Turkey with All the Trimmings

Get comfortable - this could take a while.

Ok, all set? 

A couple of hours out of Istanbul by bus will get you to a quiet little peninsula between the Ionian Sea and the Dardenelles called Gallipoli. Historically, he who controls the Dardenelles controls shipping between the Black Sea (Russia) and the Mediterranean Sea (the rest of the world). In WWI the allies made a good decision to try to gain control of this area, but a series of really bad decisions on how to go about it. A day of seeing the lay of the land with a good Turkish guide and a group made up of Aussies and Kiwis left me with a clearer understanding why Gallipoli serves as a metaphor for the futility of war. Hearing the Turkish perspective was particularly illuminating as the campaign, while a cock-up of epic proportions for the allies, was considered a watershed moment for the Turkish nation. It certainly didn’t hurt the career of a little known Turkish officer who masterminded the Turkish defense (Mustafa Kemal, later to become known as the great Ataturk, first leader of modern Turkey). It was difficult to reconcile this peaceful Turkish countryside with the numerous war memorials and cemeteries dotting the landscape like so many prairie crocuses in the springtime.

To lighten up the day, I caught dufus 1 and dufus 2 trying to get a picture of the inside of an old WWII bunker on another nearby beach:

Late in the day, after viewing Peter Weir’s movie, Gallipoli, our tour company seemed pleased to leave us at the mercy of public transportation on the overnight bus. We expected to have at least a couple seats each because there is no logical reason for anyone to be on an overnight bus from one small place I’ve never heard of in western Turkey to another small place I’ve never heard of in western Turkey. It was full, of course, and the bus seats were clearly designed for short haul excursions. Countless hours later (5, 10, 100?), we were dropped unceremoniously at the roadside in a small city called Celcuk (at least they got that right). The tour company who was supposed to pick us up was nowhere to be seen and that may have been because we had arrived almost two hours before the scheduled arrival time of 7:30 a.m.. How we came to arrive two hours early on a 7 hour journey remains a mystery. Is it wrong to be less diligent about travel details when the tour company guy assures you a car will be waiting for you? The answer is yes. Waking up a cabbie and gesturing in her finest  mime, Ann was able to establish our hotel was either a few kilometers away, or 35 kilometers away depending upon exactly which Fantasia hotel was ours (Disney trademark alert). So, thirty-five kilometers and many Turkish lira later we were in a comfy hotel - the girls sleeping, and me tucking in to a substantial breakfast buffet.

Aside on Turkish busing

At every stop for commercial buses or tour buses in western Turkey, at least one person owns the bus washing concession. For stops as brief as fifteen minutes, someone would appear with a long brush, window squeegee, and hose, and begin wiping down the bus from tip to tail.The drivers would always slip the cleaning guy a bill or two. Even on the overnight buses, at 1, 2, or 3.a.m., someone would start cleaning the bus within 30 seconds of the engine being shut down. The Turks have truly embraced the entrepreneurial spirit. 

Staring the breakfast buffet, it occurred to me I could be anywhere. A few dozen pasty tourists sporting beachwear on a day whose high will not reach 20c, poking through warming trays in hopes of finding something different from the previous six mornings, reminded me of all-inclusive resorts in Mexico, Hawaii, the Caribbean... anywhere. The tour guide in Istanbul assured us we would be very happy in this many-starred hotel, when really we would have been much happier closer to town, with fewer hotel stars and more ... Turkishness (Turknicity?).

The morning was spent wandering around Ephesus, one of the largest Roman ruins in Turkey. The city boasted over 200,000 citizens in its hay-day and there was enough un-pillaged stonework to keep archeological grad students busy for years. I was unprepared for the volume of tourists at the site although the coliseum-sized cruise ship docked not far from our hotel should have been warning enough. 

In this, as in many ancient ruins, the men’s toilets are the best preserved feature. I can’t say why with any certainty.

The lunch stop looked sketchy when we pulled up next six other buses and the promise of a cafeteria-styled buffet waiting inside. Never judge a book by its cover;  we have placed this stop near the top of the lunch list. It was very traditional, and very yummy, excluding the rice pudding dessert, which I would not recommend for anyone without a robust pancreas.

The afternoon brought us to the house of the Virgin Mary. Yes I am talking about Jesus’ mom. According to the helpful informational plaques, Mary spent a few years living there for unspecified reasons (trial separation with Joseph?). The evidence supporting the claim of Chez Mary would probably not hold up in court, but as I said to Perri (and this will surprise many of you), “that is not what faith is about”. Sadly, the military presence around the place detracted from the spiritual image projected by the guide books. Not much to look at, except for the ‘get your picture taken with a camel’ vendor at the front gate, so I won’t waste photo space.

Our tour guide surprised us with a unscheduled stop at his cousin’s carpet place. I’ll admit I am smarter about carpets, but also ninety minutes closer to being dead, and I’m not sure that’s a fair exchange.

A dog-food dinner buffet back a the many-starred hotel (with the exception of the chicken donair), washed down with no-star wine, ended our day, thankfully. Also, the many-starred hotel had wifi, as long as you were in the same room as the wifi box which was seven floors away from our room.

The next day was a relatively short 3 hour bus ride to Pamukkale, a small town who has managed to turn a mineral water problem into a Unesco World Heritage site.  Like everything else in this country, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Who knew a little extra calcium in the water could create this:

The locals have turned the hot water spring into a series of cascading infinity pools which look very much like sloppy spring skiing, with bath temperature water.

The Romans decided the hot mineral waters had extraordinary healing powers, so Pamukkale also boasts a significant Roman ruin (complete with latrine again) right next to the calcite ski hill.

For the second time, the local tour company dropped us into the loving arms of local public transit. If I had known we were doing two overnight bus rides in three nights, I might well have stayed at home. I don’t care how much you think you’re saving on a hotel room, my advice is to pay extra and fly. Here’s the scene: 10:40 p.m. in a town who’s name is a mystery to us (knowing the name would not have been helpful anyway), we didn’t know the language except to say please and thank you and count to three, the temperature in the open-air bus station was approaching zero, and the bus was either very late or we’d missed it. Three bus station employees, if we read the body language correctly, may have agreed our bus would be along in the Turkish equivalent of ‘manyana’. And that was probably the best part of the next ten hours.

When the sun finally rose, I saw we had been transported to the Turkish high desert in central Anatolia (the girls were sleeping blissfully, of course). If we had a tee time in Cappadocia that morning, there certainly would have been a frost delay. The town’s claim to fame is a series of cave dwellings used by early Christians from the fourth to the twelfth centuries. Imagine first generation recreational property for those times when your theological viewpoint falls out of favour. As we arrived in the town square my first thoughts drifted to the Flinstones theme song.

We joined a day tour and discovered there are a goodly number of habitations chiseled into the rock faces within striking distance of our hotel, each with churches and households. No matter how much historical background I was given, I still couldn’t shake Fred and Barney. The geology of the area has created a number of interesting erosional features which kept Ann giggly for the whole day (no further comments on this).

The next day was more of the same, including a visit to a giant 11th century underground city, used by early Christians to dodge trouble when things got a little hot for them. Between two and ten thousand people would live in what is essentially a people-sized ant-hill, for up to nine months at a time. The complex went down five levels and included traps, wells, and animal pens.

We also stopped at a cliffside monastery dating back a thousand years or more. 

All very cool. One more surprise trip to a cousin’s onyx workshop, complete with gift shop, and our time in central Anatolia was done.

Back to Istanbul (by plane this time). We had a couple of days to pick up all those things we didn’t buy on the first pass, plus an opportunity to take in some more fine dining. You’ll note any references to good food relate strictly to lunch and dinner. The Turks don’t really get breakfast, it seems. Every place we stayed offered breakfast, although one would be hard pressed to define much of what was put on offer as breakfast food in the North American sense. Each day we faced bowls of salad bar cast-offs (lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, potato salad, numerous undefinable pickled items, six kinds of salami, goat cheese, and plain yogurt). If it weren’t for some chewy baked goods, breakfast would have been a joyless occasion.

During one shopping run we tracked down a traditional restaurant somewhat off the beaten path, where tables are very low and throw-cushions rule the day. The food was fabulous.

On the way back to the hotel I considered getting a traditional shave. The barbershop we passed was cheek by jowl with local customers, so I figured it must have been a good place. However, a quick glance at those waiting told me I would need about a week’s growth to even begin to look like a serious customer, so I passed. A barber in Istanbul can’t go wrong: most of the customers look like they’ll be ready for another shave in the time it takes to pay for the one they just had.

One more aside on Turkish wildlife. I don’t recommend Turkey for those of you with an aversion to felines as there are cats everywhere, and dogs too. They belong to no one in particular yet looked after by all. In the big city and small towns, small dishes of food and water would be left out for any animal to enjoy. One day in Cappadocia, Ann and I went for a short, early-morning walk, which was met with great enthusiasm by the local dogs, who were happy to trot along with us the entire way. As we passed a small hotel, the dogs all ran over to a security guy, tails a waggin’, and were each given a pat on the head. In Istanbul, Ann and I watched a large mutt determined to make a game of a woman’s luggage as she tried to pull it through the square, much to his joy and her annoyance. Both dogs and cats, strays to my eyes, are not just tolerated, but accepted as part of the community, even at the historical sites...

Our last evening was spent enjoying the street vendors, the aggressive restaurant pitch-men, and the lights of old Istanbul. For Ann it involved torturing lamp, carpet, handbag, and shoe salesmen by never being able to find exactly what she wanted. I finish with a shot taken from our hotel room balcony:

post script

As I sit here watching the jets disappear into the fog above Zurich, it occurs to me I’m not waiting for a flight to Canada. After recent weekend jaunts, it was easy to get back into the “France as home” mindset. But this last adventure was such a cultural displacement that I seemed to have lost my grounding a little bit. It didn’t help running into a former coworker in the Istanbul airport, who was on an extended golf vacation in the south of Turkey (Turkish golf - who knew?) . The lost puppy feeling was driven home when he asked "How are you guys getting back to Calgary?" ...

Turkey in the Straw

Up until now we’ve been managing short hops to regions nearby: checking out the neighborhood, as it were. With an extended school vacation, Ann wanted to extend our reach to something more exotic, and Turkey has so far filled the bill quite nicely. What better place to start than the historic bridge between Europe and Asia (and not just geographically): Istanbul.

Upon arrival, I realized I was equally adept at speaking Turkish as I am at many other languages. Ann and Perri seemed a bit confused and somewhat annoyed at finding themselves unable to understand what was being announced, or unable to follow simple signage at the airport. I, on the other hand, have been practicing for three months to maintain my composure while having almost no idea what’s going on around me (some of you might argue 3 months is a conservative estimate).

We were pleasantly surprised to find our hotel, booked frantically at the last minute, magically located in the heart of old Istanbul and surrounded by amazing historic sites. Even more surprising was the view of these same sites from our hotel rooftop breakfast restaurant. I won’t sugarcoat it: Old Istanbul is fantastic (new Istanbul not so much). We visited the Hagia Sophia former Byzantine cathedral turned Ottoman mosque and largest building in the world for 5 or 6 centuries. She’s a brute to be sure, but amazing considering construction started 1500 years ago. The interior isn’t so spectacular but is noteworthy in that the depiction of Jesus, the virgin Mary, at least one Byzantine Empress, and gobs of Islamic scripture are all on display. You don’t get that mix very often. The entry lineup was proportional to the building’s size unfortunately.

The afternoon was spent on a guided tour of the Topkapi palace - home of the Ottoman sultans for 400 years or so. We splurged for a guide to keep us attentive, keeping in mind the fourteen-year-old comatose-with-no-television traveling companion.

Quick aside about Turkish television (I can’t help checking out available channels on the hotel tv).

Lots of channels dominated by two major themes:

1. muslim religious programing
2. extremely graphic info channels for sex hotlines or ‘dates’.

I think Turks are conflicted.

The treasury was the most interesting part of the tour, in my estimation, displaying the famous Topkapi Dagger among scores of turban accessories dripping with diamonds. My favorites were a gold bucket filled with chicken egg sized emeralds and two 5 foot tall 50 kilogram solid gold candlestick holders (just for special occasions, I would imagine). Sadly, no photographs allowed.

The next day we visited the Blue Mosque, which is a working mosque and not open to the public during prayers. One might say the Blue Mosque is the yin to the Hagia Sophia’s yang. It is almost delicate when compared to the big sister across the square. After spending time in those dark and drafty european churches, the Blue Mosque “had me at hello”, to quote Hollywood. The minute you lay your eyes on the place you know you’re in for something special, and the interior does not disappoint. 

Open, cheerful, bright, and comfortable (plush carpeting) are all grossly inadequate adjectives to describe the experience. Somebody hired the right architect and the right contractor.

I wasn’t about to convert but I will say Islam probably hooks a few based strictly on the wow factor. The next day we went to the Suleymaniye Mosque, which might exceed the Blue Mosque in beauty and detail, which, having been through the former, is a strong statement. But first, cleanliness is next to godliness...

The girls were awestruck...

probably seeing something like this...

We also stopped by a giant underground water tank, which doesn’t sound too exciting until you use the word cistern and add Byzantine and Emperor Justinian to the mix. Then you’ve got yourself a serious tourist attraction. Again, it was pretty cool although the cheesy photo-op booth on the way in tended to diminish the historical significance of a 5th century plumbing system which lay undiscovered for almost 1000 years. 

By the way, we participated in said cheesy photo-op.

A long day was followed by a unique Turkish cultural experience which we could really appreciate: a Turkish bath. We went as a family which avoided awkward situations like getting a massage and then having the guy at the desk apologize for the masseur not being available that day, or disturbing visuals of very hairy, mostly naked Turkish men. Ann went for the body scrub while Perri and I chose the massage (normally one is expected to do both). I was unable to get any pictures. Needless to say Perri may never recover from the sight of her mother being handled roughly by a sturdy Turkish woman. Thankfully I was a few rooms away having my shoulders dislocated by a professional.

No trip with the girls would be complete without a shopping component, and old Istanbul provides plenty of opportunities in the Grand bazaar and the Spice bazaar. The first has over 4000 shops and stalls, covering a wide variety of products. Jewelry, carpets and leather goods dominate the landscape. There was no way we getting out of there without buying something because everything was priced to move and usually the salesman would find it in their hearts to give us an even better deal. Imagine!

The Spice bazaar is much smaller but tends to focus on food related products and for that reason alone I liked it better than the Grand Bazaar. We ended up buying a bunch of stuff we didn’t really need but was darn good (e.g. peanuts dipped in honey and rolled in sesame seeds). The funny thing was the sales guys knew how to work you (“would the two princesses like to try some Turkish delight?” - wait a second - that could mean more than one thing, now that I see it in print). Anyway, he knew he was working us. We knew he was working us. He knew we knew he was working us, but we didn’t really care because we were leaving with a kilo of really tasty pistachio nuts or dried strawberries and not a 6000 euro carpet.

So far Turkey gets two thumbs up (more, if I had them).

We now move to the road-trip phase of the trip, where we will be saving tons of money by experiencing the joys of an overnight bus ride (who needs a hotel?) on no less than two occasions. I’ve heard taking the bus at night on winding mountain roads in Turkey is statistically safer than draping yourself in a confederate flag while whistling dixie through some boroughs of New York city. What’s the worst that can happen?

One last shot of some mosque (I’m honestly not sure which) shot from the waterfront late in the day...

Special Thanksgiving Issue

As the middle of October creeps by, I find myself yearning for an entire pumpkin pie with whipped cream, lots of whipped cream. Crystallizing the concept of Thanksgiving, I want to let everyone know I am very thankful for the curious new world in which I find myself, and the blind luck to be sharing it with my family (and the cats, who I guess are part of the family, but would be less so should we run out of food, in, say, an emergency). So perhaps this issue is less about Thanksgiving ‘the holiday’ and more about Thanksgiving ‘the food’.

After three months I can say I’m getting the hang of most of the food here. Some things I know simply don’t translate between cultures: pancakes (crepes just aren’t the same), Chinese food buffets (it’s so bad I’m surprised the French haven’t put a torch to the local restaurant, yet it is always busy), and parts of animals I didn’t think were eaten by humans (the butcher section at the supermarket is interesting).  I also saw turkey legs at the butcher counter, which I wouldn’t have given a second glance if they had been labeled ‘ostrich legs’, which may explain why they don’t sell the whole bird.

At the same time, many things here are kind of the same (without half the labeling being in English) including: really salty instant rice products, too-sweet breakfast cereals, frozen dinnery things that are nutritional aberrations, and the potato chip aisle. For things we used to eat in Canada which are not available here, I can usually find some local substitute (e.g. croissants instead of Taber corn). Also, there are many yummy things here I wouldn’t find easily in Canada (e.g. giant tins of duck grease, or 75 varieties of fois gras). At the end of the day, two or three strawberry tarts from the local bakery can suppress any perceived dietary deficiencies with one exception: beef.

Coming from Alberta, the home of the best beef in the world (apologies to Australia, Argentina, Texas, and perhaps Japan), I have struggled. Beef has proven to be a bit of a black hole in our nutritional landscape. To start, the beef here could be from a two year-old grain-fed Limousin or Blonde d’aquitaine breed. A little research tells me these breeds were once well-known as work animals. Hmm… is ‘tender’ the first word to pop into your head when you think about something pulling a plow?  The beef could also be from a former dairy cow, aged beyond milk productivity, but perfectly willing to supply some fine cuts suitable for your barbeque.  Interesting choice. For a while we decided to become selective omnivores, avoiding large mammals as a source of protein, including humans, for those of you who were wondering. So instead of a tender prime rib steak we went with duck breasts. Instead of filet mignon, we might have seafood. Instead of every other cut of beef, we would have chicken, and occasionally pork. This worked for a couple of months but I still found myself looking longingly at the juicy slabs of beef in the meat section. Only the image of some little French dairy farmer backing his trailer up to the barn kept me from breaking down and buying something. Also, the beef here is very, very red. My pals on the internet tell me the French don’t hang their beef for very long (zero days, zero minutes, zero seconds) so the meat retains a very fresh look.  I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure there is a tenderizing aspect to hanging meat. Eventually, I went to the internet for help, and there was plenty to be had. Many people must wonder about beef in France and the experts were there to give advice. I was quite pleased until I saw one website suggest a good rump roast as an excellent cut for a fine meal. Further inquiries gave similar suspect advice (rump roast will yield edible meat after no less than 100 hours in a pressure cooker). And then I realized I had been getting advice from citizens of the United Kingdom, home of the food de-flavorizer and mad cow disease. Oh-oh. 

Tomorrow we’re having duck breasts.

Milan with a Plan

48 hours doesn’t give you time to absorb the essence of many places, but that was the challenge laid down for us on this weekend’s adventure. Never mind that Perri is teetering on the precipice of total emotional breakdown with the imagined spectre of repeating grade nine looming over her at every moment (“c’mon, you’ll only be missing one day. What’s the worst that can happen?”). With that same ‘can do’ attitude our settler forefathers displayed, we boarded a discount airline flight to Milan. The plan was simple: see a bunch of old stuff, buy some expensive, but hopefully not too expensive clothes, see a soccer game, eat too much good Italian food, and get home safely.

At the end of the weekend, I can say, with confidence, we met expectations.

After finding our bed and breakfast, which included only two stops to ask for directions, which for us is a record, we set forth upon the multi-faceted public transit system armed with our newly minted 48-hour passes. Milan has an extensive underground metro, a comprehensive bus system, as well as a trolley and tram system. Please, no questions about the difference between a trolley and a tram. Let’s just say there were all kinds of public conveyances available, and move on. At our first stop, as we emerged from the underground, ours eyes were assailed by the image of our first significant ‘old thing to be seen’: the duomo, Milan’s grand cathedral.

It might have been better planning had we gone somewhere else first, as the Duomo is quite spectacular and everything after that felt less so. It was built over a couple of hundred years and finished during Napoleon’s reign (I think he was crowned ‘king of Italy’ there). I’ve seen a few big old churches in my day but the Duomo manages to be imposing and delicate at the same time. We took advantage of the hike to the roof where the attention to detail is overwhelming. Why somebody decided to put all that detail 100 meters from the ground I’ll never know. Maybe you get to have a close look on the way to heaven. I have pictures for those of you destined for other eternities:

I got a shot of some dumb tourists taking their own picture. They must have been Americans (no insult intended to those of my readers from the land of undefinable national debt).

Ooops. Wrong tourists.

We spent the rest of the day exploring the sites and shops around the Duomo. We saw the Castello Sforzesco, which was interesting but quite un-photogenic. I’m afraid the trip to Carcassonne has set a minimum standard for castles and Castello Sforzesco doesn’t make the cut.  

It also happened to be fashion week in Milan, punctuated by giant posters and billboards, as well as the occasional freakishly tall and skinny 20 year-old girl. The main shopping street had a three-block-long red carpet and Perri couldn’t resist:

We closed the day with a tremendous meal, which, by itself, would have made the trip worthwhile.

Up early the next morning (at least by Milan standards), we wandered through the streets leaving no shoe store or boutique unexamined. By accident, we found ourselves standing in front of La Scala, one of the greatest opera houses in the history of such things. Not much to look at on the outside, we ventured into the opera house museum, which occasionally allows visitors to stick their noses into the opera house itself. It was not to be that day, as the company was rehearsing. The upside is that we were allowed to watch some of the rehearsal, and it was … fantastic. If they had offered tickets to that night’s performance on the way out, I’m sure I would have paid whatever they asked (tickets start at 200 euro for the cheap seats, when they are available, which they weren’t). I was busy that night anyway.

Near the opera house, and the Duomo, is the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, a funky shopping mall containing very exclusive designer stores … and a McDonald’s. One of the other curiosities within the galleria, is a tile mosaic whose centerpiece is a bull, whose naughty bits have been replaced by a shallow hole in the tiles. The local traditional suggests placing your heal in the hole and giving yourself a quick spin will bring you good luck. When in Rome, or Milan…

A couple of more meals, one technology museum with too much information, and what seemed like 100 stores later, we were on our way to Milan’s second great church: San Siro, the soccer stadium for both of Milan’s professional teams. I’ve been told that Catholicism is the ugly step-sister to soccer in Milan, religiously speaking: she never gets dates on game-day. And, with two professional teams, I imagine there are a few poorly attended masses over the course of a season. At the risk of wearing out sports clichés, there was a buzz in the air as we emerged from the metro. The fans were there in force and we merely had to keep our feet moving with the crowd to get to the stadium. Outside the stadium were probably 100 different food and paraphernalia vendors, and the joint was jumping! I had already looked into the match for the evening and was pleased and disappointed, in equal measures, that the opposition was a fairly useless team who was not considered a significant rival. This meant a good chance of a victory, and a small chance of a full-scale riot (but not a zero chance).

Once we got our tickets, we approached the stadium, which holds over 60,000 fans when required, and I can say it is an impressive structure. 

What was more impressive was the security: tickets were reviewed with photo id twice, metal detector, bag search, electronic ticket-entry gate system, and one more ticket review for each section. Ann wasn’t sure whether or not to be pleased with security exceeding that of an international airport. I expected a fairly full house, as acquiring tickets was a fairly arduous process.  Once we’d settled into our filthy seats (I quickly understood why many of the fans brought seat cushions sporting the team colors), I realized it wasn’t going to be a full house.

Once the game actually started, I would estimate the stadium was perhaps half full. However, the team booster section, was full, and, oddly enough, fenced-off. They were so loud I was pretty sure I would have permanent hearing damage. I also noticed a significant lack of ushers and security personnel in the same section and once the road flares started going off (how did they get those through security?)

I realized being in an almost empty section wasn’t so bad. The home side won 1-0 and I missed the only goal because I was watching the shenanigans going on in the crazy fan section. The giant video-tron seemed determined to only show us the time of day, not even the game time, rather than the score, or any replays we might be interested in. I imagine the lack of replays helps the life expectancy of the referees and linesmen.

The next day we were up at 8 and back in Bordeaux by 2 p.m.. Perri got her homework done and, Bob's your uncle, we’re all ready to face the week.

A few random thoughts on Milan: They like their baked pastries filled with custard or cream – so do I. I didn’t see a single insect the whole time we were there until the lights went out in our B&B, at which time the local mosquito breeding facility came to life (of course the windows were open – it was 26C). I believe the nearest green space was 6 blocks away, so I am interested to know from whence they came. There aren’t nearly as many kids in Italy as France. Ann tells me they are having a population implosion because it costs too much to get your own place and raise kids. One result is an even higher number of momma’s boys than before. Hard to believe. 


To close I’d like to cast aside all doubt as to the inadequacy of seeing a place with as rich a history and culture as Milan in the brief time we were there. We didn’t even get a chance to see Da Vinci’s ‘The Last Supper’ (you had to book ahead) although we saw a rendition at the technology museum (not the same, I know). I would estimate at least another 6 or 7 hours would have been necessary to see the whole thing.

No immediate plans except for Tuesday, when Perri’s teachers embrace their right to strike for the day. Thankfully, I have a tee time booked already. The October school break requires us to find something to do for a week and Sardinia, or Corsica, is on the radar. I favor Corsica because I’ve never really liked sardines. Ann also mentioned one of the Stans but I'm not in favour because I don't know one from the other and I think half of them are not particularly safe right now and I'd hate to get it wrong (Khurdistan? Khazakstan? Derkaderkastan?).