Max Globetrotter

Airport Security

2011-12-07T13:03:00.001-06:00

Now I like, it must be said, secure aeroplanes. The thoughtof being hijacked is an anathema to me, and to that end, I am happy to undergoairport screening.

To a point.

And it is this very level of screening that always bewildersme, and in particular, I would love it if the airport screeners actually seemedto be singing from the same page.

There is a subtle difference between airport security inEurope and in the USA; simply put, the security folks in the major Europeanairports seem competent and professional, those in the USA seem to be thecheapest folks available; Canada, as always, lies somewhere in between.

It must be said that working for CATSA must be the mostboring career imaginable; perhaps new recruits believe that they will be theones to stop another airline massacre, but the odds of spotting anything moredramatic than an errant can of shaving cream or half a bottle of forgottenwater are remote. Year after year, the prospect of this future must loom larger,and only those who make it to management or those of a particularlyauthoritative bent remain. And so turn-over is a problem, and one is confrontedall too regularly with those keeners, actually believing that they are doingthe world’s security a service.

So yesterday, having cleared security in Torshavn, Copenhagenand Amsterdam with no issue, I arrived back in Canada. And sure enough, the twonewbies on duty at Pearson airport in Toronto became terrifically overexcited by a glimpse of something in mybag. It turned out that the objects of their fascination were glass bracelets;unable to distinguish between glass and liquids - and yes, I know that glass is technicallya liquid, but this is not the point - even after feeling the items, I had tounwrap them and present them to the scanners.

Petty, futile and unutterably irritating; the wrapping torn -yes I know that I am not supposed to have presents wrapped at security - mine, and eveyone behind me in the queue's time wasted; two young women on their first week on the job saving Air Canada fromdisaster and an incandescent Max.

I do get annoyed at the sheer stupidity of the system; do I feelany more secure now all travellers are harassed to bits? Of course not; if onewants to get nasty stuff on to aircraft it seems that disguising it as cocaine woulddo the trick; there seems to be no abatement in the movement of the stuff anywhere. Before September 11^th one flew around the world withlittle interference and an infinitesimal chance of disaster; now we fly around theworld with varying degrees of hassle and an infinitesimal chance of disaster. Relyingon airport security to deter terrorists from smuggling weapons on board alsorequires one to believe that anyone trying to massacre hundreds of people by bringing down an airliner woulddraw the line at being arrested by a CATSA security agent.

Improbable.

And real progress, like programming these full-body scannersto detonate any explosives they actually detect seems like a distant dream. Inthe meantime, however, I would urge both the Canadian and particularly Americansecurity organisations to figure out how to retain their employees, and helpthem distinguish between petty harassment and professional security process.

Atthat point, the travelling public might take the process more genially.

A Day Near Copenhagen

2011-12-05T11:25:00.001-06:00

I’ll tell you what’s fun; using Faroese bank notes inDenmark. Which is, I hasten to add, perfectly legal, but apparantly uncommon.

The thing is this. Faroese weather has a reputation forbeing capricious, and unsure of the Vagar/Copenhagen flight I decided to spendan additional day in Copenhagen before heading back to Canada. Uninterested inspending the day in the city itself, frankly, I have pretty much had it with anodyneEuropean cities, I booked a couple of nights in the resort town of Dragǿr,a rather lovely village nestled snuggly against the southern perimeter of theairport.

I rather like resort towns in the off season. They oftenshow their true colours, relieved of thousands of tourists plunging into thesea, hustling for ice-creams, waving, laughing and generally having fun. No,the off season with its slightly bemused patina is the season for me.

And as a stopover option for those transiting Copenhagenairport, it is absolutely terrific.

The Dragǿr Badehotel is just fine. A modestthree-star property that has clearly seen days of grandeur, does the job. Therooms are all smallish but clean and comfortable, and fitted with a mosteccentric showering system that requires imagination and agility to extract themaximum benefit. It is currently being refurbished, a touch annoying for us,but given the count at breakfast this morning, four - including my colleagueand I, it was probably a good time to have the artisans in.

The town is really lovely. Founded over seven hundred yearsago during the Great Herring Years, the town has always traded and providedpilots and seafarers to the rich maritime heritage of the Baltic coast. TodayDragǿrstill exudes history and prosperity in equal measures, and the old part of thetown, and its unique environment, is simply a delight. The community is quiteobviously a resort, with many summer homes and prosperous retirees balancingits permanent residents, yet there are few of the obvious trappings of manyseaside towns. The community offers small and apparently local shops, museums(although they are closed in the off-season), galleries, restaurants and awonderful environment to explore.

Its old quarter is simply lovely. The traditional yellow housesdot small twisting roads, back lanes and lovely open squares, and tell of ahistory that still connects the past with their present. The town has notbecome a caricature of itself, a fate so often befalling lovely coastalvillages, and has retained an earthy charm. It is a fine place to wander,explore and wait for a plane.

It is quite clear to even an untrained observer that beer is arather popular drink in this neighbourhood. Gallons of the stuff seem to beconsumed with men and women sitting and enjoying buckets of the stuff for quiteprotracted period of time. This I know not because I stayed to watch, but whenI returned to a cafe for a restorative after a walk in the somewhat bracing weather,time had stood still. Their earlier clientele remained in place, smiles fixedon their faces, and so I joined in.

And it was at this moment that I realised that Faroese banknotesare not regularly proffered at Dragǿr cafes, particularly by Englishspeaking tourists in December. It caused consternation at first, it did strikeme as a particularly good counterfeiting strategy, and finally merriment andthe owner was summoned and confirmed that odd as it was, it was legal tender.This reaction was duplicated by a taxi driver, who was unlikely to haveactually heard of the Faroe Islands as he grew up in Somalia, and finally by adelightful young lady who finally exchanged our last banknote for a couple of cappuccinos;admittedly, as we had finished the coffees by this point, she really had littleoption. We wondered later whether any of the recipients would join the fun, andpalm them off as change to their regular customers, and how long they mightwhizz around the town before finally ending up in the bank, and back on anAtlantic Airways flight to Torshavn.

Dragǿr is lovely, and well worth considering as a Copenhagen stop-overtown. Accessible from the airport by taxi ($30) or by a simple, twelve-minute busride ($5) it makes a fine alternative to the city centre. Hotels start ataround $60 for a single room, and there is a variety of properties to choosefrom; all in all, a convivial, interesting and very convenient place to be.

Thorshavn, Faroe Islands

2011-12-05T08:57:00.001-06:00

Suffice it to say that the Faroe Islands, wonderful in thesummer and fall, have a charm throughout the winter, even when the weather maybe at its more dramatic, and the days draw short. By December, the sun willrise above the horizon at about nine o’clock, and dip back down before halfpast three; and this burst of sunshine visible only at sea level, as behind themountains, the sun will penetrate only briefly as it reaches its peak.

But despite this drawback, the islands are cosy, welcomingand endlessly fascinating.

In the course of a couple of days, it is possible to driveto most of the northern islands, connected as they are by an intricate system oftunnels and bridges. While the difference between the islands might appearacademic at first glance, it is their very distinctions that make the countrysuch a pleasure to explore.

The fourteen or so islands lie roughly northwest to southeast, and rise to over 3,000’ although only a mile or so wide. The land plungesdown into the sea, to unfathomable depths before rising up a few hundred yardsfurther to create another magnificent, rocky and spectacular island. Nestledalong the shoreline are the ancient communities clinging to the land, theirpast and future firmly determined by the sea. The islands are indeed ancient,and their language reminiscent to Old Norse. It is a language that nearly diedin the late 1800s, and it is said that only the interest of Danishlexicographers sent to the islands to record the remaining fragments oflanguage, spurred the islanders to a linguistic revival. Now the Faroese language, spoken by a maximum of 70,000 folks, is indeed thriving. 140 bookeswere published in 2010/11 in the language, and its own literature is rich andgrowing.

The culture of the islands is strong, and obviouseverywhere. Communities are proud and welcoming, the traditional Faroesesweaters and jackets are worn regularly and their old foods are common.Possibly too common for many as the appearance of puffins, dried salt-cod,whale blubber and mutton head-cheese on otherwise conventional buffets can be asurprise.

Having tried a piece of the cured whale blubber (which I hadincorrectly identified as cod) and decided that it was not a flavour that I waslikely to acquire, I was admonished for eating it incorrectly. Advised that thecorrect and delicious way to enjoy this delicacy was to compose a trifecta ofdried salt-cod, speck (the harmless name they give to whale blubber) toppedwith a boiled potato. This combination was the only way to enjoy these delicacies,and as the Faroese did it this way, so should we all.

Popping it into my mouth and chewing was the gustatoryequivalent of a right hook. There is a very good reason that the delicacy hasnot spread, and while the alarm on my face may have registered my truefeelings, I managed to chew and swallow it, and rapidly poured a shot of localfire-water in to douse the experience.

This proved to be an error, as I had not realised quite howstrongly the aquavit was flavoured with aniseed, and the ensemble thus createdwas memorable.

Fond memories, though, as it has to be said that the rest ofthe feast was wonderful, and the experience only went to reinforce how closelythis wonderful country has kept its culture.

To drive through the islands is to gasp at the endlessperfect scenery, to wonder at the picturesque communities, to marvel at the engineeringthat has built the infrastructure to keep the community together yet living intheir traditional villages; it is a country of ever-changing weather, cloudformations that inspire and light that seems to make the country smile.

It is, perhaps, one of the most difficult countries in theworld to imagine carving out a living among the high and craggy islands way outin the North Sea, but the Faroese do, and do with a smile that reflects theirpride in maintaining their culture and pride.

For a visitor, the Faroe Islands offer peace and excitement, they foster tranquillity and curiosity, and thay always leave one eager to return.

The Faroe Islands once more

2011-12-01T16:31:00.001-06:00

I have to start by saying that I am not given to hyperbole.Understatement may not be my strongest suit, but I try to stay pretty close tothe truth, and having said this, I need to explain a lifelong love of The FaroeIslands.

In about 1968 or 1969 National Geographic magazine publishedan article about The Faroes; I was mesmerised. As a pre-pubescent boy, NationalGeographic, as it landed on the doorstep was a must, as from time to time,naked female breasts, still a mystery and wonder to me, were displayed. Thismonth, however, it was about remote communities, whale hunts, air-dried lamb,remarkable landscapes and the ancient turf-roof houses of Torshavn, the islands’capital city. From that moment on, I was captivated by the islands, and, infact, still am.

Tonight, I am in Gjogv; an utterly remarkable village in apicturesque valley to the north of the island of Eysturoy. The hotel I am staying in, the GjaargardurGuest House, is wonderful; perfectly appointed, friendly beyond need and absolutelylovely; the evening is perfect.

Snow dusts the mountains that converge here, and while thevillage is cosy and secure tonight, it was built in the days that cosy andsecure were the only elements of life that counted as the village’s economyrelied on men heading out to the wild North Atlantic to fish; perhaps theystill should be, and Gjogv still is, and although its population has declinedfrom about 80 to about 40, it still has the air of prosperity and a continuum thatwill attract folks back to it yet

I am here, in the islands, with our Chicago-basedpublicist with whom we have worked closely for fifteen years or more. It is mybelief, and I have to be honest, mycommercial hope, that the Faroes will be the next “big” destination, and tothis end, we are here for four days to enjoy ourselves; and astonish ourselves.

The islands are small, and with a community of only 50,000one does not expect to find a symphony orchestra; yet here one is, and tonightits director, Paul Jakup Thomsen, spent an hour talking about the culture ofthe islands. That over 5,000 people regularly watch the symphony, yes, 10% ofthe population, is exceptional; that their number includes several Europeanprize winners is remarkable, and that their repertoire includes among anorchestra’s standard, Leroy Anderson’s Typewriter Symphony and David Shaffer’sSandpaper Symphony is astonishing; astonishing, perhaps only without anawareness of these islands.

It is an island where culture means much, and is displayedevery day. When Paul asked his class of ten or so young women to sing us asong, they immediately did so; it was a lullaby, and judging from theirsnickers and grins, the lyrics may not have been entirely appropriate to singto a 55 year old man, but the thought was there. And not only that, they sangbeautifully and spontaneously, used to communal singing for many reasons, oddor conventional.

Lying half way between Scotland and Iceland, the FaroeIslands are inhospitable, gorgeous, stubborn and probably my favourite place inthe world. Their livelihood comes from fishing, as well as a pretty eclecticmixture of businesses ranging from clothing design, computer software andtourism to the general support businesses that any community needs. They areunutterably gorgeous, noted by National Geographic as the most desirabletourist destination in the world. For those interested in scenery, hiking,birdlife, history, culture and finding the elusive “peace and quiet” so oftensold by tourist destinations, the Faroes should be on the list.

So here we are. Surprised by a blizzard that howled throughlast night, and dusted the islands with white, we will wander from the north tothe south and the east to the western extreme (the island of Nolsoy) and wonderabout this rather unusual land for the next three days.

I am not sure why the National Geographic article soattracted me, but now, on my fifth visit to these islands, I know why I want tocome back.

Deck 1

2011-11-14T10:24:00.001-06:00

Here’s a funny thing.

The medical centre on this ship is on Deck 1, the lowest platform of the vessel. It is a funny deck, being home to pallets of vegetables, bits of engine, mysterious boxes with funny labels, rooms named after “Kensington”, “Chelsea”, “Belgravia” and “Knightsbridge” - some of London’s most salubrious suburbs and the medical centre.

I know this only because I was exercising. Yes, I know. However, as part of my regime I spent some fifteen minutes on a treadmill, not normally a dangerous pastime. Excruciatingly boring, yes, but not inherently death-defying.

However, on board a ship that lurches gently in unpredictable parabolas, one finds one’s feet searching for land, and in extremis, finding one’s ankle tendons being left far behind, flapping in the proverbial wind. Hence my trip to the medical centre.

Now, what is really odd about it is that the elevator (or” lift” as it is called on this splendidly British ship) only goes to a couple of points Deck 1, neither accessible to the medical centre. No, to get medical help, one has to go to Deck 2 and walk down two flights of stairs. I hobbled down, clutching the railing in a somewhat melodramatic manner to emphasise my plight, wondering how someone with a serious injury would be able to access the doctor. Would they slide down? Are there special “buckets” in which the wounded are propelled to Deck 1? A system of weights and pulleys? Enquiring minds need to know.

However, the doctor was very good, the ankle duly bound and now a wheelchair to look forward to at the airports en route home. At least the immigration queue will be short.

The Queen Mary 2

2011-11-13T12:52:00.001-06:00

Buffets are terrific places to observe eccentricity at play.

Unleashed from the constraints of conventional food-pairing, buffet-grazers are free to tickle their taste buds as they fancy. One sees chicken curry sploshed on a plate alongside pizza and little pickled fish, roast beef garnished with macaroni cheese and any number of wonderfully personal combinations. It does make one question how the more common and pedestrian combinations, so beloved of the processed-food industry came into being; certainly not from the observation of folks in a buffet line when free to choose the combination that most appeals.

Eccentricity is actually in pretty short order here; at first glance it is a fairly homogeneous crowd, particularly at dinner where 80% of the men aboard wear evening dress. However, there are glimpses of individuality; a novelty bow-tie or two, a cummerbund discreetly sporting the crest of a secret society, or perhaps a football team. There are those who choose to dress like an old photographic negative, exchanging black suits for white, and white shirts for black; even the odd cuff-links, indicating a wearer with personality, and of course, one or two gentlemen discreetly sporting medals.

The medals are interesting and food for speculation. Are they indeed war heroes or wearing some bauble of Soviet-era industrial success picked up in a Moldovan market place? One hardly dares to ask.

Our 2,491 passengers are apparantly drawn from twenty-nine countries, including, a touch mysteriously, six Maltese; Brits far outnumber the rest, with 1,488 in their number, compared with singletons from Estonia, Hong Kong, Romania, Singapore and Swaziland. Does the Estonian make up a party of four with the three identified Finns? One never knows, but days at sea sharpen one’s curiosity.

The passengers are a mixed bunch too, with a myriad of reasons to be ploughing across the North Atlantic in November. There are many who simply “don’t fly”, and for whom the QM2 is the only way to regularly get to America for business, to see family or to simply sightsee. There are those here to celebrate anniversaries or, by the disconsolate looks of some couples at the bars, to try and repair relationships. There are those who are on board, it seems, to play bridge endlessly, some dance for hours and some simply read.

It is a great attraction of this ship that so many tastes are catered to. There are no assertively smiley folks trying to make you have more fun than you might want, and the shopping is limited. It is not a circus, more a country-house hotel than an all-inclusive, and a very pleasant way to while away a week.

Europe - November 2011

2011-11-12T17:09:00.001-06:00

It is difficult to be in Europe for a couple of weeks and not realise that they are in the middle of an economic and political crises of stupendous proportions. That is, if one reads and believes the newspapers; real life, if there is such a thing, seems to be a little different.

It is not that times are harder than before; they appear to be so. Primark, London’s major discount store that sells goods faster than China can make them now, seems, by observation of shopping bags in Oxford Street, to be doing a very robust business. So do the rather more chic bags emanating from Aspreys, the more discreet tailors of Jermyn Street and London’s finer milliners.

It is something else that is missing, and it is difficult to put one’s finger on it with any precision.

Conversation is often of frightening times; of disappearing savings, of increased prices, of riots and even the spectacle of “economic collapse”. What exactly the world would look like in the event of any of these apocalypses, however, is unknown and terribly speculative. Does it mean a grinding decade or two of no growth, grumpy unions and increasingly pointed barbs at the older folks who have, quite understandably, got most of the wealth? Obtained wealth, it must be added, through dint of hard work, saving before spending and the absence of credit when they were in their twenties.

Now we have the spectacle of a United Kingdom that requires both increased savings and growing spending to stave off the crises.

But what, exactly is the crises? Rampant riots, bank accounts that implode, worthless pieces of paper held by Financial Institutions? Are we talking about thinking more about the price of the food that we buy, or having a go at the neighbour’s dog?

And lest Brits be too cheery about not being in the Eurozone, which they are not and probably fortunately for both the UK and the Eurozone, the economy appears to be tottering close to collapse triggered by rampant lending to an obviously uncreditworthy Greece and the legendary escapades of Italy’s Lotharian Prime Minister, Silvio Berlusconi. Really, you could not have made this stuff up.

The Powerful Ones, notably the EU commissioners and Angela Merkel, the wannabe powerful ones, Nicolas Sarkozy and the IMF line up to wag their fingers at Greece and Italy. The Greek Bailout (which appears to me to be more of a bailout to the reckless banks who lent them all the money)will cost the diligent burghers of Bavaria and Prussia a great deal of money, The Italian Job, unfolding as I write this, will cost a whole lot more; and meanwhile, the voters are getting grumpy. It seems to be commonly agreed that a plebiscite of any kind would be unkind to the vision of European Togetherness; as soon as the Greeks decided to hold one, it only took a few days before the idea was firmly squashed and the prime minister disrobed.

God forbid that democracy comes to Europe, and that the voters are invited to actually make a decision.

In the meantime, bankers get enormous bonuses, senior civil servants getting salaries in excess of £150,000 are firing those making less than £15,000; offshore capital is piling up faster than leaves in the autumnal wind and folks are getting disillusioned and angry. With something, although exactly what is not quite certain.

It is my belief that the laissez faire model of capitalism is in its dying throes. Capitalism is, of course, only a form of Darwinism practiced among companies. As many regulations and ways of conducting commerce were thrown away in the 1980s, greed became rampant, and companies, as they should in the Darwinian world, simply became bigger. Financial institutions became evermore skilled and vacuuming up cash from the economy, and now, it appears, that “they” have indeed won. They have all of the money, and nobody, absolutely nobody has any idea how to get it back into circulation.

We read of company coffers stuffed with cash; of cash balances in the offshore centres bulging with some of the smaller islands sinking under the weight of the cash. And what are we to do? We will happily congratulate them at their brilliance at winning all of the toys; we will even give them bonuses for having reached the pinnacle of some challenge or other.

We have not “lost” money, as if blasted off into outer space. No, we have allowed a smaller and smaller number of corporate titanics to hoard all of the wealth, and placed absolutely no obligation on them to put it back to work.

That is the problem.

0.2% of Faroese are Polish

2011-09-16T13:21:00.000-05:00

Just when you think that you have these islands sussed, a headline such as this will appear, and abb another quirk into the fabric that these naugha-Viking islands weave.

The Faroe Islands are a touch odd; it is their very eccentricity that attracts and it is their sometimes quirky approach to life that mesmerises. Life is a blend of new; of course the islands boast contemporary communications, cutting-edge design and a wide selection of modern wines, but at the same time, one sees people dressed in traditional Faroese clothing; one sees fishing villages that still launch their boats in ways that are clearly evolutionary developments from the ancient days and not revolutionary.

Don’t get me wrong, these are no backward people. Their livelihoods depend on fishing (and the generosity and (one has to believe the wilful blindness) of the Danish taxpayers; and in each endeavour, they are quite resourceful and successful.

The Faroe Islands are not a part of the EU. They keep outside, as does Iceland, principally because of their fishing industry. They believe that opening their fishing grounds to the unprincipled plunderers of the southern fleets will cost them far more in both the long and short-terms than staying outside will do. And, I think that they have a point. The fishing industry protects the evolution of an ancient life-style, admittedly aided considerably by Danish largesse, but nonetheless, it is evident from the number of full laden semis that boarded the ferry I am on in Torshavn that their Viking sea-based heritage is alive and well.

I was in the islands for business. There is annually a trade show for those whose travel businesses work heavily with operators in The Faroes, Iceland and Greenland, and this year it was in Torshavn. Next year it will be in Reykjavik, and after that it will be Greenland’s turn to host the event. Rather sadly, they have, for their last couple of turns, held it in Copenhagen, which has always struck me as an odd nod to their colonial past. We live in hope, though, of 2013 being back in their wonderful, northern home.

It is a great event; a chance for new tour operators, guest houses, bus routes, restaurants, hotels and other vital components of the travel business to show off their new products; in turn, there are about eighty-five buyers from around the world (in addition to my participation, there were buyers from Australia, China, Japan and Russia in addition to their more traditional European markets) looking for new products to sell.

And we found a lot. There are some fabulous community groups in South Greenland offering new programs, a new combination coach program in Iceland that will offer independent travellers another choice in touring there, and some new air-routes around the region offering us wide new opportunities to design some terrific products for the 2012 season. Watch the website!

Air Greenland, Air Iceland, Icelandair, Atlantic Airways and the redoubtable Smyril Line all work closely with the travel trade, and their complex and interwoven route network opens up this area for exploration. There is accommodation to suite all budgets, and the friendly faces, welcoming smiles and marvellous stories of the Atlantic Islanders will all combine to make a perfect and memorable vacation.

Which brings me to Poles.

The current copy of Atlantic Airway’s flight magazine highlights a fascinating statistic. The Faroese population, according to this August organ, comprises 92.7% Faroese, 6% Danes, and 0.3% Greenlanders with only Norwegians and Poles getting a mention at 0.2% each before “other” who make up 0.6%.

Now, given that their population is about 48,000 people, this means that there are about 96 Poles; a small number to be sure, but measurable. Further evidence of this diaspora was to be seen at a dry-dock boatyard where the various boxes for differing selections of waste products were indicated in Faroese, English and Polish.

The Polo-Faroese migratory movement is not one of the world’s most studied, but it is a bit interesting.

The Wonderful Faroe Islands

2011-09-12T17:01:00.001-05:00

Well, I have been here for twenty-four hours, and that added to the collective wisdom garnered on three previous visits, I feel, bestows expert status.

I can assert with little doubt that the weather in the Faroe Islands is not their strongest suit. Today, it was a touch gloomy at first, then overcast and later in the day, for a few minutes, scattered clouds. The clouds were subsequently gathered together and tethered above Torshavn, where they now sit.

However, I couldn’t have enjoyed the day more.

If one is in the slightest doubt where one is, upon awakening in a strange hotel room, one glance at the breakfast buffet and the pride of place accorded the pickled fish will narrow it to Scandinavia in a hurry; a second glance, marvelling at the size of the bowl, and the supplementary “foods of the sea” will confirm it as The Faroes. I happen to like pickled fish, and with the time zones on my taste-buds side, I plundered the buffet and headed out into the drizzle.

I do like rain, actually, and the light morning mist that covered Torshavn simply added to the warm and cosy feel of the town. Emphatically painted wooden buildings with turf roofs abound in the city centre; glancing in through the windows one can see the most contemporary offices and feel a sense of wonder at the Faroese ability to merge a thousand years of history and convention with today’s electronic convenience. It is a feeling that reappears frequently as one wanders through this remarkable island group.

I decided to go and visit the island of Nólsoy, conveniently located twenty minutes by ferry from the thumping heart of Torshavn. I sailed over, and watching the island appearing from the mist wondered where everyone was. The ferry was delivering about thirty folks there but otherwise, the town had the look of a Norse Potemkin village; deserted. I decided that the four-hour wait until the next ferry home would stretch even my imagination, so I simply stayed on board and headed back. The next attempt at self-amusement was a bus to the fishing town of Vestmanna some forty kilometres away.

It was a fine bus ride, passing through more of these perfect toy-villages until we arrived at the end of the line, and with a little over two hours to pass until the return bus, I wandered into the throbbing heart of the community.

The throb actually turned out to be a rather powerful pair of engines running inside a building close to the harbour, and with that mystery solved, I wandered on. It was quiet, I have to say, but rather lovely. The clouds had lifted, the drizzle abated and I simply looked around. Lovely houses, secure in the knowledge that the community had been there for a thousand years or more, and village elders kept (presumably) a continuing eye on who married whom. Houses were lovely, although it has to be said that some were a touch shabby; I liked that, as it indicated a sort of realism that is absent from perfection, and continued to wander. Past the harbour, in and around the local supermarket (heavy on yoghurts and Cadbury’s chocolate, leeks from Belgium and an unusually large selection of liquorices), gazed into the local clothing store (now, in the post-tourist season offering a 60% pricing advantage) and a rather drab looking dance hall. I suppose that most dance halls look sad in the middle of the afternoon, but there you go.

Then lunch and the most perfect fish and chips that I have ever encountered. And believe me, I have encountered a few in my time.

There couldn’t really have been time for my cod to realise what had happened to it between the moment that it lurched toward the bait, was hauled into the boat, deposited, still flapping, on the dock - a dock that has a number of notices that prohibit dogs from sniffing around, but oddly, not cats - being hustled into the kitchen and via a fryer onto my plate. Six hours at most is my guess, and it tasted thus.

The perfection of really fresh fish, cooked with skill is remarkable; it was simply sublime.

And so I returned on the bus to Torshavn marvelling at my fortune of being here, on a group of magical islands adrift in the North Atlantic Ocean.

Back to Europe

2011-09-11T04:01:00.001-05:00

It has been five months since I have been to Europe, for me a record. After the mad wanderings of the past few years, it has been good to stay home for a while, although I certainly miss Esperaza.

During the summer I have had the opportunity to go on a couple of interesting, more local trips, into both the Arctic and the near US states. It was really a pleasure to explore some of our neighbour’s territory, and last week found us driving home from Toronto to Winnipeg.

The drive is good; from Toronto we headed to Sarnia and into Michigan before heading north and driving the length and breadth of this interesting state. It is, for those who have not been there or studied its geography, deceptively large, and peculiarly shaped.

We stopped on our first night in Gaylord, a village touted to emulate a small Alpine village. Apart from the obvious lack of Alps, the descriptions were misleading; oddly -gabled buildings astride a normal, gas-station and big-box infested highway would have been more accurate. The hotel was fine, and as pasteurised as one might expect a Hilton to be, although their air-conditioning sounded like rush-hour on an aircraft carrier. Food in town was harder to find, and although we rocked on up to the “Big Buck”, with predictably gargantuan servings of various American specialities, we left thirsty.

They brewed their own beer; actually an admirable pastime and I have to say they do it well. However, their wine making leaves a lot to be desired. Astringent, weedy and, one has to say, tasting as if it had been made in Central Michigan, it was on sale at an eye-watering $9.50 for 4½ ounces. Now even in metric units, this is a price that would normally be paid for some nectar of the gods, and not this backwater naughawine.

However, suitably fortified we headed north and crossed the Mackinaw Bridge to the Upper Peninsula. We did choose the one day of the year that pedestrian traffic in permitted on the bridge, and consequently thousands of folks took advantage of this regulatory relaxation, and wandered toward us. Watching the walkers, of absolutely every shape and size, did lead to some unkind comments and some small wagers as to some individual’s potential of completing the five-mile walk alive.

It did add an hour to our journey, however, and thus our run across the northern section of the state was a touch more hurried than we might have liked.

This is the land that the economy seems to have left behind. Once clear of Mackinaw, the next two hundred or so miles of highway was littered with “For Sale” signs. Fully two-thirds of the motels and RV parks were for sale, and in many cases, it appeared to be a forlorn hope.

Where are the tourists? We supposed that now, rather than driving and stopping when tired at a motel showing a “vacancy” sign, folks simply got on their iPads, Pods or Phones, and heading straight for a brand name, booked a Best Western, Days Inn or similar, rushing by the independents, unable to reach the brand-obsessed on-line traveller. Cars are also better today, and the daily distances we cover are longer, allowing travellers to congregate in one of a few thriving centres rather than spreading the wealth more evenly throughout the state.

It is a sad state of affairs, and the economy of the “UP” was clearly hurting.

We stopped in Fargo, ND as well, principally to look at a building that we might invest in, but also because of the small towns in the upper mid-west, Fargo really stands out.

Its downtown is attractive, full of life and small businesses. This, principally due to the investment made by a local family who sold their software company to Microsoft for $1.3 billion or so; and let me tell you, that sort of money goes a long way in a smallish town. Of particular note is the lovely Hotel Donaldson, a terrific spot and worth a detour of anyone’s trip. That does assume, of course, that one is anywhere in the vicinity to begin with, which given Fargo’s location, is improbable.

And so to Brussels.

The last time I was here I had arrived on a Capitol Airways flight from New York, and given that Capitol went bankrupt in the 1980s, this was some time ago. As I look out of the window, I see planes from seven airlines, only three of which existed on my last visit. How things change. I am not here for long, heading in a couple of hours to Copenhagen on one of these new airlines (Brussels Airlines). I shall have time to scoot into town there for a beer with an old friend before the final flight of the journey to the magical Faroe Islands.

And more of the Faroes tomorrow.

The Silly Season

2011-08-16T07:35:00.002-05:00

The travel industry operates, as do many industries, on it own cycle, only barely related to the seasons changing outside our windows. For us, the summer is long gone, the Fall is over, and our winter planning in its final stages. Our thoughts turn to next summer, and to the development of new programs.

In some ways, travel is like every other business. We try to imagine what our clientele might want to do next year, seek out the components and “manufacture” a program to suit this idea. If we are correct and a lot of folks buy we do well, and if we miss the mark, of course, we do not do so well.

At this point, I am looking to further develop some European programs that will offer independent travellers a basic framework. We will design and offer itineraries that allow travellers to wander through Europe on slightly structured journeys, with the security of nightly accommodation but not the rigidity of a conventional tour program.

There are several up and coming regions that are interesting. North Americans are always a year or two after Europeans, so in a way it is easy to see what is on sale in the UK and then tweak it for our market a couple of years later!

This year we are seeing strong interest in The Caucuses, with travel to Georgia and Armenia in particular showing spectacular growth. I can also see a growing interest in the Balkans, and while Croatia has long led the field of tourist destinations in the region, there is a surge of interest in Montenegro.

This small country, tucked in between Albania, Bosnia, Serbia, Croatia and Kosovo is absolutely stunningly beautiful. From the high hiking routes in the heart of the country to the villages strung out along the Adriatic coast, Montenegro offers the exploratory tourist a glimpse of the pre-pasteurised past in a gorgeous and friendly environment.

I am looking at a program that starts in the capital, Podgorica, and heads to the coast before continuing south to Albania, and then to Italy, crossing the Adriatic by ferry. Once in Italy, one can simply head toward Rome to come home, or take the local trains to hug the southern coast as one meanders around the heel and sole of the country to Messina.

A trip that I am contemplating for myself this winter would then take me across Sicily and by ferry to Sardinia, Corsica and back to the French mainland at Toulon. Islands have always fascinated me, as have these sorts of overland journeys, and this rout, from Podgorica in Montenegro to Toulon in France would be a fine way to pass a few weeks!

The south of France is always popular, and we are sensing the growth of guided, outdoor programs in the Pyrenees. We have recently started working with two terrific companies, on the western Pyrenees offering superb guided hikes, staying in the chain of mountain refuges that dot the mountains, and in the Eastern Pyrenees another fine company whose programs combine the culinary and wine delights of the Languedoc with hiking and exploring the ancient Cather Castles. A terrific combination!

There are other regions too; northwest Spain, long neglected by many tourists is becoming popular, and I am heading there in April to travel by local train along the north coast. I have a feeling that it will be like riding to Toronto on the Metro, these are not long-distance railways, but the scenery, overnight stops and the privilege of catching a flake of a remote and fascinating culture.

We will see! Watch the website for these and other signature journeys, and spare a thought for poor me, sitting in my office, daydreaming and creating these programs rather than getting out and playing.

The Arctic Circle

2011-08-11T12:37:00.003-05:00

I am, it has to be said, fortunate in the amount that I am able to travel, and the extraordinary variation in destinations that I am able to visit.

In the past twelve months, I have been all over Canada, from Newfoundland to Vancouver, to Azerbaijan, Thailand, France (of course), the UK, Georgia and Australia, and now to Repulse Bay on the Arctic Circle.

For reasons that remain fuzzy, I purchased a hotel in Churchill last year, and my daughter and a friend have been managing it with great competence and enthusiasm this year. A week or so ago, I went up for a few days to see how all was getting on, and to reacquaint myself with several of our long-time suppliers and partners in Churchill.

It is a lovely place; nestled on the shores of Hudson Bay, it makes its living form a panoply of activities including tourism. The summer is astonishing; the colour of the tundra, access to a eighteenth century British fort, the thousands of Beluga whales in the river and the opportunity to enjoy the bright days with some fascinating folks.

So up I went, and had a terrific time. I even went on the best tour program that I have ever been on; it is a one-hour ride in a 1942 Turbo Beaver aircraft, overflying the Prince of Wales Fort, the belugas in the river and then, some fifteen miles from town, Cape Churchill with at least twenty, healthy-looking polar bears. The flight is brilliant, and to be recommended.

Having gone north, we decided to continue, and flew another 600 miles to Repulse Bay, a small Inuit community that straddles the Arctic Circle. Here, we knew that we were far, far north; even in early August the sun never really dimmed, and the community was alive with the signs of hunting and summer activity.

Repulse Bay is home to a huge population of Narwhal, in addition to Bowhead and Killer Whales; Belugas venture this far north, and the seal population is massive as well. It did make me smile to wonder, if it were possible to briefly drain the bay, just how many sea mammals would be lying on the bottom. The Department of Fisheries and Oceans do know this, of course, and estimate the local population of Narwhal to be in the region of 30,000, and they allow the community to take 72 for their own consumption. We went out simply to watch, and the sight of three narwhal leaping from the water with their long, ivory tusks flashing in the sunshine is truly extraordinary.

We visited an old Thule settlement, saw a myriad of tundra flowers, and everywhere we wandered in the village we were stopped by folks saying Hi, and wanting to know where we came from. Repulse Bay is a lovely place, and perhaps the most welcoming northern settlement that I have visited in a long time. They are obviously friendly to each other as well, as the evidential hickies were everywhere. I had, perhaps naively, thought that love-bites, as we knew them in London in the seventies, had disappeared as a teenage fashion accessory and social statement some decades ago.

It is different in the north. Folks drive ATVs and some trucks, clothing is different with many of the very many babies carried in highly practical shoulder pockets in coats. Freight is different; I was a touch surprised to see a shipment of Narwhal blubber being air-freighted south to Rankin Inlet to satisfy someone’s epicurean yearnings. Inbound goods seemed dominated by potato chips and soda cans. I was utterly flabbergasted to read that annually, the population of about 40,000 folks in Nunavut import 10,000,000 cans of soda. Yes, ten million cans of soda, each costing an eye-watering $3.69 in the local co-op. This, of course, represents an average of 250 cans per man, woman and child each year, and goes a long way to explain the almost complete absence of teeth.

It is an odd diet; on the one hand, the majority of their protein is hunted and as fresh a meat-supply as one could want; narwhales, seals, caribou and fish with the occasional fifty-two ton Bowhead whale to split among the community; their starch seems to come from potato chips and it all washed down with coke and ginger ale. We also saw some packets of frozen fish in the store’s refrigerator, which did seem a touch odd!

It is a destination, too , for those interested in Inuit carving. I love the delicate work, carved from the fluid coloured stone of the region, and have collected some fine pieces over the years. Repulse Bay had a lovely collection for sale, and wanting no more than to do my bit for the local economy, I did buy a couple.

All in all I loved Repulse, and am looking forward to coming back in the winter on our new snowmobile safari; we will travel with Inuit guides between Repulse Bay and the community of Kugaaruk, some 150 miles north, in the true High Arctic.

In the meantime, it is back in Winnipeg and next to Avon Minnesota to see one of my favourite musicians next week, Ray Bonneville!

One night in Bangkok

2011-04-02T03:06:00.003-05:00

Bangkok has a romantic sound to its name; evocative to the ear, and redolent with unfulfilled and partly out-of-focus images. It is a city that smiles, usually, offering the world a simplicity and an ambience; a welcome to weary travellers and a place to relax. So I stopped as I flew from France to Australia, taking advantage of the break to visit an old friend, a chap I have known for nearly thirty years, and a man who has been pretty successful in the travel business here.

Firstly, I have to say, that Bangkok is big; gone are any possible connections with “cities of the sleepy east” so beloved from Somerset Maugham novels of the 1930s; I say this not out of surprise because I have been to Bangkok many times, but not for possibly twenty years. And the change is astonishing.

It is, it has to be said, a triumph of concrete over civic planning; aficionados of concrete should come here immediately, and stare in wonder at the stuff on display. Highways, railways, houses, flats and factories jostle for every square inch available, and sprout in a bewildering prism of greys. Nature throughout the region surprises, and it is the ability of sturdy trees to grow in this hostile environment and sprout eccentrically between, around and even through the concrete. The cityscape is punctuated with the periodic gorgeous temple or some structure that dates back perhaps thirty years or more, but alas, they are few and far between.

Men of a certain age, and let’s be honest, it is about the age that I am at, walking alone in Bangkok are confidently assumed to be trawling for some sexually favour or other; a bewildering selection of offerings are proffered, and my stroll was not even close to the dens of iniquity that populate Patpong Road; I wouldn’t dare go there alone. It has to be said, though, that there are all too many septuagenarian men, usually with that sort of seedy, trousers-held-up-by-shabby-suspenders look, with a considerably younger Thai woman or girl in two that one finds in most cities.

I did, I have to say, settle for a rather demure but wonderful foot massage, and at $8 the hour in a most respectable establishment, was a bargain to be repeated soon; so within the hour, I did.

Food was a bit of a challenge; it is plentiful, of course, but not wishing to eat at the Shangri-La, I ventured out, finding all manner of fascinating stalls selling all manner of noodles and wildlife. Heaping, and rather gorgeous plates of scorpions with red chillies, scorpions with green chillies, other peculiar bugs, wonderful looking fish and chicken barbequing and an endless parade of soups, noodles and food beyond my immediate recognition. The problem was that I couldn’t figure out how it was “done”; in particular the soup, sold in delicious portions but in plastic bags that were then deftly tied to avoid spillage. Having no crockery or utensils of my own, I soldiered on, and found only one establishment that offered a menu; in pictures rather than English, but very good it was.

And so to the airport, and the gentle ministrations of a flight with Thai First Class to Sydney. Their lounge, where I am sitting now, is a masterpiece, and a splendid place to while away the time before the flight. I am entitled, apparently, to a complimentary one-hour massage and have every intention of enjoying that privilege before the last leg of the long journey from Europe to Australia.

Bangkok? Yes, absolutely worth a stop, but be sure to tie a string to the front door of your hotel before venturing too far; one bustling street of massages, made-to-measure tailors and soup sellers can look pretty similar to another after the first twenty or so.

2011-02-12T11:58:00.001-06:00

First of all, I have to admit to being completely spoiled. Spoilt too, I suspect, but that is another story.

I have been fortunate to be able to travel in First Class for several long-haul flights and despite the acerbic emails that I may get for these comments, I feel it a public service to offer a glimpse behind the curtain.

Firstly, no pun intended, it has to be accepted that there are people to whom money carries fewer responsibilities than the rest of us; there are also folks who travel from continent to continent on multimillion dollar business for whom peace and quiet trump the huge price of the ticket. It is, it has to be said, a step down from the private jets that whizz the truly rich and famous around the world, but it is a pretty nice way to fly.

First Class travel starts well; no congress with the mass of folks checking in for the myriad of long-haul flights; a discreet desk in the corner of the terminal, or in the case of Lufthansa in Frankfurt, a terminal of one’s own to complete the mundane formalities in a minute or two. Oddly, it is at that point that airlines seem to divide into two categories; those that are playing lip service to their most valuable clients, and those who actually value them.

United has possibly the best seats in First Class, but the worst customer interaction. Their staff are usually great, but their menu, security by-pass systems and lounges all rank poorly. Lufthansa have pretty ordinary seats, but their ground facilities are extraordinary; Swiss seem to manage both. In a few weeks I will be able to add Thai to my comparison, and am looking forward to experiencing their renowned lounge in Bangkok.

For most, waiting a the airport is uncomfortable and dull; First Class passengers, on the other hand, are happy to check in a few hours early. In Frankfurt the Lufthansa lounge has a magnificent bar and a first-class restaurant within the facility, naturally with no bill in sight. On-site spa treatments, and when it is finally time to go, a private passport control and a late-model Porsche to whisk you to the waiting aircraft. In Bangkok, I gather, Thai First Class passengers are entitled to a complimentary one-hour massage in their spa, in addition to one of the finest restaurants in Bangkok available for their pleasure.

In Paris, it is said that that the operators of the Air France First Class lounge, a Michelin-starred place if ever there was one, are paid a flat €500 per passenger; one can only imagine the service that is on offer.

All this before one even boards the plane. Once on board, seats are huge and discreet. My personal favourite is actually Turkish Airlines who offer each passenger their own cabin that can be open to the masses or closed into a private cabin. Sadly they don’t fly to Winnipeg or Toulouse.

Once on board, service ranges from extraordinary, Johnnie Walker Blue is the Lufthansa house scotch, to the mundane; United’s catering does not match the promise of their wonderful seats, and in fact would be comparable to most airline's business class offerings. Swiss offer a splendid seven course meal with a selection of marvellous wines to compliment every course. And when consumption is complete and one’s eyes start to wane, the seats turn into beds.

Some, United’s are the best example, are simply magnificent, self-contained suites that offer comfort and privacy. Others, and Swiss is the best for this attention, place a mattress over one’s absolutely flat seat and a duvet above to complete a fine bed. And, of course they include pyjamas.

So, refreshed, but not overly so, one arrives and can then head to a special arrivals lounge, complete with a shower and breakfast. At this point, one usually has to mix with business class passengers, but sated with the flight’s pampering, food and wine, compromises can be made.

All in all, it is a pretty nice way to travel.

First Class

2011-02-11T08:42:00.001-06:00

First of all, I have to admit to being completely spoiled. Spoilt too, I suspect, but that is another story.

All in all, it is a pretty nice way to travel.

London Again!

2011-02-11T08:39:00.003-06:00

I am, I really do recognise, extremely fortunate to live a life that can keep me in touch with folks in Europe as well as North America. I am well aware that but for a few very fortunate bounces of the ball my life could be significantly different. I am also aware that a couple of bad bounces will have my life spinning off on a completely different tangent.

For now, however, I live a rather pleasant life; made possible, I have to add, by my colleagues at home in Winnipeg who vacillate between wanting me there for “input” and wanting me gone for “peace”. We find a balance, and I am grateful for their forbearance; for their part, I think, they are grateful for my absence, but nevertheless, they are terrific, and allow me to take advantage of considerable freedom.

One of the benefits of regular travel is the ability to get to know restaurants; another in my case is to get to know a restaurant reviewer with whom I go exploring each time I get to London. This time we went to a small restaurant in Swiss Cottage, a well known area of inner North London. Well known, I think, because zillions of cars pass by every day; it is close to really nice places; close to some grubby but alive and fun places, but Swiss Cottage itself is pretty dire. 1970s communal apartments, land blocks raised for traffic extensions, dull little “villas” in a place that feels as if it is on a road to somewhere else.

However, The Chateaubriand was our target that night, and more disappointed we could not have been; it was, tired, disenfranchised, sad and really on its last legs. Not only was there no Chateaubriand, apparently too expensive for his crowd, there wasn’t even a steak.

Now I can understand not stocking a cut that costs £45 for two (although Joseph and I thought this reasonable) when you only sell four or five a year, which is what they apparently do. However, with such a name, it is not unreasonable to expect some meat; other than a Vienna Schnitzel. Never mind; the good news was that having finished dinner in a record seventy minutes, we headed to my New Favourite Pub Of All Time, the Holly Bush in Hampstead; it is truly special, convivial in a singular sort of way and old.

The Holly Bush is the sort of place that two or three times in its existence resisted modernisation. Firstly in the 1890s and then again, and with some fortitude, I think, in the 1970s. It remains a Victorian drinking place, with contemporary Aussie bar staff it has to be said. But then again, my Canadian daughter is in Australia serving alcohol to Australians at the moment, so the world is truly upside down.

Why do Australians head north to pour beer and Canadians head south? It is not exactly an exchange of skills; but then I digress. Beer is being poured equally enthusiastically everywhere.

But Tuesday night in the Holly Bush was marvellous. Why I have never been there before I can’t explain, but I hadn’t, and I will again. It is a marvellous place, full of the past conjured together perfectly with the refreshment requirements of the present. And no, we did not get over refreshed, simply content. And a gentle contentedness aligned with the company of a good friend, the evening passed. We only wondered why we didn’t meet there at seven instead of the barren wastes of Swiss Cottage.

An Interesting Week

2011-02-11T08:12:00.002-06:00

Tbilisi is always interesting, and my all-too-brief stay there last week once more conjured up some surprises and ideas. It always does, and suffice it to say that were I to decamp and move to Georgia, a thought that has crossed my mind more than once, I would collapse under the deluge of potential.

Georgia is, you see, a remarkable country. In many ways similar to many post-Soviet lands, it has a vibrancy and excitement that I have not seen in others. The exceptions, of course, are the Baltics, Poland and possibly the Czech Republic, but they have had the EU to assist and boost. No, Georgia has had less structural support; it has, of course, had significant financial support from both the US and from the EU, but nevertheless there is a fascinating evolution going on. Young Georgians, and by that I mean those under about thirty-five in mind or body are so competent and alive; they leave the young whippersnappers that Deloitte and other “Global Consultancies” send to Georgia to help them mend their ways and reach the future.

So the Big Idea now was to run charter flights to Tbilisi for three and four-day escapes. A great idea, and one that warmed the cockles of a tour operator’s heart; there is good accommodation in Tbilisi, sufficient rooms for this kind of operation and a local nightlife that would sell. The idea was mooted in December during my previous visit, and I and a couple of others have been doing a little sleuthing since then.

The key, of course, to a successful tour operation is to be able to buy each component for a significant discount; the hotel rooms must be reasonable and the cost of the aircraft acceptable. It is, whichever way you slice it, a significant risk to charter twenty flights on spec. An operation to Georgia must logically be operated by an airline with the rights to fly on the route, and also an aircraft available with the minimum of deadheading; operating an empty flight to come an pick up the passengers.

The first quote, from a Georgian carrier was for €32,000 per rotation, which seemed pricey to us. Following a series of meetings in London our second quote came from a rather obscure South African airline, of whom I had never heard before Monday. Their offer was US$19,500 per rotation, a significant discount to the original benchmark.

The third meeting was the best; I am yet to get a price, but am assured that it will arrive by Friday (tomorrow at this point).

And so it will come to pass; we will offer holidays in Tbilisi to the denizens of Baghdad; oddly, we now think that 50% of our market will be Iraqis, rather than a complete market of ex-patriots. The market remains to be seen, as do a number of other issues. Georgian visas for Iraqis for example, and the roughly $500,000 financial commitment, but the project seems very sound.

Interesting too, which is important; I have a fairly short attention span. Concentrated and sharp it may be, but it is short.

A Creature of Habit

2011-02-02T01:46:00.002-06:00

It is very easy to become a creature of habit; travelling as I do, I find myself almost searching for patterns, looking for flakes of continuity in an otherwise fairly random life. I am staying currently in the Courtyard Marriott in Tbilisi, my third visit, and other than the murder, I like the security and comfort of knowing and being known.

The murder was odd, though. A few days before I arrived, a young(ish) French IT specialist, only three days in the country, was brutally stabbed in room 412. I pass this room each time I head from my room to the elevator; they have tacked two elderly bed covers over the door, covering the police tape (I peeked behind them), which jar against the otherwise perfect symmetry of a hotel corridor. It makes one wonder about that night in January, hints of spurned lovers, on-line attractions and perhaps expectations that went beyond those spoken. I also wonder when they will clean the room, and who will, presumably unwittingly, be its next paying guest.

So full of these wonders, and my penchant for habit taking me to one of two local restaurants for lunch or dinner when alone, I have been in Tbilisi for three days now; successful ones I think, as the couple of major business ideas I am pursuing seem to be edging forward nicely. Nicely to the point that today I had nothing else to do and decided to head to Batumi, the rapidly-growing resort on Georgia’s Black Sea coast.

Twice weekly Airzena (the Georgian national airline) operate a schedule that allows one to head to the coast for seven hours, and still be back in Tbilisi in time for dinner. The fare, at $75 return, is terrific, so I headed to the airport armed with camera and notepad ready for a day at the seaside.

We boarded the plane on time and the 50 seat aircraft had about 30 passengers on board with two flight crew; used to United Airlines' spartan offering on the same aircraft, this seemed almost excessive. However, after about 30 minutes, they came around and announced that because of snow, rain and fog at the seaside, the flight would be delayed.

So I abandoned ship; as the aircraft was to continue from Batumi to Kiev and stop on its way back, the return to Tbilisi would be significantly late, and I have a dinner engagement; add to that, while beaches in snow and howling winds do have rather macabre attractions, being late for dinner trumped them. So back through security, a complicated refund process and fortunately one lone taxi around to take me back to town.

And now, I think to my favourite little haunt for a bowl of their marvellous mushroom soup while I ponder the afternoon.

Tbilisi Airport

2011-01-30T09:28:00.001-06:00

There really are few places whose daily peak is at about 0400; in fact, I can’t think of another off hand. However, Tbilisi airport is one of those, and it was my pleasure to have landed there this morning at that God Awful time.

Worth it, though, I have to say, as the drive into town was speedy, and really rather beautiful; slightly misty, and the wonderfully illuminated castles, old buildings and streets were a picture.

The airport, however, wasn’t. One of the perils of being a, shall we delicately say, second division destination is that airlines tend to determine when they get served. Major European airports, and even their minor strips, have landing restrictions that theoretically allow those who chose to purchase dwellings near an airport to sleep. This leaves aircraft sitting on the ground all night, unless they are able to squeeze in a round trip journey of nine hours or so to allow a plane to make some money at night.

As this timing requirement needs a landing strip about four hours away that is open in the middle of the night, the choices are fewer than one might imagine. Tbilisi is one; as are such attractive destinations as Yerevan, Yekaterinburg, Perm and so on.

I have left Tbilisi on the return journey, and although an 0430 departure fails to warm the cockles of this jaded traveller’s heart, it is a vast improvement on arriving at that time; getting to the hotel by 0530, asleep at 0600 and sort of awake by noon, clinging to the hope that one’s body will eventually synchronise with the day’s cycle of food smells.

It was a long journey; actually, I almost spent longer in airport lounges (13 hours) than actually flying (14 hours) due to the peculiar schedules, and a well-placed respect for the idiocy of a tight connection in Chicago.

In Munich at one point, I did find myself staring at the departure board wondering where I was actually going. All of the destinations looked pretty appealing, but it was only by reference to my boarding pass that I got myself back on track.

And here I am, back in the Georgian capital for a series of meetings that will hopefully nudge another couple of projects forward. On Wednesday I hope to fly up to Mestia on “my plane”; the aircraft that I worked on leasing to the Georgians is operating a service up to the mountains, and it would be fun to be able to go for a ride. We will see.

In the meantime it is time to again enjoy Tbilisi for a few days, and not think about airlines, airports, schedules or moving again for a few days.

Dinner in Tbilisi

2010-12-04T14:32:00.003-06:00

What a fun place this can be.

Issues with the airport notwithstanding, my last day in Tbilisi was brilliant. Once again, it was punctuated with insight and conversation, ideas and debate; it is a really interesting place.

Of all places, I found myself at the Christmas party of AmCham, the American Chamber of Commerce in Georgia. Far from being the stuffy event that one might have imagined, it once again epitomised the go-ahead attitude of many of their ranks, and I loved it.

I stayed until almost the end, intoxicated (not with the admirable Georgian wine on offer,) but with one of the best ideas that I have come across in a long, long time. Needless to say, I won’t say anything now, but watch this space.

Dinner followed, and a discussion of Georgia, from, it has to be admitted, an expat perspective that was particularly voluble. It was agreed that it is a country of huge opportunity; this is a bit of a conversation deadener in a way because to agree inclines one to emigration (to Georgia) or excuses of why one would not, and disagreement is a touch impolite, and not actually true.

One participant, a fascinating woman involved with the financing of ecological advancements in commercial environments, yes, really, people do this for a living, put it succinctly. "We come to The East because of the intellectual challenge, and the opportunity to “do something”".

I completely understand. Given the appropriate opportunity and circumstance, I would head east myself. There are opportunities, pitfalls, difficulties and rewards in eventually equal or balanced measure. These are folks who are interested in more that eventual pension entitlements, driven by need perhaps, but nevertheless driven. Opportunities for small businesses, for large enterprises abound, and all the time a riding on the frisson of the underlying and motivating risk.

Like the wine industry.

Not my best segway, I will admit, but dinner conversation was lubricated by some interesting, but not overwhelming, wine; Georgian, of course.

The Georgian wine industry has a parallel in Canada. In the 1980s, the Free Trade Agreement between Canada and the United States left the Canadian wine industry in a terrible state. Producing, as Canada used to, pretty toxic stuff by the tankerful, it was realised that in the Dreadful Wine Market (one not to be sneezed at apparently, by volume at least), one could not out-underperform the Americans. Competing with the oceans of Thunderbird, or wine of a similar appellation, was out of the reach of Canadian producers, so they ripped up the vines.

The new plants, now some twenty years on, produce some rather wonderful wines, and so to Georgia. Having lost their market for bulk, weapons-grade red when the Russians closed the border and thus the market of their plentiful and indiscriminate boozers, the Georgian wine industry had a stark choice.

Improve, or die on the vine.

And, I have to say, they improved. Interestingly, the wine that I can drink today, in fact the wine that is within seven inches of my left hand (a Mukuzani from Marani) is eminently drinkable. A child’s portion of the essence of Georgia would not go amiss in any company. Distribution is an issue, but one that will be sorted in due course, I hope. Truly, good Georgian wines are superb, and deserve their place among the wine lists of the world.

Their very fine wines, one of which I have one in my suitcase, are actually truly remarkable; hence my remarks. And once I drink it, I shall remark upon it further.

And so we go on; it is now midnight, the clock is set for 0300 the flight for 0455 and a long day of travel via Munich, Zurich and Montreal before I finally get home to Winnipeg.

Cheers!

A week in Tbilisi

2010-12-03T04:02:00.003-06:00

This is Day 5 of a rather fascinating week in the Georgian capital, Tbilisi.

I am here principally for business, although sneaking in a few minutes of dinner and a child’s portion of the remarkably good Georgian wine has been quite possible. It is, of course, quite different from the summer both climatically and in the sense of the city.

Cities live and breathe, have seasons and moods just as their individual inhabitants. They have characters and idiosyncrasies and change with the relentless passage of the year.

Late autumn in Tbilisi is very pleasant. The weather has been good, the last leaves fluttering around, the traffic as disobedient and manic as ever and the local populous hurrying around in that special way of the underemployed. The metro, deep and mostly Soviet, is full all of the time; full of folks dressed in the apparent national colour of black. Now and again someone dressed in brilliant beige or olive green illuminates like a Christmas decoration. Otherwise there is a sombre tone of dress, possibly reflective of the mood or possibly because they like black.

I decided to go for a ride; having figured out how to buy my ticket (one buys a card at any station and then, in the nstyle of most city transit systems, loads it up with money), and head off. A single ride costs 40t (25 cents) for the first of the day, the second is 30t and the third and subsequent ones 20t.

I headed out to the end, remembering to note where I got on. It was at თავისუფლების მოედანი, and I made careful note so I would be able to find my way home. The end of a metro line is often odd; built originally at the distant end of a city, they now lie in suburbs of little consequence, the city having grown up and beyond them many years since. In this case, the line was built in 1967, and Tbilisi has expanded considerably. It is a 'hood of scruffy shops, sidewalks, apartments and many people wandering around; it is a place of bingo parlours, money changers (US$1 = 1.1752 or thereabouts), flower sellers and shops peddling a motley assortment of things. Worth an hour of anyone's time, but having exhusted avery opportunity for interest or humour, I headed back into the station at ახმეტელის თეატრი and headed back to თავისუფლების მოედანი for a restorative.

Georgia is an astonishing country. For all of its difficulties, it remains a nation with heart, drive and an infectiously positive outlook; barriers rarely exist, development is on track and those willing to join in are welcome. Everything is being reviewed and renewed; the road and transportation infrastructure, agriculture, energy, manufacturing and every sector of business that one can imagine.

I am here for a couple of reasons; we are looking at significantly developing our promotion of the region in the US and Canada, and secondly because we worked over the past couple of months to broker a six-month lease of a Canadian aircraft to come to Georgia.

The plane will be used principally on a route between Tbilisi and Mestia, the major centre of Svaneti. The project began in August, really, when I was visiting Svaneti with my family; having met the folks who had built a new ski resort and spent time discussing access, we were approached in October to help advise on a suitable aircraft.

The result was the delivery on Thursday of a Twin Otter from the Calgary-based Kenn Borek. It is a fine aircraft, and perfectly suited to the difficult mountain terrain; the pilots are resting today after the long ferry-flight, and tomorrow will start exploring the routes across the mountains into Mestia.

I am pretty excited by this whole development; a modest domestic aviation industry, and although a single Twin Otter won’t get the Star Alliance excited, it is a start. Routes between the capital Tbilisi and Batumi on the Black Sea, neighbouring Yerevan and some other regional towns will assist both tourism and local development.

And that, according to many folks here, is the sort of catalyst that they need.

What a fine airline!

2010-11-28T16:01:00.001-06:00

Now even I would be the first to admit a certain lack of impartiality. Riding, as I am, well restored by a couple of beakers of the concentrated soul of the Italian sun, in the business class cabin of a bmi plane heading back to Tbilisi, I am extremely comfortable, and prone to offering compliments.

However, bmi, now a part of the Lufthansa Group following the remarkable fiscal foresight of its founder, Sir Maurice Bishop, is a wonderful airline.

I have been flying long enough to remember the days when aviation was not only fun, but glamorous. One dressed up to fly; why I am not quite sure in retrospect, but we did. Aeroplanes made extraordinary things possible; they were pretty odd, too. I remember flying from Southend to somewhere on the Belgian coast in a Carvair; the plane looked disarmingly like a tiny or prototype Boeing 747 and carried cars, allowing my Dad to take us to “The Continent” for a holiday or two.

Bmi might have existed then too, I am not sure; I do remember British Island Airways, Air Anglia, Air Ecosse and all sorts of regional derivatives operating some remarkable flying machines.

I did fly with bmi in the recent past; thirty years ago or so, when they were called British Midland, they flew elderly aircraft on dull routes. A Fokker to Amsterdam, an ageing BAC to Palma, that sort of thing; now it is all about A320s and 321s to Khartoum, Beirut and Tbilisi no less. Bishkek and Freetown show up on their route map as well; no end of oddness that bmi flight crews endure. And good for them; folks need to get to these places, and as established carriers pull out for a variety of reasons, smaller folks dive in.

And it is the crew that is actually remarkable. From an old Aviation Salt like me, prising praise loose from my inherent cynicism is not an easy task; these folks deserve it all. I fly a great deal, and it is an odd way to live. Hurtling from place to place at 500 miles per hour in a metal tube seeking a new idea or contract to keep the family and troops in new shoes takes its toll. Particularly on the liver, but that’s another story.

But, bmi wins out. Yes, they have the most fabulous business class lounge I have been in, and yes, they fly to interesting places, and yes, their food is terrific and the wine list entertaining, but get this, their crew’s eyes are open and thinking!

Just minutes ago a flight attendant, noticing that on the passenger print-out they have, no frequent flyer program was marked, he came to me to solicit membership in the bmi program. Above and beyond, I would say, and indicative of this carrier.

In fairness, I have to admit that the night I spent with United, two nights ago to be precise, flying from Chicago to London was fabulous. First Class should be, of course, but this was a terrific trip. A great crew, absolute comfort, five hours sleep and a jug or two of a rather memorable Chablis made for a terrific trip.

As it should, of course, for those paying for First Class passage from Winnipeg to Tbilisi would be parting with the best part of eighteen grand. I understand why folks would pay this; heading away to conclude billion dollar deals, money to burn through an extremely fortunate genetic quirk or even hard work. However, for most, the practical way to enjoy this level of comfort and pampering is the accumulation of frequent flyer points.

Aeroplan; one has to love it.

And that’s why I had no active frequent flyer designation on display for the ever-vigilant bmi flight attendants; I am travelling on points.

Why they fly to Tbilisi is another question. The final leg from Baku will carry only twenty-seven of us there. It is a pity really, because Georgia is a wonderful place.

On board in the future

2010-11-05T12:55:00.000-05:00

One of the more surreal parts of an endlessly surreal week is officially being somewhere that I am not, and in the future, to boot.

Let me explain.

Cunard think of everything, and to this end have provided a UK immigration officer on board the ship in order to facilitate our arrival in Southampton. During the crossing, at allotted times we present ourselves and passports to her, and are duly admitted into the United Kingdom. I did wonder what would happen to an undesirable alien who she did not wish to admit to the UK, but can only suppose that this eventuality failed to present itself.

However, the odd thing is that she stamped our passports with “October 8, 2010”; I have never had a stamp in my passport six days beyond the present. What if I died before we reached England? Having already been admitted, would this cause a problem? Should, in a James Bond moment, I be whisked away by helicopter to an Alien Foreign Power, could this stamp be considered proof of my admittance to Britain on November 8th, even though I was making mischief elsewhere? You see the point. Were the ship to be taken hostage by Somali pirates, although I will concede that the North Atlantic is somewhat out of their probable range of attack, on November, would we have issues with insurance companies, reluctant to cough up compensation, because of our proof of arrival at Southampton two days later?

Time passes both slowly and quickly on board the ship. There seems to be the luxury of time for thoughts to percolate into ideas, yet the map shows our relentless progress toward Europe. We lie aghast at the knowledge that in an ever decreasing number of hours, we will be ashore and back into the common world.

It is the great strength and attraction of the Queen Mary 2 that we live in a continuously gracious world. It is not simply the flake of grace that we enjoy from an evening at the opera or a fine and distinguished club; not the lingering memory of even a fine weekend at a country hotel. No, this is continuous; it is beautifully mannered and endearingly comfortable. It is days of afternoon tea, paneled libraries, exquisite dining and a sense of engaged formality. It is a glimpse, perhaps, to the rose tinted past, and an opportunity to enjoy a truly relaxing time.

The ship is massive and my walks continue; two laps of the promenade deck (deck 7, if you are that interested) are equivalent to 1.9 kilometres, and three laps equal 1.1 mile. Calculating how far six laps are (in something nautical, like fathom or chains perhaps) illustrates the peak of intellectual activity. And physical activity for that matter; after the bulging buffets, and endless feeding, one needs a walk or two.

Even divine intervention for that matter; and there is evidence of this possibility here on the ship that seems to supply everything. On a routine trip to the washroom, I couldn’t help noticing a cane hanging on a hook on the wall. One doesn’t often see canes lying apart from their owners, and I immediately speculated on this separation. Did the toilet have some Lourdes-like properties, or was the cane some kind of theatrical prop? Was I now to be revealed as being on Candid Camera, or was the cane’s owner beaming enormously and striding confidently down halls proclaiming the miracle?

It is an interesting ship. There are, apparently, some twenty-five “Gentlemen Dancers” employed to engage the over 500 single women (most, of more than a certain age it should be noted) in a quick twirl about the ballroom floor. It has to be said that it is not difficult to distinguish between a member of this gallant fraternity and Fred Astaire, but then again it is the thought that counts.

And so it rolls around to dinner once more; formal tonight, so I am looking forward to Murray sporting the Hero of the Revolution medal once more, and trying to explain to our dining-neighbour, curious at Murray’s role in the war, about its provenance.

What a fine place to be

The Sedate Atlantic

2010-11-04T15:07:00.003-05:00

Rarely am I reduced to silence; in particular as I travel. This journey, however, is rather different, and as I find myself hurtling across the Atlantic Ocean at a sedate 25 miles per hour, safely cocooned by the overwhelming comfort of the Queen Mary 2, one’s mind drifts. Not, I have to say to writing, but to observing one’s fellow passengers and thinking.

Thinking firstly about why on earth I am here, and then to why everybody else is. I booked passage during the peak of the Icelandic volcanic crisis earlier in the year; in a fit of pique, and temporarily blinded with an overwhelming distaste of flying, I booked passage to London and the annual World Travel Market on the ship.

I have, of course, calmed down since and flown back and forth a few times, but this booking remained, and here I am; floating at this moment roughly mod way between New York and Southampton. And, I have to say, that I am loving every moment.

The Queen Mary is an Ocean Liner; not, simply a cruise ship. The distinction is quite clear in my mind, and those of many fellow travellers. Cruising, we feel, is a protective activity; sailing from place to place protected from foreign influences, and having aggressive young things making up games and generally disturbing the peace. This liner is a direct descendant of the ships that plied the routes between Europe and the New World in the early decades of the last century.

Simply, we are not on a cruise, we are on a crossing. We have chosen to book passage between two countries in a sedate, unhurried and genteel manner. Pampered, it must be said, with more food than one should really eat, superb wines and tempting cocktails. Superb big-bands, excellent concerts and chats about everything from dead bodies to the crustaceans of the deep sea floor.

And so time passes. Simultaneously slowly and fast; relentlessly watching the sea and gazing periodically at the sky full, in the afternoon, of westbound jets carrying their passengers at six-hundred miles an hour toward America. And believe me, speeds like that simply make no sense from where we look.

The treat of the ocean liner became apparent even at check-in in Brooklyn. The process of dropping off bags, obtaining our boarding passes and ship-card, passing through a cursory security inspection and walking up to the ship took no more than fifteen minutes. Our bags were delivered soon after, and there we were, seeking inspiration at the champagne bar. Well, one has to really.

And so it started; a daily grind of exercise (yes, six brisk rounds of the deck equalled two miles, and passed about thirty minutes), eating, snacking, dozing, being lectured to, dressing for dinner and eating again became normal behaviour all too quickly. Actually, I didn’t dress too much for dinner, taking the easy option of sombre business attire; my friend Murray, however, did bring a dinner jacket, and to show my approval and support of his dress code, gave him a Heroic Worker of the Revolution medal that I had picked up in Moldova a year or so ago, and it looked well on his jacket. He got some odd stares, of course, from military types with failing eyesight, but in my view, really topped off the occasion.

The last ocean voyage that I took was about a year ago, crossing the Black Sea on a rather interesting East German boat, the Greifswald. Needless to say, there are striking differences between the two vessels and their passengers, but I have enjoyed them both. The sea, after all, is the sea, and passage at a relentless but sedate 25 miles per hour beats incarceration in a metal tube, and hurtling across the oceans at speeds approaching that of a sound wave.

The New Air Canada Crew(ing)

2010-10-06T14:15:00.002-05:00

Far be it from me to whinge or complain about anything, but I do have a question.

I have just flown from Winnipeg to Toronto, a two-hour flight in the late morning, and witnessed a rather circumstance, that hearkens back to the Old Days of Air Canada.

Air Canada today, I have to say is pretty darned good. Much improved, both in equipment but mostly in attitude. Gone, fortunately for both their customers and shareholders, are the evil days of predominantly gnarly flight attendants glaring and challenging the slightest whim that a fare-paying passenger might have; gone are the days that none regard as Good-Old, where passengers were to be seen and not heard, and the imperious glance of a “stewardess”, for that is what they were then called, had one apologising before the crime could be committed.

Until today.

I was fortunate to be sitting in business class (AC 264 / 11 Oct for anyone who cares) among the crème of the airline’s passengers. A grand each way is the cost of this cosseting, and judging by the full cabin, there were several who paid their way; some were like me, travelling on points, some upgraded through their continuous use of the airline and some presumably company employees squeezed in at the last moment. However, all in all, we were a pretty valuable bunch to Air Canada.

The flight time is a shade under two hours, and for the first hour and a bit all went swimmingly. Then, our two attendants decided that it was their lunchtime, and service stopped. Not only stopped, but should a passenger happen to venture past their curtain and return leaving it possible to glance at the attendants eating and reading, the curtain was slammed shut.

As soon as the aircraft started its descent, they came to life. When I asked what they had been doing, and why I/we had not been offered a further sample of their delectable Malbec, I was advised in absolutely no uncertain terms that they had no lunch break scheduled on the ground, and so this was it.

And so I ask, perhaps rhetorically, but perhaps an Air Canada or union executive might care to enlighten me, why on a two-hour flight, it seems reasonable to take a thirty-minute break? Should we, the paying passengers have got a discount because of the abandonment caused by the crews' inability to make the two-hour journey without sustenance? And what of the pilots? Were they, too, forced to work on growling tummies, needing to abandon their duties for a feed?

Really, this is not good enough. I have sympathy for hungry flight attendants, but they should simply not abandon their charges, and whether I drink too much or not is hardly the question here, I might have wanted water for a life-saving pill. Yes, we could have rung the bell, but being well-trained to expect the withering look this action elicits so perfected by flight crews over the years, nobody dared.

It is a pity, because just as we started to revel in the New Air Canada Caring Mode, out popped a glimpse of the old cloven hoof. The situation is by no means irreparable! A single abandonment among hundreds of Caring Moments does not indicate a complete relapse.

It is, however, worrying that on a two-hour flight, a thirty-minute lunch-break can be scheduled.

London in the Fall

2010-09-23T17:21:00.004-05:00

Of course, the best, or most intriguing, reason to visit London in mid-September is to find out how the current year’s surprise team is managing to survive in the world’s most competitive, not to mention lucrative, football league. And this year, the buzz is Blackpool; rank no-hopers, they won promotion to the financial nirvana of professional sports against all odds, and rather than playing obscure teams in front of 3,800 fans, they are playing in the same sand pit as Chelsea, Arsenal and Manchester United. And doing surprisingly well.

Not, of course, that football is often on my mind, or was a motivator in booking this trip way back in February; sheer serendipity.

I am here for to work on my Dad’s estate, and thanks to our brilliant lawyer who has guided me through the arcane process of probate with ease and a frightening efficiency, we have now reached the happy moment of giving money away. Or so we thought, but the imposition of “new” identification regulations to combat the ever present money launderers, and no doubt terrorists mean that his will’s benefactors will have to exercise patience.

I did so by meeting friends; one in particular is a curious chap called Joseph who I met on a train in Slovakia some time ago. He writes, successfully and rather humorously I have to add, novels, biographies, travel articles and restaurant reviews. It was in this last role that he sent ma an email a couple of weeks ago asking when I might be free to dine in London next. He had been invited to the opening of a rather unusual restaurant in Camden Town of African persuasion, he intoned, and wanted to go back and review it properly; my input would be valued.

And so it was that we headed to simply the most peculiar restaurants that I have ever patronised. It has to be admitted that Camden Town in odd in and of itself, but Shaka Zulu takes the cake. A single, smiling but rather lonely bongo player was placed outside to keep the crowds under control and lure folks in to dine. There was nobody around, and we were going in anyway; he did show up later in the restaurant performing some folk-tunes that appeared to involve large, used baking bowls and Homburg hats; I am still confused.

However, we went in through a massive shell-encrusted entrance and down an escalator into the top floor of a two-level bar/restaurant/curio extravaganza/club/museum. In the manner, it has to be said, of a gloriously decorated underground station; not one of the more subdued suburban stations, but Bond Street in its heyday. The escalators probably prompted this comparison, but really it was huge, decorated beyond overkill, lit dramatically and it made us smile.

Dinner was disappointing. Kudu, a type of antelope, I can assure you is not worth eating. Unless, perhaps, you are a natural predator of antelopes; for the rest of us it looks pretty on the plate but disappoints. Virtually flavourless, it also has a disturbing characteristic of simply disappearing after a couple of chews. And it doesn’t taste of much either. Joseph’s Ostrich was a much better bet, but all in all we were rather underwhelmed, and frankly astonished at the £160 bill that his newspaper will have to foot.

Expensive, amusing, bizarre and entertaining, but not good value. So there you are; for a professional review, I will refer you to Joseph’s article in due course, but my rank-amateur conclusion is far from encouraging.

Blackpool lost, by the way, 4 - 0 to Chelsea, the game being the reason that my cousin’s husband was late for dinner on Sunday; it was a good game, he reported, (as actually they all are), but started late on Sunday.

He, John, is a season-ticket holder at Chelsea and came offering a ticket for Wednesday’s game against Chelsea; the very next day a great friend Clive, of whom I have spoken before, offered me a ticket to watch the final match in a five-game cricket series between England and Pakistan on Wednesday evening.

Spoilt for choice I had to decline both, as I was to be in Munich dithering between Oktoberfest and Nymphenburg Castle. What a life.

Munich in September

2010-09-23T17:17:00.001-05:00

It is, perhaps, a sign of age that I would prefer to spend an afternoon exploring the gorgeous grounds of Munich’s Nymphenburg Castle instead of sidling up to the conviviality of Oktoberfest.

I had no idea that I would be in Munich for Oktoberfest, no really, I had not a clue, when I booked this tail-end trip, but so it was.

I realised as soon as I got off the flight from London that something was amiss. Torrents of men wearing leather shorts, some disgracefully small, and more women wearing costumes created in the style, shall we say of “Bistro Chic”. Many, I have to admit to in fairness, alluringly small. Something was amiss; I have travelled to Munich many times over the past decades, and its usual Bavarian decorum was clearly out of season.

It is a great festival. I understand from a friend here that the “tents” that serve eye-watering rivers of beer, thousands of bland sausages and pretzels by the ton can make about €1.5 million in the two-week extravaganza. Even allowing for a few weeks of preparation, a few strained moments dealing with overly indulgent staff, one can imagine that their houses have a Happy Christmas indeed.

And so it was that I flew to Munich for a day or so to catch up with an old friend and found myself with this dilemma. I realised that without a reassuringly tight pair of leather shorts, a frilly shirt with a pope-grade brooch, I would stick out like the tourist that I was; added to this that I am, at least by the standards of Munich beer tents, old, I would be targeted as an outsider, tourist and easy mark. Which, of course, would be completely fair, so I went to Nymphenburg instead.

Attracted, at least in part, by its evocative name, I headed out to this glorious 17th century castle. It is not overly crenulated, one has to say, and barely castle-like at all in the conventional manner of moats, keeps and damsels in distress. Think, rather, of a dramatic chateau of the French style, a magnificent building in overwhelming and micro-managed gardens. Imagine a long road leading to the chateau either side of a perfect canal, the gardens opening to show the full, symmetrical facade of the building, and as one passes through one of many arches a short gasp at the profusion of colour from the thousands of perfect marigolds lining the immaculate lawns.

Lovely; really lovely. And should you think that I had made a special trip here, to prove my cultural integrity, I didn’t. The friend that I was staying with lives on the northern path of the canal, so waking with a bit of a headache, and little inclination to fill myself up with beer and oompah bands, I took the high road and wandered to the Schloss.

Munich is really lovely; I have been fortunate to visit many times, and on each return I wonder at its prosperity, beauty and its situation. Lying as it does so close to the Alps, surrounded by lakes and gentle countryside, perfectly manicured villages and more micro-breweries than a chap can take, it is, in my humble opinion, an almost perfect city.

And so I found myself there, after a few days in London, about which I shall report in reverse order. I was in London to deal with my father’s estate, and despite days learning fast about English probate laws, trust obligations, the professional delineation between lawyers and accountants and trying to remember where I had put an important piece of paper, I did manage to have some fun.

Including a completely bizarre dinner at an African restaurant in Camden Town with my friend Joseph, a rush-hour whizz around the M25, an extraordinary curry with Ann, a mystifying but terrific breakfast at Euston and the everlasting bewilderment at how the Heathrow Express can get away with charging £18 for a fifteen-minute ride into London.

Watch this space.

22, Besiki Street

2010-09-01T23:52:00.004-05:00

Mundane, daily chores are actually quite fun to do when one is not at home, but simply playing house.

We have rented a small house in Tbilisi for five nights, partly for the space, and partly to be able to get under the skin of the city, at least a very little bit.

Our little grocery store is a case in point; having been in now for three days in a row, this morning when I went to buy some eggs and bread I was pondering the selection in the cooler to see if there was something that resembled butter, or perhaps a spreadable cheese. After about a two-minute ponder, the owner came over, wrapped in a big smile, and advised me to get the small package, wrapped in a reddish cover with pictures of what appeared to be a collection of empty puff-pastry cases.

Now, I bought it because it was cheap, she was enthusiastic and although the thought that she had had this for a year or more and could finally rid her shop of it crossed my mind, I didn’t think that she was going to be that sinister. I am back home now, and wondering who actually buys this rather dusty and overly sweet pineapple curd.

Home is temporarily 22, Besiki Street, Tbilisi. It is a two storey house with three bedrooms, two bathrooms, an equipped kitchen and a large living room. There is air conditioning in the main bedroom, quickly and emphatically claimed by the parents. We are a three or four minute walk to Rustaveli, a main street, where there are cafes, shops and life.

The house costs $80 per day, a very fair price, and the neighbourhood is lovely. In common with so many older places, books can’t be judged by their covers. Dusty and partly crumbling streets belie the small courtyards with well-kept homes behind. Life is played out in the small cafes, the door steps and courtyards of the street; the language is, of course, a dreadful barrier, but we are coming to grips with some simple words, and do seem to be a source of some amusement to the residents.

Taking out the garbage, scouring the neighbourhood in search of some unguent to clean the fridge and even doing the dishes become interesting. Not interesting enough to encourage our daughters to join in perhaps, but there you go.

The house is, it has to be said, on the brown side; “like a Granny’s house”, one girl said helpfully. Seat coverings are a heavy brown, rope-mesh, the sort that is sold by the ten-metre swath at fishing-supply emporia. I do love it though, all the fun of playing house; sharing a flake of intimacy with Tbilisi and almost being a part of this fabulous city.

It is funny too, how fast people recognise you, but then again, I am sure that if a Georgian family moved into our neighbourhood, they would be spotted fast too. But it matters not; folks are friendly, although it has to be said that a surprising number of people stay up very late, and one in particular has a penchant for enjoying the more obtrusive crooners of the 1980s in the small hours. This, of course, reflects unemployment, a fact of life that passes hotel-dwellers by, but determines the rhythms of the residential areas.

In Georgia one is never far away from the legacies of the 1990s and the destruction wrought by the civil wars of the Caucuses. In 1993 alone, following the Russian occupation, some 200,000 Abkhazian refugees came to Tbilisi swelling the city’s numbers and introducing a large number of rural folk to an urban environment. Many came to the Mtatsminda district of the city where we stayed, and clearly changed the fabric of the area. For us it didn’t matter one bit, as we had no sensitivity to rural accents, but there are certainly hundreds of thousands of un- and under-employed in Tbilisi, and they don’t’ seem the feel an urge to get to bed early.

And so life ticks on by; I rather wish that we were here for a couple of weeks, and really get to understand the community better, but we are not. I will be back, though, and look forward to coming home to number 22, Besiki Street, my new home away from home.

Overland Travel

2010-08-29T15:55:00.015-05:00

I have an explanation to offer.

I like travelling overland for a variety of reasons. I can see people; I can actually feel the earth beneath me and know that we are all connected; I can meet people, and perhaps the most important point of all is that it is the only way I have of cocking a snoot at the ghastly intrusions of airport security.

Of course, these intrusions are new, and I have been wandering around for decades, but they area current bête-noire of mine, and the very thought of the scowling and shrill battalions of “security officers” that prowl through Chicago airport (in particular) will keep me driving for some miles to come.

And then I realised that over the past forty years or so, my wanderings had suddenly and finally linked a long and rather interesting journey. I have travelled overland from the remote Orkney island of Westray to Baku in a series of unlinked journeys. In November I will sail from New York to Southampton and extend the journey to Baku all the way to Tofino on Vancouver Island’s gorgeous west coast.

And at that point, I shall write a book. Journeys from 1975 link seamlessly with those take thirty-five years later; rail journeys, sea crossings and long journeys hitch-hiked in the past all weave together to create a fascinating, at least to me, fabric. Cathartic, I hope, self-centered I am sure, but I am looking forward to setting fingers to word processor (thank God for the ability to save and edit) and drawing the strands of my wanderings together.

So now the secret is out; my family were poured onto the Baku to Tbilisi train to satisfy another of my whims. They are only lucky that the ferry from Baku to Turkmenbashi, lying temptingly in Baku harbour, wasn’t the missing link.

Svaneti

2010-08-29T15:55:00.011-05:00

Every time I finish an overland journey, I decide that it was the last one that I would make. It comes as a complete surprise every so often to realise that I am neither getting younger, nor is my age staying still. Not, I have to emphasise that I am ancient, but simply that the virtues of Marriott Hotels and airlines are more pronounced than they used to be.

But then I look at an atlas, spot a curious journey and start thinking about it. I have two or three on the go at the moment actually, fomenting in my somewhat overactive brain.

And a combination my trusty National Geographic atlas and my Georgian friend Ia’s urging led us to book passage to Svaneti. Well, to be fairer, I booked it and then let my wife and two daughters know where we would be going for a summer vacation. They smiled, much in the sympathetic fashion of the nice, young men in crisp, white shirts who work in a rather specific type of hospital.

However, we went; back now in Tbilisi, I am once again drawing a moratorium on this kind of travel, but I am sure to break it when I finally get to go to the Guianas, one of the three current ideas. The journey is not easy, from Tbilisi it is an eleven-hour drive, and the last four (or first four on the return) are taken up traversing an extraordinary 160km road through gob-smacking scenery over a surface of loosely graded boulders deep into the high valleys of this remote region.

The scenery, it must be said, and has been by many others, is astonishing. This is a land that has never been invaded successfully and has a vibrant history, so well exhibited in the national museum in Mestia, for many, many centuries. The region is defined by its towers; these towers, defensive for both protection against aggressors, usually neighbours, and nature, in the form of avalanches punctuate the landscape. A traditional Svanetian house is large and capable of housing an extended family of people and animals - the winters are long and the snow too deep for the cows, sheep and horses. Attached to the house, but accessible often only to those who know the secret passage is a tower, some three or four stories tall.

And they are truly magnificent; statuesque and proud, they dominate the landscape of each of the villages that line the river valleys as the road climbed ever deeper toward the peaks of the Caucuses Mountains.

We stayed in Mestia which was, I have to say, a bit of a disappointment. I was expecting a pastoral, gentle town (population 2,500) with a traditional feel, and a slow pace. What we found was a town transforming itself rapidly from such an idyllic spot into, and I hope I am wrong here, a parody of itself. Construction was everywhere; from the road, which I would welcome a smooth surface and a reduction of a couple of hours in the drive, the main square, new hotels, ski resorts and the whole nine yards of tourism development.

They, those whose jobs it is to make such decisions, must take care.

There is a terrific new hotel, The Tetnuldi, as well as the rather dreadful Hotel Svaneti where we stayed, whose owners are developing into a ski resort. I spent a couple of hours discussing the project with them, and can see how torn they are between the necessity for a commercial enterprise to have a certain business volume with the desire to retain the characteristics of the place that make it desirable in the first place.

The views, however, were outstanding, and almost impossibly beautiful. In the evening the towers in the town were lit (a balance between authenticity and tourists’ interests), the surrounding mountains were always dramatic and the community braced for change.

And so, in search of an even more difficult drive to an even more remote place we headed off to Ushguli, reputed to be the highest permanently populated village in Europe, lying up at 2,700 metres, and only 45 kms (two and a half hours for heaven’s sake) of a bouldery and lumpy drive further from Mestia.

It was really pretty interesting though, and certainly came closer to my expectation of Svaneti. I had forgotten, of course, that part of living a life that shares flakes of a medieval existence involves “roads” and “paths” that are ill graded, and more animal waste than my urban sensibilities enjoyed. I was very happy that I wasn’t spending a week here, although I would love to have spent at least one night, rather than only a few hours.

Without a car it is tough to get two; as over 90% of the folks who live there have a car, there are only two marshrutkas (small, tight communal taxis) go each week, and the journey is rough.

It is, however, a paradise for experienced hikers, and there are two-day and longer treks marked through these mountains from Mestia, an expedition that would be a highlight of any seasoned walkers’ bucket-list.

As the day wore on, I became increasingly consumed by a simple but important question. In this remote destination, with appalling access and a very limited local market, do they deliver actual toilets? Who would do this? Would the community’s facilities have moved noticeably forward from the fourteenth century? Do they have bath tubs? I didn’t actually need a bath, but once the mind starts off on a track like this, it is difficult to rein it in.

Oddly, and to my great relief, there has been at least one delivery of solid porcelain toilets, installed well and perfectly functional. It is a minor point, but I have to say and important one. Whether this was the only one in Ushguli, or if the sales rep that made the trip there had a bonanza day I can’t say, but the pricey but very welcome cafe in town came as a welcome relief.

So intestinally fortified, it was sadly time to retrace our footsteps; Ushguli is lovely in a slightly ruined sort of way. Ruined enough to excite UNESCO who have designated it as a world heritage site, and isolated and quirky enough to satisfy the needs of most, if not all, travellers who actually make it to the end of this road.

The ride back seemed, as is always the way, faster than the way up. The bumps seemed smoother, the bends in the road less vigorous and the scenery now lying under the soft light of evening was possibly the most dramatic that I have ever seen.

I fear that Svaneti will change, but then again, I am not a Svan, and have no say in their ideas of development. With the bulk of the building out of the way, and the extraordinary detritus of heavy construction removed, though who knows to where, it will be lovely. More accessible, but still hard enough to deter many and keep the region’s unique balance of dramatic scenery, ancient tradition and fresh, fresh air firmly together.

Georgia

2010-08-29T15:54:00.004-05:00

I love Georgia, and was pleased to get off the train and speed toward Tbilisi, its fascinating capital. We were only stopping there for an hour to meet friends, pick up their daughter and three of her friends and head off to Svaneti, a distant and remote part of the country that we were looking forward to exploring. So after a reviving cappuccino in the city we headed west first to Gori, some 65kms from the city.

Stalin might not be everyone’s choice for the focus of a museum, but Gori, in central Georgia, was his home.

When the young Josep Jugashvili grew up in Gori in the late 19th century it was a brutal place. Simon Sebag Montifiore’s fascinating book “Young Stalin” tells of a local tradition where on an annual basis the men of the town all went out for a sanctioned street brawl. There were boy’s events too, and one can only wonder at the organisation and potential rankings. These brawls, however, were part of life, and as history tells, Stalin lost little of his love for violence.

I have visited the Stalin Museum before, and confess to a macabre interest in the giant, mausoleum-like building housing a significant trove of interesting images and other material. He is certainly, at least to a significant few in Gori a “local boy made good”, and although the rest of the world may feel somewhat differently, the museum stands. Certainly my friends in Tbilisi would rather that we didn’t go, but I feel that as despicable as he most certainly was, the museum is important.

The souvenir shop, however, was completely over the top; even by my liberal standards. Ash trays, cigarette lighters fashioned as three bullets, Uncle Joe pipes and even bottles of Stalin labelled red wine and champagne. Stalin champagne? The woman serving at the kiosk told me that she had never sampled the bubbly, but the red wine, which she and her colleagues had apparently tasted the day previously, had, she said “a wery nice flavour”. One can only wonder.

So after an interesting hour or so, we stepped back into the cleansing sunshine and headed off to the mountains.

Back in Tbilisi

2010-08-28T13:39:00.002-05:00

It is now late on Saturday evening, August 28th, and we have just returned after spending three days in Svaneti, a remote and rather interesting region of Georgia. Needless to say, I had no access to an internet connection, and will get to posting the stories of the journey, and our time in Mestia and Ushguli soon.

Today marked our 34th wedding anniversary, and I am sure it is testament to Andrea's patience with me that it was spent on an eleven-hour drive, including four hours to cover 130 kms of various sized boulders.

More soon when I have slept!

The Overnight Train to Georgia

2010-08-28T13:01:00.002-05:00

Robust is a word that springs to mind when one ponders the rolling-stock of the Azerbaijan State railway.

It comprises of good solid East German stock of a mid 1960s vintage; good in its day, no doubt, even attractive in its Prussian way, but today it lacks a certain je ne sais quoi. The train is an exercise in functionality, offering overnight passage between these two Caucasian capitals in either 1st or 2nd class. Each carriage is completely identical, but the 1st Class offering has only two lower berths, while four passengers prise themselves into two layers of bunks in 2nd Class.

The compartments are actually spacious enough, particularly if one actually lifts up the bed to reveal a large luggage locker underneath; travelling as we, and many other westerners do, with far too much luggage makes a bit of a squeeze, but it was the carpet that really did it. I knew when it was bought up in the mountains that(a) it was a fabulous carpet at a terrific price and (b) it would be a pain to lug around for the next two weeks.

I was correct on both counts.

Boarding the train is a ritual. Only passengers are allowed on, so there would be no help with luggage from anyone else, and this was when I was advised that carpets had to have their own ticket. Or something like that. A draconian Azeri conductor was determined to prevent access to the train without some additional payment that turned out to be 2½ Manat (about $3) to carry carpets. Without the assistance of our guide, this could have proved to be a show stopper as I had no clue what was going on.

So a word of warning to those of you planning to take a carpet on the overnight express from Baku to Tbilisi: remember the 2½ Manat fee.

Once on board, the conductor, in a slightly more approachable manner, dispensed sets of clean sheets to each passenger, and then we all made up our beds. At 2200 on the dot, the train pulled out of the station, and away we went. There were only the sleeping cars, no other facilities, but it mattered not. We swayed and creaked our way west at a reasonable tick, and before I knew it we had arrived at the border at The Red Bridge.

Now here’s the thing; I might have a peculiar sense of fun, but I actually like crossing land borders. Not the antiseptic borders that define European nations or the US / Canada border, but real borders that separate distinct countries. I like the drama that is always played out, although one imagines that life as an Azeri border guard, posted to The Red Bridge cannot be full of excitement. And so the pantomime begins. First the passport brigade, scrutinising passports with an intense scrut; ensuring that one hasn’t overstayed one’s visa, of silently crept across the Armenian border. Once stamped, then the customs guys follow, the final arm of the Azeri government, and one dedicated to saving the export of prohibited items. Like antique carpets.

Now the carpet that I had bought was not antique, but was exciting for them because it might have been. Regardless of the certificate that proved its age as about nine months, this could be the tip of an Antique Carpet Export Ring. Why else would four Canadians seek to leave the country by this backdoor?

The carpet specialist duly arrived and prodded, poked and rubbed bits of it between his sensitive and knowing fingers. Another opinion was sought, and finally someone said (although as they said it in Azeri, I can’t be sure of the actual words), “Leave it alone, it’s only nine months old you idiots!”

And so we slid out of Azerbaijan and into Georgia.

A fine overnight run, and worth every penny; passage on the train costs €23, and €46 if you want the privacy of a two-berth cabin. Admittedly one can fly in about an hour, and the train takes fourteen, but who wants to fly when the romance of the rails is on offer?

Not I.

Baku is a pretty odd place!

2010-08-23T09:13:00.001-05:00

Baku is really rather strange; a very pleasant place, to be sure, but distinctly odd.

It is a city of great contrast. Battered old Ladas jostling in traffic alongside shiny new BMWs; gorgeous, statuesque buildings stand next to blocks of rotting Soviet-era concrete; wide and perfectly constructed eight-lane highways intersect with rutted and gravelly streets; exquisitely laid out parks and central areas co-exist with dusty neighbourhoods strewn with garbage.

Above all, it is a city of construction. I have never seen so many buildings growing from the dust; museums, hotels, offices and apartments all shooting up at speeds that make you giddy!

It is not that Baku is alone with these contrasts, it is just that there has been so much rapid development, fuelled in the past ten to fifteen years by a massive influx of oil and gas money, that the pace of development is tripping over itself in its haste to erase the past.

I am, I have to add, fascinated by the ghastly destruction that the Soviets left behind. The acres and acres of dead factories that frankly never really worked at all; rusting piles, rotting pipelines, grim and filthy oil installations, crumbling apartment blocks and squadrons of brutally solid trucks and buses belching their way around. All mixed together with a permeating sense of industrial gloom that is difficult to explain.

From Estonia, not the Tallinn of tourists that has been brightly polished, but the small rural towns with their long-dead industries, to the Ukraine and of course the Caucuses, I have been mesmerised by the detritus of a failed economic system, and watching the old being swept away and their replacements splutter into action. But it is in Baku that I now sit, and it is Azerbaijan that has the money and will power to eliminate the old, replace with new and move forward as fast as possible.

This is the surprise of the place.

Baku is not what one would call lovely. For sure, there are many delightful places, including the UNESCO recognised Old City, where I am now sitting. Adjacent to the Old City lies Fountain Square, a gorgeous pedestrian precinct of manicured gardens, fountains and wide boulevards; a five square kilometre part of the sea shore has been designated a national park, and offers a delightfully shady place to wander by day or night. There are wide leafy boulevards that would make the original oil barons envious, lined by shops of the world’s great designer brands.

There are magnificent government buildings, art galleries, museums and the restored mansions of the late 19th century oil barons are gorgeous. But there is something missing.

Baku was not the traditional capital of Azerbaijan, that was the town of Samaxi, some 100 kilometres inland and virtually destroyed by an earthquake in 1191. The complex politics of the Caucuses as countries, khanates and caliphates struggled for power continued for centuries with the major seat of power evolving in Ganca in the west of the country. However, by the mid-seventeenth century, Baku’s prominence was growing, despite its dry, dusty location, and brutal weather. Oil was known to be in the vicinity and finally by the late 1800s the oil industry was opened up, and money flooded in. The city grew from a population of about 10,000 to 1,000,000 in a few short decades, and exploded beyond the walled city and its graceful surrounds to overcome the surrounding hills.

Its development is, of course, in almost complete contrast to the countryside, but that is the way of the world. It will spread, but for now we watch Baku’s growth with a mixture of awe and bewilderment. As a city, it is a fascinating and important destination; easy to get to, simple to get around and an abundance of great sights to see and fine food to eat!

And tonight, it is off on the overnight train to Georgia. Tbilisi to be accurate, and a completely different country in the mosaic that comprise the Caucuses.

Qobustan

2010-08-23T01:39:00.001-05:00

I could, of course, ask the same question as yesterday, but I won’t.

It was a distinctly odd day. Waking up in Quba in the north of the country, I was still full of the peculiarities and wonders of Xinalic; the hotel I was in could not have been more of a contrast, however.

It was an “Olympic Complex”, incorporating a massive sports training centre as well as a hotel; I idly wondered if it was a remnant of the 1908 games in Moscow when Azerbaijan was still a part of the Soviet Empire to be told, rather sharply I thought, that it had been built in 2005. Oh well, it was still pretty “Soviety”, with decaying bathrooms, very eccentrically placed lights (perhaps athletes-in-training don’t want to read in bed) and a generally slow feeling about the place.

The food was great, though, as, to my astonishment, was the wine. Well, it wasn’t great, but a bloody site better than the Moldavian stuff I had to endure on my last visit to the region.

And so, off we toddled through a rainy day, can’t complain though, because it had been dry for two months, south to and past Baku to the ancient rock carvings at Qobustan.

And what a site they were; sadly, the rain was a bit of a disincentive to hanging outside for too long, but the carvings that we saw were extraordinary. Up to 10,000 years old, they included a fascinating image of a boat, so similar to the Viking long-boats that Thor Heyerdahl believed there to be a connection between the ancient folks of the Caspian and the Vikings. Stunning stuff, particularly considering the Caspian Sea is land-locked, but there you are. The resemblance is uncanny.

One of the major differences between travelling in “The East” and Europe/North America is the level of protection offered to antiquities. Here, one could, with a bit of a stretch actually touch the carvings; there are few tourists, and really a feeling of actually belonging to the rock artists. It was wonderful, and another reason to return.

Close by are some large pools of bubbling mud, but with the rain intensifying, we thought that watching a thick stew at home might be a reasonable substitute, so we headed back to the city.

An interesting ride it was too ... there are beaches here, with resort hotels, umbrellas on the sand and the disarming sight of frolicking bathers with a back drop of giant oil rigs in the bay. There is, at one end of the beach, what can only be described as a parking lot for oil rigs; about eight of the buggers tied up together, waiting for action or repair. And then glancing in the other direction there are half a dozen resorts. Not exactly the Riviera, but then again, needs must ...

And so to dinner, and a fabulous Azeri repast at L’Aperte, recommended by the Lonely Planet book, Dinner, including a couple of bottles of the fine, local beer and another acceptable Azeri wine, with soups, salads, kebabs and all sports was a princely €39 for the two of us . And of that, €20 was for the drink! Good food, good prices, extremely friendly service, and after a stroll through the Fountain Square area and the gorgeously lit and restored buildings dating from the late 1800s, all was well with the world.

Tomorrow, Zoroastrian temples, hills of everlasting fire and a visit to the m

Xinalic

2010-08-21T10:14:00.002-05:00

What do you immediately think of when I say “Xinalic”? Not much, probably, but that is a shame. Xinalic is actually a most remarkable town in a most remarkable country.

I am back in Azerbaijan, having been here in November at the end of a bit of an ordeal on the Black Sea; the sailing from the Ukraine actually took four days longer than planned, and as a result, my planned stay in Baku was significantly curtailed.

So taken was I on that first whirl-wind tour that I determined to come back this summer; with the family to enjoy a faintly peculiar summer vacation. And Baku is the second stop, after a few days in France and the day to Andorra.

We headed north from Baku this morning heading to Xinalic, high in the Caucuses Mountains and only a few kilometres short of Dagestan, just over the Russian border. The road from Baku north to Quba was fairly uninteresting at first as we headed through the dry and dusty plains that surround Baku; soon enough though, the vegetation turned toward green, the road started to climb and soon enough we passed through Quba, a major and rather attractive town.

From there the road passed through a miscellany of tourist attractions ranging from stunning mansions built by Azerbaijan’s elite, to some rather down-at-heel ex-Soviet fun parks; tea under the tree, nature walks, astonishing looking camper-vans, sad and overgrown swings; that sort of thing.

But we continued to climb, and left the vast majority of folks behind; and climb we did. Higher and higher, the road twisting and falling, following a river-bed that told of torrential spring run-off. Higher and higher, then swooping back down into the valley before climbing back to 3,000m for the final run to Xinalic.

Xinalic lies on the top of a hill, and offer s 360⁰ views of the surrounding peaks, soaring thousands of metres higher in each direction. Clouds skid off the peaks revealing stunning, raw heights and deep valleys that are home to so many of the various nations, ethnic groups and races that make up the mosaic of Caucasian peoples.

The community of Xinalic has been isolated; the road was only completed in 2006, and prior to that only accessible by horse. Yet it boasts a population of about 1,700 in the summer, and 800 year round; all, or at least almost all, living from the land. Herding thousands of sheep and cattle, and harvesting some herbs from the high mountain plateau; local cheese is ubiquitous, with a deliciously sharp and salty flavour; a sour-cream cheese is wonderful on their homemade bread, and accompanied by tea, some tomatoes and cucumbers imported from Quba we lunched well with a local family who asked us in.

Lovely people; their house was spacious with three separate bedrooms, a dining room and a small entry room that doubled as a kitchen. Three generations of the Oriçug family lived there now; a strikingly handsome patriarch with his beautiful smiling wife, their sons, daughters-in-law and grand children; we asked how long the community had been there, and were told for perhaps ten-thousand years; we asked how long their family had lived in the village and were told, after they looked at each other, possibly puzzled at the question, that they had been there all along. Probably for ten thousand years.

The community’s craggy perch means that it is impossible to build roads within it as they tend to get swept away by the melting spring run-off; spring here is in late June, and the first snows can be expected by the end of August. Although, they mused, global warming has meant that the first snows may now not come until September, for them, a welcome relief. Xinalic is a community so remote that they have their own language, unrelated to Azeri; they dress differently, and colourfully, and all seem to smile contentedly and with a quite genuine friendship.

In ways, Xinalic is the quintessential Caucasian community, and represents exactly why I am so enamoured by the region; it is home to tradition, kindness, and a travel destination unpasteurised by the relentless tide of consolidation and growth.

Although, I have to add, we did watch news of the Australian general election on television!

Andorra (and Azerbaijan)

2010-08-20T09:22:00.000-05:00

Well, Andorra is truly a really rather silly place.

It lies perched high in the Pyrenees, accessible from either France or Spain by a single road that runs through the country, and for much of the year, one needs snow chains to do so. I know of no other sovereign state (although Bhutan perhaps qualifies) that is so remote from its neighbours.

It is not a member of the European Union, although it is a full member of the United Nations; it has 60,000 inhabitants of whom roughly 10,000 are “Andorrans”, the others being guest workers and rich ex-patriate hide-aways. A remarkable amount of Portuguese is spoken, and Sagres, a popular Portuguese beer is readily available on tap.

The three primary industries are money, skiing and duty-free sales; wit prices for many items up to 70% cheaper than in France (a carton of cigarettes in the mountain kingdom €19, compared with about €50 in France, and a bottle of Johnnie Walker will only set you back about €9), it is not hard to see why there are long snakes of cars hauling themselves up the main road into Andorra in the morning, and equally long lines heading back at night. Not to mention the customs traps that the Gendarmerie set up up to thirty kilometres into the country.

It is a great place to shop, my daughters tell me; huge department stores, all the electronic and fashion names that one may want, and apparently well priced. An attraction, no doubt, for the wealthy who choose this odd little cranny to sock away their ill-gotten gains. One hears more Russian spoken that one might expect.

It is, for these poor souls squirreling bazillions of dollars, hard to reach. There is no airport, and as transiting through Barcelona, and thus the European Union might lead to awkward questions, not to mention the reassuring snap of a latex glove, it is not unknown for a helicopter to fly directly from a tycoon’s yacht lying in international waters to the Principality.

All very mysterious; in addition to these types of fiscal shenanigans, skiing is quite obviously the sporting king. This one can tell as soon as one crosses the border from the north. The pass is at about 2000 metres, and within a kilometre lies the most unlovely ski resort one could imagine. Painted in dramatic pinks and apparently built from huge concrete blocks, the “chalets” are simply ghastly. It has to be said that there are one or two well developed ski-towns, but in general, it has been a case of unbridled and unregulated development. Which is a shame, because Andorra itself is extremely beautiful.

One English newspaper reporter described Andorra as “a cross between Shangri-La and Heathrow’s Duty-Free shops”; an observation that is not too far from the truth.

However, we love going up there, and despite the drive, which can be a bit much in one day (we keep saying that we will overnight, and get to experience their wonderful spa, Caldea but we never do), it is well worth it.

This time, however, we had to get back sharpishly to pack. Time and Lufthansa wait for no man, and we were booked to fly to Azerbaijan, and more adventure.

I was there. Briefly, in November, and liked it so much that I wanted to bring my girls back to explore some of Azerbaijan and Georgia, so contacted my friends and colleagues in Baku and Tbilisi, and off we headed.

Of Rivers and Mountains!

2010-08-17T01:22:00.002-05:00

The Languedoc and the fabulous Pyrenees have a vast and exciting water system. I am not, I hasten to add, talking about domestic plumbing here, although that does have its eccentricities here in rural France, but the system of rivers and lakes that carry away the vast quantities of water generated by both normal rain and the annual run-off from the mountains.

Not thirty kilometres from here is a pass that represents the east/west divide; rivers and tributaries from one side eventually find their way to the Atlantic, from the other into the Mediterranean. It is a division that lies considerably further east than I would have thought, but short of pouring dye into the water and waiting patiently for it to emerge, or spending weeks wandering the mountains with pegs and string, I have no way of disputing the claim.

However, one aspect of the water that I do know about is how much the rivers, and The Aude in particular, are used for all manner of sporting endeavours; one of which is odd in the extreme.

The activity is one that I would call "Escaping Plane Crash Survivor". Driving along a gorge, glancing down into the bubbling river beneath and watching a dozen or so bodies, clearly obediently clinging on to their seat cushions and being washed toward the sea is an odd sight. Countless flight attendants have advised to do this in the case of a landing on water, but I have neither considered it practical advice nor believed it possible until watching these poor sods churning down the river, presumably to be deposited with a thud on a crowded and surprised beach on the Mediterranean shore.

As a sport, however, it looks like fun, and carries slightly less danger than “canyoning”; this rather rash pastime involves dressing in a wetsuit and helmet, jumping into the small river at the top of a particularly steep ravine and bouncing along it until one is expectorated by the seriously babbling brook at the other end. Along with the more mundane rafting rides, or simply finding a gentle spot along the river to swim and picnic, it is astonishing how much pleasure the rivers give.

High up in the mountains, perched almost where the sky touches the land lies a truly odd country, Andorra, and that is where we are going today. It is independent; until 1993 ruled jointly, and feudally, by the Bishops of Urguell in Spain and the counts of Foix, in France the country is now a constitutional democracy and lies, despite its position, outside the European Union. The population is about 60,000, with only about 10,000 native Andorrans, and their booming economy is based on tourism, with skiing leading the pack by a wide margin, and money. Lots of money; Russian accents are not uncommon there, and the shops in La Vella are clearly not of the Dollarama genre.

It is pretty interesting, though, and well worth a trip; certainly the duty-free shopping, and unlike airports around the world, it truly is so, is fun, but also wondering how a whole country can be prised into a Valley, and just how the buildings are actually stuck to the side of the mountain. There is really only one road through the country with a few spurs leading into, but not over, the mountains, with one smaller road joining the towns of Canillo and La Massana.

For those interested in long-thin town planning it is a paradise, as it is for those with a passion for high mountain scenery, fresh air, and the relentless feeling that one is in a really rather odd place; and on the way in, should one stop at the police station in Pas de la Casa, they will stamp your passport!

More when we get back tomorrow.

Resorts in the Rain

2010-08-12T16:13:00.003-05:00

There is something a bit odd about rain and the beach. Not that there is any sand at Collioure, a gorgeous little town on the Mediterranean coast just to the south of Perpignan, like most of France’s coastline, the water laps up on to stones.

Lovely stones, but stones, nonetheless.

Don’t get me wrong, this is no complaint; it is a gorgeous town, replete with all of the accoutrements of beach resorts that combine to give one a warm sense of well-being; among other more guttural feelings that is. It is a charming place, other than the parking, which I have to say was bizarre. In an increasingly frantic quest to rid myself of the car, I found myself driving along a dry (at that time) river bank, grumbling, narrowly missing cars on either side, and feeling disturbingly pleased that Hertz’s car might have another injury. Bouncing over stones, wheels in the air, I decided that the final possible parking-place, at the top of the river bed, was too much even for me.

Which may well have been a wise decision given the afternoon thunderstorms. But I am getting ahead of myself somewhat.

Having parked, we wandered into town; wandering is not as simple in a place heaving as Collioure does with visitors. Thousands are there, just like us, because it is lovely, and there is an odd thing about tourists wandering around; they find a rhythm of pace, they gaze skywards, speed-read menus, and inspect other diners’ meals, all without tripping anyone up. At least 95% do; the remainder don’t. They wander at their very own pace, rather like the one or two people in a concert crowd whose clapping is off beat, and not being equipped with brake-lights, cause minor pile ups whenever they spot something nice.

So lurching along to some syncopated beat behind one such ill-timed family, we lunched at a lovely restaurant, gazing past the stoney beach, past hordes of sun-worshippers, many clothed only in dental-floss, to the glistening blue of the sea. Wonderful seafood, fine local white wine, all was extremely well with the world. And so, having been suitably softened-up, my daughter took me shopping. And then the thunder started, the rain came down and in an instant, the town took on a completely different aspect.

The proportions were all wrong; where previously there had been a natural balance of oglers, shoppers and those involved with the beach, now there were simply hundreds of wanderers in the narrow streets anxiously looking for something to interest them. They sought trinkets that they could want and then build a need for; they craved some sort of kleptomaniacal stimulation. The natural attractions of the beach suddenly off-limits sent families wheeling small children where small children should never be wheeled, at least at those speeds, and ever greater hordes into the tiny shops discussing the variable attractions of art, clothing and tattoos.

And then we thought about our luck at being unable to park on a dry river bed.

Collioure is a really rather special place. I had been previously, but only in the off-season; circumstance dictated that we should be there in the height of the tourist season this time, and so we were. There are, in addition to it lying in a most picturesque setting some wonderful art galleries, pleasant restaurants and delightful shops. And, do you know, there is not a single, overbearing global-brand advertisement to be seen.

Well worth the trip!

Why I (sort of) like Ryanair

2010-08-09T03:02:00.003-05:00

Folks love to ridicule Ryanair, but by the millions squeeze themselves into their seats and endure a flight chock-full of sales pitches for lottery tickets, smokeless cigarettes and truly disgusting sandwiches.

However, and here is the rub, they carry tons of folks around; more than British Airways, many more than Air Canada and for remarkably low fares. We flew from Carcassonne to London and back a couple of days ago for $140 each, including $10 for priority boarding, a very well-spent tenner.

Nobody could ever describe Ryanair as being customer-friendly, but then again London Transport isn’t either, the CTA in Chicago most certainly is not. And in either case, one can spend as much time in the process of getting from A to B, with no pretence at comfort, style or ambience. Actually, I have spent more on a tube journey in London than a Ryanair flight; it costs £4.15 for a one-way ticket from Heathrow to London (unless one gets an Oyster Card), and last September I flew from Carcassonne to Bournemouth for €5, all-in.

Ryanair make no pretence at meeting images of air travel conjured up by the improbable advertising of the major airlines; they are efficient, to a point of brutality. They pay airports pretty well the absolute minimum revenue required to operate, and certainly insufficient for any expenditure on comfy seats for their passengers to use; these small Ryanairports (sic) are reminiscent of aging public swimming pools, with instituitonal paint, spartan seating and elderly vending machines offering dizzying weak coffee or tea. Upon return from London, the incoming aircraft in London, and I was amazed to see them turn it around, disembarking 180 passengers, boarding another 180 (without seat selection or jetway-boarding) in 30 minutes, and away we went.

180 passengers to Carcassonne! And three hours later, there would be another 180. Where on earth do 360 passengers each day come from who want to travel to Carcassonne? Beats me, but they do. As they do on every other route that this remarkable airline serves at rock-bottom prices.

And it is the prices that do it; low, low low they are, but are they too low? They really are a perfect mirror of society’s contemporary problem of wanting salaries and lifestyles on a personal level that are impossible without relying on Chinese or Ryanair labour rates.

Ryanair staff, with few exceptions, can’t buy houses, cars and an increasing lifestyle on the salaries that are paid, and without those salary levels, fares would rise to a point that the seats would empty. It really doesn’t bode well for the future. British Airways current dispute centres on this paradox; the desire to be paid a living wage in terms of the country in which one lives, being pressured by salaries and operating costs from the world’s lowest-cost regions.

And one other thing; I thought that Ryanair’s seats were disgracefully small, and decided to grumble about this, but accept that it was part of the cost of the low price; however, a quick look at the comprehensive seat-chart-web-site Seat Guru tells that Ryanair’s seats are 17” wide with a 30” pitch. Tight, but EasyJet are 18”/29”, WestJet offer 17”/32”, Delta’s are configured at 17”/32” and by way of contrast, the much vaunted Malaysia Airlines offer identical space on their B737 fleet of 17”/30”.

Size does matter.

Car rentals and the South of France

2010-08-05T02:54:00.002-05:00

I rent a lot of cars, but I have to say that the vehicle that I was given by Hertz in Toulouse is the most disgraceful vehicle any car rental company has tried to fob off on me; and this is a long list including rentals in Turkey, Belarus and even Armenia.

The car is basically a long and intricate weave of scratches, with a large dent, possibly caused by a rapidly descending bowling-ball, in the middle of the hood. It was also filthy, but a rain shower got rid of the worst of that. The upside is that unable to offer a replacement (Hertz seem to be very busy) they scrawled all over the diagram that indicates pre-rental wear, effectively giving me carte blanche to do what I want to the bugger.

And so, I have been trolling through the Languedoc’s unmatchably gorgeous countryside in a beat-up tank. However, the mileage is amazing; diesel engines really do the job, and allow 1000 kms or more on a single tank of gas; amazing, and simply adds to the joy of driving.

Since we first found our house here, and began encouraging friends and clients to visit, we have had a steady stream of delighted folks revelling in the joys of travel in an uncluttered and simpler world. This is not, in any way, to indicate a simplicity in the people here, although folks some of the more remote Pyrenean villages do seem to have a rather vacant disposition, but to the landscape, village life and the lack of techno-props for tourists and locals alike.

Carcassonne is the big city, and it certainly isn’t. There is an airport (where I am going in about an hour to fly to London for a couple of days), a collection of big-box stores, a railway station, a rather down-at-heel residential grid and a stunning, absolutely stunning Old City. It is a UNESCO heritage site, although the designation was awarded by a single vote due mostly to the rather broad poetic licence the restoration incorporated. But that is splitting hairs; it is wonderful in a medieval-theme-park way, lots of vendors selling plastic Templar swords, overpriced food and bags and bags of the smells of rural France, cobbled streets, jugglers and jousters, and a lot of very happy families wandering around.

And there is a fantastic outdoor concert space, wedged between a turret and a dungeon, where a couple of nights ago we saw Paolo Conte, one of my favourite musicians give an astonishing concert. Terrific music, a sort of Italian/Klesmer/Jazz fusion with a phenomenal band - you can tell that those boys practice hard. It started late, at 9.30 after the sun had gone down, and the music, atmosphere and general sense of well-being that one absorbs in this part of the world was a heady combination.

And, not unsurprisingly, no one stole my car, so we got home easily.

And so the time passes wandering through the hills, finding ancient villages, listening to itinerant Kamchatkan folk groups, eating wonderful food, enjoying the odd glass of the local wine, and generally feeling at peace with the world.

And so off to London for a day to meet lawyers and finish the work on my Dad’s estate; Ryanair, while the butt of many jokes and dismissive comments, they really do a wonderful job of shuttling thousands of folks around Europe for all manner of reasons.

Although we worry extensively about having baggage that might be a gram too heavy, or venting frustration at yet another €1.25 fee just when we thought that we were done, the bottom line is that they work. We will fly to London (about an hour and a half or so) and back for about $100 each. Who cares about an in-flight meal? The flights are short, usually on time, clean and reasonably friendly once on board.

There is much to marvel at here in terms of access, flexibility and simplicity, and I for one, am delighted that one rainy day in October three years ago, we rocked on up to Esperaza and bought our old butcher’s shop.

The South of France

2010-07-30T04:41:00.002-05:00

Owning a house in the South of France conjures up images of whitewashed walls punctuating endless fields of lavender; the distant glimmer of the sea with, perhaps, two or three yachts lying at anchor, their owners frolicking in the waves. And, of course, endless al fresco lunches of good wholesome country foods washed down with copious vats of a local wine or two.

Well, the part about country foods and copious wines is quite true; the rest a touch poetic. Not that it doesn’t exist, of course, just that not all of France’s southern departments are scenically thus. And a good thing too, I think, as we have come to love the Languedoc, its quirky ways, stunning scenery and hospitable people.

The village that we have ended up in is Esperaza, in the Aude Valley. We are here for no particular reason, and really didn’t mean to buy a house at all. Let alone the old butcher’s shop that we now inhabit. It was one of those things; a drizzly Sunday morning a couple of Octobers ago, the magic of the local market, a couple of glasses of the local rosé and this intoxicating mix led us directly to the estate agents and lawyer’s offices.

So here we are. Here for three weeks or so, and although we arrived only yesterday already immersed in the minutiae of village life.

We are in the middle of the most interesting Festival de Folklore International en Pyrénées Audoise. The festival is, according to the brochure an “open window on the world”, and really they are not exaggerating. There are folklore groups from, and I kid you not, Colombia, Moldova, Uganda, Slovenia, Chutkotka, Uruguay and Venezuela playing this cultural world cup among a group eight or nine towns, some with populations of barely 300, over a one week span.
This got me thinking. I had never really contemplated the fourth and fifth divisions off global culture, and wondered just who was the promoter putting together this band of global folklorists, packaging their road show, selling it to a band of disparate local communities, getting their visas and organising the whole thing. And it is really well organised; Moldovans and Uruguayans showing up at their appointed gigs, playing to a pretty mystified crowd and heading off to the next. And let’s face it, local cultural understanding of Chukotkan folks dance is probably pretty Spartan.

If this cultural extravaganza is not enough, a calendar in our mail box tells us of the Manefestations et Découveries planned by the local tourist office for the month of August. Movies in the town square, local festivals, discussions about Catharism, moto-cross and orchestral concerts (from Bratislava, no less) are all part of the fare.

It’s all go, really.

And so, we are here for three weeks before heading off to Azerbaijan and Georgia for a couple of weeks of exploration. We thought that we were here for a bit of a rest, but the unflinching social life has started, invitations to parties, drinks and dinners abound; friends from Vancouver arriving tomorrow and little rest in sight.

Moderation in moderation, we say.

In Search of British Airway's Logic

2010-07-09T12:45:00.002-05:00

Now I know that rule number 1 in the travel business states that "there is no correlation between airfares and logic", but BA in their inimitable fashion have managed to confuse even this truism.

Let me explain.

In their enthusiasm to fool passengers into believing that they might actually fly somewhere for $99, airlines have taken to extracting costs from the fare and adding "surcharges" to make up the difference; these, we are told, are necessary as they are "temporary" and directly linked to the additional costs in transporting a passenger in these difficult times. Fine.

However, when one cancels a non-refundable ticket, something odd happens. The "fare" which is not returned to one is also now linked to the "fuel surcharge" part of the tax cost, which is also withheld from refund. Very odd.

The surcharge for hauling one's body into the air is most assuredly not part of the fare when advertised, but a surcharge; yet when refunds are made, it migrates into the fare.

Let us look quickly at the concept of a "surcharge". These are (or should be) levies made due to unexpected and unabsorbable rises in costs. The current enthusiasm for fuel surcharges were implemented a couple of years ago when the price of oil reached $140/ barrel, and the airlines faced extreme uncertainty. They could not have forecasted this degree of volatility in their fare structure and believed the necessity for the "surcharge" would be temporary.

No regulatory body, however, asked them what benchmark they used; or at what point they would be removed. Now, a few years later, one would think that the carriers' fuel purchasers would have this figured out, removed the volatility from the market and adjusted their "fares" to accommodate a contracted and known price for fuel.

There is no reason to have a fuel surcharge in a market that is both balanced and manageable through the use of future-pricing contracts.

British Airways, by the way, are the only major carrier to hold onto this ill-appropriated cash. Air Canada, Lufthansa to name only a couple do not. They simply keep the "fare", fair enough in the case of deeply discounted seat sales, but return the rest of the unused incidentals.

Why, British Airways, do you not refund this levy? Obviously you don't need the fuel surcharge if you don't actually have to lift me off the ground, so why keep it? Or is the answer self-evident to the grasping and unapproachable airline that you have sadly become?

United Baggage Mishandling

2010-06-29T09:54:00.002-05:00

I don’t know what is it about baggage handling that seems to be so difficult for United Airlines, but there is something that they just don’t get.

This is the recognition that passengers like to travel with their bags, and can get a touch shirty if they are separated; particularly if the separation is utterly and completely inexplicable.

Like last week.

My bag was checked from Frankfurt to Winnipeg, travelling via Chicago. It arrived in Chicago, and I gave it to the tender care of a disinterested United employee to transfer. Now I know that I had an overnight stop (arriving on June 23rd at 2100, departing on June 24th at 0940), but the bag was tagged, and there appeared to be no issue when I handed in my bag.

We were finally reunited on June 27th late in the evening, some seventy-two hours since we parted company.

Seventy-two hours.

Needless to say, while my bag was AWOL I got a touch excited from time to time about the issue, and tried phoning to find some update. A silky-smooth computer tried in vain to answer my questions, but after a while I just said “agent” to everything, as I needed to talk to a human. Which I did, and very kind and soothing they were too. Clearly their scripts had a number of Soothing The Client options, and Ahmed (“I am in India, Sir”) was particularly adept at their use.

They were, however, completely and utterly useless at explaining how, in this post-Talibanic world of completely-over-the-top security, a bag can remain “lost” for four days in a major international airport.

I was advised that “There is a huge backlog in Chicago”; well, that’s all right then; who knows what will happen by the time that the summer really starts. “There are seven miles of conveyor belts between the international terminal and the domestic flights, Sir”; fascinating, but a bit irrelevant. “The weather in Chicago is terrible”; so what?

The question is a simple one. What on earth happens to bags that go astray? Do United’s employees simply gaze at them with periodic malevolent chuckles? Do they enter some parallel yet invisible universe? We all know what they do to musical instruments, but does this sense of institutional mischief extend to the more dull and mundane suitcase? Are the rings around Saturn really composed of errant Samsonite luggage?

Or is the problem simpler and more worrisome. Has United, in its potentially futile efforts to balance its books and make a profit, spent its energy on increasing sales and passengers while simultaneously cutting back on its staff thus ensuring that there are too few employees to handle the business? I don’t think that this is a million miles from the truth.

I remember one airline CEO explaining to a meeting of their significant agents that they knew exactly the size of an airline that would make sense in today’s market; their route structure, aircraft size, staffing levels and revenue requirements were relatively simple. However, this business model would fail to generate sufficient revenue for their current and future pension liabilities.

The airline, a major player in North America was stuck. They could not shrink to the size that the market demanded and were forced to reach for unsustainable revenues. Needless to say, they eventually had to merge with another, and today their historical issues have been moved further along the chain.

And this is the truth about the airline industry today. The past liabilities, accrued during two decades of unbridled expansion fuelled by cheap money, cheap oil and an environment of Growth has left big, big headaches. Until the carriers can sort out these major problems, and the American airlines are not alone in this dilemma, there will never be a logical aviation industry.

Deregulation did bring some major benefits to many, but it is sobering to note that at the time that President Carter unleashed this demon, seven airlines carried 72% of the country’s travellers. In 2010, four airlines carry over 85% of North American travellers. And with the merger of United and Continental, this relentless concentration of airlines (or "rationalisation" as some of the apologists for this rampant behaviour would say) will simply continue.

I do think though, that despite their issues, looking at resolving the simplest of tasks, keeping passengers and their bags together, should be a priority. I know bags go astray, but in my case, with United it is roughly 10% of the time, and that is not funny.

Employees like Ahmed (”I am still being holding, Sir”) do not resolve anything. They only increase the frustration of those who truly believe that United doesn’t give a damn about customer service.

French Highways!

2010-06-23T09:48:00.001-05:00

AVIS were probably a little surprised when they get their car back yesterday; if, of course, global beomoths can be “surprised”

I had picked up the car in London on Wednesday last week, driven to my little house in the south of France to deliver a couple of pieces of furniture left to me by my father, and turned round to zoom back to Caen, and the ferry back to Blighty. Nearly 2,600 kilometres all in all; thank heavens for Unlimited Mileage.

The French highway system, it must be said, is wonderful; fast (130 kms/hour is the official limit), well maintained, reasonably direct and well-supplied with good rest-stops, it is a wonderful place for a driver. One will always be told by friends about “faster” journeys, and it has to be agreed that Google Maps, while probably pretty accurate according to some algorithm or other, take little notice of the Parisian rush hour.

However, the journey was great, conversation with my friend Clive (the MD of a great English tour company, Discover the World) was non-stop, and all in all the expedition achieved its end. And as a cherry on that particular cake, we were the second vehicle off the ferry, completely by chance, through immigration and customs and on to the M27 within ten minutes.

The ferry was good. It was an interesting and comfortable way to make the crossing from France to the UK, but I remain only loosely convinced. Certainly, if one were travelling between England’s South West, and Normandy, it would make some sense, but it is pricey, £205 for the car plus us compared with £58 on Eurotunnel, and that before the bar and restaurant bills. Well, one has to pass the six-hour crossing somehow, and although fairly enthusiastically priced (£22.50 or £28.00 for the two buffet choices, or a rather uninspiring cafeteria) the food was pretty good, and passed an hour or so. Perhaps one of their longer, overnight routes might make sense, but Brittany Ferries didn’t quite do it for me.

And so back to London, and now en route back to Chicago; I am travelling with Lufthansa via Frankfurt, and very good they are too.

There is much to do at home. With my frequent European jaunts this year coming to an end as my father’s estate is concluded, I will again turn my attention to business.

The travel industry has changed beyond belief in the past few years, and one has to examine it closely to see where one’s place is in the rapidly changing environment. From economic to political upheavals, to the rapidly changing distributive framework and the concomitant shifts in the relationships between agents, suppliers and customers, there is much to cogitate.

And I think, much for me to comment upon!

Somewhere in France

2010-06-17T01:14:00.002-05:00

It is a strange feeling, but I don’t actually know where I am.

I am in France, that much is for sure, but exactly where eludes me. It was dark and raining last night when we stopped; the first hotel was full, and the second, apparently called the Hotel Ageris Orleans, had two rooms left. So I must obviously be in Orleans. Nominally it is a hotel on the banks of the Loire, but that sounds a lot more romantic than it is.

We checked in by poking Clive’s credit card into a machine outside the front door, and finding that a room would cost €39 for the night, with an additional €5 for breakfast. And what fine value for money it is. A clean, comfortable room, if a touch on the Spartan side, BBC on television and a jumbo bag of peanuts in the vending machine that substituted for dinner; all in all, we are doing well.

The journey is to take some furniture that my father left to me when he died to my house in the south of France. A house in France sounds glamorous, perhaps conjuring images of whitewash, a distant, azure sea and buckets of wine. The wine is accurate, but the house itself, the Maison de Bouef, is an old butcher’s shop in a small unprepossessing town in the Languedoc called Esperaza. It lies, 1085 kilometres (according to Google maps) from Calais, and Orleans is on the way.

We left London at about noon, headed to the Channel Tunnel, stopping briefly at John Lewis to pick up some duvets, and off to The Continent. Eurotunnel is brilliant; we were booked on the 1750 crossing, but arriving considerably earlier were put onto the 1630 train with neither fuss nor penalty. Airlines take note.

The actual journey takes only about thirty minutes, and then we were in France; launching confidently into their wonderful highway system, I was immediately ensnared in a detour; the road to Paris tauntingly heading away from our highway inaccessible across a sea of road-mending equipment. The incorrect highway surged north, and after about ten kilometres I spied a minute sign that said (in small black letters on a bright orange background) “Deviation A 16”. Vaguely recalling that this was the road to Paris, I swerved across two lanes of traffic and whizzed through a small roundabout to now head east. A further ten kliks, another minute sign had us hurtling back the way we came, although now west and south, until we once again intersected the highway and tacking appropriately pointed our car toward the French capital.

We were anxious to pass it in the evening, and not get stuck in traffic in the morning; the Parisian rush-hour can last the bulk of the day, and we have many miles to cover. We got there in good time, and keeping our eyes peeled out for signs for “Bordeaux” and “Nantes”, which were, in the way of things, intermittent and set up apparently at random, sailed around the city and away to the south.

Then it got a touch peculiar. France is a very large country indeed. Not like Canada, of course, but there are seriously large swathes of farmland, and the highway sped through them; seeking the solace of an hotel room, and finding none to hand, we were some 120 kilometres from Paris when Orleans came into sight. The area by the highway, indistinguishable from any other mess of big-box stores, motels, chain restaurants and road-works, was deeply confusing. The car took on a life of its own as it sung around barricades and roundabouts before screeching to a halt at the Hotel Ageris where I now sit.

But not for long; it is time to head south (through Limoges and Toulouse) and off to the Languedoc.

Of London and Food

2010-06-15T04:38:00.003-05:00

The past few weeks have been rather busy, and to those who have contacted me wondering why I have been silent, I thank you! One of the peculiarities of blogging is that one writes, and has absolutely no idea if there is anyone listening; fortunately, and encouragingly, there seem to be a few of you out there!

Since I wrote last, I have bought a hotel, the Bear Country Inn in Churchill, started a complete revamp of the part of my business that operates polar bear-watching tours in Churchill, travelled to Denver, Toronto and Chicago, met some wonderful people and eaten some extraordinary meals.

And it is about food that I wanted to write today.

One of the best parts of travelling is the ability to sample a huge variety of restaurants. This benefit should, of course, be balanced with the opportunity to sample a wide variety of different exercise opportunities, but let's leave that alone for the moment.

And so it was that my friend Joseph and I toddled off to dine at Simpson’s in the Strand. At first he wasn’t too keen; Simpson’s, you see, is one of London’s most venerable institutions, and one that we had both frequented thirty and actually forty years before. It was the sort of restaurant that parents took one to to instil some kind of British Pride and appreciation for the country’s tradition. The worry now was that as such Britishness seems to be on the wane, the restaurant might have turned into some sort of theme park for American tourists.

We needn’t have been concerned; it was wonderful. A beautiful panelled dining room, whose carpets, it has to be said were showing signs of age, reflected some of the more glorious days of the past. The food, of which the roast beef and lamb, carved table-side could be considered the signature dish, was splendid, and the service was excellent. We congratulated ourselves on our choice of dining establishments, and followed the meal with a short walk to the Garrick Club, of which Joseph is a member, and over a couple of reflective glasses of wine, contemplated life, the universe and everything.

Simpson’s was in complete contrast to Ravel’s, a favourite little restaurant of mine near Belsize Park, where we had recently dined. Joseph writes considerably better than I, and I shall leave the description of our dinner there to him and a subsequent review he wrote as one of a brilliant series of reviews that he writes for a north London paper.

Belsize Park is a fabulous location, just far enough from the tourism lunacy of the West End, but close enough to be in the centre of the action within ten of fifteen minutes on the redoubtable Northern Line. It is one of a number of small communities within London that make the city so endlessly interesting. As a visitor to London, staying just a little further out than tourism-orthodoxy might suggest is rewarded by an intimate glimpse of real life in London. Close by is one of London’s arterial highways, the Finchley Road; it is an ugly street, it has to be said, and certainly not a centre of night-life nor really anything much except some pretty bland shopping, and four lanes of traffic heading toward (or from) the northwest. However, stuck among this uninspiring landscape is the finest Indian restaurant that I have ever had the opportunity to visit.

Eriki’s is absolutely superb; recommended by an Indian friend-of-a-friend, off we toddled last night to dine. Now I have had many an Indian meal at a wide variety of restaurants ranging from the barely edible to the stupendous. I have enjoyed curries in North America, Europe and India, and know that by and large, the UK’s offerings are pretty good; this, however, was without a shadow of doubt the finest.

The atmosphere was great, the decor interesting and the food perfect. I shall most certainly return.

And now, the morning after, I find myself on a train, heading north to Leeds for lunch. I am doing this because my cousin Penny, a rather brilliantly talented artist who lives in the wilds of Lancashire, often comes to London for lunch when I am around; I really enjoy her company, and today, with a little time on my hands, it only seems fair to head north to see her for once. When she comes south, we always lunch at a great little place near King's Cross station called 6 St. Chad's Place, and let it be said that we lunch with great enthusiam; today we will see what Leeds has to offer.

It’s all go.

I Like Trains!

2010-05-06T08:39:00.005-05:00

I have spent the past two weeks travelling and there is much to catch up on in my blog.

My journey started in Toronto two weeks ago attending the fascinating Travel Law Day. This annual event, offered by the Heifitz, Crozier, Law partnership and the Baxter Travel Press is a rarity, and a valuable day. The travel industry, perceived by outsiders as unmitigated fun and frolics, offers a complex web of relationships from the end supplier to the traveller. Within these parameters are such issues as liability, so well highlighted by the recent volcanic eruption, application of taxation, jurisdiction and so many other issues. The Travel Law Day offers one day to ponder, discuss and think about these issues, away from the daily noise.

This done and my head full of thoughts and ideas, I headed to London on the Day Liner flight from Toronto, departing at 0850 and arriving in the UK at 2100. What has always been a gruelling overnight flight with a long, long day turned into a short day; an arrival in London in the early evening, a quick restorative at the local pub before closing time (well, two actually) and a good sleep left me feeling better about the first couple of days in Europe than usual.

Off to two weeks of professional challenge with my father’s estate, endless election campaigns on the television, in the streets and throughout the newspapers, some rather fine dining, I have to say and now, with one day left, I am going to York.

Mostly, I have to add, randomly; I have a day left on my Britrail Pass, and most work completed, so looked to railway timetables and where I could go and be back in time for a late-afternoon appointment. York sprung to mind, and as I type, I am hurtling north at about 100 mph, in a most comfortable carriage belonging to the wonderfully named Grand Central Railway.

In the confusing world of Britain’s trains, now that British Rail is a long-distant memory, there are a number of “franchises” operating various routes and regions; one such operator is the Grand Central. Its motif, resplendent on the front of the train is a reminder of Days Gone By in North America. The train now operates a single route between London and Sunderland in the (post)-industrial north east, and has as its first stop from London, York. The train is fine, but not really “grand”, the route is north-easterly rather than “central”, but it is a railway, so we will give them two out of three for that.

The windows are clean; a minor observation perhaps, but I really can’t stand being in a nice, shiny train unable to see through a few weeks of grime; because looking out is what it’s all about, isn’t it? Watching towns, distant church spires and gorgeous scenery, wondering what on earth people do for fun in some of the more utilitarian “new towns” that also litter the landscape. There are oddly inserted flashes of the past; a long-boat manipulating a lock on the canal, a heavily-timbered farm house with cart horses in the yard and an old man in a deer-stalker hat fishing a small pond; all rather lovely.

I am not really sure why I like travelling by train, or why I seem, as so many readers have pointed out, that I seem to prefer to be moving somewhere than staying still. Somehow, train travel seems to allow one to become incorporated into the landscape; at any given moment one is captured into the frame; the windows are screens that display an unfolding world outside but yet we remain an integral part of each moment in time; we can almost observe the passage of time; the speed of the train as a counterpoint to the timelessness of the grazing sheep, and always the promise of a new destination, and a new idea.

Today, as in the twenty-first century rather than May 6th, the smooth ride of the train is wonderful; gone is the remorseless clickety-clack of the past, now continuous weld track offers a seamless ride, yet it makes one wonder how on earth they replaced the stuff. I mean, doing two or three miles is one thing, but replacing the thousands of miles that make up Britain’s railways is quite another.

The last time I rode these rails, actually, was only a year or so ago. I travelled from London to Edinburgh on a steam train which was fun, but today’s ride is different. A carriage full of business people heading north to do something or other, or returning home after a day of more’s commerce in London rather than the atmosphere of stolen-fun that the Edinburgh run had.

As I glance out of the window now, just past Huntingdon, I see endless fields of green and yellow, hedges, farmhouses and periodically, a village; and as I look forward, I see a large poster of Marilyn Munroe dominating the carriage’s decor.

A few words about ash.

2010-04-23T17:14:00.000-05:00

I have been silent recently, in part trying to get some work done, and in part mystified about the daily goings-on in the travel business. It seems to have become an industry of crises; earthquakes, currency movements, massive economic disruptions and now ash.

The Icelandic volcano that erupted last week, and as I type lies only a few hundred miles north of the plane that I am riding on, should have come as a surprise to no one. Not, I hasten to add, that the world should have been on tenterhooks waiting for the eruption, but that the incident should not have left so many flat-footed.

It was always going to happen, just as it will happen again; when, of course, we don’t know. And as a society, we seem to have lost the ability to measure things slowly. Everything moves fast; people, data, ideas, satisfaction and even lifetimes. We know how to hurry, multi-task and achieve extraordinary feats of multi-tasking.

We just don’t do slow well. We can measure a nano-second, and get irritated if a complex answer to a strident email has not come back to us within an hour; we don’t have a clue how to measure geologic time. And so, when the north Atlantic was hit by a geologic event, we reacted as cluelessly as we would face a tyrannosaurus rex in our local supermarket.

Airlines stopped, in the now common name of Safety, and so it should have been; it seemed, however, that European governments and air traffic control experts became paralysed. What, exactly, were they waiting for? As it turned out, they were waiting for Willie Walsh, the CEO of British Airways to order several aircraft stranded overseas to return home. They left the US, Africa and Asia aimed at London knowing that a solution would have to be found while they were airborne.

The interesting thing to me is that the real arbiters of safety are the insurance companies, and there would be no way that they would have allowed these flights if they thought that there was any real danger to the aircraft and their passengers. Walsh knew that they would, at the worst case, land in Spain and travel onward by battleship. He also knew that in all probability, the appropriate authorities would see sense and allow flights to resume. Which they have, and it is why I am flying to London today and not sitting at home, watching an ever changing map of the supposed volcanic ash coverage.

It also showed us how close to the edge so many of us live; how we take for granted that we can lie on an Asian beach on Sunday morning, fly home that evening and report for work on the next morning; how closely linked, in the name of efficiency, industrial supply lines have become, and how many of us fly thousands of miles away from home with absolutely no financial back-up.

Within a week or so, most of us will have forgotten about the dislocation as our lives return to normal; and yet again, we will forget about the volcanic nature of Iceland and the probability of another, even larger, blast. As their Prime Minister said last week, it is not a matter of if, but a matter of when.

This thought will not stop me travelling back and forth to Europe, but it certainly makes me hope that we will not see a repeat of the Deer in the Headlights reaction that we have seen last week.

Toques et Clochers

2010-03-28T10:09:00.002-05:00

Well, it is pretty well impossible to describe the local wine festival, but I shall give it a try.

Firstly, some history. The Sieur d’Arques winery in Limoux has been making a lot of wine for a very, very long time; sparkling wine has been around the region since 1531. Much of it wonderful, some exceptional; they also make a rather palatable blend sold by Gallo in the US and Canada called Red Bicyclette, although this has been subject to a recent scandal regarding a Grape Deception.

Enough of the sour grapes, though, the winery is a superb corporate citizen, and among their other community works, is the annual (this was the twenty-first, so for a region steeped in history, it is a rather modern event) Toques et Clochers.

One village is picked each year from the region that the winery sources their grapes, and a festival is held to celebrate wine, food and the general joie de vivre on the day before the annual professional wine auction. And this year, the festival was held in Coiza, the village next to ours.

Ours, of course, is Esperaza; a town of about 3,000 folks in the High Aude Valley, where a couple of years ago we bought an old butcher’s shop in a moment of rose wine induced lunacy, and has become a second home. It is a marvellous place, but more of the Languedoc another time.

The festival is a masterpiece of organisation; 30 - 35,000 people are drawn into the town which is completely sealed off to traffic. One parks in large areas in nearby towns and shuttled to and fro by bus from 2.00pm until midnight. Throughout the town there are wine cellars, food stalls, bands, wandering musicians, clowns and thousands and thousands of visitors laughing, drinking and thoroughly enjoying themselves.

And here’s the thing; when you arrive, you buy a glass for €3 which you carry with you all afternoon and evening, filling it up for €2 per glass of €10 per bottle, decanted into a rather (it has to be said) medical looking jug. Imaging if you will, 35,000 folks with more than a glass or two warming their senses of humour, wandering, eating, dancing and carrying actual glass! I only heard two break all evening, each to a rousing cheer. People from eight to eighty, every shape and size, laughing chatting and carrying glass; I loved it. How could one not?

And the food! Duck sandwiches, oysters, giant shrimp, moules frites, pastries and much else for only a few euro; plentiful and delicious.

“What of the proceeds of the festival”, I hear you ask? Well, the purpose is to raise money to mend and restore the local church; community wins, people have fun, the weather was brilliant and we all decided to come again next year when the festival is to be held in Limoux itself.

Of Cathars and Wine Festivals

2010-03-24T02:48:00.002-05:00

For reasons that I am still unable to quite explain, I bought an old butcher’s shop in Esperaza, a small market-town in the upper Aude Valley a couple of years ago, and try to get back here as often as possible; it is not exactly simple, living as I do in Winnipeg, but I do manage to spend a few weeks each year here.

It is a fascinating place; stunningly beautiful, earthy, accommodating and generally absorbing. I am not quite sure why, and to be honest, I had never heard of the place until my father suggested that I seek a bolt-hole in the Languedoc; I had wanted to think about perhaps buying a place in Europe in the future. Well, one fateful and wet Sunday afternoon a couple of years ago found us here in the Haute Vallée and within an hour the proud owners of this old shop. Tough to explain, but there you are.

So after my father’s funeral last Friday in London, it seemed natural to head here to recharge the batteries.

We went driving yesterday; one of the many attractions of the region is the time-warp that an afternoon’s drive will lead one through. Not, perhaps, a warp of Dr. Who dimensions, but nevertheless there is an immediate feeling of the 1970s, then the 1930s and finally, as one turns a corner to spy an ancient village, little changed since the time of the Cathars of the 12th century, the landscape, but physical and cultural plays rather pleasant tricks with the mind.

There are a squillion gorgeous places to visit, but yesterday it was Laroque de Fa that grabbed our attention. Turning a corner, the village lay clinging to the side of the hill, almost tumbling down to the river; higgledy-piggledy, I observed, must be a Cathar term meaning town planning.

And what a little village; its DNA stretching back millennia, houses piled upon foundations of ancient houses, secrets almost visible as they contoured the tiny streets winding their way perilously through the tiny community. Although miles from any apparent economic activity, Laroque seemed peaceful and assured in a way that contemporary settlements never quite do.

The Cathars are a fascinating group, and while I would not profess to have more than a glancing knowledge of their history, I do have an unending fascination with them. In the tenth and eleventh centuries, their brand of Christianity, essentially a dualist philosophy that embraced an aesthetic approach that contrasted dramatically with Rome’s authoritarian and grasping ministry of the time, and eventually led to the only Christian on Christian crusade being called by the rather ironically named Pope Innocent III that killed, over a period of seventy years or so, over 250,000 people in this small region of France.

There are still lingering reminders of this inglorious past, with villages like Laroque and Montaillou, remnants of their castles at Montsegur, Queribus and Peyepertuse, and linguistically through the persistence of languages like Oc that still resonate through the region’s markets and cafes. Oddly, a chap died last year in a village two away from Esperaza; aged 92, he had remained unilingual in Oc throughout his life. Astonishing that it is possible to live in the twenty-first century, still only speaking the language of the troubadours, but that is the Aude Valley.

I love it here. I have spent the bulk of the past fifty years wandering around, looking and thinking about life all over the globe, but still love to be here; I find it cathartic, relaxing, invigorating and its endless and remarkable beauty a salve for the eyes.

And this weekend is the Big One. Toques et Clochers is a new tradition (if one can have such a concept), that this weekend comes to Coiza, our neighbouring village.

In a nutshell, each year, the local mega-winery, Sieur d’Arques, arrange for their annual wine-auction to be held a day following a festival; the festival, drawing an eye-popping 35,000 folks into a small village, offers the proceeds from the sale of a lot of wine to restore the local village church.

Kicking off with a parade of the (now) twenty-one villages whose churches have been restored thus, the wine tents, food stalls and roaming musicians start in earnest at 4.00pm, and continue until midnight. Now, one can simply not imagine 35,000 folks drinking for hours in a village designed to accommodate 1,000 in England; there will be no “incidents”, ambulances, disturbances or other such social irritants; simply a huge festival drawing people from throughout the region to sample the 2009 crop, meet friends, laugh and dance until late.

Traffic management and parking are themselves an interesting exercise, and more of that on Sunday after the event. Suffice it to say, however, that I am looking forward immensely to the day, and even more as friends from Chicago, Winnipeg and Vancouver will be joining in the frivolities.

It is only a pity that my Dad can’t be here.

The Credit Card Paradox

2010-03-17T00:40:00.001-05:00

I remember CHARGEX; introduced in the late1970s it revolutionised spending by masses of ordinary people. Sure, credit had existed for years, and there were cards like Diners Club that offered a very special clientele the opportunity to “charge” their dinners, but there was nothing like CHARGEX.

Oddly, given today’s proliferation of personal credit, it had a pretty slow start. There were cards usually reflecting travel aspirations or early attempts by businesses to lure their clients into their own network of allied businesses.

It is an interesting business in many ways, but there is one characteristic that defines individual credit; and this is the card providers’ ability to force the costs of transactions onto the merchants; not the “users” of credit, but the thousands of businesses, large and small, that accept the cards.

The credit card companies have successfully become a 2 - 3% partner in everyone’s company; and take its rake right off the top.

Think about that. As much as 3%, nearly one dollar (or pound or euro) from every thirty that pass through a business is siphoned off to satisfy the avaricious appetites of the credit card companies.

In the beginning, merchants paid this price as the cost of luring the “best” customers to their restaurants, hotels and resorts. It also offered merchants access to almost instant cash, eliminating the requirement to offer credit terms, and the inherent risks that this might bring. This exclusivity, however, has long gone. Mailboxes are stuffed daily with enticements to apply for more and more cards offering an eye popping selection of benefits.

Cash rebates, airline points, access to hard-to-get concert tickets, toasters and more; there is no end to the imagination of the card companies in their quest to attain more card holders, and more valuable debt. There is little limit to the punitive levels of interest charged, and slowly but surely, we are all crushed by the relentless steamroller of credit cards.

As a merchant, I am obliged to accept cards as payment at par with cash; this is written in stone, although I see more and more companies deliberately ignoring this rule. However, they are unlikely to take on Ryanair for charging surcharges to use cards; a contract, as we all know, is an agreement binding on the weaker party.

Things are changing however; I for one and fed up with the brutality of my merchant agreements, and am no longer accepting American Express. The final straw in that relationship was a letter advising that the discount rate for premium cards was to be increased “in order for us to offer our mutual premium clients the best purchasing experience”, or something like that.

The reality was that AMEX wanted to offer their premium cardholders new and exciting benefits, and as always, tossed the cost onto the merchants. When will this nonsense stop? Only when cards are actually priced to reflect the benefits offered; however, there are probably limited folks willing to pay a $500 annual fee. So the cost is shifted in its entirety to the only participant in the transaction with no additional benefit!

The paradox, of course, is that the very plastic that has become the lubricant of global commerce is rushing headlong toward a parapet of rejection.

Imagine, if you will, the costs to a major international airline to accept credit cards. Firstly in the rare firmament of airline profits, an income of 2 - 3% of revenue would be spectacular; VISA, MasterCard and AMEX take this amount from the airlines daily without even a blink. Secondly, the carriers are required to post extraordinary levels of security to “protect” the card companies from a potential default. While one may be sympathetic to this line of thinking, it still means that Air Canada (for example) has in excess of $1.2 billion (yes, billion) tied up in guarantees; working capital that could otherwise be put to work developing their airline.

This are going to change; one possible and logical route for the airlines lies in the resurrection of their own credit card, the Universal Air Travel Plan. Perhaps offering their best clients the option for a cost/revenue split to use the UATP, they will be able to switch billions of dollars of business away from the current brand cards. It would be difficult, of course, but as the primary global users of the processing functions of VISA and MasterCard any revolution would have to start with the airlines.

And how much money do the global hotel brands pay? An extraordinary amount of money is involved, but in this case, the value of the expense has fallen way away from the pipers who should start to call the tune.

Cod and Chowder

2010-03-01T18:35:00.002-06:00

It is nigh on impossible to have a boring time in St. John’s. There is every type of entertainment that one could envision or need, and plenty of folks to meet.

Except on the night that Canada won gold.

The streets of the city were bare; pubs populated only by diehards; restaurants lay without custom. Creepy, almost science fiction; the day after Armageddon.

In the interests of comparison and entertainment, however, I was out wandering these bare streets; to tell the truth, I am not terribly interested in hockey, and only the last ten minutes or so of a game holds my attention. I have to add, however, that for an aficionado of the last ten minutes, the Olympic final was a doozy. Played, I have to add, to about ten of us in a bar and then replayed several dozen times to myself alone in a nice restaurant; the third in a series of four that I was testing.

The test was simple; sea food chowder followed by cod. How one can go wrong, I thought in St. John’s, the home of the few cod that are still legally extracted from the Atlantic Ocean. I tried three restaurants for dinner and one other for lunch where I couldn’t quite force another cod on myself - however, their spinach salad with scallops was terrific.

The first was The Cellar; then Oliver’s and finally tonight, Portobello’s. Seafood chowder in all, plus The Peppermill, my lunch haunt, and cod, one of the most luscious of all fish, which, when served simply and fresh is, in my humble opinion, simply magical.

I have to say, that the cod in The Cellar was streets ahead of the others; absolutely perfect, and fresh to the point that I thought the kitchen staff were hauling it in through their back window. Their scrunchions were idyllic, the fish sublime and their shrimp bisque simply mouth-watering. Actually, after dinner on Saturday, I wondered why I should continue the research; I should simply come back here again and know that the best had been found.

But that was Saturday; my Sunday research, coloured by the Olympic dream, led me to Oliver’s. I actually avoided the soup, and went instead for scallops. Delicious. Their cod, pretty good, but not quite a contender. The server disinterested, and the only other table to arrive, really really dull; I like eavesdropping.

Tonight, I tried Portobello’s; I am staying the in The Courtyard Marriott, a lovely hotel, friendly and well located, but served only by Smitty’s. Now I am sure that Smitty’s has its place in the culinary firmament, but not for me. A cursory glance at their menu highlighted a field of brown food, and I needed something more.

It was. However, pouring with rain; boats were really bobbing up and down in the harbour, and the wind sheeting down the street. I love weather; at home, and all too often everywhere else, weather has been dumbed-down, and we get it all rather gently and homogenised. Here, however, it rains; the wind howls and it is great to watch, and even walk out in a little.

So I popped next door and had the best chowder ever; more fish than potato, flavour and texture. Brilliant, but the cod? Sadly it couldn’t hold a candle to the first night at The Cellar. It offers a great view, reasonably friendly staff, overseen by a micro-managing boss, and a pretty good menu.

The bars however, are fabulous as a post-cod exercise. Sandwiched between Duckworth and Gower Street lies George Street; every building a bar or restaurant, and feast of music, sound, people and the home of a truly distinct society. Bands playing seven days a week, and good ones at that!

I love Newfoundland, and this three-day visit has simply made me want to come back again soon.

And did I talk about Cape Spear? No, of course not, but it is terrific, and just one more place to visit in this magical province.

A New Found Land

2010-02-28T14:27:00.004-06:00

This really is a brilliant place. A rock, stuck out in the inclement North Atlantic is hardly a perfect canvas upon which to create a society, but in the traditions of the region, Canada’s most easterly province is a winner. The North Atlantic is home to Celts and Vikings, lost fisherfolk and shipwrecked flotsam from around the world, and they all add up to make the North Atlantic absolutely fascinating.

They are lands that defy development, but they exist and certainly in terms of their societies, they thrive. It is not a mystery either why they have become such attractive tourist destinations. From the Shetland and Faroe Islands of the North Sea to Iceland and to this oddly-named island of Newfoundland, the north Atlantic is beguiling.

It isn’t easy to get round, really; from Reykjavik, I had to fly through Boston, Halifax, Gander (yes, the direct flight was full) to St. John’s, and now here I am. A free Sunday in the middle of an extensive business trip, tinged as it has been with personal sadness, I am glad to be here. I rented a car, and spent the day driving the Irish Loop from St. John’s to Trepassey and back to the big city.

It is lovely, if the more distant suburbs of St. John’s are a little scruffy, and all too willing to hoist the ugly, day-glo lettered advertising signs; although I have to admit that signs to lure passing drivers to stop for Cod Cheeks and Salt Fish Tongues mad an amusing change from the usual roadside supply of BC Fruit.

It’s a great place. Place names are funny: the twin communities of Black Head and Bald Head, Mistaken Point, Butter Pot and Witless Bay were just a few that made me smile. The places themselves are lovely; secure communities, rugged shorelines, old stone churches, colourful buildings and tons of laundry flapping in the wind. Honestly, I haven’t seen so much outside laundry for years. Wood piled delicately, and in the most intricate shaped piles, and above all, today at least, a gorgeous blue sky, shining light on every nook and cranny.

It was lovely. The round-trip drive is about 300 kms, a manageable day’s expedition. In summer there are plenty of stops for coffee, lunch or relief, but on this Sunday in the winter, their owners are presumably watching the final day of the Olympics or sunning themselves in Florida. At any rate, they aren’t at home. It didn’t really matter, as I was more interested in looking than eating, and in any case, by one’s self, it is easier to simply see what is around the next corner.

One of my favourite things about Canada is the CBC, and although it is hard to pick favourites, The Vinyl Cafe is a terrific show. And so, driving around the Avalon peninsular, I listened to Stuart MacLean’s unique blend of music, storytelling and Canadiana. Canada, he described today is an archipelago; a vast area of isolated cultural islands. I like this description, and just as he described himself, I realised that I am an island-hopper, and love it! I am so fortunate to have visited every province and territory, and the capital cities of each, and really am in a position to pour tribute on St. John’s, my favourite cith in the country.

It was in this spirit of exploration that I determined to visit Cape Race. It seemed logical, somewhere I had never been, an odd promontory, perhaps some shipwrecks to ogle, however, although I had probably realised the drawback some fifty yards after leaving the hard-top road, I didn’t acknowledge the obvious for a couple of miles.

And this is that a Toyota Yarris does not qualify as an off-road vehicle. Actually, it doesn’t really like to go over a speed bump, but the prospect of visiting a remote Cape clearly didn’t appeal to my car, so reluctantly we turned around. It was a pity, because I like these sorts of geographical extremes, but today, I wasn’t to visit a new one.

I did, however, gently persuade the Yarris up to the top of Signal Hill; this peak, overlooking the narrow entrance to St. John’s dramatic harbour is terrific. The whole city is visible, and the harbours importance is clear at a glance.

And so the evening came, and I returned to my hotel to ponder the evening. There really isn’t a place that I know with so much choice for dining and entertainment. I was early last night, but with jet-lag now behind me, I am going to seek some live music and lose myself in the maelstrom of thoughts that are jostling for position and acknowledgement in my head.

Reykjavik Snow

2010-02-26T17:21:00.003-06:00

You probably wouldn’t know it, but Iceland has had the most clement winter for years. While Europe has been overwhelmed by snow, rain and generally heavy winter weather, and North America confounded by massive snowfalls and cold, mid-continent temperatures, Iceland has been basking under a warm and comforting winter. A lost tribe of Global Warmers among the cooling gloom.

But this visit, a couple of days in January to finish off some new business opportunities, brought a heavy snowfall and cold temperatures; probably a winter day that the rest of the world would feel normal for this rocky, North Atlantic outcrop, but this winter, unusual.

I arrived in Keflavik on a flight from London and picked up my vehicle; fortunately an SUV. By the time I had reached the city, the snow had started, and although I could park quickly enough, I wasn’t sure about finding my car again. I like Reykjavik, particularly the old town, and in the snow, it looks truly cosy, and very romantic.

Again the Hotel Fron, as friendly as last time, but quite full of winter sports enthusiasts, and a couple of bewildered Australians, and soon, my friend Shonni came to pick me up.

Shonni manages a travel business in Reykjavik, and is the agent for the Smyril Line, a fascinating shipping company that plies the waters between Iceland, the Faroe Islands and Denmark; as a former fisherman, used to the vagaries of the Sea of Murmansk in the winter, he is scornful of my doubts regarding the sanity of winter passengers on the MV Norunna. We are together, however, to talk about travel to Canada for Icelanders this summer, now that there is a direct flight between Winnipeg and Iceland and of Icelandic life in general.

For some, the economic tsunami endured over the past year or so has been good; for most it has been dreadful. Good for those with export businesses, poor for everyone else. The anger is intense; anger toward the small cabal of business people, perhaps as few as thirty, who engineered this collapse by undermining every moral and ethical principle that our business world is built upon. Now I know that the use of the words “ethical”, “moral” and “business” in the same sentence will cause merriment, if not a wholesale search for aisles to roll in, but one must always believe in “the system” as having an undercurrent of principle that mirrors its broader society; otherwise we would all face the same meltdown that Iceland has undergone, and the rest of us so narrowly avoided.

The second target of his anger is the government, both elected and appointed officials who so willingly turned a blind eye. Or in the most generous possible explanations, complete and utter incompetence. It is a tragedy; Icelanders, the most confident, friendly, accommodating and generous people it has been my privilege to know, did not deserve this pain.

But back to the flight. Iceland Express will fly twice weekly this summer, and we are looking forward to an exciting time selling both ends of the flight. It is all systems go now, and we have an allocation of 20 seats on each plane to sell, so off we go! Iceland is great; scenic, wild, sophisticated, pastoral, dramatic and photogenic, and an absolute must for travellers’ agendas. Independent touring by car with accommodation in comfortable guest-houses, escorted bus tours, exciting city breaks or some of the world’s most challenging outdoor activities, Iceland has it all.

So come! 2010 is the year to visit the Vikings!

The snow was over by the time I left, although there was a pretty nasty squall as I refilled the car’s tank at the airport. And this is an odd situation; the only gas station within range of the airport only takes credit cards with the chip & PIN technology. For North Americans, this can come as a rude wake-up call; so please, credit card companies, bring the US and Canada into the 21st century and give us chips with all cards, and not just a select few.

I was sorry to leave this afternoon, but I am now heading to Boston for a meeting this evening and tomorrow to St. John’s in Newfoundland and finally Halifax before getting home to Winnipeg on March 4th. I am looking forward to visiting Newfoundland again, as I have always had a soft spot for the province; probably Canada’s most gorgeous region. Perhaps Saturday night at some small, noisy bar on Water Street will prove to be fun! I will be sure to let you know.

And for those who follow this blog, and have been kind enough to ask, my father died this morning; peacefully.

London's Transport and Some Food

2010-02-25T13:25:00.002-06:00

It is really odd to have spent a week utilising London’s transport system, tube bus and even the odd taxi, and to see it graded Europe’s fourth worst system!

I really like it. Admittedly I grew up with it, and have been riding around from an early age, family legend has it that aged four, I returned home from school on the bus (as one did in those days), and seeking adventure, rode on until it reached the end of the route some forty minutes later. Having satisfied my curiosity, I rode the bus back home and could not quite understand my mother’s borderline-hysterical demeanour. But I digress.

The tube system is great and simple enough to navigate if one can count and distinguish colour. It is also instructive to look at names of distant parts of this enormous city that one never gets to, and wonder what on earth might be going on in Tooting, Ickenham, Ongar or Penge; mysteries indeed.

The system is now made simpler and more economical by the Oyster card; long the staple of Londoners, it is now gaining favour among tourists. It is simply a swipe0card that carries a value that you purchase from the system; economical, and offering individual fares well below their single-purchase price, the card also cleverly caps out at a value that you would have spent on a daily ticket. All in all a brilliant and simple invention, and one in which all visitors to London should invest.

Among the visits to my ailing father, and temporarily immobile uncle, I managed to both work and play. The work was interesting as it always can be meeting colleagues working in the same industry but in different countries, and perhaps profitable, but the fun was better.

London, I have to say, offers more economical dining than Winnipeg. This most curious fact is a function of both the exchange rates and the extraordinary rise in dining costs in the Prairies, but nevertheless, for those terrified of London’s restaurant bills I can only say “Fear ye not”.

Now, it isn’t Buenos Aires, but a substantial and amply lubricated dinner for two that would regularly set one back $120 or so in Winnipeg can be found easily in London for a C note. I visited two notable places last week, and so I shall not them.

The first is Ravel’s Bistro near Belsize Park in north London; I like the place, and it suits my temperament I think. It is small, cosy and offers a wide range of starters for £4.95 and main courses priced at £9.95; my companion that night was a friend who is a rather observant and humorous restaurant critic (I am not sure I should have done this to a small restaurant that I like, but there you are), and I look forward to his comments.

The second is really odd; the Cilantro Cafe lies on Piccadilly next door to Fortnum and Masons (where I bought some tea as one does) and opposite the National Gallery where I had just whizzed through a fabulous exhibition of Van Gogh art (as one also does from time to time). Now the really interesting thing about the cafe other then the decor, location and surprisingly economical menu were the locations of the chain’s other locations; Cairo, Alexandria, Sharm el Sheik, Jeddah and Amman. I am not sure quite why I found this amusing, but I did. And judging by the food and enthusiasm of the joint, it deserves all the success that it can muster.

And all this linked by the ubiquitous tube and terrific bus service.

I like London; and now really is the time to visit. It is always fun, perpetually in season and ready and willing to welcome visitors.

My Dad

2010-02-16T14:48:00.003-06:00

I have been wondering for a while how to approach this subject. I like to write, as you probably realise, as I am on the road; I like to observe, and I enjoy the freedom that” the road” offers; I like to watch people, to engage strangers and to watch the world unfold.

I find almost everything interesting, from the suburban development in Baku to the new harvest in sleepy, rural Languedoc. My attention span is short, irritatingly so, for some. It is an issue for which some acquaintances, but few friends, have suggested a pharmaceutical remedy. Some chance; take a pill and morph into some kind of statistical normalcy? Thank you, no, I shall take my place among the observers, the eccentrics and those who rally against the WalMartisation of life.

One does, however, wonder from time to time, where this potentially irritating trait comes from; and the answer is, of course, my Dad.

He is a good chap, my Dad, and one of the best friends I have ever had, but now, The End Is Nigh.

Diagnosed with Lymphoma in March last, he told no one for six months. He didn’t want pity, he said, and in any case, he wanted to complete his peculiar study of South African bus fleets. At 85, he happily wandered to Cape Town, George and Port Elizabeth a couple of times each year to record the excruciating detail of bus chassis registration numbers, and the minutiae of the composition of fleets in the major local and national bus companies.

It is, one has to agree, an odd hobby. However, playing in the antipodean traffic pleased him, and to my astonishment, pleased others. Perhaps less useful than charting the human genome, his peculiar hobby filled in a gap; a gap. I have to admit that many passed and considered of little importance.

But his publications say otherwise; four booklets, proudly published by the PSV Circle, an august body of similarly-inclined individuals, are testament to his work. And for a hobby embarked upon in his late seventies to stave off potential boredom, it was wonderful; and epitomised him.

So on Saturday morning, when the phone rang suspiciously early, and my niece, the fantastic Fiona, told me that the nursing home indicated that next Saturday’s football results would hold little interest to him, I got on a plane. For the fourth time since he was given two to four weeks in November, I have to add; there is a little of the tooth that we all had when we were seven or so, that stubbornly held in place.

And so I am en route to London to see him, to bury him or simply to hold his hand and sit with him; and if I have to do that, I will bore him with tales of our trip to Uruguay.

When he was about eighty, I sent him a ticket to join me in Buenos Aires. From there we crossed to Colonia in Uruguay, rented a car and went to explore. What a great week! Rental cars that leaked gas, isolated estancias surprised but delighted to have us show up on their doorstep (Dad had found a brochure in the Uruguayan embassy in London, and off we went unannounced), wandering through the time-warp of the Fray Bentos corned-beef factory, wineries, gaucho-hitchhikers, laughs and more fun than we could have imagined.

My only regret is that he wanted to do it again, but this time travelling to India, and in particular to Dhera Dun; partly reliving seventy-year-old memories, but more, I think, to reinforce a thread that formed an integral part of the fabric that was, and at this moment is, My Dad. I think that we would have had fun travelling to India.

He has, in more than one person’s opinion, been a (bad word), but to those who were fortunate to steel themselves to his rather obvious opinions, and meet the real Andrew Johnson, met an overly generous and ever-curious man; a role model who I am so proud to have had.

We have no unfinished business. He is, or possibly was, my friend, and to my family’s periodic but emphatic Roll Of The Eyes, a role model.

So, off I go, and the next week or so will be a voyage of uncertainty. My friend Jim, whose mother passed away recently, and like I, had a relationship tempered by the tyranny of distance, spoke of the practical issues that death throws up; “it isn’t something one ever gets good at”, he said, “fortunately”.

We will see.

Airline Points can be Pointless

2010-02-10T10:45:00.001-06:00

For those who have contacted me to wonder why I have been silent for a while, I thank you; it is reassuring to find out that there are actually readers out there in the blogosphere; the simple answer is a combination of actually having to work hard at my own desk, becoming preoccupied and a touch lazy, and being unable to think of some interesting subjects.

The last bit is disingenuous because there is always something interesting to write about in the travel biz, and today I shall vent a little about points.

Frequent flyer points are the crack-cocaine of the travel world. Collectors can border on the obsessive, and it is not unheard of for travellers to request routes with one or two additional connections to allow them to get more segments toward some elite level. Some time ago, we had a couple buy tickets from Winnipeg to London with intermediate stops in Thunder Bay, Toronto, Ottawa, Montreal and Halifax, thus earning 12 segments on a return journey; odd, but true.

The serious side of the World of Points is that they are a rapidly inflating currency; elementary economics reminds us that an increase in the base money supply without a corresponding increase in available product will inevitably cause price-inflation; and guess what? The airlines point-making-machines have been left running, and now with every credit card, gas store and restaurant offering points, the pressure on redemption is becoming rough.

Aeroplan are considering increasing the redemption requirement by 20%, and rest assured that they will do so. If you have Aeroplan points, and are planning a trip, book it now; even if you are not sure of the dates, by making a reservation, you are locking in the number of points required, and the dates maybe changed for a nominal fee of $90.

The points debate is also enlightened by the addition of new carriers in the various alliances. Continental Airlines recently joined the Star Alliance, and their redemption rate for travel to Europe was 80, 100 and 120K for economy, business or first class travel respectively. Air Canada’s is 65, 80 and 100, so one can imagine that Continental Airline’s favourite clients would be tempted to abscond to a program that offers faster redemption with an identical accrual rate!

Other carriers, under the cunning guise of offering you, the Valued Client, “more choice” have now introduced seasons, where for an outlay of only three times the points that you previously needed, you can fly at convenient vacation times. I am not sure who does burn up their stash of points at those stratospheric rates, but I am sure that some do.

Partly because if you don’t, they will evaporate.

I have collected American Airlines points slowly but surely; a BA flight here, a leg on Aer Lingus there; they don’t’ really fly anywhere near me, but when I need to travel on a route that does not offer a hit of my preferred drug (Aeroplan and Delta’s Sky Miles), I go for the One World carrier. Over time, I had accumulated 31,067 miles, and was planning to cash them in on a flight from London to Moscow with British Airways. Too late; with absolutely no direct warning, my account’s “inactivity” had led to them cancel all of my scrip, leaving me with a balance of zero.

So beware; use your Aeroplan points before the redemption rate inflates, and keep an eye on the expiry date! The airlines’ computers do.

A Cautionary Word About Protection

2010-01-23T08:32:00.000-06:00

The world is awash with airlines offering extraordinary deals to a shrinking number of passengers, and it is the time that folks the world over are looking to book their summer vacations. Buyers rarely beware, but they should give thought making a large purchase in one of the world's largest, unregulated markets.

It seems that there is a new security blanket coddling travellers, and this is the belief that credit card companies will automatically reimburse ticket-holders who have yet to travel on bankrupt airlines. I am not altogether sure where this idea comes from and to whose benefit its promulgation lies. I am, however, fairly sure that the truth is extremely complex, and that an automatic refund is out of the question.

Some credit cards carry a variety of insurance benefits, and it may be that coverage is included in this package; it may be that credit card companies like the idea of such a masterful position and in the absence of a huge collapse have paid off customers, writing these ex-gratia payments off to goodwill.

There is a thought that reimbursement is due to the "non-provision" of service for which an intermediary company (viz: the credit card) has taken payment. Perhaps; but perhaps not.

Imagine, if you will, the potential bankruptcy of United Airlines or British Airways. Unlike Globespan and XL, each of these august carriers will have hundreds of millions of dollars of such prepaid tickets. It is unthinkable that the credit card companies will have the money to back-stop a failure of that proportion.

Part of the answer lies in the relationship between the merchant and the credit card companies; each merchant for a credit card company is obliged to post a bond, if required, that reflects the potential of default. It is from these monies that reimbursement flows. While a small tour operator (or airline) may be required to post a bond of say $1 million, it is inconceivable that giant carriers would be able to post such a bond to cover all of their unflown customers. As a case in point, however, it is said that Air Canada has approximately $1.3 billion tied up in these kinds of guarantees. Working capital that surely could be better deployed elsewhere.

It becomes ever more expensive to accept credit cards; someone has to pay for all of the points, kettles, dining vouchers and other inducements offered to cardholders, and it certainly is not the credit card companies themselves. Some years ago the airline industry, through IATA, offered their own credit card, the Universal Air Travel Plan. If the expense of credit card acceptance continues to rise, it seems logical that airlines look more closely at building the use of this card, and charging a premium to accept the other brands.

After all, the fees that airlines pay to credit card companies, excluding the enormous guarantees that are in place, are a crippling expense, and one that is at least partly avoidable. Ryanair do so, and for once, it is a fee model with which I concur.

There are insurance companies who offer "default" coverage; this protection, if it still applies to airlines, has significant limits, usually to a maximum of $2 or 3 million per occurrence. Not much on a per person basis if 15,000 passengers are caught, and absolutely no help in reimbursement of expenses other than a proportion of airline costs. Such as a lost tour program, or onward flight connection.

The whole question of consumer protection continually raises its head, and it is an subject that deserves thorough investigation. It is not a solution to simply establish a fund that will allow weak companies to sail close to the wind secure in the knowledge that strong companies will effectively bail them out. In the end, protection is the responsibility of the purchaser; they should , however, have some assurance that multi-million dollar industries like travel have some vestige of financial oversight.

Iin many jurisdictions the industry does not. It is time that it did.

In the meantime, however, it is buyer beware!

Ceaseless Travel

2010-01-19T19:05:00.000-06:00

Well, I am back in Chicago with my Canadian product manager, for a couple of days in preparation for the launch of our 2010 tour program. The brochures are readying for the printers, and it is certainly a nerve-wracking time of year! All of the choices, settling on about thirty tours out of the hundreds that are available across Canada, have been made, the images for the brochure picked, the website sharpened and the mailing lists are ready to go.

This is the high-risk end of the travel business. We invest heavily in product development, production and distribution of our programs and the only source of income comes from our clients around the world buying our tours. If we picked right, and the itineraries we chose hit the spot, we will sell between 800 and 1000 passengers on our Canadian tours. If we chose wrong, then our investment may turn against us.

I have been doing this for over thirty years now, and so far have been reasonably successful. The world is changing fast now, however, and trying to keep ahead of the curve can be difficult.

At the same time as we launch our Canadian program, we are readying a new Iceland tour series to offer in conjunction with the new Iceland Express flight between Winnipeg and Reykjavík. Once again, pick right, and the children have new shoes; pick wrong, and it is a year before we have another shot at it.

And so to Chicago to meet with the Canadian Tourism Commission office and a few travel companies that have sold our tours in the past; I don’t actually need much urging to come here, it really is one of my favourite cities in the world, but I have been on the road a lot recently, and would like to spend a little time at home.

However, all work and no play would make Max extremely dull, and so we have taken advantage of being here to eat wonderfully (really, the overly generous Texas de Brazil is a fabulous restaurant), and listen to the blues again. Last night to Blue Chicago, and although it was a Monday night, and there were only about fifteen or so in the audience, we were treated to a really good evening’s music.

And then this afternoon, I had a chance to visit the Driehaus Museum. Observant readers will recall that I tried to visit this museum ten days ago, and was questioning the value of the $25 entry fee. Well, among those seeing the blog was Jeanine Riedl, the museum’s visitor services coordinator, and she, most generously encouraged me to visit on my next trip to the Windy City.
And so I did today; the house is possibly the most sumptuous dwelling I have ever seen, although one has to say that the word “cosy” hardly springs to mind. It is an eye-popping extravaganza of marble, rich hardwoods, fabulous fabrics and a collection of statuary that ranged from classic to, shall we say, thought-provoking. I loved it! And the answer to the question of value is a resounding “yes”; the museum is quirky, fascinating and a brilliant diversion for anyone lucky enough to be a tourist in Chicago.

Frequent Flyer Points; Love or Hate?

2010-01-18T09:32:00.000-06:00

Airline points have become the crack cocaine of the travel world. Fly, buy dinner, fill up with gas and you get rewarded with scrip called rather optimistically "Frequent Flyer Miles". They come in a variety of guises, and like every other currency have extremely variable exchange rates.

Oddly, it seems that the most valuable part of many airlines today is the division that gives stuff away for nothing, and therein lies the rub.

"Points" are a currency; nothing less and nothing more. Airlines sell them to a variety of partners for (say) 4 cents each, and then sell seats back to flyers for these points. Profitable and a fine system.

Until the money supply gets out of hand, and inflation strikes. While the various schemes have yet to reach Zimbabwean levels, there are some distinctly nasty clouds on the horizon. Airlines often churn points out by the million; a recent financing deal between United and their primary bankers involved the exchange of hundreds of millions of United's Mileage Plus. These points are dangled in front the banks' clients as lures to some commercial activity, and hey presto, there are thousands more consumers dreaming of palm trees.

Think, however, of the problems caused by increasing the money supply (points) while simultaneously reducing the overall number of seats available on the airlines' systems - a 20 million drop in available seats throughout the North American system compared to last year.

How will the carriers respond? Gently, I think, but in the traditional way; prices will rise. Delta announced a major increase last year, by offering three levels of reward seats; by increasing the number of points that you use, they will open up more seats. Fair enough in a way, but a price increase by any other name.

My advice? Book early, and remember that there is only a small fee (currently $90 or so) to cancel and put your points back; book next summer's trip to Europe now, and think of the $90 as an option. Use them up as fast as you can, because their value will shrink away in front of your very eyes.

Unless you want a kettle, of course. Exchanging airline points for kitchen equipment or haberdashery seems odd to me, but there will be increasing pressure to do so.

A cautionary tale of restaurant service charges!

2010-01-13T22:09:00.000-06:00

Last evening a colleague and I had an absolutely marvellous meal at a restaurant called Bumbles, close to Victoria station.

It is a restaurant with which I have had a glancing aquaintance for some thirty years, and although it has undergone several incarnations, has always been a reliable and innovative place to eat.

The menus is terrific. They offer a set meal option for £19 per person; this gives two courses, and very imaginative they are too; wine adds somewhat more to the tab, as do coffee and a couple of supplements (the beef medley costs a bit extra), but all in all, I think that the bill of £75 was very reasonable in these parts.

And that is where the fun started, for on the menu I had spotted, in extremely fine and slight writing, a note that stated "a discretionary gratuity of 12.5% will be added to the bill". When the credit card machine was offered, and an option to add a further gratuity appeard, I declined, and the waitress took polite umbrage.

She then advised that the owners got all of the optional service charge, and pointed out the line item on the bill, offering to remove it. I didn't leave any further tip (12.5% seems reasonable), and left the retaurant on a decidedly sour note.

It is worth wondering, however, how many folks would not have noticed that the restaurant had just added $20 to the bill under the guise of "Opt SC - £9.40", yet still wanted a tip.

Including a service charge and then asking for a tip is a disgraceful and deceptive habit, and one that travellers should watch out for! It was a pity to leave such a lovely restaurant on such a low note.

London in the Snow

2010-01-13T08:10:00.000-06:00

Judging from the newspaper headlines this morning, the UK is blanketed in both literal and metaphoric snow. There is a lot of the white stuff; the western county of Devon is apparently stuggling under many centimetres of the stuff, a lot even for a seasoned Canadian, but more interesting is the snow job that is going on in the House of Commons.

Alistair Campbell, formerly Tony Blair’s press supremo is answering questions concerning the British invasion of Iraq. The ability to evade the truth so absolutely ism, of course, a skill that is extensively honed in political life, but the level to which Mr. Campbell has elevated this art is eye-watering.

It is all good fun now, I suppose, unless you happen to be one of the families who lost loved ones in the war, but the re-writing of such recent history is extraordinary; fortunately, nobody seems to believe him.

At least not those who I overheard on the bus this morning and with the blanket of snow that London received overnight, the ten-minute bus ride stretched to forty, and I had plenty of time to earwig on a number of interestingly dull conversations. The gist of many was that they loved the snow three weeks ago, but the novelty has worn off; as it is only January 13th, the winter hasn’t, and I would suspect that there is more to come.

There are a lot of articles of the “Kids today don’t know cold! I remember in the 1950s” and even the one I liked the best, the “the world has entered a period of protracted cooling”. Really, the speed at which we leap from problem to problem, ignited by the kindling of daily journalism is peculiar.

But I digress; it is good to be in London again, albeit only a week since I left. It is a great city, and one that is blessed with a superb transportation system, whatever its detractors might say. It is efficient, reasonably priced and heavily used. It makes living in any part of the city possible, and whisks visitors around with speed and ease.

I have two favourite London sightseeing days, neither of which I have time to do this afternoon, but worth mentioning nonetheless.

The first is to the East; take the tube from wherever you happen to be to Tower Hill and wander up to the street level (a side trip into the Tower of London if you feel so inclined, or simply a picture) and cross to the adjacent Tower Gateway station. There you will take a train to Island Gardens. This driverless train of the Docklands Light Railway (DLR) is great, and meanders through the fabulous development of Canary Wharf and the new reclaimed Docklands.

At Island Gardens you cross the road to the bank of the Thames, and enjoy a view of this great river from the rather peaceful garden on the bank. There is a foot tunnel, originally built in 1902, that will take you under the river to Greenwich on the south bank, and as you walk through it, notice the repair work at the Docklands end; it was struck by a German bomb in the war, and although I can’t possibly imagine how they could repair a flooded tunnel, they did, and you will remain perfectly dry as you walk under the Thames.

Greenwich is a marvel, a Georgian town, only slightly sullied by the detritus of contemporary signage, and home to the National Maritime Museum, which in turn houses the Prime Meridian. The museum is really interesting, and the meridian itself fun to play at! Britain's maritime history is long and not entirely glorious. The museum has enough exhibits, stories and trivia to keep anyone busy, and its grounds, in the right weather, are terrific, and a perfect place to enjoy a picnic for those minded to outdoor eating.

Alternatively, finding lunch in Greenwich is easy, and there are restaurants of every stripe and to fit every budget.

Later on, return to London using the river service to Westminster, about a ninety-minute trip, offering a great view of the city and its remarkable river life. From Westminster, of course, you are in the heart of the action, and only a short walk from virtually everything.
for the rest of the year. There are different companies that offer the journey, both Thames River Service and Crown River Cruises offer good sailings, but be sure to check their timing and book your return when you arrive in Greenwich, if not before.

You can, of course, do this circuit in reverse! Just remember that the river boat services operate a full schdule between April and November, and a more limited one in and in the other months you would head back to London by train or on a very dull bus ride.

Tomorrow, the Borough Market, and a brilliant walk.

A January day in Reykjavik

2010-01-11T11:55:00.000-06:00

I like Reykjavík, even in January when it doesn’t get light until 10.00, and is dark by 4.30.

I have to say, that wandering around the streets, and driving around town, there is no obvious sign of economic doom; that, is all hidden, reflected in the massive number of crushing loans that so many Icelanders have. It is also apparant inflation rate; self-sufficiency and Iceland are words rarely heard in the same sentence, and one of the major issues facing everyone is the hike in retail prices of everything that has to be imported; which in the case of Iceland is pretty well everything other than fish, lamb, energy and a curious local delicacy, chocolate-covered liquorice..

It is a great place; alive, stylish, oddly confident given the past year, full of delicious food and now, not too expensive. Certainly not cheap by any stretch of the imagination, but the days of the $15 beer are a distant memory now. I am esconced in the Hotel Fron, a cosy little property on the main shopping drag of Lagavegur, a lovely place and perfectly located for wandering around Reykjavik's charming centre.

I am here for a day to meet with Iceland Experess who are offering a twice-weekly flight from Iceland to Winnipeg next summer, and are looking for partners to sell seats on the service. I am always hesitant to work too closely with charter flights and ad-hoc scheduled service so thought it prudent to come to Iceland for a day and meet the folks behind the operation. And I am delighted that I did so. I am feeling very confident about the flight, and really enjoyed meeting with both the airline folks and another two from their travel agency division. I am looking forward to fitting our packages to suit their summer flight schedule from Winnipeg, and for Canadians to travel to Iceland and for Icelanders to visit Manitoba, which they seem to want to do.

It was a bit of a tortuous journey to get here. In the winter Icelandair do not offer direct flights from Canada, and are only offering their Boston and New York gateways. So from Chicago I flew to JFK and to Iceland from there.

JFK is a great airport! Straight from the glory-days of flying in the 1950s, it is Jetson Stylish, and I love it. It really reflects the glory days of flying, and for a moment takes one's mind of the contemporary hasseles of airports.

Airport security really is getting to be ridiculous; the Christmas Day Incident did not highlight any laxity in security systems, only a complete breakdown in their application. The resulting clamp down, particularly by the Canadian government, is a knee-jerk reaction to the issue. Better trained staff and not more onerous and diabolically silly procedures is the key. I am all for secure flying, but do resent the childlike tests and processes that the various security origanisations dream up.

However, off I went; fortunate to be travelling in Icelandair’s Saga Business Class, I could use the lounge that they offer in New York. I like airport lounges, and this facility, the British Airways business class lounge is utterly superb. Large, roomy and very well stocked, it made the waiting time whizz by.

The flight was short, only five and a half hours, and very comfortable, putting me into the airport by 7.00am, in my car by 7.45 adn at my first meeting at 9.00 on the dot!

Tonight I head off to my friend Sigfus’ house for dinner, and I am sure a clearer insight into the curious juxtaposition of Iceland’s economic meltdown and life as I see it on the street, In any case, I am sure of some wonderful fish.

And tomorrow morning, off to London for a day or so.

A Fabulous Day in Chicago

2010-01-10T09:49:00.000-06:00

Chicago has to be one of the world’s best sightseeing cities, and yesterday we saw it all.

Well, we didn’t see it all, of course, and in fact only scratched the surface, but probably did as much as one could possibly do in a single day. It was chilly; even for those of us who dwell in the frozen north, the wind off Lake Michigan brought distinct nip to the air.

We wandered north from the Loop into the Magnificent Mile aiming at the Driehaus Museum; this fascinating display (well, I will assume it if fascinating, because as it turned out we didn’t actually see it), is a perfectly restored mansion, originally built in about 1880. Originally costing an eye-watering $450,000 the building, a testament to the rivers of money that have flown through Chicago, has had a number if incarnations over the years and is now, thanks to the philanthropic efforts of Richard Driehaus as a museum. The $25 entry fee may appear steep, and in fact is, but for this outlay one is transported back to the luxuriant life of an industrial baron of the nineteenth century.

However, as one buys a slot on a timed tour, and the timing on offer clashed with our other activities, we set it aside for next time, and headed instead to the absolutely riveting Chicago History Museum. This is an absolute must see; a vast collection of utterly absorbing material that brings the city’s timeline to life, and gives visitors a sharp view of Chicago until today; leaving no doubt that the next one hundred years will be as interesting as the past.

Also interesting were the tours offered through the museum; mostly for the spring and offered as walking tours (Gold Coast, Old Town), “L” Tours (The Brown Line and many others), conventional bus tours (Ethnic Chicago and the Prohibition Era among others) and the tempting Pub Crawl genre. More than enough good things to tempt a tourist back, and in fact I have already pencilled the weekend of April 10/11 to take in a couple of these offerings.

We headed up to Belmont afterward in search of Vintage Shops, and having been assured by Google that three or four lay within a smallish area off we went; the shops seemed to have moved, and one transmogrified into a bank. It was a pretty lively area though, and interesting enough to absorb us for a while before we jumped the Brown Line train (in the direction of Kimball) to go and have a look.

The El offers a great way to see neighbourhoods, amazing engineering, old industrial areas and new developments, and although we did not have the benefit of a guide from the History Museum (this time) we rode out and back, peering into apartments, spotting the most unusual fence ornamentation, admiring idiosyncratic buildings isolated among newer developments and generally nosing around.

Then to Macy’s and the dreaded Shopping; having done our bit for the Chicago economy we could see the lights on Michigan Avenue shining just a little bit brighter, and so illuminated crossed over to the RL bar for a well-deserved refresher.

And so the day went; after a forgettable dinner in a small Thai place way up Halsted we settled in to Enjoy the music at B.L.U.E.S., another really fine venue. Cosy, welcoming and with spectacular music, we just had a ball.

I love this place, and can’t really understand why it isn’t filled to the gunwales with tourists from Winnipeg every weekend. Return airfares start at about $300 (all in), and a good time is guaranteed.

This afternoon I head to Iceland for a day’s meetings tomorrow with Iceland Express who have announced a charter flight to Winnipeg through the summer months. I would love to see this happen, as we have a great expertise in travel to the region, but I can’t help feeling a touch sceptical. The airline industry is facing hardship on a daily basis, and the over-capacity on the Atlantic is driving prices down to unsustainable levels and competition is at its fiercest for years.

To bring a new route, and let’s face it, Reykjavik to Winnipeg is not the most obvious choice to make money on in this environment needs deep pockets and a dedicated team of partners to make it happen. I hope it does, and by tomorrow night will have the assurance that I need to start to aggressively market a tour program to the North Atlantic.

It is truly a gorgeous region, and not only Iceland, but also the Faroe Islands and Greenland offer travellers unique destinations that will not fail to enchant.

So to New York and on to Reykjavik this afternoon, and tomorrow I will enjoy Iceland, as I always do, and in addition to the business at hand, take the opportunity to spend a little time with a couple of old friends. Iceland is, of course, the centre of a new economic tsunami as they face a referendum on the repayment of billions of dollars of savings lost when their banking system melted down.

It is an interesting dilemma; the savers, principally British, only used Icelandic banks to gain a considerably enhanced interest rate. With greater reward comes greater risk, and whether or not that should be indemnified is a good debate.

It is interesting to note that a number of British local governments had also invested their constituents’ money in Iceland in order to gain superior interest rates. Could these be the same local authorities that so unwisely lost millions in the collapse of BCCI (Bank of Credit and Commerce International) in 1990? Surely not, lessons would have been learned.

In banking as in travel as in the rest of life; if a deal appears too good to be true, it probably is.

A Flat Tire and the Blues

2010-01-09T09:26:00.000-06:00

I don’t really consider myself to be an unlucky traveller, but sometimes fate intervenes. After a week in Winnipeg, it is time to hit the road again, and this time the plan was to spend a weekend in Chicago, listening to the blues, with my mucisian-daughter Katherine; her twenty-first birthday present.

So after a couple of false starts, and adjusted dates this was the weekend. There was, predictably, snow forecast in Chicago, and those of you familiar with O’Hare will know that it only takes a few flakes of snow to send the airport into mayhem.

Partly, I have to inject, one of the results of the contemporary and long-running tragedy called “Airlines in Trouble”, a saga without apparent end, and one that is becoming tiring. One of the tactics employed by the Muscle Carriers is to sub-contract their small feeder and regional flights to other carriers under a sort of franchise agreement; these smaller airlines in turn, are required to operate schedules with so little wiggle-room, that the first sign of delay has a long-lasting konck-on effect. Snow and the biblical summer rain in Chicago do this.

But I digress. Our flight was scheduled to depart at 1235, and despite bad weather in the Windy City, actually arrived in Winnipeg in time to operate; however, they blew a tire on landing, and this takes time to fix. The following flight was actually cancelled, and we finally got away four hours late, and into Chicago at 7.00pm instead of 3.00.

Now if you are heading to Chicago to hear the blues, I can’t recommend Rosa’s Lounge highly enough. It is a fantastic venue, albeit a touch awkward to get to. Wither a twenty-minute ride on the Blue Line to Logan Square or a $20 cab ride from down town will do the trick, but I assure you that it is worth the ride.

We needed to eat first, United Airlines not actually serving a meal on the flight from Winnipeg, and I have to say that pickings were slim. We trudged up the street through the snow, finding little of any interest, other than a very large and jolly woman standing a t a bus stop howling with laughter, and then trudged back, and another block in the other direction.

You will never have to make that mistake, because I can let you know that only a block from Rosa’s is a fabulous restaurant called Tumbao; really fabulous. It is a Puerto Rican joint, and clearly set up for a late night’s dancing. We arrived early, about 9.00 by now, and simply had dinner, and just loved it all; interesting food, great prices and warm hospitality. The odd thing is that although it serves great food, it isn't "really" a restaurant, it is a salsa bar, but perfect for us last night. What more can be said? I will go back.

And so to Rosa’s; a great Blues Bar, seating about 120 at most, in a cosy and comfortable environment; the band was Lil Ed and the Blues Imperals , the music brilliant, and the crowd loving and understanding every minute. Now I don’t haive anything against the House of Blues or the two Blue Chicago joints, but this was the Real Meal Deal. Fun, economical and tightly managed and orchestrated by the Italian owner Tony, whose voice really reminded me of Paolo Conte!

We want to get to Buddy Guy’s tonight, mostly because he himself is playing, but the show is apparently sold out. There are great options though, and trekking up to Kingston Mines is one that we will likely take by about 2.30 am when it starts getting lively. Saturday night in Chicago is great!

So today we have shopping, Unos' pizza, the Field Museum, the Art Institute, wandering the Magnificent Mile, a cocktail at the sumptuous RL bar and dinner to arrange before the music starts. I love this city! It is my favourite American city bar none, and although I know that I will get called on this, if for no other reason than I have not been to them all, but I don’t care! I love getting your emails (Johnson_max@hotmail.com) and will defend Chicago to the hilt.

Time to get away now, and enjoy another day in paradise.

Security and over-reaction

2010-01-04T20:31:00.000-06:00

Christmas Day's curious security incident has had some major and important ramifications; security organisations worldwide have introduced some puerile and bizarrely reactive restrictions; (no blankets over one's knees for the last hour of a flight?), and once again a fragile world is tossed into chaos and distrust.

Today it is airline terrorism, but it could so easily have been the economic terrorism that our stock-markets and financial security have inflicted on us so violently in recent times.

I have spent the past couple of weeks in London, and among the pleasures of this wonderful city is the privilege of riding its underground system; the transportation is terrific, but its advertisements are truly works of art and fiction. Knowing that their audience will have a couple of minutes at least to digest the contents of the posters, writers have a glorious canvas with which to work. My favourite this trip was one in a series of contemplative pieces quoting Mahatma Ghandi; "There must be more to life than increasing its speed", he said (or so my memory recalls), and it is a lesson that resonates.

"Speed Kills". An aphorism that we all have heard is as applicable to information and ideas as motor cars.

Terrorism changes the world; be it Islamic, economic, biologic or simply the playground meanness of children, terrorists hurt. Much of the world has changed through terror; hundreds of thousands of lives have been irreparably damaged, families’ plans and hopes thrown into chaos and relationships between governments, business and the populations at large fractured by a deep distrust.

Of the many people I am privileged to know, I think of Ia, Sigfus and Caetano. All bright, capable, hard-working and successful, and now, they suddenly find themselves in a new and undefined world.

Ia is the general manager of a fine travel company in Georgia. I had dinner with her one lovely evening in July overlooking the gorgeous old-town of Tbilisi. Life was good; the travel business building, the country’s infrastructure emerging strongly and the democratic institutions that we take for granted taking root. Three weeks later, the Russians invaded and her life altered overnight. In an email yesterday she told of the school next to her office being home to hundreds of refugees, and life in this fascinating Caucasian country on pins and needles. We dined again a couple of weeks ago, and only now, eighteen months after the invasion, life was slowly coming back to a semblance of normalcy.

Sigfus lives in Reykjavik and along with as many as one third of Icelanders lost some or all of their savings and pensions overnight. They see their proud island nation now coming under the austere hand of the International Monetary Fund, and the death of their proud currency, the Icelandic Kronur, imminent. People who work in Iceland in conventional jobs, bank tellers, bus drivers, hotel staff find the value of their wages declining by the day; inflation will take its inevitable toll, and with an economy as small as Iceland’s it will be a very hard process for everyone. No cash, banks frozen, savings gone and prices of all imported goods (which means everything but fish and geothermal energy) rising faster than one can imagine form a very distressing future. On Monday next week, we will meet in Iceland, and I am sure that his indomitable Viking spirit will shine through issues that none of us who live cushy lives in North America can possibly understand.

I have known Caetano for over forty years; he lives in a small town in Portugal and has sunk his savings, time and life into his restaurant, the Restaurant Mare in Sesimbra, some thirty miles from Lisbon. The Portuguese economy was fuelled by the intoxicating mixture of the Euro and reconstruction funds from their European Union membership, and for years cash and the inevitable credit coursed through the country’s economic veins. And then it stopped; almost overnight credit ran out some two years ago. The local market for evening diners waned, and only the foreigners remained; now this market is fading fast, and Caetano’s hopes and dreams lie dimming.

While we look at the world’s economic woes and think of the opportunities now for “cheap” travel, we must remember that the drop in prices that so attract us are being paid for by many others whose lives have been so rudely interrupted by these global events. For every privilege in life there is a counter-balancing responsibility; there is a yin for every yang. In this case, it appears, our privilege is being paid for by a lot of innocent victims of this economic and territorial tsunami.

Tyneham

2009-12-25T12:02:00.000-06:00

This year I am in England for some difficult family reasons, but it is nonetheless delightful to be here over Christmas. Other than the wild snow and ice of a couple of days ago, the weather has been superb, and the countryside is gorgeous. Staying with friends in their Victorian cottage in Manston, a small village in central Dorset is quite delightful, and their traditional Christmas dinner of goose with all the accompaniments was simply irresistible.

And so today, a perfectly clear and gorgeous Christmas Day, we headed out to visit Tyneham, a very curious spot.

If you have ever wondered where the old days went, and idly suspected that there might be a flake of the nineteen forties left somewhere, you are not speculating idly. Only 90 mile to the southwest of London lies Tynham, an anachronistic village, left to remember 1943, and the day that the village was abandoned.

1943, you will recall, was a year in which Europe was plunged into the darkest days of the Second World War. London blitzed, Europe in retreat, bad news on every doorstep. In its pursuit of a perfect solution, or at least a piece of the puzzle, the Ministry of Defense determined that it would create a firing range in the Purbeck Hills. The sole drawback to the plan was the hamlet of Tynham, home to 100 villagers, pursuing a quiet country life.

Now the idea of an idyllic country village may be fiction or it may be fact, but nevertheless, the villagers of Tynham were “requested” to temporarily leave their village to allow the army to practice gunpower in the neighbouring valley. The promise was that they would be allowed to return as soon as the war ended, and armed with these assurances, they left.

The village is old; very old. Ruins and pickings from the site date back some 2000 years. Continuous habitation of a sort that we might recognise has been there since the early 12th century. History happens during this sort of period, and families grow, dominate and build. In Tynham, the Bond family came to own the village in the 1500s and has dominated village life ever since. Apparently benevolently, but we will never know.

And so came 1943. The army decided that it should stay on for a few years, and now, in 2010 they still fire their big guns over the valley, and it is only on weekends, for the military seems to respect bankers’ hours in these parts, that there is access to Tynham.

And what a worthwhile visit it is. The village lies only 10 miles or so from the centre of Poole, a major town on the south coast, and deep in the Purbeck hills. The region is quiet, beautiful, tranquil and quintessentially English; small villages, delightful pubs (and I have to admit to sampling a few in my travels), thatched cottages, and castle ruins. The England of post-cards and bunting, monarchists and hunt balls, fine buildings and sensible shoes; all in a very accessible area.

From London, one may travel to Poole simply by train, coach or car. The adventurous may choose to arrive by ferry from France. In any event, there are many suitable accommodations, and opportunities to rent a vehicle for the exploration of the region, and a stay here of three or four days would not be out of line.

Here, I feel I have to digress. I have stayed in this area a number of times over the years, and once lodged at the Quality Inn several times during the Fall of 2004. On one evening I happened to be in the small hotel bar; in addition to myself there was only a small party of six German tourists, a touch out of place, I thought, but nevertheless apparently convivial.

One approached the bar and asked haltingly (to the delightful barmaid recently arrive from Cabo Verde) for “Zwei Beer”. “Bitter?” she asked?. “Nein Bitter” was the reply. She proceeded to pour nine pints of bitter for the bewildered tourists. I could, of course, short-circuited this misunderstanding, but firstly I was rather amused, and wanted to see its conclusion, and secondly, I felt it fairly certain that I would become the beneficiary of the error. In this I was correct, and three unwanted pints of bitter later I went to sleep.

The drive to Tyneham is simple; heading toward the sea from Corfe Castle, past Steeple the knowledgeable will spot a discreet road sign pointing left (or right, if one approaches fro the opposite direction) toward Tyneham. Three or four miles down the road lies the village, as it was, but missing a few roofs, when the villagers left. The school is intact, the church open and wonderful, notices tacked on the walls announcing teas. The village is complete, although the buildings are a touch ruinous; wandering around, listening to the birds and noticing the paths, built for bicycles and not motor cars, seeing the house pads and gardens, stumbling through the green and looking at the village pond, the vision of the nineteen forties was powerful.

I have never been to such an evocative place. The village is deserted, and will remain so. The promise of return for the villagers some sixty years ago lies shattered among the lanes. But there is hope; and there are thanks to be offered to the military for breaking their promise. For Tyneham offers we “twenty-first centurions’ a rare glimpse to the past. While the village is uninhabitable, the ecological system, untouched by fertilizers, antibiotic by-products, discarded wrappings and old tires remains pristine; and rare.

A unique ecosystem in exchange for a broken promise? As a wandering observer, I am not qualified to make such judgments, but I am delighted that I could enjoy a glimpse into the past.

Duty Free Deception

2009-12-24T06:10:00.000-06:00

I have always liked duty-free shops; one of the minor deceptions of travelling internationally is the idea that you can save $5 or $6 on a bottle of vodka and somehow stick-it to one tax collecting authority or another.

It is, like so many other rather petty transactions a touch deceptive; alcohol pricing is such a dog’s breakfast worldwide, that the concept of “Duty Free” representing any consistent saving is simply not on. The cost of booze is so low, relative to the price that with the elimination of one or more taxes, duties or levies the specialist retailers at airports worldwide can make a big deal over the savings.

I remember some years ago having a friend who worked in the promotions side of a famous Scottish distillery. Not only is she a fine person, but having a friend with the ability to offer whisky at cost price (in limited quantities) had its benefits. At the time, a bottle of their single malt was selling for about £30, but the distillery was allowed, for promotional purposes only, you understand, to write-off whisky used for this purpose at only about £2.25 per bottle; the balance, representing the take of Her Majesty’s Government.

Duty Free shops take advantage of this spread to offer travellers’ terrific “bargains”, and extraordinary profit margins for themselves. The world’s top brands too, use the system to their advantage. Brands like Louis Vitton, Tattinger Champagne, the top-end Swiss watch makers and so on do not want their products discounted in the normal sense of the word; you will not see them subjected to the usual department-store mark-down in an attempt to move volume. They do, however, use the airport shops heavily, and as a vehicle for discounting to shift their surpluses, and in the current economic turmoil, sales of these fashion icons are hurting.

Another sign of the growing power of duty-free retailing comes through the commercial arrogance that is developing among some producers, and should be firmly rejected by whisky lovers everywhere. The Macallan is a terrific whisky, and a friend of mine has, for many years enjoyed their 12 Year Old that was branded “Elegencia”. This is no longer available, and the reasoning, as described to him by a whisky seller is interesting.

The Elegencia has been replaced by a deceptively similarly-packaged product called “Select Oak”. “A good brand”, he mused, “for a paint or a wood-stain, but hardly suitable for the water of life”. This new brand shows no year on the label, a very odd omission for a true whisky drinker; apparently this allows the distiller to “maximise consumer benefit” by allowing them to mix the products of various years together in this delicate offering.

It does of course beg a couple of questions; firstly about why distillers have, for so long been espousing the virtues of single batches, and selling gallons of the stuff according to the year, and secondly concerning whether sales of The Macallan in duty-free stores to a frequently unsophisticated audience have outstripped sales to whisky lovers to a point that they are prepared to toss away hundred’s of years of goodwill to their previously superb brand.

We will never know.

I have to admit that I rarely buy at airports; many years ago I purchased a bottle of cheap Tia Maria in Mexico, but put it down rather heavily on the floor at the Minneapolis airport on the way home. Seeing an increasing brown circle appearing at my feet, I sidled away and watched the process of spread, for it must have been only a hairline fracture of the bottle, surprise at the appearance of the puddle and its eventual clean-up from a balcony.

To this day I feel embarrassed by my behaviour at the airport, and have rarely bought a bottle of duty-free since.

A Crazy Airline Week

2009-12-17T17:56:00.001-06:00

Well, it has been an interesting week; a collapse of a substantial UK-based charter carrier Globespan, the on/off drama of the British Airways cabin-staff strike, the looming possibility of baggage handlers on strike in the UK and the general malaise of the airline industry has made interesting reading and thinking.

The Globespan collapse was notable in a number of ways; timing, of course is important, and when a company is placed into receivership it is always when the party pushing the issue feels that the business has the most money in its coffers. For an airline with bank accounts full of Christmas passengers' money, yet before they had the expenses of flying them, the timing was predictable and understandable.

However, one of the primary reasons that the airline was short of money is very interesting indeed. Their credit-card processor E-Clear, was apparently withholding a substantial amount of money owed to Globespan; cash-flow that the airline needed to operate. During the past few weeks, there have been reports that a Jersey-based investment company Halcyon Investments were to be injecting new capital into Globespan. This hope fell yesterday, and now it appears that there is a close relationship between E-Clear and Halcyon Investments, a relationship that the administrators, PricewaterhouseCoopers will be keen to examine.,

As long as customers believe that credit-card companies will refund their money should a default occur, the credit-card processors will need and place ever more onerous conditions on the company; this may be in the form of a pledge against real assets, a large letter of credit or it may be that the card processor simply holds up the payment of cash to the business until they are comfortable. With no real assets, many businesses are being forced to accept payments at a pace that is simply too difficult to operate with, and force the company into receivership.

This was one of the contributory reasons to the Conquest Vacations bankruptcy, and I think that this trend will trigger increasingly frequent closures and mergers, if not actual bankruptcies.

And while British Airways, who are rarely out of the news today, may have their Christmas period free of a strike, it does not eliminate the dreadful labour relations that seem to characterise that airline. Their sales are 1.2 billion below the first six months of last year, their pension-fund shortfall is over $8 billion and the airline industry is more precarious than ever.

One would wonder if their union really thinks that this would be a good time to withdraw their labour, or if BA management will actually be able to come up with a plan that will set the carrier back on a profitable course. Personally, I doubt it.

All this should make consumers think twice about who they choose to fly with. It may, for a short time, but soon enough, seduced by improbably low fares, safe in the knowledge that someone else, the credit card companies, a government fund or and insurance company, will underwrite their decision; and if they don't, you can be sure that the screams of indignation will be heard from legislative building to legislative building across the land.

But the adage remains, and more critical each day; Buyer Beware.

Charter Flights vs Scheduled lights: Part II

2009-12-14T10:47:00.000-06:00

The second part of the equation is, of course, money. Aircraft are extremely expensive to operate, airline seats are extraordinarily perishable, and the margins are extremely tight.

However, while margins are tight, they are potentially hugely profitable, and it is this risk/reward ration that attracts new entrants each year.

Simply put, a charter operators will work out the actual costs of flying, determine (an upmarket word for a guess) the potential market, divide the latter into the former and come up with a “price”; this fare will be compared to alternatives, the market forecast will be dropped a little, and a new “price” will be reached.

The operating vagaries of a weekly flight will be examined; how many seats will be sold from each end, for example, and will they have similar prices in each market? This is a difficult calculation as each seat from A to B will need a corresponding seat from B to A to come home again; if you sell too many passengers originating at either end, the balance can be badly skewed.

And finally, and this is the bit that the consumer needs to know but never will, what is the operator’s tolerance for loss? At what point will they pull the rug out and say that there is appearing to be insufficient revenue to continue the program?

This creates difficulties; in an ideal world, consumers will have their money returned by the operator and few will have badly affected trips; no tour programs forfeited due to the cancellation of the program and no money lost. However, should the operation of the charter be undertaken by a new company, established solely for this purpose, monies paid to the company may have already been spent on deposits, salaries and marketing with none left, and a bankruptcy will ensue.

The difficulty is always in knowing one’s suppliers. Is the charter carrier well respected with a strong track-record? Are they well known and bonded? The more partners that are involved in a program may appear to increase the chances of success, but this depends on allocations and sales; two strong partners may be brought to heel by a poorly performing third company.

Is the consumer world, now so used to outlandish prices on virtually every good and services inured from making a rational choice? The travel industry seems to reflect this observation with low price being the single driving force behind so many transactions.

Too frequently people buy products solely based on price with little thought given to whether or not the operating company, be it hotel, tour company or airline needs an improbable 90% load factor to break-even, and the effect that this threshold being failed will have on their own travel plans.

If a price is low there are shouts of joy; when a company goes badly there are please for government intervention. When did personal responsibility and logic disappear?

There are no simple answers; in Canada some provinces offer consumer protection and regulation, and some do not. In those provinces where there is no protection at all, there is one and only one simple solution.

Buyer Beware.

Charter Flights vs. Scheduled Flights (Part I)

2009-12-12T17:08:00.000-06:00

There are enormous differences between charter flights and scheduled flights, and sometimes we all forget to take these into account when we book travel. Simply because a flight is regularly "scheduled" does not make is a "scheduled flight"; it is simply a charter flight that operates on with regularity. Similarly, a scheduled airline, operating a weekly service to a sunspot throughout the winter, carrying holidaymakers does not make it a charter airline. Unless, of course, it is an airline that has chartered its aircraft to an inclusive tour operator.

Get it?

It is, in fact, important to note the differences between each type of carrier before one purchases a ticket to ride; they each offer benefits and there are potential drawbacks that may not be obvious at first.

The most important difference is in the operating license. This is a code determining the standard of service that must be offered by an airline offering seats for individual sale. A charter operator is permitted a substantial freedom to alter their schedule by "up to 24 hours up to 24 hours prior to departure". This freedom is often used by vacation charters to offer departures on Fridays and Saturdays with their touching and everlasting optimism that this year will be the best. The flexibility in operating schedule means that they can "consolidate" the two flights a day or so prior to departure with no penalty.

Successive legal suits for damages resulting from this circumstance have found for the carriers with the overriding legal principle being the befit of the greater good; many more folks are able to take advantage of lower-priced vacations by allowing carriers this flexibility than those inconvenienced.

There is a message, however, and that is that travellers should make absolutely sure that they know the rules under which they have purchased an airline ticket.

Scheduled carriers, in complete contrast, must publish schedules and stick to them, even if only one passenger shows up to fly from Winnipeg to Timmins on a blustery Tuesday morning in February; consolidation is not an option. I must say though that there have been a number of suspicious "mechanical" cancellations that have stretched the credulity of a half-dozen or so inconvenienced passengers from time to time.

Carriers play this card with care; if a scheduled carrier arrives more than four hours late, they are required to file a "show cause" explaining why they are delayed. They run the risk of forfeiting their licenses should they develop a pattern of tardiness or cancellation, and do play this hand with great care.

We all use charter carriers from time to time; sun vacations, in particular, depend on a complex matrix of airline seats, hotel rooms, transfer vehicles and matching catering to maximise both the offering to the travelling public and the return to their own shareholders. Tour operating is extremely high-stakes poker, and I have boundless respect for those who play in this game; there are great risks and potentially great rewards.

The ability to vary their schedule to match their loads from time to time, however, is both a right and a privilege that they enjoy and use wisely, and a vital tool that allows them to offer a broad range of vacation products.

However, passengers booking flights with these carriers should be aware of the possible issues arising from this ability; do not book non-refundable tickets from far away to connect to a charter flight that might subsequently alter its schedule. You will be stuck with two exclusive contracts; one from the connecting carrier who has absolutely no obligation to make your trip work (after all, they only contracted to fly you to and from Toronto), and one from the charter operator who does not care how you "get to the airport"; their operating regulations permit schedule changes, and if they do so that have no obligation to passengers who suffer financial or geographic inconvenience.

So beware, buyer; know that rarely can one purchase the same product with wildly variant prices without a very good reason. Find out the reason, and then decide if you are willing to accept the potential risk.

Of course, one reason for chartering flights may well be to allow behaviour that may otherwise be though to push the envelope somewhat; a German carrier has recently advertised nudist charter flights. An expression of joie de vivre that might be frowned upon by a more staid carrier.

Next time, a financial snapshot of the differences between charters and scheduled flights!

Reflections

2009-12-07T09:03:00.000-06:00

All travel must come to an end, and it is now over a week since I returned from my journey.

I have missed posting, and have not done so for a couple of reasons; firstly, of course, is the requirement to work when one returns after a two-week absence, and secondly posting shifts from a daily report to a more reflective commentary, and I have been reflecting.

I love to travel to unusual places, and like so many other wanderers pretend to substitute observation with understanding. Observation is simple; it is a matter of watching and reporting. Understanding takes time and needs context, a commodity in very short supply. For myself, it was the enforced stay on the ship that allowed me to meet people whose acquaintance I would never otherwise have made, other than fleetingly, without our unscheduled respite on the Black Sea.

The countries of the former Soviet Union are unique, and their development has taken many different forms; from the Eurocentric evolution of the Baltic States to the inward pose of Belarus; from the resource-driven economies of Central Asia to the rather individualistic and quirky countries of the Caucuses and Black Sea, they are all different. There are, however, similarities; all have some legacy of the Soviet central planning in which a single country became a centre of production of a few items required by the Soviet block as a whole. By extension, other than a country's assigned product, everything else was imported from another specialised region. While one may argue the logic of such a system, when the block breaks up it leaves a lot of independent countries with some degree of singular skill and no breadth of expertise.

Of course, many of these specialisations were illusory, with industrial plants that were outdated fifty years ago, and little strength in a modern economy; today, the mantra of all is the absolute need for jobs to bring each region or country out from their malaise. There are vast differences between the major cities and the balance of each country, and the gulf between those who have money and power in and within the emerging economies and those who do not is striking.

Which leads me to the conversation on the boat, and the difficulty that my travelling companions had in seeing a future. "Without jobs", they said, "there is no possibility of development; and as long as we allow the Chinese to make everything we will not have jobs." It was instructive to hear how often China came into the conversation. From comments about China's manufacturing juggernaut and its effect on local business to their on-going quest to control the resources of Africa, China was on everyone's mind.

How developing economies, fragile at best, will be able to forge a path between the corresponding desires of the Chinese manufacturers and the West's desire to control the global levers of economic power remains to be seen. The issue is, however, noted by all, and that is a good sign. A high level of public education is a very strong legacy of the Soviet system, and in many cases of a level that is considerably higher that one might expect; this legacy also bodes well as people struggle to find their country's place in the global firmament.

As a destination to travel to, I think that the Caucuses are tremendous; they offer visitors stunning scenery, fascinating rural life, interesting cities, wonderful food, pleasant wines and above all some of the most hospitable people in the world. And they are accessible; frequent flyer point redemption puts Tbilisi, Baku and Yerevan on the same level as Southern Europe; those travelling on mileage redemption to, say Rome, would use no more points to extend their trip to include one of the Caucasian capitals, and I would highly recommend doing so.

I loved both Baku and Tbilisi, Yerevan too from a previous trip, and am already booked to return in August for a longer look, and a journey that does not include a ferry.

Bye Bye Baku

2009-11-27T03:09:00.000-06:00

What a remarkable trip. A journey like this, while simple today, would have been almost impossible only twenty years ago when this part of the world was an integral part of the Soviet Union.

To travel within the USSR required a degree of planning and cooperation that left most tourists visiting only the main, keynote cities and sites. I most certainly would not have been allowed to travel on a ship as I did, and would never have been able to spend time with, and get to know Andre, Archi, Ia, Tony and Aydin as I have been able to do.

My journey would have been grey; it would have been coloured only by sporadic flashes of life surfacing in unexpected places. As it was, I saw countries that are deeply troubled in many ways, but alive and with a sense of community that is often driven by a shared hardship.

I was left to wonder about many issues that we take for granted. Has the liberalisation of the economic environment really helped the majority of citizens? Has the disappearance of the “black market”, or perhaps more accurately the “parallel market” caused greater hardships for those unable to reach the comparative productivity of the west? How have so few been able to amass so much, so quickly, and will the spoils of the undeniable riches of the region ever get shared?

Business is difficult, with a bureaucracy that can defeat all but the most fervent; capital is hard to come by and credit expensive, and often denominated in foreign currencies and carrying a huge exchange risk. Think Iceland. Local money is short, think of the 10% reduction in ridership on the Baku metro in answer to a fare increase from $0.07 to $0.20; this is not indicative of well spread wealth.

An average monthly salary in Georgia may be about $200; insufficient cash to drive much expansion and these levels of income live side by side with those fortunate enough to be involved in the global economy, and making salaries comparable to their western counterparts.

My days in Baku left me with a bewildering sense of “user pay”; from petty traffic violations to, and I have to be honest here, the ability to bypass a queue of 1000 or more at airport security by slipping $10 to a willing policeman. Georgia, formerly regarded as the most corrupt country in the region has really cleaned up its act, although its relative poverty and the inability of most to be able to grease the outstretched hands may have had much to do with it. The Ukraine defies imagination in regards to the level of user-pay officialdom that permeates society, and forces a sclerosis as deep as the Soviets.

I love travelling in the region, and intend to continue to do so, and get to more of the more remote areas in the mountains bordering Russia. To visit even the capitals is a treat and a reminder of travel in the past, tinged with the very real global economy that has laid its mantle firmly over the economic future of the region. I have met so many warm, kind and truly hopeful people; I have seen sights, both geographic and natural that leave me speechless; I have eaten food, in rather generous portions it has to be added, that bring desensitised taste buds roaring back to life, and had the rare privilege of sharing a flake of a completely different life.

And so time to go home; I write this as I sit in the Istanbul waiting for my flight to Chicago and home to Winnipeg. It is a treat, today, I think as I am the only passenger booked in the First Class cabin, or so they tell me, and I am looking forward to a rather decadent day

Baku in a Day

2009-11-25T13:08:00.001-06:00

Well, where to start? This morning dawned grey and drizzly, but with the whole of the city to see and a day in which to do it, I ignored the elements and waited for Aydin.

Aydin co-owns, among other enterprises, a travel company in Baku and our mutual friend Ia in Tbilisi thought that we should get together while I was in town. Aidyn generously offered to come and show me a couple of things and would be at my hotel by 9.00.

By about 9.45 he arrived, having been gridlocked in Baku’s traffic; and what traffic it is! I have never, ever in my life seen such traffic; not in Mumbai, not Aleppo and not even Rome during a rainstorm in the rush hour. Baku’s traffic is awesome; traffic jams without apparent end, Ladas stuck alongside top-of-the-line Beamers, angry motorists neck and neck with those taking it calmly; I am so glad that I didn’t rent a car!

And off we went; to drive around the city and then to head out to the Abseron Peninsular to the north and east; we saw a temple on land sacred to Zoroastrians but built in the 18th century; the everlasting flame, so mystical to the Zoros, actually burned out some years ago, and today’s flame comes courtesy of the gas company, but the principle remains sound. We did, however see a real everlasting flame at Yanar Dag, as noted by Marco Polo himself. Ablaze for a thousand years is the story, although another has it that a local shepherd in the 1950s carelessly tossed away a cigarette and ignited a gas vent that has been blazing ever since.

In either case, it doesn’t matter; the principle of endless energy is synonymous with Baku’s astonishing growth, and it is a country that seems to be coming to grips with its new wealth in dramatic ways.

It is under construction; the city itself lies in complete contrast to the acres of oil derricks, some modern, some dating from the first oil-boom in the 1900s, that festoon the landscape as one drives out to the peninsular. In Baku however, all is new, becoming new, will be new and is absolutely Under Construction.

It is amazing; the turn of the century buildings sand-blasted to a uniform cleanliness offer a curiously movie-set veneer to the city; without the variable patina of age, it is not easy to detect the old from the faux-old; it is, however, really quite splendid.

A vast cornice runs for three kilometres along the Caspian shoreline, planned to expand to cover at least eight kilometres; substantial, gorgeous buildings inhabited by the worlds’ most expensive and recognisable brands lie adjacent to the old and rutted side streets that maze through Baku.

And in the centre, an Old Town that is breathtaking, and fortunately preserved. Town planners in the past fifty years have been less moved by historical culture that we would have hoped for, and much of Baku’s heritage has been usurped by modern Soviet Blocks; the Old Town, however is delightful and a most welcome diversion from The Traffic.

And so we continued our tour and walked through the new business district to a hotel whose 19th Floor Sky Bar offered a spectacular view of the city.

If I sound overly impressed, I am. All is not perfect, however, and one wonders about the division of wealth among the populous as whole, and the long-term consequences of the massive population shifts that they are undergoing. Such thoughts from a one-day visitor are churlish and require considerably more study. Which I will gladly undergo.

So why should one visit Baku? Well, firstly to see it, and realise that this great Middle Eastern city is no figment of a cartographer’s imagination, but a vibrant, exciting and important centre of commerce, culture and energy; it is an important and tolerant Islamic centre with none of the trappings of radicalism so devastating in other countries of the region. It is important to understand Azerbaijan; very important.

One can visit as side trip to a trip to Istanbul to admire and observe the differences and similarities of these two great Turkic cities; to complete an exploration of the Caucuses, one of the great cultural and crucial ethnic melting-pots in the world today or simply visit to have a look.

I am grateful to Aydin for his most generous hospitality on today’s frenetic tour; we saw a lot, talked about a thousand subjects and thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company; well, I certainly enjoyed his. We agreed to look at a number of exciting business opportunities and looked forward to our next meeting.

Which will be a lot sooner than either of us thought when we realised that we will be together in Australia in June at a trade show in Adelaide.

Baku !

2009-11-24T12:58:00.000-06:00

I actually made it, and I think I’m going to like Baku, once I get it figured out.

Arriving at the Heydar Aliev International airport in Baku is a really interesting experience. The terminal is wonderful, with no expense spared, the immigration lines efficient and quite friendly, baggage retrieval speedy and a couple of ATM machines to help one on one’s way.

Then the irritants start.

In a clearly well-off country, I am not sure why the police officers who hang around outside the arrivals really need to stoop to hustling taxis; fortunately having ascertained that the correct price is about 20 Manat (about $25) from a French, Old Baku Hand, their opening gambit was 50; I spurned their advances and offered 10, they countered with 40 and I wandered off to clear customs. Outside customs there was the usual murder of taxi-drivers, annoyed at the police spoiling their pitch, no doubt, so I settled on 30 and in to town we went. Why this absurd pantomime? I have no idea.

When I arrived in Warsaw last week, there were large signs in the arrivals area telling you how much to expect a cab ride to town should cost; sensible, easy and extremely helpful. It is an idea that should spread around the world and save travellers arriving in a city the angst of “The Arriving Traveller Taxi Rip Off Blues”.

But away I went, and what a drive! A ten-lane highway, whizzing past gated communities of upper middle-class housing on either side on the 35 kilometre highway; served, I have to add by tar-driven buses of a debatable vintage. One went the super highway only to collide with a ring of post-Soviet concrete buildings and thence into the city. Part Monaco, part Dubai, part provincial Russian town; part European, part Istanbul on steroids and all Baku.

I think I’m going to like this place.

It is, I have to say, a study in the difference between wealth and riches. The world’s finest brands are represented; lights, camera, action! Fabulous, and gloriously idiosyncratic. I love paradox; the clash of cultures; old and new, sweet and sour, your shout or mine, and Baku seems from first glance to epitomise these feelings. Extraordinary public buildings, lit with no expense spared adjacent to the medieval wall of the old town; fine shopping boulevards with ancient cross streets in a different socio-economic century; a stunning sea side corniche, fine cars, old Ladas and yet more ancient buses propelled by burning chicken-feathers.

They have a metro system here, and tomorrow I will take it to the end of the line and have a look; I like other peoples’ suburbs. Ridership apparently dropped by 10% when they increased the fares recently from $0.15 to 0.30, a major public policy issue. It does make you wonder how that get to work for less.

I am looking forward to tomorrow.

And, do you know, they have ferries that go from here to Turkembashi, across the Caspian Sea in Turkmenistan; very, very tempting.

Off and Away

2009-11-24T01:06:00.000-06:00

In the end, it was a bit of an anticlimax, as we slid slowly and very neatly into the small port of Poti. Small the port maybe, but it is a hive of activity, with a miscellany of the world’s tramp steamers here loading and unloading a cornucopia of loads.

Ships from Antigua, Majuro in the Marshall Islands, Panama and more were being emptied by a forest of rusty cranes onto a crumbling dockside; were I not in a hurry to move on, I would have loved to explore this scene of intimate internationalism. Each of these ships spend weeks and even months at sea, seeking cargoes, shifting cargoes and then seeking new ones, and only rarely come together for few brief hours in port.

And to them Poti’s inefficiency must have been glorious; actually time to get off the ship, head to eh seaman’s mission and chat to a wider audience than their own crew of ten or so. I have heard it said that seamen grumble about the inefficiencies of modern ports where they can be in and out in a few hours, and the historic, and possibly romantic, vision of seeing the world is now limited to expanses of water, and no longer the delights of exotic ports

We, on the other hand, felt bewildered at this inefficiency, and while I should have been used to endless and apparently pointless waiting, I certainly wasn’t. We docked and waited; Waited some more, retired to our cabins and waited. After about three hours of intermittent waiting and shuffling we congregated by the reception area and waited a little more. Finally, a Georgian officer started calling names at random handing back passports; one after the other and the “Johnson” came the cry. As mine was one of only two non-regional documents it stood out and as he handed it to me he paused, smiled and said “Welcome to Georgia, Mr. Johnson”. A completely unnecessary but generous comment and it made me smile.

So now we were free; we, the Tbilisians Archi and Tony, had arranged for a ride from friends that we had made, but after disembarking and waiting for a couple of hours, and there being no sign of any vehicles disembarking we decided to get a bus or a taxi.

From the ship to the harbour gate is about a kilometre across a rough, wet and grimy path, but fortunately there was a shuttle; at the dock gates Tony negotiated a taxi for the three of us, $120 for the five hour ride to the capital; a bus might have been $15 each, but it was late, we were hungry and anxious to move, so we climbed into a geriatric, red Opel and clunked off along the most appalling road that I have seen in my life.

First, however would be dinner, and we pulled up outside a non-descript that the driver knew and went into to a smoky, dark, cavern-like and utterly wonderful restaurant. This region of the country is not wealthy, and it shows, but at each table groups were eating, drinking and toasting with abandon, and so we followed suit.

Georgian cuisine is not exactly light-weight of possibly uber-nutritious, but is it delicious, and an hour later, after a splendid meal of kebabs, katchapouri (a sort of stuffed cheese pie) and khinkale (like perogies, but large filled with meat and a broth, to be eaten with care), a flagon of wine, and toasts to our families, countries (even Russia), peace, long-life, our new friendship and the wisdom of voters we headed out into the night, and headed East.

At about 2,00am, we slid into Tbilisi, still surprisingly awake, and drove through the old town, utterly gorgeous in pastel lights highlighting its absorbing architecture and to the Marriott where I now sit in a degree of comfort well removed from the Greifswald. An East German ship will remain an East German ship regardless of falling walls or reunified countries. Until she heads to the knackers’ yard, she will remain resolutely East German.

And so Baku is back on the agenda. I shall fly there this afternoon, cheating, I know, and be at the Caspian shore for my dinner tonight. I can hardly wait.

Land Ahoy!

2009-11-23T02:07:00.001-06:00

Well, this morning I received a note from my contact at the ferry company in Odessa:

From: VLADLEN [mailto:wave_vyt@mail.ru]
Sent: Mon 11/23/2009 1:34 AM
To: Max Johnson
Subject: Re: Help!

DEAR MR.MAX,

THE SITUATION WITH M/V "GREIFSWALD":

1/.DELAY BECAUSE OF THE WEATHER;2/.DELAY BECAUSE OF THE BULGARIAN FERRY "GEROI ODESSA".

2/.THE TIME OF THE BERTHING APPROXIMATELY 23.11.2009/13:00 AFTER THE DEPARTURE M/V "GEROI ODESSA".

BRGDS,VLADLEN TARASENKO

All looks good, and if the Georgian immigration formalities can be completed in record time (less than about four hours) we will be off, and in Tbilisi tonight.

So, perhaps I will fly to Baku tomorrow afternoon and spend a day there ... or maybe stay in Tbilisi and fly home from there on Friday .... we will see! In the meantime, spirits are lifted high, the mood on the ship is so buoyant we will need to be tethered to the sea.

It has been a very interesting few days, and as a part of life's rich tapestry, a valuable thread.

More tomorrow on the journey from Poti onwards!

When we lose count of the days

2009-11-22T06:37:00.000-06:00

Tension on board is mounting, and I would not entirely rule out the possibility of munity.

We are in a very strange position. Lying idle in the eastern end of the Black Sea, from the deck there is much to see. As I look to my left and sweep through 180⁰ I see three countries. Well, two countries and a heatedly disputed zone; Abkhazia, Georgia and Turkey. In Georgia, I can see both ports of Poti and Batumi and with a little imagination and a gust of wind can make out the clanging of the harbour cranes.

But we might as well be a thousand miles away.

We were late arriving here, and when we did arrive the port was closed due to the bad weather; this much I understand. We now hear that a Bulgarian ship that arrived after us is heading into port today, and we will get in tomorrow (100% maybe). This injustice is, I am advised, because the Bulgarian captain is willing to pay the port authorities while our skipper is not.

True or not, there are scenes of anguish as truckers lament their late arrival, parents worry about flu-threatening children, dowagers long to see their extended families and we all worry about the dwindling food supplies. And I am starting to worry seriously about my return flight to Canada.

Forget Baku! I am worried that I will not get to land ever again. We shall wander aimlessly from port to port seeking shelter for decades; a twenty-first century Marie Celeste.

Conversation, however, continues and is most interesting. Sitting with my Georgian and DDR friend discussing the Second World War was an interesting lesson in perceptions. Our memories of the war tend not to concentrate on the Eastern front, and theirs are equally peripherally concerned with the Battle of Britain. One fact that is inescapable, however, is the result of the carving up of Europe by the three allied powers, and the resulting social and economic disaster then the eastern bloc became.

Talking of development is interesting, and always seems to revolve around two themes; without jobs there will be no development and that whatever one wants to produce, with the level of production capability in the region it is impossible to undercut China.

And in a world of globalisation, domestic tariffs are out of the questions, and ridiculed by the Western-based economic hit-men that are pulling the strings of the global economy.

So what to do? There are domestic answers; Archi believes that by cutting red-tape and lowering business taxes from their current 60% level, small business would spring up, and I am inclined to agree. The countries of the Caucuses are blessed with fertile land, a good educational infrastructure and a relatively uncorrupted government, attributes that are rare in the developing world, and are surely preconditions to development.

But then again, he points out that the history of the region is conflict and one-upmanship, belligerence and posturing with strong clannish values. A wonderful home and culture, he thinks, but for the future? He shrugs.
And today the BBC headlines quote the president of Azerbaijan once more threatening military action to resolve a long-simmering dispute with Armenia regarding the enclave of Ngoro Karabakh.

Perhaps tomorrow will bring new insight, and with luck, landfall.

Floating with Oranges

2009-11-21T06:52:00.000-06:00

Now don’t get me wrong; the hours pass on board this ship at precisely the same rate as they do elsewhere, and I don’t begrudge the UKR Ferry Company the additional eighty or so hours of my life that I have given them, as the experience has been interesting; if a touch slow.

Being (at least) eighty hours late is an odd concept for those of us used to flying. Once you get on a plane and it has departed, it cannot stay aloft and circling indefinitely; it will land one way or another. Ships are not like that, although our idling in the Eastern Black Sea will be curtailed by a shortage.

Not of fuel, but food. Apparently, there is about another two-day supply on board.

This is mildly ironic given that our truck-cargo comprises about 50% perishable products destined to Caucasian markets. There are trucks filled to the gunwales with oranges, fish, chocolate and other one-way goods. Twice each day, the drivers are permitted to run their coolers for thirty minutes, and there is much relief that this is not the midsummer.

"Open the trucks and let’s eat the food", I say; I don’t really want to go back to Odessa.

I have given up hope of getting to Baku, the original intention of the trip, because the timing just won't work. I will get to Tbilisi tomorrow night (heard that before?) at the earliest, and while I could fly on Tuesday, it would only give me one day there. Not enough, and anyway, I like Tbilisi; I might still have to do if Turkish Airlines won’t change my return journey!

One advantage of being on board for so long is that I have had time to meet some interesting people. And, as my friend Ia said in an email from Tbilisi when I must have sounded a bit sorry for myself, “Try to look a all things from different view: 1. that was your choice, 2. Potentially you knew that this way of travel will not work properly, 3. Anyway you are on a good mood, 4. Hopefully not alone - this is very important, 5. not hungry, 6. not cold, 7. not under bombing risk” And she is quite correct, of course; particularly about the bombing.

It reminded me that last time I was in Georgia I left about a week before the Russian arrived with their characteristically aggressive entree. I had quite forgotten the terror that Georgians felt during the invasion, and her reference was quite appropriate.

And so, in a quest not to be alone, I have made two new friends from Tbilisi. At the minimum, they will assist in finding the right bus because they will be on it, but it has been most interesting to listen to their insights into this remarkable region.

Archie (my spelling) is a vet, made bankrupt by the Russian invasion and its consequential economic tsunami. On his way back up again, he has just been on a two-week trip to the Ukraine to look at urban policies concerning stray animals. It is really good to realise that even among the difficult and often inexplicable commercial life in the region that there are people who take these important yet ostensibly minor issues seriously.

It is an interesting feature of small and necessarily defensive and self-promoting countries that history takes on a completely different scale. Incidents spoken of as raw and personal grievances turn out to have happened hundreds of years ago. The Viking indignities, only recently forgiven by the North Atlantic Islanders; William of Orange’s insensitivities in Ireland; and here, the great deeds of King David the Builder shine contemporarily in people’s eyes.

This is a very good thing in many ways; we all know that those who forget history are condemned to repeat it. Although history seems to continuously repeat itself in the fascinating cultural that is the North and South Caucuses, I don’t think it is. I just don’t think it has finished yet.

Which is why a trip to Baku that has turned into three days in Odessa and five days on an East German bathtub has been wonderful; being so close to a culture and economy that is so far from my normal life is endlessly fascinating. Although I don’t pretend to understand much of what is going on, other than a shrewd guess that so many truck drivers will be whining about the cost of fuel and taxes, I have been offered a flake of an environment so foreign to my own.

And it is a true privilege.

100% Maybe

2009-11-20T11:57:00.000-06:00

The problem seems to be that of small ports and big ships.

It is Friday afternoon, and we have been advised that we can’t land today because there is a large gas tanker blocking our path to the single dock that can accommodate our ship. So tomorrow morning it is, as long as the weather cooperates.

Which is “100% maybe”, according to my German friend Not his phrase, of course, but what the scuttlebutt is around the ship. But tomorrow, of course, is the Bulgarian’s turn at the single railway dock, so we will have to see.

In the meantime, I seek new ways to amuse myself. Christopher Hitchen’s fine book God is not Great, while fascinating is hardly the sort of light reading that is called for; nor is Martin Walker’s tome The Cold War, although somehow the setting seemed appropriate. I have finished the only novel I bought, and there is a limited number of times that one can read the Kyiv Post, particularly an issue devoted to law firms.

So I ponder, write, wonder about the poor folks who have to make a living in these difficult countries.

And believe me, it is difficult. Simply put, there is no work to be had. I drank a coffee in Odessa, and lifted the cup to see “Made in China” (in English) on the bottom. There is simply nothing to be made even here in the world of low costs and expectations. And nor does there seem to be a potential of anything changing as the political leaders race headlong toward the holy grail of EU membership.

It is all about change, and expectation. Evolution or devolution; managed change or rapidly imposed change authored by distant consultants in Washington, Brussels and Moscow.

And it doesn’t take a genius to realise that those who do well do very, very well, and those who don’t are left further and further behind with no realistic possibility of any change. Their options are simply emigration at any cost or drugs; and the drug problem hereabouts appears to be rampant.

Which is not to say that they are inhospitable places or destinations to avoid; a simple glance at the economic-political structures of Mexico, the Dominican or Cuba reinforce this class difference and the futility of believing in state institutions. Hopefully it will change, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.

In the meantime we should all keep exploring, thinking and above all, questioning authority!

I am not particularly maudlin because of the ship lying at anchor outside Poti Harbour, but it doesn’t help. I am also quite bewildered by what is going on in Kaliningrad.

Kaliningrad is a very odd place, and one that I should visit. It is a sliver of land wedged between Poland and the Baltic states, and although an integral part of Russia, it is disconnected, and toed to the mother country by a railway that runs straight across EU territory. Very peculiar.

It first came on my radar a couple of years ago while I was in Trans Dniester, a really odd “country”, a break-away part of Moldova running along the Ukrainian border. While I was there, I chatted to the hotel manager who, when I asked what sort of future she longed for, answered “to be like Kaliningrad”. This was a bit of a show stopper as I had never considered the enclave to be at the peak of anyone’s aspirations, but there is was. Pointing out that they didn’t have a Baltic seaport, or in fact any port at all, were not advantageously located adjacent to the lucrative markets of Western Europe and that Trans Dniester was driven by drug money, money laundering and the most venal of arms transactions budged her not an inch.

And so today, when I met a delightful Armenian who was en route home to Yerevan for a vacation from Kaliningrad where he now worked, I was only slightly surprised at his enthusiasm. “It is wonderful”, he said, “a real international city. Russians, Polish, Armenians, Turkmen; everyone is there”. His eyes went a little misty at the thought of this bohemian paradise, and I became completely convinced to visit.

That is, if I ever get off this ship.

The Georgian Coast

2009-11-20T00:37:00.000-06:00

At the rate that we are travelling, we may never arrive, although I am led to believe that we will be there within four or five hours. I am not sure that I will be too disappointed to see the back of the ship, but it could be my preoccupation with timing and the uncertainty of the next step of the voyage that is getting to me.

When I saw that the vessel had been built in Germany in 1988 it didn’t actually register with me that it would have been East Germany; not that the DDR's engineering is suspect, of course, but their sense of decor, and the generally authoritarian stamp that has been imbued in the ship’s soul, is unusual.

Decoration is bland; think inexpensive rec room designs of the late seventies and wash away 80% of the colour. Inoffensive and cheap panelling prevails, and a sense of joy is almost completely lacking. Built for service, and presumably eavesdropping, the ship soldiers on in a new world order unaffected by change. This description, however, is perhaps unfair, because it is designed to be a ferry for trucks, and not a cruise liner; it is a working ship, a rare species these days, and I am glad to sail on her for this reason alone.

Most of my fellow-travellers are a breed unto themselves; primarily truckers working a very difficult route, plagued with paperwork and bureaucracy that defies imagination, they lead a difficult life. They all smoke incessantly, and as we edge closer to Georgia and freedom from the MS Greifswald, there is a sense of the open road.

Depending on the time, I shall try and find a bus to Tbilisi or stay overnight in Poti and head into the capital in the morning. The current issue is the language, or more precisely the script. An ability to read is essential when trying to catch a bus.

Georgian script is unique, and impenetrable to outsiders. Now I know that Wikipedia should not generally be quoted, but I will, and this brief entry should offer a glimpse into the linguistic quicksand into which I am entering:

“The Georgian word for "alphabet" is ანბანი [anbani], derived from the names of the first two letters of each of the three independent Georgian alphabets, which have the interesting characteristic of looking very dissimilar to one another yet which share the same alphabetic order and may be seen mixed to some extent, even though there is no official distinction between upper and lower case in writing the Georgian language”.

Get it?

The problem of finding the correct bus will be coming apparent. All I have to do is to find the bus station, which will be filled with minibuses and Georgian passengers in a wonderful mayhem, and find the one going to თბილისი. When I say "bus station", don't think of the shiny facilities of western cities, think muddy marketplaces full of noise, colour and idiosyncrasy.

Fortunately Georgia is not a very large country, and I can’t go terribly far wrong, although it might take an additional day or so to get there if I end up in a Russian-occupied border zone by mistake.

I have a Snickers Bar for company (don’t be fooled by the wrapping on a Ukrainian Snickers Bars; they are not the same, and taste rather different; not exactly fishy, but different, nonetheless). I didn't get breakfast this morning because my place at table 10 had been taken by a Georgian woman with her small grandson; their plac ehad been usurped by someone else, and I couldn't see an empty seat other than one at a table full of swarthy men who appeared to be wrestling team from Turkmenistan.

Food, other than at the proscribed time and in the proscribed portions is unavailable on the Greifswald.

So the plan is in place. We dock, wait for the Georgian border controls to do their thing, then I find the bus station, track down a bus, go to თბილისი and check into the hotel. Or not, depending on how the day unwinds.

All at Sea

2009-11-19T06:29:00.001-06:00

Ah, the miracles of modern technology; the internet on the high seas.

We slipped almost silently away from the dock in Illychevsk at about midnight, some fifteen hours after I had been urged to be at the dock for “borrdink’. Why it took so long, I have no idea, although when I asked one driver, he shrugged and mimed the payment of a bribe.

I wouldn’t be at all surprised. From reading the newspapers’ accounts of the issues of the upcoming election, corruption seems to be endemic, and a very serious impediment to the Ukraine’s growth, and its ability to be taken seriously as a forward-thinking nation. There is an extraordinary gap between rich and poor, one that in previously uncompetitive economic times was filled by the Black Market.

In complete contrast to Ukraine, however, is the ethic in Georgia. While disembarkation may, I am told, take several hours, any attempt to financially induce an officer to speed up the process will result in jail time. Interesting, that a country that was renowned only a few years ago following Eduard Shevardnadze’s premiership as the most corrupt of the former Soviet countries, it is now, at least on the “retail” end squeaky clean.

It is hard for many; now that the currencies of each of the former Soviet Block are readily convertible, the Dollar and Euro are the de facto currencies. Unable to come close to the efficiencies of the western nations, the relative value of the local currencies sink, yet all goods are still nominally denominated in the global currencies. It was said, of life under the communist system that “We pretended to work, and they pretended to pay us”. However, as long as everyone believed these fantasies there was food; as we all know, that particular emperor had no clothes, but it seems that while well-clothed, the emperor of globalisation’s garments are simply too expensive.

And so to sea; we are progressing across a mill-pond still Black Sea at a very slow rate. I don't quite understand the scheduling of this route because we are now told that we will get to Georgia on Friday at about 1.00pm, only four hours late, yet starting off twenty-four hours late. Very peculiar, but Friday is their day to use to sole railway dock, so it has to be done; by tomorrow morning, it is the Bulgarian's turn. Their ship, crossing from Varna on a weekly schedule is another service on the apparantly vital seaway, Inteesting stuff.

I just know that the sea is passing outside my porthole very slowly.

Lunch was almost as awful as dinner. Meals are served at a proscribed time, and for a thirty-minute period. Plates are left out, and will start getting cold immediately. With the powerfully testeronic atmosphere of the ship, and the almost complete absence of women, “chow-time” reminds me of prison movies. The soup was good though, but I am not sure what sort of animal had been cooked for the main course. We will see about dinner.

One is never far from a cigarette in this part of the world, and this ship, actually pretty vast to accommodate 53 trucks, fourteen railway freight cars, two 4WD vehicles and 130 passengers, is awash with smokers. Almost all are Ukrainian, Georgian or Armenian, and the primary fashion statement appears to involve various shades of black and grey. With a blue shirt and brown jacket I stick out like Liberace. There is one other” westerner” on board, a pleasant German fellow (originally from the DDR) en route to vacation with a couple of Russian friends in the Caucuses. I thought that this sounded a touch dangerous for a Russian here, but no matter.

Otherwise we mosey slowly forward, having just passed a couple of miles off the Crimean coast, and with it a brief phone connection, we now head straight across to the Georgian coast.

It is time to go and wander around, and pass time until it is socially appropriate to sample the Moldovan Red.

Odessa: Day 3

2009-11-17T07:35:00.001-06:00

It is now officially time to roll. I have my ticket in hand, the weather forecast is good and today was a simply gorgeous fall day here on the Black Sea coast.

Which was a good thing, because I was running out of things to do, and wandering around on a gloomy day wears thin soon. Today, however, I took to the streets.

I picked up my ticket from UKR Ferry this morning after finally finding their office. “On the corner of Preobrazhenskiy and Schepinka Streets”, they said. I did feel pretty silly not realising that the Odessa city fathers had renamed Yelisavetynskaya Street, Schepinka Street, but after some confusion I made it.

The reason for the delay, I was pleased to hear, was a high wind preventing the ship from leaving the Georgian port of Poti, not bad weather on the high seas. I paid (US$375 for single occupancy of a “Semi-Luxe” cabin for the three-day voyage, including meals) and received my ticket. I bought the most expensive option available; passage in a four-berth cabin with three others costs about $165 for the voyage. I wanted a little privacy.

So off then to sightsee some more; to the Potemkin Steps, the incredible harbour, statues-a-plenty and the Mother-In-Law bridge. With a name like that, who could resist finding out more. It turns out that a high-ranking official ordered the bridge to be built in order to be closer to his mother-in-law’s dumplings. Perhaps, but many men would see right through this explanation, and regardless of how wonderful a cook she was would be unlikely to build a bridge to aid access.

Today, however, the bridge appears to bestow long-lasting marriages upon newlyweds who secure a padlock on the steel railings. There are hundreds of them, and a very good view.

Back through the centre of town, wondering why it would not look completely out of place in (say) Uruguay, a guide book told me that in the late 1700s, much of the city had been designed by Italian architects, in particular the wonderfully named Francesco Boffo and Franz Frapolli.

I visited the train station, obvious by the large sign reading “VOKSAL” above the building. Well, it was in Cyrillic obviously, but this is a literal translation. This curious word, meaning station in Russian, apparently originates with a visit by two Soviet railwaymen to the UK in the 1920s to see how railways were run (they wouldn’t go there now for such a consultancy, but that’s another story). Seeing a large sign outside a main London Terminus called Vauxhall, they thought that the sign meant “station”, and took the idea home.

The Odessa station is a beauty, and the end of the line. From here, trains go all over the Ukraine and on to Moscow, Prague, Berlin and one really bizarre weekly service through some of the more peculiar trans-Caucasian states to Baku on the Caspian Sea. Sadly, foreigners are prohibited from riding this particular rail, so I shall make do with the ship, a shared taxi and a shorter train ride to get me to the Azerbaijani capital.

And it all starts in the morning; I did, however, take the precaution of purchasing a couple of bottles of Moldovan Cabernet for the ride. Frankly I think that I have bought at the wweapons-grade and of the spectrum from the bottles enthused about in the link, but I shall report.

Ship Delays and Moldovan Red Wine

2009-11-16T13:37:00.000-06:00

Odessa is a great place; in small doses, or possibly large ones in the summer, I would imagine. It is vibrant, down at heel, slightly seedy with great architecture and a fantastic variety of restaurants. It has the curious feel of a Summer Resort Out Of Season in November, and seems to seek a purpose. It is a walking place; few indoor attractions to keep one amused, although I am tempted (possibly because it is going to be Day Three) to visit the Odessa Museum of Regional Studies tomorrow. It actually sounds interesting “depicting the originality of Odessa during different periods of history; “Old Odessa”, “Odessa in the Second World War”, “Odessa Cultures”, “Multinational Odessa” (and I think my favourite(to be)), “Brother Cities".

Who could resist.

That, and a visit to the railway station; always a source of amusement.

Bad news today or at least news that was slightly disarming. The ship to Georgia is late due to inclement (probably foul, given the size of the craft) on the Black Sea has delayed its arrival by two days. Our departure is now scheduled for Wednesday at 1800, some twenty-four hours late. This itself is not a great issue, although the Odessa Regional Museum had better be blockbuster, it is the thought of a Black Sea full of the storms so well described in the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. It is, after all, November.

It is also odd that a journey previously supposed to take 60 hours is now scheduled for a mere 40; is this the marine equivalent of “tailwinds” or do they hold something in reserve? I will find out. At any rate, we are currently due into Poti at 1400 on Friday, and I would like to get to The Big City that night. I think the last bus may have gone, and I am relying on my personal charms over the forty hours of sailing to persuade an Iranian, Azerbaijani or Georgian trucker to take me to Tbilisi. We will see.

The red wine tonight, on the other hand was lovely. Still smarting from two glasses of truly toxic Bulgarian plonk last night, I headed to a different cafe for dinner tonight.

I have to add that last night’s expedition to the 4 Bulgarians was pretty good. In particular the soup which was a "Bulgarian soup from veal trip cooked with the addition of fresh milk and spicery. Served with garlic, vinegar and bitter red pepper. Recommended for extreme sensation lovers." Clearly, I could not resist, and it was fine; a touch disappointing, perhaps, given its wind-up, and the addition of the word “extreme” misplaced, but it was otherwise fine. Their house-red was awful; but I still managed two glasses.

Tonight, however, I ventured to a different and more local cafe, and had a great meal; soup, mutton and a coffee with three (3) glasses of a lovely house Moldovan Cabernet set me back $18, and I will probably go back tomorrow.

I like Odessa; it is probably a good thing as I have another thirty-six hours to enjoy myself, but it is interesting. It is a place to ponder; there are so many questions about the development of post-Soviet societies and fascinating to catch a glimpse of Warsaw and Odessa in consecutive days, and wonder how much the influence and support of Europe has assisted the Polish growth. It is also interesting to wonder about the death of the black market, and with it the ability of so many to survive in a non-Dollar/Euro economy.

More on these ideas later.

The Black Sea to The Caspian

2009-11-15T09:57:00.000-06:00

I like travelling, and in particular enjoy journeys. I like to start a trip in one place, travel by public transportation and end up in another.

Over the years I have had the opportunity to enjoy many of these minor odysseys, from Odessa to Beirut, from Istanbul (eventually) to Paris, from London to Aqaba, Adelaide across the outback to Brisbane; all over the place. And once, many years ago from Montreal to Bogota.

Now, I wanted to cross the Black Sea, and then the whole width of the Caucuses ending up in the Azerbaijani capital of Baku on the Caspian Sea. Planned for some time, and assisted mightily by the interesting fact that Baku still counts as Europe (II) for frequent flyer redemption points, the trip was booked and plans set in stone.

As I write this, I am in a bar at the Black Sea Hotel in Odessa, a slightly odd place, but as I am a repeat visitor, it clearly offers certain charms that I find attractive. Star ratings do not do hotels justice in many cases, and in others they create unrealistic expectations. It is rated as a four-star hotel, and might be according to some standards, but really it is a three-star property with some nice touches.

The property is about thirty years old, located close to the train station and about a twenty-minute stroll into the “centre” of the city. There are plenty of restaurants around, including a Bulgarian number that I plan on trying later on tonight; Odessa is a pleasant enough city to wander in and the location, away from the rather curiously upmarket centre, suits me fine.

It also helps to get a suite (small) for only $85 per night, while a modest single will only set one back about $55 or so. I did ask to be moved as the first room on offer (802) was elderly; the window held in place by scotch-tape, the carpet matted in all the wrong places, a strong odour of soviet cigarettes and a generally dissolute air.

Room 1102, on the other hand, is lovely; clean, bright and extremely comfortable.

Sunday in Odessa is not, we have to be honest, a hornets’ nest of activity. At least not in November. Young folks do still strut along Deribasivskaya, a major shopping and strolling street but with slightly less enthusiasm than during the summer months, and, it has to be said, with considerably more chaste clothing. The street, incidentally, is named after an improbably-monikered, Imperial Russian sailor named de Ribas, a chap of Spanish-Irish stock.

The markets, full of local artists of varying skills look a little forlorn, and the inevitable games of chess seem to have a sharper edge. The same Asiatic kitsch that one finds in street markets from Saigon to Yellowknife is all here, along with a surprising number of sub-Saharan Africans selling animal statuettes from street-corner blankets; one can’t help wondering how they ended up in Odessa (the wrong one, perhaps?, they were heading for Texas?), and just how brisk the model giraffe business might be. It is presumably reasonable judging by the twenty or so Africans sitting quietly in a remote corner of immigration at the airport.

But I digress; I am here to pick up my ticket for passage on the MS Greifswald tomorrow morning. This fascinating ship operated by the UKRFerry Company sails from Odessa to Poti on the Georgian coast weekly; Tuesday evenings at 2200, arriving in Georgia on Friday morning at 0900. Or so they say; I have a berth booked, and will pick up my ticket in the morning at which time they will confirm the exact schedule. The ship is designed primarily for freight, carrying whole railway trains and many trucks, but has 150 berths for the drivers and a few tourists.

I tried to do this a couple of years ago but was thwarted by bad storms. In the event, I flew to Yerevan and wandered around Armenia for a few days before heading to Tbilisi by train, and falling in love with the Caucuses.

So tomorrow I try again. The weather is lovely, the ship will likely sail, and I shall take my place among the heavy industry that is shipped between Europe and Central Asia on this most useful of ferry lines.