I first heard it in the early morning hours. The gentle patter of rain on the roof outside the small dormer windows in our room. While a rainy day in Venice may sound romantic to some, the reality was the rain was cold and the winds fierce. The force of the wind was intensified by being funneled down the narrow streets.
An old piece of luggage we were carrying with us had fallen apart and needed to be replaced before the next leg of our trip. By mid morning the wind had also made mincemeat or our umbrella requiring that it too would need replacing. We found it ironic that one of the lead stories on the BBC that morning was about a tornado in our neighboring state of Indiana. Particularly considering the tempest going on outside our hotel.We had breakfast, with cappuccino's and headed out into the elements.
Many of the shops bore awnings allowing us to stay somewhat dry as we gazed in the windows at the colors and varieties of Murano Glass objects inside. The suitcase was purchased in one shop along with a red plaid umbrella which we still own but seldom use as it has become an admittedly silly but treasured memento of the trip.
We ran across a small restaurant and ducked inside, suitcase and umbrella in tow. We noshed on a cheese platter and downed more cappuccinos as we looked at our city map and planned our nest move.
The public transportation system of Venice is a fleet of boats that ply the canals. We decided to take the route that goes past the back of the city, a place rarely experienced by tourists, out to the city cemetery and then to the glass factories and showrooms on the islands of a Murano before depositing us at the dock down the street from our hotel. We could stay dry inside the boat and see various areas of the city from the water.
The wind whipped the water into choppy waves and blew the rain into the interior of the boat. Although we stayed somewhat dry, staying completely so proved to be an impossible task. When we returned to the hotel we were damp and shivering.
In our room we changed into dry clothes slinging our wet ones over the ancient log rafters to dry. The rain having abated, we returned to the street. Trash cans overflowed with ruined umbrellas. When the trashcans had been filled to capacity people had simply abandoned their tattered, inside out brollies beside them creating twisted piles of metal and fabric.
We dined at the same restaurant as the previous night, inside this time. As it was a quiet evening with few customers, the owner spent time with us reciting as exhaustive history on the origins of Italian Grappa before having us sample it. Pleasantly buzzed, we returned to our room.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Venice - A Tale of Pigeons, Canals and Cappuccinos
I have described Venice before to friends as a gracefully aging woman who dresses in a fashion which is slightly out of date but which she has managed to make her own. There is no one else like her. Her architecture is an orgy of styles. Patterned facades, stone carvings, placed in way that seems deliberately designed to take one by surprise. Striped mooring poles line a mix of plazas and tiny winding streets standing in her legendary canals. Massive chandeliers are visible through the windows of the grand, ornate buildings surrounding St Marks Square. The colors in the scenes which adorn the front of the Cathedral on the square almost appear to glow as if lit from behind.
Our first stop was for a cappuccino, now that my partner's curiosity had been aroused by his sampling at the train station in Rome. He liked it; a lot; we drank a number of them over the next several days. We then proceeded, caffeine fueled, down the Grand Canal to St Marks Square.
At first glance, one might think that 70% of all the pigeons in the world reside in the venerable square. Every step stirs up scores of them. Around the public plaza is a zone inhabited only by the wealthy. Expensive restaurants,high priced, high end hotels and an art gallery specializing in the likes of Picasso and Dali surround the world famous space.
On the far end of the plaza we pass through an arch carved out of the lower floors of one of the buildings and discover a shop window filled with odds and ends, including Venetian glass trimmed hat pins. As I collect hat pins we venture inside. A delightful woman greets us. A wonderful and disarming salesperson she is full of grace, good humor and a sales pitch that is hard to resist. We end up leaving with the hat pin, jewelry, both for gifts and for ourselves, and a miniature sterling silver gondola. I also have a collection of miniatures, some dating back to my great grandmother. We then lose ourselves in the narrow streets and canals that wind behind the buildings on St Marks Square.
The ground floors of the centuries old buildings have been made into boutiques devoted to every upscale, tony designer imaginable. Versace, Hugo Boss, Ferragamo and a seemingly endless multitude of others assault the senses plus the pocketbooks of those who can afford such wares. Amid this scene a ancient multistory old building surrounded by equally ancient canals bears a sign identifying it as a Best Western Inn.
As darkness falls we get REALLY lost. Retracing our steps and with the assistance of a waiter clearing tables at an outdoor restaurant, we eventually find our way our way and take a weary walk back to our hotel. As there are several arches leading to courtyards on the street where we are staying I come to identify ours by the pattern of cracks on the gangway wall.
We eat outside at a small restaurant down the block from the hotel. It is the final night of outdoor dining for this establishment. The next day we see the awning being dismantled and the tables and chairs being taken to storage for the winter months.
After dinner our tired feet carry us back down the street, past the cracked gangway wall and up the narrow stairs to our room for the night.
Our first stop was for a cappuccino, now that my partner's curiosity had been aroused by his sampling at the train station in Rome. He liked it; a lot; we drank a number of them over the next several days. We then proceeded, caffeine fueled, down the Grand Canal to St Marks Square.
At first glance, one might think that 70% of all the pigeons in the world reside in the venerable square. Every step stirs up scores of them. Around the public plaza is a zone inhabited only by the wealthy. Expensive restaurants,high priced, high end hotels and an art gallery specializing in the likes of Picasso and Dali surround the world famous space.
On the far end of the plaza we pass through an arch carved out of the lower floors of one of the buildings and discover a shop window filled with odds and ends, including Venetian glass trimmed hat pins. As I collect hat pins we venture inside. A delightful woman greets us. A wonderful and disarming salesperson she is full of grace, good humor and a sales pitch that is hard to resist. We end up leaving with the hat pin, jewelry, both for gifts and for ourselves, and a miniature sterling silver gondola. I also have a collection of miniatures, some dating back to my great grandmother. We then lose ourselves in the narrow streets and canals that wind behind the buildings on St Marks Square.
The ground floors of the centuries old buildings have been made into boutiques devoted to every upscale, tony designer imaginable. Versace, Hugo Boss, Ferragamo and a seemingly endless multitude of others assault the senses plus the pocketbooks of those who can afford such wares. Amid this scene a ancient multistory old building surrounded by equally ancient canals bears a sign identifying it as a Best Western Inn.
As darkness falls we get REALLY lost. Retracing our steps and with the assistance of a waiter clearing tables at an outdoor restaurant, we eventually find our way our way and take a weary walk back to our hotel. As there are several arches leading to courtyards on the street where we are staying I come to identify ours by the pattern of cracks on the gangway wall.
We eat outside at a small restaurant down the block from the hotel. It is the final night of outdoor dining for this establishment. The next day we see the awning being dismantled and the tables and chairs being taken to storage for the winter months.
After dinner our tired feet carry us back down the street, past the cracked gangway wall and up the narrow stairs to our room for the night.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Venice - Where The ?!!?! Is Our Hotel?
My partner grew up in Florida and has always had a love affair with water. As an aside, I am somewhat aqua phobic. As he gazed out at the canal he commented on how wonderful the next days would be for him due to his fondness for the water, even if the water in the canals is rather brackish, to say the least. We descended the steps, luggage in hand and boarded the water bus for our first trip down the canal towards our hotel.
It was at this point that we discovered that the Goggle maps provided by the Internet booking agents are not always what one would consider reliable. I tried in vain to correlate the map on our reservation sheet with the Venice street map in our guidebook. We finally resorted to asking the boat pilot where to get off. He told us, brusquely, that it would be a while before we would get to our stop. Boating our way down the Grand Canal we passed St Marks Square, with it towering Campanile, the beautiful, landmark Bridge of Sighs and traveled under the Via Venneto, the major bridge over the Grand Canal. Getting nervous about the distance we had traveled I checked again with the pilot who informed me we were not "there" yet. Finally the boat docked next to a public park at the farthest tip of the city and he announced that we had reached our destination.
My partner converted our largest bag into a wagon, piled the other bags on top of it and using our guidebook map, I led us across the park to the street where our hotel was supposed to be located. The street turned out to be a broad plaza in a largely residential neighborhood. A group of children were playing a game of soccer in the middle of the plaza, a fruit and vegetable stand stood off to one side of it. The address for our hotel was in the 1900's. We immediately had cause for concern when the addresses on the buildings on the street did not go above 8000. After stopping a few people in the street, none of whom seemed to have a command of the English language, my partner noticed a beauty salon. Being a hair stylist himself, he exclaimed "International Society of Hairdressers, go ask them!" Stepping into the salon I found the employees sitting talking with one another. When I queried "Parla Engles" they looked at one another and shook their heads no. In desperation, I pulled out our reservation sheet and pointed at the address. They all nodded their heads in acknowledgement and one got up and went out the door with me trailing behind.
Seeing my partner with the wagon of luggage she motioned for us to follow her. She led us a short way down the street and pointed to an arched entrance to a gangway that led into a courtyard. We thanked her and proceeded down the gangway. Entering the courtyard we found the numbers on the buildings were in the 9000's. Laundry hung from lines strung across the yard, It is worth noting that the same laundry was still hanging there two days later making us wonder if it was prop laundry used in an attempt to create old world atmosphere.
Passing through this courtyard into a second one buried deeper behind the street we found our hotel. A former Doges home hundreds of years old. Inside the door we found a small room with an inlaid marble floor and tiny reception desk. The gentleman who greeted us, after checking us in, apologized for the lack of a lift and let us up a narrow staircase with notably short risers. I surmised that peoples legs must have been shorter back in the day. When we got to the second floor he pointed out a room to our left. It had beautifully painted walls, a glass chandelier and three french windows at it's far end. Furnished with tables, chairs and a station for making cappuccino, a drink that would become ubiquitous on this trip, it was where breakfast, included with the room, was served each morning. Our room was on the top floor. I assume that it had been either servant's quarters or children's rooms. He opened the door. We walked down the narrow hallway past the bath into the room itself.
Our heads immediately turned upwards to gaze in amazement at the ceiling. Under the peaked roof above our heads massive, ancient round wooden beams crossed the room. We then took in the lovely period reproduction furnishings and the three tiny dormer windows along one wall. When we opened the shutters we discovered our view was of a tiled roof. I could never make out if it was another part of the building we were in or an adjoining one due to the close confines of the structures in the city. Depositing our bags we ventured out to explore Venice.
It was at this point that we discovered that the Goggle maps provided by the Internet booking agents are not always what one would consider reliable. I tried in vain to correlate the map on our reservation sheet with the Venice street map in our guidebook. We finally resorted to asking the boat pilot where to get off. He told us, brusquely, that it would be a while before we would get to our stop. Boating our way down the Grand Canal we passed St Marks Square, with it towering Campanile, the beautiful, landmark Bridge of Sighs and traveled under the Via Venneto, the major bridge over the Grand Canal. Getting nervous about the distance we had traveled I checked again with the pilot who informed me we were not "there" yet. Finally the boat docked next to a public park at the farthest tip of the city and he announced that we had reached our destination.
My partner converted our largest bag into a wagon, piled the other bags on top of it and using our guidebook map, I led us across the park to the street where our hotel was supposed to be located. The street turned out to be a broad plaza in a largely residential neighborhood. A group of children were playing a game of soccer in the middle of the plaza, a fruit and vegetable stand stood off to one side of it. The address for our hotel was in the 1900's. We immediately had cause for concern when the addresses on the buildings on the street did not go above 8000. After stopping a few people in the street, none of whom seemed to have a command of the English language, my partner noticed a beauty salon. Being a hair stylist himself, he exclaimed "International Society of Hairdressers, go ask them!" Stepping into the salon I found the employees sitting talking with one another. When I queried "Parla Engles" they looked at one another and shook their heads no. In desperation, I pulled out our reservation sheet and pointed at the address. They all nodded their heads in acknowledgement and one got up and went out the door with me trailing behind.
Seeing my partner with the wagon of luggage she motioned for us to follow her. She led us a short way down the street and pointed to an arched entrance to a gangway that led into a courtyard. We thanked her and proceeded down the gangway. Entering the courtyard we found the numbers on the buildings were in the 9000's. Laundry hung from lines strung across the yard, It is worth noting that the same laundry was still hanging there two days later making us wonder if it was prop laundry used in an attempt to create old world atmosphere.
Passing through this courtyard into a second one buried deeper behind the street we found our hotel. A former Doges home hundreds of years old. Inside the door we found a small room with an inlaid marble floor and tiny reception desk. The gentleman who greeted us, after checking us in, apologized for the lack of a lift and let us up a narrow staircase with notably short risers. I surmised that peoples legs must have been shorter back in the day. When we got to the second floor he pointed out a room to our left. It had beautifully painted walls, a glass chandelier and three french windows at it's far end. Furnished with tables, chairs and a station for making cappuccino, a drink that would become ubiquitous on this trip, it was where breakfast, included with the room, was served each morning. Our room was on the top floor. I assume that it had been either servant's quarters or children's rooms. He opened the door. We walked down the narrow hallway past the bath into the room itself.
Our heads immediately turned upwards to gaze in amazement at the ceiling. Under the peaked roof above our heads massive, ancient round wooden beams crossed the room. We then took in the lovely period reproduction furnishings and the three tiny dormer windows along one wall. When we opened the shutters we discovered our view was of a tiled roof. I could never make out if it was another part of the building we were in or an adjoining one due to the close confines of the structures in the city. Depositing our bags we ventured out to explore Venice.
A Train Ride Through Tuscany - It Looks Kind Of Like Wisconsin
After the one night in Rome we were to spend two nights in Venice, three in Florence, including my partners birthday and one final night in Rome before returning home. Our train left early the next morning. At the train station I stopped for a cappuccino. I usually need coffee to jump start my mornings. My partners caffeinatted beverage of choice has always been coke or Pepsi. However, for some unknown reason, he decided that day to try the cappuccino. He took a tiny spoonful of the foam off the top. It was love at first taste. Cappuccinos became commonplace from that point of the trip on. Which might be part of the explanation for my recurrent insomnia during this vacation.
As the train left the station another of the ruins one encounters, located in a seemingly haphazard manner throughout Rome, stood by the tracks. Our train to Venice took us through the vineyards and rolling green hills of the Tuscan countryside. My partner observed that it resembled Wisconsin. I wanted to disagree, but after some thought, realized that it did, indeed resemble Wisconsin. The train took us past the ancient ramparts of Florence. I was mildly disappointed to see that the Duomo, Florence's main cathedral, which was visible from our vantage point, was under renovation. Portions of it were covered by scaffolding and netting. We continued north toward Venice. We almost disembarked one stop too soon. There are two trains stops for Venice. Two young girls we had met on the train thankfully set us to rights. Shortly, we pulled into Venice.
We had decided that we would make the reservation for the next leg of the trip at the station as soon as we arrived. It had worked well in Rome. I went and stood in line to get our train tickets to Florence. As I left the window I saw my partner staring wide eyed, almost hypnotized, through the arched exit of the station taking in the canal at the bottom of the steps outside and the sweep of buildings on the opposite shore.
As the train left the station another of the ruins one encounters, located in a seemingly haphazard manner throughout Rome, stood by the tracks. Our train to Venice took us through the vineyards and rolling green hills of the Tuscan countryside. My partner observed that it resembled Wisconsin. I wanted to disagree, but after some thought, realized that it did, indeed resemble Wisconsin. The train took us past the ancient ramparts of Florence. I was mildly disappointed to see that the Duomo, Florence's main cathedral, which was visible from our vantage point, was under renovation. Portions of it were covered by scaffolding and netting. We continued north toward Venice. We almost disembarked one stop too soon. There are two trains stops for Venice. Two young girls we had met on the train thankfully set us to rights. Shortly, we pulled into Venice.
We had decided that we would make the reservation for the next leg of the trip at the station as soon as we arrived. It had worked well in Rome. I went and stood in line to get our train tickets to Florence. As I left the window I saw my partner staring wide eyed, almost hypnotized, through the arched exit of the station taking in the canal at the bottom of the steps outside and the sweep of buildings on the opposite shore.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Roamin' in Rome
The train from the airport into the city passes by a series of high rise apartment buildings. Their balconies are filled with trees and trailing plants which spill over their edges., They are lush and green, soaking up the Italian sun even in these early days of November.
We selected our hotel based on it's close proximity to the train station. Using our city map we lug our luggage through the stone streets stopping once to ask if we were headed in the right direction. Upon finding the hotel we cram ourselves and our luggage into the tiny elevator and travel to the 3rd floor reception desk. Since it is early and our room is not yet ready, we store our bags with the hotel and, using a second map provided by them, with the major attractions clearly marked, we head out.
First up, the Coliseum, a comfortable 20 minute walk from the hotel. As soon as we arrive, we are approached and informed that the final English speaking tour of the inside is about to start. This lets us know 2 things:
#1 The tour is about to start
#2 We do not blend!
We decline the tour deciding to experience the magnificent ruin from the outside bypassing the even more ruined inside. We view the Arch of Constantine, which seems somewhat randomly placed, then proceed to the forum.
The forum is an interesting mix of a millenia old terraced area lined with and traversed by the remains of battered columns. I found myself wishing we had a guide book to the area so that I could fully appreciate my surroundings. Ruins of a massive building with arches stands off to one side. To this day I have no idea what it is. I was able to discern Caesar's grave since the word Caesar in Italian appears much like Caesar in English. I, however, have no idea which Caesar it is.
It is fortunate that the perfectly preserved Senate building has sighs in both English and Italian telling you exactly what it is. It's state of preservation could have to do with the fact that this building was rebuilt after the first burned. This replacement Senate building dates from only 350 A.D., new construction by some Roman standards. We left the area descending the Spanish Steps. We did not know they were the Spanish Steps until our return several days later...please bear in mind that we were extremely jet lagged and had been sleepless for hours at this point.
The Pantheon is a remarkable and iconic structure. It is in a perfect state of preservation from it's front portico to it's high center dome. One can feel particularly insignificant as you enter a door used by countless people over it's 2000 year plus history. The floor was reconstructed in the 19th century, but we were willing to overlook that.
The Pantheon resides on one side of a small, almost cramped plaza accessible only by narrow streets. As you exit the building there is a beautiful church on the right, 16th century as I recall. Other equally venerable buildings ring the rest of the plaza. In one of these, dead ahead of you as you exit the world treasure known as the Pantheon, is a McDonald's. We opted for pasta at a hole in the wall around the corner.
We returned down Rome's ancient streets to our hotel. I've often said that New York City buzzes, while my home city of Chicago hums. Rome shares New York City's buzz, and, frankly, it's somewhat cranky natives, but in a setting anywhere from 500 to over 2000 years old. We collected our bags and took them to our room. Small, with a high ceiling, it's multipaned french window as open and looked out on a airshaft. A little underwhelming for our first room of the trip, but since our train left for Venice at 7:00 a.m. the next morning we would not be spending that much time there.
As daylight faded we decided to venture out once more to see the Trevi Fountain. On our way the lights in the apartments gave us a peek at life in the city. One apartment in particular caught my eye because of the vividly painted beams running across it's ceiling. An occasional chandelier or painting could be spotted proudly wearing a patina of age. We arrived at the fountain and joined the other people there. The couples on the steps, both young and old, enjoying the view of the fountain and the time with one another. Some, like us, at the fountains edge joyfully tossing coins backwards over their heads while making a wish, a tradition in Rome. At night this legendary sight is beautifully lit giving our first look at it an almost magical allure.
We dined on ravioli seated outside at a small restaurant around the corner from the fountain. Surveying the ancient buildings around us I observed that someone sitting where we were 500 years ago would have seen the same sights that we were seeing that night. Except, of course, for the scores of scooters, both parked and racing down the streets like hordes of insects.
Early that morning a light rain passed through awakening me. I can be a notoriously light sleeper. I got up and watched the rain fall outside our room's window for a short time before returning to bed.
We selected our hotel based on it's close proximity to the train station. Using our city map we lug our luggage through the stone streets stopping once to ask if we were headed in the right direction. Upon finding the hotel we cram ourselves and our luggage into the tiny elevator and travel to the 3rd floor reception desk. Since it is early and our room is not yet ready, we store our bags with the hotel and, using a second map provided by them, with the major attractions clearly marked, we head out.
First up, the Coliseum, a comfortable 20 minute walk from the hotel. As soon as we arrive, we are approached and informed that the final English speaking tour of the inside is about to start. This lets us know 2 things:
#1 The tour is about to start
#2 We do not blend!
We decline the tour deciding to experience the magnificent ruin from the outside bypassing the even more ruined inside. We view the Arch of Constantine, which seems somewhat randomly placed, then proceed to the forum.
The forum is an interesting mix of a millenia old terraced area lined with and traversed by the remains of battered columns. I found myself wishing we had a guide book to the area so that I could fully appreciate my surroundings. Ruins of a massive building with arches stands off to one side. To this day I have no idea what it is. I was able to discern Caesar's grave since the word Caesar in Italian appears much like Caesar in English. I, however, have no idea which Caesar it is.
It is fortunate that the perfectly preserved Senate building has sighs in both English and Italian telling you exactly what it is. It's state of preservation could have to do with the fact that this building was rebuilt after the first burned. This replacement Senate building dates from only 350 A.D., new construction by some Roman standards. We left the area descending the Spanish Steps. We did not know they were the Spanish Steps until our return several days later...please bear in mind that we were extremely jet lagged and had been sleepless for hours at this point.
The Pantheon is a remarkable and iconic structure. It is in a perfect state of preservation from it's front portico to it's high center dome. One can feel particularly insignificant as you enter a door used by countless people over it's 2000 year plus history. The floor was reconstructed in the 19th century, but we were willing to overlook that.
The Pantheon resides on one side of a small, almost cramped plaza accessible only by narrow streets. As you exit the building there is a beautiful church on the right, 16th century as I recall. Other equally venerable buildings ring the rest of the plaza. In one of these, dead ahead of you as you exit the world treasure known as the Pantheon, is a McDonald's. We opted for pasta at a hole in the wall around the corner.
We returned down Rome's ancient streets to our hotel. I've often said that New York City buzzes, while my home city of Chicago hums. Rome shares New York City's buzz, and, frankly, it's somewhat cranky natives, but in a setting anywhere from 500 to over 2000 years old. We collected our bags and took them to our room. Small, with a high ceiling, it's multipaned french window as open and looked out on a airshaft. A little underwhelming for our first room of the trip, but since our train left for Venice at 7:00 a.m. the next morning we would not be spending that much time there.
As daylight faded we decided to venture out once more to see the Trevi Fountain. On our way the lights in the apartments gave us a peek at life in the city. One apartment in particular caught my eye because of the vividly painted beams running across it's ceiling. An occasional chandelier or painting could be spotted proudly wearing a patina of age. We arrived at the fountain and joined the other people there. The couples on the steps, both young and old, enjoying the view of the fountain and the time with one another. Some, like us, at the fountains edge joyfully tossing coins backwards over their heads while making a wish, a tradition in Rome. At night this legendary sight is beautifully lit giving our first look at it an almost magical allure.
We dined on ravioli seated outside at a small restaurant around the corner from the fountain. Surveying the ancient buildings around us I observed that someone sitting where we were 500 years ago would have seen the same sights that we were seeing that night. Except, of course, for the scores of scooters, both parked and racing down the streets like hordes of insects.
Early that morning a light rain passed through awakening me. I can be a notoriously light sleeper. I got up and watched the rain fall outside our room's window for a short time before returning to bed.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Florence and Venice and Rome, Oh My!
Obtaining passports was our first order of buisiness. My partners application was processed promptly and he received his passport within a month. Getting mine proved to be somewhat more problemactic. Due to a snafu with my last name, the stringient policies of the U.S. post 2001 and inept employees at the passport agency, it took some time, and several irate phone calls before mine was finally processed and in my hand. At one point, they were requesting 3 I.D.'s, all containing a photo and signature. Some of the options were, a passport (!!?!??!), nilitary I.D., I am a pacifist and have been openly gay since my late teens or a student I.D., I was 48 at the time. I have resolved since that time to never let my passport expire!
All travel arrangements were booked online. This is always a gamble since pictures of hotels and rooms tend to be "edited" to show the properties in their best light. We have since become somewhat more savvy regarding online booking but at this point we were still somewhat new and green to the process.
In November the flights overseas are less numerous than during the summer months. To get to Rome from Chicago required a stop in Toronto. So we had to fly north to travel south, coming and going.
Our departure date arrived and we headed to the airport for our flight(s). Once we landed in Toronto an airport worker, seeing us walking through the terminal, graciously offered us a lift on the back of her motorized cart. After going through security a second time we settled into seats in the shuttle that wopuld take us to the terminal where we would catch our flight to Rome. I looked around and asked my partner "Where is your carry on?" He realized that he had left it at the checkpoint we had just gone through.We raced back, retrieved it and caught another shuttle, arriving at the gate with just minutes to spare.
Flying over the Atlantic is tedious. Flying over the Atlantic at night is even more tedious. Somewhat sleep deprived, we arrived in Rome.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Do You Canoe?
I am aqua phobic. I have been for as long as I can remember. While I have overcome this fear enough to paddle around in a pool or take a cool, refreshing dunk in Lake Michigan on a searing hot summer day, I still will not, willingly, put my head underwater, other than a shower. And, while I have been rolled by an occasional large wave playing in the ocean along Mexico's Pacific Coast, therefore finding my head underwater, the act was not purposeful and is a tale for another day.
With this in mind, when my partner suggested we spend an afternoon canoeing down a river on a camping trip in Michigan, I remember replying something like "ARE YOU MAD!!!" I'm paraphrasing here. I believe I said much the same thing when he first suggested the camping trip. I only relented to remind myself the extent to which I loathed sleeping in a tent when perfectly serviceable motels are nearby. Aside from the hard ground and lack of personal hygiene facilities, bugs love me. Regardless of how much insect repellent I slather on, as evening falls insects flock to the point where I begin to look like I am traveling about in the center of a buzzing fog. Let it be said, here and now, nature and I have our differences.
I do not remember how in convinced me to partake in this aquatic adventure or why I finally agreed to it, but I soon found myself inside a metal boat resembling an oversized gray banana with a red plastic oar in my hand.
It was determined that he would sit in back and use his oar as a rudder to steer the damn thing, while I would sit in front and use my oar to propel us forward when the current was not strong enough to do so. I was also to help keep us on course through the level 1 and 2 rapids we would encounter on our trip down the river.
It was mid August and the river was shallow. Time and the heat of the summer had tamed the rumbling torrent it became in spring when the snow melted filling it's now dry and rocky bed with cool, clear, icy water. A faint line along each of it's banks bore witness to the depth and volume of it at it's peak, but now, at this time of year, it carried us gently and languidly down it's course.
The river's world was quiet and tranquil. A hawk flew overhead and landed among the gray weathered branches of a dead tree which stood along the river's bank. Occasionally tiny fish could be seen swimming past or underneath us.
The first rapids we came across were small and easy to navigate. My partner had instructed me to guide the canoe through the center of the "V" formed by the water as it tumbled over and around the slick, moss covered river rocks. The river's banks would transition between barren rocks and small sand beaches to thick stands of tress which provided welcome cool shade under their overhanging branches.
We stopped and pulled the canoe up onto one of these beaches near our campsite to rest and eat the lunch we had brought with us. My partner had doubted my claim of being an insect magnet. A bee came along giving me an opportunity to prove my point. It immediately flew towards me and began to buzz around my head. "Watch this", I said. Slowly, quietly, I moved several feet away. The bee flew in circles for a moment, then came towards me and resumed it's orbit around me. Slowly, quietly, I moved again, further away this time. The bee followed. I have discovered over the years that covering my head will make an insect lose interest in me. I wrapped a towel around my head and the bee moved on about it's business. From that day on, my partner has understood a portion of my aversion to the great outdoors, at least during fly, bee or mosquito season. We pushed the canoe back in the river and continued on.
The water became deeper and the rapids increased in their ferocity. The metal sides of the canoe clanked as they struck the rocks the water swirled and raged around., Ahead of us a tree branch reached out low across a particularly deep and fierce section of the rapids. I bent over double and went under the branch with only an inch to spare. Then the canoe stopped. The first thought that I had was that my partner in the back had not bent over in time and I would turn around to find him wrapped around the limb miles from any medical help. Cells phones were not ubiquious then as they are now. As I turned I saw him grasping the branch with both hands. He had put his oar up between him and it at the last second. As I struggled to keep the front of the boat steady he "walked" along the branch with his hands until he had maneuvered himself to a point where he could safely pass under it.
After that close call the waters began to calm and the river returned to it's former, more shallow state. A tiny mammal climbed out of the river unto the bank as we passed. We reached a dam where we would have to portage the canoe which signaled that we were neat the end of our journey.
The canoe rental agent met us on the bank and hoisted the canoe into his van as we returned to our rental car. We had traveled only 7 miles as the crow flies but had covered 21 river miles that afternoon. As we drove off a family of deer appeared at the edge of the forest almost as if bidding us farewell.
With this in mind, when my partner suggested we spend an afternoon canoeing down a river on a camping trip in Michigan, I remember replying something like "ARE YOU MAD!!!" I'm paraphrasing here. I believe I said much the same thing when he first suggested the camping trip. I only relented to remind myself the extent to which I loathed sleeping in a tent when perfectly serviceable motels are nearby. Aside from the hard ground and lack of personal hygiene facilities, bugs love me. Regardless of how much insect repellent I slather on, as evening falls insects flock to the point where I begin to look like I am traveling about in the center of a buzzing fog. Let it be said, here and now, nature and I have our differences.
I do not remember how in convinced me to partake in this aquatic adventure or why I finally agreed to it, but I soon found myself inside a metal boat resembling an oversized gray banana with a red plastic oar in my hand.
It was determined that he would sit in back and use his oar as a rudder to steer the damn thing, while I would sit in front and use my oar to propel us forward when the current was not strong enough to do so. I was also to help keep us on course through the level 1 and 2 rapids we would encounter on our trip down the river.
It was mid August and the river was shallow. Time and the heat of the summer had tamed the rumbling torrent it became in spring when the snow melted filling it's now dry and rocky bed with cool, clear, icy water. A faint line along each of it's banks bore witness to the depth and volume of it at it's peak, but now, at this time of year, it carried us gently and languidly down it's course.
The river's world was quiet and tranquil. A hawk flew overhead and landed among the gray weathered branches of a dead tree which stood along the river's bank. Occasionally tiny fish could be seen swimming past or underneath us.
The first rapids we came across were small and easy to navigate. My partner had instructed me to guide the canoe through the center of the "V" formed by the water as it tumbled over and around the slick, moss covered river rocks. The river's banks would transition between barren rocks and small sand beaches to thick stands of tress which provided welcome cool shade under their overhanging branches.
We stopped and pulled the canoe up onto one of these beaches near our campsite to rest and eat the lunch we had brought with us. My partner had doubted my claim of being an insect magnet. A bee came along giving me an opportunity to prove my point. It immediately flew towards me and began to buzz around my head. "Watch this", I said. Slowly, quietly, I moved several feet away. The bee flew in circles for a moment, then came towards me and resumed it's orbit around me. Slowly, quietly, I moved again, further away this time. The bee followed. I have discovered over the years that covering my head will make an insect lose interest in me. I wrapped a towel around my head and the bee moved on about it's business. From that day on, my partner has understood a portion of my aversion to the great outdoors, at least during fly, bee or mosquito season. We pushed the canoe back in the river and continued on.
The water became deeper and the rapids increased in their ferocity. The metal sides of the canoe clanked as they struck the rocks the water swirled and raged around., Ahead of us a tree branch reached out low across a particularly deep and fierce section of the rapids. I bent over double and went under the branch with only an inch to spare. Then the canoe stopped. The first thought that I had was that my partner in the back had not bent over in time and I would turn around to find him wrapped around the limb miles from any medical help. Cells phones were not ubiquious then as they are now. As I turned I saw him grasping the branch with both hands. He had put his oar up between him and it at the last second. As I struggled to keep the front of the boat steady he "walked" along the branch with his hands until he had maneuvered himself to a point where he could safely pass under it.
After that close call the waters began to calm and the river returned to it's former, more shallow state. A tiny mammal climbed out of the river unto the bank as we passed. We reached a dam where we would have to portage the canoe which signaled that we were neat the end of our journey.
The canoe rental agent met us on the bank and hoisted the canoe into his van as we returned to our rental car. We had traveled only 7 miles as the crow flies but had covered 21 river miles that afternoon. As we drove off a family of deer appeared at the edge of the forest almost as if bidding us farewell.
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