Under the (Scorching) Tuscan Sun

It has been long on my list of places to experience.  Just the imagery conjured up by the name...TUSCANY...  In my mind's eye, I envisioned sweeping vistas of rolling Tuscan hills dotted with Cypress trees, vineyards, and olive groves.  I imagined classic Etruscan architecture, the simple grandeur of organic structures born of naturally hewn stone, terra cotta, travertine glowing an ochre coloured light.

We rented a villa with Canadian friends outside of the village of Anghiari about a half-hour from Arezzo bordering Tuscany and Umbria.  It was at the very top of one of my imagined Tuscan hills.  About 10 minutes, straight up a dusty, winding, hot trail ending at our villa with the dreamed-of spectacular view south over Umbria. 

I had also imagined that it would be hot and boy was that an understatement.  The temperature hovered between 37 and 40 degrees celsius everyday, phew.  Thank goodness for the beautiful pool at our villa.  We couldn't keep Murphy out of it,  she was the first in everyday and swam laps around us for hours.

It was too steamy to daytrip much or venture too far afield.  Instead we lounged poolside reading, swimming with the kids, wandering the surrounding olive and fig groves looking for Scorpions and Lizards.  Late in the afternoon, we would sit under the Wisteria and Jasmine pergola drinking ice cold white wine, eating pears and parmesan, and melon and prosciutto.

C2 and I left J happily with our friends and their son Tomas one day and took a train north to Florence.  We had an adult-only culture date and we revelled in the beauty of this lovely renaissance city.  We wandered over the Ponte Vecchio to the Pitti Palace, marvelled at the wonder of the Duomo, and stared in amazement at the open air sculptures of the Palazzo Vecchio.

We discovered a little out of the way restaurant near the Uffizi Museum populated by locals and had a wonderful lunch of braesola, fresh crisp salad, strachietelli mozzarella (the result of the first skimming of the cheese and unlike anything we had ever tasted before), and a gorgeous glass of Chianti.  We drooped with the heat by the time we returned anxious to plunge into our delicious pool.

Most evenings, we lingered either on the sun-drenched kitchen terrace or under the cooler pergola eating pizza made in our own pizza oven, or taking pleasure in C2's or Jon's wonderful cooking.  Long evenings spent in the laughter of our children, listening to the Cigales (Cicadas) song, drinking Super Tuscans or rich Chiantis, and talking and talking.

We explored the medieval village of Anghiari thoroughly, letting the kids lead us through the old castle walls, seeking out secret passages where they could find them, and rewarding them with granita or gelato.  We wondered at the lives of the people living behind the colourful shutters or in the tiny houses up the winding stairs.  Our imaginations and curiousity were on full alert.

We also wandered the Tuscan jewel that is Arezzo sitting high on a hill rising up from the Arno River valley.  Arezzo was empty of tourists perhaps kept away by the killer heat or by the killer economic climate. A shame, since it's medieval core was an unexpected delight and its' cathedral or duomo, the most stunning I have seen outside of St. Peter's in Rome.

Our children had a wondrous adventure, our empty tanks got filled, our curiosity satiated, and our palates more than pleased.   We reluctantly bid arrivederci to Tuscany and returned home for a few days.  Happily, we head back to our beloved Italia shortly when we make our annual pilgramage to the beach town of Levanto.

Dog Day Afternoon

When does the subtle childhood shift happen, at what uncertain point in time does the magic emit a little less light.  On what inevitable future day does real life trump imagination?  I don't know but I  long to hold on to the innocence and delight of participating in an evening birthday party for one of J's favorite tou-tou's (stuffed animals), Schnitzel, the Saint-Bernard. 

Schnitzel apparently just turned seven, even though he only arrived four years ago.  An interesting coincidence that J is also seven.  I noticed in this picture that J's beloved Little Murphy seems eager for cake.  Real Murphy's also looks like she might be tempted too.   We sang 'Happy Birthday' in English, French, and Italian.  J helped Schniz blow out the candles.

It was a tou-tou free-for-all for lemon cake with lemon glaze.  No chocolate chips, J instructed during the baking process, since chocolate is not good for dogs.  Dogs tussled with cats while koalas, pandas, panthers and giraffes jockeyed for position.

What's a birthday party without gifts??  Lucky Schnitzel received among other things, a roll of toilet paper, 4 dog cookies, an empty Lego container, a travel toothbrush (J informs me that he has dog breath), a sponge J used to clean my bathtub after he took a bath with my mascara a few days ago, and a small Panda bear.

Heading to Tuscany

To a villa outside of Arezzo "looking south over Umbria" with my man, my babe, my dog and meeting up with friends from Canada.  Hope it's as great as it sounds.



Let's get serious...I don't really look like this a bikini, but I can dream...  Look for the details in a week or so.

Promotion in Puplinge 2010

 It's hard to believe but this is the 5th time that we've experienced Promotion in our village of Puplinge.  From 2 years of pre-school through 1ere and 2ieme Enfantine and now 1ere Primaire (1st grade), scary!  I think that with the exception of Christmas morning, Promotion is J's most anticipated day of the year.

Adam and J, best mates, on their way to the parade rendez-vous

Promotion is a really unique event, and something yet undiscovered in North America.  The entire village, where almost everyone knows everyone, celebrates the end of another school year, the efforts of our children and their parents.  We let loose with a heck of a party complete with carnival,  dinner, free-flowing wine (from the local Chateau, of course), and a live band with dancing.

 

The village sapeurs-pompiers lead the way

 The kids are incredibly proud to participate in the parade, and take it all very seriously.  The parade, though, is just a precursor to the 2 hours of free carnival rides upon arrival back at the main celebration site.  

J follows his 1ere primaire class in the parade through the village streets

Jawahara, Bijoy and I "enjoying" an apero of green barbapapa

Now that J is seven, he disappears with his mates within the Promotion grounds until around midnight.  He checks in every once in a while when he's hungry or needs money for rides and games.  Could you imagine that happening in North America...I think not!

J on the monster bouncy slide

All of this freedom allows us parents to chill out, visit, drink some wine, and discuss summer plans.  While we are friendly with many of the Swiss families in our village, we tended to visit mostly with the expat community in our village made up of Canadians, Americans, South Africans, and Scandinavians. I guess, it's always slightly easier to make merry in your own language.

Dinner under the tent

It was a very hot afternoon and evening with temperatures topping 30c, but the kids didn't seem to mind.  They sprinted between bumper cars, the bouncy slide, the mini roller coaster, the games stands, and the dance floor.

Adam and J mesmerized in their quest for plastic toys at the carnival

 By midnight, a little too much fun was being had on the dancefloor by me and Cindy

My Heart Went a Walking

Someone once described having a child, as your heart walking around outside your body. That's about right on the money.

Among his many many admirable traits, J is not a crier. He typically cries only if he has genuinely hurt himself or at the return to Canada of his much-loved Grandma after 3 months with us. If he is very very angry, he will sometimes spout tears of rage, but really that's about it.

If you recall my prior post, there is something of a love triangle happening between the three best friends of J, Adam, and Alyssa. If one gets invited to another's for lunch, the third ends up feeling isolated and left out. If two play a game in the classroom or at récréation (recess) without including the third....well you get the idea. All very cute in a 90210-for-the-seven-year-old-set.

Today, J had Alyssa over for lunch and they played together beautifully, bouncing on the trampoline, comparing who could burp or arm fart loudest, typical stuff. Adam came over about a half-hour before we needed to return to school since his mom had an appointment downtown. I was a little worried about the dynamic of the 3 of them but again they all played beautifully. "Phew, I worried for nothing", I thought, as I rounded them up at 1:20 to return to school.

When J came through the front door in to brush his teeth, I caught the tail end of his comment to Alyssa "non, c'est toi que je déteste, tu n'est pas gentile et vous deux ne joue jamais avec moi a récré!!!" (Translation: it's you I hate, you are not nice and the two of you never play with me at recess anymore). He then stomped off to find his shoes. Alyssa and Adam attempted to explain their side of the story to my general amusement at all this drama. I listened then went off to locate J whom I found sitting on the back kitchen door stoop sobbing for all he was worth. All amusement instantly disappeared.

So often parenthood is rough road to navigate and seven-year olds don't respond to rational explanations of small jealousies and unintentional slights. Childhood drama it may be but my heart still broke today watching my child's break for the first time.


PS By the end of school today, the 3 of them were best friends again.

Voices From The Back

Scene: In my car on the way to judo yesterday. Sitting in the back seat are J and his best mate, and fellow Canadian, Adam...

J: "You know Adam, today at lunch Alyssa told me 'je tu promis, c'est toi qui est mon amoureux'(translation: "I promise, it's you that I love")

Adam: "Well she told me this week 'c'est un secret, mais c'est toi qui est mon amoureux', so I don't think that you're supposed to know"

J: "I'm telling you I'm her AMOUREUX"

Adam: "I'M HER AMOUREUX"

Pause

J: "I know maybe we're both her amoureux"

Adam: "Ya!"

J: (With a mild note of panic in his voice) "What if someone else is her amoureux???"

Later in the day back in the privacy of his own home...

Adam: "Mom is J moving away soon"

Cindy: "Not that I know of but maybe someday"

Adam: "Well at least I won't have to share Alyssa anymore"

Sheesh, they're 7, imagine when they're 17!!

And Now He Is Seven

Another year has passed, another twelve months where my little boy belongs that much less to me and that much more to the outside world. Time is a mother's thief. It's a funny conundrum, I relish watching my child grow, develop, learn, connect the dots, realize his potential. However, on the other hand, I desperately miss being his entire universe, his preference to my lap over entering a room full of strangers, rocking him to sleep, and reading "Good Night Moon". Time is a indeed this mother's thief.


However, enough introspection, this weekend was birthday party time for a bunch of seven-year olds at a local bowling alley. It was complete with girl drama and resulting tears, breaking-up of wrestling matches on the bowling pistes, and the unexpected doling out of a small fortune on the game machines. But it also included 'Happy Birthday' sung in 3 languages (French, English, and Italian - I love Europe), lots of laughter, a pretty fabulous homemade birthday cake, and one very happy seven-year old birthday boy.


Happily C2 couldn't come up with an excuse to miss the party this year so both he and my ever-obliging-game-for-anything mum were on hand to help with the fun. Of course, I've chosen to ignore C2's muttered comment about preferring to venture into Niger's Al-Queda controlled territory (a trip he is currently considering) over the party as he doused another small drama and placed another franc coin into another outstretched hand for yet another air hockey game.


As I gazed at my slumbering little wonder last night, one arm clutched tight around the genuine bowling pin party gift, his other around the same stuffed Labrador he has slept with since birth, I realized that while he sometimes provokes the worst in me; packed into his 130cm 18 kg body is the absolute best of me.

There Are Worse Ways To Spend My Birthday - thanks Kevin!

Nobody outside of Iceland can really pronounce 'Eyjafjallajoekull', so in a nod to Jon Stewart, I have taken to calling it 'Kevin'. Now Kevin the Volcano has been causing no end of trouble to people travelling within western Europe of late, so I was a little concerned in the days leading up to a planned trip to London last Wednesday, especially since my visiting mum and I were both flying to the U.K. but into different airports.

Thankfully, despite erupting a few days before our trip, the wind swept Kevin's ash south towards Spain allowing us to fly into the U.K. without incident. So began, a terrific week spent in the company of my oldest friend, Sheila, and her kids whom J desperately wishes were his brother and sister. We spent our days easily picking up where we left off in March. Like always, it was as if our sentence was interrupted, we paused for breath, and 2 months later resumed our conversation. Such is the gift of friendship.

Sheila, me and our kiddos during a walk in High Elms Park, Kent

My favorite things to do when I visit Sheila is to stock up on english language books at her local Waterstone's, indulge my addiction to Marks & Spencer's organic stem ginger biscuits, and go for a walk in the English countryside followed by a pub lunch with a pint of lime and lager. This visit, I even left J with Sheila for the day and travelled up to Hertfordshire to visit with some favorite cousins and my mum. We had a grand day together visiting stately Hatfield House and touring a bit around charming St. Albans.
Beautiful Hatfield House in Hertfordshire

A small part of Hatfield's gardens

It was a few days filled with laughter, love, food, friendship and family. I can't ask for much more from life than that. Well maybe for Kevin to behave, but I guess that was asking a bit much.

Pub lunch time

Sure enough by Saturday, Kevin's belching resulted in twin ash clouds headed directly toward the U.K. By the time we went to bed Sunday night, all predictions were that London airports would be closed the next morning. I rose at 4:30am and though Gatwick was indeed closed, it was expected to reopen by 7:00am, just in time for our 8:00am flight back to Geneva.
Sceptically, I roused J and we began our journey. One car and train ride later, we arrived at Gatwick just in time for Easyjet to cancel our flight. Back to Sheila's we headed, sigh.
Easyjet offered us a new flight two days later but I was fearful of missing that flight too since predictions indicated Kevin's continued grumpiness. So after discussion, J and I decided to traipse through Europe by train instead. The following day, which happened to be my forty-ahem-something birthday, J and I set out on our great European rail adventure.

We caught the 6:44am train at Penge East from Sheila's village into Victoria Station in central London. We then rolled our bags to the Victoria tube station and travelled directly to King's Cross/St. Pancras International Rail Station. From there, we stepped onto the elegant 8:02am Eurostar rapid rail service (through the Chunnel - very cool) to Paris's Gare du Nord. Now for those of you who don't already know, the Hendricks family LOVE LOVE LOVE Paris.


J and I wandered around a bit, breathing in as much of Paris as we briefly could before jumping into a cab to the Gare du Lyon. From there, we caught the 1:10pm TGV (Tres Grand Vitesse) directly to Geneva where C2 picked us up. Door to door about a 10 hour journey, really not too bad and actually more than a little fun. Of course, our European rail adventure cost about as much as my nearly full-fare Easyjet ticket but I'll take that up with Easyjet and Kevin later.

If I Can't Be A Soccer Mom, Can I Be A Marathon Mom?

You may recall from earlier postings such as "Where is Tim Horton's When You Need One", my lamenting of J's team sport playing abilities. To summarize again, he celebrates when his weekly football (soccer) practice is cancelled, flinches when the ball comes anywhere near him, and would rather blow the fluff off of dandelions than be caught chasing anything resembling a football. Apply the same analogies to hockey and baseball, and you get the general picture.

However, as I have also said, put the kid on skis, in water, or on a bike in the woods with logs, roots, and hills to climb, and I would challenge you to either catch him or match the volume of his 'woo hoos'.

He was equally impressive during his participation in the 1.7km Course de l'Escalade this past December. So, I was given to indulge his pleading to run in the kids race in the annual Geneva Marathon this weekend. Thanks to my friend Sher, I mentioned the race to him and the pleading ensued.

I gotta say, for a dandelion blower, he was darn impressive. Nerves of steel all day, cool as a cucumber at the start and smoked that girl in pink.


Receiving his medal

OK, so if the NHL and the 2022 World Cup are not in his future, maybe the Olympics or the Ironman, or the Boston Marathon, or the X-games...

A Rainy Sunday Afternoon

It's a quiet, rainy, cool Sunday afternoon in Geneva, I should be blogging about something meaningful, cleaning the cat barf off the upstairs carpet, recycling my mountain of recyclables, teaching my son to read, walking Murphy or feeding the fish. Instead this is me today...

Walking Into A Watercolour

The Grand Canal near the Accademia Bridge

Stepping into a painting is exactly how it felt visiting Venice during the Easter break this past week. Certainly this city is all about beauty, expressed time and again, around every corner, down every canal, and over every one of its' 400 bridges.
The Rialto Bridge

C2, J, and I spent 5 days together with my mum and Auntie Harriet in a gloriously charming flat around the corner from the Piazzo San Marco, near the Campo San Moise, facing a canal and where from our windows we watched gondolas drift by and listened to the gondoliers singing old Italian love songs. If one was cynical enough, one might teeter toward thinking it a tad schmaltzy, I, on the other hand thought it perfectly lovely.

A gondola along the Grand Canal

The best advice we discerned from our travel guides was to 'get lost' walking in this car-free city. So we did....again and again. Kinda hard not to. Every narrow road led to another bridge over another canal. It was the best lost I've ever been. As long as we followed the sign posts to either 'San Marco' or 'Rialto', we always had a fair idea of where we were.

A narrow canal and one of 400 bridges spanning them

J chased pigeons in the Piazzo San Marco in the shadow of the San Marco Basilica while my mum and Aunt had a glass of wine and sang along to the orchestral bands at Florians. We all toured the art-filled wonder that is the Doge's Palace. Ever intrepid J decided we must take a gondola ride (expensive but when in Rome...) down the Grand Canal and so we did admiring the fading but still noble beauty of the hundreds of 15th century palazzos including the Gritti Palace, the Palazzo Venier dei Leoni, and the Ca' d'Oro.

The pigeon chaser of Piazza San Marco

Another highlight was travelling by vaporetto (water bus) to the island of Murano where beautiful cut glass continues to be made by hand and fashioned into jewellery and objects d'art. We did so much 'mooching' (to use my mother's term) in and out of murano glass shops in Venice that we all felt blinded at the end of 5 days.

Our gondola ride

To best see authentic Venice, we ventured off of the principal touristy areas and wandered into the lesser known but more 'real' campos and neighbourhoods. In one small campo, though I have no idea where, we stopped at a little art shop and bought a lovely watercolour of a canal at dusk. Real art sold to us by a real artist with a real vision of Venice; it is perfectly lovely.

Tracing the Steps of Giants

My mum arrived a couple of weeks ago for her annual 3-month visit with us. My Auntie Harriet followed her last week to spend 2 weeks, including a planned 5-days in Venice with us next week. We've spent the first part of the week trying to occupy rainy-filled days with memorable outings. Last weekend, and still on an Olympic high, we had a great visit to the official Olympics Museum in Olympic capital Lausanne, about a 45 minute journey up the lake from Geneva.

The Olympics Museum in Lausanne, home of the International Olympic Committee

This week, we "profitez'ed" and devoted our efforts towards three things for which Geneva is most suitably proud. We took a guided tour of the United Nations and we spent a day at the Red Cross/Red Crescent Museum. It was interesting to realize that my new home continues to keep as a high priority the offering of succour to others less fortunate, and support to those most in need.

First World War Prisoners of War documentation archived in the Red Cross/Red Crescent Museum (Auntie Harriet)

Perhaps the ideals of modern Switzerland can cause one to raise a doubtful eyebrow but I was undeniably moved at the story of the founding of the Red Cross/Red Crescent and its' mission. The efforts of one man, Henry Dunant, have evolved into the modern images of an organization assisting in national disasters, and inserting itself into conflict zones; the red cross on white background emblem (the reverse of the Swiss flag) its' only defence.

Franklin D. Roosevelt, and Eleanor Roosevelt under whose chair(wo)manship, the U.N. Commission on Human Rights drafted the 'Universal Declaration of Human Rights'

I was equally moved to realize that the United Nations in Geneva focuses its' efforts on the United Nations High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR) and the United Nations High Commission for Human Rights (OHCHR). It was from the hard work of dedicated individuals working together for the promotion of others that such landmark conventions as the 'Universal Declaration of Human Rights' and 'The Convention on the Rights of the Child' were drafted and adopted here.

We followed up these serious endeavours with a trip to the Caillier-Nestle chocolate factory in Broc at the south end of Lac de la Gruyère in the green Alpen valleys of Switzerland's Fribourg region. If you can quantify a good time based upon amount of free all-you-can-eat chocolate at the end of a historical tour plus making your own chocolate Easter bunny in the Atelier de chocolat, then a good time was had by all of us!

Memories of Cantor's Bakery

Yesterday, J had his weekly speech therapy appointment. Afterwards, I took him for lunch at a little patisserie in Carouge. For dessert, he decided on a chocolate donut - not the transfats-laden varieties offered up by Tim Horton's or Dunkin Donuts but a real donut made from real ingredients. He lifted it to my nose to sniff and I was transported back, too many years to reveal, to Cantor's Bakery in Montreal.

When I was J's age, I would regularly visit my Nana at her apartment. It was an exciting adventure, and holding her hand, I loved exploring her N.D.G. neighbourhood. We grocery shopped at Steinberg's on Sherbrooke St., wandered the aisles of the Cumberland Drug on Somerled, and most vividly, ate chocolate donuts from Cantor's Bakery on Walkley.

Cantor's was a Montreal tradition. Walking inside, I took flight on a cornacopia of smells from the fresh baked challah bread and bagels, rugelach cookies, strudel, and gingerbread. But, it was never a competition; my 6-year old tongue always watered for Cantor's chocolate donuts. I can still taste the first bite of that donut handed to me in wax paper; the hardened dark chocolate topping had a slight snap before my teeth sank into the dense, thick sponge-like dough. I chewed it slowly, savouring every memorable morsel. Yesterday, J had the same look of epicurean ecstasy on his little face.

Not unexpectedly, Steinberg's, Cumberland's and Cantor's have long closed their doors, absorbed by big box one-stop shopping goliaths, and corner depanneurs. I still think of my Nana often but until yesterday, I hadn't thought of those chocolate donuts in years.

Skiing in the Rain AKA Ski Week 2010

I know, I know, I have been silent of late. As stated in my prior post, January and February are pretty quiet months for us without much worthy of mention. Add in my Olympics obsession, and it all adds up to little time to blog.

The Point Nyon, highest point at Les Gets looking down to the village of Morzine

We did just return from our annual ski week to Les Gets in the French Alps though. The past few years, we shared this holiday with our great friends, the Millers, however, they abandoned us to move stateside last year, sigh. Marc and Nat joined us for the first weekend, and we had a great time exploring Les Get's pretty village on Saturday while C2 and J hit the slopes. Les Gets is part of the larger Porte de Soleil group of 12 linked resorts in France and Switzerland. This year, we skiied both at Les Gets and at adjacent Morzine.

Point Nyon again, J's first time skiing the challenging Aigle Rouge run

J started ski school on Sunday morning and we had beautiful weather all the way until Monday - yep a whole 2 days! After that, we had a spectacular buffet of rain, freezing rain, sleet, snow, punctuated by the odd clear moment. But you know, in spite of the less than stellar weather, we had a wonderful time. We holed up in our cozy chalet by the fire, ate well, drank great wine, ventured out when we felt like it (the big advantage of a ski-in/ski-out chalet), read, played board games, and kept the TV permanently tuned to the Olympics.

J approaching a jump in Morzine's jump park

Our routine was for C2 and I to ski hard during the 2 hours of J's ski school, then pick him up and at his insistence, ski over to his favorite restaurant on the hill to indulge his passion for a crepe complete et chocolate chaud avec creme chantilly. To translate, a crepe stuffed with ham and cheese with a raw egg tossed in for good measure, and a hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream.

The ubiquitous chocolate chaud avec creme chantilly

After lunch, we would do our best to keep up with the little skiing dynamo, who would literally ski until the lifts closed every day when the weather permitted. It's a good thing C2 can keep up with him because the non-stop top to bottom skiing on the steep red runs was exhausting (for me, not him). Still, I cannot explain the joy it brought me to watch this joyful 6-year old skiing moguls singing the White Stripes' "Seven Nation Army" at the top of his lungs.

J earned his deuxieme etoile from the Ecole de Ski Francais

Every evening, following dinner, J, Murphy and I would bundle up, and walk down our little hill to explore the chair lift in the dark, then climb part way up the adjacent ski hill to admire the twinkling lights and pretty chalets of Les Gets. On our final evening, C2 joined us, and we climbed very high and then rocketed down the ski run on our toboggans, the quiet night cut by our peeling laughter.

J taking a jump at the Morzine jump park