“The literate woodsman”

© Copyright photograph by Viktoria Iakovleva, November 2008

At a slow pace the long valley he follows
A narrow trail from an Indian past
Between the trees of autumn colours.

After the day’s work he takes notice
Of the beauty of fallen maple leaves:
Orange and brown and golden they are.

Also brown are the mushrooms among the leaves,
And there is the not-so-distant sound of water
Playing him the river’s infinite melody.

An axe on one shoulder, a sack from the other
Holding coiled rope, wedges, and midday’s food remains,
Pulling somewhat and bumping his leg.

His jeans are torn but not so his toque
Nor the dirty shirt all sweaty on his back,
And the boots on his feet always caulked and greased.

He will need a hot shower, feel clean again,
At home in the small town where awaits
His young, beautiful, melancholic wife.

His house is not typical for one of his vocation,
This young man so different and yet
More at ease in wood and hill than any other.

His pace is not as hard as it was this morning,
Remnants of the evening sun
Filter through the trees that protect the way.

In time the air chills, the trail descends,
And the river wilder and wider grows
While the woods yield to field.

This is then the moment of glorious sunset
Accompanying him as he recites medieval poetry:
For this they name him the literate woodsman.

Stephan Alexander Scharnberg, October 1987

Oui, d’accord, a few more beautiful women

As a result of my last posting a short time ago, I feel compelled to add a few more beautiful women to my already somewhat long list. Here goes:

Fanny Ardant, the most beautiful mature French woman—in my opinion the epitome of classic French beauty—is to France what the Italian beauties are to Italy. Nathalie Baye is another French beauty. Marie-Josée Croze is a Québecoise actress. Audrey Dana is a younger French actress with a still small filmography.

By now, I’m sure the reader must think I’m particularily entranced and obsessed with French women. It’s all true.

Two French thrillers

Well, Saturday evening I went to the movies by myself—as I did for years in my earlier Vancouver days. I actually enjoy going to the movies alone—no one bothering me with their commentary. Complete freedom for a few hours (my wife was off with eight or nine women to celebrate a girlfriend’s 50th birthday at a Chinese restaurant in South Vancouver).

As I like transit (free from driving, although I also like being behind the wheel), off I went on the 49 UBC (the 8 Downtown trolley bus and a few others were temporarily not running—eastbound trolley lines down on Broadway at the Main–Kingsway triangle), transferring to the 98 B-line Burrard Station, then to the 99 B-line UBC. Due to the above-mentioned problem this usual express/limited stops bus halted at any stop requested, running like a regular Broadway bus. I was headed for the Hollywood, an old repertory cinema in the same family since 1934!

The night’s showing—the usual double-bill for $7.00—was two French thrillers. I fuelled up with a large coffee and a fruit pastry, settling in with the novel a complicated kindness by Miriam Toews until showtime. Tell No One (Ne le dis à personne, Guillaume Canet, 2006) at 7:30 pm, followed by Roman de Gare (Claude Lelouch, 2007) at 9:50 pm. In this part of the world it is quite rare to see a French thriller, let alone two good movies at that.

The critically acclaimed Ne le dis à personne is a great, convoluted story with many twists and turns. Subtitles are always a nuisance but I try to ignore them. I like to become fully immersed in the French or German. Among a few actors I vaguely recognise (François Cluzet, Marie-Josée Croze, Marina Hands), there is the English actress Kristin Scott Thomas (lately focusing her energies on French movie roles) and the always talented Nathalie Baye.

Even better, in my opinion, was Roman de Gare (a “roman de gare” is a trashy, cheap novel for easy reading on the train, on the beach). The main cast is the beautiful Fanny Ardant, Dominique Pinon, Audrey Dana, Michèle Bernier, Myriam Boyer, Zinedine Soualem, Boris Ventura, Marc Rioufol, and Thomas Le Douarec. This one also has a number of twist and turns, and sly scene changes, crisp editing, and a story line that left the viewer wondering who the characters really were, in time deftly revealing truths, sometimes much later on. Claude Lelouch has always had a magic touch and somewhat eccentric view on life. I’ve enjoyed several of his movies over the years—my favourite, Les Uns et Les Autres, which I saw some twenty-odd years ago in Lausanne, Vaud, Switzerland.

And I was back out into the crisp, cold air, walking a few blocks east for the express 99 B-line Broadway Station, thinking about the films. I checked with the driver—the trolley lines were in operation again. At the Main–Kingsway triangle I transfered to the 8 Fraser, home shortly before one o’clock.

Moleskine®

This afternoon enroute to my evening job at the Group Home, I quickly stopped in at Chapters in Metrotown, Burnaby, B.C., Canada, with a specific purchase in mind ... a Moleskine® notebook.

A good selection is available. I purchased the large Plain Notebook, 240 plain pages, 5” x 8¼”, acid-free paper, expandable inner pocket. More money than your average notebook, but worth the investment. Each book comes wrapped in clear plastic, front and back covers banded in a lime-green strip of paper. Inside the back cover is enclosed a little brochure of the history of Moleskines and all the examples currently available. There I read: “Moleskine is the legendary notebook used by European artists and thinkers for the past two centuries, from Van Gogh to Picasso, from Ernest Hemingway to Bruce Chatwin....”

I wonder if Patrick Leigh Fermor used them on his long trek across Europe from London to the Black Sea, as told in his two travel classics—the ultimate travel books in my opinion—A Time of Gifts and Between the Woods and the Water. What about Paul Theroux? Does he use these? He does take extensive notes on all his adventures. Any writer worth their thoughts and words will write detailed notes. And Eric Newby? What notebooks did he use?

I wholeheartedly recommend them. In the past I’ve used the smaller ruled pocket notebooks.

Check out their website. There is also a Moleskine Museum, a collection related to different artists. Read about the history of Moleskines and check the website dedicated to Moleskine lovers and their art.

English Bay, Vancouver, B.C., Canada on Tuesday, January 20, 2009

View in Stanley Park.

Ocean view.

© Copyright photographs by Viktoria Iakovleva, January 2009

“Vancouver”

Voici une chanson de Véronique Sanson que j’aime depuis longtemps. Oui, c’est là-bas que j’habite mais il y a aussi des autres chansons d’elle que j’aime bien.

“Vancouver”

Aller de ville en ville


Ça je l’ai bien connu


Je mène ma vie


Comme un radeau perdu


Les gens de la nuit


Sont toujours là quand il faut


Ils vous accueillent avec des rires et des bravos

Les vapeurs d’alcool


Ça je les connais bien


Les cheveux qui collent


Au front des musiciens


Et c’est difficile


Le choix d’une vie


Je rêve de choses dont j’ai réellement envie

{Refrain :}


Je chante dans le port de Vancouver


Je chante sur des souvenirs amers


Et je danse, je danse


C’est bien


Je n’vois jamais le matin


Et c’est bien


A midi je suis dans mon lit


Et je rêve de quelque chose


A minuit je suis dans la ville


Et je cherche quelque chose

Les randonnées folles


Ça je les connais bien


Les filles qui volent


Autour des musiciens

Les gens de la nuit


Sont toujours là quand il faut


Il vous appellent


Avec des rires et des bravos

Le son du silence


Il faut l’avoir connu


J’appelle la chance


Qui n’est jamais venue

Et c’est difficile


Le choix d’une vie


Je rêve de choses


Dont j’ai réellement envie

Je chante dans le port de Vancouver


Je chante sur des souvenirs amers


Et je danse, je danse


C’est bien


Je n’vois jamais le matin


Je chante dans le port de Vancouver


Et je lance des menaces dans les airs


Et je danse, je danse


C’est bien


Je n’vois jamais le matin


Et c’est bien


A midi je suis dans mon lit


Et je rêve de quelque chose


A minuit je suis dans la ville


Et je cherche quelque chose

Paroles et Musique : Véronique Sanson, 1976
; © 1976, Album Vancouver

A few more beautiful women

For this third installment of women I consider beautiful, it’s not quite all actresses. It’s a mixed bag—a few singers too.

Remember the movie Road Trip? Anyone see it? Not much of a movie in any artistic or deep psychological sense, but not too bad in its field of coming-of-age teen/early adult films. It was actually quite funny at times. Anyway, it starred Breckin Meyer, Seann William Scott, Amy Smart, D.J. Qualls, Tom Green, and others. I mention it here because in one scene D.J. Quall’s character Kyle sleeps with a heavyset African-American girl named Rhonda, played by beautiful, luscious, plump Mia Amber Davis. She is hot in her cheetah-print underwear and her hair tied up. And her gorgeous chocolate skin colour. Also:

Another beautiful black women is Canadian soprano Measha Brueggergosman. There is the Italian beauty Monica Bellucci (as Malèna in Malèna). And, the Italian beauty Maria Grazia Cucinotta (as Beatrice Russo in Il Postino). I loved Toni Collette (as the beautiful Muriel Heslop, at 40 lbs. heavier with a plump, voluptuous body, in Muriel’s Wedding). Also, the still beautiful Minnie Driver (as Bernadette “Benny” Hogan in Circle of Friends). There is Kelly Macdonald (as Evangeline in Nanny McPhee) and Jennifer Baxter (as Robin Howland in the TV series Billable Hours). And last but not less important, the young Deborah Harry during her years in Blondie.

More beautiful women

Here’s my second installment on beautiful women. Seeing a thread here yet? I’m still focusing on the actresses.

Emma Thompson, the English actress (as Margaret Schlegel in Howards End; as Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing; as Miss Kenton opposite Anthony Hopkins in The Remains of the Day; as Elinor Dashwood in Sense and Sensibility; as Karen Eiffel in Stranger than Fiction).

Kristen Scott Thomas, another English actress (as Fiona in Four Weddings and a Funeral and as Katharine Clifton in The English Patient).

Catherine Keener, the beautiful American actress (as Trish Piedmont in The 40-Year-Old Virgin and as writer Harper Lee in Capote).

Annabeth Gish (as Kat Arujo in Mystic Pizza, decent movie when I saw it new in 1988 but I’ve never cared for Julia Roberts. I was infatuated with Annabeth Gish as the slightly plump brainy sister—I would have wanted her as a baby sitter when I was a child).

Kate Nelligan, the wonderful Canadian actress (in The Prince of Tides and Margaret’s Museum).

Brenda Blethyn, the mature English actress (as Cynthia Rose Purley in Secrets & Lies; as Grace Trevethyn in Saving Grace; as Grace Turner in Atonement).

Meryl Streep, an actress I’ve admired for years (as Sarah/Anna in The French Lieutenant’s Woman; as Sophie Zawistowski in Sophie’s Choice; as Karen Blixen in Out of Africa; as Francesca Johnson in The Bridges of Madison County).

Catherine Zeta Jones, the classic Welsh beauty (as Mariette in H.E. Bates’ The Darling Buds of May).

Isabelle Adjani, the beautiful French actress (in François Truffaut’s The Story of Adele H. and in Camille Claudel).

Laura Linney, the American actress (as Wendy Savage in The Savages).

Kate Winslet, my favourite English actress (as Juliet Hulme in Heavenly Creatures; as Marianne Dashwood in Sense and Sensibility; as Ophelia in Hamlet; what a beauty as Rose DeWitt Bukater in the Hollywood cheeseball Titanic with wimp-wuss-whiner Leonardo DiCaprio and the icky schmaltz song by Céline Dion; as Iris Murdoch in Iris; as Hanna Schmitz in The Reader).

Cate Blanchett, likely my second favourite English actress (as Elizabeth I in Elizabeth; the elf queen Galadriel in Peter Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings trilogy; as Colonel-Doctor Irina Spalko in Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull—cheesy-crappy movie but she plays an awesome Nazi bitch; as Katharine Hepburn in Martin Scorsese’s The Aviator—but I don’t care for Leonardo DiCaprio).

Emma de Caunes, a young French actress (as Empress Eugénie in The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (Le scaphandre et le papillon, Julian Schnabel, 2007).

Marion Cotillard, the stunning beauty from France (as Edith Piaf in La Vie en Rose).

“An die Freude” (“Ode to Joy”)

At school the intermediate classes are currently practicing Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy”, using a simplified notation for soprano and alto recorders, during Wednesday’s music classes. We won’t be singing the lyrics at this time but possibly next Christmas I might sing it in German.

Ever since the fall of the Berlin Wall and the subsequent reunification of the two Germanys—the Bundesrepublik Deutschland (Federal Republic of Germany) and the DDR (Deutsche Demokratische Republik)—I consider this to be Germany’s unofficial second national anthem (with the original text). Leonard Bernstein gave a concert in East Berlin’s Schauspielhaus on December 25, 1989, to celebrate the end of the Wall. It included Ludwig van Beethoven’s 9th Symphony, “Ode to Joy”—Chorus of 4th Movement, 9th Symphony, including a little intro by itself—the word “Joy” (Freude) changed to “Freedom” (Freiheit) in the sung text. The orchestra and chorus were composed of musicians and singers largely from East and West Germany, and some from the UK, France, the USSR, and the USA.

“An die Freude”

BARITONE

O Freunde, nicht diese Töne,

sondern lasst uns angenehmere

anstimmen, und freundenvollere.

BARITONE, QUARTETT UND KEHRREIM

Freude, schöner Götterfunken,

Tochter aus Elysium,

wir betreten feuertrunken,

Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!

Deine Zauber binden wieder,

was die Mode streng geteilt:

alle Menschen werden Brüder,

wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.

Wem der grosse Wurf gelungen,

eines Freundes Freund zu sein,

wer ein holdes Weib errungen,

mische seinen Jubel ein!

Ja, wer auch nur eine Seele

sein nennt auf dem Erdenrund!

Und wer’s nie gekonnt, der stehle

weinend sich aus diesem Bund!

Freude trinken alle Wesen

an den Brüsten der Natur,

alle Guten, alle Bösen

folgen ihrer Rosenspur.

Küsse gab sie uns und Reben,

einen Freund, geprüft im Tod;

Wollust ward dem Wurm gegeben,

und der Cherub steht vor Gott.

TENOR ALLEINFLUG UND KEHRREIM

Froh, wie seine Sonnen fliegen

durch des Himmels prächt’gen Plan,

laufet, Brüder, eure Bahn,

freudig, wie ein Held zum Siegen!

KEHRREIM

Freude, schöner Götterfunken,

Tochter aus Elysium,

wir betreten feuertrunken,

Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!

Deine Zauber binden wieder,

was die Mode streng geteilt:

alle Menschen werden Brüder,

wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.

Seid umschlungen, Millionen!

Diesen Kuss der ganzen Welt!

Brüder, überm Sternenzelt

muss ein lieber Vater wohnen.

Ahnest du den Schöpfer, Welt?

Such ihn überm Sternenzelt!

Über Sternen muss er wohnen.

Freude, schöner Götterfunken,

Tochter aus Elysium,

wir betreten feuertrunken,

Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!

Seid umschlungen, Millionen!

Diesen Kuss der ganzen Welt!

Ihr stürzt nieder, Millionen?

Ahnest du den Schöpfer, Welt?

Such ihn überm Sternenzelt!

Brüder, überm Sternenzelt

muss ein lieber Vater wohnen!

Freude, Tochter aus Elysium,

deine Zauber binden wieder,

was die Mode streng geteilt!

Alle Menschen werden Brüder,

wo dein sanfter Flügel Weilt.

Seid umschlungen, Millionen!

Diesen Kuss der ganzen Welt!

Brüder, überm Sternenzelt

muss ein lieber Vater wohnen.

Freude, schöner Götterfunken,

Tochter aus Elysium,

Freude, schöner Götterfunken!

»DIE ENDE«

[TRANSLATED TO ENGLISH]

BARITONE

Oh friends, not these tones!

Let us raise our voices in more

pleasing and more joyful sounds!

BARITONE, QUARTET, AND CHORUS

Joy, beautiful spark of the gods,

Daughter of Elysium,

We enter fire imbibed,

Heavenly, thy sanctuary.

Thy magic reunites those

Whom stern custom has parted;

All men will become brothers

Under thy gentle wing.

May he who has had the fortune

To gain a true friend

And he who has won a noble wife

Join in our jubilation!

Yes, even if he calls but one soul

His own in all the world.

But he who has failed in this

Must steal away alone and in tears.

All the world’s creatures

Draw joy from nature’s breast;

Both the good and the evil

Follow her rose-strewn path.

She gave us kisses and wine

And a friend loyal unto death;

She gave lust for life to the lowliest,

And the Cherub stands before God.

TENOR SOLO AND CHORUS

Joyously, as his suns speed

Through Heaven’s glorious order,

Hasten, Brothers, on your way,

Exulting as a knight in victory.

CHORUS

Joy, beautiful spark of the gods,

Daughter of Elysium,

We enter fire imbibed,

Heavenly, thy sanctuary.

Be embraced, Millions!

This kiss for all the world!

Brothers!, above the starry canopy

A loving father must dwell.

Can you sense the Creator, world?

Seek him above the starry canopy.

Above the stars He must dwell.

Be embraced, Millions!

This kiss for all the world!

Brothers!, above the starry canopy

A loving father must dwell.

Can you sense the Creator, world?

Seek him above the starry canopy.

Above the stars He must dwell.

Joy, beautiful spark of the gods,

Daughter of Elysium,

We enter fire imbibed,

Heavenly, thy sanctuary.

Be embraced, Millions!

This kiss for all the world!

Brothers!, above the starry canopy

A loving father must dwell.

Can you sense the Creator, world?

Seek him above the starry canopy.

Above the stars He must dwell.

Be embraced, Millions!

This kiss for all the world!

Brothers!, above the starry canopy

A loving father must dwell.

Can you sense the Creator, world?

Seek him above the starry canopy.

Above the stars He must dwell.

Joy, daughter of Elysium

Thy magic reunites those

Whom stern custom has parted;

All men will become brothers

Under thy gentle wing.

Be embraced, Millions!

This kiss for all the world!

Brothers!, above the starry canopy

A loving father must dwell.

Joy, beautiful spark of Gods!,

Daughter of Elysium,

Joy, beautiful spark of Gods!

Friedrich Schiller, 1785

Some of my heroes ...

Good, classic heroes are important in a child’s development. Every child should have people to look up to, to learn from and about. First, the child’s parents should try to be good role models. In addition, other people in the child’s life, and toward the periphery, whether back in history or from more contemporary and current times, people known for feats of will power, special deeds to the benefit of society, and talented and creative in the arts, music, and literature. Good role models—not the shallow, soulless offerings flaunted and forced upon children today in empty, ridiculous, demeaning television; plastic celebrities that keep their names in the spotlight by filthy behaviour and bad attitudes; and mind-numbing video games (they’re really all crap—even the so-called non-violent ones—it’s not just the content that’s objectionable, but the medium itself).

Since childhood and adolescence I admire with awe and veneration some interesting people. Many of them are aviators. For many years already I am fascinated with aircraft, aviation, and the people involved. Today I will just list the aviators. Another time I’ll list some of my other heroes.

They are:

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (1900–1944), renowned French aviator and writer of a number of classics including Le Petit Prince, a must-read book.

Amelia Earhart (1897–1937), famous American aviatrix and writer, failed and tragic around-the-world attempt in her modified 1936 Lockheed Model 10E Electra, NR16020.

Beryl Markham (1902–1986), British-born Kenyan aviatrix, adventurer, racehorse trainer, and writer of the memoir West with the Night, first woman across Atlantic east to west, in her Percival Vega Gull, VP-KCC, The Messenger.

Charles Lindbergh (1902–1974), American aviator, eastward solo across Atlantic in 1927 in the custom-built Ryan NYP, NX211, Spirit of St. Louis.

Jacqueline “Jackie” Cochrane (1906–1980), American aviatrix.

Jerrie Mock (1925– ), American avaitrix, first woman to fly solo around the world, in her 1953 Cessna 180, N1538C, Spirit of Columbus, as chronicled in her book Three-Eight Charlie.

Sheila Scott (1927–1988), English aviatrix, broke over 100 aviation records through her long distance endeavours, in her 1966 Piper PA-24-260B Comanche, c/n 24-4326, G-ATOY (N8893P), “99”, Myth Too.

Max Conrad (1903–1979), numerous global flights, flying records, and attempts, notably in a Piper PA-20-135 Pacer; 1959 Piper PA-24-250 Comanche, c/n 24-695, N110LF, Let’s Fly; Piper PA-24-180 Comanche, N110LF, Let’s Fly; 1961 Piper PA-23 Aztec, N4544P, New Frontiers; Piper PA-30 Twin Comanche, N7003Y; Piper PA-23 Aztec, N123LF, St. Louis Woman; and Piper PA-23 Aztec, N123LF, White Penguin.

Wiley Post ( 1898–1935), American aviator, first solo around the world, in his modified 1930 Lockheed Model 5C Vega, NR105W, Winnie Mae.

Douglas Bader (1910–1982), RAF WW II fighter pilot, Battle of Britain.

Adolf Galland (1912–1996), German WW II fighter ace.

Max Ward (1921– ), bush pilot and founder of Wardair.

Justin de Goutière (1926–1968), The Pathless Way: Flying the British Columbia Coast—this seasoned bush pilot flew the coastline of British Columbia and unfortunately died before his book was published.

Hanna Reitsch (1912–1979), German aviatrix.

Nice, Alpes-Maritimes, Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur, France en septembre 2006

Nous arrivons le dimanche soir. C’est le 24 septembre.

Notre train EC 160 Fiori dei Riviera, à partir de Genova P. Principe, est arrivé à la Gare Nice-Ville à 20h10, treize minutes en retard. Il pleut légèrement. Nous sommes bien fatigué mais il faut encore trouver notre Auberge de Jeunesse Les Camélias, 3 rue Spitalieri.

Nous descendons à pied l’avenue Jean Médecin, baggages en main. La pluie tombe plus fort maintenant. Nous avons faim.

Une voix nous appelle. C’est la jeune femme méxicaine nous avons rencontré la semaine passée sur un bus à Firenze. Elle nous raconte qu’elle a déjà visité Zurich, Francfort, et Genève.

À gauche sur le boulevard Dubouchage, encore à gauche la rue Lamartine, et nous nous trouvons devant l’Auberge. C’est plein des gens, plus des jeunes que des vieux. On nous dites que nous partagerons la chambre 304 avec un couple brasilien de Rio de Janeiro.

Nos baggages dans la chambre, nous allons chercher quelque part pour manger. Il fait 21 heure bientôt. À côté de l’Église Russe, nous entrons le Restaurant du Soleil. Les propriétaires sont un couple dans les cinquantaines. Madame et Monsieur sont très invitant et chaleureuses. C’est vite fait, ma femme et moi, nous choisons chaqu’un le Ménu complet à €12,00. Un bon repas de quelque choses typiquement français ou une specialité niçoise—je me souviens vagement d’une pissaladière pour ma femme, de l’entrecôte et du ravioli aux champignons pour moi, et d’une carafe de vin rouge Côte de Provence. J’ai suivi avec une crème brûlée et un cafe noir.

Bientôt au lit. La pluie tombe toute la nuit. J’aime bien la musique contre les vitrines.

Le lendemain, le lundi, après le petit-déjeuner, nous faisons une visite à la Théâtre de la photographie et de l’image de Nice pour l’exhibition “Yousuf Karsh : Portraits” (une photographe canadien), suivi par un retour à la Gare Nice-Ville. Il faut faire des réservations pour le TGV. Nous rentrons à Paris le mercredi. Nous arriverons à la Gare de Lyon. Il pleut encore. Beaucoup, sans arrête.

Ensuite, nous montons à la Musée Marc Chagall, avenue Docteur-Menard. C’est pleins des gens. Tous les deux, nous aimons beaucoup les tableaux de Chagall. Pour ma femme, c’est la première fois en Europe. Moi, j’ai déjà traversé l’Atlantique quinze fois depuis 1968.

Après quelques heures nous retournons à la pluie en montant l’avenue de Cimiez. Nous cherchons la Musée Matisse, 164 avenue des Arènes-de-Cimiez, et les ruines et l’amphithéâtre romain et les jardins de Cimiez, avenue du Monastère de Cimiez. Après un pique-nique des sandwiches et des boissons vite mangé sous l’étoit à l’entrée, nous sommes très heureux de voir les chefs-d’oeuvres de Matisse. Deux classes primaires des enfants de la ville faisons un tour. Ils se sont bien comporté.

Quand nous sortons la Musée, le temps c’est amélioré—le soleil et le ciel bleu sont apparu. Entre les ruines romain ma femme et moi nous promenons sous les oliviers, le longuer de l’avenue Dizzy Gillespie (1917–1993). Bien proche est le monument du Général Estienne, l’inventeur du terrible utile de guerre—le char de combat. Quelques escaliers nous amene à l’Église Franciscaine et les jardins à côté. Après une visite à l’intérieure, nous sommes asseoir sur un banc dans les jardins. C’est une vue merveilleuse de la Vielle Ville et la Mer Méditerranée en bas. Ici c’est le Paradis. Les fleurs arômées sont en plein fleurage.

Tout lentement nous descendons l’avenue Général Estienne, passant par la vielle maison Les Pervenches, brillantes tout jaunes sous plein soleil. Nous descendons l’avenue des Arènes-de-Cimiez. Maintenant il fait un peu chaud.

Traversons plusieurs rues, avenues, et ruelles, en passant par des magasins des meubles antiques, une boulangerie, une charcuterie, et un Supermarché, nous avons amassé peu à peu quelque choses à manger et à boire.

Maintenant c’est plus tards dans l’après-midi. Nous sommes asseoir, pieds nus, sur les cailloux du plage à pied de la Promenade des Anglais. C’est la Plage Beau Rivage. Je boire d’une bouteille de la biere italienne, Nastro Azzuro. Les vagues lavent nos pieds. Ma femme est endormie, sa tête sur sa veste. Il reste plus riens de notre repas.

Mardi le 26 septembre, nous sortons l’Auberge quelques minutes avant dix heures. Aujourd’hui nous prendrons le bus à Monaco. Il faut descendre quelque rues pour la Gare Routière où nous attendons le 100 Monaco–Menton à 11h15. Le bus est plein. C’est pas chère du tout, seulement €1,30 chaqu’un, aller simple. Mais avant de monter, nous voyons quelques français et françaises bien fâcheuses avec des touristes romaines qui comprenents très peu le français. Après quelques minutes des mauvaises mots échangés, nous partons enfin. Nous arrivons à Monaco à 12h08. Le soleil brille bien fort. Pendant la journée nous voyons la fontaine et les jardins du Casino de Monte Carlo, des voitures de luxe (Mercedes-Benz, Rolls Royce, Bentley, Ferrari) devant le Casino. Une foule des gens est en visite. Bientôt nous trouvons une plage des gros graines de sable jaune. Ma femme mets ses pieds à l’eau. Nous sommes pas loins du Centre Forum Grimaldi. C’est un petit port. Quelques enfants jouent à la plage. Quelques belles jeunes femmes se baignent au soleil, au bas des bikinis mais les seins en plein vue. Les français et nous allemands n’ont pas les gênes de la nudité comme beaucoup gens en Amérique du Nord. Des petits poissons tropiques jouent dans la mer claire. Soudainemant une petite pastenage noire passe par les pieds de ma femme. Elle les retires rapidement. Elle rit nerveusement.

Nous visitons les ruelles et la promenade proche du Château de la Famille Royale. Un changement du garde prennent place. Mais le Prince Albert n’arrive pas aujourd’hui. En retournons dans les rues en bas, je m’achete des chaussures de gym. Bon prix, en vente. Je les mets à pieds toute de suite.

Nous sommes retourné à Nice. Il fait soir. En route nous avons vu le soleil couchant très beau, en plein orange et rose, une grande boule se couchant derrière les monts en haut de la route côtier et l’autoroute sur les villages entre Monaco et Nice. Nous promenons la Promenade des Anglais pour une heure ou deux. Et dans une ruelle un peu caché, nous achetons notre repas du soir, le pizza à €5,00 la tranche, et deux bouteilles à l’eau gazeuse.

Le lendemain, c’est le TGV 6174, voiture 13, d’enhaut en 1er classe avec nos passes d’Eurail, 9h36 à 15h05, passant par Antibes, Cannes, St-Raphaël, Les Arcs-Draguignan, la Pauline, Toulon, et encore deux ou trois arrêtes en montant en grande vitesse vers le Nord, le soleil chaud. Je me souviens du janvier 1983, ma seule autre visite ici dans le Provence (Avignon, Orange, Nice, et dans une bergière en haut dans les Alpes-Maritimes pas loins d’Entrevaux et Puget-Théniers, Alpes-de-Haute-Provence, sur le Var).

Nous retournons à Paris pour encore quatre jours avant notre retour au Canada, à Vancouver. Paris est une de mes villes mondiales préféré.

The Naam

When in Vancouver, when in Lotusland ... whether omnivore or vegetarian or vegan ... visit The Naam Restaurant at 2724 West 4th Avenue, Vancouver, B.C., Canada, phone 604 738-7151. She is situated in the heart of the old hippy neighbourhood. West 4th came close to equalling San Francisco’s Haight Ashbury, becoming likely the second most famous hippiehood (or infamous—depending on your point of view) after the tune in, drop out capital of the Western world.

This last vestige of hippiedom, and the longest surviving vegetarian/natural foods restaurant in Vancouver, is open 24 hours, seven days a week (except Christmas). I patronize this unique establishment since I moved here from Vancouver Island, late June 1988. I do not eat there as often as in earlier years. The responsibilities and obligations of two full-time jobs and married life have curtailed this somewhat-luxury by a great deal. But ... once in a while my wife and I return for another delicious, healthy meal.

In the first few years, mostly while I lived west of there, in West Point Grey up the hill near UBC, I also enjoyed breakfasts, on a Saturday, or a Sunday before church at the Christian Community.

For many years, the eve of every payday, I would show up there shortly before midnight—after another shift at the Group Home—order a pint of beer (warmer half of year) or glass of red wine (colder half of year), place my order, then read The Georgia Straight free weekly, a novel, non-fiction, or write poems. The service is slow, sometimes very slow. This is the only restaurant I tolerate such snail-pace, lackadaisical service. Anywhere else—bye, bye, I’m out of here! Why do I put up with this? Why do the other patrons? It is part of it’s history, legend, and charm (in an odd sort of way). It’s the hippy pace of life. Cliché, perhaps, but ... Personally, in most things originating with the hippy phenomenom, I don’t care for the hippy way of life. It even turns my stomach at times (too many Sun Festivals in Duncan in the late 1960s and early 1970s; too many unreliable, wishy-washy, spineless patrons of my mother’s home-based basement business selling bulk organic foods trucked in monthly and sometimes weekly by Lifestream Foods, now Nature’s Path; too many drugged out, strung out, burned out, fucked up bohos).

Yes ... the Naam is damn good food. It’s got great ambiance, awesome selections of tunes picked by staff on shift, beer and wine, great blueberry shakes, always a choice of two soups if you desire, to-die-for sesame fries, live music most early evenings, ever-changing collections of photos and paintings by local artists—sometimes available for purchase.

Back to work

Well, it has been a couple of weeks since my last blog. Christmas and the winter vacation break are over ... it’s back to work. I returned to both jobs this past Monday, January 5th.

We had an unusual amount of snow this time around. We haven’t seen anything like this around here since 1971 and 1964. I vaguely remember both—Aurora borealis this far south on Christmas Eve 1971, viewed in awe by my siblings and myself out our bedroom window near Duncan, Vancouver Island, as we waited for the livingroom door to be unlocked, letting us in for the lit candles Christmas tree I talked about in an earlier blog, and all the special festivity around this wonder. And 1964 ... I was two months past my second birthday. This is the Christmas I raided my parent’s bedroom closet in Honeymoon Bay, Vancouver Island, devouring a whole brick of marzipan. Naturally, my parents were angry, I was scolded, and I soon threw up the entire thing. As a result, I can’t stand marzipan to this day, nor amaretto—not the taste, not the aroma. I love the German Christmas cake we call Stollen. But if it has some marzipan rolled into it, this I promptly remove. And I do like raw almonds.

At one point this winter, word was, Victoria—mild, mild Victoria on the southern tip of Vancouver Island—had more snowfall than the North Pole or any other Canadian city. Highly unusual, considering its generally mild climate on the northern shoreline of the Juan de Fuca Strait. And flowers are known to appear as early as late January, early February, some years!

So, I’m glad I had no plans to fly anywhere—flying was hell apparently, any city, any airport across Canada. Air Canada really fucked up—loads of unclaimed baggage still sitting in the baggage area at YVR (Vancouver International Airport), only one security guard keeping an eye on this pile of people’s personal effects. WestJet seemed to handle this a lot better—few complaints.

I also did not drive anywhere. I’m sure the reliable, feels-and-drives-like-a-tank 1985 Mercedes-Benz 300D Turbo Diesel can handle all conditions admirably—it’s the other drivers I don’t necessarily trust. Goldie was buried under a mound of snow on our side street. Walking in the beautiful winter wonderland and using buses and SkyTrain was a mostly stressless way to get around. I shovelled snow several times—front and back porches and steps, walkway and sidewalk, kept the street drains free, upper corner and back alley, at the later stages when the melt and rains started. Our basement stayed dry.

Christmas Eve was highly enjoyable, but it is nice to get back into a regular rhythm and routine after indulging in more-than-usual amounts of beer and wine, rich, savoury foods, some sweets (although I don’t like too much of the sugar stuff), getting up a little later than 6:30 am.

On Monday it was icy walking to the bus, from SkyTrain to school, then to my evening job, returning home late in the evening. Much as I like a good dose of snow—feels like a real Christmas for a change, weather-wise, the slow melt by heavy rains and rising temperatures are not to be scoffed at.