Eating Green

Yes, it’s me, not just sitting in a vegetarian restaurant, but actually having lunch in one. I'm not here by choice, at least my choice. This is day twenty-nine of a fifty-six day liver-cleansing diet and I'm hurting big time. My being in this place is like a Protestant Church Minister golfing on Sunday. And the menu board; lots to choose from, but none of it contains even a minimum of the RDA of grease.

I select a table in the corner; miles from the front window, knowing full well that there is little chance my fellow carnivores will see me. I' m hiding from my Guardian Angel, the one who was kicked out of Heaven for hunting in the Garden of Eden. Anyone who knows me is eating at the A & W, Burger King or Wendy's. Although a few of those other acquaintances of mine, those lower down on the food chain will be eating at McDonald's.

Looking at my plate, I observe a variety of vegetation that cows, rabbits and deer would drool over. Not for me, I feel like I’ve sold my hunting birthright for a mess of pottage. Poking morosely through the salad in the slim hope of locating a wayward caterpillar, I thought jealously of Noah, and all those tasty animals he had on board. He didn't just have venison he had a pair of venison, on the hoof of course. Pulling all I can from that vision I set mental eyes on buffalo burgers, elephant steaks, wild pork chops, loin of lion all the way up to zebra roasts.

Even the atmosphere is weird here, for an ex-army ground pounder. At the doorway is a petition against war, a variety of alternative newspapers clutter empty tables, mystical art work adorns the walls and semi-meditation music seeps out of concealed speakers, lulling us, no doubt, into thinking that we were actually eating real food.

Hunger, along with the kind words of my liver-specialist Doctor, has driven me here. He has stated clearly that I would be highly regarded in the areas of France where much planning and preparation goes into the development of livers such as mine. Unfortunately, the owners of said livers are short-lived geese, destined for the pate-loving taste buds of gourmands.

As I chow down on lettuce I close my eyes and think of KFC. You know what those initials usually mean, but for me they now say "Keep Fats Clear".

As I write this confession and graze on my Jamaican veggie delight, I watched other diners charge in. None of them look as if they'd just come from the doctor, nor are they eating at gunpoint.

Even the Buddha statue looming over my shoulder is a slender figurine, who I'm convinced is mindfully contemplating a dish of barbecued pork ribs and a super sized order of fries, smothered in gravy.

The meal is nearly done and tasted surprisingly good. As my stomach settled into a feeling of fullness, I righteously lean back in my booth, let slip a non-menacing burp and admire my empty plate.

All is peaceful; the pre-lunch desire to eat a raw steer has subsided. The folks in the dining area, no longer masquerading as a hippie-weirdos, or dope-smoking, peace-monitoring fanatics look to me to be almost beatific. Even the guy in the scarlet-dyed Afro has taken on the appearance of a kindly uncle.

My last piece of corn bread gobbled, I can proudly re-enter the wet streets of Victoria knowing that if it wasn't for my leather shoes and my fur-lined Joe Boxer's, I would be a Vegan.

Monday, 5 October Jim VS the Monoply

Monday, 5 October

Drove Bev to Cam and Ian’s where we had a cup of tea and a bowl of Camille’s homemade chicken soup. I left them there and went off to the Swiss version of Telus-- Swisscom. I immediately felt at home: they are both dictatorial, tyrannical monopolies that offer services we cannot live without. Both provide an environment designed solely to undermine the self-worth of any peon who dares penetrate their fortress.

In Canada, the watchdog is a telephone system tended by cyberian entities who offer an array of helpful options, none of which, after you have gone through the thirty-five choices comes even close to the problem that you want to discuss with a flesh and blood being.

Telus offices in Canadian malls will sell you two thousand year contracts, cost more than the combined total of the GNP of the Ten Poorest Countries (based on 2004 GNP per capita in US$) and then give you a free cell phone that will only work on alternate Wednesday in the west and in Toronto only on February 29th. But they will not give you any assistance with your account. For that you have to go online and run up against the Cyberian-idiot mentioned above.

For those with an inquiring mind, and need to call my bluff ref the GNP of the ten, I must first ask, “Why the hell are you on my blog?”, but I do include the stats as a kind of reward for you sticking this far.

Burundi ... $90

Ethiopia ... $110

Democratic Republic of Congo ... $110

Liberia ... $110

Malawi ... $160

Guinea-Bissau ... $160

Eritrea ... $190

Niger ... $210

Sierra Leone ... $210

Rwanda ... $210

Swisscom’s absolute power over its subjects is one of a more sadistic, sophisticated style of persecution. They have the storefront offices in malls. They staff them with courteous people. So what’s your problem, you ask? You cannot enter into any kind of communication with these folks! Even though they are located just inside the store, are visible, and appear ready to help, you must first engage their version of the cyberian overseer, the electronic ticket dispenser. Press a button, take the resulting slip of paper from its maw and proceed directly to the waiting area where some of the people ahead of you look as if they have been sitting there since Jobs and Wozniak began creating Apple computers in a garage. Others seem to be hanging on in a kind of hopeful trance; a perfect place actually for me to wait the birth of the baby.

But, I was made of sterner stuff. I took my ticket, number 101, noted that the display stated that Swisscom staff were currently serving number 12 from last year’s list, and promptly went off shopping. I returned an hour later and found that they had zoomed up to number 23. After another nip off to only look at the overpriced treats on offer in the mall, and having bought a used a book at a book sale, (3Sfr) I returned. Amazingly, the display read out 97. I decided to wait and was glad that I had. Seems numbers 98 through 100 had legged as I had but had failed to re-appear in time to seize their opportunity of meeting face-to-face with a Swisscom staffer. I lucked in and got a young man who’s english would have enabled him to reside in Newfoundland and be easily taken for a native.

However we did manage to communicate. He fixed my problem, refunded me my 30 francs that the Swisscom modem had snatched and then explained to me how I could simplify any future interaction by dropping by the store. I didn’t have the french to explain I would be using Telus from now on and it appeared that his store of english had run out. I Merci-ed him, he smiled and said, “You’re welcome,” and then I ruined the dialogue by adding, “Take care, Pardner.”

On my way out the store I decided strike a blow for tele-freedom and tossed a sabot into the mix by quickly thumping the ticket dispenser a dozen or so times. My last ticket read 250. God help the poor soul who came in next.

Sunday, 4 October

Sunday, 4 October

Bev Sleeps in, that evening we took Cam and Ian to Dinner. To be continued… but with glorious tales of menus to die for, waiter service from heaven and prices that make you weep.

Saturday, 3 October

Saturday, 3 October

I was enlisted this morning as one of the vehicle support drivers in the charity cycling event I have come to call, ‘The Amazing Race’. It’s real name is ‘Suits on Bikes’. These suits are a group of guys who to participate, have to come up with a sizeable pile just to be allowed to ride up and down the Alps on bicycles. Being that they are entrepreneurs, all of the money has been harvested from well-wishers. This particular ride the proceeds will be going to help build a school in Romania. Ian, my actual driver, arrived on time and we set out to find the support vehicle currently following the riders. Our first task, subtitled, ‘Lost in the Alps’ was to rendezvous (French for tear out your hair in frustration, throw the GPS out the window and finally dance a Highland Fling in joy because the other vehicle has been and sighted and there are still a few hours of daylight left. At the pre-arranged, within 50 kms or so, meeting point, a pinprick on the Swiss map known as, St. Georges de OffenhooterFreutuchlostenner, we met Gabrielle McLeish. Gaby, who was the current vehicle support group driver and two of her sons, Alec and Max, had things to do and with a sigh of relief that Ian had found the riders, she quickly traded vehicles with us and departed.

We hopped aboard, keeping the boys with us; they were scheduled to join the ride near the end of the race, and had their bikes on the back. We caught up with the lead bunch of riders and after a bit of a briefing from Alistair McLeish we stopped and waited for the rear group to catch up to us. With nothing much to do but admire the quaint town or ville we had halted at, took two minutes, the boys decided to feed the horses in the field across the road. Since Ian had become the designated babysitter for Alec and Max, this job suddenly became a challenge on par with of one of the twelve labours of Hercules. To give him a great deal of credit –after all, any day now, he’ll become a father- he took to the task with an almost effortless nonchalance. Any traces of tentativeness invisible to most, but glaringly blatant to those of us more experienced Dads, I could see that he’ll develop into one of those natural fathers, probably somewhere around their twelfth child. After much to-ing and fro-ing between the two groups of riders, we took a break with the rear group, who’s concept of riding through the lunch hour without a crust of bread bordered on mutiny. They unloaded their athletic rations of sushi and wine and we had lunch by a canal. After gobbling and sluicing they saddled up and we were off again. At another small town, Pleurisy-by-Montagnard-with-Nobypass, we unloaded the boys and their bikes and banged off to get to the finish line before them. The end of the road was Alistair and Gaby’s home and waiting for us was showers and beer. Having been riding with Ian all day and the only perspiration I had leaked being cold sweat, I settled for the beer. All kidding aside, I was amazed at what the guys in ‘Suits on Bikes’ had accomplished. I don’t know how much money they raised, but they did it on their day off and covered at least 85 kms. Well done! Suits on Bikes!

Friday 2 October

Friday, 2 October

Nyon or the European Shopping Trip

Today we ventured back into the city of Nyon, staying close behind as our guide, Swiss Cammy Herbison, led the way in their car. Ian had begged off on some weak excuse of a work deadline or that he had had enough of his in-laws and his own Mother, Father and aunt Gina, all of whom had taken over his last couple of days.

We headed out of our rustic, safe, pastoral farm scene into the lunacy of frenzied drivers in a city who’s motto seems to be, “Recevez l'enfer outa ma voie!” which means, “Get the hell outa the way!” Their code of road behaviour is survival of the fittest.

I didn’t know where we were going. Once in the bowels of the Mall’s underground parking I didn’t know where we were and later, as I tentatively first-geared our way to back up to daylight and the domain of the berserk, I hadn’t the foggiest about where we had been. Kinda like Columbus on his first transatlantic trip. But don’t get me started on what the car does to the Swiss population in general. The German people, not known for their vehicular-restraint, just gave up, turned the entire country in one long race-track, removed all speed limits, called it the autobahn and let’er rip! The Swiss take their cues from their, for want of a better word, weird, cultural background. In Canada we have two official languages. Switzerland has four, three if you don’t count one of them, which many don’t. We are considered by many other nations to be a touch strange for our bilingual policy. With a quad-lingual strategy the Swiss are downright dangerous. Their army is in the Vatican. They couldn’t come up with a national flag so they stole the one from the Red Cross Society, reversed the red cross on white background to white cross on a red background and slung it up the pole. But it is the arena of the automobile where their zaniness comes to the forefront. Meet a citizen in the street, a bar or shop and you couldn't meet a friendlier, courteous person in the world. Shove that same citizen in behind the wheel and you’ve got … let me put it this way, Michael Schumacher, the world famous Formula One driver lives in Glook – pronounced ‘Glonh!’ ‘nuff said. Petrol fumes (Gasoline) react in them like the mad Doctor Jekyll’s famous tipple, producing a Mr. Hyde-on-wheels. Five minutes earlier he or she, gender makes no never mind in this illustration, had probably just given you a pleasant, “Good day.” Now jammed in behind the steering thingy, Mr. or Mrs. Pleasant Swiss Citizen is now glaring in anger while beeping the tinny tricycle horn all European cars have as standard equipment. You are now a bug to be squashed. And that’s all the way to the mall. Luckily for us, we had a guide and made it down into the parking garage with only a year or so taken of our lives.

Dinner was at Cam and Ian’s with Aunt Gina providing the food, cooking utensils, appliances and even a couple of chairs. Brian, Kate and Bev brought the wine. Bev’s bottle came from the farm and she stole it. I have since reported the theft and it will go on her bill.

We were introduced to a meal known as a ‘Pierrade’. This is your basic survival cooking-- flat rocks, fire, thinly sliced animals (deceased), copious amounts of wine.

The Pierrade style of dining was originally developed during a lull in the well-known technological advance which occurred just after the high period of Neanderthal civilization. The lull was a ten year period between the years 600,000–350,000 BC, (BC in this instance meaning ‘Before Cooking’.)

It epitomized the culture of open-fire cuisine. Luckily for us, we didn’t need to build two small fires on the dining room table, top them off with a bunch of flat rocks, let them heat to a finger-melting temperature then slam the meat onto the rocks, sizzle it a bit then dip the morsels in a variety of condiments and sauces.

The heating apparatus that replaced the open fire on the table top, arrived with the advent of electricity and no doubt saved a lot of tables, was the plug-in Pierrade, we used two. Bev and I liked the idea so much that the next day we went online and ordered our own Pierrade. It will be waiting, along with the cat for our return. And no, the cat is not on the menu.

Thursday, 1 October

Thursday, 1 October

Arrive at Glinny – pronounced ‘Glonh!’ found Cam at a Migros, a huge Safeway/Thrifty’s/Quality Foods-style grocery store, which I had taken for a bank. We went in to get some francs and there was Cammo waving at us from a checkout counter.

That afternoon we settled in to the farm/B&B. Later that evening we were driven by Cam and Ian to his Aunt Gina’s place in France, name to follow. There we met Ian’s Mom, Kate and his Dad, Brian. A fun time playing 45s on Gina’s high fidelity audio system (circa 1812, a portable 33, 45 rpm record machine who’s time should be up) and talking about rock and roll. As foreigners in this neck of the woods Bev and I enjoyed the give and take of Brian’s and Ian’s political stance. Generally speaking, Ian’s seemed to be middle of the road while Brian’s was run them all over! Excellent time was had by all. Around midnight as Cam drove us home I requested a light snack detour. Turned out that nothing was open after sundown.

Wednesday 30th September

Wednesday 30^th September (True day number is Day 5)

And The Blog Goes On

Camille had given us her Google-searched info on getting from Hugie to Gleend, – pronounced ‘Glonh!’ and stated that we had a four hour drive. Not having an urgent schedule we departed around ten thirty in the morning. Since our previous trip down the Autobahn had given Bev an overwhelming desire to never get in the car again, we planned to do the trip via side roads.

I realized that that might add a few minutes to the four hour trip, but in the interests of marital harmony what are a few minutes (did you ever notice how close in spelling the words ‘marital’ and ‘martial’ are)? We made it as far as Buhl, five minutes on the Autobahn, thirty on the back roads and stopped for a bite and to do a bit of shopping. Bev had headed for the nearest shoe store, while I found a grocery store complete with an exotic-looking food court. I was able to procure a pork-like pattie in a rock solid bun that the sales person had called something that sounded like a ‘Frickerdill’. I seemed to remember that from my long ago days in Northern Germany, so when she said, “Echt-neuf-offal-bach-whatever, I put a fifty Euro bill in her hand and withstood the glare while she handed me back forty-five Euros in notes and some small change. I met Bev and while she enjoyed a slice of pizza, I struggled through my tiny, tiny, pork burger, shoved into a baseball glove-sized, rock hard, no doubt beloved-as-traditional, dry bun.

Getting back out of Buhl was tricky and the difficulty of finding a southward pointing road did result in a slightly adversarial dialogue that resulted in us having to turn on the defroster in order to see the road.

We pushed on in the direction of Basel, navigating those annoying roundabout that appeared to be placed solely for the purpose of allowing a few farmers to get to their farms without having to open or close a gate. These roundabouts occurred every 50 metres, with occasional long stretches of 75 metres that were designed to lull me into thinking I could shift into fourth gear, only to suddenly find myself back in a roundabout and downshifting with all the grace of an elephant dancing a minuet in high heels. It was somewhere around the seventh hundred entrance and exit of these diabolical vehicular circles from hell that I caught on.

Up until then I had been of the Slow-Down-To-A-Walk-Stall-The-Damn-Car-Restart-Said-Damn-Car-Edge-Cautiously-Out-Into-The-Roundabout-Oops-Duck-Back-Hopefully-Miss-By-The-Thickness-Of-The-Car’s-Paint-A-Giant-Semi-Arriving-Out-Of-Nowhere-Then-Wait-For-Another-Pause-In-The-Flow-Of-Traffic-REPEAT!-School-Of-Driving-In-Europe-For-The-Timid.

No longer. Now I charge out into the roundabout like a maddened moose with an abscessed tooth, and careen through the circle until Bev cries ‘Uncle’ then I spin off, hoping against hope that I have selected the correct exit. Kind of like roulette with the car being the little ball on the wheel.

We then continue on our merry way for 50 metres and then get to do it all over again. In this manner we journeyed toward Glang – pronounced ‘Glonh!’ until we came to a beautiful bridge over a large river or canal. It was a grand view. We zoomed along in the midday sun as the bridge took us higher and higher, enabling us to look down on dozens of picturesque barges with their zippy sailboat companions dodging and weaving gaily around them. A sight out of a travel brochure. It all came to a crashing end as we nipped along past a sign that said I took to be ‘Welcome to France’; although it could have translated into ‘Bugger off!’

One I recovered from the shock of knowing that we had been moving in the wrong direction, we found a turnaround and scarpered back over the grey, forbidding river and its stupid boats. Lost in France: the trip down the Yellow Brick Road now a postcard from the darkest reaches of hell.

I then told Bev that we were now going back to the big highway, Le Autobahn! Shortly after that we entered Switzerland, got a nod from the Swiss version of the RCMP, wondered aloud about the profusion of tunnels within the city and sped on through to find the Alps.

Glink – pronounced ‘Glonh!’ no longer seemed to be on the other side of the world. We pulled into a gas station to buy some cold drinks and use the toilets.

I had observed, obviously in a haphazard way, the nonchalant manner in which drivers throughout Europe park anywhere they can find a spot.

It seems to me: here I get on my soapbox and offer up a theory of European vehicular culture. The small towns, villages, and tiny cities had all sprung up beside the cart tracks and trails in such a way that with the advent of the automobile, there was no place to put parking lots, gas stations and car lots. The result was this free-for-all style of parking, driving on sidewalks and the seemingly callous disregard for the rights of the other drivers.

1. Take one medieval village blueprint,

2. Superimpose over it, with no regard for progress, a modern day highway template,

3. Keep cow, horse and pedestrian right of ways,

4. Introduce internal combustion engine,

5. Start driving, and

6. Park where’s there’s space.

End of diatribe. The reason for it was to demonstrate how I had cunningly assimilated these attributes. At the gas station I pulled in on the sidewalk, brought the chariot to a halt and began to get out. What I had not picked up on was that the drivers do not block the gas station entrance when they stop. A few irate horn-blowers provided the impetus for me to get back in the car and move it ten yards further along.

In the store part of the gas station I selected my items, took them to the counter and then the neatly made myself misunderstood in three languages, one being my mother tongue. I made no attempt to correct the woman when I gave her a single ten Euro note and she gave me an armful of Swiss money.

Based on the amount she handed over, I was sure she had given me back at least three times more than I had given her. Overjoyed at my sudden wealth, and not being able to communicate to her the mathematical error she had made, I returned to the car to learn that toilets at gas stations appear to be a North American standard that is not always copied here in Europe.

Dreams of early retirement faded rapidly when Bev explained the exchange rate and my pile of cash. We re-grouped and carried on. By this time dusk was upon us and we were unsure of our location in regard to Lausanne, Geneva or anywhere else on the planet.

The alps towered above us, tunnels abounded and shadows chased us on our never-ending search for the mysterious, lost city of Glunck – pronounced ‘Glonh!’. We still hadn’t been able to make a pit stop and both male and female bladders were getting desperate.

We pulled off the highway, found a car wash, a Mercedes dealership and a little dog that dragged a large branch around the parking lot. We slipped into the showroom, located a washroom and all was well. Or so we thought. On stepping back into the showroom we encountered a car salesman, busy locking up for the night.

He looked in astonishment at these two Martians who had suddenly appeared in his washroom doorway. Being a car salesman, he recovered quickly. As he readied himself to swing into his pitch, I slipped in my few words of french, “Aujourd’hui, les sacs en plastique, Mademoiselle?”

That slowed him and before he could sell us a couple of Smart Cars, a Mercedes Benz and some land in Florida we asked directions to Lausanne. Undoubtedly measuring my IQ based on my command of the language, he swallowed his sales talk, unlocked the door and hurried us out.

As we marched back to the car, Bev said that a couple of minutes longer in the WC and we would have been spending the night each curled up in a Smart car on the main showroom floor.

The trek resumed. Night had fallen, as had our hopes of a quick end to the four hour journey. We had now been traveling for eight hours. In the town of Echallons we decided to pack it in and get a hotel. Finding one was tough but we lucked in, not like the poor guy who checked in just ahead of us. He explained in German and English that he had been wandering around for an hour and a half barging into hotels in the neighbourhood and finding no room at the inn. The God of Stupid Travelers had intervened on our part and we had arrived on the doorstep of an Inn/Pizza – no Donairs – establishment.

One Pizza, two beers and a shooter of Schnapps apiece and we were feeling sufficiently cosmopolitan to venture into conversation with the owners, five teenagers at a table nearby and the earlier mentioned stranger who had lodged himself at the bar. I gave the kids five Ranger stickers that I had brought to use as bribes at borders and customs and they accepted them eagerly, once Bev explained to them that I was not a traveling sticker salesman. Shortly after that, off to bed and the end to an interesting day.