Category Archives: Travel

An Eastward Homage, Day 6: To Paris, With An Absent Crowd

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Sunday, June 1 was one of those days that starts out with everything going like clockwork, hits about five rough patches, and then ends with everything silky smooth.  I had no trouble checking out of Q Greenhotel, rode the tram into downtown Frankfurt with a Sri Lankan-German taxi driver, who had the day off (Please, no “Busman’s Holiday” jokes) and enjoyed a leisurely continental breakfast at the Hauptbanhof (Central Train Station), before boarding the train to Paris.  It left a few minutes late, but I was just fine with that, as there were only three of us in the second class train, clear to Saarbrucken.  Here a few of the things we saw, between Frankfurt and the French border.  First, auf wiedershehn to Frankfurt, my first European host since 1982.  You have set the tone, and Europe is less daunting, even for someone like me.

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Forty minutes out, we came to Mannheim.  I was expecting a fairly large contingent of American servicemen boarding here for Paris, but few people came on board.  Here is the Maritim Hotel, one of Mannheim’s grandest.

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West of the large city, the mountains of Baden-Wurttemburg began to show themselves.  There were some mountains in the area, as is pretty much true of all of lower Wurttemburg.  Hikers were out in force, as were filmmakers and barbecue grillers.

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Here is a small parish, east of Kaiserlautern.

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The row houses of Saarbrucken were the the last notable site in Germany, before we crossed the border into France.  It was here that we were joined by about 30 people, most of them academics, who were coming from a conference in Koln.

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I arrived in the Gare du Nord District, in good enough time to get  on my way to my hotel, or so I thought.

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With good directions as to the AREA, I made it easily to Montmartre, which I THOUGHT was the location of Monte Carlo Hotel. I was reassured by a local resident at the base of  the hill leading to Eglise Sacre Coeur that that was so.  All the locals I asked, atop the hill, thought differently.  Turns out the Rue Faubourg Montmartre is a LONG way from the district of Montmartre.  A kind Tourist Office clerk set me straight, though sans street number.  I eventually got that, in a hotel in the 9th Arrondisement (District), that was about four blocks down from the Monte Carlo.  At 5:30 PM, I checked into my cozy room, which is about the size of my old bedroom when I was a kid.

Well, since I was up top on Montmartre, here are three scenes from there.

First, these are the steps.  There is a transom, which I at least used going down.

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Next, here is the goal of the steadfast among us:  L’Eglise Sacre Coeur.

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Lastly, here is the view from the top, which spared me from climbing Le Tour Eiffel.

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I finally made it to Monte Carlo at 5:15 PM.  The first thing I did, once checking in, was find all the remaining hotel telephone numbers on my list.  The Monte Carlo is the last photo on this set.  I know I said two posts would be up tonight, but downward and sleepward.  See you manana.

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An Eastward Homage, Day 5: Germany’s Tank Engine

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Many people have told me that Germany is a squeaky clean country, almost obsessively so.  That is no longer the case, at least with the obsessively clean part.  Around the Central Train Station, at several bus stops, and in some of the large apartment blocks, cleanliness remains a constant challenge.  The CST , or Hauptbanhof (Hbf), is still a very stately place, and a beehive within this greater beehive that is Frankfurt am Main.  Get used to my using the local names of things.  Everyone I have met here breaks out their English, as soon as I speak German (or French, for that matter,) with my North American accent.  It’s important to go halfway with these things, if we are ever to really understand one another.  Still and all, I will carry on here with putting the local term side by side with our English colloquialism.

Here is Frankfurt Hauptbanhof, inside and out.

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I spent several minutes, once disgorged from the speedy train from Frankfurt International Airport, trying to find the bus stop for the route given me at the Information Booth. This is where my fatigue kicked in, and it took three other people being asked, before the Captain Obvious scenario played out, and I was en route to my Saturday night lodging.  I left my bags in the hotel’s safe, and was registered by a rather saturnine desk clerk.  When I returned from the mandatory hiatus, at 2 PM, I saw why:  A group of 75-100 university students were at the hotel for the night, with all that could imply.  The men outnumbered the women, almost 3:1, but I would hear no hanky-panky or excessive noise, during the night.  These folks have built a culture of deepening true friendship, and I hope it continues, without being side-tracked by “real world” distractions.

I walked to the Frankfurt Messerhaus, the city’s major trade and exhibition hall.  On the way, I discovered a small wursthaus (sausage restaurant), run by a couple who are German/Polish.  They have been here in Frankfurt for twenty years, and have watched the world come to Germany.  Indeed, an African woman runs a grocery store, a Sri Lankan man has driven a taxi for  35 years, and East Asian people are everywhere.  We are at the point where EVERYONE is EVERYWHERE, and that’s a good thing, to me.

Anyway, here is the hotel where 200 kids, and I, stayed last night.

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Many German homes maintain the “fairy-tale” quality that places them in so many of the “original” Grimm tales.

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That quality is enhanced by the evergreens nearby.

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Any economic powerhouse needs good parts for its engine.  These parts in Frankfurt are largely provided by the work done through the auspices of Frankfurt Trade Center, or Messershaus Frankfurt.

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Here is a look at downtown Frankfurt’s skyline and a couple of more light-hearted scenes.SAM_8882

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With that, I am tired by today’s long and full series of life lessons.  Tomorrow, a tale of transition between cultures.

An Eastward Homage, Day 4: Leaping over a Very Large Pond

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I had a close call on the night of May 29, just my error of being an inch or two to the left of being in good visual command of oncoming traffic.  No one was injured, no cars collided or left the pavement.   I just needed a reminder of a very important point: Little things matter.

I would be reminded of that fact in two unrelated incidents on Sunday, but getting back to Day 4.  I awoke, with sufficient alacrity that I was going to drive the rental car successfully back to its lot, without damage to any car or any driver or passenger.  I forewent breakfast, save a cup of coffee, until the job was done.  The big thing is, I found how easy it actually is to get to Wyndham Gardens Hotel, near Newark International Airport.  DON’T LISTEN TO VOICES OF DOOM!  “OMG, you’re going to make all those quick turns, with those impatient people, at rush hour?”  Yes, I did, and here’s how to get to the place, if you ever need or want to, from west of Newark:  Take I-78 east to Rtes 1 & 9 South, stay to the left, with the commuting traffic, and exit at Haynes Road.  Take International Way, past the Park and Ride turnoff, and go into the Wyndham parking lot.  Yes, you need to take an entry ticket, but leave it in the car.

I made it to each of my flights, with time to spare.  Briefly, Newark to Montreal left on time and was smooth.   My seat mate was very quiet and seemed as if she were heading towards something WAY out of her comfort zone.  Montreal to Ottawa, via a twin engine prop, left ten minutes late, due to the lingering threat of lightning.  We had it easy, staying inside the terminal.  Three planeloads of passengers and crew waited outside, in their planes.  Once the threat passed, they came in, en masse.  I got a chance to buy a new ballpoint pen out of the deal, by virtue of having time to do an OJ and bound up and down the stairs, with full backpack and bag.  I am getting a lot of weight and endurance training on this trip.

The food benefits are not bad, though.  At Ottawa International Airport, I enjoyed a BLT, with mozzarella sticks on the side, plus the usual fries.  Not Health City, exactly, but satisfying, after a long morning and afternoon.  When I off-handedly remarked to myself that someone had left their receipt unsigned, on the table, Charles, the server, deadpanned:  “That would be the person who sat here before you.”  His service after that little quip was exemplary, though, and was a good send-off to Frankfurt, in its way.  So, too, was this:

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Ottawa has accented its heritage as a gateway to the north country, but with none of the “redneck chic” hokum that undercuts the real fineness and beauty of the area and its people.  The city is no longer in anyone’s shadow.

I had, as seatmates on the Ottawa- Frankfurt flight, a Turkish couple and their college age daughter, who were polite and cordial, but mainly kept to themselves, chatting in German about a variety of subjects,  My TV kept me plenty busy, as did writing in my pen-and-ink journal, which accompanies this blog.  On hand were an episode of “Rookie Blues”, a Canadian police drama, and a film version of the story of Ste. Jeanne d’Arc, whose real story I will view in Rouen, this coming Thursday.  Finally, I was a silent viewer of  “Ronin”, a Keanu Reeves action film, with him as a samurai rebel, or so it looked from where I sat.  Both “The Messenger”(the Joan of Arc bio) and “Ronin” were tales of righteous obsession, juxtaposed with naked self-service and aggression.

MORNING!  The light greeted us sleepyheads, while we were still over England, and just about all of our section had the progress of the flight on our screens, in an “Are we there yet?” fashion.  We arrived, had a smooth landing, went through immigration, in perfunctory fashion, and I was out on the streets of Frankfurt by 7:10 AM, Western Europe/ West Africa time.  It did take me another hour or so to locate the bus to the area where my hotel is located- and that’s a story for Day 5.

An Eastward Homage, Day 3: The Sum Total

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Posted by on in Personal goals, Travel

I had no trouble getting up the morning of May 29, having briefly risen at 3 AM, said a prayer in honour of Baha’ullah’s passing, 122 years ago today.  I thought later that morning of my youngest brother, Brian, who would have turned 50 today, had he not suffered for 22 years and died after 29 of them.

Today on the ground, however, was about the family Norm Fellman left behind, especially his wife, my mother-in-law.  The family is at their south Jersey home, in a place called Vineland.  I had a heart-wrenching visit with my MIL, and will not go into detail as to all she, or her daughter, shared.  .

What were nice were two things:  A walk around their immediate neighbourhood, and the London Broil dinner we had, fresh off the grill.  Wynne and David have worked hard at making the home nice for her devoted mother.  Here are some scenes of home and neighbourhood.  The sum total of this whole trip is the devotion of family.  I have my part to share in this.  It is to visit those sites which Norm and his comrades-in-arms sanctified with their sacrifices, whether by dying or by suffering both internal and external wounds.

For most of us, wounds are hard to conceal.  The pain of loss is felt by all, including the family’s last surviving dog. The window box, though, is a spirit lifter, which Wynne has prepared in her father’s memory.

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We did get a change of scene, by walking about the immediate neighbourhood, which is filled with both architectural and botanical gems.  The first we saw was a red maple, spread fully with stunning foliage, long before Fall.

Here’s a little rabbit, just before Willow charged at it.

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The great forests have nothing on Vineland.

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One of Vineland’s most stately Georgian era homes is now an attorney’s office.  Note the special feature in the chimney.

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Back at the house, it struck me how it is similar, in some respects, to the old house at Longmeadow Farm.  Mom remembers the farm as their strongest dream, and greatest success, as a couple. Joseph Campbell advises us to “Follow your bliss.”  This, the Fellmans did, and in spades.  Now, all of us are protected by a cadre of angels.

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An Eastward Homage, Day 2: Broken Stuff

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My flight to Newark, from Phoenix via Charlotte, started inconspicuously enough.  We flew out on time (11:40 PM) and I got about four hours of sleep on the first leg of the trip.  My seat mate was a quiet young lady, also concerned with using the dark stretch of  the route for a restorative sleep.

We got to Charlotte on time, and I enjoyed a light breakfast.  Leaving the Queen City, though, was definitely an exercise in patience.  Technical safety issues plagued the lead flight attendant, and it took an hour to get her situated in a flight-worthy jump seat.  No one squawked, for after all, everyone needs to both feel and BE safe- on any public transport.

The delay gave me another hour of sleep, and the flight itself, still another forty-five minutes’ worth of shuteye.  My seat mate for this leg was a very pretty, engaging young lady, M, who is an artist living and working in Manhattan.  We discussed the September 11 memorial and agreed that a Gift Shop, in such a place is a bit questionable, and certainly difficult to pull off.  Time will tell on that last point, but it is not my idea of a proper memorial.

We left Charlotte an hour late, so we arrived at Newark an hour late.  Then, the conveyor belt bringing our luggage to the carousel, broke.  It took about twenty-five minutes to get it up and running again, but this break down in the system got very old, fast.  M had enough on her plate, and I was getting very tired and wished for one thing:  My motel room in Parsippany, and hot running water.

“Not so fast!”, said the Universe.  After I had my luggage in hand, including the “carry-on” that I checked-in, for the Team, at the last minute on Tuesday night, it was time to go get my rental car.  Of course, the Advantage Car agency is NOT at the Rental Car Lot.  It is at  Wyndham Gardens.  It was amazing, the way one thinks all similar companies ought hang together in one spot, but it seldom works that way.  There is always at least one outlier.  Advantage is a nice agency, and gave me a lovely nearly new compact car, for which I asked.  One thing on which they were off was the set of directions for getting on I-78 West.

I never did get on the 78.  The 1 & 9, secondary highways that somewhat parallel the 78, got me to NJ Highway 7, which got me to  Hwy 23, then back to the 46.  I had nothing pre-arranged today, but I am still concerned with there being a striving for accuracy in direction-giving.  The directions I was given had me headed to the Holland Tunnel.  Granted, the Wyndham Gardens is off the beaten track, as Newark area hotels go, but hey, if I can navigate to Red Roof Inn,  in Parsippany, with no GPS- the car rental people can give accurate info.

It ended well, though.  I enjoyed a great corned beef Reuben at Clifton Bagels and Deli, en route to Parsippany, reveled in my return to humanness, once at Red Roof Inn, and had one of the best Fujien-style Chinese meals in memory, at Qin Dynasty, next to Red Roof Inn.  The cook threw bits of well-cooked squid in with my cashew chicken, bringing back fond memories of our Jeju days.

Tomorrow, after paying  early morning respects to Baha’ullah, on the 122nd Anniversary of His Ascension, I will head down to Vineland, NJ, in mid-morning, and visit with Penny’s Mom and sister for a spell.  Their spirits are up and down, as might be expected, but they are far from broken.  Northeast Jersey, you aren’t broken either- so believe in yourselves, and get it together!

An Eastward Homage, Day 1: A More Timely Departure

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Posted by on in Personal goals, Travel

This morning began as most days do:  Prayers, errands and reading the paper, over coffee.  The usual stuff took on more urgent tones, around 9:30, and there were bills paid for June and July, brief visits to a couple of friends and last-minute mailings of various items.

I made the walk to Hassayampa Inn, and a rendezvous with the airport shuttle, in plenty of time this afternoon.  This gave me an excuse to photograph the Hassaymapa’s lovely east courtyard garden.

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The shuttle ride was smooth and swift, and provided a chance to hear the insights of a local pastor/psychologist.  Like me, he is urgently concerned with the mental health and well-being of  the surviving Prescott Hotshot, and of the families of the men who were killed, nearly a year ago.

Sky Harbor Airport was crowded and bustling, at 6 PM.  I passed through security without fanfare, though a book I had just finished, “Touch the Top of the World”, by Erik Weihenmayer, got lost in an unguarded moment.  Whoever has it now is in for a treat.  Erik, a blind man, has successfully climbed peaks as disparate as Everest, Mt. McKinley, Aconcagua, El Capitan and Kilimanjaro, with various teams.   His story should prove inspiring to anyone, regardless of one’s personal challenges.

My new read is “Bunker Hill”, by Nathaniel Philbrick.  This will keep me enthralled, during several flights in the days ahead.  Sky Harbor at night is a different place.  As happens elsewhere after hours. those waiting for night flights gather as a sociable family, of sorts.  The insular crowds of the daylight hours have gone on, and the Redeye Crowd are pumped for their flights into the morning sunlight, or California midnight, as the case may be.

I whiled the waiting period away at Olive and Ivy Marketplace, a nice little deli and pizzeria.

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Well, kids, it’s time to put this computer away, and mosey on down to the gate.  The Queen City, Charlotte, NC, is next on the itinerary, then on to Newark, and a day or two in the familiar climes of the Garden State.

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Trailheads and Paths, Issue 19: Arizona’s Mount Vernon

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Posted by on in Travel

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Prescott’s Mount Vernon Avenue is an amalgam of much that makes the town a draw for those who seek a blend of nature and luxury. It starts with a series of Victorian Era homes, ranging from full-on elegance to well-built, lower middle class bungalows.  The road goes uphill steadily, then leads to Senator Highway, with its many forest camps and the rustic beauty of the Hassayampa resort area.

Five of Mount Vernon Avenue’s homes made up the conclusion of my historic homes tour on May 3.  Here are nineteen photos of this diverse street’s best offerings.

I went first to the Hedrick D. Aitken House, home to a storekeeper and his family.  “Hed” was one of the early members of Hassayampa Country Club, and is said to have golfed 18 holes, each morning before work.

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Here are two shots of the interior, a photograph of Mattie Tuttle Aitken’s aunt, and one of the current lady of the house, as “Mattie”.

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I net visited the Ralph Roper House, a Victorian Cottage, which was home to Prescott’s first dentist.

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The living room gives the lie to the name “cottage”.

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The present owner was laid back, preferring to sit on the porch and trade snarky barbs with some of the visitors.

I moved on, to the Hesla House, whose owners were very engaged in showing the house, dividing the visitors into small groups, and themselves dressed in Fin de Siecle garb.

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Here are some of the more interesting features of the Hesla.  First, it has one of the larger gardens along Mount Vernon.

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Wood-ringed bath tubs were rare then, as now.

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A Victrola provided the evening entertainment, before the heyday of radio.

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Dolls were serious works of art, as the Nineteenth Century drew to a close.

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Ceramic eggs, which I remember from my aunt’s house as a child, were another item of late Victorian decor.

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No Victorian home would have been complete without a chandelier.

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This view of  the Sanglier House, a Queen Anne Cottage, shows the vagaries of lighting a house naturally, at the edge of a hill.

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Carved animal heads, over a door, were the mark of the owner’s spirit.

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The last house on the tour was the Lodge-Hicks house, a bungalow.

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The decor was more reflective of the Forties and Fifties.

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The little jaunt was encapsulated by this bit of sage advice:

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Each resident of these delightful homes has followed this maxim, in their own way.

Trailheads and Paths, Issue 18: Goldwater’s Glittering Mansion

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Posted by on in Travel

Henry Goldwater, the brother of Barry, ran the mercantile interests of one of  Arizona’s premier families during his brother’s time in the national political arena.  Henry and his family lived in this Norton & Patton home, for much of the 20th Century.  It is a melange of stylistic features, suggesting a turret, without actually having one.

Here is a first view of this most grandiose of the Union Street mansions.

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Given its popularity that day, I spent some time waiting on the front porch.

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Those familiar with Senator Goldwater will see the family resemblance, in Henry’s countenance.

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The kitchen and dining room are wide open to each other.

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Being a true Arizonan, Henry favoured a large garden area, and a sizable guest house.

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You may notice the variety of art, from Classical Greek to Theravada Buddhist. Modern items crop up here and there, as well.

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Then, there’s an old cowboy hangin’ around.

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I am partial to old wooden tiles on tall houses like this.  They just add character.

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The view from the third floor can’t be beat, either.

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I always like a beautiful person, with a garland of flowers around her hair.

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Upon leaving the Goldwater Mansion, still a private residence, I came upon a classic car from the 1930’s.

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Next door, and to the east, is another old gem, now a law office.

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I walked a bit down Alarcon Street, and found the Gage-Murphy House, now an apartment building.  One of the residents let me inside for a bit, but I satisfied myself with a single photo of the exterior.

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The last place in this segment of the tour was Prescott’s premier Bed and Breakfast, Pleasant Street Inn.  It was first built in 1906, at the site of the present Prescott Police Station.  The house was moved to its Pleasant Street location in 1990.

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As it was still early for some of the inn’s guests, we stayed downstairs and walked through the dining room and kitchen.

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This potpourri of styles was matched by that of the last segment of the tour:  Five houses on South Mount Vernon Avenue.

Trailheads and Paths, Issue 17: In and Out The Windows, (and Doors)

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Posted by on in Travel

Home tours would bore me, growing up.  I wanted to be outside, running pell mell here and there, or at least in one of my little nooks or crannies in the woods or on one of the hill tops near our house.  Gradually, though, I came to value the connection between homes and their attendant gardens and yards.  My fascination with the Story of Man had a lot to do with this.

On  May 3, I joined a day long tour of several Victorian and Edwardian homes, near downtown Prescott.  The city has done a fine job of creating Historic Districts, of which there are five.  Private enterprise has done the rest- and the Prescott Downtown Partnership offered an excellent Open House, with nine properties highlighted, that day.

Here is a look at these, which I originally intended to post yesterday, Mother’s Day, before life intervened, in the form of Death.

I stopped first at the Marks House.  The area of Union Street on which it, and three other historic homes, are located is called Nob Hill, a somewhat pretentious reference to the eponymous neighbourhood of San Francisco.  Marks House was owned by Jake Marks, a colourful rancher and miner of the 1890’s.

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Marks House was built in the Queen Anne style, which meant a turret was part of the design.

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Here is a scene from inside the residence.  The copper tub is unique to this house, among Union Street domiciles, anyway.

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The framed photos of Jake and his wife bid visitors hello and goodbye.

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The manicured back yard favoured croquet tournaments.

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I meandered next over to C.A. Peter House, now a vacation rental.  It is remarkably well-maintained.

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Hand-painted wallpaper evokes the spirit of Prescott’s mine baron heyday.

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A handsome settee was useful for those who were winded by climbing the steps to the house, or by exploring all three of its well-appointed floors.

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Steam heat was a must, from the 1880’s right up until the mid- 1960’s.

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Decorative art alludes to the growing connections between the Mountain West, and the rest of the world, including China.

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Mr. Peter enjoyed a fabulous view of the Sierra Prieta, to the southwest.

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In the second of three installments, I will look at Henry Goldwater House, and at a few other locales, including Prescott’s most prestigious Bed and Breakfast.

Trailheads and Paths, Issue 15: Lamplight of Learning in the Inland Empire

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Posted by on in Travel

Redlands, CA is one of those towns one could zip past, on the freeway, and totally miss out on one of life’s grander moments.  The town’s whole raison d’etre is the advancement of learning- from its university, established by the Seventh Day Adventists, who were the community’s prime movers, to the Lincoln Shrine, which honours  our 16th President, while promoting the study of civics and, of course, A.K. Smiley Public Library, established for the people of Redlands in 1894.

I first became familiar with Redlands, and nearby Loma Linda, when I first dated Penny, in 1981.  We visited her Seventh Day Adventist relatives here a few times, but I never really took photographs of the area, until Sunday, March 23, as the last leg of my most recent SoCal adventure.

Here are some views of the mountainside, and of downtown Redlands.

The Post Office set the tone for my expectations of Redlands architecture.

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The movie theater, just north of Redlands Mall, didn’t disappoint, either.

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It was the Smiley, however, which really stood out and dominates the scene, from its place on the mountainside.  Two of Redlands more prominent early citizens greet the visitor.  They are, of course, Albert K. Smiley, and his brother, Alfred.  Each year, green hats are placed on the two, in honour of their March birthdays.

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The next two shots give an idea as to the size of this edifice.

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Below, the main entrance is given some justice.

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Stained glass adorns most of the windows.

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As is the case in most buildings of the time, garden courtyards may be found on either side of the main corridor.  Cherry blossoms are as prolific here, as anywhere in southern California.

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Orange trees symbolize what brought material prosperity to San Bernardino County, as well as nearby areas of the Los Angeles Basin, pre-suburbia.

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As devout as SDA people are, they also have a playful side.  Here are a couple of signs of Spring, topiary-style.

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The cavernous Main Reading Room lends gravitas to the Smiley, as well.

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Immediately to the south of the Library is the Lincoln Pavilion.

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Honest Abe, and an impressive collection of  Lincoln memorabilia, are on display within.

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I spent about 30 minutes inside, then went across the street, for a look at Redlands Bowl, the municipal amphitheater.  A photo shoot, featuring a fashion model, was in progress when I made my visit.  Without disturbing the young lady in her work, I got a few shots of the venue.  Note the many Italian Cypress planted here.

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After this, it was time for a stroll downtown.  I was delighted to find an ice-cream shop, which features made-to-order, nitrogen-infused delicacies.

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After enjoying some salted caramel ice cream, I noticed that Mom and Pop are working hard for local children.

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Downtown Redlands, on a Sunday afternoon, was serene, even with a modest crowd meandering the streets, including some local teens, who were shadowing me from a safe distance, while giggling and goofing around.

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Redlands homes are mostly well-kept, and surrounded by greenery.

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So, another lovely trip to the Golden State came to a sweet end, courtesy of yet another fine locale, in the underrated Inland Empire.