A Canadian at Liberty

Dear old gent passing by Something nice takes his eye Everything’s clear, attack the rear Get in and pick-a-pocket or two. - Oliver It was perfectly executed. The victim was a well-dressed man in his late fifties, 6’ tall, with pressed linen shirt, dress trousers and the look of an American car dealer on vacation in Europe (new cars, not used.) He and his small group were smiling and cheery, having the time of their lives in Spain – until it happened that is. It was 11:20 p.m. and they were likely returning to their Barcelona hotel from an elegant Spanish guitar concert or a saucy Flamenco show. They had just stepped onto the Metro (Barcelona’s fast, quiet, efficient subway train) when the culprit put his plan into action. The miscreant and his accomplice were in the last car, closest to the exit stairs when the train pulled into the station. He waited until the moment Car Dealer stepped through the door to attempt to exit the train, bumping head-on into the soon-to-be

  Here's a quick video of my Paragliding adventure.  (if it doesn't work, try http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GeXZ_N-uNOU )

Zermatt, Switzerland is an idyllic alpine village, tucked away in a deep valley, protected on all sides by a crown of peaks, many of which stretch 4,000 meters or more into the sky. It is quite literally the end of the track. This is as far as the main train line travels, and it’s past the end of the road for gas powered vehicles, which must park at Täsch, the village before Zermatt. Only electric vehicles, a handful of touristy horse drawn carriages, and shoe leather ply the streets of this town. It is an athletic village, located at the base of the Matterhorn, which draws climbers, adventurers, and skiers from around the world. The seniors in Zermatt are as likely to be sporting hiking staffs as they are walking canes. No matter where you are, you’re usually only a few metres from an enormous group of (usually) Japanese tourists snaking their way through town with bewildered expressions on their faces and looking from high above like single-file rows of ants going about their chor

“My soul is in the sky” - W. S., A Midsummer Night’s Dream The Matterhorn “Do you go want to go right now?” he asked me on the phone. It was Daniel from Paragliding Zermatt . I’m sure I could have chosen a more polite phrase: my response was an enthusiastic “Hell YES!” There was no time for second thoughts or to assess the gravity of what I was about to experience. By the time I had slipped into the long underwear, sweatshirt and windbreaker that had been buried at the bottom of my pack since I left Canada seven weeks ago, he was at the front door of my quaint Swiss hotel. Our transportation was strapped in a pack on his back. Half an hour, a funicular, a gondola, an elevator, and a cable car ride later and we reached the top of Rothorn (pronounced ‘wrote horn’, meaning ‘red peak’.) Rothorn Launch Zone Already that morning, I had been on at least half a dozen different websites checking weather conditions at three different altitudes above Zermatt, trying desperately to locate on

Rialto at Night Lights of The Grand Canal Reflections  of St. Mark's Basilica Piazza San Marco at Night A Rainy Day in St. Mark's Square Viewing Venice from the Tower Venetian Gondoliers Grand Canal Gondolas

Ponte Vecchio at Night Ponte Vecchio The Duomo in Florence     Michelangelo's David Chianti Grapevines   Touring Chianti, Tuscany, the Italian Way Fabrizio's Tuscan Villa   One of my Delicious Creations at Fabrizio's

The place where the world's greatest kind of food was invented.

 _ Did you hear about the midnight rambler? Well, honey, it's no rock 'n' roll show. Well, I'm talkin' about the midnight gambler, Yeah, the one you never seen before. It’s 1968. The world is in turmoil. The youth counterculture movement is in full swing. Martin Luther King Jr. has been assassinated, and this writer will soon take his first breath. In this sleepy, conservative fishing village clinging to the side of a cliff on the Italian Amalfi coast, I can imagine it must have been a bit of a strange sight. One of the men in the cafe, rail thin with wiry arms, shoulder length sandy brown hair and rather distinguishing facial features was playing the harmonica and working on the lyrics. The other surely looked like the 1960’s rocker that he was. In my mind’s eye he’s wearing a weathered velour jacket with a gauzy scarf or two around his neck and he’s working through the chords on a guitar. At just twenty-five, he looks much different than the grizzled musician