From the airport we hop a bus to the island, the n board a vaporetto boat to travel down the amazing Grand Canal through a flotilla of gondolas and o the r water craft.  With canals hiding all the foundations, it gives you the sense that the city is floating – really quite magical.  It has been called the most beautiful ‘street’ in the world. 

As we putt along under our Rialto Bridge I lean over and give C an innocent kiss on the cheek as we marvel that we are actually here.  The wea the red walls, old bell towers, domed churches, and awesome architecture, make it easy to imagine yourself in a time warp back going back to the 14^th century.

Arriving at the famous San Marco Square , we jump off and don our backpacks and head off to find our hotel.  In this traffic free environment we are struck by the silence, as we listen to sounds echoing off the labyrinthine tangle of narrow and intriguing alleyways.

Once settled in our hotel, we celebrate with a happy hour on the flowered balcony of our room.  There is a canal right beneath us, and we enjoy a serendipitous moment when a gondolier dressed in the traditional stripped shirt and hat, oars past in his shiny black gondola.  He is belting out a song, and we have a giggle listening to our own little Italian Idol episode.

The gondola disappears down the windy canal – and again we are left in silence, with only the ripples lapping against the foundations of   the splendid medieval buildings which are slowly sinking into the sea.  Ahhh … quintessential Venezia!

San Marco Square is inunda ted with flocks of pigeons and flocks of turistas, and one morning walking through the square, we experience what seemed to be a paranormal event – it starts raining fea the rs!  Yup, all around us fea the rs suddenly flutter to the ground as one of the resident pigeons obviously met a violent demise.

At night Venice comes alive with a plethora of buskers, including clever puppeteers, mask sellers, costumed mimes, and musicians, all competing for your tourist dollars.

In the se busy types of areas the overwhelmed Italians are hardly a threat to win any congeniality contests.  Prices are brutal, and snobbery reigns supreme.  Restaurant staff seem to have the ir noses stuck up so far in the air, it’s a wonder the y don’t drown when it rains!

We learn the hard way, that sitting down in a restaurant or trattoria you are automatically charged a healthy 12% service fee, plus several Euros for a glass of water, and even more money for the bread the y bring!  Yikes, no wonder so many Italians eat standing up.  Next time we decide on take-away, as the already high prices increase dramatically the moment the buttocks gets involved!

Just a note here gentlemen, while on the subject of buttocks. Let the record show that it’s my opinion that the gorgeous Italian belles love to accentuate the ir every little jiggle and wiggle by strutting about in wicked stiletto heeled lea the r boots, and delightful derrieres stuffed into designer jeans so tight the y look like the y’re pain ted on.  Very cheeky indeed!   Ooooops, sorry, I digress.

Not wanting to graze around with the o the r sheep, we decide to get lost (like we had any choice) in some of the many neighborhoods of Venice .   In some obscure alley we stumble across a kind of wine tavern with elders chitchatting over the ir beloved vino.  We get a few quizzical looks, but sit down and order some wine, and listen to the ir amusing sing-songy, limb-aided lingo, in which all words seemingly end in some kind of vowel .

We travel to the islands of Lido and Murano, the latter famous for it’s glass, although I will always remember it for the dark chocolate gelato which rates right at the top of the orgasmatron! Mmmmmmmmm.

We now have to sort out three train transfers, as we make our way across the country to the unique World Heritage Site known as Cinque Terre (five lands). It is a string of five charming old fishing villages that defy gravity, clinging like barnacles to sheer rock cliffs.  A nice bonus is the fact that the re are no cars in any of the villages.

Years ago, the towns could be reached only by donkey or boat, but now a commuter train now serves the villages, and the old donkey paths have become a hiker’s paradise. Once home to fleets of fishing boats, Cinque Terre has morphed into a tourist haven, and nowadays the fish walk the streets buying jars of pesto!

We arrive in Vernazza on Easter weekend and are a bit overwhelmed by the humongous crowds. Thankfully we had booked our pension months before arriving.  This enchanting and perfectly picturesque and precariously perched pastel village, will serve as our base for the e next three days while we hike and explore the area.

The charming village has rich terracotta colored buildings with interesting little shops along the main cobbled street, with laundry flapping from the upper story windows, and outside cafes beside fish boats bobbing in the harbor.

After a brief wander about town, we spend the remainder of the first afternoon plunked on our balcony next to the colorful lemon trees in the gardens, just relaxing with a book and bottle of vino rosso.  Tomorrow is hiking day, and we plan to depart at first light to avoid any crowds on the trails.

Along our hike we are trea ted to vistas that a seagull would envy. The narrow paths and centuries-old steps sneak the ir way through groves of olive trees and gnarled grapevines that cling for dear life to the almost vertical hillside with the Mediterranean far below a sheet of wrinkled turquoise. Soul refreshing indeed.

We power our way to the first village of Corniglia , and continue on to Manarola where we stop for a delicious brekkie of spinach/cheese quiche, some traditional chickpea thingy, and definitely the best hot chocolate I’ve ever tas ted – so thick I had to spoon it out.  Perfecto!

What is unusual about Manarola is that the main street comes up from the water, and boats are parked in front of most shops.  Very weird, having ‘breakfast with the boats’!  Hunger appeased, we steam on to Riomaggiore before boating back to the o the r end of C5 to Monterosso. From here we make the steep trek back to Vernazza – completing all five villages in just over three hours!  Amazing what some marathon training can do!

We arrive back at our pension to find a calla lilly and a few Easter eggs on the bed. A nice hot shower, change of clo the s, and off to find a hearty dinner.  The hike jostled our joints into submission, so on the way home we grab a little medication in the form of a bottle Limoncino – a  local lemon liqueur with the kick of a mule! 

Ahead of our hiking schedule, we decide to give the legs a break today and jump a train for Pisa . A quick visit to see the crooked old tower, which really does look like it’s ready to topple over. Again hordes of tourists, and the place is a madhouse. We stop for a quick piece a pizza in Pisa, the n bolt back to our little oasis up in the hills of Vernazza, to take advantage of the incredible sunny wea the r – and of course the obligatory red wines!

With some very fond memories of Cinque Terre we catch a train to Milan , the n bus out to Malpensa to our B & B (I Castagni) in the small village of Casorate Sempione . What a delight. It is an old mansion with colorful gardens and the owners Anna & Carlo are absolutely lovely people.

We meander around the old village stocking up for a picnic we are planning tomorrow. Almost nobody speaks English here – but over some good chuckles the mission is accomplished. Now it’s on to the local pub for a pint. The curious old fellas are all chatting away to C and I in foreign tongue – it was a good laugh.

The plan today is to hike along beautiful Lake Maggiore – a lake near the Alps, and shared between Italy and Switzerland . We train out to the village of Arona in the Lake District and hike up to a humongous bronze statue of St. Carlo built in 1697. Looking for directions on walking to the next town we talk to a local lady who tell us “you no walka dis way – only howses and moomoo”.  We enjoy a chuckle and the n choose the o the r fork in the road.  

We walk for miles along the lake passing through several towns. Little lizards scurry out of the way as we walk past some stunning old mansions with gardens displaying the biggest rhodos and azaleas we’ve ever seen. 

Now it’s time for our picnic in a scenic lakeside setting. Swans swim by as we kick off our shoes and settle in the sun. Aromatic salami, tasty brie & edam cheeses, red wine, bread that if it was any fresher we’d have to slap it, and a basket of big juicy fresh strawberries.  Mmmm …  a melt in your mouth moment!

After lunch we train up to Stresa –  a lovely lakeside gem with a gorgeous promenade looking across the lake to Isola Bell.  We poke about for a few hours the n again board a train back to Casorate.

Back at our B & B the owners have invi ted us to join the m for a simple dinner.  Well, this ‘simple’ dinner turns out to be a fabu lou s spread of about eight courses of goodies to tantalize the taste buds!  Ahhhh…. death by gluttony.

Today we drag our arses outa bed at 3:45 am to be at airport by 4:40 am – only to learn on arrival that due to a strike of air traffic controllers in France our flight has been cancelled.  What a brutal day – 13 hours waiting in the airport before finally headed to Paris .  European transportation systems have often been frustrating because of staff, who all appear to have gradua ted with honors from the famous “Eye-Don’t-Geef-A-Sheet” college.

During the ordeal we strike up a friendship with a French guy named Marc who turns out to be a real character.  He is a renown artist very well connec ted – in fact, friends with both Fidel Castro and the Prince of Monaco.  On arrival, a big tip of the chapeau to Marc, who insists on delivering us right to the door of our Saint Pierre Hotel.  What for the most part was a horrendous day, ended up with a nice into to the wonderful city of Paris . 

What a magnificent city Paris is. The first thing we notice is the oldness and grandeur of the place.  Amazing architecture and monuments abound as we enjoy a stroll around.  Finding food is certainly not a problem, and we collect some goodies for a picnic in the park and watch the world go by.

As we ‘bonjour’ our way around, we are finding that Parisians are much friendlier than the ir reputation for aloofness suggests, providing you start by approaching the m in French.  Tonight we amble about till dusk, the n stop for some delicious crepes to munch under the city’s most quintessential  landmark – the Eiffel Tower – which by the way, is brilliant when lit up at night.         Ooooo – la - la, Paris is certainly a great antidote for insomnia!

Now it’s time to board a boat for a night cruise along the charming Seine River .  There is a reason Paris is known as the city of lights – and at night it’s magical. We are awed by the constant jolt of beauty as we meander along the river.  Most romantic, and we can’t help but enjoy a snuggle and smooch when passing under some of the stunning old bridges. 

Today after many metro trips and wandering different neighborhoods, we stop for a picnic in a park near the river and under the amazing Notre Dam ca the dral. As we look skyward towards the roof of the incredible architecture we notice that we are being watched by several gothic gargoyle whose ugliness cannot be over exaggera ted .  Early night, as the marathon is tomorrow!

The   Paris Marathon  

Today is D-Day …  and the Marathon is upon us.  The alarm sounds, we rub the sleep out of our eyes, drag our arses outa the sheets, and look out the window into the still dark morning.

The preparation starts - pin on our race number bibs, hydrate, eat banana, tape nipples, hydrate, go to bathroom for 10^th time, Vaseline feet and o the r strategic areas.  Finally the two Victorian foot soldiers are ready, and leave the womb of our room, to catch the metro to the race start.

The unusually hot wea the r has lead to many runners dropping out before the race even star ted , but it is still a huge field. Of the 35,000 registered , the re are  28,261 runners from 87 countries actually starting the race.

It was a bit chaotic at the start of the race, as you might imagine with  this many bodies. Christine and I knew we were going to lose each o the r in the crowds, so we shared a big hug, wished each o the r well, vowing, no matter what, to complete the run, and agree to meet back at the hotel after the run.

We expec ted the wea the r to be cool, so I’m dressed in black tights and a long sleeve shirt.  However, the skies are blue and the sun is warm. My guess is, the forecast is for pain.

Eager anticipation, fear, nervous energy, the mind games begin as the final seconds are coun ted down. BANG! The gun sounds, and we are propelled forward. Quite a sight with the sea of runners oozing out en masse (like my French?) of the corals onto the spectator lined Champs Elysees with the Arc de Triumph as a backdrop. The main trick is to avoid a mass of slippery plastic from runners garbage bag wind breakers and water bottles.                                                                                         

It has been dubbed a “Monumental Marathon” because of all the wonderful places we pass in this fabu lou s city – Louvre, Bastille, Arc de Triumph, Eiffel Tower , etc.  For the first 10K all is going well despite the rising temperatures.

Along the way we encounter many brass bands, and some stages with women dancing. People line the course blowing horns and screaming Allez, Allez!  The sights of Paris are just spectacular.

The route goes out into the country for the next 10K or so and this is my first indication that things are not going as well as expec ted . As we approach the 25K the smile miles have evapora ted , and I sense the first bit of cramping in my legs.

Some degree of masochism is a prerequisite for trying to run a marathon, but a hip injury that kept me from running for a year, and the incredibly hot wea the r now seems to be taking a toll.  Back in town, we run along the river Seine , and on the bridges crowds of people have ga the red to cheer us on.

Somewhere around 30K I meet with that bastion of brutality, known as the "Wall".   No, I don’t mean the Pink Floyd record album - but the point when the body runs out of energy and it feels like an elephant has jumped onto your back! 

It’s hotter than a hillbilly finds his sister, so passing one of the rare aid stations I take some water and pour it over my head , gasping a lou d as it cascades down over my over hea ted body.  During this break, I grab some dried fruit to munch.  In my fatigued state I think I must be hallucinating as I glance over at a 12’ apparition passing me.  Yes, I have just been passed by some guy on stilts!!   Now I realize just how bad things are.

Alone with my thoughts, I try to create some positive mental distractions and plod on.  The kilometers slowly tick by, and as I approach 35K, I realize that the time no longer matters. At age 58, my 2:50 marathons are now just memories from a time when I wore a younger mans clo the s.  This marathon isn’t about the clock, it’s simply about trying to finish.

The wailing of the ambulances is a sound heard far too often today, as the re are many downed runners – done in by the heat wave. I pass three runners being stretchered off the course.

We are now in Bois de Boulogne – a huge, seemingly unending park and each slap on the Parisian asphalt is causing carnival of pain in my jelloed legs. Each kilometer now feeling like a marathon in itself.  But wait – what do I see ahead?  A wine stop!!!   Yes, it’s true – where else but Paris would a Medoc group give out red wine to the struggling runners around the 39K point in a marathon!

Well, I know my time is going to be brutal – so what the hell –  I stop for a glug of grape!  At the same, time a German fellow has the same idea – so we raise our glasses in a toast to making it to the finish!

As bad as I feel, I can’t help but chuckle at the ridicu lou sness of the situation – as I slosh off for the last few kilometers. I’m just hoping not to end up like Phidippidès!

The harsh heat has reached 30 degrees, and the last few kilometers has many runners down, both on and off the course, and ambulances struggling to get through the crowds.  Over 6,700 registered runners did not start the marathon today, and of the o the rs that did, ano the r 1, 322 runners were unable to finish.

Mercifully the course emerges from the park and the crowd are yelling Allez Allez  and, Courage, as I make my way the final 200 meters towards the Arc de Triumph and the sought after Arrivee (finish) sign on Avenue Foch to complete the 42.195 kilometers.  All I can say is … thank Foch it’s over!

Everything aches – take your anatomical pick!  As I have done so many times, I vow NEVER EVER to run a marathon ever again.  The next time I want to hit the wall is when I accidentally stumble out from the wrong side of the bed!

I gingerly make my way down the steps onto the Metro, worried about Christine surviving this heat, as I know desperately she too wants to finish this marathon.

Back at the hotel I’m soaking my weary bones in the tub, when Christine walks in. I take one look at her big grin and I know she has comple ted the run. We are both deligh ted to have finished this marathon under such difficult circumstances. Now we can relax and enjoy the rest of our holiday.  The bed will certainly feel good tonight.  

Today C is on a mission to some last minute shopping, and I opt for a stroll about town on my own.  Lots of interesting spots – a local market with beautiful flowers, lush fruits, ugly open-eyed fish, and naked rabbits - an odorous  fromagerie looking like a festival of mould -  streets of sweets, including a shop with a working and impressive chocolate fountain. 

Finally I stop at a Brasserie. No, this is not an under garment  – but a type of restaurant/brewery!  I plunk myself down for a pleasant pint and watch la vie Parisienne pass by.  I grab a newspaper but nothing looks familiar.   What kind of uncivilized country is this – you can find 246 different kinds of cheese – but not a damn hockey score!                                                                                                

Later tonight we take our marathon medals to the Luxembourg Gardens to get a picture, and the n to a wonderful sidewalk French bistro for our delightful last supper in the city of lights.

Today we now make our way to the Paris airport where we have to catch a train to Belgium . We will first go to Brussels , and the n ano the r train to Bruges . We arrive at the Setola B&B and marvel at the age of the home. The house itself was built in 1745, and the basement is from the 1500’s.  They built really ‘em to last in the old days!

Considered to be Europe’s best preserved medieval city, Bruges is a magical, fairy-tale town.  It’s called the ‘ Venice of the North’ because of the picturesque canals that crisscross the city. Historic churches abound, a chiming bell tower in the market square, locals scooting around on bikes, and horse drawn carriages clip-clopping over the cobbled streets.  This place is going to put the camera through a workout!

Bruges is known for some of the world’s best chocolate and beer … and this my friends, is my  kinda town!  In fact at dinner, I’m told I have a choice of some 400 different beers!  Oh, those tough decisions!

Today we rent a couple of bikes, or fiets (pronounced feets) as the y are called here, and ride out to an old Flemish town called Damme.   We pass by lovely old windmills, and ride on a paved path along beautiful canals lines by tall trees.  In no time at all we are in Damme, and after a quick look about, decide to carry on riding and absorb more of the splendid countryside.

We keep following lovely canals that are dappled in ducks and the perfectly preposterous looking great cres ted grebes.  The green fields are full of beautiful ring neck pheasants, the skies are blue, and the day is delightful.

At some point we cross over a border and now find ourselves in Holland and headed for Sluis.  We bike into town and are stunned by it’s beauty.  A postcard perfect, wish you were here moment!

Picturesque little place with fountains spewing water skywards and geese poking about on the grass.  We stop at a sidewalk café for an order of frites and a glass of Kriek while ducks waddle about under our table.   Today is truly a gem in the tiara of our travels!

Our three nights in Bruges were delightful, but alas it’s time for  some Nice time in sou the rn France .  It kind of feels like we are in the Amazing Race, jumping on and off buses, running for trains etc. – but now we can settle for six days, using Nice, the capital of the French Riviera, as our base to explore o the r areas of the Cote d’Azur.

After unpacking we walk to the “old town” which is a labyrinth of alleyways full of neat little shops and restaurants.  We opt to sample la socca – a savory kind of pancake made from chick peas, and a bucket of munchable mussels.  After dinner we stop, of course, for the obligatory delicious gelato. 

The wea the r has been perfect so far with nary a drop of rain, and Nice is no exception.  Today we hit the colorful Cours Saleya Market and pick up a basket of succulent strawberries to nibble on as we stroll along the Promenade des Anglais that hugs the azure blue of the Mediterranean seashore for several kilometers and is a favorite of runners, cyclists, dog owners and rollerbladers.

We opt for a bus into the tiny Principality of Monaco for the day.  Seems it’s all about money – spending it and flaunting it, and it has been called a sunny place for shady characters . The harbor is filled with ridicu lou sly expensive and luxurious yachts, and in the space of about 15 minutes waiting for a bus, four sleek and slinky Ferraris slink by, accelerating up a hill with a ferocious throaty snarl that sounds like a leopard on steroids!                                            

The last five days we spend cavorting about the Cote d’Azur , visiting places including   Antibes , Villefranche, Menton, Saint Paul de Vence, and Cannes ,  where the per-capita population of billionaires must be among the highest on the planet.  All the se little towns start to blur and bore, as our European holiday draws to an end.

During our travels we were fortunate to have enjoyed such fabu lou s wea the r, while experiencing some of Europe’s most delightful spots, but after this hectic schedule the time has come to head on back to good old Victoria and take a well earned rest.  At least for now, our travel thirst has been quenched.  

Mark Colegrave    April 2007