TravelStream™ news feed for member globetrekker on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/globetrekker en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Wed, 18 Nov 2009 20:35:37 -0500 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/31/1257568605/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/31/1257568605/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/31/1257568605/tpod.html Wed, 18 Nov 2009 20:35:37 -0500 Biking in the Vineyards of Argentina and Chile

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Buenos Aires, Distrito Federal, Argentina

Sunday, November 15, 2005Urban Biking and Tango &nbsp;&nbsp; Shortly after breakfast, I met the rest of the group in the lobby at around 9:30AM for our first day of active vacation: biking through the urban sprawl of Buenos Aires. The concept sounded somewhat daunting at first since this, after all, was a gigantic metropolis of more than 10 million people packed across an area almost the size of Los Angeles. Battalions of cars, trucks, and buses aggressively roamed the streets, restricting the mobility of any punier mode of transportation consisting of two wheels. However, my guideVictor reassured us that on a typical Sunday morning, the streets of this capital city would be transformed into a docile and navigable world of wide, open lanes, whereupon bikers could reclaim their urban coexistence.With this reassurance, I put on my visor and helmet, and after a short safety talk from our new personal city bike guide Ana, we set off on Peru Street, a few blocks from the main square of Buenos Aires. There was something special about biking through downtown Buenos Aires. Perhaps it was the rapidly changing landscape that enhanced the visual senses, or the cool breezes on this early spring morning rustling through the leaves and beautiful violet blossoms that sent a tingle of delight down my spine. Or perhaps it was the strange sound of silence engulfing the deserted streets of a city that never seemed to sleep. Whatever the case, I was enjoying every second of the ride! Riding past a multitude of esthetic architecture lining the avenues of Buenos Aires, from the French-influenced Beaux Arts buildings to the elegant modern skyscrapers, I felt like I was passing through an open air museum of decorative urban art.&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; We first stopped at Plaza de Mayo (May Square), the very heart of this elegant city. There were already loads of tour buses, from which a herd of tourists were exiting and following their guides. Since the buses were parked on the perimeter of this main square, those people were walking some distance and congregated in large numbers around the monuments. However, we simply rode our bikes into the square and parked directly in front of the central monument, El Obelisco de Mayo (The Obelisk of May). They watched the five of us ride our bikes, camera in hand, through the main square where we got off and stopped for a lecture on the history of Argentina. Ana explained that the name of this beautiful square came from the month in which Argentina declared its independence from Spain in 1810. It was not until July 9, 1816 that Argentina finally won its independence. However, this square was the epicenter of Argentina. It was here that the first settlement of this country was established with three basic buildings, a fort, a church, and a governmental building. At the turn of the 20th century, when Buenos Aires gained its financial wealth from being a principal port, many buildings were erected around the city, and their architectural styles were modeled after the French. Then the military regimes took hold of the country from the 1930's until the 1980’s, and for fifty years, the economic mismanagement of the country plunged Argentina into almost a third world status, from which it is still trying to recover. Much poverty is still rampant in this nation, and the elegant façade of this city only hides its struggling finances. The graceful charm of the tango has sometimes become a dance that some citizens perform on the street for money. As in any big tourist city, Buenos Aires also has its fair share of pickpockets. My traveling companions Jim from Scottsdale, AZ and his two German-American sister friends, Elsa and Inge, were walking around Plaza de Mayo when a daring local couple coordinated a smooth pickpocketing ploy in broad daylight. They suddenly felt something wet, which was coming from a water gun aimed from a distance by the female thief. Not knowing what had happened, the three turned around, and a lady appeared to conviently show up with paper towels, as she exclaimed, "Oh dear. You have bird droppings. Let me help you clean them up." Her male companion also showed up with some paper towel. They then patted their hands all over the bodies and pockets of the three unsuspecting Americans. The male pickpocket thief then turned to his partner in crime and said that they needed to rush to the train station to catch their train. They successfully ran off with all of Jim’s cash. His wallet, however, was put back in his pocket with the credit cards intact. The reason for the “selective acquisition” of the cash was unknown.&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;I could see the tears and blood etched on the walls of Argentina. But now having a democratic governement with its first female president, this country hopes one day to relive its glory days. We mounted our bikes again, and according to Ana’s plan, we were going to visit two of Buenos Aires’ popular neighborhoods, Palermo and Recoleta. Then after lunch in Recoleta, we would ride to the newest district of the city, Puerto Madero on the the Rio de la Plata (Silver River), followed by a short visit to San Telmo, the chic Bohemian neighborhood where Tango was born.&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;Palermo, with its elegant townhouses and blossoming trees, radiated an aura of charm in this big metropolis. As we took a detour from the widely partitioned Avenida del Libertador, we magically rode into a serene world lined with BMW’s and Mercedes parked in front of multimillion peso properties, a typical reflection of the upscale affluence of Palermo. It was truly an elite oasis of capitalists’ treasures tucked neatly away from the rest of the city. Riding farther down Avenida del Libertador, we rode into the verdant parks of northern Buenos Aires. On this typical Sunday afternoon, the park was full of families with their children running, biking, and skating in the park loops, while others strolled around with ice cream in hand. It was a cool spring afternoon to be enjoyed together. We took a 30 minute break to admire the roses and geese in the Rosedal Garden. I was very impressed with the large number of people exercising, either jogging or biking, in the park. In fact, there was an outdoor congregation of people exercising to music and an instructor.&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;Then, off we went again, heading to Recoleta for lunch. Recoleta, an equally affluent neighborhood adjacent to Palermo, was famous for its glamorous "French architectural style" and the cemetery holding the remains of Evita. We had lunch at a nice restaurant called Oasis, located in the shopping arcade called <i>Terrazas, near the blossoming violet flowers where I appropriately had a fresh Primavera pannini (or Spring Sandwich), consisting of ham, Tybo cheese, sliced hard-boiled egg, Criolla lettuce, and a sliver of tomato, accompanied by an espresso.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; After lunch, we rode into the newly-developed waterfront neighborhood of Puero Madero, a former shipyard transformed into condominiums, shopping malls, and dotted with yachts. We passed by a plain, abandoned, yellow building, which possessed such rich history as the main immigration station to the country of Argentina. Droves of immigrants, mostly from Italy, Spain, Germany, etc. passed through that building just as so many people had passed through Ellis Island in New York City, to help weave an intricate tapestry of this multinational city. We rode farther through the ecological park next to this neighborhood alongside the wide Rio de la Plata (Silver River) separating Argentina from Uruguay. The city of Buenos Aires actually lay at the mouth of this river as it coursed right into the south Atlantic Ocean. The park, peaceful and shielded with green leaves, was full of Porteños, or residents of Buenos Aires, again enjoying nature amidst asphalt and concrete. We ended our ride with a brief stop in San Telmo, the Bohemian district that helped create the seductive, graceful Tango dance.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;After the ride, I walked towards the heart of Buenos Aires only to find some barricade and a stage with some live music coming from loud speakers. In fact, the music sounded like live tango performed by guitarists. Looking at the crowd gathered all around, I realized I was right in the middle of a celebration of the Fall of the Berlin Wall, a celebration of democracy over communism. Argentine and German flags were hung around the lampposts, intertwined in a strong bond of friendship between the two countries. Walking further, I revisited the bustling shopping street of Calle Florida with the intention of doing some window shopping and enjoying the commotion of dancers, performers, and people all around. After popping my head into a few stores, I ended up leaving them with lots of bags containing a new pair of leather shoes, a lot of dress shirts and ties, and a collection of Argentine springtime fashion. Instead of returning back to the hotel, I strolled down to the main square, where I discovered another concert, full of young people dressed in colorful costumes. They at first reminded me of Samba Schools from Brazil, but then I saw them swinging flags and dancing loudly.&nbsp;"<i>Qué está pasando? (What's going on?)" I asked one of the participants."<i>Estamos celebrando la tolerancia a la diversidad étnica (We're celebrating tolerance to ethnic diversity)," a young, blonde Argentine woman responded.&nbsp;She went on to say that African immigrants&nbsp;to Argentina had been suffering cruel acts of physical or psychological aggression, and that people in this country should put an end to that. A sort of Harlem Renaissance was transpiring right in front of my eyes.Later that evening, I had dinner with the group at a restaurant with a Tango Show at El Querandí (Calle Peru 302 right at the corner of Peru and Avenida Belgrano in the Bohemian district of Monserrat). The performance was elegant and seductively charming. The women danced with an enchanting, alluring look in their eyes, and the men, with their stern, serious gazes, took the woman's hand, and together they danced to the hypnotizing, entrancing live tango music performed by a pianist, bassist, violinist, accordionist, and singer. The scene seemed to bring to life the charismatic essence of Buenos Aires and its great historical contribution to world culture.Tomorrow will be the two hour light to Mendoza, a city located in the shadows of the Andes Mountains in western Argentina, and the start of the bike ride through the famous vineyards and wineries of this South American nation.&nbsp;To Be Continued....
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/31/1257568197/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/31/1257568197/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/31/1257568197/tpod.html Sun, 15 Nov 2009 21:55:04 -0500 Biking in the Vineyards of Argentina and Chile

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Buenos Aires, Distrito Federal, Argentina

Friday, November 13, 2009Comfortable Flight&nbsp;After finding my seat, a blonde flight attendant named Jill came and immediately offered to hang up my coat and asked if I wanted something to drink. Tempted by a pre-flight cocktail but knowing that I would have to pace myself, I elected to have some cranapple juice instead. Then, the chief flight attendant and the chief ground attendant came to greet all the passengers in Business First by our full names and welcomed us warmly on board. I was impressed that they had studied all of the 25 passengers' names beforehand and correctly identified each one of us.Then a bilingual flight attendant, who was speaking in Spanish to an Argentine couple in front of me, came to take my dinner order. She switched back to English, "What would you like to have as your appetizer and entrée, Sir?" Wanting to grasp the opportunity to practice some Spanish with her, I asked back, "<i>Qué recomienda Ud. (What do you recommend)?"&nbsp;Without any hesitation, she replied in her native tongue that either <i>el ossobuco de ternera (veal osso buco) or <i>la covina escalfada y cola de langosta (poached sea bass with lobster tail) is the chef's specialty. There were also <i>la suprema pollo al tandoori (Tandoori breast of chicken) and la <i>taza de macarroncitos (mini cannelloni pasta). Inquiring some more about the other choices in Spanish, I thus began my interaction in the tongue of the countries of my final destination even before leaving US airspace.Shortly after we reached cruising altitude over the Gulf of Mexico, the dinner ritual commenced. First came the warm towel to refresh my face, then Jill returned to my seat to drape a silver-blue tablecloth over my pullout table, on which she placed a small white porcelain cup containing warm, roasted assorted nuts. She then set my table with some silverware and fine china. For red wine, I continued the theme of Argentina by selecting a Malbec over the French Bordeaux or Côtes du Rhône, which I had already tasted on my previous Business First flight between Houston and Paris. The wine, water, and bread were constantly being replenished, and when the salad arrived on my table, I decided to enhance the dining experience with some relaxing music. So I played some of Vivaldi's Cello Concerti on my iPod Touch to complement the vinaigrette salad with salmon and pear and red wine. Traveling, I thought, was turning out to not be as dreadful as I was expecting. At this point, I pressed on several buttons on my seat to adjust the lumbar support and lowered the footrest halfway, so I could sit up straight and digest better. Soon thereafter, the sea bass and lobster tail entrée came, and the thick, rich flavors of this delectable dish made me imagine I was dining on food freshly caught off the coast of Chile. The cheese and wine followed the main course, but I was becoming a little fatigued from the mundane function of digestion. Although being on vacation should normally give me the <i>carte blanche to indulge myself exquisitely and profusely, I still had to deliberately resist from gluttony. Otherwise I would have to pedal extra weight over the hilly terrains of the Andes Mountains in the next few days.Ahh, the dessert cart quickly arrived. I decided to have some vanilla ice cream served in a beautiful crystalline glass, drenched in hot chocolate syrup, fresh strawberries, cherries, and warm nuts. I also had the sweet, flavorful amaretto dessert wine to help induce some REM sleep. With heavy eyes, I was now very relaxed and content. Looking at my watch, the dinner was drawing to a close two hours into the flight, which corresponded to our flying over Honduras on the GPS map. That meant I had another seven hours of sleep left before landing in Buenos Aires. The cabin lights dimmed, and seats were reclining left and right. Following suit, I draped myself in the thick blanket and dozed off.Saturday, November 14, 2009&nbsp;Good Morning, Buenos Aires!Quick Stats:&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Argentina:&nbsp;Population 40,134,425 in 2009 (33rd in the world)Area:&nbsp;2,766,890&nbsp;sq. km. (8th in the world)Year Visited:&nbsp;2006GDP per capita:<i>&nbsp;USD $14,408 (Source: Int'l Monetary Fund, 2009)<i>Exchange Rate: $1 USD = $3.82 ARS&nbsp;(Argentine Peso)President:&nbsp;Mrs. Cristina Fernández de Kirchner&nbsp;The lights illuminated the cabin an hour and a half before landing. Waking up very refreshed, I looked out the window and witnessed the subtle morning sunlight above the clouds. Still satiated from last night's dinner, I elected to forego <i>el omelette de hongos (mushroom omelette with broccoli potato gratin and grilled smoked turkey patty) and instead had some fresh fruit with coffee.&nbsp;<i>Short Houston Reunion in Buenos Aires&nbsp;The plane was ahead of schedule, traveling only 9 hours 45 minutes, and landing 45 minutes before the expected time. As soon as I exited the plane, I followed the signs to "<i>Migración - Aduanas (Passport Control and Customs). While waiting in line, a tall, blonde guy, who immediately seemed very familiar to me, approached me and said, "Hey!"&nbsp;It was Paolo, an Italian friend of mine from Houston, with his wife Deborah. I was surprisingly pleased to see two familiar faces on foreign soil. Instinctively, I said, "Ciao, Paolo. Come stai (Hi, Paolo. How are you?)" I also greeted Deborah with a friendly embrace and kiss on the cheek <i>alla italiana. There we were, Paolo and I chatting in Italian while surrounded by Argentines, Brazilians, Americans, and a few Germans in line. They told me how badly they had slept and that their food was not tasty. Then they wondered how come they didn't see me on the plane. Without wanting to tell them I was sitting in Business First, I answered plainly that I was probably sitting a few rows in front of them.&nbsp;Initially I thought they were on the same tour with me. In fact, Paolo and Deborah decided to take advantage of the warm weather in South America and strong dollar to travel to Argentina on an independent self-made tour. In a bizarre twist of fate, our itineraries were almost identical. We were going to spend two days in Buenos Aires. Then we would go to Mendoza on the same day, and we would end our vacation in Santiago, flying back to Houston on the same day. But they would fly from Santiago to Miami to Houston, whereas I would return to Buenos Aires to board my non-stop Continental Business First flight to Houston.&nbsp;After picking up our luggage, we exited through the sliding doors to the large lobby full of people waiting for the arriving passengers. I knew there was someone waiting to pick me up. Yes, I saw my chauffeur holding up my name. I said farewell to Paolo and Deborah, and after giving them my accommodation details, I wished them a good vacation and a possible reunion along the way.&nbsp;Throughout the taxi ride to the hotel, my driver was trying to practice English with me whereas I was practicing Spanish with him. The Argentine accent, suave and melodic, sounded like a pleasant mixture of Italian and Portuguese. There were some new grammatical pronouns and conjugations distinct to Argentina (like <i>vos tenés instead of <i>tú tienes for you have) that I had faintly learned in the past. My Spanish education from middle school to college was based both on standard Latin American and Continental Spanish (ie, the language of Spain), not Argentine Spanish. Luckily the variation was easily recognizable and comprehensible.<i>Lovely Springtime in Buenos AiresMy hotel was very centrally located at the corner of Avenida Córdoba and San Martín St, right next to one of Argentina's principal and most important shopping malls, las Galerías Pacífico, built in 1889 and modeled on <i>Le Bon Marché in Paris. In fact, if one stepped outside the hotel, Buenos Aires' long pedestrian shopping street, Calle Florida, was only one block away. After checking in, I quickly had to go buy some converters for my electronic apparels. Although I had brought the European-type converters, my hotel had the Australian-type power outlets only. Last night when I was packing, I had the fear this was going to happen. Argentina strangely adopted two different types of electrical sockets, one with the European prongs and the other with the Australian prongs, all over the country. Even in one building, two different types of sockets could co-exist on the wall.<i>TIP: For US travelers, bring both types of converters when visiting Argentina!My next mission was to go shopping for myself and friends. I sort of received a shopping list from some people before arriving here, so I conveniently wandered up and down Calle Florida in search of those items. I then stopped into an Argentine men's fashion store, Macowens, to buy a new suit to wear to my friends' wedding in Europe next year. I really was impressed with the sharp style of a particular suit, which was reminiscent of the slim, fashionable Italian look. I immediately purchased it along with some very nice shirts.&nbsp;<i>Shopping Tip in Buenos Aires:&nbsp;&nbsp;The interesting thing about shopping in Buenos Aires was that some prices might look deceptively cheap until one read between the lines. Usually, expensive items were written as a certain low amount with x number of payment installments. For example, I saw a nice pair of Argentine shoes with the following sign, "$30 x 5 installments," meaning $150. By the way, the symbol "$" is also used in Argentina to denote the Argentine peso, which is 26% of the US dollar, so those very stylish shoes actually were not expensive at all ($39 USD total).&nbsp;Walking around Buenos Aires today, I noticed a large presence of Brazilian tourists everywhere. Some Argentinian vendors were screaming about discounts to passer-bys in Spanish, English, and now, Portuguese. Because of the stronger Brazilian economy and currency, people from Brazil were now traveling more to neighboring countries in South America. Back in 2006 when I was here, an encounter with Brazilian tourists was a rarity.<i>Meeting The GroupAt 7PM, I met my group in the hotel lobby. My tour guide, Victor, was a young sports aficionado probably in his late 20's. Very active in rugby and running, he originally came from one of the suburbs of Buenos Aires. Then there was the only other male in the group, Jimmy originally from Toledo, OH, who he spent most of his working career in Aerospace Engineering in Southern California. Now retired and living very prosperously in Phoenix, AZ after having sold some real estate in 2007, he had been traveling around the world with his friend, Inge, who originally came from Hamburg, Germany. Inge came to the US more than 40 years ago, and she still worked as a "Factor" or "Loan Shark" to an interstate trucking company. Inge was joined by her sister, Elsa, who also immigrated to the US from Hamburg almost 40 years ago. Elsa currently resides in Rhode Island and is a mother of three sons and grandmother of three grandchildren of 2, 5, and 7 years old. I had a chance to practice some German with both Inge and Elsa, who were quite surprised that someone from Texas had took an interest in learning it. They then turned to Victor and asked if he also spoke German. Because of his blank look, we decided to hold our conversation only in English or Spanish.For dinner, we took a taxi together to <i>El Gran Bar Danzón located at 1161 Libertad, 5 minutes from the hotel. My first impression of this fashionable haunt was Manhattan Meets Buenos Aires. The intimate, dimly lit bar and dining area accentuated by bossa nova music and a soft, monochromatic decor would usually attract a very fashionable crowd starting at around 10:30PM every night in the heart of downtown Buenos Aires. We relaxed on the leather divan with some delicious wine tasting, followed by several plates of bruschetta, while looking over the busy streets of Buenos Aires. For dinner, I selected a grilled Argentine ribeye steak with corn and cheese dauphinoise (it looked almost like potato au gratin but with corn) topped with a "criolla" sauce, followed by a dark chocolate and mango cake with chocolate sauce and raspberry sherbet for dessert. The conversations were very lively with the help of some Malbec and Pinot Noir. At around 11:30PM, we all headed back to the hotel to get ready for tomorrow's first bicycle ride on the streets of Buenos Aires.To Be Continued....&nbsp;&nbsp;
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/31/1258162448/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/31/1258162448/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/31/1258162448/tpod.html Fri, 13 Nov 2009 21:17:47 -0500 Biking in the Vineyards of Argentina and Chile

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Houston, Texas, United States

Friday, November 13, 2009Houston Bush Intercontinental Airport7:30PM&nbsp;As I was driving on Highway 59 to the airport earlier this evening, I could sense a magical burst of excitement &nbsp;in the cool November air. The outside temperature was very pleasant. A mild autumn night was descending over the largest city in Texas, as I was heading to the airport to start my vacation on the other side of the western hemisphere, far away from the Gulf coast.Bidding a transient farewell to this mild, delightful fall weather in Houston, I am about to greet the blossoming flowers of spring in Argentina and Chile. Wildflowers are supposed to already carpet the verdant meadows of western Argentina, around the turquoise lakes and majestic snow-capped peaks of the Andes Mountains.On this vacation, I plan to re-explore the elegant charm of Buenos Aires, visiting the delectable wine bars and tango restaurants where I had left off in 2006. But moving further, I intend to absorb the delectable taste of the highly-esteemed wines of El Valle Central (Central Valley) around Mendoza. And what better way to explore the gustatory delicacy of this region but on a bike. Meandering through the vineyards of Argentina on a bicycle will fully reanimate all the senses of sight, sound, smell, and taste. After Mendoza, I plan to cross over the fortified mountainous border into Chile, where the cosmoplolitan city of Santigao beckons visitors to explore its natural beauty in the shadows of the Andes. Then onward to the renowned wine valley of Santa Cruz,Chile where an invitation to relax among oceans of vineyards awaits me.&nbsp;&nbsp;Back to reality. While sipping a glass of Argentine Malbec back inside the President's Club at Bush Intercontinental Airport, I hear overhead for passengers to proceed to Gate E18 for the 10 hour 30 minute non-stop flight to Buenos Aires. Checking my boarding pass, I walk towards the gate and immediately proceed to my seat 2L. If all goes as planned, I would like to continue to share with you my blogs and photographic impressions of this relaxing bike vacation from the other side of the world.To Be Continued...&nbsp;
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/30/1246805660/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/30/1246805660/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/30/1246805660/tpod.html Wed, 11 Nov 2009 20:55:51 -0500 Biking in Provence - Le Cyclisme en Provence, FRANCE

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Vaison-la-Romaine, Provence, France

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]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/30/1246805288/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/30/1246805288/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/30/1246805288/tpod.html Sun, 12 Jul 2009 22:04:56 -0400 Biking in Provence - Le Cyclisme en Provence, FRANCE

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Bedoin, Provence, France

<i>LOSTThe plan was supposed to be straightforward.&nbsp;Follow the directions and bike 46 km from Orange to Bédoin on the rustic backroads flanked by vineyards and sunflower fields. This, after all, was the "<i>Warm Up Ride" of Day 1.What do I do now? I wondered as I stood all alone, staring at the oceans of vineyards on all sides with no sign of life close by. My bike-mounted GPS displayed a labyrinth of roads so small that there were no names displayed. It was almost 6:30PM, and the sun was beginning to cast its tender, delicate glimmer of twilight on the horizon. Everybody had biked ahead of me, and now I was all by myself. They had probably all arrived at the first pit stop, gotten washed up, and were enjoying a massage or two. The instructions from our tour guide this morning were clear: everyone arrive at the hotel in Bédoin for dinner at 7:30PM. There was still one big problem. Looking at the paper map, I estimated another 15-20 km of biking left until Bédoin. But the roads looked very convoluted and confusing. Will I make it there on time or will I have to sleep in the vineyards tonight? And how did I get myself in the middle of nowhere?The adventure all started like this.<i>Orange, Sunday Morning, 8AM&nbsp;&nbsp;After getting up, I rushed downstairs for breakfast and encountered a group of four tourists decked out in bike jerseys. Thinking they were with me, I asked if they were ready for a ride in the countryside. They responded yes. After introducing each other, I learned that the two couples were all from Norway, vacationing for two weeks in the South of France. We sat near each other, speaking in English at first. Then I nervously grasped the opportunity to practice my rusty Norwegian, which I had learned last year before going on a bike trip in Aurland Fjord near Flåm. It had been almost one year since my brain synthesized any sensible sentences in Norwegian. I took a deep breath and then began to inquire,"<i>Har dere noen gang vært i Frankrike før?" (Have you ever been to France before?)They were surprised, putting both their orange juice and croissants down."<i>Hvordan kan du norsk?" (How come you can speak Norwegian?), one person asked."<i>I fjor før jeg gikk til Norge på ferie, hadde jeg lest en litt norsk hjemme," (Last year before I went to Norway on vacation, I had studied a little bit of Norwegian at home), I responded.&nbsp;I was a little surprised that I could still construct a comprehensible sentence in Norwegian after a year of no practice.Mme Verbe, the person running the hotel, then came over and asked us,"<i>Est-ce que vous voulez du café?" (Do you want some coffee?)&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The Norwegians found themselves lost in translation, so I turned and translated,"<i>Hun spør, 'Vil De gjerne ha kaffe?'" (She's asking, do you want some coffee?)They turned and emphatically answered, "Yes!" in English.Turning to her, I added, "<i>Oui madame. Et s'il vous plaît, apportez-moi de l'édulcorant avec le café." (Yes we do, and please bring me some sweetener with the coffee).We continued talking, especially about traveling. I mentioned to them that one of the richest experiences of traveling for me was not only being able to see beautiful landscapes and savoring delectable food, but also being able to experience a new culture and learning a new language, which would allow me to connect to the locals abroad. I told them the story of my getting lost biking in the Norwegian woods outside of Flåm around midnight, but I asked a young villager in Norwegian for directions and was led to my hotel safely. Here in France, I was determined to improve my French by taking advantage of every possible opportunity to interact with the locals in their own language.<i>Time To Meet The Gang&nbsp;At around 9:30AM, all the people on the tour were going to congregate in the breakfast room for a quick orientation. Earlier I had met our tour guide, Virginie, a native of Provence, who seemed to be full of enthusiasm and vivacity. I introduced myself in French to her, and she responded back in French to me. Then the rest of the gang arrived. Diana, a Ph.D. researcher in biochemistry from Richland, Washington, brought her two children with her on the trip: Christopher, 18 years old and a recent high school graduate with plans of studying art at Grinnell College (a private liberal arts college in Iowa) and Michaela, 13 years old who was going to be an eighth grader in the fall. Both Christopher and his mother had previously biked from Prague to Budapest on another active vacation. Michaela was into track and field as well. The last person on the trip was Jerry, a urologist from Barbados, who was spending less time in medical practice but more time in the real estate business. As such, he would have 3 1/2 months a year of vacationing around the world. He also had done another biking vacation in Tuscany.&nbsp;In short, all of these people had the impression of being serious bikers or athletes. They also carried their own saddle (bike seat), cleats (type of cycling shoes with a stud that interface with a clipless paddle system), or cage pedals all the way to Europe. They appeared prepared, confident, and ready to ride like the wind on our first day of cycling. We were handed a set of directions and a big map of Provence with all the week's routes highlighted. The routes, designed by Virginie, would take us on the main road out of Orange and immediately guide us into the peaceful, quiet backroads of the French countryside with hardly any traffic. The directions were printed on different sheets of paper, which would be folded in half and placed one at a time on the stand. Luckily, I also had my Garmin GPS with a satellite-guided real-time map of our ride. Virginie was not familiar with this gadget from the US. I told her that if I had a chance earlier to input her directions into the device, I would then be guided to the final destination with a turn-by-turn set of directions. Rerouting was also possible if the satellites sensed that I was off the right path. She looked at it in amazement. This device had served me well in Australia, Norway, and Italy. Now the real test in France was underway.Virginie summarized the safety rules of biking in France for us. She looked at me and sarcastically said with a wink that our eyes should be kept on the road instead of on a map. We would form a single file in the right lane of the one-lane country roads with a space between every two bikers, so that cars could incrementally pass by us. The French roads were either marked with an "<i>N" (Nationale), equivalent to the US Interstate highway system, or "<i>D" (Départementale), which was akin to the FM (Farm-to-Market) or small county roads. She also reassured us that French drivers were very safe drivers, as they would have to be tested on how to drive alongside cyclists on their driving exams.&nbsp;As we stood outside the hotel for a group photo, the wind gusts picked up, rattling our bikes. Today was going to be a very interesting windy day, riding with wind gusts of up to 30-40 mph. A Frenchman walked over and muttered that normally he would enjoy riding in the country but not on this particular day. It was too dangerously windy, he added. All of us looked at each other and took a deep breath.<i>Off We Go!At around 10AM, we took off. Diana and her kids rode first and soon disappeared from sight. Jerry and I rode together. It was at first an unreal experience, as I was filled with excitement and a sense of adventure. Last week, I was riding in the shadows of skyscrapers through the mundane, modern streets of Houston on my routine 30-mile route. Now, I found myself whizzing past French bakeries and outdoor cafes lining a quiet shaded street in Orange. If I were to get lost, so be it, I thought, as that would make this bike ride even more exhilarating. Stirred by the beautiful fields of sunflowers 1km into the ride, I stopped my bike for a photo-op. Jerry was ahead of me, but he slowed down. Since he said he was on a mission to burn 2000 calories, and that meant continuous riding, he couldn't wait. Waving at him, I told him to take off. Now, I was alone to take as many pictures as I liked. Part of this trip was not only the physical exercise but also a photographic experience for me. This region of France, known to possess an immense treasure of natural and historical beauty, was going to be a goldmine for photography.&nbsp;&nbsp;Virginie then rode up in the support van and, seeing me stop, asked if everything was still OK. "<i>Oui. C'est très joli ici." (Yes. It's very pretty here), I said while taking pictures of the radiant sunflowers. No wonder van Gogh went crazy with his artistic energy in Provence. The way the light bathed the sunflowers in an aura of soft luminosity was very inspiring. She made sure I did not need anything and soon rode off to catch up with the others.I was now riding alone. 1 Km down and another 45 km to go. It was still not even 11 o'clock yet. We did not have to be in Bédoin until 7:30PM for dinner, so that meant another 8 hours to ride only 45 km or 28 miles, which was more than plenty of time. But thinking like this gave me a false sense of having superfluous time, so I decided to stop at every beautiful bend in the road, every typical French farmhouse, every creek that flowed beside the blooming flowers, every verdant, symmetrical rows of vineyards along the way, and every town with a church steeple. In short, I wanted to experience in depth the finer details of the ride with my camera. And was I trigger happy! The others, however, did not feel the same way. Like well-oiled machines, they rode continuously with an urgent mission to reach our first pit stop in Bédoin. Then, they could relax and do whatever they wished. But I wanted to explore each passing village, to touch the ancient buildings and medieval gates that withstood the ravages of time, to take a break and savor the delicious pastries and coffee in a quaint café, and to have the opportunity to interact with the locals and learn about their way of life and culture. This was, to me, a more complete experience of this active vacation.<i>6Km, Camaret-sur-AiguesSix kilometers into the ride, I entered Camaret-sur-Aigues. Captivated by this large circular-shaped village with several gates allowing access within the ramparts, I decided to park my bike on the Grand'Rue and walk around with my camera. Looking at my watch, it was already 11 o'clock; time for some coffee and a snack. I spotted a <i>boulangerie (bakery) and went inside to find a fine selection of pastries, including something that struck my eyes: a <i>carré framboise, or small square-shaped pastry with raspberry filling. The pastries were just freshly prepared."<i>Donnez-m'en deux, s'il vous plaît," (Please give me two), I said. A good aspect of this active vacation was that I could eat anything I wanted without guilt. One of the young women asked me where I was from. So I mentioned Houston. They had never really left this village, so I talked about skyscrapers, big freeways, NASA, and the big open spaces of Texas while they listened with wide eyes. Walking out of the store, I walked a little farther and saw an elderly woman carrying some grocery bags. I offered to help her. Shortly thereafter, she started to ask me if I wanted a short tour of this village. She pointed out the 12th century chapel and the Horloge gate and took me on a short walking tour of this quaint town. I learned that economic life in Camaret was centred around two main activities: food processing industries that had been established in the area, such as Nestlé France and Le Cabanon, a tomato and vegetable canning factory, and the second activity was wine growing. Camaret belonged to the <i>Appellation Contrôlée area (or region granted the strict French certification for high-quality agricultural products) for the prestigious&nbsp;<i>Côtes du Rhône and <i>Côtes du Rhône Village wines. Looking at my watch, I had spent more almost an hour for this break, so I quickly excused myself and started pedaling to the next village 19 km away.&nbsp;Leaving Camaret, the landscape was seen to overflow with beautiful vineyards on both sides. It was like a snapshot of the Tour de France, where you'd see bikers dashing past rolling hills planted with symmetrical rows of vineyards. It was still so surreal to me. Although the winds were ferocious out in the open fields, there were no cars to contend with, and I often found myself meditatively alone on this winding backroad through the beautiful wine country of southern France.<i>25.1 Km, AubignanLess than an hour later, I biked into Aubignan, a small market town surrounded by ramparts dating back to the 14th century. The area surrounding this town was a mixture of gorgeously undulating hills and alluring vineyards. The village clock, topped by a wrought-iron campanile in front of Avenue Frédéric Mistral, led to the heart of the old quarter -- which was a maze of twisting alleys flanked by beautiful stone houses and blue shutters. It was almost 1 PM, and there was no one in sight. Although it felt eerily like an abandoned ghost town, I could hear some voices coming from inside the houses. After parking my bike at the main gate near some cafés and a bakery by the fountain, I walked around with my camera and absorbed in the history etched into the walls of the village. There were a few placards detailing how old certain gates were. After a very short visit, I got back on my bike and continued forward to our picnic stop at a certain chapel in the middle of a forest 5 km away.&nbsp;Perhaps one of the most beautiful experiences was riding on the serenely shaded <i>Boulevard Louis Guichard after leaving Aubignan and making a right on <i>D55 (Départementale 55) in the direction of Caromb. The street was covered with dense foliage, allowing pinpoints of sunlight to puncture through, which cast a dotted net of bouncing lights on the street. It felt so cool riding in the shade.<i>Picnic Al FrescoAfter a few km, I spotted a tiny stone chapel, <i>la Chapelle de St. Martin, resting near a rushing brook in the middle of a forested landscape. The late afternoon sunlight cast its intense aura on the chapel, creating a mystical ambience. Virginie was reading a book inside the van and was waiting for me. I was the last one to arrive for the picnic. Everyone else had finished their lunch some time ago and were probably somewhere close to the pit stop. She said she didn't mind. She started to bring out the bread, sun-dried tomato and olive spread, Camembert and Roquefort cheeses, and fresh strawberries and nectarines. We sat and talked, and she seemed to be a knowledgeable word traveler, having visited Algeria, Tanzania, Australia, Cambodia, India, Morocco, US, etc. and many European countries of course. She also shared with me about her interests in photography, and since she was more diligent than me in reading up on the technical apsects of photography, she also shared with me some tips about framing a picture and light control. The food was very replenishing, and the scenery was like somewhere out of King Arthur's idyllic backyard. I simply didn't want to leave, but I knew I had another 18 km to go.Somewhere along the way, my GPS started acting crazy, telling me to make a u-turn. I actually obeyed its instructions and ignored Virginie's printed directions. Big mistake. The next thing I knew, I was in the middle of some strange vineyards as the sun was beginning to set. I then looked at the paper map and traced my deviated route out, realizing I was 10-15 km off the right path. I was supposed to have already arrived in Mazan by now. I looked at my GPS and tried to find a shortcut to Mazan. Then, off I went speeding down the one lane roads piercing through the thick vineyards. The green leaves on the vines were passing by me like a nebulous curtain of haze as I urgently sped towards Mazan. Eerily, I felt like I was lost in some cornfield in one of Stephen King's novels, <i>Children of the Corn. Turning left, turning right, everything happened rapidly as my GPS kept on reorienting my current location on the map. Then, at last, I saw a sign, <i>Mazan.<i>MAZANI slowed down as I approached this village of 5500 people in the center of the Vaucluse region. In 50 BC, Mazan belonged to the "Memini" Territory of the Roman Empire, and it was at the crossroads of an important centurion route before climbing the Alps. The name Mazan was first spelled <i>Madazanum in 982 AD, which was thought to be derived from a Roman person named <i>Matacius.During the Roman period, this town was thought to produce and export wine as its main economy. Today, this village continued its rich heritage of wine production, as its "<i>crus" belonged to the famous <i>Côtes du Rhône. Parking my bike at the town center, I noticed a huge festivity transpiring. There was a stage set up in the main square, and on a banner hanging overhead was inscribed, "<i>Fête de la musique, 21 juin" (Music Festival, June 21). For a small town of 5500 inhabitants, there were a lot of bustling activities: music, food, karaoke contest, dancing on the street, and pure enjoyment of the longest day of the year outdoors by everybody. However fun it seemed, I was still on borrowed time. Taking a quick look at the impressively moving 14th century church perched at the top of the hill, I quickly got on my bike and rode towards the first pit stop another 11 km away.Leaving on the main road out of Mazan, I turned left onto <i>D 163, <i>direction Saint Pierre de Vassols et Bédoin right at the corner where a <i>Tabac-Presse (small newspaper and cigarette shop) stood.&nbsp;I instantly found myself on an empty country road flanked on both sides by countless vineyards. At this point, the wind started gusting violently. My bike was shaking, and I realized I was pedaling against strong headwinds. My leg muscles were beginning to ache as I actively exerted myself and pedaled onward while fighting against the tremendous force of nature trying to push me back. It was probably one of the hardest 5-6 km combat with the all-out headwinds, but I then made it onto <i>D 974, 6 km away from Bédoin.Lost Again!At this point, instead of heeding the wise words of Virginie, I paid attention to my GPS and deviated from the route again, this time riding uphill against the headwinds at an incline of probably 15-20 degrees for 2 km to the town of Crillon Le Brave. I&nbsp;looked at my GPS position and found that instead of getting closer to Bédoin, I was now an extra 5-6 km farther away. Making the most of this oblique deviation, I toured the medieval town of Crillon perched on a hilltop.&nbsp;I ran into an American, a Texan born in the suburbs of Houston but was living and working for Dell Computers in Austin, while stopping in the middle of a street in Crillon for a photo break. He was on a short vacation in Provence ever since he got transferred to working in Vienna for Dell Computers. He told me that he actually was living in Bratislava, an hour's drive away from Vienna, and he commuted to work everyday across the international border between Slovakia and Austria. He added, "<i>You probably see people living in Galveston and commuting to Houston, an hour away, too."&nbsp;&nbsp;The terrace at the top of Crillon le Brave provided a majestic view of Mt. Ventoux and the sweeping emerald valley of Provence below. I asked one of the waiters how to get to Bédoin. He pointed to a cluster of pastel-colored houses and a church perched on top of a hill in the distance and said in French, "<i>Voilà. C'est Bédoin." (There! That's Bedoin). Exhausted but still determined to get to my first pit stop in time for dinner in 30 minutes, I jumped back on my bike and began the downhill ride. It was supposed to be an easy, enjoyable ride downhill. Instead, the headwinds were so strong that there was no momentum propeling me forward. If you did not pedal, the bike was not moving anywhere. Such was the force of nature I had to contend with on the last half of my ride today.Bédoin&nbsp;Instead of riding 46 km, I rode a total of about 60 km today. The village of Bédoin had some very elegant shops, unlike the previous towns I had passed through. Some of the shops and buildings looked more like Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills than Provence, France. There also was some music festival that just finished, as police cars were blocking the main road filled with pedestrians and spectators. Finally I arrived at the hotel, and the people in my group were just walking outside to a café to get some refreshments. They seemed glad to see me. I checked in, quickly showered, then met up with the group in the hotel restaurant. While dining on duck and red wine, I shared my stories with the others. The adventures I experienced on this first day of my ride made me look forward to tomorrow's scenic, challenging climb up to the charming, medieval perched village of Venasque in the heart of Provence...TO BE CONTINUED&nbsp;
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/30/1245524400/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/30/1245524400/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/30/1245524400/tpod.html Tue, 07 Jul 2009 08:16:46 -0400 Biking in Provence - Le Cyclisme en Provence, FRANCE

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Orange, Provence, France

France: Population 65,073,482 in 2009 (19th in the world)Area: 643,427 sq. km. (slightly smaller than Texas)Years Visited: 1993,1997,2000, 2006GDP per capita:<i> USD $33,334 (Source: Int'l Monetary Fund, 2009)<i>Exchange Rate: 1 Euro = $1.40 USD<i>Let The Race Begin! -&nbsp;L'Aéroport Roissy-Charles de Gaulle - ParisLanding 15 minutes ahead of schedule, I quickly exited the plane on a mission to change my train ticket to an earlier departure at 8:21 AM for my first pit stop: <i>Orange, located&nbsp;557 km/346 miles south of Paris. I looked at my watch and realized I had less than one hour allotted for this task. If successful, I would be arriving in Orange two hours ahead of schedule, and that would translate to more time for touring and shopping.But where to go?I spotted an African-French female employee at the airport baggage claim area and immediately inquired,&nbsp;"<i>Excusez-moi, madame, mais pourriez-vous me dire où je peux trouver la gare SNCF dans cet aéroport?" (Excuse me, ma'am, but could you tell me where to find the train station at this airport?)"<i>Certainement, monsieur," (Of course, sir) and then she continued to tell me to exit through customs, turn right, and walk straight for another 15-20 minutes to an area between Terminals 2C and 2F, and <i>voilà, the train station would magically appear. Or so it seems...&nbsp;With my carry-on in hand, I briskly jogged, dodging past groups of slowly ambulating passengers, some of whom were looking up at the signs and monitors with perplexed expressions, trying to find their way around the convoluted labyrinth of Charles de Gaulle Airport. Continuing to look at my watch like I was running in the half-marathon this past January, I noticed that the countdown was well under way; only another 45 minutes until the departure of the TGV bullet train to the south of France.While racing across two behemoth terminals, I started to see signs directing me to "<i>Gare SNCF" (Train Station). Before departing for Paris, I had already pre-purchased a ticket online at home with the flexibility of changing the departure time (of course for a fee of 10€). But I still had to print it out, and confronted by the many red, yellow, and green ticket dispensing machines at the train station, I now had to select the right one. OK, let's try the yellow machine since it's the closest one.Rapidly maneuvering through the touch screen all in French with the pseudo-familiarity of the system, I was asked for the <i>référence du dossier (confirmation number) of my ticket. Then, it asked me to swipe my credit card; however, there was a huge problem. Although I was allowed to pay with my American Express online back home, the machine did not accept it now. I then tried reswiping my AmEx card again anyway, but to no avail. The ticket was flashing tauntingly on the screen wanting to be printed, only if I would purchase it again with acceptable cards like my Visa or Mastercard! Unbelievable. Not only could I not retrieve my pre-purchased ticket because of the lack of acceptance of a certain credit card, but if I wanted it, I would also have to pay the whole amount again! Looking at my watch, I had but 20 minutes before the TGV pulled out of the station. I tried the red and green machines. The same thing.This must be a mistake, I thought. Noticing my protracted time dealing with the machine, the quiet elderly French couple behind me began to ask if I needed any help."<i>Non merci," I replied. "<i>Le problème est que ces kiosques-ci n'acceptent pas la carte de crédit que j'ai employée pour acheter mon billet en ligne.&nbsp;Que dois-je faire en ce moment?" (The problem is that these machines won't accept the credit card that I used to purchase the ticket on line. What should I do now?). They shrugged their shoulders.I thought about speaking to a ticket agent, but I saw the long line of tourists snaking from the ticket counter to outside the station, mostly consisting of Americans, all seeming wearied and drained from their trans-Atlantic flights. Ten minutes until the train departure.At this point, I decided to stand in line, in hopes of just retrieving my pre-purchased ticket in time for my original departure at 9:25AM. I had given up hope of departing earlier. The line painstakingly inched every 2-3 minutes closer to the counter, but there was still a multitude of people in front of me. Finally, when I approached the counter, it was already 10 minutes before departure. I quickly summarized my credit card problem in French to the blonde employee, and then she replied,"<i>Bien qu'on puisse employer la carte Américan Express en ligne pour acheter les billets, on ne peut pas l'employer ici aux kiosques." (Although American Express can be used to make ticket purchases on line, it can't be used here at the ticket dispensing machines)Yeah, tell me something new. I then explained to her that had tourists been given that information ahead of time, they could have avoided unnecessary delays by easily using other credit cards.REMINDER: Leave your American Express at home when traveling to France. On the other hand, Visa and Mastercard are widely accepted.<i>Slicing Through The French Countryside on the TGVSitting on the upper deck in Car 2, Seat 82 in first class, I began to wind down after all that stressful commotion at the airport. Hey, where are the refreshments?, I wondered. Unlike first class travel on the <i>Shinkansen （新幹線） bullet train in Japan or on Norway's <i>Norges Statsbaner (Norwegian Rail), 1st class travel on the French TGV high speed train (<i>Train à Grande Vitesse) means no refreshment cart pushed to your seat. In fact, there were no complimentary treats on this train. I remember being served some snacks even in <i>2nd class <i>PeruRail from the Inca village of Ollantaytambo to Machu Picchu last October.TIP: Book a first-class TGV seat only if you want some peace and quiet. Otherwise, there is no significant additive advantage over second class.Well, at least <i>Continental Airlines had taken good care of me in Business Class on the way to France with a smörgåsbord of entrées and drinks. I was well fed and well rested in the spacious, reclinable seat. The next thing to do now was to relax and enjoy the alluring French countryside passing by in a nebulous haze at a speed of 300 km/hr (186 miles/hr). I put on Mozart's melodious <i>Piano Concerto #26 in D, K. 537 on my iPod Touch, &nbsp;took out my netbook, and began to jot down some thoughts. At first, the landscape was flat and uninteresting outside of Paris. But as the train headed southeast towards Burgundy, the undulating hills, clotted with symmetrical rows of vineyards, seemed to dance before my eyes to the hauntingly beautiful music of Mozart. The visual and auditory experiences were so complementary to each other - nature at its most classical form of expression. The small pastoral villages with dry-stone churches, quickly appearing and disappearing in the window as this modern train lanced through the landscape at tremendous speed, seemed to pulsate to the traditional rhythm of France's heartland. In less than 2 hours and 395 km/246 miles later, the TGV train pulled into <i>Gare Part Dieu station in Lyon (France's second largest city on the Rhône and Saône Rivers, and the third largest French-speaking city in the world after Paris and Montréal). I had almost one hour to quickly grab a bite at the train station. It was a pity I did not have any extra time for dining in Lyon, as this city is considered as the French capital of gastronomy, due to the prevalence of France's finest chefs throughout the city as well as its juxtaposition between two reputable wine-growing regions: <i>Beaujolais to the North and the <i>Côtes du Rhône to the South. At least, I was going biking in the <i>Côtes du Rhône region, so I would still have a chance to appreciate that fine assortment of wine, I thought.<i>On The Road AgainConnecting to the slower TER train <i>(Transport Express Régional) on my pilgrimage to Orange, I noticed that beyond the borders of Lyon, no more English was spoken on the overhead speakers. I was now so far deep in the countryside that everything was monolingual. I also started to notice a little variation in the French accent, a country twang, if you will, used by fellow passengers. It was not as pronounced and striking as the distinctive Southern accent audible among people from the Gulf Coast in the US. Chugging along, the train stopped at smaller and more remote, emptier train stations as it made its way to Orange. One or two villagers would sit on the platform in the intense sun of midday, waving at passengers on the train, as if they were the official receptionists to the village. I waved back from the tiny, quiet upper deck first class compartment where I was the only soul. The train then followed along the course of the Rhône River, and here and there, dramatic stone citadels and fortresses were seen perched on craggy hilltops. The red tile roofs and bright pastel colored walls of most houses along the tracks radiated a brilliant warmth akin to the colors of Italian coastal towns on the Mediterranean Sea.<i>Orange - Traces of Roman AntiquityAt last at 2:36PM, the train pulled into a small, one-platform station with the inscription "ORANGE." The name of this town of nearly 27,000 people has nothing to do with the fruit, but its name has some far-reaching connections with the name of the Republican county in southern California, the principal river in South Africa, and it has given its name to the Dutch royal house.Brief HistoryThe name Orange is derived from the ancient tribe <i>Arausio, which inhabited this area in 1000 BC. However, it was not until 36 BC, when Julius Caesar rewarded the veterans from the 2nd Galician Legion this territory as their retirement settlement, that the population suddenly swelled to 100,000 people. Its urban development led to the construction of a temple, sports stadium, amphitheater, baths complex, and all of a sudden, Orange became a recognizable town in the Roman Empire. During the Middle Ages, this town evolved into one of the chief cultural centers, as it was the homebase for traveling entertainers of lyric poetry, called <i>troubadours, across Europe. In the 16th century, it passed through inheritance to William the Silent (1533-1584), the architect of Dutch independence from Spain in the Eighty Years' War (1568-1648), who adopted the title Prince of Orange-Nassau. Hence to this day, the national color of the Netherlands is based on the name of this French town, Orange.I was given instructions by the tour operator to check into a hotel called <i>Hotel de Provence right next to the station. Turning on my portable, hand-held bike GPS, I quickly got oriented and instantly found the hotel 200 ft away from the station. I entered and met Mme (Madame) Verbe, a very convivial woman who ran this hotel. I introduced myself and was given a nice welcome in French as if I were being expected. She then unfolded a map of this small town and made some important recommendations as to where to go for historical sites and where to dine. After dropping my carry-on in my room, I was given a more in-depth virtual tour of the town as Mme Verbe pointed out things to me. I specifically asked for the location of some stores selling nice clothes and shoes, bike jerseys, and oh, the new 3GS unlocked iPhones that just came out the day before in both America and France. I had done some research on the internet and learned that Apple submitted to French anti-competitive laws and allowed the legal sale of unlocked iPhones, of which the second generation models could possibly cost 300-600€. I was interested in finding out how much the newest 3GS was selling for."<i>Monsieur, vous pouvez vous renseigner ici" (Well sir, you can ask here), as she pointed to a cell carrier outlet called Orange Télécom on Rue de la République, a 10-minute stroll from the hotel along the deserted, sleepy avenue Frédéric Mistral. In stark contrast to this morning's bustling commotion at the airport, the atmosphere here seemed more relaxing, meditative, as life seemed to move by very slowly in this corner of the country. There were elderly people sitting in the shades with their canes, watching the one or two pedestrians strolling by on a big, empty avenue. Some store windows were closed for an afternoon siesta. Was I in France or Mexico? If people went to France only to visit Paris, they would get a very askewed, imprecise impression of what life in France is really like. The heart of this country is nestled in the villages tucked away on the rolling hills far from Paris. And it is part of my trip to find out more about the strong traditions, cultures, and history of France. After an unsuccessful attempt at getting an unlocked iPhone 3GS (due to unavailability),&nbsp; I left Orange Télécom and walked further, then found myself facing a display of very nice leather shoes in the store window. It was a small store, called <i>Chaussures Prestige, run by an elderly gentleman on Rue Caristie. Although it was siesta time, the store was still open for business. I entered and was given the kind of special attention I would not get back home in the big fancy department stores. The gentleman meticulously measured my foot size and rushed to put on several shoes to my liking. I finally chose some black leather shoes with a very refined, classic design, which he highly recommended. Proceeding to check out, the store owner curiously asked where I was from."<i>Je suis de Houston" (I'm from Houston), I responded.Immediately, he broke out in excitement, "<i>Oh, vous voulez dire que vous êtes venu des États-Unis?" (You mean to say you're from the US?)He then added, "<i>J'ai un frère qui habite aussi au Téxas, mais je ne sais pas où exactement." (I have a brother who also lives in Texas, but I don't know exactly where). "<i>Quand je lui téléphone, je compose l'indicatif 7-1-3..." (When I call him, I dial the area code 713...)Immediately, I told him that 713 was one of the three area codes for the city of Houston. He went on to share stories of his family with me, that his brother had left this tiny, sleepy town of Orange and immigrated to the US many decades ago and had been working in metropolitan Houston as a computer engineer. He would rarely come back to Orange for a visit, now that he had children and grandchildren born on Texas soil. But the store owner felt that deep down, his brother's heart belonged to the proud culture and tradition of this tiny town nestled in a quiet corner of southern France, in the heartland of Provence.Strolling along the throbbing town center later, at Place de la République, dominated by crowded outdoor cafés, I stopped in several shops to check out some suits and shirts, and afterwards relaxed at a shaded café for some <i>café noisette (a French espresso with a drop of cream) and a pastry. Earlier when I was buying some shirts in a small store <i>Marie Claire, I was chatting with a woman in her mid-30's, who was managing the place with her small children still in elementary school. The kids had just gotten out of school, and they rushed to the store to help their mother out. Some of them had yet to begin English courses. She was looking forward to getting more help from them once school would be over at the beginning of July. And in a month, the family was looking forward to taking a vacation together on the seaside in the South of France, not too far from Orange. I wished the kids a safe summer and a fun-filled family vacation. It was personable encounters like these that already made this town charming.The evening was topped by my dining outdoors in the shadows of the <i>Théâtre Antique (the 2,000 year old Roman Theater) at <i>Le Restaurant du Théâtre right on the wide square Place des Frères Mounet. The sheer, massive 100 ft high deep ochre stone wall of the amphitheater was bathed in a soft illumination against the twilight firmament, as I savored one of the specialties of the region: a filet de lieu (grilled pollock, a type of cod) sprinkled with a creamy saffron-mushroom sauce served with white wine. After dinner, I crossed the street and bought a ticket to watch a French musical, <i>Emilie Jolie, performed right in the 2,000 year-old theater. It was breathtaking climbing the steep stone stairs to find a seat high up to appreciate the gorgeous sunset, the grandiose masonry and Roman architecture of this 9,000-10,000 seat theater, the clear acoustics, and the overwhelming anachronistic experience of witnessing a modern musical staged in this venue of two millennia.Tomorrow would begin the bike ride across the enchanting landscape of Provence....<i>
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/30/1245193285/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/30/1245193285/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/30/1245193285/tpod.html Fri, 19 Jun 2009 13:16:30 -0400 Biking in Provence - Le Cyclisme en Provence, FRANCE

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Houston, Texas, United States

Why&nbsp;Biking&nbsp;in&nbsp;Provence?I have been asked this question by friends and family, but the answer actually dates back to three years ago.It was April 2006. While sitting on the patio of my vacation lodge facing the demure, turquoise, tranquil bay around&nbsp;<i>Te Mahia (Marlborough Sounds), New Zealand, I was toasting a glass of&nbsp;the region's famous&nbsp;<i>Sauvignon Blanc&nbsp;to James, my Australian traveling buddy, and our Kiwi (ie, New Zealander) bike guide, Louise. We had just finished biking part of the famous 25-km&nbsp;<i>Queen Charlotte Track&nbsp;that afternoon and were rewarded handsomely with picturesque landscapes. Dining over lamb steak and sipping Marlborough wine underneath the blushing autumn evening sky while being surrounded by majestic mountains and lapping waves, we spent hours on the patio that evening, taking our time dining, chatting, and absorbing that surreal, magical moment when twilight was fading into nightfall, and the constellations of the Southern Hemisphere were beginning to unfold in the celestial canopy above.For more details and pictures of Te Mahia, New Zealand, click on the links below:&nbsp;http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/s._pacific_2006/1144174620/tpod.html&nbsp;http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/s._pacific_2006/1144329840/tpod.htmlI remember hearing them talk about beautiful bike rides around the world. Louise was going to Croatia in June to lead another bike group. And then someone mentioned southern France. Yes, it was <i>Provence, I recall, a region, like Tuscany (Italy), with alluring medieval towns sculpted gently on rolling, wine-kissed hills.&nbsp;It is a region that so inspired such artists like Van Gogh, Matisse, Cézanne, Picasso, Renoir, and Chagall. Was it the sensual pleasures within the luminous atmosphere that captivated these artists, giving them a vitality beyond endurance to produce some of their greatest masterpieces?Vincent Van Gogh, in one of his letters to his younger brother, Theo, described,&nbsp;<i>"Le Midi [The South of France] fires the senses, your hand is more agile, your eye sharper, your brain clearer...(<i>The Letters of Vincent Van Gogh, Penguin Classics, 1998).<i>"&nbsp;In an intoxicating, passionate way, the landscape of Provence aroused Van Gogh to produce all his great paintings from the age of 35, shortly after his arrival to Arles in February 1888, until his death two years later.One day, I would like to explore the intimate charm of Provence, I then promised myself. This is, after all, the heartland of France celebrated in literature and art. The rural towns in this region have a slower pace of life than in Paris, and on traditional market days, in which regional cheeses, local wines, and fresh vegetables abound in the market stalls, the entire community comes out with an infectious spirit, converting the market into an ebullient festivity.&nbsp;And what better way to capture this deep sense of history and tradition than to experience it all on a bike. At will, I can get off the beaten path anytime, immerse myself in the bucolic landscape, interact with the locals, and lose myself in the charm of the land and culture. The beauty and pageantry of this region, seen from the vantage point of a bike, can be amplified in a deep sensory way.&nbsp;And in the evening after a strenuous calorie-burning ride, I can look forward to rewarding myself guiltlessly with rich Provençal gourmet –&nbsp; a colorful feast of fresh seafood or gently cooked, tender lamb or even rabbit roasted with rosemary, interwined with seasonal, sun-ripe vegetables, olive oil, garlic, and aromatic herbs. Provence is also famous for its intense, robust, and spicy red wines, the best of which is&nbsp;<i>Ch<i>â<i>teauneuf-du-Pape, or the lighter, fresh, fruity, buttery white wines like the popular&nbsp;<i>Clos Sainte-Madgeleine&nbsp;or&nbsp;<i>Ch<i>âteaux Val Jonais.&nbsp;There is also a special type of wine, called&nbsp;<i>vin doux naturel&nbsp;<i>(naturally sweet wine or dessert wine), based on the exotically scented Muscat grape with flavors ranging from opulently sweet to lusciously fragrant.Reality sets in, as I await boarding call back at George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston. I am about to board my nonstop transatlantic flight on Houston-based&nbsp;<i>Continental Airlines&nbsp;destined for L'Aéroport Charles de Gaulle in Paris. In order to ensure a restful sleep for the upcoming energetic bike rides, I am going to the section of the plane with seats that are supposed to recline almost horizontally, at least, that is what I was told.In the morning when I wake up, it will be time for some croissant, café au lait, and the start of a bicycle odyssey through the heart of France...&nbsp;À bientôt (<i>See you soon)...
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/eurasia_2006/1158877800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/eurasia_2006/1158877800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/eurasia_2006/1158877800/tpod.html Thu, 15 Jan 2009 14:08:13 -0500 JAPAN, CHINA, MONGOLIA, RUSSIA, GERMANY, ITALY, FRANCE, SPAIN, INDIA (World Circumnavigation) 2006

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Paris, France

Return to Paris, FRANCE(Sep 21-25, 2006)Although this was my fifth visit to the City of Light or <i>La Ville Lumière, I still discovered a new way to appreciate the beauty of this city. And with the presence of wonderful friends, good food, and great wine, I experienced the <i>joie de vivre in France.After landing at Orly Airport at around 1:30PM, I went to the Métro counter to buy my train ticket into downtown Paris. There was an elderly Italian man who could not communicate in French. He insisted on asking for information in Italian to a French lady behind the counter. It was quite funny at first seeing how they were having a difficult time trying to understand each other. I then realized the gentleman needed some very important transportation information in order to meet a relative. The woman simply could not understand what he wanted to say. So, I stepped in to translate between Italian and French, much to the delight of the gentleman. Such was my introduction to Paris this time around.It was nice to see Sara again. After finishing her PhD work in Houston, she opted to transfer to a subsidiary in Paris to be closer to her family in Spain. Jana from Germany, Ian from Honduras, and Sara's colleague, Khouloud from Lebanon, also hung out with us. One evening, I even threw a dinner party for them in my apartment in the 17th District. It was followed by a walk to Place du Trocadéro to see the Eiffel Tower consumed with a million sparkling lights.To walk along the Seine River under an arcade of autumn foliage, to see the grand monuments illuminated along the river front, to enjoy the bustling, bohemian atmosphere of St. Michel/Latin Quarter -- all were quintessentially French to me. My apartment was even right across the street from Parc Monceau, where Claude Monet painted a series of five idyllic works.There were so many reasons to revisit Paris, for every time I came back, I would find new surprises of beauty and charm hidden around the city.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/29/1223253360/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/29/1223253360/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/29/1223253360/tpod.html Tue, 14 Oct 2008 08:09:23 -0400 Machu Picchu Adventure

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Pisac, Sacred Valley, Peru

Sunday, October 5, 2008Pisac, Peru<i>The Sacred Valley of The IncasToday was the first day to explore the environs&nbsp;outside Cusco,&nbsp;my first step into the historical&nbsp;world of the Incas.&nbsp;My group and I&nbsp;departed promptly at 9AM after a hearty breakfast consisting of <i>panqueques (pancakes), <i>huevos revueltos (scrambled eggs), papaya juice, and an eclectic assortment of North-Meets-South American buffet breakfast at the hotel. After&nbsp;my&nbsp;defatigating&nbsp;thirty minute jog at a hypoxic altitude of 11,000 feet along the serpentine, ascending cobblestone streets of Cusco, I did not even consider asking for egg substitutes or a&nbsp;traditional low calorie&nbsp;breakfast. Everything on the table was fair game!As we left the modern shell of luxury of the hotel, we began to drive into the harsh, barren, anhydrous&nbsp;landscape of&nbsp;the southern Peruvian highlands. The shadows of the towering mountains shielded the low-lying, brown&nbsp;bushes from the intense solar heat. Once in a while, I would notice some vegetations, but they were not profusely abundant. The sides of the mountains were covered with an ashen-brown color, echoing the same hue of the dessicated Santa Cruz mountains near San Jose, California or even that of the treeless Zaisan Mountains outside Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia.Our drive was made more meaningful by the historical narrations delivered by our tour guide, Rosa. As my eyes scanned the sinusoidal mountain range, I carefully listened to the events that had shaped this region of Peru. The Sacred Valley of the Incas, an enchanting area between Pisac and Ollataytambo, used to serve as the military, religious, and agricultural&nbsp;center of the expansive Inca Empire. Doused with the sacred Urubamaba River, the narrow strip of fertile land of the Sacred Valley was surrounded by the stunning Andes Mountains and now showcased impressive Inca fortresses and citadels.<i>Dónde está el baño? (Where's The Restroom?)Along the way, we made frequent stops for pictures with Peru's darling llamas. As we&nbsp;entered <i>Parque Arqueológico Pisaq <i>(Pisac Archeological Park), the group decided to make&nbsp;its last restroom stop. And was it a unique experience! At the park's entrance lay a dilapidated restroom, in which the toilet had no real plumbing to flush its contents. I noticed that people had to step outside to&nbsp;dip a plastic bowl into a bucket holding brownish, opaque, brackish water and&nbsp;took it inside to pour the water into the tank mounted on the toilet bowl. With enough water pressure, the toilet could loosely flush. Did I mention the absence of a sink to wash one's hands in or the lack of light inside the restroom? In order&nbsp;to not&nbsp;step one's&nbsp;foot into a regrettable area,&nbsp;the door had to be left ajar while the restroom was in service....<i>The Ancient Village of Pisac and the Inca CemeteryThe hike to the ancient&nbsp;village of Pisac was an absolutely stunning experience.&nbsp;Perched on a mountain top, Pisac was built by the&nbsp;Incas for two important reasons, as a defense post at the southern entrance to the Sacred Valley and&nbsp;as the breadbasket of the whole empire. It was here that potatoes were grown on impressive hillside terraces that draped the landscape in a rectilinear, symmetric staircase.&nbsp;So much potato could be grown in the conducive climate that a whole empire was easily fed. Rosa then led us to a mountainside, where we could see "holes" tunneling into&nbsp;its massive walls. This was the ancient "cemetery" of the Incas. Instead of being buried underground, the bodies of the dead were carried&nbsp;into a shallow "cave" dug&nbsp;by the Incas on the side of the mountain. The departed ones would&nbsp;remain in the fetal position or be sitting with limbs crossed in front of their bodies, surrounded&nbsp;by their potteries and jewelries, while their souls were thought to be mystically transported to the afterlife. <i>El Mercado Local (The Local Market)After our trek&nbsp;to the ancient ruins of Pisac, we descended to the modern town for some lunch and afterwards toured the local market of modern Pisac. Today was Sunday, so the local and tourist&nbsp;markets were in full swing. I traipsed around and silently observed the indigenous Quechua women doing their weekly shopping at the local market. The entire open-air market sold everything from Alpaca meat to little trinkets like plastic pens or cooking utensils. It was like going shopping at&nbsp;<i>Bloomingdale's in Manhattan or <i>La <i>Galerie Lafayette in Paris on a typical Sunday&nbsp;afternoon,&nbsp;but with a distinctive Peruvian flavor. This was, perhaps, one of the most refreshing and intriguing experiences I could have gotten to closely&nbsp;learn about the cultural interactions of the Quechuas.&nbsp;Although I did not understand a word at the market, I still enjoyed watching the typical human expressions of joy, displeasure, suspicion, and bargaining that&nbsp;were so omnipresent from Main Street, USA to&nbsp;<i>El Mercado Local, Perú.&nbsp;Some women were squeezing the papayas and passion fruits to test their freshness; others seemed to be chatting and laughing joyously in an intense social conversation. Little children were running around the different market tents with a sense of carefree frivolity. It seemed like a special afternoon. Food was in abundance and ready to be traded or bought. Young Quechua women with their offspring tied to their backs were buying food for&nbsp;their families. <i>Baby Animals and the Children of PerúAnd it was there that I asked an 8-year old boy why he&nbsp;was carrying&nbsp;a little billy goat wrapped in a shawl. He timidly introduced me to his female billy, <i>Juana,&nbsp;which was&nbsp;1 week old.&nbsp;Although he did not tell me why, I posed this question to an adjacent stall owner, who explained that it was a long-standing Quechua tradition for children to walk around carrying their pets in their arms. Depending on the villages of provenance, the portable pets could also be different. By seeing the type of pet (billy, lamb, or baby llama), one could determine the child's village of origin. My travel friends, Pam and David from South Carolina, came up with a more&nbsp;plausible hypothesis:&nbsp;it was an adorable, cute factor and a photographic magnet for tourists. In America, one could relate this to Hollywood actresses carrying their pet chihuahuas in Louis Vuitton handbags. Is it a cute factor or a gag reflex?The day ended with a visit to the <i>Vicuñita Factory (Saphy Street 818, near Sacsayhuamán), where we were taught how to&nbsp;recognize the suave, silky touch of a sweater made from real Baby Alpaca fur among a pile of synthetic wool&nbsp;sweaters.&nbsp;The real Baby Alpaca sweater&nbsp;was so smooth that I bought one after my new fashion consultant, Jan from Colorado, helped me select the color and design. And did she do a good job! Everyone in the group seemed to like it so much that my sweater became a convenient petting object, or at least, was that&nbsp;their excuse?...After a long, tiring day, we were told that tomorrow's itinerary would lead us closer to the lost city of the Incas: Machu Picchu. And that would mean&nbsp;some good cardiovascular hiking was&nbsp;in store&nbsp;for us....
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/29/1223141400/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/29/1223141400/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globetrekker/29/1223141400/tpod.html Mon, 13 Oct 2008 23:13:54 -0400 Machu Picchu Adventure

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Cusco, Peru

Saturday, October 4, 2008Cusco, PeruOne hour after taking off from Lima, my plane, <i>LAN Peru Flight #23 landed around 12:25PM at <i>Aeropuerto Velasco Astete in Cusco, 11,000 feet above sea level. Excitement filled me, as I saw the majestic Andes Mountains enveloping this city of 400,000 people with grace and charm. Even the thin air felt drier and cooler than in Lima. Inside the airport, there were oxygen canisters on sale for people with respiratory distress. So far, I did not have any complications thanks to my <i>Acetazolamide. PHYSIOLOGY OF BLOOD ACIDIFICATION AND BREATHINGAcetazolamide works by inhibiting an enzyme called Carbonic Anhydrase, an enzyme responsible for catalyzing the production of HCO3 (bicarbonate) from CO2 (carbon dioxide) and H2O (water):&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <i>carbonic anhydraseCO2 + H20 ----------------------------&gt; HCO3 + HBy preventing the production of bicarbonate (a base), this medicine would make my blood more acidic. The excess CO2 is a potent stimulus in the respiratory center of the brain, naturally stimulating respiration and causing one to breathe faster, so that the body could metabolize more oxygen, thus minimizing the symptoms of altitude sickness. That is why I went to the pharmacy to get a few days' supply of this medicine before my body would acclimatize.LINGUISTIC TRACES OF THE PAST Departing the airport, I took a taxi to the hotel. On the way, I sat in front and started chatting in Spanish with a very nice indigenous Peruvian taxi driver. We were talking about the Incan history as well as the language called Quechua, an agglutinative language derived from a dialect spoken by the Incans. An <i>aggutinative language had a grammatical structure, in which the verb came at the end of the sentence (eg. Latin, Japanese, Korean). Quechua is now spoken by 10 million people in Peru, Bolivia, Ecuador, Chile, and Argentina. He informed me that in Cusco and neighboring areas, it had a status comparable to Spanish and was taught in school. Due to my specialized interest and research in Comparative Linguistic Etymology (or the study of word origin across different languages), I got excited and asked him to teach me various phrases in Quechua. Neither the words nor pronunciation sounded like Spanish or any of the other 20 languages I had studied. It was extremely interesting, and I knew I had to find a book to teach me conversational Quechua before my departure...MAGNIFICENT HOTEL BUT WATCH OUT FOR THE TEAREI Adventures did a wonderful job selecting my accommodation in Cusco. Just two to three blocks from the main square, Plaza de Armas (Weapons' Square), my hotel was situated in the historic heart of Cusco, and it was constructed around the frame of a charming 16th century palace occupied by the Spanish Conquistador Francisco Pizarro himself. There was a garden-side restaurant serving delectable Peruvian and European cuisine, and the bar had a cozy fireplace for the usually chilly evenings in Cusco.The ancient interior stone walls and stunning atrium formed the dreamy backdrop to my stay in Cusco. At the entrance, guests were encouraged to soak the coca leaves, which naturally contained cocaine alkaloids, a basis for the drug cocaine, in hot water to form coca tea. Since there were no instructions concerning the quantity of coca leaves used, I ended up accidentally filling my cup to the brim with these leaves. My body was probably seeing an equivalent amount of crack cocaine legally imbibed in the form of tea, and this did have some effect on me. I was walking around the Main Square taking pictures when I suddenly felt some palpitations (pounding in the chest) and dizziness. I immediately looked around for a pharmacy to try to get some beta-blocker medicine to slow down my heart rate. But the symptoms became a little bit more intense. Since I could not find a pharmacy in the vicinity, I tried some deep breathing maneuvers as well as massaging the carotid node in my neck to stimulate some natural chemicals to try to neutralize the stimulatory effect of the coca leaves. I knew I also had to quickly hydrate myself quickly since the duiretic effect of the tea and coffee, which I had drunk earlier in the day, was probably making my blood pressure low. After all these maneuvers, I began to feel better and went back to the hotel. No more coca leaves for me, please....SPRECHEN SIE DEUTSCH IN CUSCO?Before the arrival of the rest of the group, I was decompressing with a drink in the courtyard while listening to the relaxing bubbling sound of the central fountain. It was there that I met a group of senior travelers from Vienna, who were having a difficult time conveying themselves in English or Spanish with the hotel staff. I jumped in, briefly introduced myself, and helped translate between German and Spanish for them. We then sat down and conversed some more in German, and they were telling me how strenuous their flight to Peru was. They flew on KLM from Vienna-Amsterdam-Panama City-Lima, then connected on LAN Peru to Cusco. And wow, they did not lose their luggage! They were on a one month tour of Lima, Machu Picchu, the Amazons, Ecuador, and the Galapagos Islands. I then told them that around this time three years ago, I was vacationing in a rental apartment in a beautiful corner of their country, in the Lake District of western Austria, known as <i>Hallstatt-Salzkammergut. The autumn colors were vividly beautiful, and the history around that region was very interesting. They mentioned that although Europe was very charming with its history, it was the US that they admired for the its future-oriented mindset. I also met an Australian traveler who flew from Sydney-Auckland (New Zealand)-Mexico City-Lima-Cusco. And I thought my flight was long....THE ARRIVAL OF THE AMERICANSAt around 2PM, the rest of the group arrived. I had never met so many medical professionals together on one trip before. It felt more like the American Medical Association convetion. I met Joel, an Internist from Colordado, and his wife, Jan; Sean, a Pediatric Ophthalmologist, and his wife, Karen, a Neurologist from the Los Angeles area; Pam, an Obstetrics Nurse, and her Anesthetist husband, David, from South Carolina, and Kevin, a Radiologis from Boston. Also, Dana, a dentist from Grass Valley, California, and his good friend, Barry, the Vice President of a software company, were also part of the group. Almost all the major specialties were covered. Our guide, Rosa, a native of Peru with a good command of English, came in and introduced herself. She then mentioned that our itinerary was going to be slightly changed due to a nationwide strike next week, which would severly limit the trains to Machu Picchu. I told Rosa that I was surprised that the Peruvians were trying to copy the Italian way of life. I would have accepted this kind of incident in Italy and France without further questioning, but not in Peru?!Because today was a slow day for us to acclimatize to the high altitude, no strenuous exertion was on the schedule. We reconvened around 3PM and did the tour of the city of Cusco. Filled with charming cobblestone alleys and church towers, I was very impressed with the city layout. We visited the Church of Santo Domingo and the main Cathedral in Plaza de Armas. BRIEF HISTORY OF CUSCOCusco was said to have been founded in the 11th century by the Inca Supreme Leader Pachacuti, and it became the capital of the Inca Empire (1200s-1532), which stretched from southern Colombia to Chile and encompassed a population of 30 million people. Spanish Conquistador Francisco Pizarro entered Cusco on March 23, 1534 and defeated the Incans to take over the city. He demolished the precious temples and palaces, and using their stones, he built grandiose cathedrals and churches in order to convert the Incas to Christianity. Now, 85% of the Cusqueños are Roman Catholic while 15% still practice traditional Incan theology.Walking around this delicate city, I felt like I was walking around a small town in northern Spain. The European architecture and ancient streets murmured a history of unmistakable colonial hardship and bloody defeat of the Incas. I could sense the tears and blood on the stones of the demolished ruins of the Incan buildings, now used to hold up the Spanish religious buildings. The indigenous people of Peru, wrapped in colorful shawls and sweaters and walking their llamas down the street, were also the offspring of the citizens belonging to a once powerful empire. Now, some of them were reduced to sitting on the street corner with outstretched, sun-dried hands begging for money. Once covered in gold and silver, the people of this region during the Inca Empire probably lived a completely different life than their offspring today.After the tour, everybody went back to the hotel to rest before dinner while I walked around the city, guided by my questioning the locals in Spanish for directions, and ended up passing by a bike shop. I went inside to get some information about mountain biking around Cusco for later. And since there was a really nice bike jersey of Team Peru, I couldn't leave the store without finalizing the transaction.Our evening was topped off with a welcome dinner in the hotel, where I tried some local cuisine: <i>Lomo Saltado (a traditional Peruvian dish of beef sautéed with onions, tomatoes, chili peppers, served with white rice and French fries. No guinea pigs for today, but the week was still young. Tomorrow, we would start hiking near Pisac, 32 km NE of Cusco.
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