Living on Toronto time

2011-06-20T03:38:55Z

"To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub." I'll concede the point to the Bard on that one. This post is coming to you live at 5:30 a.m. I'm sure he was referring to jet lag, right?

Stefania has already left to drive to work in Lugano and I'm left to ponder this mortal coil while I decide whether I should get up or not. What's the jet lag rule again? Stay up the first day? Starve a fever, feed a cold?

Anyway, there is a nice breeze coming in the window and the birds are already up working hard for breakfast. Still have a couple hours to go before the campana or church bell up the hill starts ringing.

All in all, my trip went fairly well, expensive cab ride to Pearson notwithstanding. But I had no choice since I was taking my bike in its case. The lady at Air Canada scowled at me as I first sidled up to her counter, but in the end it only cost me fifty bucks and a little scorn. So small price.

The rest was a breeze since I was three hours early for my flight! A little shopping, a sandwich and an eleven-dollar Heineken later I was ready to board my plane for Frankfurt. I got a Triple Seven built in 2007. Huge plane with the most powerful jet engines in the world. I watched workers load pallet after pallet of cargo along with our baggage.

The best part was that the 777 has in-seat entertainment systems even back in steerage where I was trapped with my fellow globe trotters. Back there, I always think of the scene from Titanic where they close the gates on the third-class passengers to prevent them from escaping or the Seinfeld episode where long-suffering Elaine is trapped in coach while Jerry is bumped up to first class and seated next to a model and served champagne and ice cream.

No models for me. However, I did happen to spy a familiar face; Simon Haupt, who works two rows over from me at The Globe, was seated two rows ahead of me on his way to a conference in Cannes, France. Small world, indeed.

Three movies and a meal that must've been shipped straight from the rubber chicken factory helped pass the time. I had to sprint for it in Frankfurt but I made my plane with five minutes to spare before boarding. Just enough time for a quick bird bath in the washroom to freshen up a bit. Then on the bus and out to the A320 for the short hop to Bologna.

As we winged our way over the Alps and descended over Emilia-Romagna, I got a chance to survey my kingdom: fields of corn, vineyards and fruit orchards with the occasional poplar or Italian cypress standing guard. I looked out the window to the south and could see the sanctuary of San Luca, one the icons of Bologna, perched on a nearby hill.

After touchdown, a bus took us a grand total of 100 meters to the baggage area of Guglielmo Marconi Airport. Yes, that Marconi. Bolognese born and raised. He invented radio in a country house just outside of town.

I picked up my bags – they just tossed my bike case on the conveyor belt – and wheeled through the throngs of people. Stefania had just parked and met me in front of the arrrivals area. A quick zigzag back through the parking lot and we were off. And yes, my bike case can be squeezed into the back of a Nissan Micra, thank you very much.

The weather was similar to Toronto's: warm and humid under hazy sun. Not much seems to have changed over the last several months. The local municipalities have been working on a pista ciclabile or bike path out near our village. Giant rolls of hay dotted the farmers' pastures. Fruttivendoli or roadside vegetable stands lined the road and the fruit trees were laden with my favorite summer delite –bing cherries! Note to self: swipe a few on next bike ride.

When we got to our apartment in Bazzano, I unloaded my bike in the garage. It's okay but the jackasses in security always decouple it from the fork mounts inside the bag. I'm lucky it didn't get scratched. But no harm, no foul.

As luck would have it, it was lunch time. Polpette con piselli (meatballs with peas in red sauce) washed down with a nice Stella Artois. Now I was ready for a nap.

Meanwhile, Stefania's sister, Lorenza, had come over to show us my niece Virginia's First Communion pictures and all of the kids' final report cards. Good grades all around.

We relaxed watching the Sette Coli swimming championships from Rome (Lorenza used to be an Olympic swimmer for Italy) while I continued to doze in "my" chair to a chorus of, "John, svegliati!" ("John, wake up!") every five minutes.

No rest for the weary, I guess. But fatigue is nothing a little bit of pizza from the pizzeria next door to our building couldn't remedy. It's the best cure for jet lag that I know.

But that was then and it's seven now. Well, up and at 'em. Espresso anyone?

Delta blues, greens and yellows

2010-06-29T09:42:41Z

Here is a new slide show of our visit on Sunday, June 27, to the Po Valley Delta Regional Park along the Adriatic coast near the town of Comacchio. It is an area that once comprised over 73,000 hectares of brackish wetlands and waterways but is now less than 18,000. Fishermen, bandits and poachers once plied these waters, but most have since disappeared along with the fish. In the 1920s, the Fascist government of Benito Mussolini began the process of reclaiming and draining the marshes—most of which are under the level of the nearby sea—to convert them into farmland, making hard lives even harder. Since 1988, this zone has been protected and is home to many species of birds such as the greater flamingo (P. roseus) and the common stilt or "cavaliere d'Italia" (Himantopus himantopus).

Comacchio from john sopinski on Vimeo.