I keep promising people that I/we will write more about our travels, that we will finish our travelblog for the remainder of our trip... And I mean it! It's just that we've gotten busy with life and are too busy (at the moment) to write about what we did several months ago.
But it'll come... Just you wait!
There's more to tell: Bicycling and pubbing in Ireland, a peeing statue in Belgium and our return to France.
Oh, yes. There's more to tell...
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Sunday, April 15, 2007
"Ich bin ein Leipziger"
March 9, 2007
It was in the early light of a pink-gray morning that I awoke and lifted my eyes to the landscape coming into view as the train neared Munich. I moved sluggishly, my body sore and mind foggy. Electing a regular seat instead of a sleeper couchette was budget-wise but did nothing for a good night’s sleep. The night had passed, nonetheless, and we were in Germany, the main Munich station pulling into view with a modern city skyline still lighted in the early morning. A tall, sleek office complex with the Mercedes-Benz logo glowing atop the roof confirmed our location. I roused Mandy from her sleep and soon we stepped sleepily from the train to the station to await our onward train.
As we had approximately an hour before it would arrive, we decided to get some breakfast. In our travel-weary state, made worse by the chill cutting through the air in Munich, we settled on a well known coffee chain, the only time we succumbed to an American establishment while abroad, this one so terribly ubiquitous throughout the developed world: Starbucks. Hey, we were tired! And they have big cushy chairs in a cozy setting... Actually, we had been somewhat surprised, and even dismayed on occasion, to find that, while much of the coffee available in European cafes is very good and possibly better than American counterparts, there were few coffeeshops of the sort to which we were accustomed - cushy, old furniture, board games, bookshelves, and patrons spread throughout with reading and research material sprawled out upon the tables. Most we encountered had only small, round café tables and wooden chairs. To be fair, café culture is huge in Europe, acting as a central meeting point of minds throughout more recent history. It’s just a different café culture than in the U.S. We would, however, find much more familiar ambience as we went north in Germany (and I understand that similar establishments are prevalent in Scandinavia), so perhaps it is a difference of climate, with a Northerner like me preferring the cozier surroundings.
Anyway, I digress…
We found our way to the connecting train after a rude encounter with a woman at the station’s information desk when Mandy tried to confirm the train’s details. The woman didn’t seem to speak English (which is perfectly fine and expected when traveling) but what wasn’t fine was that she was generally cranky and seemed determined to do her best to provide as little help as possible. Once on the train, we settled in and forgot about the encounter - service workers can be so temperamental - watching out the windows as the beautiful German landscape sped past: Bavarian towns giving way to thick pine forest, solitary rivers, and steepening mountains, and eventually humble villages still bearing the mark of the general poverty of the old GDR. While such places were intriguing, and reminiscent of our own rural experience, our destination was the modesty-sized city of Leipzig, the hometown of my good friend and one-time Selkirk High School exchange student - Lisa.
I had expected to call Lisa once we had arrived at the station, but we were walking towards the center of the station after disembarking when she appeared! It was a joyous reunion after five years of email correspondence. She asked about our train trip and whether we were hungry and then led us to a nice, inexpensive bagel sandwich shop. Between mouthfuls we all chatted in that awkward halting fashion of getting reacquainted with an old friend: what we had been doing most recently and in the past few years. But soon we fell into easy conversation and Lisa took us on the first part of her own delightful walking tour (after dropping off our packs in her father’s car at his office building). We took a short tram ride and got off at the park surrounding the enormous brownstone monument to the so-called Battle of Nations (where Napoleon was driven back by the Germans, Russians and others).
A large chamber unfolded before us within the imposing edifice, with the largest dome of any secular structure in Germany. There was an eerie central memorial with four
knightly warriors standing guard around the circular, tomb-like space, a large wreath laid upon the floor. High above, on a second tier, there were towering sculptures of mighty Germanic figures: three male warriors and a strong female nourishing the next generation at her breasts. Mandy stood barely taller than their massive feet. To add perspective to this provocative monument there was a frank display attesting to the interesting history of the monument (and indeed that of Germany). It had been erected by Kaiser Wilhelm on the centennial of the Battle to inspire support for his empire, then used by Hitler as an evocative backdrop for huge Nazi rallies meant to assert Aryan supremacy and nationalist fervor. It was later used by the Communist regime of the GDR as a potent symbol of the New Socialist Man (and Woman). And in the free German society of today it is the backdrop for outdoor concerts with such acts as The Who, ironic conveyors of a different type of propaganda perhaps.
After reading through the historical installments, we trudged up an endless spiral staircase (I counted 14 full twists) to the top of the tower where we had a breath-taking view of the city of Leipzig below (and breath-restoring due to the stairs). We lingered for a long time there and then relented to the inevitable climb back down, whereon we browsed through a museum on Napoleon and the Battle. Then it was back to the tram to the city center, Marktplatz, where Lisa showed us some of the historical buildings and took us to one of the oldest coffeehouses in town, which had a museum on the history of coffee. We skimmed through the displays, unable to read the German captions, and then moved on to the restaurant where we ordered some lavish coffee and dessert served on gold-rimmed china - a fun bit of extravagance. We also had what was to amount to the first of two chance encounters with people connected to home. Sitting at the tables next to us were a dozen people on a tour of the sites associated with Calvin - all from Oregon and Washington. They had asked to take our photo, believing all three of us to be from Leipzig. But I said that two were imposters and a conversation ensued. One couple had relatives in Orient, WA, which is close to Colville and not too far from our own hometown. They were particularly delighted to hear where we were from and kept repeating, “What a small world…”
We left the coffeehouse as dusk was falling and we found our way to Thomaskirche, the church where Bach spent the final 27 years of his life. A beautiful rose light from the setting sun fell upon the steeple, and it was easy to imagine Bach himself looking upon the church in such fading light, composing in his mind a complex canon as homage to the beauty before him. Thomaskirche was silent tonight, though, and we waited a little longer in that twilight until Lisa’s father, Achem, came to pick us up. It was a quick zip through the streets to the family’s apartment, where we would be staying. Lisa had described it as an ugly GDR-esque apartment building, but it was much more attractive than this on the outside and still nicer on the inside. We met Lisa’s mother, Bruni, and talked for a little while about our travels and the day. Then Achem and Bruni excused themselves to go to a friend’s birthday party as we settled in with Lisa for a light dinner before searching fruitlessly for a cheap flight to Ireland and then going to bed.
In the morning, Lisa had a huge spread laid out for breakfast: bread (brot), fruit, yogurt, jam, butter, cheeses, ham and sausages, and tea. We’d slept in and Achem and Bruni had already left for work. I was crestfallen that the slight tickle in my throat from the day before had turned into a full-blown cold, leaving me a croaking, coughing mucus-machine. Still, my energy level wasn’t too low, so I felt up to facing world (unlike sometimes when I’m sick). The three of us ate and chatted contentedly (some of us better than others…), and once finished we piled into the family’s little hatchback car and set off to see more of Leipzig, guided by a most amiable tour guide. We first stopped off at a large park and were soon plunged into quiet green space with muddy paths leading through winter-dead groves of trees. Lisa led us to the rear of the city zoo where we could see ducks and emus, and even such exotic animals as giraffes and zebras, which seem slightly out of place in the gray weather of eastern Germany. We strolled a little more and then piled into the car again to head downtown.
Despite my annoying cold, it was great to be out exploring a city with Mandy and Lisa. And my happiness bubbled over into a little groove to the rhythmic flamenco of Paco de Lucia that Lisa had put into the tape player. (It was nice also to see that someone else in the world still had a cassette deck in the car) We found a spot to park and then walked back to Thomaskirche. This time we went inside and found a modest and bright interior - a beautiful church, though humble in comparison to the other great European cathedrals. No doubt its true beauty would come alive during of the Bach music performances regularly given to pay tribute to the great composer. We would have to content ourselves to imagining such an experience. So, after a short exploration of the space, we continued on to Marktplatz where we purchased brats from a street vendor. Mandy and I found them better than the brats sold at supermarkets back home - not so fatty and overly spicy. We were about to bite into our brats when we were surrounded by four people dressed in giant purple costumes in the shape of alphabetic letters. They spoke in German with Lisa and then switched to English to talk with us, telling us that they were promoting a computer company. They gave us a flier and a keychain lanyard each and proceeded on their merry, festooned way. We three laughed at how weird the experience had been to have four bug, purple letters encircle us and four faces poking out of them extolling the benefits of a company none of us was familiar with. The eccentric encounter behind us, we stood on the street and finished our brats. We were all in good spirits and Lisa’s easy laugh, which I had remembered as so charming and delightfully infectious, was appearing more and more. It was like old times again!
We were standing outside Nicholaskirche and Lisa explained that this was where her parents had been married and also where the huge nonviolent protest movement against the GDR had begun, spilling over and contributing to the overall uprising that brought down the Berlin Wall and essentially spelled the end of the Communist era in Germany. With that kind of introduction to intrigue us, we went inside and found a large and pretty church unlike any of the others we had seen. There were large sculpted columns that rose up to a green palm tree top that joined with a pink, carved ceiling. The whole place had a bright and cheerful air about it. There was also literature on hand (in English) about the history of the place, and we sat in the calm sanctuary to read how a weekly peace service had grown into a popular movement that brought down a powerful government without force. A Communist official was quoted as saying, “We were prepared for everything, except prayers and candles.” It was a powerful feeling to be in the location of such a dynamic moment in human history. Such triumph is inspiring, though it is sobering to see that the peace services continue recalling that the world is not yet at peace. For this reason, in part, I wanted to travel - to expand my scope of the world, to broaden my experience and understanding of the histories of the world’s other peoples and to thereby align myself with their triumphs and failings, their hopes and fears.
It was a natural segueway of thought and history that we next went to the museum dedicated to exposing all of the terrifying and abusive clandestine activity of the GDR’s secret police, the Stasi. There were surveillance photos of ordinary citizens and, most shocking of all, artwork and papers of elementary students deemed somehow seditious by their own teachers and turned into the Stasi. It was a strange and fearful time under the GDR, with neighbors suspecting neighbors because no one knew who worked for the Stasi. Lisa reflected on what she could remember - how the Soviet Army had been staged near the family home and could be seen from the window practicing formations and operations - and she said that her parents had been more deeply affected than she, still a girl when the GDR collapsed. Most would agree that it’s a better situation in Germany now and today a board game bears humorous witness to life in old East Germany. To win you must be the first to acquire a television, washing machine, car, and blue jeans - all the things that Americans of the time had taken for granted. I took in all of this without any pride for own country’s experience (for I know how it has made many an egregious mistake in its history, including the subjecting of common citizens to surveillance for dissent); rather, I felt great admiration for the ability of the German people to endure hardship and to be so open in admitting the mistakes of the past and thus working never to repeat them. In truth, so many cultures have persisted in the face of great tribulation, and this is no doubt a hallmark of the human spirit. It is why the powerful strains of “We Shall Overcome” ring with such universal appeal; it is the hope within us all.
With the dramatic story of Germany alive within us, Lisa showed us the way to a café featured in the classic book, Faust, where he rolls down the stairs on a barrel. We peered inside at a
fancy dining room and then went up the stairs to the ground level and looked at the sculpture depicting Faust and Mephisto. As is the custom, we rubbed Faust’s foot for luck and then proceeded to Moritzbastei, an underground club popular with young Leipzigers and created after university students excavated medieval tunnels over eight years. The interior was dark and plastered with rock show posters, and there were hallways leading off to other parts of the club, most of which were closed during the daytime. Lisa explained how this one played live rock shows, how that one had house and techno music, and so forth. It was an amazing party complex and had a great underground feel - as in hip and below the radar. While much was closed, we were able to go into the smoky café where we ordered some milchkaffee (coffee with milk) and sat talking.
Before long we were surprised by the appearance of a short-haired girl at our table, who opened with, “Do you recognize me?” And then Mandy and I realized who it was. It was Peggy, who had been an exchange student at Selkirk two years before Lisa! And once she had confirmed that we were who she thought we were, we quickly caught up on what she and we had been doing for the last several years. It was so uncanny to have lost contact with her years ago and to then run into her when we came to Germany somewhat spontaneously. Even more amazing that she said she had spontaneously decided to come back from southern Germany, where she is studying, to Leipzig (which we had forgotten was her hometown, too) for the day to visit some friends. It was chance that she and we had come to the café at all! Though she had to get back to her friends, we were able to get caught up again and again exchange email addresses, parting with a promise to renew correspondence. And this time it was we who were left repeating, “What a small world…”
It was in the early light of a pink-gray morning that I awoke and lifted my eyes to the landscape coming into view as the train neared Munich. I moved sluggishly, my body sore and mind foggy. Electing a regular seat instead of a sleeper couchette was budget-wise but did nothing for a good night’s sleep. The night had passed, nonetheless, and we were in Germany, the main Munich station pulling into view with a modern city skyline still lighted in the early morning. A tall, sleek office complex with the Mercedes-Benz logo glowing atop the roof confirmed our location. I roused Mandy from her sleep and soon we stepped sleepily from the train to the station to await our onward train.
As we had approximately an hour before it would arrive, we decided to get some breakfast. In our travel-weary state, made worse by the chill cutting through the air in Munich, we settled on a well known coffee chain, the only time we succumbed to an American establishment while abroad, this one so terribly ubiquitous throughout the developed world: Starbucks. Hey, we were tired! And they have big cushy chairs in a cozy setting... Actually, we had been somewhat surprised, and even dismayed on occasion, to find that, while much of the coffee available in European cafes is very good and possibly better than American counterparts, there were few coffeeshops of the sort to which we were accustomed - cushy, old furniture, board games, bookshelves, and patrons spread throughout with reading and research material sprawled out upon the tables. Most we encountered had only small, round café tables and wooden chairs. To be fair, café culture is huge in Europe, acting as a central meeting point of minds throughout more recent history. It’s just a different café culture than in the U.S. We would, however, find much more familiar ambience as we went north in Germany (and I understand that similar establishments are prevalent in Scandinavia), so perhaps it is a difference of climate, with a Northerner like me preferring the cozier surroundings.
Anyway, I digress…
We found our way to the connecting train after a rude encounter with a woman at the station’s information desk when Mandy tried to confirm the train’s details. The woman didn’t seem to speak English (which is perfectly fine and expected when traveling) but what wasn’t fine was that she was generally cranky and seemed determined to do her best to provide as little help as possible. Once on the train, we settled in and forgot about the encounter - service workers can be so temperamental - watching out the windows as the beautiful German landscape sped past: Bavarian towns giving way to thick pine forest, solitary rivers, and steepening mountains, and eventually humble villages still bearing the mark of the general poverty of the old GDR. While such places were intriguing, and reminiscent of our own rural experience, our destination was the modesty-sized city of Leipzig, the hometown of my good friend and one-time Selkirk High School exchange student - Lisa.
I had expected to call Lisa once we had arrived at the station, but we were walking towards the center of the station after disembarking when she appeared! It was a joyous reunion after five years of email correspondence. She asked about our train trip and whether we were hungry and then led us to a nice, inexpensive bagel sandwich shop. Between mouthfuls we all chatted in that awkward halting fashion of getting reacquainted with an old friend: what we had been doing most recently and in the past few years. But soon we fell into easy conversation and Lisa took us on the first part of her own delightful walking tour (after dropping off our packs in her father’s car at his office building). We took a short tram ride and got off at the park surrounding the enormous brownstone monument to the so-called Battle of Nations (where Napoleon was driven back by the Germans, Russians and others).
A large chamber unfolded before us within the imposing edifice, with the largest dome of any secular structure in Germany. There was an eerie central memorial with four
knightly warriors standing guard around the circular, tomb-like space, a large wreath laid upon the floor. High above, on a second tier, there were towering sculptures of mighty Germanic figures: three male warriors and a strong female nourishing the next generation at her breasts. Mandy stood barely taller than their massive feet. To add perspective to this provocative monument there was a frank display attesting to the interesting history of the monument (and indeed that of Germany). It had been erected by Kaiser Wilhelm on the centennial of the Battle to inspire support for his empire, then used by Hitler as an evocative backdrop for huge Nazi rallies meant to assert Aryan supremacy and nationalist fervor. It was later used by the Communist regime of the GDR as a potent symbol of the New Socialist Man (and Woman). And in the free German society of today it is the backdrop for outdoor concerts with such acts as The Who, ironic conveyors of a different type of propaganda perhaps.After reading through the historical installments, we trudged up an endless spiral staircase (I counted 14 full twists) to the top of the tower where we had a breath-taking view of the city of Leipzig below (and breath-restoring due to the stairs). We lingered for a long time there and then relented to the inevitable climb back down, whereon we browsed through a museum on Napoleon and the Battle. Then it was back to the tram to the city center, Marktplatz, where Lisa showed us some of the historical buildings and took us to one of the oldest coffeehouses in town, which had a museum on the history of coffee. We skimmed through the displays, unable to read the German captions, and then moved on to the restaurant where we ordered some lavish coffee and dessert served on gold-rimmed china - a fun bit of extravagance. We also had what was to amount to the first of two chance encounters with people connected to home. Sitting at the tables next to us were a dozen people on a tour of the sites associated with Calvin - all from Oregon and Washington. They had asked to take our photo, believing all three of us to be from Leipzig. But I said that two were imposters and a conversation ensued. One couple had relatives in Orient, WA, which is close to Colville and not too far from our own hometown. They were particularly delighted to hear where we were from and kept repeating, “What a small world…”
We left the coffeehouse as dusk was falling and we found our way to Thomaskirche, the church where Bach spent the final 27 years of his life. A beautiful rose light from the setting sun fell upon the steeple, and it was easy to imagine Bach himself looking upon the church in such fading light, composing in his mind a complex canon as homage to the beauty before him. Thomaskirche was silent tonight, though, and we waited a little longer in that twilight until Lisa’s father, Achem, came to pick us up. It was a quick zip through the streets to the family’s apartment, where we would be staying. Lisa had described it as an ugly GDR-esque apartment building, but it was much more attractive than this on the outside and still nicer on the inside. We met Lisa’s mother, Bruni, and talked for a little while about our travels and the day. Then Achem and Bruni excused themselves to go to a friend’s birthday party as we settled in with Lisa for a light dinner before searching fruitlessly for a cheap flight to Ireland and then going to bed.In the morning, Lisa had a huge spread laid out for breakfast: bread (brot), fruit, yogurt, jam, butter, cheeses, ham and sausages, and tea. We’d slept in and Achem and Bruni had already left for work. I was crestfallen that the slight tickle in my throat from the day before had turned into a full-blown cold, leaving me a croaking, coughing mucus-machine. Still, my energy level wasn’t too low, so I felt up to facing world (unlike sometimes when I’m sick). The three of us ate and chatted contentedly (some of us better than others…), and once finished we piled into the family’s little hatchback car and set off to see more of Leipzig, guided by a most amiable tour guide. We first stopped off at a large park and were soon plunged into quiet green space with muddy paths leading through winter-dead groves of trees. Lisa led us to the rear of the city zoo where we could see ducks and emus, and even such exotic animals as giraffes and zebras, which seem slightly out of place in the gray weather of eastern Germany. We strolled a little more and then piled into the car again to head downtown.
Despite my annoying cold, it was great to be out exploring a city with Mandy and Lisa. And my happiness bubbled over into a little groove to the rhythmic flamenco of Paco de Lucia that Lisa had put into the tape player. (It was nice also to see that someone else in the world still had a cassette deck in the car) We found a spot to park and then walked back to Thomaskirche. This time we went inside and found a modest and bright interior - a beautiful church, though humble in comparison to the other great European cathedrals. No doubt its true beauty would come alive during of the Bach music performances regularly given to pay tribute to the great composer. We would have to content ourselves to imagining such an experience. So, after a short exploration of the space, we continued on to Marktplatz where we purchased brats from a street vendor. Mandy and I found them better than the brats sold at supermarkets back home - not so fatty and overly spicy. We were about to bite into our brats when we were surrounded by four people dressed in giant purple costumes in the shape of alphabetic letters. They spoke in German with Lisa and then switched to English to talk with us, telling us that they were promoting a computer company. They gave us a flier and a keychain lanyard each and proceeded on their merry, festooned way. We three laughed at how weird the experience had been to have four bug, purple letters encircle us and four faces poking out of them extolling the benefits of a company none of us was familiar with. The eccentric encounter behind us, we stood on the street and finished our brats. We were all in good spirits and Lisa’s easy laugh, which I had remembered as so charming and delightfully infectious, was appearing more and more. It was like old times again!
We were standing outside Nicholaskirche and Lisa explained that this was where her parents had been married and also where the huge nonviolent protest movement against the GDR had begun, spilling over and contributing to the overall uprising that brought down the Berlin Wall and essentially spelled the end of the Communist era in Germany. With that kind of introduction to intrigue us, we went inside and found a large and pretty church unlike any of the others we had seen. There were large sculpted columns that rose up to a green palm tree top that joined with a pink, carved ceiling. The whole place had a bright and cheerful air about it. There was also literature on hand (in English) about the history of the place, and we sat in the calm sanctuary to read how a weekly peace service had grown into a popular movement that brought down a powerful government without force. A Communist official was quoted as saying, “We were prepared for everything, except prayers and candles.” It was a powerful feeling to be in the location of such a dynamic moment in human history. Such triumph is inspiring, though it is sobering to see that the peace services continue recalling that the world is not yet at peace. For this reason, in part, I wanted to travel - to expand my scope of the world, to broaden my experience and understanding of the histories of the world’s other peoples and to thereby align myself with their triumphs and failings, their hopes and fears.
It was a natural segueway of thought and history that we next went to the museum dedicated to exposing all of the terrifying and abusive clandestine activity of the GDR’s secret police, the Stasi. There were surveillance photos of ordinary citizens and, most shocking of all, artwork and papers of elementary students deemed somehow seditious by their own teachers and turned into the Stasi. It was a strange and fearful time under the GDR, with neighbors suspecting neighbors because no one knew who worked for the Stasi. Lisa reflected on what she could remember - how the Soviet Army had been staged near the family home and could be seen from the window practicing formations and operations - and she said that her parents had been more deeply affected than she, still a girl when the GDR collapsed. Most would agree that it’s a better situation in Germany now and today a board game bears humorous witness to life in old East Germany. To win you must be the first to acquire a television, washing machine, car, and blue jeans - all the things that Americans of the time had taken for granted. I took in all of this without any pride for own country’s experience (for I know how it has made many an egregious mistake in its history, including the subjecting of common citizens to surveillance for dissent); rather, I felt great admiration for the ability of the German people to endure hardship and to be so open in admitting the mistakes of the past and thus working never to repeat them. In truth, so many cultures have persisted in the face of great tribulation, and this is no doubt a hallmark of the human spirit. It is why the powerful strains of “We Shall Overcome” ring with such universal appeal; it is the hope within us all.
With the dramatic story of Germany alive within us, Lisa showed us the way to a café featured in the classic book, Faust, where he rolls down the stairs on a barrel. We peered inside at a
fancy dining room and then went up the stairs to the ground level and looked at the sculpture depicting Faust and Mephisto. As is the custom, we rubbed Faust’s foot for luck and then proceeded to Moritzbastei, an underground club popular with young Leipzigers and created after university students excavated medieval tunnels over eight years. The interior was dark and plastered with rock show posters, and there were hallways leading off to other parts of the club, most of which were closed during the daytime. Lisa explained how this one played live rock shows, how that one had house and techno music, and so forth. It was an amazing party complex and had a great underground feel - as in hip and below the radar. While much was closed, we were able to go into the smoky café where we ordered some milchkaffee (coffee with milk) and sat talking.
Before long we were surprised by the appearance of a short-haired girl at our table, who opened with, “Do you recognize me?” And then Mandy and I realized who it was. It was Peggy, who had been an exchange student at Selkirk two years before Lisa! And once she had confirmed that we were who she thought we were, we quickly caught up on what she and we had been doing for the last several years. It was so uncanny to have lost contact with her years ago and to then run into her when we came to Germany somewhat spontaneously. Even more amazing that she said she had spontaneously decided to come back from southern Germany, where she is studying, to Leipzig (which we had forgotten was her hometown, too) for the day to visit some friends. It was chance that she and we had come to the café at all! Though she had to get back to her friends, we were able to get caught up again and again exchange email addresses, parting with a promise to renew correspondence. And this time it was we who were left repeating, “What a small world…”
Traveler's Tip
How to Beat Pay Toilets and Stick It to the Man
While many public toilets in Europe cost an entry fee, from 0.50€ to 1.00€ for use (and this can be worth it, as it implies regular cleaning), one solution to this can be found in a McDonald's (or a similar globally-hegemonic fastfood corporation). The busier, the better. Walk in, go straight to the back or often up the stairs to the second floor, and find the toilet. You usually won't have to pay. The only time Mandy and I set foot in a McDonald's while in Europe was to do exactly this. In my opinion, it's about all the place is good for...
While many public toilets in Europe cost an entry fee, from 0.50€ to 1.00€ for use (and this can be worth it, as it implies regular cleaning), one solution to this can be found in a McDonald's (or a similar globally-hegemonic fastfood corporation). The busier, the better. Walk in, go straight to the back or often up the stairs to the second floor, and find the toilet. You usually won't have to pay. The only time Mandy and I set foot in a McDonald's while in Europe was to do exactly this. In my opinion, it's about all the place is good for...
Night Train
March 7, 2007
The train rocks…
Finally, we’re alone in our coach and can extinguish the light and try to sleep. We can stretch out along seats where before had been an Italian girl and Moroccan man swept up with intense conversation. Such chemistry between them that they talked nonstop from Venice to beyond Verona, in what amounts to a new Esperanto, their common second language of English, speaking on all manner of subjects: Judaism, Christianity and Islam; travel experiences; the romanticism of Paris; and most interestingly the United States. They spoke with such interest to one another that they seemed not to acknowledge our presence. Who did they think we were? Where did they assume we were from? Become like flies on walls, it was funny to hear their opinions: She would not like to travel to America, believing it all to be “deserts and big cities.” She acknowledges there is possibly more, relating how she met an American soldier who had shown her photos of home. “There are actually mountains there, and even snow!” she says with genuine surprise. He speaks of how dense Americans are and uninterested in the rest of the world. “They would not be able to find France on a map,” he insists, though she defends in saying he would have a hard time finding Massachusetts. An exchange of contact information and they’re gone, each at their respective stops. And we can perhaps close our eyes and sleep.
The train lurches…
We’re in a new town, a new station, who can tell where in the mystery and fog of night? I imagine it is Austria, raising my weary head to the window and squinting my eyes to a lamp-lit rail yard with old buildings and spotty patches of snow. The conductor arrives, a shadow in the corridor of the train car. We present our tickets and passports. He studies, nods approval. Is gone. Hard to believe what has transpired at the last station, somewhere in northern Italy: a man growing increasingly belligerent after a confrontation with another conductor. Does he not have a ticket? Is he desperate to get to some destination? We hear loud exchanges of words unintelligible to us. There is a sudden banging in the corridor but we cannot see. We can tell then by the sound that the man is outside, screaming, shrieking in Italian in protestation of…something. We cannot see. So we watch the faces of those waiting on the platform. They seem concerned, and suddenly they react. Police running - two, now four - the belligerent man is wrestled to the ground, is hauled away. What the hell has happened? Did the man accost the conductor? Is he an African immigrant claiming discriminatory treatment? Is he a poor man trying for a free ride? No answers found in the distorted faces of those on the platform, those who now cower in an enclosed waiting booth, worried eyes pressed to glass. No explanation of what we have witnessed, while we sit wishing for a lock on our coach’s door, later to fall into a troubled sleep.
And the train clacks arrhythmically on into the night.
The train rocks…
Finally, we’re alone in our coach and can extinguish the light and try to sleep. We can stretch out along seats where before had been an Italian girl and Moroccan man swept up with intense conversation. Such chemistry between them that they talked nonstop from Venice to beyond Verona, in what amounts to a new Esperanto, their common second language of English, speaking on all manner of subjects: Judaism, Christianity and Islam; travel experiences; the romanticism of Paris; and most interestingly the United States. They spoke with such interest to one another that they seemed not to acknowledge our presence. Who did they think we were? Where did they assume we were from? Become like flies on walls, it was funny to hear their opinions: She would not like to travel to America, believing it all to be “deserts and big cities.” She acknowledges there is possibly more, relating how she met an American soldier who had shown her photos of home. “There are actually mountains there, and even snow!” she says with genuine surprise. He speaks of how dense Americans are and uninterested in the rest of the world. “They would not be able to find France on a map,” he insists, though she defends in saying he would have a hard time finding Massachusetts. An exchange of contact information and they’re gone, each at their respective stops. And we can perhaps close our eyes and sleep.
The train lurches…
We’re in a new town, a new station, who can tell where in the mystery and fog of night? I imagine it is Austria, raising my weary head to the window and squinting my eyes to a lamp-lit rail yard with old buildings and spotty patches of snow. The conductor arrives, a shadow in the corridor of the train car. We present our tickets and passports. He studies, nods approval. Is gone. Hard to believe what has transpired at the last station, somewhere in northern Italy: a man growing increasingly belligerent after a confrontation with another conductor. Does he not have a ticket? Is he desperate to get to some destination? We hear loud exchanges of words unintelligible to us. There is a sudden banging in the corridor but we cannot see. We can tell then by the sound that the man is outside, screaming, shrieking in Italian in protestation of…something. We cannot see. So we watch the faces of those waiting on the platform. They seem concerned, and suddenly they react. Police running - two, now four - the belligerent man is wrestled to the ground, is hauled away. What the hell has happened? Did the man accost the conductor? Is he an African immigrant claiming discriminatory treatment? Is he a poor man trying for a free ride? No answers found in the distorted faces of those on the platform, those who now cower in an enclosed waiting booth, worried eyes pressed to glass. No explanation of what we have witnessed, while we sit wishing for a lock on our coach’s door, later to fall into a troubled sleep.
And the train clacks arrhythmically on into the night.
On Finding Fortune in Venice
March 6, 2007
Our problems were not yet over with functioning of our debit cards. While I had learned my new PIN and had been able to withdraw some cash - an extra amount, just in case - Mandy’s card was still deactivated and I suspected mine might soon be, if not already. I later discovered it had been. I remembered that we had mentioned doing some international travel when we were at the bank in early February, but apparently saying this had not sufficed. We tried calling the bank and card company by using the international collect numbers they provided. But there was always something… Mandy had gotten a hold of the international operator who then said that he couldn’t complete the call because he didn’t know who to bill. I had gotten through to the bank but because it is an automated answering system there was also no one to accept charges. And to top it off, my phone cards would not work with the payphones in Italy, all identical and owned by a particular company. Not even the calling card purchased in Rome would work. It was ridiculous. Ri-dic-u-lous!
It was with this albatross upon our shoulders that we proceeded on from Florence to Venice, wishing soon to resolve the issue, the grating weight of the stress following us through the peopled streets of Venice as we trudged hoping to find a room in the first place on our list. It took some work to locate Hotel Bernardi-Semenzato, situated in a passageway no wider than my outstretched arms, but fortune was on our side. The receptionist chuckled when we asked if there were any rooms available. “Oh, yeah,” she said, “We have lots of rooms available.” Quiet it
was in Venice, with only people in the streets, motorized boats limited to larger canals and cars all but banished to the mainland. Our room was light and airy, a large window opening to a view of other houses with laundry swaying in the breeze. While there was a TV, which we more or less ignored for our stay, the most exciting amenity offered was a phone. A veritable, touch-tone, no coins, no-nonsense phone! Fortune was on our side…
Because of the time difference involved should we need to call someone at the bank back home (nine hours), we decided to do a bit of sightseeing before utilizing this most welcome appliance, our beloved hotel room phone. So, we set off. Having repeatedly read about how easy it was to grow disoriented in the tight passageways of pedestrian Venice, it was no surprise when we soon were. But we also quickly discovered a strategy not mentioned in our guidebooks: when in doubt, follow the mass of people all walking along the same route. There are only a few choices of pathways one can take by foot to get from one side of the city to the other, and only three bridges cross the Grand Canal. Thus, the city is very much like a maze. Though one you don’t mind being stuck in.
We set a course for the celebrated Piazza San Marco - or rather, followed the course set by the rest of the foot traffic. We veered from the beaten path long enough to pick up paninis from a little shop and eat them by the Grand Canal near Ponte di Rialto, the most famous of the three bridges. Here the picturesque Venice we all imagine unfolded for us: the lavish, white bridge arching high over the water, vaporetti boats puttering beneath, gondolas tied to striped mooring posts and gently rocking in the waves, and above colorful, stately homes standing ornately along the water’s edge. After basking in this scene in a golden late day’s sun, we moved on to one as beautiful when we found the Piazza and ate some of the best gelato ever in the waning pink light
and placid air of Venice’s eventide. The Piazza San Marco was abuzz with people and was ringed by the gorgeous walls of the palace. Near the water musicians played: a violinist drawing his bow across heart-rending arias, a flamenco guitarist adroitly plucking tremolo lines, and a Native American duo playing new age Andean flute music. All contributed to the overall ambience and over-the-top romanticism of this classic city. It was surprising to me to find such tranquility in a city as renowned as Venice. But it brought much needed respite and a restful sleep that night. We were especially relieved when we were finally able to get through to the fraud department and they immediately reactivated our cards with ease - an irony considering the troubles we’d had with them up to this point. Still, sweet dreams followed as our cards would no longer be suspected stolen and would be operable. It turns out we’d stolen our own cards. So, we decided not to press charges… Or rather, we were fine with the charges…
The following day was less eventful. And in a good way. After a filling Italian breakfast, which cost us a fair amount, since we ate it sitting down in the restaurant, we happened upon a church with an exhibit on the life and times of Vivaldi, who had spent much of his life in Venice. We were interested to read about the city’s musical history and its strange courting of pagan and Christian traditions. We also saw some strange, old instruments there: a violin with a trumpet-like bell meant for amplification, a piano/guitar, and so forth. Yeah, mandolins too. We then set off by ferry to the neighboring island and town of Lido to visit the site of the European Master’s program in Human Rights and Democratisation to which I had applied a year prior. The sun was bright and golden, a change from the gray morning of the day before, and the water was a deep teal with a strong briny breeze lending a chill to the air. Once on Lido, we walked to the opposite shore and found a wide, sandy public beach, where we sat for some time taking in the vast and unbounded horizon of the Mediterranean. We then wandered about the island in a clockwise manner without any real knowledge of where the program’s building was located, except that it was in an old monastery. Finally, I asked and learned we’d been traveling in the wrong direction. So, leading back to the ferry landing and beyond, we eventually arrived at the place.
We rang a buzzer and were let inside where I explained at reception that I had applied the year before and was interested in seeing the school it at all possible. The woman there said that it was impossible for us to see the monastery, though she did show us the central courtyard with its monkish cloisters. It was a strange interaction, though, because she seemed to think we were simply tourists, even though she had clearly heard me state that I was a prospective student. I had expected a more enthusiastic reception. Nonetheless, it was interesting enough to see the place and to have that picture in mind of what it would be like to attend, though it was presently devoid of students in the off-semester.
It was with self-doubt that I left and we returned to the public beach. I wondered if there was some way I might have better explained myself. Why had she seemed so dismissive and disinterested that I was a prospective scholar? Was it usual for one to visit a campus in Europe? Gradually my reeling mind was calmed by the steady sound of the waves as we plodded along the beach in search of the most interesting seashells. When we grew tired of this, realizing the day was slipping like the sand through our fingers, we reboarded the ferry and returned to Venice, where we went promptly to the Guggenheim Museum. The collection of modern art there was incredible: Magritte, Dali, Picasso, Kandinsky, Ernst, Mondrian, all quite impressive for such a small gallery. We followed this artistic experience with an equally artistic dining experience and, most stimulating of all, our nightly promenade. All in all, a fine way to wrap up the evening…
With little left to do the next day except await a night train into Germany (where we would visit a good friend of mine), we chose to spend the morning wandering through a section of Venice
which we had not yet seen. It proved much the same - quiet, old, waterlogged but beautiful - though there was a large, ugly modern building that housed the university and served as a reminder that the city was more than a simple tourist attraction, an ancient city locked in time. Mandy had wanted to paint at some point, so I looked for a suitable spot where we could sit and drink coffee and she could paint while I read or wrote. I thought I had found such a place at the Ponte di Rialto, where we were able to sit at café tables on mossy stairs right at the edge of the water. The waiter explained what drinks he had and I was surprised when Mandy ordered a spritzer. So, I did likewise. When the drinks came, she seemed surprised to learn it was alcoholic; I was not. But we were both strongly affected on our empty stomachs and we set about to find some food right away. Ever after we had eaten Mandy felt lightheaded. What a day for her: a lingering sore throat from a cold she’d been fighting since Madrid , a light head from an unexpected wine spritzer, and a spot that turned out not to be what she wanted to paint - too many people and too complicated a scene, she said.
We filled a few more hours whiling away in an internet café, updating the blog a little bit more, doing a bit more laundry and buying some food for the train, especially fruit which is not often offered in restaurant dishes. As darkness fell on Venice and the hour of our departure neared, we found a self-service cafeteria-style eatery in which we were able to eat pretty well on the cheap. I had my first wine from a tap: a zinfandel, not too shabby either. The last thing we did was to pass on the map we had purchased and the transportation passes, still good for another two days, to a Japanese couple who had just arrived that night. It was great to see their thankful and surprised smiles and to imagine their experience in Venice. Our little way of passing on the charm and good fortune of the city to another.
Our problems were not yet over with functioning of our debit cards. While I had learned my new PIN and had been able to withdraw some cash - an extra amount, just in case - Mandy’s card was still deactivated and I suspected mine might soon be, if not already. I later discovered it had been. I remembered that we had mentioned doing some international travel when we were at the bank in early February, but apparently saying this had not sufficed. We tried calling the bank and card company by using the international collect numbers they provided. But there was always something… Mandy had gotten a hold of the international operator who then said that he couldn’t complete the call because he didn’t know who to bill. I had gotten through to the bank but because it is an automated answering system there was also no one to accept charges. And to top it off, my phone cards would not work with the payphones in Italy, all identical and owned by a particular company. Not even the calling card purchased in Rome would work. It was ridiculous. Ri-dic-u-lous!
It was with this albatross upon our shoulders that we proceeded on from Florence to Venice, wishing soon to resolve the issue, the grating weight of the stress following us through the peopled streets of Venice as we trudged hoping to find a room in the first place on our list. It took some work to locate Hotel Bernardi-Semenzato, situated in a passageway no wider than my outstretched arms, but fortune was on our side. The receptionist chuckled when we asked if there were any rooms available. “Oh, yeah,” she said, “We have lots of rooms available.” Quiet it
was in Venice, with only people in the streets, motorized boats limited to larger canals and cars all but banished to the mainland. Our room was light and airy, a large window opening to a view of other houses with laundry swaying in the breeze. While there was a TV, which we more or less ignored for our stay, the most exciting amenity offered was a phone. A veritable, touch-tone, no coins, no-nonsense phone! Fortune was on our side…Because of the time difference involved should we need to call someone at the bank back home (nine hours), we decided to do a bit of sightseeing before utilizing this most welcome appliance, our beloved hotel room phone. So, we set off. Having repeatedly read about how easy it was to grow disoriented in the tight passageways of pedestrian Venice, it was no surprise when we soon were. But we also quickly discovered a strategy not mentioned in our guidebooks: when in doubt, follow the mass of people all walking along the same route. There are only a few choices of pathways one can take by foot to get from one side of the city to the other, and only three bridges cross the Grand Canal. Thus, the city is very much like a maze. Though one you don’t mind being stuck in.
We set a course for the celebrated Piazza San Marco - or rather, followed the course set by the rest of the foot traffic. We veered from the beaten path long enough to pick up paninis from a little shop and eat them by the Grand Canal near Ponte di Rialto, the most famous of the three bridges. Here the picturesque Venice we all imagine unfolded for us: the lavish, white bridge arching high over the water, vaporetti boats puttering beneath, gondolas tied to striped mooring posts and gently rocking in the waves, and above colorful, stately homes standing ornately along the water’s edge. After basking in this scene in a golden late day’s sun, we moved on to one as beautiful when we found the Piazza and ate some of the best gelato ever in the waning pink light
and placid air of Venice’s eventide. The Piazza San Marco was abuzz with people and was ringed by the gorgeous walls of the palace. Near the water musicians played: a violinist drawing his bow across heart-rending arias, a flamenco guitarist adroitly plucking tremolo lines, and a Native American duo playing new age Andean flute music. All contributed to the overall ambience and over-the-top romanticism of this classic city. It was surprising to me to find such tranquility in a city as renowned as Venice. But it brought much needed respite and a restful sleep that night. We were especially relieved when we were finally able to get through to the fraud department and they immediately reactivated our cards with ease - an irony considering the troubles we’d had with them up to this point. Still, sweet dreams followed as our cards would no longer be suspected stolen and would be operable. It turns out we’d stolen our own cards. So, we decided not to press charges… Or rather, we were fine with the charges…The following day was less eventful. And in a good way. After a filling Italian breakfast, which cost us a fair amount, since we ate it sitting down in the restaurant, we happened upon a church with an exhibit on the life and times of Vivaldi, who had spent much of his life in Venice. We were interested to read about the city’s musical history and its strange courting of pagan and Christian traditions. We also saw some strange, old instruments there: a violin with a trumpet-like bell meant for amplification, a piano/guitar, and so forth. Yeah, mandolins too. We then set off by ferry to the neighboring island and town of Lido to visit the site of the European Master’s program in Human Rights and Democratisation to which I had applied a year prior. The sun was bright and golden, a change from the gray morning of the day before, and the water was a deep teal with a strong briny breeze lending a chill to the air. Once on Lido, we walked to the opposite shore and found a wide, sandy public beach, where we sat for some time taking in the vast and unbounded horizon of the Mediterranean. We then wandered about the island in a clockwise manner without any real knowledge of where the program’s building was located, except that it was in an old monastery. Finally, I asked and learned we’d been traveling in the wrong direction. So, leading back to the ferry landing and beyond, we eventually arrived at the place.
We rang a buzzer and were let inside where I explained at reception that I had applied the year before and was interested in seeing the school it at all possible. The woman there said that it was impossible for us to see the monastery, though she did show us the central courtyard with its monkish cloisters. It was a strange interaction, though, because she seemed to think we were simply tourists, even though she had clearly heard me state that I was a prospective student. I had expected a more enthusiastic reception. Nonetheless, it was interesting enough to see the place and to have that picture in mind of what it would be like to attend, though it was presently devoid of students in the off-semester.
It was with self-doubt that I left and we returned to the public beach. I wondered if there was some way I might have better explained myself. Why had she seemed so dismissive and disinterested that I was a prospective scholar? Was it usual for one to visit a campus in Europe? Gradually my reeling mind was calmed by the steady sound of the waves as we plodded along the beach in search of the most interesting seashells. When we grew tired of this, realizing the day was slipping like the sand through our fingers, we reboarded the ferry and returned to Venice, where we went promptly to the Guggenheim Museum. The collection of modern art there was incredible: Magritte, Dali, Picasso, Kandinsky, Ernst, Mondrian, all quite impressive for such a small gallery. We followed this artistic experience with an equally artistic dining experience and, most stimulating of all, our nightly promenade. All in all, a fine way to wrap up the evening…
With little left to do the next day except await a night train into Germany (where we would visit a good friend of mine), we chose to spend the morning wandering through a section of Venice
which we had not yet seen. It proved much the same - quiet, old, waterlogged but beautiful - though there was a large, ugly modern building that housed the university and served as a reminder that the city was more than a simple tourist attraction, an ancient city locked in time. Mandy had wanted to paint at some point, so I looked for a suitable spot where we could sit and drink coffee and she could paint while I read or wrote. I thought I had found such a place at the Ponte di Rialto, where we were able to sit at café tables on mossy stairs right at the edge of the water. The waiter explained what drinks he had and I was surprised when Mandy ordered a spritzer. So, I did likewise. When the drinks came, she seemed surprised to learn it was alcoholic; I was not. But we were both strongly affected on our empty stomachs and we set about to find some food right away. Ever after we had eaten Mandy felt lightheaded. What a day for her: a lingering sore throat from a cold she’d been fighting since Madrid , a light head from an unexpected wine spritzer, and a spot that turned out not to be what she wanted to paint - too many people and too complicated a scene, she said.We filled a few more hours whiling away in an internet café, updating the blog a little bit more, doing a bit more laundry and buying some food for the train, especially fruit which is not often offered in restaurant dishes. As darkness fell on Venice and the hour of our departure neared, we found a self-service cafeteria-style eatery in which we were able to eat pretty well on the cheap. I had my first wine from a tap: a zinfandel, not too shabby either. The last thing we did was to pass on the map we had purchased and the transportation passes, still good for another two days, to a Japanese couple who had just arrived that night. It was great to see their thankful and surprised smiles and to imagine their experience in Venice. Our little way of passing on the charm and good fortune of the city to another.
"From whence began our travel Renaissance..."
March 4, 2007
In hindsight it’s amazing we decided to move on from Rome to Florence when our debit cards, our financial lifeblood, were not working. But with the freedom afforded to us by inexpensive rail travel, it made more sense to travel onward than to sit still. We were, however, more or less forced to use our credit card to obtain a small amount of cash for breakfast and lunch on the 2nd. I also purchased a phone card at the station in Rome with a mind to calling either our bank or the fraud department. We caught our train and intermittently snoozed and watched the landscape change into beautiful, rolling Tuscan hills that belied any worries about banks and business, instead suggesting a more simple way of life.
We were happy to find a room in the second hostel we tried, and one with free internet too! And like usual, we set out to explore Florence on foot, if only to form a mental map that would help us in sightseeing the next day. As in Rome, there were swarms of tourists and we noticed a particular predominance of America travelers. It was off to be walking in Florence and catch wind of a conversation in English as it passed by - American English, nonetheless. Sometimes it was reassuring, nice even, to encounter others who were obviously traveling. We might see a couple wearing big Kelty backpacks and think to ourselves, “Yep, fellow Americans…” Or we might see several people pouring over a map trying to figure out where they were, and we’d feel a sense of sympathy and solidarity. The most common types of travelers seemed to be Americans, Japanese, and Germans. And thus to hear or see a Japanese tourist became reassuring and comforting. But in Florence it was a little overwhelming just how many foreigners there really were. In such a way, the place seemed less authentic.
After a fair bit of sauntering this way and that through Florence’s cobble streets, peaking into vendors’ tents and looking into intriguing shops selling fabrics, artwork or jewelry, we stumbled upon Piazza San Giovani and the stunning Duomo (Santa Maria del Fiore) which occupies it, a beautiful cathedral with light and dark Florentine stone exterior in the rose light of the fading sun. We lingered for a little while in the square and then chose an authentic bistro in which to sup. And following a filling and scrumptious meal, we took our usual after-dinner walk, what the Italians call la passeggiata. We strolled until we heard a deep voice ahead in a square booming in Italian. Following our curiosity, we decided to see what was happening and discovered a slide show and accompanying commentary on the life of Michelangelo. The images were projected onto the side of a building and voice was blasting from speakers set in apartment windows. We didn’t stay too long, as we couldn’t understand the Italian and the loud, deep voice seemed almost menacing, like a Big Brother character from 1984. Who knew that Italian could sound so scary? It was getting late, as well, but before we retired, we happened upon a woman singing in Piazza Repubblica to the accompaniment of an accordionist. Her voice was lovely, the strains of “Ave Maria” resonating in the tranquil night air an apt closure to our first day in this Renaissance city, fair Firenze.
We awoke to the happy twitter of birds and sun spilling onto the terra cotta roofs outside our hostel room window. We had cause for rejoicing ourselves, since I had learned my new PIN in an email from Mandy’s mother. While it was laundry day and some of the morning would have to be sacrificed to this mundane chore, we were glad just to be in Florence and again have access to cash money. At the laundromat we chatted with a couple of Americans and also made a plan for the day. Back at the hostel, we took the time to do some much needed computer work. Then, come afternoon, we toured the inside of the Duomo and beheld a stone floor as magnificent in color and design as the church’s exterior; and we visited an ancient granary-turned-church; we walked around the Uffizi and saw the famed David statue replicated in its original location. We toured Palazzo Vecchio, a bit disappointed that we couldn’t take the Activities Tour which would lead through the palace’s secret chambers and hallways (no English tours were offered till late the next day). The arts displayed were quite interesting and history of the palace made it worth the while.
Afterwards, we moved on to the river, where in crossing the Arno, we were treated to a splendid view of the oldest bridge in Florence, the Ponte Vecchio. Once across the Arno River, we entered a different Florence entirely, one apart from the tourist hordes, where locals could be seen greeting one another in the quiet streets and unpretentious shops found devoid of ornament, some full of antique furniture being lovingly restored by a craftsman. We moved slowly up the green hillside along a footpath bound for San Miniato al Monte and the Piazzale Michelangelo. A short stop for gelato and a little further up the hill and we were able to look out over Florence, the entire city laid out in glorious panorama below. We would be leaving on the morrow, journeying onward to Venice. But all that seemed far away now. As dusk fell, the lights of the town seemed starry and magical, alive with the spark of the Renaissance, a temporal heaven aglow at our feet.
In hindsight it’s amazing we decided to move on from Rome to Florence when our debit cards, our financial lifeblood, were not working. But with the freedom afforded to us by inexpensive rail travel, it made more sense to travel onward than to sit still. We were, however, more or less forced to use our credit card to obtain a small amount of cash for breakfast and lunch on the 2nd. I also purchased a phone card at the station in Rome with a mind to calling either our bank or the fraud department. We caught our train and intermittently snoozed and watched the landscape change into beautiful, rolling Tuscan hills that belied any worries about banks and business, instead suggesting a more simple way of life.
We were happy to find a room in the second hostel we tried, and one with free internet too! And like usual, we set out to explore Florence on foot, if only to form a mental map that would help us in sightseeing the next day. As in Rome, there were swarms of tourists and we noticed a particular predominance of America travelers. It was off to be walking in Florence and catch wind of a conversation in English as it passed by - American English, nonetheless. Sometimes it was reassuring, nice even, to encounter others who were obviously traveling. We might see a couple wearing big Kelty backpacks and think to ourselves, “Yep, fellow Americans…” Or we might see several people pouring over a map trying to figure out where they were, and we’d feel a sense of sympathy and solidarity. The most common types of travelers seemed to be Americans, Japanese, and Germans. And thus to hear or see a Japanese tourist became reassuring and comforting. But in Florence it was a little overwhelming just how many foreigners there really were. In such a way, the place seemed less authentic.
After a fair bit of sauntering this way and that through Florence’s cobble streets, peaking into vendors’ tents and looking into intriguing shops selling fabrics, artwork or jewelry, we stumbled upon Piazza San Giovani and the stunning Duomo (Santa Maria del Fiore) which occupies it, a beautiful cathedral with light and dark Florentine stone exterior in the rose light of the fading sun. We lingered for a little while in the square and then chose an authentic bistro in which to sup. And following a filling and scrumptious meal, we took our usual after-dinner walk, what the Italians call la passeggiata. We strolled until we heard a deep voice ahead in a square booming in Italian. Following our curiosity, we decided to see what was happening and discovered a slide show and accompanying commentary on the life of Michelangelo. The images were projected onto the side of a building and voice was blasting from speakers set in apartment windows. We didn’t stay too long, as we couldn’t understand the Italian and the loud, deep voice seemed almost menacing, like a Big Brother character from 1984. Who knew that Italian could sound so scary? It was getting late, as well, but before we retired, we happened upon a woman singing in Piazza Repubblica to the accompaniment of an accordionist. Her voice was lovely, the strains of “Ave Maria” resonating in the tranquil night air an apt closure to our first day in this Renaissance city, fair Firenze.
We awoke to the happy twitter of birds and sun spilling onto the terra cotta roofs outside our hostel room window. We had cause for rejoicing ourselves, since I had learned my new PIN in an email from Mandy’s mother. While it was laundry day and some of the morning would have to be sacrificed to this mundane chore, we were glad just to be in Florence and again have access to cash money. At the laundromat we chatted with a couple of Americans and also made a plan for the day. Back at the hostel, we took the time to do some much needed computer work. Then, come afternoon, we toured the inside of the Duomo and beheld a stone floor as magnificent in color and design as the church’s exterior; and we visited an ancient granary-turned-church; we walked around the Uffizi and saw the famed David statue replicated in its original location. We toured Palazzo Vecchio, a bit disappointed that we couldn’t take the Activities Tour which would lead through the palace’s secret chambers and hallways (no English tours were offered till late the next day). The arts displayed were quite interesting and history of the palace made it worth the while.
Afterwards, we moved on to the river, where in crossing the Arno, we were treated to a splendid view of the oldest bridge in Florence, the Ponte Vecchio. Once across the Arno River, we entered a different Florence entirely, one apart from the tourist hordes, where locals could be seen greeting one another in the quiet streets and unpretentious shops found devoid of ornament, some full of antique furniture being lovingly restored by a craftsman. We moved slowly up the green hillside along a footpath bound for San Miniato al Monte and the Piazzale Michelangelo. A short stop for gelato and a little further up the hill and we were able to look out over Florence, the entire city laid out in glorious panorama below. We would be leaving on the morrow, journeying onward to Venice. But all that seemed far away now. As dusk fell, the lights of the town seemed starry and magical, alive with the spark of the Renaissance, a temporal heaven aglow at our feet.
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