10 April 2018
It's about time
Not a minute later, messages started appearing on the screens in the train, explaining that there was a delay due to "operational reasons". Simultaneously, the conductor came on the tannoy to explain that our arrival would be delayed by a few minutes since a preceding train was still blocking the track at Zurich Airport.
By that time, a lot of huffing and puffing had already ensued with the bleary-eyed commuters around me, with one lady calling someone to explain that she'd miss her connecting bus because that there were "delays again", and that she'd now have to wait another 30min for the next bus.
As she hung up, our train set into motion again. In the end, we arrived at the airport a full five minutes late. I easily made my flight, from which I am writing this now. But to my compatriots, the event surely confirmed their impression of degrading service reliability, and ruined their day early.
Taking the train has been a recurring feature of my most recent trip. Yesterday, I was travelling from Frankfurt to Zurich, using a deeply discounted Sparpreis ticket that restricts users to specific trains - at least in theory. In practice, my first ICE was running over ten minutes late, and when we got to my planned connecting station, I learned that the other train was over 45 minutes behind schedule. The German conductor shrugged and suggested I continue riding the first train all the way to its terminus in the border city of Basel and figure out a way to Zurich from there. By the time we reached Switzerland, station announcements proclaimed that the connecting train had now been cancelled completely. Gone, disappeared, presumably vanished along the tracks with all hands aboard. Die Bahn kommt not, and it didn't much care, either.
The Swiss Railways, on the other hand, immediately mobilized a replacement train from its stand-by reserve in Basel, in order to keep its famed Taktfahrplan intact. This was taken for granted by my connecting countrymen, and we reached Zurich with a delay of a full three minutes. The Germans, including the ICE train staff, were baffled.
Punctuality, then, is as much a cultural as a chronological concept. That in nine years in Canada I have never taken Via Rail already says a lot. But every time I walk across the lobby of Montréal's Gare Centrale on my way to grab lunch, I glance at the big arrivals and departures board hanging from the ceiling. Not only does it show but a handful of trains running all day, inevitably at least half of them also post a delay. And we're not talking five minutes here: Half an hour or more are the norm, with revised arrival times indicated as "estimates". No one seems to mind. "That's just how it is" my colleagues would say. It probably helps that Via Rail's main competitor is an airline that finished dead last in North American punctuality statistics.
The Swiss, then, are both fussy and spoilt with their trains. Yet there is one country that puts Switzerland to shame with its rail performance. That country, to which I had bought a rail pass for this vacation, is of course Japan. In the land of the rising sun, delayed trains would be considered rude and shameful. And therefore, they simply don't seem to exist.
On my entire trip, not one of the many trains departed even a minute late. Whether it was one of the fabled Shinkansen super expresses, or a simple suburban train, they all left smack on time. The entire system is perfectly calibrated for maximum efficiency and reliability, and the Japanese are masters at lining up in the right spots, letting people off first, getting on quickly, and whoosh... we're off.
The latest statistics I found indicate that the average delay for a Shinkansen train was 52 seconds, down from a record 17 seconds in 2007. This is in an island nation with anything from typhoons to blizzards happening, with the occasional earthquake thrown in for good measure. It's mind boggling. Throughout my trip, I saw precisely one sign indicating a delay, prompting instant jokes about that train driver committing seppuku at the end of his shift. Speaking of suicide, urban legend has it that it is dishonorable for Japanese to throw themselves in front of a train during rush hour, since the ensuing delay would inconvenience too many others...
Reflecting on the different perceptions of punctuality will hopefully help me putting things into perspective the next time I find myself on a delayed train. And until then, it will give me new found appreciation for doing things just in time. Or, as they say when the Montréal metro is stuck: D'autres messages suiveront.
Labels: Asia, Canada, culture, Switzerland, travel
# posted by Oli : 12:23
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 October 2017
Contes des îles
The islands in question are the Iles de la Madeleine, a cluster of 7 sandy shoals located half-way between Prince Edward Island and Cape Breton, inhabited by 13'000 Acadians and a handful of anglophone descendants of shipwrecked sailors.
Despite their remote location, the islands are politically part of Québec. And that held the key for us to get there cheaply: The 3-stop flights that link them with Montréal are considered "intra-province" and as such available for only a handful of frequent flyer miles. And so we clambered aboard an ancient Dash 8 aircraft one sunny fall morning, and soon found ourselves on approach over the sandy dunes.
Sand, indeed, is not in short supply: Over 300km of unspoilt beachline meant that we didn't need to leave our cozy Bed & Breakfast early to put down our blankets at the best spot. Not that they would have stayed there for long anyways: The constant wind, which makes the archipelago a mecca for surfers and kite-flyers, would have swiftly swept them away.
Our visit was at the very end of the short summer season, meaning that many attractions and dining choices had already closed for the year and the weather had gotten too cool for any water sports.
Rather than hoards of German tourists, it was seals and migrating birds that kept us company on our long walks along the water, and up onto the crumbly red sandstone cliffs that mark parts of the shore.
Low tide reveals grottos and caves under these cliffs, and it was there that the most magical of events took place one full moon night: As part of the Contes en Iles festival, torches and bonfires were set up, and storytellers from the near and far set out to spin their yarn in their light. The locals were clearly entranced, and we were enchanted, if by nothing else than the colorful local accent, so different from the grande terre, as they call the mainland.
Which, as it happens, is just as expensive to get to for the madelinots as it is the other way round. While this leads to high prices for goods that need to be ferried in (i.e. everything), it also fosters a close-knit, trusting and welcoming attitude: Houses and cars were routinely left unlocked. At our second visit to the local bistro, the staff started gossiping with us. At the farmer's market, villagers loaded their own baskets with produce and paid in a honor system. This, I thought, must be what rural life had been like everywhere in centuries past.
Of course, recent times have brought some changes (for instance mobile phones in 2003, as the tourist guide proudly proclaimed), including the micro-breweries, cheesemakers, and crafts shops that holidaying urbanites look for in their quest for authenticity. A recent surge in visitor arrivals, albeit still very reasonable, rewards the locals' initiatives.
It is not hard to see how word spreads about these mystical islands with their charming inhabitants. The highlight of our tale about the Hawaii of Québec however isn't its delicious food, or its unique madelinot accent, or even the adventurous way to get there. It is the otherworldly beauty and rough charm of a landscape so different that it has to be seen to be believed.
Labels: culture, Quebec, travel
# posted by Oli : 00:30
04 June 2017
Borderlands
First came a visit to a small country in the heart of Europe. No, not that country. But the one that is home to an even smaller village - 500 residents, I am told - which became synonymous with hassle-free border crossings, and whose name now separates airport terminals from Finland to Malta. Tacked on to business meetings in Frankfurt, I took a little side-trip to Schengen.
In doing so, I was able to experience the liberties provided by the eponymous agreement first hand: My flight from Canada arrived in Brussels. There, I pulled out my Swiss ID card and showed it to a Belgian border guard. After that, I was able to take another flight to Germany, drive a car to Luxembourg, walk back and forth between it and Germany, keep driving into France, back into Luxembourg, and eventually back to Frankfurt. All without ever showing any form of ID again. It was only when I boarded a flight back to Toronto that a bored German policeman at Frankfurt airport had another quick glance at my ID.
Ever since the Schengen agreement came into effect, and notwithstanding short interruptions during the recent migrant crisis, this painless mobility is a reality across 26 European countries (and yes, this does include that other small nation). For Europeans, crossing borders without stops or inspections has become the default. But it is anything but.
The second trip in the same month was to another small nation, for which its borders are very much an existential, and contested, subject. Israel has seen its territorial boundaries shift several times since its foundation in 1948, and usually not in a peaceful way.
Consequently, it fortifies and diligently polices its borders, with the crossing procedure differing widely depending on the person in question. Unlike other nations, which at best distinguish between citizens and foreigners, Israel unashamedly applies a much more sophisticated profiling grid, which can make entering and leaving the country a breeze, or a serious pain. Fortunately, I have found myself placed closer to the former end of the spectrum. But the stern looks of the Israeli officials certainly do not let one take that for granted.
And how about the borders I cross most frequently? Canada and the U.S. still don't have any formal exit checks: There are no procedures involved for leaving either of these countries. When entering, though, the process has become more complicated and segregated in the years since 9/11. For non-citizens, visa requirements have been tightened and even visitors from countries without a visa requirement now need to apply for an online "travel authorization" before arrival. The U.S. introduced this paid process in 2008, and coaxed Canada into following suit last year. With every version, the form becomes longer and more intrusive.
Canadian and U.S. citizens remain exempt from these requirements, but they do now need to travel with a passport or "secured" Driver's License. Gone are the days of entire school buses of Canadians driving to the U.S. on the strength of their team football jerseys alone. All of this leads to slower, more cumbersome border crossings.
On the upside, though, there has also been a lot of investment into making the experience smoother for those deemed "trusted travellers". Taking a page out of the Israelis' book, American and Canadian officials have established a joint screening process which allows cleared individuals to obtain a card entitling them to bypass lines and use dedicated kiosks or automated gates to enter either country quickly.
The program is called Nexus, and when I was handed my membership card, the ability to seamlessly weave my way in and out of the country was very much presented as a privilege, not an entitlement. My recent travels certainly drove that point straight home.
# posted by Oli : 12:01
30 April 2017
Mani talk
This may be an old joke, but it has not lost any of its wit - or its veracity, as we were able to witness on a recent trip to the bel paese. For a sunny spring week, we enjoyed not just the stunning beauty of Liguria, but also the joy of watching Italians... well, be Italian.
I once tried to explain it like this: The Germanic people north of the alps paint their houses white, because they are reserved and conservative. The Latin people south of the alps plaint their houses in gaudy colors, because they are lively and extroverted. And in Italy, that extroversion starts the moment you leave the airport: We were honked at, and had headlights flashed before we even reached the autostrada.
In Parma, kids in the street were fidgeting with palm fronds their parents had received at mass (Palm Sunday and all that) earlier in the day, while in the piazza outside the cathedral, black-robed priests straight out of Don Camillo were using the branches to underline their points like a conductor would.
In the little osteria in Portovenere, the fat owner behind the bar barely talked at all, but with a combination of gestures and expressive mimics directed his hard-working waiters around, while visibly appraising all entering patrons - blonde Canadian women got a nod of approval.
Just as I started to adapt to the beloved Italian way (surprising how quickly foreign swear words come to you when some Alfa Romeo cuts you off), we came across a restrained and strangely non-manual receptionist at a hotel. But I quickly grew suspicious of the accent in his Italian: Sure enough, he was Swiss-German.
At one little convenience store where we filled our backpacks for the hikes along the Alta Via delle Cinqueterre, a cashier petted and caressed a customer's toddler, while at another, two old ladies in front of the deli counter had their hands so high up in the air that I could barely see the salumi behind them.
Not all the gesticulating is friendly: At a supermarket in Genova, we got into an argument with the staff around the price of cheese (yes, loyalty programs were involved) which led to raised voices and those hand movements that you know from Goodfellas and The Godfather - we did not get our cheese.
By and large, though, the handful of Italianità we got to experience was magnificent. Gorgeous landscapes, impossibly beautiful towns, splendid (if strenuous) hikes and delicious cuisine day after day.
Most enjoyable of all, though, was to simply sit in the sun on a promenade, and watch Italians going by. It was thus that we were treated to the observation that reminded me of the old joke: An elderly, immaculately dressed couple was strolling down the street, the man holding on to his wife with one hand and to a cane with the other. Suddenly, they spotted two friends, rising from a park bench and walking towards them. Hugging and greeting ensued.
And then, the man stepped over to the bench, carefully deposed his walking stick, and turned back around to the rest of the group. After all, how could he have talked with his hands full?
# posted by Oli : 16:39
26 February 2017
Out & Back
It may be difficult to believe, but I was really unaware of this when I started planning a trip to precisely that locality almost a year ago. But Australia’s west coast certainly seemed like a good destination to use some frequent flyer miles on. This month, the trip was finally happening.
And quite a trip it was. Not only did I circumnavigate the globe, travelling east across the Atlantic and eventually the Pacific, I also crossed from the northern to the southern hemisphere and back. In doing so, I had hoped to escape the gruelling Canadian winter for some hot and sunny days in a region where sandy beaches seem to outnumber residents 2:1.
Sadly, I arrived in Perth on the eve of what was to be the coldest and wettest February day since records began. Heavy rains and biting breezes were more reminiscent of London than the surfer lifestyle I had come to find. Worse, the cold front was forecast to move south to the vineyards of Margaret River in lockstep with my itinerary.
No, this is not what I had flown this far for. Reluctantly, I jettisoned the planned (and, err, prepaid) excursion and headed north towards sunnier climes instead. This meant a lot of driving – much more than I had expected, and on the wrong side of the road to boot.
Fortunately, both stress and driving rain abated once I cleared greater Perth, and 450km of inland highway now lay between me and Geraldtown, the next major town up the coast. With cruise control set to a comfortable 120 kph, this continent-sized country opened up in front of me, offering first glimpses of its sheer vastness.
Canadians are certainly no strangers to driving long distances, but unless life takes them to the high north, they tend to move inside a relatively densely populated horizontal band along the country’s southern border. Not so in Australia, where outside major urban centers, not much stands in the way of the intrepid traveller.
While I stuck to paved roads, I often came across SUVs four-wheel drives with a spare wheel on the hood and an engine snorkel. Their thick coat of red dirt left no doubt that these features had indeed been used. 36 meter long “road trails”, trucks with multiple trailers, would have posed an entertaining challenge to overtake in an underpowered rental car, had it not been for the empty roads extending straight to the horizon.
Hoping to stay in touch with current events, I tried to tune into local radio stations, which proved virtually impossible in the countryside unless I pushed a button long considered decorative in nature: AM. No satellite radio here, this crackling technology is how the state broadcaster reaches its rural listeners. I half expected the DJ to announce the landing on the moon.
Revealing as the drive was, sitting behind the wheel hour after hour was also tiring. When I finally reached Geraldton, and summery weather with it, the sandy beaches and milky, warm waters provided welcome refreshment. As seems to be the norm down under, the waterfront was lined with cozy bars serving exquisite coffee, and little sun shelters complete with pick-nick tables and barbecues hooked up to city gas. On Friday night, locals pulled up in their pick-up trucks, slung off their flip-flops thongs and paddled their surfboards into the waves, before opening a cool one and flipping a few burgers on the grill.
The next morning, when jetlag brought me back to the beach at an early hour, athletic retirees in their speedos walked past me right into the ocean, where they swum kilometer after kilometer along the shores. Later, teens gathered for a junior triathlon, running right past the finish line to the ice cream stand.
It seemed like an enviable lifestyle to this Süsswasserpirat (no, the Google translation won’t do the term justice) who kept worrying about sharks, jellyfish and dangerous currents on his cautious dips into the water. It felt bucolic, but also isolated: Being a 4,5h drive away from the next, and only, major city, means the people of Geraldton need to be content with what they have.
I, on the other hand, needed to head back before long. For the return, I chose the “scenic tourist drive” winding its way along the shoreline, and it was spectacular. Cruising on an empty road set amidst green hills and sand dunes, with the Indian Ocean a constant companion on the right, made for a lovely summer afternoon. The charms of Australia’s finest AM radio notwithstanding, I opted for my own mp3 collection instead, humming and singing the kilometers away.
Despite stopping for Flat Whites from yet more skilled baristas in yet smaller towns along the way, I made it back to Perth by early evening. On a whim, I headed to the renowned beach of Cottesloe and found a seaside dinner table just in time for sunset.
No, I hadn’t made it to the outback, but I had driven 1000km out and back through this vast country, and I liked it. The waiter suggested a glass of Margaret River white to toast the sunset. And that moment I realized that while I was out this far, I’d have to come back.
Labels: travel
# posted by Oli : 19:14
14 February 2017
Inflight Entertainment
Seared
Fillet of Beef with Garlic Mustard Seed Butter, with mushrooms, baby
carrot, green beans and sauteed potatoes. Or maybe Roast Duck
Breast with Cherry Sauce, with braised red cabbage, carrot, fine
beans and roasted potatoes. Or perhaps you prefer the Braised
Snapper Fillet in Black Bean sauce, with seasonal vegetables and egg
noodles? Followed by a Serendipity Mango Sorbet or a Black
Currant and Cheese Mousse Cake with vanilla ice cream?
Yes,
I am spoiled for choice in this most unusual of restaurants, situated
in a pressurized metal tube 11'000 meters above the Australian
outback, traveling at 900km/h on my return from the international
airport that is the furthest of any from my homebase.
This
is a long journey, and I am very fortunate to take it at the pointy
end of said metal tube, where the seats are well upholstered and the
legroom as ample as the wine list. For airlines need to justify the 5
– 10x premium they charge on those seats over the ones in the back,
which arrive at the destination just as fast and safe, albeit less
comfortably.
The
ability to stretch out and sleep on a flat surface is the main reason
why affluent travelers (or those with a stack of frequent flyer miles
to burn, wink wink) splurge on Business or even First Class. Above
and beyond that, though, there is the spectacle of the in-flight meal
service. The more exclusive the airline in question, the more
extravagant the catering provided.
On
this trip, I have been offered everything from a seasonal Imperial
Japanese kaiseki meal to an airborne version of Raclette,
to the braised Peking Duck from a separate “Book the Cook”
selection of special meals to be ordered in advance. Each airline I
have traveled with goes the extra mile to showcase regional
specialties, rare wines, exquisite tableware and generally elaborate
decorum.
Mother-of-pearl
caviar spoons? Check. Sterling silver saucière? Check. Electric
candlelight? Check. Cast-iron Japanese tea pots? But of course. If
you think the pilots' pre-departure checklist is exhaustive, you have
not spoken to the catering company.
No
matter how fancy the presentation, it ultimately remains airplane
food: Pre-cooked hours or days in advance, shock-frozen, reheated in
aluminum containers in a convection oven, plated in a tiny aircraft
galley, and consumed at cabin pressure and humidity that essentially
numbs your taste buds.
I love every moment of it! On a plane, I am the ultimate captive
audience, and what else would I have to do other than to enjoy the
spectacle of a multi-course meal? The sheer silliness, from the
exalted menu descriptions to the cornucopia of bowls, plates and
stemware, makes it so appealing. And observing how various national
carriers differ in delivering the same basic item (compare coffee
service on American, Austrian and Arab airlines) tells you more about
their respective cultures than any travel guide would.
United
offered “brown tea”, while Air China has a separate tea menu.
Turkish Airlines wheels a mezze cart down the aisle, while Swiss
comes around with boxes of chocolate. Asiana's flight attendants
prepared a table-side bibimbap for me, British Airways serves
(literally) High Tea. Singapore Airlines, which is responsible for
the wording at the beginning of this post, gives passengers a choice
between Krug and Dom Perignon champagnes. And Air Canada? To put it
kindly, its catering is as modest as its home country.
None
of this is relevant a few rows further back on an airplane, where the
choice, universally and unenviably, is between rubber chicken and
overcooked pasta. But for the lucky ones in seat 2A, what better way
could there be to pass the time aloft? Perhaps the caterer's logo at
the bottom of a recent Turkish Airlines menu says it best. It reads:
Gourmet Entertainment.
# posted by Oli : 01:24
24 November 2016
Uberholspur
Today, I met Ivan. Or Evo. Or possibly Evan; it's hard to say from the scribble on the paper receipt he handed me at the end of a 20 minute, stop-and-go, round-about slog through Montréal's downtown in his beat-up taxi, whose passenger seat was covered in suspicious stains. While this guy didn't speak a word to his customer, he yapped on his phone non-stop.
Gustavo, Guy and Juan are part-time Uber X drivers. None of them considers driving a taxi to be their life's vocation, but they all told me how they appreciate the ease and flexibility of making a few extra bucks when they want to. They know that at the end of each trip, I will rate them on a 5-point scale, and they clearly make an effort to provide 5 star service. Similarly, they will rate me, giving me an incentive to be just as personable.
Uber has revolutionized the transportation business, and in the process has become the best-funded Sillicon Valley start-up company ever. It smartly connects supply and demand, prices competitively but dynamically, and uses technology and peer reviews to ensure excellent standards of service. It is also very convenient for business travellers: Passengers link their credit card to the app, with trips being billed automatically. Gone is the frantic search for (often foreign) cash, and instead of illegible paper scraps, the company sends perfectly formatted email receipts that can go directly into expense reporting.
One can now hail an Uber in nearly 540 cities around the world, and I have done so in many countries, often grateful for the way in which the app helps overcoming language barriers.
Of course, I also use Uber in Montréal, but not as often as I like to. It is not by choice that I end up in the taxis of Ivan and his ilk, but because of their effots to block the newcomer at every turn. In a typically French attempt to block progress and innovation, and defend entrenched monopolies, taxi drivers have been staging demonstrations, blockades, and even acts of vandalism against UberX vehicles throughout the summer. In none of their arguments did "customer preference" ever matter.
In an effort to find a compromise, Québec's provincial government has now agreed on a 12 month pilot project, under which UberX becomes more regulated (and more expensive), but is officially sanctioned to operate, although prime spots such as airport pick-ups remain off limits.
The increased paperwork requirements under the deal has led to a - hopefully temporary - drop in UberX drivers active in the city, which is how I ended up in yet another shabby taxi today. But in the longer term, the superior product will likely prevail.
Gustavo, Guy and Juan struggled to believe when I told them of the intimidation and vandalism their peers in Montréal have to deal with. Here's to hoping that even in Québec, Uber's innovative disruptors will soon see the obsolete taxi fleet fade in the rear-view mirror.
Labels: Quebec, technology, travel, USA
# posted by Oli : 22:36
21 October 2016
The Rock
But Newfoundland is more than just steep cliffs, craggy outcrops and jagged plateaus. This stark landscape is dotted with calm protected bays, lush valleys and cute villages, which brighten up the bleak environs with their typical colorful clapboard houses.
Just as charming as their architecture are the towns' names: Setting out from St. John's, the provincial capital, automobile explorers soon find themselves cruising through Cupids, Come By Chance, or Little Paradise. Heading south on route 80, we passed Heart's Content, Heart's Desire, and Heart's Delight, in that order. Should you require more to get satisfaction, just keep driving on the same road, and you will find Dildo, Newfoundland (if you can read this, your adult content filter does not work...).
Postcards duly placed in that hamlet's postbox, we started looking around and wondering what the islanders could possibly do for a living. We travelled the province on the Thanksgiving long weekend, after the short summer tourist season had ended, and struggled to imagine that it could sustain the locals year-round. Fishing was the obvious other industry, and indeed plenty of little boats, nets, lobster traps and associated gear were evident. But our prior visit to The Rooms, an excellent museum in the capital, had educated us on the dramatic collapse of the cod fishery in provincial waters.
We never quite found out what does pay for the meticulous upkeep evident in most houses, and we were too shy to ask the locals. They probably wouldn't have minded our curiousity, for the Newfies lived up to their reputation of exceptional friendliness and hospitality (but not to their equally prevalent fame for being the dimwits of Canada).
It is perhaps the harsh nature of their habitat that makes the islanders stick together and help each other out. Either way, visitors like us are the beneficiaries of this kindness, which saw waitresses recommend coffee shops hundreds of kilometers away, volunteers proactively offer directions on a breezy night in St. John's two-street downtown area, and museum staff start video presentations at our leisure, rather than the posted schedule.
Through it all, we sensed a certain pride of place, for Newfoundlanders have, often quite literally, carved their existence out of the Rock. And they turned it into a lovely, and lovable place - although it may not feel that way during the winter months.
"Canada begins here" proclaims a sign at Cape Spear, North America's easternmost point. This Rock is a most promising start.
# posted by Oli : 21:30
11 September 2016
Davos Man
None of us does so entirely by choice. The illustrious four gentlemen mentioned above end up in the alpine resort thanks to the annual World Economic Forum. And while I have in younger days seen to the VIPs swift transit from Zurich airport to said event, my link to Davos is of a more humble nature.
For as long as I can remember, my family has picked the highest city in the alps as the base for vacations at altitude. I started out as a passenger in a fur-clad Davos Sled, and soon slip-slided my way through 6 consecutive winters of ski school on the bunny hills at the foot of Jakobshorn. In my final year, I even won the week's ski school race, against fierce competition from a field of Dutch kids who had just had their first encounter with the vertical dimension.
It came as no surprise, then, when my dad eventually announced that he had bought a flat there, located a ways from the ski hills but very conveniently across the street from the golf club - a nod to evolving priorities.
Indeed it was the town's versatility that has always been its biggest draw; for clearly Davos is no beauty. But it offers a vast range of winter and summer activities, which suits the diverse tastes and athletic prowess of visitors from all walks of life. Combine that with an ample choice of shopping and eating places, and ever-improving road links to Zurich, and you get an appealing mix for urban realists who value a reliable getaway more than picturesque scenery.
Thus, Davos earned its place as a principal destination in our recent late-summer whirlwind tour of Switzerland, serving as a convenient and hospitable base from which to undertake hikes of the surrounding - less concrete-covered - mountains and valleys. And it had all the trappings of Swiss civilization (A Migros, a bakery, punctual public transit, 4G cell phone coverage, good water pressure...) that the home-sick traveller craves.
"It's all about the people you meet there", is how the attractiveness of Davos is often described by the jet-set tribe. And it's really true: We met family, friends and acquaintances, all gathered for just a few days on their way to and from the four corners of the earth. Gathered around a rich table of food and wine, connections were made, experiences shared, ideas exchanged and plans drawn up - even if they were just for the next day's hike.
Heads of State and captains of industry will agree: The Spirit of Davos is alive and well. We will be back!
Labels: family, Switzerland, travel
# posted by Oli : 21:50
20 August 2016
In chains
My recent long weekend in Michigan was entirely free of genuinely local experiences. Or was it?
As a smug European, I used to make fun of cookie-cutter chain outlets covering the United States from coast to coast, much to the delight of its variability-averse inhabitants. Unlike us culturally aware travellers from the old world, I used to think, all the Yankees cared for were perfectly standardized experiences, such as the "Italian" food on offer at over 800 Olive Gardens from Alaska to Florida.
It took me seven years of living in North America to actually visit one of them. As I sat and munched on my "tagliatelle noodles with a creamy alfredo sauce and porcini mushrooms", I contemplated the transition I had undergone to become part of the chain gang.
Some of the attraction lies in the loyalty programs, which everyone from hotels to drug stores has placed in my wallet, capitalizing on personal predilection as much as professional curiosity. Part of it is also sheer laziness: Proximity allows for more frequent, less planned jaunts south of the border, meaning that research into authentic dining spots is often replaced by a quick smartphone search for a familiar name.
Most intriguing, though, is the growing appreciation for the notion that local culture in the US is in fact chain culture. The big brand outlets I visited in the Great Lake State were quite different from the ones I found in California or in Texas. The decor may be identical, but the people are not. The midwest's bumbling-but-friendly residents, with their expansive demeanor and taste for potato, add an unmistakable local accent.
It is in inexpensive franchise outlets that the foreign visitor gets to observe unvarnished society: A group of middle-aged ladies catching up over dinner. A retired couple browsing for garish shower mats and towels at Walmart. Two young activists planning rallies from Plymouth to Pontiac (no, political rallies!) over soup and salad at Panera. A wedding party in cheap suits at the Sheraton, complaining about the flashy relatives from Kentucky. And a waiter at the Four Points taking so much pride in their local brews that she kept bringing pint after pint out to the patio, all while rustling up some coupons to make sure none landed on my tab.
All said and done, I felt like I got a decent taste of Michigan. And as for Canada, I have to confess that we are no strangers to chain culture either, something I was firmly reminded of as I pulled into the Exxon gas station outside Detroit. Adjacent to it was what any Canadian always expects to find there: A Tim Hortons.
# posted by Oli : 21:12
31 May 2016
Mojito
The sweet and the sour make for a delicate, and intoxicating, balance, in Cuba's national cocktail. And so it is for much of the country.1 teaspoon powdered sugar
Juice from 1 lime
4 mint leaves
1 sprig of mint
60ml Havana Cub white rum
60ml sparkling water
Keen to experience the socialist island before the impending (2nd) invasion by the yanquis, and prior to any changes that the eventual passing of the torch from the frail Castro brothers will bring, we decided to spend a few days in Cuba.
Not in the all-inclusive resort ghettos of Varadero and Holguin, mind you, but in the nation's emblematic capital Havana, where we stayed at a privately run casa particular, in itself proof of the small steps towards liberalization that the government has taken in the past years.
The experience in one of the last vestiges of communism was interesting, to say the least. Havana is steeped in history, little of it reflecting favorably on mankind. From its beginnings as a Spanish colonial port, through direct and indirect US rule, the dictatorship of Fulgencio Batista to the 1959 revolution, the city's politics were seldom sober.
It remains very much in limbo, a state symbolized by the grand capitolio, which may look like the one in Washington D.C., but unlike it is under renovation and closed to the public. Some streets and plazas have been beautifully renovated, but many others are still wilting away in the tropical heat.
Yes, there are indeed plenty of vintage American cars from the fifties, including some very well kept ones. But while tourists pose with the Chevys and Buicks, the Cubans are thirsting for that '98 Peugeot breezing down the Malecón.
In a country with two currencies in circulation, a convertible peso pegged to the greenback and a national peso (in which salaries are paid), we got our hands on some of the latter. For the past few years, it has been legal for foreigners to do so, much like Cubans can now officially own convertible money - if they can get a hold of it. The few things we were able to buy with moneda national, such as ice cream, snacks and cigarettes, were incredibly cheap. However, they were also often unavailable. The government-run stores, even in downtown Havana, were repeatedly out of the most basic goods such as bottled water. And while we were able to fall back on our hard currency to spend two Cuban monthly salaries on a seaside dinner, the locals can only comfort themselves with cheap rum, which was always in stock.
The two undisputed achievements of the revolution are in health care and education. Cubans' life expectancy today is within a year of the 79.6 years enjoyed by the average American, with a per-capita expenditure that is a fraction of the Yankees'. And a comprehensive school system, rolled out nationwide, has produced a literacy rate unheard of in the Carribean. Indeed, we came across many basic, but functional schools attended by cheery kids in immaculate uniforms.
The most essential life skill, however, is not taught in school but on the streets: Making due. We witnessed incredibly creative ways in which the locals jerry-rigged everything from water pumps to mobile phone chargers and kitchen appliances. With conspicuous consumption unconspicuously absent, Cubans' inventiveness would make McGyver proud.
This unique society is bound to change, gradually in the best case and violently in the worst. Getting a first-hand impression of the island's reality today was very worthwhile, for what we saw was unlike the ideological fantasies peddled by aging European lefties or radical Republicans.
Cuba under the Castros is its own special mix. And those who find that hard to swallow can always change their order. To a Cuba Libre!
# posted by Oli : 22:01
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]
