BACK FOR MORE OF LA DOLCE VITA.
Leica Cameras for travel.
Embarking on a journey to Rome is like agreeing to a truce with your feet: "You let me wander where I wish, and I promise to ignore every blister and ounce of fatigue that comes our way." Such was the pact I made, knowing well that to truly experience La Dolce Vita, one must do so on foot, covering an average of 15 miles a day. This is a tale of such an endeavor, a quintessentially quixotic quest through the Eternal City, where every cobblestone has a story, and every gelato shop is a trap of delightful calories.
**Day 1: The Vatican – Where St. Peter Keeps an Eye on the Sky**
Our journey begins at the Vatican, not just because it's a place of divine significance, but also because it feels right to ask for blessings before subjecting one's feet to such an ordeal. St. Peter's Basilica is not merely a church; it's a heavenly gate, grand and imposing, where the sheer size makes you wonder if St. Peter was expecting giants rather than humble humans. Inside, the opulence is such that it could make a billionaire blush. The art, the architecture, and the sense of serenity make it a place where even the most devout atheist might find themselves whispering a prayer, if only not to feel left out.
As for the Vatican Museums, they are a labyrinth of human genius, where you can walk in circles admiring everything from ancient Egyptian mummies to Michelangelo's masterpieces. It's a place where you're constantly torn between awe at humanity's capabilities and a vague sense of inadequacy about your own greatest achievement being your high score on Tetris.
**Day 2: The Trevi Fountain – A Splash of Hope**
No visit to Rome is complete without seeing the Trevi Fountain, a monument so lavish it could only have been designed by someone who never had to pay a water bill. Tradition dictates that one must toss a coin over their shoulder into the fountain to ensure a return to Rome. This is a clever ploy by the city, ensuring a steady income from people who are notoriously bad at throwing. Nonetheless, the beauty of the fountain at night, illuminated and majestic, makes you feel like part of an ancient world, momentarily forgetting the selfie sticks and gelato stains on your shirt.
**Day 3: The Colosseum and the Piazza del Pollo – Gladiators and Chicken**
Ah, the Colosseum, Rome's magnificent ode to a time when men were men and lions were nervous. Walking into the Colosseum, you half expect a gladiator to emerge and challenge you to a duel, only to remember that the most fighting you've done recently was with a can opener. Even in its ruined state, the structure is awe-inspiring, a testament to what humanity can achieve when we're not busy arguing on the internet.
As for the Piazza del Pollo, it's worth noting that this might be a slight mistranslation on my part, as "pollo" indeed means chicken in Italian, and I'm not entirely sure the Romans dedicated a whole piazza to poultry. However, Rome is full of delightful squares, each with its own charm, from the grand Piazza Navona to the intimate Piazza della Rotonda in front of the Pantheon. Speaking of which...
**Day 4: The Pantheon – Rome's Time Capsule**
With its grand dome and ancient doors, the Pantheon feels like a time machine. As you step inside, the oculus at the top of the dome casts a celestial spotlight that moves across the room, like the world's slowest disco ball. It's a place of quiet power, where you're reminded that once upon a time, this was the height of innovation and architectural prowess. It's also delightfully cool inside, offering a much-needed respite from Rome's summer heat.
**Day 5: Hidden Gems – The Other 900 Churches**
They say Rome has as many churches as there are days in the year, and on our final day, we set out to explore these lesser-known sanctuaries. Each church, from the Basilica di Santa Maria in Trastevere to the tiny, tucked-away chapels, is a world unto itself, filled with art, history, and a palpable sense of peace. These are places where you can sit and reflect on the literal and metaphorical journey and perhaps light a candle for your poor, beleaguered feet.
In the end, Rome is not just a city; it's an experience, a vast, sprawling museum of history, art, and life. It teaches you resilience (mostly foot-related), appreciation for beauty, and, most importantly, the value of a good pair of shoes. La Dolce Vita, it turns out, is not just about the sweetness of doing nothing; it's about the joy of exploring everything, one step at a time. So, lace.
So, in conclusion, I could have gone on to put you to sleep much faster with countless additional tidbits about Roman life and why it draws us back time and time again. Life is sweet here. Not unlike Athens, it reminds us where we came from. The mastery and brilliance of the people that inspired the future. What they accomplished without iPhones and Snapchat is amazing. Don’t drag one foot behind you like a slack-jawed troglodyte to the Olive Garden for bottomless bread sticks when you crave an unbelievable Carbonara, Tiramisu, or Lemon Gelato. Don’t tell yourself it’s the same. It isn’t. Planes from all over the world land at FCO airport daily. Get on one, and I guarantee you won’t regret it.
Live Well!
M.
Comments are most welcome.
All images were captured with the new Leica Q3 and downsampled to work with the Squarespace platform.
OTHER PEOPLE’S SHIT!
Leica Cameras for travel.
Ah, France! The land of love, fine wine, and pastries to kill a diet at twenty paces. But more than that, France is also the land of Brocantes - glorious gatherings of what I like to call "other people's SHIT." My wife calls it treasure hunting. I call it a relentless pursuit of tetanus.
The Brocante adventure begins bright and early with "Le Bargain Hunter" emerging from their habitat, armed with a coffee-stained checklist and an overpowering aroma of desperation and Gauloises cigarettes. These fine folks, whose fashion sense could best be described as "Walmart chic," have truly mastered the art of chain smoking in confined spaces and giving zero F#cks.
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm all for a bargain, but my wife's love for Brocantes is something else entirely. It's a passionate, feverish love, like a French romance novel but with more dust and rust. I've seen her bargain with carpet sellers and pottery market traders with the intensity of a French general storming the beaches (ah, the subtleties of French military history, n'est-ce pas?), and all for what? A slightly chipped vase that probably once contained the ashes of someone's Uncle Henri.
Oh, the people! Let's talk about them. They're the true spectacle. One must admire the dedication of those who arrive even before the rusty gates swing open, like seagulls on the scent of yesterday's rock-hard baguettes. They peer through cracks, sizing up the loot, their faces twisted into masks of greed and anticipation. Bargain hunting or horror movie audition? You decide.
The Brocante sellers are a breed apart. They know the regulars; they've seen it all. Their smiles are as genuine as the "antique" Rolex watches they sell. If you're a newbie, be warned, these people can smell your innocence, and they'll charge you double for the privilege of taking home a slightly off-kilter chair that's been through the French Revolution (and not in a museum).
And then there's the stuff. Ah, the stuff. Tables groaning under the weight of mismatched tea sets, creepy porcelain dolls that seem to follow you with their eyes, and paintings of cats playing poker. My wife calls it character. I call it a reason to get therapy.
You see, I love my wife, and I have the mismatched furniture to prove it. Our second-floor living room is now a shrine to the Brocante gods, each piece with its unique quirk and questionable history. Our house is like a museum; only instead of "please don't touch" signs, there are price tags I'd rather forget.
And as for situational awareness? Forget it! It's a battlefield out there. People jostling, pushing, pulling, with no regard for personal space or social niceties. The French are known for their sophistication, but at the Brocante, it's every madame and monsieur for themselves. The only rule is that there are no rules, except perhaps the unspoken one: if you sneeze, you've bought it.
In the end, you'll leave the Brocante with a car full of someone else's memories, a wallet significantly lighter, and the satisfied smile of someone who knows they've bested you. Your wife will be on cloud nine, planning the next adventure into the world of tarnished treasures, and you'll be wondering if it's too early for a glass of Rosé.
So, dear reader, if you ever find yourself in France, by all means, visit the Eiffel Tower, take a cruise down the Seine, but don't miss the true French experience, the Brocante. Embrace the chaos, the dust, and the dubious bargains. If you're lucky, you might even find a treasure or two. Or, like me, you'll simply learn to smile, nod, and appreciate the eccentric beauty in the things – and people – that no one else wants.
This is simply life in France when you are trying to furnish a very old home. C’est la vie. I trust you have enjoyed this midweek check-in.
All of the images in this post were captured with the Leica Q2.
I hope you have a moment to comment below!
Live well.
M.
NOT FOR THE LACTOSE INTOLLERANT.
Leica Cameras For Travel
Behold, dear friends, the captivating chronicles of an audacious cheese voyager, not interested in products from the land of the free and home of the Whopper, but from places where cheese is considered indulgent rather than a questionable product from a laboratory. Picture it: a realm where cheese originates from pampered bovine creatures and organically mountain-raised goats, not from dubious aerosol cans.
Provence, a sun-kissed paradise nestled in the south of France, is the ultimate sanctuary for those who appreciate the artistry of milk alchemy. Our adventure commences in the village of Bonnieux, an understated hilltop village, where the intoxicating aroma of cheese dances through the air in competition only with the fields of surrounding lavender. The strong odours draw you into its irresistible, savoury embrace like bits of baguette into a super gooey fondue. Undaunted, when I arrive back after some time in exile on Canada’s left coast, I always choose a local signature cheese, Banon, an oddity that might seem extraterrestrial to the less experienced in this region.
As the shopkeeper passes over this fascinatingly wrapped orb of dairy delight, she does so with an unmistakable Gallic smirk, a non-verbal "You're not a disciple of the church of Cheez Whiz, are you?" My reassuring smile speaks volumes: "Rest assured, madame, I am not a sinner from the parish of Velveeta."
As if the unique Banon experience isn’t enough, next comes the quintessentially Provencal tradition of market day, a sensory extravaganza where one can truly explore the incredible variety of local cheese. Amidst the clatter and chatter of locals, stalls overflow with artisanal cheeses, each lovingly crafted and beckoning you to try.
Navigating the bustling marketplace, you're like a kid in a fromagerie, with every cheese more enticing than the last. There's the robust Pélardon, the subtle Crottin de Chavignol, the full-bodied Cabécou, the tangy Tomme de Chèvre, and the delicate Pouligny-Saint-Pierre – that’s just the goat cheese. Then, there's the marvel of sheep cheese – the sweet and nutty Ossau-Iraty, the earthy Roquefort, and the beautifully complex Brocciu from nearby Corsica. Lastly, for the bovine enthusiasts, there's the soft and creamy Boursin and the ever-sophisticated Brie de Meaux. It’s a veritable United Nations of cheese, all nestled within the vibrant French tapestry of a Provencal market day.
Brimming with new purchases, we retreat to our little home just 30 meters down the street, a haven just far enough from the guided tours and the (why so angry?) Belgians. Here, amidst the tranquillity, I indulge in my first wedge of Banon. Its taste is a symphony of flavours, delightfully creamy with a tart undertone, powerful enough to reduce even the staunchest Kraft cheddar die-hard to tears.
Over the years, I have ventured through an odyssey of cheeses. There's the titan Roquefort, an intimidating heavyweight capable of sending your taste buds into a tailspin. Then there's the ethereal Camembert, softer than a whisper yet carrying a cornucopia of flavours, and don’t forget Comtè. What about the various goat cheeses, so fresh they practically gambol on your tongue?
During this never-ending journey, my thoughts often wander to those innocent souls who’ve yet to look beyond the confines of processed cheese slices or perhaps even the Costco mega block of Cracker Barrel. Those unsuspecting masses, wandering from place to place with stops at the souvenir shops (obligatory t-shirt purchase), blissfully unaware of the culinary delights they're missing. It's a moment of creamy reflection, akin to the realization that some people believe reality TV is, well, reality.
At the termination of every local market day, my whicker shopping bag bursts at the seams, and I realize I am undergoing a further existential gastronomic evolution. I am no longer a mere self-declared cheese buyer with imposter syndrome but a true connoisseur of the curd. Will friends grasp the profound depth of my assuredly slow but considered metamorphosis? Or will they just stop and ask, "Mark, FFS, why are you carrying around so much cheese in that bag? Are you mental?”
So, to you, dear friends, I say: embrace your inner adventurer and set your course for Provence. Try the most formidable, nose-twitching cheese you can find. Perhaps, invite those unaccustomed friends, the ones who have experienced "culture" through a shore excursion or a trailer park in Arizona. Watch as they inevitably succumb to the irresistible allure of French cheese. And when that day dawns, with a well-aged wine and a knowing smile, say, “I told you so.” Because you, mon ami, are the cheese whisperer. You’ve influenced hearts and minds. Shoulders back, stand tall. Go out there, head held high, and smash it! Maybe one day you’ll trade in that desk for a market stall laden with fromage…
A big thank you for dropping by Walkacrossitall. Please leave a comment if you have a spare moment.
All of the images in this post were captured with the Leica Q2 and SL2-S with the 24-90mm lens.
Live Well!
Mark
CLIMBING BACK ON THE CHEVAL.
Leica Cameras For Travel
Embracing the charm of Provence was as easy as slipping back into my old linen shirt; this region practically serenades us with its azure skies, warm sunshine, and a chorus of cicadas that sounds suspiciously like Edith Piaf singing "La Vie en Rose" as she wanders through the vines.
These loonie-sized (Canadianism) tree insects are the ones who serenade the valleys of Provence, their melody echoing through the olive groves and lavender fields, a soundtrack to our escape from the monotonous humdrum of the daily grind. With a healthy appetite for the joie de vivre that the South of France promised, we settled in on an epicurean adventure in the wonderous Luberon Valley, our refuge from the seemingly dystopian reality of Trudeau’s folly.
Nestled in the ample lap of the Luberon mountains, this (thankfully) overlooked haven has the uncanny ability to make us forget the world's clamor, possibly a result of its scenic beauty, possibly due to the copious amounts of local rosé.
As we journey through the region, every winding turn of the rustic country roads teases our senses with a new spectacle - a tableau vivant of nature's flamboyance. From the verdant vineyards to the rocky cliffs, everything bathed in the golden Provencal sun. We half expected Julia Child to pop out from behind a vine to hitch a ride in our Renault. Once settled in the back seat, she could begin narrating our journey into the culinary wilderness.
On this latest visit, our first spectacle of the Luberon Valley was a quaint local produce market with such an array of colors and scents that even a seasoned gourmand (aka Fat Bastard) like me could explore with childlike wonder. We walked past stalls of ripe tomatoes and fragrant herbs, serenaded by what seemed like a unionised choir of market vendors, providing the perfect soundtrack to our gastronomic documentary.
History lurks in the shadows of this scenic getaway, its quiet whispers permeating the air. The Romans once tread here, proudly leaving their mark on the pristine landscape. Now, it's reduced to a half-remembered ghost, its presence marked by weathered ruins and ancient vineyards, standing in quiet resistance to the passage of time.
Our 30th wedding anniversary dinner was at a charming little restaurant known as L’Arome, tucked away in a cobblestone alley of our little village. The chef, a jovial man with a mustache that would make Hercule Poirot green with envy, served us a meal that was nothing short of a symphony on a plate. The local wine flowed like the nearby Sorgue River, and the laughter and conversation echoed around the terrace like a well-rehearsed orchestra.
Now, don’t let Provence’s subtlety fool you. It may lack the cosmopolitan charm of Paris, but that’s akin to comparing a fine Bordeaux with a rather introspective Coors Light or “NASCAR nectar”. And here's a thought, could it be that Provence intentionally downplays its grandeur to keep the hordes of tourists at bay? Maybe, maybe not. But one thing's for sure, the triumphant crème brûlée at the local dingy dive bar is even top-class. You would be a fool not to travel with the Michelin Guide, but as always, trust in your own senses and follow your nose!
As I bid you farewell once again from this pocket of tranquillity, our hearts and minds continue to fill with warm and vivid memories. A trip to Provence might just seem like a footnote in the grand scheme of things, but it certainly holds the charm to ink its own chapters in our lives. Call it a hidden gem, a treasure trove, or an excellent spot for a quiet coffee – it doesn’t care; it's just Provence being Provence. It's a place that offers a symphony of nature, a pinch of history, a dash of culture, and a good chunk of serenity. Just bring your camera. My intention going forward is to post on Sundays and Wednesdays. I hope you enjoy and continue to be ever so slightly entertained.
Please leave a comment if you have a moment.
Live Well!
Mark
p.s. All images were captured with the Leica SL2-S / 24-90mm lens and the Leica Q2.