Randstad Open de France, Golf d’Arras, France

September 14^th – 20^th, 2009

The return trips to sites already visited are difficult. My expectations are more defined, the sexiness of an unexplored landscape lost. My former impressions of France aren’t clear to me, the edges more befitting a blurred Renoir landscape than the fine edge of the guillotine. As far as stereotypes go, the French were guilty of the best and worst. The country is beautiful and charmingly rustic, the food snobbish. The more Lacoste logos branded across a chest the more that chest rises, full of patriotism and Frenchness; arrogance abounds. But even as I knew, or thought I knew all these things, it would be ignorant of me to believe that I had French culture all figured out.

THE TOWN OF ARRAS

I was determined that this time around I was going to crack the shell of the French pompousness and I thought language a good place to start. I had a few phrases under my belt, “Je m’appelle Laura,” and “Je ne sais pas francais,” that I was going to try in a gesture of goodwill. Please pardon the American stereotype but my first real test with the French came from the lady at the McDonald’s drive-thru. I am a slave to the black stuff, coffee that is, and could in no way be bothered to change from my slippers and pajamas to venture into the supermarket. Once in a while even I am entitled to take the easy way out. I told her that I don’t speak French and babbled my way through my order in her native tongue. Her wide grin elated my spirits higher than the ensuing caffeine buzz. I had made the French smile!

It felt like there was hardly any time between finishing Austria and starting up again with France. The tournament at Golf d’Arras was another four day event, as purses in excess of €250,000 often are. I hardly had time to catch a breath of air. Full Pro-Am’s on both Tuesday and Wednesday meant I had to fit in a quick nine late Monday afternoon after making the drive down from Brussels. It was helpful that I had to play in Wednesday’s Pro-Am or else getting enough time on the course would have been tough. Better yet, I had another chance to interact with the natives, make an effort with my two phrases of French, and (hopefully) win them over.

As luck would have it, my pro-am team was an absolute dream. Christophe was a scratch player from the French Golf Federation. Antonio was a major organizer of next year’s LET event, also from the French Federation. The last member of our foursome, Guy, played to a 13 and worked for two French magazines. Sadly I did not inquire further on this point. Their English was impeccable, their conversation warm and lively, and their standard of play uncharted in relation to some of the other pro-am teams I’ve joined.

THE CADDIE TOURNAMENT

The same cannot be said of the golfing prowess put on display by the LET Caddie Association at the annual Caddie Tournament which had been held the previous evening. Once a year, players and caddies swap roles for a fun 5-hole scramble on the Golf d’Arras par-3 course. It is a chance for the caddies to do the swinging and the players to do the bag carrying. All year I’m sure they are thinking of how golf is so simple of a game. I can assure you that they made it completely evident that this in fact is not the case. Our five-man team managed one birdie on the course and my “player” handled himself well. Not everyone can be a winner all the time.

It was a bittersweet Sunday; half of the house had missed the cut. It was disappointing that I wasn’t one of those on the draw sheet for the weekend’s play after a valiant 71 (-1) during my 2^nd round. One shot better and I would have survived the cut. “If only” may be the year’s mantra. But the electricity of excitement hung low in the air still. One of our close South African friends, Lee-Anne, was the overnight leader heading into the final round. We kept our lunch in Arras short and by-passed the confectionery’s shop to make it back before Lee-Anne finished her round. She had a chance coming into the back nine but a few bogies on the tough finishing stretch pushed her into a tie for 5^th. If only…

CONSOLATION

THE GREAT CLUBHOUSE AT TALI GOLF CLUB

Fimnair Masters

Tali Golf Club, Helsinki, Finland

August 24^th – 30^th, 2009

Our luck with airport personnel and baggage-handlers had run out. The BA agent who had none too emphatically closed the gate, the breeze of the swinging door brushing my nose, was unwaveringly stubborn. I attempted to explain rationally that it was far more efficient (and much easier for all involved) to get us onto the plane rather than rooting through the luggage hold to find our bags only to chuck them onto the vast Heathrow tarmac. We were right there. But then again he was British; efficiency is not his strength. As I waited for my rage to subside and our next flight to take off, my voice of reason (Rick) calmly explained that the world isn’t coming to an end and with time, it may even be a funny story. It is little surprise that our bags didn’t make it onto the next flight. Those slimy little bastards…

YAANA AND ILKA'S HOME

Warm hugs and a pot of Yaana’s Thai specialty, chicken tom kha gai, were waiting for us when we finally appeared four hours later than expected. Yaana and Ilka are old Finnish friends, our crew had stayed with them last year, but there were new additions to the family that I was eager to meet. The couple had adopted two young brothers from Russia, Dani (4) and Nikki (6) during the past year. While their Finnish has much improved, English has not yet been tackled. Being the American ambassadors that we are, we tried to teach them a little English. They countered with some Finnish and Russian. All terms included, my vocabulary has increased by about twelve words. Thankfully dancing, fishing, and swimming require little in the way of conversation.

A slow stream of smoke was rising from the chimney of the wood hut, painted deep red with white trim. “The sauna should be ready now if you’d like to go down,” Ilka mentioned. The pains and exhilaration were fresh in my mind. The Finnish sauna experience, if a trifle crazy, is devastatingly addicting. Inside the hut, my lungs were struggling to take in the hot air. A fresh pailful of water had just been thrown over the charcoal gray rocks intensifying the heat ten-fold. Glances passed from face to face, wondering who would be the first to cave. Kaz was nearly doubled-over in pain; each breath taken with extreme caution as if she inhaled too deeply the air may burn the insides of her lungs. The boys were squatted near the door where the temperature was a few degrees cooler. Both were looking antsy and eager to leave. Ilka, well he just looked comfortable casually slouched back again the blond-wood panels. The sweat came pouring off Rick’s body in a steady stream but I could see the determination on his face that he would stay in till the end. And as for myself, my body felt like it was slowly being baked like a roast in the oven. “Anyone ready to go swimming?”

COOLING OFF

Off down the dock we filed out. The boys took off first, undaunted by the frigid sea. My steps were more of a gingerish nature. Kaz, Rick, and Ilka were not far behind. It is a badge of courage to see who can last the longest in the sauna but it was not a battle I had any interest in winning. I leaped off the end, plunging my sweltering body into the sea. My breath left as soon as I hit the water but I stayed in for another couple minutes. I felt the blood pumping through my body and one is painfully aware of where your limbs and extremities are. Crazy? It is simply one of those things that one has to do in Finland. You would be a fool to miss it.

THE MARKET IN HELSINKI

Finland’s beauty and elegance is admittedly difficult to depict. Its nature is quiet and reserved much like its people. The woodlands surrounding Yaana and Ilka’s home were straight and tall, a mixture of towering pines and the flaked bark of white birch. Contrasted with the stillness of the water it was easy to feel at peace. The landscape from our view was not unlike many of our new neighbors, ruggedness and water abound. Moss-infused rocks mingle with the reeds along the vast shorelines of seas and lakes. Helsinki, like many major European cities is at heart a port town. When we ventured into the city center, the market in the main harbor was bustling with activity from visitors and city dwellers alike. The stands were set up outside but when winter comes and the temperatures drop precipitously then I imagine most will either close up shop for good or take shelter in the ornately tiled and enclosed Market Hall. After all it can’t be more than 300 yards due west.

THE OPENING TEE SHOT

The city of Helsinki has many attractions, one of them being Tali Golf Club. Tali, located in the city’s outskirts but easily accessible by tram, is an ideal location for a professional golf tournament. The crowds numbered in the thousands which for the Ladies European Tour are sizable. It is a traditionally styled course, one of the oldest in Finland and also one of the most prestigious. It can take years for your name to come up on the waiting list for membership. As for me, I wouldn’t dream of joining the course unless a mysterious hoodlum ransacked the property with a chainsaw. The trees guarding the par-5 14^th, a slightly ridiculous dog-leg right would be the first to go. Then maybe that one on the par-4 5^th, a short 90 degree dog-leg left – also ridiculous. Or perhaps the towering pine encroaching the tee shot on the 6^th may get the chop next…

You know I’m just kidding right?

THE 14TH GREEN

]]> http://punchbowlgolf.com/2009/09/postcards-from-europe-finland/feed/ 3 http://punchbowlgolf.com/2009/07/postcards-from-europe-germany/ http://punchbowlgolf.com/2009/07/postcards-from-europe-germany/#comments Sat, 11 Jul 2009 11:35:26 +0000 Laura Terebey http://punchbowlgolf.com/?p=1244

TEEING OFF IN MUNICH

HypoVereinsbank Ladies German Open,

Golfpark Gut Hauser, Munich, Germany
May 18th – 25th, 2009

The business of being on the road for an extended time is dirty business. Quite literally dirty…and smelly…and full of having strangers see your unmentionables. Monday morning, the crew had only one thing on our collective mind. Where in this town can we do our laundry? It took a few inquiries but we didn’t waste much time finding the answer. Nowhere in Dachau. Our best bet was a little place half-mile from the train station in Moosah, which was five stops and a train change away. Off we went with an extra-large duffel bag full of dirty clothes. A rogue shopping cart found on the street corner was both practical and hilarious. Can you picture me jumping on the back of the cart at top speed and racing down the streets? It was only the beginning of a fantastic ride through Germany.

Not that we always knew where we were going, which begs the question, what do you do when you find yourself in a place that isn’t the place you expected to be? First, figure out where you are (some random, excellent Thai place near Karlsplatz station that we happened to stumble upon). Second, figure you where you want to be (the Player’s Party at Pacha in central Munich). Lastly figure out how you’re going to get yourself from point A to point B. It was this last question which divided us. Anyone up for an Amazing Race, Munich style? Gregg and Ben thought they could manage the subway system faster than traversing the cityscape on foot. Ha! If only they knew the experience with which I traveled this stretch of pavement before. Well kind of, but really I would gladly sacrifice a few minutes of my time and a few miles underfoot to soak up the energy of Munich rather then go underground. As dusk fell to darkness, the golden glow of Munich rose and blanketed the air with its warmth. Some cities are scary; Munich is not, not even in the corner of darkness or alone on a deserted street. While Dana’s gaze was fixed to her Blackberry’s Google Maps and our feet walked briskly along our course, my mind was quiet and my soul content. When I think of Munich, this is what I feel. This is my Munich.

Munich is not the only attraction in this area. The southern part of Germany, which includes the aforementioned towns of Dachau and Moosah as well as Munich, is known as Bavaria. And Bavaria is known for its outdoor beer gardens. What, you want me to attended a Welcome Party at a local Bavarian beer garden? The sun was still warm and glistening gently through the trees when we arrived. Rows of picnic tables were lined up in ranks easily measuring twenty feet. White linens with baskets of bread and soft pretzels were already waiting for us as were Dana and Gregg who had found seats for the four of us. An accordion player provided most of the night’s soundtrack with bits of conversation and laughter adding to the melody. The atmosphere was warm and jovial. Needless to say the weissbeer was flowing too.

——-

At first thought I can think of no straight hole on Golfpark Gut Hauser, a fairly recent addition to the German golfing scene and closer to the cow pastures than civilization. The architect must have been a man who favored the countryside and sharp turns of the ball. A hard slice off the 2nd, a duck hook off the 6th, and you can mark two fairways hit on your stats sheet. The par-4 7th can be feast or famine for players, as it is 90 degree dog-leg left with an uphill approach shot to a narrow green. Short (or safe) hitters are better off to hit 3-wood right of the dog-leg and play a lengthy second up to the green. Long (or crazy) players pull driver, aim over the corn field, and look forward to a flip wedge to the green. If they hit it left, they are reaching in their bag for another Titleist, as the farmer’s fields are out-of-bounds to golfers. A little wacky, kind of like the Germans.

——

Have you ever made a Bucket List? You know it from the movie by the same name. A list of all the things that you want to experience before you kick the bucket? It’s something I was pondering a little this week. What is left on my Bucket List? Maybe it was Dana’s desire to stand under a waterfall before she died and I could think of nothing cooler to out-do her that got me thinking, I don’t know. But there was this one thing.

It was early Saturday morning as I was stroking a few short putts on the putting green and getting warmed-up for my round. The sun was out, the breeze calm and I had just pounded down a chocolate croissant and two cups of coffee which left me with little else to desire. My ears twitched and my next putt hit the lip. “Football (aka soccer), 2:30 this afternoon, Laura go,” just bits of conversation evidently involving me. It seemed surreal as Michael, one of the blue-eyed, blonde hair, HypoVereinsbank promoters offered me a VIP ticket to see FC Bayern Munich v. Stuttgart with a select group of players that afternoon. I have found that “Yes” in English means the same as “Yes” in German. The roar from the 69,000 person crowd when you walked into the stadium was out of this world. The decibels rose to a sheer shriek that pierces your eardrum so completely you can’t tell where it’s coming from, it just consumes. I’ve heard it a few times at concerts in smaller, more confined venues. This was the real deal. Real football fans in the flesh, with real me, watching a proper football match. Cross that one off my list.

The organizers in Germany I dare say, hands down, put on the best tournament for a girl who values her cultural experiences and interactions as least as much as if not more than the golf. My week was full of them. For as much as I’ve shared, I’ve kept as many in my pocket.

If you actually are interested in the golf, check out the website, www.ladieseuropeantour.com, to follow my progress and my scorecards. It appears writing about my golfing exploits is not one of my strong suits. If anything really good happens I’ll let you know but having a bit of fun, making the cut, and earning a small paycheck doesn’t seem very remarkable to me when compared to the rest of it. At least in my humble opinion.

LAURA TEREBY ON THE ROAD

Editor’s Note: Puncbow Golf is proud to introduce Laura Terebey to the site. Laura grew up on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, played college golf at Radford, and now is travelling Europe trying to make a living playing the Ladies European Tour. This post is the first of a recurring installment on Punchbowl Golf about her travels and adventures abroad. For more background on Laura please see the contributors section on the ABOUT US page.

Golf Club Gerre, Deutsche Bank Ladies Swiss Open, Losone, Switzerland
May 10th – 17th, 2009

The hills and valleys are just as I remember them. The serenity no less serene, the mist no less majestic, the sights and sounds of Switzerland come to life again. Thick forest cascading down the mountain sides which encompasses each corner of the panorama. It is sheer beauty and as it happens, also the first stop on European leg of the Ladies European Tour. Over the next five months I will be crisscrossing the continent with a full tour card and teeing it up in 14 events over that time.

It was a week ago mid-Sunday morning that I stepped off the plane in Milan feeling okay, even bordering on energetic as I had managed a few hours of shut eye on our two flights over from Philly. An hour later slumped over with my head in my hands, my stomach threatening to heave, mashed between boney Ben and squishy Eric in seat built for two being wildly tossed about in an endless sequence of roundabouts taken at top speed in the Deutsche Bank courtesy van, well lets just say it wasn’t the welcome I had in mind. Even now it seems like eons ago. It is a by-product of time spent on the road. Minutes and hours can drag endlessly but days as a whole speed by in the blink of an eye.

The welcome we received once we arrived at the apartment that Dana had secured for the week was lukewarm at best. While the driver patiently wandered up Via di This, down Via di That, and finally up Via di Porta, I was little unsure whether or not I had the correct address. As we pulled up to the orange and white apartment block, a hunched figure with dyed black hair emerged. Her speech was German. My response a blank, timid stare. Gestures and action continue to be the communal international language and in the end we were given our keys and shown the way to our apartment on the second floor. The ensuing discussion between Ben, myself, and the crazy German to figure out the tourist tax, due in cash, was another case of charades and some elementary arithmetic. All’s well that ends well.

The apartment was perfect for our crew of four comprised of Dana, Gregg, Ben, and myself. It had two bedrooms, a fully equipped kitchen, a living room bearing a hard, orange couch, a TV continually set on CNN, and a puzzle depicting an Italian Cathedral that didn’t take 24 hours for us to complete. For the benefit of those who don’t know Ben, Ben has taken on the monumental task of being friend, caddie, travel companion, Sherpa, and general side-kick for little recognition and even less pay. He shares my desire to see the sights and always has he camera within reach documenting our days and memories.

A ten minute stroll down the back streets of Losone lead us to the golf course. The quickest way to traverse the distance was a point of major contention over the dinner table. It was peaceful listening to a few tunes on the iPod, kicking a smooth pebble down the rough pavement, and looking up at the mountain ranges surrounding us. Golf Gerre Losone, our tournament host for the week, sits in the lowlands of an otherwise mountainous landscape making for a pleasantly flat walk. My legs, still unaccustomed to the rigors of walking a golf course for days on end welcomed the flat terrain. Sheets of rock and cliffs sprung up from both sides of the fairway and it was not unusual to see a helicopter flying low, dragging supplies to and from construction sites hidden from view. But this was found out after much observation and discussion to rule out the possibility of lost hikers being picked up and ferried across the sky at top speeds. I, for one, surely wouldn’t have wanted to be in that cage.

Golf Gerre Losone, designed by Peter Herradine, is a course that favors the long-hitter and this year further lengthened to a par-73 lay-out. The fairways and greens were soft on account of a wet spring which seems to be the norm when the tour comes to town. The 2008 event was rain-shortened to 54 holes. There is ample room to spray the ball off the tee but you may find yourself with a treacherous lie from a wet and unfriendly rough. Approach shots into the green deserve more precision and solid contact, often being guarded by small lakes that dot the course. All the par-3s are tricky. The 2nd plays an 8-iron, the 4th a solid 6-iron that have very severe slopes from back to front. Players must keep the ball underneath the hole to avoid a dreaded three-putt. The turtleback green of the par-3 7th forces you to play to its center or else watch your ball roll off the green into some tightly mowed collection areas. With the ground damp and your ball on a tight lie you may want to take a second look before you reach for the your sand wedge. Safely navigate the water guarding the last par-3 of the bunch, #11, and gear up for some long and punishing par-4s lurking on the way home. Golf is supposed to be fun right?

The dramatic views on the course did little to inspire my play. The technical and physical abilities I had worked so hard to improve in the off-season is meaningless without the mental focus to take your game from the range to the course. By in large it was little more than an opportunity to shake the cobwebs out of my competitive head and remove the rust that comes with a six month layoff from tournament golf. I am patient enough not to worry much about it.

I dare say our exit from Switzerland was infinitely more pleasant then our entrance. It is a six-plus hour bus ride from Losone to Munich, Germany straight through the Swiss Alps. It is one of the most breathtaking rides I have taken. Once we hit the first set of snow-covered peaks, the fifty-odd players and caddies settled quietly in their seats and pushed their faces to the glass. Springs sprouted out of the mountain, creating miniature waterfalls that crashed into the rock below. Stone fortresses and crumbling outposts sat on top of the most precarious of perches. The outlooks had looked to be untouched for centuries. What kind of job it must have been to build them with primitive tools and only the power of human and animal force to work them.

It is good.
It is good to be.
It is good to be here.
It is good to be here now.