I'M A B.O.F. WHO KNEW?

Early morning swim complete, I rushed home, grabbed my iPad and began my search.  B.O.F.?  Today was my first exposure to the term and although it was explained to me, I felt a need for further clarification.  "BoF" popped up on my screen. "Business of Fashion" it read.  Think not, I giggled, glancing down at my scruffy, chlorine-smelling jeans.  And then there was "Bof" (spelled differently). No luck! That is French for "whatever" as in:

Tom: Hey, Harry, wanna' shoot some pucks.

Harry: Bof!

Nope, I muttered.  No B.O.F.  The meaning? you ask. Well, according to one of my fellow swimmers, her grandson reported that old retired people are collectively referred to as B.O.F.'s - Boring Old Farts.  Who knew? Not moi and on behalf of my fellow B.O.F's, I am offended. Don't anger a B.O.F., sonny boy, unless you are prepared to handle what you unleash.

So hey kid, here's the thing.  After, you provide me with your operational definition of "old", we can discuss " boring". Nah! Who needs to wait; I'll cover 'boring' now.

By 9:00 am this morning, most of my BOFy friends were in the pool, at the gym, cycling, walking our local trails or volunteering their time.  Had you rolled out of bed yet? Just askin'.  Coffee or lunch with my fellow BOFs is most likely too noisey for you. We are prone to talking and laughing. Verbal communication, I think is the term. Not cool, I guess, when our time could be better spent in silence, head down, texting pals on our iPhones.  Just sayin'.

My thoughts automatically turn to BOFy people we have met on our travels.  In 2007 on the Amalfi Coast, just after I had retired into BOFdom, we met a true BOF specimen with wrinkled face and snow white hair. Imagine! Probably truly boring and uninteresting, not deserving of any time. Right, kid?  And all he had ever accomplished in his life was developing the laser beam. Hmmm? Know what that is? Just askin'.

On our recent Rhone trip, we met a BOF who would have really put you off.  White-haired, he slowly walked with a cane, frequently dragging his right foot. Oh, and his right arm had limited use, too. Having suffered a stroke last year, Chris, the BOF in question, nolonger able to fly (oh, yes, he was once a pilot) decided to do something about his bucket list.  Travelling alone, yes alone, from Brisbane, Australia, he visited Singapore and Dubai, then took two European River cruises, the Rhine and the Rhone. When we disembarked from our cruise he was on his way to London, England. White-haired and older.  Must have been boring. Right?

You know what, kid?  As I pen this blog, I am becoming prouder with each word I write of being a BOF!  I have laughed, cried, sung, danced, worked, cursed, contributed and loved for a lifetime.  I have earned the distinction BOF.  Now that I am nolonger Daphne Lockett, Broker of Record, you can refer to me a Daphne Lockett, B.O.F.  Got that, kid!?!  Now, if you will excuse me, I'm off for a drink with my fellow BOFs.

IRONIC ICONICS

Bezu (Policeman): Did you approve? (about the Louvre Pyramid)

Robert Langdon: Yes, your pyramid is magnificent.

Bezu: (Grunt!) A scar on the face of Paris.

.....The Da Vinci Code, Dan Brown

Before we journeyed to France, I admit to being the typical tourist.  Two iconic landmarks dominated my "must see" list - the Eiffel Tower and the Musee Louvre. They did not disappoint. Dramatic during the day, both structures become positively magical at nighttime. A staggering 16.7 ( 2012 ) million visit the Eiffel Tower and Louvre on an annual basis, yet both of these landmarks were initially criticized and disliked, even unwanted, by Parisians. 

Built by Gustav Eiffel in 1889, the Eiffel Tower was erected for the Exposition Universalle ( a celebration of the 100th anniversary of the revolution ). Although a huge success at the Exposition, the structure came under virulent criticism from the leading French artists and intellectuals of the time; it was not in keeping with architecture of the belle epoch. So much negative pressure was brought to bear, that the magistrates of Paris withdrew funding forcing Eiffel to complete his structure using personal resources. Deconstruction of the tower was contractually scheduled for twenty years after its opening.  Eiffel, desperate to keep his tower in place, was ultimately able to convince the French Government of the value of the tower for military radio communications. Et voila, the Eiffel Tower remained standing and a global cultural icon, attracting 7 million visitors a year, was born. Can you imagine Paris without the Eiffel Tower? I can't!

Totally unpreprepared for the beauty of the Eiffel Tower, Jim and I audibly gasped as we rounded the corner and the structure came into view. There it suddenly was, soaring an impressive 81 stories, its iron lattice work actually appearing too delicate to support its own weight. 

And after dusk, a lit Eiffel Tower becomes positively magical.  As if drawn by some magnetic force, crowds gather to witness the spectacle and are doubly wowed when every hour on the hour the tower's sparkling light show of strobes pierces the dark Parisian skies. C'est magnifique.

What I would never have anticipated in a million years was my instant love affair with the Louvre.  So overpowering is this attraction, that I would return to Paris tomorrow just to revisit the Musee Louvre.  Anyone game?  

Opened in 1793, the Louvre Palace, now one of the world's largest museums, attracted 9.7 million visitors in 2012, making it the most visited attraction in Paris.  Over 400,000 objects from pre-history to the 21st century are housed in over 632,300 square feet.  To name just a few, it is home to Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, Winged Victory of Samothrace and paintings of the greatest artists from the Renaissance to the Romantics. To my Facebook picture postings of the Louvre, Faye responded with, I could spend six weeks in the Louvre alone.  That is no exaggeration, Faye!  Jim and I lovingly joked that when my sister, Jo-Anne, a true fine art student and lover, visits the Louvre, she may never emerge.

Gracious wide marble stairways lead to spacious wings offering a multitude of well organized and marked exhibits. Skylights bathe priceless paintings in natural light.  The interior is nothing short of magnificent. But it was entrance courtyard with its large glass pyramid surrounded by three smaller pyramids that stole my heart. I am incapable of explaining why; I just wanted 'to be there'.  

Entrance issues led to the construction of architect, I. M. Pei's, glass pyramid entrance in 1989. The larger of the pyramids provides a stunning modern central entrance to the various wings of the museum.  Dramatic and light-filled, I love the intriguing juxtaposition of modern glass to aged marble and historic architecture. For me, it is our future offering entrance to our past.  C'est brilliante.

To this day, the Louvre's pyramids remain highly controversial.  A whole school of thought view the futuristic edifice as out of place, a scar on the face of Paris.  But the Louvre pyramids hold a charismatic draw on their own.  Crowds gather in the courtyard, meeting friends, snapping photos, peering into the mysteries revealed below or just sitting on the concrete benches taking in the historic surroundings. And at night? Well, let me just say that the Louvre is not outshone by her Rive Gauche competitor.

How ironic, I now muse, that two of France's iconic landmarks have historically been so strongly derided and unwanted, whether in total or in part.  Somewhere in here is a lesson.  Perhaps it is as simple as opening our thinking and emotions to change.  Who knows where the next ironic iconic may be.

IT IS THE SMALL THINGS

When travelling, who doesn't wish to visit iconic sites?  Certainly France is not lacking in the "famous destinations" catagory - The Louvre, The Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, Pont d'Avignon...and the list goes on and on and infinitely on.  But when memories of visits to those iconic sites fade over time, as they will, it is the small things for me that ultimately stick, creating a lasting impression of a country. The passeggiata in Italy, the serpent-like mists in Scotland that snake around the hills of the Highlands, obsessively neat woodpiles in the mountain towns of Switzerland, and how many ways the Irish can serve potatoes, to name a few. 

In Musee d'Orsay, home to the world's largest collection of Impressionist art, we stopped to observe a class of Kindergarten-age children huddled in front of Renoir's Dance At The Moulin de la Galette. Their teacher was discussing la lumiere naturelle; her rapt students were eagerly pointing to the painting indicating where they saw figures bathed in the tree dappled light.  When she moved on to discuss Renoir's brightly coloured brush strokes, her mini scholars grew even more animated in their search for examples.  Four and five years of age! So young, but already being exposed to art appreciation. How much we could learn from the French.

Perhaps ongoing art education is why shops no matter how small, whether selling vegetables or cookies, display their goods so artistically. Shopping in France is a delightful feast for the eyes. 

The French love their bread and they want it fresh.  Not a slice of processed gluten or Wonder Bread did we witness anywhere, in city or in small village. Boulangeries, who daily bake baguettes and croissants, number 26,000 across France.  26,000!  Lineups outside local boulangeries are a daily occurrence. In Vieux Lyon, the lineups for one obviously loved boulangerie actually stretched across the main street.

The French pursuit of freshness is also evidenced in the plethora of small local markets, epiceries, butcher shops and fromageries. Acheter frais.

On board Swiss Emerald, one of our cruise directors ran a French Class, in which she also covered examples of French etiquette.  In hindsight, I am convinced that Tauck was attempting to ensure that we North Americans weren't our usual brash, abrupt, in-a-hurry selves and to remind us that we were in a country with different practises, a country that values good manners. Always, she stated address a shopkeeper when entering their store and 'bonjour' will not cut it. We were advised to greet proprietors with Bonjour, Madame or Bonjour, Monsieur.  Jim and I took Veronica's advice to heart, each time receiving the happy response of a huge smile and welcoming assistance. The so-called indifferent waiters of France didn't exist when greeted as such upon entering a cafe.  Oh, how simple.

The practice in France for tipping taxi drivers is to simply "round up" the fare.  On three different occasions when Jim attempted to tip more, our drivers respectfully declined the extra money.  In Rome, which remains my favourite destination city, if the taxi driver hadn't already attempted to overcharge or 'palm' our money, he would have grabbed the excessive tip and rushed away, most likely laughing.

Merci France for so many small moments that will lovingly remain in my psyche.  Merci beaucoup for reminding me to appreciate the beauty in our everyday surroundings and life, to patronize my local shopkeepers, to search out the freshest food, to practise common decencies and honour in a profession. Merci mille fois for making us feel so welcome in your beautiful country.  We will return. Normandy and Bordeaux beckon.

AN APOLOGY

A few of you have emailed asking where my usual daily travel blog is.  I am honoured; thank you. I sincerely apologize for its absence to those of you who amazingly care. Jim and I arise early in the morning, set out on foot, and because we don't have the luxury of a five week trip this time, try to squeeze in as much as we can during a day, grab a bite to eat occasionally - oh! and a glass of wine, of course - go again in the evening and then arrive back at our hotel only to crash! During those moments when I awake during the night blog ideas invade my thoughts. I just can't seem to find the time.  I have been putting some pictures up on Facebook. Hopefully if the wifi on the river cruise is strong enough, I may find some time.  

Pour l'instant, merci et au revoir!

GETTING "HIGH"

Forget the illegal drugs, ecstasy, heroine, and marijuana, to name a few.  You can even nix the legal drugs, nicotine and alcohol.  To get high, I simply need to sit in an airport lounge.  I freely admit to my addictive love of airports.  Too bad I can't mainline that bubbling anticipation year round.

Okay, I can hear your puzzled cry, But what of the impersonal, degrading security lines, the crowded moving sidewalks, the dreary waits, the crush of humanity.  What a colossal pain!  Sorry, but your complaints fall on deaf ears; you will never change my mind no matter how negative your comments, no matter how dire your horror stories.  You see, I savour every minute spent in an airport from limo drop off to airplane take off.  Each moment brings me one step closer to the adventure of travel.  International flights require that passengers arrive at least three hours in advance of departure.  This junkie shows up three hours in advance for even the shortest domestic flight.  Air Canada RapidAir to Montreal departing at 1030 hrs will see me stepping into Pearson at 730 hrs.  True!  Just confirm with Jim, Christopher or Matthew.  I can see their rolling, long-suffering, ah-really-Mom eyes, already.  Any flight, domestic or international, provides me with just the excuse I need to spend time in an airport.

I love the energy and bustle of people on the go.  For an inveterate people watcher, any airport provides prime people watching fodder.  At my leisure, I can study the crowds, a veritable melting pot of different age groups, nationalities and accents.  Such diversity!  I wonder, What business is he in?  Where is that family going?  Who is behind those giant sunglasses?  Are they grandparents flying out to meet their first grandchild?  In my imagination, each passenger is assigned an individual story.

And then there is that magical Departures Board with its ever-changing list of exciting destinations, each holding the promise of adventure, learning and future possibility.  Where to next time? I already ponder.

The high pitched whine of engines warming up, the powerful roar of jets preparing for takeoff and the rumbling vibration of these giants of the sky as they career down a runway gathering speed for take off, make my skin tingle with excitement.  Flight, to me, will always be a miracle.  Imagine, in seven or more hours, those passengers can be transported to Rome, Paris, Istanbul.......  Whomever it was who referred to airports as giant hubs of possibility, had it right.  So deep is my addiction that the mere sight of a jet at the gate lifts my mood.  The giant majestic bird seems to stare me in the eye and say, Soon, Daphne, soon!

Best of all, of course, is the airline PA announcement, Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the preliminary boarding call for Air Canada Flight 880 with service to Charles de Gualle Airport, Paris.  ( Feel free to insert your own dream destination here. )  All passengers should have documents ready and be prepared to board.  Would anyone requiring assistance and........ Dear god, I love those words.

And so here we sit, in the lounge, people watching, getting revved on the sights and sounds of such addictive travel promise, and eagerly awaiting our call.  Pour l'instant, au revoir!

10 MORE SLEEPS TO.......LA FRANCE, ENFIN!

After two aborted attempts which instead resulted in trips to Scotland and Switzerland, we are at long last, truly, pinch-myself-because-I-can't-believe-it, travelling to France.  I am eager to wrap myself in as much as I can of what she has to offer.  Audrey Hepburn once said, Paris is always a good idea. Taking her advice to heart, we will spend our first eight days in the City of Light.  I want to wander Paris at night, to be awed by the shimmering Eiffel Tower and glowing pyramid of the Louvre, to be inspired by the illuminated beauty of Notre-Dame, to cross the Seine and to see the lights of Paris reflected in her dark waters.

I want to walk the twisting, turning, huddled 'rues de Marais', to explore the tangle of narrow winding streets criss-crossing Montmartre, to navigate the confusing pathways of Pere Lachaise and to stroll the Champs Élysées.

I want to gorge myself on art, art, and more art.  From the Renaissance smile of Mona Lisa to the spontaneous bright broad strokes of the Impressionists to the epic scale of Rodin's sculpture, I want to soak up the beauty of the plethora of world class art that France has to offer. I want to sit in the Orangeries Museum and enjoy the play of light in Monet's giant Water Lilies. While in Provence, I want to stand in Arles where Van Gogh painted his Cafe at Night and Starry Night Over The Rhone and say a silent thank you to that brilliant, tortured artist, one of my favourites.

Who can resist famous French sites? The Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame and Saint Chappelle, the Moulin Rouge, Sacre-Coeur, the Beaujolais wine region, Ponts du Gard and Avignon, Chateauneuf-du-Pape, plus, plus, plus dominate my to-see list.  While in Paris, we will even tour Victor Hugo's sewers. I am sure you have already correctly surmised that this is Jim's "want". Don't let me forget to pack a perfumed handkerchief. Pyew!

And ou la, la!  I want to eat.....the quintessential French baguette, pates, quiches, croissants, foie gras, confit de canard, crepes, escargot, boeuf tartare....... Charles de Gualle once said of France, How can anyone govern a nation that has two hundred and forty-six different kinds of cheese? To that I say, bring them on! Hmm? Perhaps I should contact Air Canada re our return trip and book a double seat to fit my new body.  How, I wonder, do the French manage to remain so trim?

Mon Dieu, I am in double trouble, because I also want to drink, to taste as many French wines as possible, to learn the regions, the grapes and each wine's terroir.  I want to sip on pastis in Provence and enjoy Calvados in Arras.  Small wonder that gout was dubbed "the disease of French kings"!

And I want to relax at outdoor cafes, absorbing the ambience and watching the parade of French citizens and tourists alike.

"Lest we forget" that not all French history is as peaceful as their countryside, I want to visit the Conciergie where Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette were imprisoned on their way to the guillotine.  At the Memorial de la Deportation, I want to pay my respects to the 200,000 Jewish French victims who died in Nazi Concentration Camps and to remind myself why Israel's struggle and survival today are so very critical. Our friends, Cathy and David, will join us in Paris four days after our arrival.  Two days later we four will make a special journey out of Paris to our Canadian National Vimy Memorial near Arras. On this the one hundredth anniversary of the start of World War 1, I want to express my deepest gratitude to our Canadian troops who so valiantly gave of their lives for our freedom.

So much to see. So much to experience.  So little time.  We won't even scratch the surface of all that glorious France has to offer.  I already know what else I will want to do......I will want to return.

My suitcase is out; my French phrase book and trusty walking shoes are ready. To say I am excited is an understatement. Je ne peux pas attendre. We are going to France.....finally! 

FREEZE FRAME - THE ALS ICE BUCKET CHALLENGE

Freeze frame  -  these two words rattle around in my brain every time I witness another participant take part in the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge.  Freeze frame describes the moment in a play when actors freeze action at a predetermined time in order to emphasize the importance of a specific scene. So why does my mind insist on associating this term with the ALS Challenge? 

Begun by Peter Frates, a Boston College baseball player, afflicted with Lou Gehrig's disease since 2012, the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge has grown to become the center of a virtual social movement.  Icing videos regularly go viral. Naysayers aside, to the great relief of both the Canadian and American ALS organizations, awareness of this devastating disease has significantly increased as have desperately needed donations.  Is it the icy water that brings freeze frame instantly to my mind?  Perhaps, in part. It is said that the freezing sensations caused by ice-cold water dumped over the body mimic the numbing effect of ALS.  I think there is more, though, to my "brain worm".

ALS, Lou Gehrig's Disease, Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, no matter what the medical term used, is the kind of disease of which unspeakable nightmares are made.  A neurodegenerative disease, ALS affects nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord leading to muscle weakness, loss of the use of limbs and problems with swallowing and ultimately, breathing. The mind and cognitive thought remain intact.  Imagine dying in this fashion knowing what is happening to you and that, as of now, there is no known cure, no hope.

Freeze frame?  To me it is that moment when the neurologist delivers the devastating ALS diagnosis. In that cel, life as they know it for patient, spouse and family has irrevocably been changed; future plans, altered.  How does one watch their loved family member slowly experience body failure?  Dear god!

My friend, Marion, experienced such a freeze frame horror earlier this year when her beloved husband of fifty years was diagnosed with ALS.  Marion is remarkable; she daily exhibits quiet grace, Herculean strength and soothing calm, but behind her eyes I see the excruciating pain.  In my childhood I imagined myself as the Good Witch of Pine Ridge Drive, a fairy with a magic wand who could wave her wand, swishing bad into good.  How I wish today that I could simply make all well with my special magic.

Tomorrow, with the blessing of the Uxpool administration and a swell of support from fellow swimmers, Marion, Cathy and I will take up the ice bucket challenge and will "call it out" to others within our community.  Tomorrow morning, however, is not about me any more than it is about Marion and Cathy.  It is about Marion's Jack.  It is about those afflicted with this devastating disease.  It is about collecting as much in donations for research as possible.  It is about finding a cure.

If you haven't already done so, please donate to ALS Canada.