20 June 2019
Coup de coeur
I thought back to that most perfect day I just had. How could I even verbalize that wonderful, fuzzy, warm sensation? I gave it my best shot. And so I told her.
About starting a sunny and warm June day in Outremont, wandering the leafy boulevards and gazing at the stately mansions, wondering in which Armand Gamache might live. Much like him, enjoying a café au lait and a flaky croissant on Avenue Bernard, reading the morning paper.
About strolling east towards Avenue Parc, past Hassidic students standing outside their Yeshiva, Tora in hand. While they were concentrating on the spiritual teachings the Jews brought to Montréal, having my own mind firmly set on the more earthly pleasures: On Rue St-Viateur, an oven-warm bagel was simply too good to resist, despite firm intentions to save the appetite for another Jewish delicacy: Down along The Main, just before noon, awaited Schwartz's Delicatessen and a medium smoked meat sandwich.
About the indulgence of sitting in a little park off St-Laurent, enjoying said sandwich while watching the world go by: Street artists, businessmen, mothers with kids in tow, lots of twenty-somethings in activewear and bearded hipsters on their fixed gear bikes.
About the ongoing gentrification - or is that hipsterization? - of the Plateau, as evidenced on continued ambles on Rue Rachel, up St-Denis and to Avenue Mont-Royal, the neighborhood's main artery. Chain outlets and somewhat dodgy boutiques have definitely given way to an ever-growing number of craft breweries, microtorréfacteurs and vegan bistros, catering to what seems to be insatiable demand fuelled by the city's new creative class.
About breaking for a little siesta in the shade of Parc Wilfrid-Laurier, to the calm and meditative views of the small pool slowly filling with water, so that the season can begin on la Saint-Jean.
About the reenergizing Bixi ride on the new bike path up to Little Italy, and the first Québec strawberry samples of the season being proffered by the merchants of Marché Jean-Talon there. Vitamin levels thus replenished, indulging in an equally appealing Cannelé and, yes, a locally roasted espresso shot, acknowledging that it is just the thing for whiling away the afternoon while watching the planes from Europe coming in overhead. (Naturally, the one with the white cross on the red tail was right on time.)
About zipping downtown on the métro, to emerge in the heart of the Quartier des Spéctacles, where the Francofollies filled the summer evenings with countless free shows. Sitting down on the lawn, feeling a light breeze on the skin while listening to a young Québec folk singer sharing her travelling songs from journeys across this epic land, and wishing for summer to never end (a hope shared, presumably, by the rest of the audience who had been through yet another brutal Montréal winter.)
About finally heading out to the recently remodelled Parc Jean-Drapeau, where a generous open-air stage abuts a new, wide boulevard linking the métro station to the river, with a panoramic view of this unique city and its Mont Royal rising beyond.
And about the final Bixi ride, across Pont de la Concorde and into the Montréal sunset, elated and grateful for a perfect day in this oh-so-special place.
My friend smiled a warm and compassionate smile. "Well, I think I have my answer", she said. "But you know, when I asked 'How do you like being back home', I had thought of Switzerland...."
Labels: culture, food, leisure, Montreal
# posted by Oli : 20:28
27 February 2018
East goes South
While not much has changed for me - a few good books and a deck chair keep me merry for a few days, then I get bored - the tourism market around me certainly isn't the same anymore.
In 2003, I found myself in a four star resort in Thailand, run my Caucasians for an entirely western clientele. We fit right in with the German families, Scandinavian sunseekers, British lobsters and French hippies on their way to the full moon parties. Courtesy of cheap long-haul flights, Asia was no longer an unaffordable, exotic dream destination, but the four season-proof alternative to old European beach playgrounds in Ibiza, Cyprus and the Adriatic Sea.
In 2018, popping my head up in a Malaysian swimming pool and looking at the loungers around it, I stared into mainly Asian faces. The Chinese had arrived in force, edging out the quieter Korean contingent. The Lebanese were easily identified as the ones calling the pool boys habibi, and the Saudis as the guys in shorts and flip-flops holing hands with the gals under a Niqaab. The many local Malay guests directed torrents of instructions in Bahasa Malysia at waiters and probably got far spicier curries than everybody else in return. The Singaporeans sing-sung their English (la!) in designer swimwear. Europeans were few and far in between, and nary an Ozzie or a Yank was to be found.
Clearly, Asia has arrived at its beaches. And while my favorite newspaper has written about the emerging Asian middle class for years now, this was for me the most tangible manifestation to date of that economic shift.
Far from complaining, I noted the change in guest mix with content. Not only does it represent a happy turn in the fortunes of the newly affluent, it also makes this pale-skinned guest feel less like a member of a colonial occupation force. On a more practical level, more Asians translated into better and more varied food offerings at the resort, while fewer Germans meant I didn't have to go reserve a beach chair at the crack of dawn. Speaking of which, the shade-seeking Asians seemed more concerned about their parasols than the sun anyways. And instead of tacky Europop and teutonic oompah-oompah, they listened to K-Pop, where the lyrics blissfully pass me by.
Resort management, also in local hands these days, does a good job at catering to the needs of their new clientele. There were many special deals, decorations and even little red packets given out for Chinese New Year. Wifi coverage was fast, free, unlimited and extended to the farthest reaches of the property. The resort map even suggested the ideal spots for Instagram-worthy selfies. And they were used extensively.
I looked on bemused, and perhaps a bit sad, as old and young guests alike missed out on the gorgeous sunset while they stared at their screens and video-chatted with the folks back in Tianjin and Wuhan (no time difference to deal with!). But I was glad that they were there, for they made this Malaysian resort live up to the slogan the country's tourism board has coined years ago :Truly Asia.
# posted by Oli : 22:28
23 August 2017
Gone with the wind
For a few short years, every Swiss was
an expert. In the wake of Alinghi,
the Swiss-owned (but mostly Kiwi-crewed) yacht racing to two consecutive
victories in the America’sCup, the vernacular and technique of sailing became part of everyday
conversation in the land-locked alpine republic.The Swiss followed every tack of their boat, debated the merits of double-hull designs and whether the spinnaker or the jib ought to have been hoisted at any given moment. The media graciously offered background and strategy lessons, courtesy of telegenic experts from Down Under. And a good many wannabe skippers took to the lakes in pursuit of the odd breeze.
Inevitably, Alinghi’s moment of fame passed, and the enthusiasm for boating quickly ebbed away.
Not so in more maritime nations. Canada, with its national motto of a mari usque ad mari and the Bluenose on its 10cts coin, has a proud sailing tradition and sees the activity practiced regularly, both along its coasts and on the aptly-named Great Lakes.
It was on one of these, Lake Ontario, where I was recently given the opportunity to set sail courtesy of a thoughtful birthday gift. Captain Andy welcomed us aboard his 34 foot boat (the metric system stays ashore) and we soon set course for the open water.
In the light breeze, our kind skipper explained us some of the basic dynamics of sailing, and it became clear that on the massive lake system at the heart of the American continent, varied conditions and significant distances mean that “freshwater captain” is no insult at all – this man knew his stuff.
The same cannot be said for yours truly, but nonetheless, I was soon asked to take the helm as Andy went below deck. With minimum instructions, a compass and a wind arrow, I found myself at the big wheel. Keeping the boat at the proper angle to the wind and getting used to the inherent inertia which met any steering inputs took a bit of time. But standing there with the sun in my face, the wind in my hair and but the sound of the water in my ears, also felt majestic – even more so given the stark contrast to the garish powerboats of Poker Run which had come to raid the port the previous evening.
As we came out from behind a sheltering island, the wind picked up speed and so did our vessel. With Captain Andy back in charge, we soon made a good 7 knots, the boat leaning into the wind and skimming across the lake at a seemingly precarious angle. I started humming the tune of Vangelis’ Conquest of Paradise, and for a brief moment, wondered how different it must have been when the wind was the only propellant for overseas travel.
Eventually, we found shelter in a protected bay, and while I relaxed on the top deck, my
By the time we returned to port, we were a bit sunburned, but relaxed, with our spirits lifted and a new appreciation for a timeless mode of travel. This was definitely a past-time I could get used to, although preferably with a skipper included, for the work going on before, during and after such cruises seems considerable.
No, Switzerland is not a nation of sailors. But Canada has more shoreline per capita than any other country. And this fresh-off-the-boat immigrant is keen to explore more of them. Ship ahoy!
# posted by Oli : 21:33
29 December 2015
On every street
While I no longer get lost in the city, and have a reasonably accurate sense for which way to turn upon emerging from a metro station, the specifics remain vague. Often, I suddenly find myself at a street corner that I had believed to be elsewhere, or I struggle to recall at what intersection a particular store of coffee shop is located. Not driving regularly means that while the city's streets are not completely foreign to me, the best way to get from A to B behind the wheel remains obscure. Throw in the usual construction and road blocks, and I am mazed.
This lack of on-the-ground knowledge became particularly obvious over the last few days, which saw me return, as usual for the holiday season, to Switzerland. Stepping off the bus in the village where I have lived for 20 years, I noticed a young woman looking lost. She had only just moved to the town, and had accidentally gotten off at the wrong stop. Without thinking, I was able to direct her through a maze of alleys and walkways to her destination - something that I'd be hard-pressed to do in Montréal.
The following days, with their exceptionally mild and sunny winter weather, saw me going for walks rather frequently. One of the nice features of the Swiss countryside is that, unlike Canada, it is lined with hiking trails. Not that I would have needed the yellow signposts: Every path, junction, trail and road is intimately familiar.
Effortlessly finding my way through neighborhoods, fields and forests, I came to realize that the region was covered by more than just landmarks. Every street was overlaid with memories, making it unique and unmistakable: This is where we once lit a fire with the boys. Here, the farm dog always ran after my bike. Down there is where we used to hang out after school. And in that orchard stood the apple tree of seasonal temptation. While change is inevitable and indeed visible, it is this intangible layer of memories that makes this particular area so cozily familiar, and walks through it so enjoyable.
Others agree: In recent years, a childhood friend, who has long since moved away as well, has joined me in a tradition of Christmas Day walks through the village, taking advantage of our both's return to the old stomping grounds for the holidays. She too, commented to the fuzzy warm feeling of walking through this terrain des souvenirs.
Will a stroll through Montréal ever feel the same? Maybe - after all, I'm less than 7 years in, compared to the 20+ lived in the tiny Swiss town, so there is still time. Or maybe not - perhaps only the experience of growing up and gradually exploring one's surroundings can create such a tapestry of memories. Which is probably for the better, since nostalgia is best enjoyed in small doses. Unlike the other thing I indulge in these days, upon returning from every walk: Swiss chocolate!
Labels: leisure, Switzerland
# posted by Oli : 10:40
31 October 2015
Petite Nation
415‘000
people: That is approximately the population of Laval,
the strip mall-and-suburbs city taking up the island north of
Montréal. It is true that Québecois are no strangers to
secessionism, and most Montrealers scoff at the “bridge and tunnel”
people living on Laval island. But nobody would seriously suggest
making Laval its own country.
Elsewhere
in the world, however, there is another island, with about the same
number of inhabitants, and the status of a fully sovereign nation.
Unlike some micro-states such as the Vatican or Monaco, this one
comes with the trappings that Frank
Zappa famously declared
to be required for a proper country: A beer
and an airline.
It even has its own, surprisingly tasty, soft
drink,
a unique language, and one side of its coins.
All
very impressive, then. But more than any of the above, I was
attracted to the island by the prospect of finding it replete with
the eponymous Maltesers. Inevitably, I was in for a disappointment:
As it turns out, Malta is not inhabited by small chocolate balls with
a crispy centre. Instead, the island nation hosts a diverse
population of native Maltese, British retirees, Italian tourists,
German language students, and Brussels Eurocrats (to which each EU
member state seems to be entitled in equal measure).
Even
if not made of chocolate, this mix was tasty: Where else could you
stock up at Lemon Curd and Shortbread from Marks & Spencer,
before ducking into a gelateria
to get
some stracciatella ice cream to lick by the beach? My morning runs along the
seafront promenade served as scouting trips for culinary excursions
later in the day. They did not include any Laval-style chain
restaurants.
Having
been prized for over 5000 years due to its strategic location in the middle of the Mediterranean and
its perfect natural harbors, Malta played host to many rulers. The most
famous were the Knights
of Malta,
which built most of the fortifications and infrastructure around the
scenic capital, Valletta. While a Grand
Master’s Palace
would refer to a tacky nightclub in Laval, the one in Valletta has
been the seat of the government since it was completed in 1569.
Around it, Europe’s smallest capital offers narrow alleys,
picturesque lookouts and lovely coffee bars.
But I could not help but
chuckle as I wandered the streets: Seemingly every other building was
home to a Ministry of something or a Department of another, flags
fluttering and all. Clearly, the state must be a major employer on the island. In that, perhaps Malta is not so different from Québec.
Even with the warm winds from Africa whipping up the ocean too much for a late October dip, I enjoyed a relaxing island getaway to the bite-sized nation. It may not have been covered in chocolate, but unlike Laval, Malta certainly gave me an appetite for more.
# posted by Oli : 16:08
15 September 2015
Cruise control
Instead, the fastest one can legally go in Canada is 100kph (give or take a few exceptions in the wild wild West, where 120kph are on occasion allowed). It makes for long dreary drives and, unless you care to earn demerit points, a time-tested appreciation for the cruise control feature to relieve the heavy foot.
Fortunately, there are roads that are more exhilarating. Or more scenic, like the 860km we took in last week down the coast between San Francisco and Los Angeles. Having resisted the urge to upgrade to a not-so-subtle Mustang Convertible, we nonetheless found ourselves rolling down the windows of our rental car and turning up the Beach Boys soundtrack soon after leaving the city by the bay behind us. We embarked on the famous highway 1 south, the winding road along the Pacific that would lead us on for the next few days.
Once we had cleared the Tesla-infested redwood forests around Silicon Valley, the view opened up to the ocean, and the breeze infused our car with a tangy salty scent that was much more authentic than the one out of air freshener sprays. The sound of waves crashing competed with the roar of the occasional passing Harley - for highway 1 is firmly in the hands of pleasure drivers these days.
Along it, iconic towns such as Santa Cruz with its old school boardwalk, Monterey with its 17 mile peninsula drive, and Santa Barbara with its Spanish colonial style architecture awaited us. Between them, the coastline kept changing: From rugged coves to wide beaches, to dunes and sheer cliffs. Deserted stretches such as Big Sur alternated with coveted residential areas, where villas loomed behind commanding gates.
It is true that we were hardly alone: On this long weekend, the roads were busy with RVs, muscle cars and even cyclists, the latter living on the edge in more than one sense. But no matter: We were not in a hurry, and still able to find an uncrowded turnout from which to watch the sunset.
When stopping in cities, we set ourselves apart from the hoards by walking a few blocks to downtown (and thereby availing ourselves of free parking to boot!), using the opportunity to stretch our legs while strolling in the California sun. And when we hiked up a hill a few miles inland, we had it all to ourselves. The typical highway 1 road trip, evidently, does not include unmotorized activities.
And that's perfectly understandable, given the beauty and joy of the road. Yes, I hardly went faster than 100kph on the entire trip. But why would I? Even the Germans would have to agree that when you cruise along the Pacific coast, you don't need cruise control. You just coast.
# posted by Oli : 08:44
27 August 2015
Square Dance
"Was nichts kostet, ist nichts wert" goes a German saying; whatever is free can't be worth anything.Montréal is challenging this saying every summer, with its countless festivals abounding in free performances of all kinds. But the complimentary entertainment is not limited to the Quartier des Spéctactles, as I found out on a recent summer evening.
I had just gotten off the Bixi I rode home from work, and returned it to the station on the square close to where I live. As I did, I heard a swing band playing. Turning around, I spotted a small stage on the square, featuring a few musicians and a surprising number of locals dancing to the tunes.
The town square harbors a little park, complete with a statue and a small pavillion. For at least as long as I am a resident of the area, it also hosted a semi-permanent population of homeless people. And while they were never really aggressive, they were often drunk and their jeers and begging did not invite one to linger.
That changed this spring, when the square reopened after a major revamp. The city has invested in enlarging it, rearranging the surrounding bus traffic, adding new pavements and benches, upgrading the lights to colorful LEDs, and opening a seasonal coffee shop in the rotunda. They even threw in free WiFi. Crucially, they also worked with the police and the charitable arm of the YMCA to find a better home for the itinérants. Overall, it was a job surprisingly well done.
But how about that dancing? That's where Montréal's charm comes into play. In early summer, I found a booklet in my mailbox that detailed a jam-packed 3 month program of events celebrating the revitalization of the square. From open-air cinema to puppeteering, from magicians to tai-chi and from gardening classes to yes, dance nights, the city offered an abundance of free activities all summer long.
I smiled as I watched my neighbors swing the evening away. This was one of these frequently conjured up moments defining Montréal's joie de vivre. All these activities were offered by the city as a matter of course, and welcomed by the residents in much the same way. It is hard to imagine an equally lavish schedule of performances taking place on a similar occasion in another city.
Judging by the many happy faces, and the alternatives, it seemed like a good investment. For of course, the German saying still holds true: The Sultans of Swing did not play for free. While the residents shook a leg, their tax dollars were hard at work.
Labels: culture, leisure, Montreal
# posted by Oli : 21:57
18 April 2015
Beach bum
At the end of what was one of the coldest Québec winters in recent memories, an escape to someplace sunny seemed like a tantalizing idea. Rio had long been on my list (and no, not just so that I could finally tick off this song). With 2015 being the city's "gap year" between hosting the soccer World Cup and the Summer Olympics, timing was auspicious, so off we went.
It did not take us long to fall into the easy rhythm of Rio's sun and beach lifestyle, although our skin tone and swimwear certainly set us apart from the local crowd. As we installed ourselves in our beach chairs, coconuts in hand and sunscreen generously applied, we started to take in the scenery. The perfect 4km crescent of Copacabana offers an almost surreal panorama, with 700m mountains jutting out from the depths of the Atlantic ocean, protecting a wide sandy beach which, on a warm Sunday, was abuzz with activity.
Kids frolicking in the waves, teenagers playing beach volleyball and futevolei, joggers, bikers,snack vendors, and retirees doing crossword puzzles under a parasol - everybody was out in the open. They were mostly locals, we surmised, since the boys and the girls all looked like they were born in swimwear. Albeit very little of it.
This may seem odd in such a devotedly catholic country as Brazil. And in Rio, it all happens under the ever watchful eyes of Christ (like us a redeemer, although presumably not of frequent flyer miles), perched high atop Corcovado. This being Easter, we naturally had to make a pilgrimage to him as well, and it was perhaps the peer pressure of the beach fashion that encouraged to do it on foot. As any true believer could have told us, the path to Christ was steep and rocky - but we prevailed. And in a twist that would have surely pleased Darwin, we found Christ's domain to be co-inhabited by... monkeys.
Yes, this may be a very rose-tinted view of Brazil, written while basking in an afterglow of sunburn and Bossa Nova. There may be crime, there is startling poverty and inequality, the government is mired in a corruption scandal and the Real is going under faster than a nonswimmer in the surf. But no matter how bad the country does, at least in Brazil, the figures are perfectly rounded.
# posted by Oli : 15:37
31 January 2015
Coureur des bois
We were not looking for furs or prey, of course. Especially given that we were in a national park not far from Canada's quaint capital, which would host us for the night following our snowy adventure.
I had skied in Eastern Canada before, and remain distinctively unimpressed by the tiny hills, low temperatures and pricey resorts. There is, however, another winter activity for which the local setting, with abundant snow, plenty of unspoilt nature and rolling hills lends itself. I'd always said that I'd be keen to give it a try. And so last weekend, I fastened my brand-new snowshoes.
This magnificent kit is the next best thing a pedestrian can get to a 4x4 - in conjunction with poles, it allows the so inclined to master almost any incline, as it were. Unlike cross-country skis, which call for neatly traced trails, snowshoes are most at home in the pristine, powdery snow. They provide the thrill and satisfaction of going where no man has gone before - since the last snowfall, at least. Consequently, the snowshoe trails in the park were mostly a sequence of blue markers in the virgin forest, taking us deeper and deeper into nature and on a peaceful four hour loop around a frozen lake. Apart from the few occasions where our path intersected the cross-country paths ,we came across no one.
Depending on the pace, tramping through the snow can be pretty vigorous exercise, and it kept us nicely warm. This would quickly change once one stops for a lunch break, though. Fortunately, my native guide had foreseen this issue and planned for our rest to be in a cozy hut, where helpful park rangers had already lit a wood stove. Soon enough, I was treated to a steaming beef stew to regain my forces for the trek out.
Such winter hiking can definitely be recommended, and I am eager to repeat it. Much like its warm-weather counterpart, it has a meditative effect on the mind, by steadily exhausting the body. Yes, it requires a little more gear and planning. But it also comes with a most soothing advantage: In the snow, there are no bugs!
# posted by Oli : 20:57
15 August 2014
Trail mix
It can be a wide gravel road, comfortably accommodating hikers and strollers alike, alternating with wheelchair-friendly boardwalks to take you to spectacular viewpoints overlooking the ocean. In such cases, the abundant "Warning: bear in area" signs put up by Parks Canada rangers seem to serve more as a photo-op than an actual caution. And the mighty moose, which kindly elect to graze just off the trail and in plain sight, will merely look at you while chewing peacefully.
It can also be a bearly cleared, rugged path through the underbrush along a steep cliff. In this case, it is supposedly tended to by Nova Scotia's provincial parks, and treading it will mark your shins with scrapes and bruises - which you will go on to show off proudly after your return to civilization, professing that you had a close encounter with the ferocious squirrel-lizard of Cape Breton.
Or it can simply be a nicely maintained (hear this, Québec?), breathtakingly scenic 300km highway across a pristine highlands plateau. In this case, it is called the Cabot Trail, and best enjoyed on warm summer days from the comforts of a rental car with the windows down and the sunroof open (Byran Adams soundtrack optional). With the ocean on one and the green hills on the other side of the road, you will feel like driving through your very own car commercial.
Together, they make for an appetizing mix that nurtures body and soul. And all of them can be packed into a a five day escape to Canada's Ocean Playground. Fun it was indeed, as my best friend and trusty travel companion from Switzerland joined me for a jaunt out east to the Maritimes. We were enthralled not just by the sheer beauty of nature, but also the charming little fishing towns and coves, some of which have a distinctively Scottish, and others a firmly Acadian feel. The latter community's French accent made for a formidable challenge to both my friend's continental and my Québecois-trained ears. It added just a touch of extra spiciness to the mix, with the famous friendliness and hospitality of the Martimers nicely rounding things off.
This tantalizing combination of flavors has found many fans, not just in North America. More than once, we came across inns and shops that had five flags hoisted - presumably those of their most frequent visitors. And the flags were always the same: Canada, the United States, the United Kingdom, Germany.... and Switzerland.
The secret is out, then. The ingredients are plain to see, and overseas customers are starting to bite. But words don't do it justice. You'll have to try it for yourself. It's all in the mix.
Labels: Canada, leisure, travel
# posted by Oli : 21:33
21 July 2014
Pleasure Island
Far from holding a grudge, however, Montréalers think of fun and relaxation when they hear the name Jean Drapeau. And that's because today, the name primarily stands for the island getaway which adds so much to the city's quality of living during these summer days.
Parc Jean-Drapeau is the name given to the vast recreation space on Ile Ste-Hélène and Ile Notre-Dame, which sit in the St. Lawrence River off the city's Old Port. They make Montréalers the envy of other urbanites, as we can claim to have spent our weekends on "an island getaway".
No private jets or yachts are needed - a trip on the métro or a Bixi will take you to the islands in no time. In these long summer days, I've even ventured to the park's beautiful outdoor pool for a few laps straight after work.
More often though, it is on leisurely days off that I enjoy island life. It may be just psychological, but being away from the city, surrounded by water and greenery, really adds a special je-ne-sais-quoi to the park. Whether I swim, read a book by the sandy beach, stroll in the gardens, run a half-marathon or even go dragon boating, I tend to quickly forget that I have not, in fact, left town.
Naturally, I am not the only resident to have discovered the islands' charm. With a wide variety of events, from Formula One to ethnic food days, the park attracts different crowds every week. Fortunately, they quickly disperse in the vast grounds and a tranquil spot can always be found. And when the sun sets and the mosquitoes start to bite, it's just a short way home.
Sweet redemption, then, for the spendthrift mayor. He certainly fared a lot better than other disgraced francophone emperors. They did not have islands named after them - they got exiled to them.
# posted by Oli : 22:27
20 March 2014
YMCA
The iconic lyrics, straight from the Village People's queer 1978 disco hit, were top of my mind as I made my way up Rue Stanley in Montréal's center. I was looking for a change. Not in religion or sexual orientation, but in workout venue. With our offices soon moving to a gleaming new downtown tower, the university sports' complex that I have been using for the past five years will be too much of a detour for my evening swims. My annual pass there had come up for renewal, and with it the moment to find another pool.Young man there's no need to feel down
I said young man pick yourself off the ground
I said young man 'cause your in a new town
There's no need to be unhappy
Searching online and talking to friends soon alerted me to a network of excellent sports facilities dotted across the island, including one in close proximity to our future premises, not to mention my home. How could I have overlooked it for all this time?
It's all in the name - a four-letter acronym that I had associated with, other than a dance move, mainly the basic accommodation facilities I had graduated from with college. Add to that a whiff of missionary zeal, and you'll understand why I'd always turned up my nose at the Y, as it is mostly known these days.
But I was in for a surprise. Montréal's YMCA, which has been a hub of activity ever since it introduced North America to the movement in 1851, really has "many ways to have a good time", as the song puts it. Its downtown site is a multi-story complex with a 25m pool, various gyms, spinning studios, an exercise room and a running track. Countless classes are offered, from the basic (Yoga) to the exotic (Baladi) and the brutal (Aéro-Kickboxe). Unlike at CEPSUM, the classes are all included with the annual pass, giving me a chance to try Masters' Swimming and, at the insistence of the friend who referred me - something called Bootcamp, a savage combination of strength and endurance exercises which left me sore for longer, and in more places, than the Swiss Army's equivalent ever did.
Bootcamp's militarism betrays the spirit of tolerance and openness the Y displays these days. "Come as you are", runs their latest slogan, and looking at the diversity of members, they definitely mean it. The motto even seems to apply to the instructors - I am not always certain of just how qualified they are. But everybody seems to have a swell time.
While still supposedly striving to strengthen body, mind and soul (the three sides of the triangle in the movement's logo), I am glad to see my new workout facility to focus on the first two - there is a language school as well - and not try to shape the third. And unlike in the time of the Village People, women are just as welcome. Which is just as well, given the quantity of Tonus and Zumba classes.
So I have no excuses - many more sweaty evenings await me in the coming 12 months (forfait annuel ferme, you understand). There is just one move I won't do: Y-M-C-A!
That's when someone came up to me
and said young man take a walk up the street
There's a place there called the Y.M.C.A.
They can start you back on your way.
# posted by Oli : 22:09
26 December 2013
Walk on
Technology has enabled us to whizz around easily, and overcome distances without much sweat. But sometimes, it seems to me that man was not made for this. Man was made for the oldest, easiest, and sadly underappreciated form of transportation: Walking.
One of the simple pleasures in a trip back to my hometown is the opportunity to go on long, calming walks across the surrounding countryside. Stolling along the trails and paths that I know so well, the roads that I've explored with boyscouts and in the Vélo Ralley, I can let both my body and soul roam. Unlike in the city, out here there is silence, but for the odd cow bell and the distant triad of the postal car. And as I walk, I start developing a sense of truly being in this particular place.
This year has seen me engage in plenty of activity on foot. From running to climbing, my legs were put to good use. But it is the humble walk that is the most stimulating, and intellectually liberating. While being hurled through the skies on my way to Europe, I came upon an article in Intelligent Life magazine that aptly described the feeling:
Many people have remarked on the curious relationship between walking and thinking. The rhythm of the body seems to free the mind, just as the rhythm of a mother's walk (it is imagined) puts at rest her babe-in-arms. Solvitur ambulando, declared the ancients: "it is solved by walking". Wordsworth wrote many of his poems on the move, as did John Clare. Nietzsche claimed to have made all his philosophical discoveries while walking, and Kierkegaard wrote that "I have walked myself into my best thoughts."It's a quality often underappreciated in North America. When a few months ago, I had the gall to suggest to two colleagues that on a business trip, we could simply walk the 500m between the airport terminal and our client's office, I was heaped with scorn, whereas back in my European days, my boss would frequently join me for "brainstorm walks" out in the open.
Undeterred, I walk on, leaving just footsteps but taking sunlight, energy and random ideas with me. Looking ahead into the new year, there will be highs and lows, I'll tread on green meadows and through muddy waters, and I'll have decisions to make at each junction. I'll take on 2014 in stride.
But first things first. Right now, I am stumbling from one holiday feast to the next. And I benefit from yet another advantage of going it on foot: It's a great way to
Labels: leisure
# posted by Oli : 12:47
29 June 2013
Miniature
In Canada, my Dutch friend and I headed to Frontenac Provincial Park, located between Kingston and Ottawa in south-eastern Ontario, where on a balmy Saturday we had picked a pleasant looping trail, said to take about 5 hours to hike. Having paid our park admission, we set off into a pristine landscape of bogs and marshes, accompanied only by the song of a few birds, and the constant hum of countless insects. Fortunately, I'd come prepared with plenty of locally-purchased, DEET-laden insect repellant (I'd found out the scratchy way that the spray I'd brought from Europe was useless), and much to my delight Ontario's bugs seemed much more attracted to Dutch blood anyways. The landscape was surprisingly varied, and fortunately small snakes remained the only wild animals we saw - the bears must have been out at the mall.
Most strinkingly, despite the park being easily accessible and this being a perfect Saturday, we only came across one single other person in all of our hike. Other than that, we had the trail to ourselves and enjoyed the sensation of being truly out in the wild - no human structures could be seen at all.
The same could not be said a week later, when my former flat-mate joined me for a day-trip to Ticino, escaping the chilly rain of northern Switzerland for some southern sun. We'd picked a panoramic route along a mountain ridge, located precisely over the site of our family cottage, where I'd spent a good part of my childhood holidays raiding my nonna's larder for local specialties. Back then, the trip to Ticino seemed like a long journey into a different world. This week, we zipped down from Zurich in what felt like just another little drive down to Kingston.
Scenic and well-known as it is, I was expecting a few other hikers to join us on the trail, but this being a Monday outside typical vacation period, I wasn't quite ready for the crowds we found. I'd obviosly been away from the tiny country and its 8M inhabitants for too long - there seem to be no unpopulated spots left, hiking trails being no execptions. From the base of the hill to the shuttle bus taking us back to the starting point in the evening, others were constantly in visual (and sometimes olfactory) range.
The views, down both sides of the mountain onto Lago di Lugano as well as Lago Maggiore were stunning, of course. But they too are testimony to just how crowded Switzerland is: Roads, rails, homes, churches, boats, sail planes and even a hydro dam were plainly visble as we made our way along the trail. At no time was one under the impression of being really in the wild. Our vantage point atop the hills revealed just how close to each other the various cities are: The day-long journeys of my childhood to any one of them had become a quick 50km run up or down a valley. On the summit of Monte Tamaro, I realized that my sense of space has most definitely changed.
Leaning back against the summit cross on Monte Lema, the end point on our route, I let my eyes wander over the landscape laid out in front of me, from Lugano all the way into Italy. I spotted the causeway across the lake at Melide, the site of a theme park called Swiss Miniatur. And smilingly, I mused - doesn't this apply to the entire country anyways?
Labels: Canada, leisure, Switzerland
# posted by Oli : 04:54
06 January 2013
Laguna
The
Mayans had it all wrong. The world did not go under, even if the
lengthy interval since the last entry in this blog may have led you
to think otherwise. The absence of epic floods must have come as
particular relief to the residents of my latest destination, for
Venetians have enough of water all around them as it is.
For
centuries, this unique city has lived through highs and lows, and has
withstood tidal waves of traders, invaders, and tourists. Every year,
over four million of them roll in, and are channeled through Venice's
maze of waterways, alleys, promenades and bridges. We arrived for a
couple of days just after the new year had begun, in what is
supposedly the very low season. Looking at the hordes present
nonetheless, one dreads contemplating what peak season may look like.
Fortunately,
unlike water, tourists do not strive for an equilibrium. Adventurous
as we were, we headed for the paths less trodden, and soon found
ourselves away from the main drag in charming little side streets,
peeking into opulent courtyards and watching nonne
hang
their laundry on lines across the canals. Every so often, we would
pass a brightly painted chapel, church, cathedral, basilica or
trattoria
– places of worship each one of them. And whenever we felt the need
for a little pick-me up, we indulged in this most Italian treat of
all: The €1 caffè
at
the corner bar (Note to North American readers: This consists of
approx. 3 oz. of super strong, freshly brewed, steaming hot espresso,
without foam, cocoa powder, soy milk, caramel syrup or any other
aberrations of the sort.) The effect is instant, and comes with a
complimentary side of people watching.
Which
here, unlike at the Las Vegas imitation, is a joy all by itself.
Perhaps following the same advice to visit during the winter months,
a refreshing number of domestic Italian visitors populated the city.
And they brought with them the impeccable fashion, and casual cool
attitude, that is so typical of this magnificent people. From
teenagers with their bomber jackets and gelled hair, to signore
in
fur and heels, to elderly gentlemen with their bright yellow cashmere
sweaters and corduroy pants, they all oozed style from behind their
oversized sunglasses. If you were born north of the alps (or, god
forbid, west of the Atlantic), you will find the spectacle by the
lagoon both mesmerizing and frustrating, for you will simply not
stand a chance. All this humiliation is made only a bit more
palatable by the fact that Italians are, well, Italians: Wink at a
passing signorina,
and she will acknowledge your adoration with a smile – before
hopping on the next vaporetto.
As
the sun sets and the rising mist shrouds the city in mystical
twilight, it is reassuring to see how Venice has withstood water and
visitors for another day. Over a glass of white wine on the lagoon, I
take confidence in the year ahead. It may not be a gondola ride, but
at the end of the storm, there is always calm. Grazie,
serenissima!
Labels: fashion, leisure, travel
# posted by Oli : 17:48
19 June 2012
Badi
For those speaking Swiss German, Badi evokes summer like few other words. For those who don't, it is very difficult to translate. The German Freibad, English outdoor pool and even the French piscine de plein air all describe a swimming pool under the open sky. But they fall woefully short of capturing the entire concept that Badi entails.For it is a quintessential ritual that goes far beyond taking the plunge in a public pool. In summer, the Badi is the place to be - and every semi-decent Swiss town has got one. Unlike their counterparts in other countries, Swiss outdoor baths typically come complete with large areas of lawn, where families set up camp on a few blankets, and they all inevitably include an ice cream stand. If you're lucky, your local Badi sports further attractions such as a water slide or a beach volley court. It's not just a concrete-framed pool.
As as toddler, I would frolic in the wading section while dad was patiently sitting on the edge. A few seasons later, my bright orange swimmies kept my self-esteem afloat, as I crossed the entire width of the basin before duly being rewarded with ice cream by my mum. Soon after, with joining the local swim team I learned not just to do full laps without swimmies, but also to use the washrooms. ;-) And yet, although I am certain today's kids also pee in the pool, I live to tell.
By the time I had reached high school, buddies had replaced parents in the Badi equation, and we would spend countless free afternoons lazing on the lawn, every so often venturing out to the volley courts, only to find that our chemistry textbooks had still not been stolen by the time we returned. The laws of physics, in the light of some teenage girls' bikinis, had lost all credibility anyways.
With adulthood came more responsibility, but less time, leading to frequent and widespread complaints about the fact that it was already the middle of June and we'd only made it to the Badi twice so far. Between a more rational mind and being charged full price, we had stopped buying season passes.
But yesterday, I returned to the Badi. I swam a few laps in the summer sun, laid my blanket down on the lawn, sat and surveilled the scene. I saw toddlers stumbling towards the wading pool. Kids shouting and playing as they raced down the water slide. Teenagers engaged in an applied biology lesson. Grown-ups making for the shade so they could see the screens of their iPhones. All nostalgic, I realized how much time I'd spent in the Badi, and how much I had longed to relive this summer ritual. There was only one last thing missing. I bought ice cream.
Labels: culture, leisure, Switzerland
# posted by Oli : 16:57
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