Barcelona Balconies, Spain Barcelona Balconies, Spain In my memory some things improve as the years go on, but Barcelona was not one of these. In fact, since I was last in Spain thirty-five years ago, my mental image of that country had taken on a grim derelict quality. When our cruise from South America ended in Barcelona, we almost didn't book extra time there. That would have been a foolish decision. We were fortunate to visit on a holiday and to become part of the audience watching a parade of costumed characters from the provinces being drawn through the streets in elegant carriages. It is impossible to visit Barcelona without being charmed by the architecture. Many buildings remind me of Paris. There is an easy self- confidence about the streetscapes in the city centre. Modern buildings mingle easily with the florid designs of Gaudi, those over the top art deco confections. But mixed with these many styles are the handsome Baroque offices and apartments. This visit gave us a chance to circle the Temple de la Sagrada Familia. This church has been under construction for 100 years. Building started without a fully developed plan, and so over the years as Gaudi's influence was felt, the various additions took on a very romantic aspect. Especially in the stone decoration, the building has become modern. The figures are faceless and the poses simplified and designy looking. This is the only building that I have seen where it is possible to observe the march of architectural history so blatantly. Barcelona in the April sun was romantic and attractive. The colours, the architecture, the sounds and tastes drew a visceral response from the both of us. Old memories can be wrong and my latter-day response to Barcelona encourages me to revisit some other places that I perhaps graded to harshly.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Lighthouse and Fort, St. Petersport, Guernsey Lighthouse and Fort, St. Petersport, Guernsey This painting from the upper deck of the Pacific Princess in 1997 was produced under pleasant and tranquil conditions. Our day stop here was part of a cruise around the British Isles. After completing a difficult sketch in the middle of the city, I hurried back to the ship for a calm panoramic view of this ancient town. I was pleased to enjoy the peacefulness of the ship after dealing with a group of twelve-year old boys in town who took turns at running by my easel as I painted. Their game seemed to involve giving the easel leg just a small kick as they hurried by. Had I caught those young ruffians … there is not a jury in the world that would have convicted me. Since I was busy painting in town, I did not have a chance to tour the island but judging by the city centre with its great assortment of government buildings, banks and restaurants, this tax haven would be well worth a return journey. Since this small island is so close to France, perhaps we can add it to France and the other Channel Islands for a new set of views. I have many future trip ideas parked in my mind just waiting for the right opportunity.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Fountain, Stockholm Fountain, Stockholm In a speech in London, England in 2001, Prince Charles railed against the proliferation in public spaces of modern sculpture that resemble "giant turds" (his words, not mine). Isn't it strange that a society supposedly so advanced and sophisticated cannot come close to matching the aesthetically-pleasing and spirit-boosting sculpture such as this piece found in the middle of Stockholm just blocks away from the Nobel Prize venue. This piece of sculpture is traditional and contrasts with the contemporary sculpture in Millesgarden which depicts God's fifty-foot-high hand holding a man (Hand of God, Milllesgarden, Stockholm). The most modern interpretation shows in the sculpture that stands by the Stockholm harbour. There someone has painted brown spots on leggy, ship-loading cranes to create giant giraffes that oversee the harbour (Giraffes, Stockholm). I have painted examples of all three types of sculpture and many more in various countries. I am strangely drawn to statuary. After my first year in art college, I considered majoring in sculpture but decided instead to pursue painting. Maybe that explains my many paintings of monuments, and, of course, statues don't move which make them easy to paint. For further related images, to see our section on sculpture.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Cannons at the Castle, Oslo, Norway Cannons at the Castle, Oslo, Norway These obviously decorative cannons face over the walk of the castle and into the harbour. Oslo is a rather severe city and these brightly painted implements added a much needed shot of colour. Tourists as well as locals strolled these heights enjoying the gardens and looking down at the harbour which was crowded with crafts, both pleasure and commercial. Fishermen sell their freshly caught harvest at the quay-side (Norway Fish Seller). Locals shop the fishing boats tied up, much like we shop at the market, going stall to stall scanning the produce, or going directly to a vendor who has become a favourite. From this vantage point near the Royal Palace, it is easy to look down on the commercial part of Oslo. Except for a few old baroque buildings, the main body of the city is composed of cement-coloured buildings only a few stories high. These offices and stores are plain and severe. Only occasionally does a stylish apartment building raise its head above the herd and gaze down at the harbour. For further related images, to see our section on markets.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Ragtag Band, St. Petersburg, Russia Ragtag Band, St. Petersburg, Russia This band in their tattered uniforms was playing for tourists' change outside the Peterhof, the Czar's summer palace (Peterhof Facade and Peterhof Tower). They were in a great position to get money, as all the many hundreds of travellers that shuffle through this palace had to pass directly past them. I wonder if their uniforms needed to be in such disrepair or if the musicians felt a little sympathy might result from their battered presentation. Boy am I getting skeptical. Our visit to St. Petersburg, as part of a Baltic cruise, was depressing, perhaps because I had so anticipated St. Petersburg with its long artistic heritage. What we found was a city desperately in need of repair, both to its spirit and to its infrastructure. Street lights minus bulbs towered over pot-holed streets. National treasures in the palaces were clearly in need of attention, as were the buildings themselves. The plight of this once grand and elegant city was so much more obvious because of our previous stop in Tallinn, Estonia, where the mood was positive and upbeat (Back Stairs, Tallinn and View from the Heights, Tallinn, Estonia). Tallinn certainly was not in impeccable order, but clearly was improving after years of Soviet rule. The people were happy and sure that their children would have better lives (Concert in Tallinn). The contrast with St. Petersburg was sharp and sad. For further related images, see Opera Finale, St. Petersburg, Heritage Facade, St. Petersburg and Restoration at the Church of the Spilt Blood, St. Petersburg.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Opera Finale, St. Petersburg Opera Finale, St. Petersburg The entire audience for this evening's entertainment was bused from various ships in the St. Petersburg harbour to an elegant townhouse in the city centre. The evening's entertainment consisted of three parts. A tour through several rooms of this house included a descent into the cellar where, it was revealed, Rasputin had been poisoned and stabbed. Much was made of the blood and guts aspects of the murder so we were pleased to be given the antidote next. It was a demonstration of ballet dancing as we sipped champagne and nibbled on caviar. By now you have gathered that this was quite an up-market affair. To complete the evening, we were escorted from the ballroom where the ballet had been performed to a small theatre accommodating two hundred people, still within the townhouse. I live in a townhouse and trust me, it was nothing like our humble abode. In this red velvet upholstered theatre we were treated to various arias from famous operas and this painting shows the finale where the various soloists return to the stage for a voluble close. Coming as I do from a Mennonite background that included four part a cappella singing in church, I should be keen on things musical. For six years I tortured a local piano teacher with weekly displays of my ineptitude. Four years of participation in choral singing at a local Mennonite high school coupled with an equal number of years in music class should have kindled an earnest appreciation of things musical. As recently as the Nineties, I attempted to refine my musical taste with a two-year stint of regular attendance at the Canadian Opera Company's performances in Toronto. Alas, it just ain't me. Want a snappy diagram of the rondo form? I'm your man, but a true appreciation of the music, I'm afraid not. The part of opera that I enjoyed most was the costuming. My art background aids my interest in these often stunning costumes. I am fortunate that my wife graduated from a textile programme at the Ontario College of Art so she can enlighten and instruct on various aspects of the costumers' art. Theatre in London, England as well as in New York and here at Stratford gives me a great chance to enjoy the beautiful materials and designs of the stage characters, but the music of the opera falls on my increasingly deaf ears.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Barge On the Saône Barge On the Saône Cruising north on the Saône River, we encountered many barges laden with commercial products such as this log cargo. Coal, fertilizer, farm equipment and mysterious crates containing God-knows-what rode on boats that ploughed through the cerulean waters. Only occasionally did we see pleasure crafts. Clearly the Saône is about commerce. I was surprised and charmed by the idea of the small cars passengering along which enable the crews to detach themselves from the river wherever they dock. After only a week on a riverboat, it became clear that many people who work on boats that travel the river spend their entire lives tied by an invisible bungee cord to the river. Striking as well was the bold use of colour on these barges. The French sense of colour is well known, but on these crafts that expression is intensified in an almost gypsy-like way. As in some Amish quilts, the colours leap forward in an unabashed way demanding attention. Certainly some of these hues denote company identities, but often their bright paint expresses the personality of the captain who, in many cases, owns the boat. On our four-hundred-foot-long craft was a tiny young woman who qualified as a captain during our short week. People from the Ministry ambled aboard to observe her skill in negotiating the locks and in snuggling the pier. The evening of the day that she passed her examination, the captain of another riverboat came on board for a celebration that welcomed her to the master ranks. I am sure that she will be forever tethered to the river.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

The Queen's Birthday, Denmark The Queen's Birthday, Denmark My wife, Marilyn, and I were invited to Denmark several years ago for the Queen's birthday on April 16th. The Colonel of the Queen's Life Guards Band had seen my work while in Kitchener and had taken a shine to it and extended this invitation to us. Since that year we were in England for an extended stay that Spring, a side trip to Denmark was convenient. Our arrival the day before the ceremony was overcast but we hoped for a change in the weather. The next day the weather did change, becoming very rainy. Nevertheless, we were excited as we had a drink with the Colonel in the Officers' Mess before the performance in Copenhagen's Amalienborg Square. Queen Margrethe is an accomplished woman who scores top marks in domestic opinion polls when it comes to elegance, knowledge, intellectual and artistic abilities. Her ability to communicate with her subjects is renowned. She studied at universities in Denmark and at Århus as well as stints at Cambridge and the London School of Economics. She also was a student at the Sorbonne in Paris. It would be hard to find a more cultured monarch as her interests extend into design and painting. She has created costumes and scenery for the Royal Theatre, designed stamps, and executed royal monograms. The crowd ringed the historic square with the centre occupied by a military band and squads of guards. The rain continued, gaining momentum as the morning went on. We had been allowed a spot inside one of the palace buildings from which to take photos. The good-natured crowd swelled and waited for the highlight. After all the formal military activity that accompanies such a royal event, a large group of children sang Happy Birthday to the Queen who had been standing under a canopy on a second floor balcony. I was shocked by what happened next. This elegant patrician motioned for the children to come closer to the palace, and then following a short speech, she threw kisses to the kids.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

View of Ghent View of Ghent Following a nose-bleed fast ride in a four-person, glass-sided elevator up through the tower of the church, we emerged into an observation hallway with open balconies that encircled the spire. The views across Ghent allowed us to register our city centre location using the old fort, Gravenstein, as a reference point. Although the construction of that building started in 918, the main part of the castle was built by Philip of Alsace from 1157 until 1191. He had returned from the crusades with a vision of a building that resembles those forts in the East. Over many years, the castle however fell into disrepair, during which time numerous buildings were erected against its two metre thick stone walls. In 1806 a cotton mill occupied a major part of the fortress. Now much has been reconstructed and further work continues, which is staggering as the first restoration started in 1888, stopping only for wars. Viewing from the church tower brought an odd comparison as the old fort is dwarfed by huge apartment blocks. These new buildings win in the height category, but fall far short in the character department. St. Bravo Cathedral also stands in the main square of Ghent and houses the famous Van Eyck altar piece, "The Adoration of the Lamb". This twenty-four panel work has experienced much since its inception in 1432. Pieces have been amputated and sold and resold and resold. Fire and disaster have damaged some of the panels. Just as in the Angel churches of East Anglia in England, the conflict between Catholics and Protestants has meant times of obscurity for safety's sake. After all these years, the crowds still come to view, admire and analyze the luminous egg temperas, but now in a space well controlled and much monitored. We enjoyed a 40 minute excursion in an open boat in the waterways of Ghent along with fifteen other tourists. Water is important to Ghent as their river allows access to the sea and accounts for much of this city's prosperity. Our twenty-something Captain, fluent in German, French, English and Dutch, was as interested in talking to me as he was about describing the passing scenery for his passengers. He had a dream to come to North America, buy a van with which he would drive to Argentina. I asked if he could do his own mechanical work if, as he proposed, he bought a banger. "No," said he, "but I could learn." How much for a van? What would it cost a day if he slept in the van? Fuel, food, could he work … the questions tumbled over each other as he described his desire to see Las Vegas and New York. While admitting that perhaps the Panama Canal might pose a logistical problem for him, he continued his interrogation. Had we visited Brazil? How was the Argentine economy? He thought that he could pick up some tourist work because of his language skills and his experience working for a European tourist agency in Tunisia. He was fired from that job because, he said, "I would not give up my principles. Agencies steal money from the tourists." I remember an interview of the late Jennifer Paterson, one of the Two Fat Ladies whose television cooking show created such a wave. "Are you upset about being called fat," queried the interviewer. "No, not at all," said she. "We are fat, but the "ladies" part makes us sound like a public convenience." That interview came to mind as I happened upon the men's public convenience in Ghent. Little more than a four-foot high metal wall, this fixture, right by the main bridge, was not nearly as discreet as the pissoirs in Paris where the enclosure, a small room really, rose to seven feet to screen the user from the general public's view. For a North American, it would demand a lack of concern shown in this continent only by the horses in the Santa Claus parade. For further related images, to see our section on Belgium.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Hotel Castel Freiberg Hotel Castel Freiberg Sometimes as a traveller I encounter service people that I don't understand, and on other occasions, I understand only too well. "Lynch? Linch?" was the panicked interrogative of the young busboy as we returned from breakfast in the baronial dining room at Hotel Castel Freiberg . I stood at the door of our room in this northern Italian mountain retreat. "Lynch, linch?" He tried this time with a different inflection. "Pete," my wife called from the bathroom, "he's asking whether we will be here for lunch." I nod "yes", breaking the sound barrier. This communication yielded a positive result, quite different from an experience in Venice. As we left our room in a Venetian hotel, a maid approached us, gesturing emphatically. Sounding to us like an escapee from the Tower of Babel, she excitedly informed us of some obviously serious problem. After a minute with no reply from us, she pivoted and scurried off down the hall. Fearing that her message was important, I inquired of the front desk clerk just what her bulletin might be. "I dunno," he shrugged. "You see, she thinks that she was speaking English to you, but she doesn't even speak good Italian." Incised into my memory was the occasion when we entered the dining room of a supposedly posh seaside hotel in England. The guide books had praised the quality of the food, and being married to a person who is excited by outstanding fare, we made the journey to this southeast channel-side eatery. It turned out that this restaurant catered to seniors who clearly enjoyed the Spanish-speaking staff. We should have realized when the maitre d' said, "Good evening, lady and gentleman, welcome to the show" that this would not bode well for the meal. These were not words of comfort and joy. Because the diners were elderly and hard of hearing, the staff shouted to each other across the room in Spanish and the patrons did not bat an eye. The food? Can't remember. I was so bewildered by the show. A number of years ago we stopped at a well publicized American colonial inn, The Golden Lamb, in Lebanon, Ohio. This cozy, much pictured, hostelry worked very hard to preserve its pioneer atmosphere. In the panelled dining room near a brick fireplace, we were seated at a table set with pewteresque appointments. A costumed waitress in Colonial dress with a sweet Southern accent took our order. Being a bit of a rube, I asked about an item on the menu. "What are pinto beans?" Laughing and squealing, she turned to the half-full dining room flabbergasted. "He doesn't know what pinto beans are!" I still shake my head when I think of the waiter who brought a tray to our hotel room in Washington, D.C. As is often the case in the U.S., this young man was most personable as he arranged the room service set-up. He enquired how we liked D.C. and went on to tell us about some places not mentioned in the travel brochures. It turned out that he was a lay minister, working at the hotel to get money to go to Seminary. He pleasantly asked where we were from. We said, "Canada." His reply, "That is one part of the States that I haven't been to yet."

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Ship Ship Sailing in waters around the Caribbean islands to Alaskan passages, we have had much joy. Around the United Kingdom and skirting the shores of South America on our way to Africa and on to Europe, we have seen sights that have amazed and delighted. Passing through the Panama Canal and cruising the Baltic Sea, we have been taken to "fair enchanted lands". Beyond the landscape that magically appears on the horizon, the happenings on and around ships ignite our curiosity. We have had our sunning interrupted just off Cuba to take on board from a small open craft ten people fleeing the Castro regime. On our way to Aruba, we thought that these desperate people would welcome the hospitality of that Dutch island, only to find out that a treaty between those two nations would result in the refugees' immediate return to their native land. Despite a number of attempts as we sailed through the Caribbean, through the Panama Canal, and on to California, no country along the way would give a haven to these now homeless people. When we reached California, a squad of large well-armed military types boarded our ship and escorted the tiny terrified Cubans down the gang plank. It was on that ship as well that a passenger from Germany with cement-coloured complexion very suddenly died. International law makes it very difficult to take a body from a ship and so his body stayed with us for another nine days. I guess the crew simply put him on ice. After our first crossing of the Atlantic on a small 10,000 ton ship, The Franconia, shortly after our wedding, I was sure I would never sail again. The painting shown here gives an idea of just how bilious that I felt. Although everyone described the sea as calm, I became horribly ill and ended up getting a jab in the bum from a pretty female doctor. I was embarrassed but so sick that I just didn't care. I should mention that it did take a bit of the edge off the honeymoon as well. For twenty years after that crossing, I could close my eyes and feel the movement of the ship. When I was finally persuaded back on board a ship twenty years later, I found a principle that I learned in horseback riding helped me immeasurably. "Take the motion of the horse through your body" was the equestrian advice, and I found that if I did not fight the ship, but absorbed the movement, I was all right. Now to be honest, there was one incident on the Queen Elizabeth 2 when I had the good fortune of passing near the infirmary while feeling dodgy. A nurse emerging from the sick-bay took one look at me and, grabbing my collar, yanked me over a corridor waste bucket into which I made a sudden deposit. Lest I leave you with the idea that I have confined my aqueous adventures to huge ships, I should mention ferries both in North America and in Britain. I enjoyed also a leisurely progress on the Mississippi in a paddle wheeler. Motor launches in Argentina, Fort Lauderdale, Key West and Costa Rica have brought me up close and personal with views that could be seen no other way. My fellow passengers on these travels added to the travel experience. It is amazing the personal information people will divulge as you sit knee to knee, baking in the sun. On a recent river boat trip to the South of France, I delighted in the sparkling sunny autumn tableaux along the Saône and Rhone rivers. Passing so close to the ever changing views of the shores, I was fully challenged to paint the landscape as it slipped so quickly away. On that trip, we had a fellow guest from England who was there with wife and sister-in-law. ("His two wives" became the joke.) This fellow was sixty years old and an avid amateur artist who did not hesitate to give me the benefit of his insight and expertise as I struggled to record the quickly passing parade. Beside our interest in painting, we also shared another thing. We were, and still are, both bald, however in his case you would hardly notice as he, through the use of corrective combing, slapped a hank of hair across the top of his head from its root well down the side of his scalp. His intense interest in my work brought him so close to me that whenever I backed up a step from my easel to survey my work, I trod on his feet. Being a plein aire painter, I am used to being crowded by people, but because he was in deep deodorant denial, he smelled so badly that it made my eyes run. There were times that I was only too pleased to hear, "All ashore that's going ashore."

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Holding A Bouquet, Copenhagen Holding A Bouquet, Copenhagen Travelling is an enlightening, educational and enjoyable experience, but sometimes also somewhat surprising, even at times, disappointing. The Plaza de Mayo in Buenos Aires is the stage for the most gripping scene of the movie, Evita. In the film, Madonna stands on the high balcony of the Casa Rosada as she sings "Don't Cry for Me Argentina". Far below her, a throng of her emotional countrymen lift up their shiny eyes in an attitude of worship and anguish. I thought the movie beautifully and heroically staged, so imagine my disappointment when I saw the pink palace for myself. This was no towering edifice, but rather a three-story colonial-style building that was painted a pale shade of Pepto-Bismal. In Copenhagen, we visited the famous statue of the Little Mermaid. It turns out that for once the travel promoters were honest. This bronze statue that sits out twenty feet from the shore is indeed petite, only four feet high. This bronze, created in 1913, was inspired by the famous story written by Hans Christian Andersen, who had in the 19th Century adopted Copenhagen as his home. The bronze is attractive in a diminutive sort of way, but I really don't understand all the fuss about this piece in a city that is studded with beautiful statuary that easily surpasses the half-fish, half-woman rendering. While we were there, a dark-suited young man carrying a bouquet of flowers walked from the crowd into the water. As he approached the mermaid, the water deepened until it closed over his head. The tourists gathered there stood stunned, mute. After a few seconds the young man re-appeared to the confounded crowd. Only then did we realize that we were part of a low-budget film. I hate to admit it, but one of my most saddening letdowns was my first view of Buckingham Palace. To be sure, it was many years ago when "Buckhouse" still wore a grimy face like an East-end waif. As a child in school, I had heard this palace described and venerated, so my chagrin at its gray dirty appearance was profound. Silly me. I had expected this home of our Queen to look as grand and as elegant as the old part of Mutual Life, Clarica, now Sun Life Financial Services (Buckingham Palace). Several years ago, friends visited our tile-hung, ancient cottage in Kent. We were eager to show them the local countryside that included a string of towns that line the English channel. Hastings is one of the more important of these with his historic battle connection. You know Battle of Hastings–1066 and all that. We were charmed as we walked along the shore where fishermen were preparing their craft for a day's work. Right at the front looking over this scene, an old restaurant displayed a sign, "The Best Fish and Chips in England". Wrong! Someone must have altered that banner. It should have said "The Worst" (Unloading the Fishing Boats, Hastings. As an artist and a lover of paintings, I was excited as I anticipated a visit to the incomparable Hermitage in St. Petersburg, Russia. (Heritage Façade, St. Petersburg). This gallery, founded by Catherine the Great in a city renowned for hundreds of years as a second Paris, beckoned to us as we prepared for a cruise in the Baltic Sea. I was terribly disappointed to find the Hermitage to be a building without climate control or even decent lighting. No funds are available for this temple of art or the crumbling potholed streets of St. Petersburg. The street lights are even without bulbs. It is hard to believe that for several hundred years wealthy tourists from across Europe made a pilgrimage to see this once fabled city and its treasure trove of art, the Hermitage. Ah, how the mighty have fallen.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Congested Street Congested Street The first time that we visited Paris we were fresh off the train from Le Havre. I was twenty-two years old and eager to see "The City of Lights", but without the slightest background knowledge about this capital. Art college was just behind me, and with my new bride and her brother and his new wife, we were off to enjoy something. We didn't know what that something was, but we were positive in our attitude. Paris proved to be as beautiful as a movie set, but expensive. Our first night in Paris we stayed in a hotel recommended by Arthur Frommer in his book, Europe on Five Dollars a Day. Twisting up a narrow staircase to a bedroom on the fourth floor, we arrived at a "chambre" where we had to arm wrestle the bedbugs. We felt both exhilaration and apprehension. The several days that followed were filled with meager meals—"the prices!"—and endless walking. We were young and strong, and life was great. Perhaps our second trip to Paris was more of a pleasure. Almost ten years after our first visit, we were much better equipped to enjoy this beautiful city. By that point, Marilyn had become an avid researcher and had discovered many spots not found in Frommer's book. After a harrowing trip on which we missed our London to Paris connection, we arrived in France, bleary eyed and terribly fatigued after a much delayed flight from Toronto. We had "enjoyed" a four-hour wait in London, only to find that our French flight was to leave from a different airport, so we hauled ourselves onto the inter-airport bus. We arrived just in time to watch our flight take off as my bride stood weeping in the airport. It was at that point that we met a senior artist from Toronto with whom I had shared a dealer. I was so embarrassed, and Marilyn was so tired and angry. I'm sure we made a great impression. Paris, however, made up for our earlier troubles. When we awoke after a delayed night, the sound of a hurdy-gurdy filtered into our room from the street below where a man with a monkey completed this romantic scene. We walked and we ate, this time in lovely restaurants. At Chez Joseph we had a memorably splendid French meal. As we ate, we watched a priest sitting at a table nearby. We couldn't believe it. He had three chocolate desserts. As we left, the patron asked if we were satisfied. "It must be good and it must be enough," he said. The waiters in that restaurant were pleasant, not at all like the stereotypical French waiter who is rude and annoying. There was no need to implement a taming device that our friend has developed. She claims it works well on waiters and taxi drivers who can be offensive in the extreme. She draws herself up to her full five foot two, stamps her foot, and quickly shouts, "Mary had a little lamb. Its fleece was white as snow." Although the taxi driver has no idea what she has just said, he does get the idea that she has reached the end of her rope. We have since been back to Paris several times, and still the city resonates in my heart. For further related images, to see our section on France.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Jew's Gate, Coburg Jew's Gate, Coburg "Kronberg," Marilyn wrote in her scrapbook, "is on my shortlist of beautiful and romantic places along with Niagara-on-the-Lake". Medieval timbered houses crowd along the narrow streets like eager fans in a queue for tickets. Here and there, trees create a small shaded footprint beside a white-washed building. Courtyards with murmuring fountains provide a quiet respite from crowded streets. We stayed here, only fifteen kilometers from Frankfurt, before we travelled east to Coburg to meet with the designers from the Goebel Porcelain Company. Coburg is a much larger, more elegant, small city. Parks and squares border broad avenues. Three- and four-storied buildings coloured green, gold and pink smile aristocratically down on flower beds, statues and promenades. Not surprisingly, Coburg was a city state until 1939, complete with its own prince and many official buildings. Public spaces remind you of a time gone by. Prince Albert, the consort of Queen Victoria, came from this area and there lingers in the air the soft scent of refinement mixed with the fumes of cars crawling along the avenues. Following the success of the collector plate series that I had designed for Christian Bell Porcelain, I had been approached by an American agency of Goebel Porcelain, the makers of the famous Hummel figurines, to sculpt some Mennonite pieces. I had sent several Mennonite country examples off to Germany three months earlier for their mould makers to examine. We were royally received by a young man from the factory. He had entertained us the night before our meeting with the Hummel design people with dinner at an up-market, truly German, restaurant called the Lorelei. He had introduced us to white asparagus and Franken wine. Our host, Mr. Henning, led us to believe that the design chief was extraordinarily pleased with my models, and so I was excited when we were ushered into an elegant company dining room the next day. The wood paneling provided a background sheen for the gleaming silverware. White linen on the tables proclaimed that we were in for a special treat. A waiter with a domed trolley made his way through this luxury dining room dispensing large portions of beef and pork. After a massive lunch with a number of glasses of Franken wine, we returned to the director's "studio". It was there that I saw for the first time their version of my Mennonite models. Yikes! I was appalled. They had produced prototypes that looked like Hummel figures, all round and bulbous. The only tip-off that these figures might be related to my work was the dark coloured clothes. It might be unkind, but accurate, to say that the models looked like they had been fed steroids. After several other tries to bring what I thought was necessary to these prototypes, I had to accept that they loved the Hummel look. I have always enjoyed the Black Forest Hummel characters, but now I cannot pass one without remembering my figurines that never happened.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Unloading Cargo Unloading Cargo A house along the coastline has a unique quality. It is only there that the neighbourhood changes on an ongoing basis. Any other view stays constant, but on the coast, the sight transforms with new neighbours coming and going all the time. If you are fortunate enough to live near a port, a small one, not a huge, stinking, blackened destination, you can enjoy the visual entertainment of visitors from around the world. I thought about this when transiting the Panama Canal. We counted all the ships at anchor from around the world. That view contained a geography lesson. There was also a chance to understand global commerce as ships with cargos of all sorts, some identified, others without content markings, queued to pass through. The people who lived along that shore had a new parade every day. From St. John's Harbour to Buenos Aires, I have enjoyed the many colours and shapes of crafts, their hulls carrying names in many languages or flags in the most unusual colours. I think about those coastal people looking out their living room windows, binoculars in hand, identifying old favourites or puzzling over new arrivals in their ports. With access to the web, these coastal inhabitants could discover so much about those visitors from afar. The fun would be unending. I have been fortunate enough to live on the north Cornish coast at Padstow for a week. Our flat, above a shop, was only fifteen feet from the harbour, and through French doors, we could watch the ever changing scenery of mostly small pleasure crafts exchanging moorings like square dancers trading positions. I like my neighbourhood at home. I really do, but wouldn't it be fun if #71 could change places with #73 or #75? For further related images, to see our section on boats.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Restaurant Door Restaurant Door Pérouges is a small fortified hill-town northeast of Lyon, France. We visited this charmingly preserved town many years ago. The French government has been very clever in the way that they regulated the preservation of this mainly Fourteenth Century gem. Pérouges, France Functioning as a regular town, with a bakery and shops as well as a legal office and a doctor's office, Pérouges has been maintained with street controls on traffic. Only those living in this burg may drive their cars into town. That idea is now becoming less than novel. Even Florence, Italy, bars non-resident traffic from the inner city. The historic conservation has been so successful that this French hill town is often used as a film location for medieval costume pieces. The Three Musketeers was shot there, and when we visited, a television company was in the midst of taping right next to our hotel. The government has allowed only one hotel in town. The Hostellerie de Vieux Pérouges is a small establishment that is really several stone buildings joined together. That amalgamation of houses was really easy because in a cramped hill-town, almost all the buildings are contiguous. Our bedroom, "Sur les Ramparts", gave off right onto the city wall. Church, Pérouges, France At the heart of this Inn is a fine dining room with candlelit tables and wall-hung tapestries. The specialty of the house is the Poulet de Bresse. This breed of chicken is fed grain only. These birds actually have an "appellation contrôlée" which assures the continuation of these special animals. I knew that the French were particular about their food, but this is really over the top. Marilyn reminded me that the dessert was so divine that we ate an entire small sugar pie all by ourselves. Since we visited in the Eighties, Pérouges, or the French historic authority managing the village, has become very conscious of promoting this beauty spot. I was stunned when I viewed their website to find how well this once out of the way spot is presented. Another of our private treasures has now gone public. For further related images, to see our section on France.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Pomp In Gibraltar Pomp In Gibraltar A recent article in the news told of a soon to be raised wreck of a 17th century British ship, purportedly laden with tons of gold coins valued at four billion dollars U.S. This craft was on its way to secure the loyalty of the Duke of Savoy against the expansionist plans of the Sun King. Interestingly, the site of this wreck was simply stated as "off Gibraltar", which leaves a great deal of open water as possible locations. Depending where this sunken ship lies in waters 800 metres deep, it is possible that our ship, The Royal Princess, sailed right over this spot as we made our way to Gibraltar from Casablanca, Morocco. The views from the top of Gibraltar are legendary. Peering over a stone wall down on the harbour crammed with ships, I find it almost impossible to believe that a person could walk up the steep stairs. Those routes, viewed from the perch at the top, remind me of the children's game, Snakes and Ladders. At this nose bleed site on the top of the rock, a small turn will open vistas of the Mediterranean all the way to Tangiers. From this height, the ocean to the east looks almost like a relief map of the Spanish coast. The spectacular beauty of this site makes it easy to forget the strategic military importance of this Prudential symbol. Tunnels and caves, some natural, others dug, once made the placement of armaments important at this gateway to the Mediterranean. An underground theatre and a military museum now occupy that space. Tourists flock to the spot where soldiers used to stand guard. The Treaty of Utrecht in 1713 ceded the Rock to the British, and on and off since that time there has been controversy as to the right of Britain to stay there. But England is indeed in charge of this tiny outpost and, typical of the British, have all the pomp and ceremony associated with the U.K. By this point in our cruise, which had started in Argentina with visits to Brazil, Senegal, Madeira, Morocco and then to this dramatic rock guarding the entrance to the Mediterranean, we were very pleased to visit a place where we could speak the language. Being Anglophiles, we felt, at least culturally, we were in comfortable territory which is more than I could say about our two stops in Africa. It was also a relief to come back into a pleasant temperature after the oven-like heat of North Africa. We happened to be in Gibraltar on the day that a new governor was installed. Scarlet coated military units with white pith helmets paraded down the street to Casemates Square. As they marched in the April sun past a thin line of tourists, the soldiers also passed stores with names familiar to any Brit. Past Mothercare and W.H. Smith, beneath signs for proper Fish and Chips, as well as banners for Newcastle Brown Ale, the colourful contingent made way for a Rolls carrying the new Governor and his lady. At the square, shiny black boots stamped the cobbled pavement as the new man in charge left the car to take his place on the platform. He looked splendid in his dark blue uniform trimmed with gold and topped with a feathered hat that denoted his rank. This scene, although stirring and picturesque, made me think of countless old movies of far flung pink spots on the map where Brits pretended they were at home, and I suppose in a way they still are. After all, the Barbary apes (monkeys, really) still roam over the pinnacle of Gibraltar, and so the legend continues that as long as these apes remain, Britain will rule Gibraltar.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Metrosexual Metrosexual I know a man whose job for Sears Canada included travelling around the world with a Polaroid camera. He was looking to spot coming trends in clothes. It was he who decided what the colours in their merchandise would be for next year. Returning to Toronto with these photos, he would be able to instruct the buyers on what to order for the coming year.. I found that idea intriguing, so I have started as I travel to take note of the way people dress on the streets. I can't say that I have spotted any trends, but on a short visit to Norway I considered how the Norwegian men dressed. Sloppy would, I think, be the word but that just shows my age. The mixing of dress and casual clothes seemed the norm. Occasionally I spied a man who appeared smartly dressed, but I thought that quite unusual. Yes, I did notice a man or two with a clutch bag and gelled hair. I had a chance to challenge my clothing ideas quite recently on a cruise and I suppose this experience has made me more aware of how men dress. The first day out of Southampton we were having a drink on the upper deck by the pool when we both noticed a middle-aged man reading in the sun. He was hard to miss because his toenails were painted strawberry red. With a closer look, I discovered he was wearing cream-coloured piazza pants. Well, I thought, I guess he must be a cross dresser. Marilyn confirmed my idea when she pointed out that his shirt/top was embroidered with the Liz Sport logo. It makes no difference to me what a person's preferences are as long as in the Victorian saying, he doesn't do it in the street and scare the horses. I almost had a bit of admiration for this guy to step out on a cruise ship which normally hosts a rather conservative middle-class audience. A young friend of mine winding me up about our frequent cruises said, "Oh yeah, the newlyweds and the nearly deads". Since we have been married thirty-seven years, I will leave you to decide into which camp we fit. When we assembled for dinner that first night, we were amazed to find the cross dresser and, it turned out, his wife of thirty-three years seated at our table. She was very pleasant, while he proved to know everything about just any old subject that you would like to name, which was most unfortunate. After this first encounter, I faxed home a colourful description of these folks from Long Island, New York, pronounced "Lonk Island". A recent article in Forbes Magazine entitled "Today's Man" immediately brought that fellow passenger back to mind. It turns out I may have been totally wrong about this cross-dressing guy. Say Hello to Metrosexuals. A squint at the Web tells me that this term is well settled, not a new currency. These are straight guys "who preen, clean, and sip Chardonnay" and generally are in touch with their feminine side. It is clear that there is a huge marketing opportunity if the merchandisers can only convert the beer-guzzling crowd to this new reality. Apparently in the U.K., Boots the Chemists are setting up separate departments in drug stores called "Men's Zone". The advertisers are pointing to big names like David Beckham as an example of the type of man who is masculine enough to wear a sarong and nail polish. Even though the lads at the Duke, my local, are obsessed with David Beckham, I rather doubt that the talk over pints will turn to exfoliation and pantyhose. Way back in 1994 "metrosexuals" was coined by, who else, a copywriter in England. Now nine years later, Jane Buckingham, the head of New York consultancy, Youth Intelligence, says that in a very few years all guys will become metrosexuals. Jane, I think not.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Venetian Palace Venetian Palace Want to score $5 million? On March 18, 1990 the Gardner Museum in Boston was robbed by two unknown white males dressed in police uniforms and identifying themselves as Boston Police Officers. They stole several pieces worth more than $300 million. A $5 million reward is offered for the safe recovery of all stolen items in good condition. That theft would leave well over two thousand items of art still in the Gardner Museum. The museum building is a Venetian palace that was opened in 1903. The building was erected in 1898 by Isabella Stewart Gardner, a New York socialite who moved to Boston after her marriage to John Gardner. Her great affection for the architecture and art of Italy inspired this spectacular building. I too am taken by the Venetian streetscapes that I have painted for this article. Just as the palace in San Simeon, California, built by newspaper magnate William Randolph Hurst, was composed of bits and pieces brought in from Europe, this Bostonian wonder also paid homage to European culture. Paintings by Rembrandt, Degas, Manet, as well as renaissance artists such as Pesellino, Botticelli, Michelangelo and Raphael line the walls. Fueled by a bottomless supply of money, Mrs. Gardner, or Mrs. Jack as she was known, combed Europe seeking jewels for her Italianate casket. During the late Victorian period and the Edwardian era, huge fortunes were established in America, and the expression for much of this new enormous wealth found its way to Europe. Although many Europeans decry the rape of the art market at that time, it was an opportunity for works of art to make their way to North America. Personally I am pleased that so many outstanding paintings arrived in New York, Boston, Philadelphia and Chicago. These imported works have allowed many people who could not afford to travel an opportunity to experience great art. These collections also say much about the wealthy socialites who gathered, some lovingly, some maliciously, huge stashes of European cultural experience. Visiting the Gardener Museum is like a fast step off the Grand Canal of Venice into a palace fit for royalty. This four-story confection is a mix of building parts, mostly Venetian, but including pieces from France, Spain and even China. The style of the building is Italian and is, I suppose, much like the homes of aristocrats all over the world, showcasing the treasures from foreign travels. Beyond the art treasures in paint and marble, I am attracted to the central courtyard of this structure. Softened by palms and flowers, the centre floor is a mosaic from a Roman villa of the 11th century A.D. The head of Medusa is surrounded by delicate scrolling vines and birds representing the Four Seasons. Throughout the mansion, specialty rooms vie for the visitor's attention. The Tapestry Room contains ten huge pieces from Brussels dated around 1550. That together with the paintings of Peter Paul Rubens transports the viewer to Belgium. The Chinese corridor runs parallel to the Spanish cloister and leads to the outside gardens which are open to the public in warm weather. Studded throughout the museum are portraits of Mrs. Gardner. Although no beauty, her jewelry alone made a stunning starting point for an artist. Many of the portraitists from Sargent to Zorn to Whistler showed a woman who was sure of herself, her taste and her status. She could have appropriated the approach credited to James McNeill Whistler who, when he confronted a disagreeable man who claimed the same birthplace, Lowell, Massachusetts, said, "I shall be born when and where I choose." He chose Baltimore or St. Petersburg, Russia, depending on his mood. Mrs. Jack was equally capricious and cocksure.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Rainy Day, Godafoss, Iceland Rainy Day, Godafoss, Iceland It is dramatic to come, as we did, from the beautiful fiords of Norway to the severe lumpy landscape of Iceland. Iceland is a volcanic island, strafed with holes blowing steam and hot water. Although this strange country does have some ice (glaciers), most of the land is clothed in moss and miniature trees. There is an Icelandic joke (and I am convinced possibly the only Icelandic humour is formed in a riddle): If you are lost in an Icelandic forest, what do you do? Just stand up. The Vikings who started to settle there in 874 A.D. did possess a Nordic attitude to life. Fishing was the main attraction for Ingólfur Arnarson, a chieftain from western Norway, who is credited with establishing a farm where Reykjavik stands today. Scandinavians with some mixture of Celtic blood rather than pure Norwegians followed. The usual tribal wars ensued, and in 1000 A.D., a common legislature lead by the King decided to adopt the Christian religion. In 1262, the Icelanders swore allegiance to the King of Norway. Not until 1918 was Iceland made a separate state under the Danish crown. We spent only two days in Iceland—the first one, in the area around the northern tip of Akureyri, and the second, in the capital of Reykjavik, the only other city. The official map of Iceland proudly notes that towns with more than 5000 inhabitants are marked in red. Count them both. Tourism is keenly pursued as one of the few ways of making a living in this northern land near the Arctic Circle. Our bus tour out of Reykjavik, opportunistically entitled the Golden Circle, included a geyser visit, a stop at an historic Icelandic settlement with its buildings covered with sod, a thermo-heated greenhouse with an attached a gift shop amusingly called the Garden of Eden, and a visit to a strange place where the tectonic plates of the earth meet, or rather divide, creating a valley with steep rock cliffs. Volcanoes, hot springs, and glaciers pretty well sum up the attractions of this barren, geographically unstable country. Sheep gazing has pretty well taken care of the vegetation that managed to survive the axes of the early settlers. We stopped at a gift shop where knitted wear was on offer, the products of the local farmers' wives who produce these items during the long, almost lightless, dreary winter. My bride tells me that these items are scratchier than the Norwegian versions, but the designs are similar. We were there in the summer when the sun did not ever disappear. There was a period of brown-out before the sun rose once again, but the sky never darkened. I needed to clean the mist from my glasses as we climbed around the challenging terrain at Godafoss. With air temperature at 50 degrees Fahrenheit, this drifting gray cloud is not icy, but after a half hour of climbing up and jumping down from the rocky forms, I was starting to feel chilled. It was here at Godafoss, the famous waterfalls of the northeast, where I first started to understand the Icelandic people. Legend has it that an early settler threw his heather idols into the current of "God's water" to pledge his conversion to Christianity. I was surprised to realize that many Icelanders, as well as Norwegians, still believe in magic, trolls and the supernatural. Iceland: Land of the Sagas, a noted tourist book, states that as recently as 1975 a survey by the University of Iceland found that sixty-four per cent of all Icelanders reported some experience of the supernatural. Fifty-five per cent found plausible the existence of elves. One guide book talks about a farm with many nice waterfalls that were formerly the house of trolls. Walt Disney has managed to eviscerate the dark power of the Norse and Germanic netherworld by turning trolls and elves into amusing, kindly souls, cousins to Mickey Mouse. We even have Casper, the friendly ghost. In this land of steam, volcanoes, mist, and all-day darkness in the winter, it is perhaps not surprising that another world, a mysterious place still exists.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Tuscan Courtyard I suppose not that many people save rejection notes but I'm glad that I framed this one from 1966. On cream-coloured card stock with the address, Borgo Albizi, Firenze, I am told in the nicest possible way by Pietro Annigoni that he must turn down my request to be a student of his because he is travelling a great deal and does not have time for any serious teaching. In North America perhaps Pietro Annigoni is not a household name but in royal and business circles in Europe he was indeed known and revered. It was he who painted what arguably is the most famous portrait of our Queen with the regalia of the Order of the Garter. My request was sent to him because I had the great good fortune to witness him as he painted two portraits. Both the President of Stelco and his wife were the subjects of paintings produced by him at the Ontario College of Art during my time there. We students were allowed into the studio at the end of each day to marvel at the progress of these works. Firenzie, Florence, has for centuries been the home to artists and nobility that, let's face it, kept the artists going. Much of the artistic history of Florence is housed in the Uffizi Gallery which is unfortunately opened on an off-and-on basis due to the volume of traffic which schleps through its corridors. The Uffizi is the oldest museum in the world, having been first opened to the public in 1591. If, as the Florentine authorities claim, this city is the cradle of the Renaissance, then the Uffizi is the keeper of that cradle. Within its over 8,000 square meters, the patrons and saints stare down from the walls with frosty detachment. I saw many of the developments in painting such as perspective presented along its endless walls and wished that we might have had the top picks gathered in a few galleries to prevent what Marilyn and I call gallery head. That is the condition that results from cramming so much into your noggin that your brain congeals. After a two-hour session of painting viewing, we stumbled comatose into the street looking to find a restaurant owned by the vineyard whose wine we drink at home. I knew Villa Antinori was near the train station. "Pardon me, could you direct to the centro?" Astonished at my ignorance, a middle-aged man threw up his hands exclaiming, "Chentro, Chentro!" Well the restaurant turned out to be a great hit. As always in Italy, it was difficult to get the waiter to bring the bill. Apparently Italian culture believes that a check presented too soon is rude and suggests that the diner should be on his way. My bride is our travel investigator and we did a superb job in finding us a grand hotel across the Arno River from Florence which provided a magnificent view of the capital of Tuscany. In spite of masses of tourists that have forced the city to ban vehicular traffic to anyone but residents of the city centre, the air is still clear on the northwest coast. Imagine my surprise when I opened the hotel brochure to find staring out at me, Pietro Annigoni. The caption under the photo of a group having dinner states that the grill-room is an informal meeting place for famous artists. This ochre-coloured Villa San Michele was once a monastery and reputedly designed by Michelangelo. You realize very quickly that if that great man had produced everything attributed to him, he would have died from lack of sleep. The building was badly damaged by bombs in WW II, but restored and reborn as a hotel after 150 years as a private residence. The villa is very grand although our room in the cheap seats looked over the tiled roof over the kitchen, but the view dissolved into blue over the Tuscan hills. This is a beautiful hotel but it really does give a whole new meaning to the golden fleece.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.