genova and porto fino

I am writing this on our terraced site overlooking the Chianti Hills about 25km outside of Florence. Another beautiful spring day. Yesterday I hired a scooter (third time) and toured the small villages just east of Genova with Mitch as my dragon rider... Sori, Recca, Campoglni and finally Porto Fino. I've ridden bikes for many years but never had so much fun as ascending and then descending the narrow coastal lanes that join these communities. We saw old men sipping espresso in animated conversation at the cafe, school kids playing in the cobble stone yard at recess, sunbathers on cooling their toes in the Mediterranean. We heard the church bells peel out the time every quarter hour. I think main reason I got such a kick out of the little wheels we were riding was knowing that no lane could be too narrow and where ever we ended up ... I would always find a parking spot. In our "big wheels" motorhome, parking is out of the question. Many places post warning signs for caravans to "enter at your own peril."

Part of our mission was to find an internet cafe ... which we didn't. So far Italy has been the worst for staying connected ... it is almost as though the surrounding beauty of these terraced villages commands any spare time the locals have ... with none left over to waste online. And with that I must sign off ... church bells are calling out end of the siesta time here ... time for me to uncork the rossa vino we picked up in the market earlier.

ciao from beautiful Italia

BOSgone

Paris and Versailles

Call me tim-timothy Timid but I have been very cautious about which hiway and which biway I point the bus I'm driving down. So far, in France, we've stuck to the big 6 lane motor ways. Great way to travel with only a few hiccups: 1. the chances of seeing that perfect little walled french village are remote 2. every 200K some guy has his mitt out looking for another 40 Euro for "toll" and 3. eventually you have to face the fact that "Lois" did not recognize the street address of our destination and will be pointing us into the middle of town ... that same small village whose centre is a single lane street ... Lois: " turn right in 100M onto goat's path number 3, you have reached your destination" ...

We did luck out with a spot to camp at in Versailles, originally a village hunting retreat for the Royals ... now a suburb of Paris ... "Huttopia" is 30 minute walk to the palace (don't need to move the motor home) and 5 minute walk to train station with express to Paris (don't need to move the motor home). On day 2 of our stay here we visited Louis' pad ... not a bad little shack ... "let them have cake" etc. On day 4 we walked and walked and walked through central Paris including 4+ hours at the Louvre. Spring in Paris seemed to be everything you have heard about and more ... a perfect day with a special dinner out on the Champs d' Elysse ... outdoor cafe 200M from the Arc d' Triumph

Oh yes ... camping is so far quite civilized in France ... nice hot showers, wi fi connection, no toilet seats, and fresh croissants ready by 8am (as long as your order is in by 10 pm the night before).

Let them have cake indeed ...

BOSgone





... technical difficulties ... text to come

Parade van de Bloem

Nothing says spring is here better than tulips in the garden. In Keukenhof, Holland the flowers scream spring ... all 4 million bulbs in blazing harmony.



We joined the "parade" of cars leaving Amsterdam for the country side, a scene much like the parade north on the 400 every long weekend in Ontario. My nervousness in driving a motorhome in Europe was abated somewhat by "lois" ... the nice british voice from the built in GPS ... calmly calling out directions for every turn. For example "Please make a U turn if possible." Words to warm your heart when steering a 24 ft bemoth down cobbled lanes of the old country. Next stop is somewhere in Brittany. I'm banking on the advice of an old timer in Amstersdam who assured us that there are no narrow streets in France.... piece of gateau as they say ... piece of gateau.

BOSgone

Dam on the Amstel

We are constantly reminded that the literal translation of travel (travail in french) is "work". Some days it is harder than others. And it doesn't disappear with more comfortable or convenient locales (ie Europe vs. Africa). We took the Euroline bus from London to Amsterdam via the ferry Dover to Calais. We kinda expected luxury coach and instead got dirty bus with a trashed washroom and surly driver. We arrived at our "great find" hotel ... quad room right next to Vondel park ... only to find a broken down one star dive ... at 300 bones per night paid in advance for 3 nights. You would think that we would be better at these things after 4 months on the road. Maybe if we did not have M+M with us we would take more chance at arriving without a place reserved and then pay after we see exactly what we are getting.

Our time touring the city made up for all the shortcomings of the hotel. We did 4 of our 5 "top 5 things to do" ... Rijksmuseum, canal tour, self guided city tour by bike and walk to Vondel park and the place where my father grew up.


We ran out of time for Van Gough museum but have that on the plan for our return visit at the end of May. Best part for us was cruising the by-ways on bicycles ... it's how everyone gets around here and it is really the best way to explore this "Venice of the north".




We just loved buzzing down cobbled streets and across the canal bridges ... 400 year old houses on one side and picture perfect marine scene on the other. Paradijs op twee wielen!!

BOSgone

London Calling

Taking the Dar Express from Dar es Salaam to Arusha and back was quite the adventure. The driver made sure the bus was full at all times. If there were any empty seats he pulled over a arbitrary goat paths and picked up his buddies. He had lots of friends who needed a lift. So many that he needed them to move forward in the aisle at the various weigh station so that the rear axle weight would not exceed the safety limit. After the check he was happy to move on with without a care.

Flying into Gatwick was like rejoining the planet we are familiar with ... we cruised down paved roads in a new airport shuttle bus at 8am on a Sunday morning ... London in all its glory passing our window effortlessly ... the entire town still asleep and freeways and lanes to ourselves.

In London the history of those gone before is every where ... recorded in palaces and monuments and 1000 year old walls and great cathedrals. I can't help but think that in Tanzania the history of the land is rewritten every year with the annual migration of the herds and then washed away by the rains leaving not even footprints behind.

Or maybe my muddled thinking is just reverse culture shock hangover.

BOSgone

Out of Africa

Africa and Tanzania for us was a great big bag of opposites swirling about us pretty much our entire 15 day stay.











Talk about your steep learning curve. Talk about your preconceptions about life and living turned upside down. We expected the land (especially out on Safari) to be hot and dusty and instead saw endless green and blue sky .... 27 degrees and very little humidity.

















We saw the ferocious beasts of Africa living side by side with the pastoral Masai as they have been doing forever. We saw people working hard in the fields in order to live and what looked like endless aimless idleness of great masses of people in the cities. TZ appeared very poor as a nation but also mostly clean and cheerful.

















We visited a small community, desperately poor, whose dispute resolution system requires only a round table and single large cup of banana beer. Talk the problem out, apologize, share the beer and go home. The town jail is always empty.













The people we met came in all types ... proud and polished;hopelessly destitute and upbeat entrepreneurial; full of charm and integrity and full of slimy duplicity. We are leaving with a first hand experience of how the other half lives. We are leaving broke / broken hearted, but also buoyed by the future potential of an Africa that takes Tanzania's example as a model for nation building.






I will not soon forget standing on my own version of 'Pride Rock' looking out as the sun set over the seemingly endless plains of serengeti national park. Nor will I forget the sadness of passing another Masai tribeswoman trying to flag us down for a ride ... a ride that would save her struggling with a load too big and 10 km of rugged road before her to the village.








I've learned too that no amount of research on the internet can prepare you completely for your first trip ;to Africa. There's just too many competing opposites. In the end, I guess, it is hard for us to say yes to Tanzania ... but just as hard to say no.


BOSgone