Are you from England?

When I first arrived in Germany, I was so self-conscious about being foreign. I would walk down the street thinking that somehow everyone knew I was here from the U.S. It felt as though I was wearing a big sign advertising where I was from.

I recognized there was something a bit neurotic about this. I asked my German teacher if he thought people would easily recognize that I wasn’t from Germany. He said yes, but it didn’t have anything to do with how I looked or dressed. He said there’s something intangible that people would pick up on.

After a few months of living in Germany and walking down the same streets every day, after the newness and strangeness had started to fade, I didn’t feel so self-consciously foreign.

But then I would start to talk with someone, and immediately they knew I wasn’t a native. This was never a problem; if anything people were even friendlier when they found out I wasn’t from Germany.

After asking if I spoke English, people almost always asked if I was from England. I suppose that makes sense: English … England. And of course England is much closer to Germany than the U.S. People were often surprised when I said I was from the U.S. Here I was thinking it was so obvious where I was from, and people really didn’t know.

This happened in Spain and Italy too – people assuming I was from England.

And then in Italy and France I encountered people who thought I was German.

In a restaurant in Girona, Spain they asked whether I wanted a menu in Spanish or Catalan. They were surprised when I asked if they had an English menu – which they had, but which was not very well translated. One of the desserts was “scum of milk with fruit”. I almost tried it, just out of curiosity but I was already beyond having eaten enough.

One of my favorite encounters happened my first week in Germany. While out for a bike ride an older woman walking on a farm path stopped me. She was complaining how someone had run over the reflectors on the edge of the path. She spoke no English and my German was just starting to come along. I was wearing my team Torelli kit, riding my Torelli bike, and she asked if I was a bike racer from Italy. I thought for a moment about playing along and saying yes. But I did know how to say in German, “no, but I can wish.” We talked for quite a while -- mostly her talking, as she complained about the current state of affairs in Germany with all of the foreigners. She didn't seem to have a problem with me though -- I think because I was learning German -- and as I rode off she wished me best of luck during my stay.

Deutsch outside of Deutschland

I never considered that learning German would be all that useful outside of Germany.

But there are other German-speaking countries besides Germany, even if their German is not always the same as the one I understand. In September I went to Austria to see the World Championship road races. My German was useful at the hotel desk, and with waiters at restaurants. Then while trying to navigate the race course I stopped to ask for directions from a policeman. After a moment of confusion I quickly realized what he spoke wasn’t the German I knew. He could understand my Hochdeutsch, but when he spoke it was in the Austrian dialect. I imagine it was similar to what would happen if a German who learned English in, say, Cleveland had traveled to Arkansas for the first time and spoke with a real local. Fortunately I had a map – pointing works in any language.

Traveling from Germany, it was not surprising that other travelers would be speaking German. Coming back to the U.S. at both Thanksgiving and Christmas, I found myself in the interesting position of helping the person seated next to me fill out the U.S. customs form. They each spoke decent English, but I know from filling out official forms in Germany that “official language” is not so simple. How do you explain in simple terms in German the meaning of, “have you ever taken a child whose parent is a U.S. citizen out of the country?”

I didn’t think I’d be speaking German in France though. Sitting at breakfast the first morning I was in Cannes, the waiter came by and asked me in German what I wanted to drink. Without thinking I answered him in German, before realizing, “hey, we’re in France.”

He had noticed the German newspaper I was reading. He said he was from Turkey, but had lived in Germany (in Düsseldorf in fact) for quite a few years and spoke fluent German. The rest of the week every time he saw me he would speak German.

Just a few weeks later in Italy, I was surprised to see many signs in shops written in both Italian and German. I’m sure this is because of tourism. There were several occasions where people thought I was a tourist from Germany. One afternoon I stopped in a combination wine store / restaurant, and when I didn’t understand Italian the owner started speaking to me in German. On several occasions people apologized for not speaking better English or German.

One morning at the hotel I heard German coming from the TV in another room. A team from Südtirol was also staying at the hotel. Südtirol is a region in the border area between Italy and Austria. It was still winter there, so these guys had also come to Tuscany for some decent weather and good training. They spoke German, Italian, and of course the Austrian dialect. Listening to them at dinner, they seemed to speak mostly in Austrian. But to the waiter they spoke Italian, and we had a few brief conversations in German.

Europe is appealing in this way: the mixture of languages and dialects, relative compactness of the countries, blending of the border areas, pockets of different language within a single country. It makes for interesting cultural textures that change so quickly from place to place.

I’m still in awe of people who can switch between multiple languages so easily. Learning one foreign language has been hard enough. People have told me that it gets easier, each new language you pick up. Easy for them to say now. I'm not sure I would have the stamina to test it personally.

Doorways and other things

For some reason in Italy I was always wanting to stop and take pictures of various doorways. There was something compelling about the old buildings, the doorways, and the way they often had window baskets or flower pots out front. Many of the little shops clearly had living spaces up above or next to the shop. I wondered what these old buildings looked like inside, who lived in them, and how does one come to live in or own such a place?



Back home now from Italy, I find myself missing the morning ritual of cappuccino, croissants and prosciutto with a wedge of cheese. Espresso in the afternoon. Wine and olive oil at dinner.

There is something about espresso in Italy. I remember this from the being there previously. I'd never really liked espresso all that much, but this was different -- rich, and with a creamy froth on top. It seemed every little bar or cafe knew how to make espresso well. I was told it had something to do with the type of coffee they use, something with the water, and the skill of the 'barista' who made the espresso.

I also learned that one just doesn't have cappuccino after breakfast. They say it's not good to have all that milk sitting in your stomach. After breakfast, you either have macchiato -- espresso with just a stain of milk, or you have espresso. Otherwise they look at you strangely, or in some cases even give you a hard time.

At the hotel restaurant one night, one of the teams was eating dinner at a big table. After dinner one of the guys ordered a cappuccino and a large groan came up from the rest of the guys at the table.



I was also fond of how the Italians seemed to linger over a long lunch or dinner. Instead of having all the food brought out at once, it's common to have a multi-course meal with antipasti, then a pasta dish, then a meat dish, then a salad or cheese, then a dessert. The portions weren't huge though, so I never felt like I was overdoing it (of course it helps when you are free to ride the bike for a good part of the day).

I was noticing one day at lunch how every person, at every table, had a glass of wine. This was mostly "table wine", so not quite as strong as what you might get in a more expensive bottle. There was one family with a couple of small children, and I noticed how they added a little wine to the water that the maybe 8-year-old girl was drinking.

After 10 days there, Germany seemed like a long time ago.

This was a good transition -- leaving Germany, then something completely different, then coming back home.

Now I'm looking to get my espresso machine cleaned up, so I can try to make something resembling Italian espresso. Oh, and then there's the 4 bottles of olive oil and 4 bottles of wine that resulted in my suitcase weighing 25 kilos (55 lbs).

Tuscan hill towns

The sight of a town up high on a hill is one of the lasting images I have of Tuscany. Everywhere I rode there seemed to be several hilltop towns along the route. These towns were all very old -- I'm sure that in the middle ages it was important to have the town strategically located up high.

There was something intriguing about seeing one of these towns off in the distance, and then having the road eventually start climbing, often with switchbacks, all the way up to the top. Always a good workout too. In this area of Tuscany, the mountains weren't too big -- maybe 600 meters at most. But that's high enough to require some significant effort to climb, and high enough to have some fantastic views at the top.



In the area close to where I was staying, there was Casale Marittimo, Monteverde Marittimo, Sassetta, Suvereto, Massa Marittimo, and others. These were not really tourist towns -- people seemed to live and work there, and they were not big tourist destinations.

Then a little farther away were bigger tourist areas such as San Gimignano and Montalcino. These towns were interesting, and had some of the classic views that you might see on a postcard. But to me they seemed somewhat overdone in their efforts to be a "destination".



On one of the rides, I took an unplanned detour to climb up to a town called Sassa. The climb was difficult, and when I got to the top I found this tiny little town, seemingly perched on the edge of a cliff, with very old cobbled streets and stone buildings. There were no shops or restaurants that I could see. Just a few houses where people lived. There were a few people standing outside, talking or walking the dog. I felt as though I had intruded in someone's backyard. I felt funny taking picutres ... but couldn't resist.

Rain day

Before deciding to come to Italy, I was talking to my boss about it, and said I was afraid it might be too rainy this time of year. He said, “ah, but Tuscany is beautiful when it rains.”

When I woke up to the sound of rain I figured I would get the chance to see if he was right.

I debated on going out and riding, but looked to be the kind of soaking rain that would not let up any time soon. So instead I grabbed my raincoat and guide book and set out for Volterra, which I had driven through the other day and which looked interesting.

Along the way I bought another two bottles of olive oil, meaning I may have to leave behind still more clothes.

Volterra is another very old, well-preserved hilltop town. From the valley floor the road climbs for 10km, with many switchbacks. Many of the drivers here seem to look ahead and if they see no oncoming traffic do not hesitate crossing the center line through the sharp turns. There was a small truck in front of me, and in my little car I could not keep up with him.

Once at the top, there are great views across the valley. Even in the rain, with the clouds very low (see picture above), the views are worth stopping to take in.

I spent a few hours walking around on wet, cobbled streets. I thought about going in one of the museums, or the old cathedral, but honestly it was more interesting to walk around the streets, looking in the shop window and watching the people.


I’ve noticed this before: often you will see 2 or 3 people just standing on a corner, or in front of a shop, talking and gesturing. As I walked through the town it seemed comical – on every corner there would be a few people standing and talking. I was thinking back to what the guy at the car rental place said: “no one wants to work today”.

I found a little café called “Web and Wine” – a combination wine bar and Internet café. It was too early for wine, but I stopped in and ate lunch, while using the first reliable Internet connection I’ve had here.

It was looking like the rain had eased up, so I drove back to the hotel, thinking I might be able to ride. As I was getting ready, it started to come down hard again. Finally, with about 2 hours of daylight left, the rain seemed to let up. I put on as many warm clothes as I had and rode in the drizzle, eventually becoming completely wet. I did find an insanely steep climb just around the corner from the hotel that goes up to Castagneto Carducci. Even more insane was the number of cars that were using it.

I did come to appreciate the best thing about the rain. Next morning, when it had stopped and the sun had come out again, things were even greener than they were the day before. I'm sure the grape and olive farmers were happy.

Hot springs and vino

If I could, I would ride every day. But I know that you need rest days too. My body was sore in odd places from riding a strange bike, so when I read in my guide book about some hot springs not too far from here, it seemed a good idea for a rest day.

I decided to head for a town called Bagno Vignoni. It looked to be a 2-hour drive, and was also not far from Montalcino, which is known for a particular type of very good wine (Brunello) produced only in that region.

Arriving in Bagno Vignoni, I was surprised to find an extremely charming, very small town, mostly deserted at this time of year. There is a large pool in the town center, surrounded by old stone buildings. They don’t allow bathing in the pool anymore – I can imagine it would make the town center a mess, especially during the high season.

To use the hot springs, you must go to the local hotel (and pay), where the hot water flows into a large pool. Just like the rest of town, the pool was mostly deserted. The water was very hot where it poured into the pool, and then a little cooler farther away. I soaked for a while and enjoyed the views out over the valley.


I left to eat lunch, outside at a small restaurant just in view of old pool. I had an excellent meal of polenta baked with cheeses and tomatoes, and broiled pork tenderloin wrapped in pancetta and served with olive oil and balsamic vinegar – simple but made very well.

After lunch I came back to the pool and soaked for another hour. It was incredibly quiet and peaceful. I felt as though I had been extremely lucky in finding this place, at this time of year, without any of the tourist crowds that are surely here in summer.


On the way back home I stopped in Montalcino and sampled the wine at one of the many wine bars. Being so relaxed, I couldn’t resist paying way too much for a bottle of one of the good Brunellos – something I wouldn't do under normal circumstances. I may have to ditch some clothes to make sure there is room in my suitcase for a well-protected bottle of wine.

Cycling paradise

This is a great area for cyclists. It hurts me to say this, but in terms of enjoyment I think my first three rides here equaled 7 months of riding in Germany.

The roads are mostly quiet and the scenery is beautiful – I have to resist the urge to stop every few miles to take pictures. There are lots of hills, some difficult but also many that are long but with a gentle grade. You can ride all day without seeing a traffic light. And then there is the food at the end of the ride.

Apparently other people think this way too. There are 3 different teams staying at my hotel: 2 junior teams from Italy, and a group from Südtirol – a region with parts in both Italy and Austria.


Paolo Bettini, who won the World Championship road race back in September, comes from La California which is just a few kilometers from here. You can see his picture on a road sign as you come into town.


Every day I’ve seen large teams out on the road training. They’ll be riding in a big group, with a team car following, taking up the entire lane on the road. But the other drivers don’t seem bothered. Other times I’ve seen teams out motor pacing, where riders will be following closely behind the car, which is normally driving 25mph or more.

It’s not hard to understand how Italy ranks as one of the top countries in international cycling. Seeing 2 junior teams here training – with team managers, sponsors, cars, and bikes – it’s apparent that there is a good support system. But it’s even more telling that they can train on the roads without drivers (or police) giving them a hard time. It seems they’re actually encouraged to be out on the roads.

I’m reminded of the time when 3 of us were pulled over by the police on a quiet Sunday morning, on a quiet country road, because we were riding 2 abreast and had delayed the local mayor for about 5 seconds.

Out riding the other day, one of the teams passed me, and I took it as an opportunity to get some free training. They were doing an exercise where guys were going out around the team car, one by one, then catching up to the guys ahead. I made a big effort and caught up to the car, then rode behind it for a while after the driver waved at me. Then I went around the car and caught up to the tail end of the group.

The car pulled ahead then turned around to go back for a few guys who had been left behind. The driver waved again as he passed. The group turned around too, while I was faced with a 4km climb up to one of the towns on my way back to the hotel. I just kept thinking: more free calories for dinner.

A normal day in Italy

My first encounter in Italy goes like this: I walk up to the rental car desk to pick up my car. After messing with the computer the guy says the software is not working, and he will have to do everything by hand. When the time comes to get the credit card authorization, no one will answer the phone. “No one wants to work here”, he sighs. There is a sign on the window that says to throw the keys on the floor if no one is there.

This says so much about how different Italy seems compared to Germany (or the U.S. for that matter).

My car is missing a hubcap, the clutch pedal squeaks every time it’s pressed, and the seatbelt indicator beeps even though the belt is fastened.

Right away I notice the difference in driving: lack of turn signal usage, passing without regard to road markings that disallow it, edging the car out into traffic and leaving it there though oncoming traffic must swerve.

I’m reminded again that the afternoon siesta is very much honored – with many stores and businesses closing somewhere between 1:30 – 3:30.

I’d made some arrangements to rent a bike – I hoped. After a brief phone conversation 2 weeks earlier, I hadn’t been able to reach the bike shop. The phone number appeared to no longer work and emails went unanswered. I was a little worried,

On my way to the hotel I stop by the bike shop. It’s being remodeled and is completely gutted. But the owner happens to be there watching the work, and says he can bring me a bike later in the afternoon. I pick up the bike, a very nice Colnago -- not something you’d normally see for a rental. I don’t fill out any forms, sign anything, or give a deposit. I guess that means I can take it home with me.

I’m thinking of two very different books I’ve read about Italy: “Under The Tuscan Sun”, by Francis Mayes, and “Italian Neighbors”, by Tim Parks. While the first is more poetic (ignore that it was made into a bad film), Tim Parks’ book captures so much more of how things are -- the absurdity, chaos, contradiction, and at the same time the importance of stopping to enjoy life. (Parks also wrote a very enjoyable book, “A Season with Verona”, about a season spent with other fans – often quite obnoxious -- supporting the Verona soccer team.)

This trip I think is a good transition to life in the U.S. I’ll try to take some piece of it back with me.

Tuscan vacation

I take back what I said about wanting to live in Girona. I really want to live in Tuscany.

I wanted to take a little vacation at the end of my stay in Germany – somewhere I could spend a week or so riding. After visiting Girona, I thought it would be there. Then I went to France, and the food was so good I thought maybe that would be the place.

But I hadn’t been to Italy since I’ve been here, and had never been to Tuscany. Riding and eating in Tuscany had a nice sound to it.

About a month ago I read where the Lampre professional cycling team held a training camp in a place called Castagneto Carducci (shown in the picture above). I figured if this was where they chose to hold a camp, then the area must be good for riding. Without much more than that to go on, I found a hotel that seemed to cater to cyclists, and booked a cheap flight to Pisa.

It was a good decision.

The area is beautiful – green and lush even in early March. The roads seem quiet. There are vineyards and olive groves everywhere – meaning there is locally produced wine and olive oil. Some initial sampling indicates both are very good.

I now have to make sure I put in enough kilometers in the saddle to make up for the calories I’m sure to take in.

Leaving Oberkassel

I had one last work meeting, 2 hours away in Frankfurt. This meeting was with a group of engineers from different companies, part of an ongoing series we’ve been doing for the last couple of years.

We had met in May, when I was here looking at apartments, then again in September. With a common event such as this to compare, I can gauge how far my German has progressed: not quite as much as I’d hoped, but more than I had feared.

Last May, I struggled to keep up with even simple conversations, and fumbled with trying to say things. This time I was able to carry on a conversation, talking with one guy about his recent skiing trip to Italy, telling him how I was going there also, to do some cycling. I made a joke when he asked if my wife was coming. I said no, I was taking my other wife -- mein Fahrrad (bicycle).

I had an early flight the next morning, and thought about staying in a hotel near the airport. But I wanted to have one last night in Oberkassel. I walked to the grocery and bought some Rostbratwurst that I could cook on the small electric grill I had bought. This was one of the little things that made me feel at home when I first got here.

The movers had come the previous day to pack up all my things. The apartment seemed empty and more like a hotel room than somewhere I had lived. It was good to come back and see it not as mine anymore.

Anxious about waking up on time for the early flight, I couldn’t sleep. So finally I just got up at 3:30 AM and made coffee. I went through the apartment yet again, somewhat obsessive-compulsively, to make sure I hadn’t left anything. In a nightstand drawer I found a money-pouch I had brought with about $50 and a few blank personal checks from home.

Finally I unhooked the apartment key from my key ring and left it on the counter. My car was parked right in front of the apartment – the night before the parking gods had smiled on me and left that space open. I drove off for the last time, leaving Oberkassel over the Rheinkniebrücke.

Counting down the days

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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?

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.

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.