It is with enormous relief that we have finally arrived and installed ourselves in our usual perch in Cape Town. The place overlooks beautiful False Bay from the rocky ridge which is part of Table Mountain and which holds up the large house which we rent during our summer…meaning the South African winter. This year, our evacuation plan had two goals. First, there was the usual one, to escape the Miami heat and hurricanes, as well as the mosquitoes and the rest of Miami’s summer delights. The second goal was to eschew the hoopla, the vuvuzelas, the crowds and the craziness of the “World Cup” activities which Cape Town was hosting and in the forefront of this year.
The World Cup is a humongous global quadrennial event, held since 1930, that involves an elimination tournament among 32 teams representing just as many nations. The sport is “Football”, better known as “Soccer” in the US. This year, the matches were held in a number of South African venues, from Cape Town to Durban, Johannesburg and points in between, in ten stadiums, including five brand new ones built for this occasion by the host nation. These structures are huge, hugely expensive to construct and hold crowds in the range of fifty to a hundred thousand fans. In 2006, when Germany was the host nation, it attracted over 26 billion TV viewers, including a tally of some 715 millions for the final game of this 30 day sport event. Now that it’s over, the Republic of South Africa is trying to figure out what to do with this crop of stadiums and how to pay for it all. In the meantime, it can at least be said that the country will be enjoying the billions in improvements that have been invested in infrastructure and public places. It is still too early to pass judgment on whether it was worth it. Given the precarious social and economic conditions which prevail here, the question has to be raised, however! In any case, one thing is certain: The World Cup has done wonders for the country’s pride and self esteem. The South African flag is still seen everywhere and one of the hottest street sales items in junk souvenir stores is an ear plug kit which can be bought for three Rands (about twenty Cents) to muffle the sound of the vuvuzelas.
Given our dual and disparate goals, namely escape from both South Florida’s hurricanes and South Africa’s World Cup, Joyce and Joyce TTA (The Travel Agent) went into a planning frenzy.
A Quick Overview of our Pre Cape Town Journey
We would leave on June 10, at about the time when the stultifying summer heat makes its presence known. Our first lap would be to fly Virgin Atlantic to London, bond with the “Rubens at the Palace” hotel and anoint it as our base for the five week-long travels we would undertake until the World Cup was over and the coast was cleared of tourists and football enthusiasts to allow our peaceful enjoyment of Cape Town.We would spend our first night in London at the Rubens hotel and store our BIG BAGS there. These were two oversized boxy suitcases which people used to call “steamer trunks” in the old days. They were destined for Cape Town and would be kept in detention at the Rubens until our departure for South Africa. With the BIG Cape Town bags now in safe custody, we addressed the rest of our luggage, namely everything that was destined to travel with us during the Europe part of our escapade. Joyce had packed two “LITTLE BIG BAGS” (duffels) for that purpose, two “CARRY-ON BAGS” designed to fit in the overhead compartments and a couple of handy SATCHELS that could fit anywhere, but at the last moment joined their big brothers in storage. The other four then became a virtual part of our anatomy during the rest of our Pre-Cape Town interlude.
Next, a Baltic Cruise on the “Silver Whisper”, a star in the Silver Seas fleet of luxury liners, would be the second lap of our escapade. The cruise would end up in Stockholm, Sweden some 11 days later. While the cruise Ports-of-Call included pit stops in Flemish Bruges, Disney-like Tallinn in Estonia, the historic Kiel Canal and the forgettable German port of Warnemünde, as well as Helsinki in Finland, the piece de resistance was really the three days in St. Petersburg. I will elaborate on those three days a little later.
In Stockholm, we would then take to the air and fly to Copenhagen, for no other reason than to indulge my “bucket list” desire to see the famous “Tivoli Gardens”.
For the Fourth lap, we would fly from Copenhagen to Paris and spend a week there. After that, we would swap Garlic for Gaelic and fly from Paris to Edinburgh … unfortunately via Heathrow, which seemingly cannot be avoided.
For the fifth lap in our journey, we would rent a car and spend 10 days or so driving back to London, sampling English hospitality in Scotland, the Lakes District and in the Cotswold.
Although much of this voyage through Scandinavia, Europe and England, in the air, in cars and on boats - always moving, packing, unpacking and hopping between countries and currencies - was hectic and sometimes bewildering, the time went by like a blur, and was filled with lots of memorable moments. Keeping this overview in mind, and at the risk of getting too wordy, let me highlight what we found noteworthy during each of the laps.
The First Lap
Starting back with our departure from Miami on Virgin Atlantic, I have to comment that Sir Richard Branson‘s airline did its thing and pampered us on what seemed like an incredibly short and pleasant flight. Sure the condition of the world economy had forced some cut backs … no more back or neck massages from gorgeous flight attendants when entering the plane, only Champagne … tsk! tsk! … also, goodbye super roomy Boeing 747; Hello Airbus! But in every other respect, it was just the same as the first time we took that flight several years ago. The Airbus was equipped with the same “sleeping pods” we had experienced before and we were still provided with duvets and sleepwear to change into. The six or seven course dinner was still served on a pop-up table, not a pivot tray. This feature made it possible to eat like a normal person, not a hospital patient, across from your companion and socialize with all the civility justified by the elegant interior. Of course, there was non-stop entertainment. More importantly, at the points of departure and arrival, we did not have to endure queues and the bedlam that usually prevails during check-in, immigration, security, etc. It all went smoothly without pain, delays or insults to our dignity! As will be seen later in this narrative, this ease in negotiating airports was, unfortunately, the exception! In most cases the airports are the crucible where normal people vow never to fly again, and Joyce was no exception by the end of the trip.
We had landed early in the morning. As the day wore on, we had to decide on dinner. Since I was aware of the “British Raj”; England’s colonial rule of India, I knew of its intimate familiarity with Indian Cuisine. With this in mind, I consulted our Concierge at the Rubens. Without a second of hesitation, he recommended “Quilon” located a few blocks, within easy walking distance of the hotel. It turned out to be a phenomenal meal served to perfection in a superb setting. The cuisine was Southern Indian from Madras, which we had always wanted to try. Given London’s reputation for high prices, the bill was quite reasonable. We were impressed and happy with this find. It wasn’t until later, with the help of Google, that we realized that the eatery was part of the Taj Organization, well known for its extremely high end and sophisticated hospitality. Still later, after our cruise and our romp through Europe and Scotland, when we returned for a second night at the Rubens, we were shocked to learn that “Quilon” was not only part of the “Taj” group, but the restaurant had a “Michelin” star! In fact, we were told that it had been offered a second star but eschewed that honor because it wanted to remain a good mainstream eatery rather than the kind of chi-chi establishment customary of these rarified heights.
The next day we took our leave of the Rubens Hotel, as well as the two BIG BAGS and their little brothers we had left in the hotel’s custody, and we installed ourselves in the car we had hired to get us to the port of Southampton. The port was about one and a half hours away and it took another half hour or so to find where the “Silver Whisper” was docked in the large industrial maze that typically characterizes important seaports. Boarding the beautiful cruise liner was simple and devoid of annoying formalities. Thus ended the first lap of our odyssey.
The Second Lap
The Silver Whisper would take us first to Bruges, (Belgium) then to Tallinn (Estonia), Warnemünde, (Germany) the Kiel Canal, Germany; St. Petersburg, Russia; and Helsinki, Finland. At the end of the eleven days of the cruise, the ship would dumped us in Stockholm. There, we would find our way to Copenhagen in Denmark. We would sail out of Southampton in the English Channel and emerge into the North Sea which would carry us into the Gulf of Finland where Tallinn, St Petersburg and Helsinki could be easily visited. Leaving the Gulf of Finland, the ship would then end the voyage in Stockholm, in the Baltic Sea. In the process, we would follow the paths of the Vikings who had plied these waters for many years and we would appreciate the former power and dimensions of the Hanseatic League which, in the middle ages, dominated all commerce in this region. It is a remarkable fact that to this day some disparate strands of this erstwhile coalition of interests still remains. There is a “Hanseatic Corporation” still active on Wall Street and we are all familiar with “Lufthansa” the German National Airline.
Joyce and I had been on very few cruises. She always felt we weren’t “old enough for that sort of thing”. The little cruising we had done amounted to a Loire River canal boat cruise in France and a couple of small yacht-like cruises on fairly intimate ships involving typically less than a hundred passengers. The idea of a liner in the range of 300 people was initially abhorrent to us. Nevertheless, after analyzing the alternatives, it soon became clear that something like a Silverseas cruise was the most practical and enjoyable way to fulfill my “Bucket List” items of sampling Northern European and Scandinavian destinations. The fact that the Silver Whisper was very luxurious, with an equal number of hospitality staff as passengers was not too shabby either!
Indeed, the staterooms on the ship were most generous, measuring in the range of 400 square feet including a 60 square foot veranda accessed by a floor to ceiling sliding glass door. We had a full bathroom with tub and separate shower, as well as a walk-in closet and a sitting room, separated from the bedroom. The latter had a king size bed. In fact, the usual term for our on-board accommodations, such as “cabin” or “stateroom” sounds far too modest. A new vocabulary is now used. Our quarters were unabashedly called “Suites”! By the same token, our suite wasn’t serviced by a maid or a steward; it was a “Butler” who was to be be our slave for the duration of the cruise. The suite contained a TV which, among other programs, piped in lectures about the Ports-of-Call and the “Shore excursions”; it also displayed maps and pictures of the on shore surroundings of the ship to the tune of non-stop elevator music, including, ironically, over and over again, the theme from the movie “Titanic”.The hospitality staff was mostly from the Philippines, but we did not see enough of the engineering and operating crew to guess at their provenance. Meals were elaborately served from three dining rooms, including a smallish “Relais & Chateau” gourmet restaurant we somehow managed to miss, a large Italian eatery and an equally large “Main Dining Room”. While Escoffier would have scoffed, the quality of the food was first class but far from causing a true epicurean to do flips. But the service was consistently excellent and the schedule for the meals was not draconian. The availability of a beautiful cocktail lounge near the stern of the ship, made for a very civilized and leisurely dining experience, as well as a genteel way to spend an evening.
In general, the cruise would have been perfect but for the fact that the many beautiful features on board the ship and the excellence of the service there lost their charm for us after we encountered the management of the “Front Desk” and that of the “Shore Excursion Desk”. We found the staff to be friendly enough, but usually uninformed more often than not really quite useless. Once you leave the ship, you’re on your own. Since the ship usually docks some distance away from town or any desirable destination, it gets to be a problem to secure transportation. It is at that point that one usually gives up and joins the ship’s organized excursion where, for a very high fee, you are piled on one of those big tour busses and you get to spend a few hours with lots of your “closest” friends some place in the vicinity of what you really want to see and experience.
In Tallinn, a special event sponsored by “Virtuoso” (a premium service our Travel Agency subscribes to) made it possible for us join the shore excursion of the city. We never got out of the touristy city center. Most of what we saw was a repetition of souvenir shops and countless amber shops selling the bugs of the world trapped in that wondrous material! There was a folk dancing performance in an old castle which was most enjoyable, and provided a welcome relief from the rest of the tourist-driven activities. The cobble stones and ancient building also exuded charm; Disney couldn’t have done better. Even the restaurant responded to the theme. The eatery, like everything in Tallinn reeked with quaintness and seemed very welcoming. But soon the regimented seating arrangement on long tables clearly designed to accommodate large tour groups and the food, which was mostly inedible, caused the charm of the décor to vanish and I ended up leaving my plate untouched. The hosts for the Virtuoso event was a Seattle couple, Tom and Carol Gordon. There seemed to be promise for further encounters on the ship but, while we did indeed share a little time with them in addition to that day in Tallinn, the bustle of the ship never allowed the friendship to advance beyond the most casual level. Joyce has now downloaded the pics she had captured in her camera. It is interesting to note that her shots of Tallinn were all great, displaying dramatically the charm and picturesque qualities of the city, its steeple and ancient architecture. One very obvious thing though, is that there are no pictures of street scenes. All her shots seem pointed in the air, and mask the tourist bedlam at the street level.
Our first Port-of-Call was not Tallinn, but Bruges. This is a city with which I felt I had a certain affinity in view of the fact that I spent my early years (between 1932 and 1940) in Brussels, which is part of the French speaking side of Belgium. Additionally, Joyce, I and our Florida friend Carol had also enjoyed Bruges more than a few years ago. We were charmed by the city at that time when we stopped there for a couple days while stuffing ourselves on buckets of mussels. Unlike Tallinn, where we went on shore under the auspices of Virtuoso, we had not made the requisite Shore Excursion Reservations. We decided instead to proceed on our own - how hard could that be. After at least five attempts to get the correct information from the ship’s desk on the best way to get from the dock into the city, we tried to sort out what was involved on our own. It was really very simple, ah! ha! We would start by taking the ship’s “shuttle”, a big lumbering tour bus, from the Port to the nearest town, called Zeebrugges. There, we would walk to the Rail Terminal where we would buy a ticket and wait for the next train into Bruges. After a half hour ride, we could then take a taxi to whatever destination we wanted, as long as we got back to the ship by 5:00 PM. When we left the rail terminal, we had no idea how to reach the center of Bruges and we opted for a taxi. After a two block, ten-Euro rip-off ride from a taciturn driver who, like a spider in wait for prey, was parked outside the rail terminal, we walked a short distance to find ourselves at the tourist epicenter of Bruges. There, we opted for a canal boat ride to see the old city and how it coped with the waterways that defined its essential character. In the process, I incurred the enmity of the local burgers by seeking directions and other information in the fluent French I had grown up with, having completely forgotten that things had never been quite right between the French speaking Belgians (the Valons) and the Flemish, who predominate in Bruges.
Preparing for the boat ride, we piled onto a long canal boat crammed with at least fifty people. But it was actually an excellent way to see a good part of the city. We had a marvelous time for an hour and a half listening to the spiel of a garrulous boatman who was tri-lingual (French, English and Flemish) and who for some reason found it necessary to inform his rapt audience that he was “not a guide” and he did so perfectly in all three languages. We then found a popular lunch place and had the opportunity to taste the superb beer which, together with chocolates, Belgians claim as part of their national heritage. We also had the tiny shrimps from the English Channel that I used to eat like peanuts as a kid, shell and all. And then of course, we had to have the famous “Moules-Frites” (Mussels & French fries); another culinary invention which the Belgians claim as their national dish. Though we enjoyed Bruges, we found it way too crowded and Disney-fied. The city, with its canals is certainly picturesque and an inspiration for travel writers, but the charm quickly fades when you find yourself in the middle of a motley mass of tourists, tour groups, tour busses and hawkers.
We had no expectations with respect to Warnemüde as we had not signed up for outrageously lengthy excursion to Berlin, planned by the ship. Even though it happens to be the city of my birth, and I had not been back in 76 years, I seriously doubted that the limited time allotted by the ship’s shore excursion to visit Berlin would be worth the pain of a 3-4 hour bus ride in each direction.
To see the Kiel Canal however, while of no interest to Joyce, did stimulate my imagination. It evoked thoughts of the Cold War, since its outset even before the end of WWII, when the Russian and American Allies prohibited the crossing of the Elbe River, thereby forcing and freezing the split of post-war Europe into “East” and “West”. Going further back in history, who can forget, long before the Kiel Canal was dug, the disastrous crossing of the Elbe River by Napoleon’s Grande Armée during its painful and ignominious retreat from Russia? The strategic location of the canal has always made it a hot spot in European geo-politics and its transit on board the “whisper”, gave me goose bumps as I tried to imagine the world events that have unfolded around it over time.
Finally, we reached Saint Petersburg. It was a beautiful morning. The ship had docked at a barge pavilion that was tied in turn to the shore bulkhead, which was running parallel to a busy downtown boulevard. The pavilion was where the uniformed Russian authorities processed the debarkation of passengers wishing to go on shore. The line that morning was long, slow, and it was pretty chilly. It took about 45 minutes to finally reach the boulevard. We had booked our own guide and driver for the three days we spent in St. Petersburg, and this was great! Our guide, was very attractive. She had Americanized her name to “Helen”, but I much preferred her Russian name - Lena. We had no trouble finding each other and we piled into the black Mercedes that would ferry us around the city for the next three days.
To begin with, Lena explained, the city was not named after Czar Peter the Great. It was name in honor of Saint Peter, the erstwhile apostle and current gate keeper to Paradise! The city had also been called Petrograd around the outset of WW I and Leningrad after the Communist revolution. Ironically, it was Lenin who moved the capital to Moscow, not so much in protest of the opulence and obscene palaces that adorn St. Petersburg, but for the greater security that a more inland location would provide, given the exposed location of St. Petersburg on the Gulf of Finland. The city was originally founded in the 1700’s by Czar Peter the Great. This becomes very clear when one stands in the Decembrist Square which is dominated by the famous “Bronze Horseman” created by the French sculptor Etienne Falconet in1782 to honor Peter the Great.
Saint Petersburg had always been considered by the Czars as the capital of the Russian Empire until the revolution. It is a magnificent city with a population of about 5 million inhabitants (7 million in the Leningrad region). Sometimes called the Venice of the North, it is crisscrossed by waterways, public squares, and parks surrounded by imposingly ornamented structures, set off by churches, public buildings and monumental works of heroic art. Although the ornamentation of the buildings is predominantly baroque or rococo, the appearance of the city acquires an eclectic character when, within the same range of vision, these styles are mixed in with the stark utilitarian architecture of the dour Stalin era. Where the earlier buildings stand in cheerfully colored in mustard shades with bright royal blue highlights and shiny gilded ornamental features, the later structures are visually immobile, severely rectilinear and add no life to the environment.
To perhaps further appreciate this eclecticism, Lena took us for a ride on the St. Petersburg Metro. What an amazing experience! The station we had entered was palatial, lit with what looked like crystal chandeliers hanging from the ribs of Gothic vaulted ceiling. The latter was held up by ornately carved structural columns, each with their own unique design. Unfortunately, even this remarkably elegant environment had not escaped the forces that conspire to run down the quality of spaces devoted to public transportation. The station was grimy and ill maintained, the moving stock seemed very old and the demeanor of the riders had the same fatalistic and expressionless look as that found on the riders of the worst of New York subways.
The first stop of the day, Lena told us, would be to visit “Peterhof”, the summer Palace of Czar Peter the Great. We got there at 9 am for a tour of the interior, a special arrangement an hour before the hordes of tourists would make the place untenable after 10:00, when the “Waters” are turned on. The place compares with Versailles in terms of the scale and splendor of the 2,400 acres of formal gardens, over 200 fountains and numerous gilded sculptures that are generously deployed throughout the palace grounds. It should be noted that Russian aristocracy had always emulated the French, and French Royalty in particular. This can be seen in the furniture styling, clothing and even in the language spoken in the literary salons of the palaces. At 10:00 am, all the “Waters” are turned on and all the fountains spring into action throughout the vast gardens. The most impressive is the “Grand Cascade” which is a series of closely spaced, high volume spouting fountains that runs along the entire front elevation of the gigantic Versailles-scale Palace. This cascade of fountains performs as a pedestal for the Palace and animates everything around it. Peterhof after 10:00 am is very different than before!
Inside the Palace, one cannot escape the fascination that the unbelievable profusion of gilt, gold leaf, marbles of all kinds and inlay artistry in wood and stone, exerts on us mere mortals. We wore out the soles of our shoes, following what Lena called “enfilades”, namely the succession of rooms lined up like railroad cars, in the course of which we had the opportunity to gauge the magnitude of the wealth held by Russia’s aristocracy before the Revolution. The treasures of the Czars and their Palaces were certainly interesting, but I’m afraid this was overshadowed by Lena’s next item on her agenda for us: LUNCH!
We were in Russia, after all. This is the land of Vodka, Caviar and Borscht. We had to have it all. Lena must have anticipated our lust, because she brought us to the “Vodka Museum” where, in an adjoining space called “Russian Vodka Room no. 1”, there was a restaurant that was ready to do our bidding. For my part, I was mostly interested in sampling vodkas. Joyce, on the other hand wanted blinis and salmon roe caviar. All of us, of course, had to have some real Russian made borscht. Well … we had it all. I found five shot glasses in front of my place setting, each filled with a different vodka. I was to down them, one at a time, in one gulp, neat, without ice or lemon, since that’s how the Russians do it! Naturally, I complied with the protocol. By the time the food arrived, I was slightly more than buzzed and ready to take a nap. But it was marvelous and the salmon caviar had never tasted this good and I had never realized what I was missing when my idea of borscht was limited to the stuff sold in glass jars at the supermarket.
We spent the rest of the day at “Catherine’s Palace”, built in the mid 1700’s by and for the Empress Catherine II. Tomes have been written about this wondrous manifestation of Imperial wealth. If Czar Peter the Great had “Peterhoff” with its immense garden and array of sculptures and fountains, then Catherine II had to have her Palace and park as well. And so the park was just as impressive as Peterhoff, lots of fountains, sculptures and meticulously groomed gardens. But it is really in the orgy of art work and baroque decorative features, art objects and furniture where I thought that Catherine’s Palace had it all over Peterhoff. The amount of gold covered Baroque carvings in the succession of rooms forming the “enfilades” that ran along the sides of the Palace was overwhelming, almost blinding. One room in particular is famous among these. It is the “Amber Room”, so named because the walls are actually made of amber, and so are all of the decorative features attached to them. I was so impressed that a little later, in the gift store on the way out, I could not resist buying Joyce a big amber “bling”, knowing with confidence that a museum could be trusted to sell amber that is in fact real … specifically, at least fifty million years old!
By the time we left Catherine II’s Palace, the day was done and we were exhausted. We were driven back to the ship expecting a relaxing evening and night. Alas, it was not to be. We did not appreciate just how far North St. Petersburg is located. It is, in fact, in the same Latitude as Greenland or Alaska, and that must be how Sarah Palin had undoubtedly been able to acquire her special knowledge about Russia! So night never did fall. What we were experiencing were the “White Nights” phenomenon, characteristic during the summer solstice at that Latitude. We never quite got used to this, and it is now with relief that we greet the daily approach of the darkness of night.
The next day, it was time to satisfy one of the important “Bucket List” items I had been looking forward to and which had motivated our itinerary - the “Hermitage” museum! I had been at the “Met” in New York City and had visited the “Louvre” in Paris on several occasions; but I have never seen the “Prado” in Spain, nor have I seen the “Tate” in London. These will have to remain on my bucket list for a while longer. In the meantime, someone had given me an enormous coffee table book on the “Hermitage” which kept beckoning me to go there, while it idly accumulating dust on a shelf in my living room. And now here I was within reach of this museum that ranks at or near the top of the great world museums. Its Director once said: “I can’t say that the Hermitage is the number one museum in the world, but it’s certainly not the second.” It houses over three million works of art and treasures in five connected buildings along the Neva River, which together made up the Winter Palace of the Czars.
The collections in the settings of the opulent Winter Palace are amazing, ranging from Classic works of the Dutch and Flemish such as Rembrandt and Rubens, to such Renaissance luminaries as Leonardo da-Vinci and Raphael. The collection of Impressionists and expressionists is, of course awesome. Like a rube I kept saying: “Ah! This is where it is, I had always wondered where the original was hung!” And so it was, for example, with Henri Matisse’s “Dance”, painted in 1910. I had never appreciated how large this painting was and what a presence it made even on the wide walls of the Palace. The Picasso exhibit was particularly impressive and prolific. So much so that, just like Joyce, I was entrapped in the gift shop to buy a reproduction of a Picasso decorated urn which I am sure will find an honorable place without disturbing any other bookshelf residents. Overall, we certainly were not disappointed. The astounding reputation of the Hermitage Museum is well deserved. This goes for the “Small Hermitage”, which strangely is full of Moroccan touches, that blend very well with the Baroque environment.
As an aside, the tourist crowds at the Hermitage were fierce. There was a “Disney Cruise” that must have disgorged its full load of passengers, and we felt pursued by this mob as we moved through the Winter Palace. It stayed together in one clump and, like a cork in a bottle, it cluttered much of the galleries. The mob was led by some fairly aggressive guides who held placards high above the crowd, with the silhouette of Mickey Mouse on them. For us, whenever we saw Mickey, it was a clear signal to run like hell.
Having regaled our cultural soul, Lena advised us that it was time once again to regale our stomachs. Joyce and I were tempted to repeat the vodka, blinis and caviar experience of the day before, and so we had another bite of this tasty combination. But it wasn’t the food, or even the vodka that was the star of the meal. It was the restaurant. Lena brought us to a place called “The Idiot”, so named after Dostoyevsky’s great novel. The theme of the eatery was the author, and the decor would have done Dostoyevsky proud. It was arranged and decorated like a writer’s inner sanctum or study. There were lots of overstuffed couches piled with pillows. Tables were informally distributed and several seemed to evoke the surface of writer’s desks. Lighting was subdued and reminiscent of the age when the great books were written. The effect was stunning and strangely appetizing.
For me, it was a compelling reminder that Russian culture is full of giants in almost every field of human endeavor. Names like Pushkin, Borodin, Tolstoy, Kandinsky, Gorky, the Kirov ballet and of course the Bolshoi all come to mind. Many of these shining lights stem from, or can be associated with, St. Petersburg.
Indeed on virtually all fronts it is a fabulous city! But there was yet another day before we would board the ship for Helsinki and Stockholm. On this third day, Lena informed us that we would be visiting churches. This proved to be far more interesting than we had anticipated despite the fact that Joyce and I cannot seem get entwined in religious mysticism.
The dominant faith in Russia is largely “Eastern Orthodox” which derives its faith from the Eastern side of the “Great Schism” that occurred some 900 years ago, when the Catholic faith split over issues so complex and fundamental that scholars are still trying passionately to find the Truth! We spent a bit of time in and around St. Isaac’s Cathedral, which happens to be Roman Catholic, not Orthodox. It is a humongous structure with a dome that ranks among the tallest in the world. The inside is absolutely breathtaking, with every inch of walls covered with paintings of Saints and Icons. The green Malachite-clad columns are most impressive and contrasted dramatically with the amount of gilded decorative ornamentation found throughout the Cathedral. The ceiling of the incredibly high dome depicts a Judgment Day scene where a Christ dominates and seems to say “Everything will be all right - it’s OK to spend all this money to glorify me!” In the center of St. Isaac Square, in front of the Cathedral, stands a large equestrian statue of Nicholas I, a reminder that, in Russia, mixing church and state is not a cardinal sin.
The city is full of church spires, domes and onion shaped towers. All of these animate the skyline and produce a pattern of landmarks that almost belies the need for street names. There just isn’t enough time or room in this narrative to adequately do credit to the vast number and variety of Cathedrals, churches and Temples in Saint Petersburg. I can’t resist, however, mentioning the Orthodox “Cathedral of Christ’s Resurrection”, which holds some startling visual similarities to the iconic St. Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow. The colorful combination of pastel blues and gold domes as well as other playful shapes and Baroque ornamentation, cast against an almost red terra cotta background, is simply unforgettable. We did not visit any other churches, as with Saint Isaac and the Christ Resurrection Cathedral we felt sufficiently acquainted with the subject to proceed to lunch, where I could ponder religious mysticism over more of the vodka to which Lena was getting me addicted.
She took us to a place called “Teplo”. Like “The Idiot”, the place was unique. Imagine the sounds of Frank Sinatra wafting over a crowded room full of Russian families! And then, imagine a real homey setting with toys all around including an “Elephant Pillow” and other stuffed animals, all with a plate of Beef Stroganoff and three shots of vodka in front of you! By the time the vodka had worked its magic, I amazed myself by managing, without help, to put a pin in the map on the wall to show where we were from. I think we were the only pin in Florida! But now it was time to stop the reveling. We had to get back to the boat, as our draconian nautical innkeepers had given dire warnings to return by 3:30 pm or the ship would presumably leave the dock without us. After effuse farewells to Lena and our driver, I checked St. Petersburg off my “Bucket List” and life on board resumed.
The cruise portion and second lap of our odyssey was drawing to a close. The only thing left was a very brief stop at the port in Helsinki, Finland; and then the termination of the cruise in Stockholm Sweden. The three days in Saint Petersburg proved to be so exhilarating that we were too exhausted to get off the ship for the shore excursion of Helsinki. We saw the charming port-side buildings arrayed there from our veranda on the ship, but as it was pouring rain and freezing cold and we were both getting over the sniffles, we never set foot on terra firma. We also avoided the call for a “Formal” dress code for dinner that night, which would have been the third such evening. Not this time! We opted to have ourmeal served in our Suite by the “Butler”. In a word, we were ready for Stockholm and ready to be done with cruising.
Sweden was actually not on my Bucket List, but seeing Joyce enjoying herring was. Of course this was a pipe dream, as she abhorred the very thought of the stuff! Nevertheless, after the ship was docked in the heavily industrialized port, we joined many who took advantage of the free shuttle service that would deliver us to the center of Stockholm. This is where, among many large edifices, one finds the Grand Hôtel, reputed to have one of the best “Smörgäsbords” in the country. I thought I could lure Joyce into trying one of a dozen or so kinds of herrings, attractively displayed on the buffet table. I even tried to bribe her with a superbly served shot of “Aquavit” and, though she agreed that it tasted much better than what I use at home to marinate gravlax, she could not be induced to try the herring. And so she filled up on Swedish meatballs…like a good Italian!
This was our last night on the ship and the process for being “ejected” from our cocoon had started. We finished packing and our duffels were taken off, along with our other bags and piled in a hangar on the dock of the port. The night before, we tried to find out about our transfer from the ship to the airport. The service desk and the shore excursion desk advised us that two options were available. One was to sign up for the ship’s shore excursion service, at a cost of $200.00; the other, would be to take a taxi at a cost of $75.00. This did not make much sense to Joyce and her superbly logical constitution. Why should a private taxi cost less than a bus??? The staff at the ship’s desk explained that the additional costs of the ship’s transfer arrangements assured on-time arrival at the airport and help with the bags…all services the taxi driver would typically provide. Having had a taste of their “shore excursions”, we felt we had good reason to opt for the taxi and not the ship’s arrangement for assuring our transfer to the airport. Indeed, a taxi was waiting right at the dock and the driver eagerly went into the baggage shed and filled the taxi’s trunk with our luggage. The trip to the airport went without incidents and we thought that we were ahead of the game. It wasn’t until we were ready to enter the airport’s departure hall, with our luggage piled on a trolley for check-in, that the taxi driver advised us that the fare wasn’t anything like $75.00; or even $200.00. It was $400.00!!! For all of the virtues and qualities exhibited by the Silver Whisper, we would strongly suggest that the cruise line take a hard look at the way it handles not only shore excursions, but the competence with which their service desks are manned!
The Third Lap
The flight to Copenhagen on SAS was mercifully brief and we survived the usual abuses to which air passengers are obsessively subjected to by the airports of the world. In Copenhagen we had a little scare when the taxi driver dropped us in front of what looked like a warehouse instead of a luxurious hotel. It turned out that the address was correct, but the name plate for the hotel could not be readily seen from the street. It was a case of design sophistication tromping something as common as a building identification. The hotel, called the “SKT Petri”, had been recently rebuilt and is considered among the best and most modern in the city. Yet it has no obvious presence from the street. The lobby, which happens to be large and impressive, is on the second floor and is accessed by a simple pair of escalators that looked out of commission. A visitor would never recognize this as the principal grand entrance to the hotel. As we found out a little later, the reason the escalators were immobile was that they were activated automatically when stepped on. It was an energy conservation measure. We can’t blame the Danes for this, as we found out all too soon that everything in that country is hellishly expensive. After two nights there, however, I developed a real appreciation for the architecture of the place and the many innovations the building contained. It is also good example of the superb taste in architectural and industrial design for which the Danes are so famous.
Copenhagen was for me a major item to get off my Bucket list. For all the years I spent in the civic improvements of public and private spaces, I was always fascinated with such developments as Jim Rouse’s “Festival Market Places” or Atlanta’s “Omni”, where the arena acts as a catalyst for a complex of shops, hotels and entertainment activities. I have always loved projects where public and private as well as commercial and recreational uses are intermingled and produce serendipity from one another. I was, therefore, no surprise that I had always wanted to see the Tivoli Gardens, as that was what I though was the original inspiration for this. However, what I thought when I saw it was, as Peggy Lee would sing “… Is that all there is …?” I found the Tivoli far less impressive than I had imagined. Worse than that, the Garden was focused so much on the carnival aspects of the environment, with rides, trinket shops and second rate eateries, that it is impossible for the Tivoli to support a claim to fame as the seminal development which has elegantly succeeded in blending the civic beauty of formal gardens with a cheerful mix of commercial and entertainment activities. In fact, Joyce said it best when she felt that the place was more like a poor man’s Disneyland and not a world class attraction…well such is the fate of some bucket list items; some turn out to be really disappointing!
We spent one day and two nights in Copenhagen. Neither Joyce nor I recall where or what we had for dinner on these two nights. Undoubtedly, it must have been something fishy. I do recall having ordered a gravlax platter for lunch at a mediocre restaurant in the Tivoli Gardens that day… and I even enjoyed it, despite the look of supreme disdain on Joyce’s face as she watched me eat. Clearly, she was done with Scandinavia and Scandinavian culture, as well as herrings and other fishy fares! It was high time for our fourth lap and the kind of change in diet we could only expect and were looking forward to in Paris.
The Fourth Lap
The fourth lap of our Pre-Cape Town odyssey was to spend a week in Paris. This involved getting there from Copenhagen. Sick of airports, we even thought of driving to Paris, but it would have been a very complicated trip. We therefore girded our loins and made for the Copenhagen airport, dreading the fact that we would be landing in my nemesis of all airports; Charles de Gaulle. And it did not disappoint. The SAS flight was fine, the landing was safe and there was a minimum of confusion at the incredibly busy airport; even our checked bags appeared on the belt in what seemed like record time … except for one of the big duffels! We enjoyed watching the same derelict bags go round and round, but NO DUFFEL. Everything had been checked in at the same time in Copenhagen, how could this bag be missing??? After about an hour of frantic searching in the baggage retrieval hall, our missing duffel, the very last bag on the belt, suddenly and magically showed up . We were ready for the CDG delight: queuing up for at least half an hour for a taxi! The next two hours were spent in the taxi, which was caught in the most horrendous traffic jam we had ever experienced. There was no end to it and, as the driver came from Mali, his French was, to say the least, a little strange. Therefore, there was no possibility that we could make the time pass with the kind of intelligent chats that often emerge as the saving grace of the chock-a-block jammed up, hideous Peripherique which circles Paris.
We had reservations at our favorite hotel. We were travel weary, it was about 8:30 pm and we were hungry. The so called two hour hop from Copenhagen to our hotel in Paris had taken more than seven hours! Our hotel was the Sofitel Le Faubourg, so named because it is reached via the Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré. We had stayed there before and had been delighted with its hospitality. The location is really fabulous, located between the Place de la Concorde, and the Rue du Faubourg, with the majestic Hotel Crillon, the American Embassy and the Elysée Palace (France’s White House) as neighbors. It is located at the nexus of Metro lines to all of Paris and at the center of haute couture in this epitome of fashion and elegance.
As guests who had booked through our Virtuoso connected travel agents, we had high expectations … and we were therefore not surprised when the bellman informed us that we had been upgraded. What did surprise us was the size of our room. It was smaller than our suite on the Silver Whisper! The bathroom did not have a separate shower and the tub was diminutive. The vanity was too small to hold the contents of our toilet kits. We wondered about the definition of the term “upgrade”. The last time we had stayed at the hotel we had a huge room, more like a suite, and we did not have to traipse along an endless hallway to get to it like this time. We soon found out that, just like our room, the entire hotel had been “upgraded”. The hallways, long as they were, were lit with crystal fixtures that gave them a palatial appearance, expensive looking carpeting muffled all sounds, endowing them with a sense of intimacy and quietude. The bellman told us that all these improvements were fairly recent and that the muse who had inspired them was Jeanne Lanvin. As one of the great fashion doyenne of the twentieth century, her style was plastered all over the hotel, suggesting themes of extreme elegance and a cachet which I felt was inconsistent with the snotty character of the service.
Nowhere was this inconsistency felt more vividly than in the dining room where on the night of our arrival we were disappointed by the paucity of the menu and ended up having more of a snack, than a meal! This was really not what we had expected from the “House of Lanvin”. Breakfast was worse. Formally attired waiters did a Michelin-starred Restaurant dance to clear a small table for us and serve up a cup of coffee! Thank God we did not need this overkill of elegance to secure a croissant and some fruit from the buffet table. But the code is quite rigid with respect to the “Coffee Pour” ritual. The latter is obsessively followed, usually by three waiters - one to clear the table, another to bring a cup, spoon and cream and a third to do the pour. In the meantime, the hotel guest sits and waits!
In all fairness, much of the diffident service in the hotel could be attributed to the summer season. Everyplace was crowded and filled to capacity. Kids were out of school; this was prime time for vacation. The streets were full of oversized, overfed tourists marching down the sidewalks in oversized Nikes. They were constantly being disgorged from monstrously sized busses as they made their way to souvenir shops. It was miserably hot, taxis were, for all practical purposes, unavailable and no matter what you did or where you went, a reservation was always required. The concierge at the hotel was elevated to assume the position of the most important actor on the hotel’s hospitality stage. These were the reasons why we have always avoided Paris … or for that matter, Europe, in the summer season. It was an all around bad experience. We always felt tired and hassled. All of the old haunts we’d always loved were painful experiences and were too hot and too crowded. We tried to get a dinner reservation at Les Ombres, the spectacular restaurant in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower on the roof of the Musé Branly which we had so enjoyed during our last visit in Paris, but it was “complet”, fully booked for at least the rest of the summer, etc. Nevertheless, despite it all, we still managed a few good times. We explored three new destinations in the city which turned out to be interesting, though exhausting because of the heat and the crowds. One was Paris’s largest flea market (Marché aux Puces) where an entire neighborhood had been swallowed by a fabulous conglomeration of stalls selling every kind of imaginable collector items, from paintings and kitchen wares, to exceedingly valuable items of furnishing and furniture. Like an ancient family attic, it was actually quite fascinating. We did a couple of museums - the Musé Rodin where the Thinker, among other masterpieces, reigned and the Musé du Moyen Age, which holds some of the oldest, most precious and most beautiful tapestries in the world. I felt that the only thing missing there was the kind of piped-in ambient medieval music the Cloisters in New York City played … or maybe still plays. We also considered visiting the Delacroix museum where the canvasses are as enormous as they are heroic, usually depicting glorious as well as desperate scenes from France’s colorful and bloody history. However, the heat and the unpleasantness of the street mobs had gotten the better of us and we decided to forgo a third museum … maybe at another time on a nice fall or winter day, when the kids are in school, when the over-sized “Nikes” are safely packed away and the tide of their ubiquitous wearers have withdrawn to whence they haled, we would resume our quest for the best that Paris has to offer. In the meantime, we had to focus on another Gallic cultural endeavor; we had to eat.
After meticulous strategic planning, we wangled a table on the preferred ground floor of Brasserie Lipp where, in the past, we usually made new friends around the tightly packed tables. This time however, no such luck! We were in the right place and at the right table and we even had the right kind of garrulous simpatico waiter, but no accidental fun encounters emerged; we were surrounded and carefully ignored by very serious and “important” people, who were hopelessly wrapped into each other and in the food they ate. Again, it was a manifestation of the season which seemed to cater to a different crowd than the kind we usually encountered in the middle of the winter. Nonetheless we did enjoyed dinner enormously.
Joyce had done a lot of home work. She had done her usual spreadsheet correlating restaurants with their respective chefs and their culinary pedigrees; she had made lists of new eateries, as well as (no pun intended) seasoned ones. In the process, she had shredded a year’s worth of travel magazines and she had carefully organized articles about where to experience the latest recommended by the culinary insiders for Paris. All I had to do was to arrange for reservations. That, of course, proved impossible. The most common word on the hotel concierge’s lips was: “Complet!” (No room). It was my fault of course; I should have made the reservations from the US at least eight months in advance!
Nevertheless, I did manage to find an unprepossessing restaurant among the many uncovered by Joyce’s research. It was buried in a Forbe’s magazine article alluringly called “Dialed In; Paris’ Best New Bistros”. Indeed it was called: Le Bistrot Paul Bert, a chef lionized by French food critics. His bistro, located around Place de la Bastille, in the Faubourg Saint Antoine, turned out to be quintessentially bistro-like in aroma, décor and atmosphere. The walls were plastered, as in all self-respected establishments of this type, with all sorts of flea market bric-a-brac, there was no hint of dress code or formality in the place, either from the patrons or the staff. It was, in other words the antithesis of a Michelin- rated eatery. The service was just as informal, a little noisy and efficiently disorganized! It also happens to be a top stop for visiting wine makers.The food, surprisingly, was amazing! Paul Bert, who is no spring chicken, has transcended the creativity and impulsiveness of his “Rock Star” compatriot chefs, by delivering a well balanced menu of provincial dishes. One feels at home in the place and I would not trade it in for one of those trendy new arrivals. We will go back there.
Finally, on our last day in Paris, we landed in a place where we knew no “Réservations” would be required. It was: Au Vieux Comptoir, the Brasserie near the Chatelet theater where a couple of years ago we had riotously feted the arrival of the Beaujolais Nouveau, courtesy of Anne, the Alsatian manager/owner/jack of all trades who directed the operations of the establishment with a verve and zest we’ve never encountered since.
The week in Paris actually slipped by fairly quickly, but we had to admit to ourselves that the summer brought with it far too many annoyances to make our stay memorable. But as it is our very favorite place in the world, we promised to ourselves that we would try again when the weather is less friendly but everything else in the city is.
The Fifth Lap
It was now July 1. We were more than ready for a change in scenery … and climate. The fifth lap of our pre-Cape Town odyssey fulfilled both these needs. We were on our way to Scotland and England. The summers there are less torrid and the tourists less horrid! But first, we had to get there. This meant a taxi ride to Charles de Gaulle and a flight to Edinburg via Heathrow, where we would change planes. Once in Edinburg, we would rent a car, visit around Scotland, the Midlands, the Cotswold and end the driving part of our odyssey in London where, after another night at the Rubens Hotel … and maybe another dinner at Quilon … we would board our British Air flight for Cape Town. What could be simpler? Well, right off the bat, it started badly; let me explain:
Our plane was scheduled to leave at 2:10 pm. It was on a Thursday and though we did not anticipate the kind of horrendous traffic we had encountered on the Peripherique when we arrived a week earlier, we had had all we could enjoy of Paris and decided to leave the hotel right after breakfast and last minute packing - as it turned out, very early indeed - about 9:30 am, plenty of time to avoid any time anxieties at the infamous Charles De Gaulle airport. We were only partially right. It took at least 45 minutes for the doormen to flag down a taxi at our beloved Sofitel! It was worse than New York City on a rainy day. But the ride to the airport was effortless, despite what seemed a very strange route our Chinese - or Vietnamese, as Joyce thought - taxi driver followed, to reach the Peripherique.
We were a little concerned, as he was uncharacteristically non communicative. We didn’t appreciate why until he dropped us off on the sidewalk of the terminal. After dumping our stuff, he wanted to get paid, but made it clear by using sign language that he could not accept credit cards. We had used then to pay for taxis everywhere throughout England, Europe and Scandinavia, sometimes for as little as a $10.00 ride. But here, suddenly and unexpectedly, depleted of the Euro currency since this would be the last time we’d need it we were caught short. The matter was loudly debated, while an increasingly irate bus driver was impatiently blowing his horn trying to go past this obstruction in his delivery of a load full of passengers. Our first instinct was to enter the terminal, find an ATM and pay the cab driver, except for the bus driver who by now was livid with rage. He managed to rattle our Chinaman to a point where the latter opened the trunk of his cab, picked up one of the large duffels and was about to turn it into a hostage situation. I have never seen Joyce spring into action with greater speed and energy. NOBODY was going to grab her bag! Come hell or high water, NOBODY! There was a brief tug of war, the cab driver finally yielded to Joyce’s death grip and the matter was finally settled, without bloodshed when she paid the fare using Pound Sterling notes she had squirreled away in the secret recesses of her many purses. The driver seemed grudgingly satisfied with the transaction and went on his way, releasing the bus driver from the blockage. But this was not our last bad taste of Paris.
The departure hall was bedlam. British Air’s concept of crowd control wasn’t tear gas or rubber bullets, they had simply locked the automatic check in machines until 2 hours before boarding time and then they applied the same concept for the checked baggage drop. There we were, with our so-called “Elite Status” more than the required 2 hours before boarding time, standing among screaming kids and bewildered passengers, surrounded by all of our bags with not even a place to sit! When we asked, they explained that they had 2 flights to check in and passengers were always arriving late, so they had to do them first. Unbelievable! We were being punished for getting there early! So, until we were allowed to check in and drop our bags, we sat on our luggage in the main terminal and this brought a bit of relief. In fact I shared our duffels with a few kids and infants who found then convenient perches to observe the pandemonium. Finally, we could check in. By this time, there was a fearsome queue at the baggage drop. It was a relief that finally our “Elite Status” came to our rescue … except that some latecomers for an earlier flight had to be processed first. As there was a seemingly endless number of these privileged characters, like a paradox, the queue got longer as it got shorter. With security inspection still ahead, we barely made the plane … all for an hour flight between Charles De Gaulle and Heathrow. From this point on, it got easier - sort of. The transfer to the Edinburgh flight was simple but not painless - we had to go through immigration and security all over and it took nearly every minute of the 1 1/2 hours we had between flights; but at least our arrival in Scotland clearly signaled that a saner phase of our travels was afoot.
The Edinburgh airport was almost intimate, the taxi ride was short and the driver spoke, though not the King’s English, as no good Scots would ever do that, a brogue we found charming and welcoming. He dropped us off at the stately Balmoral Hotel where we enjoyed regal accommodations and a glorious, “front row” view of Edinburgh Castle and the iconic large monument erected in honor of Sir Walter Scott, where he sits in a gothic structure which dominates the park that seemed to mark the center of the city. All this, to the ritualistic sounds of a “Piper” officially stationed, as dusk was approaching, at a corner of a very busy intersection … It was magic! Not quite so magic was the food. Dinner, though served with competence and elegance was tasty but forgettable; but then again, we were tired and had no great expectations.
The slopes that surrounded Edinburgh castle suggested, and the concierge agreed, that if we wanted to save ourselves from some pretty painful exertions, we would be best off visiting the city in one of their double Decker Tour busses so readily available, stationed across the public park from the hotel. The concept is to buy a “hop-on; hop-off” ticket which enables one to do a lot of shopping and site-seeing in the course of any given day. The challenge being that one had to find the “hopping on” points! We tried that during Joyce’s quest for cashmere wool, so famous in Scotland, but she was defeated, as it was either too expensive or not sufficiently elegant. When we tried to “hop” back on the bus, we never found the stop, so we wound up taking a taxi back to the hotel.
Some of the sightseeing busses had the added feature of having a narrator on board. Ours displayed a sense of humor which I suspect is not unusual in Scotland. As we passed an historic hospital, he told us of the fact that at one time there had been a healthy illegal trade in cadavers and that “when the culprits were caught, they all received “suspended sentences; they were hung!”. At another point, he remarked that, as the tour busses roamed around the city, there were always pedestrians in the way and that they came in “two categories; the QUICK and the DEAD”!
We enjoyed Edinburgh Castle and hearing about the legend of William Wallace, of “Braveheart” fame. No one will ever accuse the Scots of lacking creativity and this was manifest at the exit point of the Castle where there is a photo op for anybody who wishes to pose, for a small tithe, with a character made up like Mel Gibson in his heroic role, with his face half painted blue. And then, fleeced from that experience, we could not avoid the spirit of Macbeth, exuding from the walls of the castle. We could even imagine the witches chanting their refrain over a bubbling cauldron like in the first act of the famous play. While we did not actually hear any witches, we were nonetheless lured into an eatery called The Witchery down the street from the William Wallace portrayer. The place was very dark and required lots of candles, even in the middle of the day. It was all extremely well done; a basement restaurant decorated as a demonic witches’ den. Only the bats were missing! We were so taken by the décor that the food never mattered.
Edinburgh turned out to the best imaginable introduction to Scotland. After the craziness of Europe in the summer and the chaos in the airports, our brief stay in this beautiful city was like a merciful return to sanity. We were ready for the next and last lap of our pre-Cape Town Journey - renting a car and driving through Scotland and back to London. To this end, after checking out of the Balmoral Hotel, we took a long taxi ride to the car rental agency, which was located way out of the city, in the middle of an industrial zone. When we were finally all loaded up, with our luggage and with our GPS well primed to guide us to our next destination, the morning was almost gone.nOur destination was Inverness, where we were looking forward to an interesting two-day stop over. The road was good and there was little traffic. We got to the Culloden House, our hospitality for the visit, in record time. Joyce’s ability to conquer left side driving on the narrow Scottish roads in the new Mercedes we had had the luck of landing for the trip seemed no challenge. The countryside was actually quite dramatic as we transitioned into the Highlands, sending our imagination into the land of kilts and tartans.
Culloden House was very impressive. With only 28 rooms, the 40 acre estate makes the Palladium style mansion feel like a private palace … but an old one. The floors creak and there is a feeling of worn elegance that permeates everything. This is more than offset, however, by the opulence of the classic furniture and furnishings, which all seem to date from the seventeen hundreds. The sitting room in particular was filled with well endowed overstuffed arm chairs and divans that promised a surfeit of Victorian comfort. This environment suggested that I really should be sitting there, on one of these armchairs, legs crossed, holding a glass of Scotch … just like in the ads hawking the stuff! Now, I never drink scotch, having once gotten miserably sick on it in a prior life, when I was a teenager and grossly overindulged. Since then, scotch has always tasted like medicine to me, and I’ve stayed religiously away from this quaff. But here, in Scotland, in this setting, I could not resist a second try. In fact I was so smitten with the idea, that when some fellow guests later wandered into the sitting room and ordered Bloody Marys, it was so gauche, I wanted to scream! In the meantime … I had asked the butler to advise me as to which scotch I should order. Without hesitation he suggested and brought me a shot of Glenmorangie. I was amazed, worst than that, I was hooked! I loved the stuff, and thus began my new career as a scotch maven.
From that point on, I had to taste every new scotch I encountered throughout Scotland and England. For example, another of my favorites was Aberlour, which had all of the characteristics of a VSOP Cognac! The mystique behind these scotches, or “Whisky” as they are actually called, is the term “Single Malt”. What this means is that it’s not a blend. It’s usually the product of a single house. There are over thirty single malt whiskies distilled in Scotland and it is clearly a major and important industry. This is evidenced by the humongous size of the distilleries …. as we found out when we toured the innards of the Talisker distillery for two or so hours, following the path of the grain to the fermentation tanks, until the processed brew can be distilled and acquire the correct flavor to qualify for long-term residency in a warehouse full of oak barrels. David Broom, the editor of the “Scotch Whisky Review” has developed an interesting Single Malt “Flavor Map” which positions each brand in a matrix that ranges between “Light” and “Rich” on the intensity scale, and from “Delicate” to “Smoky” on the flavor scale. However, before getting lost in a drunken haze, it is important to cite the fact that Inverness turned out to be a marvelous location for an incredibly wide range of visitor activities.
To begin with, the area is important historically. This is where the battle of Culloden was fought; it was the last battle ever fought on British soil in a war between the Crown and Scotland. As one reads inside the complexities of this struggle, this was really a Scottish insurrection, fought largely by Highlanders … who lost … and a lot of mercenaries paid by the British Government … who won. The battle field has become a major tourist attraction, which we manage to miss.But then there are other attractions which we did not miss.
Thus, we had a chance to cruise Loch Ness … and if one looks at our photos, we have proof positive that there is indeed a monster! Oh horrors! Actually, it wasn’t horrible; it was just windy, rainy and freezing. But after sweltering in Paris, who is complaining? In the meantime there will always be a soft spot in our memories that will belong to “Nessie”.
In the course of driving through the countryside, we decided to visit “Cawdor Castle”, a name romantically linked by Shakespeare to Macbeth. Built as a private fortress, toward the end of the fourteenth century, by the Thanes of Cawdor, it still remains today as the live-in home of the Cawdor family. As we visited the castle, this was evidenced by two separate kitchens, one contemporary in design and equipment, the other, medieval with the appearance of a primitive culinary museum. Rounding out the day, as we prepared for dinner, a piper, obviously the House Piper, was strolling with his bag pipes in full action around the mansion, greeting the final descent of whatever amount of sun made through the cloud cover. Naturally, this was a photo and Joyce couldn’t miss it. Dinner have to be a bit later.
Becoming too friendly with the hired help can mean all sorts of trouble. In our case , this was manifested by a silly question - “Exactly what is Haggis?” The word had appeared as a menu item at every meal, and we religiously stayed away from it. For better or worse, however, we were in Scotland and in the midst of extremely cooperative staff. They wouldn’t be insulted if we hated it! And so, we decided to demystify the matter. This took courage as we had both witnessed the reaction to the stuff from friends and we had a pretty good inkling about what goes into this dish…but the French eat tripe, escargots, frogs’ legs and rilettes, why should this be so different? Well, surprise surprise - the chef and the wait staff combined their talents and offered up a Napoleon of Haggis that actually tasted delicious, a little like Shepherd’s Pie. Who said the Brits don’t understand fine food?
The day before, when we left Edinburgh for Inverness, we were headed north into the Scottish Highlands. From Inverness and Culloden House we were now headed for our next destination, somewhat further north and all the way to the west, to the Isle of Skye. Despite a large single span bridge over the Sound of Sleat, which links the main land to the island, it does not feel as if you are on an island. Unmistakably however there are changes. The natural bleakness of the overcast weather is compounded by the desolate qualities of the geography. Yet, this is precisely what endows the area with its rugged charm and uniqueness; there is no place on earth that can match it. Venturing further onto the Isle, we noticed that the road had narrowed to two lanes, and then to one lane with pull-offs every now and again. Fortunately, there was also very little traffic, so that the driving was actually quite manageable.
We found our destination on the Isle of Skye with great ease and our hotel, Kinloch Lodge , was warm, friendly and extremely charming. The rugged character of the environment in which it was located seemed to reinforce the contrast. Although the lodge was the ancestral home of the Clan McDonald, there were no Golden Arches. Instead, the walls were covered with original oils portraying the ancestors in various heroic poses, dressed in traditional kilt, tam and tartan wraps. We felt honored to be there and I was thrilled to sip my Glenmorangie scotch in front of the burning fireplace. But the big surprise was yet to come.
We had heard of a great chef and famous restaurant - perhaps the only one - on the Isle of Skye at this place called The Three Chimneys. We had made plans to go there the next day as it is a long drive from Kinloch and we had already driven quite a bit on that first day on the Isle. We had also heard that the chef at Kinloch Lodge was pretty good. In our minds we expected a good dinner that night at the lodge, but it was the following day, with lunch at The Three Chimneys, that we were really looking forward to as the culinary event of the trip. Well, we could not have been more wrong; it was exactly the reverse. Our lunch at The Three Chimneys turned out to be mediocre and only marginally worth the trip. On the other hand, the night before, on our arrival, we had already enjoyed and had been impressed beyond description by the talents of Marcello Tully, the Head Chef of Kinloch Lodge. As it turned out, the Lodge and its Chef had earned a well deserved Michelin Star, while The Three Chimneys was not even a contender. We have kept a few of the menus to remember what Chef Tully is all about. They are highly descriptive of the dishes. These are paired with his selection of wines and they are presented in such fashion that the selection of the meal is an exercise in selecting mouth-watering flavors rather than one of deciphering pedantic terminology!
In the course of our drive to The Three Chimneys, we had the opportunity to absorb the unique nature of the Isle of Skye environment. It is extremely old and forbiddingly deserted. Sheep are everywhere and so are ruins of churches and ancient cemeteries that silently sleep the eons away. Yet there exist a strange kind of charm and romantic quality in all of this, engendering a mood for contemplation that stays with you until rain or cold winds drive you to seek a warm, burning fire place. The Isle of Skye was as far north as we would venture in Scotland. It was time to turn south and make our way to Glasgow, and the Lakes Region. After that, it would be the Cotswold and then back to London for our long flight to Cape Town.
We had reached the Isle from the mainland via the Skye Bridge. As we were headed south from Kinloch Lodge, the most direct route would be to cross the Sound of Sleat by ferry at the southern extremity of the Isle, and then reach Glasgow, taking advantage of the network of roads that serve the mainland. This little exercise, which shouldhave taken 3 hours according to the GPS, took all day. Between the ferry schedule and its embarking and debarking operations, as well as the 45 minute required for the crossing itself, almost three hours had elapsed before we were able to hit the road on the mainland that would lead us to the Hotel du Vin. Along the way, as we were getting closer to Glasgow, we noticed all sorts of activities on the side of the road. After a while, it became clear that this was not accidental. We realized soon enough that we had blundered into the preparations for a major international Golf tournament. This was a clear reminder of where we were. I had tasted Scotch, we had both partaken in eating Haggis and we had our fill of bagpipe music; but neither one of us played or had much interest in golf … except when we discovered, after we had checked into the very chi-chi Hotel du Vin, that our opulent looking room, which was more like a suite, had a small 10 inch “green” with a putter to practice one’s golf skills. The message was very clear; we were in a golf addict environment! The hotel was, to say the least, unusual. Joyce loved everything about it, but I did not. After Chef Tully’s performance at Kinloch Lodge, we both found dining quite competent, but certainly not as spectacular as one would be led to believe after reading the elaborate self serving literature of the hotel’s house brochures. Hotel du Vin is part of a chain of some fourteen boutique hotels that each bears its own individual character but is linked by a common philosophy, expressed as follows in the brochure prominently displayed in our room when we entered:
“I think I travel far, far too much. I need somewhere I can truly unwind. A place that offers me what I need when I need it. Be it with friends or for business I look forward to stunning food and a thankfully peaceful night’s sleep to recharge the batteries. Did I mention they do a great glass of wine too?” Therefore, I du Vin.
I am sure that Descartes must have helped with this bit of literature but it requires a special understanding to relate it to our experience at this hotel. Joyce’s and my views about our one night stay there differed. She was thrilled with the sumptuous décor of the place, the generosity of the amount of space in our room, the number of pillows that overloaded the bed and the rest of the furniture there and the general feeling of opulence that suffused the hotel. I could certainly agree with her about all theses things and how impressive they were. Indeed it was evident that the message one gets at first is that this is a place to host Royalty and special events. As for meeting the needs of tired travelers another picture emerges.
Once we took possession of the room, much of the cosmetic charm that had so mesmerized Joyce gave way to the functional reality of its various purposes. Sure, there were the usual inconveniences, like finding light switches and activating the heavy floor to ceiling velour drapes, or dealing with the stubborn skeleton key to the room etc, but these problems, encountered by every traveler when moving from one hospitality to another, are normal. In this case however, everything looked nice, but almost nothing worked! I could wax poetic on the subject, and write, for example, about the way the bathroom was organized and the tub-cum-shower was designed, but this narration is not the place, nor the time for a functional audit of the hotel. I can’t resist, however, describing Joyce’s saga with the hair dryer.
Now, everybody knows that women with beautiful long hair like to wash it and blow dry it as part of their daily make-up ritual. To accomplish this essential mission, they require at one location: An electric blow-dryer; An outlet to plug it in; A mirror; A chair, preferably cushioned; A vanity to hold all the above; A light to see the results of the effort.
Joyce was able to find the hair dryer. After that, it got a little harder. The electric plug was nowhere near a mirror and there was no vanity that we could see. As a matter of fact, she found the only useable mirror in the room on the reverse side of a lovely wardrobe, far away from any electric outlets. To make a long story a little shorter, suffice it to say that the concluding scene had poor Joyce crunched on the floor with a brush in one hand, while she alternated a small mirror and the hair dryer in the other. She was NOT happy! She could be heard mumbling something about interior “desecrators” who secretly hate women …
We should have suspected that this was not going to be paradise when we arrived there. The GPS delivered us to the right address at One Devonshire Garden, undoubtedly a very distinguished address. But all we saw was a long row of large Georgian style town houses. There was nothing, not a sign, not a Porte Cochère, not a doorman to tell us how to access the magnificent town houses that had been ingeniously linked together into a single structure to become the Hotel du Vin. It wasn’t long however, before we spotted an agitated man in a top hat running down in front of the town houses. He was our welcoming committee. From that point on, the rest of our matriculation into the hotel proceeded without incidents.
This was our last stop in Scotland. The next day, we made it to the Lakes District in England where we were booked in a Relais & Chateau Hostelry known as Gilpin Lodge. We could discern a light at the end of the tunnel, our drive from the northern reaches of Scotland to London was almost over. Leaving the Hotel du Vin, we had the opportunity to drive across Glasgow. It is the official capital city of Scotland and its largest business center. Though important in many ways it has none of the charms and visitor attractions found in Edinburgh. It is also Scotland’s most important center of cultural activities housing the Scottish Opera, the Scottish Ballet, the Scottish National Orchestra and the Citizen Theater; in 1990, it was awarded the title “Cultural Capital of Europe”.
Our destination in the Lakes District seemed like a simple straightforward drive in a bucolic lake dotted landscape. But, as we got closer to our destination, our GPS decided to have a nervous breakdown. We seemed to go over the same roads again and again and, when we finally got to the town of Windermere, which was in full bloom with market activities and street life, we felt as if the GPS had finally come to its senses. It had brought us to a road that “felt right”! Alas, it wasn’t so. We wanted to see that town again, knowing it was close to our destination, but no! It was as if it had been erased from the GPS’ little silicone mind … but finally we found the hotel. By the time we had checked in, we were so happy to be there, all sightseeing ambitions vanished for fear that we would never find the place again. After we were settled, bathed and properly relaxed in the beautiful lodge, we admired the long view of a large lake from the window of our room which, better than any work of art, enhanced the quiet beauty of the Country House’s location. The only note we felt to be inconsistent with the sterling reputation of a Relais & Chateau for exquisite service was the fact that we had to bring our own bags to the room. Though astonished by that, we somehow managed to survive this hardship. Our stay at the Gilpin lodge was short, but the Relais & Chateau cachet did shine through, and thus, well rested, we set out the next day for two days in the Cotswold, at a place called Buckland Manor.
In the context of our entire journey, Hotel du Vin and Gilpin Lodge were really short pit stops that made the trip more manageable and pleasant. Buckland Manor and the Cotswold, on the other hand, was a real destination. Not only is the Manor House an interesting and impressive country home on its own, but with Oxford, Stratford-Upon-Avon, Warwick Castle, Blenheim Palace where Churchill was born and lots of other places to visit, all within a short driving range, makes it possible to immerse visitors in English culture like no other area can, with the exception of London. We thoroughly enjoyed the manor house. With the proportions of a sprawling castle, we learned that a long, long time ago it used to be a monastery. But there was nothing monastic about this luxurious Relais & Chateaux property. the interior was extremely elegant, almost formal. It was filled with antiques and classic English furniture, yet the manor’s homey character came through. The roughly finished stone walls, the many gabled roofs, the collection of chimney pots that protruded there, hinting at the number of fireplaces inside, the exposed ceiling beams and the uneven ancient looking planked wooden floors, that sometimes creaked, and were all covered with expensive orientals, all combined to convey a feeling of aristocratic intimacy.
Finally, as if ordained by ancient English custom, we were accosted by a huge, very old and very friendly golden lab waiting to be petted … it was perfect.
The moment we passed the threshold at the back of the manor house and stepped outside, we suddenly had serious doubts as to whether we were in a country house or a palace. The gardens that surrounded the house were extensive and completely formal; more like those found in one of those French Chateaux than in a country home. Everything was manicured to perfection. I actually felt out of place without Jacket and tie. “Regal Elegance” is the only term that would be fit for the gardens. Reinforcing this tableau, the manager was a very serious man; impeccably dressed in black, with white shirt and black tie, I first thought he was one of the waiters as he was strolling through the gardens. His demeanor clearly suggested that he was more part of the “help” than involved in the manor’s ownership. In any case, we knew he was not a guest. There was large rose garden next to a sprawling lawn equipped for croquet, and there were, beyond the terrace that adjoined the main building, two areas along the borders of the lawn, available and serviced for outdoor eating. These were made inviting with tables, comfortable seating and large umbrellas.
As it turned out, the lawn, the gardens, the outdoor eating area and the formally clad manager all played a part in the drama that was to follow. Joyce and I were sitting at one of the tables in the garden between the beds of roses and the manor house, when we heard the far away characteristic sounds of beating helicopter blades. We thought this was interesting but we dismissed the noise as a routine fly-over of no particular interest to us or Buckland Manor. By the time this thought registered, we noticed that the noise from the heli-blades had intensified and that the chopper had gotten considerably closer. In fact, it felt as if it was seeking to land on our head! And it nearly did! … landing illegally next door and transforming the umbrella masts from the adjoining tables into javelins, flying through the air as they were caught in the uncontrollable down draft of the helicopter’s blades. By the time we got over the shock and realized that, fortunately, nobody was hurt, we looked over the lawn and could not help but watch with cruel amusement the gesticulation of the black suited manager, venting his outrage at the pilot who had so upset the stately character of his establishment!
We did not go to Stratford-upon-Avon or Warwick Castle or to many of the attractions in the region, as our taste for touring with the hoards of tourists had waned. We did decide, however, to visit the village of Broadway, touted to be the most beautiful in England … in addition to being conveniently close to Buckland Manor. That turned out to be not such a good idea, as the place was entirely too crowded and touristy. The drives around the Cotswold, as we went through the beautiful, unspoiled countryside and the quaint hamlets and villages made us regret that we were only going to spend two days there. I know we will visit it again.
But now it was time to leave this Eden and drive back to the starting point at the Ruben Hotel in London. Once there, only a short drive from the Cotswold region, we would turn the rental car in and fulfill our last mission in England before boarding the British Boeing 747 that would fly us to Cape Town. This last mission was to go to a theater matinee and see “Pricilla Queen of the Desert”, a hilarious musical production about the trials and tribulations of a small, very gay band of drag queens traveling in a run down bus from Sidney to Alice Springs in Australia. Naturally, Joyce bought the shirt!
And so it was that, after another wonderful dinner at Quilan (we’re so boring), we left the next day for Cape Town. And the adventure continues …
Thanks for coming to what will become our way of entertaining our favorite people at our “home away from home”!
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