Public Transportation in Malaysia: Trials and Errors

With this article I will take you on a trip to the confusing world of public transport in Peninsular Malaysia.

It’s an overview of the different ways to travel from one place to another and how we managed to (eventually) always get where we wanted to be.

There are plenty of different public transportation options from which to choose, and each of them has its own challenges, which sometimes have to be learned the hard way.

Skybus

On a sunny Sunday afternoon, after more than 30 hours of spending time in airports and airplanes, we finally arrived in Kuala Lumpur, the capital of Malaysia. Our hostel owner had been so kind to provide us some directions and this started with taking the “Skybus” to get from the airport to the center of the city.

As this is the most common way of airport transport, we figured that there would be at least some signs pointing to the right bus terminal…not. No problem, they can’t put a sign for every single bus company, we will certainly find the bus at the general bus terminal…wrong again.

Luckily there was this very nice taxi driver who could point us at least the direction of the Skybus terminal. At that time we probably already looked very lost, so thanks to mister cab driver to not trick us into his taxi! After having to ask for directions another couple of times, we finally managed to find the Skybus terminal at the other side of the airport.

We easily found the ticket office and soon we were on our way to Puduraya bus station.
Puduraya is the main bus station of central Kuala Lumpur and from there (according to my directions) it was only a couple of minutes walk to the hostel. Too bad the bus didn’t stop in the station, which made us lost again. After another round of asking directions, we found out that we were only one street away from the station, so soon we were on our way to the hostel.

At that time we called it bad luck, but it wouldn’t take long for us to experience the complexities of public transport in what I like to call a “semi-developed country”.

Metrobus

The first trip we wanted to make around KL was to the famous Batu Caves. We asked the guy from the reception of the hostel how we should get there and in broken English he told us something about the metro and the bus. Now you have to know that in Dutch, and probably in some other languages too, “metro” is the name we give to the subway.
As we didn’t really have a clue what the guy was talking about, I asked him to write it down. So he wrote the word “mertubus” and told us to go to central market.

Over there we started showing our piece of paper to everyone around, but nobody knew what the “mertubus” was. So we tried asking for some variations: “mertubus”, “merubus”, “metrubus”, “metrobus”… That last one rang a bell in the head of some friendly policemen who pointed us the way to a Metrobus bus stop. Indeed, I wrote “a” metrobus bus stop.

When the bus finally came we tried to wave him down but the driver waved back at us that this wasn’t the place where that bus stopped, so we had to run to a couple of streets further where the bus finally stopped at another bus stop.

Apart from a couple of liters of sweat nothing was lost and after half an hour we were dropped off at the Batu Caves. Some hours later we wanted to catch the bus back to KL city, but there didn’t seem to be any bus stops. At arrival we hadn’t really noticed that the bus dropped us off at the side of the road and that there wasn’t really a sign or anything.
So we guessed we should try to stand on the place where the bus dropped us off and sooner or later another bus would stop there and take us back to the city. Another bus stopped there, only to tell us that we were on the wrong side of the road (okay, we could have figured that out ourselves).

So we crossed the road and waited for another half hour until we finally noticed our bus in yet another road… Again some running brought us to the right imaginary bus stop and soon we were on our way back to the center.

Subway

To get to the KLCC PETRONAS towers, someone advised us to take the subway. No, actually that’s not true, someone really advised us to take the train. But luck was on our side and we figured out in time that in Malaysia people call the subway also a train. Otherwise we might still be waiting at the KL train station.

Unlike subway stations all over the world, in KL there’s a different ticket counter for each line. So you first have to find the right line, and then buy a ticket at the counter that sells ticket for that certain line.

After that, the “train” is piece of cake. It works similar to all other subways I’ve ever taken, and it soon became our favorite way of travelling.

Long distance buses

Too bad the subway only runs within a city, so whenever we needed to get from on the move we were dependent on other ways of transport. When we wanted to get from KL to Cameron highlands for example, we asked the guy from the hostel to arrange the bus. He did some phone calls, asked some money and wrote us a pre-printed paper which mentioned our names, the time of departure and the platform where the bus would leave.

By that time we were already a bit suspicious about public transport, so we arrived half an hour in advance at Puduraya bus station. Soon someone asked us where we wanted to go and showed us the way to platform 18. There was already a bus waiting but when we asked the driver if that was the bus to Cameron Highlands the answer was “No”. Nothing lost, we still had 20 minutes, so we waited…

After another 10 minutes the bus still hadn’t arrived and there also were no other passengers. So we started asking around. Nobody seemed to know about that bus, some even told us that what we had wasn’t a real ticket, but a friendly security guy took the time to run all over the station with us only to find out that the bus we needed didn’t exist.

By that time we were already more than half an hour late, so the only thing we could do was go back to the hostel and ask what was going on. The person at the reception did another couple of phone calls and found out that we had a wrong ticket. The bus didn’t leave at Puduraya, but across the street in front of the DiGi (a Malaysian telephone company) shop.

We received a new ticket and one hour later we were at the shop. There were already some other people waiting over there so our confidence came back and half an hour later we were on the bus to Cameron Highlands. I have to mention that we never made the same mistake again. From then on we always bought our tickets directly at the bus station and we haven’t had problems like this again.

Minivan

Between every tourist highlight there are at least a couple of minivan services. They are usually more expensive than long distance buses, but they pick you up and drop you off wherever you want. Another advantage is that these vans are usually scheduled to arrive at location around checkout time (11 – 12 am), which means you have more chance on finding accommodation.

But every coin has two sides, and so does this one. It seems like the drivers really feel like it’s their van and they are doing you a favor by bringing you to your next location (although you’ve paid for it) and thus you have no reason to complain about whatever they decide. So they decide on the music, both style and volume, on the temperature of the air condition, on the speed (wannabe rally drivers are no exception) and so on.

They also decide whether they stop or not along the way and if they do, where they stop and for how long. Of course, it is kind of funny to see a bunch of people sprinting to the toilets after a six-hour non-stop drive. Just make sure you’ve went before you leave and don’t drink too much along the way. And if you ate something funny the day before, you might want to consider not taking a van.

Taxi

This is the kind of transportation we had the least problems with, I think. But of course you pay the price and we tend only to take taxis if there’s no other public transport available or if we have no clue where we are and where we need to be.

We experienced the taxi drivers as friendly and helpful persons. Because they know the area very well, most of the time they’re also able to give advice about good accommodation and sights.

Although most guidebooks will advise you never to take a taxi which doesn’t have a meter, I’ve always seen this as an advantage. You just need to make sure that you agree on the price before you leave, and it helps to look like you know the distance and about how much you should have to pay. When the price seems a little too much, it might also help to make a “hmmm-face” or to start talking to your companion in another language. This sometimes makes the drivers to reconsider their price.

When you’re at the coast or on an island, there are often boat taxis available. They normally go only to certain locations and they have fixed prices.

Boat

As mentioned before, there are the boat taxis, which are used for short distances, mostly to dive sites, other coasts or close islands. Next to that, there are the ferries. Different ferries exist towards the islands of Penang, Lankawi and Perhentian. But also to other countries like Indonesia.

The only experience we had with ferries was the one between Kuala Besul and Perhentian Kecil. It might take some time to figure out where the ferry specifically leaves. For example, when you want to leave Long Beach on Kecil by ferry, you first need to take a boat taxi to somewhere in the middle of the sea where the ferry then picks you up… You just need to know.

Train

Malaysia has two main train routes: one between Thailand and Singapore which passes by Penang and KL and close to Melaka, and another one between Kota Bahru and Gemas, which drives through Taman Negara.

The latter is also known as the “Jungle train”. In Gemas it switches tracks to either KL or Singapore, which provides a good connection between the city and the Jungle. The trains are old, and you should only take them for the experience, as the bus is cheaper, faster, more comfortably and they have and hourly schedule.

Adventurers as we are, it should be a shame not to give the jungle train a try. So in Taman Negara we went to the tourist info service to find out that the train to KL leaves Jerantut at 12:45, so at noon we were at the train station and found out that the train leaves 45 minutes past midnight… Living in a country where we use the 24 hour system instead of AM and PM, I know that I need to look out for this mistake, and honestly, I can’t remember if the timetable said “12:45 AM” or just “12:45”.

As there’s nothing to do in Jerantut which can keep you busy for more than 12 hours, and as there’s also a bus service every hour, we let go of the plan to take the jungle train and decided to take a bus instead.

Some extra notes about local buses:

Like the Metrobus in KL, every city has its own local bus service, but there are some things they have in common.

None of the local buses have a time table, but they drive quite often and you just need to appear on the right place and wait for a bus to pass by. Normally they have fixed hours when they start in the morning and stop in the evening, but we experienced that either this is a lie, or the people we asked just didn’t have a clue and made a guess.

Outside of the big cities, bus stops are not very common. Buses do stop, but don’t expect a sign or anything, so when you get off, always take a good look at the environment to be able to get back on again later.

Buses don’t always drive the same route. The advantage is that the driver might also bring you to a place where the bus normally shouldn’t pass by. The disadvantage is that it’s possible that the bus doesn’t pass by the place you expected, because it took a detour to drop someone else off. Make sure that whenever you get in, you tell the driver exactly where you want to get off.

Something else we’ve experienced is that people (even bus drivers) often don’t have a clue which bus goes where to. The tactic we’ve used is to ask at least five persons and take the bus which number has been answered most. But feel free to invent your own tactics.

You might have figured out by now that public transport in Malaysia is not that easy as it is in the western world. But luckily, it seems that the Malaysian government knows about this. One of our last days on the peninsula, I mentioned the problems we had to a Malaysian guy and he answered that their minister of transport has been to Europe to see how we handle these things over here.

So there’s hope!

7 Places to Experience French Culture Outside of France

Done Paris? Bored with Marseille? Feel like Avignon is so last year? Fear not, Francophiles. There are countless places on this big planet where you can immerse yourself in the best of all things French – the cuisine, the culture, or the language – without stepping foot on the motherland.

During the height of its empire, France controlled close to 5 million square miles of land, nearly 8% of the earth’s surface. While most of France’s former lands have gone on to establish their own identity, many still bare the indelible marks of French influence (some more than others of course). For a dose of French culture or to immerse yourself in the language without the trip to France, visit one of these French-influenced destinations.

Morocco

For several decades in the early 1900’s, Morocco was a protectorate of France. While the country has been independent for over 50 years, the influence of France is still apparent, especially in the language. The official language of the country is Arabic, but France is so widely spoken that it is the second most-popular foreign language and is generally the one spoken by government officials and in business transactions.

The country still has strong commercial ties to France, newspapers are written in French, the language adorns street signs and shop windows, and French films play alongside Arabic ones in the country’s theatres.

French influence in other aspects of the culture is more subtle. Moroccan cuisine, for example, follows North African traditions but is often a bit more sophisticated, using French cooking techniques or richer sauces created in the French style. Other North and West African countries where French is still widely spoken include Tunisia, Cote D’Ivoire, Senegal and Algeria.

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA

Americans don’t have to travel very far to feel as though they’ve been transported to a French town. While the modern culture of New Orleans reflects many different influences (African, Cajun, Spanish, Creole, and French), there’s no denying the impact the French had on the development of the city when it was part of France’s “New France” colony in North America during the 17th and 18th centuries.

That influence is particularly apparent in the aptly named French Quarter, where trellised buildings built by early French settlers call to mind the streets of Paris. Many of the street signs are in French – 7% of the population speaks French – and French cafes line the streets. Creole and Cajun food both have their roots in French (and Spanish) cooking, and of course, the most famous of New Orleans’ pastries, the beignet, was created by the French.

And though it has mostly devolved into a raucous drunken party, Mardi Gras (which translates to Fat Tuesday in the French language) has its roots in French Roman Catholic traditions. New Orleans isn’t the only pocket of French culture in Louisiana. Other towns around the state bear French names (Baton Rouge and Dulac are two) and still retain a bit of their former French identity.

Madagascar, Mauritius, Réunion and the Seychelles

In the late 1600’s, France began exploring the area off the southeast coast of Africa in the Indian Ocean. The country established posts on the islands now known as Mauritius and Réunion, briefly controlled the Seychelles, and then, in the late 19th century, invaded Madagascar, made the island nation a French protectorate, and controlled it until 1960, when it became independent. Mauritius and the Seychelles are also independent nations now – Réunion remains an overseas department of France – though the language is still widely spoken on all of the islands (it’s the official language on Réunion).

On each of the islands, despite the prevalence of the French language, the cuisine reflects a whole host of different influences. There are some French traditions used in cooking, but you’ll also find Indian, Chinese & African characteristics too, especially in the popularity of fish and rice, and in the local herbs and spices used to flavor each dish.

Luang Prabang and Vientiane, Laos

At first glance, Laos looks like it couldn’t be more different from France, and in many respects that is true. A quick look around the towns of Luang Prabang and Vientiane will reveal lush green fields of rice, Asians zipping around on scooters and motorbikes, and monks in brightly-colored robes heading solemnly to gilded Buddhist temples. But a long history with France has left its mark on the oft-forgotten country.

You may not hear much French spoken here, and the culture is decidedly Lao, but it’s interesting to see the small ways that France is still present in the lives of the people, most notably in the cuisine, in the baguettes sold on every corner, in the occasional glimpse of European-style architecture, and in the faces of the many French ex-pats who still reside in the country.

And Laos isn’t the only country in Southeast Asia to retain some effects from France’s rule. Both Vietnam and Cambodia were once colonies of the empire.

Saint Martin, Caribbean

The Island of Saint Martin (called Sint Maarten on the Dutch side) is the smallest land mass controlled by two countries. One side is part of the Netherlands Antilles and the other belongs to France as an overseas department of the country. The island was settled by the French in the late 1600’s, changed hands several times between the Dutch, Spanish, and English and then half was returned to France, with the other half given to the Dutch, in the early 1800’s.

If it weren’t for the French flags flying everywhere you look, you’d have no reason to think – at first glance anyways – that Saint Martin was so heavily influenced by the French. The beaches are soft and white and the buildings low slung and painted in the pale colors found on other Caribbean islands.

But when you look a little closer you’ll see that streets signs and shop names are all printed in French – it’s still the official language of the area – and you’ll find no shortage of restaurants serving an eclectic mix of Caribbean and French cuisine.

It’s not exactly the French Riviera (the French side of the island is relatively undeveloped compared to the Dutch side) but it is one French-inspired beach vacation that doesn’t require an 8-hour flight from the US. Other Caribbean islands with former ties to France include St. Lucia, Haiti, and Martinique.

French Polynesia

Made up of several group of islands (over 130 islands in all) in the Pacific Ocean east of Australia, French Polynesia became a French protectorate at the end of the 19th century. It’s now an overseas collectivity and French is the official language, though Polynesian languages are also widely spoken. Despite its governmental and economic ties to France, culture in French Polynesia is much more Polynesian than French – other than the language, there aren’t too many traces of French influence to be found and there’s still a strong island identity which the people celebrate in dress, traditions, dance and song.

You’ll see the most reflections of French culture in the food, which often puts a French spin on local ingredients with dishes like “poisson cru” a French take on ceviche. Locally grown vanilla also gets the French treatment as it’s used to create rich sauces in the French style. And of course, French wine is readily available.

Quebec, Canada

The Canadian province of Quebec, home to the large cities of Montreal and Quebec City, is known as one of the most “European” places in North America. Though the land has long since transferred from French control to become part of Canada, French is still the official language of the province, and you don’t have to look far to see the culture reflected in the architecture, streets signs, and layout of the cities in it.

Montreal is the more modern of the two main cities, with a downtown full of towering skyscrapers. But what the commercial center may lack in “old-world” style, the section known as Vieux Montréal (Old Montreal) more than makes up for with its cobbled streets and centuries-old buildings.

Quebec City features even more French touches. It’s one of the few cities in North America to retain its original fortified walls and the center is dotted with postcard-perfect squares where tourists and residents gather to people-watch, sip a latte, and munch on crusty baguettes. Dining on a meal of hearty poutine while the sounds of the French language swirl around you, you’ll almost forget for a second that you are on the opposite side of the Atlantic.

There are still close to 30 countries in the world where French is one of the official languages. Some of these countries offer more French experience than others, but in many you’ll find that French influence is still alive and well in the food, traditions, music and architecture, which means that for dedicated Francophiles, there’s a whole world of French culture to explore.

Photo credits:
Morocco by like, totally on Flickr, New Orleans by theSuperStar on Flickr, Seychelles by Steve & Jemma Copley, Laos by nakwoodford on Flickr, St. Martin by hduh on Flickr, Tahiti by imaxandco on Flickr, Quebec City by palestrina55 on Flickr

Home is Where You Find It – Paris, France

Not far from the heart of Paris, Shakespeare and Company juts out of the cobblestones, offering a brief refuge from the crowded art museums. Gummy fingers pluck through stacks of literature in the discount corrals. Inside, books bulge from the walls; patrons climb ladders. A wishing well, dug out of delicate tile, is filled with shiny coins. In the back, next to a staircase, sits an old piano with a taped piece of paper on its side. “Play Me,” it says.

On Sunday afternoons, George Whitman, the 95-year old owner, who lives above the bookstore, opens his messy, chaotic home to host a tea party. Old tin pots lined with tea bags and a bowl full of Madeleine cookies quell the manic hands and mouths of world travelers as they cluster around his rickety table, indulging each other with their tourist tales.

In the summer of 2007, I was one of these travelers, sitting amidst newspapers, books and strangers, slowly sipping tea. I was in Paris for a five-week writing course at the Paris American Academy. Armed with high school French, my journals, my camera and a morbid curiosity for everything Francaise, I was thirsty for adventure.

Each morning, I would wake and walk the short stint to Club Jean de Beauvais, where the memberships were too much, but the atmosphere was decidedly French. People stared at my muscular arms, as I looped old wooden sticks through cables and came up with creative exercises for their antiquated machines.

On Rue St. Jacques, the oldest street in Paris, I walked back to my apartment, where I would hurriedly shower in the decrepit bathroom with the mold and duct tape, grab my computer and books and then head off to Royal St. Jacques, which quickly became my favorite coffee shop in Paris.

Perhaps it was due to the meticulous care the proprietor took in making my cappuccino everyday. Five minutes, and out it came, looking like something from a photograph. Thick mounds of foam, bitter coffee and hot milk, all arranged in a black mug with a dusting of cinnamon and chocolate. The moment it hit my lips, my toes curled. My early morning fog was obliterated. I instantly wanted another. But, at the equivalent of eight American dollars, I stuck to one. I glanced at the shop dog at my feet, who was looking up at me expectantly, waiting for scraps.

Here, I would write for forty-five minutes before my first class, sometimes joined by a few of my classmates. As we nibbled our croissants and sipped our coffees, it would dawn on us: “Do you realize we are writing and having breakfast in Paris? How did we get here?” I said Paris like it was the cure for cancer; but wasn’t it? It was a cure for my dismal marriage, my not yet flourishing career, my uncertainty, my lack of risk taking over the past few years. Here, I was anonymous. I was important. I was a writer.

My friend, Jenna, who I instantly bonded with over a love of food, introduced me to the best falafel on earth. “Lenny Kravitz has an article next to the stand,” she said. “It’s in the Marais.” It was L’as Du Falafel, a nondescript stand you could walk up to and order from or eat inside. For just over four euros, you could get a bursting pita pocket of perfection. Large, fried chickpeas, sautéed eggplant, slaw and a tangy sauce exploded in my mouth in a cacophony of flavors.

Once I thought I’d reached my pleasure peak, Jenna introduced me to La Grand Epicerie, which is the super bowl of grocery stores. The Mecca. The Holy Grail. Rows of every meat, every vegetable, every pastry, every wine, every cheese, every bread you could fathom stretched out in beautiful crates and rows – delicacies from all over the world. We stocked up on baguettes, pastries, cheese and wine and walked and ate. I’d never been happier.

When I thought I had done everything a girl could do in Paris, my other friend, Jenny, invited me on a two-day bike trip to Tours, France. Filled with visions of rolling hills and stunning views, we took the short train ride south and exited in what looked like any other dingy town. We shacked up in a cheap hostel with bunk beds and went and rented our hybrids from a charming gentleman, Simon, who spoke little English.

We spoke little French, so it was a labor of love to get us fitted, armed with maps and on our way across the city of Tours. Fueled with coffee and croissants, our French map and steady legs, we filled our panniers full of necessities: almonds, chocolate, water, journals, cameras, lip balm.

We took off down the bumpy roads and wound to the bike path. A beautiful lake glistened to the right and rows of trees and corn fields fanned in front of us. Little did we know what would soon blossom: castles, sunflower fields, poppies, rolling meadows, France. Everywhere, France.

We rode and rode, the miles gaining momentum under our pedals, our feet spinning away ten miles, then twenty, thirty, forty, fifty and beyond. We stopped every few miles to take pictures. “Oh my God,” was our constant mantra. “We will never see anything like this again. Ever.”

We rode into little towns, dismounted and chained up our bikes, bought up all the pastries and baguettes we could find and took them down by the water to devour them. There, in a soft pasture of lush grass, with my sweating, fatigued limbs, with the fresh dough making its way into my system and the world at our fingertips, I felt a satisfaction incomparable to anything I’d yet to experience.

After touring an ancient cemetery, we lost our way on a charming road with rows of French homes. We sought out a little old man on a ladder. He was painting his shutters blue.

“Pardon, Monsieur,” I said in my unsteady French. “Nous sommes… perdus?”

Jenny took over, pointing to her map. I watched this exchange with pride. Here we were, two women in France, getting directions from a local. He led us in the right direction, and off we went, past more uncharted territory.

We toured castles, we drank espresso, and in some quaint town, we ate a dessert so delicious, I ordered two. It was so good, in fact, that I left my journal – the journal that housed my entire five-week Parisian adventure – in the patisserie; so overcome was I by the sugary pastries, the chocolate tarts, the heavenly smells, that I left it somewhere in the shop. Only when we returned, exhausted and hungry, almost a hundred miles later, did I realize my mistake. Yet, I had no idea of the town or place; I had no idea exactly when I’d lost it. The bike rental guy looked at me and explained that he’d lost a journal backpacking through Europe as well.

“It is a death, no?”

I nodded, keeping my tears at bay. Everything was in that journal. If it was gone, it was like my trip hadn’t existed. I could not recapture all the firsts of this European adventure. I wanted to die. Simon got out the phonebook. He called each town we’d been to, winding his thin finger down the curves of the map. We described the dessert. He called the patisserie. The woman, after several minutes, found my journal, sitting by the trashcan.

“Tres bien!” Simon exclaimed. He somehow convinced her to mail it to my apartment in Paris. And she did. I wrote him a letter in French upon my return – I had never been so grateful for such a small act of kindness.

The rest of the trip brought many surprises and wonders: the opera, a riverboat cruise for Bastille Day, a party in the middle of Paris at a Fireman’s Ball, reading in front of Shakespeare and Company, being alone for the first time in years, walking six, seven miles a day, standing in front of A Starry Night, letting my dreams rule the day.

At the end of it all, I realized I had fallen madly, deeply in love with Paris. I had never felt anything like it. Like so many other foreigners, I had fallen prey to the cliché of loving this romantic city.

Perhaps it was when I was sitting in my crappy apartment on a Sunday, while it rained, with my French windows thrust open, Edith Piaf blasting, that I realized I was capable. Perhaps it was because even though I had a basic knowledge of the language, I often reverted to gestures more than speaking.

Because of that, I learned to listen, and I suffered a million humiliations every single day. I learned to be a true observer, to shut my mouth, to look up, to stand still. And above all, I realized that I could survive, that I could be happy, that I had found a place, all on my own, which felt like home.

Photo credits: Shakespeare and Company by wallyg on Flickr, All others by Rea Frey

Driving in Europe: Observations From a First Timer

We drove over 5,000 km through 5 European countries in our rental car – an Opel Astra – on our recent family holiday. The car worked very well, though it was hardly the performance vehicle that my husband was craving (he nicknamed it the ‘gutless wonder’), especially for the German Autobahn.

Driving in Europe has some unique advantages over driving here at home in North America. Not the least of which in my view, is the fact that there are rules of the road that people actually follow.

Here are some observations about driving in Europe.

1. No Passing on the Right

This is completely verboten in every country we visited, and the police will nail you with a serious ticket if you get caught speeding past another car in the right lane of the highway. The passing lane is the left lane, and as soon as you are done passing someone in that lane, you move to the middle or right lane immediately, or risk getting rear-ended (or worse) by that Ferrari or Mercedes whipping past you at 200 km (or more) an hour. Even when you may be going 160 km an hour!

Nobody ’sits’ in the left lane biding their time as they creep by to pass someone. Nor do they pass moral judgment on other drivers who are going faster than them, by sitting in the passing lane clogging up the roads. If only this tradition could be grafted onto our driving culture in North America!

I find that this system is safer in that you do not need to be worried about people passing you on both sides of the highway, which is the way of the world in the New World, and a recipe for road chaos and traffic disorder.

2. No Speed Limits

Now, the speeding issue is something else entirely. While many countries (Switzerland, Austria) have strict speed limits that are heavily enforced, others appear to allow more latitude. Germany is the most open, though Italy seemed absent of any traffic enforcement during our travels, even in construction zones.

If you love to drive and have a car that can match your desires, Germany is the driver’s utopia. While many roads and highways do have speed limits, when you are on the Autobahn and see 130 posted with a slash through it, move to the right lane and watch the drivers max out their high-end vehicles. Some of the speeds traveled are astonishing and not just a little frightening. The downside of no speed limits is of course that when car accidents happen, they are catastrophic and deadly. I don’t know if the risks are worth it, but then I don’t dream of being a racecar driver either.

3. No Right Turn on Red

Safer for pedestrians by far, and other drivers as well who don’t have to worry about a car sticking half-way into the intersection trying to turn on a red light. Many of our accidents in Vancouver over recent years have been caused by this practice, and while it is convenient for drivers, one wonders how much time is really saved on a journey by allowing right turns on red lights.

4. Priority of the Right – Belgium

Belgium has very aggressive drivers. Not only do drivers not facilitate new cars merging on highways by changing lanes (cars merging have to wrestle their way onto the highway), the priority of the right at intersections signifies that cars coming from that direction have priority over you, and will burst past you at high speeds with nary a glance in your direction.

You are responsible for ensuring that nobody is coming from the right (if the intersection is unmarked by yields or stop signs), hence the common sight of traffic mirrors to assist you in ensuring you are not t-boned in downtown Brussels. A comfortable drive in the city or country, this system does not make.

5. Cars and Bikes – Live and Let Live

On many city and country roads in the countries we visited, cars, motorcycles, and bicycles co-exist in harmony. While we give lip service to ’sharing the road’ in Vancouver, it is in Europe where this practice is truly honoured and respected. Part of the reason may be the maturity of the biking culture, which is strong and vibrant and well-respected. Commuters and students biking to work and school have priority. Bike lanes are separated from car lanes, or marked by coloured paving. Racing cyclists aren’t honked or yelled at when being passed by cars. It all seemed much more civilized and free of the anxiety and stress I experience when I bike on the ’shared’ bike lanes of Vancouver.

Travellingmom tip:

Research and pre-book your rental car (we used Europcar) from home before you leave on holiday. You will have a good choice of cars, be able to compare prices and find better deals than by booking at the airport upon your arrival. Also, booking a diesel vehicle will save you money on fuel costs, especially if you plan a lot of driving. Even diesel fuel, the cheapest fuel available in Europe, is more than double the price of our lowest-grade regular fuel in North America.

• Figures: fewer foreign guests, more guests from Slovenia
• New guidebooks for the love of Slovenia
• Slovenian natural health resorts nearly booked to capacity last year
• Slovenia tourism: Slowly but surely
• Beekeeping tourism a unique product for Slovenia
• Slovenia slowly on pace to become a top tourists destination
• New Ljubljana tourist destination website
• Tourist arrivals on the rise in Slovenia