tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59670214243469467062024-03-05T09:21:59.000-07:00Three Fingered FrankThere is no smart way to lose a body partFrankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.comBlogger68125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-75937447026813364182009-02-16T18:42:00.004-07:002009-02-16T18:52:38.256-07:00More Free Poop!!!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPr-5hwm44vlhyphenhypheni1LhySfuQuWtENu9k_ruRQEqLuA_9JGxs2UmI0UfpqWk3CReIRvADEGYWUw3JcDBGQUrdFN-kmavI8rLWNH552-RrdrRcQealBWqhzxXwZCmFwRL0tPWbSp7pbvMGq3A/s1600-h/More+free+poop.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303577417110106450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPr-5hwm44vlhyphenhypheni1LhySfuQuWtENu9k_ruRQEqLuA_9JGxs2UmI0UfpqWk3CReIRvADEGYWUw3JcDBGQUrdFN-kmavI8rLWNH552-RrdrRcQealBWqhzxXwZCmFwRL0tPWbSp7pbvMGq3A/s320/More+free+poop.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Amy was driving and sent me this picture she took at the corner 7th Street and Glendale, near Sauce Pizza (yummy). Clearly, the Free Poop grafitti we witnessed in the park rest room was no singular event. There is a "Free Pooper" out there roaming our streets right now. What is his/her motivation? Is this a Free Poop movement? Are they stating that our society is constipated morally, or is intellectually coprolitic, and we must induce a spiritual laxative? Do they know of a robin (Turdus Migratorius)named Poop that is being unfairly caged and must be allowed to roam? I want to know!!!! </div>Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-9886651708280109142009-01-27T17:38:00.003-07:002009-01-28T20:11:57.764-07:00R.I.P. My Little Pinky<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLh3yyUgcZc_KADQpHvj1gpOIXgG5PNepr9aY2qKow-zIvRAYkgbtZqGj7hVQXIDjEyXDeneDch0ZB7qOkErRV_v99F46HIyuPe_GtbojqT32wXCoc43yLpPXKqZ4mqGXbETm63ylNILux/s1600-h/rose-angel-wings-wip-4.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296527473243117794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 256px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLh3yyUgcZc_KADQpHvj1gpOIXgG5PNepr9aY2qKow-zIvRAYkgbtZqGj7hVQXIDjEyXDeneDch0ZB7qOkErRV_v99F46HIyuPe_GtbojqT32wXCoc43yLpPXKqZ4mqGXbETm63ylNILux/s320/rose-angel-wings-wip-4.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Summer's sparkling leaves were just a memory as the three fingered hand walked alone on a cold January night. Cleveland, at 2:00am, is no place to be in winter. Especially when the wind and snow coming off the lake cuts through you like 277 volts of 3 phase power. The three shots of gin were not enough to lessen the despair the hand felt. In a moment of revolutionary esprit it had given the world the proverbial finger and the world had not given it back. The morning of January 16, 1991 had looked grand to the hand. A day which dawned with the luncheon promise, at the China Palace restaurant, of fresh jumbo prawns flown in from New York. Some call it fate, some call it bad luck, but the hand never made that lunch. And after January 27, 1991 its pinky would never be seen again......<br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="color:#ff0000;">Ode to a Pinky<br />In pinky heaven do you stand<br />singing pinky psalms?<br />Do you gaze upon this mortal hand<br />with too few fingers and slender palm?<br /></span></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhngJ4FV_u9bMe4n9QHRxa-WmDNpE36rNBmdpTkgU4iXHJn7X26AN2nifLfwRUiUmQHulCS6C0Gq7nDTk_YV-DRgwK0HQ6yT15DgqXFacD5XyiFZDf3fASEgpdmr9Ybse-t8NkvaSPP-8TK/s1600-h/my-heaven.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296147892674836834" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhngJ4FV_u9bMe4n9QHRxa-WmDNpE36rNBmdpTkgU4iXHJn7X26AN2nifLfwRUiUmQHulCS6C0Gq7nDTk_YV-DRgwK0HQ6yT15DgqXFacD5XyiFZDf3fASEgpdmr9Ybse-t8NkvaSPP-8TK/s320/my-heaven.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />It was 18 years ago today when Dr. Hand (no kidding) filleted my poor little finger. Happy anniversary little finger. I miss you so. I still get questioned about the truth on how I lost my little finger. To tell the truth, it has been such a long time and I have lied about it so much I have forgotten the true story. I can no longer vouch for the veracity of any tale concerning its disappearance. Some say it still haunts the halls of Cleveland Clinic, scratching the ears of unsuspecting researchers. Others claim it wanders the Southwestern desert searching for its lost hand and at night when the wind whistles through the trees you might hear its plaintive cry. I hear that its story is told around campfires to scare the young, "And all there was left was a bloody pinky hanging on the car..."<br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="color:#ff0000;">Ode to a Pinky Two</span></div><span style="color:#ff0000;"><div align="center"><br />There is sweet joy in my memory<br />when my gaze does softly linger<br />upon the empty space<br />where dwelt my little finger</div><br /><div align="center">Why take such a morbid glee<br />at what is considered painful?<br />I would simply say to you<br />self-pity is not gainful</div><div align="center"><br />Yes, yes, I admit it freely<br />There are things sorely lacking<br />no more five fingered chords<br />since the surgeon went a-whacking</div><br /><div align="center">But as you can plainly see<br />its loss I do not rue<br />because the notoriety I have gained<br />is owed to a pinky, too.<br /></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivFv4fK7bPkYVx9K_xjdLODhqxLQxdA8xVNW2Gkt1TqlHXpE7ji9cKyLNpFVjG9Nlhb2fC2XDCOyu1XDNVEdYMo4AF4MsjcKfcCOk-qclxjy7_lsw337_UeW44weQnP_ct8o-5qNadfHH_/s1600-h/Angels.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296147891152879202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 154px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivFv4fK7bPkYVx9K_xjdLODhqxLQxdA8xVNW2Gkt1TqlHXpE7ji9cKyLNpFVjG9Nlhb2fC2XDCOyu1XDNVEdYMo4AF4MsjcKfcCOk-qclxjy7_lsw337_UeW44weQnP_ct8o-5qNadfHH_/s320/Angels.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">Requiescat in Pace little buddy</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;"></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">February 1958 - January 1991</span></div></div></div></div>Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-43330996150620154392009-01-25T18:48:00.003-07:002009-01-25T18:57:17.028-07:00Don't Eat at joe's, Eat At Lupe's!!!Keir, Lee, Bjorn, and I went down and pre-rode the Old Pueblo 24 Hour course today. I haven't been riding and my expectations were very low. Wow, a great ride in great weather. I think it was the best I've ridden there in a couple of years even with my extra weight. Maybe the curse of Ohio Bob from a couple of years ago is gone.<br /><br />The best part of the day was eating lunch at Lupe's at Oracle Junction. Huevos Rancheros, with vegetarian beans and a couple of Bohemias. It was as close to heaven as one could be. I know where my pre-race dinner is going to be and the post one as well.Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-89112284964489101872009-01-23T20:46:00.008-07:002009-01-24T02:31:47.615-07:00Let the Pre-Race Taunting BeginI had oral surgery this week. The doctor had a hard time getting the sutures done. He said I had the toughest tongue he had ever seen. My tongue responded with what I can only say was a Tourette's moment. I hate it when I can't control my tongue.<br /><br />At least my legs quickly recovered from the PF Chang's 1/2 marathon. I've only run once since before Thanksgiving and that was on X-Mas day so I was very slow. But, it turned out to not be hard at all ...much. But do I really want to hear High School cheerleaders encouraging us along the route? I really hate it when I can't control my tongue.<br /><br />Now on to the 24 Hours of Old Pueblo. Cesar D has thrown down the gauntlet and has initiated a bet with Keir and I that he and Lee are going to do more laps than us. Nothing worse than a divorce between ex-teamates turning ugly. I say bring it on. Some words have been tossed back and forth to heighten the competitive spirit. I am normally above such childish behavior but the race for them will be a marathon of fear...a universe of pain. Nothing can stop Keir and I. We are invincible. We are Doom itself. Of course, we have to actually finish the race this time. Since Cesar stuck some whacko namd Bob the Knob with us in the 2007 24 OTOP we have been cursed in the following few 24 hour races with terrible bad luck. But this is a new year.Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-25179068682002742982009-01-10T07:39:00.001-07:002009-01-11T08:10:07.448-07:00A New Movement?While on a bike ride with Amy over the weekend the following graffiti was found above the door of a North Phoenix's parks' restroom. It was the only graffiti on any wall and it was about 2 feet above the doorway.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR6XVgF-kQJdaqGO0a3feVkXJSvq7PJbRWs62CTmsKQRamCBCSKz75q8e1twfjz-Wyy4KVBehJE8HRxWKBHkAQe29GKlodtWCcp17rUliEigrW28kkGH8s8KMgUpuyW6YUaTBeevd-nGD6/s1600-h/free_poop.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288377043275185682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 236px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR6XVgF-kQJdaqGO0a3feVkXJSvq7PJbRWs62CTmsKQRamCBCSKz75q8e1twfjz-Wyy4KVBehJE8HRxWKBHkAQe29GKlodtWCcp17rUliEigrW28kkGH8s8KMgUpuyW6YUaTBeevd-nGD6/s320/free_poop.jpg" border="0" /></a>Note the broad and confident strokes that form the letters. Also, the addition of the exclamation point. The fact that these words are the last thing the reader sees as he leaves the peace of the Sancto Sanctorum that is the restroom and re-enters the world is very meaningful. This is no simple, childish comment, my friends, but a powerful philosophical statement of man's relationship, and level of self identity, to the universe. Keirkegaard stated, "Poop is subjectivity." He felt the human condition is influenced most by the questions pertaining to an individual's spiritual relationship to poop and its existence.<br /><br />Amy noted the existential tenor of the phrase. She felt the author was using the concept of poop to bring some sort of meaning to an absurd world. Sartre tackled this question in 1943 when he wrote <em>L'Être et le Néant du Caca</em> (Being and the Nothingness of Poop). Although it might be argued that he was influenced by the Phenomenological viewpoint of poop as proposed by Edmund Husserl in his 1901 treatise, <em>Logische Untersuchungen der Scheißhaufen</em> (Logical Investigations of Poop). Huserrl wished to free poop from conventional psychological structure and studied the effects of one's thoughts upon real poop or even the ideal poop as imagined in the subconscious. He attempted to objectively study poop through the subjective lens of our experiences. This led to the philosophical study of Phenemonopoopology.<br /><br />Ludwig Wittgenstein, in the preface to Tractactus Logico-Faeces, say, "The whole sense of the poop might be summed up in the following words: what can be said about poop at all can be said clearly, and what we cannot talk about we must pass over in silence." He formulated his thoughts in a series of propositions, or poopositions as they were colloquially referred to. I am also told what was passed in silence was not easily forgotten.<br /><br />I believe the writer is commenting on the question of determinism versus free-will in the nature of poop. One could argue that poop comes and goes as it wishes and it controls its own destiny. It has free-will, so to speak. But the very act of our knowing (if you consider our body as an outside observer in the body/poop relationship) then us having that knowledge actually determines the actions of the poop. It will go as determined by our knowledge and therefore, it is predestined to follow its path, though unconscious of any outside influence.<br /><br />It might be Marxist in nature. Poop is the opiate of the masses.<br /><br />It is meaningful that this cry of humanity is written above the door to be seen as we exit to the world. Are we, the viewer, the symbolic poop? Must we free our inner poopiness from the norm, from the conventions of an absurd and often meaningless world? To be poop in a world of roses. Would poop by any other name smell the same? Is it a sign of a new poop movement bringing Hope and Change?<br /><br />I am going to continue to ponder the statement. I believe there are some interesting ideas that might be found from looking at this from a quantum mechanics viewpoint. But, I promise to keep all this to myself.Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-3689455613734463372009-01-04T22:19:00.001-07:002009-01-05T12:00:08.226-07:00The Torch of Superiority Meets Its MatchI hate confrontation, arguments, and the like with the moronic. My latest occurrence with this unpleasantness took place tonight as I tried to enjoy some cheese pizza from a "national chain". I like to put crushed red pepper on these slices because the added zip covers the blandness of the cut-rate ingredients. My taste buds and stomach usually thank me for this action. Last night, however, the pizza, being from a cheap delivery chain as I said earlier, felt I was disparaging its quality by the liberal addition of spiciness. It felt I showed no respect for it (it was New York style. It would have grabbed its "pepperoni" while talking but it had none to grab). My food therapist tells me that cheap pizzas, and food in general, from humble environs are usually a bit sensitive to commentary made regarding their taste worthiness. It has something to do with their self actualization. (I do agree with this assessment. Proof being in that the last time I lowered myself to drink a mainstream American "quality" lager from St Louis, I made disparaging remarks in comparison of its quality versus that of my normal libation from Belgium. It responded, as those from the lower classes often do when faced with superior verbal skills, by attacking me physically. In this case by spraying me with the contents of its container.)<br /><br />Last night the first pizza slice engaged in a verbal battle with my stomach about class distinction and the intolerance of plebeian food products by hoity-toity organs. My stomach would have turned up its nose, if it had one, at the pathetic attempts of this cheesy product to justify its lack of taste, but a second slice soon joined the fray. At first my stomach, and myself, laughed at the obviousness of the tactics shown by the slices. When faced by an opponent of greater intellect, the masses usually resort to higher volume and more noise in an attempt to shout down the voices of reason. In order to, as my friend Chuck Dryden, would say, "To extinguish the Torch of Superiority."<br /><br />I have to admit, though, the battle was lost when the third slice jumped in and pointed out that the very crushed red pepper seeds I was applying to it were of the lowest quality possible. At that point, my body's gag reflex kicked in and my stomach, in an extreme moment of panic, responded to the pizza with what I can only describe as a very low-brow riposte. Thankfully the Torch of Superiority had already been extinguished so damage was easily contained.<br /><br />After a bit of reflection I can only conclude that I really hate it when my food disagrees with my stomach.Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-30956189527280786292008-12-30T06:30:00.001-07:002008-12-30T14:20:18.213-07:00A 3 Fingered ChristmasIt was a great Christmas except for a sore elbow received while "bowling" on my grandson's Wii. I cannot be the only person who sees the irony in this. I long for the days of real bowling. The smell of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and ugly shoes. The thrill of trying to find a bowling ball that actually fit my hand and didn't weigh, seemingly, 200 lbs. *sigh* But now real activites are replaced by video game replicas. We're doomed. (I shouldn't complain, I can't hold a regular bowling ball now, anyway. I just wanted to whine.)<br /><br />I did a quick Desert Classic, at South Mountain, ride on the Specialized after work on Christmas Eve. I guess I should have cleaned and lubed the bike after the 24 hour race in early November. It made a lot of noise. Or, maybe those were just squeals of protest caused my the weight of my massive mid-section. Small planets have been known to be drawn into it by its strong gravitational pull. I have, also, finally killed my rear Crossmax wheel. It is worn out after 5 hard years of use. Now I get to build those Chris King's I have been dreaming of. I have the hubs. Just need the rims.<br /><br />My X-Mas present to myself was a nice 5k run in the cold rain Christmas morning. Fun, fun, fun!!! I at least "earned" the right to drink all the Hoegarden I wanted that afternoon. Well, three at least. I also needed the alcohol to dull the pain in my upper lip. While putting on my arm warmers my hand slipped and I smacked myself in the mouth. Not hard enough to see stars but enough to make my eyes water.<br /><br />A buddy from Flag, Marc, came down to see his girls for Christmas and we ended up doing Desert Classic Sunday afternoon. For someone who doesn't ride as much as he wishes he could, he is super strong. I dreaded the ride a bit since I was forced to ride the single speed due to the other bike's wheel issues. I held my own, though, and actually put a bit of hurt to him. What a change. Last time I rode with him I coughed up a kidney. Oh, my lip was sore again. My hand slipped while I was putting on my arm warmers and...well you know the rest. Santayana said that those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it. Who am I to argue? I'm doomed and I didn't even forget.<br /><br />Well, on to 2009.....Will there be more 3 Fingered Moments? I'm doomed.Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-14849861712286577882008-12-22T17:26:00.005-07:002008-12-22T18:00:45.012-07:00Another 3 Finger Moment and Other StuffI went to the post office to mail a couple of letters and somehow found myself at the drive through book return at the library read to dump the letters. Fortunately I caught myself in time. I wish I could say that weighty matters caused me to make this mistake, but no, just a Three Fingered Moment.<br /><br />I've heard some grief from male co-workers and friends about my last post that refers to a study showing French men require the largest condoms in Europe. These people say that the French lied, or exaggerated, the size of their, um, assets. I disagree. When I mentioned that the average size was claimed to be only six inches, almost invariably everyone replied with, "Well, that's a size Small here in the U.S. of A." Who's exaggerating now I ask?<br /><br />The Colon and Rectal Center of Arizona has either the best or worst name ever for their website. Kolonokopelli.com. The logo is Kokopelli's cousin blowing into....well you just need to see it yourself. Kudos for their imagination. I am tempted to run away with this, but I am sure I would be told to just blow it out my @$$.<br /><br />Here is a picture of the newest addition to the household, Stella Fitzgerald. She is an adoption and has quickly made herself the queen of the house, if not the globe.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXRSNBqBXosdehybh_Z6FkscX0wgEb-Fhs8TY4Q9lc9b2Cypva9KPnjcqUXcAnhrFpHS-Agm9to7mPT_w8gaG_eRYq2JyfA8LIm0OjSgCVIeh0MbZkjAanKzNelXxjZyl5vlS-G-J7DA9x/s1600-h/IMG_3425.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282782983979573202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXRSNBqBXosdehybh_Z6FkscX0wgEb-Fhs8TY4Q9lc9b2Cypva9KPnjcqUXcAnhrFpHS-Agm9to7mPT_w8gaG_eRYq2JyfA8LIm0OjSgCVIeh0MbZkjAanKzNelXxjZyl5vlS-G-J7DA9x/s320/IMG_3425.JPG" border="0" /></a> <div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8s_IUQ_Y06jJXjytVTon6i0pAD6xkeijO2WYuuJ4O4wu5xA7Bc6gqJDznDwancRuxFuxKPQWhfQbMoxVChEaQCP5-Dvpo4N-sHUFpoMeNH7yVC6K566LX8-0Ulb3geaN1BWDwoR2sOfi1/s1600-h/IMG_3419.JPG"></a>I finally took my first run since being sick at Thanksgiving. The first 100 meters were smashing. The rest of the run was a complete suffer-fest. I am turning into a complete weenie. I better get cracking with the training. Keir signed us up for a Duo in February's 24 Hour of Old Pueblo. I stunk up both 24 hours I did this year and don't want that trend to continue. </div>Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-57598213790392305262008-12-04T19:52:00.000-07:002008-12-04T19:53:59.690-07:00It's Twue, It's Twue!!!Thanksgiving Day has come and passed and I have finally recovered from the past week's intestinal adventures. One news item which helped my recovery was a report from <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Reuters</span> that stated The Institute for <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Condom</span> Consultancy has found French men require the biggest condoms in Europe. This statement raises (no pun intended) no questions or surprise from me. My friends have always told me us French are the biggest pricks in the western world. I think they are just jealous.Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-24505623376155047152008-11-25T12:16:00.007-07:002008-11-25T22:02:53.784-07:00Just In Time For The HolidaysI got a bad case of food poisoning on Sunday. It's Tuesday and I am now up to eight pounds lost since Sunday night. But fortunately I am starting to feel a little better. I am trying to think of humorous things to say but I can't.Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-17481986295695458702008-11-21T17:01:00.003-07:002008-11-21T17:16:47.941-07:00Why Cable TV?The cable TV box died and went to Digital Heaven. Its demise was preceded by its freezing of the screen every five seconds then coming back to life after 10 seconds and then repeating the cycle again. After trying a reboot, the cable box flatlined and a new one was necessary. The replacement works great but even with 180 cable stations the programming still sucks and I find myself always reading a good book for entertainment instead. (Does a Donald Duck comic qualify as high literature? Carl Barks' four-color covers from the '50s for Comics and Stories and Uncle Scrooge do qualify as high art, though. Look him up. But I digress) All this begs the question, why have TV at all?Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-11267939065728177262008-11-19T18:53:00.003-07:002008-11-19T19:00:31.523-07:00A Tale of Two RacesIn the spirit of literary references here is a visual tale of two races.<br /><br />It was truly the best of times and the worst of times...weather wise.<br /><br />The Team Squid Pro Quo race headquarters in the February 2008 24 Hours of Old Pueblo:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvdeXB_gTxUkl3qM7F-Z1m4-fZMJBz6jPTkmNRu1bkJXzmQo-k3I5KmjGwHiHiDtYgjEbwrFV4UNvT2d0Uzgx4fAn94tKocZTwM9U7uA8OUDKx8DUkgOn9C_3mIbshhWAFiuy97_lu41fQ/s1600-h/IMG_3092-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270552980181044626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvdeXB_gTxUkl3qM7F-Z1m4-fZMJBz6jPTkmNRu1bkJXzmQo-k3I5KmjGwHiHiDtYgjEbwrFV4UNvT2d0Uzgx4fAn94tKocZTwM9U7uA8OUDKx8DUkgOn9C_3mIbshhWAFiuy97_lu41fQ/s320/IMG_3092-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> The Team Squid Pro Quo compound in the November 2008 24 Hours of Fury:<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIw-QyqVBbscnvYu9FCOaJInZPYVcri0JBMUj2tJ3t9GqrDR4o2VRGKAadYhZtoYFkhC2msk5c0GabZhsgqc7upK__MQdjt8318k5LCwESnIlKTl_rE_F5NN1-o9beB_EuuMXQigqMNdI8/s1600-h/Picture+002.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270552974076096642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIw-QyqVBbscnvYu9FCOaJInZPYVcri0JBMUj2tJ3t9GqrDR4o2VRGKAadYhZtoYFkhC2msk5c0GabZhsgqc7upK__MQdjt8318k5LCwESnIlKTl_rE_F5NN1-o9beB_EuuMXQigqMNdI8/s320/Picture+002.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Can it really be November? 87 Degrees? Oh, how we suffer.....</div>Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-74062912282487237062008-11-19T18:42:00.002-07:002008-11-19T18:52:46.131-07:00The Sound and the 24 Hours of FuryMine is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and the 24 Hours of Fury, and our efforts resulted in nothing.<br /><br />I have finally recovered from the 24 Hours of Fury put on by 4 Peaks Racing up at McDowell a week and a half ago. Team Squid Pro Quo had penciled this in as our prep race for the 24 Hours of Old Pueblo and we were pretty excited. On the same course four years ago, in the 24 Hours of Adreneline, we put in 23 laps farting around and figured being in better shape we could contend for at least a good placing.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">The Squid Pro Quo Compound in about the most perfect racing weather imaginable:</span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmpgokMhd8SJ0PRww-6Z13OvaSv64h_Cp7ezfnyx4zD8o_7TY4DYEcGHK-iFv0vxRN2wozhTVre4pwYEc_iasqFaWD-jYwzD_M5RantgenHPznW-ThahgKNBGg4g5225si9f7w_W4q-tUT/s1600-h/the+compound.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270544475815368226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmpgokMhd8SJ0PRww-6Z13OvaSv64h_Cp7ezfnyx4zD8o_7TY4DYEcGHK-iFv0vxRN2wozhTVre4pwYEc_iasqFaWD-jYwzD_M5RantgenHPznW-ThahgKNBGg4g5225si9f7w_W4q-tUT/s320/the+compound.JPG" border="0" /></a>I won't bore the reader with how we did, but I'll only say I got sick during the first lap, barely finished the second lap, slept for ten hours and never darkened the track with my presence again. Fortunately, I had three Warsteiner Dunkels in the cooler to soothe my fevered body Sunday morning (It turns out I had gotten an infection).<br /><br />I had a feeling we were doomed when Keir called just before the noon start and said he couldn't show up (he traditionally always does the first lap). He had a work emergency arise just before the start of the race and wouldn't make his appearance until late afternoon where he did one lap and promptly disappeared again until Sunday morning. Cesar stepped up to the plate and attempted to give us a strong first lap, but two flats killed his effort.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">Cesar at the start pulling away (Lee is across the way taking a picture of Cesar's "good side"):</span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDmTgoNjtiLtmIJzW382-1MUYuSY1YxZtlkFZq4e91NQ2Gms1qbPftqM219_jLy4H7hSLXGnLaZpjvWCs13xb89yYPptJwBhbdLg0Bxi6I0Edc8jC89dG6aANIWKG4TQgYBsip4_R6xW3I/s1600-h/cesar-start.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270544392378987298" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDmTgoNjtiLtmIJzW382-1MUYuSY1YxZtlkFZq4e91NQ2Gms1qbPftqM219_jLy4H7hSLXGnLaZpjvWCs13xb89yYPptJwBhbdLg0Bxi6I0Edc8jC89dG6aANIWKG4TQgYBsip4_R6xW3I/s320/cesar-start.JPG" border="0" /></a>Cesar and Lee carried the torch and kept us in the hunt for third to last place. But, alas, without Keir and I to spell them, we slipped into second to last place late Sunday morning despite their best efforts. I just stayed at the compound and moaned and complained to everyone.<br /><p>I was reminded of Macbeth's soliloquy after the death of his wife. It seemed apropos with references to "the way to dusty death" etc... We strutted our way upon the stage for each hour that a lap took but in the end with all of our sound and fury, it signified nothing. But maybe I doth exaggerate. Next year we will be heard from again!<br /><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">The Soulcraft ready for battle with the S-Works waiting in the wings behind:</span></p><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7sFbk5ri5XbKKKb9vgdxNjpwXIxzaYSVm2gOAVT9u2G59nidm_KYoszVBoJYrh8p2HndUti5JgCvfWFQlc-GK9ibGnsPkAYm7D2NFxTgP_xepsaGAv-1z1DDZ5gjdP77lOLMQh_-5xXgM/s1600-h/ready+for+battle.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270544328957452114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7sFbk5ri5XbKKKb9vgdxNjpwXIxzaYSVm2gOAVT9u2G59nidm_KYoszVBoJYrh8p2HndUti5JgCvfWFQlc-GK9ibGnsPkAYm7D2NFxTgP_xepsaGAv-1z1DDZ5gjdP77lOLMQh_-5xXgM/s320/ready+for+battle.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#ff0000;"> At the end of the first lap. It took so much effort to smile I could not even suck my gut in:<br /></span><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZbNbTmMPMx_gQSZRaq-3-5BTyHKR-ztpixtPXRd_6KFiTtvUFm8bbLEt69FQeYRYDnq1tfBEXr6ef-1xTXS0rUo-9OYBJQqRUoiN9tntuE9ig9I3Vh8T26h_nzWH02ynwFYFX6YUY-iLH/s1600-h/IMG_8117-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270544232038919506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZbNbTmMPMx_gQSZRaq-3-5BTyHKR-ztpixtPXRd_6KFiTtvUFm8bbLEt69FQeYRYDnq1tfBEXr6ef-1xTXS0rUo-9OYBJQqRUoiN9tntuE9ig9I3Vh8T26h_nzWH02ynwFYFX6YUY-iLH/s320/IMG_8117-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> <div><div><div><div><div><br /><div><span style="color:#ff0000;">To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,<br />Creeps in this petty pace from day to day<br />To the last syllable of recorded time,<br />And all our yesterdays have lighted fools<br />The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!<br />Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player<br />That struts and frets his hour upon the stage<br />And then is heard no more: it is a tale<br /></span><a name="w"><span style="color:#ff0000;">Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,</span></a><span style="color:#ff0000;"><br />Signifying nothing.<br /></span></div><div>That about describes the race for me.</div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-30152746752654524172008-10-18T13:01:00.004-07:002008-10-18T19:40:19.610-07:00Does A Bell Ring Every Time A Pinkie Gets Its Wings?A news item that has been making the rounds the past few days involves a young football player at Mesa State College in Grand Junction, Colorado, named Trevor Wilke. It seems that Mr Wilke badly hurt his pinkie during a practice seesion and was told by doctors that it would require surgery and with four months of recovery, he was done for the season. AS a senior, this would effectively end his career. "No way,"said the brave Wilke. "I can't let the team down. Cut it off." So now I raise a toast to young Trevor who has joined the hallowed ranks of those with three fingered hands.<br /><br />Rick Reilly, the famous sports writer, commented that Trevor's team mates now say "High Four!" when a good play is made. How cute. My grandson said the same thing to me when he was four years old . The best line in Reilly's piece was "Trevor only has one regret. The doctor didn't give him the finger. " My surgeon, Dr. Hand (no joke on his name), gave me the finger. That's when he caught me riding the motorcycle to a check up. Definitely verbotin.<br /><br />Anyway, Mr. Trevor, I trust you will enjoy the life of the digitally challenged and though I am pleased you have joined our ranks, I hope you bring honor to your pinkie who now resides in Pinkie Valhalla.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">O’ what does a finger think<br />upon the loss of a brethren digit?<br />Does its sorrows drown in a drink?<br />Does it worry or does it fidget?<br />Does it it cry “Oh the humanity”<br />And fret for its fingery sanity?<br /><br />It might feel it is really fine<br />that another has gone a-missing<br />It might look around and opine<br />with a sniff, “I am not distressing”<br />Adding “I think we all agree<br />'Twasn't it good it was not me?”<br /><br />Some say the remainder sing<br />A song of the missing pinkie<br />And what the future does bring<br />Be it good or be it kinky<br />I think they do intertwine<br />And all sing “Now we are nine”</span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">One more thing, Mr. Wilke, as you look back upon this in the future, there is no smart way to lose a body part, but keep laughing about it.</span>Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-7901742530581007212008-10-12T19:32:00.004-07:002008-10-17T22:01:48.390-07:00Back In The Saddle AgainYesterday I went to Tucson for a niece's wedding reception and took advantage to bring the singlespeed along and visit the 50 Year Trail near Catalina. When I lived in Tucson and Oro Valley, I would ride this trail at least four times a week (since 1994) and it still remains one my favorite rides. But in the almost four years since I've moved to Phoenix, I have probably been on this trail only 5 times. Rain and erosion have taken their toll and places that I remember as sidewalk smooth are now rutted and bumpy. That's one of the things I love about mountain biking. Trails are living entities and they constantly evolve. So, each year brings new challenges to the same ride. Road rides are pretty much static and, usually, only the road surface changes and not always for the best. (As an example, I rode the TT bike down HWY 87 today, south of Chandler, and got a flat about 15 miles out, like I usually do on that section. The ride is always the same for people cycling that road, they see me standing on the shoulder with a look of extreme concentration as I am trying to figure out how to make my CO2 quick-fill work. I won't mention the CO2 cartridge taking off like a rocket and the dead rabbit since I do not have a hunting license. In fact, I look so stupid trying to fix a flat that everyone offers to do it for me even though the entire process takes me less than five minutes from flat to back on the road. I just have that "look". Tongue sticking half-way out. Narrowed eyes. Pointy head (The pointy head allows my helmet to sit at a rakish angle which gives me a touch of that "je ne sais quoi" air of suavity) And in a true Three Fingered Moment, I've forgotten where I was going with this aside. So let us return to the regularly scheduled crapola.<br /><br />The parking lot at the end of Golder Ranch Road was, as is normal, pretty full. There were quite a few people riding on the lower trail out to the Chutes and I saw Dan, an old friend/neighbor. I see him every few years riding and we stopped and caught up for a while.<br /><br />When I got to the Chutes, I decided to ride the long upper loop and quickly found out it was not as easy as it used to be. Let me rephrase that. it was never easy and had a couple of lung busting climbs, but I could ride the entire trail with, maybe, one dab. Of course, that was on a multi-geared bike. I discovered to my chagrin, and my knees' disappointment, that my singlespeed was not the best choice for the condition of the trail. I had to walk a few places I normally ride but, hey, that's part of the deal. I refuse to accept that my advancing age and weight have an affect on my riding capabilities.<br /><br />It seemed that most people are avoiding this part of the upper loop. It used to be well ridden in, but yesterday I saw only two sets of tracks and that turned out to be one person who went up about a 1/4 mile then turned around. Too bad for them, it got better towards the top. A little rain just added to the fun.<br /><br />I got to the fence line where the real joy, and challenge, begins and I just wimped out. So, I turned around and enjoyed the thrill of going down what I had just climbed. Except when both my pedals got jammed in the sides of a deep narrow cut in the trail and I almost went over the bars. I also left some skin from the side of my ankles in the same spot.<br /><br />All in all, it was a excellent ride and I need to "come back home" more often.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgna9Nyj_EZKp5YJgdrkUyRe6QRti0OorqXdt_cE80HYG1zwzytT8c-drqVI5xtXr128RZaPU7pM22KsFcewDIphEXZsz382tbl425JAQaLUZNHqY9RYyjDOXTd_J4vophkTPsmDoMuYi5O/s1600-h/Sept+08+001.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256461501842416226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgna9Nyj_EZKp5YJgdrkUyRe6QRti0OorqXdt_cE80HYG1zwzytT8c-drqVI5xtXr128RZaPU7pM22KsFcewDIphEXZsz382tbl425JAQaLUZNHqY9RYyjDOXTd_J4vophkTPsmDoMuYi5O/s320/Sept+08+001.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTv-mv8CYyv1Yhlqlh3i7DV6JKZmq2cmYfgrvTJVHK4EHBdEgq1EyGX70xWBOHM6eKRNFKW4d5lhYKQlKvfTaZk3sHuiZBAbPvHbdsoQk9I4mWVBKJQPgmGsdDv3Y3y0kYoHFf4zHoFO__/s1600-h/Sept+08+002.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256461501776675890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTv-mv8CYyv1Yhlqlh3i7DV6JKZmq2cmYfgrvTJVHK4EHBdEgq1EyGX70xWBOHM6eKRNFKW4d5lhYKQlKvfTaZk3sHuiZBAbPvHbdsoQk9I4mWVBKJQPgmGsdDv3Y3y0kYoHFf4zHoFO__/s320/Sept+08+002.jpg" border="0" /></a>The sun setting against Pusch Ridge. This view is one of the reasons I wish I hide never moved away.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik3_KWToThvI7iDRSf0OYftZ5nhnE7xn406mClHOAwSyl8GBrMGW0nPi8nMeVTxVSOEMYYXP6Hki32jqYGc35k0pS0uP1DtirmeQmNYh1D835bD0kTg8foWkpvinZLVpLFi9LIwDSB5bwS/s1600-h/Sept+08+005.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256461502307671682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik3_KWToThvI7iDRSf0OYftZ5nhnE7xn406mClHOAwSyl8GBrMGW0nPi8nMeVTxVSOEMYYXP6Hki32jqYGc35k0pS0uP1DtirmeQmNYh1D835bD0kTg8foWkpvinZLVpLFi9LIwDSB5bwS/s320/Sept+08+005.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div></div>Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-48523345694463666502008-10-12T18:45:00.003-07:002008-10-12T19:37:36.272-07:00Some Extra Trip PicsA friend asked me to post a few more photos from the trip.<br /><br />The clock tower in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Anduze</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Anduze</span> is also <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">known</span> as The Gateway to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Cevennes</span>. It is about 22 miles from St Roman. The restaurant, La Place, has incredible pizza and salads. I think it's the best food in town.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbbHoihyWkkT5jdN1J_TlB80GgJr2T-g1nHuGWxtB_nI8sJ53rVKmSzIBJqdKnnAUVdupmndRIVO-AbBwXB73qyUrz5ZIDspsOZUKOxIseWTCOA-URc8fUNyyzb_1PVD5Qdb84i-nu-imf/s1600-h/IMG_3527-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256450996190325954" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbbHoihyWkkT5jdN1J_TlB80GgJr2T-g1nHuGWxtB_nI8sJ53rVKmSzIBJqdKnnAUVdupmndRIVO-AbBwXB73qyUrz5ZIDspsOZUKOxIseWTCOA-URc8fUNyyzb_1PVD5Qdb84i-nu-imf/s320/IMG_3527-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> Looking for a place to pee on the Col <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">de</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Galibier</span>.<br /><br /><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsm8z0oFZsAVsiwD8BYqI3ahIFHTZFOzSAZ8ZuVBbQ0PFQzMI3e44-uXGRUyRz4u7gvy12sjD3kAJgn6fnala6wI3Pkx9rF4J-EuVYgatMWcfXoItG9PUe0uz_q4igsz5eBeeZpUzKYIwU/s1600-h/IMG_3602-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256451001343813074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsm8z0oFZsAVsiwD8BYqI3ahIFHTZFOzSAZ8ZuVBbQ0PFQzMI3e44-uXGRUyRz4u7gvy12sjD3kAJgn6fnala6wI3Pkx9rF4J-EuVYgatMWcfXoItG9PUe0uz_q4igsz5eBeeZpUzKYIwU/s320/IMG_3602-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> A view of the high French Alps.</p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwpQNGghKJI47l3ipRPQ8v-juQ1dSmkGvu5g46imt84ARdoGzVgTsmtJRUeieaX3V4ZRwBQRIXxVQcPDxnC2d9vQEY9C8ZQtFQvi5B7SjzA_mePFvvyESDc7nkxYIUpVHORj3XfcNladop/s1600-h/IMG_3596-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256450674279225698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwpQNGghKJI47l3ipRPQ8v-juQ1dSmkGvu5g46imt84ARdoGzVgTsmtJRUeieaX3V4ZRwBQRIXxVQcPDxnC2d9vQEY9C8ZQtFQvi5B7SjzA_mePFvvyESDc7nkxYIUpVHORj3XfcNladop/s320/IMG_3596-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> A street in Turin at dusk. I wish we had kept walking another 1/2 mile because we would have then found ourselves in the heart of old <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Torino</span>. Which from the pictures I've seen is spectacular. We unfortunately only saw the more industrial parts of the city. Too bad. I need to go back. Just around the corner is a great restaurant we found called Mina's. The special of the day was fresh mushrooms grilled, fried, and raw with a little olive oil. That was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">proceeded</span> by a small plate of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Taglietelle</span> with a light tomato sauce and washed down with a very nice local red wine. A very nice, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">hic</span>, wine. I've never had the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Piedmontese</span> cuisine and wine before and was very impressed.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg10W80KHR878Arb2_ED1dy_OVlG3iCTMB0kd4t6W6RHSIC__QHSa6mivbZbJm5orwg2KEEOVTsUzHhFqpdLY8abTarP7jBjoRlWQzTv83DGlb-gYrI9sKttPieumkYyIxF8cXFm-ePa0Rc/s1600-h/Sept+08+072-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256450679028063346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg10W80KHR878Arb2_ED1dy_OVlG3iCTMB0kd4t6W6RHSIC__QHSa6mivbZbJm5orwg2KEEOVTsUzHhFqpdLY8abTarP7jBjoRlWQzTv83DGlb-gYrI9sKttPieumkYyIxF8cXFm-ePa0Rc/s320/Sept+08+072-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> The Fiat office building at left. The old factory at right. I've had four Fiats and loved them. Maybe because I'm half Italian or I'm a fool.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhkrFUOUOWpdURVtFy-IpqeTHjOmf0xFh-KT1Cw5UeEFETifr3SBthZk2WMIdDCxYBHsk0jZ6HiP5Zxmx8NHpjQyQXPFCMtuskv2vzx48ObtjzGGYxc1DSAR-EeI4Cq4EeiY76z2IgWbAU/s1600-h/IMG_3619-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256450678727489746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhkrFUOUOWpdURVtFy-IpqeTHjOmf0xFh-KT1Cw5UeEFETifr3SBthZk2WMIdDCxYBHsk0jZ6HiP5Zxmx8NHpjQyQXPFCMtuskv2vzx48ObtjzGGYxc1DSAR-EeI4Cq4EeiY76z2IgWbAU/s320/IMG_3619-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> The bank and post office in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Wallgau</span>, Germany with our rented turbo diesel Renault in the center of pic. I could go 750 miles on a tank of gas, averaging about 40 miles per gallon. Because Americans have better technology in our vehicles here, I get 21 mph and can get 400 miles on a tank with my personal car in Arizona. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Hmmmmm</span>. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiteXQ8QaFvvuB6Q5jGqZ8izPQU-RRcy_HVzHi0lUfNZH-1aVIX8KyCFBSQj8hxD6qMtsbiuLdeDI66aBF_HWh1auUicp_H2LnoYFZw4AZB_CpZt5_8Bvks5hLN-fJEcXTuoO-jmJQ3ON2H/s1600-h/IMG_3763-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256450677949893026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiteXQ8QaFvvuB6Q5jGqZ8izPQU-RRcy_HVzHi0lUfNZH-1aVIX8KyCFBSQj8hxD6qMtsbiuLdeDI66aBF_HWh1auUicp_H2LnoYFZw4AZB_CpZt5_8Bvks5hLN-fJEcXTuoO-jmJQ3ON2H/s320/IMG_3763-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> The cable going to the top of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Aiguille</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">de</span> Midi at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Chamonix</span>, France.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSPz_zaHqz5FCDBwfLIrLdTkHDpef3LC2jM-jm5cyX40SQHAsAPcIAYC9jvhVR1EJXDW3FMdqAI6lCsko8I9UN0mTBeBB7IUX1qSFcnkikXkQEj6nR8JLA2miMYqNgmyuZla_PnmsfRyu4/s1600-h/IMG_3897-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256450679024102082" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSPz_zaHqz5FCDBwfLIrLdTkHDpef3LC2jM-jm5cyX40SQHAsAPcIAYC9jvhVR1EJXDW3FMdqAI6lCsko8I9UN0mTBeBB7IUX1qSFcnkikXkQEj6nR8JLA2miMYqNgmyuZla_PnmsfRyu4/s320/IMG_3897-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> A couple of last thoughts about the trip. I did not have one bad meal the entire trip. This was a first. In every restaurant or cafe, the food was excellent. The weakest meal was in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Oberaudorf</span>, but it would still rate as four star quality here. Every beer and bottle of wine was top notch, too. This was a first for me. I usually have one or two food disasters in France each time I go there. These are the meals where the service or the food are not even up to Denny's standards of presentation, taste, and hospitality. And, though I groused about the Germans in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Wallgau</span>, in retrospect it could have just been an off night for the owner in combination with a barrage of flash photography from Arlette. I would go back to the Hotel Post in a heart beat.<br /><br />Although the American style of fast food has invaded the shores of Europe and one finds <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">McDo's</span>, Burger King, the Colonel with his chicken, and awful cafeterias, there are plenty of smaller places where the food is top notch, the service is excellent, and the prices <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">very</span> reasonable. I love eating in small villages. We ate lunch in La Grave, a small French <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Alpen</span> village, and spent quite a bit of time talking with the server would had lived her entire life in this one small village. We were not treated as customers but as old family who just stopped by for a quick visit. (The restaurant is La <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Meijette</span> in La Grave. Order the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Tartiflette</span>). Wow, now I'm hungry. Time to call Papa John's Pizza.....yeah...right..<br /><div></div>Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-9441795040422379532008-10-09T20:18:00.009-07:002008-10-10T19:45:57.192-07:00On to Paris and HomeWe woke up to beautiful weather as the village's church bell rang out 6:00am, its first ringing of the day. The bell rings out the hours every hour and at five minutes past from 6:00am to 10pm with a single gong on the half hour. It used to ring every hour for the entire day until one gentleman who had just moved into the village threatened to sue if it continued to ring at night. He could not sleep with the bell pounding in his ears. Most of the village wanted it left as it always had been but the threat of a suit made them reach a compromise of ringing until 10:00pm and starting again at 6:00am. His honor and sleep satisfied, the genteman proceeded to move out of the village within a year of moving in, but the bell still remains silent at night.<br /><br />After a breakfast of bread, jam, and coffee (plus the end of some every good goat's cheese from the village of Le Pompidou just up the road) it was sadly time to leave and head down to Avignon and the TGV. At least Kelly was going to get a chance to sit in the front seat of the car for once this trip since she spent the entire drive in the back seat. Arlette says she gets car sick in the back and so always claims shotgun. I think she's pretty sneaky.<br /><br />A last look at the front door of the house.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLqONO_GhV-rtvrODOZToiXJhGNVn_bd1OB9svJ0xK9pLVMbCUJtdNP9SrveD1n_R3sLbJ7xsNY02IXo6jyf3Tm8E0iujcgx1jKWW6fln9hM74FbmZ2JmMxNe06Zm0rwm8oFzEIhVLFCZ8/s1600-h/Sept+08+196-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255361600991580226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLqONO_GhV-rtvrODOZToiXJhGNVn_bd1OB9svJ0xK9pLVMbCUJtdNP9SrveD1n_R3sLbJ7xsNY02IXo6jyf3Tm8E0iujcgx1jKWW6fln9hM74FbmZ2JmMxNe06Zm0rwm8oFzEIhVLFCZ8/s320/Sept+08+196-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> The village from the road to Col D'Exil. Just after I took this picture I stepped in a deep hole while walking and fell flat on my face. After removing the debris from my mouth (which is usually open) I found the grass in the Cevennes had a more earthy, yet pleasant taste, than the grass here in Chandler. The dirt is better tasting here, though.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMspmtGsmhE57PXU471Yna-vjUl_QqxkEIjzJzGOTbW3RPyIs78fHmQUul2ZT7SzZtOQMlMsH3VbxahDx86z60bxKFw0cUdAdxp4IkNT4d5cY36i0LxWDv4bcr5dgJBNHFwWrD_v-ERYNY/s1600-h/Sept+08+199-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255361179005632002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMspmtGsmhE57PXU471Yna-vjUl_QqxkEIjzJzGOTbW3RPyIs78fHmQUul2ZT7SzZtOQMlMsH3VbxahDx86z60bxKFw0cUdAdxp4IkNT4d5cY36i0LxWDv4bcr5dgJBNHFwWrD_v-ERYNY/s320/Sept+08+199-2.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />The drive to Avignon was uneventful and I drove slower than usual enjoying the perfect weather and the unusual lack of traffic. I did not even make my normal coffee stop in St. Jean du Gard. In fact I drove so leisurely that we missed the train we had hoped to catch to Paris. But, no worries, another TGV was arriving and leaving within 90 minutes.<br /><br />The TGV is an incredible train and riding it should be on every ones' list of things to do before dying. It fast, smooth, comfortable and, well, fast. It reaches speeds of 180mph on stretches of the track. It doesn't feel like you are moving at that speed until you fly by cars on the autoroute which are traveling at 80mph.<br />As the train travels up the Rhone valley you can see many hilltop villages and towns that border both the left and right banks of the river. Before the new high speed track was built for the TGV, it shared the normal track which the slower trains use (they only travel at 80-100mph). It passed through Montelimar, Valence, and the vineyards of Hermitage (my favorite wines). I prefer the old route, though it added over an hour of travel time because it was so much more scenic.<br /><br />The church of Saint Michel de la Garde Adhémar from the TGV at 180 mph. This is one of my favorite Provencal Romanesque churches. It was constructed on the site of an existing chapel and dates from the second half of the twelfth century, though its bell tower was heavily reconstructed in the 19th century. It also contains a wonderful medieval wooden Madonna and Child in its presbytery.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6qxID_BR6M9BJU8YgSWTC4HjrBIMFrq_ArrDInhRYmRWCxEACr7Ny9BmXWfmCSV8I5Ic7UB9I88x-cXlEEhSnKzpwW7q3ksxAtFU_loeJH1V2c01maqkPutMzIbcgbDf-k_DpToGjs3MP/s1600-h/Sept+08+203-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255361030724592098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6qxID_BR6M9BJU8YgSWTC4HjrBIMFrq_ArrDInhRYmRWCxEACr7Ny9BmXWfmCSV8I5Ic7UB9I88x-cXlEEhSnKzpwW7q3ksxAtFU_loeJH1V2c01maqkPutMzIbcgbDf-k_DpToGjs3MP/s320/Sept+08+203-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> Arrival at Gare de Lyon after 2 hours and 50 minutes of travel.<br /><br /><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Z2hvfCVIMRV5jkpUcdNFjVvGu5K0pikHnLK-3pClZU6VoSLcuAl85DW1GLZQsLSAZzQMo6Fq3W4kOG9nPfWGnpTMT4DbRhPUtV5VwNDBkmkNBBInEMY0NLPw8m3HflligqfInkDB2hsd/s1600-h/Sept+08+207-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255361030245211970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Z2hvfCVIMRV5jkpUcdNFjVvGu5K0pikHnLK-3pClZU6VoSLcuAl85DW1GLZQsLSAZzQMo6Fq3W4kOG9nPfWGnpTMT4DbRhPUtV5VwNDBkmkNBBInEMY0NLPw8m3HflligqfInkDB2hsd/s320/Sept+08+207-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> We took a cab from Gare de Lyon to a nice hotel in the LAtin Quarter across the street from the Cluny museum. It was such a gorgeous day we took off to Notre Dame, which was less than 1/2 mile away. </p><p>Notre Dame from the Pont Neuf.</p><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh99vxP7nGx80GqDPh50fL1Ui4VADZ3Legahata7BlxR_nIjzdZyCd5BCeOXobcKMJf5lchpIKxieDYgh4P77uT21YaEnHroK-TnSa97eCH8CM6rdok_qUyVa210ixAQ7r2rigb3dcFrNF5/s1600-h/Sept+08+214-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255361039594910258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh99vxP7nGx80GqDPh50fL1Ui4VADZ3Legahata7BlxR_nIjzdZyCd5BCeOXobcKMJf5lchpIKxieDYgh4P77uT21YaEnHroK-TnSa97eCH8CM6rdok_qUyVa210ixAQ7r2rigb3dcFrNF5/s320/Sept+08+214-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> Notre Dame from the Parvis.<br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSy6ALUMFjQireqqlee5yPDnAsGtNx0hWfGurQ50ZqSr0-Mp4lQdhqI_fKwaoIsNceXo7NyfvbP08Sl9xD-ULk1XIneb4Q1oCCkaOFUu6nQb4sIRIXGHn4t6Lnf0qe2zn8AZ4sO_QwP-Vp/s1600-h/Sept+08+215-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255361039225676674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSy6ALUMFjQireqqlee5yPDnAsGtNx0hWfGurQ50ZqSr0-Mp4lQdhqI_fKwaoIsNceXo7NyfvbP08Sl9xD-ULk1XIneb4Q1oCCkaOFUu6nQb4sIRIXGHn4t6Lnf0qe2zn8AZ4sO_QwP-Vp/s320/Sept+08+215-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> As I was taking the preceding picture the bells began to ring for Sunday mass. It was awesome. We have been in the bell tower before as the bells were beginning to ring. They quickly move you out of the room as the big bell begins to swing (it takes awhile to get any moment. The ball on the clapper is larger than my quite sizable head). When you are standing on the landing outside as it rings, you feel the entire structure vibrating under your feet. It is an incredible feeling. I sure hope the gentleman who left St Roman does not live near here.</p><p>Statues flanking St Anne's Portal on the west facade.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijal55rgPecLfnqpa76-Q9dPTQo9QllgRxL2iYaexg6Rjgr6ZKC34tMQX2w-iRguUQSLoeumdKbe5KWcKZMwuqWsS19zEg_FzWAoNGX5XcHnHLavHmcyLZhhzzeQXgD58gGyFkVdWbV8ms/s1600-h/Sept+08+220-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255361037918215442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijal55rgPecLfnqpa76-Q9dPTQo9QllgRxL2iYaexg6Rjgr6ZKC34tMQX2w-iRguUQSLoeumdKbe5KWcKZMwuqWsS19zEg_FzWAoNGX5XcHnHLavHmcyLZhhzzeQXgD58gGyFkVdWbV8ms/s320/Sept+08+220-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> We didn't have much time to hang out in the Latin Quarter or go to Montmartre so we found an Italian restaurant, chowed down and went to bed so we could catch an early flight back to Phoenix. </p><p>And thus ends a great trip. Well, there was the umbrella incident at security in London Heathrow, but that's a story for another time. I'll only say that it was not a 3 Fingered Moment on my part, but it had the potential to be so. And, I no longer have a nice yellow Tour de France umbrella.</p>Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-31596433868696002682008-10-07T13:02:00.014-07:002008-10-07T18:16:43.088-07:00Yay For The Last Day DrivingDinner at the Vieux Leysin was phenomenal. We were given a great table towards the back, next to the bar. Arlette wanted to get the local white wine to go with dinner which she said was called Fendant. She has never had it, which is a great surprise to me, but has always wanted to try it since she first read the Tintin adventure <em>L'Affaire Tournesol</em> (In English <em>The Calculus Affair</em>).<br /><br />In this story Tintin, along with his boozing friend Captain Haddock, are visiting a scientist in Nyon, Switzerland and he offers them a bottle of local Fendant wine for their enjoyment. Haddock is quite the drinker and eagerly awaits a glass, but unfortunately each time the professor is going to open the bottle he goes off on a tangent and poor Haddock is left staring with ill disguised longing at the bottle. Before they can drink, there is an explosion and the house is destroyed. Haddock does get his wine in the end as he saves the bottle and drinks it as he is carried away on a stretcher. This happens to be Arlette's favorite scene in all the Tintin adventures and the opportunity to drink the same wine was too much to pass up. ( I can't believe I am actually talking about this) The woman behind the bar was listening to our conversation about the wine and joining Arlette, they laughed uproariously in describing the scene to each other. It turned out that she is also a huge Tintin fan. I know this scene very well myself since I love Tintin and his dog Milou is my cycling mojo. (I have a Milou decal on all my bikes but one mountain bike, which happens to be the one I crash the most...hmmm)<br /><br />The woman explained to Arlette that they don't have Fendant since it comes from a completely different region (maybe 20 miles away. Fendant also happens to be the popular Swiss varietal and is called Chasselas in France). Anyway, she offered us an excellent Yvorne from Aigle Les Murailles down the road and it was very, very good. The meal at this restaurant was awesome and the vegetarian dishes were incredible.<br /><br />The woman asked Arlette where she was from and Arlette responded with, "Lozere in France." The woman came back with, "What a coincidence. Your waitress is also from Lozere." The waitress, who was in her mid twenties, immediately adopted us and spent most of her evening ignoring other customers and talking to Arlette about home. Arlette got all the personal details, "Father is ex-mayor of Le Luc. Grandfather and grandmother own the Hotel-Restaurant de la Gare. Etc..." Arlette promised to go visit her family, the Coulons, next time she drives through Le Luc, which means she will make a special visit just to say hello. I did feel bad because there was a German couple that were dying to leave, but they were continually ignored by the staff who spent their time jawing with us. What can I say? The residents of some countries obviously recognize my family's inherent quality and so treat us as we deserve to be treated. So the poor Germans received what their compatriots had dished out to us the days previously. (It doesn't make it right, though......much....)<br /><br />After the wine and a glass of Génépi (the official liquor of the Haute Savoie and Alps) the hike up the hill to the hotel was taxing. Poor Arlette had to stop a couple of times to catch her breath. This was a momentous occasion for me as this is the first time I have ever seen her show any weakness in walking as she usually walks at the same pace that she talks. In St Roman, she walks about 10 kilometers a day. I forget that she is 79 years old. I just hope I am in as good of shape as she is when I, hopefully, hit 79.<br /><br />I woke up to sun above and clouds below:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigGMLndQTysEhQIXspqo-rC5lwSFxVn7MbC590US-_D0A4u7FpPn62Zbgj_Cu1Plx7lWAcF8HHkKFhqWSYw_f3wqea10DP9hVitXXqtHWF_rJ_VpTnCgb6iVCWofaTyGhDVMASlzbqjIDq/s1600-h/Sept+08+165-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254572175044575906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigGMLndQTysEhQIXspqo-rC5lwSFxVn7MbC590US-_D0A4u7FpPn62Zbgj_Cu1Plx7lWAcF8HHkKFhqWSYw_f3wqea10DP9hVitXXqtHWF_rJ_VpTnCgb6iVCWofaTyGhDVMASlzbqjIDq/s320/Sept+08+165-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> Arlette at breakfast: "Are you trying to kill me by giving me straight orange juice? Where's the Vodka?"<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcdPF3_io-wb3GyQuF1eod9XyVddXMRJ-CUAdZzDgpOJfCbEHL5O8eAAQaZbaOQKNtxMC_yJoXNyvOF-mYFFVRMh98gCSr9xoTJCISjVQHZciAza8toGMUogwXWiRDMnaRX3sga32hIpka/s1600-h/IMG_3828.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254572178929244162" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcdPF3_io-wb3GyQuF1eod9XyVddXMRJ-CUAdZzDgpOJfCbEHL5O8eAAQaZbaOQKNtxMC_yJoXNyvOF-mYFFVRMh98gCSr9xoTJCISjVQHZciAza8toGMUogwXWiRDMnaRX3sga32hIpka/s320/IMG_3828.jpg" border="0" /></a>The entrance to the Bel-Air hotel. Notice how unpretentious the name is by not having an "E" at the end of "Air."<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvuZ0OziTFDSslx_JavFtD5WmZOfg2X6d-51FY5KQw5YTk9fMaMHHE1cBXq7en3OgwkhaLeKEYx0AYVJ1huNtJ34dq-S9qxEflwAOiGni772970-o6UTn9HgWJ5YgcZUj566exFhKanyWQ/s1600-h/IMG_3828.jpg"></a><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRzvRlmzlPHO7nI7L8S6l1wrftcI2zIqyfjftpcqo-Kd5TqMKOvY86DTuaAf8jF5DBKLNQmcIpaCTAS8C4b3iurk3Q10cPjZ-3W4ddMKZcqrJURZuhSRTU66GSvM38dTP5oel4u624YK4u/s1600-h/IMG_3849.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254512482397531234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRzvRlmzlPHO7nI7L8S6l1wrftcI2zIqyfjftpcqo-Kd5TqMKOvY86DTuaAf8jF5DBKLNQmcIpaCTAS8C4b3iurk3Q10cPjZ-3W4ddMKZcqrJURZuhSRTU66GSvM38dTP5oel4u624YK4u/s320/IMG_3849.jpg" border="0" /></a> We hit the road and headed to Martigny to catch the route to Chamonix, France. Right after Martigny we found La Cascade. The roar of the water was loud enough to be heard as one drove by with the windows up.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAW26DY3fnyMAhbhEQvlEZXWau7E8pMucXaBydXbgTRttEEbNehwnEAfyOLpqMO44aAfVfzcy8vgwUZe7o4slFTs0W07xU0Bn51FrHH3KUQDUMNj8-iLpon5elDivfz1nQToxr9kddUrtF/s1600-h/Sept+08+168.jpg"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvRqVtR9htonf_LsnVumNziweqwCV8710v7UameA54Zzyv214bmvugjmbgVx8Oivy2r873kcYqRCRFprpp0s69jVri_hBJ0PtnGOjrQOKWbwoSwh8m1izGfVqfTruuD-NMGftOtL60owqe/s1600-h/Sept+08+165-2.JPG"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxBS_aDLvEfA2QKSUK-KfYmp8mxj2Hcx29X5ouWNbUZS6-kbFeuhq8D-j7LXoNXFEIeRwDD6x64WgAWmDjyM3Il-1118gj5zmtQCv2FTBotE3357c6uYaLggjW7joyEc-sSOjiXueF67Ub/s1600-h/Sept+08+167-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254511586284746626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxBS_aDLvEfA2QKSUK-KfYmp8mxj2Hcx29X5ouWNbUZS6-kbFeuhq8D-j7LXoNXFEIeRwDD6x64WgAWmDjyM3Il-1118gj5zmtQCv2FTBotE3357c6uYaLggjW7joyEc-sSOjiXueF67Ub/s320/Sept+08+167-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> Almost to Chamonix and Mont Blanc looms ahead.<br /><br /><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRWoiiM_kp3uKs5ECEPHXy3dPvXk5JxNiM6y9xHtMtO7OR4JVByeofAYTgZ_hChpD-by2q1tQVJM5_HcU9HBXZHPP5S2VDr02RJ8R1rSR03Bf73B3fIYbS6y4PD5q6cYUUaWEWstjqgqpj/s1600-h/Sept+08+177-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254511595007293570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRWoiiM_kp3uKs5ECEPHXy3dPvXk5JxNiM6y9xHtMtO7OR4JVByeofAYTgZ_hChpD-by2q1tQVJM5_HcU9HBXZHPP5S2VDr02RJ8R1rSR03Bf73B3fIYbS6y4PD5q6cYUUaWEWstjqgqpj/s320/Sept+08+177-2.JPG" border="0" /></a>Arlette was adamant about about us taking the cable car up to the top of the Aiguille de Midi, a peak right next to Mont Blanc. It was quite a wait for a cable car, but was worth every moment. The cost for the ride up to the peak was very expensive. It was about $50 a person. The entire ride takes about 30 minutes and that includes one stop to switch cars. You climb about 9000 feet and the views are jaw dropping. It did get very crowded on the first gondola. The first stop is prime for para-sailing and these guys just force their way into the car with their giant packs. It does look like fun though. </p><p>I would prefer to be climbing like the guys in this picture:</p><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnWOmedvs1NwPn4kQIoX4fUkw_enohy4g4SALFJ9WBwWwXYWC3yNlN9cBsUZY8OiBtw_5BCksgPKkf2RLwtQEKxn8PFWknG-HG8Sw2fdMp5nJIDag_PVGpC4aRP-bX6tcnlB1nAVRAuhNU/s1600-h/Sept+08+184-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254505666488749986" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnWOmedvs1NwPn4kQIoX4fUkw_enohy4g4SALFJ9WBwWwXYWC3yNlN9cBsUZY8OiBtw_5BCksgPKkf2RLwtQEKxn8PFWknG-HG8Sw2fdMp5nJIDag_PVGpC4aRP-bX6tcnlB1nAVRAuhNU/s320/Sept+08+184-2.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6jdojbfAS6oMbXFvRQ-9w74-jOYEPwAIGDGIxcd9TItmuXKoxqp8lfIedu7TmU6lZDiWPDAs1sy3CbdN3ml-0vkK2KFIOoDy8fO0ZUOv41eNFZYtCCQ03FN6zVb4XZnOEJHQ5KKo4UTgr/s1600-h/Sept+08+186-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254505667068949858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6jdojbfAS6oMbXFvRQ-9w74-jOYEPwAIGDGIxcd9TItmuXKoxqp8lfIedu7TmU6lZDiWPDAs1sy3CbdN3ml-0vkK2KFIOoDy8fO0ZUOv41eNFZYtCCQ03FN6zVb4XZnOEJHQ5KKo4UTgr/s320/Sept+08+186-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> Mont Blanc, another 3000 feet higher in altitude.</div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhubZbw7c2gwZTMqdVXCqQI1e_lpuRB1118rLoKLUo8TJU4yV5zA7fLPibEyAYdb72x2BVdKV0i-2z-il0CyMyqPT-Z_nZeMcORwonAnmImeQtlGNv2jBaBVABms3S3_L9IOdGWgSYnC04F/s1600-h/Sept+08+189-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254505668524092818" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhubZbw7c2gwZTMqdVXCqQI1e_lpuRB1118rLoKLUo8TJU4yV5zA7fLPibEyAYdb72x2BVdKV0i-2z-il0CyMyqPT-Z_nZeMcORwonAnmImeQtlGNv2jBaBVABms3S3_L9IOdGWgSYnC04F/s320/Sept+08+189-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> We skipped elevator ride that would take us up to the actual tip of the Aiguille (which means <em>Needle</em>) because our stomachs started to growl as it was nearing two o'clock in the afternoon and lunch was beckoning. We found a little restaurant nearby after we descended to Chamonix. Once again the food was excellent. This is the first trip to France that I have taken where every meal was memorable for all the right reasons. I enjoyed a Mont Blanc lager while Arlette chose a Leffe instead. She really prefers Bavarian brew over all others but I am getting her to appreciate the Belgian ales more and more.<br /><br /><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ_7Ht-1Jv8rqxaUVBfOs1-dlTNbcMPRD6rgFIuqXdRfsd6TdTAMjXuBdIIrn-K0ygfQdXdVDGG1622tYMm945aeVsnFBixQFDbhDNgqj1_hOt8mNKQwxojzu3PIPdeKKmdqFKge1fLWgQ/s1600-h/Sept+08+192-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254505671605965746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ_7Ht-1Jv8rqxaUVBfOs1-dlTNbcMPRD6rgFIuqXdRfsd6TdTAMjXuBdIIrn-K0ygfQdXdVDGG1622tYMm945aeVsnFBixQFDbhDNgqj1_hOt8mNKQwxojzu3PIPdeKKmdqFKge1fLWgQ/s320/Sept+08+192-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> After being verbally accosted by a bombastic neighboring diner for awhile (I think he was hitting on Arlette, really!), we headed, finally, towards St Roman which was still five hours away.</p><p>My final view of the French Alps before we hit Grenoble and the autoroute home. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkDrxjxjJUzuzoOpgulW2rW67zGRe0Kzt3CoRDyjcCz2eEaF5ocPQy342hGwHgFz0ggL0W-Y-foAhVefzJx8j8pmk33pf6dtWKTLTanN9-S-3VDeU768xsoV5VcX3ThDS07AoqgKOxMf6d/s1600-h/Sept+08+195-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254505674978897346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkDrxjxjJUzuzoOpgulW2rW67zGRe0Kzt3CoRDyjcCz2eEaF5ocPQy342hGwHgFz0ggL0W-Y-foAhVefzJx8j8pmk33pf6dtWKTLTanN9-S-3VDeU768xsoV5VcX3ThDS07AoqgKOxMf6d/s320/Sept+08+195-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> The rest of the drive was in the dark and not much was said as we were totally fragged. We arrived at the house at 9:30pm and drank a celebratory Karmeliten beer which is brewed by monks and called Sturm Bio (Bio for Organic). It's awesome and is now my official second favorite brew after Duvel...and maybe Bohemia... We also had a very nice bottle of Cairanne Cotes de Rhone wine with cheese and olives and spent until midnight rehashing the entire trip. We were too tired to drink the Veuve Clicquot. That'll wait until next trip.</p><p>Tomorrow- The TGV to Paris.<br /></p>Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-36195666891170578052008-10-06T20:56:00.006-07:002008-10-07T13:02:49.415-07:00And I Thought The French Were SnootyA quick back-step to the hotel in Oberaudorf:<br /><br />Breakfast at the Lambacher, in Oberaudorf, was a silent affair except for Arlette's continuous conversation. She has one speed on speaking and that is at warp-speed. I feel that part of the reason behind her speaking so fast, and much, is that her mind works so quickly, one thought merges into another and another and another so she ends up with a lot to say. 99% of it is very interesting since she is so smart (not many people would point a town while passing by and comment, "on September 13, 1786 Goethe was arrested on suspicion of being a spy because he was caught sketching the castle." She is brilliant.<br /><br />There were two other people there, Germans, who completely ignored us as we walked in. One of them, an attractive younger lady, was also sick and she and I played quite the duet with our sniffles, coughs and sneezes. The delicate interplay between us, as each sniffle was layered upon another, with the contrapunction of a cough or wheeze inserted where needed, was moving. Though, I am not sure the New York Philharmonic will be booking us soon. I do believe my nose raised the art of the French Horn to new levels.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">And now back to the story in progress:</span><br /><br />We left Salzburg (sadly) and headed to Wallgau, a small Bavarian town. Arlette was raving about the beauty of this town and the fact that there was a very well known hotel there that she had always wanted to stay at. We left the highway and soon were on a very beautiful, windy road. We still could not see the mountains because of the low clouds and rain, but the countryside was amazing. As we got closer to Wallgau, well marked bike paths and hiking trails started to appear along the road. I would love to come back and spend some time riding and hiking here.<br />We finally arrived in Wallgau and quickly found the hotel.<br /><br /><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAFpQ4VHtxm9Kqti-LV3wglrnAwonmOUp9KALWWkzePPYpYRw0aR1Gl_ufLukW81Ce_vVIZKAkmuYaK-V0XLYbZglbIFlXsn5i2s4emLAIoGa6SxhJ79-dWt4JyaU3_A7peVzxXLRWQ7_f/s1600-h/Sept+08+146.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254261487591469106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAFpQ4VHtxm9Kqti-LV3wglrnAwonmOUp9KALWWkzePPYpYRw0aR1Gl_ufLukW81Ce_vVIZKAkmuYaK-V0XLYbZglbIFlXsn5i2s4emLAIoGa6SxhJ79-dWt4JyaU3_A7peVzxXLRWQ7_f/s320/Sept+08+146.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />It was huge and obviously well known as amongst the pictures of previous guests was one of Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. Arlette got the rooms as I got the bags from the car. The first thing Arlette told me was that she was sure it was a very good hotel since the woman at the reception desk was very snooty and if her nose had been any higher in the air it would have been impossible for her to look at Arlette. I should write a new travel guide that rates food and hotels with Nose-Ups instead of Thumbs-Ups. The Normandy Hotel in Paris would be a Four Nose-Up hotel.<br /><br />I wasn't too worried about it, all I wanted was a beer and some food. It was quite a hike through the labyrinth of hallways to the rooms, which were amazing. We headed down to the restaurant for some chow and discovered that there were two restaurants and bars. One small bar was for the "hip" younger town's people and one restaurant was for the hotel's guests. Arlette quickly steered us to the other bar/restaurant which was filled with locals. We were politely stared at as we chose our table up and out of the way of the main floor, but no one greeted us as they did others (read German) that walked in. Arlette was thrilled with the decor and local color and started snapping photos immediately. I think some patrons thought there was a lightning storm from the amount of flashing that was going on. One gentleman walked in wearing Lederhosen and Arlette was finally in heaven. She took a couple of pictures of him before he noticed and he immediately walked to her and grabbed her camera. He looked at her and asked her (in German of course) if she was an idiot. He didn't realize that she is completely fluent in German. He then looked at me who looks as American as can be and turning back to her asked her if she spoke English. I knew something was wrong because her face went white then red (if it had gone blue she would have had the French flag) I started to get up but Arlette responded to him in German saying she just wanted to get a pic of him in the traditional costume. He then acted like he was just kidding with her and I got a picture of them together. We were treated correctly after that, but not warmly. The feeling we got is that we had not stayed in the guests' side of the eatery and had the gall (maybe I should say "the Gaul" since we're French) to enter their space. I will say a visiting German couple came in also and they were not treated much better. (in the hotel's defense, I walked into a bar in North Carolina where I was treated even worse so I will not say that it's just a Bavarian thing).<br /><br />The beer (all two liters of it) was excellent and I felt much better towards my fellow man as we headed towards bed. My head cold even felt like it was going away. I slept well even though the couple next door had their TV blasting all night long and I could hear it through the wall.<br /><br />The next morning dawned cold, cloudy and rainy, but the town and countryside were still extraordinary. Arlette got me up early for breakfast since she hadn't slept at all due to her neighbor's TV blasting very loudly all night long. She banged on the wall and door and the front desk tried calling the room but all to no avail. I could hear it loudly in the hallway. But for me, at least, all was right with the world. I figured that my attitude towards everyone last night was caused by being sick and tired. We were seated and once again, no one said good morning as we greeted everyone upon entering. The hostess asked us if we wanted coffee with breakfast and we said yes. Arlette then asked (in German) if she could have some warm milk for her coffee. The hostess stared at her for a second, then pointed to a small carafe of cream and then to a pitcher of cold milk, next to the cereal and said that is all there is. As we were eating, a German couple of guests walked in and were greeted by everyone warmly. The wife asked the hostess for some milk and received a pitcher of warm milk!!! I then noticed that all the German guests had warm milk for their coffee. I guess we were truly "untermenschen" in their eyes and undeserving of such small niceties. The one other non-German couple on the room was also ignored and had cold milk.<br /><br />I noticed Lederhosen man hanging around in normal clothes and it turns out he is the owner of the hotel which has been in his family for over 350 years. That's pretty cool and deserving of mention even if he was a jerk to us. I checked out the town's website and this is what it says:<br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">In our cosy village, you can experience old customs, traditions and Bavarian hospitality and above all, the local cuisine will pamper you in every possible way. Moreover, there are no limits concerning any sport activities in Wallgau. The fascinating countryside invites everybody to discover and conquer or simply enjoy it – in any case it is charming. </span><span style="color:#ff0000;"><br /></span>I have experienced Bavarian hospitality in Oberaudorf and in Wallgau and maybe it was the weather but the greetings were as warm as the outside air temperature. But, it is so beautiful there, I am willing to give it another chance. </p><p>As I was getting the bags and heading for the car, Arlette's neighbor left his room looking like he had had a very rough night of it. No wonder there was no response from him. He looked so hungover I felt sorry for him. I think his condition was an exeption to the house rules of imbibing, though. One thing that impressed me with the locals in their barroom was that they were drinking quite a bit, but they were never drunk or obnoxious. They were relaxed and enjoying each other's company and having a good time in a very convivial atmosphere. There's a lesson for us to be learned from them.<br /><br />Local church with typical Bavarian onion dome:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7NvuqbLk72CJhhIcqL_mPF6R5u7MUrSMIJrqG_U5MiD5ZTsqs6IDboViiCQv2R6LyL45ZA_R7gnoNox7FlOzWENIbDLPfkckKL0AyAWbd6Z6IChtrgQowhVogbbef-LzVrPZtkp4E-vdT/s1600-h/Sept+08+133.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254260947512180178" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7NvuqbLk72CJhhIcqL_mPF6R5u7MUrSMIJrqG_U5MiD5ZTsqs6IDboViiCQv2R6LyL45ZA_R7gnoNox7FlOzWENIbDLPfkckKL0AyAWbd6Z6IChtrgQowhVogbbef-LzVrPZtkp4E-vdT/s320/Sept+08+133.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4CKZ4vgU5Ui3ZSo-PhRrnOMkD8Dst7VAN3nwkHt1bvWTd0WnutqYbp6CcZfLbfmEff4s_b7MhbSwQn-7IisGGR4cxcmcvtRG5Gmg3XIgxnJbVbLQtS5Zww7JzmfTg5_0Vjuo2GRoBHDYn/s1600-h/Sept+08+147.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254260954465124210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4CKZ4vgU5Ui3ZSo-PhRrnOMkD8Dst7VAN3nwkHt1bvWTd0WnutqYbp6CcZfLbfmEff4s_b7MhbSwQn-7IisGGR4cxcmcvtRG5Gmg3XIgxnJbVbLQtS5Zww7JzmfTg5_0Vjuo2GRoBHDYn/s320/Sept+08+147.jpg" border="0" /></a> High fashion at the Dirndl Boutique. Check out the nifty hats!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisiYIlmFeAwSJVnzO2hhUVB59vTDvy8cFJXjrY6SU_RtDqlHtRxfHnCwm1J4xNMrhwtQnzv1IjviOquB9pUFYNRtNn4Ax859lspYUrsn1uKMBOghHe7Sxcjzoe6x6EZLP5pHMxqcA6-IL3/s1600-h/Sept+08+145.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254260955564352674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisiYIlmFeAwSJVnzO2hhUVB59vTDvy8cFJXjrY6SU_RtDqlHtRxfHnCwm1J4xNMrhwtQnzv1IjviOquB9pUFYNRtNn4Ax859lspYUrsn1uKMBOghHe7Sxcjzoe6x6EZLP5pHMxqcA6-IL3/s320/Sept+08+145.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyn_vnj6ge3vm2HHYUclJ8lxhEMDkLxi-f9e1SMzP_bPMHRzrog8ZRORKAJVSDv_EB68zIAHoimq3ebqHrEIlNJlz3q9QtBQnYiKuqdz81hYekwxQEgxUv4zmtsyt5oaMoQ3EsTA8fTbOH/s1600-h/Sept+08+149.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254260960439770498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyn_vnj6ge3vm2HHYUclJ8lxhEMDkLxi-f9e1SMzP_bPMHRzrog8ZRORKAJVSDv_EB68zIAHoimq3ebqHrEIlNJlz3q9QtBQnYiKuqdz81hYekwxQEgxUv4zmtsyt5oaMoQ3EsTA8fTbOH/s320/Sept+08+149.jpg" border="0" /></a> Arlette looking quite dashing in front of the Hotel. It's hard to imagine she is 79. She doesn't drink, or eat, much, but when she gets into a rhythm, she can put it away. Just ask my buddy Darrell as he and I found ourselves crawling out from under the table as she was opening another bottle of Cointreau....<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQaVxcIgAV6LqycdMZaZy-G6mAlgLtZMMxAkQlxrEf5bAvwyEHN_ky4BpZmMzOptbLle272guoErzN4NIMJmmKU_wAX1E1j3ZYXCWgoBulaBTYZXNznRPLb-BVTt106TPGuBNgsQvss_N-/s1600-h/Sept+08+148.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254260963279350306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQaVxcIgAV6LqycdMZaZy-G6mAlgLtZMMxAkQlxrEf5bAvwyEHN_ky4BpZmMzOptbLle272guoErzN4NIMJmmKU_wAX1E1j3ZYXCWgoBulaBTYZXNznRPLb-BVTt106TPGuBNgsQvss_N-/s320/Sept+08+148.jpg" border="0" /></a> We headed south towards Austria before cutting over to Switzerland and our next stop at Leysin. We had planned to stop at Garmisch but the weather was so bad we decided not to. Next time.<br /><br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLH7ujc1v0vxk0DeufuxJ8POYpS1LxRYszwl4w7ehBXqhCDtPnpwwYMue3caNIKFRkzkPqUrtNQ-6YOi-8TJZKpEV2TuOlh3hKI_yyR_9HNh9ykw1nUP_yZwDHNuN51pZIPqkg8Nc4sM_J/s1600-h/Sept+08+151.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254259891179146898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLH7ujc1v0vxk0DeufuxJ8POYpS1LxRYszwl4w7ehBXqhCDtPnpwwYMue3caNIKFRkzkPqUrtNQ-6YOi-8TJZKpEV2TuOlh3hKI_yyR_9HNh9ykw1nUP_yZwDHNuN51pZIPqkg8Nc4sM_J/s320/Sept+08+151.jpg" border="0" /></a> As we hit Austria the clouds started to go away and sunshine soon greeted us with warmer temperatures.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUETftnd_zYVlkRuFYUpixz3ZMGSIlTis6_jUwpibGNj3JxxocqWEL2GK7Bh9DD8D7y-WwvSvQ9HSkdXfMnXze9qfW0LFHm2VmBwZLLyVxe3n6YueRL2i2W97Zhx0h76RPrR2z39hAKdwo/s1600-h/Sept+08+153.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254259890698575378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUETftnd_zYVlkRuFYUpixz3ZMGSIlTis6_jUwpibGNj3JxxocqWEL2GK7Bh9DD8D7y-WwvSvQ9HSkdXfMnXze9qfW0LFHm2VmBwZLLyVxe3n6YueRL2i2W97Zhx0h76RPrR2z39hAKdwo/s320/Sept+08+153.jpg" border="0" /></a> After cutting through Lichtenstein we stopped for lunch in the Swiss town of Bad Ragaz. We found a little Gasthaus that was amazing. Ultra modern and chic, but the food was incredible. The local beer was good too. I give this place Three Nose-Ups for the modern, hip atmosphere and the decent cuisine.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDiLWqsBO8A1O-k25hKFsHalCDUUccM7KipmJfQDjTe9y9r8MV9lEeU_MkSQ09_0EG6zORRGgYt7tg5z92QDNub59WrFwdLuQmjkzrGqNQGXfKr0sc-ggr0l38xTq72j5kLyTaIVmX9ZYL/s1600-h/Sept+08+154.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254259894489629314" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDiLWqsBO8A1O-k25hKFsHalCDUUccM7KipmJfQDjTe9y9r8MV9lEeU_MkSQ09_0EG6zORRGgYt7tg5z92QDNub59WrFwdLuQmjkzrGqNQGXfKr0sc-ggr0l38xTq72j5kLyTaIVmX9ZYL/s320/Sept+08+154.jpg" border="0" /></a> Bad Ragaz, Taxis in front of the train station (just kidding):<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis9YfE-Qbxn7FGN5qm-n9P6gsVubQ-UwvKWqLT99NUoNtkkLn_y3D3Af8LW2fwlAszXcYU8IB6-qkeCXPRuk01xqUUDNeJUY3thE6ZHoSGwWvnjxBnqsa0Sri6AsP9vuZVluxZpDHG4UWX/s1600-h/Sept+08+156.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254259898940490258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis9YfE-Qbxn7FGN5qm-n9P6gsVubQ-UwvKWqLT99NUoNtkkLn_y3D3Af8LW2fwlAszXcYU8IB6-qkeCXPRuk01xqUUDNeJUY3thE6ZHoSGwWvnjxBnqsa0Sri6AsP9vuZVluxZpDHG4UWX/s320/Sept+08+156.jpg" border="0" /></a> Somewhere in the Swiss Alps looking for Heidi:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9-iIWQ_zl2xMokzg2H6jPw5u4R0lqiNfE9Fg2NykDiNjKqC4SZRgutFHOmkOBbP7wGo5C32wBDrpdazqMn6qBZW0d4zZnSh-O8u52Q4ftFZYTmxj5yElO7_wpBZpLtqkxELJro4Bk6zc0/s1600-h/Sept+08+159.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254259902707161810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9-iIWQ_zl2xMokzg2H6jPw5u4R0lqiNfE9Fg2NykDiNjKqC4SZRgutFHOmkOBbP7wGo5C32wBDrpdazqMn6qBZW0d4zZnSh-O8u52Q4ftFZYTmxj5yElO7_wpBZpLtqkxELJro4Bk6zc0/s320/Sept+08+159.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />As we got closer to Lake Geneva and Leysin the weather started to turn to crap again. We arrived in Leysin as it was getting dark and found the hotel. The proprietor greeted us like old family, showed us our rooms, and made reservations for us at a local restaurant. The restaurant was about a 3/4 of a mile away and was a little difficult to find. It was called the Vieux Leysin (The Old Leysin) and was in a four hundred year old wooden building. We were seated next to the bar with some Americans near by. Arlette went into her loud, in English, "Listen! They are American don't you think?" She is awesome.<br /><div><div><p>To be continued: </p></div></div>Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-19501458205331338312008-10-01T19:26:00.008-07:002008-10-17T22:04:03.035-07:00Maseratis and Mozart MeetAs we crossed the Brenner Pass and entered Austria, clouds soon obscured the mountain tops as in France. We were unable to see anything but the base of the mountains as we passed through Innsbruck. We had decided to go to a small town in Bavaria called Oberaudorf, about 40 miles from Salzburg, Austria. I was excited for the opportunity to drive on the German Autobahns which I believed had no speed limits. Alas, as soon as we crossed into Germany we were stopped by road work and the average speed was about 10 miles per hour. At this time it was raining hard enough to preclude any idea of traveling at a high rate of speed anyway. Fortunately there was an exit just a couple of kilometers up the road and I quickly got off the Autobahn. As I exited I noticed that there was a speed limit sign stating that the max speed for the freeway is 130 kilometers per hour, just the same as in France. Oh well, the European Union strikes again and another dream shattered.<br /><br />Brenner Pass in sunshine.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPeFLgTbA0VfipyPRNuKTrLh8oFTz3gKN7WhNgC7SBBenxsJ4mWSvSZ6gAgqCM1Et1LQoBna4snT-4oOHQoywazu4NV0l1dpTUfC0pbNhwAGP8N31Ie1lY8NeIMz2OTljmale3U0TOUTQR/s1600-h/Sept+08+097-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254405133839824434" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPeFLgTbA0VfipyPRNuKTrLh8oFTz3gKN7WhNgC7SBBenxsJ4mWSvSZ6gAgqCM1Et1LQoBna4snT-4oOHQoywazu4NV0l1dpTUfC0pbNhwAGP8N31Ie1lY8NeIMz2OTljmale3U0TOUTQR/s320/Sept+08+097-2.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Traffic jam and heavy rain at the German border<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpeT-QRm6Jhg6oOAXIak6Em9uzO_-wXb4LztfgjDB_L5zJPrdXlV9qKYwcJDghZfb1CGdeLMUJuGcV3JIsKc-j0nHcNq-uEVO6_2R0Pt6KEsTOkzTJtGUjFnuW4j1Kwf3ah9vZqyfdFoad/s1600-h/Sept+08+099-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254404940139598866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpeT-QRm6Jhg6oOAXIak6Em9uzO_-wXb4LztfgjDB_L5zJPrdXlV9qKYwcJDghZfb1CGdeLMUJuGcV3JIsKc-j0nHcNq-uEVO6_2R0Pt6KEsTOkzTJtGUjFnuW4j1Kwf3ah9vZqyfdFoad/s320/Sept+08+099-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> It was dusk at this time and with the low lying clouds and the rain, the road to Oberaudorf was surreal in its beauty. It wound up, down, and around small hills, through trees and fields, and small hamlets. The rain continued to fall as we arrived in Oberaudorf and the first sight that greeted us was an old Bavarian man, pushing an equally ancient bicycle, dressed in traditional leather knickers which were filthy. Arlette was in heaven and proudly pointed out this gentleman as proof that the Bavarians are the acme of western civilization. What crusty leather pants have to do with man’s ascendance from savagery I have no idea. But, Arlette is one of the most brilliant persons I have ever known, if not a little whacko (being whacko must be a genetic trait in my family so my kids and friends would tell me. Except my kids would say that it stops with me since they are obviously superior to me in every way. Punk kids.), so I will take her word for it.<br /><br /><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKzVzZgqUmycYhDNaJt1OYr2WouO367YZAvB1kMEteUidvFV63FTef5LpacXwX2z3vNAGrwRHNRfsyU2COadlZgkKWh1b4VnpmwXh_BkSvnNoIyLeG_TjtNAhcgGS1bXnZ7ogOKJ3Zcpq2/s1600-h/Sept+08+100-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254404945574703202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKzVzZgqUmycYhDNaJt1OYr2WouO367YZAvB1kMEteUidvFV63FTef5LpacXwX2z3vNAGrwRHNRfsyU2COadlZgkKWh1b4VnpmwXh_BkSvnNoIyLeG_TjtNAhcgGS1bXnZ7ogOKJ3Zcpq2/s320/Sept+08+100-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> We arrived as it was getting dark and tried to find a hotel with a couple of rooms. There was a typical hotel/restaurant next to the church in the center of town and we made that our first stop. We were disappointed to find out that all the rooms in the town were taken up by people from Munich. My guess is that they were escaping the madness of Oktoberfest. There was one hotel left that had rooms, but it was the one that the other hotels sneered at. It was actually quite nice and inexpensive. It just didn’t have the ambiance of the others. I think that the local distaste for our hotel was that it was plain, simple, and inexpensive compared to the others that were trying very hard to provide that real “Bavarian” experience that Arlette was looking so forward to. All I can say is “Viva la Revolucion!” </p><p>We ate at the Alpen Rose restaurant across the street from the hotel and the meal was okay but not spectacular. Arlette soon realized that she was the only person besides the server dressed in a Bavarian fashion. I feel a little bad for her because I think she is slowly realizing that her world is no longer in existence. She remembers things as they were before 1968 when social revolutions started to change the face of Europe. The typical greeting in Bavaria is “Grüße Gott” But aside from the hostess greeting us that way, the Germans we met entering any restaurant or place of business never said that to us (The one exception was a very old lady at a gas station who was definitely “old school”). Unlike in Austria, but I will get to that later. </p>The Alpen Rose with church behind.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwO-7U9YwudFhyO55ZaktrCFPL739dq_0P1hdtKnmXxpLdJwAKM3jZ9OMn62wDyPntswaAvW1WSs1L5pnzJzsUkR9sa4f1bq-Y-pbeSd1KX1mcdhW_irMCXQ4aO0w75qGUrKNv7U_qOrfc/s1600-h/Sept+08+105.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254404954797010194" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwO-7U9YwudFhyO55ZaktrCFPL739dq_0P1hdtKnmXxpLdJwAKM3jZ9OMn62wDyPntswaAvW1WSs1L5pnzJzsUkR9sa4f1bq-Y-pbeSd1KX1mcdhW_irMCXQ4aO0w75qGUrKNv7U_qOrfc/s320/Sept+08+105.jpg" border="0" /></a> Visitor's Bureau guaranteeing the true local experience. Notice the McDonalds sign.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzvqt2o8ur9zKOGuJXQgKhMXGJz7Q3PDcjJGOYewcJv-UU86lghkeRUcnF1QLg4JXQwm5qec49px_BjxY8Pxi4d5JV0uQSaPvjctl4ATZSr9nxlIUmvpBwqygUEPBsykZ_48O_fuBEutc6/s1600-h/Sept+08+108.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254404958077164754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzvqt2o8ur9zKOGuJXQgKhMXGJz7Q3PDcjJGOYewcJv-UU86lghkeRUcnF1QLg4JXQwm5qec49px_BjxY8Pxi4d5JV0uQSaPvjctl4ATZSr9nxlIUmvpBwqygUEPBsykZ_48O_fuBEutc6/s320/Sept+08+108.jpg" border="0" /></a> The local bank<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdgPyf3WrJCgsN3M_q3MJQXOesbZRKyURmSi6Hp19XkZpUG7K7_e3h022vHiRnMdZwDWy_VLWwVn9-H05tOp_W0XC1nNvzUD1plW80Ww7bhQLsd5rqyZqQXJFRGB0TQoAuRxwFgW_XnX9o/s1600-h/Sept+08+111.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254404956858666866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdgPyf3WrJCgsN3M_q3MJQXOesbZRKyURmSi6Hp19XkZpUG7K7_e3h022vHiRnMdZwDWy_VLWwVn9-H05tOp_W0XC1nNvzUD1plW80Ww7bhQLsd5rqyZqQXJFRGB0TQoAuRxwFgW_XnX9o/s320/Sept+08+111.jpg" border="0" /></a> We left Oberaudorf to low lying clouds and rain and headed up the road to Salzburg, Austria.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGlrjZn61SEmbdPtPDOOw6mLrcpUV9XfKoQ9lH1qxZE9y2Tp2EHaRUbET0Vuw6H97a0PbVJxbW0CFeOaZZpGUQAF_pV4Q5n7gQ9JA-wUCMKyBZzYej23B_SJp42yIw2MPDvklcFEe-Erxb/s1600-h/Sept+08+112-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254404195151011218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGlrjZn61SEmbdPtPDOOw6mLrcpUV9XfKoQ9lH1qxZE9y2Tp2EHaRUbET0Vuw6H97a0PbVJxbW0CFeOaZZpGUQAF_pV4Q5n7gQ9JA-wUCMKyBZzYej23B_SJp42yIw2MPDvklcFEe-Erxb/s320/Sept+08+112-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> I got into a fast driving line of cars that included a couple of seven series Beemers and one Maserati. I loved the fact that as we were heading to Salzburg, the birthplace of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, I was listening to a symphony from the exhaust of the Maserati. Italians may not be able to keep a government in place for more than 6 months and their cars have a reputation, in the US at least, of being suspect in reliability. But, they certainly put passion and a sense of beauty into all their creations. American cars have exhausts that are silent and blah or are brutal and try to overpower you with their “studliness.” The Maserati's exhaust note was mellow, yet powerful at low RPMs, but as the driver got on song with the throttle, the exhaust became this wonderful mix of speed, power, and desire for covering huge amounts of road quickly. *sigh* </div><div></div><div>But I digress. Pulling into the outskirts of Salzburg, I got stuck in some noontime traffic and noticing a small neighborhood Gasthaus at a stoplight, I made the executive decision to stop for lunch. Actually I held my breath until I turned blue, whined, cried, and sniveled until I got my way. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWyKrGpoejDbLM22uSsFTtkPlUuxq9JCUHrBWCVHFiE3kGvcmzuqbvPTkoHtLFkciRw5aWggeMzI4mymdIDyC_lfMknMjyltbUfkhSK64x_inOflQ7uqhDOqLnKz0Pff8Mh5c5mvFawyjF/s1600-h/Sept+08+118-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254404198043424802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWyKrGpoejDbLM22uSsFTtkPlUuxq9JCUHrBWCVHFiE3kGvcmzuqbvPTkoHtLFkciRw5aWggeMzI4mymdIDyC_lfMknMjyltbUfkhSK64x_inOflQ7uqhDOqLnKz0Pff8Mh5c5mvFawyjF/s320/Sept+08+118-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> As we walked into the restaurant/bar, it felt like we were in a Clint Eastwood movie. All conversation stopped, the piano player stopped playing (just kidding), and all heads turned and stared at us. Then, all at once, everyone smiled and exclaimed, “Grüße Gott”. The bartender seated us in a small side area where only one very old man was seated with a half liter of beer and some munchies (“schnibbles” as a friend would say) in front of him. He looked up and with a serious tone greeted us politely. As we ordered our meals and some decent local brew (Stiegl) I could tell he was trying to listen in on our conversation. But not in a nosy way, just through curiosity for strangers being in the pub, so to speak. After he finished his meal he stood up, grabbed his hat and coat, and asked us in German where we were from. Arlette responded in German that we were from France and Arizona. He then asked us in broken English if we knew Tucson, which he pronounced “Tuckson.” I answered that I was born in Tucson. At this point he stood up a little taller, slapped his chest proudly and loudly exclaimed, “I was prisoner of war near Tuckson.” It turned out that he had been in Rommel’s army in North Africa in 1943 working clearing mine fields when he was captured by Patton’s army. He then stayed in several camps throughout the US until 1946 as a POW. He said Arizona was the best place he had been interned and still had a piece of cotton saved as a memento of his time as a prisoner. </div><div></div><div>We drove to the city center, parked the car, and wandered in the rain for a while soaking in (no pun intended) the beauty of the city. We finally ended up at the house where Mozart was born but did not take the time to visit it since we had to get back to Germany and a little town where Arlette was raving about this hotel she had to stay in or her life would forever be incomplete. </div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ43NzbA3xE9POlAN6cvmSqQCzj1PO64e6EhWFl0ndtZXsjy1idXbUPKI4_muVgz9DrebdL83r7z2WrVg9yQW9cnoORWanlfu5lbnwwALszipX758FLg4ylxvBRNH9HHEJu0RNpC9rHW2b/s1600-h/Sept+08+126-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254404203803894946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ43NzbA3xE9POlAN6cvmSqQCzj1PO64e6EhWFl0ndtZXsjy1idXbUPKI4_muVgz9DrebdL83r7z2WrVg9yQW9cnoORWanlfu5lbnwwALszipX758FLg4ylxvBRNH9HHEJu0RNpC9rHW2b/s320/Sept+08+126-2.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj10YcyL3mNUzDoA668yrZcDjQDDmXlGbNtLs7kNnUZLmHdmnxyku69Rxb1jwpp9lYNfyxuEP5Bvio1OflLnm9ESgTo6ds-zVhrnRKo5rXBYovL_MSRN2Gc2U2Ese_1TiAwvdPVoH0UWKgh/s1600-h/Sept+08+120-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254404204963987890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj10YcyL3mNUzDoA668yrZcDjQDDmXlGbNtLs7kNnUZLmHdmnxyku69Rxb1jwpp9lYNfyxuEP5Bvio1OflLnm9ESgTo6ds-zVhrnRKo5rXBYovL_MSRN2Gc2U2Ese_1TiAwvdPVoH0UWKgh/s320/Sept+08+120-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> Here's Arlette proving her street cred by flashing a gang sign in front of the house where Mozart lived. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWehjo6VMKOUgPn4akcA_CVPs57lvoo5xLGXOvDjuI17YOtWNxrfG91t37KRHG-AFXmL_xm8h6SWdA1wGSfGWX21Cb39EbWiXr1vjybH_9iZSiIgo3r0d2ZzqfqlLgf-NHXK_Xp2W5cJDG/s1600-h/Sept+08+124-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254404207163145938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWehjo6VMKOUgPn4akcA_CVPs57lvoo5xLGXOvDjuI17YOtWNxrfG91t37KRHG-AFXmL_xm8h6SWdA1wGSfGWX21Cb39EbWiXr1vjybH_9iZSiIgo3r0d2ZzqfqlLgf-NHXK_Xp2W5cJDG/s320/Sept+08+124-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> Next time, “Wallgau. Where the inhabitants make the French look like St Francis of Assisi.”Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-8934993934972739642008-09-29T05:23:00.005-07:002008-10-07T07:05:55.622-07:00Update from London AirportAs I sit here in Heathrow Airport waiting for my flight home I thought I would take a couple of moments and put together some thoughts about the trip since this is the first time I have had a good internet connection in four days. I do not know how long I will be able to maintain writing this as I am limited by my computer’s batteries’ life and my bladder’s ability to hold the pint of bitter I just drank in O’Neill’s Pub. I apologize in advance for any disjointed flows in thought, but as my friends will attest, my thoughts do not ever travel in a straight line but wander to and fro like a dog sniffing at every bush and pole searching for the best spot to leave its mark. Hmmm. Maybe comparing my thought process to a urinating dog is not a great metaphor…Well; I’ll try to start from where I last left off.<br /><br />We left Turin in sunshine and temperatures in the 70’s with the decision that we would try to hit Bavaria that night. The traffic was not too bad leaving the city, but it still took 30 minutes to get from the hotel to the Autostrada. I followed the traffic signs instead of listening to the GPS and that added a few minutes. Turin is not an unbeautiful city, but it is very industrial looking in many places. The young people here, however, are some of the most beautiful that I have ever seen. I heard that the Italian women were the most beautiful in the world (Sophia Loren…sigh) and I am now not inclined to disagree. But the men, too, were beautiful. I looked like a manatee in a sea of dolphins. But I felt better knowing that very few of them had the class and grace to sport a three fingered hand.<br /><br />After I got onto the Autostrada I was hoping that I would enjoy the freedom to go what ever speed I desired. But, alas, the regulatory police of the European Union have decreed within their 10 Commandments of No Fun that “Thou shalt not pass beyond 130 kilometers per hour (80 mph) lest thou displease thy bureaucracy who is thy new god.” Fortunately, the Italians, who are the head priests of the Church of Bureaucracy, pay no attention to the rules and I knew I was going to have fun when I followed a UPS truck at over 95 mph.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXPpG7rkO4nk791MPaMrljgqOH_ifWHJ0o9MfvIDwY2ZZqw4xZHMUUKwKymfQGdlSIyKGVoiKN8cxbRuNfx1lqwVnqWYM7WOagPepoOMAfL7bUNQbmUiljobO794Bw5AesWP68WYsIyCNU/s1600-h/Sept+08+084-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254412348077562738" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXPpG7rkO4nk791MPaMrljgqOH_ifWHJ0o9MfvIDwY2ZZqw4xZHMUUKwKymfQGdlSIyKGVoiKN8cxbRuNfx1lqwVnqWYM7WOagPepoOMAfL7bUNQbmUiljobO794Bw5AesWP68WYsIyCNU/s320/Sept+08+084-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> After a couple of hours of driving we reached Verona and Lago Di Garda (a beautiful lake) and turned towards the Tyrol and the Brenner Pass which is the modern border between Italy and Austria. Arlette really wanted to stop at Riva del Garda which is at the northern end of Lago di Garda. To get there one drives through a small valley and then drops down a windy road into one of the most spectacular views possible. The cliffs of the mountains reach soar up from the lake. Absolutely stunning. Riva is a wonderful small town which has a running/cycling/walking path which follows the shoreline. I wish I had not forgotten my running shoes in St Roman. I also promised myself I would return to cycle the area. Riva is a cycling mecca and there were plenty of cyclists who had made their hadj to the area.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw9Trs7aRuprGZn2prcV_OHSxfDauLKWtLhIZ4sMoyA2-MTDRR9V2M7zNvuxIfVQl4VMQKc-4dqaQnrt6DyDbGUBXqyooq_AOydTjsiVXhOhlFrbwYcRpC2kCgiFroNy5JS_7gCsT5tq35/s1600-h/Sept+08+089-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254412358531221730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw9Trs7aRuprGZn2prcV_OHSxfDauLKWtLhIZ4sMoyA2-MTDRR9V2M7zNvuxIfVQl4VMQKc-4dqaQnrt6DyDbGUBXqyooq_AOydTjsiVXhOhlFrbwYcRpC2kCgiFroNy5JS_7gCsT5tq35/s320/Sept+08+089-2.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKZD8g8xs9R9korl_EPUa7zLKt6o-cLLsOtl5s-pWSMBPhyphenhyphenZOhM11YTH4oGnlpnC6ciUligFitgnF8nnFPE2ycmnW001MCif5a-eFghM-JU6ie1F7guqnWZKlCIeGVoUoBbWVwQoy2508f/s1600-h/Sept+08+094-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254412368202795794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKZD8g8xs9R9korl_EPUa7zLKt6o-cLLsOtl5s-pWSMBPhyphenhyphenZOhM11YTH4oGnlpnC6ciUligFitgnF8nnFPE2ycmnW001MCif5a-eFghM-JU6ie1F7guqnWZKlCIeGVoUoBbWVwQoy2508f/s320/Sept+08+094-2.JPG" border="0" /></a>We ate outside at a small café overlooking the lake. The only disharmonious note to the lunch was the sound of a large group of German Harley riders leaving another café and Arlette complaining that she didn’t get mustard with her sausages and fries (I can't say which was louder). The café had only mayo or ketchup. Oh, the humanity! Quel scandale! Finally the waiter managed to dig up some mustard and quieted the loud, old lady wearing the strange Bavarian shirt and vest. <br /><br />I will make an aside here and explain that Arlette was so excited to be going to Bavaria, which to her is the center of the universe, she wore some old Bavarian styled clothes that she bought in the fifties so she would fit in. In today’s era it looks a little weird. If she still had my grandfather’s lederhosen, I am sure she would have tried to convince me to wear them. Arlette also has a habit of talking loudly about whoever is sitting nearby and discussing their nationality. If they are American she will stop speaking French break out into English and exclaim loudly, “They are Americain?” She forgets that Americans will understand her perfectly. But she does the same for all nationalities. I do not know which the other people think is funnier, the crazy old lady in the puffy sleeved shirt under a red vest, or the three fingered guy who is as red as the vest.<br /><br />After a decent lunch (I had risotto and mushrooms and a beer), we hit the road and headed back up towards the Brenner Pass and Austria. The town we planned to spend the night in, Oberaudorf, is in Germany but very close to the Austrian border and about 30 miles from Salzburg. I am very impressed with the Italian freeways. There was construction everywhere but we never dropped below 60 miles per hour. Everyone stayed in the right lanes unless to pass and so traffic flowed freely. I just wish all the schmucks who drive 75.5 mph in the left lane on I-10 south of Phoenix would follow this simple, yet effective rule. I took the picture below after slowing down (I was in a line of cars and work vans)!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsxLQeAP7kx56tjgFJYilpAcz1q5h5cuENhzRctjKVErsZv4LxOWkkSozFAEN8dbYOM2SMK2_-dJ1N5enNJmAmA-qMQAOPNH_WXU5nFqv3DyU_F97fFSiXtMhzpLjBVB71WfchYgWGrsqS/s1600-h/Sept+08+096-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254412382472602914" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsxLQeAP7kx56tjgFJYilpAcz1q5h5cuENhzRctjKVErsZv4LxOWkkSozFAEN8dbYOM2SMK2_-dJ1N5enNJmAmA-qMQAOPNH_WXU5nFqv3DyU_F97fFSiXtMhzpLjBVB71WfchYgWGrsqS/s320/Sept+08+096-2.JPG" border="0" /></a>As the road climbed up towards the Austrian border the traffic signs started to be in both Italian and German. This portion of Italy has been historically part of the Tyrol section of Austria and the town’s names are posted in both Italian and their original German version. As we climbed further up the road the high Alps appeared again. I thought the San Juan Mountains in southwest Colorado were spectacular and I also thought the nothing could match the northern Rockies in Montana and Idaho but I was wrong. Photos and films of the Alps do no justice to the beauty and awesomeness of these mountains.<br /><br />When I was leaving Grenoble a few days ago, the Alps were covered by clouds and as we climbed past Bourg D’Oisans towards Briancon the mountain tops were covered, As the sun burnt away the low lying cloud cover and the actual peaks started show, I was nearly brought to tears by the beauty of these peaks (and also by the odor of Arletee’s old vest which may have never been washed since the time she bought it in the 50’s). They rise in almost shear faces from the valleys below and the roads cling to their sides.<br /><br />Oops...they're calling the flight. I will finish this update later. Ciao.Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-50902620422138325732008-09-28T13:48:00.006-07:002008-10-07T07:11:48.719-07:00What a Trip...I am finally in Paris getting ready to fly home tomorrow. I have not updated this blog since there has been no internet available for updates until tonight. I will update later with pics and a full description, including pictures with circles and arrows on the back of each one as soon as I get a chance, describing the thrills , chills, and 3 Fingered Moments of this trip. But, i have got to get something to eat....<br /><br />But here are a few pics:<br /><br />No wonder Italian men are happy; they have Happy Nuts.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLqcLNtNeQL6DYGqK_w4vlL-i3iGc49Hl5Xpr3UY96Txd_HlA9owYxndeySAs01tVVT58lKIXyHtDHpxVZYPXlMVWk7B3DWfRe6zZDjoqPSdb9KWCbe6OytkiUgnncVYVei-ky7LkEFOFM/s1600-h/Sept+08+083.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254413819323303090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLqcLNtNeQL6DYGqK_w4vlL-i3iGc49Hl5Xpr3UY96Txd_HlA9owYxndeySAs01tVVT58lKIXyHtDHpxVZYPXlMVWk7B3DWfRe6zZDjoqPSdb9KWCbe6OytkiUgnncVYVei-ky7LkEFOFM/s320/Sept+08+083.jpg" border="0" /></a>The church in Oberaudorf, Bavaria.<br /><br /><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQGdHrGzWEdLli07XQv8N86YTm1KU7uWFGLZadW8oNgf41iL7o8OAhyJR9GvPPOZt16dwr9xR3w1NXokOIqjO96r-2lepC6YKlU2Ni4u9gumJdEMA9f1wMPQzk2aqvank6G5TFvNR_TzLu/s1600-h/Sept+08+109.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254413828798889266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQGdHrGzWEdLli07XQv8N86YTm1KU7uWFGLZadW8oNgf41iL7o8OAhyJR9GvPPOZt16dwr9xR3w1NXokOIqjO96r-2lepC6YKlU2Ni4u9gumJdEMA9f1wMPQzk2aqvank6G5TFvNR_TzLu/s320/Sept+08+109.jpg" border="0" /></a> Climbers heading up the Aiguille de Midi. About 12k in altitude.</p><p><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgluCNPzJ6xJhlpqbIQDuUy6rV_cF7qiZc9kZeZi-XsU-iAOmU94Nfsg5b945pTztiX1r8OpEXSmGHqkgQeksNVJ3f2D09PfcSS154jU4LGtNkf5UO9qpRwUL45-OT7Hkxbd-zuTb0d5Ywl/s1600-h/Sept+08+184.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254413838584060882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgluCNPzJ6xJhlpqbIQDuUy6rV_cF7qiZc9kZeZi-XsU-iAOmU94Nfsg5b945pTztiX1r8OpEXSmGHqkgQeksNVJ3f2D09PfcSS154jU4LGtNkf5UO9qpRwUL45-OT7Hkxbd-zuTb0d5Ywl/s320/Sept+08+184.jpg" border="0" /></a>A view of Chamonix, France from 12,000 feet up on the Aiguille de Midi, next to Mont Blanc. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipFIgJFVz8ZNK833XyHr_n44PPUM6flYvn7nlw64Aw_iKeFN65jdyuAIQ1FxKhpFxMrtpOzuLFWP2n2hHLEh72XPwR_j7Zhyphenhyphen-kc4jRxDpkOzXKRm7MiNx1yNgA77V69Tvd-eXZLGoxV7bP/s1600-h/Sept+08+190.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254413846921512882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipFIgJFVz8ZNK833XyHr_n44PPUM6flYvn7nlw64Aw_iKeFN65jdyuAIQ1FxKhpFxMrtpOzuLFWP2n2hHLEh72XPwR_j7Zhyphenhyphen-kc4jRxDpkOzXKRm7MiNx1yNgA77V69Tvd-eXZLGoxV7bP/s320/Sept+08+190.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></p>Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-27002974377857296112008-09-23T22:07:00.002-07:002008-09-23T22:10:33.355-07:00Some Three Fingered Travel AdviseSome travel advise from Francois Trois Doigts.... Never, ever buy suntan lotion that comes in a toothpaste like tube......But, hey, my teeth now have a nice, even tan.Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-73450017903860761632008-09-23T12:57:00.017-07:002008-10-07T07:01:06.056-07:00When the Ego Landed it Went SplatWell, I woke up in Grenoble with a head cold. Since I have used all my PTO days it makes sense to get sick during vacation. So, I will not waste my time looking for new running shoes since I do not have the energy to run. I also have an Alpine drive ahead to get to Turin for the night so it makes sense not to push it. The fact that it is rainy, cold and gray does not help my whiney attitude. It was supposed to be sunny.<br /><br />Leaving Grenoble:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHYey6EAYD-gpR1ogrCBwDlt2uWIj-fX26NaJP6REPVFGp3jdrJ49_J6Wx9L-zdLbwXY0NdvAGz5h6Xac_RxzB6j7SBSuudcjEVqac5xzGw15x2LYAghUjdEedDZndWZWhwwuXmZ1gYZYw/s1600-h/Sept+08+005-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254409442836210130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHYey6EAYD-gpR1ogrCBwDlt2uWIj-fX26NaJP6REPVFGp3jdrJ49_J6Wx9L-zdLbwXY0NdvAGz5h6Xac_RxzB6j7SBSuudcjEVqac5xzGw15x2LYAghUjdEedDZndWZWhwwuXmZ1gYZYw/s320/Sept+08+005-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> We stopped in Bourg D'Oisans at 11:00 for something to drink to warm us up.<br /><br /><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr5aw-TRls3b5r_WFE5ZcipUIrqGWd6z02nS_oXYh7sKUyS3c81YuYSj-5PHnUluniNQOKtFLsHlssoopOHmS7ru34DbSHWXKI5JRqOkADViUo6s0_R3m4XBBX1vBEjKgoDNYggmmunRTk/s1600-h/Sept+08+013-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254409441604577314" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr5aw-TRls3b5r_WFE5ZcipUIrqGWd6z02nS_oXYh7sKUyS3c81YuYSj-5PHnUluniNQOKtFLsHlssoopOHmS7ru34DbSHWXKI5JRqOkADViUo6s0_R3m4XBBX1vBEjKgoDNYggmmunRTk/s320/Sept+08+013-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> Searching for a warm drink at the Cafe de Paris:</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvY-ZzFEhwJOioq7Iwh90aWLMSOig4ED_0FwHoSgKHSuIVZUu66MSG4QpsnOU9rikyOkrBi6-JTtCwkCEdn17K0T0R0HRcyzWnaKmCRTweJKQBNzGNMcjwJehb_Gq6I0zHDIaFTjv7iUtw/s1600-h/Sept+08+016-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254409445950475810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvY-ZzFEhwJOioq7Iwh90aWLMSOig4ED_0FwHoSgKHSuIVZUu66MSG4QpsnOU9rikyOkrBi6-JTtCwkCEdn17K0T0R0HRcyzWnaKmCRTweJKQBNzGNMcjwJehb_Gq6I0zHDIaFTjv7iUtw/s320/Sept+08+016-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> Arlette took the Leffe Blonde and I the Leffe Brune.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkT4km8qONuT_ZiU7mtYCL8tUZ-lobI6L-eObOTED3c7t7RbyJ_vPabLnWPcP6k2q1KVSoWqxiOoKrfoOq5Cl9FLj3c19-fHoaAE3ZDHl072bCJ3CVsLE28R517LzplY03Nr7RNhdEwuHk/s1600-h/Sept+08+017-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254409448414153778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkT4km8qONuT_ZiU7mtYCL8tUZ-lobI6L-eObOTED3c7t7RbyJ_vPabLnWPcP6k2q1KVSoWqxiOoKrfoOq5Cl9FLj3c19-fHoaAE3ZDHl072bCJ3CVsLE28R517LzplY03Nr7RNhdEwuHk/s320/Sept+08+017-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> Views along the road:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPEm0LDmiABUKSfFd6nTz9ibANGUaKOsWt8YTr-x643UUE7LO0engk8jtf1ZCCNGT5S_4s5CrBATjOEWxUSCD9cmA4Uu5IxrIhDzV4tDby39K64wVaSXgNfUs3FteMWNq5NG_mr9nmK3DS/s1600-h/Sept+08+027-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254409452486919426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPEm0LDmiABUKSfFd6nTz9ibANGUaKOsWt8YTr-x643UUE7LO0engk8jtf1ZCCNGT5S_4s5CrBATjOEWxUSCD9cmA4Uu5IxrIhDzV4tDby39K64wVaSXgNfUs3FteMWNq5NG_mr9nmK3DS/s320/Sept+08+027-2.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2gAKs6FlkBmfvstmLpDxGRPMe-5eMiknakwTxKnYKHJzJ1uge_OKznnKG9GjaOPlhbZVIYL5MUm6vzjtbDqtrY1E0DGwLhDMYv-0OgC4jxoZaLQh0Y7mWVGujlRJ7oyEDc1-AILCJygMR/s1600-h/Sept+08+056-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254408881541024178" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2gAKs6FlkBmfvstmLpDxGRPMe-5eMiknakwTxKnYKHJzJ1uge_OKznnKG9GjaOPlhbZVIYL5MUm6vzjtbDqtrY1E0DGwLhDMYv-0OgC4jxoZaLQh0Y7mWVGujlRJ7oyEDc1-AILCJygMR/s320/Sept+08+056-2.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKNYmAoyitzYZMYqtR0vwmdeDWOJHNY8_3ZL-oWtO8pKyqt-w-q5MmoACuxrlAGGyTNS4rlFTuSdZgIceNxuv0bENpXCznWOchvBzRLnIIo0HdJyWFeYC6EgfjUE6h96InHXunkExh2_wI/s1600-h/Sept+08+043-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254408885394360658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKNYmAoyitzYZMYqtR0vwmdeDWOJHNY8_3ZL-oWtO8pKyqt-w-q5MmoACuxrlAGGyTNS4rlFTuSdZgIceNxuv0bENpXCznWOchvBzRLnIIo0HdJyWFeYC6EgfjUE6h96InHXunkExh2_wI/s320/Sept+08+043-2.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWzcQF9hyphenhyphenu51kldRLQG5-74vGWslGqfsFccYqqM-nOQnWYiFl93P92zhTZYXjc7xTVbAuev5CQ86D4TdSjFTftp2wEFvhCbnh0ysZN2-J-grII3hbP_RElb1quclzzyJjVClp5A2V7rtQi/s1600-h/Sept+08+050-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254408888570857506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWzcQF9hyphenhyphenu51kldRLQG5-74vGWslGqfsFccYqqM-nOQnWYiFl93P92zhTZYXjc7xTVbAuev5CQ86D4TdSjFTftp2wEFvhCbnh0ysZN2-J-grII3hbP_RElb1quclzzyJjVClp5A2V7rtQi/s320/Sept+08+050-2.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT17ncuXPaWgFpPUK2_fWQOnGrvaplTF2Pn0hwPlVkKO-d2OD6nOWxRocMV-ii0jz4Mzv_DLC5o8KfhcB2TdKtEcN_ICG6UB3xrSPPXfijKDIMxPjchMDJqwodsaQrOMKMCs8akeLtiBRq/s1600-h/Sept+08+052-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254408887052069906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT17ncuXPaWgFpPUK2_fWQOnGrvaplTF2Pn0hwPlVkKO-d2OD6nOWxRocMV-ii0jz4Mzv_DLC5o8KfhcB2TdKtEcN_ICG6UB3xrSPPXfijKDIMxPjchMDJqwodsaQrOMKMCs8akeLtiBRq/s320/Sept+08+052-2.JPG" border="0" /></a>We took a short detour to climb up the Col de Galibier which is a very famous pass used in the Tour de France, including this year. It looked steep on TV but in reality it is even steeper. Over 12% grade in places.<br /><br />Here are some sheep along the road. I understand they are bred to have one legs shorter on one side so they don't fall off the mountain.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7xt2MmoNvQpOJrVNBAx5o65AWjRcX00lHEChUvWfyNzo9Fp8OhRVb0OlLqwUpXGhuDO16tWODmtv20ifXwo46DvXe192jNiyFzicJ9cmhSG0qt86j2mBFHTyJp47kMWJOSkZbiQn0l2-V/s1600-h/Sept+08+058-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254407952517836498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7xt2MmoNvQpOJrVNBAx5o65AWjRcX00lHEChUvWfyNzo9Fp8OhRVb0OlLqwUpXGhuDO16tWODmtv20ifXwo46DvXe192jNiyFzicJ9cmhSG0qt86j2mBFHTyJp47kMWJOSkZbiQn0l2-V/s320/Sept+08+058-2.JPG" border="0" /></a>At the summit:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibPgtbhYIAnJTgcUwwAXH_M7F20uo7ooFsaNsPCFB-SZ64IBa5li3eyO8KypU-J3P1yqeq_dShOTo3_3TetroHpb7TR0C5rj4_GTs1UMe1OQxjAEjw6__vvg0DCN2aieyp165Jnv2fXKaL/s1600-h/Sept+08+059-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254407957252412482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibPgtbhYIAnJTgcUwwAXH_M7F20uo7ooFsaNsPCFB-SZ64IBa5li3eyO8KypU-J3P1yqeq_dShOTo3_3TetroHpb7TR0C5rj4_GTs1UMe1OQxjAEjw6__vvg0DCN2aieyp165Jnv2fXKaL/s320/Sept+08+059-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> A storm rolling in across the valley. It was about 42 DegF here. If you look closely you can see a car coming up the road we just climbed.<br /><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYzAfb8Tw4vO_eC_duX1f6mCwleg2nwQpJiDhT8lFXBzo2dNc5ZK2UM2SV_eyREIOwmPyFdtfu9GV_rW5_5mSfmcwqzh4r5ptpPyDPldQf3GurXOwtT0s-hgK_Z-GgMAnmTeuT2FDqqq_I/s1600-h/Sept+08+061-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254407963967294610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYzAfb8Tw4vO_eC_duX1f6mCwleg2nwQpJiDhT8lFXBzo2dNc5ZK2UM2SV_eyREIOwmPyFdtfu9GV_rW5_5mSfmcwqzh4r5ptpPyDPldQf3GurXOwtT0s-hgK_Z-GgMAnmTeuT2FDqqq_I/s320/Sept+08+061-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> Welcome to Italy: 36 DegF and raining. Wha.......? </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjOMq6iyG79f-89QIEgp9ro1N54o57bfKfMMxr-rSfxR9roHRbgCovNmcl53UPKYE4wSyRxclac8Bsc4TZ3xJBCC5mPkNz3TRZRtIMTo4vaFZlZM_GjaG-sI-ibfssnEx3AddqU4VZdVS9/s1600-h/Sept+08+066-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254407968376740498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjOMq6iyG79f-89QIEgp9ro1N54o57bfKfMMxr-rSfxR9roHRbgCovNmcl53UPKYE4wSyRxclac8Bsc4TZ3xJBCC5mPkNz3TRZRtIMTo4vaFZlZM_GjaG-sI-ibfssnEx3AddqU4VZdVS9/s320/Sept+08+066-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> Of course, I had to hit Turin at rush hour......Not bad compared to Phoenix.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXFUDnUMnJah8FFct9qGh7tyPhncctrZX3vUyCThUuAPeCvbr3UVtBQEx6qtiguLEm2XfggLD4OOkJXU23yDxdWnEGveqZqy7ir0_BKq123HMSjRA3oLPQkIfxMpenBEEF9hdRHRkRIqM-/s1600-h/Sept+08+068-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254407973147088834" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXFUDnUMnJah8FFct9qGh7tyPhncctrZX3vUyCThUuAPeCvbr3UVtBQEx6qtiguLEm2XfggLD4OOkJXU23yDxdWnEGveqZqy7ir0_BKq123HMSjRA3oLPQkIfxMpenBEEF9hdRHRkRIqM-/s320/Sept+08+068-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> I found a hotel (constructed in the old Fiat factory) The Fiat test track is on the roof and was used in the original Italian Job movie. It is now used for the hotel's running path. If I had only remembered my shoes and weren't sick. Sigh. Not everything was smooth however, the room keys would not open the doors and the internet would not work. When I asked for a new key for Arlette, they promised to send one up right away. Two hours later we were still waiting. Hey, it's Italy. They did not care much that the internet didn't work either. But in a true Three Fingered Moment I decided I should have turned the comm port off and then back on. And "Voila," everything started working.</p><p>Si, era un momento dalle dita tre. Ciao!<br /><br /></p>Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5967021424346946706.post-55847138710958436462008-09-22T14:53:00.009-07:002008-10-07T06:26:35.079-07:00The Ego Has LandedI arrived in France on Sunday on my semi-annual trip to visit my maternal homeland and my wonderful aunt, Arlette. I flew into Nice and then drove 95 kilometers to a small town called Draguignan to spend the night. I chose Draguignan for several reasons rather than spending the first night in Nice. Nice may be uber-hip and suave, but it sucks. And no amount of magnificent bare boobies on the beach is going to change that. Not that I ever looked. Needless to say I was a bit tired since I had been on the road almost 29 hours. The flights for once were uneventful and actually quite pleasant. No real disasters or adventures to speak of. Well, there was one Three Fingered Moment when my backpack's strap got caught on a seat handle while boarding and I almost went over backwards, feet in the air... You get the picture...<br /><br />There was also the carry-on bag moment. I noticed one couple going through security at Sky Harbor with huge carry-on bags. Either the $15 fee for the bag check-in was too expensive or the wait at the baggage claim was too much to deal with but they were determined to get those bags on. I was wondering if flight personnel would prevent them and would enforce the gate check-in rule. So it was with great interest that I saw they were on my flight. His struggle to insert their bags into the storage bin was hilarious but he succeeded and fortunately did not prevent anyone else from storing their bags. So no harm, no foul, so to speak. They did hold us up in trying to pry the bags out upon arrival in Dallas. This was a pain because for some reason (TMI moment here) air travel makes my bladder go into overtime work mode. I was in the midst of performing a selection from Riverdance to the amusement of my fellow passengers when I noticed the wife was wearing an Obama for President button. Aha!!! Everything became clear as i realized that they had attempted and achieved the impossible dream because they had the "audacity to hope". Either that, or they were just plain rude and did not care a whit for their fellow travelers. I leave it up to you to make up your own mind as to which was the true motivation for their actions. The only drag during the trip was a layover of almost 5 hours in London but I found a great bookstore where I immediately bought three books. I had to leave quickly before I blew all my cash on books and over burdened my already overloaded backpack. Even though I wasn't hungry I still ordered a typical English vegetarian breakfast.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilIpVPFCa-xsSxYQhAMWvTmF3kILPTGyzgo3TUu7wUbRflwkf0Oq6bhyphenhyphen11zJ910L7eQiRMILEn_erly4rFAcgaP6rjJC1YA28RsxrwuoobkXJ4QFlt2kCIls4UKRVXi_0N0e1Wj9Sq-EKT/s1600-h/Sept+08+001-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254401867917243778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilIpVPFCa-xsSxYQhAMWvTmF3kILPTGyzgo3TUu7wUbRflwkf0Oq6bhyphenhyphen11zJ910L7eQiRMILEn_erly4rFAcgaP6rjJC1YA28RsxrwuoobkXJ4QFlt2kCIls4UKRVXi_0N0e1Wj9Sq-EKT/s320/Sept+08+001-2.JPG" border="0" /></a> In retrospect it really doesn't look that good.<br /><br />The drive from Draguignan to Saint Roman de Tousque, the small village of about 70 people in the Cevennes ( a mountainous area in the south-central part of the country) where my aunt lives was fun. I followed a group of Ferrais (proof I was near the Riviera) and a puke green Lamborghini on the highway for a while at almost 100mph. They must have had radar since they slowed down at the only speed trap.<br /><br />Chasing a Ferrari at 100MPH while taking a picture:<br /><br /><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPiaz49SPmqxyc1WQDYojzvxbLFrfz8U_9jbU3ICTNAWfaGFt3tNlcDosbibvVbrjUH66eG5BU1kYLVeI_R75wmZswxYwM8yp6e7HSnOvwKQv0f7hOmtF6FSTxxoUQnx4XMQdNIGTgH6pc/s1600-h/Sept+08+003-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254401869551203282" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPiaz49SPmqxyc1WQDYojzvxbLFrfz8U_9jbU3ICTNAWfaGFt3tNlcDosbibvVbrjUH66eG5BU1kYLVeI_R75wmZswxYwM8yp6e7HSnOvwKQv0f7hOmtF6FSTxxoUQnx4XMQdNIGTgH6pc/s320/Sept+08+003-2.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHHSM6e437C7-XESTVAt3UjzP-KgvajVa3Dd4eBdEG-3d-Q-6q_Y2cr6OtXjGJn2ZdcYxAeiAebCuRSDj5WlmDpNr5P6HKuwF8VmDxC8oYd8AM7mUAVBGEgnHacHDpuqbjfCYfD1FePft4/s1600-h/Sept+08+004-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254401876159854178" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHHSM6e437C7-XESTVAt3UjzP-KgvajVa3Dd4eBdEG-3d-Q-6q_Y2cr6OtXjGJn2ZdcYxAeiAebCuRSDj5WlmDpNr5P6HKuwF8VmDxC8oYd8AM7mUAVBGEgnHacHDpuqbjfCYfD1FePft4/s320/Sept+08+004-2.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />I made a quick stop in a small town called Anduze for some of the best pizza around. Thin crust, and the perfect mix of sauce and cheese. After a liesurely repast of the pizza and a beer I drove the final 22 miles to St Roman. </p>Our house is the tall one.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249311372148896050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuXv4Txql4H5zDlauZSmb5RP_Uhzc-gqyaO3Yd7hhH9ORhyfT5a5VfsdrfXj8VBMqEfQVOkoROVtT4WkIPfvPYpD-IWVKKhbLP_Fvn35Q1okJf-BcTfJ2FX1cAQMnJ18S-WTswDx5HBIcV/s320/IMG_2296-2.JPG" border="0" /><br /><p></p><p>I gave Arlette the obligatory hug, kiss, tears, and after a glass or two of champagne I casually asked her if she wanted to leave for Italy. It took her less than 15 seconds to say, "Yes!"<br /><br />I normally relax and hang out and do not much of anything except eat and drink...eat and drink...eat and drink. (Of course, since I've become a vegetarian I have not had the opportunity to enjoy the absolutely fabulous local salami. But, the goat's cheese that is made in Le Pompidou, 12 kilometers up the road, is to die for and more than makes up for it. ) Within 30 minutes we were on our way to Grenoble so we'd have a good start to hitting the Alps before spending tomorrow night in Turin, Italy.<br /><br />So, here I am in Grenoble on a Tuesday morning waiting for a sports store to open since I was in such a rush that I left my running shoes at the house. (I hate 3 Fingered moments). I also left my camera in the car so pictures will be uploaded in another post. Stay tuned for more.</p>Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10641425689858747597noreply@blogger.com0