Well everyone - if anyone is still checking - I'm home again. In fact, I've been home for quite some time now and meaning to wrap this whole thing up. I was planning on doing a little bit on London, but I've kind of lost the drive. Let me suffice it to say that I loved London, hope to return VERY soon, and felt the least like a tourist there than anywhere else I visited (such a wonderful feeling).
While I loved my time away and can't wait to travel again, I'm also very contented to be home in Toronto right now. Family, friends, a working shower that doesn't have a push button, these are what I need now. However, I haven't lost the drive to write, so I plan on starting another blog about my life as it begins to unfold here in Toronto. I will post the link here and send out a mass email.
Happy New Year Everybody! Hope to hear from you soon!
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Oxford Envy
I have been in Oxford for almost a week now visiting my friend Sam who is a resident of University College, studying International Relations. Originally my plan was to spend three days here, then three days in Bath, and then one additional night in Cambridge. Pressure from Sam to stay turned the Bath sojourn into a day trip and Cambridge was eliminated all together (this was a shame since I had a great desire to visit E.M. Forster's College, but the weather was awful, so I'm saving it for my next trip).
My first afternoon I spent wandering in the grounds of Christchurch College, which has a large field home to a number of cows whose perimeter one can take a picturesque walk around. A windy path, accompanied by a little stream led me past trees that were at least several hundred years old they were so thick and gnarled. It was impossible not to think about Lewis Carroll strolling arm and arm with Alice Liddel (whose father was the head of the College in his day), telling stories about white rabbits, irate Queens, and hookah smoking caterpillars.
The next day Sam and I roused ourselves early to catch the Oxford Tube (a bus), which took us into London. In the morning we visited the Tate Modern and both fell in love with Louise Bourgeois's work (some of which I had studied in school). After a couple of hours there we dashed off to the Parliament buildings to meet up with Sam's friend Tom who works there as an assistant to an MP. We got a personalised tour of the inside and, best of all, had a drink in the bar. Sitting on the patio you can stare out over the Thames, or look up in awe behind you at the splendour of the neo-gothic walls of Parliament.
We had such a good time with Tom, that we tailed him to London Bridge, and there met up with a friend of his from Oxford named Luke. The four of us settled into a cozy bar, far enough off the beaten track that no tourist would dare venture in, and had a night of childish fun. The bar was stocked with a number of games. We indulged in dominoes, Connect Four, Jenga (a dangerous game to play with idle wine glasses), and finally created our own version of that game where you stick a piece of paper to your forehead and then have to guess who you are. We licked pieces of newspaper, which stuck quite nicely to our foreheads, but gave us terrible tattoos afterwards that took diligent scrubbing to get off. Mine was "Australian" - very tricky, but not as bad as Sam's which was "cult membership". I don't know the last time I had so much fun at a bar, and with relative strangers no less.
My first afternoon I spent wandering in the grounds of Christchurch College, which has a large field home to a number of cows whose perimeter one can take a picturesque walk around. A windy path, accompanied by a little stream led me past trees that were at least several hundred years old they were so thick and gnarled. It was impossible not to think about Lewis Carroll strolling arm and arm with Alice Liddel (whose father was the head of the College in his day), telling stories about white rabbits, irate Queens, and hookah smoking caterpillars.
The next day Sam and I roused ourselves early to catch the Oxford Tube (a bus), which took us into London. In the morning we visited the Tate Modern and both fell in love with Louise Bourgeois's work (some of which I had studied in school). After a couple of hours there we dashed off to the Parliament buildings to meet up with Sam's friend Tom who works there as an assistant to an MP. We got a personalised tour of the inside and, best of all, had a drink in the bar. Sitting on the patio you can stare out over the Thames, or look up in awe behind you at the splendour of the neo-gothic walls of Parliament.
We had such a good time with Tom, that we tailed him to London Bridge, and there met up with a friend of his from Oxford named Luke. The four of us settled into a cozy bar, far enough off the beaten track that no tourist would dare venture in, and had a night of childish fun. The bar was stocked with a number of games. We indulged in dominoes, Connect Four, Jenga (a dangerous game to play with idle wine glasses), and finally created our own version of that game where you stick a piece of paper to your forehead and then have to guess who you are. We licked pieces of newspaper, which stuck quite nicely to our foreheads, but gave us terrible tattoos afterwards that took diligent scrubbing to get off. Mine was "Australian" - very tricky, but not as bad as Sam's which was "cult membership". I don't know the last time I had so much fun at a bar, and with relative strangers no less.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Right at Home in Edinburgh
I stepped out of the train station, and was greeted by the sound of bagpipes. Rounding the corner I saw him, the piper, replete with a kilt and jaunty tam. Every Scottish gene in my body reverberated, and cried out, "we're home lass!" Man, do I ever love Scotland!
Edinburgh is somewhere I've long desired to travel to. It is a literary place, the home of many fine authors, and the location of a number of fine novels. I have imagined it many times, but oddly enough it looked nothing like I thought. It did however enchant me, and I happily spent three days wandering, shopping, getting rained on, and baked potato sampling.
I have heard Edinburgh described as "dank", which I suppose I could give some credit to. I prefer adjectives like moody, or atmospheric. I've said I liked Rome because of the accessibility of its history. Walking through Rome is like walking through time. I liked Edinburgh for the same reasons. Many times I felt like I had been taken back in time, a fantasy easier to live out in a city where my ancestors lived than in Rome where I am unequivocally a foreigner. Again, like I wrote about the Scottish countryside, I have perhaps seen more "awesome" (in the biblical sense) landscapes, or cities, but my aesthetic seems to have found a resting place here. Edinburgh is just dark (not dank) enough to make it interesting, classy enough to give it an edge, and old enough looking to give it a distinct romance.
Some of my best highlights were: visiting St. Giles and getting teary (of course) in the thistle chapel, then placating myself with coconut ice (florescent pink) from the gift shop, going to see a screening of To Have and Have Not (Bogart and Bacall), and eavesdropping on two women discussing their love of The Philadelphia Story, and the widespread availability of baked potatoes.
More than any other place I have visited I thought, I could just pack up my life and move here without any hesitation. Hmmm, you may wonder, are you going to loose me to the UK?
Edinburgh is somewhere I've long desired to travel to. It is a literary place, the home of many fine authors, and the location of a number of fine novels. I have imagined it many times, but oddly enough it looked nothing like I thought. It did however enchant me, and I happily spent three days wandering, shopping, getting rained on, and baked potato sampling.
I have heard Edinburgh described as "dank", which I suppose I could give some credit to. I prefer adjectives like moody, or atmospheric. I've said I liked Rome because of the accessibility of its history. Walking through Rome is like walking through time. I liked Edinburgh for the same reasons. Many times I felt like I had been taken back in time, a fantasy easier to live out in a city where my ancestors lived than in Rome where I am unequivocally a foreigner. Again, like I wrote about the Scottish countryside, I have perhaps seen more "awesome" (in the biblical sense) landscapes, or cities, but my aesthetic seems to have found a resting place here. Edinburgh is just dark (not dank) enough to make it interesting, classy enough to give it an edge, and old enough looking to give it a distinct romance.
Some of my best highlights were: visiting St. Giles and getting teary (of course) in the thistle chapel, then placating myself with coconut ice (florescent pink) from the gift shop, going to see a screening of To Have and Have Not (Bogart and Bacall), and eavesdropping on two women discussing their love of The Philadelphia Story, and the widespread availability of baked potatoes.
More than any other place I have visited I thought, I could just pack up my life and move here without any hesitation. Hmmm, you may wonder, are you going to loose me to the UK?
Sunday, November 11, 2007
So I'm staying in an ecovillage right now. What does that actually mean? Well, it's a community of people dedicated to finding more sustainable ways to live, which they practice in their own lives, and try to teach to others like Emma.
In some ways it probably is what you think: "hippieville" complete with people who wear blankets as clothing, build houses out of recycled whisky barrels, talk to vegetables, sprinkle toasted nuts on all of their food, and do interpretive dances of the five elements. However, it is also an incredibly warm, generous, and caring community of people who are working in all of our interests without nearly as much praise as they deserve. Emma loves it here, and it's not hard to see why, although even she sometimes has to take a step back and laugh at Findhorn's more cliched attributes.
I came to the right place for some R&R, and have slept soundly for the first time in months. I've spent my time walking around, meeting Emma's other program members, eating delicious vegetarian food, and writing. Today I realized just how loose all my muscles were, and how clean the air felt in my chest. On a walk this morning with Emma I stood at the edge of the ocean on a sand dune, hair wildly whipping around my face and thought how hard it is going to be to leave tomorrow.
Even though, for the most part, I haven't done anything extraordinary I will relate the events of my Friday night to you. Every Friday night there is a jam session called at a place called studio 9. Anyone is welcome to come and play, sing, or dance - no matter the level of talent. Six of us got a lift from a guy named Nicky in his monstrous bio-diesel van. Emma and I had to sit at the back amidst buckets of compost. We drove along heavily forested back roads until we arrived at what looked like an old manor in the middle a clearing in the trees. It was a house right out of Daphne du Maurier novel, very atmospheric. At the door we were escorted in by a man taking a "smoke" break outside, and we stepped into my imaginary high school boyfriend's band practice. The studio 9 space is all plywood, recycled couches, old blankets, and rickety chairs amidst thousands of dollars worth of sound equipment and instruments. There were a couple of guys with some real talent, including one who called himself a "failed pop star" who used to jam with Aerosmith. Anyway, never had the outside of a house so clashed with its inside, and I had to laugh again at my current surroundings. Who would have ever thought that my travels would bring me here?
In some ways it probably is what you think: "hippieville" complete with people who wear blankets as clothing, build houses out of recycled whisky barrels, talk to vegetables, sprinkle toasted nuts on all of their food, and do interpretive dances of the five elements. However, it is also an incredibly warm, generous, and caring community of people who are working in all of our interests without nearly as much praise as they deserve. Emma loves it here, and it's not hard to see why, although even she sometimes has to take a step back and laugh at Findhorn's more cliched attributes.
I came to the right place for some R&R, and have slept soundly for the first time in months. I've spent my time walking around, meeting Emma's other program members, eating delicious vegetarian food, and writing. Today I realized just how loose all my muscles were, and how clean the air felt in my chest. On a walk this morning with Emma I stood at the edge of the ocean on a sand dune, hair wildly whipping around my face and thought how hard it is going to be to leave tomorrow.
Even though, for the most part, I haven't done anything extraordinary I will relate the events of my Friday night to you. Every Friday night there is a jam session called at a place called studio 9. Anyone is welcome to come and play, sing, or dance - no matter the level of talent. Six of us got a lift from a guy named Nicky in his monstrous bio-diesel van. Emma and I had to sit at the back amidst buckets of compost. We drove along heavily forested back roads until we arrived at what looked like an old manor in the middle a clearing in the trees. It was a house right out of Daphne du Maurier novel, very atmospheric. At the door we were escorted in by a man taking a "smoke" break outside, and we stepped into my imaginary high school boyfriend's band practice. The studio 9 space is all plywood, recycled couches, old blankets, and rickety chairs amidst thousands of dollars worth of sound equipment and instruments. There were a couple of guys with some real talent, including one who called himself a "failed pop star" who used to jam with Aerosmith. Anyway, never had the outside of a house so clashed with its inside, and I had to laugh again at my current surroundings. Who would have ever thought that my travels would bring me here?
Saturday, November 10, 2007
A Real Canadian Girl
Would you like to hear something shocking? I, Jessica Hall-Cummings, lover of fine art, traveler of glorious European cities, has come to an unexpected realisation: I have a thing for nature. Apparently, I'm more Canadian than I thought.
One of the most interesting parts of traveling is not only the outward voyage, but also the inward, exploring the dark recesses of my own personality, testing my strength and courage, and discovering what it really means for me to be a Canadian abroad. Looking out my window on the train ride from Glasgow to Inverness, I had perhaps my only pang of real homesickness as my eyes ran over the unending expanse of fields, forests, rivers, craggy hilltops, and meadows. This is so beautiful, I thought, I love all that space. Suddenly, the once picturesque narrow medieval streets I had wandered in Paris seemed cramped and airless, and I longed to take a deep breath under a big blue sky, and wade into a meadow of deep, scented grasses (possibly wearing a bonnet like a Jane Austen character...hopefully that doesn't take away from my assertion of my Canadian identity here).
I tried to stay awake as much as I could to take it all in, but the truth was that I was a little tired, and feeling the effects of my night out in Glasgow a little acutely for comfort, so I slept a lot. When I was awake though I marveled at the wild, and unpredictable nature of Scotland's weather that I had heard so much about. One minute it would be sunny, turn a corner and the sky's gone gray and your view obscured by misty rain. The next minute the sky's clear again, and then an hour later it's snowing. Depending on the the quality of the light, the rivers I passed over could be deep blue (the bluest blue I've ever seen), gray, or jet black. It felt a little dream-like, because in a way it reminded me so much of home, but then it was so much wilder. It seemed much more like a Lewis, or Tolkien inspired place with a little hint of other worldliness about it.
With a train, and two bus rides under my belt I arrived at Findhorn where my friend Emma Dines is living in an eco-village. She was worried that I would be bored here, I just smiled at her and thought, there's nowhere else on earth I'd rather be than here.
I Love Paris in the Fall
I’m not sure I will ever be able to get over the dramatic changes that accompany my life as a “traveler”. Two days ago I was in Paris, eating small jam cookies in the Swiss Embassy (more on that later), today I’m in the north of Scotland lying on the floor of a yurt. I’m currently staying with my beautiful, wonderful, inspiring friend Emma Dines who is doing a program in an eco-village outside of the village of Findhorn. I have a lot to say about Scotland already, but I have to pace myself and return to my thoughts on Paris.
Many of you will know that I was in Paris last march visiting my sister Amy while she was studying there. As a result I didn’t feel a great urge to spend my time and money in Paris on this trip. Of course, art won me over in the end. I kept returning to the amazing experience I had in Musee d’Orsay on my last visit and I came to the conclusion that that was as good a reason as any to go back to Paris.
What I didn’t know was that Paris was a much-needed dose of medicine for me, in my sort of burned out state. I know my way around a lot of Paris, I understand the metro system, I have favourite bars and restaurants, and I speak enough French to function. I needed that familiarity, and, as such, I was able to regenerate a bit.
When I arrived I had to do laundry right away, which proved to be more difficult than it should have been probably because I was tired, and discouraged I felt like maybe it had been the wrong decision to come. After that I collapsed in bed, feeling the first prickings of a sore throat, and slept away the afternoon. I probably would have stayed in bed all night if I hadn’t been interrupted by the arrival of Jade, an Australian traveler who immediately perked me up with her enthusiasm and easy conversation. She made me come out with her for a coffee, and after that I felt inspired to go out and embrace Paris. Jade was already going out with a friend of her’s from Melbourne now living in Paris, but I rounded up another girl in our room, Elvira, and she and I went out for a drink at a bar that looks on Notre Dame. From there on in I had non-stop fun.
Jade introduced me to her friend Kate, and Kate’s Parisian boyfriend Issam, and together the four of us went out into the “real Paris”, where we sat in thickly clouded bars drinking Ricard and Beer trying to blend in with the locals. On my last evening we had “Champagne Night” in honour of Jade who had never tasted it before, and I learned that one can buy what would be incredibly pricey champagne in Canada for next to nothing here. Although I have met lots of interesting people along the way, Jade is the first friend I have made, and Paris just wouldn't have been Paris without her.
Some of the other parts of my Paris stay that made it so enjoyable were seeing my friend Emily from Toronto who was visiting friends, having breakfast at the Swiss Embassy with my Dad’s friend and then having his driver take me to meet my Airport Shuttle, and the fact that it was sunny and clear for the first time in weeks.
Walking through the city I remembered how charmed I was by it when I first traveled there at age 16, and I left with a bit of that old Paris magic stuck in my back pocket.
Many of you will know that I was in Paris last march visiting my sister Amy while she was studying there. As a result I didn’t feel a great urge to spend my time and money in Paris on this trip. Of course, art won me over in the end. I kept returning to the amazing experience I had in Musee d’Orsay on my last visit and I came to the conclusion that that was as good a reason as any to go back to Paris.
What I didn’t know was that Paris was a much-needed dose of medicine for me, in my sort of burned out state. I know my way around a lot of Paris, I understand the metro system, I have favourite bars and restaurants, and I speak enough French to function. I needed that familiarity, and, as such, I was able to regenerate a bit.
When I arrived I had to do laundry right away, which proved to be more difficult than it should have been probably because I was tired, and discouraged I felt like maybe it had been the wrong decision to come. After that I collapsed in bed, feeling the first prickings of a sore throat, and slept away the afternoon. I probably would have stayed in bed all night if I hadn’t been interrupted by the arrival of Jade, an Australian traveler who immediately perked me up with her enthusiasm and easy conversation. She made me come out with her for a coffee, and after that I felt inspired to go out and embrace Paris. Jade was already going out with a friend of her’s from Melbourne now living in Paris, but I rounded up another girl in our room, Elvira, and she and I went out for a drink at a bar that looks on Notre Dame. From there on in I had non-stop fun.
Jade introduced me to her friend Kate, and Kate’s Parisian boyfriend Issam, and together the four of us went out into the “real Paris”, where we sat in thickly clouded bars drinking Ricard and Beer trying to blend in with the locals. On my last evening we had “Champagne Night” in honour of Jade who had never tasted it before, and I learned that one can buy what would be incredibly pricey champagne in Canada for next to nothing here. Although I have met lots of interesting people along the way, Jade is the first friend I have made, and Paris just wouldn't have been Paris without her.
Some of the other parts of my Paris stay that made it so enjoyable were seeing my friend Emily from Toronto who was visiting friends, having breakfast at the Swiss Embassy with my Dad’s friend and then having his driver take me to meet my Airport Shuttle, and the fact that it was sunny and clear for the first time in weeks.
Walking through the city I remembered how charmed I was by it when I first traveled there at age 16, and I left with a bit of that old Paris magic stuck in my back pocket.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Holding my Breath in Sainte-Chapelle
So, I will get to a more general report of my time in Paris, which was wonderful, but I wrote this little piece on Sainte-Chapelle in the moment, so I'll give it to you to read while I work on synthesizing my other thoughts.
I almost didn't come back to Sainte-Chapelle because, like I wrote about Michelangelo's David, the wonderful shock value it commands upon a first time encounter is almost totally lost after that. This is not to say that the church isn't beautiful on subsequent visits, it is just that you can never regain that first exclamatory "ahhhh" as you round the narrow medieval staircase, and enter into a space that on first glance appears to be made entirely out of stained glass. Even though I didn't have that experience this time, sitting near the door I got to witness the effects of other people's premiere experience with the chapel. A group of Japanese tourists came through and every single woman let out a little yell as they stepped inside.
What I like about Sainte-Chapelle is that it illustrates so clearly the intricacies of the design of the Gothic cathedral. It was once explained to me in class that the Gothic cathedral is supposed to be like a living organism, with the pillars and lattice work acting as a skeleton, and the glass as the organs. Sainte-Chapelle's long delicate pilasters really do look skeletal, like a rib cage that holds the glass in place. On a day like today, when the sun passes from behind a cloud, and fills the whole space with light, the effect is like the church breathing, swelling with light and then exhaling as the sun fades away again.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Berlin on My Mind
Last night in Glasgow I met a very pleasant girl named Kristina from Vancouver, who I went out for too many drinks with. In the process of drinking our way through the city she told me an interesting story about her German boyfriend's father.
One of the first things that you would notice about this man upon meeting him, apparently, is that he has two tattoos. One on each forearm. Both are of women's names, but one is crossed out. It seems that the night the wall went up this man and his then girlfriend were on opposite sides of town. He was at home and she was at work in a restaurant. They never saw each other again. Separated by the wall for so many years, the man eventually met his wife, crossed out the one name and added the new one. When the wall came down it had been so long that the man had no way of knowing how to get in contact with his old girlfriend. Clearly it is safe to say that even if he is happily married he will never forget her. I wonder if they will ever meet again?
One of the first things that you would notice about this man upon meeting him, apparently, is that he has two tattoos. One on each forearm. Both are of women's names, but one is crossed out. It seems that the night the wall went up this man and his then girlfriend were on opposite sides of town. He was at home and she was at work in a restaurant. They never saw each other again. Separated by the wall for so many years, the man eventually met his wife, crossed out the one name and added the new one. When the wall came down it had been so long that the man had no way of knowing how to get in contact with his old girlfriend. Clearly it is safe to say that even if he is happily married he will never forget her. I wonder if they will ever meet again?
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Ricard is always a safe choice in Paris
Here's a little shout out to my Dad and D for teaching me about Ricard.
Many of you may already know me as a Ricard drinker. The clear, licorice based liqueur is my party going/giving staple. I always have a bottle in reserve at home. Often when I pour out my tumbler full, and delicately add a bit of water, so that the liquid in my glass turns a perplexing opaque white, I have people ask, "what is that?" I explain, they taste, then gag, and leave me to my poison. Here's what happens when I order Ricard in Paris.
Last night I went out with a new found friend Jade from Melbourne and Kate (a friend of her's also from Melbourne). They ordered beer, nothing wrong with that, and then the waiter turned to me and I asked for a Ricard, careful to roll my rrrrr, say the i as "ee", and forget the d at the end (otherwise an Americanised "Ricard" will get you a blank stare). My waiter smiled and gave me a little nod. Kate's French boyfriend also smiled at me. "Ah ha, very good," he said. We then explained to Kate and Jade the marvels of Ricard.
Sometimes there are a lot of rules to remember in France, but this is one skill set that has, and will, I hope, serve me well in the future. A rule not to forget: don't tip your formerly smiling bartender, he and his friends will laugh at you.
Many of you may already know me as a Ricard drinker. The clear, licorice based liqueur is my party going/giving staple. I always have a bottle in reserve at home. Often when I pour out my tumbler full, and delicately add a bit of water, so that the liquid in my glass turns a perplexing opaque white, I have people ask, "what is that?" I explain, they taste, then gag, and leave me to my poison. Here's what happens when I order Ricard in Paris.
Last night I went out with a new found friend Jade from Melbourne and Kate (a friend of her's also from Melbourne). They ordered beer, nothing wrong with that, and then the waiter turned to me and I asked for a Ricard, careful to roll my rrrrr, say the i as "ee", and forget the d at the end (otherwise an Americanised "Ricard" will get you a blank stare). My waiter smiled and gave me a little nod. Kate's French boyfriend also smiled at me. "Ah ha, very good," he said. We then explained to Kate and Jade the marvels of Ricard.
Sometimes there are a lot of rules to remember in France, but this is one skill set that has, and will, I hope, serve me well in the future. A rule not to forget: don't tip your formerly smiling bartender, he and his friends will laugh at you.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Everybody Loves a Girl with a Backpack Part 4
(Thursday November 1st)
Today the backpack and I had a proud moment. On a very crowded train, filled with a disproportionate number of children and the elderly, I managed to slide the backpack down off a tall ledge, and onto my back (channeling the grace of Audrey Hepburn who might not have even been as graceful as me since I'm pretty sure she could have fit inside the backpack) without destroying the laptop of the man sitting next to me, crushing a baby strapped to her father's back behind me, or knocking an unsteady looking man off his crutches just in front of me.
My growing pride lasted about five minutes until I caught sight of myself in a store window. Oh well, I thought to myself, if you're going to look stupid at least you've achieved an element of grace in that.
Today the backpack and I had a proud moment. On a very crowded train, filled with a disproportionate number of children and the elderly, I managed to slide the backpack down off a tall ledge, and onto my back (channeling the grace of Audrey Hepburn who might not have even been as graceful as me since I'm pretty sure she could have fit inside the backpack) without destroying the laptop of the man sitting next to me, crushing a baby strapped to her father's back behind me, or knocking an unsteady looking man off his crutches just in front of me.
My growing pride lasted about five minutes until I caught sight of myself in a store window. Oh well, I thought to myself, if you're going to look stupid at least you've achieved an element of grace in that.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Explaining My Absence
You have have noticed that I dropped off the radar a bit in the past week. You might have been wondering, has she been swept up in some wild European adventure? - scaling the alps, cruising the Mediterranean on a large yacht, roaming the streets of Prague in an absinthe stupor? The truth, I'm afraid, is so boring that I can hardly own up to it - I'm exhausted. That's right you're hearing this from me, Europe's # 1 gallery going, junior-league art historian can barely bring herself to go out of doors let alone to a museum. Having said that, I am writing from Rouen (in a delightful cafe playing great jazz) where I have journeyed solely because the Musse des Beaux-Arts here possesses a Caravaggio. But, other than that, I have simply been taking time off, and appreciating in a rare moment that I am on vacation, even if most of the time it feels more like a mission. I've been in some exceptionally pretty places - Prague, Strasbourg, and Colmar (where come to think of it I went to see a Grunewald altarpiece, but never mind) just walking around, treating myself to some nicer meals, and sleeping late in the mornings.
Three things stick out particularly about this last week that are worth mentioning here. One was an impromptu brush with nature behind the Prague castle. I took the wrong road down, and ended up on a tree lined path offering up views of the castle through autumn leaves. I won't deny that I didn't for a moment imagine myself as Belle from Beauty and the Beast discovering the castle in the woods. Two was the very pleasant day in Strasbourg I spent with a fellow Canadian, Haylie from Hanover, Ontario, walking around Strasbourg. We discussed among many things a mutual love for Joni Mitchell, which made me long for my ipod. Three was the wonderful shock of realizing that there was a small group of children in my hostel in Colmar on the 31st and they all dressed up for Halloween.
I'm off to Paris soon and then I will return to my usual habits, get ready for some enthusiastic thoughts about the genius of Manet.
ALSO blogger seems to be out of sorts lately and I can't add pictures OR use spell check. Sorry!
Three things stick out particularly about this last week that are worth mentioning here. One was an impromptu brush with nature behind the Prague castle. I took the wrong road down, and ended up on a tree lined path offering up views of the castle through autumn leaves. I won't deny that I didn't for a moment imagine myself as Belle from Beauty and the Beast discovering the castle in the woods. Two was the very pleasant day in Strasbourg I spent with a fellow Canadian, Haylie from Hanover, Ontario, walking around Strasbourg. We discussed among many things a mutual love for Joni Mitchell, which made me long for my ipod. Three was the wonderful shock of realizing that there was a small group of children in my hostel in Colmar on the 31st and they all dressed up for Halloween.
I'm off to Paris soon and then I will return to my usual habits, get ready for some enthusiastic thoughts about the genius of Manet.
ALSO blogger seems to be out of sorts lately and I can't add pictures OR use spell check. Sorry!
Werner
Werner is another old acquaintance from my Dad's Nixdorf days, and, more importantly, a very old and dear friend of our family friend Frank. It was arranged that while in Berlin we would have lunch with Werner, who picked up at at the Jewish museum and took us to a place adjacent to the Brandenburg gate. On the way there, he gave us an impromptu tour of Berlin from an architect's perspective, which got us all talking about Berlin's complex history.
The Jewish Museum is a very impressive building designed by a now well turned over name in Toronto: Daniel Liebskind (architect of the heatedly controversial ROM revamp). Werner, as an architect, is a fan of the Jewish Museum, recounting for us a powerful experience he had there with his then 14 year old son. Together they stood before a photo of a boy exactly the same age as Werner' s son, and had that thought that so many of us have looking at the lives of Holocaust victims - they are no different than me. After looking at the photo they both walked into what is called the Holocaust tower, but what Werner chillingly referred to as "The Chimney". It is a very narrow, tall room unlit except for a little opening at the top, which lets in a tiny bit of natural light. It is designed to make you feel cold, utterly alone and afraid. Werner said in that space he held onto his son tightly, and felt that panic associated with loosing a child. No one would want a child to be lost in the chimney.
Over lunch we began to talk about the wall again, and I got a very different side of Werner. Where I had seen resentment in the taxi driver, I saw anger in Werner. He was so blunt about the stupidity he saw in the Soviet regime that had cheated, deceived, and even killed some of his friends. He spoke so passionately that in a heated moment he knocked over my glass of wine. He told us that even today when he hears a Saxon accent (the boarder guards were predominantly from that region) he still shivers. He asked me what I thought of Berlin and I told him what I have already expressed in this blog - that for me it is a great modern city, perhaps the greatest. He smiled at that and I think he really liked that I said that. That is, I think, what I liked best about him - that for all his anger and sadness he still loves Berlin and retains a prideful hope about its future.
He is such a lovely man, he has the kindest eyes I have ever seen, but so sad at the same time, and a little tired too. For me he epitomises the German trauma the best, marked indelibly by this anger and sadness, but tempered by hope. He is the kind of Berliner that makes Berlin truly great, and I feel privileged to have met him.
The Jewish Museum is a very impressive building designed by a now well turned over name in Toronto: Daniel Liebskind (architect of the heatedly controversial ROM revamp). Werner, as an architect, is a fan of the Jewish Museum, recounting for us a powerful experience he had there with his then 14 year old son. Together they stood before a photo of a boy exactly the same age as Werner' s son, and had that thought that so many of us have looking at the lives of Holocaust victims - they are no different than me. After looking at the photo they both walked into what is called the Holocaust tower, but what Werner chillingly referred to as "The Chimney". It is a very narrow, tall room unlit except for a little opening at the top, which lets in a tiny bit of natural light. It is designed to make you feel cold, utterly alone and afraid. Werner said in that space he held onto his son tightly, and felt that panic associated with loosing a child. No one would want a child to be lost in the chimney.
Over lunch we began to talk about the wall again, and I got a very different side of Werner. Where I had seen resentment in the taxi driver, I saw anger in Werner. He was so blunt about the stupidity he saw in the Soviet regime that had cheated, deceived, and even killed some of his friends. He spoke so passionately that in a heated moment he knocked over my glass of wine. He told us that even today when he hears a Saxon accent (the boarder guards were predominantly from that region) he still shivers. He asked me what I thought of Berlin and I told him what I have already expressed in this blog - that for me it is a great modern city, perhaps the greatest. He smiled at that and I think he really liked that I said that. That is, I think, what I liked best about him - that for all his anger and sadness he still loves Berlin and retains a prideful hope about its future.
He is such a lovely man, he has the kindest eyes I have ever seen, but so sad at the same time, and a little tired too. For me he epitomises the German trauma the best, marked indelibly by this anger and sadness, but tempered by hope. He is the kind of Berliner that makes Berlin truly great, and I feel privileged to have met him.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
The Taxi Driver
On our way to the Jewish Museum my Dad reflected to our taxi driver that he thought Berlin was a great city. The taxi driver replied curtly, "for some." My Dad prompted him to elaborate, and he told us that the economy was bad. My Dad then asked him if he was from Berlin. He replied, "yes, West Berlin." My Dad then asked if there was much resentment from the West towards the East. "Yes," was the reply again, and he explained that there was much resentment because of the financial strain re-unification placed on West Germany.
We left him wondering how many people still prefix their identity with "East" or "West".
We left him wondering how many people still prefix their identity with "East" or "West".
Klaus and Inga
Klaus and Inga are perhaps the perfect incarnation of gentility. In their company one dwells in a world softened by their attentive thoughtfulness and good taste. Your coat is always taken, doors are opened, and refreshments are always awaiting your place in their beautiful living room.
My Dad met Klaus in his Nixdorf days, and had been looking forward to re-connecting with him on this visit. As it happened Klaus and Inga were having as their house guests old friends of my Dad's Manfred and Lilo. The seven of us had dinner together twice, but it is the second dinner that particularly sticks out in my mind. Our last night in Berlin Klaus and Manfred cooked us a five course meal replete with Champagne, and a rosemary infused creme brule.
The evening started at five with tea and cake. Klaus explained that the tea is always taken with sugar and cream drizzled into the cup with a special ladle fashioned for that purpose specifically. Knowing that I studied art, Klaus showed me several exhibition catalogues from recent shows in Berlin. As I scanned their book shelves, I saw many beautiful books on art, and their walls betrayed a weakness for collecting paintings. I felt right at home.
I spoke to Klaus more about his interest in art over dinner. He said that when their children were small Inga would often take them to art galleries. They would only stay for half an hour, and to make it interesting she (or Klaus if he was there) would ask them at the end of tour which painting they would like to steal for themselves, which, of course, really got them to look at everything carefully. I love that! I'm definitely going to steal it, and use it on children in the future.
It was Inga who started to tell us about their life before the wall came down, up until that point it had been hard to imagine the lives of this beautiful family being punctured by something so traumatic. Inga does not speak very much English, but she did a wonderful job of illustrating her experiences for us. She told us about friends who would drive into East Berlin with passports to pass onto friends who otherwise might have waited indefinitely for one, and all about the difficulties of driving from the West into the East. However the most poignant moment for me came when she pulled out an old family photo album with pictures her children had taken of the opening of the checkpoints and early destruction of the wall. There they were, these pictures seamlessly integrated into an album of Birthdays, Christmasses, children growing and grown, parents ageing, in comparison, almost imperceptibly beside them. These pictures were like the notation of a birth, or a death, and suddenly something that for most of us holds itself aloft in history textbooks, or clips on youtube was a family affair - so very personal.
My Dad met Klaus in his Nixdorf days, and had been looking forward to re-connecting with him on this visit. As it happened Klaus and Inga were having as their house guests old friends of my Dad's Manfred and Lilo. The seven of us had dinner together twice, but it is the second dinner that particularly sticks out in my mind. Our last night in Berlin Klaus and Manfred cooked us a five course meal replete with Champagne, and a rosemary infused creme brule.
The evening started at five with tea and cake. Klaus explained that the tea is always taken with sugar and cream drizzled into the cup with a special ladle fashioned for that purpose specifically. Knowing that I studied art, Klaus showed me several exhibition catalogues from recent shows in Berlin. As I scanned their book shelves, I saw many beautiful books on art, and their walls betrayed a weakness for collecting paintings. I felt right at home.
I spoke to Klaus more about his interest in art over dinner. He said that when their children were small Inga would often take them to art galleries. They would only stay for half an hour, and to make it interesting she (or Klaus if he was there) would ask them at the end of tour which painting they would like to steal for themselves, which, of course, really got them to look at everything carefully. I love that! I'm definitely going to steal it, and use it on children in the future.
It was Inga who started to tell us about their life before the wall came down, up until that point it had been hard to imagine the lives of this beautiful family being punctured by something so traumatic. Inga does not speak very much English, but she did a wonderful job of illustrating her experiences for us. She told us about friends who would drive into East Berlin with passports to pass onto friends who otherwise might have waited indefinitely for one, and all about the difficulties of driving from the West into the East. However the most poignant moment for me came when she pulled out an old family photo album with pictures her children had taken of the opening of the checkpoints and early destruction of the wall. There they were, these pictures seamlessly integrated into an album of Birthdays, Christmasses, children growing and grown, parents ageing, in comparison, almost imperceptibly beside them. These pictures were like the notation of a birth, or a death, and suddenly something that for most of us holds itself aloft in history textbooks, or clips on youtube was a family affair - so very personal.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Berlin the Metropolis
I'm having trouble writing about Berlin. I have all of these reflections about the city that I am dying to get down, but I can't seem to bind them into a cohesive narrative. What is so odd about that is that though each of my most salient experiences was entirely self-contained, they are all about the same thing: trauma.
When I speak of trauma here I am not referring to the ER kind, but rather an emotional wound, or shock that creates substantial, lasting psychological damage, often leading to neurosis. Or, an event or situation that causes great distress and disruption (thank you dictionary.com!). This injury, or wound is of course the division of East and West Germany, the effects of which have resulted in a deep scar that runs the length of the country and is especially raw in Berlin.
In Berlin, like in Dresden but magnified, the past presses so close with the collective traumas of both World Wars, the Holocaust, and the Soviet occupation that it is difficult to to pinpoint where the past ends and the present begins. And yet, it is an ultra-modern city heralding the future with wildly innovative art and architecture that makes we wonder if Fritz Lang could have ever foreseen such a metropolis in his native land.
Berlin has been called the most modern city in the world, and indeed its present day innovations far outshine a city like New York, which feeds off of the cultural capital generated in the last century by artists like Pollock, Warhol, and Judd. But I think that Berlin is also an ultra-modern city because of its close relationship with the past. A city like Rome was heavily touched by the two great wars, but for a tourist, this history is overwhelmed by the stately presence of Ancient Rome, or the papacy fueled images of Baroque Rome. Berlin is unique among the great cities of Europe because its ancient history is so overwhelmed by its connection to recent history. Who we are, what defines our current age is a direct, or indirect reflection of the politics of the past 60 years, and what city has a deeper connection to that history than Berlin.
Berlin is a monument to what makes us tick.
What we have lost, regained and started to rebuild is all there for the naked eye to see. It is truly an amazing city. To try and do it further justice I have decided to make each of my three most salient experiences separate postings, without worrying about them flowing nicely into one another. You can make the connections.
Friday, October 26, 2007
North By North East
I am the north in this equation and Dresden is the East.
As we drove from Weimar to Dresden the concept of Eastern Germany took on a sharper outline. Germany has never existed for me in terms of East and West, it has just been Germany. Of course, I was five when the wall came down, and I don't think my generation (I am speaking in Canadian terms) has ever felt, or properly understood the threat of communism like our parents did. Perhaps a better way to say it is that communism seems very distant, and, as such, is totally foreign to us. What I have learned after my time in Dresden is that though Germany is unified in name, the reality is that the country is still defined by these two terms East and West.
Yesterday in Berlin an old friend of my Dad's good friend Frank who was kindly taking us to lunch said something quite extraordinary to me. "The war (WWII) didn't really end in this country until 1989." I had not quite thought about it in those terms, but certainly I felt closer to WWII in Dresden and Berlin than I ever had reading books or studying history. The effects of the War are everywhere in this country, from the mental scars of Soviet occupation, to the physical scars still evident in the geography. So much of East Germany has only recently been cleaned up after the buildings ruined in the war were left untouched until re-unification. Driving into Dresden we saw abandoned buildings with trees growing out of 2nd story windows, walls pockmarked with bullet holes, and countless edifices covered with banners showing pictures of what the building will look like when its restoration is complete. Dresden is a city of cranes, and building zones, and empty spaces.
With the surge of building and rebuilding has come amazing innovation. Dad, D and I had lunch at Volkswagen's "Transparent Factory" where you can eat and watch cars being assembled in a factory that looks like it came out of the space age. All of the floors are made of wood, and the walls of glass. Workers wear white lab coats and often gloves. The cars are hung from a conveyor belt in the ceiling that moves each vehicle along to the next station. It was totally fascinating. But, that was Dresden all over, a city of opposites, so deeply rooted in history and yet so committed to a vision of a brighter future.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
My Dad, Germany and Partnerschaft
Driving on the autobahn with my Dad, listening to stories of his wild days in pre-unification Germany, I felt like I was getting new insight into my childhood. In the heyday that was the 1980’s and early 90’s, my Dad worked for a German computer company called Nixdorf, and as such he was required to spend quite a bit of time travelling in Germany. When I was barely old enough my Dad would regale me with stories about “his Germany”, a bacchanalian world of big parties, big hotels and big deals. There was the time that my Dad was drinking flaming Freisengeist in a 2CV (a model of a Citroen) and he lit his hand on fire, and subsequently the whole backseat of the car. There was the time that a big celebration in Frankfurt at the hotel Intercontinental turned into a naked snowball fight on the roof. And there was the time that Nixdorf decided to make their sales logo of the year “partnerschaft”, and my Dad had to explain how that didn’t really translate well into English. They used it anyway, and my Dad still has a button with the slogan printed obstinately across it. Finally there was the time that the head of the company Heinz Nixdorf dropped dead while dancing at a Nixdorf party in Hanover. All of this is to say that I am really pleased to have this opportunity to travel Germany with my Dad and retrace some of his footsteps.
Of course, my Dad hasn’t been to Germany for a number of years, and so he has needed some time to re-adjust. Driving along the autobahn, he was consistently taken aback as small “pea-shooter” cars, as he calls them, passed him (in his BMV) at 160 km per hour. D reminded him that he would have to get used to not being the fastest car on the road. Also he has taken to responding to German waiters in Spanish, this is especially humorous since my Dad doesn’t speak Spanish.
Our first day we drove to Weimar, guided expertly by our in car navigation system, which we have named Marta. Arriving at the Hotel Elephant in Weimar, I immediately sank into a cushy life of luxury, my hostel/backpack dragging experience out of sight and mind. Our room was a beautiful suite with master bathroom, bedroom, and living room/my bedroom, which had book-lined shelves, inviting leather furniture and a small silver tray garnished with perfectly ripe fruit, still water, and chocolates. I was in heaven. That night we ate at a traditional tavern, where Napoleon’s army had been billeted. Filled with good food and wine, I slept like a baby for the first time in months.
Weimar is a beautiful little town, slightly austere, but swimming in culture. Not only is it the famous home of Goethe and Schiller, but also a number of other famous Germans including Bach, Wagner, Clara Schumann, and is the home of the original Bauhaus. Our hotel appears to have been, and still is today, a patron of the arts providing lodging for a number of the aforementioned people. Though old in name, the hotel was totally rebuilt after the war. The first guest to sign the register once the hotel was re-opened was Thomas Mann, who was inspired to write Lotte in Weimar there. I read that fact with great pleasure, since I had just picked up a short collection of Mann's stories in Munich.
We didn’t have long to stay in Weimar, but before we left we enjoyed a fabulous brunch at a local restaurant. The brunch was called “Prosecco Brunch,” does that sound made for me or what? I got to drink unlimited Prosecco while eating a delicious assortment of German-Asian fusion delicacies. Looking at my Dad and D, I nearly wept with gratitude.
Our next destination: Dresden. Stay tuned.
Of course, my Dad hasn’t been to Germany for a number of years, and so he has needed some time to re-adjust. Driving along the autobahn, he was consistently taken aback as small “pea-shooter” cars, as he calls them, passed him (in his BMV) at 160 km per hour. D reminded him that he would have to get used to not being the fastest car on the road. Also he has taken to responding to German waiters in Spanish, this is especially humorous since my Dad doesn’t speak Spanish.
Our first day we drove to Weimar, guided expertly by our in car navigation system, which we have named Marta. Arriving at the Hotel Elephant in Weimar, I immediately sank into a cushy life of luxury, my hostel/backpack dragging experience out of sight and mind. Our room was a beautiful suite with master bathroom, bedroom, and living room/my bedroom, which had book-lined shelves, inviting leather furniture and a small silver tray garnished with perfectly ripe fruit, still water, and chocolates. I was in heaven. That night we ate at a traditional tavern, where Napoleon’s army had been billeted. Filled with good food and wine, I slept like a baby for the first time in months.
Weimar is a beautiful little town, slightly austere, but swimming in culture. Not only is it the famous home of Goethe and Schiller, but also a number of other famous Germans including Bach, Wagner, Clara Schumann, and is the home of the original Bauhaus. Our hotel appears to have been, and still is today, a patron of the arts providing lodging for a number of the aforementioned people. Though old in name, the hotel was totally rebuilt after the war. The first guest to sign the register once the hotel was re-opened was Thomas Mann, who was inspired to write Lotte in Weimar there. I read that fact with great pleasure, since I had just picked up a short collection of Mann's stories in Munich.
We didn’t have long to stay in Weimar, but before we left we enjoyed a fabulous brunch at a local restaurant. The brunch was called “Prosecco Brunch,” does that sound made for me or what? I got to drink unlimited Prosecco while eating a delicious assortment of German-Asian fusion delicacies. Looking at my Dad and D, I nearly wept with gratitude.
Our next destination: Dresden. Stay tuned.
In Frankfurt Among Friends
I don’t really have that much to say about Frankfurt considering I spent so little time there (less than 12 hours), except to say that it was a fantastic place to meet people. My hostel, conveniently located across from the train station, was called the “Stay and Learn” hostel. Considering that it was sitting smack dab in the middle of the red light district I was curious to know what it was that I would be learning there…hopefully not a new trade. Upon arriving I immediately sussed out the nearest Laundromat for a much needed re-fresh for my clothing. There I happened upon an Australian couple chatting with a New Zealander. Learning that I was a fellow Commonwealther, they let me sit with them and gave me a few tips about the machines. After a while the couple left, and Peter (the Kiwi) and I continued chatting. We got along so well that we decided to go for dinner together. Back at the hostel I was lucky enough to be rooming with 4 other Canadian girls, including one named Jessica. We all enjoyed a very pleasant breakfast together, and so for the first time in a long time I didn’t have to eat alone. The next morning I was away in good time to meet my Dad and D at the airport, waiting for them anticipatorially at the gate barrier strewn with the debris of single roses unimaginative boyfriends had bought for their newly arrived girlfriends, and that was that for Frankfurt.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Hostels: The Cold Hard Facts
I've had to come to the realization that you can't travel really cheaply and sleep well. If you can budget a B&B trip life is golden, but no one comes to a hostel thinking they're going to catch up on some beauty sleep.
When staying in a 20 person room the odds are clearly against you. Let's break it down. There will always be people walking in and out (and here in Munich the only door slams shut no matter how hard you try to soften the sound), but let's say there will be about 10 people who are going to come home between the hours of 2 and 5. Five of those people (at least) will be boisterously drunk, and at least three will be speaking at perfectly audible levels. They'll crash around, turning lights on and off, and laughing maniacally when they drop something loudly. So, you always know that if by some chance you were asleep, it will be interrupted at some point. Then there are the other nine people who clamber into bed at roughly the same time as you. Three of those people will snore (something I cannot sleep through), one will make weird noises in their sleep, two will play annoying games on their phone/electronic device that results in an orgy of clicking noises every time they get to the tricky part of the level. The other 3 are normal people like yourself (if you are lucky). BUT, it's really cheap, so that's supposed to make up for it. On the other hand, I'm paying 13.50 euros a night for sleep deprivation. From that perspective it seems a little steep.
In the meantime I've been wandering Munich, visiting great art galleries, and eating traditional German food like Sushi and pizza. Tomorrow it's Frankfurt, then luxury with Dad and D in Weimar, Dresden and Berlin.
When staying in a 20 person room the odds are clearly against you. Let's break it down. There will always be people walking in and out (and here in Munich the only door slams shut no matter how hard you try to soften the sound), but let's say there will be about 10 people who are going to come home between the hours of 2 and 5. Five of those people (at least) will be boisterously drunk, and at least three will be speaking at perfectly audible levels. They'll crash around, turning lights on and off, and laughing maniacally when they drop something loudly. So, you always know that if by some chance you were asleep, it will be interrupted at some point. Then there are the other nine people who clamber into bed at roughly the same time as you. Three of those people will snore (something I cannot sleep through), one will make weird noises in their sleep, two will play annoying games on their phone/electronic device that results in an orgy of clicking noises every time they get to the tricky part of the level. The other 3 are normal people like yourself (if you are lucky). BUT, it's really cheap, so that's supposed to make up for it. On the other hand, I'm paying 13.50 euros a night for sleep deprivation. From that perspective it seems a little steep.
In the meantime I've been wandering Munich, visiting great art galleries, and eating traditional German food like Sushi and pizza. Tomorrow it's Frankfurt, then luxury with Dad and D in Weimar, Dresden and Berlin.
Everybody Loves a Girl with a Backpack Part 3
As much as the backpack embarrasses me, sometimes I think that I do it, and myself a disservice by trying so hard to look like we don't belong together. Case in point:
Yesterday I realized that I had picked out my travel outfit a little unwisely. Dressed in black linen pants, black driving mocs, a black trench coat, and vibrant scarf, I was doing my best impression of a young professional. Young professionals do not carry giant backpacks half the size of themselves. It made for a confusing image. It became especially awkward when I arrived at my hostel. The guy at the reception quickly appraised my young business professional look and asked if I was quite sure that I had booked myself into a 20 person dorm room. "Yes," I affirmed. It was then that he caught sight of my backpack and murmured, "Oh right," in a way that said, "you have no idea what you're doing, do you."
As I was dragging the purple and green monster into luggage storage a little boy stared at me and tugged on his mother's sleeve. I bet he was saying, "but she looks like a grownup Mommy."
Yesterday I realized that I had picked out my travel outfit a little unwisely. Dressed in black linen pants, black driving mocs, a black trench coat, and vibrant scarf, I was doing my best impression of a young professional. Young professionals do not carry giant backpacks half the size of themselves. It made for a confusing image. It became especially awkward when I arrived at my hostel. The guy at the reception quickly appraised my young business professional look and asked if I was quite sure that I had booked myself into a 20 person dorm room. "Yes," I affirmed. It was then that he caught sight of my backpack and murmured, "Oh right," in a way that said, "you have no idea what you're doing, do you."
As I was dragging the purple and green monster into luggage storage a little boy stared at me and tugged on his mother's sleeve. I bet he was saying, "but she looks like a grownup Mommy."
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Wetting My Whistle at the Alte Pinakothek
Me: (at the cafe in the gallery) "a glass of Prosecco please"
Waiter: "Prosecco...you have something to celebrate?"
Me: (after a brief moment of contemplation) "My first visit to Munich"
Waiter: "Cool"
As if I needed a reason to indulge in a little Prosecco at a quarter after 12 on a Wednesday! Yesterday's glass of Prosecco in Salzburg reminded me of what I'd been doing without. My good friend Shawon will well attest to the benefits of Prosecco, even an overindulgence of Prosecco, knowledge gained during our time spent in Italy together. Our next trip is supposed to be a pilgrimage tour of churches en route to Santa Maria da Compostella. Knowing Shawon and I, and our relative lack of biking experience, mixed with a zealous hatred of backpacking, I project that Prosecco might become an essential antidote to the aches and pains we will suffer in the name of our dedication to great art.
In the meantime I enjoyed it as a prelude to my venerative trip around the gallery. Delicious!
Waiter: "Prosecco...you have something to celebrate?"
Me: (after a brief moment of contemplation) "My first visit to Munich"
Waiter: "Cool"
As if I needed a reason to indulge in a little Prosecco at a quarter after 12 on a Wednesday! Yesterday's glass of Prosecco in Salzburg reminded me of what I'd been doing without. My good friend Shawon will well attest to the benefits of Prosecco, even an overindulgence of Prosecco, knowledge gained during our time spent in Italy together. Our next trip is supposed to be a pilgrimage tour of churches en route to Santa Maria da Compostella. Knowing Shawon and I, and our relative lack of biking experience, mixed with a zealous hatred of backpacking, I project that Prosecco might become an essential antidote to the aches and pains we will suffer in the name of our dedication to great art.
In the meantime I enjoyed it as a prelude to my venerative trip around the gallery. Delicious!
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Rubens Retraction
As my friend Shawon pointed out, perhaps I was a little harsh on Rubens. It might not be entirely fair to call him talentless. I just don't happen to appreciate his talents. BUT, having said that I still don't understand why his people have to be rendered exclusively in either vibrant shades of pink, or green. What's going on there?
The Tour
Well, what can I say about the "Sound of Music Tour"? It was fabulous on so many levels, I hardly know where to begin. Well, I'll start at the very beginning, a very good place to start (funny huh!). I had to catch my bus at Mirabellplatz close to the gardens where "Doe a Deer" was sung. I sidled up to it with a low sinking feeling in my stomach. The bus was just so conspicuous, with a large picture of Julie Andrews and some of the children plastered on the side. There was really no way to play this cool, clearly I was here to celebrate my inner "Sound of Music" dork.
Inside the bus I was surprised to discover that most of the other passengers were other Europeans, with a smattering of Americans, and a small contingent of Japanese fans. The leader of our tour was a suitably enthusiastic American named Peter, who had relocated to Salzburg (I didn't catch why) and had been so touched by the movie, and its fans that he took this on as his day job. Speaking to him one on one, as I did while he flirted outrageously with me (sometimes my red hair gets me into trouble!), he had a perfectly normal voice. However, as soon as he got that microphone in his hand, Peter started to channel his inner Jon Lovitz. For those of you who may not know who Jon Lovitz is, he is currently annoying us all in his commercials for Subway (sandwiches). Anyway, nothing in my mind could be funnier than Jon Lovitz expressing his love for the "Sound of Music", acting out favourite scenes and singing some favourite songs. I spent the first ten minutes of the tour trying not to giggle before I acclimatised.
I must say I had a fantastic time. I saw things I would not have otherwise seen, including the Lake District outside of Salzburg. The bus wasn't tightly packed so I had two seats to myself, and lots of window to gaze out of.
Here are some of the interesting facts I learned about the movie and greater Salzburg.
- Salzburg has 45 Catholic churches (that's a lot of bells)
- below the fortress on the mountain that I visited yesterday is a little cottage sitting all alone. That was the town executioner's house. No one else wanted to live anywhere near him, so he was left alone in the middle of this enormous field tending his garden, where occasionally he would take a few practice swings at some heads of lettuce.
- the real Maria died of gangrene in the 80's due to the fact that she had an almost exclusive diet of cheese.
- the Red Bull head office is a series of round gazebo like buildings that seemingly float in a network of infinity pools.
- The gazebo used for the exterior shot of "I am 16" used to be located next to the house they used as the back of the Von Trapp mansion. It remained there until 1989 when it was removed because of the constant flow of tourists who would illegally sneak onto the grounds of the house (now a convention center) and dance around singing "I am 16 going on 17" loudly. It disrupted the conferences and was thus moved further outside the city.
Honestly if anyone is in Salzburg in the near future, I would say go for it. It was an afternoon well spent.
Inside the bus I was surprised to discover that most of the other passengers were other Europeans, with a smattering of Americans, and a small contingent of Japanese fans. The leader of our tour was a suitably enthusiastic American named Peter, who had relocated to Salzburg (I didn't catch why) and had been so touched by the movie, and its fans that he took this on as his day job. Speaking to him one on one, as I did while he flirted outrageously with me (sometimes my red hair gets me into trouble!), he had a perfectly normal voice. However, as soon as he got that microphone in his hand, Peter started to channel his inner Jon Lovitz. For those of you who may not know who Jon Lovitz is, he is currently annoying us all in his commercials for Subway (sandwiches). Anyway, nothing in my mind could be funnier than Jon Lovitz expressing his love for the "Sound of Music", acting out favourite scenes and singing some favourite songs. I spent the first ten minutes of the tour trying not to giggle before I acclimatised.
I must say I had a fantastic time. I saw things I would not have otherwise seen, including the Lake District outside of Salzburg. The bus wasn't tightly packed so I had two seats to myself, and lots of window to gaze out of.
Here are some of the interesting facts I learned about the movie and greater Salzburg.
- Salzburg has 45 Catholic churches (that's a lot of bells)
- below the fortress on the mountain that I visited yesterday is a little cottage sitting all alone. That was the town executioner's house. No one else wanted to live anywhere near him, so he was left alone in the middle of this enormous field tending his garden, where occasionally he would take a few practice swings at some heads of lettuce.
- the real Maria died of gangrene in the 80's due to the fact that she had an almost exclusive diet of cheese.
- the Red Bull head office is a series of round gazebo like buildings that seemingly float in a network of infinity pools.
- The gazebo used for the exterior shot of "I am 16" used to be located next to the house they used as the back of the Von Trapp mansion. It remained there until 1989 when it was removed because of the constant flow of tourists who would illegally sneak onto the grounds of the house (now a convention center) and dance around singing "I am 16 going on 17" loudly. It disrupted the conferences and was thus moved further outside the city.
Honestly if anyone is in Salzburg in the near future, I would say go for it. It was an afternoon well spent.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
P.S.
I really will get back to describing the Mass I went to. I've been caught up in wanting to describe Salzburg first, but I haven't forgotten.
A Little Night Music in Salzburg
Just when I thought, "I'm beginning to get a little bored," I find myself sitting in a little bar, which rests in the shadow of a medieval fortress overlooking a vista of mountains rivaling those I saw in Como. In Como the mountains were gracefully sloping, each successive peak mirroring the one that came before it in a seemingly endless genesis of no known origin. Here, there is no careful pattern, no rhyme or reason to the mountains - each is distinctive. Some are peaked, others flat, and others rounded. Their irregularity lends itself to a dramatic view. I felt I should toast it with a glass or Prosecco (which I have just spilled on my notebook. Classic.).
Salzburg is best known for its most famous son: Mozart, and the Von Trapp family immortalized in The Sound of Music. In fact, I am this very afternoon going to do something dreadfully touristy and take an official "Sound of Music Tour". If it is anything like what I imagine I will be on a bus for four hours with a lot of Americans participating in a sing-a-long.
In the meantime I have been exploring Salzburg at my own leisure. Like Bruges it is a small town appealing to high-end tourists with a number of designer stores, and overpriced restaurants. I indulged in some discount shopping at the local H&M. Happily for me, it is also a town of many churches, each with its own distinct architecture, which is surprising for such a small place. They do all share a common feature however: bells. You may recall that Nina and I were cursed with a bell ringing church in Atrani. These bells are less annoying and more humorous. They ring on the hour, however, when exactly the hour strikes seems to be a point of contention among them. The bells begin to ring around the hour mark (according to my watch) and go on for about seven minutes. One aggressively independent church chimes at 20 minutes past the hour, which jarred me out of sleep last night.
My room is in a 14th century Pension, which sits at the foot of the mountain with the fortress, and is an official papal residency for when anyone from Rome comes to town. Frau Anna who runs it could not be nicer. Today she gave me some stamps she thought I might be able to use. Here's the best thing of all: last night as I was reading a choir started rehearsing and I fell asleep to the sound of their singing.
Sigh.
Monday, October 15, 2007
RUEbens
The mis-spelling is purposeful because I rue the day that Rubens ever decided to pick up a brush and become a Dutch superstar. I've seen a LOT of Rubens paintings so far, because he appears to be the most prolific painter the world has ever known. There is a lot to go around. Every major gallery I've been to has had ol' Rube highlighted in a central place of honour. For some reason they have all failed to notice that he ISN'T talented. I've now had to come to the conclusion that as a result of his outrageously large body of work galleries have had to take the stance that Rubens was a genius in order to justify their large collection of his paintings.
I've tried to stay calm, but yesterday I almost lost it. Researching Munich at my favourite Internet cafe, I was happily looking over the description of the Alte Pinakothek when I was brought to a dead halt by the following sentence: "Rubens occupies (with one of the largest collections of his work in the world) the center of the museum". WHAT? I felt sure I had already seen the largest collection of Rubens ever at the Louvre, but apparently there is more. When will it end?
Let's all hope I get out of the Alte Pinakothek alive.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Loge Envy at the Opera
I don't know what I expected getting a standing room ticket for the opera, but as much as I tried I couldn't shake the feeling that I might have felt happier sitting in a loge (box), with a dress, and heels, and a handsome escort. As it was, I was standing, very far away from the action, and in pants. Having said that, the music was divine, and I could see the stage moderately well (better after a pack of teenage girls left after the first act).
Navigating my way through the Opera House was a little tedious. My ticket had no indication whatsoever of where I was supposed to stand, so I kept having to ask people. Note for all future Opera attendees: being charming and girlish has no effect on Viennese ushers, they all seem to lack a basic sense of humour.
The Opera House itself was a little less grand than I had expected, which is pretty much the way I feel about Vienna in general. Vienna seems to be a city whose true allure lies in the fact that it has unquestionably excellent treasure troves of art, cutting edge museums, and fabulous music. That is to say it is the things inside the city's buildings that are appealing, not so much the buildings themselves. Vienna has a sort of general European look to it. I think of it as a grungier, fall less opulent Paris with some southern colour giving it a bit of flair. The buildings I like best all evoke Italy done in cotton candy pinks, butter creams, and sunflower yellows; occasionally I even catch sight of my favourite shade of peach.
Fashion here it likewise dull. The flare never seems to have gone out. Every man, woman, and child is sporting a pair of flared jeans. Also the Victorian boot trend I admired so much in Belgium (apparently shoe mecca) seems to be available in shops, but unembraced by the masses. Occasionally I see a well dressed person, cutting a trim figure in straight leg pants, flats and an elegant scarf. They're probably a Belgian tourist. It is funny to pick out tourists from other countries I've already been to. My favourite are the Italians. Their sequined clothing always manages to catch my eye, then I notice the platform running shoes and I know. Now it is wrong to generalize, it really is (kids you pay attention!), but I must admit that there is great satisfaction when I hear the "Alora" and a string of Italian following.
One of my most favourite things about Vienna is my Internet cafe, a place where they encourage you to eat and drink around the computers. I am always happy to oblige. The other thing I have really enjoyed (outside of the museums of course) is the mass I went to this morning. As foretold in my guidebook it had a full orchestra as well as choir. The music was really lovely. Tomorrow when I'm resettled in Salzburg I'll recount the experience properly.
Until then.
Navigating my way through the Opera House was a little tedious. My ticket had no indication whatsoever of where I was supposed to stand, so I kept having to ask people. Note for all future Opera attendees: being charming and girlish has no effect on Viennese ushers, they all seem to lack a basic sense of humour.
The Opera House itself was a little less grand than I had expected, which is pretty much the way I feel about Vienna in general. Vienna seems to be a city whose true allure lies in the fact that it has unquestionably excellent treasure troves of art, cutting edge museums, and fabulous music. That is to say it is the things inside the city's buildings that are appealing, not so much the buildings themselves. Vienna has a sort of general European look to it. I think of it as a grungier, fall less opulent Paris with some southern colour giving it a bit of flair. The buildings I like best all evoke Italy done in cotton candy pinks, butter creams, and sunflower yellows; occasionally I even catch sight of my favourite shade of peach.
Fashion here it likewise dull. The flare never seems to have gone out. Every man, woman, and child is sporting a pair of flared jeans. Also the Victorian boot trend I admired so much in Belgium (apparently shoe mecca) seems to be available in shops, but unembraced by the masses. Occasionally I see a well dressed person, cutting a trim figure in straight leg pants, flats and an elegant scarf. They're probably a Belgian tourist. It is funny to pick out tourists from other countries I've already been to. My favourite are the Italians. Their sequined clothing always manages to catch my eye, then I notice the platform running shoes and I know. Now it is wrong to generalize, it really is (kids you pay attention!), but I must admit that there is great satisfaction when I hear the "Alora" and a string of Italian following.
One of my most favourite things about Vienna is my Internet cafe, a place where they encourage you to eat and drink around the computers. I am always happy to oblige. The other thing I have really enjoyed (outside of the museums of course) is the mass I went to this morning. As foretold in my guidebook it had a full orchestra as well as choir. The music was really lovely. Tomorrow when I'm resettled in Salzburg I'll recount the experience properly.
Until then.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
A Moment of Contemplation in the Kunsthistoriches Museum
One of the wonderful things about being so familiar with a great number of paintings, as I am, is that meeting them face to face in a gallery is like meeting an old friend, someone you know through and through. Not being very familiar with the collection at the Kunsthistoriches I was surprised to see so many familiar faces: Rembrandt, Jane Seymour (the ill fated wife of Henry the VIII not Dr. Quinn), Augustus, and, unfortunately, Rubens' fleshy faces of which there are a seemingly endless supply.
Sometimes when I see a painting I have studied it is exactly the way I thought it would look. The size, the colours, the dynamism, all of it was well transferred to whatever slide/textbook I had memorized it from. When I stand in front of those works I run my mind back through all the facts and figures I bothered to learn and compare them to the real thing. As pleasurable as that is (I know I'm a HUGE nerd), it is a wholly academic experience and most of my personal, or emotional response is caught up in a scholarly evaluation of its merits or failures.
Then there are those paintings that are so much better in life than I ever could have hoped for. These are the works that get my full bodily and emotional response. When I say "bodily" I mean it in the sense that a great painting will appeal to all of your senses through the medium of sight. It isn't as if you are transported into the painting, or anything hokey like that, but the desire to smell, touch, taste, and hear the subject matter of the painting can become very acute. In that way your whole body is wakened and open to a myriad of interpretations or observations. It's very exciting.
My emotional response is harder to explain. Why am I brought to tears before some of my favourite paintings? Obviously there are mitigating factors for each. When I saw Caravaggio's Christ Crowned with Thorns (fourth from the top) it was Christ's bowed head, his hair hanging long behind his shoulder, oddly feminine as Caravaggio often makes his Christs, yet powerfully masculine at the same time that made me catch my breath. Maybe even more than that was the guard's sleeve (which you can't see in this crummy slide), the perfect shadowed folds of cloth made me tear at the thought of Caravaggio, an untrained artist, being able to capture something so perfectly.
In Correggio's Jupiter and Io (third from the top) it is Jupiter's hand, masked in grey cloud, enfolding itself around Io's back, her head thrown back, breath held as Jupiter's face emerging from the cloud bends to kiss her. How would it feel to be kissed by a cloud?
In Vermeer's The Artist's Studio (second from the top) it is his perfect light, which enlivens everything it touches - all of the different materials and textures in the painted room. I particularly love how it touches the figure of the artist himself on the white parts of his shirt and socks.
Pieter Bruegel the Elder's Hunter's in the Snow (top) isn't a painting that would ever make me cry, it simply fascinates me. I looked at for the longest time of any painting in the museum. I love so particularly the strong curving musculature of the men's legs, the curly tails of the dogs, and the roaring fire behind them. I have always felt like it was an illustration to a story I loved, but not any one in particular. I guess for me it is the perfect illustration of folklore, or folktales in its archetypal rendering of the crude faceless, yet familiar characters.
But now I am brought back to my original question. Why is my admiration so emotional instead of simply appreciative of the artists' achievements? All the paintings I like, though from a variety of geographic locations and eras, are figural and rendered with a realist eye for detail. That is not to say that they are a bland reproduction of what we could see everyday, that is the source of their magic, they show us something else. I think what I like so much about these paintings is their realism celebrates us, human beings, and our real, material achievements, indeed a painting itself is that very thing. But, at the same time, what is depicts isn't real, it's an artist's interpretation of our tangibile world, and so it also represents the beauty of the human mind. I think that is where the beauty lies for me: contemplating something that is so real looking, and yet so intangible. I couldn't even try to make it real. Perhaps that is why there are so many recorded fantasies about art coming to life, it is hard to reduce a painting to just canvas and paint.
Oh I don't know. I don't think I really answered my question properly! I'll keep thinking about it, after all I have a lot of time on my hands.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Giddy in Vienna
For some reason sitting in front of the airport, waiting for a bus to take me into the city center, I began to grow deliriously happy. Maybe it was the after effects of completing a successful flight during which I imagined myself as an Indiana Jones figure to offset my slight worries about the high pitched, 1940's esque sound the engine was making. If only I'd had the whip and the hat! Maybe it was the fact that I was looking out at a stunningly designed hotel, whose proximity to the airport seemed incongruous with its good taste. I thought to myself, "you are going to see some really good art here."
sparkled with thousands of energy Looking through the window of my bus everything seemed marvelous to me. Power plantsefficient lights, Colosseum-like buildings, their domes done in glass, imposed themselves imperially on the skyline, and even the bus itself seemed futuristic, or at least much nicer than any bus I've ridden in Canada. Having just watched Logan's Run the night before perhaps I was in a mood inclined to interpret things as being ahead of their time. Regardless, the end result was that I am very impressed.
sparkled with thousands of energy Looking through the window of my bus everything seemed marvelous to me. Power plantsefficient lights, Colosseum-like buildings, their domes done in glass, imposed themselves imperially on the skyline, and even the bus itself seemed futuristic, or at least much nicer than any bus I've ridden in Canada. Having just watched Logan's Run the night before perhaps I was in a mood inclined to interpret things as being ahead of their time. Regardless, the end result was that I am very impressed.
Everybody Loves a Girl with a Backpack Part 2
You know that feeling when you watch your luggage come out on the baggage carousel after your flight? That's when you breathe a sigh of relief and think, "thank God my clothes didn't end up in Istanbul." I have that feeling too, of course, but it is quickly followed by a kind of horror. Can that bloated purple and green monstrosity with a sleeping bag poking embarrassingly out of top really be mine? And for the one millionth time I wish I wasn't a backpacker, and that I had some nice Louis Vuitton luggage (Christmas anyone?...I didn't think so). I almost let it go by, but then I reach out and pull it off the carousel, ignoring the giggles, and looks of astonishment as I swing it up onto my back (not quite gracefully), and walk away in search of the next adventure.
For better or worse we are a kind of team. Unfortunately, between the two of us I am doing all the work.
For better or worse we are a kind of team. Unfortunately, between the two of us I am doing all the work.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Getting into the Groove
The more I continue to travel, the more I notice how important it is to get into the rhythm of each city I visit. This can manifest itself in a variety of ways. Most pressing, in my mind, is to get an accurate picture of what it means to be a pedestrian in that given place.
In Naples no one adheres to any signage, so crossing streets requires a mixture of a determined "stare the driver down" mentality, and a healthy dose of common sense/intuition/nimble foot work when it looks unlikely that the driver(s) would have any qualms about running you over. In Belgium life moves at a slower place. There people adhere to the laws of traffic to an almost unnatural degree, whereby people will stand at a cross walk for LONG periods of time with ample safe crossing opportunities, and not even consider taking advantage. Frustrated with this abrasive change from the "devil may care" attitude in Naples to "slow and steady wins the race", Nina and I would often cross illegally yelling "NAPOLI STYLE" loudly as we did so.
Here in Amsterdam Nina and I experienced something more akin to Naples, but with a new opponent: the cyclist. Before crossing any street in Amsterdam it is essential to look all fours ways (especially behind you). Bicycles are the most popular mode of transport here, and you see all ages zipping past you at top speed. Whereas in Naples there are traffic lights even if no one cares to look at them, here they have recognised the same total lack of regard for road signage and done away with it all together. My first day I stepped out in front of a cyclist, who did in fact break for me, but in doing so caused a three bike pile-up behind him. Shaun later observed that the only reason he had stopped was probably because he was also a tourist.
Another important rhythm to pick up is food culture. In Italy, for example, there are very strict rules about coffee drinking, which I always forget, or flagrantly disregard. For example, it is a huge faux pas to have more than one cappuccino in a sitting - a crime I have committed countless times. Also people eat quite late, and if you do gauchely decide to wander out in search of food before 7 - you'll find most places closed. Here in the Netherlands, as in Belgium, people start their meals earlier, but enjoy them over a long period.
Local delicacies range from place to place. Nina and I accidentally sampled something called an "American Sandwich", which we thought was sun dried tomato paste and mozzarella on first inspection. Upon taking a bite, we found the cheese was actually egg and the paste totally unidentifiable, but tasty. Shaun later informed us that it was a popular sauce made with pureed raw meat.
Our most humorous faux pas, however, was committed at a pancake house on Nina's last morning. Pancakes here are basically crepes, light with sweet or savory toppings . On the front of the menu was a delicious looking picture of a chocolate, banana, and whipped cream pancake that caught Nina's eye immediately. When our slightly dilapidated looking, elderly waitress/the owner? came over to take our orders she received Nina's with a loud series of snorts and a lot of eyebrow raising. Nina became self-conscious and asked if there was anything wrong with her choice. We got a mumbled answer about it being early in the day for something that sweet. Tempting fate I decided to order the same. This was taken down onto her pad with more snorting, and concerned looks for my sanity. Shaun, really getting into the spirit of the moment, ordered the same, and adding insult to injury, added a hot chocolate with whipped cream. At this point the snorting had become positively uproarious, and she walked away from us shaking her head and mumbling something about tourists under her breath. We couldn't help it; we bust into laughter. Luckily she was good natured about the whole thing in the end, and we left her with smiles all 'round.
In Naples no one adheres to any signage, so crossing streets requires a mixture of a determined "stare the driver down" mentality, and a healthy dose of common sense/intuition/nimble foot work when it looks unlikely that the driver(s) would have any qualms about running you over. In Belgium life moves at a slower place. There people adhere to the laws of traffic to an almost unnatural degree, whereby people will stand at a cross walk for LONG periods of time with ample safe crossing opportunities, and not even consider taking advantage. Frustrated with this abrasive change from the "devil may care" attitude in Naples to "slow and steady wins the race", Nina and I would often cross illegally yelling "NAPOLI STYLE" loudly as we did so.
Here in Amsterdam Nina and I experienced something more akin to Naples, but with a new opponent: the cyclist. Before crossing any street in Amsterdam it is essential to look all fours ways (especially behind you). Bicycles are the most popular mode of transport here, and you see all ages zipping past you at top speed. Whereas in Naples there are traffic lights even if no one cares to look at them, here they have recognised the same total lack of regard for road signage and done away with it all together. My first day I stepped out in front of a cyclist, who did in fact break for me, but in doing so caused a three bike pile-up behind him. Shaun later observed that the only reason he had stopped was probably because he was also a tourist.
Another important rhythm to pick up is food culture. In Italy, for example, there are very strict rules about coffee drinking, which I always forget, or flagrantly disregard. For example, it is a huge faux pas to have more than one cappuccino in a sitting - a crime I have committed countless times. Also people eat quite late, and if you do gauchely decide to wander out in search of food before 7 - you'll find most places closed. Here in the Netherlands, as in Belgium, people start their meals earlier, but enjoy them over a long period.
Local delicacies range from place to place. Nina and I accidentally sampled something called an "American Sandwich", which we thought was sun dried tomato paste and mozzarella on first inspection. Upon taking a bite, we found the cheese was actually egg and the paste totally unidentifiable, but tasty. Shaun later informed us that it was a popular sauce made with pureed raw meat.
Our most humorous faux pas, however, was committed at a pancake house on Nina's last morning. Pancakes here are basically crepes, light with sweet or savory toppings . On the front of the menu was a delicious looking picture of a chocolate, banana, and whipped cream pancake that caught Nina's eye immediately. When our slightly dilapidated looking, elderly waitress/the owner? came over to take our orders she received Nina's with a loud series of snorts and a lot of eyebrow raising. Nina became self-conscious and asked if there was anything wrong with her choice. We got a mumbled answer about it being early in the day for something that sweet. Tempting fate I decided to order the same. This was taken down onto her pad with more snorting, and concerned looks for my sanity. Shaun, really getting into the spirit of the moment, ordered the same, and adding insult to injury, added a hot chocolate with whipped cream. At this point the snorting had become positively uproarious, and she walked away from us shaking her head and mumbling something about tourists under her breath. We couldn't help it; we bust into laughter. Luckily she was good natured about the whole thing in the end, and we left her with smiles all 'round.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Finally Fall
Thankfully we seem to have phased out of the rainy weather (knock wood), and I really feel like it is fall as last. While the trees here don't really change drastically, they are displaying a bit of colour reflected brilliantly in the canals, which in turn, enhances the warm brick tones of all the houses.
Everywhere we turn there is another long canal to gaze down, our minds caught up in the romance of bridges and heavy hanging trees as far as the eye can see. Sadly in reality these canals aren't all romance as we learned from a cheery woman we shared some chocolate with on the train from Antwerp. After talking for a while she finally admitted to us that she was here for a funeral of a friend who had drowned, and that that is not an uncommon occurrence here.
All the houses are tall and stately. Shaun tells me this is because taxes were/are so high on canal facing properties. People got around this by building tall, skinny houses. Nina likes to look for the hooks just below the roof line that are used for moving things in and out of top floor apartments.
Hmmm, Shaun has just asked if I want to go out and get Chinese food. Sorry, food wins. I'll finish this post later.
(Later)
You can't imagine how pleasurable it was to get Dim sum so far from home. I'm stuffed. And, for all of you who were wondering - that was my Thanksgiving dinner (although I did make mashed potatoes Monday night).
To finish up with the houses of Amsterdam, the other quite remarkable thing is that due to their age, and height perhaps, many of them are leaning at alarming angles. It's a wonder if anyone inside can set something down on a flat surface without it rolling away. Sometimes if you look down a long row of houses you can see how they are buckling, as if all of them are getting a little plump in their old age. There are two houses in particular that Shaun tells me are famous for how much they lean against one another. They look like very old friends, keeping each other going. And for that reason, I named them "Nina" and "Jess".
Everywhere we turn there is another long canal to gaze down, our minds caught up in the romance of bridges and heavy hanging trees as far as the eye can see. Sadly in reality these canals aren't all romance as we learned from a cheery woman we shared some chocolate with on the train from Antwerp. After talking for a while she finally admitted to us that she was here for a funeral of a friend who had drowned, and that that is not an uncommon occurrence here.
All the houses are tall and stately. Shaun tells me this is because taxes were/are so high on canal facing properties. People got around this by building tall, skinny houses. Nina likes to look for the hooks just below the roof line that are used for moving things in and out of top floor apartments.
Hmmm, Shaun has just asked if I want to go out and get Chinese food. Sorry, food wins. I'll finish this post later.
(Later)
You can't imagine how pleasurable it was to get Dim sum so far from home. I'm stuffed. And, for all of you who were wondering - that was my Thanksgiving dinner (although I did make mashed potatoes Monday night).
To finish up with the houses of Amsterdam, the other quite remarkable thing is that due to their age, and height perhaps, many of them are leaning at alarming angles. It's a wonder if anyone inside can set something down on a flat surface without it rolling away. Sometimes if you look down a long row of houses you can see how they are buckling, as if all of them are getting a little plump in their old age. There are two houses in particular that Shaun tells me are famous for how much they lean against one another. They look like very old friends, keeping each other going. And for that reason, I named them "Nina" and "Jess".
Walking Hand in Hand with Vermeer
If in Belgium I felt like I was witnessing Van Eyck's paintings being brought to life (without the religious parts, of course), here in Amsterdam I am forever walking in Vermeer's world. Visiting the Rijksmuseum introduced me to another level of viewing pleasure, as I cemented the fact that though I am fond of the Italian Masters, nothing can compare with my response to Dutch painting.
Nina could accept, but not get her head around my love of still life. Please google "Willem Kalf". Looking at one of his canvases I am overcome with a kind of reverence almost painful in its magnitude. All of his works display such feats of realism that go beyond simple trompe l'oeil illusionism. He does not paint reality, he creates something so much better. Kalf's use of colour is tactile in a way I wouldn't have thought possible for an image so free of brushstrokes.
By the same principle I was rendered speechless, and truthfully a little misty eyed, in front of a Ter Borch, whose talent of painting silk dresses in particular, is unsurpassable. No matter how hard I looked I couldn't reduce the silk to canvas and paint.
Nina could accept, but not get her head around my love of still life. Please google "Willem Kalf". Looking at one of his canvases I am overcome with a kind of reverence almost painful in its magnitude. All of his works display such feats of realism that go beyond simple trompe l'oeil illusionism. He does not paint reality, he creates something so much better. Kalf's use of colour is tactile in a way I wouldn't have thought possible for an image so free of brushstrokes.
By the same principle I was rendered speechless, and truthfully a little misty eyed, in front of a Ter Borch, whose talent of painting silk dresses in particular, is unsurpassable. No matter how hard I looked I couldn't reduce the silk to canvas and paint.
A Palace in Amsterdam
It may only be a small apartment behind the Leidspleine to some, but to Nina and I it is a palace of unquestionable worth. Friends back in Toronto had put me in touch with Shaun Feather, a fellow Torontonian living in Amsterdam. It was with some trepidation that Nina and I arrived at number 94a, a black door with a Canadian sticker affixed to the door handle for our benefit. We needn't have worried. Inside we walked into a kind of urban paradise: a long white room with a front lounge and kitchen partitioned off from the guest room, bathroom and master bedroom by a three paned glass partition, red and white furniture, marble counter tops, and huge windows. It was so modern, so chic, so well-lit and so EMPTY.
As Shaun Feather was not home yet, we dropped our bags and spread out - first on the bed, then on the couch in front of the tv, and then at the computer with a CANADIAN KEYBOARD!!! Bliss, it was utter bliss. We started to feel like real people again. We showered/bathed in a huge tub, unpacked and washed our clothes, bought groceries and made dinner. Later Shaun came home and we spent the rest of the night chatting with him.
It is nights like this that make my life of hostelling ahead seem very grim.
As Shaun Feather was not home yet, we dropped our bags and spread out - first on the bed, then on the couch in front of the tv, and then at the computer with a CANADIAN KEYBOARD!!! Bliss, it was utter bliss. We started to feel like real people again. We showered/bathed in a huge tub, unpacked and washed our clothes, bought groceries and made dinner. Later Shaun came home and we spent the rest of the night chatting with him.
It is nights like this that make my life of hostelling ahead seem very grim.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Antwerp: hereafter known as "the stopover on the way to Amsterdam"
Antwerp = the newfound knowledge that when a guidebook describes a hostel as "well worn" it really means it, long and misdirected rides on what look like trams imported from Soviet Russia, fries with generous helpings of mayonnaise, really cheap Internet with really f'd up keyboards, and lastly, wonderful, beautiful, breathtaking art (check out Quentin Massijs!).
Feeling Safe in Ghent
We spent an unexpectedly humorous day in Ghent, a side trip planned around a visit to the Van Eyck Brothers' Adoration of the Mystic Lamb. We got off to a great start when we were given a free chocolate bar each upon exiting the train station. The combination of free chocolate, and a rare sunny day made Nina so giddy that I could barely contain her from dancing in the street. After passing by numerous tantalising shoe stores (all closed), and quite a few sleep wear stores - one bearing an ad for Woody's Active Sleepwear for Men - we made it to the center of town. There we were confronted with a barrage of police officers, firemen and the like. Fearing for a moment that the quiet peace of Ghent had been broken by some kind of uprising, we quickly realised that we were, in fact, in the midst of some kind of safety festival. It was definitely bizarre, but everyone seemed to be having a good time, so we passed no judgment...harsh judgment.
We spent a blissful half hour in front of the altarpiece. On the train ride home, as I looked out the window, the landscape seemed to evoke the perfectly rendered grasses and trees I had just seen in the painting. Modern life seemed very far away, and I was perfectly content. It's always nice to feel like you're living in a painting.
We spent a blissful half hour in front of the altarpiece. On the train ride home, as I looked out the window, the landscape seemed to evoke the perfectly rendered grasses and trees I had just seen in the painting. Modern life seemed very far away, and I was perfectly content. It's always nice to feel like you're living in a painting.
Brrrrooooggggaaaahhhhh!
(September 30th)
Sun! We were beginning to despair, but the sun has finally decided to show its face again, and as the train chugs merrily along to Ghent, Nina and I stare out the window hungrily eating up the images of corn fields bathed in golden light, spearmint green grass, and lazy cows sunbathing in rich muddy fields.
We love Belgium, most particularly Bruges, whose Gothic buildings, romantically winding canals, penchant for tea houses, and chicly dressed locals have swept us off our feet. After a somewhat elongated journey from Brussels to Bruge (catching two wrong trains will add time to your trip!), we made a mad dash through the wet streets for our hotel, Passage, in order to get there before noon, at which point we would loose our reservation. We arrived dripping with rain, but on time. Through a large, studded medieval door, up two flights of narrow, winding stairs, we found our perfect room. Humorously, it is nautical themed (in good taste), with blue and white striped walls, small pictures of lighthouses and shelves holding wooden ships and anchors. Best of all is our glorious cast iron bed, piled high with soft blankets and supported by a wonderfully unfirm mattress that sinks alarmingly when sat on. Nina practically fell on me when she climbed in for the first time.
The rest of the hotel, described as "funky", is fabulously bizarre. Today, we ate breakfast at candlelit tables in a cavernous tavern-like room replete with deer and boar heads, a candelabra, and antique photographs staring down at us from the walls.
Yesterday we treated ourselves to a day of Belgian food consisting of moules and frites with cream sauce, a delicious chocolate and toasted almond concoction, Earl Grey and espresso at a tea house, more frites for dinner, and drinks at Passage's Bar for dessert. I'm surprised we didn't drop dead while we were brushing our teeth. When we weren't eating, we were gazing with wonder at the endless store windows filled with posh clothes, and happily contemplating the Flemish masters.
The next two days were spent lazily sleeping in, drinking delicious hot chocolate, and doing some more window shopping. Bruges has regenerated us completely. Sigh.
Sun! We were beginning to despair, but the sun has finally decided to show its face again, and as the train chugs merrily along to Ghent, Nina and I stare out the window hungrily eating up the images of corn fields bathed in golden light, spearmint green grass, and lazy cows sunbathing in rich muddy fields.
We love Belgium, most particularly Bruges, whose Gothic buildings, romantically winding canals, penchant for tea houses, and chicly dressed locals have swept us off our feet. After a somewhat elongated journey from Brussels to Bruge (catching two wrong trains will add time to your trip!), we made a mad dash through the wet streets for our hotel, Passage, in order to get there before noon, at which point we would loose our reservation. We arrived dripping with rain, but on time. Through a large, studded medieval door, up two flights of narrow, winding stairs, we found our perfect room. Humorously, it is nautical themed (in good taste), with blue and white striped walls, small pictures of lighthouses and shelves holding wooden ships and anchors. Best of all is our glorious cast iron bed, piled high with soft blankets and supported by a wonderfully unfirm mattress that sinks alarmingly when sat on. Nina practically fell on me when she climbed in for the first time.
The rest of the hotel, described as "funky", is fabulously bizarre. Today, we ate breakfast at candlelit tables in a cavernous tavern-like room replete with deer and boar heads, a candelabra, and antique photographs staring down at us from the walls.
Yesterday we treated ourselves to a day of Belgian food consisting of moules and frites with cream sauce, a delicious chocolate and toasted almond concoction, Earl Grey and espresso at a tea house, more frites for dinner, and drinks at Passage's Bar for dessert. I'm surprised we didn't drop dead while we were brushing our teeth. When we weren't eating, we were gazing with wonder at the endless store windows filled with posh clothes, and happily contemplating the Flemish masters.
The next two days were spent lazily sleeping in, drinking delicious hot chocolate, and doing some more window shopping. Bruges has regenerated us completely. Sigh.
Everybody Loves a Girl with a Backpack
Usually the above statement might be true. One of the positive things about the backpack is that people are almost always willing to do you favours. This mostly comes in handy when you ask someone, harried faced, to confirm your fear that you've gotten on the wrong train again. If the answer is yes (and let's face it, it usually is) then that person is often willing to take you to the right one.
Having said that, there are still moments when the backpack produces the opposite effect and endears me to no one. I had such a moment on my train ride from Brussels to Bruge, when exiting the train my unbuckled waist strap managed to hit every single person I passed - most of them in the face. I, of course, was innocent to the misdemeanors perpetrated by my backpack. It was only after I walked away from the train that Nina told me through tears of laughter.
And again, this is why I hate backpacks.
Having said that, there are still moments when the backpack produces the opposite effect and endears me to no one. I had such a moment on my train ride from Brussels to Bruge, when exiting the train my unbuckled waist strap managed to hit every single person I passed - most of them in the face. I, of course, was innocent to the misdemeanors perpetrated by my backpack. It was only after I walked away from the train that Nina told me through tears of laughter.
And again, this is why I hate backpacks.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Almost in Love Part 2
As I've said, it's hard to love Brussels when its only 7 degrees out. It's even harder when at 7:30 am, after lugging your backpack around in confused circles, you discover that the hotel you thought you had a reservation at closed down one week ago. Two hours later, after hitting impressive lows of poor map reading, leading to subsequent adventures of misdirection, we found ourselves at the "Sleep Well" where we booked a private room and fell into bed. While I went right to bed, Nina declared that she felt the urge to take a bath. When prompted later as to why she actually took this bath considering the fact that our tub was half sized, and mostly taken up by a built in seat, she had no satisfactory answer. Clearly sleep addled it seemed perfectly acceptable to cram herself into the foot of this tub, knees to chin, shivering bitterly.
In the late afternoon, we roused ourselves, and dressed in Brussels appropriate clothing left to check out the town. We were pleasantly met with elegant shops, health conscious- enviro-friendly cafes, and plenty of chocolate. Our experience came close to being downright charming if it hadn't been so damn cold. I especially loved the moment when I ate soup for lunch, and said a silent prayer for my deliverance from panini and pizza.
The next day we visited some art galleries, admired some architecture, and did some more window shopping. Though it was still cold and rainy we both agreed that Brussels had been unexpectedly pleasant.
Stay tuned for our impressions of Bruges...
In the late afternoon, we roused ourselves, and dressed in Brussels appropriate clothing left to check out the town. We were pleasantly met with elegant shops, health conscious- enviro-friendly cafes, and plenty of chocolate. Our experience came close to being downright charming if it hadn't been so damn cold. I especially loved the moment when I ate soup for lunch, and said a silent prayer for my deliverance from panini and pizza.
The next day we visited some art galleries, admired some architecture, and did some more window shopping. Though it was still cold and rainy we both agreed that Brussels had been unexpectedly pleasant.
Stay tuned for our impressions of Bruges...
Friday, September 28, 2007
What a day this has been, what a rare mood I'm in, why it's ALMOST like being in love
Let me tell you, it's hard falling in love when you're trying to cope with a 20 degree difference in temperature. When we left Naples it was about 27 degrees, and when we arrived in Brussels it was 7 degrees. Nina, having no idea it could be this cold in September, just kept looking around and exclaiming, "7 degrees! I just can't believe it!" Through chattering teeth I reminded her that it was fall, and it is never very warm at 1:30 am even in the summer. Truth be told, I had never dreamed it would be this cold. At least, I have socks though, poor Nina didn't think to pack any.
As I lay with my head resting against my backpack, my body stretched out across a hard wooden bench in a coffee shop (closed) in the Brussels airport, I thought: 12 hours ago I was in Capri. I touched my earlobes feeling for the red coral earrings I had luxuriously allowed myself to buy just to make sure that I hadn't made it up.
Capri was as beautiful as everyone had promised it would be. It has been blessed with an unusual combination of natural splendour, and the best of artificial materialism. It is like Disneyland for couture junkies.
Let me paint a picture of a day in Capri as it is meant to be experienced:
You are awakened by the sound of tinkling crystal as the handsomely tanned Italian waiter places your breakfast tray on the bedside table. You sip your Mimosa, and gingerly eat a bite of delicately sugared Cornetto before you glide from your silk sheets, and slip into a bikini and modestly transparent beach cover. Sunning yourself at the the hotel pool, your eyes wander over the panoramic view of lushly flowering trees, some bearing plumply dimpled lemons whose fragrance gives the air a spicy flavour. The ocean, perfectly turquoise, sits far below, twinkling in the glow of the unfiltered sunlight. As you sip Veuve Cliquot, and think about turning over, a small bird lands on your finger and sings a sweet song, a dolphin swims by in the distance, and you spy the handsome waiter out of the corner of your eye. Refreshing yourself in the pool you head back to your room to get dressed and begin the serious business of the day. Prada, Salvatore Ferragamo, Bottega Veneta, Louis Vuiton - they all must be visited! At the end of the day you are exhausted, the little piece of plastic hot between your finger as you charge a restorative cocktail at the hotel bar. As your handsomely tanned waiter puts your drink in front of you with a wink, you smile to yourself and think - tomorrow will be exactly the same.
Back to Reality:
Nina and I returned from our trip to Capri (I bearing a sunburn whose severity would be discovered much later), and sadly said goodbye to the Bella Capri. Our favourite guy was at the desk. We had both taken to him immeasurably after we became aware of his extreme softheartedness. Just the night before we had asked if we could print something and he told us he wasn't really supposed to let us. Then he said, "but if it is 1...2 pages, then no problem." We told him we didn't know how long the document would be, but we hoped not long. Then he said, "well...if it is 3-4...5-6...not 100 then it's ok." This was all said with a lot of shoulder shrugging and an eager to please look, which softened his otherwise Mafioso looking face. He seemed truly sad to see us go. We both hope that he is a father with teenage daughters who take advantage of him shamelessly, but love him wholeheartedly none the less.
As I lay with my head resting against my backpack, my body stretched out across a hard wooden bench in a coffee shop (closed) in the Brussels airport, I thought: 12 hours ago I was in Capri. I touched my earlobes feeling for the red coral earrings I had luxuriously allowed myself to buy just to make sure that I hadn't made it up.
Capri was as beautiful as everyone had promised it would be. It has been blessed with an unusual combination of natural splendour, and the best of artificial materialism. It is like Disneyland for couture junkies.
Let me paint a picture of a day in Capri as it is meant to be experienced:
You are awakened by the sound of tinkling crystal as the handsomely tanned Italian waiter places your breakfast tray on the bedside table. You sip your Mimosa, and gingerly eat a bite of delicately sugared Cornetto before you glide from your silk sheets, and slip into a bikini and modestly transparent beach cover. Sunning yourself at the the hotel pool, your eyes wander over the panoramic view of lushly flowering trees, some bearing plumply dimpled lemons whose fragrance gives the air a spicy flavour. The ocean, perfectly turquoise, sits far below, twinkling in the glow of the unfiltered sunlight. As you sip Veuve Cliquot, and think about turning over, a small bird lands on your finger and sings a sweet song, a dolphin swims by in the distance, and you spy the handsome waiter out of the corner of your eye. Refreshing yourself in the pool you head back to your room to get dressed and begin the serious business of the day. Prada, Salvatore Ferragamo, Bottega Veneta, Louis Vuiton - they all must be visited! At the end of the day you are exhausted, the little piece of plastic hot between your finger as you charge a restorative cocktail at the hotel bar. As your handsomely tanned waiter puts your drink in front of you with a wink, you smile to yourself and think - tomorrow will be exactly the same.
Back to Reality:
Nina and I returned from our trip to Capri (I bearing a sunburn whose severity would be discovered much later), and sadly said goodbye to the Bella Capri. Our favourite guy was at the desk. We had both taken to him immeasurably after we became aware of his extreme softheartedness. Just the night before we had asked if we could print something and he told us he wasn't really supposed to let us. Then he said, "but if it is 1...2 pages, then no problem." We told him we didn't know how long the document would be, but we hoped not long. Then he said, "well...if it is 3-4...5-6...not 100 then it's ok." This was all said with a lot of shoulder shrugging and an eager to please look, which softened his otherwise Mafioso looking face. He seemed truly sad to see us go. We both hope that he is a father with teenage daughters who take advantage of him shamelessly, but love him wholeheartedly none the less.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Amalfi: or Why I Hate the Beach
Of course it couldn't be simple getting from Naples to the Amalfi coast. Our first mistake was asking a train official which platform our train was arriving on. We should have known to ask an untitled stranger. Luckily once we realised that we were on the wrong train, we had several helpful people give us directions on how to correct our mistake. This ended in two gents almost duking it out to win the prize of being able to lead us to the right platform at a transfer station.
Finally arriving in Sorrento, we switched to a bus that was terribly overcrowded (my lot in life it appears), which meant that we had to stand for almost two hours. The bus took us up one side of the Bay of Naples, and down the Amalfi side. It was one of those thrillingly pleasurable routes that winds around twisty, narrow roads offering up spectacular views of green topped mountains, and jagged rocks that lead the eye down to the turquoise ocean below. As we sped around hairpin curves jutting out over the ocean, all the tourists would snap pictures like mad and "ohh," and "ahhh." Occasionally, someone would comment that they hoped we weren't the bus that looses it and plunges over the side. Aside from some thigh bruising I received from bracing myself as the bus swung itself cheerily along the road, I was having a great time. Little did I know that Nina (behind me) was well on her way to loosing her lunch. Thankfully a kind man gave her a sip of his water, although I imagine his reasons were somewhat selfish, since I'm sure he didn't want Nina to vomit anywhere near him.
She made it, and after a petit snack in Amalfi proper, we walked the 10 minutes of road over to the one piazza town of Atrani. There we met Francesco the helpful owner of A Scalinatella where we had booked (in extreme luxury) our own room. Nina wasted no time in stripping down to her bikini and making a bee-line for the beach. I settled myself into our room for a nap and delightfully long shower. Feeling contented at this small moment of alone time, my good spirits were somewhat marred by the fact that I properly took into account that I was now in a beach town. I really hate beaches - maybe almost as much as backpacks. My paleness prevents me from getting any satisfaction from baking in the sun for hours on end, but more than that I have an unnatural aversion to sand. Who can really blame me though? All those granules sneak their way into all the crevices on your body itching you for hours and hours, only relieved by taking a dip, which, in the end, simply makes your body a walking sand collector. Sitting on a beach I am often overcome by chills that leave my body clammy and cold, as I shudder at the thought of all that sand. After that comes my hatred of "beach people" who are there purely to make you feel bad about your pale self. Somehow a sun concealing mu mu takes second place to a barely there bikini in the attractiveness department. Go figure! Anyway, I was getting a little carried away when Nina came back and got me out of my funk by taking me exploring in Amalfi followed by drinks during Happy Hour and some delicious dinner.
At this juncture I would like to say that like all Jekyll and Hyde towns in this world (as indeed this was) we were never happier on our trip as we were in the hours of daylight in Atrani. In the evening we took ourselves to bed early, and a little tipsy. I believe I fell asleep sometime around 11 pm. At around 2 am Nina and I were both rudely awakened by very loud music, and (we think) lively conversation in Swiss German. We were puzzled, where was this coming from? Who could have thought it was appropriate to be this loud that late? After debating the issue for some time, we got partially dressed and went downstairs. After a bit of poking around we realised that the noise was coming from the room directly below us. We knocked and a very surprised looking girl answered. We explained the situation and she promised to quiet down. The music was indeed turned down but this barely produced an effect since even a low whisper could be heard with perfect clarity from where we lay in bed. Nina posited that our room might have at one point been a loft, and then hastily turned into a room proper without a great deal of concern for soundproofing. Without going into details, this couple kept us awake from that point on until around 5:30 am. It was rough. Added to the noise below were a cacophony of other sounds provided by the town of Atrani. The worst of these were the bells that sounded off the quarterly hour and a lone rooster that started crowing every half hour or so from 3 am onwards.
We awoke the next day at 8 in order to eat our free breakfast and then went back to bed before giving up on hopes of sleep and taking ourselves to the beach (yes friends even I went to the beach). We rented some chairs with an umbrella attached for maximum shade exposure for myself. I wrapped a variety of scarves around my bits exposed to any direct sunlight and read/listened to music/dozed/dipped in the ocean (don't get me started on my strong feelings about ocean swimming versus gloriously unsalty lake swimming) for the better part of five hours. I was so well protected from the sun that for a short while I was actually cold. Nina said I looked like a diva.
That night we repeated our walk to Amalfi, Happy Hour pre-dinner drinks, and delicious dinner combo. Luckily the new occupants under us were respectful people who went to bed at a decent hour. Our new enemy was a cat who from about 3am forward mewed piteously, scratched at his litter box, knocked over potted plants and generally re-affirmed my negative feelings towards the feline species.
We arrived back in Naples to find out that our fav hostel was all booked up. The owners being some of the kindest people I have ever met did their best for us: finding us another hostel, telling us that we could hang out there as long as we wanted, and letting us leave our bags in luggage storage so that we wouldn't have to trek across town with them.
Fortuitously we also befriended a Londoner called Paddy who joined us for drinks and dinner back at our delicious pizza place. He also escorted us back to our hostel so that we wouldn't be overtaken by the Neapolitan criminal underworld. All in all a very good evening. Now we are back at the Bella Capri after a disturbing shower (mildew ew!) and subsequent quick exit from the other hostel. We met up with Paddy again for brunch, after which he left for Rome, Nina retired to bed, and I set up camp at a computer.
Tomorrow we fly to Brussels and leave Italy behind us. We are feeling a bit low about going, but happily anticipating the joys and woes of tackling a brand new country.
Arrivederci Italy - until the next time our paths cross. Stay beautiful!
Finally arriving in Sorrento, we switched to a bus that was terribly overcrowded (my lot in life it appears), which meant that we had to stand for almost two hours. The bus took us up one side of the Bay of Naples, and down the Amalfi side. It was one of those thrillingly pleasurable routes that winds around twisty, narrow roads offering up spectacular views of green topped mountains, and jagged rocks that lead the eye down to the turquoise ocean below. As we sped around hairpin curves jutting out over the ocean, all the tourists would snap pictures like mad and "ohh," and "ahhh." Occasionally, someone would comment that they hoped we weren't the bus that looses it and plunges over the side. Aside from some thigh bruising I received from bracing myself as the bus swung itself cheerily along the road, I was having a great time. Little did I know that Nina (behind me) was well on her way to loosing her lunch. Thankfully a kind man gave her a sip of his water, although I imagine his reasons were somewhat selfish, since I'm sure he didn't want Nina to vomit anywhere near him.
She made it, and after a petit snack in Amalfi proper, we walked the 10 minutes of road over to the one piazza town of Atrani. There we met Francesco the helpful owner of A Scalinatella where we had booked (in extreme luxury) our own room. Nina wasted no time in stripping down to her bikini and making a bee-line for the beach. I settled myself into our room for a nap and delightfully long shower. Feeling contented at this small moment of alone time, my good spirits were somewhat marred by the fact that I properly took into account that I was now in a beach town. I really hate beaches - maybe almost as much as backpacks. My paleness prevents me from getting any satisfaction from baking in the sun for hours on end, but more than that I have an unnatural aversion to sand. Who can really blame me though? All those granules sneak their way into all the crevices on your body itching you for hours and hours, only relieved by taking a dip, which, in the end, simply makes your body a walking sand collector. Sitting on a beach I am often overcome by chills that leave my body clammy and cold, as I shudder at the thought of all that sand. After that comes my hatred of "beach people" who are there purely to make you feel bad about your pale self. Somehow a sun concealing mu mu takes second place to a barely there bikini in the attractiveness department. Go figure! Anyway, I was getting a little carried away when Nina came back and got me out of my funk by taking me exploring in Amalfi followed by drinks during Happy Hour and some delicious dinner.
At this juncture I would like to say that like all Jekyll and Hyde towns in this world (as indeed this was) we were never happier on our trip as we were in the hours of daylight in Atrani. In the evening we took ourselves to bed early, and a little tipsy. I believe I fell asleep sometime around 11 pm. At around 2 am Nina and I were both rudely awakened by very loud music, and (we think) lively conversation in Swiss German. We were puzzled, where was this coming from? Who could have thought it was appropriate to be this loud that late? After debating the issue for some time, we got partially dressed and went downstairs. After a bit of poking around we realised that the noise was coming from the room directly below us. We knocked and a very surprised looking girl answered. We explained the situation and she promised to quiet down. The music was indeed turned down but this barely produced an effect since even a low whisper could be heard with perfect clarity from where we lay in bed. Nina posited that our room might have at one point been a loft, and then hastily turned into a room proper without a great deal of concern for soundproofing. Without going into details, this couple kept us awake from that point on until around 5:30 am. It was rough. Added to the noise below were a cacophony of other sounds provided by the town of Atrani. The worst of these were the bells that sounded off the quarterly hour and a lone rooster that started crowing every half hour or so from 3 am onwards.
We awoke the next day at 8 in order to eat our free breakfast and then went back to bed before giving up on hopes of sleep and taking ourselves to the beach (yes friends even I went to the beach). We rented some chairs with an umbrella attached for maximum shade exposure for myself. I wrapped a variety of scarves around my bits exposed to any direct sunlight and read/listened to music/dozed/dipped in the ocean (don't get me started on my strong feelings about ocean swimming versus gloriously unsalty lake swimming) for the better part of five hours. I was so well protected from the sun that for a short while I was actually cold. Nina said I looked like a diva.
That night we repeated our walk to Amalfi, Happy Hour pre-dinner drinks, and delicious dinner combo. Luckily the new occupants under us were respectful people who went to bed at a decent hour. Our new enemy was a cat who from about 3am forward mewed piteously, scratched at his litter box, knocked over potted plants and generally re-affirmed my negative feelings towards the feline species.
We arrived back in Naples to find out that our fav hostel was all booked up. The owners being some of the kindest people I have ever met did their best for us: finding us another hostel, telling us that we could hang out there as long as we wanted, and letting us leave our bags in luggage storage so that we wouldn't have to trek across town with them.
Fortuitously we also befriended a Londoner called Paddy who joined us for drinks and dinner back at our delicious pizza place. He also escorted us back to our hostel so that we wouldn't be overtaken by the Neapolitan criminal underworld. All in all a very good evening. Now we are back at the Bella Capri after a disturbing shower (mildew ew!) and subsequent quick exit from the other hostel. We met up with Paddy again for brunch, after which he left for Rome, Nina retired to bed, and I set up camp at a computer.
Tomorrow we fly to Brussels and leave Italy behind us. We are feeling a bit low about going, but happily anticipating the joys and woes of tackling a brand new country.
Arrivederci Italy - until the next time our paths cross. Stay beautiful!
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