Our Shrine To Santa Garmina

Click on the pics to see them bigger

So, if you have ever tried to navigate in Europe, especially the parts of Europe that have roads and streets from the Medievel times, you know that it is not easy. Spread a big map out inside a tiny car and try to make your way around a rabbit warren of streets inside a walled hill town in Tuscana, where some streets are one way only, others are pedestrian only, many are too narrow for any car to fit down, and no one, I mean no one speaks English AND the signs are either not in English or not there at all! Go ahead, try it...I'll wait. Ok, your back. Now you know. So, at the urging of our pals Mike and Tori, we borrowed their Garmin GPS navigation system with European maps. Ever slammed your head against the wall over and over and over just to feel what it is like when you stop? That is the relief we felt when Santa Garmina took over and told us where to go, where to turn, when to stop, when to "enter the roundabout and take the second exit" and so forth. This thing saved our prosciutto (would have said bacon, but hey, Italy) more than once. Only once did Santa Garmina test us by trying to send us down a road that was literally washed out in a flash flood...we stopped at the edge of the rushing water in pitch black.
So, when we returned to lovely Roswell, where many people speak English, most of the signs are in English and we sort of know our way around, we decided to build a little Catholic type shrine to our new Patron Saint of travel in France, Italy, Monaco and Switzerland, Santa Garmina. Mike and Tori are coming to dinner here tonight (really, they just want their GPS back) and they will bow down before the sacred shrine. All hail Caesar and Santa Garmina!

The top of the photo of the GPS system in the shrine says "Santa Garmina, Save Us." There is a prayer to Santa Garmina under the photo which reads as follows:

Traveler’s Prayer to Santa Garmina
O Thoust who ever guides our path, brighten our journey with your ever present hand. When we were lost in the wilderness, you intoned your gentle direction. When we were hungry, you brought us to the feast. When we were naked, you looked the other way. O Santa Garmina, we beseech you, guide us to our destination, save us from bad food, and deliver us from evil and wrong turns. Amen

Home again, naturally

We arrived back home on Friday evening. Picked up our (much missed) dogs from Ron and Eunice. You remember them? They were the delightful couple we talked about at the beginning of this advenutre.


We travelled through NJ again staying at Patti and Kevin's BIG THANKS again...

Had to leave erlier than planned however b/c Katie V. had a little car accident (she ws not significantly hurt but bruised and battered as you can imagine when her car looks like this!!)










But we did stop into visit with our sweet little nieces Claire and Autumn (and oh yeah, their mommies too). Such darling girls.















Back home in Roswell now unpacking, recovering from jet-lag and can't wait to see you all...

No Splugen! Anywhere!

So I searched and searched for our beloved adult beverage called Splugen. I had even researched this little gem and to my profound disappointment, found that its maker Carlsburg, stopped making it. So, I was forced to consume mass quantities of fine French and Italian wine in order to satisfy my sensitive pallette.

The closest to Splugen I ever came was a chance sighting of a fabulous cruise ship...ok...it was a ferry, on Lake Como just off the town of Bellagio. We actually boarded its sister ship Ada for the Trans Como Crossing but I was quick handed with the Nikon and snapped the picture below. In the words of Bruce Springstien, "She aint a Splugen, but hey, she's all right."

Of Burgundy Wine and Hockey Legends--Beaune and Dijon---France

So we emerged from the Alpes, or is that Alps? I was in the damn country but I just can't be expected to remember such things. Anyway, we decided to make a detour to the town of Beaune, just a bit south of Dijon. Dijon, as you might remember, is where Jackie spent a year studying during her formative college years. As I said before, I am not sure what she studied, but A German might have been extra credit.

Beaune is in the heart of the famous Burgundy wine region. We found a nice little hotel and rested up for our last official day in Europe. We wandered around this great little town, checking out the hundreds of shops selling wine, cheese, meats, and the like. Rick Steves...remember Rick Steves? He told us, personally, from the pages of his travel guide, to participate in a French Wine Tasting Class given by any one of the many shops offering such a service. BUT, Rick specifically told us to go to Sensation Vin...and we do WHATEVER Rick says. www.sensation-vin.com Anyway, Sensation Vin happened to be about 10 steps from our hotel and 3 steps from another incredible Catholic Church. There's a surprise. We dropped in to see Celine (you know, like Celine Dion, but lots prettier and knows lots more about wine) She gave us a one hour private seminar on Burgundy Wine, how to READ a French Wine Label (trust me folks, there is a lot to it) and of course, how to use our sense of sight, smell and taste to choose just the right wine for...ok...our tastes. She was really really good, professional, knowledgable, and did I say pretty? We bought a bunch of wine from her. Another surprise.

From Beaune, we went to Dijon for lunch and to see some of Jackie's old haunts. While we were there, I remembered that my good friend Mark used to play professional hockey in Dijon in the early 80s. At least Mark "TOLD ME" he played pro hockey there. (He also told me he was the captain of the Dartmouth hockey team during HIS formative college years. hmmm. A trend developing?) So as we sat at lunch, I sent a text message to my pal Mark to ask the location of the hockey rink, stadium, ice, pond, etc he played upon. He replied and we were off to find the infamous location of some of the most exciting hockey games ever played in the history of mankind. We found the rink and it was occupied by many players in brightly colored jerseys. As we got closer, we realized that the players were all about 8 years old. THESE did not seem to be professional players, as far as I know. So I approached a man who was standing on near the edge of the pond (the "Rink" turned out to be a frozen pond) who appeared to be about 12 years my junior. Jackie, who speaks French, translated for me. I, through her, asked this man if he had ever heard of Mark Ardagna, the great professional hockey player from the hockey capital of the world...Dunwoody. His eyes lit up and said, in French of course, "Oui, oui, I remember him. He was our greatest player. And he was the coach too! I was on the team back then!" I was astounded by my good fortune having happened upon one of the very players from that formidable team. He went on to regail us with stories of Mark's exploits on the ice, scoring here, defending there, pounding opponents into the ice in the true NHL fashion. Then, I started to do the math. And, I was told there WOULD BE NO MATH! I, through Jackie, asked him his age. His reply was that he was 36. My lightening quick mathmatical mind and fingers quickly deduced the truth. This man was 10 years old when Mark was playing in Dijon. Jackie inquired about this apparent anomoly but his reply was quick. "Oui, oui! I was only 10. So were all the other players except for Captain/Player/Coach Mark! Coach Mark was the best! He scored many goals! He won many, not all, but many fights! He drove the bus and carpool!"

So now, ladies and gentlemen, you know the real story of Mark Ardagna, former professional hockey player in Dijon France. Apparently the Dijon Duc Hockey Club is a recreational league attempting to keep the gang oriented French yoots out of the streets. Mark had apparently been spotted by a sharp eyed scout, who was blind in one eye and unable to see out of the other one, while playing for the illustrious Dartmouth team. He was recruited heavily and joined the Dijon Duc club. The rest, my friends, is apparently slightly altered history.

The Cat Woman

Life is meaningless without perspective. Jackie and I chanced to meet an older woman (anyone older than us is “older”) while standing in line for the second security clearance. At her feet was a carrying bag designed for small animals, and yep you guessed it, she had one in there! She had a very docile little cat who we later found out was not drugged at all, but was very used to such travel. (This should have been our first clue to run the efff away.) Jackie, of course, made a fuss over the cat, having abandoned our three cats to the care of friends and, well, Jackie’s mother. Jackie asked, in French, about the cat and saw the roll of the eyes from the woman. Jackie then asked if she preferred French or English. The response was, after a sigh, was, “whatever you want lady.” Taken aback, Jackie asked if she was all right. Her response was, “No, not at all.” So, being the fixer of broken hearts, Jackie said she was sorry and the woman engaged, in English about how, very, very disappointed she was with l’Avion. This was the first time she was flying on this airline and it just didn’t seem to be worth the $1,000.00 she saved by flying this airline vs. AirFrance in business class. She travels to France at least 6 to 8 times a year to stay at her home in Nice and attend the multitude of soires they have for “those who can afford to have second and third homes in the French Riviera. She told us of one event that is held each November in Nice for all the Americans who “winter” there. It is a traditional Thanksgiving dinner and gala ball. She said she sat next to a military officer of “some rank” (which she implied was a HIGH rank rather than just some rank) who asked her if the woman who had just left the table was wearing real diamonds. She told him, that yes they were real and there were at least $1m worth of jewels on the women at this event. She made quite a point to tell us over and over that the circle in which she runs is of course quite elite. I asked her what details made this such a “disappointing” flight. She said the seats didn’t fully recline into a full bed, the food was not quite as good and they only gave you a blanket rather than the plush comforter. So I suppose having about 3 more degrees of seat recline, even MORE fabulous food and a better blanket would have been worth the extra $1000. While I wanted to say, “hey lady, how many starving Ethiopians could be fed on the $1000 you saved,” but of course I didn’t. I just killed her cat.

Alice at the airport, part Deux ADULT CONTENT WARNING!!

AIRPORT ‘08
Starring: Alice (That’s pronounced Ah-Lee-Chay) Viano

-ADULT CONTENT WARNING-

Put away the children boys and girls, Alice is at it again!

I was oh, so proud of myself for making the executive decision to skip the hike to the Metro to the Termini and train it to Fiumicino airport with my suitcase heavy with wine and olive oil. Choices to reduce stress are always wise ones…unless the choices one makes after are as lame-brained as mine were.

Once again, I found myself wandering around the airport, looking for the Alitalia desk to check my bag and obtain my boarding pass. It’s cool, though. I’m here with TONS of time. I’m so clever! I finally found am employee who could direct me, and even she could not explain why there were no signs in Italian or English which might help. When I approached the desk, I could see that Alitalia had pushed my flight back, yet again. Departure at 5:10, instead of 4:25. Now this flight is officially delayed almost seven hours. While waiting in line, I strike up a conversation with a gal named Debbie who explained that she was returning to New Jersey after living in Rome for 16 months. She had four giant bags to check. Yikes, I thought. That’s gonna be expensive. She was chatty and nice. She was accompanied by a friend who was not travelling, but assisting her. His name is Rick, and he’s an ex-pat, a retired college professor from Boulder, CO. Needless to say, we chatted as we waited. Rick and Debbie seemed to know the language, the system and the process of navigating this airport. I was relieved and accepted their invitation to meet them at the café where Alitalia would pick up the tab for our lunch.
Note: I will acknowledge here, that Jim and Jackie specifically warned me about talking with strangers from my own country. Sadly, I heard but didn’t heed.

When I finally met up with the “americans” I had already filled a tray at the café only to be flatly rejected by the cashier. She would not, in fact, accept my boarding pass from Alitalia. No idea what I was talking about. I left the full tray of food with her and walked away. (I HAD already enjoyed a delicious lunch…just wanted to get some free stuff from the effing airline.) Debbie and Rick were dumping large amounts of vino into plastic cups and gulping it down. MY FIRST CLUE. Debbie still had a push-cart for her “carry-on” items, which included two VERY heavy bags, a fur coat, and a large golf club. SECOND CLUE. “They won’t let you carry a golf club on the plane” I suggested, politely. “Oh, sure they will,” Rick and Debbie both asserted. “Security in Italy is nothing like the states.” Well, what did I know, right?

At 4:15, I was up and collecting my things to head to the gate. My companions chided me for going so early, again proclaiming that security, etc. at this airport are pieces of cake. “Really?” “Sure,” they replied. I pictured the gate just on the other side of the doors downstairs. “We’re just gonna finish up and we’ll go together.” Okay, I thought. They know better than I, surely. (Am I on crack?)

At 4:40 we got in line at security and there, on a big sign was a picture of a golf club with a red line thru it. Now I’m pretty sure we’re cutting it close…and I want nothing to do with the security routines about to ensue with my travelling companion. I turn to her as my backpack passes through the x-ray machine, “I’m gonna kill myself if I miss this flight. Good luck, Debbie. I’m outta here.”

The next hall revealed a line about 100 people deep to get through immigration-with one officer working. I stood there about 30 seconds and marched up to the front. It is now almost 5:00. Holy shit, I’m gonna miss a flight I’ve waited all day for. Seriously, I’m going to commit a violent act-on myself. Now I certainly wish I had some crack. I begged the couple at the front of the line, and they mercifully let me go next. Why they shouted, “Have a great flight to Argentina!” I didn’t pause to find out. Excellent! Passport stamped. Where’s the gate? I start to sprint. I go about a quarter mile…and the sign directs me downstairs? That’s weird…No, wait. A train? This is not happening. Sweat pouring off me, I pace as I wait for the train. Hopping off at some other location, I begin sprinting again. It is 5:11. I’m fucked. I can’t believe my stupidity. Up the escalator two steps at a time, shouting all the way. Another quarter mile at full speed…and I mean like a sixteen year old track star. And then I was there. “Newark?” an attendant called out to me as I approached, panting and nodding. She points to the stairs to her left. I trip down two flights to…wait for it…a BUS, empty and waiting for us. I climbed on and we waited. Go, go, go! I want to scream. Don’t even wait for that crazy woman. Please, just take me now! I’ll blow the lot of you, seriously.

About two minutes later, they closed the doors and drove me another mile out to the waiting aircraft which seemed to be parked in Tuscany. I tongue-kiss the obviously gay flight attendant after he announces my arrival to the pilot “Grazie mile!”…at which point the door closes, I get buckled in and we are on our way. Debbie never makes it on.
So much for reducing stress.

From the "So you think Alice had a hard time at the airport, then read this Department"

Jackie and I arrived in the Paris area about 6pm Monday evening and checked into our room at the Campanille motel. This is the French equivalent of the Motel 6, where they’ll keep the light on for ya. This room was clean, efficient and had comfortable beds, but no chocolate on the pillows. A sure sign that this trip wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. We spent the evening in our room, blogging, rearranging our stuff in the luggage, and feasting on Parma Ham and Prosicutto we bought in Milano, French Bread, three different incredible cheeses purchased in Beaune France, and of course, a beautiful Chateau Nuf Du Du Du Soui, Du Du Du Soi (some red wine) also purchased in Beaune from the beautiful, charming and informative Celine, our French Wine Appreciation Course Professor and all around nice lady. I struggled with the wireless network which curtailed my blogging activities for the evening so Jackie and I retired to the comfort of our separate twin beds. (after all, it’s Jackie’s vacation too) We awoke at 9am, to the sound of other people leaving their rooms and checking out. Hmmmm. I cannot believe we were disturbed in such a way. Bad sign. We partook in our lavabo, completed our departure preparations and dialed in the coordinates for the Hertz car return at Orly Airport. Santa Garmina guided us directly to the exact parking space designated for us, big shots. We executed a perfectly smooth transition from the Hertz counter to the l’Avion desk where a very nice Nigerian lady who speaks both English and French took care of all the check in and luggage checking procedures. No line and no delay. We moved on to the security area where of all things, Jackie was tagged for a search of her carry on luggage because she had some water in a bottle! How rude! I cannot believe that these French actually follow generally accepted security procedures! Another sign that this whole trip was a huge disaster. So after a 3.37 minute delay waiting for Jackie to get through security, we moved forward to the special reception lounge reserved only for passengers of l’Avion. We were greeted at the door by a stunningly beautiful young lady proffering a glass of Champagne (the real Champagne, you know, sparkling wine from the Champagne Region of France, not the New Jersey Pine Barrens.) But the nice young lady didn’t offer me the Japanese Shiatsu message I sorely needed. The massage she offered was merely a hot rocks and oil massage which did not fully relieve the soreness in my scapular area caused by seemingly continuous lifting and lowering of my wine drinking hand. This trip is getting worse. So we settled into the scrumptious leather seats in the lounge, finished our Champagne, and moved on first to free cappucini with croissant and pain au chocolate, then to Jack Daniels on the rocks for me, and Absolute on the rocks for Jackie. Also for free. Good thing too, because I wanted Gentleman Jack and Jackie prefers Belvedere. OK…they get a pass on that…no net loss, but certainly no net gain. So here we are, in the lounge, relaxing with free drinks, two hours from our departure time, awaiting our boarding onto a lovely aircraft to further relax in gigantic luxury business class seats, and I felt compelled to relay our dismal, disappointing, dare I say, pathetic experience in response to Alice’s whining, nay, blatting about her nothing problems at the airport in Roma. You know, some people just need to suck it up. Oh, yeah, that is what Alice offered to several airport officials in order to make her plane. Well, there you have it. Alice’s experience was far from ideal, but OURS! Well, you read it for yourself; you be the judge. I hope our actual flight is better…one can only hope. Ah, but HOPE is not a strategy. I think I will have another drink…for free.

Trip to Newark follow up.
So, they called us to board our flight a whole hour before departure time! How inconvenient! We quickly finished our free drinks and moved off toward our gate where we had to stand in line, we had to stand in line, we had to stand in an effing line! Our position in line was directly behind “The Cat Woman.” I will have en entire entry in our blog about this individual but suffice to say, she provided some perspective to our totally unfortunately and very, very disappointing experience with l’Avion. Anyway, the reason they called us so early was that they had yet another security checkpoint for us to go through and one even more rigorous than the normal security. The checkpoint had one person examine our carry on luggage by eye and by x-ray, while another shepherded us through a metal detector. Once through the metal detector, Jackie was patted down and checked with a “wand” by a female security officer. I was summarily pushed off to a male officer. There is yet another sign that this trip stinks. I had to get patted down by some snaggletoothed Frenchman with a lisp while Jackie got felt up by a babe with the French equivalent of an M-16. Damn. Anyway, we had to endure another round of humiliation and degradation while going through the security. I cannot believe they were doing it to protect us. It was just a ploy to make us Americans feel like the losers we are. We then boarded the plane to find more Champagne waiting for us at our gigantic lay down, support your head with ear cushions, adjustable foot rest equipped leather seats. How low class is that? Didn’t they know we already had Champagne in the lounge? Really. We gulped it down while enduring the gorgeous French flight attendants drone on and on about seat backs, tray tables, flotation devices and the like. Good God, another round of Champagne. I cannot take it a moment longer. After takeoff, the sexy flight attendants came by with steaming hot towels for our faces and hands. Just another slight against Americans, I suppose. I guess even the French think we are dirty! Dinner was served on glass, china and with stainless steel utensils. When I unwrapped the utensils from the napkin, I was made aware by the sheer number of individual instruments provided, that we were in for a huge volume of food, most likely designed to make us all feel totally stuffed and thus, unwell. As usual, I was right on target. They served salad with bread and large chunks of chicken. They served us Duck with a duck sauce (which was not the perfect medium rare that I asked for) with beans, potatoes and more bread. Then there was the cheese course with three, count em, three different French cheeses, or as they say in Frenchland, Frommage. More bread. Along the way, we had many, many glasses of Bordeaux wine (that is wine from the Bordeaux region for all you pikers out there) and sparkling water. For goodness sake, there was then the desert…a cream puffy pastry like thing with, you guessed it, creme in the center. The crème was some sort hazelnut flavored stuff, which Jackie does not care for, so there is yet another taste of the horrors we endured. (safety tip for all you dinner party hosts…Jackie does not care much for anything with hazelnut flavor in it. Please adjust your menus accordingly. Otherwise, Jackie may roll her eyes behind your back like she did to the flight attendant, and you know how painful that can be.) After dinner, we were forced to drink at least 3 glasses of Remy Martin cognac and then the flight attendant prepared me for my nap. She put my seat back, donned my little l’Avion supplied booties, adjusted my noise cancelling headphones, drew the window shades and tucked me in with the plush comforter. She did NOT, however, massage my temples like the brochure promised, so this part was rather a bore. Oh, I did forget to mention the personal video device provided (again, for free) so we could dial up all sorts of movies, music, TV show episodes, etc, on demand) I cannot believe they would foist upon us yet another piece of electronic equipment that we have to attempt to decipher. What a bother. We just shoved them into our respective seat pockets where the barf bags and exit maps are stored. So, as I type this record of our very, very disappointing, rather awful flight back to Newark, we are exactly 2:36 from our arrival. I don’t know what other torture these people have in store for us during the remaining time aboard this flying Gitmo, but be certain, I will provide you with the blow by blow (Sorry Alice) summary when I can. By the way Alice, Debbie was on OUR flight. She must have hitched a ride from Rome to Paris and boarded our flight right behind us. I recognized her by spying her luggage claim tag showing that she was to retrieve a large golf club at baggage claim in Newark. We did not identify ourselves, of course but we did engage her in conversation. She recalled her experience in the Rome airport only days before saying something about some crazed, broke, blonde (ish) woman who was offering “favors” to anyone at the airport who would get her on her flight. I had no idea who she was talking about but it was the best thing that happened to us on this horrendous trip. "More of anything?" asks the flight attendant. "More of EVERYTHING!" says I.