Category Archives: Personal

A collection of personal thoughts and stories

European Vacation – August 11

Day one of exploring Florence. Our first impression of Gassime proved to be correct, as he effortlessly switched between at least 4 different languages and welcomed everyone for breakfast. He quickly got our reserved room ready and got us settled into a clean and tidy quad with a view of the Duomo and Campanile from the window. Shutters opened out into a little tiled courtyard. Just too damned cute. After getting settled, we hit the cobblestoned streets of Florence.

You literally can’t turn a corner here without seeing a scene you just have to take a picture of. Lauren, who had saved up and bought a digital camera for herself, had it going constantly. Around every corner, there was a new renaissance treasure to be seen. We walked past the Duomo and Battistero to the Ponte Vecchio, down to the Palazzo Pitti, then back to the north bank of the Arno and wandered the streets, checking booth after booth filled with leather goods, souvenirs, sweets and the ever present gelato counters. My daughter Alanna was determined to do some shopping. Alanna is almost 13 and is in love with the idea of shopping. However, she doesn’t seem to realize that shopping means at some point you actually have to make a decision and purchase something. After awhile, all the booths blurred together, but she still seemed convinced that the perfect momento had not yet been found.

The weather was perfect, sunny but not too hot and the hours passed quickly as we wandered through the historic maze, made a stop at the Festivo de Gelatto (hundreds of flavors, including carrot and spinach, we opted for less adventurous and wholesome options, mine was dark chocolate) and gradually made it back to the hotel for a quick afternoon nap.

After the nap, we headed out again, grabbing a calzone at one of the many Pizza di Taglio (by the slice) shops and then wandering down to the Arno to see the Ponte Vecchio at night. This is a truly amazing structure, being one of the few historic bridges not destroyed by the Germans as they retreated and crowded with tiny little antique buildings clinging to the superstructure of the bridge. Most of them house jewelry shops, windows jammed with dazzling Italian gold. At night, it provides a inspiring view and picture opportunity.

We continued along the north bank of the Arno until we reached the Uffizi Gallery, and then walked through the central courtyard, enjoying a rare moment when the historic location wasn’t jammed with tourists. A classical guitarist was performing Rodrigo and provided the perfect soundtrack to the moment, dusk in Florence, with the Uffizi and its many statues framing the imposing Palazzo Vecchio and it’s piazza, lit up at night. A few more steps and we saw an orchestra setting up. Apparently, it was the 62nd Anniversary of the Liberation of Florence from the Germans in World War II and there would be a free concert in the courtyard. I started questioning whether you could call it a Liberation when Italy was still technically in alliance with Germany at the time, but decided to quit quibbling with Italian revisionist history and just enjoy the moment. It was a little surreal, sitting in Florence and listening to Ennio Morricone (theme for the Magnificent Seven) in one of the most beautiful piazzas in the world. Just one other comment on the celebration. They continued to say how important the liberation was for Florence, but not once did they mention who did the liberating. I thought a quick nod of thanks to the many American soldiers (and some Canadians, my uncle being one of them) would have been appropriate.

After the concert, we continued to stroll (the Italians call it a passeggiata) down the street, catching a few other street entertainers and falling totally under the spell of Florence.

Two Views of Tempus Fugit

First published August 10, 2006 in Mediapost’s Search Insider

As I write this, I’m sitting on France’s TGV train from Paris to Lyon. I’m one week into our European vacation, and so far it’s been wonderful, with the exception of an unfortunate pickpocket incident in Paris’s Chatelet metro station (my father-in-law was the victim, not me), and an ensuing long and somewhat fruitless conversation with the French gendarmerie. It’s been a struggle getting back into SEM mode to write about search engines and whatnot. It’s hard to believe that in San Jose, there’s little happening that doesn’t have to do with search engines.

Travels with Gord

This is really my first time on the Continent, as I can’t really count trips to SES in London and Stockholm. So far we’ve been in Milan, Paris and a city in the French Alps called Chambery. I’ve had my first gelato, a few bottles of excellent French wine, and way more cheese than I should have. So what’s to write about?

It strikes me that the one thing that differs most here is the approach to time. Perhaps it’s the fact that Europeans are surrounded by constant reminders that time is not fleeting.

I wrote a blog post a little while ago about digital compression. I think this is more of a North America phenomenon. In our society, and particularly in anything to do with the Internet or high tech, time seems to compress noticeably. Look at how far companies like Google have come in such a short time. It’s a global enterprise, with thousands of employees, and it’s been around for less than a decade. To go from nothing to Google in a few short years requires the significant shortening of any timeline that would be considered reasonable. Contrast that with some of the construction projects I’ve recently had the opportunity to see, such as Notre Dame, hundreds of years in the making. Time is a much more durable commodity in the Old World.

Deadline by Deadline…

In the world I normally live in, time is constantly ticking towards the next deadline, and those deadlines usually come in sets, stacked on top of each other, dictating that impossible amounts of work get done before the seconds tick away. Companies have to go from start-up to sell-out in years, or even months. Most of the business establishments I’ve been in the past week have been running for decades, and some for centuries. People are driven to amass fortunes in a few short years that would previously take generations to build. We try to squeeze weeks, months and years into tiny little 24-hour containers.

The Internet encourages and enables this compression. It’s a phenomenon that goes hand in hand with the digital wiring of the world, but for some reason, it’s much more noticeable in the new world than the old.

Time Times Three

Here are just three examples I’ve seen in the last week. When we eat, it’s usually little more than a gastronomic pit stop, shoveling in the food as quickly as possible, so we can rush off to our next pressing deadline. In France, dinner is a multi-hour affair, with distinct stages that merge seamlessly from one to the other. It’s a well- choreographed event, almost ritualistic in its importance, serving as a cornerstone for social interaction, or just observing the world go by. In Europe, the world seems centered around the dinner table, not the clock.

Another example is vacations. Most people we’ve met can’t believe we’re squeezing a multi-country European vacation into three weeks. As my hosts in Chambery kept saying, “No time, too little, too much to do.” They were even more surprised when I told them this is the longest vacation I’ve ever taken. In Europe, eight- to 10-week vacations seem to be the norm.

The final example was our encounter with the police in Paris following the theft of my father-in-law’s wallet. We went to the nearest police station to report the incident. Thank goodness we were accompanied by a family member who lives in Paris and could translate.

At first we were told that it would be about four hours before we could make the report because they were so busy, and we should really come back tomorrow. I was quite prepared to accept this explanation at face value and was heading back to the hotel, when our Parisian companion explained that this wasn’t acceptable and prepared to launch into a long and passionate plea, very little of which I understood. At various times, we had up to five officers participating in the conversation, which lasted about 40 minutes. During that time, the reason why we couldn’t file the report went from too busy to not having computer access to not having the right form to the vague explanation “It’s all political,” accompanied with the very typical shrug of the shoulders.

Finally, our companion convinced the police to accommodate us that day, and the report was filed in about 25 minutes. But it seemed that while there was plenty of time to argue for several minutes, there was no time to actually get the job in question done.

Time To Go

I state this not to pass judgment but simply to note the differences. For some reason, time is reckoned differently here. While we rush forward towards some vaguely defined future that almost certainly has to be better than today, my new friends in France and Italy seem to be in much less of a hurry to let today slip by. While this attitude can be a little frustrating in certain circumstances, in most cases, I have to say they’ve got it right. So far, the only things that seem to go fast here are the trains, Italian drivers and my vacation time.

European Vacation – August 10

This was the day we left for Florence. We packed, bid adieu to Gaetan and Lina after vowing to return soon and climbed on the train for Milan, where we would connect to Florence. We can’t thank Lina and Gaetan enough for your hospitality. We had forged new and much stronger bonds with these wonderful cousins from France.

The train from Chambery to Milan was a French SNCF train, but we were somewhat apprehensive about what the Italian trains would be like. We were pleasantly surprised when we climbed upon an Italian Eurostar train in Milan (not to be confused with the Eurostar that runs between London and Paris. The Italians had the Eurostar first) and found a very chic, comfortable train, complete with a conductor that looked like an Italian fashion model (female). But a word of caution about train travel in Europe. If you go with the Eurail pass, be prepared to have to pay for reservations on the high speed trains, and be prepared to wait in line. The cost of reservations was negligible in France, and I hear Germany doesn’t charge, but Italy seems determined to first abuse their guests traveling by train, and then fleece them of any remain euros. Reservations run about 10 – 15 euros per person, per leg of our journey. Our trip for 4 from Chambery to Florence cost over 100 euros in reservation costs. During our stop over in Milan we tried making reservations for the rest of our trip, but had to wait in line so long we abandoned the notion in frustration and rushed upstairs to catch our train to Florence. No problem, we’ll make the reservations when we get to Florence. Upon arrival in Florence, we had a brief, unpleasant encounter with the world’s surliest information desk attendant (apparently information in this part of Europe is not served with politeness. Perhaps you have to pay extra for this) who directed me to the Biglietti (Ticket) counter.

Ah, another line. Jill and I tossed a coin and I won (although that’s up for debate) the right to go make our reservations. Let me put this in context. Jill is Italian. She grew up in an Italian family where at least half are somewhat conversant in Italian. Both her parents still speak Italian. Her two grandmothers speak nothing but Italian. Jill can understand most Italian, and can generally make herself understood. My Italian is limited to one ill fated adult Italian class and what I’ve been able to squeeze out of one of those do-it-yourself Italian CD sets in the last 6 weeks. Something a simple as asking for a class of water is very likely to get me a slap in the face. Where are we? Italy. Who gets elected to go to the counter and arrange the rest of our train connections? Me..of course. “Oh don’t worry, everyone speaks English here.” Famous last words, but to be fair to Jill, her use of the language has been limited to “Grazie” and “Buon giorno”. Everything else has been limited to her asking “Do you speak English”, in English, and getting an immediate switch. She didn’t even have to ask in Italian, although I felt it would have shown that we’re trying hard to stretch our cultural boundaries and assimilate their cultures. Her logic, “If they speak English, they understand. If they don’t, I’ll just walk away.” Hard to argue with my woman’s logic.

So, convinced, I got in the queue for the ticket windows. There I met a very nice university student from Ottawa and chatted for awhile. He had traveled through German and Italy so far, and was now off to France and Spain. It was the trip I always wanted to take in my twenties, and was never brave enough too. A buddy bailed on my after I had it all planned, and I wasn’t brave enough to go alone. My new friend was in a very similar circumstance, but decided to go for it. I congratulated him on his choice, and told him the decision not to go was one of my few regrets in life (well, that and the Speedo, but that’s a fairly recent addition) and that it’s taken me 25 years to make it. He was feeling a little lonely, but I think that made him feel better.

My time in line proved to be more enjoyable than my wife’s, who watched the drama of the Stazione Maria de Novella unfold around her. Several shady looking characters skulking around the joint, and one miniature female thief (probably about 10 years old, the age of my youngest daughter) who grabbed a purse out of a ladies hand and attempted to escape. The polizie grabbed her before the door and dragged her screaming back to the scene of the crime. My wife managed to Velcro both children and 5 suitcases to various bits of her body, keeping an eye of every suspicious character in a 100 meter radius and fervently praying for me to hurry.

Unaware of the drama that surrounded me, I got to the ticket window after a 30 minute wait. Following my wife’s logic (and because I didn’t know the proper conjugation of the verb parlare) I asked the girl if she spoke English, prepared for the instant switch to comprehensible language that usually accomplished it. This time all I got was a shrug and “non”. Damn! And Jill was out of shouting range. Okay, here it goes. Finally, with the few Italian words I could dig up, the few English words she could dig up, some frantic gesturing at calendars, computer screens and scribbling down of notes, we managed to work our way through the process. An American at the next window looked at me and said, “Hey, your Italian’s pretty good”. Not nearly as good as my wife’s I thought, but hey, what the hell, it worked. We worked our way through our multiple reservations, had a few laughs (mainly at my butchering of the Italian numbering systems. I believe 15, also know at quindici, died of multiple stab wounds) and after I muttered the magic words, ‘finito” she sighed, wiped the sweat off her forehead and immediately put the closed sign in her wicket. I thanked her and told her she was very nice. At least I think that’s what I said. It could have also been that I’m dressed in oatmeal and she resembles a large chocolate lizard. I’m not sure. Either way, she smiled.

I returned to my wife, expecting adoration on the way I handled my close encounter with Italian but greeted instead with a “let’s get the hell out of here”. Mistake number 2 was deciding that it would a lovely walk to the hotel from the train station. In my mind was a leisurely stroll through romantic cobblestone streets. Here’s what go between us and that dream. First of all, somehow in France we had inherited an extra suitcase of gifts from family. While the gifts were very much appreciated, they all appeared to be made of lead, or perhaps the stuff that they make black holes out of, so dense it sucks in light. Jill, bless her heart, starting off trying to wheel this and her own suitcase on the streets of Florence.

Point of information. The Streets of Florence were constructed in 14 Billion BC. They used Brontosaurus’s to place the rocks. I believe Fred Flintstone was the operator. A smooth rolling surface they’re not. But Jill felt it was better for me to have free hand to check the map on my GPS and keep a hand on my wallet (Paris was still fresh in our minds). I know my bride was at her breaking point when in the middle of the Piazza San Lorenzo, the suitcase tipped over once again, tangled with the other one, causing Jill’s muttered curses to reach to audible level and prompting her to launch a kick at the suitcase that would fell a large draft horse with a single blow. I sensed this was probably a good time to step in. Taking one last look at the map, I grabbed the extra suit case and, exuding way more confidence than I felt, headed off to our hotel.

The other thing going against us was that a festival was just wrapping up and there were merchant carts and pedestrians everywhere. Garbage was strewn throughout the piazza. Not exactly the romantic medieval city we had seen in the brochures. But as we got closer to the hotel, the scene improved, and by the time we found it (apparently any visible signage on the street would ruin the whole experience) we were almost in the mood to laugh about it. Almost.

I have to explain something here. Because of limited seats when I made the original reservations in Chambéry, we had to arrive in Florence one day early. I had phoned and was assured that it was no problem at our hotel, a highly recommended quaint little place called the Hotel Europa. Sweating, we dragged our suitcases in the door, to find the hotel is actually on the 2nd and 3rd floor, and the only elevator is about the size of a large juice box. We decided to take the stairs. Exhausted at the top, we were greeted by the proprietor, Gassime, who asked “do you have reservations?” Yes, I gasped, still trying to catch my breath and keep the sweat from running my eyes. “We were booked for tomorrow, but we came one day early. I talked to you earlier on the phone. You said no problem.” His response was an “Oh my god” and a smacking of his forehead. Not exactly what I was looking for.

Apparently, the extra reservation was accidentally cancelled. We had no room for tonight. This is the feeling of homelessness and helplessness that travelers have nightmares about. I was getting a little steamed (having dragged all suitcases up 3 flights) but my wife, having totally recovered her cool, charmed his socks off. She can be quite good at it when the mood strikes her. “We’ll take care of you” I was assured by our courteous little friend, and somehow, I believed him. We were ushered to an adorable breakfast room, given some ice water and asked to wait just a few minutes. Our frustration was evaporating in the charm of the place. Every so often, he would pop his head in, making sure we’re okay and letting us know that “we’re working for you”. Finally, the world’s most adorable chambermaid, who just has to be somebody’s very lucky nonna, let us know our rooms were ready. The girls got a king bed that took up about 90 percent of tiny room. I was split off into a spare room where the air conditioner wasn’t working, but no matter, we were in Florence, we had a roof over a head, and a clean bed. Things were good.

European Vacation – August 9

This was a day that I was both looking forward to and approaching with some trepidation. Before we had come to Europe, Gaetan and Lina, our hosts in Chambery, were visiting us in Canada. I had mentioned that I would love to do a bike ride while in France. Marc, their son, who’s a 21 year old rugby player and is in incredible condition, said he’d love to go with me. While very thankful for the company, I was wondering how I could keep up with someone half my age who was in better shape than I’ve ever been. We were being joined by some other relatives, Yves, a cousin who’s around my age and Gilles, Marc’s half brother, who was in his 30’s. I was feeling a little more confident about the bike ride, taking some consolation in the fact that I do a lot of bike riding at home. Marc told me he planned a ride around the Lac du Bourget, a loop of about 75 kilometers with the first 14 being straight up hill, climbing a local mountain called Le Chat. Fear again gripped my chest.

After picking up my rental bike, we rendezvoused and headed out, starting the climb up Le Chat. Luckily, I found I could hold my own and soon relaxed and began enjoying the ride.

It was an incredible experience. You just can’t have rides like this in Canada. The climb up was challenging, but the switchback carved it’s way up the mountain, much like what I’d seen on TV with the tour de France (although this wasn’t part of the actual route), past fields and small villages, giving incredible views of the lake and valley below, with a post card view of an abbey on the lakeshore. We took a break on the way and I felt the surge of the adrenalin and the amazing realization that I was overlooking incredible scenery in the French Alps. We soon reached the peak and headed down. This was a pure rush, zipping down the mountain into village after village, leaning into tight hairpins and hitting the gears just right to maintain pace on the infrequent climbs. I’ve gained a whole new respect for road cyclists. This is more than a sport, it’s an art form.

We dropped back down to lake level at the end of the lake, and then traded places breaking the wind at the head on the relatively flat last half of the ride back into Aix Les Bains. Marc and I parted from the other two for a quick tour through the town of Aix Les Bains, zipping through narrow streets and through priorities (round-abouts). One thing I noticed is that with the compressed scale of European streetscapes (everything seems smaller) even the moderate speeds I could manage made me feel like I was flying through the town. Jill (my wife) made the astute observation (while we were being driven through Chambéry) that it felt like we were in a video game, with everything flying towards us at accelerated speeds. Much better than any Disney ride!

After we went through town, we ended up at a large aquatic center where we met up with my wife, daughters and the rest of the family for a picnic.

It was at this moment that the second moment of fear overtook me. I was informed, as we entered the pools that I was not allowed to go swimming in my modest North American shorts/swimsuit. In France, you needed a real swimsuit, also known as a Speedo. If you’re not familiar with this particular article of clothing, it’s approximately the size of a rubber band, made of a fabric that’s less durable than wet tissue paper, with roughly the same ability to cover anatomy. But there was hope! I didn’t have such a swimsuit, so I simply wouldn’t go in the pool. I’d wear my safe North American suit, with its comforting 14 meters of ironclad fabric and watch the activities from the sidelines. And there was a bonus. This was a French swimming pool, which meant that at least some of the women would be topless. My luck was looking up, for about 14 seconds. Marc noticed there was a vending machine where you could buy Speedos for just 8 Euros. Not just any Speedos..but ones smaller than normal, so that they could fit in tiny plastic packages the size of a postage stamp.

Thanks Marc! No, really, thank you from the very bottom of my heart!

I went and managed to squeeze into the Speedo, looking around and taking some consolation in the fact that there were guys even larger than me, wearing similarly microscopic suits. Ah well, I sighed…when in France! I made it through the pools and as soon as I could, covered the suit with my trusty Canadian trunks. France is a beautiful country and I wanted to do my part to keep it that way.

During a quick trip to the coffee bar at the pool, I discovered it really is a small world. We met a lovely Irish lady named Sinead who had married a local and had relocated to Aix les Bains. But as a child, she had spent many summers at a resort in Kelowna, where I live, called Beacon Beach. Beacon Beach is no longer there, but it was right across the road from where my wife grew up and where my in-laws still live. Sinead was familiar with the house! We traded emails and I promised to send her pictures of Manteo, the new resort that sits on the former site of Beacon Beach. Who knows..perhaps a future home exchange partner!

After the beach, we headed to yet another ice cream shop, which sold huge scoops of incredibly delicious ice cream for less than a euro! And the theme continues.

Marc’s brother, Eddie, then took us for a tour of downtown Chambéry. The richness of the city centers in Europe far surpasses anything I’ve ever seen in North America. Even very vibrant urban centers like Boston, New York and San Francisco can’t match the perfectly balanced blend of culture, history, monument, parks, retail and residential areas you find in Europe. Chambéry is a little bit smaller that Kelowna, which has always struggled a little with the vitalization of it’s downtown core. Although Kelowna has made great strides in recent years, and is considered to have a reasonably interesting downtown compared to other cities it’s size in North America, Kelowna’s core was eclipsed by the enchanting pedestrian lanes, plazas, streets and parks of Chambéry. You could easily spend an entire day wandering from shop to shop, stopping for refreshments in the many bistros and picking up some culture in the museums and historic sites. Unfortunately, we didn’t have a full day to spend. This was our last day in Chambéry and we were packing in as much as we could. A quick 90 minutes exploring, and we were back to Lina and Gaetan’s for a quick bite, then off for a nighttime visit to the lake resort town of Annecy. Old Annecy is a fairy tale alpine village on the lakeshore, with canals similar to Venice and tiny little plazas that looked just a little too picture worth to be real. However, some quick checking of the facades convinced us that this was indeed a real place. A magical stroll through the streets and a quick drink at a café capped off a spectacular day (the ugly Speedo incident not withstanding).

European Vacation – August 8

We were heading back to Chambéry today, but our train wasn’t til the afternoon, so we had time to squeeze in a little more Paris. Another morning run to MonoPrix for breakfast and the makings for sandwiches later, and then we were off to Montmartre.

The goal was the Basilica Sacre Couer, which sits on a hill with an amazing view of Paris, but the streets of Montmartre that we walked through on the way proved very interesting in their own right. Vibrant would be an apt description. We made our way to the Basilica, climbed the many steps, walked right into the cathedral (no line ups, no admission!) and then had our lunch on the steps overlooking Paris. I’ve never been in a restaurant with a better view. The price was right as well.

A quick check of PocketStreets showed that the Moulin Rouge was just a quick walk away. I couldn’t resist. We had a few minutes to spare before we had to get back to the hotel, pick up our checked bags and head to the station. We walked down the hill. On the way, a street vendor/pan handler (the distinction between the two was blurred in this case) tried to get me to stop so he could show me some little plastic bracelet for my daughter Lauren, who was holding my hand. I skirted past him, mumbling a “Non, merci” and started off. Apparently I transgressed some French etiquette, as he launched into a tirade about my being an American and how we “never had a time for anything, always in a hurry”. I kept walked as the tirade picked up in both intensity and volume. Apparently there was some emotional baggage that needed unpacking and he was in full swing. I didn’t bother stopping to correct the question of my home country. I felt the fine points of distinction between Canadians and Americans would be lost on him.

As we moved from the solemn sanctity of Sacre Couer, I couldn’t believe the transformation as we got closer to the Moulin Rouge. It was a graphic depiction of the dichotomy of Paris, with history and religion juxtaposed against bacchanalian sensuality. And we saw it all in a few blocks. My wife was kept busy diverting our daughter’s attention from the graphic posters depicting the entertainment in the neighborhood establishments.

“Look over there, on the right girls”

“What..what are we supposed to be looking for”

“There, over there..no..not left..right..quickly!”

“Where?”

“Oh..never mind. It’s passed now”

Although it was a valiant attempt, I’m not sure it was entirely successful. I think I caught a knowing grin on their faces as we quickly shepherded them into the nearest metro station.

A bit of stress navigating through the metro back to our hotel and then back to the Gare du Lyon, but we made it back on the train and settled back for the 3 hour ride back to Chambéry. I realized I had a column due so I fired up my PDA and jotted down a few thoughts about attitudes about time in North America and Europe, based on my observations over the past week. Here’s the link if you’re interested. I’ve got to admit, it was pretty cool being able to file a column while on a high speed train. But I’m sure I’m in for a shock when I get my cell bill.

After arrival back in Chambéry, we were whisked off to a family reunion, seeing as my mother and father-in-law were departing the next morning for southern Italy. More food, more grasping for conversational meaning in 4 different languages (English, Italian, French and vigorous sign language) much more kissing on both cheeks, a lot of pictures and we were ready for bed.

European Vacation – August 7

This was our day to explore Paris. But with the events of the night before, it took us a little while to get going. We went to a local grocery store, the MonoPrix, and grabbed some baguettes, fruit and biscuits for breakfast. Say what you want about the French, they make some kick ass bread. A quick breakfast sitting on our beds and we braved the streets of Paris again, significantly more paranoid and aware of our surroundings due to last night’s adventure. I had perfected what I’ve since called the “Paris Pat”, which was a quick check to ensure I still had my money belt, my pocket change, my pda, my backpack, my children, my wife and my father-in-law. With practice, I had it down to 5 seconds flat.

This morning, we decided to stay out of the metro for a bit and walk up to the Latin Quartier and the Ile de Cite, where Notre Dame is. Along the way, we wandered through the Jardin du Luxembourg, a quintessentially Parisian park in front of the French Senate. A little less famous and crowded than the Jardin de Tuillieres by the Louvre, the reduced scale of this park was just the thing we needed to restore Paris’s magic. There were pony rides, beautiful fountains and sculptures, marionette shows (unfortunately none were playing at the time), children playing with miniature sail boats and several couples on benches sucking each other’s faces off. Apparently this is also a national past time, along with smoking. When the two are combined, which is often, the results can be a little revolting.

After the park, we continued through the Latin Quartier and then crossed the bridge to the island where Paris originated. We were immediately drawn to the instantly recognizable façade of Notre Dame. Although we would have loved to go in, the queue went down two blocks, and we weren’t prepared to invest at least two hours in gaining entrance. This is the reality of a summer trip to Europe. You have to pick and choose your activities carefully, as the demand and crowds prevent you from seeing everything. Instead, we opted for a small, very expensive, but very good scoop of Berthillion ice cream and grabbed a perch overlooking the Seine to enjoy them. I’m guessing gelato and ice cream will emerge as a theme on this trip.

Fatigue was beginning to set in, as was hunger, so we headed back to the hotel, stopping at our friendly MonoPrix to grab some more baguettes, ham, cheese, salads, olives, fruit and a bottle of wine for lunch. It you want to avoid the exorbitantly overpriced bistros, I highly recommend these impromptu picnics. Based on my experience, it’s impossible to get bad food in France.

A quick nap, and we headed out for the evening. We caught the metro (no criminal activities this time) to the Champs d’Elysee and wandered down the boulevard to the Arc d’Triomphe. Another “must do” Parisian experience. The most interesting things we found were the car dealerships along the way. Half museum, half gallery, these dealerships celebrated the art of the automobile. Concept cars and interactive displays showcased the latest offerings from Renault, Peugot, Toyota and other manufacturers.

After we crossed the Seine again and made our way to the Eiffel Tower, timing it perfectly to arrive just at dusk. The tower lighting up was a spectacular site, although, because of line ups, we opted to keep our feet on the ground. On the hour, hundreds of bright twinkling lights turn the tower into an amazing centerpiece for the “City of Light”. Time was drawing short on our day, so we caught the metro back to the hotel and giving in to convenience, decided to opt for a late night pizza from a nearby “Pizza Hut”. A crime, I know, but we were tired.

European Vacation – August 6

Today, we were off to Paris. My wife, two daughters, my father-in-law and myself boarded the high speed train in Chambéry and watched as the rolling countryside of Rhone-Alpes gradually gave way to the flat plains surrounding Paris. We arrived in Gare du Lyon, where we met Nathalie, another relative who was kind enough to guide us through our first hours in Paris. We boarded the Metro and set off for our hotel in Montparnasse. Nathalie immediately warned us about the busy metro stations and pick-pockets, a warning that proved to be prescient. We navigated through the Metro with relative ease and soon found ourselves outside the Best Western Nouvelle Orleans. I know, Best Western doesn’t sound terribly romantic, but this small hotel seemed to be well regarded on the various travel websites and it was actually quite charming and clean. The one thing we found interesting was the difficulty in finding rooms for a family of four. Rooms in Europe are quite small and in this case, we split the party in two, 3 in one room and 2 in the other.

After dropping the bags and freshening up, we reunited with Nathalie (who spent 30 minutes reminiscing in the neighborhood, as she used to live close by) and caught the metro to the Louvré.

This was the first Sunday in August, so admission was free. We waited in line for about 30 minutes to gain entrance (crowds were large, but not unmanageable) and then started with the Denon Gallery, where the main attraction is the Mona Lisa. We spent an hour or so wandering through the maze of galleries, looking at one incredible treasure after another. Even the building is a work of art. Finally, we came to the gallery were the Mona Lisa hangs. If you’re counting on spending hours, or even minutes, getting lost in her mysterious gaze and subtle smile, here’s a dose of reality. You’ll be lucky to catch a split second glance through the throng of people that constantly resist the guard’s attempts to move the crowd along. One particularly boorish and persistent visitor ignored 3 repeated warnings about taking pictures and was ushered in non-too-gentle fashion from the building. Unfortunately, visiting the Mona Lisa is one of those “seen it, done it, cross it off the list and move along” experiences. But take heart, this museum is absolutely jammed with less famous but no less breathtaking works. I highly recommend finding the Botticelli’s or spending some serious time in the large format French and Italian galleries. And if all else fails, just look up. The ceilings are works of art in and of themselves.

The Louvré was a little hot and the crowds were rather large, so it was quickly taking its toll on the family. We were overdue for a break and closing time was rapidly approaching, so we let ourselves be herded into the huge group heading for the exits and reemerged on the streets of Paris. It was a very small taste of all the Louvré had to offer, but unforgettable none-the-less.

After a quick walk up to the Opera House, we boarded the Metro and made our way back to Montparnasse in search of a restaurant near our hotel. And this was where disaster struck. On the metro, it just took a few seconds and an inquiry of my father-in-law about the current time to separate him from his wallet. We never even noticed until we got off the metro, found a restaurant and he went to pay. Luckily, he didn’t have everything in his wallet and his passport remained untouched, but it definitely put a damper on the evening. We headed back to the hotel just to make sure it hadn’t been accidentally left there, but no such luck. My father-in-law, Nathalie and myself headed to the nearest police station to make our report. By this time, it was about 10 pm, so it took a bit to find one open.

Here is where I had my first introduction to the efficiencies of the French justice system. We went up to 3 officers in front of the station and started explaining our situation. I was more than happy to give my 25 year old extremely limited high school French a rest and let Nathalie take the lead. I did know enough to sense that the conversation really wasn’t going our way. I was hearing a lot of apologizing, liberally sprinkled with shoulder shrugs and shakes of the head. I was quickly getting the feeling that this was not going to be a quick process. After a few minutes of rapid fire French, Nathalie turned to me and explained that they were really busy, that we were looking at a minimum of 3 and a half hours, and the strong suggestion was that we come back at 9 tomorrow.

With my polite Canadian upbringing, I was quite prepared to accept the explanation as fact and trudge back to the hotel. Nathalie, being much more familiar with the “European way” was not as quick to give in. She turned back to the officers are fired off several more salvos. My father-in-law, although not completely up to speed with what was going on, was getting frustrated with the lack of progress, and was increasingly concerned about the potential liability of having his ID in some criminal’s hands without an official police report being filed. After more heated discussion, Nathalie brought me up to speed with her progress. Apparently the original excuse of being too busy, with too many people ahead of us had evaporated and the obstacle in the path of justice was now lack of access to computers. We had to wait til the next shift before they could get to a computer. The next shift change was 2 hours from now. Aha, at least we had made 90 minutes progress in the overall duration. But Nathalie, bless her heart, was not too be deterred. Obviously tired, and not at all planning to spend the better part of the evening defending her poor Canadian relatives, she turned back to the officers (we had about 5 participating in the discussion now) and refused to take no for an answer. Surely there was some kind of form we could fill in, just to get the robbery on file. One officer thought there might be, but he’d have to go look for the form, and he couldn’t do that for 45 minutes.

Oh..I was beginning to get this. It’s like an auction, you just keep battering away and the time limit continues to drop. I sensed us getting closer to our objective, and I silently cheered Nathalie on. She was also sensing progress, and tried the tactic of repeating the same request over and over again. Finally, one officer realized it was time to give in, and said they could file the report right away. Nathalie had won! It was an inspiring performance. But apparently the room where the report would be filed was the size of a phone booth, and there was only room for 2. I happily let my father-in-law and Nathalie accompany the officer, while I found a convenient cement post in front of the station to sit on, trying to absorb as much of the Parisian way of life as I could in the surrounding few meters.

One more interesting observation before I pack it in for today. I was still atop my post when the shift change happened. The French custom is to kiss both cheeks in way of greeting on arrival, or to say good-bye. It’s not an actual kiss, but a grazing of the cheek, accompanied by a distinct kissing sound. It’s common between members of the opposite sex and with women, and if two men are quite close, than it’s also appropriate. It took me a little while to fall in step with this custom. At first, I was being a little too aggressive and actually planting the lips on the cheek. But soon, I got the hang of it (although the first male to male one still threw me for a loop) and was kissing up a storm. By the way, if you’re a man, hand shaking is considered essential upon greeting or departing. Failure to do so is quite rude.

I was amazed to see each of the shift members go through this ritual with the guard in front of the station, who happened to be female. It would be unthinkable not to observe this ritual, but apparently not a big deal to find every excuse possible to avoid doing your job. Ah..the French (or more accurately, the Parisians).

It was a long and interesting day. We trudged back to the hotel, found Nathalie a taxi to her flat after thanking her profusely, and proceeded to pass out.

European Vacation – August 5th

This was a very cool day. We were invited into a small village called Montvernier in the French Alps where (follow this now) my wife’s cousin’s son’s girlfriend’s parents had a chalet. I realize the connection was a little strained here, but what the hell, it was an invitation to a chalet in French Alps. Would you say no?

The father was the chief of the local branch of the Gendarmerie, the French national police. The chalet was beautiful, the view was incredible.

This was our first real example of the intricate and involved ritual the French call eating. This is much more than mere sustenance, this is the apex of a cultural evolution hundreds of years in the making. Course by course, we worked our way through the culinary dance, guided by our gracious hosts. Food and wine paired with care, starting with white wine and a fruit liqueur, creating “kir”, with patés and other appetizers. Then on to vegetables and hard boiled eggs, paired with a lighter red wine, then the meat and potatoes, served with robust Merlots and Cabernets, then the most incredible cheeses I’ve ever eaten. We’re familiar with appellation wines in North America, with strict controls on the source of the contributing grapes. In France, cheese is treated with no less respect, and one particularly delicious cheese was made only in the tiny village we were visiting. The hosts brought out a 2 kilo block, which was an incredibly generous gesture. It would be like breaking out the 40 year old single malt scotch for people you barely know. Luckily, I think we sensed the importance of the gesture and showed proper appreciation.

After we wrapped up the cheese and wine, we finished with café and blueberry tarts that somehow captured all the flavor of a fresh picked berry. If I seem obsessed with the food, it’s because the entire country shares my obsession. I wrote a column recently with some thoughts of how in North America we’re obsessed with time, while in France and other European countries, life is more centered on eating and social interactions.

We wrapped up with a stroll up the mountain to the village of Montvernier. This was picture book scenic, and they happened to be having a “Fete du Pain”, or Festival of Bread. The celebration seemed to be centered around the baking of 2 kilo loaves in a communal wood fired oven that was well over 150 years old. The baking and selling of the loaves (we bought two) was accompanied by games and impromptu entertainment.

Sadly, it was now time to head back to Chambéry. We bid adieu to Didier and Nadine, our hosts, and chose to avoid the highway back in favor of a more leisurely drive through the vineyards and small villages. The Savoie region is rich in history, for many years serving as a region that passed back and forth from French to Italian hands. It straddles the main valley and pass connecting the two countries, so was of great military importance. Once can see the string of castles and fortifications that oversaw the passage way. One was pointed out to us that apparently served as a prison for the Marquis de Sade. Although not as famous as its neighbors as a wine producing region, there is also a vigorous industry that turns out some world class wines. On the drive back, we drove through one breathtakingly scenic and ancient village after another, with wineries and lush vineyards set against the rugged backdrop of the French Alps. All in all, an unforgettable day.

European Vacation – August 4

This morning, it was up to catch the train to Chambéry. Chambéry is a small city in the French Alps and is the heart of the Savoie region. It is just around the corner from Albertville, close to Grenoble and Chamonix.Three Winter Olympic venues within a one hour drive (and Torino is less than a two hour drive away). It also hosts one of the Alpine stages of the tour de France. This is where my wife’s cousin and her family lives, along with other aunts, uncles, cousins and other family I was lucky enough to marry into.

The day was mostly taken up by the train ride, but we did have time for a quick car ride to Aix Les Bains, a lake side resort town on Lac du Bourget, the largest natural lake in France. For me, there was a lot of similarities to my home in Canada’s Okanagan Valley. It felt like home, except they were speaking a different language.

Do You Know the Way to San Jose?

First published August 3, 2006 in Mediapost’s Search Insider

At the end of this week, thousands of search marketers will begin their pilgrimage to the west, to the mecca of search that is San Jose. It’s time for what has emerged as the premier search gathering, the West Coast version of Search Engine Strategies.

This show always marks a bit of an annual milestone for me. It was two years ago that I became a regular columnist for “Search Insider,” and I also try to shoehorn the sessions I present into our annual family camping vacation, precariously balancing on the cusp of the many professional and social demands that surround SES San Jose and keeping a wife and two daughters from throwing my laptop down the nearest camp toilet. I usually drive in from the campground in Santa Cruz, sunburned, smelling of wood smoke and carrying my “good” clothes, borrow a hotel room and shower from one of my colleagues who chose to forego the “back the nature” route in favor of room service, and try to make myself presentable. For the most part, this tactic has been successful for me.

I’ll be thinking of you

This is the first time in five years that I’m actually missing the show. This year, the family prevails and I’ll be vacationing with them through France and Italy (sans camping, avec hotels). My work tasks have been restricted to writing this column (next week, the Continental European version!) and making the odd, long, overdue blog post. But as SES ramp-up week gets into full swing, I’m getting more than the occasional twinge of regret as I turn down invite after invite. This year promises to be a packed show. Oh well, I hear sipping wine in the south of France can ease those twinges.

I’ll actually be there in spirit, if not in the flesh. I helped Danny Sullivan put together the research update panel, which kicks off the show Monday morning. This session has emerged to become one of the most popular, and my partner Bill Barnes will be there as well. Greg Sterling is filling in at the moderator’s helm, so you can be assured of some pithy comments. I almost wish I were there.

A search snapshot

This show in particular acts as a microcosm of how far search has come. It takes place in the backyard of the engines, and Yahoo, Google and Microsoft will be there in full force. The legendary Google Dance will give attendees a chance to rub elbows with various ultra-bright engineers in their natural habitat. Yahoo will throw some kind of bash, and there will be at least a dozen other formal networking events of various sizes, (including the SEMPO membership get-together on Monday night) sprinkled throughout the four days of the show. And that’s after the sessions; some 75 of them squeezed into five tracks over four days, covering every imaginable aspect of search. At an average of 4 presentations per panel, that’s 300 different speakers, cramming your head full of valuable information. That’s a lot of search, no matter how you slice it. Pity the poor search newbie who is looking at this as his introduction to the channel.

No show gets deeper or more intimately into search. Danny Sullivan, Chris Sherman, Karen Deweese and a virtual legion of presenters who all put their unique spin on the show, have made this the must-see event and turned SES into a tremendously successful franchise. The West Coast show is book-ended by a no less successful East Coast version in New York, and it has been repeated at locations around the world. It’s a long way for Danny, an ex-journalist who thought he might do an impromptu study on these things called search engines, a minor but rather interesting development in the online world, circa 1996. Searchenginewatch.com was born (I’m sure I was one of the earliest subscribers) and the rest is history.

You’ve come a long way

Danny must shake his head in wonder sometimes. Nobody has been a more consistent observer of the search world, and he’s been privileged to have extraordinary access to the key industry players. He’s sat in the front row as the industry struggled, emerged and launched into hyper-growth.

Danny Sullivan is still the first person analysts and journalists turn to for insight and commentary. During the show, he flies at a frenetic pace, fueled by Coke and donuts. Meanwhile, the implacable Chris Sherman acts as ying to Sullivan’s yang, ably stewarding the international shows (a note of irony that Danny, who lives in England, coordinates the North American shows, while Chris, who lives in Boulder, Colorado, does the international shows). And somehow, they manage to pull it all together for each show, seeing each eclipse last year’s attendance numbers. I attended my first SES in Boston in 2000. I started presenting almost three years ago now. It’s been tremendously exciting to see them continue to grow bigger and better with each iteration.

Well done, Chris and Danny. Again, I almost wish I could be there to tell you in person. But by the time you read this, I’ll be somewhere in the south of France, and that has its own consolations. But I’m sure our paths will cross before long. Chicago, perhaps?