August 2006 Entries

The TV biz is the latest to get nervous about Google. Marissa Mayer is currently in the UK, assuaging skittish TV execs who are worried about Google’s muscling in on their turf. Mayer’s message is that Google is a technology company, not a media company.

If you look at the nature of Google’s position, you would realize why it doesn’t make sense for Google to try to churn out content. Google’s point of strength, and the one they should be focusing exclusively on, is to retain it’s position as the preferred connection between users and content. It’s a connector, and as long as it continues to function as such, it’s holding all the cards. Google is the pipeline that the lion’s share of web traffic will pass through, even momentarily. And that’s the beauty of Google’s plan. It doesn’t have to worry about producing content, it can focus on facilitating the connection, and then monetizing that connection.

If you’re a connector, there’s no overhead. There’s none of the costs or headaches involved with producing the content. You just have to point the right way to it, and collect your toll for each head that passes through. It’s clean, it’s simple and it’s tremendously profitable. That’s why Google can afford to cut some pretty sweet revenue sharing splits with current content producers. If they can corner the "connection" market, they can effectively cut out the competition.

If I were the TV execs, it wouldn’t be Google I would be worrying about. It would be the millions of bored teenagers that have a camcorder and nothing better to do in an afternoon than make a stupid video. These are the clips that dominate the all time most viewed videos on YouTube. It may be easy for the established production houses to dismiss this content as amateurish and inconsequential, but these clips are precursors of the democratization of video production, as consumer generated content becomes better and more readily available. Again, it goes back to my view of the deconstruction of tradition distribution control points. Video used to have only a handful of distribution points, so tight partnerships with content creators were possible. The internet is moving the distribution point online and away from the traditional control points, and Google is very wisely trying to grab a big piece of that pie. They can remain agnostic to the source of the content, as long as they can control the access.

The thing that worries me a little is that the execs in charge of the traditional control points don’t seem to realize the magnitude of the change that’s coming. They’re focusing their attention on an easily identifiable but false threat coming from Google, without realizing that the rules of the game are being completely rewritten and the real threat is coming from their own audience.

The plan today is to spend an hour or two at the beach at Campora, then have lunch at Flori’s cousin (in the garage), do a little more visiting, then return to Cosenza, return the rental van, squeeze in a couple more visits, and then try to get to bed for an early train ride to Rome tomorrow.

We drop Flori off at his cousins (he has business to do regarding the selling of his land) and head to the beach. There’s a long line up of cars stretching almost from Falerna to Campora, all heading to the same place, a stretch of beach. We find our own spot just south of Campora and staked out our little area.

My previous experience with swimming in the ocean has primarily been in the Pacific, off the coasts of BC/Washington/Oregon/California. The Pacific is cold, and the color is usually an angry grey/green color. The Mediterranean is a deep blue, and is much warmer. The stretch of beach we found was part of a mostly unbroken stretch going from Amantea in the North to far south of Falerna. The beaches were punctuated along the way to numerous small resort towns, the historic buildings fighting for space with the new resort villas that were popping up everywhere. This area boasted what are probably the best beaches in Italy, and the government has been aggressively promoting tourism in the area. The results can be seen in the string of hotels that now line the beaches. The only negative was that when the rails were laid for the trains, the engineers obviously followed the path of least resistance and chose the flat ground beside the beaches. This means that most of the resort towns are separated from the beaches by the tracks that run down the west side of Italy.

The kids and I got our feet wet (actually, one surprise wave pretty much doused us from head to toe) and soaked up the sunshine and the Mediterranean for 90 minutes, then we headed back to rejoin Flori for lunch. By the time we arrived, the table was groaning under the load, with huge dishes of pasta, eggplant casserole, deep fried pumpkin flowers (very tasty, believe it or not), stewed beef (cooked in the sauce), homemade sausage, tomato salad and homemade olives. It was all incredible. For some reason, food in Italy just tastes better. I’m not sure if it’s the atmosphere, the freshness, or some trick of the senses, but I didn’t question, I just enjoyed.

After a little more visiting, we headed back to the hotel, where we were to head out for one more visit. But for me, the last 2 and a half weeks suddenly caught up with me and I hit my bed, unable to arise. Flori and Anna headed out, as the Hotchkisses watched a little more Italian television and called it an early night.

Today, we visit Cannevale and Borgile, where my father and mother-in-law (respectively) were born. I’ve been hearing about these places for the last 20 years, and today I was going to see them. We climbed in the van and took the Autostrada to Falerna, on the Mediterranean.

Cannevale isn’t so much a town as a collection of a few buildings, perched high on a hillside. On the way out, my father-in-law pointed to town after town, and building after building, saying, "That’s the town that _________ came from". I was amazed. Almost every Italian I knew back in Canada seemed to come from an area where they could throw a stone from one place to another. Yes this was not a highly populated area. The buildings on the hillside were sparse and the few towns were not large, by the inhabitants were obviously of fertile stock, as they fathered the Italian immigration waves of the 50’s and 60’s. On looking at the landscape, it’s not hard to see why so many chose to test their luck in the new land. Although ruggedly beautiful, this was not forgiving land. Dry and almost vertical in most places, olive trees seemed to be the predominate feature on most of the hillsides. A few vineyards in Savuto produce wine that Flori insists is the best in the region (and I wouldn’t quibble with him on this point) but I have no idea how a large family could feed themselves on a tiny parcel of land. Today, with much of the population leaving 50 or more years ago and the increasing draw of tourism, the standard of life is much improved over what it was, but you can still sense the struggle for survival in these hills of Calabria.

We turned up the coast and passed the beautiful beaches of Falerna and Campora, where we turned inland to drive up to Cannevale. The roads became narrower and less maintained (the "strada disservizio" or unserviced road signs become commonplace) until we finally pull the van down a goat trail to Cannevale. Here, Flori’s reminiscing kicks into high gear. I’m stopping the van every few feet, as he hops out and walks up to someone and asks "Do you know me?" (In Italian, of course). Amazingly, most of them do, or at the least, connections through mutual acquaintances are soon made. Its as if the 45 years that have passed since he immigrated to Canada was no more than the blink of an eye. So in so’s cousin, who married so in so, had a brother that was the friend of my second cousin. Familial connections the Inglese wouldn’t even remember make everybody part of an extended family here. Flori’s having the time of his life, walking along the paths of his youth, seeing tiny rock houses that seemed so much larger years ago. The long since abandoned cantina he showed me where countless Cannevale youths had entertained themselves looked more like a root cellar, and was no more than 10 by 10 with a 7 foot roof. The schools were in buildings the size of a large garden shed. This was a world of dramatically reduced scale. Gradually, after many intervening impromptu visits, we made our way to his home.

The house was abandoned 25 years ago, the roof is gone, the rocks are crumbling and weeds are the only current inhabitants. But Flori still takes pride in the addition he added as a child. He walks around the building, drinking in the memories and shedding the intervening years. He points at the hills around "That rock we called ‘man with a hat’, and this was ‘Crow’s rock’. There’s the ‘Tunnel of Marble’." The names don’t sound very special in English, but once translated into Italian, they sound like exotic ports of call. The nearby town of Cleto, another Italian village where house and rock merge on the face of a mountain was once called Petromale, which means "bad rock". Sounds much better in Italian, doesn’t it?

This trip is especially bittersweet for Flori, as part of the business to be done on this trip is to sell this land, which still belongs to the family, to a neighbor. This is Flori’s good bye to his home. I can tell it’s hard on him, but the closure is important.

Just steps from Flori’s home is Anna’s grandmother’s house, which is still inhabited. We visit the old couple who live there. The outside of the house looks derelict, but inside, they’ve made a rather cozy little home. It’s a strange anachronistic mix, with a modern washing machine sitting against a wall that’s at least 200 years old. Outside, there are plums drying in wicker baskets hanging from the ancient stone walls. When Jill remarks on the basket, they give her one to take home. The couple is in their 80’s but still live alone out here, at the end of a narrow trail, with few conveniences and nothing nearby except some neighbors they’ve known for decades. It’s their home, and moving is unthinkable.

We now climb up from Cannevale to the home of a cousin who was the last to live in the old house. Now, they have a huge 4 story home, where they look after a 91 year old aunt, who has since become bed ridden. Although there are senior’s homes here, at least 4 of the families we visited had taken in their aged parents, either moving into the parent’s homes, or building a new home with room for them. There’s more of a blurring between generations here, with parents and elderly aunts and uncles being absorbed into the nuclear family. It’s a continuation of the trend I mentioned before. Parents build houses large enough to accommodate children, and at some point the children return the gift by bringing their parents into their homes and caring for them for the remainder of their lives. It’s a system that seems to work here.

Again, the setting aside of the "good things" was evident in this home as well. The 4 story home was beautiful, but the cooking and entertaining was done in the garage. Now, this was no ordinary garage, it was a 4 bay enclosure that had tile on the floor, was spotlessly clean, with a modern kitchen installed, and was quite comfortable and homey. But it was still a functioning garage. The large dinner table shared the space with a Fiat.

Another quick visit to a cousin, and we join them on a tiny sundeck, where they’re passing the afternoon (pommerigio) watching the world slowly pass by their tiny intersection. Every car that goes by honks, and a farmer moving his tractor stops and stays for awhile to share a glass of wine. This was a common activity in the afternoon, when everything closes down. The pace of the world slows from it’s already more than leisurely cadence, to a treacle slow crawl. An old man can pass 3 hours, leaning on a stone wall watching the occasional car pass by. Everytime we stopped, you could be sure that someone was watching us from a window or front step. And when we asked directions, they always had time to chat and discuss for 5 or 10 minutes if they were related. No one ever seems to have anything more important than what they’re doing right now. It’s like a line I remember from an episode of Fawlty Tours: "Fortunately time is not pressing greatly upon me." It seems to be the central theme of this area.

We now drive down to Falerna, where Flori and Anna’s previous hotel was. They became friends with the couple that run the Hotel San Giovanni (another distant relative of Flori’s) and promised that they would bring "the kids" back for lunch. The owner is 70 plus, but presides over his kingdom with the energy of a man half his age. He prowls through the dining room, clapping his hands, singing Italian songs, threatening the waiters in his employ, and grabbing menus and bussing dishes himself when said waiters fall one step behind. He returned to Falerna years ago, after building his bank account and his experience in the hospitality industry in New York. Starting with a tiny hotel, he has now built it into a thriving anchor of the local resort community. The hotel caters at least a wedding a day, and can serve over a thousand meals. For this particular meal, our host picked up the tab. In between circuits of the dining room he stopped and chatted at our table for a few minutes. During one such visit, he nodded off for a 1 minute nap. Apparently, his day started at 5:30. It was 4 by this time, so he had already been going for almost 11 hours. Although his children help him at the hotel, he has no immediate plans to hand over the reigns. "I can’t slow down, nobody else can keep up with me." I believe him.

Next stop, Borgila, where Anna grew up. After stopping, asking more directions, finding more long lost acquaintances, including a classmate from almost 50 years ago, we find the house. It’s in slightly better shape than Flori’s, but it also has been abandoned for many years. The town of Aiello sits up the mountain, overlooking a bit more fertile valley. We explore for awhile, then leave, stopping to chat with the couple that now farms the land around the old house. Although relations of Anna’s, it’s Flori that does most of the talking. They quickly find more mutual acquaintances. Anna comments from the back "Even when they’re my family, he’s the long lost son." One more stop to visit a relative, again a daughter who’s taken in her elderly father (the most alert 92 year old you could ever hope to meet) and we get directions back to Cosenza. This time, we don’t even try the GPS and with one or two miscues, manage to find the hotel rather quickly. Another makeshift supper and we’re off to bed, to prepare for our last day in Calabria.

This was the day of the Cosenza visits, a day Anna told us would be "relaxing, with not much planned". Tomorrow, we would head for the hills where Flori and Anna grew up and visit more relatives. I started off by escaping down to the lobby and the high speed wireless connection so I could catch up with my blog posts. I was working quietly in the lobby, when our guest from the night before walked in, ready to whisk us on a tour of Old Cosenza. He had brought his small white car and he was going to lead the way with Flori while I followed in the rented van. I was dubious of the proposed plan. This was reinforced when we lost him before I had even pulled out of the hotel parking lot. But we found him after I navigated my way through the one way streets surrounding the hotel. Our guide headed off, driving at about half the posted speed, and straddling any available lanes. I felt more secure knowing that no matter how badly I messed up, our local guide was probably upsetting more drivers than I was. After we were led into a couple of dead ends, and missed going the wrong way through several one ways, we eventually ended up in the historic piazza (after driving the wrong way through a roundabout). The one good thing was that Cosenza was still in Ferragosta mode and there was hardly anyone on the streets. A little more touring around, then we went back to their apartment for lunch. Lunch was huge, with the mandatory 17 courses, and was delicious. After lunch, we set out, again in our convoy formation with Flori and our guest leading the way, to find our way to one of Flori’s cousins who lived out of town. It took a little bit to find them, but eventually we got in the general vicinity, and he came and found us.

It was here that I got my first indoctrination in the concept of the modern Calabrese home. They are actually more apartment buildings, with a separate floor for each child. These are homes built to last, with walls 16 inches thick, today made of concrete and plaster (traditionally rocks) and floors all of marble and terrazzo. The homes are usually built 3 or 4 stories high, and the floors are finished off as needed. Even if the children are grown, married and have their own house, there’s still a floor reserved for them (just in case). In this instance, we climbed up 3 flights to the very top of the house, where they had their summer kitchen. In most homes, there is more than a trace of Catholicism as well. In our host’s house, there was a niche reserved for the Madonna, complete with a perpetual electric candle, and a large painting of the last supper in the kitchen.

We settled in for the visit, and I was identified as the "Inglese". But my host wouldn’t leave it there. He wanted to grasp my entire name, so Flori explained that my first name was Gordon, but my second name was Hotchkiss. Somewhere in the translation, they got reversed, and I was referred to as "Hotchkiss" for the rest of the night. It was always done in a very friendly way, so I kind of liked it and never bothered to correct it.

Hospitality flowed the minute we entered, as drinks and snacks were brought out. Our staying for supper seemed a foregone conclusion that wasn’t worth bickering about, and to be honest, the graciousness was so overwhelming, we didn’t bother to argue too much. The wife, who spoke some English, caught me once when I refused a cup of ice cream, and then later finished a cup given to me by one of my daughters. After that, every time I declined the offer of something, she said "Are you sure?" with a slight smile. By the end of the evening, we had turned it into a bit of a routine.

We took a quick trip back into Cosenza to try to sort out our train reservations, with me driving and our host providing directions. He tried to turn me into an Italian driver, by imploring me to ignore stoplights and directional signs. "Hotchkiss, Go Go Go!" "But the light is red." "Go Hotchkiss, Go!" I closed my eyes, hit the gas and went. We managed to emerge from the drive unscathed.

When we got back, his two daughters, one son-in-law and grandchildren joined us. One family stayed with us for supper, and Jill immediately fell in love with their son, an adorable 4 year old nicknamed King Kong by his Nonno. She taught him English for the rest of the evening, and he helped her brush up on her Italian. Alanna and Lauren were quickly cornered by the 12 year old daughter, who had enough English that they were soon comparing notes about favorite bands and singers (apparently Jessie McCartney is the bomb in Calabria), school, movies, MTV and other cross cultural commonalities. I was chatting with the son-in-law, and we managed to converse about whitewater rafting, soccer and a mountain village we should visit while we’re there. It was a great chance to make some new friends, which we all did. But as the night came on, I played the buzz-kill and suggested we make our way back to the hotel. I remembered the ugly GPS experience from the night before and was not at all sure how we were going to get back. Our host and his son-in-law solved our problem by jumping in their car and guiding us back right to the hotel. Not the relaxing day promised by Anna, but a good day where we met some new friends.

"Hotchkiss, when you come back, your family stay with us..okay?" It would be a tough offer to turn down.

As we were leaving, I got to see the rest of the house, the part where the living wasn’t done. This floor was a showpiece from floor to ceiling, with beautiful antique furniture, an immaculate kitchen, large bedrooms and a modern bathroom. By North American standards, it would have been a palace, but for most of the time, it was sealed off, as the living and entertaining was done upstairs. "The kids are too rough on it," was the brief explanation. At one of the homes we visited, I chuckled when I saw the remote control, wrapped in plastic and secured with a rubber band so it would stay new looking. It was symbolic of an attitude towards many possessions here. There seemed to be two worlds in Calabria, the one you live in, and the one you keep wrapped in plastic because it’s too good to use.

This was the big day..Ferragosta. And this was the day we had picked to catch a train down to Paola where we would meet up with Jill’s parents. We had no idea how busy the trains would be. As it turned out, it wasn’t a big deal. It appeared that everyone was already where they were supposed to be, and the trains were relatively uncrowded. We caught the Circumvesuviana train into Naples, where we were entertained by a rather motley succession of panhandlers, the first being someone playing big band standards on the world’s oldest saxophone, and missing pretty much every note, the second being a 10 year old boy with the saddest eyes in the world, playing a cortina and the last being another saxophonist who did unmentionable things to the Macarena. The little boy, sensing he had found fertile ground, positioned himself next to Jill and played until she finally broke down and gave him a euro.

We arrived into Naples and found the station almost deserted. We had a couple hours to kill, so we grabbed a bite at the McDonald’s, then boarded the train to Paolo. This was the local, so we settled in for a long journey. The train pulled through the ugly industrial land next to the ocean through Naples, gave us a quick glimpse of the much more scenic country by Sorrento, then headed inland for awhile by Salerno. About half way through the journey, as it left Campania for Calabria, it returned and continued the journey next to the Mediterranean, pulling through various small seaside towns with names like Maratea, Praia a Mare and Fuscaldo. Eventually we pulled into Paolo and transferred our bags to the van we had rented with Jill’s parents. Getting 6 people, over a dozen suitcases and 3 boxes of food (Anna, my mother-in-law, always makes sure no one ever goes hungry) required some engineering, sheer force and a quick closing of the back door, but eventually we were off. With the somewhat dubious help of a GPS unit and Microsoft’s AutoRoute, we found the road out of town and were headed to Cosenza, where our hotel was. I love to put my faith in technology, but in this case, it was seriously misplaced. I started off confidently, with my laptop giving us directions (my father-in-law was driving, I was navigating) but as we arrived in Cosenza, things started to go off the rails. The computer told us, "You will be turning left in approximately 300 meters". I relayed the directions to Flori, my father-in-law. We looked..but there was no road heading left. "You will be turning left in 10 meters". "There’s no damned road to turn left on!" I yelled back at the computer. It didn’t seem to notice. "Turn left now". "I can’t &%#$ing turn left now, there’s no &%$@ing road to turn left on!" "Off route" was the only reply. Okay, recalculate the route. "Turn right in approximately 100 meters" Right, a temporary glitch was all. "Turn right in approximately 50 meters." Hmmm..that looks like a one way (senso unico) going the wrong way. "Turn right now" "It’s one way, you stupid %$&$ing computer". Again, the computer got the last word.."Off route"

I had to figure this out. Apparently, the map supplied by Microsoft bore little resemblance to the actual city of Cosenza. Bill Gates had let me down in a big way. I told my father-in-law to keep driving until I figured out how to get to the little red dot on my map. This was supposed to be much easier, a demonstration of how technology triumphs. It was turning into a trip from hell, in a rented van with a non-cooperative GPS. The one thing the computer was telling us was that we were going the wrong way. I got us turned around and heading in the right direction. Eventually, with a lot of swearing, wrong turns and going around the same block at least 4 different times, we arrived at the hotel, the Best Western Centrale.

This was the second time on this trip that I was pleasantly surprised by a Best Western. It was very modern, clean and yes, even luxurious. Not what we expected from a Best Western. Of course, we had the traditional screw up with the reservations.

"How many people?"

"Six, in two rooms"

"No..four adults only"

"No. Four adults and 2 children. That’s what was reserved"

"No, Four adults only."

"No, Four adults and 2 children"

He showed me the reservation. I showed him where it said two adults and one child in each room (Thank God!) and he accepted defeat rather quickly. We had a cot moved up to each of the rooms for the kids.

We arrived in the rooms (clean, bright and rather large by European standards) and then proceeded to unpack the food and wine for supper. Delicious sandwiches of fresh tomatoes, cheese and prosciutto washed down with inexpensive but good red wine and we were ready for more.

We were now in the home territory of Flori and Anna and the visiting began almost immediately. We hadn’t been at the hotel for more than an hour when relatives started appearing. The first night, we stayed at the hotel and they found us. For awhile I tried to keep track of who was related to who and how, but I soon gave up and just started kissing whoever I met on both cheeks, male or female. I apologize to all involved, but I’m not going to attempt to give an accurate record of who we met and what their names and connections were. For the next three days, it was all pretty much a blur, most of it in a language I was rapidly realizing I was totally non-proficient in.

The first night was a visit with an older couple who spoke very loudly and emphatically, but that’s not unique. Everybody here spoke that way. I was the "Inglese" the one who didn’t speak Italian. My inclusion in conversations was usually somebody pointing at me, followed immediately by a burst of incomprehensible Italian. I just sat, smiling and tried not to do anything that would be interpreted as being rude. When anyone entered or left a room, I jumped up, ready to start kissing any cheek presented to me.

After an hour or so, we excused ourselves and went to our room, leaving Flori and Anna to continue the conversation. We did find out, as we entered the hallway, that the Best Western’s soundproofing wasn’t up to the challenges of the average Calabrese conversation. We could hear it all the way down the hall and up the stairs to our room.

First, let me explain what my plan for today was. We were to catch the bus into town, where we’d transfer to another bus that would take us down the Amalfi Coast to the town of Amalfi. We’d browse there, then catch a bus back to Positano, which is closer to Sorrento up the coast. We’d do some exploring there as well, and then find transportation up the mountain to a tiny, picturesque village that overlooked Positano, where there was a restaurant called Donna Rosa that I had read exceptional things about. We had reservations for dinner at 7 pm, so we’d precede that with a bit of a walk around the village of Monteperuso, have a wonderful dinner, catch a bus back into Sorrento and make our way back to the hotel. Sounds like a pretty good plan, right? It was completely trashed in the first 15 minutes.

First, Italians are a pretty aggressive group as a rule. Women are pushy, men are pushy with a chauvinistic attitude. On National Holidays, these national tendencies seemed to be multiplied by a factor of ten. To top it off, every Italian over the age of 6 months seems to smoke..a lot!

I am quintessentially British/Canadian, which means I stand in queues meekly, never question rules, need order in my life, despise "budging" (forcing your way to the front of the line), embrace politeness and hate turmoil and confusion. I also hate cigarette smoke. Today, I have glimpsed hell, and its name is Sorrento.

After breakfast at the Montana, we caught the bus into Sorrento where we were going to catch the SITA bus to Amalfi. We got away a little late, but no worries, it was a long day. This was my second trip on the road between Sorrento and Sant Agata, this time in a much bigger bus. If I was impressed by the shuttle driver yesterday, I had to hail the bus driver as a god. I couldn’t get a scooter down this road in one piece, and here he was navigating impossible hairpins, steering around cars and delivery vans parked haphazardly everywhere, keeping an eye open for the scooters that kept zipping past him and not showing any signs of being perturbed. Amazing! (And I still had not seen anything!)

We got into Sorrento and bought our bus tickets from a woman at the station who seemed to speak in monosyllabic grunts. Jill bought the tickets because, well, because I was scared. I would have rather had a tickle fight with a grizzly bear.

The bus was not for an hour yet, so we fought the crowds in Sorrento, then headed back in plenty of time (we thought) to catch the next bus. By this time, there was quite the crowd waiting. I have to give Jill credit. She tried to warn me.

"Watch what happens when the bus comes." She whispered to me.

The bus pulled up and there was a surge of hot, sweaty Italian flesh towards the small opening. And the people on the bus hadn’t even got off yet! The bus driver muscled his way down the steps and told everyone to step back. Correction, not told..screamed! The people on the bus managed to squeeze out, and the surge started again. Every man, woman and child in the crowd had one goal, and one goal only, get on the bus before everyone else. I sat and watched dumfounded. This was simply not the way it was done! Needless to say, our rugby scrum skills being somewhat below par, we didn’t make the bus. We and a few other non-Italian tourists watched in bemused amazement. As the crammed bus pulled out, we steeled ourselves for the next assault, with the next scheduled departure in about 40 minutes.

This time, we didn’t go anywhere. We felt we stood a better chance if we stayed at the head of the line. I kept a wary eye on those who tried to stake claim to the head of the line, especially one group of bronzed Italian studs who were secreting copious amounts of testosterone, assuming their Lycra shorts would guarantee them privileged passage. Jill kept saying "Let it go..let it go". I tried.

The next bus arrived, and the scene repeated itself. All Italians pressed towards the door, squeezing all Mangecacas (non Italians) in the process. I saw one particularly aggressive small, bald Italian man bearing down on my daughters, determined to push them out of the way and managed to reach ahead and grab the handle on the bus, my arm effectively baring his way. Finally an Italian woman took pity on us and ran interference with the crowd, blocking them with her body while we all climbed on board. We thanked her and found seats. We sat from our vantage point and watched as more continued to climb on board. Eventually, every square inch of available space was consumed by sweaty tourists and the bus pulled out. As we climbed the mountain out of Sorrento, I watched the driver negotiate the hairpin turns and I continued to marvel at his unflappable prowess behind the wheel. Each turn, I had to duck as a elbow or backpack threated to decapitate me. In this fashion, we began our bus trip down the Amalfi Coast, a trip that every guide book assured us would be a highpoint of our vacation.

We climbed towards our hotel, and Jill and I looked at each other as we passed by within a 5 minute walk of the hotel. We could have just climbed on board there. But then what would I have to blog about? It’s all part of the experience.

Soon, we crested the top of the Sorrento peninsula, with wonderful views of the Bay of Napoli and Vesuvius all the way up, and then started down the Amalfi side. Sorrento was beautiful, but the Amalfi Coast was amazing. More rugged, less cultivated, with sheer drops from the mountains to the blue Mediterranean. As we dropped towards Positano, each corner provided another breathtaking view. I soon forgot about the precarious road we were driving on and enjoyed each subsequent vantage point. Lauren and I were on the sea-side of the bus, with Jill and Alanna on the mountain side. I was amazed not just by the natural beauty, but also the evidence of centuries of building ingenuity, with buildings that merged into the rugged rockscapes, making it difficult to see where nature ended and the handiwork of men began. They clung to the mountainside, painted in bright pastels, adding colorful cascades down to the ocean. It was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful scenery I’ve ever witnessed. And still the road carved through, around, over and under the massive mountains, threading its way along the coast.

I’ve traveled a lot of roads. This included gravel forestry roads in BC, the coastal highways of California, including undulating stretches north of San Francisco and by San Simeon, and the back breaking stretch of highway out to Tofino, but they all pale in comparison to this route. At times, the bus could barely get around the curves, an inch was all to spare between the front corner of the bus and the rock wall. In the towns, the bus had to squeeze through narrow passages where the clearance on each side was fractions of an inch. Add to this the traffic crowding the road, Italians parking with no regard for rules and scooters trying to squeeze through the jam without hitting the brakes, and my respect for the driver continued to climb. At times, I looked down and saw nothing but sheer drops down to the ocean, hundreds of feet below. Every tourist guide had said DO NOT ATTEMPT THIS DRIVE YOURSELF. Thank God I listened.

Eventually we pulled into Positano. I looked at the time and realized there was no way we could make it back to the Donna Rosa Ristorante in time for our reservations. Oh well, next trip. It was something we were saying with increasing frequency.

The cliffside town of Positano is probably the best known of the Amalfi stops, and the one that is often shown in movies. If you’ve seen Under a Tuscan Sun, this is the town Diane Lane went to to visit her boyfriend, only to find he’d moved on with his life and found someone else. It is a small beach surrounded on both sides by town climbing the mountain side. Romantic? Yes. Beautiful. Absolutely! But today, it was crammed with tourists. We stayed on the bus and headed for Amalfi, the next stop.

The drive continued in the same fashion, but the bus was much less crowded, thanks to the Positano stop where most people got out. At this point, Lauren started mentioned an increasingly urgent need for a pee stop. Her bladder has the worst timing. We knew Amalfi wasn’t far, but we had no idea how long it was going to take to get there. We kept telling her it couldn’t be far, as she crossed and recrossed her legs. We got closer and closer, only to find a huge traffic jam as we started pulling into Amalfi. There was a small tunnel, barely large enough to accommodate one bus at a time. Today, a motorhome and a truck both tried to pass at the same time, and neither appeared ready to admit defeat and back up. Of course, traffic piled up behind them in both directions, and in this was our bus, with my daughter’s bladder now giving off a stage 4 alarm. Several Italian men climbed out of the vehicles to lend their assistance, which in this case seemed to consist of arguing loudly, gesturing wildly and shrugging often. No concrete plans to resolve the situation seemed to emerge. Finally a policeman arrived and came to the startling conclusion that someone had to back up. Brilliant! After several more minutes of this, we finally pulled forward and got out in Amalfi.

Our mission now was to find Lauren a bathroom. We took a quick look at a map by the bus stop, and there seemed to be an indication of public washrooms somewhere off the central piazza. We started in the general direction. I’ve learned however that said washrooms (indicated by a WC) can be notoriously difficult to find, as you find one sign and head off in the direction indicated, assuming you’ll actually find more signs that will continue to take you closer. This is almost never the case, and if you do find more than one sign, they almost always contradict each other. We rushed through the piazza, and no where could find any indications of washrooms. Jill tried to ask a few shopkeepers and was greeted by rude gestures and grunts. We finally found a restaurant owner who let us use his, and in gratitude, we decided to stay for lunch. We ordered a rather non-memorable meal, paid more than we had for any meal up to this point, had entire courses forgotten, but on the plus side, by the end of the meal, we all left with empty bladders. We figured it was worth it.

We wandered through Amalfi for a bit, and decided to try to get on the bus back to Sorrento and our hotel. As we went to buy tickets, an Australian who was working for a local hotel handing out flyers suggested catching the boat back to Sorrento instead. My wife is not a big fan of boats and asked him if it was safe. He gestured at the jam packed busses across the road and said, "You think that’s safe?" He had a point. We picked up tickets for the ferry to Sorrento for a few euros more than what the bus ride would be and took the ferry back. It was the right decision. Much less crowded than the bus, the ability to stand outside and watch the scenery from a different vantage point, and the boat took a relatively straight path, not doubling back on itself every 15 seconds. The one disadvantage was that we had to climb back up the cliffs to the town from the pier. I think the kids counted about 200 or so steps.

Almost home. Now, we thought, a quick bus ride back to the hotel, and we’d head for another pizza at Buenos Aires. There was some question about which bus we should board. Our hotel was in Sant Agata, but many of the signs said Massa Lubrense. We weren’t sure of the distinction between the two (we found out later that Massa Lubrense was the region, and Sant Agata was the town). We saw a bus pull up with Sant Agata on the front, and Jill asked if it stopped in Massa Lubrense and was told yes. We figured we had both bases covered. We got on the bus, and were soon joined by 12 million Italians, all trying to get back to their hotels. I thought it impossible, but this bus was even more jammed than the one to Amalfi. Even more people climbed on at each stop, each screaming Italian at each other at the top of their lungs. As Jill said, all we were missing was an old lady carrying chickens. As the bus climbed out of town, it took a route I didn’t recognize. It’s impossible to maintain any sense of direction here, as you get completely lost after the first few 180 degree turns. All I knew was that I was tired, hungry and the bus was heading in a direction I didn’t remember. I had visions of being abandoned in a small Italian village, miles from our hotel with no way to get back. The stress level continued to climb. Jill kept saying she could see the church up the mountain, and we appeared to be getting closer. I remained unconvinced. It turns out that she was right. As we turned a corner, I suddenly recognized the main street of Sant Agata and climbed thankfully from the bus. We ran up to the room, headed back to the Buenos Aires and grabbed some pizza and a much needed beer. Then, we started laughing and couldn’t stop. I’m not sure if it was that humorous, or if we had all had complete mental breakdowns, but this will definitely be a day we remember.

Our last breakfast with Gassime. We packed our bags and left Gassime with a small token of thanks, a bottle of Okanagan fruit syrup and a thank you card. He was touched and thanked us profusely. He showed us a picture of his daughter and said he was going to give it to her. Gassime thoroughly impressed us. We invited him to Canada, but he said he’d probably never have time to take us up on our invitation. Hopefully we’ll be able to visit him again on his home turf soon.

A quick and rather exciting taxi ride to the train station (we decided to forego the walk with memories of the night of our arrival still fresh. I’m not sure the suitcase could take another assault from Jill) and we boarded the train to Naples. The family was split up (again the efficiencies of the Italian train system) but I had the chance to chat for awhile with a couple from Australia. Funny thing about Canadians and Australians..although we’re from opposite sides of the world, we feel we’re kindred spirits. Must be something to do with the British Commonwealth or something. Anyway, it was a pleasant way to pass the 2 hour train ride before we arrived in Naples.

If you’re not familiar with Italy, Naples is the city everyone warns you about. Petty crime apparently runs rampant in the train station. I had received explicit instructions from our family in France about how to successfully navigate through, but they basically recommended an armored personnel carrier, an item we had neglected to pack. As it turned out, the stop was rather anti-climactic. We cautiously rolled our convoy through the station down to the Circumvesuviana station where we caught the local train to Sorrento. Circumvesuviana is basically a commuter train that services Naples, Pompeii and Sorrento, with all points in between. We met a nice couple from New Jersey who were rushing to squeeze in a couple of hours in Pompeii before closing time. They had worked a trip to Rome and various other destinations into a business trip to Poland and the Ukraine (he was a doctor and was giving a lecture) and were definitely doing the whirlwind tour of the continent. Not sure how much of Pompeii they were going to be able to squeeze in, as they only had 90 minutes til closing time. We had to give Pompeii a pass on this trip as it was just too difficult to work in.

We shortly arrrived in Sorrento. Now, I don’t want to belabor this point (although it was a major theme of our stay here) so I’ll just mention this once and let it pass. Italians on vacation, and those serving Italians on vacation, can be some of the rudest people on the face of the planet. Sorrento and the Amalfi Coast were incredibly beautiful, but the majority of people we saw made the stop a lot less enjoyable than I had hoped. Part of it was my fault. Through my ignorance of Italian holidays, I had planned the stop for the two days leading up to Ferragosta, the grand daddy of all Italian holidays. As near as I can figure it out, the purpose of the holiday is for everyone from the cities to cram into any available form of transportation and head to the beach, and there to push and shove, smoke and drive like maniacs. Sorrento, being one of the biggest tourist coastal areas, was a prime destination. That’s the bad part, the good part was that we saw Sorrento in a way we’ll never see again (I hope).

We got off the train and headed right into the thick of it, again dragging our suitcases through Sorrento to try to find the shuttle to the hotel we had reserved. The hotel, the Grand Hotel Nastro Azzuro and Occhia Marina appeared to be a nice oasis from the turmoil below, set high up the mountain above Sorrento with a view of the bay. We finally found the location for the shuttle and waited for the next one, then climbed aboard. We had just started out of town when the drivers cell phone rang, and after a brief conversation he handed the phone to me. Somewhat surprised, I said a tentative hello. The voice on the other end said, "Hello Mr. Hotchkiss? This is Tony from the Nastro Azzuro. I’m afraid there’s been a problem with your reservation." Now, how did I know that was coming? Apparently, despite the fact that I reserved months ago, nobody at the hotel bothered to look and see it was a room for 4 that was booked. Apparently there were no such rooms available. But they made arrangements to put us up at another hotel, which turned out to be somewhat of a blessing in disguise. The shuttle driver drove up the hillside (more about driving in Sorrento and the Amalfi Coast later) and into a small town called Sant Agata.

Let me describe my first impressions. The shuttle was a small bus and barely fit on the narrow and winding roads up to Sant Agata (but as I was about to learn, I hadn’t seen anything yet) but when we got into town, the driver had the added challenge of navigating around several booths that had been set up on the side of the streets for the festival. In front of each booth were dozens of people, who seemed to wander and step into traffic, totally unaware that several tons of metal, fiberglass and hotel guests were bearing down on them. Added to this were several scooters who tried to pass the shuttle at every opportunity, cars pulling out off nowhere and little mini trucks (called Piaggios) that were making deliveries. It was total chaos, but somehow the driver always stopped in time and no one was killed. These were the descendants of the Roman Empire? The cradle of civilization?

We got to the hotel, the Hotel Montana, and checked in with no fuss. Apparently they were waiting for us. I even tried to tip the bellman who helped to carry our bags, but he politely refused to take it. The welcome was gracious and warm. I was feeling a little less apprehensive. As it turned out, Sant Agata and the Hotel Montana were two highlights of our stay. The room for 4 was actually the penthouse of the 5 story hotel, and had a huge terrace that was pretty much just for us, overlooking the town on one side and with a sweeping view of the Bay of Naples on the other. Things were looking up.

After checking in we decided to explore Sant Agata. The town, which was spread over the hillside, had a main street that was fully decked out for Ferragosta, with the afore mentioned booths, lights and the promise of street entertainment in the tiny piazza in front of the church. We were getting hungry, so we looked for a place to grab a bite. We decided on the Café Buenos Aires, which had a tourist special of a pizza, salad and beer for 6 and a half euros. Hard to beat that! I had been told in France that I had to try pizza in Sorrento, so I was keeping my promise. The kids also ordered pizza (without the beer). We were eating early by Italian standards (around 8 pm) so they were just firing up the wood oven where they baked the pizzas. Soon, hot Neapolitan pizzas arrived at the table.

Now I have to share some back story. When I was attending college in Edmonton, I decided that I was going to find the best pizza in the world. For me, pizza is a lifetime love that is probably equaled in longevity only by my love for chocolate (of course, wife and kids come first in terms of ardor, but love for pizza and chocolate predates them). Since them, my tastes in pizza have evolved, from the heavy, meat laden monstrosities that provided sustenance in college, to the more delicate coal fired pies of New York. I’ve tried Chicago deep dish, but prefer crispy and light. The Buenos Aires served a pie that rivaled the best I’ve had in New York, with fresh ingredients and a wood charred crust. Plus, I got to enjoy it under the starlight on a patio with the bells of the church ringing, Dean Martin playing on the speakers and little kids straight out of a Sophia Loren movie playing soccer (calcio) in the street. I think I arrived at pizza Nirvana. And I’m not even sure this was a good pizza by Sorrento standards.

Not only where they good, but they were huge, given the price. Each pizza had to be 12 inches in diameter, and were only 4 euros..an exceptional bargain!

We all polished off the pizzas (and if you know how my daughter’s eat, you’ll know how momentous that is) and wandered back through the streets to the Hotel. We took a trip out to the terrace to soak up a little Sorrento by starlight. The odd frustration, but all it all, a very good day.

Second day exploring Florence.

The first stop was Mercato Centrale, a quick walk from the hotel. This is the main public market of Florence, but only about half the stalls were occupied, this being the middle of Italian holidays. About half the shops we saw were closed up with a little sign saying Chiusi per Ferie, or Closed for Vacation. Still, there was enough that the kids got a good taste of an Italian public market. Downstairs was mainly seafood, bread, meat, poultry and wine shops. The kids weren’t too impressed with the way chickens were displayed, complete with head and feet still intact. Tripe was another presentation that didn’t seem to whet their appetite. Upstairs was produce, including some interesting 3 foot long cucumber like vegetables labeled as "Widow’s friends". We thought it best to just keep moving along, before the kids started asking too many questions.

We emerged from the market just in time for a thundershower, which would prove to hang around for most of the rest of the day and into the evening. We had covered a lot of ground yesterday, so today was picking up the few places we missed (Santa Maria de Novello church, much less attractive than the postcards made it out to be and Santa Croce, which was dominated by a temporary stadium set up for a Roberto Bengini concert) but we found that we had really seen the most interest parts yesterday, so headed back to the tried and true route and tried little alley ways and paths leading off. Every one was interesting.

We grabbed a quick lunch at a great restaurant, Trattoria Benvenuti, which was recommended by Fodors, and the food was great. Jill and I went for the fixed priced 3 course menu, 12 euros, which included a pasta (I went with risotto), a main course (veal scaloppini for me, roast chicken for Jill) and salads. I had a small carafe of house wine, the kids had a dish of pasta each, and the total bill came to fifty euros, tip already included. We had been warned about how expensive everything is, but I have to say a little legwork prior to leaving and some flexibility and you don’t have to pay an arm and a leg. Some things, including beer and wine, are actually very reasonable. A large Moretti beer (almost twice the size of our North American bottles) was just 3 euros at the pizza places. You could pick up a decent bottle of Chianti (local wine) for 4 euros. At 1.4 Canadian dollars to the euro, that’s not bad!

After lunch, we wandered a little bit more and as the clouds started to gather, we decided it was time for a nap back at the hotel, a routine we were falling into. We were greeted by Gassime and our other hostess (I never did learn her name) and it felt like coming home to family. The kids curled up in bed just as it really started to rain, but we couldn’t resist opening the window and shutters to catch the sights, sounds and scents of a Tuscan rain storm. As the kids turned on the TV to watch one of our three choices of English programming (BBC News, CNN European or EuroSports, we alternated between hearing how airplane travel was grinding to a halt because of the arrest of the Al Queda terrorists in the UK, which was getting a little depressing, or watching the European track and field championships) I went to use the computer terminal with internet access in the lobby. While there, Gassime must have been taking a break because the chambermaid was on her own. A couple from South Africa were checking in and she was trying to tell them that they couldn’t check in until noon, but they could put their bags behind the desk until then. Unfortunately, their Italian was worse than her English. After hearing the same thing repeated 4 different times, I was confident enough that I had caught the gist and tried translating. I must have been close enough, because everyone went away happy. Maybe those do-it-youself learn Italian CD’s weren’t such a bad investment. I felt very worldly.

It didn’t look like the rain was going to let up, and this was our last night in Florence, so we chose to brave it, donned raincoats and headed out. The streets were still quite busy, and as we wandered by the Duomo a never ending line of boy scouts started marching into the center of the city. I’m not sure why they were there or where they were going, but there was certainly a lot of them. We must have seen thousands of them!

We soon decided to call it a night and headed back to the Hotel Europa. Tomorrow was going to be a fairly early morning, as we caught the train to Sorrento.

This was the day we left for Florence. We packed, bid adieu to Gaetan and Lina after vowing to return soon and climbed on the train for Milan, where we would connect to Florence. We can't thank Lina and Gaetan enough for your hospitality. We had forged new and much stronger bonds with these wonderful cousins from France.

The train from Chambery to Milan was a French SNCF train, but we were somewhat apprehensive about what the Italian trains would be like. We were pleasantly surprised when we climbed upon an Italian Eurostar train in Milan (not to be confused with the Eurostar that runs between London and Paris. The Italians had the Eurostar first) and found a very chic, comfortable train, complete with a conductor that looked like an Italian fashion model (female). But a word of caution about train travel in Europe. If you go with the Eurail pass, be prepared to have to pay for reservations on the high speed trains, and be prepared to wait in line. The cost of reservations was negligible in France, and I hear Germany doesn’t charge, but Italy seems determined to first abuse their guests traveling by train, and then fleece them of any remain euros. Reservations run about 10 – 15 euros per person, per leg of our journey. Our trip for 4 from Chambery to Florence cost over 100 euros in reservation costs. During our stop over in Milan we tried making reservations for the rest of our trip, but had to wait in line so long we abandoned the notion in frustration and rushed upstairs to catch our train to Florence. No problem, we’ll make the reservations when we get to Florence. Upon arrival in Florence, we had a brief, unpleasant encounter with the world’s surliest information desk attendant (apparently information in this part of Europe is not served with politeness. Perhaps you have to pay extra for this) who directed me to the Biglietti (Ticket) counter.

Ah, another line. Jill and I tossed a coin and I won (although that’s up for debate) the right to go make our reservations. Let me put this in context. Jill is Italian. She grew up in an Italian family where at least half are somewhat conversant in Italian. Both her parents still speak Italian. Her two grandmothers speak nothing but Italian. Jill can understand most Italian, and can generally make herself understood. My Italian is limited to one ill fated adult Italian class and what I’ve been able to squeeze out of one of those do-it-yourself Italian CD sets in the last 6 weeks. Something a simple as asking for a class of water is very likely to get me a slap in the face. Where are we? Italy. Who gets elected to go to the counter and arrange the rest of our train connections? Me..of course. "Oh don’t worry, everyone speaks English here." Famous last words, but to be fair to Jill, her use of the language has been limited to "Grazie" and "Buon giorno". Everything else has been limited to her asking "Do you speak English", in English, and getting an immediate switch. She didn’t even have to ask in Italian, although I felt it would have shown that we’re trying hard to stretch our cultural boundaries and assimilate their cultures. Her logic, "If they speak English, they understand. If they don’t, I’ll just walk away." Hard to argue with my woman’s logic.

So, convinced, I got in the queue for the ticket windows. There I met a very nice university student from Ottawa and chatted for awhile. He had traveled through German and Italy so far, and was now off to France and Spain. It was the trip I always wanted to take in my twenties, and was never brave enough too. A buddy bailed on my after I had it all planned, and I wasn’t brave enough to go alone. My new friend was in a very similar circumstance, but decided to go for it. I congratulated him on his choice, and told him the decision not to go was one of my few regrets in life (well, that and the Speedo, but that’s a fairly recent addition) and that it’s taken me 25 years to make it. He was feeling a little lonely, but I think that made him feel better.

My time in line proved to be more enjoyable than my wife’s, who watched the drama of the Stazione Maria de Novella unfold around her. Several shady looking characters skulking around the joint, and one miniature female thief (probably about 10 years old, the age of my youngest daughter) who grabbed a purse out of a ladies hand and attempted to escape. The polizie grabbed her before the door and dragged her screaming back to the scene of the crime. My wife managed to Velcro both children and 5 suitcases to various bits of her body, keeping an eye of every suspicious character in a 100 meter radius and fervently praying for me to hurry.

Unaware of the drama that surrounded me, I got to the ticket window after a 30 minute wait. Following my wife’s logic (and because I didn’t know the proper conjugation of the verb parlare) I asked the girl if she spoke English, prepared for the instant switch to comprehensible language that usually accomplished it. This time all I got was a shrug and "non". Damn! And Jill was out of shouting range. Okay, here it goes. Finally, with the few Italian words I could dig up, the few English words she could dig up, some frantic gesturing at calendars, computer screens and scribbling down of notes, we managed to work our way through the process. An American at the next window looked at me and said, "Hey, your Italian’s pretty good". Not nearly as good as my wife’s I thought, but hey, what the hell, it worked. We worked our way through our multiple reservations, had a few laughs (mainly at my butchering of the Italian numbering systems. I believe 15, also know at quindici, died of multiple stab wounds) and after I muttered the magic words, ‘finito" she sighed, wiped the sweat off her forehead and immediately put the closed sign in her wicket. I thanked her and told her she was very nice. At least I think that’s what I said. It could have also been that I’m dressed in oatmeal and she resembles a large chocolate lizard. I’m not sure. Either way, she smiled.

I returned to my wife, expecting adoration on the way I handled my close encounter with Italian but greeted instead with a "let’s get the hell out of here". Mistake number 2 was deciding that it would a lovely walk to the hotel from the train station. In my mind was a leisurely stroll through romantic cobblestone streets. Here’s what go between us and that dream. First of all, somehow in France we had inherited an extra suitcase of gifts from family. While the gifts were very much appreciated, they all appeared to be made of lead, or perhaps the stuff that they make black holes out of, so dense it sucks in light. Jill, bless her heart, starting off trying to wheel this and her own suitcase on the streets of Florence.

Point of information. The Streets of Florence were constructed in 14 Billion BC. They used Brontosaurus’s to place the rocks. I believe Fred Flintstone was the operator. A smooth rolling surface they’re not. But Jill felt it was better for me to have free hand to check the map on my GPS and keep a hand on my wallet (Paris was still fresh in our minds). I know my bride was at her breaking point when in the middle of the Piazza San Lorenzo, the suitcase tipped over once again, tangled with the other one, causing Jill’s muttered curses to reach to audible level and prompting her to launch a kick at the suitcase that would fell a large draft horse with a single blow. I sensed this was probably a good time to step in. Taking one last look at the map, I grabbed the extra suit case and, exuding way more confidence than I felt, headed off to our hotel.

The other thing going against us was that a festival was just wrapping up and there were merchant carts and pedestrians everywhere. Garbage was strewn throughout the piazza. Not exactly the romantic medieval city we had seen in the brochures. But as we got closer to the hotel, the scene improved, and by the time we found it (apparently any visible signage on the street would ruin the whole experience) we were almost in the mood to laugh about it. Almost.

I have to explain something here. Because of limited seats when I made the original reservations in Chambéry, we had to arrive in Florence one day early. I had phoned and was assured that it was no problem at our hotel, a highly recommended quaint little place called the Hotel Europa. Sweating, we dragged our suitcases in the door, to find the hotel is actually on the 2nd and 3rd floor, and the only elevator is about the size of a large juice box. We decided to take the stairs. Exhausted at the top, we were greeted by the proprietor, Gassime, who asked "do you have reservations?" Yes, I gasped, still trying to catch my breath and keep the sweat from running my eyes. "We were booked for tomorrow, but we came one day early. I talked to you earlier on the phone. You said no problem." His response was an "Oh my god" and a smacking of his forehead. Not exactly what I was looking for.

Apparently, the extra reservation was accidentally cancelled. We had no room for tonight. This is the feeling of homelessness and helplessness that travelers have nightmares about. I was getting a little steamed (having dragged all suitcases up 3 flights) but my wife, having totally recovered her cool, charmed his socks off. She can be quite good at it when the mood strikes her. "We’ll take care of you" I was assured by our courteous little friend, and somehow, I believed him. We were ushered to an adorable breakfast room, given some ice water and asked to wait just a few minutes. Our frustration was evaporating in the charm of the place. Every so often, he would pop his head in, making sure we’re okay and letting us know that "we’re working for you". Finally, the world’s most adorable chambermaid, who just has to be somebody’s very lucky nonna, let us know our rooms were ready. The girls got a king bed that took up about 90 percent of tiny room. I was split off into a spare room where the air conditioner wasn’t working, but no matter, we were in Florence, we had a roof over a head, and a clean bed. Things were good.

This was a day that I was both looking forward to and approaching with some trepidation. Before we had come to Europe, Gaetan and Lina, our hosts in Chambery, were visiting us in Canada. I had mentioned that I would love to do a bike ride while in France. Marc, their son, who’s a 21 year old rugby player and is in incredible condition, said he’d love to go with me. While very thankful for the company, I was wondering how I could keep up with someone half my age who was in better shape than I’ve ever been. We were being joined by some other relatives, Yves, a cousin who’s around my age and Gilles, Marc’s half brother, who was in his 30’s. I was feeling a little more confident about the bike ride, taking some consolation in the fact that I do a lot of bike riding at home. Marc told me he planned a ride around the Lac du Bourget, a loop of about 75 kilometers with the first 14 being straight up hill, climbing a local mountain called Le Chat. Fear again gripped my chest.

After picking up my rental bike, we rendezvoused and headed out, starting the climb up Le Chat. Luckily, I found I could hold my own and soon relaxed and began enjoying the ride.

It was an incredible experience. You just can’t have rides like this in Canada. The climb up was challenging, but the switchback carved it’s way up the mountain, much like what I’d seen on TV with the tour de France (although this wasn’t part of the actual route), past fields and small villages, giving incredible views of the lake and valley below, with a post card view of an abbey on the lakeshore. We took a break on the way and I felt the surge of the adrenalin and the amazing realization that I was overlooking incredible scenery in the French Alps. We soon reached the peak and headed down. This was a pure rush, zipping down the mountain into village after village, leaning into tight hairpins and hitting the gears just right to maintain pace on the infrequent climbs. I’ve gained a whole new respect for road cyclists. This is more than a sport, it’s an art form.

We dropped back down to lake level at the end of the lake, and then traded places breaking the wind at the head on the relatively flat last half of the ride back into Aix Les Bains. Marc and I parted from the other two for a quick tour through the town of Aix Les Bains, zipping through narrow streets and through priorities (round-abouts). One thing I noticed is that with the compressed scale of European streetscapes (everything seems smaller) even the moderate speeds I could manage made me feel like I was flying through the town. Jill (my wife) made the astute observation (while we were being driven through Chambéry) that it felt like we were in a video game, with everything flying towards us at accelerated speeds. Much better than any Disney ride!

After we went through town, we ended up at a large aquatic center where we met up with my wife, daughters and the rest of the family for a picnic.

It was at this moment that the second moment of fear overtook me. I was informed, as we entered the pools that I was not allowed to go swimming in my modest North American shorts/swimsuit. In France, you needed a real swimsuit, also known as a Speedo. If you’re not familiar with this particular article of clothing, it’s approximately the size of a rubber band, made of a fabric that’s less durable than wet tissue paper, with roughly the same ability to cover anatomy. But there was hope! I didn’t have such a swimsuit, so I simply wouldn’t go in the pool. I’d wear my safe North American suit, with its comforting 14 meters of ironclad fabric and watch the activities from the sidelines. And there was a bonus. This was a French swimming pool, which meant that at least some of the women would be topless. My luck was looking up, for about 14 seconds. Marc noticed there was a vending machine where you could buy Speedos for just 8 Euros. Not just any Speedos..but ones smaller than normal, so that they could fit in tiny plastic packages the size of a postage stamp.

Thanks Marc! No, really, thank you from the very bottom of my heart!

I went and managed to squeeze into the Speedo, looking around and taking some consolation in the fact that there were guys even larger than me, wearing similarly microscopic suits. Ah well, I sighed…when in France! I made it through the pools and as soon as I could, covered the suit with my trusty Canadian trunks. France is a beautiful country and I wanted to do my part to keep it that way.

During a quick trip to the coffee bar at the pool, I discovered it really is a small world. We met a lovely Irish lady named Sinead who had married a local and had relocated to Aix les Bains. But as a child, she had spent many summers at a resort in Kelowna, where I live, called Beacon Beach. Beacon Beach is no longer there, but it was right across the road from where my wife grew up and where my in-laws still live. Sinead was familiar with the house! We traded emails and I promised to send her pictures of Manteo, the new resort that sits on the former site of Beacon Beach. Who knows..perhaps a future home exchange partner!

After the beach, we headed to yet another ice cream shop, which sold huge scoops of incredibly delicious ice cream for less than a euro! And the theme continues.

Marc’s brother, Eddie, then took us for a tour of downtown Chambéry. The richness of the city centers in Europe far surpasses anything I’ve ever seen in North America. Even very vibrant urban centers like Boston, New York and San Francisco can’t match the perfectly balanced blend of culture, history, monument, parks, retail and residential areas you find in Europe. Chambéry is a little bit smaller that Kelowna, which has always struggled a little with the vitalization of it’s downtown core. Although Kelowna has made great strides in recent years, and is considered to have a reasonably interesting downtown compared to other cities it’s size in North America, Kelowna’s core was eclipsed by the enchanting pedestrian lanes, plazas, streets and parks of Chambéry. You could easily spend an entire day wandering from shop to shop, stopping for refreshments in the many bistros and picking up some culture in the museums and historic sites. Unfortunately, we didn’t have a full day to spend. This was our last day in Chambéry and we were packing in as much as we could. A quick 90 minutes exploring, and we were back to Lina and Gaetan’s for a quick bite, then off for a nighttime visit to the lake resort town of Annecy. Old Annecy is a fairy tale alpine village on the lakeshore, with canals similar to Venice and tiny little plazas that looked just a little too picture worth to be real. However, some quick checking of the facades convinced us that this was indeed a real place. A magical stroll through the streets and a quick drink at a café capped off a spectacular day (the ugly Speedo incident not withstanding).

We were heading back to Chambéry today, but our train wasn’t til the afternoon, so we had time to squeeze in a little more Paris. Another morning run to MonoPrix for breakfast and the makings for sandwiches later, and then we were off to Montmartre.

The goal was the Basilica Sacre Couer, which sits on a hill with an amazing view of Paris, but the streets of Montmartre that we walked through on the way proved very interesting in their own right. Vibrant would be an apt description. We made our way to the Basilica, climbed the many steps, walked right into the cathedral (no line ups, no admission!) and then had our lunch on the steps overlooking Paris. I’ve never been in a restaurant with a better view. The price was right as well.

A quick check of PocketStreets showed that the Moulin Rouge was just a quick walk away. I couldn’t resist. We had a few minutes to spare before we had to get back to the hotel, pick up our checked bags and head to the station. We walked down the hill. On the way, a street vendor/pan handler (the distinction between the two was blurred in this case) tried to get me to stop so he could show me some little plastic bracelet for my daughter Lauren, who was holding my hand. I skirted past him, mumbling a "Non, merci" and started off. Apparently I transgressed some French etiquette, as he launched into a tirade about my being an American and how we "never had a time for anything, always in a hurry". I kept walked as the tirade picked up in both intensity and volume. Apparently there was some emotional baggage that needed unpacking and he was in full swing. I didn’t bother stopping to correct the question of my home country. I felt the fine points of distinction between Canadians and Americans would be lost on him.

As we moved from the solemn sanctity of Sacre Couer, I couldn’t believe the transformation as we got closer to the Moulin Rouge. It was a graphic depiction of the dichotomy of Paris, with history and religion juxtaposed against bacchanalian sensuality. And we saw it all in a few blocks. My wife was kept busy diverting our daughter’s attention from the graphic posters depicting the entertainment in the neighborhood establishments.

"Look over there, on the right girls"

"What..what are we supposed to be looking for"

"There, over there..no..not left..right..quickly!"

"Where?"

"Oh..never mind. It’s passed now"

Although it was a valiant attempt, I’m not sure it was entirely successful. I think I caught a knowing grin on their faces as we quickly shepherded them into the nearest metro station.

A bit of stress navigating through the metro back to our hotel and then back to the Gare du Lyon, but we made it back on the train and settled back for the 3 hour ride back to Chambéry. I realized I had a column due so I fired up my PDA and jotted down a few thoughts about attitudes about time in North America and Europe, based on my observations over the past week. Here’s the link if you’re interested. I’ve got to admit, it was pretty cool being able to file a column while on a high speed train. But I’m sure I’m in for a shock when I get my cell bill.

After arrival back in Chambéry, we were whisked off to a family reunion, seeing as my mother and father-in-law were departing the next morning for southern Italy. More food, more grasping for conversational meaning in 4 different languages (English, Italian, French and vigorous sign language) much more kissing on both cheeks, a lot of pictures and we were ready for bed.

This was our day to explore Paris. But with the events of the night before, it took us a little while to get going. We went to a local grocery store, the MonoPrix, and grabbed some baguettes, fruit and biscuits for breakfast. Say what you want about the French, they make some kick ass bread. A quick breakfast sitting on our beds and we braved the streets of Paris again, significantly more paranoid and aware of our surroundings due to last night’s adventure. I had perfected what I’ve since called the "Paris Pat", which was a quick check to ensure I still had my money belt, my pocket change, my pda, my backpack, my children, my wife and my father-in-law. With practice, I had it down to 5 seconds flat.

This morning, we decided to stay out of the metro for a bit and walk up to the Latin Quartier and the Ile de Cite, where Notre Dame is. Along the way, we wandered through the Jardin du Luxembourg, a quintessentially Parisian park in front of the French Senate. A little less famous and crowded than the Jardin de Tuillieres by the Louvre, the reduced scale of this park was just the thing we needed to restore Paris’s magic. There were pony rides, beautiful fountains and sculptures, marionette shows (unfortunately none were playing at the time), children playing with miniature sail boats and several couples on benches sucking each other’s faces off. Apparently this is also a national past time, along with smoking. When the two are combined, which is often, the results can be a little revolting.

After the park, we continued through the Latin Quartier and then crossed the bridge to the island where Paris originated. We were immediately drawn to the instantly recognizable façade of Notre Dame. Although we would have loved to go in, the queue went down two blocks, and we weren’t prepared to invest at least two hours in gaining entrance. This is the reality of a summer trip to Europe. You have to pick and choose your activities carefully, as the demand and crowds prevent you from seeing everything. Instead, we opted for a small, very expensive, but very good scoop of Berthillion ice cream and grabbed a perch overlooking the Seine to enjoy them. I’m guessing gelato and ice cream will emerge as a theme on this trip.

Fatigue was beginning to set in, as was hunger, so we headed back to the hotel, stopping at our friendly MonoPrix to grab some more baguettes, ham, cheese, salads, olives, fruit and a bottle of wine for lunch. It you want to avoid the exorbitantly overpriced bistros, I highly recommend these impromptu picnics. Based on my experience, it’s impossible to get bad food in France.

A quick nap, and we headed out for the evening. We caught the metro (no criminal activities this time) to the Champs d’Elysee and wandered down the boulevard to the Arc d’Triomphe. Another "must do" Parisian experience. The most interesting things we found were the car dealerships along the way. Half museum, half gallery, these dealerships celebrated the art of the automobile. Concept cars and interactive displays showcased the latest offerings from Renault, Peugot, Toyota and other manufacturers.

After we crossed the Seine again and made our way to the Eiffel Tower, timing it perfectly to arrive just at dusk. The tower lighting up was a spectacular site, although, because of line ups, we opted to keep our feet on the ground. On the hour, hundreds of bright twinkling lights turn the tower into an amazing centerpiece for the "City of Light". Time was drawing short on our day, so we caught the metro back to the hotel and giving in to convenience, decided to opt for a late night pizza from a nearby "Pizza Hut". A crime, I know, but we were tired.