Select Article
By Steve Bergsman
Photos by the author
The
summer’s over in Europe. Autumn has swept across the land, spreading a palate
of crimson, yellow and gold. The sun worshipers have left St. Tropez. The
crowds along the Costa Del Sol have thinned and a chill has settled over
Germany’s Black Forest. Oh, is there no place left on the Continent where one
could go to completely over-indulge in hedonistic pleasure, to drink merrily,
eat heartily and cavort nakedly?
The
answer is yes -- the Croatian peninsula of Istria, which dips into the Adriatic
Sea near its northernmost reach.
Never heard of the place, you say. I never did either until I
arrived there early last October, but it should be added to anyone’s map,
especially in the autumn. The one
particular excuse to go to Istria at that time of year can be summed up in one
word: truffle.
This delicate fungus, which many
gourmands have called the spice of life, grows in just three places in Europe
-- the south of France, near Alba in Italy, and in the heart of Istria, a
mountainous delight of an ancient land.
Truffles are literally worth
their weight in gold, and the chefs of the great restaurants of Europe will pay
handsomely to acquire the lumpy mass. Truffles are so sought after, I always assumed that the discovery of
just one was rarer than finding a gold nugget in the stream behind your
home. Istria disabused me of that
notion, especially after my wanderings in the small community of Livade, which
on the grim, rainy day I arrived was throwing a truffle festival.
I wasn’t sure what that meant
until I walked into one of the festival tents where a local woman was selling
her season’s cache, with the bulbous fungi piled high on plate after plate after
plate. A fresh truffle has a particular, unmistakable redolence, and the
presence of so many truffles filled the air with their earthy aroma. You could
literally become dizzy with truffles.
It’s not enough just to look at
or smell the truffle. What you really,
really want to do is eat something cooked with truffle, and in the little town
of Livade sits a magnificent restaurant called Zigante, where the chef
undergoes a kind of truffle madness during the season – his menu becomes all
things trufflicious. A friend and I ordered one of the tastier offerings that
began with marinated baby beefsteak on wild rucola, sprinkled with olive oil
and shaved with fresh white truffle. When the waiter began shaving and shaving
and shaving the truffle over my plate, my friend whispered to me that a $100 in
truffle chips had floated down to my beefsteak.
Then it all just got better. The
second course was homemade pasta with white truffle, followed by duck breasts
with fired seasonal mushrooms and white truffles, all to be followed by a
delicious dessert of truffle ice-cream.
You say to yourself, what wine
should be served with such an abundance of earthly delights? The answer also comes from Istria. Why
not a fine white, Malvazija, to start with, and then a nice red, Teran, with
the duck. Maybe a sweet Muskat at the end of the meal.
Before I visited Croatia, I was
told that one can literally follow the wine road throughout the Adriatic
republic, and a few days earlier I had traveled into the mountains outside of
Zagreb to a small winery called Korak, where I tasted my first Croatian wines.
Why come to Croatia to sip wines
when there is abundance a great wine-growing spots elsewhere in Europe? For a
couple of reasons. First, Croatia’s a small country with many mini-ecosystems,
giving rise to at least five wine-growing regions. Secondly, Croatia’s one of
the oldest wine growing areas in Europe, with a history that goes back more
than 2,000 years. And finally, some of varietals grown in Croatia – the
Malvazija, Teran and Muskat – can be found almost nowhere else.
Although I liked the wine I
tasted at the Korak winery, I was told that some of Croatia’s best wines are
grown in Istria. So, once I left – for the moment – the truffles behind, I
traveled to two local wineries, Degrassi and Kozlovic, to taste their
varieties.
I came to the Degrassi Winery in
the early evening, so I didn’t get to see much in the way of the
vineyards. But the small tasting
room was handsomely done up and I was particularly impressed with the displays
of amphora, the containers that the ancient mariners of the Mediterranean used
to transport liquids such as wine from places like Phoenicia or Thebes or
Carthage during the days of when Greece and Rome dominated the known western
world. Storms and wars on Mediterranean waters sunk thousands of ships over the
centuries, and the ancient amphoras are often found by divers. The Degrassi
winery had many.
Moreno Degrassi didn’t speak a
lot of English, but he was a good host, allowing us to taste all the young
wines (occluded and pungent) with months and months of seasoning ahead before
we got to the real wine-tasting.
Degrassi wasn’t the largest
Istria winery, but it was interesting because of the wide variety of wines it
produced: Malvasija, Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc, Viognier, Muskat, Merlot,
Cabernet Franc, Cabernet Sauvignon, Teran, Rofosk … and that potent residual of
winemaking, grappa.
It’s hard to say which was my
favorite, but the Terre Bianche Couvee Bijeli was certainly near the top.
The next day we drove to the
Kozlovic winery, which was built on a hillside overlooking a valley evenly
paced with vines. Across the small valley was a wooded hillside capped by the
ruins of a medieval structure, the remains of Momilanium, a 12th
century castle, or as the locals say, the castle of Momjan, which I’m guessing
is the little village atop the hill behind the ruins.
The view from the winery of the
vines, the woods and the antiquities was hauntingly picturesque. All it needed
was a Croatian John Constable to record it for posterity.
Franco Kozlovic is a short man
with dark hair and boundless ambition. He wrung an old vineyard to modernity
and was now overseeing a huge expansion of his operations. Unlike his
compatriot Degrassi, Kozlovic preferred to hew to just a small variety of
offerings, mostly the whites of Malvazija and Muskat. A local told me that the Kozlovic wines were about the best
of Istria. I won’t make that decision, but I will say that Kozlovic is
something of a perfectionist.
As he told me when walking through
his ever-expanding operations, “What I want to do is control the process.”
My favorite from the Kozlovic wine tasting a
Malvazija Santa Lucia 2006, from vines that are some of the oldest on the
property.
At the start of this story, I
spoke of eating, drinking and of being au naturale. Before I explain the
last part, I need to mention where I stayed while in Istria, a spanking new
Kempinski hotel, located on the northwest coast.
I arrived in early evening. The
day was autumnal with a leaden sky leaking heavily all day. It was dark before
I could get a sense of what this new place was all about. That was OK, because
the next morning, I could see that the rain had washed away the fog. It was as
crisp a day as you can encounter – and what I saw as I scanned the northern
horizon from the top floor of the hotel was the coast of Slovenia, the city of
Trieste, and the Alps in the far distance. As I rotated my position until I faced west, I could see the
cities of Italy with the barest hint of Venice in the distance.
The Kempinski boasted a number of
sparkling amenities, but the one I’ll focus on was its immense spa, the
Carolea, with its massage rooms, numerous saunas and steam rooms, baths
–facilities too numerous to mention. The day I went to use the spa, it was
quite active – and as I always point out to Americans, in most European spas,
the wet activities such as sauna, steam, showers etc. are done in the nude the
and visited by both men and women. Basically, my world that day was a swirl of
people in bathrobes, towels or nothing, all seeking the perfect sweat of the
sauna, the coolness of the shower, the shock of the cold dip (at the Carolea’s
ice room), and the leisure of the bath or the calmness of the relaxation room.
Autumn in Istria: a time to eat,
drink and spa merrily.
IF
YOU GO
Istria – www.istra.hr
Kempinski Adriatic – www.kempinski.com/adriatic
Restaurant Zigante/Livade – www.livadetartufi.com
Wineries:
Kozlovic – info@kozlovic.hr
Degrassi – vina@degrassi.hr
Korak – www.vino-korak.hr |
The coast of Slovenia as seen from roof of the Kempenski Adriatic Hotel.
Truffles being shaved over
a salad at Zigante restaurant in Livade.
Vendor selling truffles at
at Truffle Festival in the town of Livade.
Franco
Kozlovic shows off his wines, Kozlovic Winery.
Ruins
of Castle of Momjan, Istria Peninsula. |
Along the Harbor in
Halifax:
A Fresh Look at a Favorite City
By Bill Scheller
Photographs by Kay Scheller except as noted
There’s
nothing like a noon gun to put a day in order, to mark off the passage from
morning to afternoon … and to remind a traveler that he is in a maritime city,
one that respects the traditions of its watchful imperial past.
They
fire the noon gun in style at the Halifax Citadel, the hilltop bastion in the
center of Nova Scotia’s capital that, along with Bermuda and Gibraltar, triangulated
the British Empire’s nineteenth-century Atlantic defenses but never fired a
shot in anger. Each day, as the
Old Town Clock at the head of Carmichael Street strikes twelve, lads in the
employ of Parks Canada but dressed in the uniforms worn by garrison troops of a
century ago touch a spark to a cannon perched on the ramparts and facing some
imaginary intruder in the harbor. “They used to load it with four pounds of powder,” a “soldier” told a
recent crowd of onlookers as he prepared to set match to touchhole, “but that
would break windows downtown. Now
we use just a pound, but it’s still enough to set off car alarms.”
The
cannon’s report was concussive enough for me, although I didn’t hear any car
alarms, and I walked off wondering if glaziers were among the most prosperous
Haligonians back in the four-pound days. A small price to pay, all that glass, for such an impressive exclamation
point to noon.
From Montreal by Rail
My
wife Kay and I had arrived in Halifax on the previous evening, traveling from
Montreal’s Central Station on VIA Rail Canada’s Ocean. Our earlier
trips to Nova Scotia had been by car and ferry – a “production,” as my father
would have called it, as there isn’t any quick way to get to Nova Scotia from
Vermont. Maine and New Brunswick,
though lovely in their own right, are formidable obstacles when you’re driving,
and the cancellation of the CAT
high-speed ferry service from Bar Harbor to Yarmouth, NS makes the trip even
more daunting. But with Montreal
only a two-hour drive from our home, it seemed like a great idea to park the
car at the station and board the train for the overnight run to Halifax.
It
was a lovely trip. The Ocean
leaves Montreal daily at 6:30 p.m., just before the first of two seatings in
the dining car (first-class passengers make reservations on check-in at the
station). We chose the later
seating, giving us time to settle into our compartment and have a drink while
watching the Montreal suburbs thin out and drift into farmland along the south shore
of the St. Lawrence River. The compartment was one of those railroad marvels of spatial economy,
with a comfortable sofa, plenty of storage, and a bathroom with that rarest of
sleeping-car amenities, a private shower. We’d traveled west on VIA’s flagship Canadian,
whose sleepers feature shower stalls at the end of each corridor, but on the Ocean’s cars – purchased from an English
carrier that had originally intended them for use in Channel Tunnel service –
each compartment’s bathroom has a flexible shower hose that draws on a
plentiful supply of hot water.
We dined at eight, choosing from a
menu less ambitious than on the Canadian
-- the Ocean’s kitchens make greater
use of microwaves -- but with meals served with china, silver, linen, and a selection
of Nova Scotia wines. Offerings
from the province’s vineyards were also highlighted in wine tastings in the
first-class lounge the following day.)
The
porter made up our beds during dinner. The rhythmic clatter of steel on steel lulled us to sleep, and the great
river valley rolled by through the night. In the morning, we sat in the glassy
upper level of the tail-end observation car, scanning the scenic south shore of
Chaleur Bay, which separates New Brunswick from Quebec’s Gaspé peninsula. By afternoon, we were tracking south to
cross the mouth of the salmon-rich Miramichi River on the way to the city of
Moncton. Someone on the Ocean’s kitchen staff had called ahead
to Moncton, where, during a half-hour layover, boxes of roast chicken dinners
were being delivered to the train from a local outlet of eastern Canada’s
popular St. Hubert chain. The
reason? An equipment problem
during the night had thrown us a couple of hours off the 21-hour schedule. A second night’s dinner isn’t part of
the Ocean’s meal plan, as the train
is set to arrive in Halifax at 5 p.m., so the diner crew simply “ordered out,”
so that we wouldn’t arrive hungry. (I should note that on the return trip, we reached Montreal exactly on
schedule, which is far more commonly the case.) “A more humane way to travel,” VIA advertises, and a free
chicken dinner is indeed a humane response to unforeseen circumstances.
New Attractions Along
a Splendid Urban Waterfront
After traversing the broad
Tantramar marshes, at the eastern arm of the Bay of Fundy, we pulled into
Halifax at dusk. VIA’s station
stands at the south end of town, adjacent to the Hotel Nova Scotian, which I
remembered as a typically tired mid-20th century railroad hotel but which has
recently been sparklingly rejuvenated as the Westin Nova Scotian. Our 11th floor room gave us
a sweeping view of Halifax harbor,
a contender (I won’t get into the argument) for second largest natural harbor
in the world after Sydney, Australia. It is a great welcoming waterway, a shipping haven that is just the
right setting for the smart ceremonial report of a noon gun.
Of
course Kay and I had to be at the Citadel for the firing, but on this trip to
Halifax, our focus was down along the harbor itself. Halifax began revitalizing its downtown waterfront more than
30 years ago, with the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic – of which more later
-- the replica schooner Bluenose II, and the shops and eateries
of the Historic Properties and Privateers’ Wharf complex among the attractions
along the harbor’s northern reaches. But the big news, over the past couple of years, has been the extension
of Harborwalk, a broad wooden boardwalk, south to the piers adjacent to the
rail station. Active as a
working waterfront only for docking cruise ships (the city’s heavy maritime
lifting is mostly done along Bedford Basin, north of downtown), the southerly
piers and their spacious terminal buildings now house two of the city’s newest
attractions, an expansive Farmer’s Market and the Canadian Museum of
Immigration at Pier 21.
We
began our first full day in Halifax with breakfast at the Farmers’ Market. Well, I can call it breakfast, as it
fell within the usual hours for the morning meal, but it was more of a grazing
tour of the world via a cheerful labyrinth of food stalls. Over the course of an hour or so, we
scouted, collected, and ate Indian chicken samosas, Caribbean fish cakes and
spinach fritters, Cambodian spring rolls, and portions of an indefinable
Egyptian casserole made with lentils, onions, hardboiled eggs, and
tomatoes. Only a faint vestige of
prudence kept us from the croissants and Cornish pasties, while we imagined
living in one of the waterfront condos near Harborwalk and hauling back
homemade bread, just-picked raspberries, fresh vegetables, raw chocolate and
garlands of homemade sausages. The
vast hall and its wraparound mezzanine also hosted vendors of everything from
wrought ironwork to handmade soaps, fresh pasta in myriad shapes to organic dog
biscuits, puzzles to artisan couture, and of course Nova Scotia wines and
single-malt Scotch – the latter a recent accomplishment of provincial
distillers who take the name “New Scotland” seriously.
Pier 21 is just a short walk from
the market, but a world away in spirit from its abundance. This was the destination for more than
a million immigrants, many from war-torn corners of the world where chocolate
and raspberries were the stuff of dreams. Active as a port of entry from 1928 to 1971, Pier 21 played a role as
vital in this country of immigrants as Ellis Island did in the larger polyglot
nation to the south. And along
with refugees, displaced persons, and those simply seeking a better life, the
facilities welcomed thousands of war brides – many of them spouses of some of the 500,000 Canadian
military personnel who shipped off to Europe during World War II from this same
pier.
To
recapture the apprehensions and aspirations of the new arrivals – most of whom boarded hinterland-bound
trains on pierside rail sidings within hours of their ships’ arrival – the
museum offers a fine multimedia introductory presentation called “Oceans of
Hope.” Through sound, film, and
three-dimensional staging, the half-hour show spotlights nervous British war
brides – one bound for Winnipeg, another for a farm in Nova Scotia –
speculating on what life will be like in what they worry might be a colonial
backwater; and Polish and Italian families worried about being reunited with
their meager belongings upon arrival. The stories are poignantly narrated by a fictional immigration officer,
reflecting on his 40 years of service at the pier.
Visitors
next join a guide for a tour of the museum’s fascinating collection of the odds
and ends of immigration – trunks, passports, tickets, and models and stories of
the ships on which the newcomers sailed. Especially interesting was the story of Walnut, a former minesweeper built to carry a crew of 40, but which
ferried 347 refugees from Latvia to Canada, but the ship that stopped me in my
tracks was Aquitania, a 1913 Cunarder
that carried troops to and from Europe’s battlefields in both world wars, and
served in the late ‘40s as a transport for Canadian war brides. It was Aquitania that brought my own father from New York to Britain in
1943, and home again two years later. On that first voyage, he threw his house key overboard, thinking that he
wouldn’t need it any more.
After
the guided tour, it was train time again – via a passenger-car-like corridor
with individual compartments, each
offering a filmed interview in which immigrants talked about their
experiences. In the corridor, film
clips of passing scenery appeared
through “windows” to simulate a trip across Canada. What could a thousand miles of prairie, with dark forests
preceding and great mountains following, have looked like to recent arrivals
from countries where farmland and scenic views come in small, tidy packages?
Immigration having been a recent –
and ongoing -- factor in the peopling of Canada, we weren’t surprised to find
that more than a few of our fellow museum visitors were the sons and daughters
of people who had landed here. With the closing of Pier 21 as an active port of entry 40 years in the
past, and with most immigrants today arriving at airports in Montreal, Toronto,
and Vancouver, we hope that the museum keeps alive the stories of those
eager-to-be Canadians who arrived by ship in Halifax.
Strolling back towards the core of
downtown Halifax on Harborwalk, we headed for the Maritime Museum of the
Atlantic. I’m an old fan of this
institution, which I first visited less than 10 years after its Robertson Ship
Chandlery went from being a working business to a part of the collection,
oilcloth slickers and all. I
always enjoy its collection of small, sleek sailing craft, its intricately
detailed ship models (there was Aquitania
again), the 1906 oceanographic research vessel Acadia permanently docked outside, and oddities like a World War II
torpedo with cutaway sides revealing innards so complicated that it seems a
shame to blow the thing up. But
the star attraction these days is a vastly expanded section, including an
excellent film, devoted to Titanic, in honor of next year’s 100th
anniversary of the great liner’s first and last voyage.
A teak deck chaise from Titanic has
long been an iconic artifact in the museum’s collections, but the new exhibit
adds tremendously to this stately and melancholy survivor of the disaster. There are stories of individual
passengers, some victims and some survivors; copies of first and second class
menus; and transcriptions of wireless texts carried across the then-new
airwaves as the ship foundered. And since Titanic sank in the
northwestern Atlantic, much of the flotsam from the wreck found its way to Nova
Scotia, where it was preserved in its original form – as with the pieces of
woodwork and utilitarian objects on display here – or, very occasionally,
transformed into objects such as a rolling pin. (I looked at that innocent-looking thing, and wondered how
anyone could roll out a pie crust with it.)
Halifax was the final destination
not only for fragments of Titanic’s
wreckage, but for many of its passengers as well. Three of the city’s cemeteries – Fairview, Mount Olivet, and Baron de Hirsch – are the resting places of
victims retrieved from the cold waters above the ship’s grave, and the new
exhibit tells the story of how bodies were identified … or, in several cases,
interred without identity, like the child whose little shoes are preserved here
(he has since tentatively been identified). It was fascinating, if not altogether surprising, to learn
that the era’s penchant for keeping clear class distinctions extended beyond
death: first-class passengers were brought ashore in coffins, second-class in
cloth bags, and crewmembers (and, we may assume, victims who had traveled in
steerage) on stretchers.
Touring
the rest of the exhibits after leaving the Titanicsection, I was reminded that a good museum’s job is not only to help you
learn things, but also to unlearn them. Long ago, I had been taught that the
first steamship to cross the Atlantic was the American vessel Savannah, which made the trip in
1819. But the Maritime Museum of
the Atlantic set me straight: Savannah,
it seems, was under sail for most of her voyage. It was the Canadian-built Royal William that made accomplished this epic first, steaming from
Quebec to London in 1833 without benefit of canvas.
There is, of course, a great deal
to Halifax once you get away from the water. We never miss a chance to
stroll through the Public Gardens, arguably to loveliest city park in
North America; and the Citadel is always worth the climb - especially
when the noon gun is about to fire. But the soul of a great port city
is most easily discovered along the harbor, and that's where to find
Halifax's finest new attractions. |
The 1906 hydrographic research vessel Acadia is permanently
docked at the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic. Courtesy Maritime Museum of the Atlantic
Food and craft stalls crown Halifax’s lively Farmers’
Market.
Parks Canada staff dressed as Royal Artillerymen prepare to
fire the noon gun at the Halifax Citadel.
The “Wall of Ships” at the Canadian Museum of Immigration
depicts vessels that carried newcomers to Canada. Photo by Steve Kaiser
/ Canadian Museum of Immigration at Pier 21
A deck chair preserved at the Maritime Museum of the
Atlantic was part of the flotsam recovered at the site of the Titanic disaster. Courtesy Maritime Museum of the Atlantic
The Maritime Museum of the Atlantic’s major new exhibit
devoted to Titanic marks next year’s
centennial of the liner’s sinking. Courtesy Maritime Museum of the
Atlantic |
Kayaking
through the Les Cheneaux Islands of Lake Huron By Steve Bergsman
Photos by the author
Ok.
I’m going to admit it right at the start. I panicked.
When I slipped my kayak into the
waters of Lake Huron at Hessel Bay for a run through the Les Cheneaux Islands,
I was uncomfortable and shaky from the start.
I had been staying on Mackinac Island, and when I boarded the
ferry for St. Ignace early that morning the weather was in full blow. Although
it was a beautiful, sunny, late-spring day just 12 hours before, Great Lakes
weather barreled in by nightfall and the atmospheric sturm und drang
continued through the morning. The temperature had dropped 20 degrees, the wind
was gusting miserably and the air was filled with moisture. By the time I
reached Hessel Bay to meet my outfitter, a fog had settled in and the rain had
turned to mist.
I was traveling with Dave Lorenz,
manager of public and industry relations with Travel Michigan, and he and I
were no longer young men. We were also a bit rusty in our kayaking skills, but
the Tim and Jay duo from Woods and Water Ecotours tried to make certain we
would be comfortable.
With the weather what it was, they
made sure we had the right dry suit. They also handed Dave and me each a
fleece, river boots, gloves and an outer shell. When we got down to the lake,
we got the customary reminder course in proper paddling technique (square the
arms, keep the hands low) and then we were directed to our kayaks.
Dave climbed into his kayak,
slipped onto the lake, and found that his skills came back immediately. As he commented, “it was like riding a
bicycle.” He seemed to be at ease
from the start, and I assumed the same quickness of comfort would come to me.
It didn’t.
When we entered Lake Huron, the
fog thinned but remained. The wind kicked up to about 20 knots with gusts
rising to 30; the water was as choppy as in a bathtub with two kids at play.
The swells immediately slapped at my kayak, shoving me away from the group, and
I felt – although I should have known better – that I would be upturned. I
rocked more than I should have and at that moment I was thinking that sandy
beach mooring quickly receding into the distance looked mighty good.
Jay drifted back toward me to make
sure I was settled. He got my panicky stroke corrected and pointed me on a
course that I guessed would be east along the coast. No more than half a mile cross the strait sat Marquette
Island, the first of the Les Cheneaux that I would see. At that moment, crossing the strait seemed beyond my
abilities.
Thankfully, Tim decided we would
parallel the coast for awhile, taking it slow. In truth we had no choice. Rain and mist filled our world, winds
were gusting and the chop made me feel as if I was on the North Atlantic.
We bided our time, stopping first
at different protected coves and moorings to make sure we had our techniques
down before heading further along the coast.
I’m not sure if I finally just
settled into a groove, but as we got further into the protective lee of looming
Marquette Island to the south, the kayak and I seemed to be as one – it was the
way it should have been from the start.
Les Cheneaux Islands, or The
Snows, is an archipelago that counts 36 islands off the southern coast of
Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. It’s an integral part of the Les Cheneaux Water
Trail that extends about 75 miles along the northernmost shore of Lake Huron
from the mouth of the Carp River, above the town of St. Ignace, to DeTour
Village at the mouth of St. Mary’s River.
A popular kayaking spot, the heavily-wooded
Les Cheneaux Islands begin to the west at Hessel Bay and continue to protect
the coast going east past the town of Cedarville. Most of the islands are
uninhabited, but Marquette Island, the largest, boasts a number of spectacular
homes with equally grand boathouses. Our route should not have been
particularly difficult; we made our run parallel to the mainland past the
civilization of Hessel Bay, through some coastal marshes to dip into Mackinac
Bay. We moved past Snow’s Channel
and entered a large bay.
As we glided through some shallow,
marshy areas where the reeds swept around like strands of hair on a balding
man, our objective was to circle a small island.
I didn’t notice it at first, but
the longer we were on the water, the calmer the weather became. The
intermittent rain again fell to mist, the wind dipped and the choppiness
leveled off. The four of us were slicing through the coastal waters at a
comfortable clip.
Ahead, a peninsula of Marquette
Island reached out -- a picturesque spot that was home to a scattering of grand
properties.
The Les Cheneaux Islands have been
a favorite summer retreat for wealthy Midwestern families from places like
Chicago, St. Louis and Pittsburgh since the late 19th century.
Typically, until after World War II, summer people arrived by steamer from
Detroit or Cleveland. The largest islands, Marquette and La Salle, were the
favorites. That tradition continues to this day, minus the steamers.
Tim wanted to skirt the waters
near to the big summer “cottages” ostensibly to the see the boathouses, but
since he was a boat aficionado as well, his real objective was to eyeball some
of the small, handsome racing boats, many of which were of old-style wooden
construction, that were moored at the boathouses. There was no one to be seen
except at one dock, where a father was teaching his young children to fish. As
we glided by, one of the children pulled up a small perch.
On the far side of the bay was a
small beachhead, which was actually just a sandy reef where we would stop for
lunch. Or so we thought. The beach happened to be guarded to by two large,
white swans. And, as every kayaker knows, it’s best to give the notoriously
cantankerous swans a wide berth. By the time Tim picked out an alternative spot
to moor, the two swans decided to make for deep water and we could claim the
beach.
Kayaking burns a lot of calories
and Tim provisioned us well with not only sandwich meats, cheese and flat
bread, but assorted delicacies from dried fruit to a sweet concoction of baked
saltines and minty chocolate – a homemade delicacy.
The
beachhead was narrow, but it was good to take a break. But when I exited the kayak, I didn’t
realized how tight my muscles had become. I really needed to get them
stretched.
I normally bike 25 to 30 miles
almost every day, which is good for thigh muscles, but I found that kayaking
uses the those muscles in a different way and that they were tightening up on
me. Kayak bloggers point out that people with larger thighs often show more
discomfort in the kayak position, basically sitting upright with legs straight
out to the front and tucked into the narrow confines of the structure. Preparing with stretching exercises is
recommended.
After about 20 minutes of eating
and idle chatter, we were back in the kayaks.
Weather in the Great Lakes can be
tricky and quick. The storm that tormented us as the beginning of the journey
was over. The rain was gone and so was the wind. The waters in the bay at
Marquette Island turned glassy. We all took note that to get to this point on
our journey we had paddled hard against a gusty wind, which we rationalized was
bad but would be at our back on the return trip. That turned out to be a
fiction. After the storm there wasn’t even a breeze.
We headed back,
sailing quickly across the bay and through the strait. Tim, who had been
hired to guide us for so many hours, began to think of where else we could go.
It had taken us two hours to reach the beachhead, but getting back took only
one. For Tim and Jay, life is never better than when in a kayak and they could
have stayed on the water for another four hours. But I was fighting some
cramping in my thigh muscles and by the time we made for a landing, I was glad
to be able to once again stretch my legs.
Now if I could only
figure out how to exit the kayak without a face plant in the water, that would
be a good thing. Maybe on my next trip.
IF YOU GO:
Getting
There. I was staying on Mackinac Island, which meant a Star Line
ferry ride to St. Ignace and then about a 20-minute car ride to Hessel Bay.
However, most people come to the region by automobile, crossing the Mackinac
Bridge from lower Michigan to its Upper Peninsula. www.stignace.com,www.mackinacferry.com
Accommodations.
St. Ignace is a popular place for tourists and sportsmen heading to the Upper
Peninsula so there are many hotels and motels of varying degrees of quality in
the town. However, a better suggestion is to stay on Mackinac Island, a
leisurely spot of land that has banned automobiles. Many of the better hotels
are both grand and Victorian. I stayed at the Island House, which has been in
business for 150 years. www.theislandhouse.com
Outfitters.
I used Woods & Water Ecotours, which not only rents kayaks and offers
guided tours, but outfitted me from my toes to the top of my head. www.woodswaterecotours.com
|
The author, geared up for bad weather
Heading to open water
Along the coast of Michigan's Upper Peninsula
Lunch break on Marquette Island |
Europe’s Western Balkans—Communist Hangover, Cured
By Bruce Northam
Photos by the author
Visiting
four Western Balkan countries—their ‘90s war behind them—reveals a dynamic
region less dangerous than a double-edged daffodil … a welcome wind of change.
The Western Balkans’ state personalities were defined long
before they were bound together for 50 years by Josep Broz Tito’s version of
Yugoslavia. Since 1991, they’ve redefined themselves once again. The intense
cultural microclimates huddled into a mountainous, sea-hugging peninsula now
celebrate their common bonds while remembering their differences. Beauty and
history lure tourists, as most of the people living in these old new countries speak excellent
English—a feat less familiar in neighboring across-the-Adriatic Italy. Many
Romance language speakers tend to remain, let’s say, unromantic about wholly
tackling the English language.
Because of Slav migrations that peaked in the 7th century,
the western Balkans’ individual Slavic language accents all sound Russian, and
use a mix of the Cyrillic and Latin alphabets, although very few speakers of
these languages understand Russian. Although a radically polarizing figure, the
former dictator Tito relished dogs and John Wayne movies and entertained many
popular personalities including Liz Taylor, Richard Burton, Sofia Loren, and Orson
Welles.
But while Tito’s brand of Communism influenced Yugoslavia,
it never tethered the country to Moscow. Today, despite suffering the economic
downturn wounding many parts of the world, the region is once again ready to
embrace freedom now that the political storm has finally blown out.
SLOVENIA
The other former Yugoslavian states have always viewed
Slovenians as stubborn, hard-working mountain folks, and indeed, they were an
important manufacturing engine for that regime. Separated only by an arm of the
Alps from neighboring Austria, mostly Roman Catholic Slovenia shares the
Germanic appetite for efficiency, mountain sports, and a more Western European
view of the world. Although some detach Slovenia from the Western Balkans, it
is indisputably Slavic
I relished the easy stroll from the Rail Europe station into
the heart of its Baroque capital city, Llubljana (Youb-Blee-Ahna), an historic geographic crossroads of Germanic, Latin,
and Slavic cultures. Curving,
cobbled medieval streets converted into pedestrian-only walkways are lined with
inviting restaurants and shops and open-air nightlife buzzes along the canal
bisecting this pleasing, non-intimidating city-town loomed over by Ljubljana
castle. Aside from the
castle, it reminded me of Newport, Rhode Island, minus the ocean and yacht
snobs.
Ljubljana castle looms over the old city while a dragon, the
city’s symbol, graces its flag.
A short train ride northwest into denser forest, Bled (say ‘blate,’
and you’re fine), a glacial lakeside town with many waterside dining options,
enjoys the breeze flowing from its ‘Julian Alps.’ The Alps soar west to east
from Monaco, span eight countries, and terminate in Slovenia.
Bled celebrated Sedona-style energy vortexes long before the
first hippie landed in Arizona. Always barefoot, relocated Swiss Naturopath
Arnold Rikli pioneered Bled’s vegan and spa movement in the later 19th century.
By discovering Bled’s healing center, he attracted aristocrats from around the
world to come here and heal. Some see him as the grandfather of spa health
resorts.
Climate-friendly Bled’s foremost attraction, medieval Bled
Castle, has towered over the lake-centered town for 1,000 years. Also majestic,
the nearby mid-lake church of St. Mary is the proverbial island unto itself. Visitors
are encouraged to ring the immense church bells while making a wish. Downside:
the iconic bells clang all day long. Upside: people truly enjoy wishing for
something while tugging on something.
Ninety-nine steps rise from the water’s edge to this
idolized church. Local wedding tradition requires grooms to carry new brides up
these steps, during which the bride must remain silent (for the last time!).
Bled, oddly, was once the sister city of Benbrooke, Texas
until the Texans recoiled. No
wonder—Bled has way more in common with Lake Placid, New York. However, the
leftover 1980 Olympic event relics in Lake Placid can’t compare with Bled’s
summertime mountainside toboggan ‘bob’ ride, the Funbob. One of its steep ski
slopes is refitted with a serpentine track allowing mini toboggans to bolt down
the mountain, giving pilots a whiplash-speed adrenaline rush.
My highlights were treks in the base of two deep gorges, one
dry, the other supporting a river with waterfalls. The lesser known, dry
Pokljuka Gorge teems with lush flora, enters several tunnels and works hikers
into a good sweat. Vintgar Gorge, far more popular, boasts the river and
spectacular cliff-hugging boardwalks that make the otherwise inaccessible
canyon family friendly.
Nearby, the perfectly isolated Bohinj (bow hin) area is second to none for all summer and winter sports.
Also known as Triglav National Park, Bohinj is the Balkan’s Yosemite, a
flattened u-shaped basin and lake encircled by glacier-torn Slovenian Alps.
Hemingway served as a medic on this Alpine front during World War I. Bohinj,
first populated in the Bronze Age, is an alpine winter sports paradise, not to
mention an amazing warm weather hiking and mountain climbing destination. You
do get away from it all here—they even speak a singular dialect. Myth suggests
that conquering Turks retreated instead of invading Bohinj, because they saw it
as the end of the world.
Slovenia became independent in 1991, joined the European
Union in 2004, and adopted the Euro in 2007. When I visited in 2010, it seemed
like an Old World Alpine movie set fantasy…that I could afford. Slovenian
architecture, scenery, and people won’t disappoint. This proud, tiny, young
independent republic is vastly photogenic.
* * *
* RAIL EUROPE cruises into Slovenia—in style. www.raileurope.com.
Visit www.slovenia.info
to get started and www.visitljubljana.si
to explore the capital city, Ljubljana, whose Antiq Hotel epitomizes authentic
boutique before it was cool. www.antiqhotel.si
Vila Bled (on Bled Lake) is a deluxe, high-ceiling hotel
that once served as Tito’s summer residence. www.vila-bled.si.
Bled’s lakeside Preseren Restaurant is divine, www.vilapreseren.si. Pokljuka’s Sport
Hotel, one hour from Ljubljana, is a hub for year-round Alpine excursions. www.sporthotel.si/
After connecting through a choice of European hubs, Adria
Airways is based in Ljubljana. www.adria.si
CROATIA
The cruise ship industry helped introduce the world to
Croatia’s spectacular coastal mountain landscape, strewn with World Heritage
Sites and everything else required for a well-rounded vacation. Although
members of the European Union, Croatians have yet to adopt the Euro, which is
sometimes deemed a necessity to create economic prosperity. However, they have made
inspiring progress since their early ‘90s troubles, as evidenced by a new
north-south Autobahn-like highway, efficient car rental services, seven UNESCO
World Heritage Sites, and completely developed, multidimensional tourism
options. Slightly smaller than West Virginia, Croatia isn’t peering back at its
Communist legacy and strides on as an irresistible destination—so much so that
avoiding summer is recommended. Western-friendly is an understatement.
Impressive Zagreb, a classic European-style capital, has the
talent to fulfill hedonistic whims—within walking distance. Electricity pioneer
Nikola Tesla lived here – but ironically, across from Tesla’s commemorative
plaque is one of the city’s 247 charming gas lamps. Aged and trendy styles
mingle along cobblestone streets where outdoor café dining and drinking is a
lifestyle.
Croatia was the first Balkan nation to use its own language in
Roman Catholic liturgy. A
particular sentiment on the tribute wall under Zagreb’s famous Stone Gate
caught my eye. This hulking 13th century arch-entry is the last remaining of
the five gates that guarded the old city. The admired under-arch painting of
the Virgin Mary is surrounded by dozens of tribute plaques. One tribute to her,
a remnant of a bygone era sharing a timeless message reads, “Thank you Mother
for your help throughout 50 years of marriage.” I know a few married folks who
want peace prizes for surviving fifty weeks.
Southbound and into the mountains, Plitvice (Plit-vitz-ah) National Park, on the
A-list to become one of the new Seven Natural Wonders of the World, is a nearly
unfathomable series of 16 descending multi-level lakes and ponds adjoined by
waterfalls splashing over walls created by long-ago fallen calcified tree logs
that dammed the river 16 times and transformed this ancient valley into a
medley of connected storybook lakes. The highest and lowest watersheds are
separated by 435 feet, while seven miles of elevated boardwalks and 25 miles of
trails touch every corner of this cloud nine.
Split, Croatia’s largest coastal town, is known for
Diocletian’s Palace. This
sprawling, perfectly preserved Roman castle-palace, constructed between 295 and
305 AD, is Split’s true city center. Diocletian reigned for 21 years, the longest of any Roman Emperor. He
was also one of the few Roman emperors to abdicate voluntarily and die
naturally. After the empire’s fall, his palace remained empty until the 7th
century when nearby residents squatted within the walled fortification to flee
invading barbarians, and it has been occupied ever since. One of the rare World
Heritage Sites draped in laundry—3,000 people still live in this public domain
compound— the palace complex also stirs
in a mix of street musicians, restaurants, and a few high-end retail shops. One
family has been living in the same house for 1200 years.
I found a supreme example of grace meeting gourmet at Sperun
Restaurant, an indoor/outdoor buffet-trattoria. While dining, I took my turn
sharing wines with the owner—he ‘works’ from table to table, amusing customers—and
then he sent me down the block to the fisherman’s church to count my blessings.
Nearby is Gothic Trogir, a city dating to the 2nd century BC
that was remodeled by 15th century Venetians and eventually occupied by
Napoleon’s army. But, the darling of docking cruise ships and the locomotive
for Adriatic postcard sales is Dubrovnik’s old city castle fort that begs and
shares wonder. Walking around the lookout rim crowning this mega-stadium sized
complex is a lesson in architecture. The inner labyrinth of broad avenues and
narrow streets becomes a party complex in the evening. The polished cobblestone
main drag is no less than a model runway at night; tanning and serial-smoking
are still in vogue. The earnest people may not have forgotten the past, but
they’re enjoying their future.
* * *
* RAIL EUROPE cruises into Croatia—in style. www.raileurope.com.
Zagreb’s centrally located Palace Hotel is a smart choice. www.palace.hr. Plitvice’s Jezero Hotel is
basic but delightful in its rural locale. www.np-plitvicka-jezera.hr. Split’s
seaside Hotel Park has small elegant rooms. www.hotelpark-split.hr. Split’s
Sperun Restaurant is at Sperun 3 in the old town. 021/346 9999
MONTENEGRO
Montenegro’s dense mountains hide many of its 700,000
residents and separate its Old World Adriatic coast from the bland Communist-era
architecture in its likeable inland capital.
I went Old World first. Travel-industry storytellers are
accustomed to landing in romantic destinations in non-romance mode. Severely romantic Perast is a soulful,
mountain base-hugging village on the Bay of Kotor. This sweet snapshot of local
waterside culture can be taken in from several waterfront establishments. Akin
to Adriatic Europe, Perast is a bargain, full of locals who seem to enjoy
Americans. On the edge of town, the Pirate Bar (not a play on words like it
might be in California) is a choice but rugged bayside place for a drink and a
snack overlooking the bay and mountains, which are all perfectly illuminated by
stellar sunsets.
Over the past ten years, I’ve rarely traveled with long-time
friends. People get busy. My pals probably have no idea what it’s like to
travel with me, someone married to the road. Those who do roam with me these
days automatically acquire the travel wand—they decide everything, while I go
along tweaking the path. My only legitimate skill (no packing tips here) is
recognizing the random locals not so much that you can trust (I usually do) but
the otherwise unknown MVPs ready to help hone your state-of-the-art experience
in the moment.
For two weeks of this four-country ramble, I was joined by a
Boston-bred pal I met in Thailand in the 90s. We hit Podgorica, Montenegro’s
central city, blind…off the bus without a plan. Steve’s initial doubt and
subsequent revelation in Podgorica was about trusting the wandering spirit. He
insisted we find a hotel first near the bus station, then figure out food and
leisure.
I swayed him into our first real not-in-a-rush-at-all
traveler moment, which led us into an empty supermarket where we parked our
packs, shopped for snacks and a beer, and chatted with the staff about which
way to roam. Heading in that direction, two mid-life dudes toting small but
obvious backpacks met easygoing thirtysomething Vladimir who was walking in the
opposite direction. After brief directions, we invited him to join us at the
riverside place he’d recommended. Steve nodded in agreement with this hallowed
travel strategy.
As a relief from the electronic chirp music that’s consuming
the planet, we enjoyed live ethno-folk music—where the accordion takes center
stage—by Crveno i Crno (Red and Black) at a
breezy, sprawling riverside establishment called Skaline overlooking the cooling Morača River.
Talking about Vladimir’s life, work, play, and the seismic governmental shift
in his homeland was a Balkan highlight, because time evaporated, and we enjoyed
buying him drinks he wouldn’t otherwise be able to afford.
Even if we hadn’t sponsored Vladimir’s drinks, he still
would have continued guiding us to two more establishments. The first was a
trendy Hindu-groove-themed mist-spraying hive with overhanging plants and a
fancy drink menu. The other was a chain-smoker disco teeming with would-be
Milan models backbending above forearm-length heels all pouting, “I can’t
breathe without a butt cemented into my lipsticked mouth.” Vlad’s history and
drinking place’s tour was complemented by commandeering us a cheap private
apartment for the night.
Despite staying out past bedtime, he made it to work in the
morning, and we caught our bus to Sarajevo. We’re still trading nationalistic
prods, keeping the reason for roving alive. He can’t afford to visit the States,
possibly ever in his lifetime. Often, life isn’t fair on many levels, something
which spoiled Americans, including me, need to get out to appreciate.
Like other Euro converts, Montenegrans are now experiencing
price increases. However, for Americans, Montenegro’s cost of goods is still a
deal on par with Miller brew prices in Wisconsin. Unlike the other Balkan
countries on my itinerary, Montengro’s landlocked capital was chock-full of
mediocre, blocky buildings that echoed Soviet bloc concrete—but Vladimir made
it shine as one of those people who helps blossom a journey into a trip, or even better, a special
occasion.
* * *
Perast’s magical Hotel Per Astra is best in special date
mode. www.hotelperastra.me.For more inspiration about Montenegro, visit www.montenegro.travel
BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA
The overland drive from Podgorica to Bosnia-Herzegovina’s
capital city, Sarajevo, is a stunning coil through imposing mountains along the
glacier-blue Pivo River. Sarajevo—the other Jerusalem—exemplifies the modern
religious crossroads and crossfire. Most media offerings specialize in images
that disturb. That seems to be all that was shared about Bosnia-Herzegovina
until now. This beautiful country’s vibrant capital city awoke my historical
senses and was a lesson in recovery. Every local I encountered shared stories
about Bosnia paying the bulk of the 1992-95 Balkans War toll. Nearly constant
artillery fire from the mountains surrounding Sarajevo killed thousands, cut
power, and blockaded the delivery of vital supplies. Imagine years of bullets
and bombs raining down on your blacked-out town. These people know hard times and
how to appreciate good ones.
Sarajevo’s old city, like every old European city, has
narrow, curving cobblestone streets flanked by architectural gems, and Sarajevo
is one of the stars that turned its old quarter into exclusive pedestrian
walkways. And it remains faithful to indigenous cuisine: no McDonalds or other
franchises. Even better, every hot summertime day is followed by cool evenings.
Inviting restaurants and drinking establishments abound, all flowing out onto streets
and sidewalks.
Unlike the other Western Balkan countries I visited, Bosnia
seemed to have a macho element I didn’t encounter elsewhere, probably a
reflection of hard living. Muslim-style nightlife is typified by throngs of
chain-smoking dudes minus the necessary female balance. We need girls to soothe
our inclination for barbarism. That said, otherwise mellow-seeming Bosnian
bruisers (they’re large people) are cordial, or at least neutral.
The finale of my Balkans tour in Sarajevo seemed
appropriate. I attended an intra-country football match, Sarajevo versus Celik from Zenica,
with Bosnia’s most popular sports journalist Sabahudin Topalbecirevic (a.k.a Baho) and his
seven-year-old son. The crowd at the stadium where the 1984 Winter Olympics
opening ceremonies were held was 99 percent guys, most in football fever mode.
The maniacal Sarajevo fans behind the opposing goal never
turned down the volume. Suddenly, that pack of fans began screaming and running
away from a tear-gas bomb that was probably planted in their midst by a
visiting team fan. The mania sent hundreds of fans tumbling over high fences
and onto the playing field to escape the gas, which quickly drifted our way. It
resembled a panicking ant colony exploding outward. We all began choking with
stinging eyes. When otherwise affable Baho urged “Let’s go,” I knew it wasn’t
kooky pep-rally shenanigans.
We ran into the parking lot but the cloud had drifted in
that direction, so we sprinted back into the stadium. Everywhere people
crouched on all fours, covering their faces. One guy was walking around handing
out wet napkins to cover people’s noses. We drove away leaving the mist of bad
sportsmanship behind. Is this what happens when the guys are out after dark
without women to civilize them? At least this battle stayed on the pitch.
* * *
Try www.bhtourism.ba, an online travel guide to
Bosnia and Herzegovina, and www.sarajevo-tourism.com to hone in on
Sarajevo. Sarajevo’s Bosnia Hotel does it right, www.bosniahotels.com.
++++
* RAIL EUROPE cruises into the Balkans—in style. www.raileurope.com.
Bruce Northam’s eternal wander continues on www.americandetour.com.
* EPILOGUE: As the Communist fog lifted here, old-fashioned
gossip re-emerged. In Tito’s day, you really had to watch what you said about
other people—paranoia was standard even within friendships. Now Balkanites are
free to say what they please. What are these Balkan countries saying about each
other? Gossip-emboldened stereotypes might be naughty, but many generalizations
arise from half to three-quarter truths. When a region experiences anarchy,
those people never forget.
BALKAN GROUP CONSENSUS views Montenegrans as pleasantly lazy,
Bosnians as nice, Slovenians as strong-willed workaholics, and Croatians as
lucky.
SLOVENIANS think CROATIONS are land hogs because of shoreline
border disputes revived after Yugoslavia’s breakup.
Vladimir from MONTENEGRO just wants everyone to get along.
P.S., your wallet won’t suffer here.
* EURO-MODE SOCIAL ESTABLISHMENT RANT: America’s taverns
borrowed heavily from Britain and Ireland’s publican model; a “pub” is where
the public meets. The idea of long bars rimmed by neighboring stools to invite
conversation between strangers was lost on Europe. Instead, European drinking
establishments have tiny “bars” reserved only for waiters fetching drinks to be
served to individually grouped tables, so solo travelers are invited to either sit by themselves at a table, or be
bold (a.k.a.American) and introduce their way into a group conversation. Also,
in the land of 32-ounce Big Gulps, it’s rather entertaining to see grown men
drink the Euro-style five-ounce bottled beverages. The Western Balkans also
embrace Euro-style puffing, with Bosnia leading the chain-smoking stampede. A
version of American patriotism I salute: a mere peek at a smoker whose waft is
invading someone else’s meal usually merits a butt dousing or relocation. |
Slovenia's Vintgar Gorge has a spectacular cliff-hugging boardwalk
Slovenia's BOHINJ region
Croatia's Plitvice National Park is a waterfalling otherworld
Montenegro's Bay of Kotor
Metaphoric Bosnian street art in Sarajevo
Croatia PLITVICE
Montenegro's bayside Hotel Per Astra
Sage
Croatian sentiment honoring the Virgin Mary under Zagreb’s 13th century
Stone Gate - Thank you Mother for your help throughout 50 years of
marriage
Sarajevo Mosque
Slovenia’s
Church of St. Mary in the midst of Bled Lake is the proverbial island
unto itself; visitors are encouraged to ring the church bells while
making a wish
|
|
|
|
Archive 
