The sweetness of doing nothing but yoga in France

Molly Newborn

November, 2010

Last year was particularly stressful. When I was given the opportunity to spend my summer in Europe, I decided to make the most of it and take part in a relaxing yoga retreat in the south of France.

It was late in June when I got on the train in Orléans. Four hours later, I arrived in Toulouse, where I met with four other women at the airport. Mike was waiting for us with a large van. We drove quietly through the dark countryside of the Ariège region, one of the least populated in France, to arrive at Domaine de la Grausse.

Domaine de la Grausse is a seven-hectare estate in the tiny village of Clermont in southwest France, within the magnificent Pyrénées mountains. During the summer months, Mike and Dagmar open their property to host yoga retreats for those looking for a week or two to relax and rejuvenate. The estate consists of a 17th-century château, three renovated stone barns and a small lake. It is built in a serene valley.

Michelle and Megan are from England. Eva and her daughter Lotta are from Sweden. The five of us ranged in age from 23 to 50 and our backgrounds were just as diverse.

We were greeted by a symphony of frogs, which, to our delight, feasted on the mosquitoes. Mike led us to the Grange, which was converted into charming guest bedrooms. An overwhelming sense of tranquility seeped into my bones. For the first time in more than a year, I laid my head on my pillow without a care in the world.

The next morning we woke up to the most beautiful setting. The grounds were full of butterflies, roses and dragonflies. Mike drove us to the closest town, Le Mas d’Azil, to buy groceries. It is about an eight-kilometre drive from Clermont, and the road cuts through the prehistoric site of la Madeleine, magnificent caves with paintings created between 12,000 and 9,000 BC. The sleepy town had just one square, one small grocery store, a boulangerie, patisserie, post office, three restaurants, a few other little stores and barely a soul in sight.

Molly and Michelle strike poses at La Cascade D’Ars.

To call Clermont sleepy would be an understatement. Domaine de la Grausse was about a 10-minute walk to the centre of town – one store with four shelves of food and a little fridge displaying meats and cheeses, a small restaurant that served us crêpes on our final evening, a couple of old brick buildings and two old men outside, looking as though they had been sitting there for 50 years, waiting for something to happen.

There was no phone, no Internet, no television, no radio and worst of all (or maybe best of all) no full-length mirrors! Aside from a few brown cows and a couple of horses, rarely did we see anyone but each other wandering around the grounds or in nearby towns. The sound of the cowbell in the distance was the soundtrack to our breakfast. There were no men to impress, no emails to check, and no phones to answer. We were completely cut off, and I had finally found what my mind and body were desperately seeking: peace.

Dagmar teaches the yoga classes twice daily. The morning class takes place in a beautiful studio on the third floor of the château overlooking the estate grounds and lake. The evening class takes place in the renovated stone barn, a cool escape from the hot summer days.

The classes weren’t as vigorous as I had anticipated. I had justified gluttonizing on chocolate croissants and smelly French cheeses while in Paris the week before, thinking I would get back in shape doing yoga twice a day for a week.

I was used to the power yoga I had practiced in Los Angeles. This wasn’t quite the same.

The yoga we practiced at Domaine de la Grausse was relaxing and consisted mostly of stretching, breathing and meditation exercises. And that was exactly what I needed. I may not have been in my best bikini shape for the beaches in Marbella, but I was a lot better off for it.

A curious kitten the owners had adopted would occasionally meander around the barn studio during class, as if to make sure we were all holding the poses up to her standards.

Aside from yoga, there are many additional activities the adventurist can take part in during their stay at the Domaine: hiking, mountain biking, fishing, horseback riding, paragliding, and kayaking to name a few. One may also indulge in a variety of holistic treatments, Reiki, facials and massages. One day we went for a leisurely hike in the mountains to La Cascade d’Ars – one of the highest waterfalls in the Pyrénées.

In general, our group was more content with the sweetness of doing nothing rather than paragliding or kayaking through the mountains. The days blended into one another. We spent most afternoons reading or wandering around picking berries.

Despite our diversity, we bonded easily. Every night after our evening yoga class we cooked dinner, sat on the terrace, shared a bottle of wine and talked for hours — until the nightly frog symphony commenced. Those are my fondest memories.

Times and Places: Viennese delights

Molly Newborn

October, 2010

click here to view a slideshow of images from Vienna

Despite the fact that they were three of the hottest days in July, they were three of my most beautiful days in Austria.

I love travelling to experience different cultures, and I graciously welcomed the opulent, affluent, comfortable culture I found in Vienna.

Vienna, aka Wien in German, is the capital city of Austria. With a population of about 1.7 million, it is also Austria’s largest city. I had only three days to discover a city that could take a lifetime to explore.

Vienna is home to three luxurious and prodigious palaces, all only a few miles apart.

I arrived at the Belvedere Palace at 9am ready to roll, only to find out that it opened at 10am. I strolled through the gardens and walked under the sprinklers to cool off. The Belvedere is actually composed of two Baroque Palaces separated by gardens – a sprawling 17th century French-style parterre outfitted with tiered fountains, sculptures and majestic iron gates. Built between 1714 and 1722, it was originally the summer residence of Prince Eugene of Savoy, then the Archduke Franz Ferdinand. It is now a magnificent art museum displaying 19th and early 20th century Austrian paintings. The Belvedere’s crown jewel is Gustav Klimt’s masterpiece “The Kiss,” which has gained somewhat of a celebrity status around Vienna, appearing on everything from key chains and mugs to umbrellas in souvenir shops. “The Kiss” was much larger than I expected, and though it is usually depicted as a rectangle, it is actually a square.

I must have looked quite disoriented in the splendidly grand streets on my way to the next palace – the infamous Hofburg, since friendly locals approached me to offer directions. I walked by the beautiful opera house, and then came across the Albertina art museum at the south end of the Hofburg complex. Situated in the heart of the city, The Hofburg Imperial Palace was home to the Habsburgs, rulers of the Austro-Hungarian Empire until 1918. The oldest segment of the building dates from the 13th century. It is a massive complex with a collection of museums, the Imperial Library, the National Theatre, the famous Winter Riding School, a Butterfly sanctuary, along with old Viennese shops. The offices of the president are also within the Hofburg. I walked through the Burggarten, a small park within the Hofburg and admired the statue of Mozart, Austria’s beloved musician.

The Butterfly sanctuary was an unexpected delight. I walked in to a little world of tropical trees and waterfalls… wondering where all the butterflies were. And just as I was pondering a giant blue butterfly fluttered around me and landed on my toes. All of a sudden like magic they all woke up. Over 150 species fluttering around in dazzling costumes.

Walking through the passageway lined with shops in the Hofburg I came across a store front window that caught my eye. It was Maria Stransky’s Petit Point. www.maria-stransky.at. In the window was intricate needlework jewelry, pictures and purses. This “Petit Point” embroidery method was made popular by Empress Maria Theresa during her reign. My birthday was coming up, so I justified my splurge and bought the most delicate gold necklace with a hand stitched rose. Heldenplatz is the large plaza at the main entrance to the Hofburg. It was eerily recognizable as the scene of Adolf Hitler’s announcement of the Anschluss of Austria to the German Reich in 1938.

Hidden within the sidestreets in the heart of Vienna I found one of the Judenplatz (Jewish Place) museums. Next to the museum is a concrete cube whose walls are marked with casts of library shelves, signifying the Jewish love of learning. The museum, which is in what was once the old Jewish ghetto, displays artifacts of medieval Jewish life along side the remains of a 13th century synagogue.

My last stop of the day was the charming little Uhrenmuseum (Clock museum), also hidden deep within the side streets. The museum displays over 3000 clocks from the 15th century to the present. The old cuckoo clocks were my favorite and the plethora of chimes at the turn of the hour was quite enchanting.

I was so content with my day I returned to my little hostel, which unbeknownst to me was in the red light district, and fell asleep peacefully in the almost intolerable heat while the six other girls in my dorm fought over the direction to point the fan.

I dedicated my entire second day to the Habsburg summer residence – Schönbrunn Palace. This giant yellow schloss (palace) has 1441 rooms, of which only 40 are open to the public. My expectations were quite high, after touring Versailles just a few weeks before. Schönbrunn did not disappoint. I quite enjoyed the splendid display of opulence and glory. I loved the old paintings of Empress Elizabeth, and of Maria Theresa and her six children.

The gardens were pomp as well. I walked across the gardens to the glorious Gloriette for a beautiful view of the city. It was apparently one of Maria Theresa’s favorite spots, though towards the end of her life she grew so obese it took six men to carry her in her palanquin.

By the time I got to the Gloriette I was so hot and tired it would have been nice to have six men carry me down in a palanquin. I felt so at home at this palace I’m convinced that in a past life I was once a member of the Habsburg royal family.

Coincidentally, I was forced to move to a new hostel that evening. It was the Palace Hostel, located atop a hill next to the Palace Hotel.

I spent my third and final day in Vienna, which happened to be my birthday, at the Hofburg browsing through the Imperial Silver Collection, the Sisi Museum (dedicated to Empress Elizabeth whose beauty and mystique captivated the country), and the Imperial Apartments where Elizabeth and Franz Josef lived.

I walked around town in search of Sigmund Freud’s apartment to no avail. Freud left Vienna in 1938 due to the German occupation.

I had to visit one last site to complete my tour of Vienna and satiate my palate. The Hotel Sacher (www.sacher.com) is one of Vienna’s most famous attractions, namely for its legendary Sacher-Torte. Steps from the Hofburg, the Hotel Sacher was elegant, chic, and air-conditioned! The Sacher Café is the pinnacle of Viennese coffee culture. The waitress escorted me to a small table next to the window. I ordered the Sacher-Torte and a tall glass of ice water. The Sacher-Torte is one of Vienna’s defining desserts. Legend has it that it was created by a 16-year old sous-chef, Franz Sacher, who was challenged by Prince von Metternich, a known chocoholic, to prepare a dessert for several special guests. The simple cake was a success. It is composed of two layers of chocolate cake separated by a thin layer of apricot jam and covered with a thick layer of dense chocolate icing. It is served with unsweetened whipped cream. I ate slowly, savoring every bit while enjoying the luxurious Viennese setting. I hope to one day return to Vienna to stay at this hotel.

I returned to the Palace Hostel to have a birthday dinner with my new friends from the hostel. We were all very thankful for the evening thunderstorm.

The hills are alive with the sound of Mozart

Molly Newborn

September, 2010

click here to view a slideshow of images from Salzburg

It was hot. It felt like the hottest and most humid summer days in Montreal. But this was Austria. Thanks to the humidity, my naturally curly hair was starting to do the Diana Ross thing. So there I was with hat, sunglasses and SPF 85 in hand wandering the car-less streets of the Altstadt, the Old City of Salzburg.

Salzburg is located at the northern boundary of the Alps and rests at both sides of the Salzach River. With a population of 150,000, it is one of Europe’s most picturesque Baroque-style cities and best known as the birthplace of one of the world’s most beloved composers, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Many recognize it as the setting for one of the most popular musicals of all time, The Sound of Music.

Salzburg is rich in history and culture. I woke up at 8am and bought a Salzburg card for 25 Euros, which granted me free access for one day to many museums in the city. Despite the heat, I, expert traveler extraordinaire, was ready to explore as many museums as I could.

Many of the sights are located in the Altstadt and are easily accessible by foot. The Alstadt is filled with tourists wandering through the shops and museums. Salzburg may as well be called Mozartville with its endless amount of Mozart paraphernalia – chocolates, hats, statuettes, etc.

I first came across a house with many tourists outside taking pictures. It was Mozart’s Geburtshaus (Mozart’s birthplace). It has been transformed into a small museum with relics from his life including his first tiny violin, the wallet he carried around until he died, and a piece of his hair, which I found somewhat eerie.

My next stop was high on my list: the Spielzeugmuseum — The Toy museum! I marveled through the three-story building filled with teddy bears, dolls, doll-houses and model trains. I imagined whom these toys belonged to decades ago, and wondered whether they were still alive today.

It was noon, and I was already getting tired. I went to the Museum of Modern Art, not for the art (though I hear it is quite good) but for the Monchsberg Elevator. It goes up through solid rock to the museum atop with beautiful city views. I looked to the right and gazed at Salzburg’s beautiful medieval fortress. This acropolis perched high above the city is Salzburg’s most identifiable image.

I then found the Residenz, built in the 1600’s as the home to Wolf-Dietrich the prince archbishop. I imagined young Mozart giving his first few concerts in the great halls as I tootled through. It is now used for official functions, concerts and banquets.

The sun was pounding, but it did not stop me from climbing up to the fortress (actually I took the tram up). The 11th century Fortress Hohensalzburg is one of the largest preserved medieval fortresses in Europe. It’s like a little city up there with restaurants, little shops and museums. I sadly had to skip over the marionette museum as my time was running short. I headed straight for the lavish staterooms, which had stunning panoramic city views. Some of the interesting highlights on my way down were the 17th century kitchen and the room with torture masks – disturbing, but interesting.

I made it to Mozart’s residence 30 minutes before closing. He moved there in 1733. Since this was my last museum of the day I took my time and sat next to a fan in the large hall where his instruments were displayed. I overexerted myself because even though I am a huge fan of Mozart, by that time I was more interested in the fan in the corner.

Across from Mozart’s residence is the Mirabell Gardens. I sat on a bench under a tree and watched couples walk hand in hand through the romantic Baroque city garden.

I was absolutely exhausted by 5pm, the weather was now making my hair do the rat’s nest thing and I was completely out of shampoo and conditioner. It was Saturday. America has 24hr convenience stores, but most of Salzburg shuts down on Saturday night. I walked into a hotel to ask a nice man where I might find a store that was open to buy shampoo. He said that stores close early on Saturday and that I would have to wait till Monday… Monday?!?! By then my hair would be in dreadlocks. I could not let that happen. After much investigation I found the one gas station in Salzburg that was open 24hrs and bought the one cheap dust covered bottle of shampoo on the shelf. They didn’t have conditioner, to my chagrin.

The next day I went on The Sound of Music tour, which took us to many of those famous scenes. The von Trapp house used for the movie was beautiful but we were only able to see it from far away across the lake since it is now used as somewhat of a think tank for Harvard University. The infamous little gazebo (“I am 16, going on 17”) had to be moved to a nearby park because too many tourists trespassed to see it. It was eventually sealed shut after someone once tried to copy Liesl’s dance steps and managed to fall and break a hip.

The tour ended in a little town 35km east of Salzburg called Mondsee. It is a popular summer retreat destination for the locals with its peaceful lake and colorful houses. It is also known to have some of the best apple strudel around. The magnificent Basilica St. Michael’s in Mondsee was the setting for the marriage of Maria and the Captain von Trapp.

Flowerboxes are all the rage in Salzburg. As we drove back to Salzburg I couldn’t help but notice the many Swiss Chalet houses with hundreds of colorful flowers pouring out every window, each house trying to outdo the next.

Later that day I took a city bus 16km north of the city to Untersberg, a mountain in the Apls between Austria and Germany. For 20 Euros a cable car brought me up almost 2000m to the peak. I found a serene lonely bench at the peak, overlooking the Alps. I sat there and contemplated the meaning of my life while eating the apple strudel I bought in Mondsee.

I spent the next morning writing postcards in St. Sebastian’s cemetery – a peaceful oasis in the middle of the Old City. This 17th century cemetery was recreated for the escape scene in The Sound of Music and is the eternal resting place of many famous people including some of the members of the Mozart family.

Trains were leaving hourly from Salzburg to Vienna – my next stop. I was hoping I’d find conditioner there.

Athens: It's all Greek and there are job offers if you can dance

click here to view a slideshow of images from Athens

Molly Newborn

March, 2010

My arrival in Athens was not the majestic Greek experience I had anticipated. It was confusing. For one thing, everything is in Greek, no pun intended. The airport is outside the city and the train into town chugs through poor neighborhoods with a multitude of run-down buildings.

I had booked a small hotel that was less than ordinary. I wasn’t familiar with the districts of Athens and I had unknowingly reserved in a scummy area. I was so shaken up by the walk from the train station that I hid in my room for the rest of the evening searching for a lone English TV show in a sea of Greek on a tiny set that must have been 25 years old. I was in despair. What had I done?! Why was I here? Then I remembered: I was meeting my group in a couple of days and embarking on a cruise of the Greek Islands.

I had just come from Norway, with the most peaceful and soft-spoken people. I was jolted upon my arrival in Greece. The Greeks don’t talk – they yell. It took a bit of time for me to get used to being continually yelled at but I came to enjoy it.

Athens is named after the Greek goddess Athena, daughter of Zeus. She is the goddess of civilization, wisdom, strength, strategy, craft, justice and skill. She is the incarnation of wisdom, reason and purity. Athens is built around a number of hills on the central plain of Attica along the Aegean Sea. This glorious ancient city has been inhabited for at least 7,000 years. With a population of about 750,000, Athens boasts many ancient Roman, Byzantine and Ottoman monuments.

The next morning, I gathered my courage and ventured outside. A 20-minute walk led me to the centre of town, where I found a bustling cosmopolitan city with no shortage of olives or feta cheese. My impressions went from scummy to yummy. Athens cleaned up for the 2004 summer Olympics and the contrast between the outskirts of the city and the centre was clearly noticeable. I walked to the Plaka, which is the oldest section of Athens and closed to cars. The maze of beautiful narrow white cobblestone streets was filled with souvenir shops selling white dresses, olive soaps and jewelry and restaurants with endless tables lined the streets.

I suddenly saw the Acropolis! It rises above the city and is visible from everywhere in Athens.

The word “Acropolis” means “upper city.” Acropolises were built in several ancient cities. The acropolis of Athens, built more than 2,000 years ago by the world’s most advanced civilization is the enduring symbol of ancient Greece. It is the city’s crown jewel, on a flat-topped rock 150 metres above sea level and holds its most sacred buildings.

Athena’s temple, the Parthenon is the most prominent building in Athens. It was constructed between 447BC and 432BC. Throughout the centuries, it was used as a treasury, a Christian church and as a mosque after the Ottoman Turk conquest. Other notable buildings of the Acropolis are the monumental entrance – the Propylaia, the temple Erechtheion at the north end, and the Temple of Athena Nike. Just below the Acropolis is the theatre of Herod Atticus, built by the Romans in 161 A.D. Concerts, ballets and other performances are held there.

After my scorching hot exploration of the Acropolis, I made my way back along the narrow streets looking for the perfect place to sit, relax, eat a Greek salad, reflect and watch the Greeks go by.

Many of the cafés and restaurants had guys trying to lure me in, but I found a quiet place where I wasn’t hassled. As soon as my salad had arrived, so did a boy of about 7 or 8 years with an accordion. He couldn’t play. He went from table to table trying to make a buck while tourists gave him money because he was cute.

I spent the late afternoon walking around the National Garden. It is a 15.5-hectare garden directly behind the Greek parliament building. It houses a duck pond, a small zoo, a café, a small library, a playground, ancient ruins and several young couples making out on benches.

I spent my second day exploring Greek Jewish history. I found a small Jewish museum not far from the Acropolis. The welcoming, multi-level museum is filled with old Jewish artifacts, many of which depict life before the Second World War. I bought a map with directions to the synagogue, but got caught in the maze of narrow streets. What should have taken 20 minutes to walk took me about two hours. All the street signs were in Greek, of course, and when I stopped the locals to ask for directions, I only got more confused. I turned down a quiet street and saw a group of people walking out of the synagogue. I had forgotten it was Yom Kippur and they had just finished their services. Was it a coincidence that I spent the whole day looking for my Jewish roots on the holiest day of the year?

That night, I met up with my tour group. We took a short evening tour of Athens, hiking up a small hill to see the alluring Acropolis lit at night, then to the monumental Arch of Hadrian, which separates the ancient city from the new Athens, and then the towering Temple of Olympian Zeus, which once had 104 Corinthian columns (15 remain standing today).

We had our welcome dinner at a traditional restaurant with live Greek music and dancers in traditional costumes. We were having such a grand time with the music, food and performances – not to mention the unlimited wine being served to us – that by the time the owner of the restaurant, a very large Greek man, dragged me and another girl up to the stage to dance in front of the packed restaurant, I wasn’t so embarrassed.

Every time I tried to sneak back to my table, he dragged me back to the stage. We didn’t know any Greek dances, but he showed us some moves.

At the end of the night, he offered me a job as a Greek dancer.

My tour group was leaving to Mykonos first thing the next morning. Otherwise, I would have accepted the position.

Alone in magnificent Rome and not so fancy free

Molly Newborn

December, 2009

click here to view a slideshow of images from Rome

I heard it over and over again: Beware of child pickpockets at the train station in Rome.

I took the train from Florence to Rome. Paranoid, I clutched my bags as I walked through the train station and the few blocks to my hostel. The area around the train station was not the nicest. The sun was disappearing, and what was soon to be one of the worst migraines of my life had begun.

I woke up in a room, with 14 other young visitors, in the largest and most populated city in Italy and realized that throughout my Italian adventure I had never felt so alone. I started to regret having left my travel friends in Florence and wondered why I had ever thought exploring Rome solo would be fun.

I had to snap out of it. I was in Rome! Italy’s capital! This bustling metropolis, rich in art, culture, history, fashion, cuisine and religion was waiting for me.

I got to my feet and ventured out, straight to the colosseum – Rome’s most defining landmark. I took the subway, again clutching my bag. The Colosseum was colossal, and easily spotted from far away. Opened in 80 AD, this travertine theatre once held 50,000 spectators. The closer I got to the Colosseum, the more street vendors I saw trying to sell cheap bracelets to unsuspecting tourists. There are many costumed “characters” at the entrance. They charge tourists $20 for a picture. I joined a tour group and waited in line to get in. While climbing the steps inside I looked down into the labyrinth of walls on the floor that once had elevators that transported the animals from the cages to the arena level. I couldn’t help but feel the pain of the thousands of people and wild animals that perished for the amusement of the Roman crowd.

Rome is crowded with ancient ruins – and with tourists. I tagged along with some of the tour groups to hear the stories and learn some history. I walked around in awe of the massiveness of the city. The buildings were titanic; the Renaissance and Baroque architecture is glorious, breathtaking and dramatic. I was overwhelmed, and in an attempt to find the Jewish Ghetto and the synagogue – which I never did – I got lost. I felt bad about that because my mother had told me they were definitely worth a visit. I turned a corner and found myself in front of one of the most spectacular water fountains in the world: the Trevi Fountain. The largest Baroque fountain in Rome, it stands 25.9 metres high and 19.8 metres wide. Legend has it that the traveller who throws a coin into the fountain will soon return to Rome; two coins and you will fall in love in Rome.

Next to the fountain is the Baroque Chiesa dei Santi Vincenzo e Anastasio. Built in 1630, the crypt preserves the hearts and lungs of popes from 1590 to 1903. Many tourists are likely unaware of the decaying organs behind them as they snap pictures and marvel in the beauty of the fountain.

I walked along streets lined with chic cafés and boutiques and stumbled onto another glorious landmark: Scalinata di Spagna, or the Spanish Steps.

The Scalinata is the longest and widest staircase in Europe, with 138 steps. Built from 1723 to 1725, it begins at the Piazza di Spagna and leads up to Piazza Trinita dei Monte with the church of the same name. Next to the staircase is a pink house where in 1821 John Keats, one of the most famous romantic poets of all time, passed away when he was a mere 25 years old.

As the sun started to set, I made my way back to my hostel. It was not easy. As a young woman walking around solo in Rome I felt like a lamb in the forest. An endless number of Italian men approached me, followed me, and went on and on trying to seduce me in Italian. I made it back to the hostel safe, with purse intact.

The next morning I joined a tour of The Vatican City, the walled enclave within Rome. Home to the Pope and the Catholic Church, it is the smallest country in the world by both population (about 900) and area (0.44 square kilometres). Postage stamps, tourist mementos, and fees for admission to museums support the entire economy. It issues its own coins and even has its own bank, Vatican Bank, containing the only ATM in the world with instructions in Latin. Within Vatican City are Saint Peter’s Basilica, the Apostolic Palace and the Sistine Chapel. The Swiss Guards roam the streets and guard entrances. These personal bodyguards to the Pope look like charming Disney characters in their colourful uniforms.

The immenseness of Saint Peter’s Basilica is indescribable. As one of the holiest sites in Christianity it spans 5.7 acres and holds 60,000 people. Constructed from 1506 to 1626 it is the burial site of Saint Peter, one of the 12 apostles of Jesus and of great importance in the founding of the Christian Church.

The Sistine Chapel is the chapel in the Apostolic Palace, the official residence of the Pope.

The frescos in the Sistine Chapel are among the most famous in the world with works by Michelangelo, Raphael, Bernini, and Botticelli. Michelangelo’s The Last Judgment covers the entire wall behind the altar. I spent most of my time there with my eyes on the ceiling in awe of Michelangelo’s works depicting stories in Genesis.

I went to the post office and sent a Vatican postcard with a Vatican stamp on it back home to my mother in Montreal and wondered if she’d appreciate its value.

Rome is a spectacular city, and despite all its beauty and history, the stress of all that a big city entails wore me out. I was ready to leave and return to the calm of northern Italy.

I returned to my hostel, once again successfully dodging the men and the child pickpockets.

I stopped at a small pizza joint next to the hostel and ordered a slice of cheese pizza in broken Italian. A young man approached me and asked if I was American. He sighed with utter relief when I said yes. He too was American and said he’d spent the whole day without speaking to anyone in English. He asked me if I wanted to get a coffee with him.

We found a small café and ordered some pastries, coffee and tea. He was a 26-year-old US soldier stationed in Iraq on his two-week vacation, which he chose to spend in Rome. That night was his last night before he returned to Iraq. We could not have been more different and yet we could not get enough of each other. The café closed and we walked around and found another that was open all night. We sat there, eating a cheese platter with tea, and shared our stories. He told me about his life in Iraq and his decision to join the army. I shared my experiences travelling around Europe, and my life in Los Angeles. We talked politics, religion, culture – everything we could think of. We sat at the café until the sun rose. We exchanged e-mails, said our goodbyes and we never contacted each other again. I suppose we both wanted to preserve the perfection of that night and our connection in Rome.

Florence: a city filled with treats for the eyes

click here to view a slide show of images from Florence

Molly Newborn

We had been in Italy for a week, but it wasn’t until we arrived in Florence, or “Firenze” in Italian, that I suddenly felt unfashionable and underdressed. The first thing I noticed was how chic and elegantly dressed Italian women were. My friends and I were backpacking around Europe, and coming from three weeks on the laissez-faire beaches of the Greek islands. We were not quite prepared to blend into the fashion-filled streets.

Florence is a classic Italian city – dainty cafés, narrow streets, glorious museums, medieval castles, a romantic river, gelato, Michelangelo, Botticelli, Gucci, Prada and Valentino. It has a population of about 367,000 and is the capital city of the northeast region of Tuscany.

The first sight we visited was the famous Duomo of Santa Maria del Fiore. We made our way through a maze of unidentifiable narrow streets, stopping for pizza along the way and asking locals for directions. While nobody spoke English, they pointed us in the right direction. Suddenly, from what seemed like out of nowhere, the street opened up into a huge piazza with a massive and beautifully neo-gothic decorated Duomo. However I’m reluctant to admit that after witnessing the grandiose exterior, the blandness inside was somewhat disappointing, with the exception of the decorative 100-metre-high Brunel­leschi’s Dome, named after the architect who designed it. The interior of the dome is painted with a scene of the apocalypse. During its construction, Brunelleschi built kitchens, dorm rooms, and bathrooms between the two walls of the cupola so the builders would never have to descend. We climbed the seemingly endless old, claustrophobic staircase to reach the top with its beautiful 360-degree view of the city.

Across from the Duomo is the Baptistery, famous for its tremendous bronze doors depicting scenes from the Bible.

After an overpriced dinner in a mediocre tourist trap, we ended our first night watching the sun set from the Ponte Vecchio, the 14th-century bridge lined with shops on stilts over the Arno river. The bridge is filled with hundreds of locks placed there by lovers. After locking their love during the romantic sun set, they throw the keys into the river to show their commitment. Locking your love on the Ponte Vecchio is illegal, and if the police find you doing it you can be fined. City workers painstakingly cut the locks off one by one, but before long they are replaced by new ones.

If you are in Florence and only have time to visit one sight, make it the Accademia dell’Arte del Disegno to relish Michelangelo’s David. We waited in line for 20 minutes to enter this small museum filled with sculptures. The masterpiece of Renaissance marble depicting the biblical King David contemplating his upcoming battle with Goliath stands 5.17 metres high. David looked magnificent: strong, yet soft and angelic. We all appreciated the semi-circular bench placed around the back of the statue, where many women sit and enjoy the view of David’s perfectly sculpted derrière.

We then walked to the Piazza della Signoria to tour the Palazzo Vecchio, which from the outside looks like a castle straight out of a Disney movie. We waited in line for half an hour to tour the extravagantly decorated old rooms of this crenellated fortress. Michelangelo’s David once stood at the front entrance, before it was moved to the Accademia dell’Arte in 1873. A copy now stands in its place. The Palazzo now functions as a museum and the town hall of Florence.

The great Uffizi museum is right next to the Palazzo Vecchio. It is one of the oldest and most famous museums in Europe, displaying works by such artists as Botticelli, Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci. Despite this, we were not inspired to stand in line for four hours to get in.

After my friends and I decided to venture off and explore on our own, I found the synagogue – Tempio Maggiore, built in 1874-1882. The synagogue, of Italian and Moorish design, is extravagantly beautiful. Unlike most of Italy’s Duomos, which you can simply walk into, I had to go through a thorough security check before entering. There is a small but vibrant Jewish community in Florence that maintains the temple, which was almost destroyed during the Second World War. The Italian resistance defused the explosives and saved it. I stopped at Ruth’s Kosher Vegetarian Restaurant for a quick bite before heading back to meet my friends.

I got lost, of course. But that is what you do when you travel in Europe – lose yourself to the city. It was getting dark. I stood in the middle of a piazza, opened my map and within seconds a nice young man who spoke no English approached me to offer his help. That trick works every time. Fillippo escorted me back to the Piazza della Signoria, passing several kiosks selling inappropriate postcards of David “parts” along the way, where I met my friends. I introduced them to Fillippo, and for the rest of the night they joked about my new Italian “boyfriend.”

Verona: city of love and legend

click here to view a slideshow of Verona

Molly Newborn

September 2009

Verona is the enchanted city, paved in pink marble, whose beauty inspired Shakespeare to write Romeo and Juliet.

I met Gianfranco in Perugia and we decided to take a little trip together. He is from Puglia, the southeastern region of Italy, and moved to Perugia to study linguistics. When we met, he did not speak a word of English, but with my knowledge of French and three weeks in Italy, I had picked up enough Italian to get by.

With a population of roughly a quarter million, Verona is located in the region of Veneto in northern Italy. It took five hours by train to get there from Perugia, with a stopover in Florence.

Verona has everything one would expect from an Italian city: ancient Roman monuments, fine wines, narrow streets, high fashion, centuries-old basilicas, castles and a river that flows through and around the city. What we didn’t expect was how pleasantly affordable it was to visit compared to such other fashionable Italian destinations as Venice or Florence. We found a budget hotel in the centre of town, only a few blocks from the train station. We also bought Verona cards for $10 each, which gave us entry to all the museums, churches and sights in the city for one day.

Our first stop was the Castelvecchio, the castle next to our hotel – the Residence Hotel Castelvecchio. It was built in the 14th century by the della Scala family and features classic castle architecture complete with courtyards and crenellations. It is now a museum that holds a collection of sculptures and paintings (mostly religious-themed).

We walked a few blocks to the magnificent first-century Roman amphitheatre. It is the third- largest amphitheatre in Italy and holds up to 25,000 spectators within its 44 tiers of pink marble seats. It is still used today for a variety of events including fairs, theatre and opera. Unlike at the Coliseum in Rome, there were neither pushy street vendors trying to sell me cheap bracelets nor overpriced tours inside. The arena was ours to explore at our leisurely slow, Italian pace.

The main reason I wanted to visit Verona was to explore the city that was the setting for the most famous tragic romance of all time – Romeo and Juliet. We walked to the Capulets’ house, which is called “Casa di Giulietta” (Juliet’s house). The small brick house is filled with paintings and frescoes of the lovers. Gianfranco took my picture on the famous balcony, which for some reason I had imagined to be much larger and full of flowers. It was just a plain little balcony. The balcony overlooks a courtyard with a bronze statue of Juliet whose right breast is polished from all the tourists who touch it for luck. The passage leading to the courtyard is, in essence, an international hall of love graffiti. Lovers from all over the world sign their names and draw hearts on the wall. Oddly enough, the house has no historical connection to the real Capulet family. However, the Montague house, “Casa di Romeo,” just a few blocks away, really was home to the Monitague family. The villa is privately owned, with no real defining Shakespearian artifacts other than a small plaque next to the door inscribed with a quote from the play “O, Where is Romeo? … Tut, I have lost myself, I am not here, this is not Romeo, he’s some other where.”

We walked down Verona’s famous fashion row, paved with pink marble and lined with exclusive high-fashion shops. I relished in the open-air shops in the main piazza selling a variety of Italian glass jewellery while Gianfranco patiently sat on the bench and talked on the phone.

We wandered around and across the Adige River, then up countless old steps to the Castel San Pietro. There we sat, communicating in a mixture of broken Italian and sign language as we admired the foggy, enchanted city.

Italy’s city of water: majestic, but a challenge to navigate

Molly Newborn

May, 2009

I took an overnight ferry from Patras, Greece to Ancona, Italy with three Canadian girls I met while travelling. Our sights were set on Venice, Venezia in Italian, the enchanted lagoon of northeast Italy.

When we docked in Ancona, we sent Laura to make the phone calls to find a hotel. After 20 minutes she returned, frustrated and confused. “What does ‘Pronto’ mean?” she asked. We didn’t know. “Each time I call a hotel someone picks up the phone and says ‘Pronto,’ then I ask about the rooms and then they hang up.” We later learned that “Pronto” is simply the way Italians answer the phone, and most of them don’t speak English. During her second round of phone calls, she eventually found someone who did, and reserved us a room.

The city of Venice is composed of 18 small, interconnected islands within a lagoon off the Adriatic Sea. About 31,000 people live on these islands. The city is small enough to explore entirely on foot. Boats are the standard method of transportation, and there are no cars in Venice, giving the city a sense of calmness.

From Ancona, we hopped on the train and headed north. About five hours later we heard the conductor announce “Venezia.” My mother had given me specific instructions to get off the train, turn right and walk toward the Jewish ghetto. I took charge and led the group as we made our way. It was dark and cold. We walked and walked. Something didn’t seem right. Where was the water? Scared and confused, we asked some Italian men at a café where we could find our hotel. They did not speak English. We pulled out a map of Venice and they laughed. Clearly, we had gotten off at the wrong stop. Apparently there are two train stops called “Venezia.” Who knew?

We took a cab to a bridge, walked across, and finally found our city of water. We felt lucky to have booked our hotel ahead of time, as we met several unprepared travellers roaming the street late at night looking for a place to stay. Our hotel – Alloggi Gerotto Calderan – had big, bright rooms with high ceilings. We paid about 75 euros for a room for the four of us. The hotel was just steps away from the Jewish ghetto. The first and oldest ghetto in Europe, it is 500 years old. The original term “ghetto” refers to this Venetian ghetto, which once housed 5,000 Jews, who were forced to live there. Venice’s active Jewish community of about 1,000 maintains five synagogues (two which are operational), a yeshiva (an orthodox Jewish school), a kosher restaurant, several Judaica shops, and a Chabad (an ultra-orthodox Jewish group).

The next morning, two Chabad boys invited us all to attend Chabad’s Shabbat dinner. It was the most beautiful Shabbat dinner I have ever experienced. There were several long tables set up along a canal. About 30 people – some local Venetians and many travellers from all over the world – came together for the meal.

Our first Italian café experience was interesting. I ordered a hot chocolate, and my friends all ordered coffee. We had to pay extra for a table. The waiter brought my hot chocolate out first. The girls ooed and aahed. It looked like a melted rich milk chocolate bar. Their coffees came out shortly after – mini mugs with about two sips of coffee in them. There must have been a mistake, we insisted, but no; in Italy, a coffee is a shot of espresso. Who knew?

The Piazza San Marco is one of the most famous squares in Italy. It is home to the Basilica di San Marco, the exquisite Palazzo Ducale, several ritzy art stores, cafés and hundreds of pigeons. We took a small tour of the remarkable basilica, nicknamed “Chiesa d’Or” (church of gold) for the decorative gold both inside and outside. It has Byzantine architecture. The marble floors are uneven, like water, due to the shifting of the foundation. It’s a remarkable sight.

The Palazzo Ducale is Venice’s pièce de résistance. Built in the 14th century, it was used as the senate house, the hall of justice, an administrative centre, and a prison until the fall of the Venetian Republic in 1797. As we walked through the great halls, each one more exquisite and extravagant than the last, filled with golden walls and grand works of art, I couldn’t help but imagine it as my home while I study at Ca’ Foscari, University of Venice.

The shopping in Venice is like nowhere else. The city is known for its glasswork and Venetian masks. I bought several pieces of glass jewellery, but the masks wouldn’t survive in my suitcase.

The four of us took a peaceful, $90 half-hour gondola ride around the city. We made sure to choose a handsome gondola driver, who sang to us in Italian as we floated through the majestic city of water.

Malibu: 21 miles of scenic beauty and surfing for all ages

Molly Newborn

April, 2009

Last week my good friend Cassie and I spent the day in the Bu (pronounced “Boo,” which is slang for Malibu). We walked into the Malibu Surf Shack on Pacific Coast Highway (PCH) after a two-hour, 20- mile drive through the traffic-filled streets of Los Angeles.

Dozens of colourful surfboards, wetsuits and kayaks lined the deck outside. A young girl from Vancouver was eyeing the latest surf swag inside. Sean, the store owner and a Malibu native, says he typically does not give interviews, passing up opportunities when hotshots from Vogue or Glamour come in, so as not to be overexposed.

Part of Malibu’s essence is its relaxed and laissez-faire attitude. The locals like to preserve the casual-yet elegant ambiance, which separates Malibu from the high-strung, smog filled, paparazzi circus of Los Angeles.

Malibu is 21 miles (34 km) of scenic beauty along the Pacific coastline. It borders Topanga Canyon to the east,Ventura County to the west, the Santa Monica Mountains to the north, and the Pacific Ocean to the south. The California State Parks within Malibu are packed with breathtaking trails for hikes, horseback riding, and biking. But Malibu is best known for its premiere surf beaches and the surf culture that goes along with it.

The Surf Shack is across the street from the Malibu Pier and the well known Surfrider Beach,which is said to have the “best breaks in the world.” Surfers from all over, of all levels, shapes, sizes and ages are drawn to the waves at Surfrider. At $20 an hour or $25 a day to rent a surfboard, surfing is nicely affordable during these harsh economic times. “Kayaking is equally as popular,” Sean says, gesturing to the store’s windows overlooking the beach. “A lady in her 60s is out there kayaking. She’s been in a couple of times,” he says.

“An 86-year-old man from the Midwest came in for a surf lesson,” he adds. “We held the board the whole time until he caught a wave and stood up. It’s one more thing to check off of his bucket list.”

Sean has co-ordinated senior group outings of 20 to 30 people.

We crossed the street and strolled along the pier, which holds the new Malibu Pier Club, a vintage-inspired bar offering cocktails and appetizers. The pier is an excellent spot for salt water fishing. We moseyed on over to the beach, walking along the sidewalk on PCH, passing surfers waxing their boards and zipping up their wetsuits, and breathing in the fumes from a Volkswagen Hippie Bus.

The Malibu Lagoon State Park, part of Surfrider Beach, is where Malibu Creek meets the Pacific Ocean. It is a pleasant little bird-watching area where the Adamson House, a natural historic site, showcases Malibu artifacts. The students of Malibu High School frequent this area as part of their nature studies.

Opposite the Lagoon, on the other side of PCH on Cross Creek Road, is the Malibu Country Mart. With over 60 shops, it is a great place to people- watch because many celebrities shop there. The Malibu Kitchen is reason enough for me to make the trip. It is the only gourmet deli in the area, which unfortunately allows them to get away with charging $12 for a sandwich. The service is mediocre, but the desserts are miraculous. The monstrous carrot cake cupcakes and Oreo brownies are my favourites.

Further up the coast is the family friendly Zuma Beach, known for its long, wide sands and excellent surf. This is where Valley kids and Malibu High and Pepperdine University students go to “slide the Bu” (surf in Malibu).

The Paradise Cove Café, just east of Zuma Beach, is the only restaurant in Malibu right on the sand with its private beach and cove. Its Sunday all you- can-eat buffet attracts large crowds, and while it appears in just about every guidebook I would steer clear. When I was there the place was packed and parking was horrendous. We waited 40 minutes for a table, and then were seated in the direct sun surrounded by children running around spreading sand everywhere. There was not one thing to eat for a vegetarian like myself; the menu consists solely of overpriced seafood. I left hungry, sun burnt, and annoyed.

Further up the coast, past several smaller, less-frequented yet lovely state beaches, is Neptune’s Net Seafood. This artery-clogging joint is where the bikers traveling along PCH hang out. Menu items include such delicacies as fish ’n’ chips, oysters, clams, lobster and calamari – all deep-fried, of course.

For a relaxing Malibu ocean front meal, I suggest Moonshadows on PCH during sunset.

Wildfires and mudslides aren’t the only troubles this upscale and tranquil community is facing these days. It’s a telltale sign of the country’s hardship when there are signs that the rich are suffering. Many of the seaside beach houses and canyon estates are up for sale. There are several empty stores in the Malibu Country Mart. Even the Malibu Inn, a legendary bar that has hosted many memorable musical acts, has closed.

However, I believe the Bu will pull through. Malibu’s greatest asset – its 365 days a year of surf weather – will forever attract people to its shores.

California Dreamin: A beach, a courthouse, a university and a glass of wine

Molly Newborn

March 2009

Santa Barbara, otherwise known as “America’s Riviera” is only an hour and a half drive from the massive and traffic filled city of Los Angeles. Ninety-two miles up the beautiful California coast is a stylish little community with red-tiled roofs, citrus trees in cozy backyards and wine vineyards.

Santa Barbara is a picturesque escape I like to frequent where surf attire is, was, and always will be the norm. It is nestled between the Santa Ynez Mountains and the Pacific Ocean and lies on the east-west portion of the coastline.

As you drive up to Santa Barbara from the south you come across a pretty little seaside town called Summerland.

Summerland view of the ocean

Yes, that’s right, it wasn’t a typo. I almost want to move there just to have my address listed as “Summerland.”

As a native Montrealer, I truly appreciate the scene. The main drag of this sleepy Santa Barbara suburb is sparsely occupied with restaurants, cafés, wine boutiques, only one bar that I could find, and several antique shops.

Just north of Summerland and along Butterfly Beach…I’m not kidding, it’s Butterfly… is one of the wealthiest communities in the United States, the elegant Montecito. Many celebrities own property here, including Oprah Winfrey and Steven Spielberg.

The Four Seasons Resort, the Biltmore Santa Barbara, sits on Butterfly Beach. The stunning Spanish colonial style hotel not only has rooms and suites but also 12 private cottages sprawled throughout the hotel gardens. If you can’t afford the $575 US for a standard room, there is always the all-you-can-eat Sunday brunch buffet for a mere $68.

Classic cars at Woody’s BBQ

State Street is the main street in downtown Santa Barbara. There is a lot of overpriced shopping as well as California style restaurants and cafés. Wine tasting is a religion here. Several wineries are accessible by foot from State St. – all within a square mile.

I typically like to avoid courthouses, but the one in Santa Barbara is the exception. The Santa Barbara County historic courthouse is a beautiful Spanish colonial-style building built in 1929. The surrounding sunken gardens host several city celebrations of Spanish history.

Classic cars and southern California go hand in hand. The mild climate enables the vehicles to live long lives. It’s not uncommon to see cars from the 1950s and ’60s cruising down the Pacific Coast Highway (a.k.a Highway 1).

I don’t know much about cars, but I can appreciate their beauty. The Gamblers, a local car club, hosts a gathering of classic vehicles at Woody’s BBQ in Goleta every second Saturday of each month. Classic car owners ride in style into the parking lot to proudly display their manhood – I mean works of art – to the public.

The University of California Santa Barbara, UCSB, is at the seaside tip of Goleta. It is one of the United States’ top universities, not to mention one of the most beautiful. Framed by the Santa Ynez Mountains and the Pacific Ocean, it is a humble and relaxing setting, where students stroll along the beach between classes. The buildings are modest. There are no towering structures to take away from the serenity. Students walking back to the dormitories in wetsuits with surfboards in hand are a common sight. I walked through the halls of the Department of Mathematics and thought about how my grandfather, Leo Moser from Edmonton, had enjoyed his sabbatical year at UCSB in 1969.

Whenever I go to Santa Barbara, I can’t help but think of my mother, my very own Saint Barbara.

Pricey, pristine, peaceful Oslo

Norwegian coast

Molly Newborn

I sat in the waiting room at Heathrow airport in London, England with a room full of tall blonds. A two-hour flight northwest over the North Sea brought me to Oslo Norway. Norway occupies the western portion of the Scandinavian Peninsula. It borders Sweden, Finland, and Russia with its famous fjords coastline facing the North Atlantic Ocean. Norway is one of the wealthiest countries in the world, while also being the most peaceful – Global Peace Index ranked it as the most peaceful country in the world in the 2007 survey. Oslo, with about half a million residents is the country’s capital and largest city.

What first struck me when I arrived in Oslo was an overwhelming feeling of peace and tranquility. It was not the tranquility I found on the Greek Islands, which was mostly about the ocean and the sun. The Norwegian tranquility emanated from the people themselves.

Hedda picked me up at the airport with her new hairless dog Spike. I couldn’t help but wonder how Spike made it through the Norwegian winters. Hedda and I met while studying at UCLA in the summer of 2002. She had invited me to spend a week with her in her hometown. Her house was beautifully nestled in the woods. She had assured me that I could make my way downtown while she was in school during the day, but I didn’t see any evidence of a city in the vicinity. Her house, and most of the other houses in Oslo looked like life-size dollhouses scattered in deep woods. I found out later that these houses in the woods were only a couple of miles from the city center.

Vigeland Sculpture Park

As Hedda headed out early the next morning for class, I walked two blocks down to the tram station and waited. I felt like I was in the sticks. Not a soul was in sight. Two stops and five minutes later I was miraculously in downtown Oslo. The city looked classically European with a mix of old architecture and new trendy stores, restaurants and cafes. There was one noticeable difference – a lack of tourists. Norway is in my opinion one of the most beautiful countries in the world, but it is also one of the coldest, temperature-wise, and the most expensive. Though Oslo doesn’t attract as many tourists as some other major European cities, as I stopped strangers on the streets to ask for directions I was pleasantly surprised that everyone spoke near perfect English.

The city was lovely. I walk to the Royal Palace, built in the first half of the 19th century, which housed the Royal Norwegian Family. After a few minutes of imagining the Palace was my home, I walked down the hill and through the streets, exploring the University of Oslo and the National Theatre.

I met Hedda at the Vigeland Sculpture Park – one of Oslo’s main attractions. It is Norway’s largest park occupying 80 acres with 212 bronze and granite sculptures by the Norwegian sculptor Gustav Vigeland. The sculptures are all of men, women and children in motion. The most intriguing piece is the monolith at the top, carved from a single piece of rock and standing 14.12 meters high. It portrays 121 human figures lovingly embracing each other while rising towards heaven.

Oslo Royal Palace

Sadly, the Munch Museum, dedicated to the work and life of Norway’s most famous painter, Edward Munch, was closed for construction. It holds over half the artist’s entire production of paintings, including his most famous works The Scream and Madonna.

Hedda brought me to the Holmenkollen Ski Jump. It is a truly terrifying slope that only the supremely experienced should consider. It extends 60 meters above ground and 417 meters above sea level. It was also used for the 1952 Winter Olympics and four World Ski Championships. I did not have the guts to climb to the top, and missed a magnificent panoramic view of the city.

What was most prominent about the Norwegians was their spirit for a healthy and active lifestyle. It is no wonder they are so beautiful. They are passionate about it, and they have designed their cities to accommodate it. They do not let the weather get in their way. There are numerous stunning hikes and ski slopes just 5 minutes from downtown and a few tram stops away.

Norwegian food is fresh, healthy and hearty. The water in the shower is so soft it feels like silk. They don’t count calories as many are burned on the ski slopes. They eat a special brown goat’s cheese for breakfast called Brunost. It looks strange but it will put any cheesoholic into cheese heaven. It is sharp, strong and sweet like caramel. And though it is probably terribly fattening, I indulged splendidly. As far as I know, there is only one store in Los Angeles that sells this delicacy, and it is far beyond my budget at the Beverly Hills Cheese Shop.

We spent our nights downtown with Hedda's friends at some trendy bars.Everyone spoke perfect English. It was early October. The streets were quiet but the bars were full of life. Drinks were expensive at $10-$15 per cocktail. I was told the best time to visit is late June. On June 21, the longest day of the year, the sun does not set and the parties last for 24 hours.

With its life-size dollhouses, majestic mountains, and heavenly goat cheese, it’s no wonder Norway is one of the healthiest, wealthiest and peacefulcountries in the world.

Dancing the fairytale dream

Molly Newborn

It is that time of year again. The time for snowflakes, flowers, mice, toy soldiers, a sugarplum fairy and a young girl named Clara to come together and tell the story of The Nutcracker. Every year Ballet Ouest dazzles Montreal audiences with its production of this fairytale ballet.

Founded by Margaret Mehuys in 1984, the company performs new ballets as well as a classical repertoire. They invite outside choreographers to create original works “from which a contemporary dance language can be constructed.”

Mehuys started the company when her ballet students expressed interest in performing. With money raised from a garage sale and donations from parents, Ballet Ouest was born 24 years ago. The company has come a long way.

“We perform in a big theatre with a professional crew,” Mehuys says. “There is an elaborate set with ten scenic drops, 130 costumes and 25 professional dancers. It has become a professional company.”

This year’s cast is comprised of 107 dancers ranging from ages 7 to 93. Evelyn Hansen-Gillis, 13, from Dorval and Karina Armuplu, 12, from Saint Laurent get to live out every young girl’s dream this year by playing the lead role of Clara. Dell Ross, 93, plays Clara’s grandmother in the opening party scene. “The beautiful thing about The Nutcracker is that it gives kids the chance to experience live performance,” says Mehuys about the young dancers.

Former Ballet Ouest dancers have gone on to train at the École Supérieure de Danse du Québec, the National Ballet School of Canada, and Les Grands Ballets Canadiens.

Ballet Ouest dancers will be on their toes in their holiday production of The Nutcracker Saturday, December 6 at 2 pm and 7:30 pm and Saturday December 7 at 2 pm at Salle Pierre Mercure, Centre Pierre Peladeau, 300 de Maisonneuve E.

Info: 514-783-1245 or balletouest.com

Dewey the cat loved books and book lovers

Vicki Myron and Dewey

Molly Newborn

Last week I wandered into Studio City’s Bookstar bookstore in Los Angeles, California, where I reside and was directly drawn to a picture of a beautiful bright orange cat looking straight back at me on the cover of a book called Dewey.

I have many wonderful books on the shelves at home waiting in line to be read, but there was something about the way this cat was looking at me that told me I had to learn of his story.

This is the true story of a library cat in the small town of Spencer, Iowa. One bitterly cold January morning in 1988, Vicki Myron, director of the Spencer Public Library, found a near frozen kitten shaking uncontrollably in the book return box. His frostbitten paws didn’t stop him from hobbling over to each member of the library staff to show them his gratitude for saving his life. They named the kitten Dewey, after Melville Dewey.

This is the story of Vicky Myron, a single mother who survived an alcoholic husband and numerous medical hurdles including breast cancer. This is the story of a woman who persevered through the toughest of times. This is the story of The Spencer Public Library, and the humble town of Spencer, in farm country Iowa that had suffered a major economic downturn during the farm crisis of the 1980’s.

Did you know that it is a common practice for libraries and used bookstores to adopt homeless cats? Dewey was adopted by the town of Spencer and called the library his home for over 19 years. He won the hearts of the staff and the patrons not just with his good looks, but also with his ability to know who needed him most. He soon became the most famous resident of Spencer. As word spread of this lovable library cat in the local newspapers and radio so did his fame to the nearby towns, then states, then all over the country and the world.

Why would people travel all the way from Japan to meet a cat? How can a friendly feline touch the lives of countless people around the world? You’ll just have to read this New York Times bestseller to find out! I am the self-proclaimed slowest reader in the world. I polished off this book in just a couple of nights. I even tried to slow down my reading, to stretch out and enjoy every Dewey moment. I read while sipping my hot chocolate at Starbucks, laughing out loud and then choking back my tears. Myron writes the story of Dewey with heart, humor, and sincerity. This book is for anyone who has been blessed with the love of an animal, and for everyone else who has yet to know this love.

Hvar and islets attract the rich and naked

Molly Newborn

I took an overnight ferry from Rijeka, at the northernmost point of the Adriatic Sea, down the Croatian coast to Hvar Island. The cold autumn weather in the north just wasn’t cutting it for me.

Croatia’s southern islands are the country’s crown jewels. I had heard from a fellow traveler that Hvar Island was the piece de resistance, the most luxurious vacation spot for the fashionable wealthy Europeans. This was the island with Venetian architecture and lavender-covered picturesque mountain terrain, not to mention an average of 2715 hours of sunshine a year. Clearly, this was where I belonged.

Hvar Island is a long thin Island off the southern Croatian coast that stretches 88km east to west with a population of 11,000. Along with a dozen or so tra­velers, I was deposited at 8am at a dock on the northwest side of the Island near a town called Stari Grad. The other travelers were all picked up by family or friends. I was left alone and was starting to worry. There were no people, cars or boats in the vicinity, the ferry had sailed away and I was stranded on this sunny island that my father referred to in an email as “in the middle of nowhere.” I was starting to wonder if this whole “island excursion” was a good idea.

Across from the dock was a small run-down restaurant with a ticket booth. Where was the Venetian architecture? The luxury yachts? Where was the castle at the top of the hill mentioned in my guidebook? Did I get off on the wrong island?

A view of Hvar town from the taxi-boat

I walked toward the ticket book and noticed a woman at the counter. She didn’t speak English but she managed to direct me to the bus stop next to the port. I waited at the empty bus stop with no posted schedule for about ten minutes. It felt like eternity. A mini bus miraculously approached. I told the driver I wanted to go to Hvar Town. He said in perfect English “Yes, I know, 10 Kuna please.” ($2) He took my bag and loaded it in the back as I hopped into the bus already loaded with eight tourists.

The bus ride was a 20-minute breathtaking drive through the lavender-covered mountains to the southwest side of the island. We were dropped off in the center of Hvar Town (pop. 4000), next to the open-air market and a cathedral in the main square. I meandered through the old white-stone covered square past the multi-million dollar luxury yachts lined up, each more extravagant than the next, and then up the hill through the narrow stoned pathways to the Green Lizard Hostel, full of hung-over British and Irish backpackers recovering from the club hopping of the night before.

The hostel manager gave me a quick rundown of the main tourist attractions – museums, nightclubs, and the nearby islets. She circled a few, mentioning that those were the ones I might enjoy. “What about the others?” I asked. “They are all nice,” she explained, “but I suggest these.”

I spent the day walking along the port, imagining myself lounging on the deck of one of those fancy yachts as a handsome pool boy dressed in a white uniform serves me pink lemonade. I walked around town, past a few overpriced restaurants and souvenir shops, and a string of jewelry booths selling hand made earrings, bracelets and necklaces to eager buyers such as Canadian girls looking for treasures.

I walked along the seaside promenade and the rocky shores westwards past the luxury hotels and found a nice rock to lounge on and read for the rest of the day. Exhausted, I went to sleep early.

Hvar’s main attraction, for me, isn’t the xvith century fortress at the top of the hill or the xviith century oldest municipal theatre in Europe or the many museums full of culture and history. It is the sun-drenched beaches on the mainland and on the Pakleni Islands – a group of about 20 islets just opposite Hvar Town. Several little taxi boats wait to take the tourists to the islets.

Hvar Town port

I got an early start the next morning to explore the Pakleni Islands. I got in the taxi-boat with a few tourists at 10 am and we set sail. I didn’t look at the map the hostel manager had given me, circling the islands I should visit. Instead, I decided to do my own thing. The first islet we docked at was Jerolim. It looked lovely, small with large rocks to bask on and enjoy the pleasant seas. Perfect, I thought. I paid the taxi driver, hopped off, found the perfect rock with the most perfect view, laid down on my towel and proceeded to immerse myself in my book. This was my serene moment. I would spend my day reading, meditating, and reflecting on my journey and the journeys to come.

Five minutes into my book I realized others had discovered my rocky shore and planted themselves on the rocks. I almost had a heart attack when I realized they were all naked! I had stumbled upon the “nudists” islet. Not that there is anything wrong with hanging on the beach in your birthday suit, but this certainly was not for me. I quickly gathered up my belongings and headed straight back to the dock to catch the next taxi-boat. Why didn’t the taxi-boat driver say anything as I left the boat? They just let me wander onto the naked island! I waited three hours for the next boat without lifting my eyes.

As luck would have it, the next islet was also full of naturalists. Call me a prude but I couldn’t handle it. Once again I waited on the dock and took the next taxi-boat back to the mainland.

So much for my day of serenity and reflection. I headed back to the Green Lizard and shared a bottle of wine with Irish backpackers who made fun of me for stumbling onto the “sexy sexy islands.”

I did not visit the fortress, the theatre, or the museums in Hvar. Although they are probably very nice, they are not why most people come to Hvar. They come to tour the swanky hotels, restaurants and bars, canoodle in their yachts and, so I learned, tan on the Pakleni Islands au naturel. Though I am not yet one of the jet-setting rich and famous cultural elite, I got to spend two days pretending I was.

Idyllic Istria

View from atop the church tower

Molly Newborn

I took a bus from Trieste, an Italian port city, through a one-laned twisty hilly road down through Istria – the peninsula that lies at the northern point of the Adriatic Sea. It took three hours for the bus to travel the 100 kilometers down the western coast, stopping at little towns along the way, to reach Pula – located at the southernmost tip of the peninsula. This port city is the largest in Istria with just over 62,000 residents. It holds a beautiful mix of mostly Croats, with some Serbs, Italians, Bosniaks and Slovenians. Istria is a melting pot of Italian, Austrian and Croatian cultures.

I walked across the city, passing the first century Roman amphitheatre (aka Colosseum) and the old town to get to my hostel. Famished, I decided along with several new friends I had met at the hostel to pay a visit to one of Pula’s most frequented Italian restaurants, Jupiter, located at Castrapola 38 – a couple of blocks above the forum. Pizza was the specialty – there were 18 to choose from. The five of us stationed ourselves in a booth with a rustic wooden table. We each ordered an individual pizza at a reasonable price. Little did we know that in Croatia an “individual pizza” could easily feed two… or three. The pizza was exquisite.

We then decided to be mature and cultured travelers. Instead of a typical night of finding the local pub or club, we decided to attend a concert of traditional Croatian choral music at the Colosseum for $40. The amphitheater was lit beautifully and packed with locals. The men’s choirs took the stage one by one to sing songs that everyone in the audience knew and sang along to. And though it was nice, we were getting bored and cold and were somewhat regretting not hitting up the clubs.

I explored the narrow streets of the old town the next morning. Though beautifully lined with medieval and Renaissance buildings along the ancient Roman stoned streets, I couldn’t help but notice the many tourist-targeted shops and overpriced restaurants. I ran into two Portuguese friends I had met in Trieste a couple of days before. We ate a very mediocre and overpriced lunch at what looked like a nice restaurant. We were later told by one of the locals that for these restaurants there are two prices – the local’s price and the significantly higher tourist’s price.

We trekked up the stairs of the central hill of the old city to explore the star-shaped 14th century castle that sat atop. The princess that I am, I make a point of visiting the castles along the ways of my travels. This one had a moat. It was converted into the Historical Museum of Istria. It certainly was no Palazzo Ducale of Venice. For a few dollars we walked through 5 or 6 open rooms filled with old weapons, kitchenware, and pharmaceuticals. The city views alone were worth the visit.

That night we hit the clubs. We started at the beach and slowly made our way inland. By 4am we were at the fourth club of the night. The Portuguese boys were still going strong. I was fading and the smoke was getting to me. I headed back to the hostel, squeezed in a couple of hours of sleep, and the next day, caught a bus to Rovinj.

Rovinj

I had convinced Tristan (British) and Chris (Australian) from the hostel to join me in Rovinj. A short one-hour bus ride north along the coast brought us to a stunning little town by sea. Rovinj was originally an island separated from the mainland. In 1763 the channel was filled in. Its nickname is “The Hitchhiker’s Thumb.” Its population of just over 13,500 consists of mostly Croats and Italians. The town clearly had a strong Italian influence. It even had an Italian school. Tristan said it reminded him of Venice.

We could not take enough pictures. Every moment, every turn was a treasurable scene. We walked along the boardwalk filled with restaurants and tourists, sailboats and yachts, and up the rickety stairs of the church tower, which stands tall in the middle of the island. The views were breathtaking. We spent half an hour up there snapping away with our cameras.

The boys hopped on the last bus back to Pula and I had the evening to myself. I got a cup of hot chocolate and sat on the boardwalk near the boats to watch the sun set behind the island. The stray cats kept me company as love struck couples walked by. If I had known this place would be swarming with lovebirds, I would have saved it for my honeymoon.

I woke up early the next morning to soak in the beauty of this city one last time before heading to Rijeka to catch the ferry down to Hvar Island. The bus cut through the stunning Istria countryside. I didn't have much time to explore this industrious port city before I boarded the ferry heading south to Hvar Island. I ran into Tristan and Chris in the boarding line. We watched the city lights slowly get further and further away as we sailed south until it was darkness. We stayed up late laughing, reminiscing and sharing travel stories. The three of us made up a commonwealth of Canada, Britain, and Australia. Too cheap to get a cabin, we fell asleep on chairs in the lounge. Next time I’m definitely getting a cabin. The ferry docked at Hvar Island at 6 am. The boys were continuing on to Dubrovnik. We said our goodbyes and I got off the boat.

We've got rhythm

Molly Newborn

Dance is all the rage in 2008. With the recent craze in popularity for shows like Dancing With the Stars and So You Think You Can Dance,  we are starting to see dance as more than after-school ballet class, or what the kids get down to in the hip hop clubs. It is for anybody who can catch a beat.

Edgar Lion and Roberta Woloz Mendelson are a tap dancing duo who have been bringing the beat, or tapping the beat, since 2000. They prefer to go by Eddie and Bobby.

As a teen in 1930s Vienna, Eddie frequented the cinema, which at the time was playing only gangster movies and musicals. He loved the musicals and took up ballroom dancing in high school, which has become a life-long passion. He fled the Nazis in 1938 and was later brought to Montreal by a distant relative.

“I’ve always loved tap dancing, but there was no instruction in Vienna at the time,” Lion said. In 1986, at the age of 66, he saw a newspaper ad for tap dancing instruction at the Westmount YMCA and has been “hooked ever since.” It’s never too late to learn. He met Bobbie Mendelson in 2000 when they were both performing in plays at the Cummings Jewish Center for Seniors.

Bobbie Mendelson, born in Montreal, learned tap from an early age. A mother of 5 and grandmother of 10, her legs are those of a girl in her 20s. She’s a born entertainer. “It all started with my mother’s love for the piano,” she explained. “We danced around the piano as kids.”

She grew up with a “creative passion” keeping busy with tap dancing, ballet, acrobatics and school plays. She was a member of the modern dance group at McGill University and taught fitness classes for many years.

“I’m passionate about entertaining and keeping in good shape. I never liked to say ‘for my age.’ That’s out, I hate that… I’m supposedly a good looking girl!”

Staying fit is an integral part of her life. “Body, mind, love and passion,” she said. “It’s kept my mind happy. When you have that passion, it diffuses out to every area of your life like when you read stories to your grandchildren.”

No doubt dancing keeps us in tip-top shape, but it can also be a fun and interactive way to keep you young, long and lean. Next to Bobbie's killer legs, Eddie stands tall with excellent posture at 6’1”. He is thin and strong. "My dancing has kept me in good physical shape. No problems. Always a positive attitude," he says. "My GP says he hasn't met anyone in as good a shape as I am in my age group."

For someone interested in joining in on the dance craze, Bobbie suggests looking into centers that offer fitness courses that integrate rhythmic aerobics. "So much of it has become like hip-hop."

Eddie and Bobby create their own choreography or modify an existing routine. Their one-hour show is sprinkled with jokes. Their  repertoire includes popular tunes like The Joint is Jumping by Fats Waller, and other favorites like Tea for Two, We've Got Rhythm, Love is a Simple Thing, and In The Mood. 

They perform in social clubs, hospitals, and senior residences in the Montreal area without charge. "They always ask for encores,"  Bobby says. "We feel like we owe them money for the fun that we have performing and for giving us the pleasure and satisfaction that light up their days. We connect with them, people catch on to it and they smile."

If you are interested in contacting Eddie and Bobby to book a performance, please call 514-486-8138.

Cotton Castle gives rise to spa-city in Southeast Turkey

Barefoot in the travertine pools

Molly Newborn

There is a certain ease and carelessness that I feel when traveling with a tour group as opposed to traveling solo. When traveling solo I do the research. I know exactly where I’m going and why. I memorize a map of my destination along with all the attractions. Surprises are minimal. As part of a tour groupmy survival instincts take a back seat and I coast along knowing my tour guide will be taking us to all the hot spots.We were on our way to a place called Pamukkale – Cotton Castle in Turkish. Located in the Denizli Province in southeast Turkey, it is a major tourist attraction not to be missed.

Our little tour bus rolled into town late at night. Mustafa, the hotel owner and chef, welcomed us joyously into his hotel and did not waste any time putting food on the table. He insisted we fuel up on food and sleep for our big hike in the morning. A hike? Hmmm… I wondered what could possibly be so grueling that I was stuffing my face to do it.

Climbing the Cotton Castle

The next morning I dressed for the hike, careful to respect the unofficial Muslim modesty rule that we were politely asked to obey throughout our Turkish trek. I wore jeans, a tank top and a little sweater to cover my shoulders. Mustafa, our tour guide, informed us that most of the way up the travertines we must be barefoot. This was starting to sound a little strange. But from what I had experienced so far, strange was no stranger in Turkey.

We started out from our hotel, walked a couple of streets, turned the corner and were suddenly in what looked like a winter wonderland, in the middle of the southwest Turkish landscape, in October. It seemed as though the entire side of the hill was covered in glistening white snow.

As we approached the foot of the hill, Mustafa explained that this anomaly was white limestone from calcium deposits. We were standing in an area that was struck several times by earthquakes, which gave rise to hot springs. The water flows down the mountain and deposits its calcium while cooling, creating this very unique-looking blinding white frozen waterfall. We slowly made our way up the 250-metre hillside to the plateau, barefoot and in disbelief. The water flowed between my toes as I carefully wandered up the hill. I stopped occasionally to bask in the scene. The prayer call of the mosque echoed while I watched the many tourists march up the hill in their speedos and string bikinis. I suspected the unofficial modesty rule did not apply in Pamukkale.The bottoms of my jeans were getting wet. It was hot. I suddenly wished I had worn my bikini so that I could jump into one of the pools of hot spring water on the way up. The youngest of the group, and always the slowest, I was last to make it to the top.

Hierapolis ruins

The ancient city of Hierapolis awaited us atop the cotton castle we had climbed. Founded in the 2nd century BCE by Eumenes II, King of Pergamum (an ancient Greek city in modern-day Turkey) the spa-city prospered with the help of the healing powers of the water. Tourists can still swim in the 36°C ancient sacred pool – the Antique Pool. Sounds impressive but the Antique Pool is saturated with tourists, kiosks and overpriced cafes. Much more impressive was walking through the white-stoned, pillar-lined streets of the ancient city, imagining its beauty and glory centuries ago. There is a brilliant Roman theatre located behind the Antique Pool, which seats 12,000 spectators. It occurred to me that the cities of today are not much different than the ancient cities. Nonetheless, the ancient cities had a certain magnificence and grandeur that our modern-day ones are much lacking. From one perspective we’ve come so far as a civilization, but from another we haven’t even budged.

The sunset from the summit was like nothing I had ever seen. Beautiful reds and yellows glow from the white limestone spring-water pools. Looking past the pools and the cotton castle into the vast deserted land ahead is breathtaking.

I slowly made my way back down through the warm waterfall, enjoying every moment of this natural phenomenon while at the same time trying my very best not to slip. One wrong step and I could have slid all the way down the castle. It was dark when I reached the bottom, and the rough limestone made my feet as smooth as butter.

The next morning we all piled back into out little tour bus and chugged up the twisty cliff-hugging side roads along the shores of southwest Turkey to rendezvous with our next dazzling and bizarre surprise of a destination.