow and lined with houses, one attached to the next. The tram went by. At the bakery a line of people spilled out the door. I just had to stop and buy a another baguette and piece of poppy seed cake
Monday, February 26, 2007
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Not a tourist
Walking through the airport in Düsseldorf this week, I noticed some GPS units in an electronic store. I had been thinking about buying one, and the unit I wanted was on sale for a good price. The clerk then told me I would get a refund on the Value-Added Tax (VAT) because I had a U.S. passport.
This was a great deal so I bought it. Or rather I tried to. The first hurdle was to get the credit card company to accept the transaction – it triggered the security flag as an 'unusual transaction'.
The clerk then gave be the refund paperwork and said I must to go the customs office around the corner to get it stamped.
The customs office is staffed by people in drab olive-green uniforms, vaguely military-looking. In contrast the local police dress in a uniform that makes them appear more friendly and welcoming. Interesting that the bureaucrats dress in a manner more threatening than the police.
Whether it is the uniform or the job itself, the woman at the customs desk was not very nice. She was actually quite mean. She leafed through my passport and said sternly, in German, “This is meant for tourists. You are not a tourist”.
Apparently you must be in the country for less than 90 days to be able to take advantage of the VAT refund. She put a big stamp on the rebate form saying ‘denied’.
In coming to Germany to work, I was looking for the experience of not being a tourist. I wanted to get a sense for what it is like to actually live here. I’ve now been told without question that is the case. I get to pay the tax just like anyone else.
After being refused at the customs office, I wanted to return the GPS, and I still needed to get my luggage, but now I was now outside the security area. After some hassling with the airport security people, I went back to the store. The clerk, wanting to make the sale, discounted the price even more, to within a couple of Euros of the tax refund. So not everyone in Germany is completely inflexible.
In the end this was an even better deal. It only cost me an hour and a half and a bit of aggravation. And I can now say with certainty, I am not a tourist.
This was a great deal so I bought it. Or rather I tried to. The first hurdle was to get the credit card company to accept the transaction – it triggered the security flag as an 'unusual transaction'.
The clerk then gave be the refund paperwork and said I must to go the customs office around the corner to get it stamped.
The customs office is staffed by people in drab olive-green uniforms, vaguely military-looking. In contrast the local police dress in a uniform that makes them appear more friendly and welcoming. Interesting that the bureaucrats dress in a manner more threatening than the police.
Whether it is the uniform or the job itself, the woman at the customs desk was not very nice. She was actually quite mean. She leafed through my passport and said sternly, in German, “This is meant for tourists. You are not a tourist”.
Apparently you must be in the country for less than 90 days to be able to take advantage of the VAT refund. She put a big stamp on the rebate form saying ‘denied’.
In coming to Germany to work, I was looking for the experience of not being a tourist. I wanted to get a sense for what it is like to actually live here. I’ve now been told without question that is the case. I get to pay the tax just like anyone else.
After being refused at the customs office, I wanted to return the GPS, and I still needed to get my luggage, but now I was now outside the security area. After some hassling with the airport security people, I went back to the store. The clerk, wanting to make the sale, discounted the price even more, to within a couple of Euros of the tax refund. So not everyone in Germany is completely inflexible.
In the end this was an even better deal. It only cost me an hour and a half and a bit of aggravation. And I can now say with certainty, I am not a tourist.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
A proper English pint
While in Milton Keynes I met with my colleague, Richard, with whom I’d spent several car-sick days last August.
On the way to the office, I chatted with the cab driver. He told me he was from Somalia, but that he had also worked in the Netherlands, Belgium, and Germany. He spoke English, German, and Dutch in addition to his native language. He’d been in England for 9 years and said this was his home now.
I told Richard about my experience the day before, and said I wanted to find a “proper” English pint. My boss over here, who is from England, had previously told me only to drink beer that required muscle to pour. That is, you should drink the local beer that is dispensed from the keg by pumping the tap at the bar to create the pressure. There is even a society dedicated to preserving "real ale".
Richard suggested we go to a pub called the Crown, in Stony Stratford – technically part of Milton Keynes, but there long before the new development. We tried one of the local India Pale Ales – good but not good enough to remember the name.
We left the Crown and walked for a bit, passing The Cock pub and then The Bull pub. Richard said these pubs are the origin of the term “cock and bull story”. I was a bit skeptical, but a quick check on Wikipedia confirmed it.
We then stopped in a pub called the Plough and ordered pints of something called “Well’s Bombardier” – a very tasty local English ale. They were showing Champions’ League (soccer) games on television, and the pub was filling with up with fans -- mostly from the Celtic club who were playing AC Milan. We wanted to stay and watch, but after two pints we needed to eat some dinner or we wouldn't be standing long enough to watch soccer.
Richard had chosen an excellent Indian restaurant housed in an old monastery building. He'd told me before how Indian food is hugely popular in England. He said nowadays the traditional Sunday dinner in England is to go out and eat Indian food. This isn’t something new – he said it's been that way as long as he can remember.
We drove back to the hotel, my impression of the area changed. I was thinking about this juxtaposition of old and new: Stony Stratford and Milton Keynes, English ale and Indian food, Somalian cab drivers and long-time residents.
And I figured out why I had gotten carsick before. Every time we approached one of the ever-present roundabouts, my body was expecting to go counter-clockwise then was disoriented when we suddenly went the opposite direction.
On the way to the office, I chatted with the cab driver. He told me he was from Somalia, but that he had also worked in the Netherlands, Belgium, and Germany. He spoke English, German, and Dutch in addition to his native language. He’d been in England for 9 years and said this was his home now.
I told Richard about my experience the day before, and said I wanted to find a “proper” English pint. My boss over here, who is from England, had previously told me only to drink beer that required muscle to pour. That is, you should drink the local beer that is dispensed from the keg by pumping the tap at the bar to create the pressure. There is even a society dedicated to preserving "real ale".
Richard suggested we go to a pub called the Crown, in Stony Stratford – technically part of Milton Keynes, but there long before the new development. We tried one of the local India Pale Ales – good but not good enough to remember the name.
We left the Crown and walked for a bit, passing The Cock pub and then The Bull pub. Richard said these pubs are the origin of the term “cock and bull story”. I was a bit skeptical, but a quick check on Wikipedia confirmed it.
We then stopped in a pub called the Plough and ordered pints of something called “Well’s Bombardier” – a very tasty local English ale. They were showing Champions’ League (soccer) games on television, and the pub was filling with up with fans -- mostly from the Celtic club who were playing AC Milan. We wanted to stay and watch, but after two pints we needed to eat some dinner or we wouldn't be standing long enough to watch soccer.
Richard had chosen an excellent Indian restaurant housed in an old monastery building. He'd told me before how Indian food is hugely popular in England. He said nowadays the traditional Sunday dinner in England is to go out and eat Indian food. This isn’t something new – he said it's been that way as long as he can remember.
We drove back to the hotel, my impression of the area changed. I was thinking about this juxtaposition of old and new: Stony Stratford and Milton Keynes, English ale and Indian food, Somalian cab drivers and long-time residents.
And I figured out why I had gotten carsick before. Every time we approached one of the ever-present roundabouts, my body was expecting to go counter-clockwise then was disoriented when we suddenly went the opposite direction.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Just like at home
If someone told you they were visiting Milton Keynes, England, you’d likely have an image of a quaint English town with curving roads, cottages, and a pub on the main street.
Unfortunately Milton Keynes is closer to Westlake, Ohio. It’s a relatively new, planned community, with development starting in the 1960s. I was told it was built to help address the housing shortage in London.
Roads are laid out in a grid pattern, which makes it easier to find your way, but it doesn’t have the same character as the old towns. Along with those roads comes the sort of development we’re used to seeing in the U.S. Leaving the train station, I quickly spotted a Toys ‘R Us, McDonald’s, and KFC.
I was really trying not to pass judgment too quickly. I thought I would go out and walk around and find a place to eat and have a real English beer. I asked at the hotel desk, and the receptionist told me there was really no place where I could walk, except for the restaurant in the parking lot – a Bob Evans-looking sort of place.
I asked about walking to the town center. She looked at me like no one had ever considered that before. She said I could walk, but the roads were not very good for walking, being built for cars and all. I asked how far it was, and she said 1 or 2 kilometers.
Now even 2 km is really nothing to walk, so I set out on foot. She obviously had no concept of distance. After walking for 30 minutes, covering probably 3 km, I could not see the city center. The path I was walking on twisted and curved, following below the road level, making it impossible to have a sense of where I was.
I stopped a runner and asked. He pointed to a large illuminated ferris wheel in the distance. It didn’t appear to be too far off. But the size of the ferris wheel made it appear to be closer than it was. It took me another 30 minutes, more meandering on paths leading to nowhere, and a lot of cursing at the hotel receptionist before I got to the center.
When I arrived, I was greeted by the type of shopping mall you would see in … Westlake. A large external parking lot surrounding stores and fast foot joints like … KFC and Subway.
I found a restaurant that looked somewhat promising. I was looking forward to a pint of English Ale, and was disappointed to find out they offered only 3 types of bottled beer, none of them English.
I had brought a book with me, “Notes from a Small Island”, by Bill Bryson. I had read most of it but never finished the last 50 or so pages. I remembered he had written something about Milton Keynes. I leafed through the book and found it. Among other things he writes:
“ … clearly only a total idiot could possibly have thought that Milton Keynes would be a paradise for pedestrians. It was no wonder I hadn’t passed a single person on foot all morning.”
My dislike for this place was affirmed.
After a completely unsatisfying dinner that still cost 20 pounds (close to $40), I faced the 6 kilometer walk back to the hotel. It had started to rain and I had no umbrella or raincoat. I was at least motivated to do the “fast walking” thing and surely burned off every one of those unsatisfying calories I had consumed.
Unfortunately Milton Keynes is closer to Westlake, Ohio. It’s a relatively new, planned community, with development starting in the 1960s. I was told it was built to help address the housing shortage in London.
Roads are laid out in a grid pattern, which makes it easier to find your way, but it doesn’t have the same character as the old towns. Along with those roads comes the sort of development we’re used to seeing in the U.S. Leaving the train station, I quickly spotted a Toys ‘R Us, McDonald’s, and KFC.
I was really trying not to pass judgment too quickly. I thought I would go out and walk around and find a place to eat and have a real English beer. I asked at the hotel desk, and the receptionist told me there was really no place where I could walk, except for the restaurant in the parking lot – a Bob Evans-looking sort of place.
I asked about walking to the town center. She looked at me like no one had ever considered that before. She said I could walk, but the roads were not very good for walking, being built for cars and all. I asked how far it was, and she said 1 or 2 kilometers.
Now even 2 km is really nothing to walk, so I set out on foot. She obviously had no concept of distance. After walking for 30 minutes, covering probably 3 km, I could not see the city center. The path I was walking on twisted and curved, following below the road level, making it impossible to have a sense of where I was.
I stopped a runner and asked. He pointed to a large illuminated ferris wheel in the distance. It didn’t appear to be too far off. But the size of the ferris wheel made it appear to be closer than it was. It took me another 30 minutes, more meandering on paths leading to nowhere, and a lot of cursing at the hotel receptionist before I got to the center.
When I arrived, I was greeted by the type of shopping mall you would see in … Westlake. A large external parking lot surrounding stores and fast foot joints like … KFC and Subway.
I found a restaurant that looked somewhat promising. I was looking forward to a pint of English Ale, and was disappointed to find out they offered only 3 types of bottled beer, none of them English.
I had brought a book with me, “Notes from a Small Island”, by Bill Bryson. I had read most of it but never finished the last 50 or so pages. I remembered he had written something about Milton Keynes. I leafed through the book and found it. Among other things he writes:
“ … clearly only a total idiot could possibly have thought that Milton Keynes would be a paradise for pedestrians. It was no wonder I hadn’t passed a single person on foot all morning.”
My dislike for this place was affirmed.
After a completely unsatisfying dinner that still cost 20 pounds (close to $40), I faced the 6 kilometer walk back to the hotel. It had started to rain and I had no umbrella or raincoat. I was at least motivated to do the “fast walking” thing and surely burned off every one of those unsatisfying calories I had consumed.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
More Cannes impressions
I had told a few people I was a little afraid to go to France. I had heard so many stories from people about the French being rude, and I had no real desire to experience that. But as with most things, what you imagine is not close to what actually happens.
My first impression of Cannes was not too favorable. Yes, there are too many ugly buildings. There is too much traffic, with loud and smelly scooters buzzing around everywhere.
But if you venture away from the main streets you find nice little bakeries, cafes, and restaurants. And they definitely know how to do food well. Every meal we had, even in the hotel restaurant, was great. One meal was a 3-hour, multi-course affair.
The last night a co-worker and I started out walking, hoping to find a restaurant away from the waterfront -- something not too touristy. We turned down a side street and stopped to look at a menu. A couple walked past and said it was delicious. We figured a local recommendation was a good sign. We found ourselves in a small restaurant with an open kitchen and tables placed close together. Within 10 minutes the place was full. The food was simple but very well-prepared, with intense flavors: ravioli with lamb and cheese, veal with morels, dessert of fresh white cheese with black cherry preserves.
Coming back to Germany, the food seems incredibly boring.
Venture a little farther out from the traffic of Cannes, and there are beautiful views of the Mediterranean, and possibilities to ride or hike in the mountains.
But to visit in summer I was told would be madness because of the crowds.
On the flight to Düsseldorf, I sat next to a woman who was moving from Nice back to Germany. I asked if she liked it in France. She said Nice was too loud, too chaotic, and too dirty. She loved the food, loved the weather, loved the mountains and the sea together in the same setting. But she did not like the chaos of Nice.
She talked, in polite terms, about how people do not clean up after their dogs. That was something I noticed in Cannes also. So many people walking so many little foo-foo dogs, and no one seems to clean up after them. There are little sanitary bags hanging from poles but no one appears to use them. I saw a number of unlucky people stopping to scrape a pile off the bottoms of their shoes.
I suppose after a while, if you live somewhere, you get used to things like this. You just learn to be light on your feet and to watch your step.
My first impression of Cannes was not too favorable. Yes, there are too many ugly buildings. There is too much traffic, with loud and smelly scooters buzzing around everywhere.
But if you venture away from the main streets you find nice little bakeries, cafes, and restaurants. And they definitely know how to do food well. Every meal we had, even in the hotel restaurant, was great. One meal was a 3-hour, multi-course affair.
The last night a co-worker and I started out walking, hoping to find a restaurant away from the waterfront -- something not too touristy. We turned down a side street and stopped to look at a menu. A couple walked past and said it was delicious. We figured a local recommendation was a good sign. We found ourselves in a small restaurant with an open kitchen and tables placed close together. Within 10 minutes the place was full. The food was simple but very well-prepared, with intense flavors: ravioli with lamb and cheese, veal with morels, dessert of fresh white cheese with black cherry preserves.
Coming back to Germany, the food seems incredibly boring.
Venture a little farther out from the traffic of Cannes, and there are beautiful views of the Mediterranean, and possibilities to ride or hike in the mountains.
But to visit in summer I was told would be madness because of the crowds.
On the flight to Düsseldorf, I sat next to a woman who was moving from Nice back to Germany. I asked if she liked it in France. She said Nice was too loud, too chaotic, and too dirty. She loved the food, loved the weather, loved the mountains and the sea together in the same setting. But she did not like the chaos of Nice.
She talked, in polite terms, about how people do not clean up after their dogs. That was something I noticed in Cannes also. So many people walking so many little foo-foo dogs, and no one seems to clean up after them. There are little sanitary bags hanging from poles but no one appears to use them. I saw a number of unlucky people stopping to scrape a pile off the bottoms of their shoes.
I suppose after a while, if you live somewhere, you get used to things like this. You just learn to be light on your feet and to watch your step.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Riding like a local
The ride my first day in Cannes kicked my slight cold into full gear. I spent the next 3 days sniffling and sneezing my way through work meetings. It was worth it though. And once the work meetings were finished, I was feeling well enough to ride again.
When I get on a bike and ride in a strange place, I immediately feel more connected to where I am, and less like a tourist. For me it’s a more enjoyable way of getting to see things and talk to people -- better than going to designated tourist sites.
The bike also gives me an immediate connection with the local cyclists. Take the guy who rented me the bike for example. Instead of me being a demanding tourist, we start from the position of having something in common. We can talk about cycling, about racing, about the differences in riding in the U.S. and where he lives. He’s willing to pull out a map and point out some places off the beaten path.
He suggested a route to get some mountain scenery in contrast to the first ride. I started at the coast and rode inland. After about 10km, I turned off on a single lane road that looked to be part of the national forest. This was a great decision – there was no traffic and the road climbed for maybe 8km, all the way to a peak at around 2000 ft.
At the top, in one direction there was a view to the Mediterranean. In the opposite direction was a view down to a valley below and more mountains in the distance.
Most of the ride went like this: climbing or descending, narrow roads, some of the trees already starting to bloom.
With about 30 minutes left to ride, I started to run out of gas – it had been a long day with a lot of climbing and not enough to eat. Going up a small hill a guy going the same direction rode past me and said ‘bonjour’. I sped up a little and moved in behind him. He could see from the shadows I was following on his wheel, and he started to point out the little holes and other obstacles.
As we approached the point where I had parked the car and started the ride, I rode alongside and said thanks, I needed that. He laughed, then reached out and shook my hand, in that way that you do when you’re on a bike – one guy with the left hand and the other with the right.
My last morning in Cannes I got up early to get one last ride in. I took the road along the coast again, and felt as though I had joined what must be a Saturday ritual. It seems all the local bike clubs or groups of riders come out and ride on this road. I saw riders of all shapes, sizes and ages. There were old guys on old-school racing bikes, people on touring bikes, local racers tearing up the hills.
The best part was stopping for coffee and pastry at the end of the ride. I'm sure that is a local ritual too.
When I get on a bike and ride in a strange place, I immediately feel more connected to where I am, and less like a tourist. For me it’s a more enjoyable way of getting to see things and talk to people -- better than going to designated tourist sites.
The bike also gives me an immediate connection with the local cyclists. Take the guy who rented me the bike for example. Instead of me being a demanding tourist, we start from the position of having something in common. We can talk about cycling, about racing, about the differences in riding in the U.S. and where he lives. He’s willing to pull out a map and point out some places off the beaten path.
He suggested a route to get some mountain scenery in contrast to the first ride. I started at the coast and rode inland. After about 10km, I turned off on a single lane road that looked to be part of the national forest. This was a great decision – there was no traffic and the road climbed for maybe 8km, all the way to a peak at around 2000 ft.
At the top, in one direction there was a view to the Mediterranean. In the opposite direction was a view down to a valley below and more mountains in the distance.
Most of the ride went like this: climbing or descending, narrow roads, some of the trees already starting to bloom.
With about 30 minutes left to ride, I started to run out of gas – it had been a long day with a lot of climbing and not enough to eat. Going up a small hill a guy going the same direction rode past me and said ‘bonjour’. I sped up a little and moved in behind him. He could see from the shadows I was following on his wheel, and he started to point out the little holes and other obstacles.
As we approached the point where I had parked the car and started the ride, I rode alongside and said thanks, I needed that. He laughed, then reached out and shook my hand, in that way that you do when you’re on a bike – one guy with the left hand and the other with the right.
My last morning in Cannes I got up early to get one last ride in. I took the road along the coast again, and felt as though I had joined what must be a Saturday ritual. It seems all the local bike clubs or groups of riders come out and ride on this road. I saw riders of all shapes, sizes and ages. There were old guys on old-school racing bikes, people on touring bikes, local racers tearing up the hills.
The best part was stopping for coffee and pastry at the end of the ride. I'm sure that is a local ritual too.
Riding out of Cannes
Before leaving for Cannes, I tried unsuccessfully to find somewhere to rent a road bike. I talked to a local colleague, who also said it would be difficult. Scooter – no problem. City bike – for sure. Mountain bike – probably. Road bike – not likely.
I stood in front of my suitcase trying to decide whether to bring any of my bike stuff. It didn’t seem worth the bother. But I know how I am. If even the slimmest chance of riding somehow materialized, I would regret not having my stuff. So I quickly packed some bike clothes, helmet, pedals and glasses.
Arriving in Nice, it suddenly felt like spring – sunny and mild, with lots of green, palm trees, plants blooming. It would be great to get out and ride.
I walked around after dinner, and just around the corner from the hotel found a shop that rented scooters, motorcycles, and city bikes. Through the window I could see a road bike – a Gitane – hanging on the wall.
Next morning I walked over to the shop, and sure enough, he had a road bike in my size. I congratulated myself for bringing my gear, before realizing I had hadn’t considered it would be this warm. It was too cold for shorts, but too warm to heavy tights and a winter jersey – which is what I had brought. I opted to be overdressed than to be cold.
It still appeared to be winter for the local riders. They were dressed similarly to me – only I was sweating and they weren't. I actually saw someone wearing a face mask – something we would wear when it was 30 degrees (F) out.
The guy at the shop recommended I ride out from Cannes and follow the road along the coast. Once out of the traffic and police blockades in Cannes, the road was beautiful – twisting climbs and descents with views of the Mediterranean, reddish cliffs, mountains rising up from the coast, views back to Cannes, and at times glimpses of the snowy Alps way off in the distance.
Before I’d left I mentioned to the guy at the bike shop that I hoped it wouldn’t rain today. He said, “Oh, it will not rain today.” I had read that this area has 300 sunny days a year. It hadn’t rained in a month. That was enough to jinx me.
It rained the last 40 minutes of the ride – lightly, but enough to get fairly wet. But it was warm enough that I didn’t mind
On the way back to the shop I stopped at a café for a sandwich, Coke, and coffee. When the bill came and showed 10 Euro, I was ready to take back what I said about it being expensive here. But then the waitress handed me the separate tab for the coffee – which was another 4 Euro. Then I noticed the Coke had also cost 4 Euro. So I stick by my original assertion -- be prepared for your wallet to rapidly become thinner.
Back at the shop, the guy apologized for saying it would not rain – he knew the power of the jinx. I told him it was OK -- it was not my bike, so I did not have to clean off the road grit. I realized, if I had someone to clean my bike after it rained, I would never hesitate to ride.
How would you like this view?
I stood in front of my suitcase trying to decide whether to bring any of my bike stuff. It didn’t seem worth the bother. But I know how I am. If even the slimmest chance of riding somehow materialized, I would regret not having my stuff. So I quickly packed some bike clothes, helmet, pedals and glasses.
Arriving in Nice, it suddenly felt like spring – sunny and mild, with lots of green, palm trees, plants blooming. It would be great to get out and ride.
I walked around after dinner, and just around the corner from the hotel found a shop that rented scooters, motorcycles, and city bikes. Through the window I could see a road bike – a Gitane – hanging on the wall.
Next morning I walked over to the shop, and sure enough, he had a road bike in my size. I congratulated myself for bringing my gear, before realizing I had hadn’t considered it would be this warm. It was too cold for shorts, but too warm to heavy tights and a winter jersey – which is what I had brought. I opted to be overdressed than to be cold.
It still appeared to be winter for the local riders. They were dressed similarly to me – only I was sweating and they weren't. I actually saw someone wearing a face mask – something we would wear when it was 30 degrees (F) out.
The guy at the shop recommended I ride out from Cannes and follow the road along the coast. Once out of the traffic and police blockades in Cannes, the road was beautiful – twisting climbs and descents with views of the Mediterranean, reddish cliffs, mountains rising up from the coast, views back to Cannes, and at times glimpses of the snowy Alps way off in the distance.
Before I’d left I mentioned to the guy at the bike shop that I hoped it wouldn’t rain today. He said, “Oh, it will not rain today.” I had read that this area has 300 sunny days a year. It hadn’t rained in a month. That was enough to jinx me.
It rained the last 40 minutes of the ride – lightly, but enough to get fairly wet. But it was warm enough that I didn’t mind
On the way back to the shop I stopped at a café for a sandwich, Coke, and coffee. When the bill came and showed 10 Euro, I was ready to take back what I said about it being expensive here. But then the waitress handed me the separate tab for the coffee – which was another 4 Euro. Then I noticed the Coke had also cost 4 Euro. So I stick by my original assertion -- be prepared for your wallet to rapidly become thinner.
Back at the shop, the guy apologized for saying it would not rain – he knew the power of the jinx. I told him it was OK -- it was not my bike, so I did not have to clean off the road grit. I realized, if I had someone to clean my bike after it rained, I would never hesitate to ride.
How would you like this view?
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
More different worlds
In a week I’ve gone from the middle of nowhere in snowy Sweden to Cannes, France, on the French Riviera.
My first impression of Cannes is heavy traffic, too much development, too many ugly buildings crammed into too small a space, and 4 Euros if you dare to drink one of the Cokes from the hotel room mini-bar.
The hotel where we are staying seems tired – like something built in the 1950’s and with the exception of the lobby, never updated. My room has one of the oldest radios I’ve ever seen. Why it is still there, since it doesn’t even work, is a mystery.
I try to remind myself that this is the home of the Cannes Film Festival, and in summer a destination for the rich and famous. Yet it feels to me like the overdeveloped oceanfront in Florida. It amazes me that we ruin a place like this with development. The very thing that draws us here – the ocean and the beautiful surroundings – is spoiled by the development.
I decide to go walk to find something to eat. Walking along the seaside promenade, the sunset across the bay and over the hills is gorgeous. I now have a sense of why people are attracted to this place. The water, even in February, has patches of blueness so brilliant it almost seems artificial.
I stop for dinner at a restaurant along the waterfront. The recent trip to Copenhagen has prepared me well for the shocking price of eating.
This week there is huge event in Cannes – a meeting of heads of state from a group of African nations. There are police everywhere – in cars, on foot, on motorcycles (BMWs), on mountain bikes. The street along the seaside is lined with barriers. On the way to and from dinner I walk past a line of diplomats’ cars that goes on for half a mile. There are drivers and what I assume are security guards all milling around, smoking, chatting, and talking on cell phones. I wonder, what is the ‘shop talk’ among diplomats’ security guards?
My first impression of Cannes is heavy traffic, too much development, too many ugly buildings crammed into too small a space, and 4 Euros if you dare to drink one of the Cokes from the hotel room mini-bar.
The hotel where we are staying seems tired – like something built in the 1950’s and with the exception of the lobby, never updated. My room has one of the oldest radios I’ve ever seen. Why it is still there, since it doesn’t even work, is a mystery.
I try to remind myself that this is the home of the Cannes Film Festival, and in summer a destination for the rich and famous. Yet it feels to me like the overdeveloped oceanfront in Florida. It amazes me that we ruin a place like this with development. The very thing that draws us here – the ocean and the beautiful surroundings – is spoiled by the development.
I decide to go walk to find something to eat. Walking along the seaside promenade, the sunset across the bay and over the hills is gorgeous. I now have a sense of why people are attracted to this place. The water, even in February, has patches of blueness so brilliant it almost seems artificial.
I stop for dinner at a restaurant along the waterfront. The recent trip to Copenhagen has prepared me well for the shocking price of eating.
This week there is huge event in Cannes – a meeting of heads of state from a group of African nations. There are police everywhere – in cars, on foot, on motorcycles (BMWs), on mountain bikes. The street along the seaside is lined with barriers. On the way to and from dinner I walk past a line of diplomats’ cars that goes on for half a mile. There are drivers and what I assume are security guards all milling around, smoking, chatting, and talking on cell phones. I wonder, what is the ‘shop talk’ among diplomats’ security guards?
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Different worlds
This past week I made a work trip to Sweden – flying into Copenhagen then driving.
In a short 1 hour and 15 minute flight I’m transported to an entirely different world – different language, different money, different food, different-looking people. Even things like different types of plumbing fixtures in the hotels. This is such a contrast to home, where a one hour flight gets me to Cincinnati.
We drive from Copenhagen, over the Oresund bridge (http://www.roadtraffic-technology.com/projects/oresund/) that links Denmark and Sweden. The bridge was completed only 7 years ago, is 16 km long, and has the longest cable-stayed span of any bridge in the world.
The drive to our destination in Sweden takes 3 hours. It’s the first real sight of snow for me this year. It’s cold and the countryside seems bleak, but there is a beauty about it – the snow, trees, open spaces, gently rolling hills. We see a group of kids playing a game called “bandy”, which looks like field hockey only on ice (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bandy).
At dinner with some of our Swedish colleagues, we talk about some familiar topics: football (soccer), football (the Super Bowl, they had seen who won), how they feel they are taxi drivers for their children’s activities.
At 5:30 AM we’re awakened by trucks outside the hotel and workers setting up for an outdoor market on top of the snow. They tell me there is a saying in Sweden that there is no bad weather, only bad clothing.
We are visiting a customer – an aluminum manufacturer with a new plant in a town whose name I can’t even remember. It seems like nowhere. This is a puzzle to me, that there are these places that seem like other universes. We have no idea they exist until we stumble on them. They’re inhabited by people whose lives carry on in parallel to ours, without us having any knowledge of each other. Somehow people got there and decided to stay. Someone decided they should build an aluminum plant. At this moment someone in that town is likely sweeping snow off the sidewalk.
The guys at the plant are friendly and welcoming – I get the feeling they are genuinely happy to have us visit. The environment is casual - a very different feeling from Germany. We eat in the cafeteria, and yes, they eat pickled herring in Sweden (I was not in the mood).
Our last night, in Copenhagen, the hostess at the restaurant is named Gunhild. She speaks perfect English, first with a perfect British accent when talking to my boss who is British, then later with an American accent when talking to me. I don’t know if this was conscious or not. She says she lived in Sweden then went to the U.K., to Thailand, back to Sweden to a British school, to New York, then back to Sweden. If someone asked you to picture a beautiful Scandinavian girl, it would be her: fine blond hair, delicate features, fair complexion.
It would be enough to make you want to live with the cold, the lack of daylight, and the herring.
In a short 1 hour and 15 minute flight I’m transported to an entirely different world – different language, different money, different food, different-looking people. Even things like different types of plumbing fixtures in the hotels. This is such a contrast to home, where a one hour flight gets me to Cincinnati.
We drive from Copenhagen, over the Oresund bridge (http://www.roadtraffic-technology.com/projects/oresund/) that links Denmark and Sweden. The bridge was completed only 7 years ago, is 16 km long, and has the longest cable-stayed span of any bridge in the world.
The drive to our destination in Sweden takes 3 hours. It’s the first real sight of snow for me this year. It’s cold and the countryside seems bleak, but there is a beauty about it – the snow, trees, open spaces, gently rolling hills. We see a group of kids playing a game called “bandy”, which looks like field hockey only on ice (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bandy).
At dinner with some of our Swedish colleagues, we talk about some familiar topics: football (soccer), football (the Super Bowl, they had seen who won), how they feel they are taxi drivers for their children’s activities.
At 5:30 AM we’re awakened by trucks outside the hotel and workers setting up for an outdoor market on top of the snow. They tell me there is a saying in Sweden that there is no bad weather, only bad clothing.
We are visiting a customer – an aluminum manufacturer with a new plant in a town whose name I can’t even remember. It seems like nowhere. This is a puzzle to me, that there are these places that seem like other universes. We have no idea they exist until we stumble on them. They’re inhabited by people whose lives carry on in parallel to ours, without us having any knowledge of each other. Somehow people got there and decided to stay. Someone decided they should build an aluminum plant. At this moment someone in that town is likely sweeping snow off the sidewalk.
The guys at the plant are friendly and welcoming – I get the feeling they are genuinely happy to have us visit. The environment is casual - a very different feeling from Germany. We eat in the cafeteria, and yes, they eat pickled herring in Sweden (I was not in the mood).
Our last night, in Copenhagen, the hostess at the restaurant is named Gunhild. She speaks perfect English, first with a perfect British accent when talking to my boss who is British, then later with an American accent when talking to me. I don’t know if this was conscious or not. She says she lived in Sweden then went to the U.K., to Thailand, back to Sweden to a British school, to New York, then back to Sweden. If someone asked you to picture a beautiful Scandinavian girl, it would be her: fine blond hair, delicate features, fair complexion.
It would be enough to make you want to live with the cold, the lack of daylight, and the herring.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Why not Cleveland
Here’s a picture I think we’d like to see in Cleveland:
Saturday evening, I left my apartment and walked 5 minutes to catch the tram over to the Düsseldorf Altstadt (the old center of the city). On the way I stopped and bought a newspaper. I waited 4 minutes for the tram to arrive. The tram went across one the bridges, with views of the Rhine and the city. In less than 5 minutes I was in the city center.
I walked around for a while, went in a few stores then stopped to take a few pictures of the sunset over the river. My apartment is in this direction, just over the bridge.
I wanted to eat dinner somewhere I hadn’t been. Just in the Altstadt area, there are probably 50 restaurants all within walking distance.
The weather was nice so after dinner I decided to walk back home. I walked along the Rhine promenade, then back over the bridge, stopping to take a picture of the moon over the city and watch the barges go down the river. It took about 30 minutes to get home.
Why can’t we do this in Cleveland? We have a lake that looks as big as an ocean. We have a river that flows through the city. We have a downtown area.
They’re all mostly dismal, with the exception of a few select sights (mostly the sports facilities). We take little advantage of the lakefront and river. Downtown is mostly deserted after dark, except for a few localized areas beyond which people don’t feel safe.
How did things get to be the way they are? I don’t suppose there is a simple answer for a process that started long ago. Does it go back to the automobile and the development of a road system that allowed and encouraged people to move ever farther from the city?
Why has this same phenomenon not occurred here in Düsseldorf, for example?
Does it have something to do with a difference in our ways of looking at things like our cities? Is it that the cities in Europe are just so much older?
I wonder if anyone who studies these sorts of things has good answers. More importantly, is there any hope for us to change it? Even if there is, I’m not hopeful it could happen in my lifetime.
Saturday evening, I left my apartment and walked 5 minutes to catch the tram over to the Düsseldorf Altstadt (the old center of the city). On the way I stopped and bought a newspaper. I waited 4 minutes for the tram to arrive. The tram went across one the bridges, with views of the Rhine and the city. In less than 5 minutes I was in the city center.
I walked around for a while, went in a few stores then stopped to take a few pictures of the sunset over the river. My apartment is in this direction, just over the bridge.
I wanted to eat dinner somewhere I hadn’t been. Just in the Altstadt area, there are probably 50 restaurants all within walking distance.
The weather was nice so after dinner I decided to walk back home. I walked along the Rhine promenade, then back over the bridge, stopping to take a picture of the moon over the city and watch the barges go down the river. It took about 30 minutes to get home.
Why can’t we do this in Cleveland? We have a lake that looks as big as an ocean. We have a river that flows through the city. We have a downtown area.
They’re all mostly dismal, with the exception of a few select sights (mostly the sports facilities). We take little advantage of the lakefront and river. Downtown is mostly deserted after dark, except for a few localized areas beyond which people don’t feel safe.
How did things get to be the way they are? I don’t suppose there is a simple answer for a process that started long ago. Does it go back to the automobile and the development of a road system that allowed and encouraged people to move ever farther from the city?
Why has this same phenomenon not occurred here in Düsseldorf, for example?
Does it have something to do with a difference in our ways of looking at things like our cities? Is it that the cities in Europe are just so much older?
I wonder if anyone who studies these sorts of things has good answers. More importantly, is there any hope for us to change it? Even if there is, I’m not hopeful it could happen in my lifetime.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Finding new roads
The number of weekends I have left here is dwindling. What should you do when you realize there’s not much time?
I thought maybe I should go somewhere I haven’t been. There’s that feeling I should be “making the most” of the time I have here. But with the trip I had last weekend, and work travel coming up, I wasn’t up for driving or finding a place to stay.
I was also thinking, some of the best times I’ve had here were not going and seeing tourist sites, but just getting out and finding some new roads to ride on. So I threw the bike in the care and drove for just 20 minutes – just enough to get outside the area where I normally ride (yes, Autobahn speeds help here).
This is one of the things I’ll miss about being here.
I don’t get tired of riding on new roads, through the many small towns along the way to nowhere in particular. I don’t get tired of:
… riding through the open-air market on Saturday morning
… seeing people walking to shop, and riding bikes loaded with groceries.
… narrow roads with brick houses just a few feet off the street
… a field of wind turbines
… every village with its own little church
… church bells ringing on the hour
... the crazy names of some of the towns (how'd you like to give your address on the phone for one of these?)
… stopping for coffee at a café
There is a different feel to the countryside here. There is something quite charming about the little villages that you see so often, each with its own center, always with a bakery or café – and probably a bar too. There's something about this that seems to make sense. Without the sprawl of concrete things seem to be on more of a human scale.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Trying to speak
In trying to learn German, at least one thing has become clear: you can’t learn the language if you don’t try to use it.
That means you have to be willing to make a lot of mistakes. You say the wrong word or put words in the wrong order. Hopefully you don’t say something obscene my mistake.
After a while it can become discouraging. I go through stages of being frustrated at muddling through what is surely bad German, struggling for a word I don’t know, or struggling to say something in terms that I do know.
When I think back to Spanish classes in high school, it occurs to me that we didn’t try so much to actually use the language. We learned vocabulary, phrases, verb conjugations, and grammar, but we never seemed to practice conversation. I remember feeling reluctant to try to speak Spanish. The foreign words sounded strange coming out of my mouth, and I was never willing to sound silly making a mistake.
As I was in Spain last weekend and still remembered some basic phrases, I thought would try to use what I could. One problem is that Girona is in the region called Catalonia, and they speak Catalan as the primary language. But many people, if not most, seemed to speak Spanish also, and many seemed to speak English.
Another problem: if you speak a little Spanish (or Catalan – I bought a dictionary), people will assume you know a lot more. So you say something simple and get back a flurry from which you can pick out about every 10th word. Then I feel like I tricked them into saying all this stuff, only to ask them to repeat it again in English. I can at least say that in Spanish though.
While in Spain something rather obvious occurred to me. If I were a German coming to Spain, I might know 2 or even 3 languages, but I would likely not know Spanish. Since there’s no way we could know all the languages, wherever we might go, there’s really no sense in feeling inferior about it. You do your best to try to communicate – and communication is really what we’re after.
I’m thinking though, it would be interesting to try learning some Spanish again. Or maybe Italian …
That means you have to be willing to make a lot of mistakes. You say the wrong word or put words in the wrong order. Hopefully you don’t say something obscene my mistake.
After a while it can become discouraging. I go through stages of being frustrated at muddling through what is surely bad German, struggling for a word I don’t know, or struggling to say something in terms that I do know.
When I think back to Spanish classes in high school, it occurs to me that we didn’t try so much to actually use the language. We learned vocabulary, phrases, verb conjugations, and grammar, but we never seemed to practice conversation. I remember feeling reluctant to try to speak Spanish. The foreign words sounded strange coming out of my mouth, and I was never willing to sound silly making a mistake.
As I was in Spain last weekend and still remembered some basic phrases, I thought would try to use what I could. One problem is that Girona is in the region called Catalonia, and they speak Catalan as the primary language. But many people, if not most, seemed to speak Spanish also, and many seemed to speak English.
Another problem: if you speak a little Spanish (or Catalan – I bought a dictionary), people will assume you know a lot more. So you say something simple and get back a flurry from which you can pick out about every 10th word. Then I feel like I tricked them into saying all this stuff, only to ask them to repeat it again in English. I can at least say that in Spanish though.
While in Spain something rather obvious occurred to me. If I were a German coming to Spain, I might know 2 or even 3 languages, but I would likely not know Spanish. Since there’s no way we could know all the languages, wherever we might go, there’s really no sense in feeling inferior about it. You do your best to try to communicate – and communication is really what we’re after.
I’m thinking though, it would be interesting to try learning some Spanish again. Or maybe Italian …
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