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.
The Sacred and Profane in Rome
March 2, 2007
It’s amazing how fast you can change scenery. After getting to know Madrid in a way that would have been impossible without the hospitality of our hosts there, Dani drove us to the massive Barajas Airport outside Madrid (he had also helped us book our tickets) and within an hour and a half after takeoff, we were in Rome. A new city, a new language, a new culture. Adapting to such changes, sometimes subtle, sometimes drastic, is part of the fun and adventure of travel. For instance, I was expecting to remove my shoes at security in Barajas but this was not required. If I had done so, I would have stood out as an American for sure. Yet, despite this “lesser” security measure here, we were immediately aware of the presence of security officials in the Rome airport. Three armed policemen stood along the corridor leading from the plane to the terminal. And inside wandered military officers with large automatic weapons and one with a sniffing dog. I can’t say I felt threatened by their presence, nor exactly reassured either. I simply viewed them with interest for the difference they represented.
From the airport we took a train into Rome itself (about 45km away) and we knew for certain we were in Italy when we were almost run down by buzzing scooters and honking cars in crossing the road - at a pedestrian crosswalk! We soon learned that you have to wait for a slight break in traffic and throw yourself across the street, regardless of what the signal may indicate. Jaywalking is the Italian way. (When in Rome…) We were excited to find a room for 2 nights in the first hotel we tried, Hotel Giù Giù . It was certainly low season, as we paid a reduced rate for the biggest room of our European trip. Mandy was laughing at me for how I had greeted the proprietor when we arrived. He opened the door and immediately, thanks to my Lonely Planet phrasebook, I immediately said, “We would like a double room” (in Italian, of course). It might seem a bit blunt, but I couldn’t be more nuanced since I don’t speak Italian. Mandy also found humorous the note of urgency implied with such a direct and immediate request, as though I were saying, “We want a double bed quick!” To make matters worse, the Italian for double room is doppio matrimoniale, e.g. referring to the “marriage bed.” Whatever they thought of my first words, hopefully they will forgive my lack of finesse in such a foreign language. At least I tried…
As per usual, we lightened our load by dropping the packs in the room and set out to see a bit of Rome before the day, already half over, drew to a close. Our wanderings were soon rewarded with the sight of huge white stone statues that towered over us and took an extra-monumental stature in the gray weather of the moment. Mandy commented that these were the first sculptures that attained the colossal scale she expected in the famous monuments of Europe. The rest of Rom followed suit. We would often round a corner to see a massive white marble building, with ornately carved front, and we would search our map and guidebook for any clue as to its history and significance. Often, there was no mention of it. So, it became a funny thing to see such buildings and just say, “Oh, another huge and beautiful structure from ancient times…Huh. Well, dime a dozen. Moving on…”
Before long we were at a significant site: the famous Pantheon. Ironically, it no longer lives up to its name, having been converted into a Christian church. And this has spelled its preservation, as it would have been destroyed in older times if it had remained “pagan.” We were dwarfed beneath its great columns, peering up from far below the dome. Our first connection with what we could confidently say was ancient - around two millennia old, in fact. And thought it may have been low season in Rome, there were still hordes of people in the piazza outside and another horde or three within. From the Pantheon we moved on through the narrower, less
trafficked streets, crossing the beautiful Tiber River at Ponte San Angelo, a bridge bejeweled with captivating limestone statues along a road temporarily populated by illegal street vendors selling their wares atop sheets laid on the ground (mostly knockoff handbags and pirated DVDs). The sacred and the profane are everywhere to be found commingling in Rome. We avoided the sellers and walked on to Via di Conciliazione, a palm tree-lined avenue leading straight into Vatican City with St. Peter’s Square spreading out at the end and St. Peter’s Basilica rising up majestically high on the horizon line. It’s a stirring entry into this city-state. The square’s size is impressive, each side flanked by innumerous columns in a long colonnade. And the Basilica itself - we were amazed at its breadth. Fellow visitors were tiny figures at the far end of the church. Priceless paintings hung in the chapels, sculptures by Renaissance masters filled other alcoves, and the entire structure seemed to be lined with marble and other gorgeous stone. Still, its ostentation was nicely understated and not overwhelming. There was a respectful silence maintained, too.
By the time we had explored the entire church and coaxed our awe-struck mouths shut, we had only a few spare moments to send a handful of postcards from the Vatican Post Office and admire the Basilica all lit up in the early darkness. We crossed the river again and found a pizzeria that looked inviting, one of the oldest in Rome as it turned out. The pizzas were delicious and huge (we asked if they were big enough to share but the waiter said, no, they’re only sized for one person; we should have shared!) and what Americans would call thin crust. Foccacia is the thicker style, though it doesn’t have the sauce. I also enjoyed a red house wine, which was my habit on many nights in Italy. The house wines are every but as good as the more expensive “name brand” wines also offered.
Our meal finished, we continued on down a busy street and enjoyed the sight of a policeman directing traffic in one of the grand piazzas. He stood on a small, round platform in the center and gracefully waved vehicles this way and that, a conductor of his own unique symphony. A short while later, he took a break and traffic was let to moved freely through the piazza. It was pandemonium. While cars tended to yield to others in their path, there were many a horn and close call, and we didn’t stick around to see if there would be an accident - though it a little tempting. We proceeded on to what is perhaps Rome’s most well-known monument, passing by the ancient Roman Forum en route, which sat shrouded in darkness to the side of the street on a level far below the modern city. And then, there before us was the Coliseum burning orange in the streetlamps and lighting accorded it. It was as though the Roman past had been resurrected in Phoenix form, flaming and rising from the ashes. The image stayed in my mind as we trudged back to our hotel and fell into bed, our bodies feeling as ancient as the streets below.
The next day was lighter and less overcast, even with a little sun shining through. After a light breakfast we started walking, a convenient (and free!) mode of transport to which we had become accustomed. We reached the Spanish Steps and sat for some time amongst all of the other multitude of tourists come to see Rome. With all these, and pigeons, it’s a busy set of stairs - more for sitting than ascending. From the steps we navigated our way to the celebrated Fontana di Trevi, a huge fountain with sweeping, romantic sculptures, and we participated in the time-honored ritual of tossing a coin backwards into the pool as a wish for a speedy return to Rome. But we weren’t done with her yet, as we made our way back to Vatican City determined to see the Sistine Chapel. The crowds were thick here, too, and we were aghast at what it must be like in summer. We pushed our way through the museums, viewing all the frescoed ceilings and walls, the gold, the engravings, etc. I have never seen so much ostentation. It was quite exhausting actually.
We followed the signs towards the Sistine Chapel, at every turn expecting to be in the Chapel - to no avail. Room after room we made our way, and when I had finally given up expecting to be in it, we arrived. The buildup made it a little anti-climactic for me, as did the crowds, but I must say that Michelangelo’s art is absolutely stunning and fantastic. There is less natural light in the Chapel than many other cathedrals and churches, but the intense colors shine through the gloom as you sit and look. And that’s what we did for 10 or 15 minutes, the crowd talking excitedly in hushed voices that swelled and calmed each time the museum guard called for silence, by shouting Silencio!
When we finally left the Museums, we were tired and our eyes hurt (not to mention our necks, from craning our heads back to view the ceiling). We were feeling a bit stressed as well because we were having trouble with our debit cards, which we had been using as our only source of cash. Mine had actually not been functioning since Barcelona and I suspected the problem to be the issuance of a new PIN by the bank, conveniently only available by mail and therefore probably awaiting me at home. Mandy’s card, meanwhile, had also stopped working and ATMs were giving the message that it had been deactivated for international use. Mandy’s mom had written an email to say the fraud department had called to enquire bout activity on the card. My card did still work if I could sign for an item, such as for dinner. But it was scary to nearly be cut off from our money. We did have the credit card as a backup, but that wasn’t a very practical option except in dire straights. Fortunately we were able to scrape together enough change to jump onto a computer at an internet café and send a quick note off to Mandy’s mom about my new PIN. But we would have to wait to receive a reply. I was worried, thinking, “Hopefully she will check her email soon…”
Instead of dwelling on this money situation, we walked on to the Roman Forum and we were able to see its vastness properly in daylight. There were great marble columns still rising from the earth, symbols of ancient Rome’s imperial strength, and all around scattered remnants of
that life long before. It was interesting to stare into the past in such a direct fashion. As we were still bound for the Coliseum, we pressed forward, but our route differed from the day before. We traversed a tall hill next to the Forum, looking out over ruins, church towers, modern apartments and ancient trees that may well date to the start of the Roman Empire that now lay buried beneath our feet. We reached the Coliseum and took the time to walk around it (but could not go in, as it was closed). The gray stone towering above was imposing, but also silent, mute. A few flagstones moved underfoot, but there was little indication of the ferocious games once here. We came, we saw, we conquered in our own way. Now it was time for us to move on… Rome would still be here in another millennia or so. And perhaps we would ourselves return to it one day.
It’s amazing how fast you can change scenery. After getting to know Madrid in a way that would have been impossible without the hospitality of our hosts there, Dani drove us to the massive Barajas Airport outside Madrid (he had also helped us book our tickets) and within an hour and a half after takeoff, we were in Rome. A new city, a new language, a new culture. Adapting to such changes, sometimes subtle, sometimes drastic, is part of the fun and adventure of travel. For instance, I was expecting to remove my shoes at security in Barajas but this was not required. If I had done so, I would have stood out as an American for sure. Yet, despite this “lesser” security measure here, we were immediately aware of the presence of security officials in the Rome airport. Three armed policemen stood along the corridor leading from the plane to the terminal. And inside wandered military officers with large automatic weapons and one with a sniffing dog. I can’t say I felt threatened by their presence, nor exactly reassured either. I simply viewed them with interest for the difference they represented.
From the airport we took a train into Rome itself (about 45km away) and we knew for certain we were in Italy when we were almost run down by buzzing scooters and honking cars in crossing the road - at a pedestrian crosswalk! We soon learned that you have to wait for a slight break in traffic and throw yourself across the street, regardless of what the signal may indicate. Jaywalking is the Italian way. (When in Rome…) We were excited to find a room for 2 nights in the first hotel we tried, Hotel Giù Giù . It was certainly low season, as we paid a reduced rate for the biggest room of our European trip. Mandy was laughing at me for how I had greeted the proprietor when we arrived. He opened the door and immediately, thanks to my Lonely Planet phrasebook, I immediately said, “We would like a double room” (in Italian, of course). It might seem a bit blunt, but I couldn’t be more nuanced since I don’t speak Italian. Mandy also found humorous the note of urgency implied with such a direct and immediate request, as though I were saying, “We want a double bed quick!” To make matters worse, the Italian for double room is doppio matrimoniale, e.g. referring to the “marriage bed.” Whatever they thought of my first words, hopefully they will forgive my lack of finesse in such a foreign language. At least I tried…
As per usual, we lightened our load by dropping the packs in the room and set out to see a bit of Rome before the day, already half over, drew to a close. Our wanderings were soon rewarded with the sight of huge white stone statues that towered over us and took an extra-monumental stature in the gray weather of the moment. Mandy commented that these were the first sculptures that attained the colossal scale she expected in the famous monuments of Europe. The rest of Rom followed suit. We would often round a corner to see a massive white marble building, with ornately carved front, and we would search our map and guidebook for any clue as to its history and significance. Often, there was no mention of it. So, it became a funny thing to see such buildings and just say, “Oh, another huge and beautiful structure from ancient times…Huh. Well, dime a dozen. Moving on…”Before long we were at a significant site: the famous Pantheon. Ironically, it no longer lives up to its name, having been converted into a Christian church. And this has spelled its preservation, as it would have been destroyed in older times if it had remained “pagan.” We were dwarfed beneath its great columns, peering up from far below the dome. Our first connection with what we could confidently say was ancient - around two millennia old, in fact. And thought it may have been low season in Rome, there were still hordes of people in the piazza outside and another horde or three within. From the Pantheon we moved on through the narrower, less
trafficked streets, crossing the beautiful Tiber River at Ponte San Angelo, a bridge bejeweled with captivating limestone statues along a road temporarily populated by illegal street vendors selling their wares atop sheets laid on the ground (mostly knockoff handbags and pirated DVDs). The sacred and the profane are everywhere to be found commingling in Rome. We avoided the sellers and walked on to Via di Conciliazione, a palm tree-lined avenue leading straight into Vatican City with St. Peter’s Square spreading out at the end and St. Peter’s Basilica rising up majestically high on the horizon line. It’s a stirring entry into this city-state. The square’s size is impressive, each side flanked by innumerous columns in a long colonnade. And the Basilica itself - we were amazed at its breadth. Fellow visitors were tiny figures at the far end of the church. Priceless paintings hung in the chapels, sculptures by Renaissance masters filled other alcoves, and the entire structure seemed to be lined with marble and other gorgeous stone. Still, its ostentation was nicely understated and not overwhelming. There was a respectful silence maintained, too.By the time we had explored the entire church and coaxed our awe-struck mouths shut, we had only a few spare moments to send a handful of postcards from the Vatican Post Office and admire the Basilica all lit up in the early darkness. We crossed the river again and found a pizzeria that looked inviting, one of the oldest in Rome as it turned out. The pizzas were delicious and huge (we asked if they were big enough to share but the waiter said, no, they’re only sized for one person; we should have shared!) and what Americans would call thin crust. Foccacia is the thicker style, though it doesn’t have the sauce. I also enjoyed a red house wine, which was my habit on many nights in Italy. The house wines are every but as good as the more expensive “name brand” wines also offered.
Our meal finished, we continued on down a busy street and enjoyed the sight of a policeman directing traffic in one of the grand piazzas. He stood on a small, round platform in the center and gracefully waved vehicles this way and that, a conductor of his own unique symphony. A short while later, he took a break and traffic was let to moved freely through the piazza. It was pandemonium. While cars tended to yield to others in their path, there were many a horn and close call, and we didn’t stick around to see if there would be an accident - though it a little tempting. We proceeded on to what is perhaps Rome’s most well-known monument, passing by the ancient Roman Forum en route, which sat shrouded in darkness to the side of the street on a level far below the modern city. And then, there before us was the Coliseum burning orange in the streetlamps and lighting accorded it. It was as though the Roman past had been resurrected in Phoenix form, flaming and rising from the ashes. The image stayed in my mind as we trudged back to our hotel and fell into bed, our bodies feeling as ancient as the streets below.The next day was lighter and less overcast, even with a little sun shining through. After a light breakfast we started walking, a convenient (and free!) mode of transport to which we had become accustomed. We reached the Spanish Steps and sat for some time amongst all of the other multitude of tourists come to see Rome. With all these, and pigeons, it’s a busy set of stairs - more for sitting than ascending. From the steps we navigated our way to the celebrated Fontana di Trevi, a huge fountain with sweeping, romantic sculptures, and we participated in the time-honored ritual of tossing a coin backwards into the pool as a wish for a speedy return to Rome. But we weren’t done with her yet, as we made our way back to Vatican City determined to see the Sistine Chapel. The crowds were thick here, too, and we were aghast at what it must be like in summer. We pushed our way through the museums, viewing all the frescoed ceilings and walls, the gold, the engravings, etc. I have never seen so much ostentation. It was quite exhausting actually.
We followed the signs towards the Sistine Chapel, at every turn expecting to be in the Chapel - to no avail. Room after room we made our way, and when I had finally given up expecting to be in it, we arrived. The buildup made it a little anti-climactic for me, as did the crowds, but I must say that Michelangelo’s art is absolutely stunning and fantastic. There is less natural light in the Chapel than many other cathedrals and churches, but the intense colors shine through the gloom as you sit and look. And that’s what we did for 10 or 15 minutes, the crowd talking excitedly in hushed voices that swelled and calmed each time the museum guard called for silence, by shouting Silencio!
When we finally left the Museums, we were tired and our eyes hurt (not to mention our necks, from craning our heads back to view the ceiling). We were feeling a bit stressed as well because we were having trouble with our debit cards, which we had been using as our only source of cash. Mine had actually not been functioning since Barcelona and I suspected the problem to be the issuance of a new PIN by the bank, conveniently only available by mail and therefore probably awaiting me at home. Mandy’s card, meanwhile, had also stopped working and ATMs were giving the message that it had been deactivated for international use. Mandy’s mom had written an email to say the fraud department had called to enquire bout activity on the card. My card did still work if I could sign for an item, such as for dinner. But it was scary to nearly be cut off from our money. We did have the credit card as a backup, but that wasn’t a very practical option except in dire straights. Fortunately we were able to scrape together enough change to jump onto a computer at an internet café and send a quick note off to Mandy’s mom about my new PIN. But we would have to wait to receive a reply. I was worried, thinking, “Hopefully she will check her email soon…”
Instead of dwelling on this money situation, we walked on to the Roman Forum and we were able to see its vastness properly in daylight. There were great marble columns still rising from the earth, symbols of ancient Rome’s imperial strength, and all around scattered remnants of
that life long before. It was interesting to stare into the past in such a direct fashion. As we were still bound for the Coliseum, we pressed forward, but our route differed from the day before. We traversed a tall hill next to the Forum, looking out over ruins, church towers, modern apartments and ancient trees that may well date to the start of the Roman Empire that now lay buried beneath our feet. We reached the Coliseum and took the time to walk around it (but could not go in, as it was closed). The gray stone towering above was imposing, but also silent, mute. A few flagstones moved underfoot, but there was little indication of the ferocious games once here. We came, we saw, we conquered in our own way. Now it was time for us to move on… Rome would still be here in another millennia or so. And perhaps we would ourselves return to it one day.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Holy Toledo
Shaun's Post:
Feb 28, 2007
In the morning I awoke with a sour stomach, suffering some of the same ill effects as on my first day in Paris. So, I thought it might be dehydration, which has been a constant foe to ward off whilst traveling (usually to success). But when I went upstairs to have a little breakfast before our departure for Toledo, I knew this was something more and different. It was all I could do to dash back to the basement, that sour bubble pressing up into my throat. Fortunately, the body is well adept at ridding itself of toxins, and after this one somewhat violent episode, I felt immediately better, though a tender stomach plagued me all day. It must have been a touch of food poisoning. I don’t know the exact source, so I can’t warn anyone off of anything...
Nonetheless, I was feeling a little better and we had to go on this day trip. It would be the only chance we had to go to old Holy Toledo, as we would be flying to Rome the following day. So we went. The train ride was a quick half hour and before long we were out of the bustle and sprawl that surrounds Madrid and into the wide, open countryside of Spain, so evocative of Cervantes’ Don Quixote. Toledo was truly an ancient city and even the ground seemed to seep a sense of
its deep history. The station, for instance, was ornate with Moorish design, and from there we followed a number of other travelers down the street to the old city gate which allowed pilgrims access to this once-fortified city on a hill.We found a tourist office near the main square and got a town map. We then proceeded forthright to a café for some breakfast. We opted for the traditional menu, what Madrileños would eat after a night out partying: coffee with churros (fried bread twists with sugar). Considering my tender stomach, I felt like maybe I had spent a night out on the town. It was a pleasant enough café, though, with a slightly smoky air and the din of chatty locals at the bar which comprised virtually all of the café’s table space. It was interesting to hear their different accent and try to decipher what was being said.
From the café we strolled to the Great Cathedral, which was more impressive to Mandy and me than Paris’ Notre Dame (Sorry, Paris). The stonework was almost white and much natural light was admitted through the stained glass windows that soared high above near the nave.
Everything was ornate - stonework, woodwork, glasswork, artwork. Restoration was underway, too, in an adjoining chapel with work underway to repair a beautiful but crumbling medieval fresco. In the center of the property stood a tranquil courtyard full of orange trees and the cheerful twitter of birds. I could have been happy here as a monk, I remember thinking.As the day was pressing on and we had only a short time to visit the town before our return train, we moved on from the cathedral with the goal of seeing both a synagogue and a mosque in order to get a sense of the history of this place where the three religions had coexisted peacefully for some time - quite a feat for the Middle Ages. Finding our way to these other locations was quite a feat, too. The narrow, twisting passages of Toledo’s streets are a veritable maze, demanding glances at the map at every intersection. It certainly would have been difficult for any invading army to conquer. We conquered it as best we could, weaving this way and that, pressing close to walls to avoid flattening by persistent drivers who either had more patience with their cars or more disdain for walking than I do. Eventually we found both the synagogue and mosque. The first was fairly simple on the outside with a modestly ornate interior, including beautifully carved wood molding in the central prayer hall and women’s loft, replete with Hebrew characters. There was also an interesting display on the history of Jews in Spain (called the Sephardi) and the unique culture that had developed among them, including a local language. The mosque was still more modest (and more difficult to find), consisting now of only an empty space with beautiful brick vaults and arches - a simple place of prayer where one could no doubt still come to pray if wished.
Of the three, the mosque was the only site at which we did not have to pay. Almost all of the old churches and synagogues - and there were many more we did not visit - perhaps even the other mosque in town, required an entrance fee. It reminded me a little of walking through Lourdes where every other shop seemed to be selling prayer candles, rosaries, icons, plastic dolls, etc. If you haven’t heard, there’s big business in religion! Yet the souvenirs sold in Toledo were a little less “Oriental Trading Company” than the mass of trinkets sold in Lourdes, offering instead ornate swords and knives and fancy silk scarves for which the region is well known. Of course there were the usual tourist trinkets as well. (Consumerism is a different kind of religion, one could say)
After a sampling of the town’s history, we found our way back to a lovely park that sat on the rocky hill above the river overlooking landscape where Don Quixote might have rode his mule - where a monk, a rabbi, or a cleric might have sat in contemplation. There were lizards sunning on the steps below the town’s grand library and Mandy ran about trying to capture one on camera. A golden light in the valley, an ancient city at our backs, and our train soon approaching, I was convinced that our spontaneous coming to Spain, even our very decision to travel around Europe for six weeks, was not just tilting at windmills, though a quixotic journey all the same.
La Movida y Madrid
Feb 27, 2007
We entered Madrid like many other cities we've visited, leaving Barcelona around midday on the 24th by express train. But our reception was wholly different. Waiting for us at the station was Anna Nagel, an old friend and long-time correspondent of Mandy's mother. She kissed us on both cheeks in the Spanish fashion and set immediately into friendly conversation while leading us to her car. Our decision to drop into Spain had been a spontaneous one and Anna and her family had graciously offered to host us if we should come to Madrid. And with little forenotice, here we were.
Gradually we got better acquainted as we drove the thirty-odd kilometers to their residence in the urbanization (like a suburb or planned/gated community) of Ciudalcampo. In all honesty, my first impression of the city of Madrid itself was of low interest. Everywhere the city was sprawling, spilling out into suburban areas with highrise apartments sprouting like weeds. You could see probably a hundred cranes dotting the horizon, all evidence of a rapidly expanding urban center. There were billboards and even American-style shopping malls, which we had thus far been able to avoid. And so it was nice to leave the center and enter the green space of Ciudalcampo with a view to the distant snow-covered mountains across a broad green lowland. There were heavy clouds hanging low in the sky and a cool wind stirred in the trees - in short, the kind of weather that I can find refreshing, as a boy from the country, the wind blowing away the pollution and constant thrum of the city.
We were first to meet the old and placid German Shepard, Zimba, and in short order the rest of the family with more kisses from daughter Laura, and handshakes (for me, at least) from Daniel and Anna's husband Paco. We were given a cozy guestroom in the basement, complete with internet access (a treat out here on the European backpacker trail). We were made to feel even more at home when we were served a delicious light dinner and invited to go out that night with Dani, who was suffering from a cold but was excited to show us the city. It was a pleasure to sit at the table with the family, as we would do most other nights there, and experience the multilingual aspects of their home. Because Anna is originally from Germany a good portion of the conversation was in German. Yet this would change just as quickly to Spanish, as Paco was a native Spaniard. It was fun just to listen to their exchanges even if we could understand much of it. Of course, they would sometimes translate for our benefit.
Night fell and after a short nap on my part, we climbed into Dani's small Ford and took off for Madrid. During the drive into the city, we chatted and Dani selected a suitable soundtrack for the evening. The pulsating, driving grooves of the electronic/industrial band Goldfrapp poured from the speakers and proffered an apt aural counterpart to the nighttime neon-lit urbanscape. The closer we got to the city, the more Dani cranked the music, and I felt that youthful intoxication surging through my body. We were hitting the town; we were alive; we were free. Historically speaking, Madrileños have been partying like this since the fall of Franco, a continuing celebration of life called la movida. But it's a universal language.
We stopped to pick up a good friend of Dani, named Sebastian, who had German-Spanish heritage as well. With a quick look at the car's engine after a mysterious new sound appeared, we were off into the busy streets of late night Madrid. Actually, it is hard to say "late night" because most people begin going out around 11pm or midnight and often stay out until morning's light. We drove around for a long time in futile search of a parking space near the center in Plaza del Sol. Every possible place had been taken, and then some, with driver's parking illegally in driveways or doubleparking others in. Scooters were jammed into every possible space on the sidewalks and Smart Cars were parked perpendicular in parallel spaces. And still people poured into town, the night young. We finally decided to park in an underground garage, with both Dani and Sebastian agreeing they had never seen it so busy. La movida, along with Madrid, was growing.
We walked to Sol, passing many people all dressed to kill and be seen doing it, the four of us not really fashionistas. Sebastian led the way to a little bar near the square after we had been shown the tile marking kilometer zero from which all streets and roads in Spain (or just Madrid?) extend. The bar was a flourescent-lit no-frills kind of space and there were many locals all crowded around tables smoking, drinking cerveza, and all eyes glued to the television set hanging in the corner. It was football night in Madrid, with both hometown teams - Real Madrid and Atletico Madrid - vying in what is called a derby game. Passions were high in the city and in this bar, people rooting for either side.
Neither Dani nor Sebastian were avid sportsfans, though, so we felt a little more in like company. Still, it was fun to be in that charged environment, to start with surprise when the gathered crowd burst into cheers at a scored goal. The Spanish love their football and we discussed it for a time over a pitcher of beer and tapas, answering many of the same questions we had fielded with Alec, our one-time travel companion from Liverpool, about how football (soccer) is not so huge an event in the U.S. and how American football is perhaps the most significant sport, culminating in the spectacle of the Super Bowl.
It was enjoyable to speak about life at home, how it may differ or how it may be similar - to be ambassadors of our own culture. I had been on the inquisitive end of such questioning many times before in asking my international friends and acquaintances about their home countries and cultures. It's nice to set people straight or to provide a clearer picture from the perspective of a native. In the process you learn much about your own country and even come to consider it a destination, worthy of travel itself.
Once the game had ended (in a tie) and the people began to trickle back out into the streets, we followed suit and moved on to another bar, this one more stereotypical with loud rock music, dim purpleish lighting, and loads of cigarette smoke that left my throat feeling raw by night's end. We were introduced to four lovely ladies, who have us los besos (kisses) on each cheek, and we sat around a small table and soaked in the atmosphere. There were rapidfire exchanges of Spanish and the music was too loud for me to make out most of what was said anyway. But it was a pleasure to be in the company of Spanish peers. The girls were giggling and kept reading a cellphone screen, and we wondered why. Dani and Sebastian tried to decipher: "It's like Sex in the City." And one of the girls closest to us explained further that the others were reading a long three-part text from a Scandinavian guy they had met recently and all liked. Yep, Sex in the City .
Because Dani had paid for drinks and food at the last bar, I volunteered to buy a round and received the welcome assistance of Sebastian in ordering our drinks (though my Spanish was returning as time went on). The drinks were terribly expensive at around 22 euros for 3 mixed drinks and one regular bottle of beer, which has proven fairly true of European establishments I've encountered - whatever the reason may be. However, there is an upside (if you view it the following way): I ordered a rum and coke and was given a tall, slim glass half full of rum and a small bottle of coke to add to it. There can be no contesting the potency of a mixed drink in Madrid. Dani said this bar was where they had come as teenagers as a first experience with alcohol in a public setting. It was interesting to consider how different this was from the more prudish attitude towards alcohol in the United States. In this way the overall culture was different. But the jovial atmosphere and upbeat attitude were the same. Dani and I discussed one of his current web design projects, which seguewayed into a conversation about big business, media and globalization. I was impressed with his nuanced outlook, as I have been impressed by many of my European friends. It is a delightful thing to so easily find political allies, especially international ones. It gives me great hope for the future of our world.
Eventually the girls left, again with an exchange of kisses, and we too departed. We made one made one more stop in a park after returning to the car and met two other friends of Dani. One had travelled to the U.S. somewhat recently, working for the U.S. Women's Hockey team and had visited Las Vegas at some point. Two days there were more than enough for him, he said. And we had to agree: Las Vegas is too much. In this and other conversations, it gave us pause to think about what perception of America a European or other foreigner may have. Often, it seems, there is the assumption that the United States is all New York Cities and four-lane freeways, a reality which obviously clashes with Mandy's and my own smalltown upbringings. It also caused us to question our own perception of Europe: Were we forming a narrow picture of life here by mainly visiting only the famous cities - Paris, Barcelona, Madrid? It wise perhaps to keep an open mind and not arrive too readily at any concrete conclusions. Ours are subjective experiences after all...
We returned home around 4am and fell into a somewhat restless sleep, awakening finally after 10am to gray skies. We were provided a hearty breakfast by Anna and given information on how to take the bus into Madrid and from there the Metro to where we would want to go. We found Madrid's Metro system to be wonderfully organized and efficient, taking it the long distance from the bus station to the center of the city. Though we had been warned several times about pickpockets, we never did have any such incidents.
We used the late morning to walk through downtown Madrid, taking in its more stately and older architecture, which we found more attractive than the newer high-rises. We passed by the Palacio Real and lingered in the Plaza de Oriente, a park full of statues placed there after Queen Sofia had a nightmare that they would collapse the roof of the palace. Next, we meandered back through the streets towards Museo del Prado, passing a still-functioning cloistered convent in the middle of the city. When we arrived at the Prado, we discovered a long line of people awaiting entry, which was free Sundays. Instead of waiting and squandering the day - which had cleared to sun sometime that morning - we opted to visit the nearby Botanical Gardens, where entry was an affordable euro apiece. It was a pleasure to be surrounded by so much green space after trekking through the city. We strolled the garden paths until the first signs of dusk appeared and the garden closed, whereupon we returned to the Prado to find a much more manageable line. After a slight wait, we were inside - and for free! - looking at such famous works as Bosch’s “Garden of Earthly Delights,” Velásquez’s “Las Meninas,” and others by the likes of Salvador Dalí, Tintoretto, and Picasso. Afterwards, we met up with Anna and Laura and rode back to Ciudalcampo with them, where we were treated to another fabulous dinner full of regional specialties.
The next day began in much the same fashion, though we were more well-rested, and we rode with Dani into Madrid. He suggested a walk through the large Parque del Buen Retiro would be a good way to spend the late morning, as it was proving to be a nother gloriously sunny day (indeed, Dani’s father had predicted as much the night before by reading the barometric pressure on a specialized wristwatch). We took his advice after a break for coffee at a funky little café bordering the park in which sand art was displayed, lending an almost Southwestern Native American feel to the place. Sufficiently caffeinated and bathroom-breaked (since it can be difficult to find a public restroom), we sauntered through the park, weaving a course past the central pond where people lazily rowed boats, past a man playing accordion and a costumed street performer portraying the graceful movements of a tree. We happened upon the Crystal Palace, a long glass and iron structure which currently houses modern art exhibits on the theme of “habitats” and the concept of “space”.
Once we had “retired” long enough to the sunny green space of the park, and after a filling meal packed for us by Anna (she really did too much for us!), we loped our way to the Museo Reina Sofia, the city’s modern art gallery. It was great to walk through the gallery space and see so many original, avant-garde pieces, so refreshing to see after innumerous classical works in the Louvre and the Prado. The most stunning piece, and truly the highlight, was Picasso’s timeless anti-war painting, “Guernica”. To see it in person far exceeds any experience of it made possible by reproduction. Its monochromatic composition is so striking, the blacks, grays, and white stirring and evoking such pathos, screaming out the carnage and devastation of war. I found it almost overwhelming in its intensity and I must have spent ten minutes studying it. We also saw a good number of sculpture and video works as well, all of which were interesting and intriguing in their own right.
In the evening we followed the suggestion of our Let’s Go guidebook, after unsuccessfully trying to reach Dani about heading home, and went to a little restaurant full of locals and students called Achuri. It had a definite political bent, with leftist posters on the walls, and a casual albeit intellectual atmosphere that we found enlivening. Plus, the prices were cheap. I ordered a sausage sandwich and wine, and Mandy had a large goat’s cheese salad. After this filling meal, we were able to contact Dani and ride with him back home. We then spent the rest of the evening, doing idle tasks and posting on the internet, though not without a second, late dinner. And it was with this fullness - of experience and hospitality - that we retired contented and awaiting the next day in Spain.
We entered Madrid like many other cities we've visited, leaving Barcelona around midday on the 24th by express train. But our reception was wholly different. Waiting for us at the station was Anna Nagel, an old friend and long-time correspondent of Mandy's mother. She kissed us on both cheeks in the Spanish fashion and set immediately into friendly conversation while leading us to her car. Our decision to drop into Spain had been a spontaneous one and Anna and her family had graciously offered to host us if we should come to Madrid. And with little forenotice, here we were.
Gradually we got better acquainted as we drove the thirty-odd kilometers to their residence in the urbanization (like a suburb or planned/gated community) of Ciudalcampo. In all honesty, my first impression of the city of Madrid itself was of low interest. Everywhere the city was sprawling, spilling out into suburban areas with highrise apartments sprouting like weeds. You could see probably a hundred cranes dotting the horizon, all evidence of a rapidly expanding urban center. There were billboards and even American-style shopping malls, which we had thus far been able to avoid. And so it was nice to leave the center and enter the green space of Ciudalcampo with a view to the distant snow-covered mountains across a broad green lowland. There were heavy clouds hanging low in the sky and a cool wind stirred in the trees - in short, the kind of weather that I can find refreshing, as a boy from the country, the wind blowing away the pollution and constant thrum of the city.
We were first to meet the old and placid German Shepard, Zimba, and in short order the rest of the family with more kisses from daughter Laura, and handshakes (for me, at least) from Daniel and Anna's husband Paco. We were given a cozy guestroom in the basement, complete with internet access (a treat out here on the European backpacker trail). We were made to feel even more at home when we were served a delicious light dinner and invited to go out that night with Dani, who was suffering from a cold but was excited to show us the city. It was a pleasure to sit at the table with the family, as we would do most other nights there, and experience the multilingual aspects of their home. Because Anna is originally from Germany a good portion of the conversation was in German. Yet this would change just as quickly to Spanish, as Paco was a native Spaniard. It was fun just to listen to their exchanges even if we could understand much of it. Of course, they would sometimes translate for our benefit.
Night fell and after a short nap on my part, we climbed into Dani's small Ford and took off for Madrid. During the drive into the city, we chatted and Dani selected a suitable soundtrack for the evening. The pulsating, driving grooves of the electronic/industrial band Goldfrapp poured from the speakers and proffered an apt aural counterpart to the nighttime neon-lit urbanscape. The closer we got to the city, the more Dani cranked the music, and I felt that youthful intoxication surging through my body. We were hitting the town; we were alive; we were free. Historically speaking, Madrileños have been partying like this since the fall of Franco, a continuing celebration of life called la movida. But it's a universal language.
We stopped to pick up a good friend of Dani, named Sebastian, who had German-Spanish heritage as well. With a quick look at the car's engine after a mysterious new sound appeared, we were off into the busy streets of late night Madrid. Actually, it is hard to say "late night" because most people begin going out around 11pm or midnight and often stay out until morning's light. We drove around for a long time in futile search of a parking space near the center in Plaza del Sol. Every possible place had been taken, and then some, with driver's parking illegally in driveways or doubleparking others in. Scooters were jammed into every possible space on the sidewalks and Smart Cars were parked perpendicular in parallel spaces. And still people poured into town, the night young. We finally decided to park in an underground garage, with both Dani and Sebastian agreeing they had never seen it so busy. La movida, along with Madrid, was growing.We walked to Sol, passing many people all dressed to kill and be seen doing it, the four of us not really fashionistas. Sebastian led the way to a little bar near the square after we had been shown the tile marking kilometer zero from which all streets and roads in Spain (or just Madrid?) extend. The bar was a flourescent-lit no-frills kind of space and there were many locals all crowded around tables smoking, drinking cerveza, and all eyes glued to the television set hanging in the corner. It was football night in Madrid, with both hometown teams - Real Madrid and Atletico Madrid - vying in what is called a derby game. Passions were high in the city and in this bar, people rooting for either side.
Neither Dani nor Sebastian were avid sportsfans, though, so we felt a little more in like company. Still, it was fun to be in that charged environment, to start with surprise when the gathered crowd burst into cheers at a scored goal. The Spanish love their football and we discussed it for a time over a pitcher of beer and tapas, answering many of the same questions we had fielded with Alec, our one-time travel companion from Liverpool, about how football (soccer) is not so huge an event in the U.S. and how American football is perhaps the most significant sport, culminating in the spectacle of the Super Bowl.
It was enjoyable to speak about life at home, how it may differ or how it may be similar - to be ambassadors of our own culture. I had been on the inquisitive end of such questioning many times before in asking my international friends and acquaintances about their home countries and cultures. It's nice to set people straight or to provide a clearer picture from the perspective of a native. In the process you learn much about your own country and even come to consider it a destination, worthy of travel itself.
Once the game had ended (in a tie) and the people began to trickle back out into the streets, we followed suit and moved on to another bar, this one more stereotypical with loud rock music, dim purpleish lighting, and loads of cigarette smoke that left my throat feeling raw by night's end. We were introduced to four lovely ladies, who have us los besos (kisses) on each cheek, and we sat around a small table and soaked in the atmosphere. There were rapidfire exchanges of Spanish and the music was too loud for me to make out most of what was said anyway. But it was a pleasure to be in the company of Spanish peers. The girls were giggling and kept reading a cellphone screen, and we wondered why. Dani and Sebastian tried to decipher: "It's like Sex in the City." And one of the girls closest to us explained further that the others were reading a long three-part text from a Scandinavian guy they had met recently and all liked. Yep, Sex in the City .
Because Dani had paid for drinks and food at the last bar, I volunteered to buy a round and received the welcome assistance of Sebastian in ordering our drinks (though my Spanish was returning as time went on). The drinks were terribly expensive at around 22 euros for 3 mixed drinks and one regular bottle of beer, which has proven fairly true of European establishments I've encountered - whatever the reason may be. However, there is an upside (if you view it the following way): I ordered a rum and coke and was given a tall, slim glass half full of rum and a small bottle of coke to add to it. There can be no contesting the potency of a mixed drink in Madrid. Dani said this bar was where they had come as teenagers as a first experience with alcohol in a public setting. It was interesting to consider how different this was from the more prudish attitude towards alcohol in the United States. In this way the overall culture was different. But the jovial atmosphere and upbeat attitude were the same. Dani and I discussed one of his current web design projects, which seguewayed into a conversation about big business, media and globalization. I was impressed with his nuanced outlook, as I have been impressed by many of my European friends. It is a delightful thing to so easily find political allies, especially international ones. It gives me great hope for the future of our world.
Eventually the girls left, again with an exchange of kisses, and we too departed. We made one made one more stop in a park after returning to the car and met two other friends of Dani. One had travelled to the U.S. somewhat recently, working for the U.S. Women's Hockey team and had visited Las Vegas at some point. Two days there were more than enough for him, he said. And we had to agree: Las Vegas is too much. In this and other conversations, it gave us pause to think about what perception of America a European or other foreigner may have. Often, it seems, there is the assumption that the United States is all New York Cities and four-lane freeways, a reality which obviously clashes with Mandy's and my own smalltown upbringings. It also caused us to question our own perception of Europe: Were we forming a narrow picture of life here by mainly visiting only the famous cities - Paris, Barcelona, Madrid? It wise perhaps to keep an open mind and not arrive too readily at any concrete conclusions. Ours are subjective experiences after all...
We returned home around 4am and fell into a somewhat restless sleep, awakening finally after 10am to gray skies. We were provided a hearty breakfast by Anna and given information on how to take the bus into Madrid and from there the Metro to where we would want to go. We found Madrid's Metro system to be wonderfully organized and efficient, taking it the long distance from the bus station to the center of the city. Though we had been warned several times about pickpockets, we never did have any such incidents.
We used the late morning to walk through downtown Madrid, taking in its more stately and older architecture, which we found more attractive than the newer high-rises. We passed by the Palacio Real and lingered in the Plaza de Oriente, a park full of statues placed there after Queen Sofia had a nightmare that they would collapse the roof of the palace. Next, we meandered back through the streets towards Museo del Prado, passing a still-functioning cloistered convent in the middle of the city. When we arrived at the Prado, we discovered a long line of people awaiting entry, which was free Sundays. Instead of waiting and squandering the day - which had cleared to sun sometime that morning - we opted to visit the nearby Botanical Gardens, where entry was an affordable euro apiece. It was a pleasure to be surrounded by so much green space after trekking through the city. We strolled the garden paths until the first signs of dusk appeared and the garden closed, whereupon we returned to the Prado to find a much more manageable line. After a slight wait, we were inside - and for free! - looking at such famous works as Bosch’s “Garden of Earthly Delights,” Velásquez’s “Las Meninas,” and others by the likes of Salvador Dalí, Tintoretto, and Picasso. Afterwards, we met up with Anna and Laura and rode back to Ciudalcampo with them, where we were treated to another fabulous dinner full of regional specialties.
The next day began in much the same fashion, though we were more well-rested, and we rode with Dani into Madrid. He suggested a walk through the large Parque del Buen Retiro would be a good way to spend the late morning, as it was proving to be a nother gloriously sunny day (indeed, Dani’s father had predicted as much the night before by reading the barometric pressure on a specialized wristwatch). We took his advice after a break for coffee at a funky little café bordering the park in which sand art was displayed, lending an almost Southwestern Native American feel to the place. Sufficiently caffeinated and bathroom-breaked (since it can be difficult to find a public restroom), we sauntered through the park, weaving a course past the central pond where people lazily rowed boats, past a man playing accordion and a costumed street performer portraying the graceful movements of a tree. We happened upon the Crystal Palace, a long glass and iron structure which currently houses modern art exhibits on the theme of “habitats” and the concept of “space”.Once we had “retired” long enough to the sunny green space of the park, and after a filling meal packed for us by Anna (she really did too much for us!), we loped our way to the Museo Reina Sofia, the city’s modern art gallery. It was great to walk through the gallery space and see so many original, avant-garde pieces, so refreshing to see after innumerous classical works in the Louvre and the Prado. The most stunning piece, and truly the highlight, was Picasso’s timeless anti-war painting, “Guernica”. To see it in person far exceeds any experience of it made possible by reproduction. Its monochromatic composition is so striking, the blacks, grays, and white stirring and evoking such pathos, screaming out the carnage and devastation of war. I found it almost overwhelming in its intensity and I must have spent ten minutes studying it. We also saw a good number of sculpture and video works as well, all of which were interesting and intriguing in their own right.
In the evening we followed the suggestion of our Let’s Go guidebook, after unsuccessfully trying to reach Dani about heading home, and went to a little restaurant full of locals and students called Achuri. It had a definite political bent, with leftist posters on the walls, and a casual albeit intellectual atmosphere that we found enlivening. Plus, the prices were cheap. I ordered a sausage sandwich and wine, and Mandy had a large goat’s cheese salad. After this filling meal, we were able to contact Dani and ride with him back home. We then spent the rest of the evening, doing idle tasks and posting on the internet, though not without a second, late dinner. And it was with this fullness - of experience and hospitality - that we retired contented and awaiting the next day in Spain.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Barcelona: Beauty and Joy
Feb 24, 2007
Ahhh, Barcelona... City of vivid contrasts and joie de vivre, of Gothic and Modernist architecture, of street performers and lively people. Here is a city I could be content living in. Such mystery and eclecticism: funky boutiques in narrow medieval streets next to ancient cathedrals buried in the Gothic Quarter (Bari Gòtic) and, not fary away, buzzing streets with wide diamond intersections ornamented with the work of Gaudi and other famous architects, with many more whose buildings speak much more to their talent than any recognition of their names.
Admittedly, we were a bit frazzled when we arrived at last in Barcelona. We parted ways with our short-time travel companion, Alec, who quickly found a good number of other Liverpool fans come to see the big game. We struck out on foot to the heart of the city, the Bari Gòtic, in search of a hostel in which to stay the night and, more immediately, in which to drop our packs. It was a
further walk than expected and we became still more fatigued and flustered as we tried to locate the hostels mentioned in our Let's Go guidebook (the map it provides does not have or even display the names of all the twisting passageways that comprise this pedestrian-centered part of town). Finally, though, we gained out bearings and were able to find one of the listed accomodations: Hostal Rembrandt.
further walk than expected and we became still more fatigued and flustered as we tried to locate the hostels mentioned in our Let's Go guidebook (the map it provides does not have or even display the names of all the twisting passageways that comprise this pedestrian-centered part of town). Finally, though, we gained out bearings and were able to find one of the listed accomodations: Hostal Rembrandt. Hostels in Spain are invariably marked by flags outside the building, typically on the second story balcony, as there is usually store space below on the ground floor. In addition to the sudden change in language from our time in France, this was yet another noticeable difference - one has to look up the buildings in order to find a hostel. Ours was actually on the fourth floor, a long climb up steep stairs which was proceeded by a glass door at which we had to be buzzed in. Though a little more expensive than others listed in Let's Go, I immediately felt confident of its quality when the owner, an Indian man, asked without solicitation if we should like to see the rooms he had available. We chose a modest room with a comfortable double bed and opted to pay for two nights up front, as the owner informed us that there was a good chance he would otherwise fill up.
The hostel was quiet and welcoming. There was a breakfast area that doubled as a lounge, and there was a phone and internet station. Our room had a set of doors that opened into a Spanish-style interior courtyard with a few potted plants. The bathroom and shower were down the hall and our room had only a sink, wardrobe and bed. This spareness has been welcoming and is found much more often, perhaps, in European accomodations than American ones. What use have I for a TV in my room when an exciting city awaits just beyond my door? What need have I for a private toilet and shower when there is one merely steps down the hall? Sometimes we wall ourselves in as Americans. It is a fortunate thing, I think, that it is harder to do so in Europe. A community of strangers is formed because of it.
Our wanderings through Barcelona - a bit more focused this time than before with a free map from the tourist office - took us past several of Gaudi's architectural masterpieces: Casa Batllo, a dragon-like building that ripples and shimmers in the light with its purplish-blue-green tiles; La Pedrera, a seemingly plain tan building that mimicks the sea, with its coral-like construction and black ironwork resembling seaweed; and, of course, the absolutely stunning La Sagrada Familia,
still under construction but awe-inspiring all the same with its Modernist decorum blending with Gothic sensibility and eight of a planned eighteen towers completed, stretching over 200 feet into the deep blue Spanish sky. We strolled the tranquil grounds of the Hospital de la Santa Creu i Sant Pau, which still functions. We were amazed that a hospital could remain so relaxed and inviting and agreed that we would like to have more like this in the United States. We also walked through the Parc de la Ciutadella and visited the Picasso Museum, which gave interesting insight into the painter's development as an artist.
still under construction but awe-inspiring all the same with its Modernist decorum blending with Gothic sensibility and eight of a planned eighteen towers completed, stretching over 200 feet into the deep blue Spanish sky. We strolled the tranquil grounds of the Hospital de la Santa Creu i Sant Pau, which still functions. We were amazed that a hospital could remain so relaxed and inviting and agreed that we would like to have more like this in the United States. We also walked through the Parc de la Ciutadella and visited the Picasso Museum, which gave interesting insight into the painter's development as an artist. Our culinary exploits in Barcelona were interesting and varied. All throughout our trip the first meal of the day has been a true continental breakfast: coffee or tea, orange juice, and bread with some type of jam or a croissant. This we experienced here again with varying quality, depending on where we were eating. The best breakfast - best because it was healthy, delicious and inexpensive - was at a little place called Croissanterie del Pi (or something like that). We had two light, flaky croissants, yogurt, and fresh-squeezed orange juice, all for under ten euros (which has been the benchmark price). Our lunches were often sandwiches and we enjoyed a number of perfect cups of coffe (espresso and cafe con leche is the norm; I don't even know if you can find brewed coffee). One night we had a cheap but fairly substantial and tasty meal at a little place called, "Organic is Orgasmic." The food was better than the name. A quick and forgetful dinner was had at Pans, a bit like a Spanish Subway. And, we had an unexpectedly expensive dinner at a place called the Attic.
Here's the story: Upon entering the Attic, we realized how chic it was attempting to be. It had an open and multilevel dining area with wood floors, the tables set with expensive china and linens and crystal glassware, all reflecting the ambient orange glow of the mood lighting. In addition to the waitstaff, there were men in dark suits running around with earpieces in their ears. They looked much like Secret Service agents and I almost want to say they had on sunglasses, too, but I doubt they did. What their function was I'm still not sure. Our waiter was very nice and he brought us bread after taking our order. I did notice there were a few others around us who were visibly unhappy with either their meals or the whole dining experience. I had to wonder why. We ourselves were surprised when the entrees arrived - they were so small! Truly this place fancied itself a gourmet restaurant, so that while the presentation was great, the portion size was stereotypically small. (I had roast ox. Yes, ox! With zuchinni and goat cheese. Mmmm). The one thing that was generously portioned, besides ultimately the bill, was the sangria I ordered. Knowing my limits, I elected not to finish it (though it cost me 11 euros!) and I still had quite the buzz...
When it came time to pay the bill we realized just how fancy the meal had been. And we deduced that we had been charged 4 euros for an equivalent number of average dinner rolls. I asked the waiter about this and he tried to explain, but I didn't understand his Spanish. Then he took the receipt and left, and when he returned he had removed the item from the bill. So, we paid and escaped into the night, a little poorer and amazed at our accidental extravagance. But more or less satisfied. I think I know what those other people had been feeling: it's that fear and embarassment and frustration of finding yourself somewhere partway into the meal, where you discover that everything will cost you more than you wished to spend. So you persist through the meal (and you have to enjoy it since you're spending so much on it) and though the food really is quite good you are still left wanting something - to spend a little less maybe. Let's coin a term. Let's call it gourmet shock.
On our last night in Barcelona, we attended a concert by the reknowned classical guitarist Manuel González, a native of the city. The venue was the beautiful Catedral del Pi, a gothic church whose interior was open and simple. The nave soared above at almost 100 feet and its construction, without the typical supportive flying buttresses, allowed the sound to resonate. There was the warm smell of candle wax in the air as the crowd sat hushed in the wooden pews and Señor González masterfully played a number of classical and Spanish compositions, among which were "Variations on 'The Magic Flute' by Mozart", "Recuerdos de la Alhambra", and "Romanza".
As a guitarist, it was amazing to watch him play, to see and hear his approach. He used the fingers of his picking hand (the right) to their full capacity, sometimes using two fingers to sustain a tremolo while plucking a bassline simultaneously and in polyrhythm with his thumb. Other times he would ply his fingers across the strings in arpeggios, or rake the strings with a flamenco flavor. The most amazing were the harmonics that he coaxed from his instrument in
delicate moments and at the exquisite finale of one piece. It was beauty enough to make one weep. As for his left hand, on the fretboard, he positioned his fingers into interesting, constantly changing shapes that reminded me more of playing piano than the guitar styles to which I am accustomed. I have wanted to learn to play more classically and this performance will no doubt provide lasting inspiration. Manuel González slay his audience, like he was the bullfighter and we the bull. He plays the kind of guitar to which you hold your breath, until the last note has died away, for fear of crushing such a delicate sound under the weight of air. Barcelona
02-24-2007
We had a lot of fun in Barcelona, staying three nights. There is a lot to do and see there, so we could not do everything, of course! My cold hung on, and I was a bit worn out because of it, so napping took some of our time, too.
03-02-2007
On Thursday, we set out to see the sights in Barcelona. The Gaudi buildings were just amazing, really lovely and colorful mosaics and flowing organic lines. What might seem slightly ridiculous or fantastical in a picture really works well in real-life, not seeming silly or out of place at all, but instead really spectacular and a reflection of nature. The cathedral is so detailed and amazing. Unfinished, you can see the work in progress which is interesting. Understanding its beauty and complexity requires one to see it first-hand. Next, we saw a hospital, designed by the Modernists. It still appears to be funtioning as a hospital, and the grounds are so relaxing in the middle of a large city.
It was dark when we walked back toward the Hostel Rembrandt, and we came upon a bunch of older men playing Boules. It looked serious (though friendly and good natured), and each seemed to have their own set of game balls. Also, there were no women playing, and Shaun tells me that this is traditional - no women allowed. It was fun to see a seemingly authentic aspect of traditional culture persisting even now - a game we'd read fondly of in Peter Mayle books.
On Friday, we a wonderful breakfast at a croissanterie, then visited the Picasso Museum. This was really great to see - an artist I particularily like. It's a great experience to see the life and development of an artist through his/her work. Next, we walked through the gardens - beautiful, though not entirely in bloom. There was a really large, wonderful fountain, and many artists painting or drawing here or there. Also, a man performing sun salutes in the gazebo. Tired, we walked back to the hostel for a siesta. In the evening, we enjoyed the art of Manuel Gonzalez, classical guitarist, in the Cathedral de Pi. He was amazing.
On Friday, we a wonderful breakfast at a croissanterie, then visited the Picasso Museum. This was really great to see - an artist I particularily like. It's a great experience to see the life and development of an artist through his/her work. Next, we walked through the gardens - beautiful, though not entirely in bloom. There was a really large, wonderful fountain, and many artists painting or drawing here or there. Also, a man performing sun salutes in the gazebo. Tired, we walked back to the hostel for a siesta. In the evening, we enjoyed the art of Manuel Gonzalez, classical guitarist, in the Cathedral de Pi. He was amazing.
Friday, March 2, 2007
Trouble with Getting to Barcelona Is...
Feb 21, 2007
I should have seen today coming, what with yesterday's troubles, how could it be any different this time trying to get to Barcelona? We awoke at six and hurried to get out of the hotel to make the 6:50 train. At 6:40 we stumbled down the stairs to reception and found no one there... Because we had paid the night before - a welcome custom with many European hotels - we needed only return the key anyway. Pas de probleme, we thought. But then we discovered we were locked in! And I had told them of our 6:50 departure time! We fumbled with the door, searched frantically for anyone that might be about, and finally escaped when I managed to open the door.
We dashed to the train station, and to be sure I checked at information that the 6:50 train would go to Barcelona. It wouldn't. She said, You need to take the train towards Marseille and change at Narbonne. Well, that actually gave us a comfortable seven minutes more to spare. But the inconsistency with what I had earlier been told was troubling. (Now, mind you, all of this interchange has been in French, and I have been left wondering if I understand fully, if I haven't missed some subtlety)
Nonetheless, we got ourselves aboard the train and rode to Narbonne where we disembarked with several other people, all confused in their own way about getting to Barcelona. There were the Spanish women, who had tickets but were confused at how Barcelona was not appearing on the departures screen on the platform. There was a (French?) man with similar confusion, ourselves with railpass questions, and a young Englishman who couldn't speak a bit of French to save him. Again to the information desk... This time we learned that while there is a train to Barcelona from Narbonne, it wasn't running today! Meanwhile, the Spanish gals - who spoke some English - had been told they would ride a bus which was included in their ticket purchase. On the other hand, our presented option was to travel by train to Cerebere, the last French town on the Spanish frontier, from where we would take a taxi into Spain and catch a train again once in the Spanish town of Port Bou. Need I say it: The inconsistencies were troubling...
But how nice to have a new travel companion! Alec, the Englishman spoken of before, was by his own words "desperate" to get to Barcelona in order to see his hometown Liverpool football team (that's soccer to you provincial Yanks) play that same night. So, we all agreed - in that support group fashion common to foreigners abroad who are linked by a shared language which is not the local one - that we would ride to Cerebere, split the fare for a taxi and proceed on to Barcelona. Barring any other unexpected discoveries or information, of course.
It truly was a beautiful voyage into Cerebere. The landscape, which had been giving way all the time to more wine fields, palm trees, rocky hills and colorful houses with terracotta roofs, was coming to life with the morning sun breaking finally through an early haze. The light is different in the South, as Van Gogh and other painters have asserted when working in France. By the time we reached the Mediterrannean coast and almost Cerebere, all the little difficulties of the past hours seemed humorous again, and worth it.
There was a taxi waiting at the Cerebere station and its driver was a charming and vibrant older French woman. She asked our nationalities and we gave over our passports, as we would be crossing national boundaries. We piled into her Renault and as soon as we settled she took off like a shot.
Peter Mayle has said that all the French think they are racecar drivers. And now I believe it. She zoomed through the narrow streets of Cerebere and tossed the car back and forth as she wound us through the twisting hillside along a thin ribbon of two lane highway. She cut across the center lane on lefthand turns and pressed close to the low brick wall when making rights. She answered her cell phone and adjusted the radio as she dodged pedestrains and road workmen. She flipped through a handwritten notepad on the dash which had times written and issued forth a series of French profanities. It was evident at first that she wanted to get us to the next train leaving from Port Bou. But then when it was equally evident that we wouldn't beat the train, she pressed on as fast anyway.
Oh, yes, and the whole time Frank Sinatra was serenading the four us, all characters in an absurdist James Bond. He was blasting from the speakers at a decent volume as we blasted through the countryside at a decent rate. "I - love - Frankie - baby" she cooed in a comical American accent, part Brookly, part deep France, narrowly missing a huge contingent of bicyclists coming up the hill soon after. She issued forth a string of profanities. "It's not safe for them to be on the road" she complained, "C'est trés trés dangereuse."
And finally - after insulting a slower driver whom she identified as being from Bordeaux and declaring the supremacy of her birthplace, the coast - we arrived in Port Bou, a little French whirlind blown into Spain. We paid the fare and walked away, still in amazement at our high speed chase - all without the chase.
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