Castle in the clouds

The old city of Carcasonne.

Carcasonne is schizophrenic.  Have you heard the phrase, “Neurotics build Castles in the Clouds.  Psychotics live in them”.  Well, Carcasonne has a castle in the clouds.  I know, because I was up there.  I don’t know what that says about my state of mind but reality has never been my strong suit.  Ask Telen – she’ll tell you.

View from the Ramparts of the old city (cool word - "Ramparts")

The reason I say that Carcasonne is schizophrenic is because it has a split personality.  There are two distinct cities.  One is the lower city  - which is like an accountant’s wet dream – it is laid out in a perfect grid.  This is the more modern of the two cities and is orderly and sedate.  The other city is the old city and it is an accountant’s nightmare.   It is a very old city that was originally fortified by the Romans and upgraded periodically as invaders came and went.  Currently it sits up on the hill like a fairy-tale castle looking down with some distain on the lower city.  I am not talking Disney fairy-tale – I am talking Brother’s Grimm.  It is solid, grey, foreboding and impregnable.  All the things you want in a castle.

Another view from the Ramparts (love that word!) of the new city

Once you get through the main portcullis the defenders of the city attack you.  These days it is considered bad form to shoot invaders with arrows or stab them with swords so the defenders are more subtle.

They take your money.

The city is one huge tourist trap with a million shops selling swords (plastic, wooden or steel), armor (plastic or metal) and crossbows (wooden with suction cups on the arrows).  All of these are exorbitantly priced and of questionable quality.

I am of two minds about this.  I am not sure I want to see swords of good quality being sold in tourist shops after seeing a couple of little boys with wooden swords hammering away at each other protected only by plastic helmets and imaginary armor.  Luckily for them and their parents the boys seemed to think the object of the exercise was to smack the swords together and yell a lot.

The majority of the shops sell these things along with various and sundry other fantasy/medieval things.  I don’t understand how all those shops can be selling the identical things yet still stay in business.  I did stop into a knife shop in the city because the knives made in this area have a reputation for being of extremely good quality.  Indeed they had many knives along with actual swords, battle-axes, morning-star maces, and daggers.  I half expected to see a couple of grown men outside the shop speaking in stilted English and slicing at each other with sabers.  It’s all fun and games until someone puts an eye out.

The bridge into the castle.  As you can see the moat is now being used as a garden.  I guess the invaders are not coming back.

I have always been fascinated with castles, knights, quests and chivalry.  Ever since I was a small boy I found the tales of King Arthur fascinating.   They were always a heady mix of history and fantasy.  I always pictured myself as a knight in shining armour on my gallant steed with my magic sword and pure heart rescuing the beautiful damsel in distress. 

Things did not turn out quite the way I imagined.  My attempts to become a knight fizzled somewhat and I became a pharmacist instead.   Not high on the gallant, charging to the rescue side of things.  I have a magic sword – or reasonable facsimile thereof – it is my Swiss Army knife.  I call it Bob. When horses see me coming with a saddle in hand they tend to startle, rear and gallop for safety.  So, my gallant steed is a bicycle.  Since riding a bicycle in full plate armor tends to be slow and noisy I have to wear Lycra.  Pure of heart?  As I said – I am a pharmacist.  As far as rescuing damsels in distress - it tends to be more the other way around these days.

Knight in shining armour?   I don't think so!

This is the first time I have ever been in a castle.  I did not realize just how cold, damp and drafty they are.   But very cool nonetheless.  Castles are made to defend oneself from attacking armies and as such they are sturdy, made of stone and high up on a hill.   Carcasonne is all of these and it is tres cool in both a temperature and a status sense.  I really liked it.  I had heard the terms portcullis, curtain wall, ramparts, drawbridge, battlements and keep but I had never seen them.  My inner medieval knight tried to awaken at the sight of them.   I had this terrible urge to whip out my trusty Swiss Army knife, Bob, and brandish it at the foe, sweep Telen up onto my bike and ride into the sunset with a trumpet salute in the background.

Telen said, “Put that stupid knife away before you poke your eye out!”

Oh well.

Damsel in distress?   Nope.

Telen writes:

The castle is indeed beautiful.  Apparently the movie “Robin Hood-prince of thieves” was filmed there.  I certainly had neither the desire to play the gallant knight like Rand or be the helpless princess locked up a tower waiting to be rescued.  My goal was to taste a famous local dish called cassoulet.

Cassoulet is a rich, slow-cooked casserole from the south of France.  It contains meat (typically pork sausages, goose and/or duck), pork skin and white haricot beans.  I was able to eat only 60% of it because it was very rich and filling.  I could imagine how wonderful this would be to a farmer, hungry after a day working in the fields.  Unfortunately my stomach protested violently afterwards.   My search for the ultimate French dishes continues! 

I miss Italy.

  

    

Arles, matey!

Arles, finally is like France.  Nice and Monaco were more like some North American’s bizarre spaced out opium dream of France.  Granted, Monaco is not France but close enough - especially in a bizarre opium dream.

Arles:  main drag where all the hot action is.

 Arles is a small medieval city in Provence.  It has obviously been there a while since there are Roman ruins in the city and Big Julio of the Caesar crime family paid a visit.  The arena that is in Arles is actually in better shape albeit quite a bit smaller than the one in Rome.  It is still in use.  That worried me. There are a lot of Christian churches in Arles as there is in most places in Europe.   That means there are a lot of Christians. If I was a Christian and there was this functioning Roman arena just around the corner I might be a little nervous and I might avoid the subject of lions.

The Arena in Arles.  Christians can finally relax - the lions have left and all we are left with is Bull

After swaggering around Arles for a little while exclaiming loudly about drinking lots of wine to worship Bacchus and then heading off visit some Vestal Virgins I found out that they use the arena for bull-fighting now.  I was glad to hear that because I was getting some very, very nasty looks from the locals. 

In the bull fighting in Arles the bull gets to fight another day.  The matadors don’t gang up on and kill the bull with a thousand small sword wounds like they do in Spain.  In Arles they try to take the ribbons off the bull’s horns.  The worst-case for the bull is that he just doesn’t look as pretty when he leaves the arena.  The worst-case scenario for the bullfighter is that he leaves the area via ambulance clutching a hand-full of blood soaked ribbons.  Sounds fair to me.

The Roman Theatre in Arles.  It is still operating today - notice the modern lattice arrangement for lights.  Modern improvements - the Romans built a theatre that lasted 2000 years but THEY didn't have electric lights.  Nah nah nah NAH na-na!

Arles is not pronounced “Arrels” as we Anglophones would say it.  It is properly pronounced “AR–luh” with the emphasis on the “AR” part.  That would explain why when we tried to book a train ticket to Arles from Nice the ticket agent looked blankly at us and said, “Pardon?” “Arrells”, “Pardon” “ARRELLS!” “Ey am sorry, Missyew, but zere ees no plass een Fronce wiss zat nom”  “Yes there is!  Right here on this map in Province. And don’t call me Miss Yu!”  “Pardon?

On our walk from the train station in Arles we discovered an interesting thing about the French.  They LOVE their dogs.  What they don’t love is picking up after their dogs.  Everyone seems to have a dog and they take them everywhere with them – into the grocery stores, restaurants, museums and on the sidewalks.  Guess what you find everywhere on the sidewalks?  You find yourself doing a little dance down the sidewalks in France – step left, left again, right, left, jump, slow, slow, quick quick…  You begin to wonder what is going to happen to all that dog poop.  Is it gradually going to bury the city and they will build more city on top?  In the far future the archeologists will probably never be able to bring themselves to dig up the ruins of the French cities.

Our host in Arles, Danielle told us that the next day there was an outdoor market that stretched along the whole main street of Arles.  Everything would be available there from the usual junk to a local farmer’s market.  Telen’s eyes immediately glazed over and she developed a look on her face that one might see on a chocaholic at the doors of the Cadbury factory.  Danielle and I both backed slowly away and I spoke carefully and calmly to Telen, “The market us not until tomorrow, honey.  Put the shopping bag down, now.  No one needs to get hurt.  Everything is going to be OK…”

The outdoor market in Arles.  This is the spice vendor.

The market was amazing.  It seemed to go on forever and they had everything you could think of.  One side was the usual junk that might have gone missing from some shipping container somewhere to an incredible farmer’s market.   Not only was there vegetables but they also had hot foods, wines, olive oils, meats, honey and jams, roasting chickens and on and on.  Telen was in heaven – darting here and there.  Following her was like trying to grab a rainbow.  She did not even notice the heavy rain, wind and cold.

Although Arles is a beautiful little town we saw it at it’s worst.  The weather was grim.  It rained most of the time and it was cold and windy.  One of the locals told us that they have received more rain since January than they normally get all year.  Provence is known for its warm sunny weather - which is why Van Gogh came here.

Just singin' in the rain!

It was pretty interesting to walk the same streets that Van Gogh walked and did his painting on.   We stopped at the point on the Rhone where he painted his famous “Starry Night” and we even had lunch at his “Café de La Nuit”.  Granted the latter was a little touristy and expensive but one doesn’t get that opportunity every day.  It crossed my mind that Van Gogh died a pauper.  He only ever sold one picture in his entire life.  The restaurant and many other shops are making quite a bit of money off of Van Gogh’s name and I wonder if his heirs ever get any of it.

Van Gogh's painting of Cafe de La Nuit

Cafe de La Nuit.  with modern improvements i.e. electric lights

Luckily for us the local museum had a Rodin exhibition going on while we were there.  We went to see it and their computers were down so we got in free.   The difference between Canada and France – in Canada they would shut the exhibition down - in France they just let you in free. 

Rodin was a very prolific sculptor and painter and it was amazing to see his “Thinker” and his “The Venus de Milo”.  He was influenced by Michelangelo.  It was obvious in his work, but he tended to depict women as women and not as robust men with boobs.  This was probably because, unlike Michelangelo, he was heterosexual.  His work was amazing in it’s incredible rendition of the human body. 

We lucked out here in Arles as far as artists go - being able to see the works of Rodin and to walk the streets with the spirit of Vincent Van Gogh. 

Telen writes:

I had a great time wandering through the street market in Arles.  It seems that most towns in France have a weekly market where one finds fresh local produce, fresh bread and pastries.  The supermarkets generally have rather poor quality fresh produce and offer mainly household products and nonperishable goods.  I like the atmosphere, watching the locals speaking in rapid French and fastidiously picking through various produce.  We bought a roast chicken and some asparagus for the evening meal that day.  The roast chicken was so hot and fresh that Rand felt its heat through his backpack as we walked home.

Me in Place Van Gogh where he was sent to recover.  He painted the garden in the background

  

The Last Train to Nice-Ville

Nice is nice.  Monaco – not so much.

Nice-Ville

It was a huge contrast weather-wise from the Italian lakes to Nice.  The Italian lakes were cold, windy, and rainy whereas Nice was sunny and warm.  I am not talking about perspiring warm – I am talking about pleasantly comfortable.  It was… nice. 

There are two train stations in Nice. One is called Nice-Riquier, which sounded pleasant, but the one we got off at is called Nice-Ville.  It sounded like a little town in Canada.

How can you go wrong arriving at this place?

It is hard to think of yourself in France when you are in Nice.  Nice is on the French Riviera where the rich and famous (and us) come for holidays.  That means it feels more like San Diego or the rich areas of Los Angeles.  There are palm trees everywhere planted in meticulously manicured gardens and grand-looking hotels and Casinos. 

Fancy-Schmancy!  We did NOT stay here!  

There is also Burger King, McDonalds, Subway and KFC.  Everyone knows that no self-respecting Frenchman, or any self-respecting Italian would be caught dead eating at one of those places.  I guess tourists have no self-respect.

One of the things one must do in Nice is La Promenade des Anglais.  Translated from the French that means the English Walk.  This is not to be confused with the Monty Python “Ministry of Silly Walks” sketch.  I got confused.  Telen quickly put on an “I’m not with him” attitude as I did my best John Cleese imitation down the waterfront walkway.  Eventually she sidled nonchalantly up beside me and casually kicked my feet out from under me.  Crashing to the sidewalk with a loud grunt seemed to draw less attention than my previous behavior.  Then I had to go find some itinerant to repair the  sidewalk...

Telen doing the English Walk

In reality the English Walk is a waterfront walkway that was built, at the behest of the wealthy English, in the 1800’s by a large number of itinerant beggars who came to Nice after a particularly bad winter.  At that time the wealthy English were coming to Nice for their winter holidays and thought that it was a good project for these impoverished transients.  Hence the name La Promenade des Anglais.  It runs along the beach on the Mediterranean and has become the place to see and be seen.

As far as seeing and being seen being comfortable is not a requirement. As I said, the weather was pleasantly warm but certainly not hot, however the beach below the Promenade was littered with sunbathers.   It was not that warm!  I guess it is more important to look good than to be comfortable.  I thought that was a peculiarly North American phenomenon but apparently it holds true in Europe as well.  A lot of them were sunbathing in the typical European fashion i.e. topless.  You could tell they were cold.

It was not really warm enough to be sunbathing.  Some people just gotta be brown

The beaches at Nice were a bit of a disappointment.  I had envisioned soft white sand beaches like those in Hawaii or Mexico.  The beaches in Nice are rocks.  The beaches look artificial but I guess they had no sand because they used rocks that are about the size of chicken eggs.  They don’t warm up really quickly either.  The water, of course is the Mediterranean and is not really warm.  You can swim in it in much the same way as you can take Cod Liver Oil.  You can do it, but you’re not going to like it. Unless you think anything awful has got to be good for you.  The Germans swim there.

Nice at night.  No reason to put this picture here except that I like it

Since we were not going to be sunbathing and since we had already done La Promenade des Anglais we decided to take a day trip to Monaco.  We had passed through Monaco on our way to Nice but the train was underground the whole way.  Kind of disappointing.  It was only 1 hour and few Euros on the train to Monaco so we thought we would rub elbows with the fabulously wealthy.

Telen rubbing elbows with the rich and famous in Monaco.  Ok, maybe there were no elbows to rub... but she was allowed to look.

Monaco has the highest per capita income in the world and the highest population density.  That means it has the highest money per square foot in the world.  Kind of like a concentrated currency syrup.  Prince Albert himself has over a billion euros of his own.  There are no taxes in Monaco so lots of people who have way too many zeros before the decimal place in their bank accounts come here to protect those zeros. If there are no taxes in Monaco where does Prince Albert get all his billions?  If you see someone who has a lot of cash and no source of income…  I’m just saying.

The cheap side of Monaco.  Notice - hardly any yachts...

Normally a train station is a big event.  There is usually a large building with big signs saying  “Train Station” or “Gare “ or “Termine” or various iterations thereof.  In Monaco you arrive underground and you take escalators and tunnels and eventually you walk out of a discrete little doorway in what appears to be a storefront.  There is a little sign beside the door that indicates that it is the “Gare”.  How gauche is it to have a train station anyway when everyone who is anyone travels by private jet or yacht.

Monaco is impressive if conspicuous spending impresses you.  It is a very, very small country with a very, very big bank account.  We saw real estate listings for 2 bedroom apartments for a mere two millions Euros.  Unfurnished, of course.  We saw a yacht in the Harbour that was for sale for 27 million.  Fuel not included.

Strangely enough amidst all this overwhelming wealth we did not see a lot of places to spend your money.  There were lots of tacky little tourist shops all selling the usual T -shirts, coffee mugs and assorted bric-a-brac but none of the Prada, Armani, and Gucci T-shirts, coffee mugs and assorted bric-a-brac.  I guess those people with enough money to move to Monaco to cocoon their Euros are also smart enough to not spend their money on Prada, Armani and Gucci.   Unless, of course, they are Prada, Armani and Gucci. 

Parking lot in Monaco

Of course we did not see all of Monaco.  They probably have all those expensive shops in places that are off limits to the riff-raff.   We qualify as riff-raff. 

Interestingly enough when we climbed the hill to the Prince’s Palace we noticed there was a defibrillator at the bottom of the hill and one again at the top of the hill.  Those made me wonder at the average age of the people who climbed that hill.  While we were up at the top an ambulance came racing up the hill with the siren blaring. If you die in Monaco do you have to pay death taxes…?

One day in Monaco was enough.  There was a few interesting things to see but not a lot.  It was an interesting thing to say that we dropped by at Monaco on our holidays.  When you say that you have to say it like you are yawning and with a posh British accent.  People will be so impressed!

A big annual event in Monaco

They were setting up for the Formula 1 Grand Prix on the 23rd of May.  Some people just play with bigger toys than others I guess.

I just had Hot Wheels when I was a kid.