Category: Travels

An Excellent Idea

Food & Drink, Travels

A long time ago, I was in Brussels on business.  It was to be my first time there, so as always I did a bunch of research on the place:  things to see, places to visit and (of course) places to dine (yes, that’s a major part of my love of travel).

Just off the Grand Place is a street (Rue des Bouchers) lined with restaurants standing cheek-by-jowl together;  so what better way, thought I, to compare the various menus before making a decision to dine?

Bloody hell.

What the oh-so-helpful guide did not tell me was that outside every restaurant stood an extremely aggressive “tout”, who implored, begged and almost kidnapped the unwary diner into the establishment they represented.  Seriously:  one guy actually grabbed my arm and tried to drag me inside, releasing me only when I bunched a fist and threatened to clock him, hard.

The upshot was that none of the restaurants along Restaurant Row got my business that night.  Instead, I found a very nice little pub just off the Grand Place and proceeded to eat (lots) drink (even more) and make merry (to the max), as was my custom in those heady times.

After the experience in that Restaurant Row, therefore, I was overjoyed to read about this action, in Lucca, Italy:

The walled city has experienced a significant increase in visitors this year, particularly after emerging as a ‘timeless gem’ on social media. 

Last year, Lucca reported a record number of one million hotel bookings, and in the first four months of 2024, saw notable rise in visitor numbers.

The city’s leaders have grown increasingly concerned that the influx of tourists and the associated activities are negatively impacting its unique character – now, they’re declaring war on ‘worrying’ restaurant tactics such as touting. 

Touts – known locally as ‘buttadentro’ – are often employed to stand outside restaurants to try to entice passersby to dine there. 

Though they are responsible for attracting customers, some are reported to use persuasive or even aggressive tactics. 

On 10 July, the municipality adopted an ordinance prohibiting the promotion of restaurant businesses in public areas and on public land outside restaurants, bars, pizzerias, and similar establishments.

Mayor Mario Pardini and Councilor for Commerce and Urban Decor, Paola Granucci, said in a joint statement: ‘Lucca is a city with a strong historical, artistic, and touristic identity, and must be experienced with respect and style. Our ordinance does not restrict commercial activity, but protects the urban beauty and safeguards the authentic experience of residents and visitors. We reiterate that promoting one’s services is legitimate, but doing so in an invasive, insistent, or unfair manner is incompatible with the image we wish to preserve for our city.’

Ben fatto, Signori!  Now please get those assholes in Brussels to do the same — you know, in the time-honored EU fashion of sharing laws and regulations across national borders.

And while we’re there:  this?

Rue des Bouchers in Brussels is a lovely narrow street that is lined with restaurants. On display lie mussels, lobsters and oysters, all nicely decorated, awaiting hungry tourists.

It’s a big fat fucking lie.  The only hungry people there are the touts — money-hungry, that is.

Caveat cenator.

Whithered

Men & Women, Travels

I don’t remember which writer — I think it was P.J. O’Rourke — who once described the acronym MEGO (My Eyes Glaze Over) when applied to an article such as “Whither Gambia?”, i.e. implying that such a topic would be of little interest to anyone, and would bore one to tears in the reading.

Well, that may have been true with the old Gambia;  but nowadays an article on The Gambia [sic]  is likely to be anything but boring:

FORGET innocent piña coladas by the pool and cheeky glances at topless barmen – now sun-seeking, sex-loving Brit grans are boarding planes in search of far more risky adventures.

Wealthy older women are jetting off this summer for one reason only: to romp with men decades younger – and substantially poorer – than themselves. And this week the beaches are set to be more rampant than ever.

Promiscuous pensioners are heading in their droves to The Gambia, the west African country where exotic food is far from the spiciest thing on the menu.

Despite a plea made by The Gambia Tourist Board asking elderly Brits to go elsewhere to look for young lovers, the problem has only got worse.

I should warn Readers that some of the pics in the article are… overflowing.

“Grab-A-Granny” tourism… ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ “What a wonderfuuuul world” ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ [/Satchmo]

European Destination

Men & Women, Travels

For those who want to visit Euroland and couldn’t be bothered with the AFC/AFM (another fucking church, another fucking monument) kind of experience, there’s always another kind of fucking, at Cap d’Agde in southern France:

In this hedonistic playground, anything goes.  Hundreds of thousands of swingers descend on the resort each summer looking to fulfill their wildest fantasies.  But despite all the exhibitionism, it’s a closed, secretive world. As a rule, visitors to Cap d’Agde follow the motto: what goes on tour, stays on tour.  Most visitors have been part of the swinging scene for a while and have received an “invitation” to join the fun.

“We found so many normal people do it. It’s like a secret life. It opened our minds to a different world. Even so, I didn’t participate the first two or three times. I just watched others having sex. By the time I did get involved, I’d made some connections with people, so I was more relaxed.

“My first experience was a soft swap. My first full swap was the next time we went to a club. A soft swap might mean switching partners, but not having full sex. It might involve kissing, or foreplay. A full swap is having sex with them. It’s like experimenting, but with other people. It opens you up to a new world of different experiences.”

…and a new world of interesting diseases, no doubt.  Here it is:

So be my guest…

Read more

Not That Easy

Travels

After Connie died in 2017, I was really adrift.  Apart from the bereavement, I really had no idea where or how I wanted to live.   Fortunately, any immediate problems about accommodation were taken care of by Doc Russia, who took me in immediately after I sold the Plano house, and then by Mr. Free Market, who most graciously ensconsed me in one of his spare suites at Free Market Towers.

Towards the end of my stay at the Towers, I went to Frenchland (okay, Monaco) to spend some time with Former Drummer Knob, who lives thereabouts.  While driving around that exquisite part of the world known as the Midi, I discovered that as long as I didn’t try for a sea-facing apartment, I could actually have afforded to live there.

I found a (very) small one-bed/one bath apartment just north of Antibes which fitted the bill.


(just over the blue sign)

Modest, but not a slum;  the exterior looks totally foul, but the interior was okay — sort of like a typical student’s digs.  The monthly rent was about 1,400 euro — say, $1,600 (about what I’d pay for the same thing in Dallas) — but unlike Dallas, the rent included water and electricity, and the apartment came furnished.  (There’s a caveat, in that the “free” utilities thing was for a specific amount of w&e per month;  higher and you pay quite a lot, but I would have come in under that limit quite comfortably.)

Just in passing:  at the time, my French was reasonably fluent and would have become completely so within a couple of months anyway.  My fluency and French last name would have eased my ability to get a short-term residence visa, I was assured by a local official.  My U.S. passport was no big deal because apparently quite a few Murkins do that kind of thing in that part of the world anyway, she said.

Yes, in case you’re wondering:  I did a fair amount of research into this because, as I said, I was at something of a loose end during that time, so all options were on the table.

And yes, the apartment was quite humble, but it didn’t matter because once you leave the apartment you’re in frigging France, FFS, with bistros, boulangeries, patisseries, charcuteries, estaminets and all those things that make life in France unforgettable.

All the above were brought to mind when I read this article, which purported to list the cheapest countries to live in as an expat.

Of course, when people say “cheapest” they mean just that.  If the list is topped by Vietnam… well, you get the picture.

And here’s the problem with this “expat” thing, and the reason I ended up coming back to the U.S. of A.:  what articles like this never mention is that cost isn’t the only reason to live elsewhere.  Hell, it should only be Reason #4 or #5.

The biggest reason to live somewhere else — and by this I mean in a furrin country — is that you have to adapt to the culture and lifestyle of the place.  And that’s no small thing.  It’s all very well to live somewhere cheap, but when the free TV sucks and the cable/satellite option is either limited or expensive, or both, that’s not a good thing.  And getting around and getting on with the locals can be quite a task, or even impossible.  Expats often talk about “conversation fatigue”, which is the stress you face when you’re constantly translating a foreign language mentally in order to understand what’s being said to you, or before you open your mouth to speak.  It’s fine if a lot of the locals can speak English, and are prepared to do so.  This is sometimes the case when living in one of the larger cities — which are not cheap to live in, as I can attest — but in small villages or towns, that’s not the way to bet, as I discovered in my various travels around Europe, and most especially not in France.

Once again, I had little problem reading the newspapers and books in French, and that could only have improved;  but it was still going to be a chore, experienced daily.  Now imagine doing that in, say, Vietnam, where the language is not only foreign, but the text is of the “chicken scratch” variety.

I would have been unutterably lonely;  even though Knob lived but a few miles from that apartment, seeing him would have meant catching the train to Monaco every time because forget buying a car Over There.  Oy.  And he worked, which meant he wouldn’t be available all the time.

I was in my  early sixties.  Had I been much younger and coupled with a woman willing to try the experience with me:  who knows?  But no, it was not to be.

So it was with only a little regret that I decided not to stay in France.

One thing I do know:  I was really, really glad to get back home, and only realized how glad when Doc picked me up at the airport, and casually tossed over one of my handguns in its holster with the comment:  “I thought you might want that.”

And Here’s Why

Drunken Fools, Gypsies Tramps & Thieves, Travels

Earlier this week I talked about how Yurpeen tourist places were rethinking their welcome wagon policies.

Well, here’s one place that’s doing that and I think, based on the evidence, we can all see their point:

In a desperate attempt to crack down on alcohol-fueled debauchery, enraged [Albufeira] City Hall officials on Friday approved huge new penalties of up to £3,375 for holidaymakers flouting a strict new good behavior code — with fines for everything from urinating in the street to getting naked.

The rules will kick in within weeks, in time for the summer season, aiming to curb anti-social behavior.

And locals hope they will turn the tide, with nakedness, vomiting in the street or having sex in public all now coming at a price.

Here’s what really sucks about this.  I know Albufeira — I’ve been there before, and I thought it might be the prettiest little village on the whole of the Algarve coast — but that was eons ago.  Clearly, things have changed, and not for the better.

And the problem is that regardless of how badly the tourists (mainly Brits, duh) might behave, the pubs and restaurants are obviously making a killing so they’re not going to do anything to stop the Louts & Sluts Brigade from trashing their town.

Sadly, it’s always the local folks who end up with a town where the streets flow with vomit, blood and semen while the publicans shrug and pocket the cash.

And then everyone will be shocked — shocked! — when the locals start posting signs that read “Muerte A Los Turistas”, “Ingleses Regressam A Casa” or “A Bas Les Rozbiffs”  (depending on whether it’s Spain, Portugal or France, for instance).

What’s really needed in Albufeira is for the Porro rozzers to go all Chicago P.D. circa 1968 with these drunken assholes (men and women):

…and let them know that what might be fine in Merseyside, Manchester or Millwall is non grata when visiting Albufeira.

The problem is that the Euros in general have gone to great lengths to pussify their various police forces, so that very logical avenue will denied them — but it is, at the end of the day, the only language that these oafs understand.  Until that time, then, nothing will change, and fines aren’t going to do diddly.