San Francisco Vignette no.1

It was 11:15pm. I stood at the corner of Ellis and Cyril Magnin, slice of pizza in hand poised to satisfy a late-night craving. There was a lot of activity on the streets, something foreign to the sleepy northern village I call home. Sirens blared in the distance. A mentally ill man to my right shouted obscenities at no one in particular in between reciting random bible verses. Cars honked incessantly at a cab in front of me. The light was green, but it remained stationary. A shirtless man was trying to open the trunk. I assumed he was loading gear. 

"What the fuck?! HEY!!!" the cab driver exclaimed upon looking into his rearview mirror. The shirtless man continued to be transfixed with opening the trunk. 

A scuffle ensued as the taxi driver physically pried the shirtless man away from his vehicle and placed him next to me near the curb. I started to contemplate which self-defence technique would best work against this clearly high-as-fuck individual should shit go down. I didn't want to lose my pizza, but it was probably inevitable. I noted the shirtless man also wasn't wearing shoes. His gaze was as vacant as a zombie. 

Without incident, he made his way back to the trunk of the cab. The driver again exited his vehicle and braced for round two. The mentally ill man to my right proclaimed that God is great. 

I continued munching on my pizza. The walk signal lit up. My hotel was two blocks away.

The symphony of the streets played on. 

Long Weekend Classic: Camping in the Great Outdoors

When I was a little girl, my father bought a trailer. It wasn't a large one (at least not compared to the second home on wheels that people drive around with today) but rather a 13ft Bonair trailer with a gloriously tacky early 80s interior. Actually, after a quick Google search I found it exactly being sold in Nova Scotia: 

During my recent return home to Winnipeg, I was saddened to learn that my father sold his as well. It hadn't been used in years - actually more than a decade - and I can understand not wanting a family of raccoons to seek squatters rights in it, but a tinge of sadness came over me nonetheless as that trailer defined my summers from the age of five to seventeen. It felt like another chapter of my life had closed. 

The great outdoors by way of sleeping on uncomfortable foam cushions and having an only occassionally functioning toilet is something that everyone needs to suffer through experience. It gives a new appreciation towards nature and the realization that we are all just animals at the end of the day confined to the caves that we can afford and the social groups that will accept us. My most enjoyable moments traveling with the trailer involve staying at Tunnel Mountain Campground in Banff, Alberta, a pristine place with amazing views. I recall my father once sitting at the picnic table adjacent to our stall feeding a gopher that had grown accustomed to begging for scraps. When its lunch of bread crusts was gone, they left...and by not more than 30 seconds later a coyote that had been eyeing everything grabbed the gopher and had IT for lunch. Ah, the circle of life. You don't see that while staying at a Hilton. 

The Rockies and Pacific Northwest definitely define travel for the first chapter of my life, driving for days through the shadows of giants while listening to AM radio helped develop my undying love for Fleetwood Mac and cowichan sweaters. But the Black Hills/Yellowstone region also provided many memories. I recall witnessing both a group of wild horses running free in the distance off some highway in South (or was it North?) Dakota and a herd of buffalo doing the same in Yellowstone National Park, like a National Geographic spread come to life. It's moments like that wherein you realize life is beautiful, the world is wonderful and poems and songs need to be written to celebrate it. 

Then there are moments wherein you realize the yang. A 13ft trailer is not going to have a shower and using the shared facilities first thing in the morning at a KOA is equivalent to the ninth gate of hell. Long line-ups. Wet floors teeming with mildew and other germs. Intermittant streams of lukewarm, moreso bordering on cold, waterflow. I don't miss this. And I surely don't miss the few occassions when a campground couldn't be found and we'd have to stay overnight at a roadside rest. At least we weren't all murdered by a drifter. 

I don't know if I will ever experience camping again, as in this chapter of my life I'm more interested in high thread count sheetsets and exploring other continents (in that order) but it was a great experience while it lasted. One that I will cherish and think of fondly whenever I get sick of my iPod and put on the scratchy realness of AM radio, hopefully playing "Rhiannon" . 

In an Octopus's Garden in Tokyo

My first night in Shinjuku, jetlagged and lost in translation, I went to the 7-11 at the corner of the block to get something to eat. 7-11s in Japan are slightly different from the model in North America. As few homes in metro Tokyo have space for a traditional kitchen, they act as neighborhood grocers with plenty of take-out food options ranging from traditional Japanese to Italian dishes, not just stacks of Doritos and vats of flavoured slush (although you could get those too if homesick). Combing the aisles and endless options, I found something that resembled the stir-fry consisting of chicken, noodles, vegetables and teriyaki sauce that I love to order at Palatal Mongolian Grill in Winnipeg. Of course, this is what I thought it was as everything was written in traditional Japanese characters and I couldn't read a darn thing. I was tired. It was food. I heated it up in the microwave and was on my merry way. Many of my nights end this way. Sadly and regrettably. 

Shinjuku is my favorite part of the megalopolis known as Tokyo. Known as the "red light" district of the city, it is located next to the downtown core where many, many suits and their briefcases spend long hours strengthening the country's GDP only to spend their evenings playing pachinko! and openly purchasing anime porn. Besides this, Shinjuku is also known for having every square inch of building space lit up in the glow of neon lights. When advertising agencies or music video directors need a futuristic, hip vision that could be earth or could be a newly found planet in an alternate universe, this is where they go.  

Anyway, back at the hotel I turned on the wonderfully weird world of Japanese TV and dug into my meal with a set of plastic utensils that I brought from home. I cannot, no matter how hard I try, ever get the hang of chopsticks. The first few bites of my entrée went down well. They were tasty and flavorful...and mostly noodles. Then I started to encounter a few crunchy bits. "Odd", I thought to myself. "Perhaps they didn't get all the bones out of the chicken?"

I continued eating and watching TV, not paying attention to my plate. The crunchy bits remained (I just spit them out) but then I bit into something that actually adhered itself to one of my teeth. Not between my teeth, mind you...on my tooth. Making my way to the bathroom mirror to investigate, I was grossed out by what I saw: a grayish thing suctioned to one of my incisors. I got it off and immediately went back to see what my dinner actually consisted of.  

It was the first and last time I ate octopus. 

Shinjuku by day: 

Shinjuku by night: 

To view more images of Japan, click here.  

My Hometown

L'Esplanade Riel: 
Leo Mol Sculpture Garden, Assiniboine Park: 
Entrance to the English Gardens at Assiniboine Park: 
Live jazz at The Lyric at Assiniboine Park: 
Duck pond at Assiniboine Park: 
Winnipeg's skyline from the top of The Forks Market: 
The Human Rights Museum with Winnipeg's largest skatepark in the foreground: 
To view more images of Winnipeg, please click here.  

TOUR de France (Part VIII): Fini

The final week of my spring holiday in France included rushing through every remaining region, just so that I could say I properly did the entire country. It's amazing how much the climate changes from the Côte d'Azur to the Alps. In the span of a few hours, I went from laying on a beach in the Riveria pondering the age at which my doctor would inform me that I have skin cancer to piling on the layers under my winter coat while freezing in Grenoble. There is a severe lack of pictures from my time in this particular region as I was too cold and miserable to want to exit the vehicle, but I did drive through some pretty little towns. I stopped to get a baguette somewhere...the baker was friendly and seemed genuinely surprised - and pleased - that a tourist was traveling through his tiny hamlet (and the bread was still as delicious as any in Paris; quality is never spared in this country). 

I decided to spend a few days in the north-east region for a bit, traveling through Champagne (I had already purchased a bottle of bubbly from Maxim's Paris for a special occasion) and entering Belgium to see my paternal grandmother's hometown of Ypres. I didn't get far into the country as Ypres is close to the border, but I immediately noticed how different it looked. Whereas France seemed to retain most of its historic architecture, Belgium appeared to have been physically devastated by WWII with the vast majority of buildings constructed in the post-war style. Having previously visited England (where my paternal grandfather's lineage is from) and, of course, France (where my mother's famille is from), it was interesting to complete the tour of family history. How the heck did I end up in Saskatchewan?  

Since I am a Disneyphile and I was in France, how could I not visit EuroDisney Disneyland Paris?! I'm glad I did, but it was shite. The line-ups were insane (you'd think I would have learned by now), the major rides kept breaking down, there were hardly any restaurants open, and European children manage to be even more annoying than North American ones. Having said that, the version of rides that I did manage to get on were far superior to their North American counterparts. For example: the Haunted Mansion (here called Phantom Manor) is creepy as all hell with visuals that wouldn't have been out of place in a Wes Craven movie. My favorite ride - Space Mountain - also had the least amount of wait-time. I pretty much went on it 50 times.  

After saying "au revoir" to Mickey and company, I knew my trip was almost over. I was sad that I had to depart but thankful for all of the magic that I encountered. This is the great thing about travel: how it changes your mood, perspective and life. I recall being a depressed twenty-something not knowing where I was going in life and questioning the meaning of it all. At the age of 27 I decided to really start exploring the world and now I'm an only occassionally depressed thirty-something who no longer questions the meaning of it all, as it is beautiful and ugly and divine. As it's meant to be. 

“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for all of Paris is a moveable feast.” - Ernest Hemingway

The odometer on my Peugeot when I returned it: 

Tour de France (Part VII): Riviera

The Pyrénées region bordering Spain and Provence to the east of it are beautiful. I think that's the running refrain through all of these posts and I'm sure it's getting exhaustingly repetitive, but I can't help express how beyond wonderful France is. Like, I've turned into the biggest francophile around. I'm learning the language. I'm studying the history. I've decided I'm going to spend this summer living like a Parisian on the prairies indulging in art, wine and all the joie de vivre I can find here in Saskatchewan. This was a life-changing experience and I'm already planning my return.

The drive to Saint-Tropez was not only beautiful but aromatic. Lavender was not in season, so I'm not sure what was making the air so fragrant. The hills were covered with yellow flora that I couldn't identify. The further south I went, the roads were congested with bad eastern European drivers. It's not a stereotype I'm trying to encourage; I was literally making note of every bad semi driver that cut me off or nearly ran me off the road and they were all from Hungary, Croatia or (the worst) Bulgaria. I can only assume they hand out driver's licenses at birth to anyone and everyone as part of some lingering communist law. Despite the heavily heavenly perfumed air, this was the start of the most stressful period of my vacation. The highways here are INTENSE. It didn't help that I was driving a car that had less power than something on The Flintstones. It also didn't help that there were so many tolls. Like literally every 20km and they never had the damn cost posted until you got to the booth, leaving me rummaging through my purse to find change while being honked and sworn at by those impatient to get to the beach. Not very leisurely.

By some odd coincidence, every time I stopped and entered a store or turned on the radio, "Skyfall" by Adele was playing. It's a great song and what better place to hear it and envision myself meeting James Bond (Daniel Craig version please) than on the French Riviera. Sadly, I never encountered him or his twin but I did encounter something peculiar and thus begins my second installment of things that Rick Steeves and Lonely Planet won't tell you about: what is with all of the men "mistakingly" wandering into female washrooms in France? Yes, they are marked with the globally understood female symbol. If it were once or twice, I would be under the assumption that there were a few Scotsmen on holiday needing to take a wee. But it was every single day at nearly every stop, from the roadside rests to McDonalds to IKEA. Please don't question my shopping habits based on that last sentence and instead use this as a warning that there are a lot of pervs in Europe. Also, it should be noted that toilet seats do not exist outside of Paris. Since the fall of the monarchy, they've decided that no one shall comfortably sit on a throne ever again.

I didn't end up staying in Saint-Tropez proper but rather Port Cogolin, which is a 5 minute drive away. Actually the two towns just run into each other so I like to think I was staying in a suburb of the resort. It wasn't really the Brigitte Bardot land of hedonism that I envisioned - did you know that there's the French equivalent of a Wal-Mart in the middle of Saint-Tropez? They don't put that on the postcards. The weather was nice in comparison to Canada but not nice enough to fill the rocky beaches. There were a few, mostly female, tourists taking advantage of this solitude to work on erasing their tan lines. This becomes a less sexy visual when one realizes that there is also an oddly placed graveyard on the shore. Because of this, I can honestly (and proudly) say I didn't have one of the worst bodies on the beach.

After two days, I continued across the Mediterranean through Cannes, Nice and finally Monaco. This tiny sovereign city-state is just dripping in wealth. Every car is a Maseratti, Ferrari or Lamborghini. Everyone is thin, impeccably dressed and gorgeous. I stuck out like a sore thumb in my Peugeot, not being able to afford more than two hours in the pricey parkade. It was truly a whirlwind tour of the palace, bay and casino and other than stores that I can't afford to shop in, that's pretty much all there is in Monaco. I don't think I would want to be part of this world. The middle class is comfortable. I like home cooked meals. I like wearing sweatpants and jeans. My condo is the first time in my life that I've had a dishwasher and that shit makes me feel like freakin' Marie Antoinette residing at Versailles. This is all I need in life. Observing the guys at the entrance of the Monte Carlo casino posturing with their hot rides was exhausting, not impressive. You will never win when playing that game. Also, matte car paint is ugly. Why is this a trend?

After paying the exhorbitant parking fee (and getting lost in the parkade), I bid adieu to Monaco. I punched a town in the French Alps into my GPS and was on my way. I thought it would take me out on the same road I came in but little did I know it was now taking me on the "scenic" Princess Grace death route, all 90 degree turns on blind corners up a mountain with drivers much more familiar with every nuance than I speeding about. Have you ever been so stressed you wanted to cry but instead starting manically laughing? This was me. What could I do but hope for a much more glamourous obituary than the reality of what I was living at that moment. Deborah Clague 1980 - 2013. Born in Winnipeg, died in Monaco. Never had to get botox. When I finally got to the top (alive!), the highway was deserted. I didn't question this initially, but a sign that read "au revoir" gave me pause. "Goodbye from what?", I thought. A long drive through a tunnel carved into another mountain answered that question: I was no longer in France, I was now in Italy.

I toured the country in 2011. At the time, I thought it was great if a little poorly maintained. The transition from pristine France into Italy during this 2013 holiday really put it all into perspective. Italy resembles a former Soviet state in ruins in comparison to its neighbour. It was shocking at how run-down it was. I eventually came across a toll booth (naturally) wherein I hoped to turn around and get fuel. I also prayed I wouldn't be asked to show an international driver's permit as I didn't have one (you don't need one in France but you do in Italy). I paid the toll and inquired where the nearest station was. After sending me off and filling my tank, I had to return to the same exact toll booth and pay the SAME toll again just to get out of the country. I was in Italy for all of 20 minutes and it cost me 20€. I couldn't help but feel that this was just a set-up to extort money form lost, idiotic tourists like myself.

In short, I kinda hated the French Riviera.

About to drive the Millau Viaduct:

Saint-Tropez Marina:

The "perfect light" in Saint-Tropez:

Graveyard on the shores of the Mediterranean:

The crystal clear waters of Saint-Tropez:

Me in Monte Carlo, Monaco:

Port Hercule:

Monte Carlo Casino:

More fancy cars in Monaco:

Dudes comparing cars/penis size outside of the Monte Carlo Casino:

Tourists - keep your pants on in Monaco:

Tour de France (Part VI): Rocamadour

After Normandy, I continued heading west into the Brittany region traveling through scenic countryscapes and cities such as Rennes before settling for a night in Carnac. It was by pure chance that I ended up there, as I liked the name of it and simply punched it into my GPS as a final destination for the day. I did not know about the prehistoric monoliths in the area for which it is quite well-known. I suppose they aren't as heavily marketed as Stonehenge (France is too classy to work the alien invasion angle), but impressive nonetheless and I was virtually the only tourist there. This was also the first night I stayed at an IBIS Hotel, which is a very stylish chain in Europe. It was a nice, affordable alternative to staying at hostels (I'm too damn old, né anti-social, for that) or the Ritz (I'm too damn frugal, né poor, for that). 

Paul Signac* "discovered" the perfect warm sunbaked light in Saint-Tropez and turned the sleepy fishing village into an artist's haven. I will talk about that more in my next post, but just wanted to note how I much preferred the crisp, cool tones of Brittany; all blue-tinged hues filtered through epic cumulus rolling inland off the sea. Darkness and light. Labour and leisure. There is lots of contrast in this place. The northern regions of France may not be as glamorous as the Riviera, but are inspirational all the same. 

The wind carried me further south to an historic pilgramage site: Rocamadour. The small town is famous for its abbey AND its monkey forest. I didn't visit the latter, as I've met enough simians in my life, but I DID make the hike through the town and up the mountain in which the abbey is built into. This was one of the most enjoyable days of my trip. Just a leisurely afternoon soaking in unparalalled beauty and tracing the steps of history. Again, I was virtually the only tourist there and I stayed in a great hotel (not an IBIS). The friendly owner gave me the best room in the house with a huge, private rooftop patio overlooking the abbey. I rarely drink but this was the perfect time and place to relax, watch the sunset and have a Bordeaux. The next few days would not be as relaxing. 

*Signac helped develop the pointillism art style, which most intrigued me when I first started out in school and was my signature for years. I no longer have a lot of those pieces, but this trip has acted as an artistic muse for me and I hope to continue creating. One should never stop creating art in any capacity.  

Carnac: 

Rocamadour: 

The hike/pilgrimige started here: 

The balcony adjacent to my hotel room in Rocamadour: 

Tour de France (Part V): Normandy

Nine days in the City of Light wasn't nearly enough, but the remainder of my month in France would be spent exploring the countryside. I picked up a rental car a few blocks away from my hotel which, in retrospect, was a mistake. It's not that Paris is hard to drive in, it's just that...Paris is hard to drive in. If you're on one of the city's famous main boulevards, lanes exist in theory only with cars and delivery trucks fighting for space with motorcycles weaving in-and-out of traffic (the drivers of which obey no laws whatsoever). The side streets are narrow and hard to navigate. Street names are not visibly posted anywhere and then there are weird traffic lights that I've never seen before. I admit, I had no idea what was going on and nearly had a stress-induced aneurysm. Thankfully traffic only moved at a snails-pace so any fuck-ups that could have happened would have been minimal (and thankfully none did; I'm as surprised as anyone, tbh). 

My rental vehicle was a brand new Peugeot 206 or 306 (I can't recall the exact model and will just refer to it as "piece of crap" in the future). The damn thing had no power whatsoever, which was especially evident when traveling through the Alps. Its one saving grace though was that it came with a GPS system which, while in French, definitely aided me along the way. It took about an hour to get from the Eiffel Tower to the perimeter highway that surrounds the city and once off that, it was smooth sailing. The highways in France are immaculate and well serviced but you pay for the privilege of driving them: over the course of my holiday, I estimate that I spent around 150€ on tolls. This didn't bother me though, as a lot of the sights that I wanted to visit were not easily accessible via train. 

The first region I visited was Normandy and it remains one of my favourite places in the country. The villages were relatively small and placid, contradicting the more recent history of which it will forever be remembered. I laid my head to rest for two nights in Bayeux, a short drive to the D-Day Beaches, before visiting the citadel of Mont St. Michel, once a prestigeous abbey...now a prestigeous abbey and place to buy tacky souvenirs, regionally famous toffee and Nutella crepes. It was pretty awesome and better than anything at Disneyland Paris. 

I must admit that before my holiday I braced myself for the "legendary" rudeness for which the French are known. This stereotype couldn't be further from the truth though. Everyone I encountered was friendly, helpful and willing to bridge the language gap between us in whatever way they could (hand gestures, primitive cave art-esque drawings, etc.). Some of my most memorable moments were going into restaurants and meekly asking "Parlez-vous Anglais?" only to be given an initial look of horror and then genuine embarrassment as they replied "non" with a bashful smile, as though they were almost apologetic. A saying that I kept hearing over and over again was "as you wish". And so it were. France is one of the most hospitable nations I have ever visited. 

Mon Peugeot: 

Driving the streets of Paris: 

Interior of Cathedrale Notre-Dame de Bayeux: 

Medieval streets of Bayeux: 

Gold Beach: 

World War II wreckage off the coast of Normandy: 

Visiting the American War Cemetary at Omaha Beach: 

There are over 16,000 headstones at the American War Cemetary in Normandy: 

Omaha Beach, one of the landing spots of the D-Day Mission on June 6, 1944: 

Mont St. Michel: 

The narrow streets of Mont. St. Michel: 

Mont St. Michael: