Behind the walls, Skopje’s Old Town enchants

Our favourite Old City restaurant

Barbara Moser

Skopje is perhaps the most surprising city we’ve ever visited, possibly because we had no guidebook or recommendations from friends to depend on.

The kindness of the Macedonian people continued as our bus from Ohrid, which we had boarded with the help of the Dimoska family, stopped at a cafeteria. It was a welcome respite on this hot and stuffy four-hour trip. I was already regretting leaving the family in Orhid or at least in the town.

While everyone was buying burekas I was in line for the toilet. Alas, I had no denars to pay the attendant. One of my fellow passengers came to my rescue and also changed a euro or two to denars so we could partake in the marvelous, huge cheese burekas that we wolfed down as the bus departed.

In Skopje, we were dropped off at the train/bus station and found a cab to the hotel the family had recommended. Upon discovering that it was beyond our budget, we asked the owner for advice and were the recipients of yet more Macedonian hospitality.

He drove us to an inexpensive hotel! It was 35 euro and 5 euro extra for the necessary air conditioning above a bar on a small street across from the Greek consulate. The room was tiny and non-descript but it was a walk from the town circle and as we later found out, on the same street as the Jewish community centre. It was a windy-twisty but interesting 20 minutes to the massive circular ton square. We had to write down markers such as Sex Shop along the way. But don’t get me wrong. It was a pleasant area, past bakeries, pet shops, restaurants, and shoe shops. We had pasta and salads in a posh, antiquey European style restaurant after checking out the bookstore for a guidebook — to no avail.

Strange architecture adorns Skopje

The next morning, we headed out towards the medieval fortress across the bridge and once inside the small gate, we discovered an Old City. Its narrow stone streets beckoned to my yearnings for small old-fashioned boutiques, handicraft shops and cafés, and to Irwin’s yearnings to find an internet café where he could sip espresso and play internet chess.

Lo and behold Irwin was reading a small sign posted beside a door. We had stumbled upon the Honorary Consulate for the State of Israel. We rang the buzzer and immediately were let in. Usually security isn’t this lax, but our friend upstairs told us he had been expecting a friend. We climbed the stairs and there was the assistant to the Honorary Consul, his son, a dapper young gentleman who welcomed us warmly, serving us coffee and providing us with two students who would to take us over to the Jewish Foundation building. During coffee, we talked about the history of Macedonian Jewry. He told us 7,148 or 98% were deported to Treblinka. Only 200 Jews now live in Skopje, some having immigrated to Israel.

Inside the foundation building we met Victoria who is responsible for running the day-to-day operations of the foundation responsible for building the “Holocaust Memorial Center of the Jews of Macedonia.” Macedonia is returning land and funds to the remaining Jews as reparations for land and property that was stolen, and the center will be ready, says Victoria, this summer. I had a fleeting thought that it would be nice to return for the opening.

Victoria spent three years in Israel ten years ago, but her family returned fearing the conflict there. We stepped out onto the street and she showed us a restaurant or two where we could sample authentic Macedonian cuisine. Then, she took us to her friend’s jewellery shop where Irwin purchased gold earrings for my birthday at a great price.

A lazy afternoon in the Old City

After our lunch of kebab for Irwin, an exquisite yogurt soup for me, and Greek salad and roasted peppers for both of us we wandered our own ways. I discovered an antique beaded jewellery shop where I spent two hours negotiating prices and sipping Turkish coffee. He hightailed it to the more modern bar/café where he played chess on his laptop.

That evening we met Victoria for dinner in a cave like, ornate restaurant, (the name of which I wrote on a slip of paper and lost) and ordered wonderful salads of eggplant, red peppers, hot dishes of meat for Victoria and Irwin and a giant tomato cut like a pie. It must have been 5 inches in diameter and it was then that Victoria disclosed the fact that her country produces the best tomatoes in the world. She’s right as far as I know!

The next morning we walked over to the Jewish community center and met the president and secretary, two youngish women who spoke impeccable English and showed us the synagogue. This is a small but thriving community complete with a choir and a publication centre of sorts. We purchased an English cookbook of Jewish Macedonian recipes written by one of the oldest members of the community and were given a video of the choir, which we cherish and play for friends.

We spent the afternoon arranging our exit from Skopja, which was by mini-bus to Thessaloniki. We figured we would arrive in this port city and hop a last minute cruise to the Greek Islands — to make up for the one we had missed in Trieste.

It was a bit more complicated than that. But that story will have to wait till February.

We spent our last night in Skopje trying to get some sleep so we could get up at 3:15 am to be picked up at 4 am in our minibus to Thessaloniki. Our fellow passengers were a university student who’d just finished her exams and a history buff/guide who supports his son in Santa Monica, California. To supplant his income he imports used cars from Germany. He talked a lot about the about the conflict between Macedonia and Greece. According to him the Greeks are not only jealous of the name Macedonia, used by “non-Greeks” but wary of future territorial demands on the fertile northern part of Greece, from which thousands of Macedonians were expelled, their property confiscated. Ostensibly they were part of the Communist rebellion, which was put down with the help of the British after the Second World War.

A ballet mom's memory

Barbara Moser

Molly was 8 when she first experienced being on stage before a live audience. It was 1989. She had been a student of Ora Kozlov’s at the Greene Ave Ballet School for three years and now Ora had chosen Molly and other lucky little girls to dance in Ballet Ouest’s Nutcracker. Molly was a chef, dressed in a chef’s costume, a chef’s hat and a big wooden spoon.

The rehearsal involved long hours at Westhill High School, where Ballet Ouest performed in the 1980s. Molly loved every minute of it. Her big night came and I volunteered to help with make up and costumes. What mother wouldn’t?

I remember the look on her face for the entire 3 or 4 minutes she was on stage for every performance. It was magical. The morning after the finale Molly wouldn’t go to school. She lay in bed clutching her autographed program and cried, saying she didn’t know how her life would go on without The Nutcracker. What was the use of going to school if she couldn’t be on stage dancing The Nutcracker?

I called her ballet teacher Ora who asked to speak to Molly. I don’t remember what she told her — probably that all ballerinas feel this way after their first performance and that she had to eat and go to school and be strong so she could continue being a dancer. Whatever she said, Molly got up and went to school.

The next year Molly was a Mother Ginger in the ballet. And the third year she was in the opening party scene. Molly never got the chance to dance as Clara but she continued to study dance with Ora till she started college.

Molly still has that program book from 1989. And I know we both often remember that first magical night on stage in The Nutcracker.

A long walk — and a lift — from Pogradeci to Macedonia

The Dimoska family

Barbara Moser

Our congenial host at the Parlimenti Hotel in Tirana drove us in his slightly worn Mercedes-Benz (almost everybody drives one in Albania) to a lot where mini-buses were filling up with passengers bound for Pogradeci, a resort region on the shores of Lake Orhid, a lake shared with Macedonia. We started out on a good road. Suddenly the driver made a u-turn, drove back to where we started and took a road that re-aligned my internal organs. It seemed to go on forever.

Once we were back on pavement, the drive was uneventful and hot. We followed a winding road around a mountain. For the queasy, it was harrowing. We stopped halfway (after 2 hours) at a roadside resto where the owner tried to stiff us 10 euro for two pieces of cheese, bread and a simple salad. We eventually settled on 500 lek ($6), which according to us included a hefty tip.

Once in the Pogradeci region, we almost stopped at the Lunhidas Hotel, described in the guide book we’d purchased in Tirana as a “tourist centre” with swimming pool. We noticed that here, 10 kilometers out of town, the lake looked crystal clear. But it was too far from the centre and we always stay where the action is. Our driver dropped us off at the first place on the hotel strip in town. We liked the looks of the hotel and the price, $34 Cdn for a modern room with balcony overlooking the lake. The bed however could have used fewer metal rods.

We strolled along the boardwalk and decided to rent a paddleboat ($2.50 Cdn an hour). The odor of excrement was too strong to go swimming near the shore so we paddled out toward the middle of the lake, where the water looked clearer, and Irwin jumped in. One of four sturdy soldiers-on-furlough in a neighbouring sailboat, hearing us conversing in English, begged to interrupt. The conversation continued until after two of the lads had boosted Irwin onto our boat, nearly tipping me over. Irwin’s physical condition, being what it is — chess, jazz, wine, pizza, lengthy books — made it impossible for him to do it on his own.

Strolling along the boardwalk in Pogradeci

We spent the afternoon treating the five soldiers to ice cream, beer and coffee. The English speaker, translating for his friends as he spoke, complained bitterly of Albanian corruption. His parents, farmers, had no money to send him to university so he was conscripted and hates every minute of it. He told us that rich parents pay to get their children through university.

We spent Sunday wandering along the bustling 3 kilometer boardwalk. I was saddened by the Gypsy mother with toddlers begging on the boardwalk. Making a quick detour I returned with pastries, which the kids grabbed as if they hadn’t eaten in days.

We spent the afternoon on the terrace of our hotel viewing the pier in the sunset drinking Martini and Rossi and playing chess. Monday morning, while sipping cappuccino, we asked — two women–professors from a nearby university and quizzed them about the soldier’s reports. They claimed that nobody takes seriously the universities where a diploma can be bought. We also quizzed them about how to get to Macedonia. It sounded simple: “Get a cab to the border, five kilometers away. Then get out and walk across. There will be cabs waiting on the other side to take you to Orhid, Macedonia’s lake resort.”

We got out of the cab, said goodbye to Albania, and walked 100 meters to the friendly Macedonian border police. They instructed us, in sign language, to walk ahead, either 30 or 300 meters (I’m not sure which) indicating there would be taxis.

20 minutes past the border. Where are those cabs?

We walked and walked and walked. No sidewalks. No cars. No buses. Just a two lane highway. I told Irwin I wanted to go back. “I don’t go back,” and “It’s uphill,” were his quirky replies. I was worried. We were in the middle of nowhere in the mid-day heat with our knapsacks on wheels. No food. Little water. After 30 minutes, a modern red jeep came rolling down the highway. Instinctively, we put out our thumbs.

Our savior stopped and we asked “Ohrid?” He invited us in, threw our bags in the back and started to drive — and drive and drive. He spoke no English, French, Spanish, German, or Hebrew, but we managed to convey we were Canadians. He called his wife on his cell and she told me in perfect English that he would gladly drive us to the bus station to catch a bus to Skopja, the capital. We drove through a touristy, more sophisticated version of Pogradec, called Ohrid and stopped at a large bus station, where he insisted on purchasing the tickets in Denar. We returned the amount in Euro to him later. Then he motioned for us to get back in the car. We had no idea why but by this time he felt like a long lost cousin so we climbed in knowing our bus would leave from the station in half an hour. He drove faster now, obviously heading for somewhere. After 10 minutes he stopped abruptly and turned into a house with a small porch. Mr. Dimoska was taking us home — and we would meet the bus across the road from his house on its way to Skopja.

The Dimoska family is in the construction business and lives in a three storey house their father built. Fiona and the children, Victoria and Michael greeted us in English. Victoria and her cousin were playing with the new kitten. We posed for pictures, and sampled Fiona’s homemade blueberry juice and Turkish coffee. Then we hugged the entire family including the grandma, all of whom had graciously welcomed us to Macedonia. We gave the kids some Canadian souvenirs, and crossed the highway to the bus stop with Fiona, who said she was sorry we were leaving so soon. But we’d had our fill of “resorts” and wanted some big city life. So on to Skopja we journeyed.

What I learned one weekend in September

Barbara Moser

Last month I learned what it feels like to watch your child in pain and be utterly helpless to do anything about it.

I began to understand what parents go through when their children are seriously ill and spend months in and out of hospital, what it is like searching for a doctor who can tell you something… anything that will reassure you that your child will be okay, that your child will stop hurting and smile again.

I learned that friends can be like family. I learned that my cousin, Paula, knows how to turn fear into humour.

Molly visited Montreal from L.A. this month for a friend’s wedding.

On the Saturday the wedding took place she woke up with severe pain. She said it was the worst pain of her life. I could barely steady my hands to call 911. The ambulance drivers arrived and began to question her. She could barely talk so I tried, as I am wont to do, to intervene and answer for her. They were curt with me, telling me she is 27 and can answer for herself. As if this changed the fact that she was my baby and I wanted to explain to them what she was feeling.

The pain started to subside and they told her she could choose to go to the hospital or stay. She decided to stay and soon the pain went down to “1/2” out of ten.

Together we prepared her for the wedding. She looked like a princess in her Betsy Johnson dress, asked me for make up, and together we decided on the necklace and the gold earrings with the tiny rubies, her birthstone, that I had bought her in Greece this summer. I decided to accompany her and her date, Don Patton, a friend of ten years, to the wedding service. We drove her father’s car to pick him up. The wedding was beautiful.

The bride looked beautiful but no woman in that church looked more beautiful than Molly. Yes, I know I am her mother but now I am being perfectly objective.

We left the church and I said good bye trusting Don to take Molly to a hospital should the pain start up again. It did, not 30 minutes after I left them. It was intense and Molly ended up not far from the reception hall where she and Don were heading, the Santa Cabrini Hospital. I had never heard of it before.

I was on the metro going home, when Don called me. I left the metro shaking and got in a cab not knowing how far the hospital was.

After ten minutes of Molly being in great pain, a triage nurse assessed her and calmed me down, saying she had two children and knew what it felt like. I will never forget her kindness. Apart from being able to speak English she calmed me down several times during Molly’s 24-hour stay in Emergency.

The pain subsided and then it got worse. She was on a cot lying in a room, where the average age must have been 70 and no doctor was coming. She started writhing and moaning and I grew desperate, walking over three times to a nurse who was distributing cake among her co-workers, begging for a doctor or something to relieve the pain.

I wanted to change places with Molly. I wanted to believe in a god. I couldn’t imagine how this had happened or why no doctor thought my daughter was more important than people with gun shot wounds or the 87 year old lady, whom we later got to know well, who had fallen and was covered with bruises.

Finally Molly was given morphine and a harried doctor told me he was sending her for blood tests and an X-ray. I was so relieved she was getting something for the pain, I forgot to ask for his pre-diagnosis. I felt myself becoming overwrought and feeling more and more helpless. After another hour I begged a nurse to tell me more. She mentioned the area of the liver and a possible inflammation. When I heard the word liver, I freaked out. After the X-ray and after the two shots of morphine had taken some effect, the doctor returned at 11 pm and told me it might be gall stones or a stomach infection of some kind. He mentioned the word “virus” then too but I could only remember gall stones and liver and started to worry about surgery. He told Molly’s father and me that he was booking an ultra-sound for the next morning to investigate the gall bladder.

We decided to go home at midnight to get some sleep and leave Don to look after Molly till about 1:30 am. We were both exhausted but as soon as I got home my body became wracked with fear and regret that I had left my baby alone in Emergency.

At 7 am we were back with Molly. At 9 am she had the ultrasound. We had to pay cash for it, $180 and by the time we left the hospital that day, we learnt the hospital stay would cost $900. We paid cash $150 for two doctors. This was nothing to me but Molly commented that she marveled at our wonderful health care system and the fact that people pay nothing for all this care while people in the US have no access to healthcare. So much for our complaints about our health care system!

Finally after more hours of helpless waiting and a few jokes, and great relief from cousin Paula, who came to the hospital that morning and regaled us with her anecdotes of the trials of my uncle’s hospital stay (four days in emergency in great pain with no food) and generally lifted our spirits so that the fear in my body lessened to the point where I could laugh. Of course Molly, by this time, was in no pain at all but still connected to an IV.

After another two hours a 30ish doctor who looked like she had stepped out of a fashion magazine, wearing street clothes, appeared by Molly’s cot-side and told us she was betting on a virus because the ultrasound had shown no gall stones, that in fact, the area was clear.

I asked her, how could such pain come from nowhere? It happens, she answered. She gave us medication for the “spasms” should they come again, and told us if they do, we should return to the hospital.

What a scare! What relief! Monday morning as I looked at my beautiful daughter sitting beside me petting the cat, I thanked those who looked after her, my friends who were there for me by phone with kind words and reassurances, my cousin Paula, Don, who held Molly’s hand through the worst of it, Molly’s father who put up with my hysteria, and the doctor who gave us the good news.

Expensive, enchanting Trieste: first stop on our spontaneous summer adventure

Trieste canal

Barbara Moser

Our first stop on this summer's adventure was Trieste, Italy at the Northeast top of the Adriatic Sea. Trieste has all the best qualities of Italian cities — accessible on foot, terrific tomatoes, marvelous mozzarella, and fabulous fish that tastes like it just came out of the sea. Then there's the gelate — multi-flavored Italian ice-cream in its various forms — yogurt, sorbet and rich cream — at every corner, which became a serious threat to my diet.

Our hotel, the 2-star Alabarda, was friendly but offered only 30 minutes of free wifi in the room. This seemed rather stingy when we later compared them to other hotels in Albania, Macedonia, and Greece, places we would visit later in the month.

This is the first time we took a laptop to Europe. It fit nicely into our knapsack on wheels and we rarely took it out of the hotel rooms. It was nice to not have to find the local Internet cafe, usually crowded with smelly teens. We had bought a $10 adaptor at Trudeau airport, which simply attaches to the plug and then goes into the wall. A helpful rep at Bureau en Gros told me that more expensive converters are unnecessary for laptops, which already have the ability to run on 110 or 220 volts.

Sunset in Trieste

We arrived on a Saturday and spent most of the day catching up on sleep and walking the streets that run around the Grand Canal. The first afternoon, I walked across the street to the Supermercado and purchased some succulent peaches, nectarines, tomatoes, and cheese, as well as a perfect size orange melon resembling a cantaloup. The next morning we enjoyed a wonderful cafe latte at one of the spots along the canal. Fancy coffees are the only thing cheaper than Montreal, apart from the wine and gelate.

The music in the bars and restaurants is awful — loud and aggressive. We asked one waitress to change it and she happily obliged.

We had three restaurant meals in Trieste (eating the second meal from the supermarket deli counters) and the average bill was 30 euro ($50) including wine and sparkling water. The service was always friendly and accommodating.

Muggia fishing tackle

The hotel gives out a special menu for a restaurant that is two streets away: Risorante Pizzeria O-Scugnizzo. For 20 euro you can have Primi (First Course) pasta, Secondi (Second Course) fish or meat in tiny portions; Contorni (salad or grilled veggies), and Bevanda (Beverage) — either mineral water, ¼ liter wine or beer. We weren't that hungry or willing to splurge yet again so we asked if we could share. We could and did! Irwin had the spaghetti with fresh mussels and clams (both in the shell) and I had the secondi of grilled squid. Restaurant food in Trieste and in Rome, as we were later to discover, is well prepared and fresh but beyond our budget.

On the second day, we visited the port and decided not to take the cruise going to the Greek Islands for one week. We weren't ready to be packed in like the grilled sardines I had for lunch, listening to loudspeakers and unable to stay in a place longer than a few hours. At least that's the impression we had of cruises before we took one two weeks later in Greece.

Instead we boarded a chug-a-lug to Muggia, a half an hour away (6 euro return) and toured a lovely little port town, sampled more gelate and more delicious coffees. You get the picture!

What a beautiful little town. We would have inquired about the apartments for sale at 140,000 Euro if it hadn't been a lazy Sunday.

On the third day in the evening, we boarded a ferry headed for Durres, Albania for a return visit to this budget land of friendly people and hair raising rides along mountain cliffs. Next issue Albania — still the best kept secret in Europe.

Syros and Athens

From Mykonos, which we found touristy, arrogant, and over-priced, we sailed to what we both now call our favourite island of the cruise -- Syros. It's a small, old-fashioned kind of place. As we walked straight off the ship and onto the port, we noticed many older Greeks sitting all along the homey cafes having coffee or sharing food they had ordered. We immediately felt at home. We bumped into a book shop with an English stand and bought another of Ian McEwen, who we both like, as we have almost run out of novels on this trip. We found a cafe playing soft Greek music and eventually bought a CD of the female singer, whose name I will have to tell you next blog.

We visited the Apollan Theatre, a small replica La Scala in Milan, a cosy site that represents the town, which is on a hill. The streets are so scenic as is the harbour, that I had to click away every few minutes. For lunch we found a women's collective self-serve, run by 28 women from the district. The food definitely tasted like it came straight from their kitchens. I had eggplant stuffed with feta. They do a lot of feta stuffing here.

We took a local bus to the nearest beach, which was clean and reasonably quiet and had a wonderful and relaxing time cooling off. We had Greek coffees, rather like Turkish coffee, played game or two of chess overlooking the beach area and made our way back in a crowded bus to the town, where we reluctantly boarded the ship for our last night on board.

We are now in Athens in an area called Plaka, which has pedestrian streets filled with market-like shops and pricey cafes. We found, with the help of the young woman who manages this internet spot, a reasonably priced Greek restaurant filled with locals. How to describe it? A cross between Shwartz's Deli on St. Laurent, though 10 times the size, and a typical Montreal Greek eatery. There was little for vegetarians. Irwin had an excellent order of Kebab and shared my spicy cheese, hot green grilled chili peppers,and tomato and cucumber salad. The name of the place is Thanassis. It seems to go on for blocks and is very popular. Right next to it is an equally popular but slightly higher priced Bairaktaris, also recommended by our internet manager. We had lunch there today and they had more to offer a vegetarian. We shared a Greek salad, zucchini croquettes, and sweet red peppers, grilled and stuffed with feta. I have to try those when I get home, but will they taste as good?

It's hot, very hot and hard to get away from it. July is definitely not the time to visit Greece. And now, I've left the most important for the end. As soon as our ship docked in Piraeus, we dropped off our bags at our hotel, which we had reserved the day before our cruise departed, the Phidias (50 euro a night for a lovely and spacious double) and made our way, with the same friendly taxi driver to the Acropolis. We wanted to get there before 9 because we had heard it would be teeming with tourists. And it was! Alas, they don't take VISA and we had to walk all around until we found a taxi driver who would change our dollars. US dollars are quite unpopular here. Finally we managed to buy tickets and were soon climbing (and I mean climbing) the steps leading to the Parthenon. It was my third visit. I was 18 the first time, 22, the second time and now, well it's certainly changed. The first time, in 1968, I remember touching those famed columns. Now, you can hardly get close enough to take pictures without heads in your way. It was Irwin's first time and for him it was "dramatic."

We are spending our day in Plaka since it's Sunday and little else is open. It's a lovely place to relax if you don't mind spending over $5-6 for a latte and the same for ice cream. It seems that since the euro has become part of the Greek scene, we Canadians are at a bit of a disadvantage, financially. But all in all, Greece is a place we are growing to love, and we will be back!

We've already decided to book a cruise next summer with Easy Cruise Life and see four or five more islands. What a comfortable, low-key and interesting way to travel!

Panos and Mykonos

Yesterday we docked in Panos at 2 pm and were told we had to take a "tender" boat to shore as it was windy. Windy my foot! We noticed the more luxurious cruises were right near the dock. The tender filled to capacity and more. It was not in our estimation the safest mode of transportation, especially on the way back to the ship at 10 pm. There were few if any lifejackets, with children and more people sitting on the roof of the boat, but when we complained about the safety, we were told by the cruise director, Anita, that these boats weren't under "their umbrella." Of course they are! What would happen if someone fell off? There would be no way I could last in that water more than 2 minutes!

Panos was lovely. It was small enough to walk around. The houses and streets are blue and white — lots of paint on these islands! We found an Internet cafe but couldn't connect our laptop so we used theirs for free. Just had to purchase expensive drinks! I didn't stop taking pictures of the narrow streets with their colourful doors and balconies. Every twist and turn brought a new photo op. Since we had our lunch on board (we have one meal a day, lunch or dinner plus breakfast included on our half-board plan), we started looking for a restaurant around 7 pm and found one right on the beach, from where we could watch the sun set in style.

We asked for a mixed platter of our Greek favorites, including grilled peppers stuffed with feta and tarmosalata. I was the one stuffed by the end of it, and then I made the mistake of ordering "little fishies" — grilled sardines — and could finish only half. Oh well! The thin kittens had a great time delicately eating whole fish! During dinner we met a single male high school history teacher from Calgary, very charming. Forgot to mention we also had a nice swim at a public beach with bamboo umbrellas. A bit dirty but okay for Irwin!

Today we are in Mykonos! What a difference! Made pricey and crowded by the "rich people who live here," we've spent the day wandering the picturesque streets looking for Internet cafes such as this one in which we can cool off. The heat is getting to me. We Canadians aren't used to the sun being so strong, even now at 5 pm! In these cafes we use their laptops (ours doesn't seem to work on these two islands) and pay big prices for small non-alcoholic drinks. But it all works out in the end.

Tomorrow is our last island: Syros. Then on Saturday, it's back to Athens. Don't be surprised, dear readers, if you see one of the photos I've been taking on the cover of our August issue! We must confess that we didn't take the 47 euro tour to Delos today to see the home of Apollo! We're just not up to the heat and having to do anything in a group.

And now we're off to the city beach for a short swim before finding our shuttle bus to the new port and climbing aboard our tender to take us back to our ship.

Kos

We are now in Kos, a Greek Island only two hours from Bodrum, Turkey, where we spent yesterday. Bodrum was touristy but it was a joy to be back in Turkey, which we visited four years ago. Prices have definitely shot up but we enjoy the people and the ambiance. There's a huge market there, a small Grand Bazaar (which exists in Istanbul). We had a fish lunch by the sea and strolled along the busy streets looking for a "bathing suit" since I'd unwittingly left mine in the cabin, thinking I'd spend the entire day touring around. It turns out that many of the restaurants and bars offer free swims, complete with deck and lounge cars and umbrellas, in exchange for a pricey drink or coffee at $5. We had to shop for a change of clothes and buy a bathing suit for Irwin, but in the end we managed to climb into the cool and refreshing water and have a short swim.

Our ship left at 8 am this morning and less than two hours later, we were strolling along the port of Kos, an island that suffered an earthquake in 1913. There is still a castle here that looks something like the one in Bodrum which we are not ashamed to say we missed. We are into "hanging" not touring more castles. The temperature yesterday was over 40 degrees and today it reached 38. So sunblock is essential. Still the heat takes it toll. We are not young anymore and there's only so much walking in the heat we can stand. Irwin is now falling asleep in his car at this lovely wireless cafe so we must make our way back to the shop and look forward to dinner, which tonight is "sole." We hope it has more soul than the past meals on our half-board plan, which have been underwhelming. If we have any energy we will return after dinner and check out the action.

Kalymnos Island

We arrived in Piraeus very late after a comfortable train ride and made our way by taxi to our hotel, sharing the ride with a young geologist who lives near the city. The taxi driver tried to charge us for two trips and after a long argument, he left angry with a nice tip for one trip.

Our room was underwhelming, especially for 89 euro, a measly breakfast included. The next morning we walked around the picturesque yacht bay and thought we would try to find a more reasonably-priced hotel for our return July 26 (from our cruise). Happily we found and booked a nicer hotel, better situated, for 55 euro, which will be our base for visiting Athens and the Acropolis when we return.

Our hotel manager told us we could walk to the port. Unfortunately it took an hour and by the time we arrived, I was a wreck! Irwin was fine. We discovered that our cabin had a window, a substantial upgrade from our booking of an inside cabin. It’s actually meant for four people so it’s quite spacious.

We have since learned that we probably paid more than we should have because we didn’t need the meals and we booked at the last minute, probably paying a hidden agency fee. Other cruisers told us that they got good deals by reserving early online. Still we feel content. And we’ll know for next time.

Today we docked at Kalymnos Island, which is approximately 100 kilometers square. The island is so beautiful that I cried when I disembarked and saw the terraced pastel houses built on the mountainside. Future paintings?

We had a mediocre lunch, quite pricey, in a portside resto, but we got good advice from the British retiree who served us and suggested taking a bus to the other side of the island to a beach town called Misouri. The water was clean, calm and cool — a pleasure to swim in. And though there were many hundreds of Sunday swimmers, it didn’t feel crowded in the water. The town is simply exquisite. How nice it would be to spend six months there writing a novel. Getting the bus back was an adventure. We waited over an hour and finally it came and was packed all the way back to Pothia, the main town where the ships dock.

Tomorrow — Bodrum, Turkey. One of the nicest surprises is that our cruise ship leaves in the wee hours so we lose no time on land — exploring and enjoying the scene.

Thessaloniki

A walking bridge connecting to the new city of Skopja to the Old Town

We spent our last night in Skopje trying to get some sleep so we could get up at 3:15 am to be picked up in our mini bus to Thessaloniki. Our driver arrived on time and picked up a very interesting man and a student who had just finished her university exams. He was a guide who supplements his income importing used cars from Germany to support his son in Santa Monica. He told us about the conflict between Macedonia and Greece, which is not only jealous of the name used by “non-Greeks” but also, according to him, wary of future territorial demands on the fertile northern part of Greece, from which thousands of Macedonians were expelled, their property confiscated, ostensibly because they were part of the Communist rebellion, put down with the help of the British after World War II.

We arrived in Thessaloniki at 6 am our time, 7 am theirs and looked for coffee while waiting for the travel agencies along the port to open. At 8:50, one did. Early bird Christina Jeirani of Overseas Travel greeted us with a sleepy smile and began to process our desires, travelwise. We’ve decided that we’d loosen the purse strings and try our first cruise, yes, you heard it here first, cruise!

Christina found a 7-day island hop including Bodrum, Turkey and Mykonos for 500 euro with half board. We breathed a sigh of relief at the price and accepted. Not so easy! Cruises don’t leave from here! We have to go to Athens, Piraeus (the port). So after finding our hotel, booked by Overseas, and called Mandrino (65 euro), we took a bus three or four stops to the railway station to be informed that the only seats available were on the express leaving the next day at 7 pm for 48 euro each! Okay, we said, rather hefty but what choice did we have! We then went back to the tourist office and said “Get us a hotel near Piraeus please,” which Christina did for a hefty 89 euro! But better safe than sorry in Athens at 11:30 pm, right?

We then asked her for an interesting restaurant since we hadn’t eaten for 24 hours! She, after giggling with her friends, sent us to Oysoy Meaaoopon in Greek, or Ouzo Medathron. Everyone knows it and the reason is that the food is exquisite. It’s in a fun courtyard full of hungry, happy Greeks, downing mussels in every imaginable way, sardines – not the canned variety, anchovies – the real thing, and various meats and truly marvelous Greek, yes Greek salad. They top it all off with ice cream and strawberry or chocolate syrup on a bed of Baklava strings sprinkled with honey and Espresso for — nothing! Well, says Irwin, the ice cream and Espresso are complimentary! What a joyful experience especially if you get shpritzed with the mist connected to a fan.

This morning we waited for the Jewish museum to open and when it did we spent an hour and a half marveling at the growth of this wonderful community of up to 70,000 Jews, who first settled here as Roman slaves, augmented later by Sephardic Jews fleeing the Spanish Inquisition and other points across Europe. It was a thriving vibrant community with over 20 newspapers in Spanish and Ladino, full of scholarship, schools, over 30 synagogues, hospitals, senior homes, libraries, and orphanages until the Nazis brutally and systematically destroyed all but a few, transporting them to Auschwitz after destroying the cemetery and humiliating and tormenting the men of the community. We saw the deportation order telling the people there would be food waiting for them and to pack all their jewellery and valuables. The museum has a small library and bookstore, and many publications about the community now and then are given out.

In three hours we will be leaving on our train for Athens. Tomorrow at 2 pm we will board our ship. This is one town we would like to see more of. We’ll be back!

Crossing the Macedonian border

We took a taxi from Pogradeci to the Macedonian border (5 km), said goodbye to Albania and walked the 100 meters to the border police. We showed our passports and they welcomed us, telling us in sign language to walk ahead, either 30 or 300 meters (I’m not sure which) and that there would be taxis to the town called Ohrid, pronounced Okrid, on the other side of the lake that Albania and Macedonia share. We walked and walked and walked. No sidewalks. No cars. No buses. Just a two lane highway. I told Irwin I wanted to go back. He said “I don’t go back. It’s uphill.” I was worried. Here we were in the middle of nowhere with our two knapsacks on wheels, our money, and our baby laptop. After about 30 minutes, a red car came up behind us. We put out our arms. Were we actually going to hitchhike?

The gentleman stopped and we asked for a ride to Ohrid, not knowing how far it was. He invited us in, threw our bags in the back and started to drive, and drive and drive. He spoke no English but we managed to convey that we were Canadians. He called his wife on his cell and she told us in perfect English that he would gladly drive us to the bus station to get the bus for Skopja, the capital city.

Ohrid is a touristy, more sophisticated version of Pogradeci. We stopped at a large bus station, where he insisted on purchasing the tickets in Denar. We returned the amount in euro later. Then he motioned for us to get back in the car. What did he mean by this, we asked, but by this time he felt like a long-lost cousin so we climbed in knowing our bus would leave from the station in half an hour. He drove faster now, obviously heading for somewhere. Suddenly, after 10 minutes he stopped abruptly and turned in to a ground floor apartment with a small porch. He was taking us home — and we would meet the bus across the road on its way to Skopja.

His wife Fiona was lovely and so were her two children, Victoria and Michael. Victoria and her cousin were playing with their new kitten. We posed them for pictures, and sampled some of Victoria’s homemade blueberry juice and coffee. Then we hugged the entire family, especially our saviour and his mother, who had so graciously welcomed us to Macedonia, and made our way to the bus with Fiona.

The bus was hot and stuffy but we finished our books and four hours later were walking away from the bus station looking for a hotel. Finally we found one for 35 euro, 5 extra for necessary air conditioning, across from the Greek Embassy, about a 15 minute walk to the great square in the centre of this somewhat eclectic city of 700,000. Our room is tiny but we feel safe across from the embassy manned by a burly policeman at all times.

This morning we walked in all directions looking for the elusive post office, hidden in a circular building that looked like the inside of a flower. Inside after much negotiation we decided to only send home the heavy books for the special rate of 5 euro rather than the books and t-shirts for 40 euro! We headed out towards a medieval fortress across the bridge and inside we found the Old City. Its narrow stone streets, somewhat resembling the Old City of Jerusalem, including the fortress, beckoned to our yearnings for small old-fashioned boutiques and cafes, and lo and behold, we stumbled upon the Honourary Consulate for the State of Israel. We rang and were immediately let in and introduced to the assistant to the Honourary Consul, his son, who greeted us warmly and served us coffee. We talked about the history of Macedonian Jewry. He told us 7,148 or 98% were deported during the Holocaust, all to Treblinka. Only 200 are left here in Skopja, some having emigrated to Israel.

We were invited to visit the foundations of the new Holocaust Memorial Center of the Jews from Macedonia. Inside the new building that is the Foundation for the Center, we met Victoria who runs the day-to-day operations. Victoria spent three years in Israel with her family ten years ago but they returned, fearing “the wars.” We spoke Hebrew and she then showed us a few restaurants below her building that we could choose for lunch. Alas she wasn’t allowed to accompany us but we will be meeting her this evening with her boyfriend.

Our lunch of kebab, yogurt soup, Greek salad and roasted peppers, and Macedonia Riesling was a treat, but we are not ready for much more than a nap right now. Tomorrow we visit the Jewish community centre one minute from our hotel.

Pogradeci

As promised, our congenial host at the Parlimenti Hotel drove us in his slightly worn Mercedes-Benz (almost everybody drives a Mercedes in Albania) to the lot where mini-buses were waiting for passengers to drive to Pogradeci. The cost for the almost four-hour trip was $14 each. We started on a reasonably good road but suddenly the driver made a U-turn and drove back to where we started and ended up on a rocky unpaved track through some construction area that seemed to go on forever. We never found out what the detour was for.

Once we got back on a paved road, the trip was uneventful, if hot, until we climbed up several mountain ranges — and for the queasy, it was harrowing, since the road was narrow and the cliffs steep and potentially deadly. We stopped more than halfway (after 2 hours) at a “café” where the owner tried to stiff us 10 Euro for two pieces of cheese and a simple salad. We eventually settled on 500 lek ($6) which according to us included a hefty tip.

We thought we would stay at the Lunhidas Hotel, a “tourist centre” with a swimming pool. We noticed the lake was crystal clear, but it was too far from the centre of town, and we always stay in the centre of town. Our driver dropped us off at the first place on the hotel strip bordering the lake (Lake Orhid). We like the looks of the hotel, named Enkelana, and especially the price ($34 CDN with breakfast) for a modern room with a balcony overlooking the lake, TV and a bathroom. The bed however could use a few less metal rods.

We strolled along the boardwalk and decided to rent a paddleboat ($2.60 CDN) for an hour. The odour of excrement was too strong to go swimming near the shore. We paddled out toward the middle of the lake, where the water looked clearer, and Irwin jumped in. One of four sturdy lads in a neighbouring paddle boat, hearing us conversing in English, begged to interrupt. A conversation ensued and continued after the two lads boosted Irwin onto the boat. Irwin’s current physical condition, being what it is, (chess, jazz, wine, pizza) made it impossible to do it on his own.

After inviting the lads for coffee on the boardwalk, the English-speaking one told us a bit about Albanian youth and his own difficult circumstances. He is the son of poor farmers from this area and is completing a compulsory year in the army, which he hates. He won’t go to Afghanistan or Iraq because the $10,000 for six months service is insufficient compensation for having to kill and risk being killed. He complained that the senior officers won’t even talk to him and the class system in the army prevents him from getting recognition and training. He told us that the university system here is corrupt and that one can buy grades for money. He has no hope of going to university because of lack of funds, even though he is bright and articulate. The boys are embarrassed by the condition of the lake and told us that when the dictator Enver Hoxha lived here in the summers, polluters risked severe punishment. Our lad would like to get out of Albania but he has no marketable skills.

We stayed at our hotel for dinner where we were the only couple on the second floor overlooking the lake and it was charming. We chatted for a few minutes with the daughter of the waitress, a graduate in psychology who can’t find a job in her field because “Albanians don’t recognize the need for psychologists yet.”

Irwin ordered steak with garnishes and we shared three or four salads, a fish soup, a glass of Macedonian wine, and Fanta — the bill coming to $23. We strolled on the main street, bought a small watermelon and ate it in our hotel room, keeping the balcony door open all night for the breeze.

The music continued well into the night, taken over sometime in the early morning by the howling of dogs, followed by the call of the Muezzin, summoning the faithful to morning prayer.

So far today (Sunday), we've sat outside here on the terrace — with a “borrowed” Internet password (top secret) that the waiters will not divulge but will gladly punch in — reading and soaking up the breeze by the lake, and gone out to buy cookies for two withered ladies sitting on the street across from the hotel and a stash of croissants for the gypsy children who beg at our table intermittently.

Tomorrow we plan to take a minibus to the Macedonian side of the lake and make our way from there to Skopje.

In love with Tirana

On our way to Albania

Today we arrived in Tirana, Albania. Our ferry from Trieste was no cruise, but it was a pleasant 24 hour trip.

We met a German Jewish journalist-photographer off to an assignment in Kosovo. His editor had asked him to do a travel book on Kosovo! We also met a young couple from Vienna traveling to Albania to see her family. Luckily, her brother was picking them up and we were offered a ride to Tirana from Dures, where the ferries dock. A bus ride would have taken 2 hours or so, for what is a 30 minute trip.

Our new friend's brother Gazi insisted on taking us out for coffee and found us an affordable and centrally-located hotel for 35 Euro. Our room is huge compared to the one in Italy and down the hall we have a bathroom bigger than our own at home.

Reflective Muggia

We're still hoping we have Wifi here. The owner’s son assured us we did before he left for parts unknown. His mom doesn’t seem to know a thing about it. If not, there are Internet cafes every three minutes.

Gazi recommended a fish restaurant that we tried for a 4 pm lunch. It was fabulous! We had two whole fish, grilled, two Greek salads and one mixed salad. With fries and toast, and complimentary watermelon for dessert, the bill came to about $30. We finished the afternoon with a stroll around our area, which includes a food market and many many gold and silver shops.

A gorgeous twin view along the canal

We’re in love with Tirana already. We haven’t heard English yet except from the waiters and shopkeepers. Everyone is helpful and polite, except perhaps the boys who greeted us in our hotel and asked for money twice, not giving us a receipt until we insisted. At that point we got a handwritten note with the name and address of the hotel. The mother of course asked if we had paid when we returned. We hope the son hasn’t run off with our money to one of the casinos we saw not far from here.

If we do have Wifi, we’re bedding down in this town for a while!

First post from Trieste

Our first stop on this summer’s adventure is Trieste, Italy at the Northeast point of the Adriatic Sea. Trieste has all the best qualities of Italian cities — accessible on foot, the best tomatoes in the world, marvelous mozzarella, fabulous fish and seafood that tastes like it came out of the sea yesterday. Then there’s the gelate (multi-flavoured Italian ice cream in its various forms — yogurt, sorbet and rich cream) at every corner.

Our hotel, Alabarda, two star, is friendly and has 30 minutes of free Wifi from the room. This is the first time we've taken a laptop. It’s nice to not have to find the local Internet café, which is usually smelly and crowded with teens. We bought a $10 adaptor, which simply attaches to the plug, which then goes into the wall. I found out from a nice man at Bureau en Gros that more expensive converters are unnecessary for laptops, which already have the ability to run on 110 or 220 volts.

We arrived on a Saturday and spent most of the day catching up on sleep and walking the streets that run around the Grand Canal. We’ve had three meals so far and the average bill is about 30 Euro for two including one entrée, ¼ liter of wine and sparkling water. The service is always friendly and accommodating.

The first afternoon, I walked across the street to the Supermercado and purchased some succulent peaches, nectarines, tomatoes, and cheese, as well as a perfectly-sized orange melon resembling a cantaloupe but tasting like the real thing. This morning we enjoyed a wonderful café latte at one of the spots on the canal. Fancy coffees are the only thing cheaper than in Montreal, apart from the wine and the gelate.

The music in the bars and restaurants is awful — loud and aggressive. We asked the waitress tonight to change it and she happily obliged.

The hotel gives out a special menu for this restaurant, two streets away (Ristorante Pizzeria O-Scugnizzo). For 20 Euro you get Primi (first course) which is pasta, Secondi (second course) which is fish, Contorni (salad or grilled veggies), and Bevanda (beverage) — either mineral water or ¼ liter of wine or beer. We weren’t that hungry or willing to splurge yet again so we asked if we could share. We could and did! Irwin had the spaghetti with fresh mussels and clams (in the shell too) and I had the Secondi of grilled squid. After three meals here, one could say the food is exquisitely prepared and fresh. So fresh! The olive oil is better than anything I’ve tasted in Montreal.

Today we visited the port and decided not to take the cruise going to the Greek Islands for one week. Why be packed in like the grilled sardines I had for lunch listening to loudspeakers and unable to stay in a place longer than a few hours? For a minute I wanted to try it just once. But Irwin quickly nixed the idea and instead we boarded a chug-a-lug boat to Muggia, a half-hour away (6 Euro return) and toured a lovely little port town, ate more gelate and had more delicious coffees. You get the picture!

What a beautiful little town! We would have inquired about the apartments for sale at 140,000 Euro if it hadn’t been a Sunday.

Now that we’re back in Italy, we remember why it’s one of our favorite countries in the world!

Tomorrow we want to look into ferries going to Croatia. Our intention this time is not to miss Sarajevo. If we can, we’ll take a ferry to Zadar on the coast of Croatia, and then move on to Split and maybe the island of Hvar before making our way to Sarajevo by bus or train! We like not knowing exactly where we’re going. The cruise wouldn’t have been our cup of coffee!

My Vegas: 30 years of memories and Elton

Elton John singing Candle in the Wind at this 200th concert in Vegas

Barbara Moser

Most people I know who haven’t been to Vegas have little desire to experience it. They have no connection to the place. They see it as crass and glitzy.

But for me, Vegas means a lot. It holds 30 years of memories — of family, love and loss.

My first time was with the father of my daughters just before we married in 1975. I was smitten — with Vegas.

We never left the Tropicana: the food was free or close to it, the orange juice freshly squeezed, the lox abundant and succulent. It was my first encounter with the starry glitter and tinkle of the slots. Not that I’m a gambler, but I’ve always liked the nickel machines.

My mother lived in Vegas for ten years. She moved there to be closer to Paul Anka. Once at a show we saw together, he asked her to dance, recognizing her from her many fan letters. She still has his autographed pictures on her walls: “To Eva, Love Paul.”

On the Strip: Flamingo Hotel bathers

On my visits during those years, Mom and I would sit for hours in the piano bar at one of the Strip’s cheaper hotels and watch Angelo, the singer-piano man, belt out our requests — hers being Nat King Cole and Paul, and mine, Elton John.

My sister Melanie moved to Vegas to live with my mother. Melanie had a tough life and in Vegas she felt like a somebody. She loved the Strip, the slots, the lights, the free drinks, the buffets, the music — and most of all, Neil Diamond.

Melanie died in Vegas in December 2000. She was 48. Her funeral was in a room at her favorite hotel, the famous Golden Nugget.

I remember walking along the Strip the day of the funeral, having come from Melanie’s apartment carrying our grandmother Molly’s wine glasses wrapped in our grandmother Laura’s embroidered tablecloth.

Melanie had no children, just a dog. I remember taking her aging Pekinese to have him put to sleep. She would have hated me for that, but I just couldn’t take him on.

On this trip, I see Melanie everywhere.

I’ve come to Vegas to visit my daughters and accompany my husband on business. I am staying at the Hilton Star Trek, just off the Strip. Gone are the days when you could stay at the Aladdin or the Hilton Flamingo for $17 a night. These rooms cost $160. Alas, the laid back Aladdin was blown up to make room for a glitzier hotel, which is the fate of most Vegas hotels.

The slots have changed. Now you slide your bills in and if you win, the coins don’t come pouring out. I miss that sound. Now it’s a fake jingling and you get a slip you can exchange in another machine. The drinks at the slots are still free and are they ever strong! They still do everything to get you to gamble.

There are no bookstores in sight. And I’m the only one this morning at the Hilton Buffet with a laptop. People are looking at me like I’m weird.

The buffets are still good and plentiful, but prices are up. Today’s brunch is $14. It’s a better deal than the restaurants; the fresh fruit grown in California, just two hours away, is divine.

They now have penny slots in every hotel but the thing is you have to bet at least 25 cents if you’re going to win more than a few pennies. I still love to watch the high rollers bet $25,000 a shot. But I don’t dare try my hand at Black Jack anymore.

Now for my jackpot! Amy, Molly and I took in the Elton John show at Caesars. Tickets start at $100 and peak at $250. We opted for $115 in the first row of the second balcony. We all agreed the concert was the best we had ever seen. I cried every second song, seeing 40 years of my life and Elton’s career pass before me in a flash, watching the big screen images of the sixties, reveling in the memories and the present. Holding my daughters’ hands and swaying back and forth, we waved the black and red boas we had been given in the lobby to celebrate Elton’s 200th concert in Vegas.

What a show! The stage was an ever-evolving magical place with massive inflated breasts, red roses, a lipstick and other overtly playful phallic parts. I was thrown back to the days when sex was less serious and more innocent. I cried during Candle in the Wind, Rocket Man, and most of all, when he sang his finale — Your Song, in honour of his two bodyguards who had just tied the knot in California! I laughed when he lovingly referred to Celine Dion as “that skinny bitch” who never has to worry about her weight as he does.

Amy, Mom, and Molly in our boas after the concert, taken from Amy's iPhone

He looked just lovely to me in his longish appliquéd jacket and the glasses, more muted than I remember – the whole Elton aging gracefully into a less raucous show-off, his virtuoso piano playing more beautiful than ever, his voice strong and robust, having lost none of its sexy, smooth tone. My girls and I knew all the words, sometimes singing along. This is the sign of a star — to last more than two generations.

Molly and I walked over to the Riviera in the heat and were blessed with a stunning rendition of Your Song by a house crooner, the talented and friendly Mark.

To cap off our stay, we saw Menopause — the Musical, a zany slapstick look at “the change” through the eyes of four icons of “our age” — the professional woman, the fading soap star, the Earth Mother, and the Iowa housewife. The songs are takeoffs of tunes from the 60s and 70s, with themes ranging from the ever-present hot flashes to ever-present need for food to the ever-present need for sex from hubby. The best performance of the show was a very risqué dance rendition of My Guy sung to a huge red vibrator. (I just can’t bring myself to use the D-word).

All of us who have gone through the change were invited onstage to do an aging can-can and receive buttons: I’ve changed.

I don’t have much change left as I leave this town. If you go to Vegas, I recommend staying on the Strip. You can take the monorail (at $11 a day) to get around but you’ll still have some walking to do. It’s much more expensive, more crowded, less accessible, and you get a lot less “bang for your buck.”

Vegas has changed — a lot since 1975! Little is free in this town. It’s not the easygoing place I fell in love with 30 years ago. Yet, all in all it was a slice. Thanks Elton for playing my songs!

So, everyone, get off your high horses and live a little. You won’t find high culture here, but it’s a breath of not-so-fresh air in the city that never sleeps.

Elton John plays the Champlain Valley Fair in Vermont July 21.

The physical stuff, the kids, and relationships at 64… or is it 66?

Barbara Moser

Talking to Susan Freedman is like talking to an old friend. The last time we spoke was just before the Montreal Fringe five years ago. At the time we spoke about her second play Sixty With More Lies About My Weight, titled after her first play in 1999 entitled Fifty-Seven and Still Lying About My Weight. Now she’s back with less of a vengeance in her third installment, Sixty Four and No More Lies, and as she put it on the phone from her home in Vancouver, she’s “a bit more thoughtful and vulnerable.”

“After my other shows, people would say, ‘she has no problems,’ but after this one, they’re going to say, ‘she has problems.’”

Freedman has just turned 66 but kept the title because she wrote the play two years ago.

Although we are seven years apart, Susan and I share the same worries. “Physical problems are definitely a part of aging – and a part of the show,” she said. And then, there are “the kids” (actually in their 30s) and how they talk to us and “react” to everything – or over-react.

“They can only act like kids with us,” Freedman says. “They do it when they’re 30 or 35 because, in lots of cases, they’re still single and at their age, we were probably married and had a kid. This generation is very different.

“You can’t say a goddamn thing because everything you say is wrong,” she says. “If you say things that upset them, they respond, and everything you say upsets them.”

In her third 45-minute one-woman show coming to the Fringe this June, Freedman will “ruminate on life” in the context of feeling chest pains.

After blood work and X-rays, being angry at her husband and kids about not being there for her, and rationalizing about how the pain must be from something she did at the gym, her character reminisces about her life and makes “strong references to the rocks in the path.”

What does this theatrical expert on aging say about other relationships such as marriage?

“I’m an incorrigible optimist,” she says. “I’ve been married three times. You realize it’s about letting things go. Not reacting to everything.”

Like our kids do.

Sixty Four and No More Lies is at the Fringe June 13 to 22 at Geordie Space, 4001 Berri. Tickets are $9.

It's all in the bag at the Fringe

Three old bags (photo: Robert Ménard)

Barbara Moser

What is there about bags and ladies, especially old ladies, that go together? Three women “of a certain age” explore this theme in their play Three Old Bags, playing at the Fringe Festival this month.

“We all knew each other and we wanted to do something together,” said Gissa Israel, one of the three actors/writers, from her home in Knowlton. Israel and her contemporaries, Pina Macku and Emma Stevens, all in their 60s, performed the play at Theatre Lac-Brome last summer. The characters they play are in their 80s. Could this be because these actors don’t see themselves as “old bags?” Only the director, Mary Harvey, is a “young bag,” Israel said.

“We carry our life in our bags,” Israel said of the double-entendre theme, which includes the notion of bag ladies. But Israel doesn’t see the connotations as negative.

The message is hopeful, she said. “These three characters never give up. Each one has a situation in their lives that would make her want to give up.

“The hope is that there’s a renewed interest in life. It’s about renewal and it’s about friendship.”

Bring your bags to the performances Saturday, June 14 to Sunday, June 22. For the full performance schedule call 514-849-FEST or visit montrealfringe.ca.

Three Old Bags will also be “in the bag” at Piggery Theatre from Wednesday, July 2 to Thursday, August 14. To reserve call 819-842-2431.

Victoriaville festival celebrates 25th

Barbara Moser

Saxophonist Roscoe Mitchell (photo: FIMAV)

Every year, the town of Victoriaville, once famous for producing hockey sticks, draws hundreds from across North America for a five-day festival that celebrates Musique Actuelle.

Musicians also flock there, eager to participate in what is considered a premiere showcase for music that pushes the conventional envelope beyond accepted norms of harmony, melody and rhythm.

No, you will not hear Norah Jones or Paul Anka at this 25th Festival International de Musique Actuelle de Victoriaville, which gets underway May 15 in the town, halfway between Drummondville and Quebec City.

What you will get is a broad range of music that can be classed as musique actuelle, a term invented to embrace creative music that ranges from free jazz and improvised music to electronica, Noise, vocals, alternative rock – even a group or two that could be classified as folk.

The variety is astounding, considered without equal in its scope and the level of the musicians.

This year’s lineup was conceived as a retrospective and includes some stellar performers who have given Victo its reputation.

The regulars who attend include a Calgary physician, a McGill University mathematician who develops models in the Faculty of Medicine, and a saxophone player from Niagara Falls, NY. Part of the fun is walking from one venue to the next, chatting about the highlights – and lowlights.

There are plenty of fine concerts to choose from among the 23 shows. Visitors can always choose a combination that can be included in a package. For $99 a person, you can see two concerts, plus a night in the Hotel Villegia, double occupancy with breakfast the next morning. A range of accommodations includes camping.

The festival opens Thursday, May 15 with pioneering Montreal-based saxophonist/composer Jean Derome and a dozen of the city's best-known improv musicians with two pieces, including a tribute to Victo.

Fans will welcome the return of saxophonist John Zorn, who rose to prominence with his virtuosity and unique combination of Jewish-sounding themes and avant-garde harmonics. Zorn leads a sextet at 10pm in his “The Dreamers” project, recorded this fall on his Tzadik label, with guitarist Marc Ribot, drummer Joey Baron and Kenny Wollesen on vibraphone, and percussionist Cyro Baptista.

Zorn plays again Friday at 10pm, blowing that battered horn and leading his hard-edged Moonchild project, featuring experimental rock vocalist and guitarist Mike Patton.

Two other shows earlier Friday should be fascinating: Montreal guitarist Tim Brady presents three works for electric guitar, digital processing and tape at 1pm, accompanied by video, and then a “double quartet” tribute to the great Dmitri Shostakovich.

Then at 8pm, improvising electric guitarist Fred Frith premiers his Cosa Brava ensemble featuring violinist Carla Kihlstedt, accordion player Zeena Parkins, and drummer Matthias Bossi. Oh, they all sing. Skipping to Sunday, Shanghai-born Xu Fengzia returns for a 5pm gig with her zither-like guzheng, accompanied by German violinist Gunda Gottschalk.

Jazz fans will not want to miss two exciting shows Sunday. Saxophonist/pocket trumpeter Joe McPhee leads a quartet of European musicians at 8pm.

Roscoe Mitchell, a founder of Chicago’s ground- breaking Association for the Advancement of Creative Musicians, plays at 10pm with a double quartet that includes such exceptional performers as pianist Vijay Iyer and trumpeter Corey Wilkes.

Electric guitarist René Lussier kicks off Monday's triple bill, with turntablists Martin Tetreault and Otomo Yoshihide, who may also play guitar.

You may not like it all, but there is a lot of choice.

For the full lineup, ticket and accommodation information, go to fimav.qc.ca.

Bialystock, a sad town in Poland

Barbara Moser

From Vilnius we moved on by train to Bialystock. We were on our way to Budapest, where we had a plane to catch for Israel. We planned to go back through Warsaw and take a train from Warsaw to Budapest. Then we would spend two weeks in Israel. We decided Bialystock would be a good place to spend a day or two. We had grown up hearing the name although we had no family roots there. We were interested in seeing another Polish town, one where many Jews had once lived and flourished.

Bialystock is a town that looks like the heart has been cut out of it. It's pleasant enough. There are cafés and a modern hotel right in the middle of town. There are pretty streets and people living out their lives in peace, but the town is too quiet, too calm.

Seventy thousand Jews lived in Bialystock before the Holocaust. There was a town square where they traded, whole neighbourhoods where they lived, a fish market, a massive synagogue. Now there is a lot of empty space.

We took a tour with young lady who knows all about the Jews who once lived here. She is not Jewish but she is interested in how our people lived and died in this town. She and her friends do their best to look after the cemetery which is on the outskirts of town. There is hardly a gravestone that has not been desecrated. We walk through the shambles, the tombs stretching out in their jagged shapes as far as the eye can see. She tells us that the "neighbours" have stolen as many grave stones as they could carry to be used as foundations for the apartments they have built in the area surrounding the cemetery.

The children of these Jews, buried on these grounds, cannot look after their graves. They are the victims of the Nazis and they have no graves. She takes us to the site of the synagogue. On one night, the Nazis forced 2,000 Jews into this synagogue. Then, they set fire to it. They tried to climb out of the windows. They were pushed back in. Men, women, and children, burned alive.

We stood on the site of this synagogue. It is in an apartment complex. There are gardens for children to play. There is a twisted structure, a memorial to the 2,000 who perished here where we are standing. How can we be standing here so peacefully? Where are the ashes? Where are the graves? The memorial has some graffiti on it. No different from Vilnius, we think.

It's hard to know what to feel.

We walk along the main street. In one of the windows of a tourist shop we see paintings of Chassidic men counting money by candlelight. Men wearing prayer shawls counting gold coins. I enter the shop. I ask the man behind the counter if he understands what he is selling. "You Jews caused us trouble for hundreds of years. What do you want from us now?" I leave the store. I am angry, can't speak, don't know what to say, what to feel, what to think, except: They still hate us. We're gone from this place, we're all dead here. What or whom do they hate?

We walk through streets of wooden houses. She tells us these were once the houses of Jews. They are to be torn down to make way for a new shopping centre. This was the site of the fish market.

Bialystock is a sad place. There is a heaviness here. It is everywhere.

We have a quiet dinner at the hotel. We try to pretend we are tourists. But what we have seen is never far from our minds.

Why have we come? We have come to bear witness to the dead, to those souls who died in that torched synagogue. But we will not go back to Poland. It is enough. It is too much.

My family in Havana

Barbara Moser

I have kept a secret from many of you for the past three years — I have another family. They are in Havana, Cuba, and I have just returned from my 5^th visit with them.

Almost hidden from view on a narrow street in Old Havana at Acosta and Picota streets is the Adath Israel Synagogue, an Orthodox Jewish community. Most Jewish visitors to Havana do not realize that there are actually three synagogues housing three distinct Jewish communities in Havana, representing the Conservative, Sephardic and Orthodox branches of Judaism.

The main Jewish community centre, housed in the Conservative synagogue in Vedado, serves the largest community. It includes a Sunday School and its leaders are responsible for youth programs, and arranging exit visas for Cuban Jews wishing to emigrate to Israel or take trips to Israel such as March of the Living, sponsored by the Joint Distribution Committee. They are also well connected with Jewish communities in the US and Canada, in particular the Canadian Jewish Congress.

My favorite community is the Adath Israel, or as it is known in Spanish, the Communidad Relgiosa Hebrea Adath Israel de Cuba. Yakov and Yamilet, a young married couple who are leaders of the community — Yakov refers to himself on documents as the treasurer, shohet (ritual slaughterer of Kosher meat) and cantor — have always welcomed me as family and allowed me to distribute much-needed cash donations and clothing, toiletries, and toys directly to their members. This way I know exactly who is receiving what I have brought. Over the times I have visited, I've learned shoe size and special needs for clothing and medication. Each time I visit, I try to improve the way I give out what I have brought. This time, I contributed $100 towards a Purim Party (Purim is a Jewish holiday celebrated in March) and with Yamilet's help, prepared 150-200 gift bags, each with a piece of clothing or underwear or toiletries for more than 60 children.

In the past I have collected cash from my friends here and given it out to people hand to hand along with clothing and toys. This time, I concentrated on clothing and toys.

The community is also a meeting place for Jewish seniors who eat breakfast at the synagogue as well as a snack in the evening after services. One day I bought ice cream for everyone at the evening services. It cost me $24 to serve a big portion of strawberry or chocolate ice cream to over 60 people — a good investment in bonding!

Speaking of bonding, while we in North American Jewish communities suffer from assimilation through intermarriage, Cubans who marry Jews are converting to Judaism in record numbers and enjoying the feeling that a close-knit community brings for their chidren and their extended families. So when you help "a Jew" in Cuba, you are helping many others who are not Jewish. With the Jewish population of Cuba at 900, it's difficult not to intermarry!

The average monthly salary in Cuba is approximately $12, and for pensioners it is closer to $8. From this, people are expected to pay 50 cents for a bar of soap,  $1.20 for toothpaste, $3 for shampoo, and for clothes, the prices are very similar to Canada. So you can imagine how much my friends appreciate a new piece of clothing, a toy, a bar of soap, shampoo, or a piece of costume jewellery.

Since 1990, Jews have been allowed to practice their faith and their culture openly and freely. They do so with a joy and enthusiasm that I have never seen in countries where Jews have always had this right. Holidays are celebrated with passion and pride. On Purim, as is the custom, the children of the congregation dressed up in costume and were treated to a clown and puppet show. These are almost ordinary occurrences for our children and grandchildren, but to see the rapturous looks on the faces of these children is to understand how much this community means to them.

My friends have asked me why I go back so often. Perhaps if you look at my pictures, you will understand. Or perhaps you will have to see for yourself. The next time you're planning a trip to Varadero, change your plans to Havana. It's a city full of culture and beauty. Here you will meet real people and begin to understand how they live. Try to bring more than a few small toiletries for the maids. Below is a list of what you could bring and distribute to people at the Adath Israel and to other Cubans that you meet or befriend outside your hotels.

Next issue, I will try to provide more information on the cultural activities and sights Havana has to offer.

• What to bring:
• small toys from the dollar stores including hair bands and ponytail holders
• small toy cars (nearly new or new)
• socks, underwear and bras
• sneakers and sandals for all ages, new or nearly new 
• t-shirts, shorts and skirts (only light summer wear) for all ages, new or nearly new
• colognes, costume jewellery, sewing supplies, small pieces of material for doll making, soaps, toothbrushes, toothpaste, and dental floss (ask your dentist for samples)
• samples of medication from your doctor — in short supply are blood pressure medication, syringes, and pain medication of any kind.

If you have these things to donate but can't make it down to Havana yourself, please bring them to The Senior Times offices at 4077 Decarie Blvd. (corner NDG Ave.) or call our office at 514-484-5033. I'll be sure to take them on my next trip to Havana and they'll go directly to the hands of people who need and deserve our support.

Contact Adath Israel at adathisrael@enet.cu.