Having always had a travel itch for Paris, Christine decides it would be a wonderful idea to tackle the Paris Marathon in the year of her 50th birthday. The first thought barging into my brain is ‘well, we’ll need to do some carbo loading, so why not begin in Italy’. And so as winter regurgitates the spring our trip is set!
Our first stop is Italy’s hydrated city of Venice where the streets are made of water. Hopping aboard a ‘vaporetto’ water-bus we join a flotilla of gondolas and other watercraft plying the commercial spinal cord of Venice; the Grand Canal. It has justifiably been baptized as ‘the most beautiful street in the world’ with the building foundations cloaked below the water and creating the wonderful hallucination of a floating city.
Christine and I enjoy a little canal cuddle passing beneath the Rialto Bridge, marveling that we are actually here. Docking near the famous San Marco Square we use Sherlockian skills to burrow through a confusion of narrow alleyways to our hotel and promptly rescue some wine trapped inside a bottle.
In the midst of clinking glasses on the balcony a serendipitous moment unfolds with a stripe-shirted gondolier belting out a song as he gracefully oars his shiny black Venetian limo through the canal below. We share a gurgle of laughter enjoying our own private episode of Italian Idol the as gondola and gondolier disappear down the canal, leaving behind only ripples lapping up against the foundations of the medieval buildings. Aaah … quintessential Venezia!
With the masses of day-tripping tourists invading the city, overwhelmed locals are hardly a threat to win any congeniality contests, and in fact, with their Venetian noses stuck up so far in the air it’s a wonder they don’t drown when it rains! Piazza San Marco is a lively people-watching square with a surplus of busking puppeteers, mimes, mask sellers, and musicians all competing to lighten tourist purses.
In this Euro-eating city one almost needs an inheritance to purchase a meal. We learn the hard way that sitting down in a restaurant also invokes a healthy 12% service fee, and even the glass of water and bread automatically brought to the table will have several Euros laying down their life. Mamma Mia, with the prolific pillaging of patrons’ pockets it’s no bloody wonder so many Italians choose to eat on their feet!
Next time we solemnly vow to do take-away so as not to have to declare bankruptcy by getting our buttocks involved! And on the subject of buttocks gentlemen, let the record show there is no shortage of Italian beauties who love to accentuate the jiggle of a superior posterior, as balanced atop precariously high heels the arousing flirtations in denim love to strut their butt in designer jeans strained to the point of rupture.
Venice is not an easy place to get to know, and while exploring a puzzle of alleyways seemingly patterned after a laboratory’s rat maze we stumble upon a small tavern with a gaggle of garrulouse of grandfatherish gents chitchatting over a glass of their beloved vino. Sitting down to enjoy a glass ourselves we get a kick out of watching them using their hands for emphasis while speaking in a sing-songy language with all their words seemingly ending in a vowel.
After boating to island of Murano to see its famous blown glass creations, it’s time for us to press on, and three trains later we arrive on the opposite side of Italy in ‘Cinque Terre’. The World Heritage Site is comprised of five photogenic fishing villages defying gravity by clinging limpet-like to sides of the rock cliffs.
In the past the villages could be reached only by donkey or boat, but now with a commuter train in place the old donkey paths have become a hiker’s paradise. We’ve chosen the picturesque and precariously perched village of Vernazza as our base during our stay. Once home to only fisher folks it has since morphed into a tangle of tourists where nowadays the ‘fish’ walk the streets buying jars of pesto!
At the crack of dawn Christine and I begin our hike of Via Dell’Amore; a footpath stretching through all five villages of Monterosso, Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola, and Riomaggiore. Following a rocky trail through groves of olive trees clinging for dear life to an almost vertical hillside, the ‘Path of Love’ treats us to vistas a seagull would envy with the Mediterranean Sea a sheet of wrinkled turquoise far below. Bellissimo!
In Manarola we stop for a tasty pastry and a luscious cup of hot chocolate so thick it has to be spooned out of the cup. Rising from the sea, the village’s unorthodox main street has boats parked on it instead of cars, and sitting out on the sidewalk during our ‘breakfast with the boats’ we wonder if it’s also socially acceptable for these fishy folks to wear hip waders to their wedding!
Hiking all the five hamlets in less than three hours has jostled our joints into submission, and to appease them we purchase a bottle of Limoncello. Today is Easter, and back in our room the thoughtful owner has placed a Calla Lily and a few little chocolates on our bed. Limoncello and chocolate? Yes please!
Suffering from terminal osteoporosis, the tipsy tower of Pisa is overwhelmed by a crush of tourists fake-frolicking for their cameras. Not comfortable in the large crowd we return to Vernazza, pack our bags, and ride the rails into Milan for a connecting train to the commune of Casorate Sempione.
Christine is definitely in a grump, having had no idea our routing would be taking her through Milan. Mindful of it being the fashion capital of the world, I can neither confirm nor deny that I somehow forgot to divulge the city as being on our itinerary.
Truth be told, I’m fearful of losing the house and both kidneys to cover the debt should the woman escape even briefly to cruise for shoes! Escorting ‘Ms. Thrill-at-the Till’ to the train under duress, her exasperated eye-rollsletmeknowI’vebeenfoundguiltyofmyploy.
Usually we’re on the same page but this time we’re not even in the same book! With no acquittal in sight, it’s abundantly clear that my perturbed and petulant princess is much more than moderately miffed at missing out on moseying about the metropolis of Milan!
After checking into Castagni B & B’s lovely old mansion we dawdle about the tiny village buying food rather than fashion; which in my estimation will be significantly more useful for tomorrow’s picnic. In regards to the cold war created by circumventing Milan, my fashionista wife may be on the road to forgiveness but is hardly at the destination. It seems that Hell hath no fury like a woman shanghaied out of Milan!
Seeking directions in the town of Arona from a stylishly stout older Italian mama, she says in a limb-aided lingo: ‘you no walk-a dis way-a, only howses and moomoo’. Her response curls up our lips and we offer thankyous before choosing the alternate fork in the road. A few miles later we plonk our sit-upons down on the outskirts of the picturesque town of Stresa on the shore of Lake Maggiore.
Swans elegantly glide past to say hello and we kick off our shoes for a picnic in the sun. Our daypack pack births a bottle of wine, cold cuts, tasty cheeses, juicy strawberries, and a crusty baguette so fresh that we almost have to slap it. Under a bluetiful we savor the kiss-your-fingertips collage of calories while enjoying the music of the grapes and admiring the calming vistas of the lake and Borromean Islands.
Extracting the charm from a new day my watch alarm sullies the silence at 3:45 in the morning. Feeling like bears prematurely roused from hibernation, we rush to the airport only to learn our flight to Paris has been cancelled due to a strike by air traffic controllers in France. We wait, and wait, and wait. Thirteen hours of terminal tedium definitely takes the pep out of our step, and our delay is further aggravated by apathetic airport staff that seems to have all graduated with honors from the college of ‘Eye-Don’t-Geef-A-Sheet’!
During the arduous ordeal we strike up a friendship while joking about with a French character also named Marc, who just happens to be a well-known artist, friends with both Fidel Castro and the Prince of Monaco! Finally arriving in Paris along with ‘notre nouvel ami’, he insists on having his driver deliver us directly to our booked Saint Pierre Hotel. What for the most part has been a horrendous day ends with a big tip of the chapeau to Marc for a pleasant introduction to his beautiful city.
After playfully verbal sparring with our good natured hotel manager named Mohammed over the first 24 hours, we ask if we can switch to a larger room since ours is barely bigger than a phone booth. Flashing gleaming enamel my rival smart-ass banters me into checkmate by articulating; ‘oui; for zee madame, ear ees a key to a room on zee 4th floor, and pour vous cher monsieur, a pillow on zee street!’
‘Bonjouring’ our way about old Paree while purchasing food for a picnic in the park, we find Parisians much friendlier than their reputation for aloofness suggests. As the light of day begins sliding away we munch tasty crepes for dinner under the most beloved and conspicuous of Parisian landmarks; the magnificently illuminated Eiffel Tower.
Leaving the thousand foot metal marvel we splurge on a night cruise along the charming River Seine. Paris is known as the ‘city of lights’ for good reason, and captivated by its sprawling beauty the two of us can’t help but snuggle and share a lip-lock as the boat passes beneath the city’s stunningly lit up bridges. Ooo–la-la, Paris can certainly be a charmer!
Walking through different arrondissements today we stop beside the amazing Notre Dame Cathedral and lower our ass to the grass for a picnic. Looking upwards we find ourselves being chaperoned by gothic gargoyles whose ugliness cannot be over exaggerated. Early to bed tonight with the marathon looming tomorrow!
The Paris Marathon
Today is D-Day, and we are harshly dragged to consciousness by the piercing insistence of my watch alarm. Knuckling sleep from our eyes we peer out the hotel window into the dark of morning and then commence race preparations.
We hydrate, eat a banana, tape nipples, hydrate again, apply Vaseline to all strategic areas and then pin on numbered race bibs. All warriored-up the two Victoria foot soldiers are now combat-ready, and armed with another banana we leave the womb of our room to make our way to the marathon starting line.
Of 35,000 entrants registered from 87 countries only 28,261 are actually starting. Even though this is significantly less than when I ran down a dream by completing the 100th Boston Marathon with over 43,000 runners, we know with today’s 56,522 hurried legs pounding pavement we’re going to lose each other once the race begins. Agreeing to rendezvous back at our hotel when it’s over, we share a big hug and wish each other well, vowing there’s no chance in France that we will fail in our mission!
With daybreak revealing completely empty blue skies and the temperature already at 27 degrees my guess is today’s forecast calls for pain! Nervous energy and anticipation ratchet up the tension at the starting line as the final seconds are counted down.
BANG! The gun sounds, and from corrals on the spectator-lined Champs Elysees runners are propelled forward in a labyrinth of legs while trying to avoid a flotsam of skiddy discarded plastic water bottles befouling the grand boulevard.
This race is dubbed the ‘Monumental Marathon’ because of iconic structures residing along the way including the Louvre, Bastille, Notre Dame, Eiffel Tower, and the Arc de Triumph. Despite the ballooning temperature a runner’s euphoria kicks in as my shoes thud rhythmically along for the first 10 km. Motivation is provided by enthusiastic bands, dancing girls, and large crowds screaming ‘Allez, Allez’!
Some degree of masochism is a prerequisite for running a marathon, but a nagging hip injury along with today’s weather climbing into the early thirties begin to confiscate my confidence. Around the 25K mark the smile miles have evaporated. My ‘hammies’ are yapping at me, and I don’t much like what they have to say!
The race passes by many applaud-worthy Parisian sights but at the 30K point I meet up with that bastion of brutality known as the ‘Wall’. No, not the Pink Floyd album; simply a point when body muscles run out of glycogen and it feels as if an invisible hippopotamus has chained itself to the ankles!
With the day now hotter than a hillbilly finds his sister I pour water over my head at a rare aid station and gasp for breath as it cascades down over my body. With every muscle and tendon angry I plod on with the speed of a three-legged elephant; doggedly determined to fulfill our promise to each other of finishing.
Marinating in moan as I approach 35 K, I realize that my finishing time no longer matters. At age 58, my 2:50 marathons are now just memories from a time when I wore a younger man’s sneakers. This marathon is not about the clock, it’s simply about finishing. Wailing ambulances are heard far too often today and I pass three more runners being stretchered off the course due to the burgeoning temperature.
Avalanched by fatigue during the last kilometers that the thighs despise in the seemingly unending Bois de Boulogne Park, my lungs also begin to boycott the run. Each slap on the asphalt causes a tsunami of agony in my weakening legs; but wait, what do I see ahead? Could it be? Hell yes – it’s a wine stop! Where else but Paris would a Medoc group be doling out gallons of plonk to struggling runners 39 km into completing a marathon!
With the faith in my feet faltering and a podium finish improbable I no longer give a frog’s fart about my time and stop for a few glugs of grape; though what I’d really like is to bathe in it to ease the issues with my tissues! However, I didn’t come this far just to come this far, so digging into my innermost reserves I slosh off in a geriatric shuffle towards the finish, hoping like hell not to end up like Phidippidès!
The harsh 32 degree heat continues taking its toll on runners. Over 6,700 registered runners chose not to start today’s marathon, and of those of us who did, another 1,322 are unable to finish. Unfortunately race organizers were unprepared for Mother Nature cranking up the thermostat and put runners at serious risk by running out of water at the aid stations.
With an enthusiastic crowd buoying my spirits I command my totally knackered body over the final 200 meters to the appropriately named Arc de Triumph. Wobbly of knee, and looking like a penguin negotiating a treadmill, I cross the finish line on Avenue Foch to complete the 42.195 kilometer run. Pardon my French, but all I can say is thank Foch it’s over!
Everything aches, take your anatomical pick, and like so many mega runs before I’m now moving about like a brontosaurus with chaffing issues! Gingerly gimping down the Metro steps on my return to the hotel I am worried about Christine surviving the heat as I know how desperately she wants to complete this marathon.
While soaking my spasming legs in the tub trying to ease my bodily grievances, Christine shuffles into the room. Wearing a huge smile birthing cheek dimples, she is euphoric to have also completed the difficult race, and ready to celebrate an accomplishment worthy of her half century of planetary occupation!
Before bidding ‘au revoir’ to enchanting Paris Christine is off on a last minute mall-trawl, as it’s simply part of her DNA! However, allergic to bearing witness to the damage, yours truly traipses off to the local market, where among other things they sell colourful flowers, lush fruits, ugly fish, and naked rabbits. Christine and I later hook up at a little French bistro, sitting in a quintessentially Parisian manner outside on the sidewalk enjoying our meal and watching the Parisian sights. Tomorrow we are Belgium bound.
Having escaped both World Wars, Bruges is one of the most beautiful cities with beautiful medieval architecture, picturesque canals, historic churches, and horse-pulled carriages clopping on cobbled streets. Finding lodging in the historic center of town we enter through the ten foot doors of the charming Setola Bed and Breakfast, built in 1745.
Eager to explore the countryside we cycle alongside tree-lined canals hosting great-crested grebes before crossing the border into Holland and the little town of Sluis. Stopped at a lakeside café enjoying an order of frites and a glass of Kriek, we find ourselves under a delightful quack attack with a pair of audacious foraging ducks beneath the table waddling their webbed feet over top of our shoes!
Our next stopover is the French Riviera’s charming seaport city of Nice on the Windex-blue Mediterranean Sea. Beautiful old buildings, a vibrant street life, pebbled beaches, year-round sunshine, and the lovely Promenade des Anglais provide a most relaxing stay.
We also travel to the confetti sized Principality of Monaco; the world’s second-smallest country. Larger only than Vatican City, the moneyed enclave is home to Mazeratis, martinis, mega yachts, and multimillionaires.
One square meter of real estate here will set you back over 50,000 Euros, and in the space of 15 minutes while waiting for a bus, four exotic Ferraris slink past us fiercely accelerating up a hill with the throaty snarl of a leopard on steroids. Yes, Monaco is irrefutably all about money; both spending it and flaunting it, We are left with the impression that anyone living here with less than several million Euros to their name is likely to be considered on the poverty line!
Moving on to the sun-drenched Cote d’Azur we whittle down the last of our holidays visiting Villefranche, Antibes, Menton, Saint Paul de Vence, and Canne; but each of the underwhelming little towns seem undistinguishable from the last and feel about as lively as the Egyptian Sphinx. I would just say that of all the cities we’ve visited in our travels we will always remember these as, well, some of them.
However it really doesn’t matter, because we’ve been totally spoiled by so many other fascinating highlights during our fabulous trip. We take this feeling simply as an indication that it’s time to take a ‘French leave’ from our travels and airmail ourselves back to Canada for a well-earned rest before drinking from the travel trough once again.
Mark Colegrave April 2007