tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32348214003489411132024-03-13T16:36:01.637+01:00DIE WANDERWEGE UND DIE BEOBACHTUNGENThe Wanderings and Observations of a Paleontology student with a case of wanderlustMatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.comBlogger133125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-82418510842764579052009-08-10T16:10:00.008+02:002010-01-19T20:37:04.901+01:00Bye-Bye Bonn<span style="font-style: italic;">For the last week I've been wandering Ireland. By the end of this one I'll be back on U.S. soil. In case you want the skinny on Guinness versus Murphy's and the delights to be had biking in the rain in the Dingle Peninsula, I'll be uploading those adventures after I get back, along with final reflections/comments/wonderings on Europe, Germany, and the life of a paleontologist abroad. Chat with you then!</span><br /><br />After cutting myself lose from every institution tying me to Bonn, I walked along the shaded lane leading from the Poppelsdorfer Schloss (featured in the title bar right now) to the Sauropod research group’s offices to meet Koen. The sky was perfectly clear, older couples were out for walks, and younger couples were out for jogs. I mused that this was probably the last time I would ever get to walk from work with a castle at my back. There are some things that just don’t happen at home.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SoAsy-G0glI/AAAAAAAACfM/zSWMcQW8bWU/s1600-h/DSCN1311.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SoAsy-G0glI/AAAAAAAACfM/zSWMcQW8bWU/s320/DSCN1311.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368340010002317906" border="0" /></a>I met my host for the weekend and we rode the tram to his house where I could finally drop my bags and stretch my shoulders. Koen had been contacted earlier that day by Kristian, a post-doc in the department, who invited us out for a night on the town in Bonn. I was pretty excited to hit the Bonner clubs since I really hadn’t had the opportunity yet, and felt I might be missing a key ingredient to the city’s character. Koen assured me I hadn’t missed much.<br /><br />Our first stop was to the fraternity house where I said good-bye to the crew, drank more Warsteiner and chatted with a history major about theoretical approaches to historical interpretation. I think I need to have a little more alcohol in my system before I attempt such a conversation again.<br /><br />We met Kristian and his wife, Seiko, at a bar near the Bonn Opera House. Yes, there is an opera house. No, I never made time to see a performance in my own city. Yes, I feel slightly guilty about that. The bar had a bouncer who didn’t have very much to do since the place was pretty much dead. Kristian’s wife was excited to do some dancing on the floor in the bar’s basement. Unfortunately there were only four other people down there, and none of them were making a move to dance. We tried to get something started, but gave up when the Thong Song came on and I had a flashback to junior high. When Post-traumatic stress disorder sets in, I don’t do much dancing. I also tend to avoid the dance floor when there are five guys moving and only two women. This is not because I dance to pick up women. They just tend to be better dancers and I don’t get bored. As it stood, five guys lamely bouncing to the Thong Song was an experience worth missing.<br /><br />Two of Seiko’s friends met us and we rolled on to Hofbar, a club connected to the Opera House. So I can at least say I’ve entered the building. Well, I entered it for a 5 Euro cover. There was also an age restriction. Only 25 years and up. How I got in, I will never really understand. Maybe the bouncer figured the kid who looked 18 would be able to pep things up a bit, because the Hofbar really needed some pepping. It looked like the perfect place to have a night of classy clubbing and dancing. The bar was smoked glass back-lit with neon green and pink lights. Most of the men were wearing sport coats and the women…well, once again there weren’t a lot of women.<br /><br />A waiter came by our group as we stood on a narrow balcony overlooking the Rhine. I really wasn’t interested in beer, and ordered a Jack and Coke. This also helped introduce me to the new members of our group as The American. I regretted this decision almost immediately as the waiter asked for 7.50. Fortunately the cover charge got me a 5 Euro token to subsidize the beverage. After paying, the low-key vibe and near empty dance floor made a lot more sense. Germans aren’t want to shake their groove things or tail-feathers if they aren’t properly inebriated, and with beer running at 4 Euro a pop, there weren’t going to be many dancers, but soon Seiko and her friends led us to the floor. We were joining a middle-aged couple, and a lonely, lanky 50 year-old dude in the hopes of getting the party started.<br /><br />I still don’t understand the German dance floor. There is not touching. There is no twirling. Everyone maintains an arm-length safety circle and glances around the circle of friends giggling slightly at the fact you’re dancing. This goes on for the rest of the evening. I think part of the problem is the music. There’s only so much you can do with electronic dance music that uses the exact same beat for six songs in a row.<br /><br />Finally I reached a peak of boredom and reached out a hand to one of the Seiko’s friends. She wasn’t quite sure what to do with it, but eventually figured out she could put her hand in mine and I could spin her around. Then it was back to bored bouncing. If that’s Bonn nightlife, yeah, I didn’t miss much.<br /><br />The next day Koen and I were invited to see a friend of his off to Mongolia. She was having a massive barbeque in an even more massive park tucked into suburban Bonn. I got my now regular workout of schlepping a crate of beer for about two kilometers. I love drinking out of real glass bottles, but packing thirty of them into a heavy plastic crate flies in the face of the car-less European lifestyle. Without a vehicle, you should probably just plan on partying in the parking lot, or inviting a body builder to help you set up.<br /><br />At the barbeque I took on the job usually reserved for the slightly shy new-guy. I tended the fire. I was also starving and ready to tear into the potato salad Koen and I had brought along, but no one else seemed ready to eat and I didn’t want to perpetuate any nasty stereotypes about ravenous Americans.<br /><br />As the meat sizzled, I struck up a conversation with a boyfriend who had been dragged along and didn’t know anyone at the party either. We talked about German soccer, and all the teams I should have seen while I was in country. I’ve been on the lookout for the entire year for someone who could impart such information. Figures I find him my last weekend. His girlfriend will be studying in San Diego for a semester, and I was asked, “what we should see in America.” I was at a loss for what to say. I told her she should see the zoo near where she’ll be living, but then what do I say? See wide open spaces, see skyscrapers, see lines, ice cubes, and bottom-less coffee. See screened windows, excessive air-conditioning, and beef under 7 Euro a pound.<br /><br />Sunday, my last day in Bonn, I finally visited the home of it’s favorite son. Every visitor who has swung through my city has been treated to the coral façade of the fronting building, but it was time to see the room where little Ludwig von Beethoven came into the world, and the room where his family celebrated his departure for Vienna at age 22.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SoAro-YKJ8I/AAAAAAAACe0/t2XYSj3m-zg/s1600-h/DSC_1273.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SoAro-YKJ8I/AAAAAAAACe0/t2XYSj3m-zg/s320/DSC_1273.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368338738764720066" border="0" /></a><br />The house was encrusted with verdant grape vines and filled with artifacts from the composer’s life. They had his first viola, a reproduction of the advertisement for his first performance, and portraits of brooding B’hoven. For his first public performance he played the piano in Cologne at the age of eight, but his father lied on the ad, saying he was six, to get a little extra attention for the next “wunderkind Mozart.”<br /><br />The most interesting artifacts were a collection of ear horns he used, and the a selection of the notebooks he used for conversations with friends and for jotting ideas during his long walks through the Viennese countryside.<br /><br />Part of the problem with a museum dedicated to Beethoven, is that his greatest accomplishments can’t be seen. It was cool to see his pianos from Vienna, and the organ he played for the Elector in Bonn, but I really wanted to hear the melodies he was able to draw from them.<br /><br />I was also fascinated by the paintings adorning the walls of 18th and 19th century Bonn. The University building that now adorns the logo for the University used to be the residence of the Emperor’s Elector in Cologne. The Prince didn’t really like the congestion and grime of larger Cologne, so he retreated to the sleepy university town of Bonn. The pictures showed stately carriages unloading ladies in froofy hoop skirts onto the steps that are populated by aging, drunk punks today.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SoAsYnHraFI/AAAAAAAACfE/pGD9diDNzXw/s1600-h/DSC_1258.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SoAsYnHraFI/AAAAAAAACfE/pGD9diDNzXw/s320/DSC_1258.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368339557155301458" border="0" /></a><br />Other pictures showed the Poppelsdorfer Palace with its expansive botanical gardens filled with masked party guests at a spring ball. Beethoven became a member of the Elector’s symphony when he was ten and attended these parties as his grandfather and father had before him. A map of the city in 1770, the year Beethoven was born, showed a layout nearly identical to its present footprint.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SoArSu-AgaI/AAAAAAAACes/jSYUfgxD7t0/s1600-h/DSC_1266.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SoArSu-AgaI/AAAAAAAACes/jSYUfgxD7t0/s320/DSC_1266.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368338356671381922" border="0" /></a><br />The final stop on my tour through the house was the “Digital Archive” where you could cue up hundreds of recordings of Ludwig’s compositions and read his scrawling notation as the music played. I holed myself up at a terminal, reading about statues of Beethoven around the world (Bonn’s was the first memorial erected in his honor) until participating in an art installation that pairs the climatic jail scene from Beethoven’s one opera “Fidelio” with high definition abstract, animated figures that could be controlled by audience members. The blobs of color didn’t do very much emoting, and despite being three dimensional (with the requisite Ray-ban-like glasses) weren’t nearly as engaging as watching actual people perform and emote. Maybe it would have been more interesting if more people had hopped up to move the figures, but we all stayed reserved and German.<br /><br />I met Koen at the office where he announced, “I can’t explain it, but have am craving Mexican food.” So, my final meal in Bonn was a burrito con carne and half-priced margarita. Pavel joined us, “Matchew, if you are leaving Germany, why do you eat Mexican food now?” Koen looked a little sheepish, “Oh, that’s right. It’s my fault, but I know a good German dive we can go to so we can put some final Kölsch in your system.”<br /><br />At Spleen, a low ceilinged, wood paneled affair with cushy couches and tables polished by elbows and coasters, we raised our glasses and toasted the country that none of us call home.<br /><br />The next morning I was up before 5AM, throwing my few possessions into my backpack and scampering down the street to catch the first tram of the morning towards the train station. I entered through the neo-classical façade for the last time, and began to roll away from my home.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SoAsBUbJRuI/AAAAAAAACe8/U7DfrzBnS48/s1600-h/DSC_1277.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SoAsBUbJRuI/AAAAAAAACe8/U7DfrzBnS48/s320/DSC_1277.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368339156999685858" border="0" /></a><br />Leaving Marburg, I <a href="http://mrborths.blogspot.com/2008/10/schones-marburg.html">mentioned</a> how quickly it had come to feel like home, and wondered if Bonn would have the same hominess. I was leaving a place that was decidedly not my home, but also where I had managed to make a lot of new friends. Would I be able to pull it off in the next town without the extensive support network? Yes, yes I did. The ride along the Rhine past 12th century castle ruins is like my driveway, and I pulled out of it for the last time waving over my shoulder at the people who had helped me settle into two semesters of the good German life.<br /><br />But, the exploring wasn’t over yet. That train was heading south to Frankfurt where I managed to navigate the massive terminals to the Aer Lingus counter with a German tour group that was headed to the home of Guinness and Gab. They formed what I hope will be the final German blob I participate in, and all checked in with ease. There was much confusion upon landing in Dublin as they tried to remember where they had stashed their passports, and the line of other travelers had to wait for a dozen methodical German grandmothers to recover their identification cards. I was a little antsy. I just wanted to get to the Arrivals gate. A certain someone from the other side of the Atlantic Ocean had hopped the pond to meet me, and the Germans weren’t going to delay the reunion if I could do anything about it. But I couldn’t. I was no match for their blobbing, and had to wait my (possible) turn.<br /><br />Finally I burst from the baggage claim and there she was. Carolyn was standing next to her pack and I was treated to much more romantic reunion than our harried hug at the Frankfurt gate back in December. Then we turned to set our sights on Dublin…<br /><br />Tschüss/CheersMatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-77804823523821063832009-08-02T18:22:00.000+02:002009-08-02T18:23:23.671+02:00Movin’ OutGermans are bureaucracy fanatics. Paperwork is as German as pretzels and beer. <br /><br />At first glance, it may seem like the copious red tape is related to a lust for efficiency and order. But, the real reason Germans require forms for every television in the house or change of address is they love collecting stamps. Every document handled by an official – professor, conductor, DMV employee – gets smacked with purple and blue ink, letting you know you can move on to the next round of paperwork wrangling. Your reward will be a new stamp. <br /><br />Paperwork is just the most socially acceptable way for adults to get excited about rubber stamps. It’s unfortunate they no longer read “Good Job!” or “Superb!” Exclamation points have been sacrificed for streams of legalese, but Germans voraciously collect them anyway.<br /><br />I, however, am not German. I’d just as soon forsake the paperwork/stamp ritual as it has a nasty habit of perturbing my already delicate state of mind. So, it was with a certain trepidation I started gathering the stamps necessary for me to move back to the United States. <br /><br />First to city hall to deregister from the city. It was a miraculously painless process. I found the office, got a number, waited for my number to pop up on the screen above my head and went to the desk listed on the screen. I explained I was moving out of Bonn on Sunday, and the secretary looked up my name, glanced at my passport, and presented me with signatures and stamps. In fifteen minutes I was back on the street. The ease of the process left me weirdly giddy. Easily earning my stamps and papers making me grin…maybe I’ve become more German than I thought.<br /><br />On to the University of Bonn’s International Students and Fellowship office where I walked right in, explained I had a lovely time in Bonn, but it was time for me zip West and “ex- matrikulieren” from the University. A paper was printed, stamped, and I was euphoric. <br /><br />I had budgeted most of the morning for this process, but I was done in time for elevensies. This left enough time for me to go back to my dorm before the office closed at noon to figure out how exactly I should move out. The Hausmeisterin is a lovely woman, the doting aunt-type who happens to have a lot of keys in her desk and a very German love of getting all your paperwork together in the right order. She also has a very German way of only speaking German It’s good to have someone who is forced to listen to me stumble my way through the language without relieving me with English. Unfortunately it also means there are details that get lost in translation as I try to figure out what she’s getting at. <br /><br />As you may remember from last October, my move in to my dorm – Tennenbusch II – was not a particularly smooth process as it began with the statement, “I do not have you entered in my computer. I don’t know if I have a room for you.” She ended up offering me a room for the night so I could go to the housing office which had closed at noon.<br /><br />I was hoping for a little flexibility for my move out, too. Technically my contract ended on the 31st of July, but I wanted to know if there was any way to stay for the weekend, so I didn’t have to worry about moving my bags around before departing for Frankfurt on Monday for my trip to Ireland. <br /><br />“You have no friends you can stay with?” <br /><br />“Well, yes I do, but I was just wondering if it was possible to stay put. If not, it’s not a problem. I just wanted to ask.”<br /><br />“And you have no friends?”<br /><br />“Yes, I do, but I think it’s easier to stay in one place instead of moving all of my luggage twice.”<br /><br />“But you could stay with a friend.”<br /><br />“So it isn’t possible to stay for the weekend?”<br /><br />“Well, what would you do with the key?”<br /><br />I thought this might be a problem. Her office is only open from 9 to 12 on workdays. I needed to be in Frankfurt to catch a plane long before she unlocked the door.<br /><br />“Well, I could leave my key with a friend and they could give it to you Monday.”<br /><br />She blinked, befuddled. Apparently it was fine for me to crash with a friend for three nights, but trusting them to bring her my keys was too much.<br /><br />“You should stay with a friend and move out on Friday.”<br /><br />Okay, fine. The three people I knew well who lived on my floor were all out of town or already hosting people for the weekend. It is the semester break doncha-know, so I got a hold of Koen, a graduate student in the department, to see if his floor was available. No worries. He even had an extra mattress.<br /><br />“How do I get my deposit back?” There were 160 Euros floating out there that I had scrubbed my floors to get back in full. <br /><br />“You will be returning to the United States?”<br /><br />“That’s the plan.”<br /><br />“And you will be closing your German bank account before you leave?”<br /><br />“Another part of the plan.”<br /><br />“Then you will receive it in cash when you check out.”<br /><br />Rad. Now I just needed to extract myself from the room. I packed and scrubbed for the better part of a day. My departure from Marburg had scarred me. There the Hausfrau had walked in, flipped on a light that I didn’t know existed and berated me for not removing the streaks from the stove top that could only be seen when that light was illuminated. Fortunately I didn’t have any massive blue stains to contend with and my room was (eventually) spotless. <br /><br />Friday morning I trooped downstairs, lugging my mysteriously hefty backpack, guitar case, and daypack. Three other students were sitting around the office door, expectantly waiting while another student talked to the Hausmeisterin. I dropped my stuff and waited. The guy in the office came out, but no one went in. I scrutinized each face, trying to figure out if they were waiting for some kind of signal. Why weren’t we just waiting in a line? Most of us were international students. We know the blob is a silly German tradition.<br /><br />Finally I asked the girl next to me, “Are you next?” She was stunned someone would say something and confused I would assume she had anything to do with the office. “No, no.” Okay. Apparently the Native Spanish enjoy lounging near office doors. <br /><br />I went in and plunked my key down on the desk. “And what is this?” <br /><br />“It’s my key, I’m ready to go to my friend’s.” <br /><br />“You have not been inspected.” “<br /><br />“When will that happen?” <br /><br />“Are you ready for the inspection?”<br /><br />“Yes, I am ready to leave.”<br /><br />“Then go to your room and wait for Herr Brener.” <br /><br />I dutifully squeezed back into the elevator with my stuff and walked back to my room, banging doors and walls with my tent and guitar. I sat and waited; acutely aware we were fast approaching the noon mark. If my luck held, we would be geschlossen before Herr Brener reached me, and I wouldn’t be allowed to leave Germany. I would spend the weekend waiting for the Herr to show up on Monday. <br /><br />At 11:55 he entered. I had the gumption to doze off in my chair and he wanted me out waiting in the hall as soon as he busted in. I scurried past his mustache and anxiously waited for him to discover a corner I had left a little skuzzy. <br /><br />After a quick glance, he noted something on his clipboard and asked for my key. “Am I finished?” “You must see Frau Schultz.” Back to the office and the amorphous blob of expectant students and luggage. <br /><br />Herr Brener returned, handed off the clipboard and I was back across the desk. “So, is there anything I need to do or am I ready to get my deposit?” <br /><br />“Herr Brener says you are missing your pillow, duvet, and…(there was some confusion over the translation of the final item that should have been under my bed).”<br /><br />“I never had those things in my room.”<br /><br />“Yes you did, and you do not have them now.”<br /><br />“No, I used dirty laundry as a pillow for weeks, my sleeping bag for a blanket, and the only thing I put under my bed was my luggage.”<br /><br />“You used dirty laundry for a pillow?”<br /><br />“Yes”<br /><br />“And you didn’t get sick.”<br /><br />“It wasn’t that dirty.”<br /><br />“This is, maybe, an American thing to do.” I continue to be a stellar model for my countrymen.<br /><br />“So will I be charged for these things? Can I get my deposit back?”<br /><br />“Well, you are missing three things.”<br /><br />“I know, but they were never there.” She could have said, “Herr Brener also noticed you were missing your giant inflatable gorilla? Where is the gorilla?” and I couldn’t have proven otherwise. I never signed or saw a form detailing my room’s inventory. I was getting annoyed. Come to think of it, I would have preferred the gorilla to a pillow. “Can I visit someone’s room to look at this bed thing I’m missing?”<br /><br />“This is very confusing. You are leaving when?”<br /><br />“Monday.”<br /><br />“The Studentenwerk (where I would get my deposit) will be closed I think.” Of course they’re closed. It’s an office in Germany, they only stay open until noon. Who would ever need to deal with bureaucracy after lunch? “Can you talk to a friend who can get your deposit?”<br /><br />“Why would that help? Can’t you just transfer the deposit into my bank account? Either way, I get charged for an international transfer.”<br /><br />“Well, can you talk to a friend?” We were very hung up on my acquaintances.<br /><br />“I need my key back so I can go knock on their doors to ask for help.” Remember I have three locked doors to plow through to get to my room.<br /><br />“I can’t give you your key back. Are you sure a friend cannot get your deposit?”<br /><br />“I need to talk to them, and to do that I need my key. But I still don’t see why that would help. If I can’t get the money before I leave, why should a third person get involved in this?”<br /><br />“Here.” In frustration she handed me a stamped form for my full deposit. “I am not supposed to do this. You are missing three things. Take this to the Studentenwerk if they are still open. They will give you your deposit. You must go quickly.”<br /><br />“What if they are closed?” She shrugged. She wanted me gone. It was 12:35. She was ready to start her weekend. I took the paper and bolted before the missing gorilla was noticed.<br /><br />Lugging all of my worldly possessions, I scampered to the tram and rode to the necessary offices. The sun was shining and so was I. Shining with sweat anyway as I hobble-jogged to the Studentenwerk.<br /><br />I plowed through a gaggle of German students who though the front steps were a great place to gather twenty people for a chat. I clipped someone with my guitar, and didn’t look back. I had to get my cash-money. <br /><br />At the top of the stairs I was greeted with a dark hallway and empty offices. I pounded on the main door, hoping Frau Schultz had maybe called ahead to let someone know to stick around for me. No one had. All the offices were closed on the next floor, too. Everyone was probably taking their two hour lunch. I trooped to the university Kasse where I paid the deposit in the first place. Also closed. A helpful loading dock worker suggested I come back at two, so I dragged myself and my possessions to the Institute, the only place left in Bonn that would welcome me. <br /><br />Pavel was surprised to see me and my massive pack. He said the secretary had been in looking for my key. I went up to her office and handed over my final connection to the city. Homeless and office-less, I walked back to the Studentenwerk so I would be on hand when everyone got back from lunch. Everyone in the housing department was gone for the day as a harried worker explained to me on the way to the copier, but the Kasse lady was back. <br /><br />She took one look at my form, “No, I cannot help.” <br /><br />“Please, all the other offices are closed and I’m leaving Monday before they reopen.”<br /><br />“I can’t help.”<br /><br />“Can you make sure this is deposited into my account. I don’t need it in cash. I can transfer the money.”<br /><br />“It will take six weeks.”<br /><br />“I know, I just can’t do anything else.”<br /><br />Grudgingly she took the paper, stamped it, and filed it away with an “Auf Wiedersehen.” My day shot, I shuffled back to my office, knocked on the window, and was let in by Pavel so I could put my fossils and bones away. <br /><br />I like collecting this dead stuff. I think I’ll leave the stamp collecting to the Germans.<br /><br />Tchüss!Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-13783436879616471762009-07-29T22:06:00.014+02:002009-07-30T10:08:13.972+02:00The FlagI bought my flag today. It’s the only souvenir I usually buy for myself when I visit a different country since I consider my copious pictures reminder enough of my visit. The trend started in Greece when a cute Greek girl selling then out-of-date Athens Olympic banners hooked me with her eyelashes. It became a tradition when I inadvertently started haggling for a Kenyan flag in Malindi with a wily Indian woman.<br /><br />Buying the flag usually caps the experience and often involves chatting with the proprietor about how much I enjoyed my visit. The flag usually requires a visit to a locally owned souvenir stand. Museums and trendy shopping districts never deal out the national banner. Ya gotta go for kitsch. Was it possible to find such an establishment in quietly dignified Bonn?<br /><br />Crossing from the Poppelsdorfer Palace to the city center there’s a walking path that dives under the railroad tracks that divide the idyllic university from the equally idyllic - but slightly more bustling - city. This path gets a lot of foot and cyclist traffic. Because so many people pack the path, barriers have been installed to slow down the bike riders. They are forced to dismount and carefully weave through the posts. This operation provides hours of entertainment as tandem cyclists and mothers powering strollers equipped with bicycle rims try to weave through and end up enlisting about six spectators to help them lift their awkward burden over the barriers.<br /><br />Once you’re in the bike-safe-zone between the posts there are five entrepreneurs who quietly peddle their wares to the pedestrians of Bonn. There’s a florist who sells sunflowers large enough to signal a rescue helicopter, a fruit stand that only seems to offer strawberries and “forest berries,” a bakery with cold cut sandwiches that are sterility lit with a battery of florescent lights, and…the shop. It seems to have begun its life as a place to get keys copied. Then the proprietor expanded into the bumper and novelty sticker market.<br /><br />You can get an white oval with a letter designation for every country in the European Union. You can also get crossing signs for every animal you can imagine and several that you can’t, stickers with puns and double entendres in six different languages...you get the idea. But stickers weren’t quite bringing in the rent, so he tacked on ethnic souvenirs, displaying West African tribal masks and didgeridoos. Finally, and most importantly, he decided he needed a little color and he started selling flags.<br /><br />I knew my flag would come from this stand on my first trip to Bonn when I saw the Black, Red, and God held in place on the path’s wall with a wooden toadstool and a plaster replica of Akhenaten. Every time I walked under the train tracks, I would look at my flag, waving next to the Tibetan colors and the Stars and Bars, and knew it would be mine in July.<br /><br />So, today I bellied up to the shop’s small counter. The owner, roughly seventy years old and wearing a well-loved wool sweater, was tucked behind a table cluttered with non-descript nick-nacks and keys. He seemed surprised someone had actually stopped to make a purchase and was a little flustered about how to begin the transaction, so I took the lead:<br /><br />Me: I would like a large German flag, please. <span style="font-style: italic;">I was hoping he would follow, “Would you like fries with that?” Sadly he replied…</span><br /><br />Him: Yes, I have the German flag. <span style="font-style: italic;">He exited his shop to point out the existence of the faded Teutonic glory I had been checking out all year.</span><br /><br />Me: Yes, I would like to buy it.<br /><br />Him: Well, would you like a flag with the “Adler” or without the “Adler.”<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I was prepared for “with or without mayo” given the my opening line, but this Adler thing was new to me. </span><br /><br />Me: Could I see one with the “Adler” and one without the “Adler?”<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">He obliged. Apparently the “Adler” is the black imperial eagle that symbolizes Germany. It also looks a little…Fascist. I wondered if this was maybe an antiquated flag, perhaps the banner that flew over the Wiemar Republic.</span><br /><br />Him: The flag with the eagle is very German. This eagle goes back to the Holy Roman Empire. This is 1200 years ago!<br /><br />Me: Yes, but I think I will take the flag without the eagle. It’s more typical, isn’t it? I see this (<span style="font-style: italic;">indicating the flag without the coat-of-arms</span>) in every city, but I am not sure if I have ever seen this one with the Adler.<br /><br />Him: Yes, without the Adler is everywhere but it is less German. I think (<span style="font-style: italic;">leaning closely and checking over his shoulder</span>) that young people are worried about it. They think it looks like a Nazi flag.<br /><br />Well, I wasn’t going to tell him, but that was exactly the thought going through my head. I would put the stripes and eagle up on my wall and a regular conversation starter at chateau du Borths would be, “Hey Matt, I know you spent a lot of time in Germany, but did you really need to bring the Nazi pride back here?”<br /><br />Him: There (<span style="font-style: italic;">he indicated a flag staked in the lawn, a blue field with a yellow eagle</span>). That is the flag of the Roman Legions! See where the Adler comes from? It has so much history!<br /><br />Me: Yes, I love how much history there is here in Germany (<span style="font-style: italic;">remember, praising the country is part of my ritual, even if the compliment would only be appreciated by a select few</span>).<br /><br />Two things were obvious. A) He really wanted me to take the Adler home and (B) I would be looking up the history of the German flag as soon as I got within striking distance of Wikipedia. Ultimately I just wanted the regular German flag, but to say as much felt like letting down my slightly-loopy German grandfather. So I did what any other polite, but cornered, American would do. I made up a blatant lie.<br /><br />Me: Well, this flag is for my brother. He collects flags and I think he wanted the regular German flag. He didn't say anything about this Adler.<br /><br />Him Ah yes, the flag without the eagle is probably the one he wants. You should tell him the eagle is a national symbol.<br /><br />Me: I’ll be sure he knows.<br /><br />Him: Do you know if he wants any other flags? I have these. <span style="font-style: italic;">And he produced a 8.5X11 sheet of paper with a random assortment of nations scrawled across it</span>. I have Indonesia, Tibet, the USA, Texas, the Southern USA, Egypt…<br /><br />Me: I think the German flag will be fine. He already has the American flag. I’ll come back if he wants Egypt.<br /><br />Him: Well, have a lovely day, and remember, you should not be afraid of the eagle. This is not a Nazi symbol. This is history.<br /><br />Rarely have I received so heartfelt a valediction.<br /><br />So, now it’s time to bring you up to speed on the flag. You could follow <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/German_flag">this link</a> to the Wikipedia page where I got most of this information. Or you could read on and I’ll summarize. If I'm wrong, at least fifty faceless Wiki-contributors agree with my errors.<br /><br />So this is the flag of the Holy roman Emperor.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SnCwyM0RfnI/AAAAAAAACds/kX4jRy6X-_E/s1600-h/600px-Banner_of_the_Holy_Roman_Emperor_%28after_1400%29.svg.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SnCwyM0RfnI/AAAAAAAACds/kX4jRy6X-_E/s320/600px-Banner_of_the_Holy_Roman_Emperor_%28after_1400%29.svg.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363981532678684274" border="0" /></a>Both the Prussians and the Austrians have laid claim to the HRE as their cultural ancestors. And for good reason. It basically stretched across Central Europe. A one Adolf Hitler considered it the First Reich along with most Germans. The eagle can be found all over coats-of-arms in central and western Europe.<br /><br />Later on, some revolutionaries in Frankfurt wanted to break away from their Austrian rulers. In 1848 they came up with this design, drawing on the banners created during the Napoleonic Wars. Out of darkness (black) through blood (red) broke the golden light of freedom. Ta-da.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SnCx5apBFSI/AAAAAAAACd0/-yBYSiK4SmU/s1600-h/800px-War_ensign_of_the_German_Empire_Navy_1848-1852.svg.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SnCx5apBFSI/AAAAAAAACd0/-yBYSiK4SmU/s320/800px-War_ensign_of_the_German_Empire_Navy_1848-1852.svg.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363982756160279842" border="0" /></a>In 1919 the Wiemar republic simplified things, dropping the eagle, creating the recognizable flag of Germany. Then in 1933, the National Socialists rose to power and Chancellor Hitler declared there was only one true flag of Germany. It dropped the yellow and used the black, red, and white of the former German Empire (1871-1918). It also added an ancient device that meant a variety of good things to many cultures throughout history, but now simply means evil.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SnCy2d8KhkI/AAAAAAAACeE/1qXlUW3W1hM/s1600-h/800px-Flag_of_Germany_1933.svg.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SnCy2d8KhkI/AAAAAAAACeE/1qXlUW3W1hM/s320/800px-Flag_of_Germany_1933.svg.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363983805017916994" border="0" /></a>With the fall of the Third Reich, there was some concern about which flag to use. Many people thought Germany should just revert to the flag of the Wiemar Republic since everyone was hoping to take the democratic ideals that got seeded in 1919 and build on them. One group proposed this flag which was suggested as the Wiemar flag and later became the flag of resistance to the Nazis.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SnCzZimshmI/AAAAAAAACeM/GL_jCXYJY98/s1600-h/800px-Proposed_German_National_Flag_1948.svg.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 233px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SnCzZimshmI/AAAAAAAACeM/GL_jCXYJY98/s320/800px-Proposed_German_National_Flag_1948.svg.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363984407565469282" border="0" /></a>Personally I think that's pretty neat, but people were wary of changing the flag of Germany too much while it was still divided. The above design would have represented the West while this was the flag of the East:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SnCz6IBg7sI/AAAAAAAACec/vo7uzAqC-UA/s1600-h/800px-Flag_of_East_Germany.svg.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SnCz6IBg7sI/AAAAAAAACec/vo7uzAqC-UA/s320/800px-Flag_of_East_Germany.svg.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363984967365881538" border="0" /></a>Gotta love a hammer and compass ensign. Eventually the flag of Western then united Germany was simply this:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SnCz2m8BlCI/AAAAAAAACeU/UKVpuY7XjHs/s1600-h/800px-Flag_of_Germany.svg.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SnCz2m8BlCI/AAAAAAAACeU/UKVpuY7XjHs/s320/800px-Flag_of_Germany.svg.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363984906944877602" border="0" /></a>A design approved in 1949. This is the flag I now own thanks to the guy under the bridge. But what about the Adler thing? Apparently this:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SnC0i_7TgYI/AAAAAAAACek/W0F_RR72vSk/s1600-h/800px-Flag_of_Germany_%28state%29.svg.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SnC0i_7TgYI/AAAAAAAACek/W0F_RR72vSk/s320/800px-Flag_of_Germany_%28state%29.svg.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363985669566988674" border="0" /></a>Was approved in 1950 as the <i>Bundesdienstflagge</i> or "State flag of federal authorities." That is, it's used by governmental offices as the eagle is the federal badge. It decorates the uniforms of German soldiers and use of the federal flag by any party unaffiliated with the federal government is a fineable offense.<br /><br />So, I might have been charged for displaying the "Adler" too publicly. Dodged a bullet there.<br /><br />Now I'm ready to leave. I have my flag. I had my conversation with a proud local. Now I just need to sample a little more Kölsch...<br /><br />Tschüss!Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-62730825944814831452009-07-28T17:29:00.003+02:002009-07-28T17:35:09.231+02:00On the street where I liveThem: Ah, you are studying in Bonn for the year. So, where do you live?<br />Me: Uh, I live in Tennenbusch…near the Mitte tram stop.<br />Them: Tennenbusch (prolonged pause possibly with a nervous smile). This neighborhood…<br />Me: No, it’s really not bad at all.<br />Them: Yes of course, but you are American and this is maybe not a very difficult place to you.<br />Me: No, I don’t really think it’s rough. It maybe has a bad reputation, but it’s safe.<br />Them: Yes, well, you are American. Such places such as Detroit are normal. <br />Me: Detroit isn’t all bad. There are some neighborhoods to avoid…<br />Them: Yes, but you might be shot.<br /><br />It’s become a common exchange. As I have stated repeatedly to various acquaintances, I live in Tennenbusch, a neighborhood just north of Downtown Bonn. Saying Bonn has a “Downtown” is a little aggrandizing. It has a quaint pedestrian shopping district where Beethoven’s glowering statue holds court along with a Medieval gate that had to be moved a block from the center for causing traffic jams. Many of the businesses splay out from this center. <br /><br />South of the city center is a cluster of large office buildings that border on skyscraper-hood that include DHL’s regional office, Deutsche-Welle (the BBC of Germany), and T-Mobil’s headquarters. Bonn’s white-collar job opportunities come from it’s days as the campital. Also south of town is the United Nations campus that still functions as the UN’s base in Germany and Central Europe. If you want a perspective on Bonn as a capital, that heady time between 1949 and 1989 when a quiet university town was transformed into a reluctant world power, click <a href="http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,940432,00.html">here</a>. <br /><br />The swank businesses don’t make it to the north. Up here we have governmental housing and cheap apartments. The latter explains my presence; the former explains the bad reputation. In recent decades the cheap housing passed from German to immigrant hands. On the tram platform it is just as likely I will be waiting with a dark-haired woman with a headscarf, as I am to be waiting with a blond-haired German student. <br /><br />Tennenbusch is populated by many first generation immigrant families that are ethnically Turkish. There is also a solid North African population, Lebanese population, and Syrian population. Most of my neighbors are working class with jobs in construction, maintenance, and manufacturing. Basically Tennenbusch is a first definition ghetto with ethic subsections and ethnic grocery stores. <br /><br />There are some shady characters hanging around, as you would find in any lower-income neighborhood. When I walk through a strip-mall that surrounds my grocery store, I often pass through standing knots of young Turkish-German thugs. I’m fascinated by Tennenbusch’s version of the back-alley bruiser, the teenage gangster. They wear skinny-boy jeans, and jackets studded with rhinestones. Carefully gelled, curly mullets are smushed down with paisley trucker hats and fanny packs loop their waists. Sometimes the hair gets even greasier and the sides are shaved, leaving a mull-hawk limply cascading over the popped Polo collar. <br /><br />Usually you can find a cluster of Tennen-punks behind the “Play Stop,” a small casino on the corner that decided to decorate with the same carpet as Golden Lanes Bowling Alley. The young clientele blow a few Euro then stand around giddily smoking each other’s cigarettes and are sometimes seen to be little extra giddy when there’s a whiff of marijuana in the air. They’ve never bothered me. In fact, they seem completely harmless, with a swaggering façade of misappropriated masculinity and little real angst to back it up. <br /><br />Maybe these lanky thugs give the neighborhood its unruly reputation. Middle-aged German citizens venture North and are confronted with pseudo-gangs of young men who are bigger push-overs than your average Shark or Jet. But they may seem a little intimidating to this older German explorer as they spout slangy German and indecipherable Turkish.<br /><br />It’s one of my dearest wishes to pluck one of them from Tennenbusch and drop him on the the South Side of Chicago or Over-the-Rhine in Cincinnati. I think they could use a little fashion advice and street cred and I am acutely aware I’m as nerdy and un-thuggish as they come. <br /><br />I would then drop a young gangster from one of a rough American neighborhoods in Tennenbusch. He would rule the streets within days of arrival. The German visitor to the U.S. would be quickly humbled, proving that all transplanted species don’t become epidemically invasive. We can’t all be kudzu. <br /><br />But then I wonder how much these greasy adolescents really affect the reputation of the neighborhood, and how much that reputation is affected by the women in headscarves. As you may or may not know, Europe is struggling with its growing Muslim population. As countries like France, Germany, and Italy grow wealthier, their populations shrink and natively born citizens are reluctant to take blue-collar jobs. Millions of Turkish citizens moved to Germany as guest workers and have established families in the land of pretzels and castles. <br /><br />But, they are not always welcome. I have spoken with many Germans who worry that new immigrants are not German. They refuse to learn the language, will take over the government, and soon there will be no more jobs for Germans. Does this sound familiar? It’s been resonating throughout American history. <br /><br />First the Quakers troubled the young American identity, later the Germans and Poles, then the Irish, and most recently Hispanic immigrants. Each time we worry that English well evaporate, that Democratic ideals will disappear, and we, the people descended from immigrants and who have forgotten this fact, will find ourselves oppressed in our own country. <br /><br />But there’s an issue beyond cultural preservation that complicates the German mindset when immigrants cross the border to work. There is such a thing as an ethnic German. If you wanted me to get specific, I could tell you I am a German-Scots-Irish-English-French-Belgian-Cherokee. First you would nod with understanding when I tell you I needed a lot of orthodontic work. Then you would nod with understanding when I simply told you I am American. The first was a list of my particular ethnic cocktail. The second is my national identity. Being “American” carries no assumption about your ancestors’ languages or their favorite cuisine. <br /><br />Being German, French, or Italian theoretically says something both about your ethic and nationalistic affiliation. There are no immigration laws for becoming a naturalized German citizen. If you are of Turkish descent and your family has been living in Germany for three generations, you are still Turkish, not German. You are treated like an outsider, and you self-identify as an outsider. <br /><br />Nationalistic pride goes beyond xenophobia. It’s culturally entrenched in the identity of every European country. 150 years ago the continent was divided in the British Empire, the Prussian Empire, the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the Russian Empire, and the French Territories. These were multi-national bodies that didn’t care what language you spoke or the history of your region. Then revolutions started bubbling. Italian speakers shared a language and identity that was distinct from their French and Austrian overlords. They started a campaign to bring all ethnic Italians under one ruler. Serbian Nationalists kicked off the First World War in a move to separate Serbia from the Austro-Hungarians. Czechoslovakia was dissolved because the Slovaks wanted to govern themselves without cooperating with ethnic Czechs. National identity and ethnicity is part of the fabric of Europe. Now you have immigrants bending the rules of identity. Poles are moving to Ireland, and Turks are in Germany and no one is quite sure how to deal with it. <br /><br />I’ve heard veiled - and even direct – assertions that the immigrant populations is stupider or lazier than their ethnically German counterparts. I don’t want to make the blanket accusation that the “Germans are all racist,” but it really is hard for me to hold myself back from a speech on the equality of human intelligence. There are stupid people, and lazy people, and brilliant people in every population. These immigrants are hardly intellectual lightweights. Many have learned German through after-work programs or by listening to their kids. They came here to work, not for a handout. <br /><br />So, back to Tennenbusch. This has been my home for the last year. I live in a subsidized student dormitory that overlooks the bustling streets of Tennenbusch. I troop to and from work each day with an ethnic mix that would look normal on a tram in New York or Chicago, but worries many Germans. My message is one of relaxation. Just ease back. These new immigrants are necessary to keep Germany’s economic machine churning. German culture will survive. Everyone loves good beer, well-made cars, and efficient train networks. The culture may evolve in the process. Good. You’ve already adopted American pop-music from the 1980s, and readily incorporated the kebab into late night binges. I know you hate to hear it, Germany, but the U.S. might have some decent examples for how to deal and how to adapt. <br /><br />So, yes, slightly worried German conversation partner, I live in Tennenbusch. Where the streets are clean, the rent is cheap, and the children are above average (even if they go through a greasy-Guido phase). <br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">A </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=99189265">link</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> to an NPR story about German minorities that tackles some of these issues. </span>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-86618341804872119292009-07-26T18:28:00.015+02:002009-07-26T18:49:11.870+02:00Die Kneipe<span style="font-size:130%;">or,</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > Yes Fulbright, I went to a <a href="http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kneipe_%28Studentenverbindung%29">German Frat Party</a>, but it was all for the new cultural experience</span><br /><br />I started packing two weeks ago. I loaded books, papers, and pamphlets into DHL boxes and sent them home ahead of me. This left my bookshelf and desk an empty expanse of sterile space. Nothing agitates me like an empty book shelf and now I’m living with eight. On Friday I started the second stage of packing. Because I’m flying from Dublin to Frankfurt, then turning around the next day and flying to Ohio, I asked Katie, a Fulbrighter in Frankfurt, to hang onto my extra bags while I’m in Ireland. Saturday she would pop up to Bonn to collect my luggage, meaning I had to pack everything for Ireland on Friday and squirrel the rest of it away in bags that will sit dormant for the next three weeks in her dorm.<br /><br />Down came my decorative pictures of famous German buildings. Down came the maps of Europe (gifts from Aunt Karen and Uncle Troy before I left). My room is blank, all dusty white walls and clothing. My return feels starkly real.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmyFXVp-nnI/AAAAAAAACcM/Yh7-oDkeQVk/s1600-h/DSCN1302.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmyFXVp-nnI/AAAAAAAACcM/Yh7-oDkeQVk/s320/DSCN1302.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362807892288118386" border="0" /></a>I picked up Katie from the train station and stashed my non-Irish luggage in a locker so we could briefly explore the city. She’s staying until the end of August, but has several friends who are headed home and she wanted to squeeze in parties Friday night and Saturday night, so she only had the afternoon tour to the former western capital. Because of a late night celebrating, she didn’t get a lot of sleep the night before and didn’t have time to grab breakfast before boarding the train. This building hunger becomes key to the following story:<br /><br />I lead the way past Beethoven’s statue and the disturbing, massive heads of Bonn’s favorite martyrs to the beer garden on the banks of the Rhine.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmyGA0IWSvI/AAAAAAAACcc/i9OzRYrAKsI/s1600-h/DSCN0507.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmyGA0IWSvI/AAAAAAAACcc/i9OzRYrAKsI/s320/DSCN0507.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362808604843199218" border="0" /></a><br />As soon as we were seated, a waitress wandered over to take our orders. Our Kölsch quickly appeared and we could share stories of the 4th of July, her travels in Scandinavia, and my frequent sojourns to Belgium with mugs of the local brew. We also had the opportunity to watch the towering sycamore, which provides the entire garden with shade, rain slabs of bark on the tables and strollers of unsuspecting patrons.<br /><br />In fact we got to chat and watch bark for an inordinate amount of time since our pizza refused to make an appearance. Like good, acculturated Germans we just assumed the proprietors were encouraging us to linger over conversation and not rush to the entrée and out the door. After forty-five minutes and a finished glass of beer, our hunger brought our American service expectations raging to the fore. Where the hell was our food? Honestly, it’s just pizza! We tried to catch our waitress’s eye, but she never glanced our way. We tried a polite “Entschuldigung.” Nothing.<br /><br />Finally I was up and caught her carrying a tray between the tables. “Uh, ist unser Pizza…” “It will be out immediately.” This second part was in English with a perfect German clip on the end of the sentence. I was sent scurrying like a shameful kinder. Our food arrived after a few more minutes. Sweet relief. Sated, I lead a tour of the main campus buildings i.e. the University’s castles. In desperate need of a bathroom we dove into my department’s labs where Katie was appropriately awed by my master key and inclusion in the department’s annual who’s who photo collage.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmyGxko4Y0I/AAAAAAAACc8/R5IfVXezQvM/s1600-h/DSCN1311.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmyGxko4Y0I/AAAAAAAACc8/R5IfVXezQvM/s320/DSCN1311.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362809442498274114" border="0" /></a>With a stop for coffee and a stroll by Beethoven’s home it was time to pack Katie off to Frankfurt with my few worldly possessions. Appropriately Bonn also saw fit to send her off with a good Rhenish drenching.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmyGIHvlzKI/AAAAAAAACck/gMy_LOz9vU0/s1600-h/DSCN1306.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmyGIHvlzKI/AAAAAAAACck/gMy_LOz9vU0/s320/DSCN1306.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362808730367151266" border="0" /></a>Of course the train was significantly delayed and the arrival board was on the fritz. As trains and destinations appeared over the track that had nothing to do with Frankfurt, we were confused and concerned we had missed a detail in the garbled announcements. Then we saw the native Germans on the platform were looking equally befuddled. While bewildered Germans would normally be a terrifying sight, here it was comforting.<br /><br />With Katie finally headed back to Hesse it was time to turn my attention to my evening. At the farewell barbecue, Nils, a paleobotany graduate student, invited me to a “Beerfest” at his fraternity to enjoy an authentically German experience. His one request, “Wear something nice. Do you have a smoking jacket? This is something nice.” This made me a little uneasy. While I remembered my rock hammer, Chuck Taylors, and hot sauce, I never bothered to bring my Hefner-designed wardrobe. I hoped a blazer would do the trick.<br /><br />I’ve checked in on these fraternity boys periodically through the year as Nils suggested it might be a way to practice my German. They put up with my stuttering attempts to communicate in my new second language and seem willing to teach me news turns of phrase. They are also willing to share their beer. I just hoped they would serve it if I was a little underdressed for whatever this ‘Fest turned into.<br /><br />The fraternity system (Studentenverbindung <span style="font-style: italic;">auf Deutsch</span>) in Germany is stuffed with traditions and rituals that go back to the 18th century, some even originating in the 14th century with the founding of European universities. Apparently Bonn has one of the highest concentrations of fraternities in the country along with Heidelberg, Gottingen, and Marburg, all old university towns. German fraternities were the testing grounds for democratic thought, though some took on a strong, nationalistic bent that made them controversial through the Second World War and its aftermath.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmyHKIwGPII/AAAAAAAACdc/3CP77IF8kA4/s1600-h/DSCN1310.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmyHKIwGPII/AAAAAAAACdc/3CP77IF8kA4/s320/DSCN1310.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362809864509078658" border="0" /></a><br />Politics aside, they seem to function much like American fraternities with older members mentoring the younger classes, and the Alumni (<span style="font-style: italic;">Alte Herren</span>) serving to financially support the house and help them professionally network. Unlike American fraternities, there is no fee for participation. Living in the fraternity’s house is one of the best deals in town (Bonn has notoriously high rent, thus my dormitory accommodations). Most of the guys in the fraternity seem to participate simply for the cheap rent and not because of some long-standing family tradition. Along the way they all become friends, and enjoy hosting events like this Beerfest.<br /><br />I showed up in a sportcoat and slacks, with hardly any further information. Katie and I had seen guys wandering around that day wearing fraternity colors and riding boots, sporting fencing foils on their hips. Nils confirmed these guys were also celebrating the end of the semester with a fraternity party. Would this be a massive social, like a fraternity formal in the States with every member bringing his orange-tanned girlfriend for drunken dancing in formal wear? If so, this could be a little awkward without a date. Or would this be a fencing bout as described by Mr. Twain when he visited the University of Heidelberg. If so, this could be awesome and maybe a little bloody.<br /><br />When I entered I was greeted by the fraternity president who took down my name and its pronunciation. “When this is read, simply stand and toast the group.” Apparently seats would be involved in the events. More clues were accumulating. I went downstairs to the bar and saw a lot of Y-chromosomes. This was not a co-ed affair. New clue. It was good to have one.<br /><br />Koen, a graduate student from the department and another guest of Nils, joined me to offer some explanation of the event. He told me this was a Kneipe, a night of singing and drinking that goes all the way back to the Dark Ages. The tradition is so old that the word “Kneipe” is now synonymous with a tavern, pub, or any place where singing and alchol can be enjoyed in equal measure. With this fresh nugget of trivia we were summoned to the meeting room where a long wooden table was decked out with candles and the wood-paneled walls festooned with coats-of-arms and dusty flags. Here I switched into Anthropologist mode as a well-practiced, familiar-yet-foreign ritual took place around me.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmyHEI2sSNI/AAAAAAAACdU/kM4UbqFRE08/s1600-h/DSCN1321.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmyHEI2sSNI/AAAAAAAACdU/kM4UbqFRE08/s320/DSCN1321.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362809761457522898" border="0" /></a><br />I took a seat near the middle of the table, far from two long boards that were laid across the ends of the table. These seemed to have an official function and I needed to avoid finding myself in the way of the ceremony (if that’s what “singing and drinking” become in Germany).<br /><br />Koen took a seat on one side, and a older man who was probably seventy years old sat on the other. He and a companion represented the Alte Harren and their presence immediately signaled this was a different kind of frat party. I would spend the next couple of hours trying to keep pace with my grandfather.<br /><br />A brother struck up a march on a piano in the corner, and two other members tromped in, decked out in red jackets hung with red, black, and white ribbons. Each wielded a sword that was also decorated with the fraternity’s colors. We stood as they marched to the end of the table and rapped their swords on the boards to call us to attention. I deemed it a good choice to be in the middle as the concussion from the blade rang through the room. We were directed to open small green song books to number 143 and we started in on a hymn-like student song penned in 1875. It occurred to me that Luther revolutionized the mass by adapting drinking songs as hymns. “A Mighty Fortress is Our God” never seemed like a very rousing tune for the inebriated, but it has a passing resemblance to much of the material we performed last night.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmyG9OnFaDI/AAAAAAAACdM/rPlVlvB6O7I/s1600-h/DSCN1314.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmyG9OnFaDI/AAAAAAAACdM/rPlVlvB6O7I/s320/DSCN1314.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362809642743588914" border="0" /></a>Between each verse a uniformed guard would introduce a different group. First the visitors who were all too bewildered to offer a toast, then the members form other chapters, then the alumni, and finally the current house residents. After six verses of formal German text we fell back into conversation. A few minutes lapsed, the swords hit the table and we struck up a new song, this one the anthem of Bonn. The lyrics refer to the city but the tune was originally composed in the 1600s for Heidelberg University and everyone just copied the melody. We received a report of that semester’s accomplishments and a piece of paper went around that some people signed. I started to, thinking it was some kind of attendance sheet, until my septuagenarian neighbor warned me, “This is for speaking. Perhaps it is better to take action rather than make words.” I agreed and hurriedly passed the page on.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmyG22KgXEI/AAAAAAAACdE/OIqAQIcNZJQ/s1600-h/DSCN1316.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmyG22KgXEI/AAAAAAAACdE/OIqAQIcNZJQ/s320/DSCN1316.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362809533102054466" border="0" /></a>Speeches were offered, toasts shared, and we sang. Repeat. We were dismissed to use the facilities. When we came back, there had been a changing of the guard, and we swung into a chorus of “Gaudeamus Igitur.” Then jokes started. The guard would point his sword and you stood and delivered some comedy bit, maybe a skit or long form joke. After the punchline we knocked the table in approval and took a swig from ceramic steins that would probably find a happy home in a historical museum. Two senior members were called to stand on their chairs for a rhetorical challenge. The first launched into a speech, the sword would slam down and the guard would yell one of the words in the speech. The opposition would take that word and start his own speech. They volleyed words and insults and I doggedly tried to follow, usually just laughing when everyone else did. And we continued to drink.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmyGO3PmI7I/AAAAAAAACcs/nkCHimEA1bY/s1600-h/DSCN1315.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmyGO3PmI7I/AAAAAAAACcs/nkCHimEA1bY/s320/DSCN1315.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362808846197072818" border="0" /></a>As the beer continued to flow the songs began to involve a lot more swaying and shout-outs and challenges to see the bottoms of glasses. I started to gets some ideas of how to bring this home. This was a drinking party, not a party where you drink. The alcohol makes the jokes funnier, and the speeches more spontaneous. This needs exportation, a true symposium where the group shares wit and insight, and Warsteiner. I think its key to have a kind of program, someone at the head of the table calling out which song needs to be cued up, and who should speak next. But then, I may be one of the few American twenty-somethings who thinks improvised speeches and good jokes are a way to pass a Saturday night.<br /><br />After jokes and a snack of wurst with Bavarian mustard that caused a Bavarian brother to wax philosophical about the beauties of his homeland, the ceremony broke and went on the road. We trooped to the Rhine with mugs of beer to watch a “friendship sealing.”<br /><br />Each fraternity member has a collection of ribbons. Each ribbon has the fraternity’s coats-of-arms, and something personal to the brother, usually a quote. You receive your first ribbon from a sponsoring older brother and you collect smaller ribbons from brothers who are your equal. On the river, near a cannon used to defend the city from roving Prussians and French, the ribbons were unveiled. They each had an Ernest Hemingway quote that said something about the promise of the morning. With this sealing swig:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmyGr1flcxI/AAAAAAAACc0/1j2rhHXDMZU/s1600-h/DSCN1325.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmyGr1flcxI/AAAAAAAACc0/1j2rhHXDMZU/s320/DSCN1325.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362809343943471890" border="0" /></a>the ribbons were pinned and a German copy of “The Old Man and the Sea” handed off. I took a little American pride in the moment as Papa’s words stirred German hearts.<br /><br />We adjured to the city for late-night pizza and bleary rides and walks home. While the pizza might be a new addition to the tradition, I have a feeling the latter woozy journey back to the dorm is part of the ancient tradition, stretching back to the 13th century when swords were used for more than calling the next verse.<br /><br />I hope you’ve managed to wander into a new cultural experience recently or maybe learned a new song from new friends. If not, try tracking down a German fraternity brother. He’ll teach you a tune and offer up a “Prost!” even if you’re not wearing your smoking jacket.<br /><br />Tschüss!Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-82250803595395519952009-07-24T22:16:00.000+02:002009-07-25T01:37:57.412+02:00Saying Goodbye in German: Fire up the GrillFor the first twenty-three years of my life I labored under the mistaken impression that the barbeque was a strictly American pastime. On some level I thought the rusty communal grill in the middle of a leafy State park was a fitting symbol of my country. Then I came to Germany. The grill is a staple of every social gathering, maybe even more central than it is in the land of the Stars and Stripes.<br /><br />Every sunny day is a cherished event on the German social calendar, maybe because winters are so dark and seem to stretch on <span style="font-style: italic;">ad infinatum</span>. And sunny days are best enjoyed with charcoal. Once semi-warm weather moves in, the grill rolls out and every opportunity is seized to get people together with raw meat and beer. Maybe Ohio State was the exception, but we never had department grill-outs on Tuesdays to celebrate a faculty member achieving tenure. In short, they like to grill and they do it a lot. Maybe I should have seen this coming. This is the country famous for metts and brats. They must cook them communally every now and then.<br /><br />So, when the Fulbrighters in the western half of Germany started kicking around ideas for the 4th of July, we knew we were guaranteed a typical backyard grill-out. The park would have a grilling section, and we would be able to bring everything our overburdened limbs could carry. We just needed to bring some patriotism and maybe track down some pyrotechnics to make it a truly American affair. We also had to bring our goodbyes as everyone started winding down in Germany and started preparing for life on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.<br /><br />We decided to meet in Heidelberg, a beautiful city along the Necker River in Southwestern Germany. I was particularly excited to see the legendary castle and the river Mark Twain compared to the Mississippi. My ride to the city was made particularly exciting by the domestic dispute at the next table over from mine which started with hushed angry whisper and ended with the Bee Gees-look-alike husband receiving a full purse to the face. Somehow the woman across from me managed to nap and I managed to hide my shock.<br /><br />Upon arrival, Ben lead a tour through the shopping and restaurant district which basically involved following a single, mile-long street. The town is hemmed in by its river and the hills that support the massive castle, leaving a narrow but lengthy sliver of land for some urban sprawl. At a Schwäbisch bar we met Erin and Elise. In our enthusiastic catch-up we never figured out what we were doing to prepare for the next day’s festivities. This lead to what may be my third ring of Hell: unplanned group shopping. We are Fulbright scholars though, so we were able to organize our menu and divide duties with relative ease, surrounded by fresh produce and frustrated German women picking up the weekend’s groceries.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmpE_cZiaMI/AAAAAAAACb8/4aoyp1-zsEM/s1600-h/DSCN1178.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmpE_cZiaMI/AAAAAAAACb8/4aoyp1-zsEM/s320/DSCN1178.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362174163083749570" border="0" /></a><br />We walked out with just enough beer and more than enough meat. Marty, Marco, Ben, and I hauled our party across the river to a municipal park on the bank just as lighting started to illuminate the sky with natural fireworks. (Side note: When you buy a crate of beer in Germany, you're getting twenty glass bottles. That is a lot of liquid and a lot of glass to haul any distance. I believe transporting these weighty cases of alcohol has lead directly to the necessity of the German car in a country that could function solely on its public transportation.) Marty and Marco stayed with our supplies while Ben and I hiked back to his apartment so I could prepare Skyline dip in his apartment’s oven before looping back again. Ben’s apartment was conveniently located exactly one thunderstorm’s walk from the park. I would spend the rest of the day trying to get my underwear to dry out without perpetuating any ugly stereotypes about my homeland.<br /><br />Eventually the dip was packed in a cooler with Elise’s fresh hamburger patties, my shorts were sufficiently wrung, and the party could begin. The next eleven hours were spent on the banks of the Neckar, grilling, eating, drinking, talking, and throwing around a football. Every now and then Ben would cut in with a rousing chorus of God Bless America, or the Coast Guard’s Anthem. It was the most authentic 4th of July I’ve ever experienced on either side of the Atlantic Ocean.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmpE1QxqK7I/AAAAAAAACb0/K0IVpHCDqVQ/s1600-h/DSCN1189.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmpE1QxqK7I/AAAAAAAACb0/K0IVpHCDqVQ/s320/DSCN1189.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362173988165004210" border="0" /></a><br />As the evening aged we started to say good-bye, promising to keep in touch as we each embark on the exciting lives as exhausted graduate students. I really have made some incredible friendships over the last year with people who will – unfortunately- be scattered across the lower 48. Of course, this dispersal provides a handy excuse to visit Chicago, LA, Atlanta, Philadelphia, and college towns of the Midwest like West Lafayette, Champaign-Urbana, and Madison. A year ago, these people were just names on a spreadsheet that Fulbright sent along to my in-box. I knew I wanted to travel, and wondered if any of these people would climb a mountain with me, or take a weekend trip to the Iberian Peninsula, or join me in a cavernous beer hall. Turns out they would.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmpEshHpvtI/AAAAAAAACbs/lSMJftZDW34/s1600-h/DSCN1183.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 229px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmpEshHpvtI/AAAAAAAACbs/lSMJftZDW34/s320/DSCN1183.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362173837933395666" border="0" /></a><br />The next day Marco, Ben, and I rolled back upriver to Bonn, ooh-ing and aah-ing at the castle-lined corridor that leads home. When I got back, I began furiously puzzling my way through my project, acutely aware that I only had my precious fossils for a few more weeks.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmpFK-noZKI/AAAAAAAACcE/Av93rFgQoxU/s1600-h/M0057+Lateral.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmpFK-noZKI/AAAAAAAACcE/Av93rFgQoxU/s320/M0057+Lateral.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362174361248228514" border="0" /></a><br />During a short break from puzzling to get lunch, I ran into three other graduate students from the Institute. They invited me to join them at the Mensa where I explained I would be skipping town at the end of the month. They were shocked I was leaving “so soon! You just got here, yes?” Man, I know that feeling. “Well, we must say a proper goodbye. We must have a barbeque!” I was a little skeptical of this idea. Would enough people really show up to see me off? They waved off my thought and decided we should hold the party on the 23rd, before Dr. Martin left with his family for vacation.<br /><br />So yesterday I brought a case of Pilsner and some sausages. The graduate students – Julia and Sandra – tracked down the picnic tables, dragged out the grill, and brought the charcoal. Then people actually started showing up bearing a variety of salads and plenty of meat to grill. We passed wine and beer around at 1PM on a Thursday and enjoyed a cake that Sandra had baked to see me off. Then they presented me with a t-shirt. The front has the scowl of Beethoven and proclaims “Beethovenstadt Bonn.” The back was signed by the well-wishers, and each name was accompanied by a doodle depicting their specialty so I won’t forget Sandra works on ancient horses and Vincent works on rodent teeth. Along with the shirt, I opened a card everyone signed which was tricked out with a limerick composed by a Belgian:<br /><br />A young lad from Ohio came to Germany<br />To expand his knowledge on paleontology<br />He only stayed for a year<br />Did he learn enough, you might fear<br />I assure you, he is ready for that PhD degree!<br /><br />Beautiful. Maybe a few extra syllables wedged in there then would normally be acceptable, but the intention of the poem is much more important. After all this attention I really wasn’t sure how to fully express my gratitude to a group of people who have tolerated my meager aptitude for German, and my staggering aptitude for stupid questions.<br /><br />I realize I haven’t written very much about Bonn on this blog, but know that I really have felt welcome and comfortable as I toiled on a project that I barely understood until very recently. I feel like I’ve just rounded the corner of calling many of these students and professors “friends” and now I need to say goodbye. A goodbye best said with a barbeque. (Another side note: A party hosted by a separate someone is a rare event. Normally you are responsible for bringing your own cake, and orchestrating the logistics. This leads to dirty German/Hobbit comparisons. A party hosted by other graduate students was an incredible gift that I attempted to repay by editing their English abstracts.)<br /><br />I hope you have had the chance to gather around a gas or charcoal grill with people you love to spend time with and don’t ever want to say goodbye to. Just don’t do that in a public place with open containers. That’s a privilege strictly reserved for us German grillers, thank you very much.<br /><br />Tschüss!Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-75501881483230101872009-07-23T19:33:00.003+02:002009-07-23T19:54:59.582+02:00A Final Arrival Home<span style="font-style: italic;">The random <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2614147&id=12407527&l=31a19de167">photo album</a> with some images of Luxembourg and this final sweep through Benelux.</span><br /><br />Before we left for this short excursion, I contemplated the extra space in my massive Kelty backpack. The extra payload was necessary for hauling the tent, but it still had plenty of flapping fabric. I wondered aloud if there were any comforts that would make my backpack more shapely. Marty looked down at the air mattress he had spent the night on. “We could bring this.” Normally when I sleep in a tent I have a thin ¾ length Thermarest offering me minimal lumbar support. The mattress seemed excessive, but it might fit.<br /> <br />Cut to urban campsite in Brussels. After setting up my tent, which is starting to show its age and experience with bleached colors and exposed fibers, I unrolled the massive mattress and started stomping on the foot pump. The pump has a long, ribbed, plastic tube that connects to a valve on the mattress. As anyone who has spent some time at a carnival or amusement park where crinkled straws are sold will know, ridged plastic makes a piercing whistle whenever you blow air through it. With every pump, the tube screeched and I felt like every other camper had their eyes trained on the prissy American who needed his eight inch thick mattress for a good night’s sleep. With every whistle I wanted to explain “I’ve hiked the AT!” Weeeet! “I’ve slept on top of a scorpion!” Wheeet! “I’m a friggin’ geologist!” <br /><br />But the next morning as the alarm started chirping, I felt like hauling and pumping the thing - and all the soreness and embarrassment this decision might have caused - was absolutely worth it. I was sleeping outside and more comfortably than I do on my low German-dorm-issued cot. The only problem was things had gotten a little damp. The night before I had rolled open a flap near our heads to let the interior breath a bit. During the night and early morning a slow, drenching rain had moved through as slow drenching rains are want to do in this part of the world. We had happily slept on while our jackets and daypacks soaked up the invasive drops. <br /><br />The rain made for a messy escape, but we had everything rolled up in time to catch our train at the Gare de Luxembourg station in Brussels which was right next to the EU campus. The plaza in front of the parliament building is named for the other capital of the EU making for some confusing train schedules as we tried to figure out which way was up (“We need to get to Gare de Luxembourg in Luxembourg, is that the same as this Gare de Luxembourg?” “Why are you asking me as if I would have a clue?”). As we searched for the station I was able to bust out the one French phrase I command on an unsuspecting grocer, “Excusez-moi, où est la Gare de Luxembourg?” I received some hand waving in a left-ish direction. It was enough to get us to the train where we slowly chugged half the length of Belgium and Luxembourg in three hours. <br /><br />Normally I wouldn’t mind a chance to sit and read or journal with new European scenery whizzing by the window, but we didn’t grab breakfast before leaving Brussels (we thought it might be at the station. Turns out the “Gare” is pretty dead on a Sunday morning.). We wouldn’t arrive in Luxembourg until 1PM and there were no food carts on our comically small train. So we grumbled audibly while our stomachs did likewise. <br /><br />We had two missions in Luxembourg: Get food and find the Internet. Marty still hadn’t heard from his friend. Meanwhile, I was trying to figure out my evening, anticipating a call from Dr. Sander from the University of Bonn. After my “History of Creationism” talk the previous Tuesday he invited me to meet Don Lessem, a visiting American journalist-turned-dinosaur educator who makes it his life’s work to get the wider public interested in the past. We had vague plans of meeting for dinner Sunday night. As Marty searched for wireless access (a scarce commodity in these parts of Europe) I received a call to meet at the Institute at 6:30PM. That was about what I expected. What I didn’t foresee was a meager train schedule. I suppose Luxembourgers are just as reluctant as Belgians to leave the homeland. I would need to leave at 2:25 if I wanted to make it to dinner in time (key to the first impression). If I missed that, the next train bound for Germany would make me wait around 1.5 hours. <br /><br />So, after a three-hour haul across Benelux, I only had an hour-and-a-half to explore before I needed to abandon Marty. We had to get moving. We crossed the soaring bridge to the Old Town and searched for a place with traditional Luxembourger fare, whatever that is. We found a trendy, but rustic restaurant with a potato dish that looked hearty and local. We sat down and a waiter, who suspiciously raised an eyebrow at our presence, laid out a tablecloth and presented the menus. We made our decisions and started glancing at the clock. Slowly we realized this wouldn’t work. Our preferred dishes would need to be baked. We only had an hour and hadn’t received our drinks. Time slipped away. Yeah, we had terrible luck with service and we just needed to take our stomachs into our own hands. So we got up. We also felt terrible.<br /><br />What impression were we leaving of hassled Americans? We wanted to explain that we wanted to sit and savor good food, stretching our Sunday lunch into a three-hour excursion into the culinary offerings of Luxembourg. That there needed to be more trains looping through this part of the world. But we couldn’t explain. There was no one around to tell. <br /><br />So, we moved on to a bakery recommended by Lonely Planet where soups and salads were the standard, quick bill-of-fare. We thought we would order at the counter and be filling our shrunken stomachs in ten minutes. Instead we found a seating area with knots of old women and couples lounging around Pottery Barn tables, savoring their coffee and not acting like they had a train to catch. We made our selections from the on-table menu. No one came for ten minutes. Cursed and hungry, we departed again doomed to roam barren Luxembourg for enternity. At least this time we were assured no one heard our accents and no national stereotypes were perpetuated by our actions. <br /><br />We crossed the street and entered a kebab stand; the preferred first stop of most twenty-something males exploring Europe’s geography, but not its culinary variety. We had the thrill of ordering döner kebab in an ornate basket topped by delicious French fries (I will freely admit that I never expected Europeans to fully grasp the power of the fry. I’ve been proven wrong on multiple counts.). Filled with grease and mystery meat, we turned and power-walked back towards the train station (never a good second step after filling with said meat). With only a few minutes to spare I grabbed my luggage and hobble-jogged to my waiting train. Marty remained to try for contact one more time before leaving for Stuttgart and his final preparations before leaving for home this week. <br /><br />Two weekends earlier, when I made a last-minute decision to visit Luxembourg, I consoled myself with this thought as I rolled out of town without walking through the diving chasms or lush gardens: I would be back soon with Marty and plenty of time to exhaust the micro-state of its riches. Well, the trains had other plans. At least I can say I’m intimately familiar with the route between the Old Town and the distant train station.<br /><br />I got back to Bonn with just enough time to drop off my gear and hustle to Dr. Sander’s office. He was still discussing sauropod research with Mr. Lessem and I got to eavesdrop on the interview. I experienced the wonder these massive animals inspire one more time before hopping the Atlantic Ocean. Dinner was at a biergarten along the Rhine that I checked out back in October. The dogs and children romped and the barges chugged by while we discussed science education, how sauropods got their crazy necks, and the art of navigating Chinese regional politics. What more can you ask for from a good dinner? <br /><br />And thus concluded my final European Continental excursion. As I type this I have about one more real week in Germany before I grab a flight to the island of Ireland and the arms of my Carolyn. The next few posts will deal with saying good-bye. Look forward to astute observations on German behavior, my living situation, and lists of things I will miss and things that I won’t. I bet you can just feel those curiosity juices percolating through your higher faculties. <br /><br />Tschüss! <br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2614147&id=12407527&l=31a19de167">album</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> one more time.</span>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-20635589874338128412009-07-23T01:00:00.019+02:002009-07-23T09:56:49.201+02:00A Final Brussels Bout<span style="font-style: italic;">A <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2614147&id=12407527&l=31a19de167">photo album</a> that has some Luxembourg, a little Independence Day (a little on that later), and some images of this final border-skipping gallivant. In the next few posts it will all make sense. </span><br /><br />I’m feeling nostalgic. I’ve been flipping through digital photo albums from last August, musing on how far I’ve wandered and how little I’ve gotten done. In less than two weeks I say goodbye to Deutschland…kind of. Carolyn is meeting me in Dublin at the beginning of August. We’ll wander for ten days then I fly back to Frankfurt. The next day I fly out again, bound for parts west. So technically, I say goodbye to Germany on the 14th of August, but my real goodbyes have been going on for a while. Here I say goodbye to Continental exploration:<br /><br />Two weekends ago I took my last international weekend ramble with Marty who you may remember as the Aeronautical Engineer who accompanied me to <a href="http://mrborths.blogspot.com/2009/04/obama-czech-s-out-prague.html">Prague</a>, <a href="http://mrborths.blogspot.com/2009/04/wiener-wandering.html">Vienna</a>, and <a href="http://mrborths.blogspot.com/2009/04/something-awesome-in-state-of-denmark.html">Copenhagen</a>. His stated goal in taking on this Fulbright thing was to visit every country that borders Germany. There are nine. Can you list them (hint, how well do you know your WWII trivia?). In case you missed one or two, here’s the rundown: Denmark, Poland, The Czech Republic, Austria, Switzerland, France, Luxembourg, Belgium, and The Netherlands. He had knocked seven off the list leaving Luxembourg and Belgium as the only obstacles to his Circumnavigation of Germany Merit Badge.<br /><br />I knew I wouldn’t be able to accomplish this goal. A jaunt to Krakow or Warsaw will have to wait until I take a trip to Eastern Europe to check out Russia, Estonia, Poland etc. at some distant, as yet determined time (I have determined it will be at a time when my wallet isn’t quite this lean). But I'll be damned if I was going to watch someone else get so close to this noble goal then stumble at the finish because no one wanted to see Brussels. So, I was going back to Belgium.<br /><br />Marty met me in Bonn. Both of us had spent the previous week furiously working on our projects since our time is quickly winding down. Our preparation for the weekend basically consisted of Marty saying, “Hey, I’ll be in around 8. Oh, and we might be meeting a friend of mine in Luxembourg.” So, when he arrived, one would think we would sit down to do some itinerary work. Neh, we had Kölsch to sample.<br /><br />We bar hopped and re-hashed the following conversation for about two hours:<br /><br />Me/Marty: I can’t believe it’s almost over.<br />Me/Marty: I know, isn’t it crazy?<br />Me/Marty: Yeah. Yeah, it’s crazy.<br /><br />When we decided to call it a night, we remembered to check our train times. We would go to Belgium first, getting there as early as possible, explore Brussels, then drop down to Luxembourg for the night. It was also established I should bring my tent. We didn’t bother to look up campgrounds, but figured we might as well have a place to sleep in case the airport was booked for the night.<br /><br />We discovered there was only one way to get to Brussels before 1PM (I really don't understand how the city functions with so few connections to the wider world) and that was on a train that left at 8:30AM from Cologne. It would be an early morning, but we managed to drag ourselves out the door and caught the tram to the Bonn station. About 1.5 km from the station, we came to a screeching halt and sat…on…the…tracks for about ten minutes. Our connection to Cologne was long gone.<br /><br />Desperately we tried to figure out a way to get to Cologne so could catch that 8:30. We had one shot. The our train pulled into Bonn at 8:08 and into Cologne at 8:28, leaving us about a minute-and-a-half to make the jump to our Brussels-bound train somewhere in the massive Cologne train station. We were pacing by the doors as we pulled into Cologne, throwing ourselves onto the platform as soon as the door rattled open. My lopsided, tent-filled pack threatened to take out septuagenarians and four-year-olds as we sprinted down the stairs, got held up by a woman really taking her time with those steps, and up to our Brussels-bound platform.<br /><br />We hopped onto the train and slowed down to look at the platform’s sign. It declared half the train was headed for Amsterdam, the other half for Brussels. But which half were we on? An overheard conversation told us Amsterdam. We tried to jog through the aisle to make the Brussels section, but middle-aged women carefully arranging their overhead luggage, and giggling tweens clogged the flow. Then we reached a dead end. The aisle terminated into an engine. We hoped off and had the distinct pleasure of watching our ride to Brussels receding to the horizon after disconnecting from the engine we had just discovered. Damn.<br /><br />We found an automated ticket machine and established that the next train to Brussels wouldn’t get us there until 1:20PM and would involve two half-hour layovers en route. This would be a long ride.<br /><br />The up-shot was we had a half-hour to kill in Cologne, so Marty and I were able to scamper to the neighboring Cologne Cathedral. Marty was properly awed by the towering height of the Gothic structure and it's soaring windows and I provided a little of my commentary, but not too much. We had the first of three trains to catch.<br /><br />It dumped us off in Aachen, a German town on the border of The Netherlands, Belgium, and Germany (where they have the best deals in the Tri-Country area). We had a half-hour. Anyone up for another cathedral?<br /><br />Back in <a href="http://mrborths.blogspot.com/2008/11/achin-for-aachen.html">November</a> I visited Charlemagne’s Byzantine-inspired church and saw his golden casket, but I wouldn’t see it a second time. A couple hundred yards from the steeple we had to scramble back to the station for a ride to Liege, Belgium on a train that somehow timewarped from 1880s Wyoming. The red paint was photogenically peeling from the battered exterior as we slowly chugged across the border to the grungy, industrial city that is best known for its less grungy waffles.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Smeh3azTrwI/AAAAAAAACaA/J0kOa5xjF8k/s1600-h/DSC_1359.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Smeh3azTrwI/AAAAAAAACaA/J0kOa5xjF8k/s320/DSC_1359.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361431854867263234" border="0" /></a>A Liege waffle is an ovoid affair with caramelized sugar grilled right into the dough. We were able to track down this Belgian staple near the space-age station before finally boarding for Brussels.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmehwQ6rXPI/AAAAAAAACZ4/vNixyxYfnsU/s1600-h/DSC_1355.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmehwQ6rXPI/AAAAAAAACZ4/vNixyxYfnsU/s320/DSC_1355.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361431731954736370" border="0" /></a>With three and half hours of travel under our belts we rolled into capital of Europe, a third visit to a city I never expected to see once. Despite previous experiences, there was still confusion over where exactly to get off. Instead of building one massive station as a central hub for trans-Belgian travel, Brussels has three stations. Each sports a Flemish and French name giving a person six unfamiliar words to juggle as they try to plan an excursion. Of course, we really didn’t plan our excursion, compounding our confusion when we stepped off at “Midi” then decided to hop to “Centraal.”<br /><br />At the station we found out we would need to leave in about three hours if we wanted to make it to Luxembourg to see Marty’s friend who was being frustratingly coy about when/if he would even be able to meet us. After following a winding route that might have doubled as a rat-maze experiment, we dropped our bags and scrambled for food. We managed to take out two-birds with one stone by getting a Frikadeller (fried, meat-ball like sausage) sandwich with fresh Belgian French fries between the bun. I don’t recall the Flemish word for this entree, but I think roughly translated it meant “Heart attack on a bun.” It as also delicious.<br /><br />As we strolled through the streets of Brussels in search of the Mannequin Pis, Marty managed to find an internet connection outside a bar. He checked his e-mail and found out his friend wouldn’t be able to meet us that night and would shoot for a rendezvous the next day. Through the wonders of technology we discovered we had the rest of the afternoon and evening to spend savoring Brussels rather than sprinting off for a 6th city in one day. This newly discovered time was crucial because Marty had one Belgian goal: sample as many varieties of their legendary beers as possible before moving on to wine-guzzling Luxembourg the next day. With that goal in mind I had a new appreciation for the Mannequin Pis as a symbol of the city.<br /><br />I led a now practiced tour through the winding Medieval streets of Brussels. I will freely admit I never planned to have the capital so perfectly mapped in my head when I touched down last August, but I can now describe the most efficient path from St. Michael’s Cathedral to the Grand Place. Just in case you need it at some point.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Smeh_yBtvbI/AAAAAAAACaI/Om4UuIYTdSI/s1600-h/DSC_1370.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Smeh_yBtvbI/AAAAAAAACaI/Om4UuIYTdSI/s320/DSC_1370.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361431998540660146" border="0" /></a>As we swung through the tangled mess that is the seafood café district I pointed out Delirium Cafe, an establishment that holds the record for most available varieties of beer in one establishment. Erin and I checked it out back in <a href="http://mrborths.blogspot.com/2009/03/brush-with-brussels.html">February</a>. Marty wanted to check it out today. It was time to start checking brews off the list.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmeiFkSSWiI/AAAAAAAACaQ/3qVRTkQicPo/s1600-h/DSC_1372.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmeiFkSSWiI/AAAAAAAACaQ/3qVRTkQicPo/s320/DSC_1372.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361432097931287074" border="0" /></a>Because it was early in the afternoon, the place had a subdued local vibe with people sitting around massive barrels discussing their beer selections and circuitous routes to Brussels (it’s never direct unless you’re Eurocrat). Marty drank a sweet thing called a “Pink Killer” and I had a Trappist triple. We had no idea where we were spending the night, but we knew we would feel good once we got there.<br /><br />For a shift from the shadowy subterranean to the roaring ‘20s, I lead the way to Mort Subite, the bar Mike, Tim, and I discovered two weeks earlier, and I would happily revisit any chance I get. The waiters are appropriately brusque and home brewed beer appropriately delicious. The clientele ranged from families of exhausted tourists to elderly, Belgian couples out for some Saturday shopping (who managed to look much peppier than the Italian ten-year-olds).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmeiukEZHwI/AAAAAAAACag/Q89EpAeZ3_o/s1600-h/DSC_1373.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmeiukEZHwI/AAAAAAAACag/Q89EpAeZ3_o/s320/DSC_1373.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361432802247646978" border="0" /></a>It was time to sort out where we would rest our heads for the night. While the airport sounded appealing, I was short on digestive biscuits and had hauled my tent along, so I miraculously remembered where the youth tourism office was and inquired if there was a campground within an easy bus ride of the city center. They said they could do me one better and circled a campground within walking distance that called the European Parliament its next-door neighbor. This we had to see, so we went back to the station, saddled up with our gear and started the familiar walk uphill towards the Old England and the Royal Palace.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmeimnbvgfI/AAAAAAAACaY/dmDSpCBCqzk/s1600-h/DSC_1381.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmeimnbvgfI/AAAAAAAACaY/dmDSpCBCqzk/s320/DSC_1381.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361432665711935986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The U.S. really needs to import some better street performers. I would pay good money to watch something like this parade by my window on a daily basis. To pay up I would put it on my bill.<br /><br /></span></div>After a stroll through more suburban Brussels we arrived at the designated address. We saw a small neighborhood church and a cracking asphalt driveway leading into an unseen parking lot. Things weren’t looking too promising. We ascended a short flight of crumbling concrete steps and discovered a storage facility and parking lot that would have worked for a West Side Story set.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Smejbop642I/AAAAAAAACbQ/WrgYI0kMzUU/s1600-h/DSC_1410.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Smejbop642I/AAAAAAAACbQ/WrgYI0kMzUU/s320/DSC_1410.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361433576572904290" border="0" /></a>I briefly scanned the ground for a tent-sized patch of gravel and pavement without obvious shards of glass. As I tracked the parking lot, Marty noticed a promising sign for “Camping” pointing to an enclosed lot next to the storage yard. We stepped through a chain-link gate and a wild garden spread before us, punctuated by neon rain-flies. This would be a good place to call home…assuming it didn’t rain. We paid our 9 Euro, probably the most expensive camp site I’ve ever stayed in. To be fair, I would be sleeping on the most expensive ground I’ve ever pitched a tent on, so it all worked out.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmejhWXzsFI/AAAAAAAACbY/PuSFPW6M_vY/s1600-h/DSC_1412.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmejhWXzsFI/AAAAAAAACbY/PuSFPW6M_vY/s320/DSC_1412.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361433674744311890" border="0" /></a>Following a Lonely Planet tip, we found a tiny pasta café along one of the fashionable shopping boulevards just outside the Old Town. There were three items on the menu: spaghetti carbonara, Pasta Bolognese, and Pasta Marinera. There were three drinks: soda, beer, and wine. Nine combinations yet the waitress brought along her notepad in case things got complicated.<br /><br />It was delicious and relatively cheap for a mountain of noodles. With a solid base, it was time to pub crawl. As we dove into the winding alleys of Brussels, we heard thudding bass echoing off the baroque façades. We followed the music to the Grand Place where a massive stage had been erected to support a twenty piece band, a half-acre of LCD screens, and a lead singer belting in Spanish. You will understand our confusion when we learned this was in celebration of Flemish Pride.<br /><br />Belgium is a divided country. The Northern half is Flanders and when they look south to Wallonia, the southern French speaking half of Belgium, they see nothing they like. Okay, it’s not that rabid a rivalry, but there is a political party in Flanders that agitates for secession from the French. This concert wasn’t really a demonstrative political act, it was just an event on a day that celebrates Flemish pride, but I did wonder what the Wallonian perspective would be on the whole undertaking. I guess it’s like going to a Civil War reenactment, or Alaskan Secession meeting, and wondering what people in the North or the lower 48 think. In all probability, no one really cares. They just want spectacle.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Smei5S0V_vI/AAAAAAAACao/lXx3qBQ_Sao/s1600-h/DSC_1402.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Smei5S0V_vI/AAAAAAAACao/lXx3qBQ_Sao/s320/DSC_1402.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361432986595491570" border="0" /></a>And spectacle we got as digital fireworks exploded behind the troop of artists who had performed and now joined voices in what Marty and I assumed was a Flemish standard. The crowd didn’t seem to know the words. Everyone lingered on stage after their bows hoping for a call for encore. None came. The square, filled with mostly subdued gawkers to begin with, quickly drained to the bars. Marty and I followed.<br /><br />We settled on the pub Marty had used to check his e-mail earlier so he could digitally touch base again. After leeching their wi-fi, it was the least we could do to buy a drink. That is, if they wanted to sell us one. We sat in the Biergarten for fifteen minutes, then a half-hour, then forty-five minutes, praying a waitress would arrive. People around us had beverages, maybe we should go in? I checked after waiting twenty and was shooed out the door by an overwhelmed waitress who had a bachelor party on her hands.<br /><br />So we sat and waited. There’s nothing as sobering as sitting in a bar without a beer. Another pair was also waiting. We would make disbelieving eye contact then look hopefully towards the door. After a certain amount of time elapses it becomes an investment. You continue to wait because leaving would prove the preceeding minutes were wasted. When our drinks finally arrived we could say we were drinking 3.50 Euros and 45 minutes of sitting worth of Belgian beer. After one we were done with Kwak Café.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmejCymV0vI/AAAAAAAACaw/7Yy-LS_uGVA/s1600-h/DSC_1407.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmejCymV0vI/AAAAAAAACaw/7Yy-LS_uGVA/s320/DSC_1407.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361433149745517298" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Marty enjoys his Kwak, a type of lambic beer named for the sound the liquid makes when it sloshes through the neck.<br /><br /></span></div>We were getting tired and ready to collapse into the tent, but decided we needed at least one more authentic Belgian brew in our systems before calling it a night, and Marty had a hankering for some superlatives. Back to Delirium.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmejQFdFEtI/AAAAAAAACbA/zxMt3H455Sw/s1600-h/DSC_1409.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmejQFdFEtI/AAAAAAAACbA/zxMt3H455Sw/s320/DSC_1409.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361433378145243858" border="0" /></a>This time it was late on a Saturday night. Two floor of bars were operating and the local dive bar had evaporated, leaving a fraternity residue. The place was packed with young tourists from roughly 20 different countries. Indians carried two liter boots of beer, and Canadians drained a dozen varieties before shouldering their way back to the bar for another round. Marty was a little disappointed that the atmosphere had lost a little local flavor. The laughing and people-watching at least re-energized me (along with my honey beer) for the long walk back to the campsite where we could bask in the glow of European Unity and broken fluorescent street lights before drifting into a well-earned dreams of sampling each of Delirium’s 2,200 offerings.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2614147&id=12407527&l=31a19de167">photo album</a> of random excursions from the final weeks. </span>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-69502338301100972782009-07-21T15:30:00.000+02:002009-07-21T15:36:09.566+02:00Luxembourg City, or, Crossing Three International Borders in 12 hours,My alarm beeped me awake just in time to hear a flight bound for Budapest was going to be delayed. I was only a little stiff from a night on an airport bench and felt ready to finally get home. I had a breakfast of chocolate-dipped digestive biscuits and rode back to the Brussels Midi station to catch my ride to Cologne.<br /><br />The train was a German ICE (high-speed rail) and I felt like I was safely back in Germany as soon as I saw the royal blue upholstery and “Mobil” magazines. We were flying across the Belgian country side, bound for Aachen, a German town on the border, when we had to stop. No explanation was offered. All we could do was stare out the window at the confused horses and sneaky barn cats who took a passing interest in our presence. We continued to wait. Then we backed up on the tracks and waited some more.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI9rucDGCI/AAAAAAAACYI/Uyw7f1j-Wuk/s1600-h/DSC_1351.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI9rucDGCI/AAAAAAAACYI/Uyw7f1j-Wuk/s320/DSC_1351.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359914327933655074" border="0" /></a>Eventually an announcement came over the intercom. There were electrical problems at the Aachen station. It would be a while longer. And it was. After an hour-and-a-half sitting on the tracks we slowly ran backwards to a tiny Belgian station that already had a massive Thalys (an independent French/Belgian/German company) train unloading its passengers. Lemming-like we followed each other around the station and waited by the curb for the buses the conductors promised were on their way. We waited for another half-hour.<br /><br />Two city buses had been drummed up on a Sunday morning to rescue us. Each was packed with luggage and people (I should note my ICE was bound for the Frankfurt Airport so a lot of people were schlepping some pretty chunky bags) but everyone couldn’t pile on. Another half-hour and another bus pulled up.<br /><br />We drove across the Belgian border and, 14 hours after I had hoped to do so, we crossed into Germany. I was finally free of Belgium's surprisingly tenacious grasp. Tired and frustrated, the passengers tried to sort out their connections at the Aachen station, debating if they would need a separate ticket to get to the next stop. I had my rail pass, so I just stepped onto the next regional train bound for Cologne. I’ve never been so happy to see the Cathedral pull into view.<br /><br />I arrived in Cologne just in time for noon Mass. Before going to the service I remembered to check my options for getting to Bonn. In five minutes there was a train leaving for my home Bonn. That wouldn’t work. I wanted to get to Mass. Then I noticed its terminal destination: Luxembourg. My rail pass covered me for the day and it was good for Belgium, The Netherlands, Germany, and Luxembourg. Only one left on the docket. I was going to Luxembourg. I think God will forgive me.<br /><br />The problem was I really had no idea what there was to do in Luxembourg. I knew it is a small place and it has a lot of important European Union Buildings and…no that was about it. I also didn’t tear the Luxembourg pages from my guide book to bring with me so I was flying blind.<br /><br />It took about three hours to get to Luxembourg so I had plenty of time to stare idly out the window, reflecting on the beautiful castles and vineyards that populate the Rhine river valley. I really did luck into living in one of the prettiest corners of Germany.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI_7kuXkKI/AAAAAAAACZw/j7E0CjvfKDk/s1600-h/DSC_1302.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI_7kuXkKI/AAAAAAAACZw/j7E0CjvfKDk/s320/DSC_1302.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359916799227302050" border="0" /></a>When the train finally pulled into the station I checked my escape routes as only someone who spent the previous night in an airport can. If I wanted to be home by midnight, I had to leave on the 6:30 train. That left three hours in Luxembourg. It’s small, right?<br /><br />I stashed my bag in a locker (apparently Luxembourgers don’t worry about their homeland’s security like the British) and found the tourism office. They provided me a map of the city that had all the major sights numbered with pictures of them along the margins. Of course, there was no explanation of the importance of each sight. The map just proved they existed. Well, I wasn’t going to pay for a tour guide, so the map and context clues would do.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI9yp1qLBI/AAAAAAAACYQ/mUfy75xBaQc/s1600-h/DSC_1353.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI9yp1qLBI/AAAAAAAACYQ/mUfy75xBaQc/s320/DSC_1353.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359914446957980690" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Luxembourg takes a lot of pride in its architectural diversity. A street lined with </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Art Nouveau buildings? Yes please.<br /><br /></span></div>I set out along Avenue de la Liberte. I felt pretty free. A street festival was underway with a carousel blasting “Before He Cheats” by Carrie Underwood while seven-year-olds pretended to drive motorcycles and pick-up trucks into each other. Then the ground gave out.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI-IDzY8SI/AAAAAAAACYY/4Jn-b3tBYKw/s1600-h/DSC_1251.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI-IDzY8SI/AAAAAAAACYY/4Jn-b3tBYKw/s320/DSC_1251.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359914814705037602" border="0" /></a>One of the reasons Luxembourg has managed to remain neutral for decades is because it started life as a fortress. The city is perched on a plateau surrounded by rivers that carved deep chasms into the rock around town. Now you cross massive bridges to actually get into the oldest part of the town.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI-TPM48eI/AAAAAAAACYg/yJwlK9eQumM/s1600-h/DSC_1256.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI-TPM48eI/AAAAAAAACYg/yJwlK9eQumM/s320/DSC_1256.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359915006743343586" border="0" /></a>Far below the bridges are parks and entire villages that can only be reached via tight winding roads or Dr. Seuss-like staircases. I could have taken in the view for hours. But, I only had three.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI-ZoeqeCI/AAAAAAAACYo/BKGzx0J4rU4/s1600-h/DSC_1260.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 196px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI-ZoeqeCI/AAAAAAAACYo/BKGzx0J4rU4/s320/DSC_1260.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359915116607993890" border="0" /></a>I walked along the valley’s margin and spotted a soaring steeple. If there’s a massive church, I’ll check it out. It’s usually a free art and history museum coupled with a few meditative moments. The church was the Gothic Notre Dame (Luxembourg speaks a dialect of French).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI-jAz0dqI/AAAAAAAACYw/4453QfxDwBs/s1600-h/DSC_1264.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI-jAz0dqI/AAAAAAAACYw/4453QfxDwBs/s320/DSC_1264.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359915277758002850" border="0" /></a>It was renovated throughout the 20th century and didn’t have the ancient, dignified feel of most Gothic churches, so I spun out the front door towards the sounds of live music.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI-r-TIxEI/AAAAAAAACY4/i_kGxIxRw18/s1600-h/DSC_1269.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI-r-TIxEI/AAAAAAAACY4/i_kGxIxRw18/s320/DSC_1269.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359915431702873154" border="0" /></a><br />I walked into one of the main squares of Luxembourg City where the town was celebrating Latin Day. Brazil, Venezuela, Mexico, and Cuba had booths set up with freebies and beverages from each country. The stage was being prepared for the next act and mariachi music filled the silence. When I think of celebrating Hispanic heritage I naively imagine a lot of color and dancing with some spicy food and beautiful people. None of these things seemed to be present. There were a few Brazilian soccer jerseys and people were sipping the caipirinhas, a South American rum cocktail. But that was about it. No tango. No salsa. I’m going to the park.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI-2lBE87I/AAAAAAAACZA/L-ClXBwklso/s1600-h/DSC_1272.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI-2lBE87I/AAAAAAAACZA/L-ClXBwklso/s320/DSC_1272.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359915613894800306" border="0" /></a>On the site of a fortress from the middle ages sits a beautifully groomed English park where I heard weird combinations of French and German being tossed through the air along with Frisbees. When I got through all the greenery, I decided to see the rest of the European Union. In Frankfurt I had seen the EU’s Central Bank, and in Brussels I saw the Commission and one of the Parliament Buildings. Might as well complete the collection (except Strasbourg, still need to see the Parliament in Strasbourg).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI_Xe8dK0I/AAAAAAAACZQ/gdLwlzOp73M/s1600-h/DSC_1281.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI_Xe8dK0I/AAAAAAAACZQ/gdLwlzOp73M/s320/DSC_1281.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359916179200486210" border="0" /></a>I crossed John F. Kennedy Bridge towards the campus which was originally home to the European Coal and Steel Community, the proto-EU which was established by Western Germany, Italy, France, and the Benelux countries after WWII as a supranational trade organization that would hopefully prevent WWIII. The buildings are showing their age.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI_QweEviI/AAAAAAAACZI/X6Amha4cDd8/s1600-h/DSC_1280.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI_QweEviI/AAAAAAAACZI/X6Amha4cDd8/s320/DSC_1280.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359916063645810210" border="0" /></a><br />Tarnished windows framed in ugly steel and concrete populate the plateau. My impression of the place wasn’t improved by the poor signage and an ambiguous map. Was this the Secretariat of the Parliament or the Court of Justice? Was it just an unsightly building ripe for destruction? Could it be all of the above?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI_yQwzAVI/AAAAAAAACZo/jZEuzRAhrlM/s1600-h/DSC_1288.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI_yQwzAVI/AAAAAAAACZo/jZEuzRAhrlM/s320/DSC_1288.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359916639249957202" border="0" /></a><br />As I grumbled about modern architecture, I took a moment to reflect on the symbolic meaning of these buildings. Nearly sixty years ago, Europe decided it was done beating itself up. People transcended their national biases and worked to build a peaceable community through economic obligations to each other. The EU continues to grow, but has reached the critical point of deciding on a constitution. How much sovereignty should countries be allowed? Should people be Germans first then Europeans or vice versa? It’s big stuff, and it’s fascinating to watch millions weigh in on the role they think government should play in their lives. Then I stopped reflecting. It was time to eat.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI_tYS0REI/AAAAAAAACZg/Ljg1ycDWstM/s1600-h/DSC_1296.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI_tYS0REI/AAAAAAAACZg/Ljg1ycDWstM/s320/DSC_1296.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359916555372348482" border="0" /></a><br />I had worked my way into a far corner of the city that lacked restaurants. What the “Eurocrats” do when they need to get a bite after work is beyond me. I pivoted and walked back through town. Because it was early on a Sunday night, most people seemed to be out for drinks. I was still feeling very poor and Luxembourg is a pretty expensive place, so I kept walking past swanky bars and swankier cafés.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI_dtJT5aI/AAAAAAAACZY/00lLdydjJgI/s1600-h/DSC_1287.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmI_dtJT5aI/AAAAAAAACZY/00lLdydjJgI/s320/DSC_1287.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359916286091716002" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Newer additions to the EU campus landscape. On the left is the Philharmonic where they probably play Beethoven's 9th, the EU anthem, on a regular basis. On the right are the towers of the European Conference center. Not sure who convenes there.<br /><br /></span></div>I eventually found myself back at the street festival with the carousel. This time it was blasting a country version of Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.” Nothing makes me think of good times with the family quite like Madonna. I ordered a Luxembourger sausage – it tasted just like a German sausage – and a beer. My hope was to try the local brew. Again, it would probably taste very familiar, but I wanted to find out. When I got to an empty picnic table I read the label and found out I was sipping Portuguese beer. So much for exotic local fare.<br /><br />Festivals offer the lone traveler a feast of people-watching opportunities and I tried to take full advantage of my solo status: An exhausted father and his exhausting four-year-old son sat down nearby. They each had a sausage for dinner. As dad dug into his meal, the boy tried to do likewise. The mayo-slathered bun shot the wurst through his tiny fists and onto the gravel. Dad looked like he was on the point of collapse. The boy tried to eat the sausage off the ground while dad shuffled back up to the counter to get another. I watched anxiously as the boy got ready for another bite. Would the meat slip-and-slide its way to the floor again? Fortunately dad intervened at the last minute, breaking the wurst into bite-sized pieces. This scene concluded, I could leave Luxembourg behind.<br /><br />As the sun set over the Rhine, I finally pulled into Bonn, nearly 24 hours later than I had originally intended. It had been an exhausting trip, the kind that seems impossibly long, the kind where you make a reference to the events of yesterday as if they occurred a week previously. But, as I stood at the Bonn Central Tram Station, I felt like I had never left. Except now I was packing digestive biscuits.<br /><br />The next day I was back in the office, scrutinizing little fossil claws and feeling like I had just left this routine for a weekend. Regardless of how much time had passed, after all that exploring, it felt good to be home.<br /><br />Tschüss!Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-30504760674006797362009-07-20T14:00:00.000+02:002009-07-20T14:04:41.090+02:00Breaking with BritainAs my train rolled back towards London I realized I didn’t really know much about English art (Feel free to gasp in horror). I can rattle off the names of famous Spaniards, Italians, Germans, and Dutchmen (I really am the coolest kid at every party), but I was at a loss when it came to my direct cultural ancestors. It was time to remedy the situation, so I pointed myself towards the Thames and the Tate Britain, the home to British art preceding the 20th century.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHmT8nEqKI/AAAAAAAACXA/dtHSkoqAL1g/s1600-h/DSC_0647.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHmT8nEqKI/AAAAAAAACXA/dtHSkoqAL1g/s320/DSC_0647.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359818261909514402" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The imposing facade of the Tate Britain. You know you're in London because they're are more columns than they have in Greece.<br /><br /></span></div>One of the advantages here was I could briefly drop my bag. They suggested a two pound donation at the bag check. Someday I will come back with many more pounds in my pockets. But today I was running low and the bag check man got merely a sheepish smile of thanks.<br /><br />The exhibit moved chronologically through art history, demonstrating how trends on the Continent affected the British Isles. The staples of British art are the portrait and the landscape. Britain had a wealthy middle to upper class and it cherished a good family portrait over the mantle.<br /><br />The landscapes reveal the deep British love of the natural world. Parks today are maybe cynically seen as a kind of human domination over nature. I think the English garden gets at a deeper British desire not to dominate nature but to interact with it. There’s a reason wealthy gentlemen occupied their lazy days by playing naturalist. Catching butterflies and identifying mosses allowed a gentleman to get outside to explore the countryside. As Americans, lovers of open spaces and natural beauty, I think we own our British cultural ancestors our thanks. Even if it means looking at a lot of landscapes in oil paint.<br /><br />In the 18th century British nobles, especially young men, started taking jaunts across the European continent. This gave them a taste for Classical and Renaissance art. Over the last couple of years I’ve become a happy advocate for the Grand Tour. It’s been a blast and listen to learn to ramble about art and culture.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHmjLZQxbI/AAAAAAAACXQ/za1oAL47d9k/s1600-h/DSC_0659.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHmjLZQxbI/AAAAAAAACXQ/za1oAL47d9k/s320/DSC_0659.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359818523576157618" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A 19th century sculpture outside the Tate Britain that was...<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHo9Vl83dI/AAAAAAAACYA/0c2lIxw3J7U/s1600-h/DSC_0268.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHo9Vl83dI/AAAAAAAACYA/0c2lIxw3J7U/s320/DSC_0268.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359821172013587922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Clearly inspired by this massive sculpture of Dirce on display in Naples. The Brits know how to take notes.<br /></span><br /></div>The Brits started fusing all these influences, creating compelling sculpture and luminous Pre-Raphaelite images that sought to throw out Renaissance and Mannerist ideals, creating “true” images that captured Nature as it is. They also started illustrating British mythological and legendary figures, seeking a rich ancient English culture that was as fascinating, but distinct from, the mythology of the Continent. J.R.R. Tolkien might have been influenced by such thinking when he wrote <span style="font-style: italic;">The Lord of the Rings</span>, his version of English pre-history.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHl1Yf3d3I/AAAAAAAACWo/nK_9NXTkHwk/s1600-h/JWW_TheLadyOfShallot_1888.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 243px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHl1Yf3d3I/AAAAAAAACWo/nK_9NXTkHwk/s320/JWW_TheLadyOfShallot_1888.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359817736819537778" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Lady of Shalott by John William Waterhouse. This is Pre-Raphaelite painting at its pre-est Raphaelite-est. Anne of Green Gables was a fan.<br /></span></div><br />Then I wandered into the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Blake">William Blake</a> room. My first encounter with Blake came at the Cincinnati Zoo where they have his poem “The Tyger” on display in the Cat House. In seventh grade we belted an arrangement of this poem. Somehow I missed this man’s biography. I just thought he liked “Tygers.”<br /><br />He was a painter, poet, and printer who is probably best known for this iconic image of God (or <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Urizen">Urizen</a>) as the divine clockmaker:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHl-sb314I/AAAAAAAACWw/a8gzp6OuWfc/s1600-h/blake_ancient_of_days.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 234px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHl-sb314I/AAAAAAAACWw/a8gzp6OuWfc/s320/blake_ancient_of_days.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359817896790316930" border="0" /></a><br />He was a proto-Romantic in the mid 1700s who held an intense, spiritually infused perspective on the world. He saw contemporary figures like Nelson, Pitt, and Newton as Biblical warriors in combat with chaos and evil, so he illustrated them as such. In a dim room above his print shop he exhibited a series of 17 paintings depicting Biblical scenes, historical scenes, and images from his own rabid imagination. Each image was accompanied by a poem or extended, rambling essay. At the time he was basically considered a nut. Now he’s a genius.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHmMEEgiFI/AAAAAAAACW4/bxZwuu9rdJY/s1600-h/Nelson+and+Leviathan"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHmMEEgiFI/AAAAAAAACW4/bxZwuu9rdJY/s320/Nelson+and+Leviathan" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359818126473070674" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Nelson taking on the Biblican Leviathan (and Napoleon) while whereing his briefs.<br /><br /></span></div>The Tate exhibits many of these 17 pictures with better lighting and excerpts from his original descriptions. Wandering through that room was a chance to immerse myself in the mind of a creative personality who I hope to get to know a little better when I get closer to an English language bookstore or library.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHmcurjpeI/AAAAAAAACXI/WDxHsSrzxlM/s1600-h/DSC_0650.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHmcurjpeI/AAAAAAAACXI/WDxHsSrzxlM/s320/DSC_0650.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359818412789048802" border="0" /></a><br />My final goal for my day was a trip to the National Portrait Gallery. In my previous trips to the city I heard the name and ran the other way. Who wants to spend their afternoon looking at a bunch of blank faces? Well, either I’ve gotten wiser or just more boring (you don't need to weigh in on that). Now this sounds like a great way to while away some time in London and maybe brush up on my English history.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHmpz2kJeI/AAAAAAAACXY/938sRK0dCTE/s1600-h/DSC_0672.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHmpz2kJeI/AAAAAAAACXY/938sRK0dCTE/s320/DSC_0672.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359818637515695586" border="0" /></a><br />The walk from the Tate Modern leads along the Thames, past the Houses of Parliament and through Trafalgar Square. I passed monuments and hoards of tourists on my walk.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHmvggbwTI/AAAAAAAACXg/rxHKu8fBshg/s1600-h/DSC_1341.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHmvggbwTI/AAAAAAAACXg/rxHKu8fBshg/s320/DSC_1341.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359818735401812274" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A memorial to the women of world war two who hung up their hats and gave the Nazis the old one, two.<br /><br /></span></div>I felt exhilaratingly independent following my feet. Please note that I enjoy the company of a travel partner, but there’s something to be said for an unanalyzed reaction to a new place. There was no effort to discuss where I was going or how I would get there. I could simply act without justification.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHm13-gI3I/AAAAAAAACXo/3qnk498ClWo/s1600-h/DSC_1345.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHm13-gI3I/AAAAAAAACXo/3qnk498ClWo/s320/DSC_1345.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359818844781159282" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Nelson holding court over the double-decker busses and wandering tourists.<br /><br /></span></div>Unfortunately my glowing sense of independence was quashed when I got to the Gallery. They would only be open for another half-hour and they didn’t want new ogglers clogging the guards careful removal of patrons from each gallery. Oh well, there was walking to be done. Unfortunately storm clouds were gathering ominously as I walked through the theater district one more time.<br /><br />Bent over a map I heard an American family debating the merits of a cheap theater ticket kiosk.<br /><br />Dad: It says ‘official seller’ over the door, Honey.<br />Mom: Yes, but this place has too much…glitz. It’s supposed to be less…glitzy.<br />Me: Are you looking for the half-priced ticket booth?<br />Mom: (A little confused about this American-accented loner suddenly imposing himself on a domestic dispute) Yes we are.<br />Me: Well if you go back to that big square (waving towards Leicester Square) that’s a big, wood-paneled…kiosk. It’s called TKTS and I think they’ll have what your looking for.<br />Mom: Well, we walked by that, but the guidebook says there’s a clock tower, and we didn’t see a clock (subtext: You’re holding a damn map and all your luggage. You clearly have no idea where you are let alone where we are.)<br />Me: Oh, well, I know you’ll find half-priced tickets there. Good luck!<br /><br />If they didn’t want my advice, let them wander through the storm. I toyed with asking what show they were going to see. Probably Grease or We Will Rock You. Yes, I judge people for such things. Let them get soggy. I had a train to catch. Oh, and there was a clock on the roof of the kiosk in the square. It even had a half-crazy homeless man staring up at it trying to get his watch to match the second hand.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHm82U1xaI/AAAAAAAACXw/B11Pk6-iiG8/s1600-h/DSC_1346.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHm82U1xaI/AAAAAAAACXw/B11Pk6-iiG8/s320/DSC_1346.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359818964597065122" border="0" /></a><br />One last ride through the underground and into St. Pancras where I blew my final pounds on a meat pie because Sweeney Todd is never far from my mind when I’m thinking about his city. I also made the key decision to grab a pre-packaged sandwich and a package of digestive biscuits (in classic British fashion, these mealy cookies taste better than they sound).<br /><br />The best part of my return via the Chunnel was the security check before boarding that got me a French passport stamp. One of the tragedies of modern Europe is open borders have largely obliterated passport-stamp collecting. Any excuse to get more ink in my book is welcome.<br /><br />Three hours and one time zone later, I was back in Brussels and hustling towards the long distance train tracks, hoping I wouldn’t have long to wait before going East towards Cologne. Turns out I did have some time.<br /><br />Normally I’m on top of my train schedules, but I guess when I scheduled my return from Britain I just assumed there would be German-bound engine waiting for me. While I can’t praise German rail enough, their personal door-to-door service has a ways to go. Apparently the last train to head for Germany left at 7:20. I was somewhere under the English Channel when that thing took off for home. There had to be a way to escape Belgium via night train or regional rail, right? It wasn’t that late.<br /><br />Maybe Belgians just see Brussels as a place you would never want to leave. The next train leaving for anywhere else in Europe wouldn’t depart until 6AM the next morning. I was stuck in Belgium, information that was presented on a confusing French and Dutch chart in a dark corner of the station. I weighed my options. I could stay in the station. I had friends who had done as much in Munich and Bern and had lived to tell the tale. Then I saw two thugs start to tussle and frantic security guards sprint down the terminal. Hmmm.<br /><br />Then a gentlemen who hadn’t bathed in three months sat down next to me and hungrily eyed the laptop I had opened to double check train times. Yeah, not staying. It was also a Saturday night. Hostels would likely be booked. I only had a few cents on my cell phone anyway and only a few cents in my pocket. So I made a last-minute decision to get out of the train terminal. I would head for the airport terminal and never tell my mother until I safely survived a potentially stupid decision.<br /><br />The final express train for the airport was leaving in a minute. Hobble-running up the stairs, I dove onto the last car as the tired ticket-checker gave the engineer the “all clear” whistle. For fifteen minutes we chugged through Brussels and finally pulled under the International Airport. I checked my morning schedule and rode the escalator into the departures terminal with bored business travelers who were catching the Red Eye for parts distant. I was just looking for a bench.<br /><br />Behind the elevators I found a secluded ring of lightly padded seats for weary fliers. One row was already taken by a young couple who appeared to be backpacking Europe. She was lying across several seats with a sheet pulled up to her neck. He was on the floor in a sleeping bag, already snoring. Perfect.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHnC2t0pXI/AAAAAAAACX4/D3M9GpxDv-4/s1600-h/DSC_1349.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmHnC2t0pXI/AAAAAAAACX4/D3M9GpxDv-4/s320/DSC_1349.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359819067781064050" border="0" /></a><br />I found a vacant spot, ate a few necessary digestive biscuits and lashed all my luggage to the bench. My original plan was to be secure in my bed in Bonn by this point but I had to break the oath I had made to myself that morning. I set my alarm for 6AM. I had a train to catch…<br /><br />Stay tuned for the epic struggle to break across the Belgian/German border and finally return to my much-neglected fossils!Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-8409548988514522262009-07-19T17:20:00.000+02:002009-07-19T17:21:59.160+02:00The Lost World<span style="font-style: italic;">The <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2611158&id=12407527&l=7ee7abf5ab">London album</a> again. The latter sections feature pictures of the models I describe in this post.</span><br /><br />At 4:15 the next morning I was awake to see Tim and Michael safely hustled off to the airport. The second time I had seen this side of 5AM in 24 hours. Ugh. Hugs and well-wishes were exchanged. Privately I swore I would never wake up before 6AM for the rest of my tenure in Europe. Then I laid back down and forgot to set the alarm.<br /><br />I naturally woke up four hours later. 8AM never felt so late. I had been hoping to meet a friend somewhere in the city, but after checking facebook, my e-mail, and phone, I decided I should go about my day without hoping for a reunion with someone I haven’t seen in 18 years (we were friends when my family lived in Japan). The problem was that I hadn’t really thought about my day. All of London was mine until 7PM when I would once again shoot under the English Channel and return to the Continent, but I didn't know where to head first.<br /><br />I started flipping through a book Yoonhee had left for perusal called <span style="font-style: italic;">1000 Things to Do in London</span>. That seemed like a few more than I could wedge into 11 hours, but one image caught my eye. It looked something like this:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDqlw0ff5I/AAAAAAAACUo/dyp9J6SfjHs/s1600-h/DSC_0578.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDqlw0ff5I/AAAAAAAACUo/dyp9J6SfjHs/s320/DSC_0578.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359541491052019602" border="0" /></a><br />This is the Crystal Palace <span style="font-style: italic;">Iguanodon</span>. In 1851 Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkins, an English sculptor, was commissioned to build the first life-sized reconstructions of dinosaurs and other ancient creatures from Earth’s history. He was advised in his designs by Sir Richard Owen, the first director of the Natural History Museum. Owen was a fiery personality who coined the word “Dinosauria” in 1842. He was also a prolific scientist, who specialized in describing new species living and extinct. He was also a famous opponent of Dawin’s ideas on Natural Selection as he saw this as too simplistic a mechanism to trigger the diversity of the natural world.<br /><br />But his biography isn’t really important. His dinosaurs are. In 1851, the Victorian world was finally coming to grips with the idea that the world might be really old and much more mysterious than anyone suspected. These models would present fragmentary bone and rock as the living, breathing animals the fossils once supported.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDqrW0tqHI/AAAAAAAACUw/DrbaEqYh9TA/s1600-h/DSC_0575.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDqrW0tqHI/AAAAAAAACUw/DrbaEqYh9TA/s320/DSC_0575.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359541587152840818" border="0" /></a><br />The problem: most of the material was, let me reiterate this point, fragmentary. They wanted to build an <span style="font-style: italic;">Iguanodon</span>, but had four fossils to go on: Two teeth, a long bone, and a cone-shaped horn. Well, the teeth looked iguana-like, so maybe the animal looked like a massive lizard? Owen then crossed the iguana idea with an elephant and voila. Giant dino statue. So what if that spike was supposed to be near the wrist instead of the nose. The things were gargantuan. Shock value can go a long way.<br /><br />Owen and Waterhouse were so excited about their project that they hosted a New Years party in the nearly finished torso of one <span style="font-style: italic;">Iguanodon</span>. Every paleontologist is familiar with this image, one we recreated back in November at an outdoor dinosaur park near Gosslar.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDpxvXb1kI/AAAAAAAACUQ/cwrOY-IYX5I/s1600-h/New+Years+Dino"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 235px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDpxvXb1kI/AAAAAAAACUQ/cwrOY-IYX5I/s320/New+Years+Dino" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359540597308511810" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDuHsVCT2I/AAAAAAAACWI/tx7kzvySlMg/s1600-h/New+years+Iguanodon+II"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDuHsVCT2I/AAAAAAAACWI/tx7kzvySlMg/s320/New+years+Iguanodon+II" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359545372496777058" border="0" /></a><br />Seeing the brief description of the site in <span style="font-style: italic;">1,000</span> drew me on. I was alone in London with no one to roll their eyes at me or wonder how many more cultural touchstones we could see in the 45 minutes it would take to get into the southern suburbs of the city. I was going to make a two dimensional childhood image pop into the third. The added bonus here was I would get to ride an English train.<br /><br />I keep a running tab on the quality of each nation’s rail service. I can happily report that the British did not disappoint, though the Germans really do excel at quality rail transportation. I unhappy to report that the English have decided lockers are a national security threat. Instead of convenient lockers in every station for a couple of pounds, they have luggage check stations where you send your bag through an x-ray and can leave it with the attendent for 8 pounds a bag. That’s insane. I’ll schlep my backpack across town, thank you.<br /><br />I stepped off the train at Crystal Palace Station onto a platform that looked like the set from <span style="font-style: italic;">Waiting for Godot</span>. Things looked a little more cheery when I got to the park. A colorful mural pointed the way towards the three islands that are home to the recently renovated animals.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDriDXE6GI/AAAAAAAACVo/Q4HMSn5YC9A/s1600-h/DSC_0573.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDriDXE6GI/AAAAAAAACVo/Q4HMSn5YC9A/s320/DSC_0573.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359542526821066850" border="0" /></a><br />The display was lauded when it was first unveiled, but by the turn of the century the sculptures were ridiculed as laughably inaccurate representations of ancient beasts. <span style="font-style: italic;">Iguanodon</span> was supposed to be on two feet, not four (they also though his tail should drag through the mud). <span style="font-style: italic;">Dicynodons</span> looked nothing like turtles, and Megalosaurus had nothing to do with medieval dragons. Scorn for the hypotheses of their creators meant the park’s animals were not well maintained through the twentieth century. In 2002 the display was restored and everyone got a shiny new coat of paint.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDrBvp-CpI/AAAAAAAACVI/BAJ_N9bnmqg/s1600-h/DSC_0599.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDrBvp-CpI/AAAAAAAACVI/BAJ_N9bnmqg/s320/DSC_0599.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359541971775785618" border="0" /></a><br />As I got closer to the man-made lakes that house this primordial menagerie, I started to pass families out for a walk or moms out with their pram. The grass was luminously green, and the hedges well maintained. It was everything I imagine an English Garden should be. Plus there were “Dinosaurs!” as I heard a four-year-old squeal.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDuUnrrk8I/AAAAAAAACWQ/ADT8NR6XG9U/s1600-h/DSC_0631.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDuUnrrk8I/AAAAAAAACWQ/ADT8NR6XG9U/s320/DSC_0631.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359545594587878338" border="0" /></a><br />Yes, there were dinosaurs. The iconic quadropedal herbivores leered across the pond and I sat in rapture. In case you’ve forgotten (and I’ll forgive you this time) here’s what the skeleton of <span style="font-style: italic;">Iguanodon</span> looked like:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDqeWb9O4I/AAAAAAAACUg/DwF02wdhLYI/s1600-h/DSC_0489.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDqeWb9O4I/AAAAAAAACUg/DwF02wdhLYI/s320/DSC_0489.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359541363710704514" border="0" /></a><br />And here’s a reconstruction of the animal.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDtq0Y9ncI/AAAAAAAACWA/LXhT8Tk90Pg/s1600-h/iguanodon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 137px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDtq0Y9ncI/AAAAAAAACWA/LXhT8Tk90Pg/s320/iguanodon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359544876444523970" border="0" /></a><br />So, Waterhouse and Owen were pretty far off their mark, but they never claimed to have created the perfect models. In fact, as more complete material was being discovered in the American West, Waterhouse was commissioned to create a Mesozoic tableaux in Central Park that would have state-of-the-art reconstructions. Unfortunately Boss Tweed cut his funding and New York was left without life-sized dinosaurs. Damn bosses.<br /><br />What Owen and Waterhouse did achieve was a rabid public interest in ancient life. Big creatures like Giant Ground Sloths and <span style="font-style: italic;">Ichthyosaurus</span> are ready mascots for science. You can’t help but look at a giant bone and wonder how the animals got so big, what it ate, or what the world was like when it was stomping around. These creatures seed a germ of curiosity that drives the best scientists to pursue their questions about the natural world. Owen made this park and his museum public spaces where people could encounter the latest discoveries and explore the evidence on their own, personal terms.<br /><br />I walked past the grinning <span style="font-style: italic;">Megalosaurus</span>, who was reconstructed with a single jaw fragment and a chunk of leg bone. They were a little off here, too.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDp_mxV8HI/AAAAAAAACUY/eJIeajBid9g/s1600-h/Megalosaurus_and_Othnielia.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 275px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDp_mxV8HI/AAAAAAAACUY/eJIeajBid9g/s320/Megalosaurus_and_Othnielia.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359540835519426674" border="0" /></a><br />Again, they never swore these were completely accurate. He sluggishly stalks a still poorly known armored dinosaur called <span style="font-style: italic;">Hylaeosaurus</span>.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDrOCZnx9I/AAAAAAAACVY/R7AUIqCsPZQ/s1600-h/DSC_0628.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDrOCZnx9I/AAAAAAAACVY/R7AUIqCsPZQ/s320/DSC_0628.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359542182965921746" border="0" /></a><br />Next to the dinosaurs is an island surrounded by goose-necked and dolphin-beaked reptiles gliding through the water. You might recognize these guys from my <a href="http://mrborths.blogspot.com/2009/06/holzmaden-marine-reptiles-and-lots-of.html">posts</a> on the famous fossils of Germany. If not, here are the fossils and the sculptures.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDujqnW7fI/AAAAAAAACWY/D92awT11swA/s1600-h/DSC_0154.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDujqnW7fI/AAAAAAAACWY/D92awT11swA/s320/DSC_0154.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359545853073092082" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDuq_fSQAI/AAAAAAAACWg/lQMASWcuNtY/s1600-h/DSC_0521.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDuq_fSQAI/AAAAAAAACWg/lQMASWcuNtY/s320/DSC_0521.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359545978935459842" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDq5_ouBdI/AAAAAAAACVA/omFFJF9VYXU/s1600-h/DSC_0586.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDq5_ouBdI/AAAAAAAACVA/omFFJF9VYXU/s320/DSC_0586.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359541838626555346" border="0" /></a><br />Not bad. Not bad at all. The amphibians and mammal-like reptiles around the corner would dramatically change appearance over the next century and a half. The mammals were much more accurate. They occupied their own island set across the pond from the reptiles. There are just more rocks on this Earth from the last 65 million years, so the skeletons tend to be more complete and Owen and company were able to connect ancient fossils to living relatives. The Giant Ground Sloth shows the sculptor spent some time with modern sloths<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDrVeGwNHI/AAAAAAAACVg/AnDVraEyFRk/s1600-h/DSC_0612.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDrVeGwNHI/AAAAAAAACVg/AnDVraEyFRk/s320/DSC_0612.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359542310662059122" border="0" /></a><br />The giant deer <span style="font-style: italic;">Megaloceros</span> was tough to screw up since it’s really a massive elk.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDrIE0EaxI/AAAAAAAACVQ/zU1VRedvBeo/s1600-h/DSC_0609.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmDrIE0EaxI/AAAAAAAACVQ/zU1VRedvBeo/s320/DSC_0609.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359542080534506258" border="0" /></a><br />I walked two circuits around the park, reveling in the details the Victorian scientists were able to include in their models, musing on what these paleontological characters would think of the modern state of the science. Recently, paleontologists graduated form idyll speculation and description to active reconstructions of ancient ecosystems. We delve into the biology of the animals we study, no longer content to simply name them. Now we want to understand them and their family's evolutionary history. We long to understand how their presence affected the biosphere we call home.<br /><br />Still glowing with the rush of historical and scientific convergence, I went back to the dreary platform and shot back into the city, unsure where I would wind up next. A hint: It might involve art.<br /><br />Until then,<br /><br />Cheerio<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2611158&id=12407527&l=7ee7abf5ab">Photos</a> of dinos.</span>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-21769095709043359342009-07-18T12:05:00.002+02:002009-07-19T17:29:24.930+02:00High Culture in London-town<span style="font-style: italic;">The <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2611158&id=12407527&l=7ee7abf5ab">photo album</a> featuring lovely London. The explanation of the final images will be up tomorrow! </span><br /><br />Thursday night we had to make a difficult decision. What time were we getting up to wait for tickets for <span style="font-style: italic;">Waiting for Godot </span>(the redundancy was not lost on us)? Some of the calculus: The guy at the ticket window told us to get there between 7 and 7:30. It would only take five people taking that advice to edge us out of our seats. It was also going to be a Friday. More people were in town. More people would want to see this. Reluctantly I plugged 5:15 into my alarm so we would get to the theater by 6. Oh boy.<br /><br />Roughly four hours after going to bed, my alarm went off. I dragged myself up. Tim was opting to pass on a shower. For me, a morning shower is my morning coffee. I don’t feel like the day can get rolling without it. I used the women’s showers instead of the men’s since I didn’t feel like going down a floor and across the building. I reasoned there wouldn’t be many people up at 5:20 anyway. This was a well-founded hunch which became even more well-founded imminently. I got cleaned off and felt ready to find a line.<br /><br />As I popped in my contacts, Tim continued to snooze. I started making some unnecessary noise to rouse him a bit. It was getting close to 5:45, we needed to move. As I pondered what to do he rolled over. “You know it’s 4:45, right?” I did not.<br /><br />Apparently my phone doesn’t update itself when you hop time zones. My phone was still functioning on Central European Time. I had another half hour to snooze. I didn't even think about how much sleep I had actually logged. Nothing like starting an early day even earlier. Around 5:50 GMT we blearily wandered into the Tube and followed our bread crumb trail back to the theater.<br /><br />There was the giant poster of McKellen and Stewart. Would there be a line? A lone figure moved near the box office door. We had made it. We would see Godot. We power walked up and were greeted by a tired by cheerful thirty-something Asian woman. Her: “You’re here for Godot?” Me: “Yup.” “Well, we’ll be here a while.” “How many are you picking up?” “Four. And you?” “Three.” “Oh, there’s a third person who didn’t need to get up with the sun?” “Yeah, but Mike’s doing our laundry for us instead.” “That’s what he says. He’s probably going to sleep until you meet up.” “No, not Mike. He’s on top of this kind of stuff.”<br /><br />Her boyfriend, Ollie, showed up and the next four hours were spent happily chatting with these English creative writers while playing Hearts and teaching them Euchre. An Irish woman and her adult daughter appeared around 7:30. Six of us in line, and all the tickets were claimed. People tacked onto our short line right up until 10, hoping for cancellations. The last 15 minutes dragged for hours compounded by an awkward conversation with a guy in line behind the Irish women who wanted an American opinion on Michael Jackson’s death. He then leapt to a Princess Diana comparison and finally just grinned and stared. We were also pestered by an American tourist who was trying to pay someone to repeat the exercise the next morning to get him and his wife seats. Ubiquitous relief when the box office finally opened its doors.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCVUeHSBlI/AAAAAAAACSY/h1460kRcPRY/s1600-h/DSC_0411.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCVUeHSBlI/AAAAAAAACSY/h1460kRcPRY/s320/DSC_0411.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359447735484417618" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">My view for four hours of the London Street. We got to watch the traffic become denser as the morning advanced.<br /><br /></span></div>I've fought pretty hard for some pretty difficult seats (see <a href="http://mrborths.blogspot.com/2009/01/ride-of-borthses.html">here</a> and <a href="http://mrborths.blogspot.com/2009/05/meeting-rossini-and-half-tmng.html">here</a> for examples), but this was one of the most satisfying ticket-line experiences. The seats were cheap but very good making the effort completely justifiable. In New York they sell rush tickets by raffle, making it difficult to plan your evening if the raffle is at 4 and you may or may not actually see the show. Here we had taken all the necessary steps to make sure we had seats, and we had all day to explore the city without worrying about returning for vouchers or getting into the line two hours before showtime.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCVMFTg8_I/AAAAAAAACSQ/5vW8XrJw0Xw/s1600-h/IMG_1587.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCVMFTg8_I/AAAAAAAACSQ/5vW8XrJw0Xw/s320/IMG_1587.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359447591385887730" border="0" /></a>Mike was supposed to meet us at 10, our laundry freshly folded. At 10:15 he showed up, winded and apologetic. “My alarm didn’t actually wake me up.” Sophia nailed it. Yoonhee had relieved Mike of his duties while he frantically scrambled to meet us. We were pretty punchy at this point and really didn’t care all that much. We had three tickets for the front row of a once-in-a-lifetime performance. All for ten pounds.<br /><br />Flush with our victory, we did exactly what I expect every London theater patron does after purchasing fantastic seats. We went to the Natural History Museum.<br /><br />Okay, we did this via Buckingham Palace. We followed the stream of tourists from the Tube stop and found ourselves watching goose-stepping red-coats in fuzzy hats entering the palace gate. We were probably the only tourists in town who just stumbled into the changing of the guard instead of making it a high priority.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCVsbleHKI/AAAAAAAACSg/uF_Jua25uvU/s1600-h/DSC_0456.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCVsbleHKI/AAAAAAAACSg/uF_Jua25uvU/s320/DSC_0456.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359448147122592930" border="0" /></a>Keeping close tabs on our wallets, we extracted ourselves from the hoards and continued to Sir <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Owen">Richard Owen</a>’s brainchild.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCV5EGKBEI/AAAAAAAACSo/cH2ywg5It1U/s1600-h/DSC_0475.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCV5EGKBEI/AAAAAAAACSo/cH2ywg5It1U/s320/DSC_0475.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359448364155536450" border="0" /></a>I think half of London’s school children went to the museum that day. The line snaked from the imposing, columned entrance, over a bridge and onto the sidewalk. This was especially disconcerting because there is no entry fee and no real explanation for the line. It did give us plenty of time to scrutinize the exterior which is detailed with pterodactyls and saber-toothed cat gargoyles. It reminds me of Orton Hall writ large.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCWKL1MuEI/AAAAAAAACSw/blkZ388b82g/s1600-h/DSC_0480.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCWKL1MuEI/AAAAAAAACSw/blkZ388b82g/s320/DSC_0480.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359448658289670210" border="0" /></a><br />When we finally got inside we dove to the left and into the Hall of Dinosaurs. This is my third visit to the exhibit and it felt like seeing an old friend again. The audio-animatronic dinosaurs have been shuffled, and the descriptions of the extinction event updated, but it still has the mysterious allure of the past as bones and reconstructions loom around myriad corners, a maze of paleontolgy.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCWSbxZVTI/AAAAAAAACS4/cnKUW4B8sN4/s1600-h/DSC_0490.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCWSbxZVTI/AAAAAAAACS4/cnKUW4B8sN4/s320/DSC_0490.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359448800007640370" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCWb0CII9I/AAAAAAAACTA/7zR0hFIEXd8/s1600-h/DSC_0503.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCWb0CII9I/AAAAAAAACTA/7zR0hFIEXd8/s320/DSC_0503.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359448961139090386" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The first dinosaur fossil ever recognized as the remains of an giant, extinct reptile. Thank you Gideon Mantel.<br /><br /></span></div>From the dinosaurs, into the mammals where a life-sized blue whale model reminds you how punny our species, or any species, is when compared to the ocean’s giants. We power walked past pachyderms and peccaries and finally dove into the Earth History section where they theoretically discussed energy (Tim’s specialty).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCWkTGPu4I/AAAAAAAACTI/36FyuezbioI/s1600-h/DSC_0519.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCWkTGPu4I/AAAAAAAACTI/36FyuezbioI/s320/DSC_0519.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359449106916817794" border="0" /></a>The entrance hall was cavernous, but didn't have much educational value. A model of the solar system painted across the wall made no attempt to show the scale of the planets or the distances between them. We rode an elevator into a copper-sheeted globe. I thought the globe might illustrate plate tectonics or the layers of the Earth, but no. It was an enormous modern art installation.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCWrrkxd_I/AAAAAAAACTQ/BsAk00aASBc/s1600-h/DSC_0529.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCWrrkxd_I/AAAAAAAACTQ/BsAk00aASBc/s320/DSC_0529.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359449233746393074" border="0" /></a><br />We were getting hungry and I had seen enough fossils and dead animals to sustain me for the rest of the trip. On to fish (technically a dead animal, but it's hard to eat a stuffed red panda) and chips. A couple of blocks from the museum we found a dark pub with all the staples: Fish and chips, bangers and mash, and savory pie of the day. We decided this would do for our English ethnic experience. Unfortunately we walked into yet another corporate business social. Everyone wore pressed dress shirts and conducted their social exchanges with a hesitency that belies spending time with people you see every day, but don’t really know that well.<br /><br />We people-watched and eventually our beer and comfort food arrived. Mike and I went in for local, hand-pulled ales. We forgot the British aren’t ones for chilling their kegs until we took our first warm sip. Cheers.<br /><br />British food gets knocked around a lot for lacking small things like flavor or character. I disagree with this assessment. British food is hearty stuff and the muscular food doesn’t need spices to make an impact and sate your hunger. The fish is meatier, the mashed potatoes are denser, and the sausage requires small bites or you won’t get it down. With a strong ale, there are few cuisines that leave me so exhausted or so full.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCXpnUp9tI/AAAAAAAACT4/ptbTaKboTlY/s1600-h/DSC_0563.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCXpnUp9tI/AAAAAAAACT4/ptbTaKboTlY/s320/DSC_0563.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359450297756939986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The exterior of the Plunder Museum.<br /><br /></span></div>With good British grub in our systems, it was time for a good British Museum. In 1753, the British Empire opened the door to what I affectionately term the Plunder Museum. The British Museum has artifacts from every civilization and time period that the Empire ever conquered or explored. You can spend a lot of time in there, so I lead a highlight tour to the Rosetta Stone, then into the Assyrian and Babylonian collections and finally to the Greeks. We spent some precious time with the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elgin_Marbles">Elgin Marbles</a>, a significant portion of friezes taken off the Parthenon by Lord Elgin in the early 19th century.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCXYEoEhtI/AAAAAAAACTo/risdToJfIZo/s1600-h/DSC_0544.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 221px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCXYEoEhtI/AAAAAAAACTo/risdToJfIZo/s320/DSC_0544.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359449996385355474" border="0" /></a>Over lunch I tried to explain the significance of the marbles and the controversy surrounding the British lord’s extraction of the sculptures from Athens:<br /><br />Tim: Did someone lose their marbles?<br />Me: Yeah, the Greeks.<br />Mike: What are they made out of?<br />Me: Marbles of marble.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCW0x6mRAI/AAAAAAAACTY/77OfRAG_wGQ/s1600-h/DSC_0545.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCW0x6mRAI/AAAAAAAACTY/77OfRAG_wGQ/s320/DSC_0545.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359449390067368962" border="0" /></a><br />I thought the joking was a sign I should stop the archeology lecture. After the marbles we visited the Asian artifacts where Mike was able to bust out his Chinese linguistic and historic skills to the delight of two Chinese women who we guided through the vast museum.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCW_5C-y_I/AAAAAAAACTg/HnLTHdcB358/s1600-h/DSC_0555.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCW_5C-y_I/AAAAAAAACTg/HnLTHdcB358/s320/DSC_0555.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359449580960140274" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCXhnpC8fI/AAAAAAAACTw/rXoli9VY_YI/s1600-h/DSC_0558.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCXhnpC8fI/AAAAAAAACTw/rXoli9VY_YI/s320/DSC_0558.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359450160403509746" border="0" /></a><br />We glanced at a mummy on the way out and my head spun from our blazing trail through history. As we left, Tim smacked himself over the head:<br /><br />Tim: Oh man, we forgot to see the marbles!<br />Me: No we saw them, you guys thought they were really pretty.<br />Mike: When?<br />Me: Um, the big room with all the Greek friezes?<br />Tim: Wait, what? We thought we were going to see marbles.<br /><br />Hmm. Turns out I need to remember that most of this planet doesn’t have a working knowledge of the English-Greek tension over these 2500 year old sculptures.<br /><br />We scurried back to Goodenough to snag a quick nap, then meet Yoonhee for dinner. After e-mail was checked and conversation subsided, Tim and I only ended up with about a half-hour of extra snoozing under our belts before grabbing Japanese food and setting off to see if our exhausting morning waiting for <span style="font-style: italic;">Waiting for Godot</span> was really worth it.<br /><br />As we filed into the theater, a sharply dressed Londoner called out, “Hey, Tim!” I wondered if this was a friend of Tim’s from school who just happened to be in London and seeing our show. Before I could reflect on the statistics involved in such a meeting, I realized this was Ollie, the guy we had played Hearts with that morning, only now he was showered, wearing contacts, and dressed for a Friday night out in London. His girlfriend, Sophia, was also dressed to the nines, her eyes carefully lined and her heels giving her an extra four inches.<br /><br />Usually only your best friends know what you look like when you’re at your most scrubby and can really appreciate the difference a shower and new wardrobe can make. I felt even closer to my fellow Waiters. Of course, this feeling probably wasn’t reciprocated since Tim and I were wearing the same stuff we were modeling at 6AM. Plus we were rocking mussed, late-afternoon-nap hair.<br /><br />It was time to take our seats. I could count the hairs in Ian McKellen’s beard. I could see every twitch of Stewart’s fingers. I could see every bead of sweat on Simon Callow’s brow. They were in our laps, and they were fantastic. When McKellen walked downstage to set his boots on the edge of the set, he could have fallen into Michael’s lap. During intermission we watched people reverentially approach the boots to poke them, then scramble away. Anyone who says the human connection to relics is bogus should watch how people deal with props touched by the famous and talented.<br /><br />Most people hold this opinion of <span style="font-style: italic;">Waiting for Godot</span>:<br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ksL_7WrhWOc&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ksL_7WrhWOc&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br />It’s just weird and confusing. But these performers were able to draw out the real drama Beckett built into his play. He didn’t see theater as a string of things happening. Instead he saw it as an exploration of relationships. <span style="font-style: italic;">Waiting for Godot </span>is about Vladimir and Estragon, two guys who have spent a lot of time together, doing exactly what the title says. They don’t know why they’re waiting, but they’re pretty sure they should. They care for each other and tick each other off. Two travelers on the road stop by for some banter and existential musing, then the first act is over. The second act is more waiting. But again, with these performers, it was about how these couples function. How they make it through the day. How essential it is to have a companion.<br /><br />After the show Mike and Tim were gracious enough to follow me to the stage door for autographs. My brother collects programs and I wanted one from this show to be part of his birthday present. The stage door was around the back of the theater and faced a quiet alley that was filled with flower boxes and the Filipino embassy.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCXxFfdyOI/AAAAAAAACUA/yso83XRsnV8/s1600-h/DSC_0565.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 215px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCXxFfdyOI/AAAAAAAACUA/yso83XRsnV8/s320/DSC_0565.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359450426114427106" border="0" /></a><br />Stewart was out first. He generously signed everything the small crowd presented him, thanking us for our adoring comments. Simon Callow and Ronald Pickup quickly followed. It would be another 45 minutes before Gandalf finally appeared. He tested everyone’s patience and stamina. Tim and I were working on a deficit to begin with, but we knew he had to leave at some point and we had already dumped this much time into the effort.<br /><br />He didn’t disappoint. After he emerged he chatted amicably with everyone. One girl told him, “I can’t wait for <span style="font-style: italic;">The Hobbit</span> to come out!” “Me neither.” Class act. Really they all were, carrying themselves with thespian dignity while also appearing entirely approachable. No wonder they get to play old men with power, charisma, and wisdom. They don’t really have to try.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCX4xmU3OI/AAAAAAAACUI/56kPdiYBw6Y/s1600-h/DSC_0571.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmCX4xmU3OI/AAAAAAAACUI/56kPdiYBw6Y/s320/DSC_0571.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359450558213446882" border="0" /></a><br />With all four autographs in hand, it was time to find one more pub before the night was over. This was Michael and Tim’s last day in Europe and it wouldn’t do to just wander home from the theater and collapse into bed for a few hours before rising with the dawn to catch flights to parts East (Thailand for Mike) and West (Pittsburgh for Tim). We were exhausted, but needed one more toast. We found it near Goodenough College.<br /><br />The place was all low wooden benches, tarnished mirrors, and ancient photographs. Just what we needed. We raised our glasses to an exhausting trail through Western Europe. Ten days. Four countries. A Dozen cities. Four battered feet. We earned our Euro-tripping stripes and it would be my pleasure to wander with them again. But first I need a nap.<br /><br />Cheerio!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The London <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2611158&id=12407527&l=7ee7abf5ab">album</a> again. </span>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-85020080548675322572009-07-17T11:28:00.017+02:002009-07-17T12:27:15.262+02:00Capital Wandering<span style="font-style: italic;">Here's the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2611158&id=12407527&l=7ee7abf5ab">photo album </a>of London. There are a lot of images and a lot of stories yet to tell!</span><br /><br />Mike and Tim’s original itinerary was built around two goals: see me and Germany then go to England to see Jessica in Oxford (she’s a Rhodes Scholar doncha know), crash on her floor, then fly out. So, plane tickets were bought into Munich and out of London. Unfortunately we had really crappy timing and Jessica wasn’t going to be in England. Instead she would be in Brussels for research. No problem, we can go there too.<br /><br />Well, work ended up taking a little more time than expected. The result was we found ourselves chugging under the English Channel with little to no preparation for our trip through one of the world’s great cities. I have been to London twice in recent memory, each time for more than a week, and both times in 2004. Weird, I know, but it meant I really wasn’t worried about checking off the great sights. This was about what Tim and Michael wanted to see…with one major exception.<br /><br />I needed to see Waiting for Godot, the Absurdist Samuel Beckett play that was recently revived on the London West End. I would be excited by any production of this play which threatens its audience with confusion for a couple of theatrical hours, but this revival raised the bar. It starred Sirs Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen as the waiters. If I didn’t see this, my brother would probably hop the Atlantic and punch me in the face.<br /><br />After a nice chat about Cincinnati and paleontology with the customs agent in Belgium (the main perk being a new stamp in my passport) we were cruising along the western coast of Europe. Then for 17 stuffy minutes we rocketed under the channel, the shadow cast by millions of boats through history including William the Conqueror and the D-day invaders.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBNnH7zU9I/AAAAAAAACRI/PTU-YXh2Zsk/s1600-h/DSC_0238.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBNnH7zU9I/AAAAAAAACRI/PTU-YXh2Zsk/s320/DSC_0238.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359368891111003090" border="0" /></a><br />The best part of taking the Eurostar train was we just stepped off and were suddenly immersed in the city. At the station we were met by Yoonhee, a fellow Buckeye Alumna who’s been living in London for two years on a Marshall Scholarship. She let us crash on her floor, making our stay in the most expensive city in Europe a little easier. She lead a tour of her home: Goodenough College. They really churn out the overachievers at Goodenough, let me tell you. It’s actually named after the founder who may have risen through the ranks of society just to spite his surname.<br /><br />My first priority was to get to the Theater Royal Haymarket to ask about tickets. We dropped our bags and dove into the West End. I really wasn’t thinking about being a good guide. I just wanted to get to the box office in case a large Albanian family made a last minute decision to attend a cousin’s birthday rather than see that weird play in London with Jean Luc Piccard and Gandalf. If they returned their tickets, I wanted to be there to snap them up.<br /><br />No such luck. There were cheap seats with obstructed views or we could show up the next morning before 10AM when they sell 11 front row seats. Each person can by two tickets. In other words, if we wanted to see the hottest show in London, at least two of us needed to be among the first six people in line the next day. The guy at the box office suggested we get there between 7 and 7:30. He probably tells that to everyone. It would be an early morning.<br /><br />We grabbed a picnic lunch at Pret a Manger and pow-wowed in Picadilly Circus. Michael wasn’t too stoked about this theater thing. I resisted the urge to react violently when he said, “Well I saw a big show (Phantom?) in New York. I’ve had the experience. Movies and TV are fine by me.” Sitting on my hands I also resisted the urge to launch into a lecture on the pleasures of live performance. Tim cut in, “I think we should do this. It would be good for us, Mike.” It was decided that the next morning Tim and I would go wait for tickets while Mike did laundry and met us for some museums.<br /><br />Now it was landmark time. We dropped into the London Underground, the oldest subway system in the world, and rode for Westminster and the houses of parliament. We emerged from the cramped, stuffy tube at the foot of Big Ben. We didn’t notice it at first as we tried to cut through the swarms of tourists. Then we set our watches to <span style="font-size:100%;">Greenwich Mean Time</span>.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBOPSTbiVI/AAAAAAAACRY/085vl_0B0O8/s1600-h/DSC_0258.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBOPSTbiVI/AAAAAAAACRY/085vl_0B0O8/s320/DSC_0258.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359369581089229138" border="0" /></a><br />I lead us past the prickly Houses of Parliament towards Westminster Abbey. Mike was briefly confused when we crossed the street. “Oh, I thought that (pointing at Parliament) was a church, too!” This wouldn’t be the first time I failed to fill in the details as a guide.<br /><br />We crossed into St. Margret’s church next to the abbey. Margret’s is the home parish of the MP’s while the Abbey is where royalty is crowned. We walked through the small Gothic church and Tim expressed some disappointment. “I thought it would be a little bigger.” “What, St. Margret’s?” “No, the Abbey.” “Oh, um, that’s right here,” and I pointed up at the looming Gothic nave to our left.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBN0TZR_sI/AAAAAAAACRQ/uKQ0eUJ5Z_A/s1600-h/DSC_0262.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBN0TZR_sI/AAAAAAAACRQ/uKQ0eUJ5Z_A/s320/DSC_0262.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359369117525737154" border="0" /></a><br />“Oh, got it.”<br /><br />Unfortunately it is twelve pounds to get into the Abbey and we decided to keep walking. It felt weird to give the tombs of Elizabeth I and Charles Darwin a pass, but we did have a city to explore and limited cash in our pockets. On to St. Paul’s. Christopher Wren’s masterpiece of Renaissance balance is the spiritual symbol of the city. The Nazis targeted the dome as they bombarded the resistant island. They figured a collapsed dome would dent British moral. But the Brits dug in, placing guards on the roof to throw bombs away from the building, and St. Paul’s stood strong with the pugnacious English.<br /><br />We were ready to go into the cathedral. We were ready to climb the dome and whisper across the abyss thanks to perfect acoustics. We were ready to see Nelson’s gargantuan tomb. We were not ready to shell out another twelve pounds. “The Catholics let you in for free,” observed Michael. And the hike went on.<br /><br />Using the newest addition to the Thames, we crossed the river on the Millennium Bridge. The pedestrian only structure cost £ 18 million. Then it vibrated weirdly in the wind and another £5 million was dumped into stabilizing it. The jokes near the beginning of the century flew thick and fast. Now it sits solidly over the river connecting St. Paul’s to the Tate Modern Art Gallery.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBOm8w8w_I/AAAAAAAACRg/KEzz-eFQwqs/s1600-h/DSC_0290.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBOm8w8w_I/AAAAAAAACRg/KEzz-eFQwqs/s320/DSC_0290.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359369987624322034" border="0" /></a><br />The Tate got a lot more people excited in 2000 than the bridge that leads to its doors when the converted power plant opened to enthusiasts of 20th and now 21st century art. I was surprised Mike and Tim were game to go in. I think the price of entry – free- was maybe a lure along with many enthusiastic recommendations. It probably did't hurt that fans of modern art tend to be very pretty people.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBOzVB_qMI/AAAAAAAACRw/_DT_GR-9s8c/s1600-h/DSC_0295.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBOzVB_qMI/AAAAAAAACRw/_DT_GR-9s8c/s320/DSC_0295.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359370200296696002" border="0" /></a><br />The museum is organized thematically rather than chronologically with abstractions like “Motion” and “Mood” uniting the galleries. We picked up audio guides since none of us are well versed in contemporary art. The most engaging stuff came from the surrealists and cubists, but a room of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francis_Bacon_%28painter%29">Francis Bacon</a> portraits held my attention for a long time.<br /><br />The artist worked through the middle of the twentieth century where he became famous for his portraits that had an eerie, and often macabre, way of distorting the sitter until they seemed to strain against their bodies in horror or revulsion. He usually painted loved ones, but he used photographs as his reference instead of live sitters so he could mutilate them on canvas without confronting their living faces or bodies. He was not a happy man, but he made some powerful art.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBRdYeyk2I/AAAAAAAACSI/q66QQf7WE6o/s1600-h/bacon_study1953.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 241px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBRdYeyk2I/AAAAAAAACSI/q66QQf7WE6o/s320/bacon_study1953.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359373121800541026" border="0" /></a><br />When the museum flushed us out (Please don’t rush me Frustrated Guard, I really wanted to take in all the details of those WWII Soviet propaganda posters), we started to walk along the bank of the Thames towards Tower Bridge and the Tower of London. All of London’s business community seemed to be hanging out bankside. Every pub was bursting with expensive suits and pantsuits. We were thinking about a drink, but didn’t fit the majority dress code.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBOrASVqeI/AAAAAAAACRo/s-QECujxskg/s1600-h/100_0352.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBOrASVqeI/AAAAAAAACRo/s-QECujxskg/s320/100_0352.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359370057289148898" border="0" /></a><br />Tower bridge is often confused with London Bridge, mostly because it strikes a much more impressive profile than it’s sing-song-y neighbor. It opened for crossing in the 1890s and sports a modern suspension design and drawbridge with Neo-Gothic towers so it blends in a little better with the medieval Tower of London next door. The Tower has held famous prisoners such as Anne Boleyn and counts the block where she lost her head and the collection of the Crown Jewels among its artifacts. But we didn’t check these out. Things were shutting down and we had one more iconic exterior to see before dinner.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBPDOVgLTI/AAAAAAAACR4/wqj6bMSQYvE/s1600-h/DSC_0358.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBPDOVgLTI/AAAAAAAACR4/wqj6bMSQYvE/s320/DSC_0358.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359370473377377586" border="0" /></a><br />We hopped underground and popped up in Holloway, a quiet suburb of London and home to Emirates Stadium, where the Arsenal Football Club works its high-profile magic. Michael was particularly enthusiastic about the excursion, saying it would be a great place to try some Indian food. The stadium was beautiful, but it seemed to be situated in a part of town far removed from any kind of food joint and our stomachs were getting impatient.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBPPIlZzOI/AAAAAAAACSA/u6TW7pJ7bQM/s1600-h/DSC_0362.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBPPIlZzOI/AAAAAAAACSA/u6TW7pJ7bQM/s320/DSC_0362.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359370677991886050" border="0" /></a><br />Michael hopped into a kiosk to ask about our options. We were in luck. On the next block, a Nepalese/Indian place had just opened its door. It was so new they didn’t have napkins yet. They also didn’t have seating. We ordered take-out (continuing to save our pence) and struck up a conversation with a young couple from the university nearby. They were shocked to see tourists so far afield and invited us to their apartment for some real plates and tableware. We politely declined, citing our packed schedule, but they did bring up the interesting question of where we would eat this stuff.<br /><br />With curry and samosas in hand we returned to the kiosk where we received our tip, picked up English cider (I was almost carded, too. Why does that only seem to happen in London?) and headed back towards the stadium. We would picnic under the reflective gaze of the glass-swathed building and watch the sunset. Perfect.<br /><br />With night approaching we returned to Westminster to see Big Ben and parliament lit at night. It was very different from the sweaty hubbub we had discovered earlier that morning. Small knots of tourists crossed the bridge and we had plenty of space to gaze over the Thames, glowing with the lights of Parliament and the London Eye.<br /><br />It was time for an OSU Alumni moment. We arranged ourselves and flagged down a passing family. Michael explained we were trying to spell “Ohio” and the clock tower would make the “I.” The father was maybe a little confused, but took the shot. No good.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBNaPi72II/AAAAAAAACQ4/7kXOxxMfHqc/s1600-h/OH-Ben-O"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBNaPi72II/AAAAAAAACQ4/7kXOxxMfHqc/s320/OH-Ben-O" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359368669815888002" border="0" /></a><br />We needed another tourist. Again, failure. Okay, we would rearrange and use the London eye as one of our “O”s. The family we had snagged the first time was the only group in sight. Dad took the shot. This time things worked out a little better.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBNdUbQw2I/AAAAAAAACRA/_nXmemQWGSI/s1600-h/OH-Eye-O"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBNdUbQw2I/AAAAAAAACRA/_nXmemQWGSI/s320/OH-Eye-O" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359368722665489250" border="0" /></a><br />Frustrated Big Ben wasn’t working, we dropped onto the path along the river and patiently waited for a group of teenagers to stroll by. On the second attempt we were able to get this shot:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBNWwyE5ZI/AAAAAAAACQw/EuL8kgth6Go/s1600-h/OH-Big+Ben-O"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SmBNWwyE5ZI/AAAAAAAACQw/EuL8kgth6Go/s320/OH-Big+Ben-O" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359368610018289042" border="0" /></a><br />Now OSU has proof we’re still proud alums and they can’t revoke our diplomas.<br /><br />But, it was time to call it a night. Tim and I had to get up the next morning to wait for Godot…<br /><br />Cheerio!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2611158&id=12407527&l=7ee7abf5ab">photo album</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> again. The rest of the stories coming soon.</span>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-86649121947925436422009-07-14T20:59:00.024+02:002009-07-14T22:04:42.873+02:00Blazing through Bruges and Brussels<span style="font-style: italic;">A <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2609319&id=12407527&l=3214e240ea">photo album </a>with a lot of images of Epcot-like Bruges and a few of the more of business-like Brussels. </span><br /><br />Our day began in a queue at the base of the city bell tower, staring down a surly ticket-taker who took great pleasure in telling us we had to wait then took his break from annoyed staring into the ether to yell at a tourist for standing in front of the postcards. I think he took even greater pleasure in that.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzfB6etaXI/AAAAAAAACO0/vrFLPtJwpZo/s1600-h/DSC_0087.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzfB6etaXI/AAAAAAAACO0/vrFLPtJwpZo/s320/DSC_0087.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358402880634972530" border="0" /></a><br />The stairs were a typical winding exercise in delicate, winded passing as perky school children trooped down the stairs and out-of-shape Canadians went up. After three false summits we emerged at the roof of Belgium. This part of the world has little to no topography to speak of, so you can be pretty confident you’re as high as you can go on top of such a tower. Carved into the sills of the enclosed observation windows were the directions and distances to surrounding cities and towns. One arrow pointed towards Bern, Switzerland, showing how far we had come. Another pointed towards Assebroek, showing how much we have yet to mature.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Slzev6m2EOI/AAAAAAAACOk/63WKwQN1WFc/s1600-h/DSC_0067.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Slzev6m2EOI/AAAAAAAACOk/63WKwQN1WFc/s320/DSC_0067.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358402571431448802" border="0" /></a><br />We took in the view while families and exhausted tour groups appeared at the top of the spiral staircase, discussed if the climb was worth it, then disappeared back through the floor. Satisfied we had seen enough of the curvature of the Earth we dropped a floor to examine the intricate mechanism that plays Danny Boy and Beethoven’s 9th on the tower’s bells. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzeoRJtKCI/AAAAAAAACOc/HzyuEnbHxuA/s1600-h/DSC_0058.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzeoRJtKCI/AAAAAAAACOc/HzyuEnbHxuA/s320/DSC_0058.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358402440044292130" border="0" /></a><br />Massive turning cogs and player-piano spools the size of oil drums reminded us there was a time when technology was muscular and intuitive instead of bogged down in half-way decipherable code.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Slze4VqDHmI/AAAAAAAACOs/Dkzwk7qNldo/s1600-h/DSC_0082.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Slze4VqDHmI/AAAAAAAACOs/Dkzwk7qNldo/s320/DSC_0082.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358402716131597922" border="0" /></a><br />After waiting in the courtyard of the bell tower to hear an out-of-tune rendition of the European Hymn from Beethoven’s 9th, we moved on to the Chapel of the Holy Blood. A Crusader from Bruges came back from the Holy Land with a vial containing a few precious drops of Christ’s blood. The authenticity of the relic may be debatable, but the devotion to the relic is genuine. Every day the blood is taken from its shrine for a short devotional prayer service. The faithful are then invited (in about 9 languages) to approach the alter and place their hands on a glass cover and look closely at the relic.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzfQlmvXHI/AAAAAAAACO8/i0C_xPLfTw4/s1600-h/DSC_0096.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzfQlmvXHI/AAAAAAAACO8/i0C_xPLfTw4/s320/DSC_0096.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358403132729547890" border="0" /></a><br />We attended the service and prayed over it. As soon as my fingertips left the glass shield the deacon wiped the smudges away for the next pilgrim. As we sat back down I noticed a series of stained glass windows that depicted the crusader excavating near the site of the crucifixion where he found the delicate relic. The other windows showed him presenting it to his lord in Bruges and the city getting out its Sunday best to parade it through the streets, still an annual tradition.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Slzff117RjI/AAAAAAAACPE/dR41-iiJ5Zk/s1600-h/DSC_0103.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Slzff117RjI/AAAAAAAACPE/dR41-iiJ5Zk/s320/DSC_0103.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358403394786248242" border="0" /></a><br />From the Holy Blood to Michelangelo. At the Church of Our Lady sits a small statue carved by Michelangelo. It was intended for the city of Sienna, but a Belgian merchant bought the piece out from under the combative Italian city in 1506 and gave it to his Bruges parish. The plaque near the alcove with the gentle Mary and naked two-year-old Christ declares, “The expressive work never fails to move and impress the beholder.” It was impressive, but I wish we could have gotten a little closer to really stare into Mary’s face. Regardless of how impressed we were, it was exciting to see one of the few Michelangelo’s that the Italians ever let leave their peninsula.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzfoReJ1VI/AAAAAAAACPM/oVRgb1FxRtc/s1600-h/DSC_0119.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzfoReJ1VI/AAAAAAAACPM/oVRgb1FxRtc/s320/DSC_0119.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358403539641685330" border="0" /></a><br />The rest of the church was crammed with art and sculpture, including another Madonna and Child that reminded us why Mich was just so damn good.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Slzfwhgrx1I/AAAAAAAACPU/Z77eNg4jKRU/s1600-h/DSC_0125.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Slzfwhgrx1I/AAAAAAAACPU/Z77eNg4jKRU/s320/DSC_0125.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358403681386219346" border="0" /></a><br />After a pretty holy morning, it was time to give in to more Earthly pleasures and learn about the real reason Belgium is on every college student’s itinerary through Europe: Beer.<br /><br />After grabbing a snack of Pommes Frites (French Fries) with mayo – an authentic Belgian experience – we headed towards Bruges Zot Brewery. Our tour went through every step of the process. We admired massive fermentation tanks and wondered at the huge cooling trays. It was difficult to tell how much our guide enjoyed her job. She seemed like a stern woman, but she would crack a well-rehearsed joke every now and then and wait in reflective pride for us to get it. She was also master of the pregnant pause. “As we enter the next room you must be careful of…” Of what? A secret, trap door? The village ogre? Someone with too much enthusiasm? “the ceiling.” Got it.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Slzf__qs3xI/AAAAAAAACPc/J68jj_ORSlQ/s1600-h/DSC_0138.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Slzf__qs3xI/AAAAAAAACPc/J68jj_ORSlQ/s320/DSC_0138.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358403947179335442" border="0" /></a><br />In a room that probably displayed every Belgian beer glass (each brew has a unique receptacle) and hundreds of world beers (I looked for Hudepohl, Cincinnati’s old favorite) she explained the Belgian penchant for foam. In Germany, beer is served with minimal head, but in Belgium it’s not a good pour unless you need to plane the top with a knife.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzgHsTZRLI/AAAAAAAACPk/2BTOHsBDnAA/s1600-h/DSC_0162.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzgHsTZRLI/AAAAAAAACPk/2BTOHsBDnAA/s320/DSC_0162.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358404079420261554" border="0" /></a><br />She explained the foam is an opportunity. “As you wait, you look at your beer. He looks at you, or she looks at you. You will anticipate your first taste. You will think about how this will be. You will form a relationship. When it is ready for you and you are ready for it, then you may drink.” Leave it to the Belgians to seduce their beer. Suddenly all the Barry White in the bars made a lot more sense.<br /><br />We got to hike up to the roof and take a look over the city from a lower angle than before. It was an opportunity to say goodbye to the “dead city.” We had to catch a train bound for Brussels (after enjoying our free glass of Bruges Zot with foam as served by our tour guide, of course).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzgOiWl8MI/AAAAAAAACPs/s3C8SWEzCsc/s1600-h/DSC_0155.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzgOiWl8MI/AAAAAAAACPs/s3C8SWEzCsc/s320/DSC_0155.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358404197008404674" border="0" /></a><br />If you had asked me to name the most bewildering, bustling cities on this planet before this trip, I might have ticked off Tokyo, New York, and Sao Paulo. The capital of Belgium wouldn’t have entered my mind, let alone come out of my mouth. But that’s because I didn’t think about where I would be coming from before being bewildered and bustled in this hypothetical interview.<br /><br />For the record, Brussels is a massive, angry termite mound compared to the retiring Bruges. We stepped off the train at the Central Train Station (there are four major train stations in Brussels, making your entry point to the city a gamble unless you studied your map dutifully before arrival. I napped.) and I started us in the wrong direction. Eventually Tim got us oriented and we wound our way through the streets of Brussels in search of our hostel.<br /><br />Brussels is not an easy city to navigate. Like most cities in Europe, it has a tangled web of an old town, but the aversion to right angles and street names that last more than a block continue well beyond the medieval center. Couple the rat maze gone urban with steep topography and you have a recipe for frustrated, inefficient wandering with heavy luggage before you finally arrive at your destination. Our wandering involved a detour through St. Michael’s Cathedral. St. Mike is the patron saint of the city and appears on manhole covers and lampposts all over town, so Michael got to feel especially honored. I have yet to find a city that plasters St. Matthew on their garbage cans. Maybe I can figure out a way to be sanctified and get a small Midwestern town to help me out here.<br /><br />Eventually we found our beds. Of course our dorm room was occupied by three snoozing travelers. We were all getting a little tired of always whispering when we got near our bunks and I was half-tempted to throw the other dudes into the street with a mandate to root up a memorable Brussels experience that didn’t involve a 20 Euro hostel.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzgXnMrPHI/AAAAAAAACP0/lIe3I0JSUP4/s1600-h/DSC_0180.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzgXnMrPHI/AAAAAAAACP0/lIe3I0JSUP4/s320/DSC_0180.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358404352927808626" border="0" /></a><br />Since I had <a href="http://mrborths.blogspot.com/2009/03/brush-with-brussels.html">visited Brussels</a> back in February with Erin, I was able to suggest a wander through the more important sites. Any visitor needs to see the Baroque Grand Place with its gilt facades and Gothic city hall. We also swung by the Mannequin Pis, the Cabbage Patch Doll-sized statue of a little kid doing exactly what his name suggests. I don’t know when this fountain became the symbol of the city, but it will always quirk-up my impression of Brussels.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzgfBYyNBI/AAAAAAAACP8/Iorg51NPOSs/s1600-h/DSC_0185.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzgfBYyNBI/AAAAAAAACP8/Iorg51NPOSs/s320/DSC_0185.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358404480217003026" border="0" /></a><br />With a tip from our hip student traveler map, we discovered a small restaurant that served Trappist beer and affordable gourmet takes on Belgian staples. The place was clearly a local haunt and we tried to keep our voices at a chilled, urban level, and tried to keep our guidebooks, maps, and cameras hidden. It was hard for me maintain my composure after discovering they had a Bosch print in the bathroom, but we managed to order a few rounds of the Trappists best brews without getting kicked into the street like the lowly tourists we were.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzgvaoD6PI/AAAAAAAACQM/BhdmChDkGQo/s1600-h/DSC_0208.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 178px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzgvaoD6PI/AAAAAAAACQM/BhdmChDkGQo/s320/DSC_0208.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358404761869871346" border="0" /></a><br />Since we had arrived in the evening, we couldn’t visit any museums (including the new <a href="http://www.magritte.com/">Magritte</a> Museum. You know how I love a good bowler.) but there was plenty to see on the street. Setting out across the royal gardens, past the massive royal palace, we eventually overcame monarchical tyranny and arrived at the EU’s expansive glass and concrete campus.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzgnXft-pI/AAAAAAAACQE/0jq5sagBJSs/s1600-h/DSC_0204.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzgnXft-pI/AAAAAAAACQE/0jq5sagBJSs/s320/DSC_0204.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358404623590619794" border="0" /></a><br />We occupied ourselves by trying to name all the member countries of the European Union based on their flags. I have a lot of work to do with the former Soviet states. The actual parliament building looked more like an airplane hanger than a place of governance. You look at the British Houses of Parliament or the U.S. Capital and you know big things happen in those walls. Hell, the <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SZHqJKjjM6I/AAAAAAAAA2M/bZl6by0ugBE/s1600-h/DSC_4969.JPG">Hungarian Houses of Parliament</a> reek of big ideas and empire. But the EU is more utilitarian. It reminds me of a bank’s national headquarters. This is a place where the lives of 400 million people can be directly impacted. Shouldn’t the building aspire to embody some of that noble spirit? I know the designers were probably going for “openness” and avoiding “imperial” imagery, but did Europe need more characterless glass?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzhDBhFfmI/AAAAAAAACQU/_maeVEYvFpk/s1600-h/DSC_0210.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzhDBhFfmI/AAAAAAAACQU/_maeVEYvFpk/s320/DSC_0210.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358405098727112290" border="0" /></a><br />But I digress. Our walk took us even further, to the heart of Belgian Imperial glory at the Triumphal Arch. It was built with money from the Belgian Congo which is not the most honestly made cash the world has produced, but the monument is pretty. People frolicked in the garden in front of the arch and the flanking military and automobile museums. I considered frolicking along, but decided my ankle wasn’t up for hopping around quite yet.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzhTFV7rZI/AAAAAAAACQc/uw9IxNAhUuo/s1600-h/DSC_0226.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzhTFV7rZI/AAAAAAAACQc/uw9IxNAhUuo/s320/DSC_0226.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358405374631980434" border="0" /></a><br />After reaching the arch we rested our weary soles and decided on the bar that needed our patronage. <a href="http://www.alamortsubite.com/">A La Mort Subite</a> won out. The place has been around since 1928 and is still decorated with all the class of the roaring ‘20s. Their house Gueuze makes them particularly noteworthy (Gueuze, the internet tells me, is a blending of 1 year old lambic, or top fermented beer, with 2-3 year old lambic. This combination is then fermented a second time.). It was bitter stuff. Fortunately Mike and Tim are also firm believers in ordering different food/drink than your neighbor so we could sample as many of Belgium’s wonderful alcoholic treasures as possible before calling it a night.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzhrjLjFjI/AAAAAAAACQk/tQKgMhhN6PI/s1600-h/DSC_1373.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlzhrjLjFjI/AAAAAAAACQk/tQKgMhhN6PI/s320/DSC_1373.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358405794958349874" border="0" /></a><br />As the gruff waiters stacked chairs on tables, a pair of American joined our conversation. The architecture grad students hailed from Penn state and we got a tentative O-H out of them. The Buckeyes continue to bring people together, even in Brussels. We said goodbye to our inebriated new acquaintances and got some tips on making the most of a quick trip to our final destination in Mike and Tim’s Europe 2009 experience. We needed all the advice we could get. We were about to ride to London, and let me tell you, there’s no place like London!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2609319&id=12407527&l=3214e240ea">photos</a> again. You know you want to linger over the shot of Bruges at night just a little longer.</span><br /><br />P.S. If you haven't had enough of Bruges, this trailer for the movie In Bruges has some shots of the city along with a few shots at the city. <br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/KoE9edjEDCI&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/KoE9edjEDCI&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />As a side comment, it's actually an excellent film. The trailer makes it look like a Guy Richie knock-off, but it's written and directed by Martin McDonagh who's actually a playwright with Tony nominated, Olivier winning stuff like <span style="font-style: italic;">The Pillowman </span>and <span style="font-style: italic;">Lieutenant of Inishmore </span>to his name. It's funny, but also has a dark, tragic edge...good stuff.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-13948679054181405922009-07-13T19:09:00.017+02:002009-07-13T21:54:29.035+02:00Bound for Belgium<span style="font-style: italic;">The Netherland's <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2604032&id=12407527&l=73f8ff8d62">photo album</a>. Stay tuned for the Belgian album in my next edition!</span><br /><br />Fortunately there were no vengeful bike-slicers on the streets of Amsterdam that night. The next morning they were still chained to the bike rack and we knew MacBikes wouldn’t get any more cash from us. Before we returned our hot, red rides we had a few more Amsterdam icons to check out.<br /><br />First we headed towards Anne Frank’s house, the site of “The Secret Annex” where she lived with her family and a few family friends. In order to get there we cycled along the canals that drape necklace-like around the Amsterdam train station. Despite the abundant water, it’s not Venice. It has a more industrial edge that speaks to buzzing, purposeful activity. Basically Amsterdam isn’t Venice because it’s Dutch.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluNHuDYDbI/AAAAAAAACM8/XQX89OjVm4Q/s1600-h/DSC_1225.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluNHuDYDbI/AAAAAAAACM8/XQX89OjVm4Q/s320/DSC_1225.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358031345448127922" border="0" /></a><br />As we rode I caught a potent whiff of pot. It was 9:30 in the morning so I thought it might be a coffee shop airing out before opening. As we continued on, I caught another whiff. Then I noticed a thirty-something woman riding ahead of Tim with a cigarette hanging limply from her fingers. As she neared an intersection she adjusted a document tube across her back and took a puff. Wow. I was getting a little stoned from riding behind her, and this on her morning commute! It seemed like such a perfect distillation of Amsterdam with the canals, the bikes, the cobblestones, and the legal, visible drugs, but it didn’t quite summarize our collective experience so far. That would require more open cow pastures.<br /><br />When we arrived at the Anne Frank House and Museum we found a line leading down the street. We hadn’t planned on going inside, but the line put any thoughts of just slipping in to see the annex out of my mind. I guess you can only tramp so many people through a cramped attic to see a swinging bookshelf.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluM10jqPnI/AAAAAAAACM0/zt9BBQSV-90/s1600-h/DSC_1205.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluM10jqPnI/AAAAAAAACM0/zt9BBQSV-90/s320/DSC_1205.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358031037956505202" border="0" /></a><br />Because of the time-crunch and the experience at Dachau, I really didn’t feel much of the weight of history hanging over the house that has come to symbolize both the irrational hatred of oppressors and the hope that the oppressed can overcome. Maybe next time I will actually be able to explore the exhibits and rooms and place myself in the innocent shoes of Anne and her family.<br /><br />We took off again, weaving past street-sweepers and other bicycles in search of a site particularly dear to Tim’s heart: the Heineken brewery. Again, we could only admire the massive building from a distance, this time perched on an arched canal bridge. The tour sounded interesting, but the brewery had been closed the previous day and we didn’t think a 10AM tour of the facility would really be worth the investment. We would tour a Belgian brewery to get the free sample experience.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluNPwjXkoI/AAAAAAAACNE/tFOfFSCJEBs/s1600-h/DSC_1214.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluNPwjXkoI/AAAAAAAACNE/tFOfFSCJEBs/s320/DSC_1214.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358031483558138498" border="0" /></a><br />With Heineken on our minds it was time to leave Amsterdam. We spun our bikes around and dropped that back with Mac. Too late we discovered an oversized chess set in the courtyard of Hard Rock Café Amsterdam (of all places). We staged some epic pictures of the battle of wits we might have had if we didn’t need to catch a train.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluNdVNDyYI/AAAAAAAACNM/nMx2cOoR9KM/s1600-h/DSC_1220.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluNdVNDyYI/AAAAAAAACNM/nMx2cOoR9KM/s320/DSC_1220.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358031716734978434" border="0" /></a><br />On our way back to the hostel to collect our equipment we passed an American and British Food Import store where we could have bought frosting and peanut butter.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluNk-ScW3I/AAAAAAAACNU/F1ZLmN4bwkY/s1600-h/DSC_1224.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluNk-ScW3I/AAAAAAAACNU/F1ZLmN4bwkY/s320/DSC_1224.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358031848022498162" border="0" /></a><br />In a few short weeks I will be enjoying the widely available comforts of these staples. Good bye Amsterdam, but not goodbye to the Netherlands quite yet.<br /><br />The night before we had hatched a plan to jump into the North Sea. So, around noon we stepped off the train in The Haage. Whenever I hear the city referred to it’s usually by an NPR newscaster telling me about weighty international crime. I don’t usually think of it as a place to hit the beach, but after loading up on sandwiches and figuring out the tram system with the help of a very friendly attendant, we were chugging across town to work on our tans.<br /><br />The beach wasn’t a public affair. Cafés and bars offered lounge chairs and none-too-private patios for evening out your tan lines. (The people most interested in this opportunity seemed to range from 55 to 70 years old.) We set up on the sand with our bags and picnic, but weren’t able to find a public shower or changing area. We forked over a couple Euro at a private restroom to prepare for a frigid dive into the sea. In Europe, it’s a privilege to pee (or put on a bathing suit).<br /><br />We mentally prepared ourselves for a nippy dip as a cool wind blew over us despite the clear blue sky. The seagulls edged in, waiting for us to take the plunge so they could move in on the lunch crumbs we had dropped for them. Tim decided to watch our stuff first while Mike and I hopped into a new body of water. I waded in, sucking air between my teeth and whooping to try to dull the pain. It was cold. Quickly my body reacted, dilating my blood vessels and flooding my skin with warming blood. I was bright pink, but I was comfortable. I dove under the churned, opaque waves and tried to get Mike to do likewise.<br /><br />He decided he would survive without an immersion experience, and we trooped back out. Tim came down next. This time I was already wet and prepared for the experience. I had to force myself to slow down a little as Tim gingerly moved into the surf. We dove under then beat a hypothermic retreat back to our bags. We took triumphant pictures and packed up. An afternoon at the beach was welcome, but we had a third and final city to discover before we slept.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluNzDDZRKI/AAAAAAAACNc/gNuQKj41PPo/s1600-h/DSC_1237.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluNzDDZRKI/AAAAAAAACNc/gNuQKj41PPo/s320/DSC_1237.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358032089819727010" border="0" /></a><br />Someday I may go back to the Haage, seat of Dutch governmental power (but not the capital, that’s in Amsterdam. Don’t ask me how that’s possible) to see the international offices and Vermeer’s Girl with the Pearl Earing. But I was satisfied with my sunburn, so we turned south for Belgium (our 4th country of the trip) and quaint Bruges.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluN9PoI8fI/AAAAAAAACNk/Auv4allsPZM/s1600-h/DSC_1241.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluN9PoI8fI/AAAAAAAACNk/Auv4allsPZM/s320/DSC_1241.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358032264993763826" border="0" /></a><br />Bruges was the most powerful city in Belgium circa 1400. Eventually the harbor silted up and commerce moved elsewhere, leaving Bruges a kind of medieval ghost town. I was mostly familiar with the city through this movie trailer:<br /><br />Beyond that, I only had what the guide books told me as we rolled south. I was expecting a tiny train station populated by horse-drawn carriages and cab drivers praying on excited tourists. What we discovered was a large and expanding station on the fringes of a buzzing city. Bruges may have lost its position as the most powerful city in Belgium, but apparently everyone didn’t get the message to move out of town.<br /><br />We rode a bus (my favorite form of transportation) past an expansive park with lounging students and tourists, and hung a right into the oldest part of town. City hall and it’s iconic bell tower swung into view and we crossed a canal or two before stepping off at our hostel, the cheapest, roomiest place we would pay for the entire trip. We couldn’t lounge around our bunks for too long, though, we needed dinner and a jump start on our exploration of Belgian beer varieties.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluOKNN66UI/AAAAAAAACNs/-aLt8bGY8Ls/s1600-h/DSC_0001.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluOKNN66UI/AAAAAAAACNs/-aLt8bGY8Ls/s320/DSC_0001.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358032487685220674" border="0" /></a><br />The central market square of Bruges is lined with cafés and all offer a beautiful view of gothic city hall and the guild halls that funded the expansion and power of the city. It was beautiful. We ate relatively cheap pasta and enjoyed the Trappists’ best brews (some Trappist fruitcake might have paired well with the Triple Tim had).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluPQ3PVC8I/AAAAAAAACOU/ryWKw2BEAu8/s1600-h/DSC_0038.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluPQ3PVC8I/AAAAAAAACOU/ryWKw2BEAu8/s320/DSC_0038.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358033701556259778" border="0" /></a><br />After basking in our accomplishment – sightseeing in three cities in three days – we moved on to explore the gothic and baroque town at night.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluPAsmzyqI/AAAAAAAACOM/uyexvY8e3o4/s1600-h/DSC_0033.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluPAsmzyqI/AAAAAAAACOM/uyexvY8e3o4/s320/DSC_0033.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358033423824046754" border="0" /></a><br />Lone lanterns cast a yellow, fiery light over the quite canals. Central squares and church facades were lit by the glow of quiet cafés.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluOjPfxjEI/AAAAAAAACN8/_uxo0-SYYqQ/s1600-h/DSC_0022.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluOjPfxjEI/AAAAAAAACN8/_uxo0-SYYqQ/s320/DSC_0022.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358032917793705026" border="0" /></a><br />We searched for a bar to continue our beer exploration. Foiled by a bar recommended by Lonely Planet and Mr. Steves (they were closed for vacation) we found a low ceilinged, wood paneled pub with the extensive selection we were hoping for.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluOvxVYdXI/AAAAAAAACOE/qvnMbQZ1toc/s1600-h/DSC_0027.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluOvxVYdXI/AAAAAAAACOE/qvnMbQZ1toc/s320/DSC_0027.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358033133035353458" border="0" /></a><br />With glasses raised we toasted Belgium and called it a night. We would explore Bruges more in the morning. Little did we know there were hundreds of tour busses motoring towards us with the same idea…<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluObqKpn7I/AAAAAAAACN0/5a321wAXlpM/s1600-h/DSC_0040.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SluObqKpn7I/AAAAAAAACN0/5a321wAXlpM/s320/DSC_0040.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358032787513909170" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">One more chance to click through this <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2604032&id=12407527&l=73f8ff8d62">album</a>.</span>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-60351543249414470302009-07-11T16:09:00.001+02:002009-07-12T17:57:56.063+02:00"Water, sky, and windmills" (and paint)<span style="font-style: italic;">The </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2604032&id=12407527&l=73f8ff8d62">photo album </a><span style="font-style: italic;">of our adventures across the flat wilds of the Netherlands.</span><br /><br />The next morning we tiptoed around our hostel trying not to rouse our inert roommate who had swapped his peanut better flips for paprika chips. We managed to avoid an early morning contact high since there weren’t many smokers up and about yet (but I could tell they were gearing up: “I know, man, that’s the problem with the world, you know?”) and scurry across the canals to the Rijksmusuem Amsterdam.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldcKte_chI/AAAAAAAACLs/KEh4g8O8wQ4/s1600-h/DSC_1087.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldcKte_chI/AAAAAAAACLs/KEh4g8O8wQ4/s320/DSC_1087.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356851620858524178" border="0" /></a><br />The massive museum is being renovated which worked out well for us since the items on display are basically the greatest hits of Dutch art with a little Asian pottery to shake things up. The Dutch are particularly fond of three things: Landscapes depicting wide-open, flat spaces, Portraits of the middle-class, and scenes of peasants being quaint. I love all of these things.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldLuzgMVQI/AAAAAAAACKk/W3gSPY0O0_I/s1600-h/windmill"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldLuzgMVQI/AAAAAAAACKk/W3gSPY0O0_I/s320/windmill" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356833549251794178" border="0" /></a>This landscape by Jacob Isaakszoon van Ruisdael (what a name) was summarized in the descriptive plaque as “the ultimate Dutch landscape: flat with an abundance of water, sky, and windmills.” Yeah, that’s the ultimate.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldMMeqOMuI/AAAAAAAACKs/FgVflvcGAAo/s1600-h/Flagship"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 229px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldMMeqOMuI/AAAAAAAACKs/FgVflvcGAAo/s320/Flagship" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356834059052790498" border="0" /></a>Lumped in with the landscapes were copious battle scenes of the Dutch showing off their navel prowess by taking it to the French and Spanish. This painting shows a Spanish flagship being blown to smithereens. Note the figures flying through the air, one of them in two pieces! Who said the Dutch were reserved? This is Michael Bay on canvas.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldMecoQEoI/AAAAAAAACK0/sCxUCEMhxhE/s1600-h/vermeer"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldMecoQEoI/AAAAAAAACK0/sCxUCEMhxhE/s320/vermeer" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356834367745299074" border="0" /></a>Then there are the quieter scenes. Johannes Vermeer wasn’t a particularly prolific guy, but when he painted, he blew everyone away. Standing on the opposite side of the room from The Milkmaid, Michael reverently observed, “Look at that. She still stands out. Beautiful.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldMyjWZgvI/AAAAAAAACK8/9eqZWtvJGgg/s1600-h/Nightwatch"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldMyjWZgvI/AAAAAAAACK8/9eqZWtvJGgg/s320/Nightwatch" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356834713146852082" border="0" /></a>For centuries, the middle-class has reigned supreme in the Netherlands. A county of tolerant Calvinists, they enjoyed austere clothing with froofy collars. If you wanted to show your wealth or power, you had a portrait painted. If you were particularly proud of an organization you were part of, you organized a group portrait. This helped defray some of the costs as well. In 1642 a group of militiamen hired the hottest portrait artist in town for their group shot. Rembrandt didn’t want a boring composition with people sitting around attentively, so he posed them in action, ready to step from the shadows and bring peace to the city. The Night watch is the finale of the museum. Each face is a portrait, so you’re drawn into the story of each man, trying to read his personality from Rembrandt’s brush. As Tim moved through the exhibits, he found he was paying attention to all of Rembrandt’s work, admiring the characters and scenes long before looking at the plaque to discover he kept looking at the same artist’s work. And thus I hope to inspire other amateur art critics.<br /><br />One museum down. One to go. With Rick Steves in hand we went in search of Dutch pancakes for lunch since the falafel the night before didn’t quite fit our criteria for local cuisine. Of course, the guide book lead us to a boarded-up façade. I guess Mr. Steves’s loyal readers weren’t enough to keep the place afloat. We settled for a nearby pub with a slight whiff of tourist bait. We were hungry, though and couldn’t be too picky. The plate-sized pancakes were fantastic. Mine was topped with bacon and washed down with fresh Heineken. Just like Sunday breakfast at home.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sld13tRNdMI/AAAAAAAACL0/tnrtZfNVlBQ/s1600-h/DSC_1091.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sld13tRNdMI/AAAAAAAACL0/tnrtZfNVlBQ/s320/DSC_1091.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356879881685529794" border="0" /></a><br />Feeling happier now that we were sporting a few more calories we walked across a park packed with happy families and dove into the Van Gogh Museum. It’s the largest collection of his work in the world. Letters sent back and forth between Vincent and his brother Theo are also in the collection along with his delicate sketches. I had no idea this icon of Post-Impressionism only wielded the brush for 12 years. Before taking up painting in his thirties, he had never shown any artistic inclinations. His art dealing brother thought Vince might do well despite his, uh, lack of experience. After failing as a missionary and businessman he figured he might as well give paint a whirl. Except for some self-esteem issues, I think he did pretty well.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldORasWuOI/AAAAAAAACLM/B22OpblEUDQ/s1600-h/potato-eaters.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 227px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldORasWuOI/AAAAAAAACLM/B22OpblEUDQ/s320/potato-eaters.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356836342910597346" border="0" /></a>The Potato Eaters is now thought to be Vince’s first major work after a long series of dark still lifes (lives?) and landscapes. But he didn’t quite have his art nailed yet. Problems with perspective and proportions would be sorted out at art school. While there he painted this surreal smoking skeleton. I had no idea Mr. Van Gogh went beyond sunflowers.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldNdbVD-KI/AAAAAAAACLE/564lJHjXLMs/s1600-h/Skull+of+a+Skeleton+with+Burning+Cigarette"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 287px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldNdbVD-KI/AAAAAAAACLE/564lJHjXLMs/s320/Skull+of+a+Skeleton+with+Burning+Cigarette" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356835449728137378" border="0" /></a>Of course he did those too. We learned he wanted to start an artist’s commune in the French country side. He was pretty lonely and only one guy showed up to join the party, Paul Gauguin who would later take off for Polynesia. But first he needed to paint with Vincent then have his life threatened by his unstable roommate who then sliced off his ear. That's how icons are born.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldOnBb0M5I/AAAAAAAACLc/_NGC-vhYZpA/s1600-h/De+slaapkamer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 169px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldOnBb0M5I/AAAAAAAACLc/_NGC-vhYZpA/s320/De+slaapkamer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356836714087461778" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldOdlt83kI/AAAAAAAACLU/rG59cWwsn8Y/s1600-h/Zonnebloemen.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 282px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldOdlt83kI/AAAAAAAACLU/rG59cWwsn8Y/s320/Zonnebloemen.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356836552028511810" border="0" /></a>Vincent continued living in the countryside, but his mental instability landed him in a mental institution. In 1890 he walked into a wheat field, very much like this landscape, and shot himself. Whew.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldO6gTAHbI/AAAAAAAACLk/0Uwj78-n5us/s1600-h/crows+and+wheat"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldO6gTAHbI/AAAAAAAACLk/0Uwj78-n5us/s320/crows+and+wheat" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356837048789507506" border="0" /></a>The museum had stuff by Van Gogh’s contemporaries and artists his work later influenced, but I was taxing Michael and Tim’s collective museum tolerance. We needed to get outside.<br /><br />A few minutes later we were outside MacBikes, purveyors of fine bicycles to the touring public. After a particularly difficult decision over buying bike insurance (we chose to keep our ten Euros and risk the wiles of thieving Amsterdamers), we were wobbly mounting our clunky, red wheels.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sld3Bz8k-iI/AAAAAAAACMs/05L_J5LSeRE/s1600-h/DSC_1193.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sld3Bz8k-iI/AAAAAAAACMs/05L_J5LSeRE/s320/DSC_1193.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356881154788358690" border="0" /></a><br />I’m not used to the curved handle-bars, the plunging cross-bar, or the sheer weight of solid steel with full fenders. It was an awkward first revolution, but we managed to command the things pretty confidently, and I only managed one near-collision.<br /><br />We set off in search of windmills. We were told that if we crossed the short ferry to the northern section of the city across the bay we would find plenty of them. The ferry was a terrifying experience as a hundred bikes and mopeds loaded the deck. As we reached the far side engines revved and chains locked onto sprockets. This would be every rider for himself.<br /><br />The gangway dropped and we were off. I managed to clip only one cyclist on the way out. We rendezvoused around a map and saw the icon we were looking for: A triangle with four spokes. It was time to fight a giant.<br /><br />We cycled along an idyllic canal, the bank lined with houseboats and grills. We started to plunge into suburbia, found another sign, and discovered we were a little off our mark. Peddling along a quiet neighborhood, we found a large wetland, and there on the horizon was the stereotype we were looking for:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sld1_Vvr8JI/AAAAAAAACL8/LkUEkIVYlP0/s1600-h/DSC_1098.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sld1_Vvr8JI/AAAAAAAACL8/LkUEkIVYlP0/s320/DSC_1098.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356880012809859218" border="0" /></a><br />Of course I hummed “The Impossible Dream” from “Man of LaMancha” and immortalized my antiquated chivalric notions and Romantic tendencies by charging it without Sancho at my side. Michael and Tim tolerated this behavior. The goats around the bottom of the mill seemed less enthusiastic.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sld2SlXqfII/AAAAAAAACME/yrTxovLOVUA/s1600-h/DSC_1136.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 221px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sld2SlXqfII/AAAAAAAACME/yrTxovLOVUA/s320/DSC_1136.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356880343421582466" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sld2ZMyGf2I/AAAAAAAACMM/Lep48z437SA/s1600-h/DSC_1144.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sld2ZMyGf2I/AAAAAAAACMM/Lep48z437SA/s320/DSC_1144.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356880457080668002" border="0" /></a><br />With the picturesque windmill checked off our to-see list we crossed the wetlands, feeling like the only people for miles despite being a twenty minute ride (as the heron flies) from Amsterdam. Just in time for a late afternoon snack, we rolled into a quiet town with a bustling local pub. We sipped cool beer and ate croquets and actually felt like we were on vacation. Until the guy who owned the pizza joint across the street started yelling at us about parking our bikes too close to his Vespa. I really do hate those machines.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sld2ivfpKmI/AAAAAAAACMU/BvK5toBL8fw/s1600-h/DSC_1164.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sld2ivfpKmI/AAAAAAAACMU/BvK5toBL8fw/s320/DSC_1164.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356880621017311842" border="0" /></a><br />The second half of our ride took us past villages lined with small canals and out into pastureland populated by cows, horses, and sheep. The flat expansiveness of the horizon took me back to the Midwest. Then suddenly we were on the East Coast as we rode along the sea wall towards a white-washed town with more boats in the harbor than people in the village. We rode beyond the village over a rib of road that looped towards the massive dikes that protect Amsterdam’s harbor on the North Sea. As the light faded, we decided we would leave the dikes for anther time. We needed to figure out how to get home.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sld23eH9v7I/AAAAAAAACMk/dERyG2OMI3k/s1600-h/DSC_1186.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sld23eH9v7I/AAAAAAAACMk/dERyG2OMI3k/s320/DSC_1186.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356880977131847602" border="0" /></a><br />Our ride back into the city lead through urban apartment complexes and more urbanized canals. We discovered the problems of a watery city when we learned we had missed the last ferry over one canal by a half-hour. We had to peddle the long way around to the bridge to continue on home. As we followed the canal, a high schooler in a rowing skull yelled helpfully after us, “Hey, don’t smoke too much marijuana, you don’t want to lose all your money!” I thanked him for the advice. I also assumed the bright red rental bikes were the give away that we weren’t from around those parts.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sld2sM3sMQI/AAAAAAAACMc/Akos0-v4XC8/s1600-h/DSC_1166.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sld2sM3sMQI/AAAAAAAACMc/Akos0-v4XC8/s320/DSC_1166.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356880783521624322" border="0" /></a><br />Finally we were back in the city proper and pulling in to a recommended Indonesian restaurant. The New York Times travel section had informed us that no 36-hour trip through Amsterdam was complete without a taste of Jakarta. Thank you New York Times. We ate our fried rice, prawns, and peanut sauces with the kind of ravenous energy you only get from a day with equal parts fine art and countryside cycling.<br /><br />We sat back, the sun long gone and admitted it was time for bed. We rode across town and carefully scouted the best spot to secure our vehicles. Multiple chains and locks were brought to bear. There was no way we were going to pay a thousand Euros to replace the things if they were taken. Even so, I drifted off that night imagining jovial, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Jakob_Jordaens_001.jpg">Jordaens</a>-esqe, Dutchman with a loathing of tourists slicing through my bike with an electric saw. Despite the image, I managed to sleep peacefully. I had to. We would be skipping the country the next day.<br /><br /><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2604032&id=12407527&l=73f8ff8d62">Photos</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> of our adventures.</span>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-42243910714662335362009-07-10T15:32:00.004+02:002009-07-10T15:47:46.228+02:00A Night out in the 'DamFrom the Rhineland north into The Netherlands. We were wished luck on our travels by a particularly outgoing Düsseldorfer on the train. He was excited to be home after a short stint in Algeria. I will assume he had some preconceived notion of what three 20-something Americans were going to get themselves up to in Amsterdam. He may have ultimately been a little surprised by the following reality:<br /><br />A little bewildered by the construction in front of the train station, we eventually followed our map to Bob’s Youth Hostel. The lobby was in the basement of a typical Amsterdam apartment building topped with a stepped gable (always love the gables). We descended into a dank cave populated by low furniture decorated with reclining bodies. You can’t smoke tobacco indoors, but you can smoke marijuana, and the lobby residents were taking full advantage of the opportunity.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldD1i0XlJI/AAAAAAAACKc/tS3P9T8AsG0/s1600-h/DSC_1227.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldD1i0XlJI/AAAAAAAACKc/tS3P9T8AsG0/s320/DSC_1227.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356824868939076754" border="0" /></a><br />We received our keys and a complicated set of instructions detailing where we would find our room. The directions involved a coffee shop (code for “Pot Shop”) called “The Doors” and a steep, narrow flight of stairs that deterred residents from becoming too intoxicated if they ever wanted to find their beds. We soberly found ours and dropped our bags and lined up for our first shower in 40 hours (please remember we climbed a mountain and explored the Rhineland in that time). We had to do all of this pretty quietly since a roommate was sacked out in bed at 8 PM. Crazy nights in Amsterdam.<br /><br />I should note that we never really saw this man awake. He was apparently very tired, and always seemed to have a new bag of chips or cookies to take to bed. I won’t presume to speculate on what he was doing with his waking hours, or why he might have been suffering from the munchies, but I doubt it involved the Van Gogh Museum.<br /><br />Since it was Father’s Day, we spent some time checking in on the home front. I had the distinct pleasure of a broken-up conversation with Dad as I stood on a street in Amsterdam with the pot smoke wafting from the hostel lobby below. Fortunately there were no red lights in view to make the scene even more surreal.<br /><br />By the time we were clean (I got to finally take a gander at the spectacular shades of mauve my ankle had put on display) and in the good graces of our fathers, it was time to get some food into our systems. Unfortunately, it was nearing 11PM and most restaurants and cafés were shutting down their kitchens. After a hungry, but lovely, hike past the canals and jigsawed gables of central Amsterdam we finally settled on the only glowing restaurant in sight: a felafel joint. So Dutch.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldDsY82ifI/AAAAAAAACKU/cqO43yBUuCI/s1600-h/DSC_1078.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SldDsY82ifI/AAAAAAAACKU/cqO43yBUuCI/s320/DSC_1078.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356824711671482866" border="0" /></a><br />The sole cook and cashier took his time getting our dinner together giving us plenty of opportunity to people watch as a possibly intoxicated or potentially crazy man wandered in and out of the establishment in pursuit of a cheeseburger. We made short work of our meal when it finally arrived, and set off in the direction of a more typical late-night Amsterdam draw: the red light district.<br /><br />In 1810 Napoleon needed to keep his soldiers healthy, so he started regulating prostitution to stem the spread of venereal disease. Ever since, Amsterdam has been known for its obvious - and legal - sex trade. Instead of walking the streets or staking corners, the prostitutes of Amsterdam rent windows that face the street. These windows are lit with red lights (they come by the name of the district pretty honestly). The renter then silently hawks her…um… wares.<br /><br />Everyone who visits the city passes through at some point, usually out of simple curiosity. We walked past sex shops and bars until the first red lights appeared. Women dressed in lingerie or bikinis posed and beckoned from the windows. One knocked on the glass then opened the door to lure me in. Little did she know I hadn’t the desire, health, or funds to take on such an experience.<br /><br />Most men walk by with a sheepish glance. Some stop to look and consider then move on. The whole process was weirdly subdued. Because of the glass, there are no catcalls. Most of the bars are cavernous and little sound emanated from within. We quickly walked the streets of the district. I'll admit to being a little surprised by the appearances of the prostitutes. My extensive knowledge of historical musicals has taught me that women-of-the-night are usually unkempt and have cockney accents. These women were clean (antiseptically so per city regulations) and not showing any more skin then you find on an American beach (that may be too much or too little depending on your tastes). Only a small percentage is actually Dutch. The others are Eastern European, Asian, and North African. Thus no cockney accents. Bummer. After seeing enough red light, thickly caked make-up, and English bachelor parties, we decided to find out what Dutch beer tastes like.<br /><br />Turns out it tastes a lot like Belgian beer. We sat on a bench outside a microbrewery and sipped our beverages (mine looked like a chemistry experiment with an Erlenmeyer flask supported by a wooden handle). We tried not to act as tired as we felt as we ruminated on the historical district we had just swept through. With last call it was time to call it a night and make plans to sleep-in…until 8:18 AM. There was art to see and bikes to ride!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Please note this entry is not as thoroughly illustrated as I might like because photography is not allowed in the Red Light District so I didn't schlep my camera for our first night in Amsterdam. I just wish I could show you what my beverage's class looked like.</span>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-57394210523922253752009-07-08T23:44:00.017+02:002009-07-09T00:29:07.798+02:00The Romantic Rhine (sans girlfriends)<span style="font-style: italic;">The first part of <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2604032&id=12407527&l=73f8ff8d62">this photo album</a> has images from our day on the Rhine. Soon I'll let you in on our adventures in the Netherlands, but first Deutschland!</span><br /><br />After a surprisingly restful night’s sleep on our upholstered barber’s chairs, we stepped off the train in Cologne ready to see a huge cathedral and a few castles. We had to hustle, though. It was 6AM, peak time for tourist traffic at the Dom.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUajNWhA1I/AAAAAAAACI0/wuyfNJPKWQk/s1600-h/DSC_0970.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUajNWhA1I/AAAAAAAACI0/wuyfNJPKWQk/s320/DSC_0970.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356216524008915794" border="0" /></a><br />But first, we had to stow our luggage. We wandered the Cologne station searching for the standard locker bays, but only found a short row of terminals fronted with mini-garage doors and the “locker” icon. We sized up the contraption, weighing the benefits of dropping our gear against an innate fear of new technology. Eventually we rounded up enough change to stuff our luggage in the garage door. After taking our money, the door closed and mechanized noises rattle from within. Then the door popped open again, ready for the next duffel bag. Apparently there’s a vast Swiss-bank-like network of storage containers under the Cologne train station with a giant claw hovering over your deposited luggage. I briefly considered investigating this novel world of infrastructure by climbing through the door, but decided I would rather see the Romantic Rhine.<br /><br />The cathedral confronts you as soon as you exit the train station. It’s impressive every time. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUY29JG3NI/AAAAAAAACIk/-O9kqMSxV5Q/s1600-h/DSC_0973.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUY29JG3NI/AAAAAAAACIk/-O9kqMSxV5Q/s320/DSC_0973.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356214664231836882" border="0" /></a><br />We walked around the building and found out it was open for visitors and 7AM mass was about to get underway at the Marian Chapel. So, as the organist performed the opening hymn on a small, piano-sized organ, we squeezed into the pews of the chapel off to the side of the main alter.<br /><br />The Marian Chapel is so named for the ornate altar that depicts the arrival of the magi (a popular theme in the cathedral that houses their relics) at Mary and Jesus’s feet. An art museum argued the altar was too delicate to remain in the cathedral. The church wanted to keep it to use for worship. The court decided to let the Dom hang onto the precious piece of art as long as the church actually put it to use. So now they are legally required to say Mass in front of it at least once a day.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUZS4xm-xI/AAAAAAAACIs/sT7WgAkpCzg/s1600-h/Cologne_Cathedral_Altarpiece_of_Magi_by_Stephan_Lochner.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 279px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUZS4xm-xI/AAAAAAAACIs/sT7WgAkpCzg/s320/Cologne_Cathedral_Altarpiece_of_Magi_by_Stephan_Lochner.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356215144095873810" border="0" /></a><br />Apparently they opt to use it for the early mass so only the truly dedicated (read “old”) can appreciate the masterpiece of the Late Medieval Kölner school. We raised a few skeptical eyebrows as we took our places near the front of the chapel. The Sign of Peace was not extended to these youthful intruders.<br /><br />At 8AM we finished wandering the cathedral and were on our way south. We kept checking our watches to make sure it was really that early. No one can accuse of us wasting a moment on that useless enemy of active tourism: sleep.<br /><br />We hopped off the train in the small town of Bacharach. On one side of the town is the noble Rhine River. On the other are the steep, slate slopes overgrown with vineyards. The town was first settled in Roman times and earned its name “Bacchus’s Altar” for its prolific wine production. Looming over the vines is the stately Stahleck castle whose foundations go back at least a millennium. I really don’t get tired of typing statements like that.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUa3fSP12I/AAAAAAAACJE/jEKDgqbuoYc/s1600-h/DSC_0994.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUa3fSP12I/AAAAAAAACJE/jEKDgqbuoYc/s320/DSC_0994.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356216872420235106" border="0" /></a><br />My ankle was feeling flexible, so we walked through the old Medieval gate in search of a path to the castle. It’s a pretty popular tourist stop, so we figured it would be well marked. As soon as we veered from the quaint fachwerk drag of town, we were rapidly in the burbs. We could still see the castle, but couldn’t figure out how to get up there without crossing through a few yards.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUasxUoY5I/AAAAAAAACI8/04_C4V-1vZ0/s1600-h/DSC_0985.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUasxUoY5I/AAAAAAAACI8/04_C4V-1vZ0/s320/DSC_0985.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356216688283509650" border="0" /></a><br />We started to follow a small sidewalk that crossed a stream that once washed all the town’s garbage out to the river and saw signs for a youth hostel that was also uphill. We followed the signs. After a couple switchbacks we had a commanding view of the valley and realized the youth hostel signs were leading us into the castle. We crossed a drawbridge and discovered we could have stayed in a turret for a few euros. I guess no self-respecting older guest would want to slog up a hill for their bed.<br /><br />A small Medieval fair was underway and people in leather armor were sipping coffee and shooting arrows. Perfect. We explored the castle, including a great hall that was decorated with the coat-of-arms of just about every city on the Rhine. Bonn and Cologne made an appearance along with Bacharach and Boppard.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUc_sNN0bI/AAAAAAAACKM/5KhF1nAbS90/s1600-h/DSC_1015.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUc_sNN0bI/AAAAAAAACKM/5KhF1nAbS90/s320/DSC_1015.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356219212351001010" border="0" /></a><br />We crossed through the main gate and up to a defensive wall that gave us these views of the river:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUbQyosptI/AAAAAAAACJU/5waO9Kn5jPg/s1600-h/DSC_1018.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUbQyosptI/AAAAAAAACJU/5waO9Kn5jPg/s320/DSC_1018.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356217307111401170" border="0" /></a><br />It was worth the hike. Looking down at the river though, I had a desire to get to the shore and onto a boat.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUbY20jgcI/AAAAAAAACJc/iEhtjBQrRlE/s1600-h/DSC_1024.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUbY20jgcI/AAAAAAAACJc/iEhtjBQrRlE/s320/DSC_1024.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356217445673828802" border="0" /></a><br />As we climbed down from the castle’s perch we saw Werner’s chapel, a Gothic ruin of a church that was dedicated to St. Werner. According to a Medieval legend, a traveler found the butchered body of young Werner on his way to Bacharach. The body smelled of violets and was undisturbed by wild animals. The butchering was blamed on Jews and the sweet smell was chalked up to God.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUbo5kqYlI/AAAAAAAACJs/HarcTyepeZs/s1600-h/DSC_0986.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUbo5kqYlI/AAAAAAAACJs/HarcTyepeZs/s320/DSC_0986.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356217721290383954" border="0" /></a><br />The locals built a soaring Gothic church over the spot and interred the body of the boy in its foundations. Eventually a bishop got word of Werner’s beautification and the pilgrims who were visiting his grave. This bishop thought the story of Werner’s “martyrdom” a little weird and stopped the beautification process. No more St. Werner and no more Gothic church. The ruin is picturesque though.<br /><br />On our way through town we grabbed a bottle of Riesling made from the vineyards immediately behind us. The woman at the register of the small wine shop gave us a knowing nod when we asked her to pop the cork and lend us a few plastic cups. We then hustled to the kebab place across the street to grab some quick take-out food. The Döner is a Turkish/German mash-up that’s essentially a gyro with cabbage: lamb meat from a pole, tomatoes, a yogurt sauce, and slaw. Of course, we picked a place that bakes its own bread for your sandwich. This would normally be a welcome addition to the döner kebab, but we had a boat to catch. We anxiously watched the clock and scrutinized the bizarre pictures of giant grouses fighting in a stream, and a woman lassoing white horse - I can only assume these are idyllic images of Turkey - while our bread baked.<br /><br />Finally, with only minuets to spare we bolted from the shop with our warm flatbread and wine and clamored aboard the H.M.S. Boppard. Our rail passes covered the ride, and we found a table near the front where we could see both castle-littered banks of the river. We toasted the river and set to our lunch.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUbhU2V9RI/AAAAAAAACJk/BryGyPfVr4I/s1600-h/DSC_1035.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUbhU2V9RI/AAAAAAAACJk/BryGyPfVr4I/s320/DSC_1035.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356217591173346578" border="0" /></a><br />In mid-bite I was interrupted by the a scowling waiter. Pointing at the bar on deck he declared. “No eating. This is a restaurant.” I thought about pointing out his obvious contradiction, then decided it probably wouldn't fulfill the Fulbright mission of extending positive impressions of Americans. We packed away our food and wine brought from outside and scurried to the other end of the boat, away from his disapproving glare. We didn’t want any of his overpriced food or beverages. We would wait to enjoy the rest of our lunch on shore. For the moment we would just enjoy the castles.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUbu_sF7XI/AAAAAAAACJ0/0MImNLM9xPc/s1600-h/DSC_1042.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUbu_sF7XI/AAAAAAAACJ0/0MImNLM9xPc/s320/DSC_1042.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356217826011377010" border="0" /></a><br />Periodically a series of timed, recorded announcements in German, French, English, Italian, Spanish, and Japanese would let us know what we were seeing on each bank. The announcement failed to point out the gathering grey clouds. Just as we neared the Lorelei, the narrowest section of the river that was said to be haunted by an alluring river spirit who would coax sailors to their death on the rocks, the heavens opened and we retreated to the sumptuous lower deck. There we watched the towns and castles from the comfort of a dry table. Coffee was deemed a necessary purchase even though the day was still young.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUb4PwDe3I/AAAAAAAACJ8/H46hyMDyuhY/s1600-h/DSC_1061.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUb4PwDe3I/AAAAAAAACJ8/H46hyMDyuhY/s320/DSC_1061.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356217984941783922" border="0" /></a><br />The rain petered out and I got to stand over the noble Rhine with the wind in my hair one more time before we disembarked in Boppard. As soon as our shoes hit shore, the deluge started all over again and we found shelter in a conveniently placed Carmelite church. As in Zurich, we evaluated the interior for exactly as long as the heavy rain lasted. Then it was back into the streets in search of the train station. Dripping red cabbage juice from our döner kebab sandwiches we could finally finish lunch as we waited for the train north. Mike is a fan of Beethoven, and there is one city every Beethoven fan should visit for roughly an hour: Bonn. I would briefly be home.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUcBojmomI/AAAAAAAACKE/KVbHZjJ1J1A/s1600-h/DSC_1069.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlUcBojmomI/AAAAAAAACKE/KVbHZjJ1J1A/s320/DSC_1069.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356218146219270754" border="0" /></a><br />In the warm comfort of the train we could watch even more castles go by and Mike and Tim got to listen to my running commentary on the un-romantic Rhine that begins north of the city of Koblenz (the confluence of the Mosel and Rhine rivers). When we got to the former capital of Western Germany I lead Mike and Tim directly to the scowling centerpiece of the city: Beethoven’s statue. We also ducked into the Münsterbasilica (Münster means “Head” or “Chief” by the by) to see the ancient, chunky basilica - my home parish - then rolled on to Beethoven’s birthplace. We didn’t have time to actually take a tour though. I have yet to make this Bonner pilgrimage through the home of the Romantic composer. I keep waiting for a visitor who has the interest and time. Next weekend, maybe.<br /><br />Humming the 9th, we turned and went back to the train station. We were really getting our money’s worth out of the rail passes. Unfortunately there was a stamping error on Mike’s and he had to get the mistake corrected at the customer service desk at the Bonn station. All wrongs were made right with three new stamps. It’s not official in Germany until at least two stamps have been applied, so we knew Mike’s pass was extra official with a third.<br /><br />In Cologne we plugged in our code and our luggage miraculously appeared behind the garage door. Vowing I would find out more about this system, we turned to the tracks leading north. With a “Tschüss” to Germany, we set our sights on the Dutch. In three hours we would be in the international capital of tulips, pot-heads, and 'dam jokes: Amsterdam.<br /><br />Until then enjoy the first part of this <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2604032&id=12407527&l=73f8ff8d62">album</a>!Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-76449661688828628102009-07-06T23:24:00.001+02:002009-07-07T12:54:07.664+02:00Discovering the Swiss Pyramid<span style="font-style: italic;">or "Getting High before we get anywhere near Amsterdam"<br /><br />Here's a </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2602245&id=12407527&l=cadeb16a30">photo album</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> of our montane adventures. Now you know all its stories!</span><br /><br />If there’s one thing you should do before climbing a Swiss Alp, it’s get a full night’s sleep. We didn’t.<br /><br />We were up at 5:45 AM, lugging our bags towards the Bern train station to catch a ride to Mülenen. Shane, Marco, Glen, and Marty had taken a similar expedition a couple of weeks earlier and had described the town as “a gas station with a few houses.” I suspected such a small stop would be missing lockers where we could stash our backpacks, so I asked the Swiss station agent. He thought they would probably have those most convenient of amenities. I think you know where this is going.<br /><br />As we approached Mülenen, an announcement in Italian, German, French, and English informed us we needed to request the stop if we wanted to get off. The announcement failed to tell us how to go about such a process. I wandered around like a chimp in a psychology experiment looking for the right button. A woman further down the train looked straight at me and mashed a white button by the door with the kind of disgust you can only muster when you have a button to mash. Thanks.<br /><br />The train came to a stop at the Mülenen station which is roughly the size of my dorm room and it took about 25 seconds to establish there were no lockers to be found. Would my Munich beer stein and cans of Skyline need to ascend Mt. Niesen? We followed the signs to the Niesenbahn, the cog-railway that steadily rolls up the side of the mountain, offering a less strenuous option for getting to the top. A group of people were waiting patiently outside the door to the railway office. None of them looked particularly excited to be going up Niesen, and there didn’t seem to be any families. Then the woman who showed me how to stop the train walked through the crowd and unlocked the door. Everyone followed her in and filed up to the permanently slanted car (the seats are built so you sit on the level, but the floor slopes). I started to file in to talk to the worker checking everyone through.<br /><br />In a thick Swiss accent - which is basically German spoken by an excited Swede – I was told this ride was only for employees and I needed to wait for the next round. I let him know we weren’t interested in riding up. We needed to hike. He looked shocked when he sized up our luggage and I took the moment to ask if he knew a place to throw the gear. He thought for a moment and grinned with a new idea. The storage room! After loading the vertical morning commuters, he lead us to a side room with a steeply slanted ceiling (most of the trip could be summed up with synonyms for steep) and thousands of brochures enumerating all the merits of a ride to the top.<br /><br />We dropped our equipment among the boxes, packed our day packs, and I spent some time clarifying we would be able to get back into that room in nine hours. He seemed to think that was a pretty stupid question. Where would he get off to? Of course we would be able to get our backpacks. So, after basking in the glow of friendly Swiss hospitality we asked for directions to the trailhead. With an enthusiastic point towards a series of yellow signs, he wished us luck on our journey.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEg2eY5xVI/AAAAAAAACGM/bPhe1nAXgLQ/s1600-h/DSC_0784.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEg2eY5xVI/AAAAAAAACGM/bPhe1nAXgLQ/s320/DSC_0784.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355097552162768210" border="0" /></a><br />The first sign offered directions to the next towns, train stations, and to the summit of the mountain. Along with the names, the sign offered the distance in “Std” or “Stunden” that’s time. I don’t know who they timed for the hike, but they were deemed to have a more reliable pace than such disreputable measurement options as kilometers. We discovered we had 5 hours of hiking ahead of us. It was time to go up even though the summit of the mountain was still swathed in fog and clouds.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEhF0uRIDI/AAAAAAAACGU/AuVUnh4csAc/s1600-h/DSC_0790.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEhF0uRIDI/AAAAAAAACGU/AuVUnh4csAc/s320/DSC_0790.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355097815855996978" border="0" /></a><br />The trail looped through green cow pastures with quaint barns and sheds along the route. The trail would weave onto dirt roads, but quickly dropped us into the pine forest. As we slogged through the understory where the occasional ripe blackberry provided an energy boost the elevation fell away from our feet.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEiOdcL1WI/AAAAAAAACHE/c-9oFgUGxeE/s1600-h/DSC_0823.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEiOdcL1WI/AAAAAAAACHE/c-9oFgUGxeE/s320/DSC_0823.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355099063736587618" border="0" /></a><br />We stopped halfway up the slope of “The Swiss Pyramid (a 1890s tourism bureau moniker)” at one of the train station stops to enjoy our some fresh fruit, chunks of baguette, and fresh Swiss cheese (that is, cheese from Switzerland. It didn’t have any holes).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEhUv0mbCI/AAAAAAAACGk/ZkP__J6C2J4/s1600-h/DSC_0807.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEhUv0mbCI/AAAAAAAACGk/ZkP__J6C2J4/s320/DSC_0807.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355098072238418978" border="0" /></a><br />We felt very European (except for complimenting all of this with the bottomless animal crackers and the discovery that neither Tim nor Mike are fans of the carbonated bottled water we had accidentally purchased to keep us hydrated).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEhmbqTJFI/AAAAAAAACGs/NvxYg3WbQZY/s1600-h/DSC_0799.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEhmbqTJFI/AAAAAAAACGs/NvxYg3WbQZY/s320/DSC_0799.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355098376064148562" border="0" /></a><br />As we trudged upwards we could hear the distant clanging of cow bells and wove through a diversity of avalanche breaks. Occasionally a trail runner would need to squeeze by on his morning run up the mountain.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEigAJSf0I/AAAAAAAACHM/gOqx-exGg4Q/s1600-h/DSC_0841.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEigAJSf0I/AAAAAAAACHM/gOqx-exGg4Q/s320/DSC_0841.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355099365110349634" border="0" /></a><br />We broke through the tree line and hiked past persistent wildflowers. The landscape that was expanding around us was an unknown quantity thanks to the opaque grey. Occasionally an ephemeral window opened and we would glimpse the valley receding below us and the towns shrinking to ant colonies. As we neared the peak we hiked along a spine of rock which offered an expansive view of the glacial lakes far below us. Almost as soon as we noted then documented its presence we watched it be swallowed by the advancing clouds.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEizEhdFmI/AAAAAAAACHU/D99_Jq04X8c/s1600-h/DSC_0851.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEizEhdFmI/AAAAAAAACHU/D99_Jq04X8c/s320/DSC_0851.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355099692702963298" border="0" /></a><br />Only 4 hours after starting our journey we glimpsed the terminal train station and the observation platform at the peak. We’d done it. We had climbed an Alp (with an hour left which made me wonder if there were multiple peaks or, gasp, the Swiss had screwed up their timing).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEiFCiizII/AAAAAAAACG8/AuUfBF-H3Yo/s1600-h/DSC_0819.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEiFCiizII/AAAAAAAACG8/AuUfBF-H3Yo/s320/DSC_0819.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355098901896678530" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEi8HHOspI/AAAAAAAACHc/sUNhL7TFbbk/s1600-h/DSC_0875.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEi8HHOspI/AAAAAAAACHc/sUNhL7TFbbk/s320/DSC_0875.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355099848017097362" border="0" /></a><br />We basked in our glory by studying the maps of the mountains we would be able to see on a clear day.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEjEkCQ9lI/AAAAAAAACHk/f4OH8XJF6sw/s1600-h/DSC_0882.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEjEkCQ9lI/AAAAAAAACHk/f4OH8XJF6sw/s320/DSC_0882.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355099993219855954" border="0" /></a><br />We ate more of our European lunch and let our legs take a break by sitting on massive wooden recliners. The peak has been host to a spa and hotel since the 1870s and it continues to draw people who want a night on an Alp. Someday.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEjhTVr--I/AAAAAAAACH0/8cQp3lEP7uM/s1600-h/DSC_0909.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEjhTVr--I/AAAAAAAACH0/8cQp3lEP7uM/s320/DSC_0909.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355100486954122210" border="0" /></a><br />The hike down challenged our thighs, eventually reducing them to quivering jelly. But we pushed on. The sky started to clear and we were able to take in the incredible view that made Switzerland the original tourist destination.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEjN1YnqmI/AAAAAAAACHs/YOUmJ6QI3Dc/s1600-h/DSC_0917.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEjN1YnqmI/AAAAAAAACHs/YOUmJ6QI3Dc/s320/DSC_0917.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355100152495843938" border="0" /></a><br />We opted for a different route to the bottom then we had taken to get up. The trail was well marked and we had a basic map. Again, you know where this is going.<br /><br />The path lead to a cow shed and seemed to end. The farmer’s truck was parked by the shed and lines of newly strung electric fence traced over the hillside. A hand painted sign down slope directed us onto a sliver of mud that served as a trail for boots and hooves. Over barbed wire and onto a steep pasture. Suddenly we froze. Three cows stood staring at us. We were on their path and they clearly couldn’t turn around. If we stepped off our track, we could loose the trail or our footing. We stood our ground in a game of mountaineering chicken with a trio of bovids, no one giving ground.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEj4pNONOI/AAAAAAAACH8/UOvvtlEiSM0/s1600-h/DSC_0935.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEj4pNONOI/AAAAAAAACH8/UOvvtlEiSM0/s320/DSC_0935.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355100887961187554" border="0" /></a><br />We blinked. We decided to pick our way down the slope towards fresh electrified fence. Always the best direction to set out in.<br /><br />As I creped closer to the fence I heard someone moving. It was Herr Farmer.<br /><br />“Guten Tag! Uh, ist diese die weg? “ (<span style="font-style: italic;">Good day. Is this the way? </span>It’s important to note I guessed on the gender of “way”. Usually I clip my die, der, or das to a simple d-. I let the native speaker assume they heard everything that agrees with my noun's gender).<br /><br />“Ja, natürlich.” <span style="font-style: italic;">Yes, of course.</span><br /><br />“Und hat diese…Hindernis…Sturm…Strom…uh” <span style="font-style: italic;">And does this…barrier…have charge…voltage..I may not be saying anything intelligible?</span><br /><br />“Kein Strom.” <span style="font-style: italic;">No current, moron.</span><br /><br />“Ah, danke.” <span style="font-style: italic;">Thanks</span>.<br /><br />So we could cross it. I told Mike and Tim as much and briefly sized up my spot. The fence rose slightly in front of me. I saw the farmer was attaching it, and didn’t want to brush it by straddling it on the slope. So I hopped.<br /><br />In case you ever thought it would be a good idea to jump a low fence on a steep Alpine hill, I’m here to tell you it isn’t. I landed on a loose clod of earth that gave way under my weakened legs. The clod went down slope. So did my ankle.<br /><br />Pain. Lots of pain. But I had to get off the mountain. Mike asked if I was okay as I gingerly limped down slope. They both could tell I had made a pretty stupid decision to go airborne, but thankfully didn’t rub it in. I would have been kicking myself if my legs could still kick.<br /><br />Finally we were on the gradual grade to the bottom. We found the sign that had directed us to the peak and retrieved our bags from the storage room. We had time left in our day and it was time for dinner. We pushed the button at the station that would tell our train to stop in the booming town of Mülenen for a few dirty, tired hikers and tried to spruce ourselves up a bit and switch our shoes around.<br /><br />We rode the train to Spiez, a small town on Lake Thun with a theoretically commanding view of the mountain we had just climbed. It also had a castle.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEkMeHnQ7I/AAAAAAAACIE/atZaeUfHbOI/s1600-h/DSC_0958.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEkMeHnQ7I/AAAAAAAACIE/atZaeUfHbOI/s320/DSC_0958.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355101228582257586" border="0" /></a><br />We set off from the train station as storm clouds gathered. The place was dead thanks to the depressing weather. People just weren’t in a mood to dwaddle in cute towns when weather was brewing. We found a restaurant near the lake front that served röstie, or Swiss hash browns. It was delicious and went down well with a well-earned beer. Then I tried to stand up. My ankle didn’t like the idea. In the time we had been sitting, it had swollen to twice it’s normal, stocky size. Then the heavens decided to open.<br /><br />Mike and Tim opted to stay under the shelter to see if the rain would taper off a bit. I had to start hiking. I wasn’t sure I would make it back to the train station. The rain pelted my hobbling figure, the wet pooled in my pockets, and I swore with every step. I think it helped. Briefly the sky seemed to clear and the shadowy outline of Niesen appeared to offer encouragement.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEkannzJFI/AAAAAAAACIM/EUChNOQunz8/s1600-h/DSC_0967.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 298px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SlEkannzJFI/AAAAAAAACIM/EUChNOQunz8/s320/DSC_0967.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355101471651341394" border="0" /></a><br />At the station we were reunited. I stubbornly fought to carry my bags as punishment for my idiocy. Mike and Tim wouldn’t stand for it. On the train Michael went in search of the dining car to get some ice for my ankle. But, this is Europe. They don’t have ice. A chilled can of Coke would have to do. I slapped it onto my swollen foot which caused the gentlemen across from me to stare at my accessory like I had just grown a new limb.<br /><br />We hopped off the train in Basel and boarded our night train, bound for Cologne. We were slowly drying from Switzerland’s final good-bye drenching and settled into our sleeper chairs. I had made the executive decision not to spring for a sleeping cabin or cot, so we were assigned lightly padded recliners. They could lean back pretty far and a welding visor-like contraption covered our heads and provided small reading lights. We drank the celebratory wine we had purchased back in Luzern and enjoyed the wonderful flavors of Erdnuss Flips (peanut butter flavored puffed snacks). I propped up my foot, downed some ibuprofen and prayed it would all be better in the morning. The very early morning.<br /><br />A chattery group of French students threatened to keep us awake, but a cranky old man gave them a sharp admonishment to shut up. This saved me from being the cranky young man. It was time to drift off into dreams of castles and ankle-snapping cows. For the third morning in a row, our day would begin before 6AM, but this time we would be in familiar territory…<br /><br />See you at the Dom!<br /><br />Tschüss!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The last time you'll see this </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2602245&id=12407527&l=cadeb16a30">photo album</a><span style="font-style: italic;">.</span>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-38198874508429358212009-07-05T11:43:00.001+02:002009-07-06T12:45:25.602+02:00Soggy Switzerland<span style="font-style: italic;">The </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2602245&id=12407527&l=cadeb16a30">photo album</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> again. By tomorrow you'll know all the stories that go with all the images. Your excitement is palpable.</span><br /><br />Up with the dawn. This would become a theme. We were also up with the rainclouds. The steady drizzle accompanied us to the Munich underground and wouldn't really stop until after dinner that evening. There’s nothing like a sunny June in Europe.<br /><br />With our rail passes bearing a sufficient number of German stamps we climbed aboard our first long distance train of the trip. Riding southwest across the country, Tim and Michael discovered the beautiful relaxation of the rails. We wrote in our journals, snacked, chatted, and snoozed.<br /><br />Unfortunately they also learned a few of the stressors of the rails as we caught connections that zigzagged over the border. Our passes only covered Germany, Switzerland, and Benelux (a contraction of Belgium, The Netherlands, and Luxembourg) so we had to avoid dipping into the Austrian pan-handle, making for a lot of up, down, and transfers (though we did get a passing glimpse of the Rhine Falls, the Niagara Falls of the German World thanks to our goofy path). The whole time we prayed for sunny skies. They were not heard.<br /><br />Luzern is the capital of the canton of Luzern (go figure) and is a touristic hub of the country because it sits right in the center of the Switzerland. Theoretically the town is overshadowed by the imposing Mt. Pilatus, but the cloud banks and drizzle prevented us from getting much of a view. Instead, we had plenty of time to size up the man-made attractions of the city.<br /><br />The city rests on the banks of the Reuss River which dumps into Lake Luzern. There was a lot of river traffic in the area and a lot of people wanted the city for their own, so the citizens built the Wasserturm (Water Tower) and Kapellbrücke (Chapel Bridge) over the river to help defend the town. Now, lined with flower boxes and decorated with images of Luzern’s past, the combo of the bridge and tower make an iconic image.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3YlZAoWSI/AAAAAAAACE0/zCQUaZd-IjQ/s1600-h/DSC_0755.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3YlZAoWSI/AAAAAAAACE0/zCQUaZd-IjQ/s320/DSC_0755.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354173668893677858" border="0" /></a><br />The bridge (superlative alert) is the oldest wooden bridge in Europe, but in 1993 a fire nearly burned the whole structure to the level of the river. It was quickly rebuilt and new sprinklers installed to prevent the icon from going up ever again.<br /><br />On the other side of the bridge we followed the recommendations of several guidebooks to a microbrewery on the banks of the river. Despite grey skies and overpriced pretzel sandwiches (but what isn’t overpriced in Switzerland) we enjoyed the experience of sipping cold beer under a stone balcony with a view of the medieval bridge and Baroque churches (if not mountains).<br /><br />We crossed back over the river and popped into the Jesuitenkirche (Jesuit Church) so we could check out the ornate, Rococo interior and dry out a bit. The church was dedicated to St Francis Xavier, one of the great badass missionaries of the early Jesuits (and patron of my high school). He ventured across Asia, particularly focusing on Japan, Indonesia, and India. His dream was to proselytize in China, but he died on a Chinese island, waiting for a ship to the mainland.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3Y4__xILI/AAAAAAAACFE/UuBwaURgLUM/s1600-h/DSC_0688.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 277px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3Y4__xILI/AAAAAAAACFE/UuBwaURgLUM/s320/DSC_0688.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354174005776556210" border="0" /></a><br />The church was dedicated by the Pope in 1574 as a bastion against the rising Protestantism of Switzerland. In 1666 it was dedicated to Xavier. The ceiling of the interior is decorated with images from Xavier’s life and travels including his ride to heaven in a chariot pulled by an elephant, a camel, and a leopard as symbols of his missions. Somehow I don’t think such a chariot would get very far, but I guess when you’re on your way to heaven the animals can learn to play nice. The rest of the interor showcased the pyrotechnics of the counter-reformation where ornate marble (it’s fake) and gold leaf (real) were meant to inspire awe in all who entered.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3YYDdNUvI/AAAAAAAACEs/pFyTBeQ_bEE/s1600-h/DSC_0687.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3YYDdNUvI/AAAAAAAACEs/pFyTBeQ_bEE/s320/DSC_0687.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354173439769662194" border="0" /></a><br />Out into the weather and over another wooden bridge. This one has mill wheels attached to the base and the paintings feature the Dance of Death. Nuns, farmers, mayors, brides, and merchants are dogged by the leering skeletal face of Death. Cheery imagery for our tour of Luzern.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3YwUrlvMI/AAAAAAAACE8/UVl2mDbaLMw/s1600-h/DSC_0704.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3YwUrlvMI/AAAAAAAACE8/UVl2mDbaLMw/s320/DSC_0704.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354173856710245570" border="0" /></a><br />We started to wander through the shopping district, but changed our course when we saw signs for the city walls and defense towers. We weren’t in Amsterdam yet, but we wanted to get high. Up the steeply sloping streets, and up a narrow flight of stairs. We had an impressive view of the city and lake, obstructed only by wide chicken wire. When smoking was made illegal in town a couple centuries ago, the soldiers would hide in the towers to get their nicotine fix.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3ZCmH9ewI/AAAAAAAACFM/6Inw4CRR8T8/s1600-h/DSC_0717.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3ZCmH9ewI/AAAAAAAACFM/6Inw4CRR8T8/s320/DSC_0717.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354174170630290178" border="0" /></a><br />Today tourists heave themselves up the ladder-like stairs to leave graffiti mementos then contemplate the treacherous walk back down.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3ZNPOLeOI/AAAAAAAACFU/FYJwpUszZOk/s1600-h/DSC_0718.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3ZNPOLeOI/AAAAAAAACFU/FYJwpUszZOk/s320/DSC_0718.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354174353460918498" border="0" /></a><br />From the old wall we had to figure out the most efficient route to Luzern’s most popular attraction: the Lion of Luzern.<br /><br />The monument is carved directly into the rock and shows a dying lion with a spear point sticking out of his side, tears on his anguished face, and his head resting on a French shield. Just because the Swiss don’t get involved in wars as a nation, doesn’t mean their citizens don’t like to fight. Swiss mercenaries were the best soldiers money could buy. They were the guards of Europe’s emperors, kings, and pope. In 1792, a mob of French Revolutionaries charged the royal palace in Paris, massacring hundreds of mercenaries who ran low on ammunition and just couldn’t deal with the massive hoards. After surrendering the palace, hundreds died in prison or were slaughtered during the September Massacres when the mobs of Paris killed half the prison population of the city. Not a great moment in history, so the lion is understandably tragic.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3YI0Pp22I/AAAAAAAACEk/ki2LH4zSi7M/s1600-h/DSC_0739.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3YI0Pp22I/AAAAAAAACEk/ki2LH4zSi7M/s320/DSC_0739.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354173177988242274" border="0" /></a><br />Michael reflected that it was hard to see the memorial as completely noble. These were mercenaries. They sold their loyalty and died defending a foreign king against his citizens for no reason beyond the cash in their pockets. I don’t know if that’s completely fair. The Swiss Guard had been employed in France since the 16th century. Many of the soldiers were arguably more French then Swiss by the 18th. They were fighting for their king just as the Vatican’s Swiss Guard takes their loyalty to the Pope as seriously as the Secret Service takes their defense of the U.S. President.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3ZUqFqLjI/AAAAAAAACFc/B1x5sjWzudw/s1600-h/DSC_0736.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3ZUqFqLjI/AAAAAAAACFc/B1x5sjWzudw/s320/DSC_0736.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354174480932023858" border="0" /></a><br />With the rain steadily falling we had a quiet moment to spend with the dying lion before retreating to the Hofkirche. Again, the façade was impressive, but we just needed a place to dry for a bit. As the main church of the city it was once the home of the Papal Nuncio. Now it’s decorated with all the filigree and wrought iron that you might expect in an important church with a more reserved Swiss attitude towards decoration.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3Ze7DDEmI/AAAAAAAACFk/kNqYlkzWIuM/s1600-h/DSC_0748.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3Ze7DDEmI/AAAAAAAACFk/kNqYlkzWIuM/s320/DSC_0748.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354174657283166818" border="0" /></a><br />Back to the station and a short ride to Bern, the capital of Switzerland. I visited on a much sunnier day back in April so I was able to confidently lead us to our first hostel, the clean and quiet Hotel Glocke. We dropped our bags, shook off the wet, then went into the streets for a brief walk around the Old Town and a hunt for food. My first destination was the bear pits. The bears are the symbol of the city (Bern=bear) and a pit stop is essential. We crossed the soaring stone bridge over the Aar River and were confronted with this sign:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3X1BO-wKI/AAAAAAAACEc/ezUs20qYqLo/s1600-h/DSC_0758.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3X1BO-wKI/AAAAAAAACEc/ezUs20qYqLo/s320/DSC_0758.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354172837877694626" border="0" /></a><br />It reads “Pedro is dead.” The old bear who was donated by the city of Barcelona (thus the Iberian name) died April 30th after his arthritis, which they had been treating for two years, became unbearable (pun un-intended). Poor Pedro.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3apJvjf_I/AAAAAAAACGE/rrDgfB0qjug/s1600-h/DSC_1924.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 245px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3apJvjf_I/AAAAAAAACGE/rrDgfB0qjug/s320/DSC_1924.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354175932538257394" border="0" /></a><br />Back over the bridge and past the Münster (Cathedral) that was gutted by zealous iconoclasts during the Swiss Reformation...<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3ZpIF0_sI/AAAAAAAACFs/mhHiZ7EXNiI/s1600-h/DSC_0765.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3ZpIF0_sI/AAAAAAAACFs/mhHiZ7EXNiI/s320/DSC_0765.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354174832583179970" border="0" /></a><br />and on to the Parliament building where the fountain ignored the fact it was raining. Kids with umbrellas and too much time dodged through the water, gasping in shock when the erupting jets caught the inside of the umbrella and drenched them.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3Z57fS6AI/AAAAAAAACF0/JIrIPQH0jKU/s1600-h/DSC_0777.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3Z57fS6AI/AAAAAAAACF0/JIrIPQH0jKU/s320/DSC_0777.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354175121258113026" border="0" /></a><br />Near parliament was a street festival that required some kind of cover charge. As we walked by we could hear a classic rock cover band blasting from the stage with only two people on the ground watching. A tragic image, but we couldn’t beef the numbers. We needed food and an early night so we could get up at the crack of dawn to climb a mountain the next morning. We walked by an Italian place and sized up the menu. The Swiss prices pushed us on. Slowly we realized we would find nothing cheaper or drier so we sheepishly went back to the restaurant and were lead to a seat in the middle of the dining room.<br /><br />We ordered pizza (always the cheapest option) and Tim and Michael learned the muscular art of eating a crisp pizza crust with a fork and knife. By the end Michael was complaining of tennis elbow from all the sawing. When it was time to pay we looked for our Italian? Russian? waiter who had seemed overwhelmed by our bad pronunciation and drink orders (is “Bier, bitte” really that hard to sort out?). He was nowhere to be found. Ah, there he is, “Enschul…” Nothing. Every time he swept by, we fought for his attention. We sat and waved for the better part of a half-hour. We started pooling our pennies (or Franks) to just leave on the table in frustration when if finally dragged himself to our table to collect our patronage. I’ll admit that I’m looking forward to attentive service on the other side of the pond.<br /><br />Finally we were free to go, gawk at a fountain I had somehow missed in April that features a giant devouring naked children, and call it a night. We needed our rest. We had a mountain waiting for us.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3aAXLeKTI/AAAAAAAACF8/RyS0xvgoPDM/s1600-h/DSC_0781.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk3aAXLeKTI/AAAAAAAACF8/RyS0xvgoPDM/s320/DSC_0781.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354175231770372402" border="0" /></a><br />I hope your barbecues, block parties, and fireworks were a literal blast, and stay tuned for the continuing adventures of the Blazing Buckeyes!<br /><br />Tschuss!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2602245&id=12407527&l=cadeb16a30">pictures</a><span style="font-style: italic;">.</span>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-59095859701659561632009-07-04T12:44:00.001+02:002009-07-05T14:16:52.094+02:00Old Masters and Fresh Beer: Das ist München<span style="font-style: italic;">If you're reading this on the 4th then join me in wishing the United States a Happy 233rd Birthday. I'm off in Heidelberg for the weekend, celebrating with other American students with burgers and Skyline Dip (they all thank you Tim). Enjoy your own time with friends and family and thanks for stopping by.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Here's the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2602245&id=12407527&l=cadeb16a30">link</a> to pictures from Munich and Switzerland. Obviously the Swiss stuff will all make sense over the next couple of days when I spin out those stories. But for now I leave you with further adventures in Deutschland. </span><br /><br />When we started planning this trip, Michael made the mistake of asking what I hadn’t seen in Munich that I would want to check out this time around. This was the first time I had been in Munich with clear weather and open biergartens, so that was high on to-do list, but there was also a Massive European Museum (MEM) still awaiting my attention: The Alte Pinakothek.<br /><br />Bavaria was once its own autonomous kingdom with its own royal family. Like any self-respecting royal family, the Bavarians collected art. The started with the intricate details of the Flemish Primitives (including a trippy Bosch near the entrance to the gallery) and worked their way through history. In the Renaissance they got their paws on work by Dürer and DaVinci, and when the Baroque hit they needed some Rubans to maintain the high profile of the gallery and assert some passionate Catholic theology. Name the master with a paintbrush and they have a sample of his work.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0tOWZtlUI/AAAAAAAACDc/4uiBP49wbPE/s1600-h/DSC_0578.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0tOWZtlUI/AAAAAAAACDc/4uiBP49wbPE/s320/DSC_0578.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353985256568231234" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Rape of the Daughters of Leucippus </span>by Rubans. This is Rubans at his most stereotypical with dimply, ample women, bright, primary colors, and everyone in action.<br /><br /></span></div>The Neue Pinakothek is across the road featuring 19th century art and the recently opened Pinakotek der Moderne lurks around the corner. In one exhausting day, you could walk through six-hundred years of art history. Tack on the Greek and Roman art of the Glyptotek, and you might need to be hauled out of a museum on a stretcher.<br /><br />Fortunately for Michael and Tim, we only had one afternoon after seeing Dachau that morning. With the sun shining and the Frisbee zingers going full tilt, I lead them through the ominous iron doors of the forbidding museum for a little High Culture (I wonder if that phrase will attract the wrong kind of Google traffic).<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0syxu-BvI/AAAAAAAACDE/GphV8iM1QMo/s1600-h/DSC_0546.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0syxu-BvI/AAAAAAAACDE/GphV8iM1QMo/s320/DSC_0546.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353984782868809458" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The stairs to the main picture galleries. Would we find the hoards of tour groups lurking behind the columns?<br /><br /></span></div>The place was recently renovated with wide windows and red stone. It was also completely empty. I had exalted the value of the collection before we arrived, but it was hard to qualify the significance of Dürer when no one was looking at him. Once I got past the weirdness of being nearly alone in the museum with no one but my two friends and a hoard of antsy guards, I began to revel in the opportunity to scrutinize Raphael and Botticelli without needing to shoulder past a soul.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0tGqZH_WI/AAAAAAAACDU/CLy3iBO9B74/s1600-h/DSC_0567.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 261px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0tGqZH_WI/AAAAAAAACDU/CLy3iBO9B74/s320/DSC_0567.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353985124495523170" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Dürer, a friend of Luther, showing Saints John, Peter, Paul, and Mark studying their scripture rather than turning to any of that tradition stuff for guidance.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0tsbhA_FI/AAAAAAAACDs/UVWYpYeLwXs/s1600-h/DSC_0584.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0tsbhA_FI/AAAAAAAACDs/UVWYpYeLwXs/s320/DSC_0584.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353985773337115730" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">El Greco's <span style="font-style: italic;">The Disrobing of Christ</span>. Check out the perspective over the shoulders of the Marys. Most paintings act like stages, with everyone respecting the edge of the frame. Here there's a kind of ethereal photograph being taken of the rarely painted moment.<br /><br /></span></div>We saw Ruban’s Last Judgment, one of the largest canvases ever painted, and learned from our free audioguides that the museum itself was built to house this work in 1836, making it one of the first public art galleries. There’s a superlative for you.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0vXsy8jfI/AAAAAAAACEU/3OE0zd7kDsk/s1600-h/DSC_0575.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0vXsy8jfI/AAAAAAAACEU/3OE0zd7kDsk/s320/DSC_0575.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353987616221728242" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">There's no scale, but trust me when I say this painting by Rubans is almost 300 square feet.</span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0s-XsbBVI/AAAAAAAACDM/yVD1c6P3Q4g/s1600-h/DSC_0558.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 241px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0s-XsbBVI/AAAAAAAACDM/yVD1c6P3Q4g/s320/DSC_0558.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353984982037235026" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The Battle of Issus by Altdorfer. It's not a huge paiting, but he packed in an impossible pair of armies that surge and charge all the way to the horizon, like the clouds swirling overhead. The detail, the incredible detail...<br /><br /></span></div>We left as the museum was slowly closing, but had plenty of light left to kill (it wouldn’t be dark until 10). We walked past the University of Munich medical research buildings and a public fish market that was mimicking the Hamburg Market that I got to visit back in <a href="http://mrborths.blogspot.com/2009/04/of-ferries-and-fish.html">March</a>. We bought small fish sandwiches (I can never recommend smoked salmon with cracked pepper highly enough) and debated stopping for a drink. I’m very glad we moved on because there was a massive Munich biergarten on the horizon, but first, like any trio on an epic quest, we had to get through the castle.<br /><br />Along our path was the Residenz, the downtown seat of the Bavarian monarchy. A palace has been on the site since the 14th century and they kept tacking onto it through the 19th. Unfortunately it was severely damaged by WWII bombs and reconstruction was finished in 1980. We didn’t know much of this information as we strolled by, but we did notice the brickwork was painted onto the fronting plaster and concrete rather than actually laid by masons. It’s still beautiful, even as a reconstruction.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0thIgBuUI/AAAAAAAACDk/mZONxK_pMRk/s1600-h/DSC_0618.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0thIgBuUI/AAAAAAAACDk/mZONxK_pMRk/s320/DSC_0618.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353985579254135106" border="0" /></a><br />We found a quiet courtyard with a fountain rimmed by weird mythological hybrids. It was the first real sit we’d had since the train from Dachau and it was incredibly relaxing to just listen to the water and distant street noise. But there were gardens to see.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0t36aRkII/AAAAAAAACD0/vq53fuZU-c8/s1600-h/DSC_0626.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0t36aRkII/AAAAAAAACD0/vq53fuZU-c8/s320/DSC_0626.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353985970608902274" border="0" /></a><br />Through the gazebo of the Hof Garden with it’s carefully manicured lawn and bocce ball pitches, past three different girls striking model-like poses on a beautiful day for eager photographers, and out into the English Garden. The English Garden is the Central Park of Munich (it’s actually larger). It was laid out in the late 18th century and features artificial lakes and streams lining copious green spaces that reflect harmony, symmetry, and man’s domination over nature. Kids played in the streams, body surfing over the rocks and rapids. In the wide field people slack-lined, kicked soccer balls around, and worked on their tans. Some of the older Müncheners had decided to work on their full-body tan. There are some things that cannot be unseen. This is the same demographic that always insists on walking around the changing room at the YMCA with everything airing out while they shave, chat, and read the paper. I guess past a certain age you just don’t care anymore.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0uBQFDO_I/AAAAAAAACD8/_9zFEz5FQd8/s1600-h/DSC_0641.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0uBQFDO_I/AAAAAAAACD8/_9zFEz5FQd8/s320/DSC_0641.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353986131044285426" border="0" /></a><br />Past the field was the Chinesischer Turm (Chinese Tower), a wooden pagoda encircled by another massive biergarten serving hefty liters of Hels beer (the slightly sweet specialty of Bavaria) and Wheat beer (also a regional specialty). They required a one euro deposit on the massive stein. The things normally sell for seven euro. Tim and I had the same brain wave and resolved to lug a couple pounds of glass across the continent, just so we can work on our biceps when we party back home.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0uQoIpabI/AAAAAAAACEM/LEr7Pw9AyAs/s1600-h/DSC_0651.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0uQoIpabI/AAAAAAAACEM/LEr7Pw9AyAs/s320/DSC_0651.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353986395199859122" border="0" /></a><br />Other patrons had brought their own picnics to the garden. We liked the idea and dredged up all the snacks we were packing including Golden Grahams, Corn Nuts, and Animal Crackers that would supplement our meals for the rest of the week. It’s probably the most American meal I’ve had in quite a few months.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0uIYbM-4I/AAAAAAAACEE/yiQwSMipdpk/s1600-h/DSC_0648.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sk0uIYbM-4I/AAAAAAAACEE/yiQwSMipdpk/s320/DSC_0648.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353986253543766914" border="0" /></a><br />Shane tracked us down under the pagoda, and lead us to his favorite schnitzel joint in the city. To find four seats together, we had to take a table in the back of the bar near the kitchen. We ended up sweating into our beverages, but it was certainly worth it. The schnitzel was draped over roasted potatoes (something like hash browns) and covered the entire plate, a 10” diameter schnitzel. We wouldn’t be really hungry for another couple of days. Our waiter was a Canadian who tried to play it cool, offering candid advice to American tourists. It didn’t matter that Shane and I knew the drill, he just seemed happy to impart a little knowledge on tipping.<br /><br />With a final toast to the Bavarian capital, we wound our way back to Shane’s floor. We would only spend a couple of hours there before waking up at 5:15 to catch the train to Luzern, Switzerland. We would have plenty of time to catch up on sleep while rolling south, right?<br /><br />Tchuss!<br /><br />The <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2602245&id=12407527&l=cadeb16a30">photos</a>.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-51204385344555003032009-07-03T12:32:00.002+02:002009-07-03T13:28:05.505+02:00Arbeit macht frei: Experiencing DachauI have a historical confession to make. I have been living in Central Europe for nearly a year and have not taken the time or opportunity to visit a Nazi concentration camp. It's not for lack of education. In sixth grade I read <span style="font-style: italic;">The Diary of Anne Frank</span> and learned about the atrocities committed in the camps at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. It’s impossible to go through the history of the 20th century without reflecting on one of its greatest tragedies and vowing to never forget (while learning ethnic cleansing and mass political executions continue to punctuate history and headlines). But, I had never physically visited a camp.<br /><br />Tim and Mike had actually suggested the visit, so in the wee hours of the morning we were up and riding the train out to the suburb of Munich that now carries some serious historical baggage with its name: Dachau.<br /><br />Admittedly, making a visit to Dachau your first side trip in Germany might not make you well disposed towards the country, but Mike and Tim were up for the challenge.<br /><br />We followed a marked trail from the train station to the camp, weaving through parks and neighborhoods with occasional signs marking the route prisoners took to the camp. The signs also provided some of the historical background necessary for understanding the site we were about to witness.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkzIzaykDnI/AAAAAAAACCA/_j-JVfB6MWM/s1600-h/DSC_0495.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkzIzaykDnI/AAAAAAAACCA/_j-JVfB6MWM/s320/DSC_0495.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353874842726960754" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A section of track once used by a special spur line that brought thousands of prisoners to Dachau, the SS-training ground and concentration camp.<br /><br /></span></div>The camp was established in 1933, soon after Hitler was made chancellor. The idea was to keep all political enemies and dissenters in one place. The barracks and the techniques used by the SS guards at Dachau would become the model for all other concentration camps and the word Dachau would generate fear and silence a decade before it was finally closed. Dachau was not strictly a “Death Camp” like Auswitz where prisoners were essentially retained for execution. At Dachau people were theoretically in a labor camp. Of course the prisoners were exposed to harsh punishments, meager rations, medical experiments, and rampant disease. It might as well have been a death camp.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkzJJHC9wRI/AAAAAAAACCY/kPU5DCfeopM/s1600-h/DSC_0515.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkzJJHC9wRI/AAAAAAAACCY/kPU5DCfeopM/s320/DSC_0515.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353875215384166674" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A view from the cramped bunkhouse across the grounds. All of the grey gravel was once the foundation of a bunkhouse.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkzLMcbox5I/AAAAAAAACC8/Lebw3r-Y_m4/s1600-h/DSC_0517.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkzLMcbox5I/AAAAAAAACC8/Lebw3r-Y_m4/s320/DSC_0517.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353877471687657362" border="0" /></a>Another view of the grounds and the dozens of barrack foundations. The guard tower marks the perimeter of the massive complex.<br /><br /></span></div>With an audio guide in hand to contextualize the empty bunks and ominous chimney we crossed through the small gate with the ironic and cruel camp motto “Arbeit macht frei” (Work makes one free) and began our tour of the grounds.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkzI4pkdO3I/AAAAAAAACCI/hLK5DtYRlQ4/s1600-h/DSC_0500.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkzI4pkdO3I/AAAAAAAACCI/hLK5DtYRlQ4/s320/DSC_0500.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353874932593671026" border="0" /></a><br />The buildings were destroyed decades ago, and empty foundations now mark where thousands of prisoners went through their routine of survival. Near the back of the complex are three chapels to the victims of the camps. One for the Protestants, one for the Catholics (especially for the Polish prisoners who where brought to the site after 1939), and one for the Jews. Michael pointedly asked why they couldn’t share worship space. Why indeed.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkzJQO608oI/AAAAAAAACCg/6UQzsXKlYO4/s1600-h/DSC_0523.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkzJQO608oI/AAAAAAAACCg/6UQzsXKlYO4/s320/DSC_0523.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353875337756603010" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The Jewish Chapel.<br /><br /></span></div>We followed the path through the barbed wire perimeter fence and found the incinerator. Originally the facility was used to dispose of the bodies of people that died of disease. But, near the end of the war, some of the rooms were fitted with new pipes that would carry Zyklon B, the cyanide gas used to execute prisoners by the millions in Auswitz and in other, smaller camps.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkzJXjLChjI/AAAAAAAACCo/wV5XiCJyh_E/s1600-h/DSC_0532.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkzJXjLChjI/AAAAAAAACCo/wV5XiCJyh_E/s320/DSC_0532.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353875463452395058" border="0" /></a><br />There is some historical debate about the use of these chambers. We know they were never used in a systematic way. The liberation of the camp prevented the implementation of mass execution by this method (though bullets, ropes, malnutrition, disease, and starvation were used from the time of the camp’s opening to kill thousands). But, the pipes had to be tested, and several political prisoners were killed in the chamber. We entered as a noisy German high school group received a lecture about the cramped space. We could only linger for a few moments.<br /><br />In that time I examined the spigots in the ceiling. Someone designed their grid-like distribution. Someone sat down at a drafting table and thought about how to space the cyanide spray. They thought about how much pipe would be necessary and how to clear the air after the victims had suffocated. Then someone else (or a group of someones) placed the pipes in the ceiling and connected them to a canister of poison. This construction crew was likely composed of prisoners, but they were directed by someone who thought about all of this. Hundreds of hours and people were committed to the meticulous engineering of millions of deaths. There are many words for people who would lay such plans, but none of them quite seem adequate.<br /><br />It was time to visit the museum.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkzI_0MnUrI/AAAAAAAACCQ/ypXH4s-AmcU/s1600-h/DSC_0510.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkzI_0MnUrI/AAAAAAAACCQ/ypXH4s-AmcU/s320/DSC_0510.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353875055705543346" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A memorial and the current museum building.<br /><br /></span></div>Dachau is arguably one of the most accessible concentration camps in the former Third Reich. A lot of people stop by Munich to see the beer halls and castles, then take a trip to the earliest camp, so as the museum tells the story of Dachau, it tells the story of all the camps. It starts with the rise of the NASDP and moves on to the stories of the victims. We watched a documentary (in German because we missed the English showing) on the camp and the liberation.<br /><br />After the Americans discovered the camp and arrested the guards (some of the guards were executed in the controversial “Dachau Massacre”) they forced people from the nearby town to tour the grounds where emaciated corpses still lined the fences. These shocked Germans were then drafted to clean the grounds. The video showed their disbelief and the tortured bodies of the prisoners who were suddenly free. The video was necessary to populate the site that today stands empty and barren. It makes the humanity and horror more tangible, even if I still imagine that time period in stark black and white images with occasional film scratches.<br /><br />We didn’t discuss the experience very much as we searched for a cheap place to grab lunch and avoid the crowds of bored school groups whose colorful t-shirts and babbling chatter made the site even more difficult to fully process.<br /><br />I’m glad I finally made it to a camp. I am a person who needs to make history experiential and tactile. That’s part of what has made this last year so fascinating. Staid images in text books and library books have come to life in vivid color and 3-D. That said, I don’t think I need to go back. I don’t need to be reminded that I should never forget. I can’t.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkzJlfqkqLI/AAAAAAAACCw/byaapXUqssg/s1600-h/DSC_0537.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkzJlfqkqLI/AAAAAAAACCw/byaapXUqssg/s320/DSC_0537.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353875703029082290" border="0" /></a>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-11027742363041685792009-07-02T14:52:00.009+02:002009-07-02T19:08:10.043+02:00The Buckeyes ArriveLast year, after learning I would be spending a year in Deutschland, I extended an invitation to visit to just about everyone within ear-shot. Germany really is the perfect base for exploring the rest of European culture and I made sure my listeners knew it.<br /><br />So, a little more than a year after extending that invite, Michael and Tim, two friends from Ohio State, touched down in Munich for ten days of high-speed wandering across Germany, Switzerland, The Netherlands, Belgium, and England. That’s right. Five countries. Ten days. Would we succeed? Our team consisted of a second year medical student from Harvard with a bag of animal crackers at the ready (Michael), a mechanical engineer with a shiny new degree from Ohio State and a hankering for good salami (Tim), and your favorite paleontologist with a propensity for puns (and alliteration). Only one way to find out…<br /><br />We opted to start the adventure in Munich since they were able to get cheap flights into the city and we were going to be heading southwest to climb a Swiss Alp. It helps that Munich is home to all the stereotypes Americans carry around in their heads about Germany. While waiting for Tim and Michael to arrive I saw at least two men in lederhosen cross the train station. Perfect. Now I just needed to see a some wurst. Oh, there it is, being dropped on the floor by the hungry four year old who couldn't quite handle his lunch.<br /><br />On the ride from Bonn to Munich I received a desperate call from Michael that Tim’s flight was arriving at Heathrow Airport behind schedule, and he might not be able to make his connecting flight to Germany. I didn’t hear any more news before arriving at the Munich Station, so I hunkered down with my computer and watched the lederhosen go by thinking I might be obstructing traffic to platform 14 for a couple of hours.<br /><br />Twenty minutes later, Michael and Tim arrived, right on schedule. Tim had sprinted across two terminals to make the connection and a small package containing his toiletries and three cans of Skyline Chili (guess who those were for) were the only casualty. Minor lost baggage and a run through Heathrow. Two rites of passage for the international traveler to check off the list. Mr. Steves would be so proud.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkyxO7Z0DfI/AAAAAAAACBY/w84jPiFQxow/s1600-h/DSC_0486.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkyxO7Z0DfI/AAAAAAAACBY/w84jPiFQxow/s320/DSC_0486.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353848927058922994" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The reconstructed Medieval gate that welcomes you to the Munich shopping district.<br /><br /></span></div>They were jet-lagged, but excited to hit the city after a couple hours in transit. For Tim, this was a kind of homecoming. When buying a pretzel at a bakery in the station, he noticed the woman on the other side of the counter had his very German last name, including the umlaut. And thus he was welcomed back to the land of his ancestors. It’s key a pretzel was involved. As you may recall, my welcome involved being <a href="http://mrborths.blogspot.com/2008/08/breaking-language-barrierswith-my-face.html">compared to an ass</a>. Some kids have all the luck...<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkyxVXDBUjI/AAAAAAAACBg/L001tbz3U64/s1600-h/DSC_0489.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkyxVXDBUjI/AAAAAAAACBg/L001tbz3U64/s320/DSC_0489.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353849037558731314" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">There are few things I know about the place I will live someday, but one thing I know, is that I will have window boxes.<br /><br /></span></div>With our bags stashed at the station and a new map of the city in hand, we walked into the Altstadt (Old Town) to witness the beautiful, bustling hive of activity that is the European pedestrian shopping district. We wandered by the beautiful city hall and into Pope Benedict’s former Cardinal roost at the Frauenkirche.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkyyXjL5ZLI/AAAAAAAACB4/9rwjz_1pBvY/s1600-h/DSCN0459.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SkyyXjL5ZLI/AAAAAAAACB4/9rwjz_1pBvY/s320/DSCN0459.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353850174688552114" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">This was taken back in October when I was in Munich for Oktoberfest. Tim and Michael's visit was the first time I'd seen Munich with blue skies. I can confirm that a change of color makes the Neo-Gothic facade a little less sinister.<br /><br /></span></div>The whole time I tried to keep my mouth shut, allowing a them to experience the city and buildings on their own terms. This was an utter failure. I can’t help but keep the running commentary going, and these two join my brother, Shane, Marty, Kes, Erin, and especially Carolyn as martyrs to my need to burden my travel companions with obscure factoids.<br /><br />We met Shane on Marienplatz under the sculpture of the putti getting ready to destroy the Protestant heresy. It’s a local hang-out.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Skyx-slBCqI/AAAAAAAACBw/ofRmgSJ3O-o/s1600-h/DSCN0447.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Skyx-slBCqI/AAAAAAAACBw/ofRmgSJ3O-o/s320/DSCN0447.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353849747713100450" border="0" /></a>He led us to a classic beirgarten, tucked somewhere in urban Munich. He found it by vague memory, leading us through a wrought-iron gate with the Hofbrau logo proudly festooned overhead. Behind the gate was an expanse of hundreds of tables, all shaded by towering chestnut trees. Every table was crowded with happy Müncheners and their Maß (1 Liter) beer steins. As the light dwindled, twinkling Christmas lights illuminated a cross-section of the city: high school students, tourists, girl’s night out, after work drinks, nuclear families. Everyone was enjoying the opportunity to be outside with a cold beer and friends. There was even a swing set to keep the kids occupied while the neighborhood got caught up with itself. We just needed to find a spot.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Skyxc--raEI/AAAAAAAACBo/OkvhsuA8-1Q/s1600-h/DSC_0492.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Skyxc--raEI/AAAAAAAACBo/OkvhsuA8-1Q/s320/DSC_0492.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353849168537020482" border="0" /></a><br />We eventually elbowed in next to a friendly couple of women who were a little tipsy (you can tell because they engaged total strangers and got out the backgammon board) and tucked in to our steins and Schwein-Haxe (Pig Knuckle) from the cafeteria style restaurant. Sweet bliss.<br /><br />We were joined by two of Shane’s friends and spent the rest of the evening wandering the town, eventually winding up around a fountain with bottles of Bavarian wheat beer in hand. The whole open container thing really does make for some wonderful exploratory partying and chatting. Soon it was time to go back to Shane’s apartment to get a full night’s sleep (yeah, right) then start our whirlwind tour.<br /><br />Tomorrow: Concentration camps, Old Masters, and English Gardens, only the most uplifting and engaging topics on the internet.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-64330057752287129922009-06-27T10:01:00.000+02:002009-06-28T23:49:10.294+02:00Schwäbisch-Fränkischen Alb: Little teeth and my European AncestorsSince Germany was underwater for most of the Age of Dinosaurs (The Mesozoic Era), there is plenty of limestone underneath the country (limestone forms exclusively in aquatic settings where there are lots of little organisms generating calcite for their skeletons). When limestone is taken above the water line, it’s quickly dissolved (geologically quickly, I guess) by slightly acidic groundwater. These dissolved cavities are then called caves, as in stalactite bearing, blind fish holding caves. With all that limestone and all those cavities, much of Southern Germany is prime cave country. When caves open up, animals and sediment tend to fill the void. Our expedition moved into the Schwäbisch-Fränkischen Alb, a mountain range composed entirely of Mesozoic limestone to visit some of these cave sites where younger fossils have piled up as caves opened in the rock and local critters fell in, creating a tangled geological history for the region.<br /><br />These cave fills are often the best source of fossils for terrestrial ecosystems since the caves create sink holes in the middle of the forest and animals who wouldn’t normally get deposited in a lake (rodents, monkeys, lizards etc.) get swept into the cave. One cave-fill contained rocks that were almost entirely composted of bones and teeth that were cemented together by the calcite that had seeped out of the cave walls (the same calcite that grows into beautiful cave forations):<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjivoIMC4mI/AAAAAAAACBM/LeNpTCjFlcA/s1600-h/DSC_0243.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjivoIMC4mI/AAAAAAAACBM/LeNpTCjFlcA/s320/DSC_0243.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348217661430096482" border="0" /></a><br />Another cave was a chimney-like shaft where we sifted through sand for Oligocene teeth and bones. It’s always gratifying to collect where you actually find vertebrate bone (assuming you’re a vertebrate paleontologist). That site was especially exciting because it required some careful scrambling through briars and over outcropped rock. A cliff face and rock ledge will always make a geological expedition more fun.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjilhOwZdyI/AAAAAAAAB7s/OGd8oY_FHCA/s1600-h/DSC_0301.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjilhOwZdyI/AAAAAAAAB7s/OGd8oY_FHCA/s320/DSC_0301.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348206547817821986" border="0" /></a><br />We also examined a cave that hasn’t been filled in yet. It formed underground like a rocky bubble and lay unexposed for millennia until the surrounding rock finally winnowed away leaving a chamber just big enough for a family and the kids. And that’s exactly what it was used for. Cro-Magnon people (early modern humans) rolled into the area and liked the view overlooking the entire basin. It was probably a good spot to watch for mammoths, and even better for watching the sunset.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjilaDCsL_I/AAAAAAAAB7k/kr6QSuOulLU/s1600-h/DSC_0293.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjilaDCsL_I/AAAAAAAAB7k/kr6QSuOulLU/s320/DSC_0293.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348206424414236658" border="0" /></a><br />We ate lunch on the crest of a hill near the Cro-Magnon cave. Boulders protruded from the field of lush grass and wildflowers creating a gorgeous landscape in want of a henge or barrow. I dangled my feet over the edge of a boulder.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjilSj4JQrI/AAAAAAAAB7c/7xxU94ZCX80/s1600-h/DSC_0273.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjilSj4JQrI/AAAAAAAAB7c/7xxU94ZCX80/s320/DSC_0273.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348206295789421234" border="0" /></a><br />To my left was another hill and another outcrop where excavators had found a butchered wooly rhino skeleton from the Paleolithic (50,000 years ago), and a small encampment from the Neolithic (10,000 years ago). Mesozoic rocks, Oligocene fossils, human artifacts…this is Germany. This is why I came here.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjiloOPDDYI/AAAAAAAAB70/-LMF0SZU5bY/s1600-h/DSC_0288.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjiloOPDDYI/AAAAAAAAB70/-LMF0SZU5bY/s320/DSC_0288.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348206667937025410" border="0" /></a><br />We also stopped by a 15 million year old impact crater. When large rocks smack into the earth, the bedrock ripples like the surface of a pond, mixing up the layers and leaving an uplifted central platform; the earth’s frozen rebound to the power of the asteroid. The crater quickly filled with water and became a popular place to stop for a drink when horses were still sporting three toes.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjisrHHRIaI/AAAAAAAAB_U/CrhpnL6CYgI/s1600-h/DSC_0215.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjisrHHRIaI/AAAAAAAAB_U/CrhpnL6CYgI/s320/DSC_0215.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348214414146347426" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A museum reconstruciton of Steinheim 15 million years ago.<br /><br /></span></div>The town of Steinheimer is nestled into the bowel now, sitting on top of a thick sequence of lake sediment. An observant Steinheimer scientist named Hilgendorf started to pay attention to the snail shells that were preserved under his feet. As he burrowed deeper, he noticed the shells were more standardized, more basic. By collecting shells from the beginning of the lake to the end, he demonstrated how one colonizing species gave rise to new species of snails through intermediary steps. He published his work in 1862 and is credited as being the first scientist to demonstrate Mr. Darwin’s crazy new theory of change through time and the emergence of speices. I collected some of those snails out of historical respect more than out of a need to add more mollusks to my luggage.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjisLqOfVvI/AAAAAAAAB_E/89GqDZ8FfIM/s1600-h/DSC_0211.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjisLqOfVvI/AAAAAAAAB_E/89GqDZ8FfIM/s320/DSC_0211.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348213873816065778" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The classic branching of speciees outlined by Hilgendorf a few years after Mr. Darwin published his bright idea.<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjisjfCfosI/AAAAAAAAB_M/vL8NmGXvuAI/s1600-h/DSC_0261.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjisjfCfosI/AAAAAAAAB_M/vL8NmGXvuAI/s320/DSC_0261.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348214283129823938" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The sediment that holds the snails. All those little white dots are tiny freshwater snail shells.</span><br /><br /></div>That night we stayed in Sigmaringen, a Baverian town near the source of the Elbe River which eventually runs through Dresden, Prague, and Vienna. We walked to dinner, dodging past the massive slugs and even more massive snails that come out with the rain. (The snails are large enough to double as speed bumps for the absent-minded cyclist.) We crossed a modern bridge that looped over the road, rounded a bend and, as is want to happen in Europe, we were confronted with a castle. The massive Renaissance structure was built by a German lord in the 16th century. Of course, I didn’t have my camera on me so you’ll have to make due with these images borrowed from Sigmaringen’s tourism website.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjikjwPHyLI/AAAAAAAAB7M/rXBmLa97Oeg/s1600-h/Sigmaringen+castle"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjikjwPHyLI/AAAAAAAAB7M/rXBmLa97Oeg/s320/Sigmaringen+castle" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348205491653167282" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjiknBte8fI/AAAAAAAAB7U/zLWPbw-kM5w/s1600-h/schloss_sigmaringen.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjiknBte8fI/AAAAAAAAB7U/zLWPbw-kM5w/s320/schloss_sigmaringen.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348205547883524594" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">This image of the castle is just too epic to let sit on only one website.</span><br /><br /></div>At a traditional inn next to the castle, we toasted the final night of the expedition with delicious Heles beer and happily stumbled home.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjivNsVk5lI/AAAAAAAACA8/TvrHGmJIh8k/s1600-h/DSC_0479.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjivNsVk5lI/AAAAAAAACA8/TvrHGmJIh8k/s320/DSC_0479.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348217207277282898" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">On the distant horizon you can see the Swiss Alps rearing their beautiful heads. I'm standing on a crater rim by the by.<br /><br /></span></div>Our final field stop was to another crater lake that was formed in an ancient volcanic crater. The animals were mostly early, mid-sized horses, but a few rhinos, and the odd beardog, the ancient relative of both carnivores, spiced up the fauna a bit. The site was introduced to us by a professor of geology at the university in the region. He struck me as a down-to-Earth (pun intended) hippie who just loves fossils, man. His beard was growing wild, his hair fell lower than his shoulders, and he seemed to prefer going barefoot. His lead excavator was the polar opposite. He was a good ol’ boy with a thick regional accent and a need to carefully explain every detail in a methodical drawl. His galoshes hiked up to his knees, and his upper lip hiked up to a large, well-groomed mustache. The two men have been working together for at least a decade, but I imagine most of their conversations come straight out of “The Odd Couple.”<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjivUSOzTsI/AAAAAAAACBE/BfWRJu8suew/s1600-h/DSC_0465.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjivUSOzTsI/AAAAAAAACBE/BfWRJu8suew/s320/DSC_0465.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348217320528629442" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A toe quiz. I rocked this one. Do you know which critters are on display here? Hint, they have hooves and are distantly related to each other by having odd numbers of toes.<br /><br /></span></div>And north we rode. I discussed American and German movies with my increasingly friendly seatmate and actually delicately touched on German between 1930 and 1945 with some frankness. And thus the Fulbright mission goes on.<br /><br />After returning from the field I diligently worked on my fossils, attended a lecture on Creationism given by an angry Australian Geologist (more on that next week after I give my own talk on the history of American Creationism), and went to visit Marco for Japan Tag (Japan Day), a celebration of Düsseldorf’s Japanese population with heaps of street sushi, noodles, and Kirin Beer. The streets were packed with Germans demonstrating karate and dressed as their favorite Anime character in a mini-skirt. The night was rounded off with the largest fireworks display in Düsseldorf, which was vaguely disappointing after years spent at Riverfest and the Blue Ash Fireworks displays. Germany may have cavemen, but it doesn’t make things explode into brilliant colors quite like we do at home.<br /><br />I hope you had a fantastic weekend and are mentally prepared for the coming week. I’m just getting back into town after a tour of Switzerland, the Rhineland, the Low Countries, and England with friends from Ohio State. Stay tuned for adventures such as cycling in Amsterdam, climbing in the Alps, and theater gooning in the West End!Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3234821400348941113.post-80966311482907496912009-06-17T10:01:00.031+02:002009-06-21T22:37:23.303+02:00Solnhofen: Archaeopteryx and coprolitesLast <a href="http://mrborths.blogspot.com/2008/12/biggest-names-in-germany.html">November</a> I made a pilgrimage to see one of the most important relics in Germany. At the Berlin Natural History Museum I genuflected to get a better look at the Berlin Archaeopteryx. The animal is neither dinosaur nor bird, caught somewhere in-between. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t aware of this animal and its significance in our understanding of evolutionary processes. Wrapped up with the image of a feathered dinosaur is the world “Solnhofen.” Since I was six I’ve known it was the name of a place in Germany, and was home to all the Archaeopteryx fossils that have ever been chipped out and described.<br /><br />As the rain started to fleck the university van’s windshield, we parked in a small gravel parking lot. Behind the lot was a small quarry filled with slabs of tan rock and piles of limestone. This was the fine-grained, lithographic, Solnhofen limestone. The rock was used for decades as the source of lithographic stone. It’s grain is so fine that it perfectly took ink from minutely detailed images and faithfully trasfered them to paper. As I’ve said before, printing is in my blood, but fossils are close to my heart. It was time to find an early bird (or more importantly a mammal. No fuzzy critters have ever been found in the Solnhofen quarries, despite several fossils of small, terrestrial dinosaurs).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sjil3P_vshI/AAAAAAAAB78/DoETGpCJKaM/s1600-h/DSC_0304.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sjil3P_vshI/AAAAAAAAB78/DoETGpCJKaM/s320/DSC_0304.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348206926107750930" border="0" /></a><br />The finely bedded rock breaks along irregular bedding plane after a few hammer strikes. Ideally a chisel is used to pry the planes apart, but I only had my hammer and a cheap aluminum knife I swiped from the youth hostel (I’m an Outlaw in Wiesbaden as a result). But that was enough to discover a few ancient creatures.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjimAUKrvQI/AAAAAAAAB8E/KgSFTblr1YI/s1600-h/DSC_0306.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjimAUKrvQI/AAAAAAAAB8E/KgSFTblr1YI/s320/DSC_0306.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348207081846193410" border="0" /></a><br />Solnhofen isn’t packed with fossils, but I was able to collect more ammonite fossils (spiraled squid shells), a belemite, and I helped excavate a fish vertebral column:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjimFn_HchI/AAAAAAAAB8M/Mp7G8OrWf5A/s1600-h/DSC_0309.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjimFn_HchI/AAAAAAAAB8M/Mp7G8OrWf5A/s320/DSC_0309.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348207173065732626" border="0" /></a><br />It had been drizzling the whole time we were in the quarry, and the heavens finally opened wide and we all retreated to a shelter that was held up by towers of piled limestone. After eating our soggy lunch, we piled into the bus to see some of the treasures of the quarry in the Jura Museum in Eichstätt.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjimNKlnBmI/AAAAAAAAB8U/qoMb9KUPg3Y/s1600-h/DSC_0312.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjimNKlnBmI/AAAAAAAAB8U/qoMb9KUPg3Y/s320/DSC_0312.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348207302613075554" border="0" /></a><br />Paleontology requires an active imagination. The material paleontologists study is the empty hull of a once active organism. It’s hard to stay interested in a lifeless fossil. If the paleontologist’s imagination can conjure the animal from the few clues left behind, it becomes instantly more interesting. Then the paleontologist must use a few key clues to imagine the habitat that lead to this creature. I’m not suggesting paleontologists imagine or fabricate their research. Just that in order to pursue interesting questions, paleontologists have to maintain a picture of a long-vanished world, testing that picture empirically, ultimately revealing the story of life’s struggle to survive. It’s hard to conjure much of anything in the imaginaiton when you’re squatting in a wet quarry looking at squid shells. This is the beauty of a museum.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjioEYzmvXI/AAAAAAAAB9E/guC33-YpAq8/s1600-h/DSC_0441.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjioEYzmvXI/AAAAAAAAB9E/guC33-YpAq8/s320/DSC_0441.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348209350834306418" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The Jura Mueusm is actually housed in a castle that was besieged by the Swedes during the Thirty Years War. Someday I'll lay siege to Union Terminal to give it that kind of historical distinction.<br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjinEStuXSI/AAAAAAAAB8s/cOPsjzpcsuQ/s1600-h/DSC_0338.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjinEStuXSI/AAAAAAAAB8s/cOPsjzpcsuQ/s320/DSC_0338.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348208249687399714" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">This is the fossil of a small fish who sunk to the bottom of the lagoon. His head was lodged in the sediment, but his tail was free to flop around, creating the gashes in the sediment you see surrounding the body. These are the stories that come from the Solnhofen.<br /><br /></span></div>The museum holds all the evidence of the extinct ecosystem with rare and unusual speciments that add a new level of complexity to the world of the Late Jurassic. The fossils of dragonflies, perfectly preserved with their multi-faceted eyes and delicate wings were on display:<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjimlpM_EzI/AAAAAAAAB8c/iDdB57r6IYQ/s1600-h/DSC_0323.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjimlpM_EzI/AAAAAAAAB8c/iDdB57r6IYQ/s320/DSC_0323.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348207723148153650" border="0" /></a><br /></div>Small lizards and early sea turtles demonstrate the coast wasn’t far away, a fact also revealed by the Stars of the Solnhofen: The Fliers.<br /><br />Small pterosaurs recovered from the limestone were prize collectors items in the 19th century. The first Archaeopteryx was thought to be a pterosaur by the quarryman who smuggled it our of the pits and sold it to a local collector who recognized its real significance. The flying reptiles are often preserved with impressions of their leathery wings rippling the stone around the delicate finger bones that supported the wing. Most of the reptiles are small - about the size of a pigeon or seagull - showing they probably didn’t venture very far out to sea, and the coast offered a nearby roost.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sjin1U7-GJI/AAAAAAAAB88/oOuCM3MJbgA/s1600-h/DSC_0399.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sjin1U7-GJI/AAAAAAAAB88/oOuCM3MJbgA/s320/DSC_0399.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348209092097611922" border="0" /></a><br />The Jura Museum also houses its own Archaeopteryx fossil. This bird is smaller than the pterosaurs and its friend in Berlin. The animal is maybe the size of a robin, but is preserved in all it’s missing-link glory with a toothy bill and delicate feather impressions. I stopped and studied the fossil for several minutes, trying to remember every physical detail of this beautiful little bird.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sjink6KC_KI/AAAAAAAAB80/HWh8x6s_VhU/s1600-h/DSC_0390.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/Sjink6KC_KI/AAAAAAAAB80/HWh8x6s_VhU/s320/DSC_0390.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348208810030988450" border="0" /></a><br />Eventually I had to wrench myself away to hop back on the bus, but first I tried to take myself back 140 million years to a shallow lagoon rimmed with massive reefs that was a little too salty for most life to function happily. On the surface the waves crashed against the German coast, but below, the quiet, calcitic sediments were an undisturbed tomb for all animals washed into the protected lagoon. Tracks in the sediment reveal the activities of busy horseshoe crabs who took a wrong turn on the way out of the hypersalinated water. Their lazy path terminates with their carapace, preserved for posterity at the end of the trail. Coral and sponges formed the barrier reefs, while jellyfish and squids (some preserved with their ink-sacs intact) drifted through the water, evading marlin-like, ray-finned fish. Overhead pterosaurs rise on the coastal thermals and dive after dragonflies the size of my hand. A small dinosaur, Juravenator, darts through the tropical foliage after a small shrew-like animal who’s too quick to ever become a fossil…who needs a time machine when you have fossils like this?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjimwVK8SBI/AAAAAAAAB8k/pv47q0WlhDI/s1600-h/DSC_0332.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjimwVK8SBI/AAAAAAAAB8k/pv47q0WlhDI/s320/DSC_0332.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348207906749433874" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjioQuKj1aI/AAAAAAAAB9M/dqY4uiVJdf8/s1600-h/DSC_0445.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IOuK8hs77wQ/SjioQuKj1aI/AAAAAAAAB9M/dqY4uiVJdf8/s320/DSC_0445.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348209562726159778" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">A view from the battlements of the Jura Museum. Yeah, battlements. Now the castle and museum are owned by the Catholic Church. That's cool right?<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">Tschuss!<br /></div></div>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12765454292934198143noreply@blogger.com0