Even "No Nuts..." Is A Travelling Fool

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I Love Paris In the Springtime...Or ANYTIME
http://www.travelwithamate.com/10-things-to-do-in-paris-france

Highly Amusing

Ooooooooo, a carnival at my age.  How much fun it can be.

A friend and I trained it to Geneva on a whim...as one spontaneously does when one attempts to be fabulous.  With no real plan or agenda, we found ourselves mesmerized by the out of the blue, ride-ridden carnival on the Rhone River banks of this international and supposedly high-brow city.  Now, when I think Geneva, I think Arabic fun fair.  Doesn't everyone?  In our attempts to be très chic we ended up quite cultured...and in a great way. 

Walking towards the water on a dusk evening upon first arriving, we curiously strode towards the heart-thumping rhythms of dance-inducing drum beats, tinging ouds and passionate vocals - aka, alluring and exciting music of the Middle East.  Then...eventually...we saw it:  the spaceship-like, neon contraption that was inevitably the thrilling, breathless, high above the city "Chair-O-Planes" that had to be ridden. 

All our euro cash later, we flew atop the city and Geneva became a child-like, Swiss Chuck E. Cheese of my dreams and not the shopping, chocolate mecca I thought it to be. 

So what to do on the 2nd day...why, tackle the spinning ferocity of the "Tagada", a no seat belt, no restraint, up and down hydraulic adventure.  Oh man.  With the hypnotic music thumping like a nightclub, we sat down, grabbed the back handlebars and latched on for dear life as this maniac round bowl of a ride whirled like an out of control washing machine.  I laughed, I screamed and, I'm sure, stopped breathing at some point.  Head Spin, Heart-Pumping.  Eyes Wide and Stomach Lurching.  Dizzying, Tizzying.  And at the end I caught my breath in pure exhilaration.  So what did we do.  We rode it again...and again. 

I don't know if this carnival is a permanent fixture in the city or present only temporarily for our impulsive pleasure.  Therefore, I can't recommend it for your structured itinerary.  But hopefully you'll be able to toss your plans and find yourself giddy with cotton candy and sugared apples at the world's greatest fair. 

Officer...I've Been Robbed! Switzerland

I had never been robbed.  Never been violated so brazenly, so openly.  Previously, I frolicked in the streets of the world, innocently eying and buying many trinket, toys and treats.

Until, that is...my sweet reverie was slashed and I traversed the streets of...dun, dUN, DUUUUN...Switzerland.

Was it late at night?  On a suspicious, dark street corner?  Seedy part of town?  Scary?!

No.  Nope.  None of the above.

It was in broad daylight.  On a soft afternoon....and first, at the McDonald's. 

It was a hot afternoon.  Three girls, never ones to prioritize fast food and yet craving something fast, cheap and known.  All enter the lit, crowded Mickey D's and unassumingly, naively begin ordering:  1 chicken sandwich meal, 1 veggie burger and...1 small fries.  And then it happened, out of nowhere, quick as lighting, without a moment to grasp reality and stop the madness.  The Swiss stole from us!  Just took our $35.00 [$35!!] U.S. dollars!!

If you are a masochist and seeking the rush of a victim of monetary violence, Switzerland is your destination of choice. 

No need to grab a hold tight of your purse.  Or put your money in the hotel safe.  No need to carry your valuables in a weird travel pouch that hangs from your neck and requires you to oddly and perversely reach into and under your blouse to procure a Euro.  No, the vendors of this neutral sovereign state, as friendly as they are, just rob you point blank, unassumingly and straight to your face.  They take your money with concealed force and with the sweetest smile.  As if it's normal.  No mask, no gun.  Neither threats nor intimidation.  So smooth and nonchalant was this incessant hold up that I didn't even realize I was in danger.  Just so simple, as if it was no big deal:

Me: "I'd like to buy a chocolate".  The Vendor: "Sure Madame, no problem...that will be $342 euros".
or,
Me: "I'd like that newspaper".  The Vendor: "Suuuure Madame, but of course...that will be $829 euros". 

If only Switzerland was a charity I'd be more philanthropic than Mother Theresa.  Or more boisterously, like the Sultan of Bahrain throwing my money carelessly in the air showering the streets with my 1 Euro bills

Even our paddle boat was branded with the steering wheel of high-society BMW (however, still energized by the [wo]man-power of yours truly and my very impressed friend).

As gorgeous as Switzerland is, no doubt its beauty is awe-inspiring and picture book perfect, never, ever judge this book by its cover.  Cuz the Swiss paperback might just steal all your money leaving you with a a belly-full of trans fat fast food and not even a penny or pence to buy yo-self some acid-reflux cum anxiety-reducin meds.

In Switzerland, beware.
Open your wallet at your own serious financial risk...or even ruin.

Oooops...I Did It Again

Damn those sailboats.

What is it about the sleek curves, shiny handles, chiseled exterior, buffed hard wood floors, and full-bodied hull - all crashing against fiery waves. Gets me every time.  Every. Time!

But nope, this girl has learned her lesson.  Don't let them smooth sailboats take me for a ride. Uh-uhh.  This time I know better.  This time no sleepovers, no one night stands.  After a few hours sailing the lake seas, I was respectfully going home, thank you very much. No matter how fun, how giddy, how enticing that ride would be, before embarking on that shiny vessel, I did the equivalent of not shaving my legs and promising, resolutely devoting myself, to come ashore with chastity belt intact and no way in hell was I sleeping with that boat.  

3 night stay on the sailor in the Whitsundays, Australia - nearly lost my damn mind.
Overnight on the houseboat in Kerala, India - jesus, twas near death.
Lake Cuomo, Italy - No way in hell was I rolling the dice.

Like a bad boyfriend that you just can't say no to, don't want to say no to. Never really right for ya, a thorn in your side, annoying and frustrating. The one you do more for than he does for you.  Yet, soo charming, attractive and phantasmal that the tear-jerking memories erase themselves and once again you plunge into the depths of lust for someone...something...unreal.

Sailing.  I just can't quit you.

BUT.  The goal, the mission really, is that you learn from your mistakes. You manage your expectations and swallow a large dose of reality. And as one does, so did I.  Lake Cuomo sailing I went.  I would go on this exhilarating ride.  I would enjoy the wind in my hair, tan on my back, undulating vibrations in my soul with my hands firmly on the wheel.  No snoozing in the overnight berths, boat shoes securely kept on, hired private boat, pristine lavatories, even keel, champagne and strawberries - all in all, pure ecstasy.

Empowerment is a beautiful thang. Sailboat abstinence...puh-leeease. Never gonna happen. So instead, a middle ground.  Fully educated, precautions taken, risks assessed and decision made.  A little sail boating does a body good, relieves stress and well sometimes can be quite orgasmic.  As long as I remember: be a good girl and at the end of the day say your goodbyes, blow your kisses and walk satisfyingly home.

Ole Geezers

I mean...respected elders.  Of course.

Oh the quirks..errr...i mean, wisdom, of old people.  Snail strolls, salon parlor games, 9:00 pm bedtimes and gas.   Cute, silly but maybe not so cuddly.  Who knew I wanted to vay-cay with Pa-Pa's and Ne-na's.  I certainly didn't. 

All the picture books, travel brochures, rumors and George Clooney NEVER reported that beatific Lake Cuomo, Italy, housed an ant farm of the elderly.  Everywhere.  In all the lakeside towns, shops, cafe and bars.  The aged.  The mature.  The pushing 100+ crowd.  Like swarms.  And just as wasp nests discourage all outsiders, so have the wise sages of Lake Cuomo dissipated nearly all the young bucks still playing in their 20s and 30s.  No, Ibiza this isn't.  No Rio nor Miami Beach.  THIS tiny enclave surrounding a very bellissimo, never to disappoint, lago in northern Italy is THE Florida of Europe - retirement playground for those seeking a too soon word with God. 

Hotel Britannia, in the lakeside town of Cadenabbia, proved the epicenter for those not only over the hill but through the woods and beyond...and simultaneously our lustrous lodging for a few days.  Alas, old people or not, the Britannia excelled our expectations by enabling us to nest in a gargantuan, castle-like room fit for princesses.  Sky-high ceilings, heavenly-like beds, enough red velvet to challenge Versailles and floor to ceiling windowed doors that opened out into a private balcony with views of utopia forced us to forget our creaky yet enthusiastic neighbors.  Free proseco'd happy hour at 5:00 only enhanced our retirement home ambay-ance. 

So we didn't nightclub it out, shop at trendy boutiques or parlay with any Italian playboys.  Just us gals, another hike, a little silk scarf shopping, and a virgin taste of cappuccino. 

Sometimes, without permission, a tiny breather is forced upon you...to ponder that you are in fact still breathing...and a mini-early retirement becomes quite welcome indeed.  When this respite manifests itself in luxurious Lake Cuomo, shame on me to rag on the aged and elderly while fruity drinks, a soft breeze, the blue water and shaded mountain side surround me. 

A geezerly burp to waken me occasionally?  Who's to complain.

The one sighting and glimmer of youth.  So young, so fresh, so baaaby.

Chinky Terry

Apparently,

"Chinky Terry", it's not. 

"Cheen-ka-wha Te-Ra", it is. 

Cinque Terre, The Italian Riviera. 

At the wee age of 22, after college in '99, a friend and I travelled to a quaint, magnificent, if not slightly sleepy, group of five villages off the north west coast of Italy.  In the Summer of 2009, a much older, wiser, hopefully more beautifully-aged if less fit me, and two equally blessedly well ladies, tracked it back to this now more boisterously fab locale. 

If I ever had visions of the picture perfect European summer, with beaches, tans, gelato cones, cute boys and lazy summers, its interpretation in reality is Cinque Terre.  Five gorgeous villages sit on the luscious and rugged mountainside with shopping, lunch and a bathe in the sea awaiting your arrival. 

However, "arrival" to Cinque Terre is not as modern as our current times.  Trains, boats and/or walking paths provide the only methods of approach as cars cannot reach the villages from the outside.  But what fun limited transportation options bestow.  We ladies chose to take the train in from La Spezia to the first town of Riomaggiore and hike the steep walking paths from town to town.  The first stroll, lovingly nicknamed "Via Dell'Amore", proves wondrous as the breeze high up in the hills compliments the impressive overlooks to the sea.   

But beware the boot camp, height phobic, nightmarish mountain climb from Vernazza to Monterosso.  Oh, a mere 2.5! hours later from the start you feel like an Olympian after delicately navigating narrow, narrow paths, confronting stairs of nature that climb to the heavens, trekking through strangely comforting olive orchards and vineyards to eventually carry abundant cliff-hanger moments courtesy of this "hike" for superheroes. 

The few respites on this so-called "trail" seem almost like stupendous mirages:  Mr. Limonata Man appears out of nowhere among the jungle-like greenery slapping at your forehead to provide ice-cold fresh lemonade for a truly hallelujah moment.  That combined with the occasional awe-inspiring views that can only be seen from the edge of cliffs provide a truly memorable physical adventure. 

Upon arrival at either town depending on which way you started you simply thank the lords you are still alive.  And yet, as you step foot on solid, cement ground once again, a smile forms ear to ear as you realize that the beaches and sea lazily welcome you back and soak you in like a pat on the back for a trek well done. 

 

Life...

so..occasionally, sometimes...every once in awhile...this pestering lil thing called LIFE gets in the way.

and so against all desires, wishes and wants a pause is required.

thereby, my little travel food blog that could is on hold for a very short time.

but...no worries and no sorrows.  a few days, maybe a couple of weeks, okay at least a month and travel writing by yours truly will resume.  hopefully, actual travelling will as well.