Sherry L Huckabee

New Year's Slideshow

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Memories of years past to honor the year to come.

Little Blessings

I went from Oslo hanging out with two quintessential bachelors to Cologne where I spent a week with the closest thing to a perfect family I have ever had the fortune to experience.  Achim and I met several years ago when I went to a business conference with my mother in Cologne.  We hit it off immediately talking about quantum mechanics and other topics that generally send people running in the opposite direction.  We exchanged emails over the next few months and when I returned to Europe at the end of the year I jumped at the chance to visit him and his family.  At the time it was a family of four.  Achim, his lovely wife Katerina, Constantine, and Felicia.  They had me over to the house for a beautiful breakfast – my first experience with the whole German-egg-in-a-cup thing – and to meet the kids.  Oh what fun we had!  The dining room had wood floors and we played ‘bus’.  I lay on my back, Constantine and Felicia sat straddled on my stomach and I scooted on my back along the floor pushing with my feet hither and thither with wild circles and near crashes.  I was so touched by my time with them I sent a little car for Felicia and an “English” computer for Constantine – toys that are still on the popular list it seems with what are now not two but four beautiful children, with little two year old Antonietta and six month old Ferdinand.  (As of this belated posting, they have become a happy family of seven!)

The language barrier was more frustrating for Constantine, now 7, though by the end he had discovered the joy of being able to teach an adult something.  He would put on a stern teacher voice, fix me intently in the eye, and say "Eins?" With a raised eyebrow that indicated I was supposed to continue with the rest of the numbers he had taught me in German.  Felicia and I had an unspoken bond, sharing an occasional glance across the room, or a quick explanation of something she was doing, when the others, in the midst of whomever was demanding attention at that moment.  Antonietta is fire and chocolate, she can melt your heart when she pours sweet and can burn just as hot in a tantrum.  But oh those big blue eyes when they look at you, you can’t help but forgive every transgression.  Ferdinand is always content, especially in a lap or with a sibling nearby. 

I watched Katherina negotiate around the inevitable cacophony of four children as she prepared breakfast, lunch, and dinner, took them to and from the two different schools that only last four hours a day, did the shopping, straightened up, worked part time, taking care of broken dishwashers and pipes and her husband with the grace of the prima of prima ballerinas.  All this without sleep for she is breast feeding and Ferdinand still does not sleep through the nights.  I have never been so amazed at a woman’s capacity.  I was there for one week.  Seven days.  Never once was there a television on in that house.  Not once.  No computer games.  No Nintendo.  There was a tape player in the game room and once in awhile Constantine or Felicia would play a story as they were coloring or playing with blocks.  The rest of the time they were outside playing in the enclosed yard or otherwise engaged with each other, with me, with toys, or with books.  They were not smothered or pampered and most amazingly they were not expected to be “good”.  They were expected to be children.  Emotions rose and fell as one or the other threw a fit, moving through the tantrum until all was okay again.  They were never told not to feel what they felt.  Their feelings were always acknowledged, reality explained, and they were given time to adjust accordingly.  I’ve come to believe there is nothing more important nor less done by parents than to simply let their children be who they are.  To see them, reflect them, acknowledge them rather than always striving to mold them, teach them, build them.  A child who is seen, creates a core that will guide him from inside all his life.  A child who is molded will have to look forever to the outside for direction leaving a constant sense of gnawing emptiness at the core.  Most of us were molded. Most of us mold our children. 

The time warp I experienced throughout Norway was obliterated in the daily rituals of house and home.  Breakfast, school, errands, lunch, playtime, dinner, playtime, bath time, bed time.  Oh how I loved bathtime.  The three oldest would all splash and play in the tub while I rolled up my jeans and let them wash my feet.  I got to brush little teeth and dry naked little bodies and give piggy back rides to bed.  They all went to sleep with nary a whimper.  In the midst of chaos, Katherina kept a consistent schedule.  They knew what was coming and when and gave little argument to any of it.  Tears were always over injustices – broken toys, invading siblings, lost balloons.  

The week passed by in an instant.  Before I knew it, it was time to go.  The kids all piled in the car in their pajamas to drive me to the evening train. With tight hugs and kisses and promises to send cards and practice their English and my German, we said our goodbyes.  It was the life I always wanted but never figured out how to create.  At least I touched it for a moment and am warmed by the thought that for some it exists.  For all the challenge, and raising a family is a challenged life no doubt, there is no feeling in the world more precious than little arms filled with love squeezing your neck.  Remember your blessings.  Some of us would give anything to have them. 

A Day in Life of a Dreamer

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

I’m going to take a quick break from page 77 of the book (not counting the 20+ pages of assorted paragraphs drafted but still waiting for their place) and try to draw in words the picture of my life right now.

I was up at 6 this morning, watching the sun rise beyond the mountains out my front door. I wrote a difficult email to someone precious to me, pouring heart and soul, love and the inspiration of the rising sun into the words. I made coffee and fixed a bowl of Muesli and yogurt and walked out to the table on the terrace. “Buon Giorno, Senora!” came Luciana’s greeting to me from the window above. Does she wait for me in the morning? Or did she plant a camera in the house? I am beginning to wonder. “Buon giorno, Luciana! Come va?” We chat in Italian – her cold is better, the weather is beautiful, she hopes the rain doesn’t come, aren’t my feet cold without shoes. What is up with the Italian preoccupation over whether I am cold or not?! It was like this the entire six months in Ascoli. I’m cold in your freaking houses made of concrete and ice floors. Outside I’m fine!

Luciana goes back inside, wishing me a good breakfast. I finish my yogurt and wake my computer up to begin the day. The entire last third of the book is outlined and written for the most part. I am now going back through and filling in dialogue and places I skipped. The day before yesterday was thrilling. I basked in sunlight almost as strong as the power of actually bringing to fruition a dream. The full culmination of it all - leaving everything behind a year ago, coming to this part of Italy to learn Italian and write, returning now a year later, able to speak Italian with hundreds of pages of written material and a book that is well underway – still leaves me breathless with wonder at the ways the Universe supports us when we set out to follow our dreams. Not all days are thrilling. Yesterday was lonely – tracing memories of times gone, moments past, trying to hold memories tight that are fading, squeezing the essence of them, trying to distill them into words. Today is drudgery - editing, reorganizing, filling in gaps. So much written and still what is left, just in this section, is daunting. And this will be the easiest part.

At nine my friend, Kiko, comes to visit – he flies across the porch and into my lap, tail wagging, whimpering for my caresses. Fifteen pounds of boundless energy and the kindest yellow eyes. He belongs to Maria – his spitting image except human. The only difference is he has the whitest teeth I have ever seen on a dog and she has only two that are the yellow of his eyes. They both greet you with the happiest yapping and bright smiling eyes. I can’t understand what either one of them says, but there is nothing but joy in their eyes. I’m sure the next town hears Maria when she walks the path greeting the day and the contadinas that live here. Based on looks, she would have been burned as a witch at Salem, yet I think she is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. I finally shoo Kiko off after it is apparent that I will never fill his kisses sack enough. I fix another cup of coffee and return to my work.

I work until noon, forcing my fingers along the keyboard, knowing I have so much to capture and only so much time before the memory of a glance, a word, a taste disappears. My fingers are cramping and my neck aches. I need to stretch. I put the yoga mat out on the terrace and Azam Ali on the digital player; gentle crooning pours out of the little pink speaker. Thirty minutes later I am sweaty and revived. I boil water and rinse off over the bidet. There is no hot water and no shower here. I always swore I could live without everything except hot water. Now I know I can live without that as well. The freedom is not in the leaving, it is in the things you find you don’t need along the way.

I check my email on the dial up, guilty for the money I know it costs but hopeful for a word from the world beyond. There is none. I go back to writing. It is now 3pm. I know I need to eat even though I have no desire for food. I break off a piece of parmesan cheese and take two slices of mortadella, sitting on the porch step to look at the mountains. I close my eyes for a cat nap. It was well nigh 3am when I finally fell asleep last night. I dream so hard it feels more like I have been working out than sleeping when I wake up. It is 3:30pm when I wake up. I put on another pot of coffee and walk outside to stretch and see if it is too bright to see the computer.

“Ciao Bella! I hear from the distance. I can’t see where it is coming from. “Bionda! Qui!” I see Malvina waving. Is that Maria in a tree? They shout something to me that I can’t hear. “Aspetta, arrivo.” Wait a second, I’m coming. I throw on shoes but I can’t figure out how to get to them from the garden below my terrace. I finally just climb the wobbly, chicken-wire fence, hoping I don’t break it, or me. I cross the rows of vegetables and fruit trees. Sure enough Maria is sitting in a tree; Malvina standing beneath her with a bucket on her head. Maria is snipping bunches of grapes and tossing them into the bucket. “Ciao Bionda! Vieni, vieni.” Hey, blondie, come here. They have set aside two perfect bunches of grapes for me. Malvina’s husband Antonio is there leaning on a post as he always his. I watched her clear an entire garden yesterday, so did he. She laughs with her bright voice, “Forty one years it has been like this. I work, he watches!” He fixes me with twinkling eyes. “Sono Napolione. Io canto, non lavoro.” I’m from Napoli. I sing, I don’t work. He tells me stories while she clears the rest of the garden. She is a powerhouse. My granddad couldn’t clear a plot of land that large in his heyday. She finishes and joins us. She apologizes for being dirty and ugly. Le persone che lavorano con un soriso sono sempre belissime, I tell her. People who work with a smile are always beautiful. She laughs her big laugh. “E’ vero! E’ vero!” So true, so true. They wished me a good night and set off in the dusk.

Now she is standing with the bucket on her head, the same bright smile, laughing and talking while Maria tosses grapes down. One of the men I haven’t met asks me if I’ve seen them make wine. No. “Vieni!” he tells me, leading me into a little garage like structure. There is a giant bucket and a big blue machine with a motor on the side. They throw the grapes in the top and it grinds them off the stems, spitting the stems out one side and the grapes into the bucket below. He shows me how they ferment the grapes and the big tanks they store the wine in. I am wide-eyed and fascinated. Maria and Malvina come down the hill, carrying the last of the grapes, laughing. The men had already moved the separator so the women do the last few bunches by hand, laughing and teasing the whole time. Malvina holds her grape stained hands up, threatening to smear them on Maria’s face. Maria ducks. “Dai, camina, basta.” She laughs, they are beautiful, more like school girls on the playground than sixty year old women. I ask Marina how long they have worked together. Ten years. She tells me she’s from a town further up the hill, more beautiful than this one. Maria feigns offense. Then you should just get your self on back there, go on, get going. They laugh, leaning against each other.

It is almost 4pm. I know I need to return to my writing. I thank them for the grapes and for showing me the little wine cellar and bid them all a good afternoon. I walk back up the hill, popping rich, plump grapes in my mouth as I go. Two hours later the sun is about to set. One of the men returns from his work, stopping on his way to ask how my writing is going, and give me two peaches with the softest peach fuzz I have ever felt. He wishes me good work and walks on up the hill. The dogs are start up everyday about this time. Some prearranged cacophonous choir. Dozens of them. I don’t know what sets them off. At 6pm I’ve heard enough, I put on my jeans and my music and set out to walk the hills. I know I need to get the blood moving anyway before the cold sets in. I stop to watch the sun set into a valley, casting shafts of sunlight upward, a perfect V rising up from the valley, painting the tops of the mountains in the distance a pale pink against the blue mist. I have never seen such a thing before. I’ve seen the setting sun rays cast downward but never upward, and never one single thick penetrating laser beam ray like this one. I burn the image in my mind, bummed I didn’t bring the camera.

It is after seven when I return, invigorated from the walk. I gather an armful of firewood and arrange it in the fireplace, promising I won’t light it until the last possible moment, and then return to the table on the terrace to type until it is too cold to stay outside any longer. By eight I am shivering. I know I need to eat again. I still don’t want to. I fix a small plate of pasta with oil and garlic and put on another pot of coffee. I eat and edit. It is good. Parts of this book are really good. I’m scared of the process of pulling it all together, but it is coming, it is definitely coming.

I dive into a section that is undrafted, fingers flying as the story unfolds before my mind. It feels more like watching a movie and trying to type what you are watching than writing. It is a strange process. The ending is based on a real experience but the memory of the reality and the images I am creating weave back and forth, each with such vividness I no longer know which one is which. This pains me for a moment. I know it means I am paying for the story with the richness of the experience, but it is necessary. By 10 pm my fingers can’t move for the cold. I light the fire and move to the brown leather chair, placing my feet on the edge of the fireplace, knowing somewhere Antonella would cringe if she knew I was lighting fires in the region. Last night a lizard visited me, the night before a scorpion, tonight it is just me. Me and my computer. My fingers race until the fire has died and the cold returns.

I don’t want to stop but I know I must sleep. I save everything, email myself a copy, and pat my computer good night. I have worked over 16 hours and couldn’t be more invigorated. I can’t wait for tomorrow. I brave the cold for a cigarette on the porch step as I watch the moon and the stars in the sky. I catch sight of a shooting star out of the corner of my eye and wonder just how many lucky stars there are in this life.

I realize the answer to my own question - more than we could ever imagine.

The Journey of Creation

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I awoke this morning to the cock’s crow – a rooster, seemingly outside my second floor window, was crying out the arrival of day. How strange they sound when heard in the remote hills of Italy; nothing like the cocka-doodle-doo we mimic on Saturday morning cartoons and children’s movies. I was dreaming of monsters for a few minutes before I realized it was merely the song of a rooster, not the cavalry call of aliens. I arose from the bed, the first bed I have had to myself in a room of my own in a house of my own for almost a year now. The journey, for now has ended. It is time to write.

Over the last month the story has taken shape. It is good. If I have the talent to bring it to life, it will be a worthy piece of literature. I believe there are few things in life more terrifying than having a dream and stepping up to play, unsure if you have what it takes to see the game through. We feel this standing upon the altar, holding a new born babe, walking into a first day of school, a new career, or a new town. And oh how keenly we feel it facing a blank canvas or musical sheet or computer screen. Perhaps in some ways even more so, for the test is between you and you alone.

I opened the window to look out at the hills beyond. It is beautiful here. A few houses clinging to the edge of a hill. Dogs bark, bees hum, a distant tractor can be heard, an occasional voice, and the wind. If you listen hard at night you can almost hear the sound of the moon rising over the mountains beyond. And now, the sound of church bells chiming from some distant hill town. I fixed my breakfast of yogurt and muesli, my morning coffee, and carried my computer to the table on the terrace looking out over the hills. From the heavens above, I heard a hearty “Buon giorno, Senora!” I looked up to discover an Italian woman about 50 leaning out a window of the same building I was in. I had not noticed that I only had one half of the house when I arrived as the sun set yesterday. “Buon giorno!” I responded. “Come mai vuoi venire a un posto isolato cosi’?” She exclaimed. ‘Why in the world would you come to a place isolated like this?’ I explained I was writing a book and the isolation served me well. She had a hearty voice and the bright eyes I so love about Italians. We chatted a few minutes before her phone rang and she excused herself, disappearing from the window of this hundred year old stone building.

I faced the computer. “Just notes, Sherry. Just start with notes. It will take form. Just write, don’t worry, just write.” Every time I sit down it is like this. The fear descends. I write a few words. The fear grips tighter. What am I doing? How can I possibly do this? The words are jumbled. The ideas clear but the words stumble and fall. How can I possibly write the jumble, punctuated by the occasional honey-silk passage, and then detangle it into something clear, concise, intriguing; something that leads the reader always forward with curiosity and desire.

I always made C’s in English. A’s for my ideas; F’s for my writing skill leaving me with an obdurate C average. I remember the paper I wrote when I was 17 in my first college writing class. I so loved my books and loved to write. I spent hours with a thesaurus pouring love and heart and soul into that paper. I was so proud of it. The teacher gave me an F. It was “overdone” she said. It would be over ten years before I would write anything again that wasn’t for a grade or an assignment. Almost twenty years before I would try again to pour love and heart and soul into a written creation.

The owner of the house arrived with prosciuto and salami and focaccia bread. How I love the Italians and their hospitality. Eat, drink, laugh, be merry. Pia-ah-no, pia-ah-no. There is time in life for all things. We chatted awhile over lunch and wine, coffee and biscotti before he left with a promise to return later with firewood and a map. I still have no idea exactly where I am.

There sat the computer on the table when I turned around. Waiting for me again. Was it this hard for the rest? The Hugos and Hemmingways, the Clancys, the Rands, and Coelhos, and Shakespeares. Not that I’m putting myself in their category, mind you, but was it this hard? I borrowed a book from Antonella yesterday. I had never read Virginia Woolf’s – A Room of One’s Own. I actually had no idea what it was about. When I pulled it from the shelf I was ecstatic to see it was actually in both English AND Italian. English on the left page, Italian on the right. How glorious! I am fluid enough in my speech and understanding now but still haven’t developed a skill for reading Italian. This would be wonderful practice. I asked Antonella if I could borrow the book. After several admonishments about not having it near fires, heaters, or water she acquiesced.

I walked around the table, the computer staring at me, daring me to find something else to do. “Perhaps Miss Woolf has something to share with me?” I said out loud to the empty room. I often do this. When I find myself unable to move or decide or take some kind of action, I pick up a random book, turn it to a random page, and ask for guidance. I cannot tell you whether there is a white bearded man in the heavens answering prayers, but I can tell you that when I have asked the Universe for guidance in this way, rarely has it ever remained mute.

This is what I read:

And one gathers from this enormous modern literature of confession and self-analysis that to write a work of genius is almost always a feat of prodigious difficulty. Everything is against the likelihood that it will come from the writer’s mind whole and entire. Generally material circumstances are against it. Dogs will bark; people will interrupt; money must be made; health will break down.

I had to laugh at this point for the dogs outside were performing a raucous symphony, my host was clearly intent on stopping by every morning and night, and I was eating only at the grace of a friend who had loaned me money to see me through this last month. I ate last month at the grace of my Aunt who received a bonus and insisted on giving it to me. My knee has gone out from four months of too much walking and not enough stretching and sitting in any position for long brings on sharp searing pain. So far it seemed I was in the ranks of all the great authors! I continued on:

Further, accentuating all these difficulties and making them harder to bear is the world’s notorious indifference. It does not ask people to write poems and novels and histories; it does not need them. It does not care whether Flaubert finds the right word or whether Carlyle scrupulously verifies this or that fact. Naturally, it will not pay for what it does not want. And so the writer, Keats, Flaubert, Carlyle, suffers especially in the creative years of youth, every form of distraction and discouragement. A curse, a cry of agony, rises from those books of analysis and confession. ‘Mighty poets in their misery dead’ – that is the burden of their song. If anything comes through in spite of all this, it is a miracle, and probably no book is born entire and uncrippled as it was conceived.

How right she is. It is the indifference that challenges me the most. So many friends and loved ones don’t have time to read my words, why would the world? And why would I write what the world will not read? How many times I have turned off the stats site dejected because despite the words of encouragement and praise from friends and loved ones, only a handful are actually reading the posts. There was a time the world would freeze me with its indifference, solidifying me until I too was indifferent. Somewhere in this journey it lost its grip. I continue to write because I must, because I am the only person who can give birth to the idea in my mind; the dream in my heart. I must write this story. I hope fervently with all my heart that it is a work of genius, that it will touch the world, change lives, but in the end it doesn’t matter whether it does or not. What matters is that I do all that I can do to bring my own vision to reality. That I can hold in my hands my own creation. That I can bring into this world and leave to it something that was not there before. This is what it is to live – whether you birth a strong marriage, a happy home, a charity, a band, a career, or a book, it doesn’t matter. Whether anyone else sees it, knows it, praises it, doesn’t matter. What matters is you take a dream and make it a reality, you create, adding fibers to the tapestry that make up this world; adding your own current of creative energy to counter the currents of destruction all around.

And so I will face this fear, this computer, my own soul and I will write this book, whether you will read it or not. I will give it to you, to the world, freely, to do with it as you wish with only the hope that it can fill you with the love and possibility that I feel as I give birth to this dream.

Where's Waterloo??

Sunday, September 24, 2006

It is funny how feelings can rise from the past and roll over you like a military tank, carrying you a few yards before leaving you to piece together from the memory files of your mind the before and after of the feeling. That happened to me in the Brussels Midi station. As far as I knew, or at least consciously remembered, I had never been in this station before. I had only been in Brussels once and assumed the train to and from Amsterdam would have been at Brussels Central. I walked down off the platform, checked a sign for the direction of the shops to buy my flag pin for Belgium and a postcard, and set off for the main terminal area. As I emerged in the open hallway I was knocked over, not with a memory, but with sensation – a strong sense of irritated anger and the taste of pizza so strong I actually began to salivate. What the hell was that about? I looked around to get my bearings. Within seconds the memory came into view like a telephoto lens zooming in on a subject, going from blurry to clear as it moves in. I have been here before. I thought to myself Yes, there is the book store where I looked for an English book and where is….. I was searching for the place where I bought the pizza as the memory expanded temporally to the moments before and after the taste of the pizza.

My dear friend Jill and I grabbed a last minute fare three years ago for a December flight to Amsterdam. Not knowing Amsterdam to be the wonderful city that it actually is, we didn’t plan to stay in Amsterdam but rather to train to Brussels and return for the flight home. Fortunately, we altered that plan and ended up staying three nights in Brussels and two in Amsterdam which, as it turned out, we actually liked better. So it was our third day in Brussels. We had already seen Bruges and Ghent, the Christmas market in Brussels, the little boy peeing (it says something about this country that they have more pride over a three foot statue of a boy taking a leak than their own flag), and a handful of other sights. The only thing left on our ‘must see’ list was Waterloo. It was actually on Jill’s list, not mine. Thanks to my wonderful American education, I couldn’t tell you anything about Waterloo but that the French and English were fighting about something and Napoleon blew it – though I’ll bet I aced whatever test I was given on the subject in our absurd memorization approach to history lessons.

Jill knew it was really just a field with a hill and a lion statue at the top but she had always wanted to stand on the Waterloo Battlefield. Hell, I took 36 hours worth of trains to stand in the Arctic Circle. How could I deny someone Waterloo? So we woke up early our last day to stand on the famous battlefield before heading to Amsterdam. We had breakfast and at checkout asked the hotel clerk how to get to Waterloo. She didn’t know. Odd. It is only like one of the most famous battlefields in the world and just twenty minutes from the city. We headed for the train station. The first “service” person was rude and completely useless. The next three didn’t speak English. A few more inquiries sent us for a bus. We waited an hour for a bus which went about three blocks and stopped at what was apparently the end of the line. Great. We asked the bus driver what we were supposed to do. He sent us to another bus which took us across the city and dumped us off at what was supposed to be a connection. It wasn’t. We walked for awhile asking along the way and looking for the bus connection to no avail. The stops, starts, trains, buses, and changes in direction had now taken us four hours. The first hour we were stupefied that no one could tell us where was Waterloo. The next two hours we were entertained by it. By the fourth hour we were getting testy. We descended to the metro station and decided to ask just one more time.

Much to our surprise the man we asked spoke a fair amount of English and was kind, patient, and helpful. He walked us through the map, writing down a series of train and bus connections. This must be it! We thought excitedly. He was actually the first person who had expressed any kind of confidence over knowing where exactly was Waterloo. Directions clenched tightly in Jill’s palm, we set off. Everything went smoothly. The train was there waiting. The bus went where he said. We found the second train connection without a problem and waited only a few minutes before boarding it for the twenty minute ride. Jill was happy again. I was happy she was happy and all was good. The train arrived. Woo-hoo! We hopped off and began walking through what was an oddly busy station for a tourist site outside the city. As we began to make our way up to street level it became apparent we were still in the city. We ascended the stairs and emerged in what was obviously a wealthy shopping district. Shit. This wasn’t Waterloo. Actually it was, for as we were looking around, absorbing the shock of disappointment, I saw the blue and white street sign on the building across from us. The street was named Waterloo.

Jill wasn’t disappointed. She was pissed. Now Jill is one of the easiest going people I know. I had never seen her mad. Not only did I not know how to deal with it, but I began to get mad because she was mad. I always feel responsibility for other peoples’ feelings – like it is somehow my fault they feel that way and my responsibility to turn it around. When they don’t come around I get pissed that I’m trying to cheer them up and they won’t let it go. Jill declared, ‘Fuck This!’ turned heel and stormed down the street, leaving me trailing behind. She stomped ahead of me without saying a word. It was now 2pm and neither of us had eaten since breakfast at 8am. As she was walking, she pulled a granola bar out of her backpack and started eating. She continued to eat the entire bar, never once offering me a bite. Now I was pissed – six hours I had stuck by her side searching for stupid waterloo, without food, without water, and she couldn’t share a bite of her granola bar! I seethed without saying a word. By the time we arrived the train station, I had worked myself into a tizzy. My thoughts involved repetitive use of the wonderful word ‘fuck’. Fucking Waterloo. Who the hell wanted to see fucking Waterloo anyway. And I kept making it light and fun instead of saying forget fucking Waterloo and now we wasted a whole day searching for fucking Waterloo, and I’m fucking starving and she doesn’t even offer a bite of her fucking granola bar! When we get to the train station I’m going to buy some food and not offer her any and see how she feels! I can be such a pouty child in the privacy of my own mind sometimes. I walked through the train station and actually picked pizza to eat because it would be the most tempting of smells. I had it all planned out. We would get on the train. I would begin eating. She would ask for a bite. And I would tell her she should have gotten one herself! Yeah that was it. That’s exactly what I would do. She ruined my plans, never even having the decency to ask for a bite and give me a chance to slam her taste buds in the dirt. Where do these 8 year old scenes in our minds come from?

A few hours, a nap, and a hot shower later, we were both better. The search for Waterloo was already becoming the funny story of our trip and we were making Napoleon jokes and references all night. I was still a little pissy over dinner and the fact she wanted to see some stupid comedy show. Two hours later, after splitting our sides laughing for two hours watching the improv group Boom Chicago (a must see if you are ever in Amsterdam), all the ill will of the day had been forgotten. It was many months before I told her how mad I was over the granola bar. To this day she hangs her head in genuine shame. She had offered me granola bars three times before during the trip. Since I had always said no thanks, she thought I didn’t like them so she didn’t offer again. It has been three years and I still can’t even tease her about it she feels so badly.

I had only one objective in Belgium this trip – to see Waterloo for Jill. My friend Jero (who did not know where it was, nor did his friends we had drinks with the night before) was kind enough to spend an hour driving in circles looking for it late in the rainy night. It is actually quite impressive – a huge lion statue lit in the night standing high upon a hill looking out over the field below. I went into the bookstore at Midi where I had looked for the English book and bought her postcard – a picture of the statue lit in the night – and wrote, of course, “I finally found Waterloo!” I proudly carried the card to the post, laughing at myself, and her, and the pursuit of Waterloo – mesmerized by the strength and power of the remembered feeling, the taste of the pizza in my mouth, and the warmth of a friendship that has survived the years. Jill, I forgive you for the granola bar…

The Power of Perspective

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Saturday, September 23, 2006

It is amazing the power of perspective. I am tucked away on the outskirts of a teeny village in the south of Belgium. The kind of place you might see in a movie but would never actually find yourself. The village itself is lovely – old stone architecture with small chapels fronting some of the older houses. Just 4 miles from the border of France, it may as well be French instead of Belgian. English is unheard of here and when the young men of the village aren’t mountainboarding or rock climbing they are playing ping pong or getting high on booze or buds. There is not one town drunk; there are several. Unemployment probably rights more support checks to the townsmen than companies. Yet there are also beautiful houses with lovely kept lawns and friendly people who will greet you with a wave and a Bon Jour. The countryside is not stunning in beauty so much as peacefulness. Evergreens cover the rise and fall of hills, sheep graze on the grass of the fields between, a dog’s bark echoes for miles, and in the woods it sounds as if the wind is actually speaking to you. The only interruption to nature’s song is an occasional car. .

I have left the cabin only twice and only for short walks.  I thought a solid week with an internet connection would be enough to catch up. It wasn’t. My fingers ache from typing 12-15 hours a day. But for all that is left to do, I have accomplished a lot as well. The only downside here has been that there is no way to bathe. Jero is still renovating the cabin and the shower in the bathroom is still standing in the middle of the bathroom, unattached. I’ve learned it takes just three little days for your own body odor to annoy you. After five days, you are ready to break up with yourself...

Life's Coincidences a/k/a Answered Prayers

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Monday, September 18, 2006

I was riding down the coast of Norway on the Hurtigruten, salivating over the tiny little isolated cabins set every few miles - little colored shacks, some only accessible by boat, perched here and there on the landmasses created at the sea’s edge. While I enjoy all that goes with city life – bars and friends and the energy of a city; I am most at home with myself with my books in some isolated cabin in the middle of nowhere. As long as I can remember, it was my dream to have a cabin in the mountains, at least ten miles from the nearest person, with a library like the one in the movie My Fair Lady, and a kickass stereo. The revised dream version 1.2 now includes a high speed internet connection. As I watched dream house after dream house pass me by, I looked up at the heavens, and said, somewhat jokingly, “That’s what I need! A little cabin, in the middle of nowhere, to write for a week…. With an internet connection!” I laughed at this last part. An isolated cabin might be possible but with an internet connection was certainly not!

Three days later I was on the train from Bergen to Oslo...

Couchsurfing, Connections, and Community - Afterword

Afterword: The universe has always found synchronistic ways to talk to me through books and writing. I wrote the above entry after fighting off a bout of severe depression this morning. I feel quite forgotten by my friends back home; my geographical friends you might say. Most never write, even good friends rarely do, and only one writes if too much time has passed between my posts. My Aunt Kay is the only one who has kept consistent, loving communication with me for the last year since I gave up house and home to find what has meaning in life and what I can contribute to this world now that my children are grown and gone. I open email conversations, after a few exchanges my friends close them, and I don’t hear from them again until I open another email conversation. I don’t understand this obvious recoil of friendship from people I spent years building connection with and there are days, like today, when it crushes me. When the “why am I here” and “what is the point” blues descend, I cry, scream if I need to, and then force myself to pick something to do that will take some time to finish. I make a deal with myself to finish it, knowing when I do the darkness will have dissipated some. Today it was making pasta sauce and writing the above post. When I finished writing, I went to research the idea of connections based on common interest rather than common geography. The second link I hit was the following story: Let's Build a Fanatical Empire I’ve envied plenty of people in my life. Pulitzer Prize winners. Concert pianists. Women with naturally curly hair. But I never-ever-not-one-weensy bit thought one day I would find myself jealous of Barbie collectors. Of people, primarily women in bright colors and pink lipstick, who eagerly dip into their children’s college education fund in order to purchase tiny red shoes and tiny sparkly earrings and tiny strapless ball gowns for those days when their Barbies are feeling especially glamorous and in need of a night on the town. But that’s exactly what happened one hot July weekend when I attended a Barbie convention as part of my research for WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE? I spent a couple of days watching squealing women in pink run on tip-toes through the convention. I attended workshops on limb reconstruction and costume design. I heard stories about hotel slumber parties that featured strawberry daiquiris and dozens of pajama-clad women armed with their Barbies. It was all very bright and cute and puzzling. And then I met Judy Stegner, a 43-year-old collector and single mother from Fort Worth, Texas, who told me about her 700-doll Barbie collection, and her amazing Barbie friends, most of whom she’d originally met on the Internet. “You know,” she said, her voice a deep Texas twang, “the Barbie collectors I've met are great people. I mean, I never could have made it without 'em." “What do you mean,” I asked, “that you couldn’t have made it without them?” Judy then went on to tell me that her son, a 17-year-old named Justin, had been murdered at a random shooting at a church. He was her only child. After the shooting her Texas friends gradually dropped out of sight. “I mean, I don’t blame ‘em,” she said. “They didn’t know what to say. “But my Barbie friends… they called or wrote me every day. They sent me money. They sent care packages. They helped raise thousands of dollars for a tuition assistance fund in Justin’s name. They also contacted Mattel. Can you believe that? They contacted Mattel and the company sent me a special collectible Barbie and a handwritten note the first Christmas after Justin died.” Judy paused to raise her glasses and wipe away tears. I couldn’t think of a single, comforting thing to say and felt deeply ashamed because of it. Suddenly, Judy jumped to her feet. "Let me show you somethin'," she said. She grabbed her convention tote bag, pulled out a quilt and unfolded it on the bench in front of us. The quilt, made to honor her son’s life, featured 18 hand-sewn panels created by her Internet Barbie friends in California, Texas, Oklahoma, Michigan, Virginia, New York and Australia. The back of the quilt was covered in a white flannel swath of vintage fabric covered with Barbie silhouettes. Judy bent over and ran her hand along the soft material. "I can't imagine how much that cost," she said. “I’m so blessed. This is the closest circle of friends I’ve ever had.” I left Judy feeling a bit awestruck. I’d spent two days at the Barbie convention, secretly amused by the pink spectacle of it all, and in the space of one, 30-minute conversation, Judy made me realize there was much more to Barbie collecting than meets the eye. There was a passion for dolls, sure. And a passion for creative expression through costuming. And a passion for the hunt-and-gather challenge of finding dolls perfect for your collection. But there was also community – the same kind of we’ll-do-anything-for-you community that some people claim is dying in America. For all these reasons, I was jealous. And when I left the convention and was given a 30th-anniversary Malibu Barbie as a memento (same as the original, but with sunscreen) I was secretly thrilled by the acquisition. And here’s the thing: I’ve since learned that Judy and her Barbie friends are not an exception. Every subculture I studied exhibited the same zany, who-gives-a-rip passion, and the same vibrant sense of community. http://whoareyoupeople.typepad.com/blog/2006/09/fanatics_anonym.html by Shari Caudron I guess when our life changes in some dramatic, profound way it is hard for the people who love us to know how to continue to be with us. It is easier sometimes to pull away than to imagine what a friend is going through in their changed world. We all see reflections of ourselves in others. For Judy’s friends I’m sure it was her profound suffering. For mine perhaps it was the profound emptiness that forces me to search beyond the American dream for something more fulfilling. For both of us, it has been the beauty of the community that we have come to belong to that helps see us through the harder times. I think of the people I have met and want to know better, the places I would still like to see and those I would like to return to, and most especially the kindness, generosity, and hospitality that has been shown me since I have traveled this new road and joined this new community, and it keeps me going, even when I feel lost and forgotten. To all of you, in the community of man and all the communities it contains - never underestimate the power of the kindness and the connections you share with others. It can be the only thing that sees them through the dark and back into the light.

Couchsurfing, Connections, and Community

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Sunday , September 17, 2006

I wish couchsurfing had been around when I was in my twenties – not that I had much party time between being a single mom in law school or married with three children, but it still would have been nice to have some place where I felt such a deep sense of belonging. When I was growing up, communities were built around geography - towns, schools, neighborhoods. If you were a little different, you just didn’t fit and that was it. You might could find another outcast but often your only bond was the fact that you were outcast and you knew the bond was built on shifting ground.

I could talk for hours about the amazing changes the internet revolution has brought to our world, but one particularly interesting change is the sudden ability to create communities out of connections based on common interest rather than common geography. Twenty years ago if you wanted to find the hundred other people in the country who recreated Land of the Lost scenes in miniature - good luck. Chances are you didn’t even think they existed – you sat alone in your strange little world wondering why you were so different and playing with Sleestak and Pakuni action figures. Now, a few clicks of the button and you can find every Land of the Lost cult classic member in the world and be chatting with them in minutes about whether there was incestuous sexual tension between Will and Holly.

Couchsurfing.com is built on this sudden ability to connect and be connected to anyone, anywhere. It is truly an amazing community, built around a simple love for exploring new worlds and belief in connecting our world. Parties and meetings are held all over the world and you know when you walk into one that chances are there will be someone there you know and if not you will have no problem making friends or finding something to talk about. A simple “who have you surfed?” or “who have you hosted” will start an endless conversation and almost inevitably lead to the discovery of someone or many someones you both know or places you’ve both been.

Case in point. I met Tiina in Finland – a cute-as-a-button blonde with shining eyes and a bright smile that can light up any room. She is originally from Finland but had just relocated to Amsterdam. When I decided to head to Holland, I dropped her a line to see if we could meet up. She told me there was a CS party in Rotterdam that Saturday. I did a search for hosts in Rotterdam and saw Urbian’s profile and sent an email asking if he could host me for the party. “Sure,” came the reply. I ended up not making the party, but Urbian and I hit it off so well with our teasing relationship, I ended up staying in Rotterdam a few days. Thursday a couchsurfer-turned-friend, Leila, calls to say she’s on her way to visit. She had surfed Urbian a year before, and they developed a big brother – little sis relationship. At 20 she is well traveled, multi-lingual, quite mature, and about as much of a-know-it all as I was at 20; a prerequisite I think to early maturity. I liked her instantly though our obstinate characters challenged our interaction a bit. Meanwhile Tiina told me there would be another party in Paris for another couchsurfer, Antoine’s, birthday and invited me to come. When Leila arrived from Portugal it turned out Antoine had hosted her previously and had invited her to come as well. Little did I know at the time that I had actually met Antoine at the collective in Vienna two months ago. So Urbian, Leila, and I load up in the car and head to Paris. Much to my surprise I knew a fourth of the people there personally and knew the rest by no more than two degrees of separation. So it took a random meeting in Finland to bring me to Paris where I met friends I had made in Vienna. Do you know how small that makes the world feel? How connected our human race can be?

I envy these kids their ability to make these connections, see these lands, build this community, and participate so intimately with this world. The possibilities are endless, the opportunity for connection incomprehensible. One of the features of the couchsurfing site is the “how you know this person” field. When I pull up a profile on a search, it will show me if I know the person within four degrees of separation. If my friend, Kim, hosted a surfer, Mike, who was friends with Sammy, who stayed with the guy whose profile I am now looking at, it will show me the connection. Imagine if you could see the whole world that way? The person you know who knows the person who knows a person you think you are unconnected with. Could we still drop bombs? Would we still need to? I believe in the possibility of a single tribe called mankind; I believe in a community that includes everyone – because whether we would like to think of it that way or not, we have one. These kids are changing the world by connecting it. It is beautiful to watch.

The party was great – typical in that it involved beer, a bar, and twenty-somethings – but different in that it involved a shared spirit not for a sports game or college or job, but a shared spirit of man. At 3am Leila took off to see the Eiffel Tower while Urbian, Helene who we had met, and I took a taxi to our hosts’ apartment. We had not even met one of our hosts and had talked with the other only a few minutes at the party. They had left us a key under the mat to drop off our stuff and freshen up when we arrived, never having laid eyes on us. We let ourselves in and in moments I was sound asleep on the couch. I remember the kindness that exuded in the energy of someone pulling a blanket over me. I was too deep in sleep to open my eyes to see who it was and instead began dreaming about the kindness of angels. The next thing I saw was Mhenna, our host, as he carried a tray filled with French croissants, jam, yogurt, and tea into the living room. He told me when he had come in a few hours before, I was curled up like a cat and he had covered me up – so that was my kindhearted angel. Leila had returned during the night and was on the couch across the room with Urbian on the third couch between us. We roused our hungover selves and chatted with Mhenna. A few minutes later the bell rang, it was Antoine, the birthday boy, and his American surfer, Marnie, who hails from my alma mater city of Austin, Texas. The ease with which friends and strangers alike can sit in a room most have never seen before, hungover, some in clothes some still in pajamas, all from different countries, sharing croissants, tea, conversation, and camaraderie is an astounding testament to the community of man. The only community we all belong to and one, thanks to the internet, we can all find ways to connect to.

When in Rome...

September 12, 2006

The saying goes – When in Rome, do as the Romans do. I was in Holland, not Rome, but figured the expression worked just the same. Now perhaps this admission will lose me some future presidential election, but contrary to my belief when I was eight that I would be the first female president, it is probably not going to happen anyway. I’ll just have to risk the ire of those too uptight to realize drugs do not make bad people, bad people make drugs; and that’s only because we won’t legalize and control the stuff. Why is it okay to have a social drink but not a social toke? That has just never made sense to me. Either society bans social drugs or accepts social drugs. There shouldn’t be some random line drawing based on established industries with power. And anyone who thinks society’s stance against soft drugs isn’t funded and promoted by the alcohol industry, like every good marketing campaign that undermines its competitor, is a fool. But I digress; this was supposed to be funny story not a soap box rant.

So, yes I have occasionally smoked pot. I tried it in high-school because, well, why not? And once in awhile I would join my first husband (when I was still young enough to BE in high school) for a smoke. But I never really got it. I would look at my husband, after the five minutes it took to adjust my eyes from straight ahead to my right where he was sitting in the big brown leather recliner chair (married at 18 and we already had the retirement leather recliner – what was I thinking???!!), and ask him if he would carry me to the pantry so I could find something to eat. One bag of Doritos, a tub of French onion dip, 14 oreos, and a frozen pizza later, I would go to sleep. Munchies was not exactly a high I needed to pay for – sitting down to study would bring on a vicious case of what’s-in-the-fridge?.  Why would I pay to get it? So Miss Mary Jane and I never got too well acquainted in my college years. A few years later, with a boyfriend this time (guys are such a bad influence), I tried some type of pot they called Krypto. It was a great high – I laughed for hours straight. But a half a dozen attempts to recreate that experience over the next few years did nothing but to convince me pot was not my drug. Miss Mary Jane just wasn’t good enough in the sack to risk legal prosecution.

So here I am, my second night in Rotterdam, when my host looks at me in the passenger seat of his Saab convertible and asks “Wanna smoke?” I figured he wasn’t talking cigarettes. “Sure, what the hell.” I responded. “When in Rome...!” I guess I thought maybe with it being legal and all the quality would be better or something. So he stops at a coffee shop (it totally confuses me how you ask someone in Holland where you can buy COFFEE), and returns to the car a few minutes later. As we’re driving down the highway he lights up. “Can you do that?” “What?” he asks. “Smoke dope and drive?” “Of course.” I’m confused. “It’s not illegal?” I ask. “No, of course not.” Coming from a country where you can be sentenced for driving under the influence of a prescription drug and where some places are pushing to make it a punishable crime to drive while sleep deprived, this is almost incomprehensible.

He hands me the joint. I inhale (there go my presidential hopes), I hold, I exhale. I have the same self-consciousness I’ve always had that I don’t “do it right” – the I’m-so-not-cool-and-everyone-knows-it feeling from high-school. A song from some recessed high-school memory arises unbidden in my mind - “Roll, roll, roll your joint; pass it down the line; take a toke and hold your smoke and blow your *#@#*! Mind”. Where did that come from? I wonder to myself. I take another hit – trying not to act as uncool as I feel. I wait a minute and hand it back with that slow, carefree, swan-neck arm movement they always pass joints with on TV.

Half the joint and about ten minutes later it starts. Paranoia. First it’s his driving. He’s driving too fast (this coming from someone who regularly tops 125 mph in her convertible)… He lied and its illegal and we’re going to get busted… He’s going to wreck…. I’m going to die…. Then it moves to the sudden realization that I might have to take a drug test for my next job in the US. Oh my God, what if I do? I won’t pass. I won’t be able to work. I’m out of money. I’ll never get a job. I’ll starve!

Now I’m not THAT stoned so the straight voice somewhere in my head was still around – “Sherry, you’re just stoned, a little paranoid, you’re fine. Close your eyes and enjoy the music.” I close my eyes, lay my head back against the seat, and watch the light from the streetlights pass my closed eyes in time to the music. We arrive home. Safe and sound. I head straight for the couch.

It seems forever while he’s parking the car. Paranoia returns. Where is he? What’s taking so long? Maybe he’s not coming back? Maybe something happened? The straight voice pops up again, “Sherry! Shut up! It’s a time warp. Get your phone you’ll see, minutes just seem like hours. Everything’s fine.”

I curl up around my phone and count sheep. He finally comes back. Lights come on. Music comes on. I’m on the couch. He’s on the floor. We’re talking and everything’s fine. The world is hazy but at least I don’t have the munchies. Urbian is trigger happy on the camera and is shooting close-ups of my face as I exclaim “Delete, delete, delete….” Time passes into nonexistence.

Suddenly, Urbian sits up. “Oh my God!” he exclaims. “What?” I murmur, shaken from my reverie. He looks up at me, with eyes wide opened, and says in slow-motion-Jack-the-Ripper-fashion “it looookks liiike sumwun is trying to straaanngle you….” I have a flashback of the Candyman – the last horror movie that actually scared me. He turns the camera around. Sure enough there is a blonde woman in an out of focus picture being strangled. The second picture is the same. But the woman has hair like Marnie from the Alfred Hitchcock movie, not like mine at all, and the lighting in the picture is completely different than the dozen or so pictures he’s been clicking off the last however many minutes.

Paranoia doesn’t return, it descends in full psychopath-ward glory. Oh my God! He’s going to kill me. My mind starts racing. Oh my god – he planted that picture. That’s what he does before he kills his victims. He plays with them first, teasing, taunting, then he’s going to strangle me. He’s going to kill me right here. Here I am couchsurfing, hoping to show people this is a beautiful world filled with good trustworthy people AND I’M GOING TO DIE! In the midst of this horror novel in my head, his phone rings. He answers it and begins speaking Dutch. Now this of course means he has an accomplice! They must be part of a satanic cult. They’re going to do it together!

Now the straight voice is still around in some back room of my head. I can hear me reassuring myself but I’m not buying it. Could I take him down? Could I if I had to?” Urbian’s not very tall, but he’s a big man, black and muscular with a little extra poundage. I’d have a hard time taking him. And what if she arrives? His accomplice? I surely couldn’t take them both. Not when they’ve probably killed dozens before me. They know what they’re doing. I get up and casually slip my phone into my pocket. What I think I’m going to do with it I don’t really know. “C’mon Sherry. Be cool. Be cool,” whispers the voice from the back room of my head. But the voice in the front room is screaming, RUN! Get out, go, RUN! Sanity speaks again, “You could be wrong Sherry. What are you going to do if you run off and realize you’re wrong? Come back and apologize to your host for thinking he is a murderer?” WHAT IF I AM RIGHT? I scream, silently, at myself. Do I just sit here and die to be polite?!

I take myself outside and sit myself down to smoke a cigarette. I focus on the lights. The voice in the back room gets stronger and starts talking me down. I debate calling my best friend but I know just how she is going to roll her eyes if I tell her that I think my host is going to kill me but I’m stoned and don’t know if I’m just being paranoid. The vision of her rolling her eyes at pathetic little uncool Sherry who she has tried unsuccessfully to teach coolness, sociability, and how to dress for thirty years now tells me the back room voice is right. Urbian walks out – he’s going to a ‘friend’s”. I go back in, crawl fully clothed into bed, put on my headphones, and slip into the musical cocoon that for 25 years has saved me from impossible nights. Day breaks and I am still alive. Again. The back room voice reprimands me, “Next time Sherry – Just say no.” Yeah right. But when in Rome….

Changes

Sunday, September 3, 2006

Strange things happen when you travel like this – months without a home, without a schedule to speak of, without direction. Interestingly, your senses sharpen – mentally you become clearer, quicker. Your vision and hearing become more acute, picking up on things you would normally never see or hear. Your sense of smell too; everything smells stronger, crisper, clearer – including, unfortunately, the mold on the shower curtain. The most fascinating change however is the time warp. At three months time slowed perceptibly. Slowed to a pace I recognized – the pace I remember as a child. Days passed like weeks. Weeks like months. I have long said ‘time is a construct’. Intellectually, spiritually I understand it is a linear pattern around which this experience we call life is organized. But it doesn’t exist in the absolute terms that we tend to perceive it. It fluctuates, like waves. The patterns are likely in our control though it is difficult for us to see in what ways until we break the patterns we are in for, I would guess, about three months. While I understood the concept intellectually, it was an entirely different thing to experience it so concretely. We’ve all had a sense of time flying or time dragging but this was different, time was palpably changed. It was an entirely different experience of time; at least as I’ve known it since I was about seven.

It was deliriously delightful to live in this slowed down version of time. To not feel pressured by deadlines in my head, lists in my mind of the places I needed to see, write about, things I needed to do, accomplish. Suddenly there was time to linger, to stop for a coffee and sit down instead of hoping they had a to-go cup. You would think someone who had given up house and home, who had relinquished a career, material possessions, financial obligations would have felt this instantly, but I didn’t. The first two months I lived with the same constant pressure that fills our American lives and certainly has always filled mine. My head continued to be filled with cries “You are not doing enough, you must see more, do more, write more, write better, read the damn instruction manual for the camera….” Yada, yada, yada….

When time slowed to a snail’s pace so did the chattering in my head; the voice I call the “nag,” full of criticisms about how much I haven’t done, how much I need to do. I began to move more easily without a constant sense I was missing something, or should be doing something other than what I was doing. An interesting thing happened in this space for me. I learned what Serena, the lithe little Italian fairy I had met at the Couchsurfing Collective in Vienna, had told me all those months ago – It is not about the places you see, it is about the people you meet. Again, I ‘intellectually’ understood the words she spoke but when conversations didn’t arise to a certain level of significance, to some life changing exchange or potential ongoing friendship, I always felt guilty that I hadn’t done something else with the time. It was easier to travel on my own schedule, squeeze in every site, every monument, every museum; then at least I was checking off the list as I went - showing progress, proof for my efforts. A night spent talking with someone about nothing of consequence was a missed checkmark on the list.

By the time I reached Oslo, the list didn’t seem to matter anymore. The nag was quietly scolding in the back of my mind that I hadn’t written a word in the two weeks in Norway but she had been banned to some recessed corner of my mind. Without her in the foreground, the lists melted away. I spent five days in Oslo with Haavard and one of his best friends, Christian. I have always enjoyed being the girl who could hang with the guys – joke constantly about sex and girls and the incomprehensibility of the female race. Christian had slept in late after another of the five best friends’ wedding the night before. Haavard was in the kitchen making breakfast and I was heading out to get us all lattes. I teased Christian when he still hadn’t gotten out of bed. “Damn, Christian, you have Haavard cooking breakfast and me fetching coffee what more do you want?” He responded without hesitation, “A hot shower and a blow job would be nice.” I quipped, “I’ll start the water, Haavard you take the blow job.“ We were bonded.

We spent the next several days just hanging out – chatting over breakfast, sitting on the porch smoking cigarettes, laughing while Haavard flirted on messenger. We made our way one evening to the Vigeland Park – an astonishing sight to see with over two hundred sculptures ranging in style and medium all done by one man. Another night we just sat and watched a movie. I never had time or could be bothered with dumb comedy movies. I felt as if I had lost two hours of my life that I could never get back when I watched a “Dumb and Dumber” or even Austin Powers. We sat in the black modern living room and watched “Dodgeball”, on a projector screen no less. I laughed my ass off. I’m sure not because it was more or less funny than other movies of its genre, but because I didn’t have the weight of guilt for time wasted. I was in the experience, completely, and for this reason, perhaps for this reason only, loved it.

I did explore Oslo a bit - the shopping district, the newly reconstructed harbor area (very well done, by the way), the incredibly well maintained and untouted fortress that sits high on the hill above the water. I made my way one afternoon to the National Museum to see the second of Munch’s ‘The Scream’ – the first that was stolen two years ago was returned the week I was there but had not yet been put back on exhibit. I loved his painting ‘The Morning After.’ A lady lies prostrate on the bed in her underclothes and boots where she passed out after what was obviously a fun night – a scene I’ve experienced oh, at least once or twice in my life… Of the little I saw, Vigeland Park was undoubtedly the highlight – the pictures are worth taking a look at. His work is incredible.

I saw little of the city, relatively speaking, did little while I was there, yet the experience of it is full and rich and the memory imprinted on my heart for the easy time I spent with these two handsome, enjoyable men and for the peace I found inside as I wandered the streets lost to times demands. Interestingly, it was on the streets of Oslo that the first tendrils of the book concept came to me, bright like the sun rising before me. Perhaps it is in these places of rest that our soul is the most active.

A Love Affair

September 2, 2006

Okay – I admit it. I’m having an affair. I’ve fallen in love with 7-Eleven.They were actually my favorite convenience when I was growing up in Texas. Seeing that red, white, and green sign whenever I would fly back to Dallas always gave me a warm feeling inside. I remember how good Slurpees tasted on a hot Texas summer day. I remember collecting bottles for recycling money and picking up a pack of cigarettes for my sister who would let me keep the change. And yes I remember how my heart pounded when I stole just one little piece of candy. I would insist my mom stop at the 7-11 to buy my fieldtrip lunches – no other convenience store would do. I had sadly watched them close one by one over the last twenty years. They used to be at every corner, now there wasn’t a single one in Charlotte and numerous other towns. I knew they had actually begun in Texas so it made sense there were more there than other places but I figured they were slowly dying as the bright new BPs and Citgos spread their green and orange signs across the country.

Imagine my surprise walking across a square in Copenhagen, of all places and looking up to see that familiar sight – a 7-11? In Copenhagen? What the hell was a 7-11 doing in Copenhagen?!! I figured it was some kind of fluke. Ten 7-11s later, it was obvious it wasn’t a fluke. 7-11 appeared to be the most common convenience store in the entire country of Denmark, and again in Sweden where they actually had a 7-11 internet café! But Norway… Norway has it made in the 7-11 market! Okay let’s skip the fact they have a full line of hot food. We’re not talking two day old hotdogs. We’re talking chicken chow mein and several other chinese dishes, pizza, sandwiches, hamburgers and a variety of deli style hot food selections. Skip too the fact they have a real ice cream bar – ice cream that comes in scoops not packages. Forget the fact they have all your standard convenience store trappings. No, what makes them great? The coffee machine.

We’re talking a full coffee selection – everything that is behind the Starbucks counter except you don’t have to ask for it. The machine is Starbucks quality and user friendly with options from an espresso to a latte and everything in between. There, next to the coffee machine is the syrup selection – replete with a huge jug of Godiva chocolate syrup!! You can mix and match and make any kind of coffee you want. AND they have REAL coffee cups. Not the thimbles in Italy, not the four ounce cups in Germany that won’t open one eye half way. No these are REAL coffee cups. American sized!

You can actually predict how Americanized a society is by how large their coffee cups are. We could share citizenship with these guys. As if that wasn’t enough to take me straight to heaven – the price for a fill-er-up, create-my-own, hazelnut-chocolate-cinamon delight? About $3. Now keep in mind Norway is THE most expensive place in Europe – more than Switzerland, more than London. I was there for a month and never had one meal at a restaurant. My diet consisted of two or three 7-11 coffees a day and a snack. The coffees were the only affordable thing in the country and I made the most of them!

So walking into two or three 7-11s a day, I couldn’t help but wonder why they were so wonderful in Scandinavia and dying out in America. I finally consulted Gallant Google and the Wonderful World Wide Web. It was fascinating what I learned about an icon of my childhood. Did you know that…..

· July 11 (7/11) is the official birthday of the 7-Eleven chain. It began in 1927 when an employee of Southland Ice Company in Dallas started selling milk, eggs, and bread from the ice dock. Soon, the convenience store was born and became known as 7-Eleven to reflect the 7 a.m. to 11 p.m. hours of operation;

· There are only 5,800 stores in the US and Canada but almost 28,000 world wide, making it the largest convenience chain in the world;

· 7-Eleven was the first to … operate 24 hours a day … sell fresh-brewed coffee in to-go cups ... have a self-serve soda fountain … and offer super-size drinks;

· 7-Eleven had the first television advertising by any convenience store; the animated commercial featured a singing owl and rooster ran in 1949;

· 7-Eleven was the first c-store retailer to give customers “freedom of choice” by offering all major soft drink brands at the fountain

Wish they’d get those damn coffee machines in America!

The Beauty That Is Norway

Thursday, August 31, 2006

Norway. Land of the Fjords. Undoubtedly the most naturally beautiful country I saw on this journey. I didn’t know exactly what a fjord was until I looked it up. According to Wikipedia, a fjord is a narrow inlet of the sea between cliffs or steep slopes, which results from marine inundation of a glaciated valley. Typical characteristics of a fjord include: a narrow inlet, a bottom glacially eroded significantly below sea level (allowing deep-draft vessels to navigate easily), with steep-sided walls which continue to descend below the sea surface and greater depths in the upper and middle reaches than on the seaward side. A fjord is formed when a glacier melts faster than it is moving, after carving its typical U-shaped valley, and the sea fills the resulting valley floor. The definition can’t begin to describe the beauty.

I collapsed after the twenty-four hour Road to Hell. There really wasn’t much in Hell – a train station, a few houses; all surprisingly quaint for Hell. It was a twenty minute walk to the “city side” of Hell, which technically isn’t Hell, though they still tout the name. There, across the bridge stood Hell Hotel. How could I resist a night in Hell? Actually, given the absurd price by European standards, I could have resisted if I wasn’t so damned exhausted and they didn’t have a wireless connection. At least I made the most of my money – I took a bunch of hot showers, a bunch of naps, drank several cups of free coffee, ate three days worth of food at the breakfast buffet which was definitely the best one I’ve had yet at any hotel, and worked every waking hour on the wireless signal with music videos on the TV and every light in the room turned on. By the time I left, I had recovered from the Road to Hell.

From there I took the train to Trondheim. My connection left me two hours to explore this third largest and oldest city in Norway. Once Norway’s largest and most important cultural capital, this city has taken a graceful backseat to the now larger cities of Oslo and Bergen. In its illustrious past, the town has been many things throughout history from the capital of Norway to Northern Europe’s primary pilgrimage site to the seat of the Archbishopric. To this day it is where Norway’s kings are anointed. The anointing takes place in the Nidaros Cathedral, undoubtedly the most impressive site in the town. It is the northernmost medieval cathedral in the world, the largest in Scandinavia, and is well-preserved along with the grounds and the Archbishop’s Palace which is located next to it. Unfortunately they charged for admission to the Cathedral - something that always chafes me a bit. Since it had been at least two countries since I lit candles, I grit my teeth and paid the $10 to get in. It is a beautifully preserved cathedral, simple enough on the inside, with a stunning rose stained glass window. Its unique quality, however, for me was the prayer basket. I hadn’t seen this before, or hadn’t recognized what it was if I did. They had little slips of paper to write your prayers on, fold and place in a basket that would then be placed on the altar during Sunday services and a prayer said for the prayers to be answered. How could I resist two-tier praying? I have accumulated quite the list of prayers on this trip for friends and loved ones. It is amazing how many have come true and how many others resolved though through different means than requested. I liked the idea of memorializing them all in writing and so spent close to thirty minutes writing in teeny tiny handwriting to get them all on one page. It feels good to pray, no matter who is listening.

While the Cathedral is impressive, the area along the bay with its rainbow colored wooden structures rising out of the water and sidewalk cafes lining the street on the other side was quite charming in its own right. Unfortunately, I had little time to linger but enjoyed my easy walk along the boulevard watching families enjoy the last ice-cream of the summer and couples embracing in the long shadows of the sun. From Trondheim, I took the train partway to Oslo before veering off at Dombas to the Rauma Line, reputed to be one of Norway’s most beautiful railway lines, and rightfully so. My only complaint was that in the three conversations had with train personnel about rail passes, schedules, and stops, no one had bothered to mention reservations were recommended. When I first boarded the train, one minute before the scheduled departure, it was half-empty. I thanked my ever faithful lucky star and took the best seat on the train in a four seat section next to a large picture window. But the train didn’t leave, nor had it left twenty minutes later. Finally 25 minutes after our departure time another train arrives and people pour onto the train I am on. I guess my lucky star was on holiday that day (a much deserved holiday given how hard it works for me!) The lady was particularly pissy with me for being in her seat. I caused a traffic jam trying to get myself and my bag out of the section and down the corridor where people were pouring into the two car train. When everyone finally settled in their places, I ended up with the only seat on the train that didn’t have a view. I couldn’t help but glare at the lady who had been so pissy that I had her seat and now had her nose buried in a book while some of the world’s most beautiful countryside flew past the picture window next to her. She never looked up.

I was getting a case of the grumpies and finally moved to the connector car where I could huff and stomp and press my nose against the little slit panel windows in the door. It was the best I could do. The terrain was stunning and as such had created great engineering challenges to developing a rail line to traverse it. The height differential between the railway line and the valley floor was resolved through the construction of “turning tunnels” where the train makes 180 degree turns before emerging beneath where it entered. In this way the train descends into the valley until it reaches the unique Kylling bridge, built in gneiss granite, which spans the River Rauma. The railway took ten years to build and has been in operation for over eighty years. Descending into the valley turn by turn, crossing the bridge over crystal clear water the color of pale turquoise, then winding back up again to pass a breath away from the Trollveggen mountain wall, a sheer cliff wall much like Eiger in Switzerland, kept me glued to the tiny slit of a window, snapping pictures in vain for most of the journey. Little did I know the train ride would not begin to compare to the bus ride from Andlesnes to Alesund.

I have to take my words from another post because I don’t know how to describe it any better than the pathetic attempt made previously. How do you describe a country this beautiful? These are the moments I wish I was a painter instead of a writer. For two hours I rode slack-jawed on the bus, flipping right then left then backwards in the back row - which thank goodness I had to myself - astounded by the blues. A rainbow of blues I have never seen before. Never imagined before. Deep, vibrant, full, pure. The water, the sky, the mist, even some of the clouds are all stunningly different shades of blue. The water ranges from the lightest turquoise to a blue so midnight it almost seems like oil glistening in the sunlight. But the blue-blue, the blue that makes up the water of the fjords, that is the most breathtaking blue you can imagine. Deeper than the purist lapis in the most beautiful Renaissance paintings of the Madonna’s robes. I have never seen anything like it by man or by nature.

I have never seen water so clear either – buoys atop the water look like they are floating in the air. The reflection so clear you can’t distinguish where reality ends and the reflection begins. Amazing. Simply amazing. And the air… the air is transparent. As air was meant to be….

I had no idea the bus ride would be so incredible. I had seen a picture of Alesund in a tourist book – quaint art deco buildings rising straight out of the water of a little inlet the town was built around. It was some version of Venice meets Victoria. I just had to see it. By the time the bus arrived it was after ten. Season ends in Norway the second week in August. With the tourists shooed away, the town was already sleeping, resting in that deep reprieve that follows any high season. There were no couchsurfing profiles in Alesund so I was looking at another night of hotel expense. With a travel budget of $30 a day for food, transportation, sights, and all, days when I have to do a hotel hit pretty hard. I stopped at the hotels near the bus station – all were over $100. The hostel was miles away with no transport and the backpackers lodge was full. It was looking like I’d be curling up on the side of the street somewhere. I saw the sign for a guesthouse. Hmmm, worth a try. The clerk took pity on me, offering me a $30 discount on the $110 room, well…. How could I refuse a kindness extended after midnight?

Now understand I had been wandering Alesund close to two hours, bags in hand, and didn’t have a clue exactly where I was in the town anymore. After 14 hours of traveling, I didn’t much care either. I thanked him for his kindness and dragged myself up to my room. My clothes were off by the time I walked from the door to the bed of the quaint white-walled, wood-trimmed room and I was dreaming in the fluffy down comforter and white sheets within ten minutes of having walked in the door of the hotel. I awoke the next morning, sunlight streaming through the double sided glass door that made up most of the far wall of the room. I wrapped a sheet around me, walked the two feet to the doors and opened them. There was no balcony, only an iron railing. The railing was there to keep you from falling into the water directly below. As I took in the surroundings by the light of day it dawned on me, I was staying in the very building that I had seen in the picture - the building that had made me decide to come to Alesund in the first place! It never ceases to amaze me the beauty of coincidences.

I got dressed quickly, took advantage of the delightful little breakfast buffet, and was on the streets within the hour. Little did I know that Alesund’s beautiful Art Nouveau architecture is known far and wide. Walking the streets feels more like you have been transported to the pages of a fairytale book than walking real streets. A fire in 1906 destroyed virtually the entire city at a time when the country was in severe economic difficulty. Donations poured in from Europe and the world to help the families who had lost everything – home, job, possessions. Amazingly only one person died in a fire that enveloped the entire town in the dark of night as they slept. Workers, architects, and engineers from all over Norway and parts of Europe poured in to help reconstruct the town. It is this uniformity of structure, painted with broad brush strokes of the Art Nouveau style that was sweeping the world at the time, that gives the town such a fairytale feel. Turrets, spires, beautiful ornamentation adorn the buildings painted in whites and pastels. The Art Nouveau Centre is interesting and uniquely done with a simple but impressive multi media approach to describe both the town’s reconstruction and the Art Nouveau movement in general.

Alesund is centrally located and thus a superb home base from which to explore the area around – most notably Geirangerfjord, considered by some the most beautiful Fjord in Norway. The tourist center is the most helpful, friendly center I encountered in the four months I traveled. They know everything and smile while they tell you anything you want to know. I was impressed. Of the sixty plus cities I visited on this trip it is one of the few I will return to for a vacation one day. There is just more to see than I could begin to see in the time I had (and on the budget I had, Norway is exorbitantly expensive). Unfortunately, I did not know when I went there how much there was to do from there and so had already planned to take the Hurtigruten that night.

I wandered all day, meandering through the streets, along the bays and inlets, through the back neighborhoods, even climbing to the top of Aksla, the town mountain, for a beautiful view of Alesund as well as the archipelago and the majestic Sunnmore Alps. The highlight of the day however was Edel at Trankokeriet Antikk I had run into an Italian couple at the Art Nouveau Centre. I grab every chance I have to practice Italian so we chatted several minutes about Alesund and the other places they and I had seen. Later that day I was walking through a virtually abandoned part of town along the water. One of the town’s larger five star hotels was just a few hundred yards back but as I continued down the street, the shops and inhabited buildings were clearly dwindling. I was just about to turn around when the Italian couple I had spoken with earlier emerged from a plain white barn looking building. “Ciao! Che piacere rivederti cosi’ presto!” Hey, what a pleasure to see you again so soon! We chatted for about ten minutes. They told me as they were leaving that I simply had to go inside and check the place out, that it was amazing.

I opened a creaky old white door to another world. There were antiques of every kind imaginable, all perfectly displayed in total disarray. One corner of the room was filled with nautical antiques, replete with an old boat and fishing nets; others were set up like Victorian living rooms with all the appropriate accoutrements. In the center there were glass cases and shelves overflowing with silver and jewelry, opium boxes, and any number of other smaller treasures. To the right was a bright smiling lady – about my height with a petite little figure dressed in black, short hair, and shiny, happy eyes. The side of the room where she was standing was a small café, pastries sat in the glass covered window with a bright, shiny cappuccino machine sitting nearby. Three bench style tables were arranged before the picture glass windows that looked out over the sea for the building was built in part on stilts rising out of the water. It gave you the sense of being on a boat on calm waters rather than in a building.

She greeted me in Norwegian. I apologized, saying I spoke English. She switched languages with the ease of flipping on a light and chatted with me as I perused the silver jewelry. To my shock and amazement, she had opened the place just two weeks before. It had such a lived-in feel – like it had been there since the reconstruction after the fire! No she laughed. The cappuccino machine had just been delivered that day in fact and she was still trying to figure out how to use it. “I can help you with that.” I told her. “Really?!” “Sure, I was a barrista in Italy for three months.” Now while this is true, it would be a long stretch to say I was a good barrista, mostly because I never quite mastered the art of foam. My milk was always too hot or too thin. I tried to teach her what I knew intellectually but never mastered physically, reassuring her it was just a practice thing – which it is, practice and a gift that I don’t possess. We laughed over the fumbled attempts and both drank our cappuccinos just the same.

Her spirit amazed me. She had taken a huge leap of faith, giving up a smaller little shop in the center of town to create a dream on the outskirts. She has a serious marketing challenge just getting people to walk the five minutes in the opposite direction of civilization. If she conquers that challenge, she’ll have it made. You can’t walk into this store and not buy something if for no other reason than to pay tribute to how well she has done it. I thought I had explored all the nooks and crannies when the phone rang.- “you haven’t seen upstairs yet” she whispered to me as the voice on the other end of the phone began talking. Upstairs? I hadn’t even noticed the stairway in the center of the room it was so surrounded and bedecked with lovely goodies. I made my way upstairs – it was less homey, more antique store, and absolutely overflowing with treasures. Thank god I don’t have a home (and a job), I would have bought half that store, easily. I came back down as she was wrapping up the phone call. “Oh, I want to show you the gallery,” she said. Gallery?! Sure enough there was a large stair well in the back corner of the building. She had lined the walls up all three flights with artwork by Anne Gunn Oedegaard. I’m afraid to say I don’t have much appreciation for art, particularly modern art. I see things I like, but they are relatively few and far between. There were four paintings by this artist I would have loved to own (again, how I appreciate the homeless with no job status. It makes shopping discussions so much easier – Me: “No. You don’t have any place to put it.” Me: “Okay.”)

It was the most unexpected find. This quaint, overflowing shop, this bright, overflowing spirit on a deserted street in a little town I had never heard of three days before. I bought a silver necklace, mostly to pay homage to her efforts. We exchanged contact information and I promised to visit Alesund again and see how the shop was doing. If you go to Norway, definitely make the time to visit Alesund and to visit Edel at Trankokeriet Antikk I’ll bet she makes the best cappuccino in town by then!

After my delightful antique experience I made my way to Dirty Nelly’s, a little Irish pub near the center of town. It was already getting cold in the late afternoon and I was craving a bowl of hot soup and a warm place to write. It was $13 for a bowl of water with vegetables and one piece of lamb. Cearly the owner didn’t understand the concept Irish Pub - namely, good home cookin’ at a good home price and lots of beer in a joint decorated with decaying ‘50s books and medical signs. He got the books and medical signs, but everything else was a little too posh for an Irish Pub, especially the prices. The soup was really quite good, especially considering there were only 46 cents worth of ingredients in it. Everything is absurdly priced in Norway so it was hard to complain much. Besides Van Morrison was playing on the stereo, the bartenders were friendly, and I had a nice window seat at a little table looking out on the town.

The late evening dragged as I waited for the midnight departure of the Hurtigruten. I chatted with another lady hanging out in the lobby of the hotel, obviously roomless and awaiting departure same as me. It is funny how you can leave your hotel room at nine in the morning and wander until midnight, never missing your room. But when you don’t have the room to go back to you feel like an orphan, lost and homeless. It would be no better on the ship. Two nights in hotels broke the bank enough, I wasn’t about to pay money for a cabin on the ship. I knew I could find a chair or corner somewhere to curl up and sleep. Sure enough I found a couch in a bar that was closed all night. I was so excited to find an empty somewhat hidden room, I grabbed it - making the mistake I know better than to make of not exploring a place in its entirety before deciding where to settle in. I didn’t realize – a) that there was no heat in this particular room; and b) that there were a zillion places to sleep all around the upper deck which had heat, a beautiful view and only three other people cabinless like me. Oh well. It was a terrible night sleep as I tossed and turned beneath my towel-turned-blanket having nightmares of Lapland – god knows why. I awoke grumpy and tired, squinting at what I could tell was morning light. I had no money for coffee and was rather peeved to find that when I checked in they hadn’t told me I could link my credit card to my cruise ship card so that it would make one purchase at the end and now they couldn’t. For me, there are few things worse than starting the day after a lousy night sleep without a cup of coffee! I decided to appease myself by finding the way outside and watching the sunrise.

And here words fail…. And yet what can I do but try – pure isolation, air clear as a hurricane swept island the day after, to the right islands dropped in the water like fall leaves on a lake, the coastline rising dramatically to the left, water sometimes blue like an autumn sky other times dark like oil shimmering in the sunlight, mirror-like images of the clouds above upon the water disturbed only by the ripples of our passing barge; nature dressed in her most beautiful gown accentuated only by her natural beauty. Amazing. Simply amazing. I took pictures. They could never do it justice. And if I took the picture that did, you’d think I did it digitally. This place is that beautiful – not because it is dramatic, there are places more dramatic; not because it is wild and unpopulated, there are places more wild; but because you look at it and you know THIS is how our world is supposed to look. This is how beautiful our world is when the air and the water and the land are untainted by man.

The Hurtigruten, or Coastal Express as it is also known, has been cruising the coast of Norway from Bergen to Kirkenes and back for over 100 years. Every day it leaves Bergen, threading the tricky sea channels for the 2,500 nautical mile round trip to Kirkenes, an outpost on the desolate Norwegian-Russian border. (Did you realize Norway and Russia share a border?). It was once the mail ship. Now it is a mixture of first class passenger vessels and local working ships. The entire cruise takes eleven days, though you can pick up the ship at any of the 35 ports it calls at and ride to any other, as I did from Alesund to Bergen. If you ever go, and you should, do consider carefully which boat you select. None compare to the Carnival Cruise lines of the world, the philosophy being the entertainment is the scenery outside the window laden decks, but some are more luxurious than others and all, it is rumored, have a different personality.

One day I will go back and take the entire trip up the coast. I had only two regrets on this journey - that I spent too long in Spain and that I didn’t take the bus from Finland to the north of Norway and the Hurtigruten down to Bergen. I can’t do anything about the first but the second I will rectify one day.

Someone Give That Girl A Soapbox

Tuesday, August 29, 2006 - Aboard the Hurtigruten

I have been in Norway just seventy-two hours – long enough to decide this is the most beautiful country I have ever seen and I’ve barely seen anything. How do you describe a country this beautiful? These are the moments I wish I was a painter instead of a writer. For two hours I rode slack-jawed on the bus, flipping right then left then backwards in the back row - which thank goodness I had to myself - astounded by the blues. A rainbow of blues I have never seen before. Never imagined before. Deep, vibrant, full, pure. The water, the sky, the mist, even some of the clouds are all stunningly different shades of blue. The water ranges from the lightest turquoise to a blue so midnight it almost seems like oil glistening in the sunlight. But the blue-blue, the blue that makes up the water of the fjords, that is the most breathtaking blue you can imagine. Deeper than the purist lapis in the most beautiful Renaissance paintings of the Madonna’s robes. I have never seen anything like it by man or by nature. A photo could do it no more justice than these words, though I tried on both accounts.

When I was thirteen I trained as an ice-skater in Colorado Springs. I remember walking to the rink at five o’clock in the morning, the air crystal clear in the dawning sunlight around me. I remember hiking Cheyenne Mountain and looking out over the Springs below and on off into the distance for hundreds of miles. Air was transparent, the sky vivid, the sun reflective, all in a clarity so perfect, it was unnoticeable. I have looked for that crystal clarity all my adult life - across the Grand Canyon, through the hills and valleys of the Blue Ridge Parkway, upon the waters of both the Pacific and the Atlantic ocean, and in numerous forests, mountains, rivers and lakes between them. The only place I ever saw it again was once in Charlotte, the day after a hurricane blew through the east coast. The hurricane did no damage, it just swept through leaving behind crystal clear air. I have pouted in Italy, stomped my feet in Spain, complained even in Switzerland that there is something in the air, a haze that doesn’t belong there, that wasn’t always there. People look at me like I’m crazy (actually they do that a lot). It is the weather pattern, they say, or the way it has always been, or even that there is no haze, when it is clear (excuse the pun) before their eyes. But I remember what clear air looks like and what I have seen around me for three decades isn’t the air I remember from my days as a girl. I began to think I had created a memory better than the reality; that it was a world seen through wide-eyed youth when everything seems simple and beautiful and clear. Until I came to Norway.

This is the air I remember. This is how far I remember you could see on a clear day. This is what our world looks like. How can we turn blind eyes to what we are doing to this world we are blessed with? I guess because they are filled with smog. I’m not an activist sort – I often believe activists are fed and feed propaganda like every other political faction. But one bus, one train, and one boat ride through Norway and it is suddenly crystal clear to me in a very literal way that we are destroying our world with pollution. That before long beautiful views will be as dull as our produce has become in America. Americans rave about the food in Italy because we have tasted commercialized, processed, pesticide infested, inbred crap for so long we have forgotten what real food tastes like. It is happening with our skies, we are looking through skies so filled with pollution we have forgotten what clean air looks like and that it used to cover this land. In Norway it still exists. Now. How long will it last?

What do we do to reverse this trend? Who is responsible? The government sure as hell isn’t going to take responsibility. Corporations are and should be here to make money. Capitalism works well because it is driven by greed. Greed is quite simply the marriage of the two basic motivating forces of man – fear and desire. People are given a place in the system, more or less, based on their personal levels of desire and fear. Enough desire can overcome the worst of obstacles. Enough fear can overcome the best of advantages. Change is the underpinning of capitalism and humanity’s greatest resource. Hope, is born of change. Communism doesn’t work because without change, there is no hope. Without hope, life dies like leaves without sunshine. Greed has to be the fulcrum to capitalism – that is the only way it works. Logic, societal interest, fairness – none of these things can hold up a human system. Marx proved that. There is too much subjectivity to these concepts. I believe in corporate responsibility - it is the corporation’s responsibility to make money. It is OUR responsibility to make it unprofitable to make money in a societally destructive way.

Everything starts and ends with us, individually. It is what you get up and do every day as an individual that shapes our world – not corporate policy, not government policy. Our tomatoes suck quite simply because something more than quality, namely convenience, became what we as consumers demanded. Our air is worse with every passing day because it is more important to us to drive our cars to work everyday than force the existence of other options. .

Who fed us the plate of crow that said we can’t make a difference? More importantly, why did we buy it lock, stock, and barrel? The things that individual men have done alone or in a collective force are the only things that have ever changed ANYTHING. Einstein, the American Revolution, Ghandi, Mother Teresa, the people of Berlin and countless countries that one by one, hand in hand dismantled communistic control. Our government didn’t win the cold war, individual people stopped it. These are the things that change the world – men, not corporations and not even governments. Why has our country succumbed to the idea that we don’t make a difference? Our votes, our choices, our dollars. Look at the people around you. Listen to their conversations. We believe we are helpless in the tide of events, pointless in the tide of history.

The greatest difference I see between Americans and the people of all these countries is we live in a permanent state of fear and stress so every-present it is as unnoticeable as the absence of clear air. Fear is born of the inability to control - it is born of insignificance, of powerlessness. Stress is born of a constant sense of not being enough. Both are the natural byproducts of a people who believe they have no power and, therefore, no responsibility. We look at each other over Martinis in deep conversations fueled by controlled press and declare, “Well, what could I really do anyway?” A lot. You can change the world. I hope you do before you lose the chance to ever see a land as beautiful as this.

The Twenty-Four Hour Road To Hell

Friday, August 25, 2006

11:30 a.m. Take a shower and prepare bags – there will of course be no hot running water in Hell so take your time and enjoy.

1:08 p.m. Catch the Train from Rovaniemi, Finland to Kemi.

Enjoy the chat with the precious youngsters on their way to Christian camp. You won’t be seeing any more of those, well then again, Hell may be full of them.

2:29 p.m. Arrive Kemi train station. Wander around for ten minutes looking for Kemi bus station.

3:10 p.m. Catch the bus from Kemi to Tornio.

2:45 p.m. Arrive Tornio. Appreciate the 25 minutes you just gained because of the time change. Now you’ll have 25 less minutes in Hell – like that matters in Eternity.

2:50 p.m. Decide between sitting in the Tornio café/bus station/package center to wait two hours for the bus to Haparanda, Sweden or walk the 15 minutes it takes to get there. Hmmm….

3:00 p.m. Cross the border into Sweden

3:05 p.m. Arrive at the Haparanda Bus Station moments before the thunderstorm. Appreciate what may be your last moment of good timing.

4:10 p.m. Board the bus to Lulea. Strike up conversation with three young people from Hungary backpacking across Scandinavia. Enjoy the new friendships, they may be your last.

6:35 p.m. Arrive in Lulea. Enjoy your last meal – hamburger and French fries at a little stand by the train station with your new Hungarian friends.

If you ever make it out of Hell, you now have friends to visit in Budapest.

8:00 p.m. Take a walk with your new friends through Lulea. Realize there are some places in the world worse than Hell.

9:10 p.m. Board the train to Bracke. Enjoy your last few minutes visiting with your new friends.

9:27 p.m. Part with new friends with hugs and promises to visit.

11:00 p.m. Sleep…. Kindof.

4:43 a.m. Wake up with a start. The train has stopped. Where the HELL am I?! Scramble to get off; realize it is only 4:43 am. Go back to sleep.

5:43 a.m. Repeat. This time get your ass off the train.

5:45 a.m. Take pictures of the one stoplight town of Bracke, Sweden. Why not? This is surely a place you will never see again.

6:17 a.m. Board the train to Storlien (a few minutes late). Thank God there is a bistro car. Oh wait, you’re going to Hell. You don’t have to thank him anymore.

Chant. “Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.”

6:25 a.m. Thank the kind man who gave you the coffee when you didn’t have any Swedish crowns. Maybe this is heaven? No, the coffee sucks. Coffee wouldn’t suck in heaven.

8:00 a.m. Wonder exactly how big the forest is that you have been in since Finland and whether the fog that has surrounded the train since you woke up will ever lift.

8:30 a.m. Whine to no one in particular, “Are we in Hell, yet?” Hear a faint echo – “about half way…”

8:56 a.m. Watch in amazement as the train drives through what is literally a wall where the fog ends and the day begins.

Marvel at the wall of fog behind as you emerge into rolling landscape, green with evergreens, bordering a crystal blue lake, with perfectly painted quaint ski-village like houses,

beneath a cloudless Carolina Tarheel blue sky. Damn it is beautiful here.

9:04 a.m. Laugh at the sentence, “Are we in Are,” because that is where you are.

10:02 a.m. Arrive in Storlien (a few minutes late).

10:28 a.m. Board the train for Trondheim, Norway (a few minutes late).

11:28 a.m. WELCOME TO HELL

See you when you get here!

Rovaniemi Reindeer

Thursday, August 24, 2006

The best part of Rovaniemi, aside from meeting the Big Man himself, was undoubtedly the reindeer. It is actually a funny story why I had to go to Rovaniemi as long as I was in Finland. See, many years ago I read a book called the ‘Gift of Acabar’ by Og Mandino. He is a lesser known author though his book “The Greatest Salesman in the World” about Jesus and his teachings did very well some decades ago. I stumbled across ‘Gift of Acabar’ and fell in love with the precious fable about a little boy who discovered he could talk with a star that fell from the sky and landed in a tree in his little village. The star shared the wisdom of the ages with the little boy in a creed it called The Credenda. The Credenda, along with Desiderata, has long been one of my favorite creeds. This little boy lived in a small village in a place called Lapland where there were more reindeer than people and the people had a tremendous love and respect for the animal that provided their warmth, food, clothing, and means of survival. Now in a very logical way, I concluded since the author made up the talking star, he made up Lapland as well. Would there really be a land called Lapland of all things?! And of course I knew reindeer weren’t real – that is part of the Santa fable. I had seen the “real reindeer” in Christmas displays at the mall but honestly thought they did some kind of weird breeding thing with normal deer to create the different antlers. I know. I’m blonde.

So I spent fifteen years of my adult life believing Lapland was a made-up land in a fable. Then I met someone from Lapland. Of course I thought she was pulling my leg and started laughing. “No, Sherry,” she said somberly, “I really am from Lapland. Those are my ancestors. Why are you laughing?” I looked at her incredulously. “Lapland?” “Yes, Lapland.” “But of course there aren’t reindeer there?!” I declared. “Of course there are reindeer there,” she said. “There are more reindeer than people.” “You mean reindeer are real?!” I cried.

She assured me the reindeer and Lapland and all the things in the book were true, except maybe the talking star. See I always related to Rudolph because the kids wouldn’t let me play reindeer games either (though I still haven’t found my red nose). I swore one day I would go see the reindeer and stand in the very real make-believe land of Lapland. Thursday I did.

I paid the rather absurd $70.00 and boarded a riverboat for a ride down the Kemijoki river beneath the Jätkänkynttilä bridge where the eternal flame burns for the city and onward to the reindeer farm. We walked across planks set above the marshes and emerged in a settlement with wigwams and hand constructed huts of different shapes and sizes. We were greeted by a Laplander in traditional Lapland clothing who took us into one of the wigwams for a ceremony around the fire. He performed a “bleeding” ceremony on us – faking that he was cutting our throats and removing the stress-filled blood so that we wouldn’t bring our Western stress to their tranquil lands – and marked us from the fire so that when we returned as reindeer in our next life he would recognize us and take care of us. Then we shared a bit of Reindeer Horn Powder – Lapland’s answer to Viagra. The ceremony was a bit silly but cute.

After, he let us loose in the reindeer pin. You can tell from the look on my face in some of the pictures I was giddy as a school girl. There were two couples from Spain that I ended up talking to a bit. Frank and Rachel were so kind, as were the others, and offered to take pictures of me. I could barely say yes I was so excited running from reindeer to reindeer petting them and shooting pictures at the same time. Their antlers are so cool and completely covered in fur! The reindeer themselves are soft and the baby was actually nuzzling me to pet on her. I could have stayed and played with them all day, but they dragged us off to the house to have coffee and cake before taking the river boat back to town.

Now I have to read “The Gift of Acabar’ again - now that I know it is all true. Maybe even the talking star is true, who knows. Following is ‘The Credenda,’ the words of wisdom the star shared with the little boy. If you are interested in reading the book, there is a link on my site to buy it through Amazon – I get a couple of pennies if you do. Go check out the pics too – I look cute with my next life reindeer antler marks.

Credenda

Turn away from the crowd & its fruitless pursuit of fame & gold. Never look back as you close your door to the sorry tumult of greed & ambition. Wipe away your tears of failure & misfortune. Lay aside your heavy load & rest until your heart is still. Be at peace. Already it is later than you think, for your earthly life, at best, is only the blink of an eye between two eternities. Be unafraid. Nothing here can harm you except yourself. Do that which you dread & cherish those victories with pride. Concentrate your energy. To be everywhere is to be nowhere. Be jealous of your time, since it is your greatest treasure. Reconsider your goals. Before you set your heart too much on anything, examine how happy they are who already possess what you desire. Love your family & count your blessings. Reflect on how eagerly they would be sought if you did not have them. Put aside your impossible dreams & complete the task at hand no matter how distateful. All great achievements come from working and waiting. Be patient. God’s delays are never God’s denials. Hold fast. Know that your paymaster is always near. What you sow, good or evil, that you will reap. Never blame your condition on others. You are what you are through your choice alone. Learn to live with honest poverty, if you must, & turn to more important matters than transporting gold to your grave. Never meet trouble halfway. Anxiety is the rust of life; when you add tomorrow’s burdens to today’s their weight becomes unbearable. Avoid the mourner’s bench & give thanks, instead, for your defeats. You would not receive them if you did not need them. Always learn from others. He who teaches himself has a fool for a master. Be careful. Do not overload your conscience. Conduct your life as if it were spent in an arena filled with tattlers. Avoid boasting. If you see anything in you that puffs you with pride look closer & you will find more than enough to make you humble. Be wise. Realize that all men are not created equal, for there is no equality in nature, yet no man was ever born whose work was not born with him. Work every day as if it were your first, yet tenderly treat the lives you touch as if they will all end at midnight. Love everyone, even those who deny you, for hate is a luxury you cannot afford. Seek out those in need. Learn that he who delivers with one hand will always gather with two. Be of good cheer. Above all, remember that very little is needed to make a happy life. Look up. Reach out. Cling simply to God & journey quietly on your pathway to forever with charity & a smile. When you depart it will be said by all that your legacy was a better world than the one you found.

Og Mandino Gift of Acabar

Guess Who I Met?!

Thursday, August 24, 2006

It was a hell of a price to pay – twenty-two extra hours of travel time to go north through Finland before cutting over to Norway, but it was worth it just to shake the Big Man’s hand, personally, while actually standing in the Arctic Circle. He explained to me that he has several houses during his non-traveling months, the one at the North Pole being his favorite and, surprisingly, the one in Australia his second favorite. I told him I actually knew about the other homes after my debate with a Dane about whether he lived in Greenland. See Danes are quite belligerent about that so I was forced to google where exactly he lived. I was surprised to find out how many “official” postal addresses he had! You can address his letters to specific places – including Alaska, Canada, Greenland, Australia, or where I was, just outside Rovaniemi, Finland, or you can just write his name, in any given language, in which case the local post office will forward it to one of his official addresses. Most likely it will be forwarded to the post office I was just at a few minutes ago with the happy little helper elves, one of whom offered to put stamps on my post cards so I could have time to say hi to the man and still catch my bus.

So thanks to his sweet helper Elf, Santa and I sat there chatting about twenty minutes. Thankfully there was an oversized stool next to him so I wasn’t on his lap. He looked like a fairly robust Santa but I don’t think anyone would want me sitting on their lap twenty minutes, well, not with clothes on any way…. Is it morally wrong to make a sex joke in a sentence about Santa?

So we chatted about the weather and my trip and where I was from. I had a dumb blonde moment, forgetting of course that I was talking to Santa himself and not one of those mall look-alikes for the kiddies. When I told him I was from Charlotte, he said, “oh yes – know the place well. Have been there several times.” Oh really?!” I responded, surprised of course that he would have had any reason to be in Charlotte. He said “Yes, yes, it was about eight months ago I think.” I still didn’t catch it. “Really, whereabouts? What were you doing there?” I asked; actually excited at the thought Santa had been in my city. He hesitated for just a minute which must have been my subconscious clue. “Oh, well, it was a quick trip through really.” It hit me like a ton of bricks. Eight months ago. Santa. Of course he had been in Charlotte, he would have been in every city on the planet – that would have been Christmas Eve, almost to the day. I felt like an idiot. “Uh, oh, yeah, yeah of course, eight months ago.” I stammered. “Oh, but you couldn’t find me. I didn’t have a home then for you to come to.” “Well, where will you be this year?” he asked “I’ll make sure I stop by.” I told him I didn’t think I’d have a home again this year either, but I’d send him a card once I got settled again.

He asked some more about my travels and what I was writing. I explained a bit, asked if he had read any Bill Bryson travel books who writes the closest to the style I am writing. He said no so I recommended a few books. And then, get this, I gave him my card! I told SANTA to check out my website, that I’d put a link for the Bill Bryson books on there and he could read about our chat. SANTA! It seemed at first the most natural thing in the world – I hand everyone my card when they ask about the writing. But SANTA?! What a trip that would be – to have Santa reading my blogs. Santa, if you read this, post a comment, please. No one would ever believe me.

By the way, the movie was right. He changed easily between languages and spoke English with the indeterminable accent that tends to happen once people speak seven or more languages fluently. We shook hands good-bye and he wished me luck and promised me again that he and Rudy would swing by when I settled down again.

See, I told you guys he was real!

Funny Finn Train Travel

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

I am making my way North through Finland to stand in the Arctic Circle. English has completely disappeared, at least from the train stations and train attendants. The last night train I was on I wanted a seat and got a sleeper. This time I wanted a sleeper and got a seat. I tried to tell the train attendant in Tempere I wanted to sleep. “S-l-e-e-p-e-r” I said slowly; and loudly, because for some reason we seem to think if we speak more loudly, people who don’t speak our language will understand us better. For the record, it doesn’t help it just irritates the person you are trying to get to understand you

The nice non-English speaking train man put his hands prayer-like under his cheek, cocked his head sideways, closed his eyes, then pointed at me and shook his head back and forth. “No. You sit,” he said, pointing to me. “Yes, I know. I had this same, uh, conversation with the ticket lady. But I want to sleep.” I pointed to me, put my hands prayer like under my cheek, bent my head sideways, close my eyes, then pointed to me again and said, “Me, sleep?” “No, you sit” he said, pointing to me again. “No. Pay money – sleep,” I said, rubbing forefingers and thumbs together to indicate cold hard cash. “No, you sit,” he said again. I gave up. “Where I sit?” I asked deflatedly. He pointed down the track. I knew that was the best I was going to get for information as to where exactly my seat might be so I set off, trying to decipher the ticket. Of course the ticket was in Greek or Finn or whatever so I couldn’t decipher little things like “car” and “number”. Distinguishable Latin derivatives disappeared a long time ago.

I walked the length of the train, peering in the cars for someplace empty of people and full of sleep potential. Then I spotted it, an empty car, with a section glassed off and seats lined along the walls instead of two by two rows. Translation – BED! It was like my very own room. I was elated. I grabbed a row of seats and settled in – proud of my triumph. As it turned out I was in the dog car – yes dog car. How apropos. I was joined over the next few stops by a variety of canines each sporting the same breed of owner. I asked the person who belonged to the black and white border-collie look-alike if it was a Border Collie. She said no, he was a hunting dog. “Hunting?” I asked. “Yes,” she responded, “he hunt Elk and Bear.” “What?!” “Yes,” she stopped and looked up to the right to check her recollection of English vocabulary, “Yes, he hunt Elk and Bear. He bark. Bear stop. Men come, shoot bear.” We’re not in Kansas anymore Toto….

A few minutes later an alien came in. No really. Remember the “Men in Black” dog? The pug with the really bizarre face. Make him brown, keep the face, but give him a Chihuahua body. He was the strangest little dog I’ve ever seen – except perhaps the dog in Barcelona that was so bizarre looking I had to stop and take a picture. The girl with the alien dog arrived huffing and puffing, gibbering on in Greek or Finnish or something, ninety miles a minute with great enthusiasm as she turned her head like back and forth like an owl, looking first at me and then at the girl on the other side of the car. Suddenly she stopped talking and looked at me in that way that lets you know you are now supposed to contribute to the conversation. I smiled and said, “uh, I speak English…. but I take it something went wrong, you were sure there was no way you were going to make the train, you had to run all the way here, and you don’t know what you would have done if you hadn’t made it.” She said, “Exactly, you understand Finnish very well.” I laughed, “No, I’ve run to catch a lot of trains. I recognize the huffing and puffing!” They laughed. I don’t think because they actually understood but because it appeared from my inflection and pause that I had made a joke. That was the end of our conversation.

The dogs got acquainted in typical fashion. I don’t know about you, but I’d be scared poopless if I were a Chihuahua and a bear-hunting dog was sniffing my testicles! Maybe he was confident in his alien powers to tame the bear hunter. The girls chatted awhile then we all stretched out to sleep, or at least attempt to sleep. I don’t know if they were pumping air conditioning into the train or if the temperature outside had plummeted below 0 degrees, but it was frickin’ freezing. At various points in the night’s attempt at sleep, I had pulled out a sweater, my sleep sack, and the towel/blanket that has been taking up space the entire trip, thankful I hadn’t sent it home. As if the cold wasn’t enough for my skaters’ knees that got 80 years of use in my 8 years as an ice-skater and now feel like they are 88, these are the ricketiest, squeakiest, most jolting trains I have ever been on. It was like trying to sleep with a fifteen year old learning to drive stick in an army tank. Headphones helped the squeaking – now if I could only sleep through hitting the floor when the conductor would just hit his breaks for no reason. I swear he was messing with us for fun. Or maybe breaking for bears.

It was about 3:30 a.m. when the sun’s rays began gracing the horizon. At the next stop a pretty little husky-like dog came into our compartment – one part dog and fourteen parts fur – it was like a husky wearing an extra fur coat. How I envied that fur coat. I decided to believe it really was morning, after all there was sun, and headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth and the restaurant car to pay the highway robbery price of 2 euro for a thimble-sized coffee. For two hours of writing I never saw anything but evergreens and an occasional electric pole – and the pixels in my computer screen every time the conductor braked and I flew forward.

Interestingly, the scenery inside the train was also unchanging. With the exception of two extremely drunk young men, everyone on the train was twenty-something and blonde. Nope, erase that image in your mind right now. These were “farm bred” girls and sired by the same ‘pa’ from the looks of it. Every single one had hair blonder than mine, stood about 5’8”, and weighed about two hundred pounds. It was like a Wisconsin boy’s worst nightmare, a class full of blondes and none he wants to be locked in a dark room with - he’d feel like a poor alien Chihuahua dog getting his testicles sniffed by a bear hunter…

Tourin' Tallinn

Monday, August 21, 2006

Keeping in theme with the last entry, I boarded the Ferry at 9:30 a.m. Sunday morning and mounted the top deck where there was already a line at the bar and several Finns making morning toast – not as in bread, as in beer. The twenty-some odd drinkers on the top deck were the only people besides me below eighty years of age on this ship. I must have gotten on the Scandinavia Parents of AARP discount cruise or something. These eighty and ninety-somethings were proof positive that the propaganda against smoking is, uh, propaganda. Every damn one of them was smoking. I couldn’t tell which made me more nauseous – the aroma of the food from the cafeteria, the smoke smell of rooms laden with smoke for decades, or the smell of old people. (I’m sorry but they do smell different). The bar looked like a lonely-hearts club for the old and dying where they actually seemed to be enjoying the Finnish version of that song “Fire”. Remember? “But when we kiss, oooo-ooooo, f-i-i-i-r-e.” I couldn’t help but giggle – at that age the fire ain’t sexual, it’s because the senile forget to take the damn cigarette out of their mouths they get so excited about kissing! Of course that was better than the English version of “Country Roads” sung with Finnish Accents. And I’ll tell you, women should not be allowed to sing ‘Sweet Child of Mine’ ever, and certainly not with cruise ship back up bands.

When I truly couldn’t breathe anymore, I made my way to the cafeteria which was the only non-smoking room on the boat - not that it helped. I spotted an empty seat in front of a port hole at a table with four vibrant young ladies, they couldn’t have been a day over 76, and buried my head in my computer. Am I the only one who believes old people are really aliens and if they make direct eye contact with you, you become one? I mean think about it. You never see your relatives age, just one day you look at them and suddenly they are old. I’m telling you it is an alien abduction scam.

I must admit, I was touched when one of the ladies pulled out four rolls, another some lunch meat, another some cheese, and the last one exactly four cherry tomatoes. They made sandwiches to go with the four black coffees they had bought at the cafeteria and the one with the cherry tomatoes ceremoniously handed one, just one mind you, cherry tomato to each of her friends. I had to smile. I actually felt a little guilty for thinking they were aliens – though I still didn’t risk looking any of them in the eye.

Tallinn was an interesting city, though I spent a fair amount of time in the hotel catching up on writing. My host, Ele, and I missed each other at the Ferry terminal. A minor crash took the couchsurfing mail system off-line that morning so I didn’t get her email telling me where she was waiting. It turned out I was upstairs for almost three hours and she was outside for two. Damn. I finally wandered off to find a hotel and lucked into a decent price and wi-fi in the room! Ele and I finally got to meet for dinner at a neat little African restaurant the last night I was there. It was nice having the chance to dine with a real local and she was a delight to talk to, extremely well-traveled and still full of life and adventure at 55. I love women like that!

The hotel time was good for me. I’ve been lucky with rain. Every time I’ve needed to settle in and catch up on writing and pics, the rain has come and so it was in Tallinn. In breaks between clouds and writer’s cramp, I got in several walks through the Old Town, a tourist bus tour out to the convent ruins, and an audio guide walking tour. The Old Town is not only medieval in structure with its serpentine streets and old architecture, it is medieval in spirit. Throughout the town you will see pretty peasant faced girls in long traditional costume selling roasted nuts at little wooden wagons on the street or staffing the numerous restaurants, as well as a wide assortment of medieval style shops and stores. It is a bit like walking into a year round Scarborough Faire.

While the Russian tourists have come here for years, the European tourists have only begun to find it. It is clearly a favorite for Italians – so much so that many of the shop windows have signs declaring ‘Benvenuto!’ - ‘Welcome’ in Italian. There are just enough tourists parading the streets to have that nice tourist energy high without the too-many-tourists irritation. The tourists come with good cause as Tallinn also has been named a UNESCO World Heritage Property. After having randomly stopped without intention at several of UNESCO’s award properties, I finally checked out the list on line. There are just over eight hundred such properties around the world. For future reference, it is not a bad starting place for traveling ideas. The list is truly focused on our cultural and natural heritage, as opposed to the typical tourist sights – though of course they cross over a fair bit. Interestingly, America makes the list almost exclusively for its natural heritage in our many National Parks.

Generally I don’t go for the tourist-trap restaurants but Olde Halsa in Tallinn was an exception. Cute young girls with pug noses and pigtail braids dressed as wenches from days of old serve up village friendliness at wooden plank tables offering ceramic mugs full of ale in an interesting array of flavors including honey, cinnamon, and heavy herb. Figuring I probably wouldn’t like Heavy Herb Beer, I tried the cinnamon. It wasn’t half bad, for beer. The menu features everything from bear to boar, though the bear was a little pricey. I opted instead for the roasted boar which is served with sauerkraut, onion jam, pickled cucumbers, cheese bread, tart berries, and spelt – an old grain a little stronger tasting than barley. All fascinating flavors – different but good. After dinner, I ordered the offered specialty coffee - forgetting my rule that you never order a suggested dessert without checking the price. It was half the price of my meal. Damn it was good though – a bit stronger than an Irish Coffee with rich sweet whip cream on top and a little ginger cake wrapped up in brown paper and tied with a brown paper string. These are a few of my favorite things….

It has been over a month since I have felt like a stranger in a strange land. Everywhere I have been in Scandinavia, including nearby Tallinn, English is a common language. It is a job requirement for people working in Old Town. A local newspaper, the Baltic Times, is actually in English. Despite the fact they will learn English for business purposes, Estonians are fiercely proud of their language. While there are only about a million speakers of Estonian in the world today, they are determined to keep their language alive and well. Every five years close to 100,000 people descend upon Tallinn in July for the All Estonian Song Festival. There is a huge open air amphitheatre built for the festival on the outskirts of the town, though it is of course used for other performances between festival years. The largest single choir ever conducted took place here with over 33,000 singers performing as a combined choir – imagine! The Song Festival tradition actually began in 1869 during what Estonians call The National Awakening. The continued tradition led to what was known in the 1980’s as the Singing Revolution and is credited with the country’s success in reestablishing their independence from Russia.

Now, with less than fifteen years since their break with the Soviet Union, you can smell Capitalism in the air around Tallinn. Like most new-opportunity societies, some people get it and some people don’t. You would see girls like the bright little blonde working the streets to sell postcards in the sunshine and umbrellas in the rain with a cheerful smile and irresistible enthusiasm. And you would see girls like the one at the coffee shop obviously irritated at the foreign dollar and those there to spend it. The locals seem to be caught between wanting the opportunity that capitalism brings while not wanting the hustle, bustle, stress, and corruption that it also brings. Understandable.

You can see the war between old ways and new ways in the way women dress as well. The streets are filled with extremely attractive, classy young ladies dressed in tight above-the-knee business skirts doing the hip-swinging tight rope walk in their stiletto heels. They walk side by side with women the same age in potato sack dresses and head covers. Interestingly, many of the blondes, who even here make up about fifty percent of the female population, have the buttery smooth skin usually reserved for the women of the Mediterranean. Most blondes are freckled and a bit splotchy, me included. Yet these blondes have that lovely skin you just want to swim in it is so pure and clear. No I haven’t switched teams, I just appreciate female beauty. Many of the women, both old and new, were carrying flowers in the streets. Flower giving seems to be a medieval tradition that has carried on here. With rows of florist shops at the entrance to old town, they were the only shops left open when the sun went down.

I will say, the nice thing about new capitalistic societies is they have wireless access everywhere! In the terminals, the coffee shops, hotels, and restaurants. Wi-Fi is always a plus in my book and usually an indication of the forward looking attitudes of the city’s tourism industry. The same contrast exists here, for while some are clearly looking to the future with the attempted (though often failed) effort to implement successful tourist programs from other cities, you can see they have not let go of the past. There is a strong resentment of the Russians here and it shows. It became my source of entertainment listening to the less than interesting tour guides to see how many digs they made on the power-flaunting Russians. The Alexander Nevsky Cathedral is a beautiful piece of traditional Russian Orthodox architecture built on the upper part of Old Town. The audio guide describes in tremendous detail the little walk way (called Little Leg) and long walk way (called, you guessed it, Long Leg) that connect the upper and lower towns. It tells every detail of the construction and reconstruction of St. Olav’s Church which they claim once had the tallest spire in the world (though I don’t think anyone has substantiated that claim). Stories are told of Tall Herman, their watchtower, as well as numerous other walls, towers, buildings, and churches in the town. But when you reach the Cathedral, certainly one of the most interesting and unique structures in the city, the guide sums it up in about two sentences – basically, that the Russians built it to show their power and piss off the Estonians, removing the town’s statue to Martin Luther and obstructing what had been a lovely view of and from the Troompea Castle. The guide then goes on to describe the Castle in tremendous detail. Here, let me help you get that chip off your shoulder…

The audio guide tour ends at the Town Hall Square which has been a market place for centuries. A quick climb up the almost insurmountably steep steps to the tower will give you a lovely though barred view of the city. It was here in the Town Hall Square that I had a random chance meeting with a journalist for the Toronto Sun. He was doing a travel article for the paper on Finland and had taken a detour, like I had, to Tallinn. He asked me about my travels and couchsurfing, declaring with heartening enthusiasm that I had a great book concept, and told me he would try to put a mention and link to my site in his article. Let’s cross our fingers for that one!

Personally, I had the sense that Tallinn carried a bit of a Disney World façade – look too far beneath the surface of the city and you might not like what you see. That said a bag full of warm nuts, a meal at Olde Hansa, and a stroll through streets that seem to belong to another time, certainly make the old town a charming and pleasant place to pause for a day or two on holiday.

The Finns - Firewater and Fireworks

Sunday, August 19, 2006

I enjoyed the waking part of the ferry from Stockholm to Helsinki. It was the closest I have been to being on a real cruise ship. After wandering the decks, searching every stairwell destination, writing through the afternoon, and watching the sun set over the archipelago – a stunningly beautiful place, I dined on a lovely repast of old sandwich and older fruit, enjoyed the free coffee, worked on the ridiculously priced internet awhile, and had a delightful chat with two Canadian boys who were headed to the Rally in Finland and then down through several of the places I had come up through. As always I shared my love for the couchsurfing experience – they, like many, were taken with the idea. I’ll bet they are couchsurfing now as I write this.

No cruise/ferry experience is complete without a trip to the duty free store. I certainly didn’t need four cases of beer or two cartons of cigarettes like everyone else apparently did, but I felt left out not carrying around my own craftily gotten tax free goods. After wandering down every aisle amazed at the frantic pace with which people were buying booze, I bought a pint bottle of Baileys, a pack of cigarettes, and a little box of dark chocolate, from Holland of all places. It would take me a week to eat the chocolates and a month to smoke the cigarettes but the Baileys was all but gone in a day. Nothing can turn a bad cup of free cruise ship coffee around quite like a couple shots of Baileys! As I walked out of the store, small little brown bag in hand, amidst people rolling shopping carts filled with liquor, chocolate, and cigarettes, I remembered a similar experience when I had first moved to Charlotte eleven years ago.

For foreign readers not familiar with American geography and the rest of you who don’t know about Charlotte yet, it is one of America’s fastest growing cities, set in North Carolina but near the South Carolina border, it is about three hours inland from the Atlantic Ocean.. I had moved there at the end of August, otherwise known as the beginning of hurricane season. The first hurricane that moved up the east coast that season sent the Charlotteans into a panic. Now I’m no meteorology expert, but as far as I knew, hurricanes didn’t generally make it three hours inland without being downgraded to a tropical storm. A little rain, maybe some flooding but they didn’t actually HIT a three hour inland city, did they?

Well apparently one had. Hurricane Hugo was a category four hurricane that wreaked havoc on the South Carolina coast in 1989, causing over 7 billion dollars in damage. A strange confluence of weather circumstances across the Carolinas created what was basically a walled alley directly from Charleston to, you guessed it Charlotte. The storm was still a category one hurricane when it blew into Charlotte three hours away. It did a tremendous amount of damage. One out of every three trees was uprooted, tearing down power lines and damaging structures all over the city. Ninety-eight percent of the city’s residents lost power, some for upwards of three weeks. Memories of Hugo were still strong in the minds of Charlotteans, even after eight years. Of course, I didn’t know all this my first week there and watched incredulously as Charlotteans raced to clear the bread shelves and grocers raced to refill them. Not believing a hurricane could actually hit the city but not wanting to feel like a complete idiot if it did hit and I hadn’t done anything to prepare, I went to the store and meekly exited the store, sandwiched between carts piled high with enough foodstuffs to last a month, with a loaf of bread, a pack of D batteries, and a gallon of water. It was, I’d say, an effort in futility since I wouldn’t have lasted more than three days in an actual emergency, but then I knew every person in town had enough to feed me for a month.

Here I was again with one little brown bag, working my way through the shopping carts, this time filled with liquor instead of bread and milk. That is one of the first things you notice about the Finns – they do love to drink. A study indicated the Finns actually drink more per capita than the Irish and the Brits! Little did I know as I watched them wheeling tens of thousands of dollars of liquor off to their cabins, they would be drinking it all later that night! Or at least that’s how it seemed on the walk home – but I’m getting ahead of myself. Actually, I learned later 8% of Finland’s per capita alcohol sales are made in duty free stores, compared to most countries with less than 1%. The researchers can’t even get accurate per capita figures because Finns are known fro making home-grown alcohol, a residual effect of the attempted prohibition of alcohol some years back. Finns are not only serious about their drinking, they are serious about drinking at a bargain!

Back on the ferry it was midnight and the Hot Dance Company was about to start their interpretation of the Moulin Rouge. It was actually a decent little show though it never seems fair to me that the girls are barely clad and hot as hell while the guys are fully clothed and gay as hell. Can’t we have a little eye candy or hope too?! I sipped my drink, smoked a cigarette, and surreptitiously looked around the room to see if there was anyone worth a little flirt. The trip is almost over and I have not met one single man worthy of a one night stand card – I was only allotted about five of those during my morals-development stage as a teenager and I still have two to use before I am old and wrinkled (-er).

I realized I had unintentionally, but probably subconsciously, placed myself in a seat between two chatting couples at a bar one level up from the floor with the sitting booths - prime positioning to make it absolutely impossible to hit on or be hit on by anyone. I thought. I’m sure my failure to meet anyone this trip has been some sort of subconscious avoidance. If you had asked me before the trip I would have laughingly replied I intended to sleep my way across Europe. Now it seems I can’t be bothered. If my soul mate shows up to buy me a cup of coffee, I’d be delighted. Anything else, I’ve got writing and traveling to do. At first I was a bit worried about this 180 degree turn around from my life long affliction of being boy crazy, but it has come to be rather comforting to be more interested and passionate about what I am doing than the fantasies I can dream up about prince charming sweeping me off my feet. Prince Charmings never seem to be quite as good as they seem at first glance - I’ll take a good, intelligent man who gets me and likes me the way I am, thank you very much.

So I quit scanning the room and turned my attention to dance floor. As I was watching, someone leaned against my chair, turning it slightly It seemed odd since they weren’t talking to the people next to me and there weren’t enough people in the open bar area behind me that they could have been pushed into my seat. I thought someone stumbled and didn’t pay it much mind. A few minutes later it happened again. I half turned to see an overweight man who looked like he crawled off the short bus, both literally and figuratively. Okay let me rephrase the last line of the preceding paragraph – some prince charming qualities would be nice – at least be taller than me with a waist that is no more than twice as big as mine. The guy said what I took to be “sorry”. I smiled and went back to watching the show. Five minutes later the chair turned again. I ignored it. A few moments later it happened again. There was no doubt it was intentional this time so I turned to give the guy an exasperated look. It was a different guy. Same height mind you, same weight, same not-there look in the eye, but the hair was blondish brown instead of blonde and this guy had a mustache. He said something I took to be an apology, I said “no worries” and went back to watching the show. By the end of the thirty minute show it happened with two other guys – either they were all from the same family or the entire country is inbred. I downed the last of my drink and headed for my cabin for a good night’s sleep. Not. Between the rolling of the ocean and not wanting to disturb the stranger sleeping in the other bed, I laid stiff-backed all night imagining just how much water was around me right now and how impossible it would be to make it above water if the ship rain into an iceberg.

I arrived in Hellsinki red-eyed and bleary. My host, James, was kind enough to meet me at the ferry terminal and walk me to his home. He is actually from Australia but has lived in Finland for twelve years. He was filled with information and observations on the Finns and their history – including the explanation that Finns, a particularly shy people, will turn a bar stool to express interest in someone they are otherwise too shy to talk to. Ah-hah!

A student of the occult and spirituality trends, we had plenty to talk about as I perused his impressive library collection in his impressively small flat. I was admittedly taken aback when I realized this “couch” was in the bedroom, well the only room, as it was an efficiency apartment – kitchen on one end with a partial wall that separated it from the living/bedroom and a small shower with a toilet and sink in it. No I’m not kidding. The bathroom was the size of a shower, tiled in its entirety, with a drain in the middle of the floor, and a single water attachment that serviced both the showerhead and the half sized sink. It was actually a rather ingenious use of space. The living bed room had a large bunk bed on one side, James’ desk on the other and an oversized, what we used to call in college flip-and-fuck chair, that doubled as a couch. It is a good thing we got along well!

James left me to take a short nap while he went to a meeting, returning later that afternoon to cook us dinner while I took a quick walk. It didn’t take long to figure out what I read in the books was true – Fins are a bit funny. Interestingly, I had a very defined image in my mind of what a “Finn” looked like. I don’t know exactly where the image came from – probably in part Irving Stone’s “The Agony and The Ecstasy” mixed in with a Shakespeare reference somewhere, and maybe a Danny Kaye movie. In the indistinguishable clutter of millions of book references running around in my head, I had an image of the Finns as “the weird ones”; the ones who came to court and were just bizarre in their habits and tendencies, their speech and dress. The men were long and lithe, with long pointed but flat ridged noses that ended at a flat edge and a slight tinge of red to their hair and otherwise sallow skin, deep set eyes that gave them a look of the melancholy or sick – that royal inbred look. Don’t you know the first street I walked down – there he was, the spitting image of the picture in my mind’s eye of what a Finn looked like. Cheers to the authors who drew so well with their words. The guy was absorbed in his paper so I didn’t ask if he was descendant from the nobility but I did take a picture.

I returned to find dinner on the table. There’s nothing like eating a home cooked meal that you didn’t have to cook!! James took me through a brief history lesson on Finland. Aside from the unexplained mental images in my head, I knew nothing about the Finns or Finland. I didn’t know it was ruled by Sweden for eight hundred years or by Russia for over a hundred. Nor did I know that Finland, like many small countries, snagged its independence during the Russian Revolution when the mother country was otherwise occupied. They actually fought in the war on the side of Germany – not, they say, because they agreed with Hitler but because they wanted to fight against Russia. But today’s angst isn’t with Russia but with Sweden. When Russia was in control they let the Fins keep their own money and their own language, and though Russia did build some of their churches on Finnish soil, the Fins don’t have the resentment against them that other countries, like Estonia, do. Instead the Finns resent Sweden. Swedish is the second official language and Finns still take issue with the fact it was required in school. I find all these power struggle stories fascinating. I mean America has always been America. With the exception of the first couple land deals with the Spanish and the French, our borders were pretty much determined early in our history and have always remained where they were drawn originally. The idea that a city was part of Germany one day, then part of Poland the next, or a country ruled by Sweden one day and Russia the next is so difficult to comprehend, and fascinating. James was full of interesting history and information about the Finns and Finland and Helsinki.

Since Finland doors have special locks and keys that can’t be copied, James faithfully stayed by my side the entire weekend, taking all his time to show me around Helsinki and keep me company. First plan on the agenda was Helsinki’s Fireworks Competition. My arrival was propitious timing as they happened to be having a little couchsufing gathering in honor of the fireworks. We met up with a young Finnish man who was visiting from a nearby town, Tina, a vivacious, delightful young lady from Helsinki but living in Amsterdam, a lovely young girl from Russia, and her somewhat demoralizing boyfriend from Holland (who was devastated when I commented, without ill intention, that his Dutch accent was stronger than her Russian accent). After a couple beers we made our way to Helsinki’s second most celebrated night of the year – the annual Fireworks Competition. What is the most celebrated night of the year, you ask? May Day. I told you the Finns were weird.

We made our way with thousands of others to the harbor to watch the competition. The start was a bit disappointing and surprisingly nobody on the pier where we were perched had a radio to hear the music that was being broadcast in time to each competitor’s display. But by the end there had been several impressive sequences and I had even seen a few fireworks I had never seen before. Unfortunately the headache that had begun a few hours before was turning into a definitive migraine. We headed to another bar to meet up with another couchsurfer and his girlfriend but they were just drunk enough to be shouting in what is known as the Finnish Whine and my head just couldn’t take it. By the time I made it back to the apartment I was in agony.

The headache was still with me the next morning and remained until I was on the ferry to Tallinn. I’m sure there is much to appreciate about Helsinki, but it is hard to appreciate anything when you are in pain. I was duly impressed by the churches that flank the port as you enter on the ship – the pristine white Helsinki Cathedral to the left and the imposing red brick Uspenski Orthodox Cathedral to the right. The Helsinki Cathedral, with its white walls and green domed roofs was built in the neo-classical style and is topped by twelve zinc statues of the apostles, the largest uniform collection of zinc sculptures in the world. The Uspenski Cathedral is also topped with twelve candle domes (those Russian domes everyone calls onion domes are supposed to be candles) to represent the apostles and one to represent Jesus. My cathedral luck was reversed - generally people get to see the Helsinki Cathedral inside but Uspenski is often closed. I got only a glimpse at the surprisingly unimpressive inside of the Helsinki Cathedral where a wedding was taking place but actually got to enjoy my first Russian Orthodox service at the Uspenski Cathedral which had a truly impressive array of gilded art inside. I was also taken by the obvious piety of its members. I look forward to researching and learning a bit more about the apparently Christian-based but obviously different faith.

We walked through Esplanade Park, Helsinki’s favorite promenade, which was brimming with street performers on a sunny summer Saturday. There was actually a lady doing a dog and pony show with cats instead of a pony. Yes cats. Trained cats. How do you train a cat? Use reverse psychology? They were being a little resistant (go figure) but the lady did actually get them to go through tubes and climb a pole. One was supposed to jump in a basket held by two volunteers but refused. She finally had to “help” him (i.e. threw him in). I found the Rasta Superman balancing on an elastic rope between two trees rather intriguing and the pre-pubescent circus girls doing gymnastics and body contortion tricks were precious. We took a quick stroll through the market by the harbor which I must say is one of the more impressive street markets I have seen and lovely when seen from above with all its colorful tent tops. If I had more money, less headache, and was alone, I would have enjoyed shopping a bit. As it was, we had an objective – the Suomenlinna sea fortress.

Now this place was cool – a small island set ten minutes away by ferry it is known as Finland’s treasured fortress, despite the fact it was actually built by the Swedes. In 1917, when Finland gained its independence from Russia, they quickly changed the name from Sveaborg, which means Swedish Fortress, to Suomenlinna, which means Finnish Castle. The fortress was built in 1748 to help Sweden counter the ambitions of Russia but Swedish power in the region declined over the next hundred years and in 1908 it was handed over to the Russians.

The Finns have done a beautiful job of preserving the fortress as an afternoon destination for locals and tourists alike. UNESCO agrees having named it as one of their World Heritage Sites. There are numerous museums, quaint cafes, walking paths, and even a small beach of sorts. We stopped at a café for a cappuccino and a damn good piece of rhubarb pie with vanilla cream sauce and watched the boats play in the crystal blue water beyond. People were scattered upon the huge boulders that make up a little inlet, enjoying the last few moments of the disappearing summer. It was too beautiful of a day to be inside museums though we did take a quick tour through the Commandant’s official residence. The one and only Finnish submarine left in the world, the Vesikko, is open to the public on Suomenlinna. Under the Paris Treaty Finns were not allowed to have submarines so the fleet was destroyed in its entirety and sold for scrap. Only the Vesikko remains. We took a quick tour, quick because it is the size of a tin can. I can’t imagine how men lived under water in such a small space! From there we passed through the Kings Gate, a two story fortress wall that originally served as a parade gate for the fortress but has been refurbished several times. On this particular day there was a group of happily drunk teenagers playing a fascinating game on the grass before the gate – I must try this the next time I have a group of drunk friends around me. You all stand in a huddle, arms around the back of the persons next to you. One person puts their foot in the center of the huddle. Everyone else places one foot on top of the poor foot in the center (like what you do with hands before a game). You count to three then everyone lifts their other foot up and tries to balance on the one foot that everyone is standing on with one foot – did you get that? Try it – it looks like fun!

The day was winding down and my headache winding back up so we made our way back into town to a restaurant called Zetor. Now here you will find the funny Finns at their finest - tractors converted into drinking bars and milk pails as bar lights, this place takes ‘redneck’ to an all new level. It’s like Billy Bob’s gone bad. The menu is a newspaper with silly stories that work in the names of the foodstuffs that make up each dish. The stories are clearly supposed to be funny but most require a Finnish sense of humor which apparently I don’t have. If you liked Fargo, you would probably get the Finns. I didn’t and don’t.

Being a good traveler I ate the appropriate regional dish – reindeer and berry stew over mashed potatoes. It was pretty good though now that I’ve played with reindeer I regret having eaten one. I just don’t like the idea of eating animals that will nuzzle you and ask you to pet them. It seems inhumane to eat something that craves love and attention the way we do. Dinner was good but I was exhausted from the day of pounding in my brain cells. I hated to sit out my only Saturday night in Helsinki and especially to miss the Ice Bar but between the $30 it would cost and the pain I was in, I knew it was best to stay home. James tried to honor the Saturday night by at least giving me a shot of Salmiaki – a favorite Finnish liquor that looks like motor oil and tastes like cough medicine. I learned later it is also their favorite candy. They really are strange…. I was tucked in and sound asleep on my little couch bed by midnight.

James saw me off at the ferry bright and early the next morning. He was such a great host and genuinely kind to me. I hated that the headache never let up enough for me to thoroughly enjoy either Helsinki or his company but am glad to have met him and believe I learned something of myself through him. We shared a long hug goodbye and I was off to explore Estonia.

Sweep Through Sweden

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

It didn’t take long glancing through the travel guide to know I wanted at least a week in Norway before my rail pass expired. The scenery looks breathtakingly spectacular. Besides, I still remember from a school project I did when I was seven the little girl images that grew in my mind of the cold country of the midnight sun, far, far away. We had to pick a country, research it, and then design a house typical for the area. I remember buying the little styrofoam pieces and sticks to make the house and painting it brown then putting in greenery all around the house. The lady helping me showed me how I could paint a small mirror with a blue marksalot to represent a little lake. I don’t remember what grade I got, but for the care that went into making that little home, it damn well should have been an A!

Side note from the present - two things we should appreciate as Americans. Our cows and our oranges are the best in the world – that I know of anyway. No one makes prime rib like a good American steakhouse and orange juice everywhere except America sucks; even in Italy. I am on the ferry from Stockholm to Helsinki, and this orangejuice, called Apelsin Nektar is one of the worst. (And they say you can’t compare apels and oranges.)

Anyway, I decided in Copenhagen to go directly to Stockholm and save my ‘countryside’ time for the wild ravages of Norway. The challenged travel day disappeared as quickly as the sea behind me for Sweden wins the award for the best first class train travel! For the five hour train ride from Copenhagen to Stockholm, I had free coffee, water, fruit, a full meal (for the record, fried pickled herring is much better than it sounds) and most importantly, free internet service! I wanted to just ride the train back and forth across the country for a few days admiring the desolate lighthouse community type houses in rustic red with white trim while surfing the net. I did have to pay a reservation fee since it was a high speed train, but it was only about $20. The internet alone for five straight hours was worth that. The cost of the actual train ticket would have been one-sixth the cost of my entire three month railpass! At last I’m making up for Spain - the railpass rip-off country. If you buy a rail pass, definitely do Scandinavia – it really makes the railpass worthwhile.

The ferry from Stockholm to Helsinki, also free in a four person cabin with a railpass, is an all out cruise ship with casino, shops, and even a Moulin Rouge dance performance at midnight that wasn’t half bad. Coffee and tea are free as well, though at ten cents a minute, the internet isn’t. While the prices are a bit steep in the restaurants, you can get a decent little sandwich for $5 or a cup of fruit for $2. Not bad after the prices in Denmark! Think about it, you can do a day in Stockholm, sleep on the ferry, a day in Helsinki, sleep on the ferry, and back and forth until you’ve seen them both – no hotel costs! Though sleeping in the cheap cabins, at the front of the boat below both the car deck and the water level, didn’t really make for a good night sleep… I kept having flashbacks of every Poseidon or Titanic movie I had seen.

Stockholm was a great city despite the fact I all but flew through it. My host had misread my email and thought I was staying just one night. Not feeling comfortable with staying the four days planned, I decided to do the tourist two day Stockholm whirl – and boy did I whirl! Stockholm is definitely a city made for tourists, even more so than Copenhagen was. It is built across 14 islands and is often called the Venice of the North. Claiming to have more foreign visitors than any other city in Scandinavia, it has been nicknamed the Capital of Scandinavia. It is situated where the vast Lake Mälaren flows into the Baltic Sea, and began its history as a strategic location for taxing merchant vessels. The city began on what is essentially the “center” island in the 1300’s and grew to the surrounding islands over time. With one and a half million people and a thriving tourist industry, the city is hopping day and night with plenty of things to do.

Anita, my host, and I had sat up chatting Tuesday night when I arrived after midnight. She went above and beyond host duty, waiting for me with a bottle of wine despite my arriving eight hours later than planned. It was after 3am when we finally turned in. Still, I was up and out the door by 10am after a kindly prepared breakfast of eggs scrambled with some kind of frozen grass – I have no idea what it was, but damn it was good!

My new city encounters always begin with random wandering. When the random wandering leads me to something as impressive as the Stockholm Changing of the Guard, a city captures my delight. Now, understand, I have seen many changing of the guards in my traveling. Washington DC’s changing of the guard before the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier is impressive only if you are with someone who can tell you the history of it, what the men go through who train for it, and how it has continued through time despite the ravages of time, weather, war, and conflict. Copenhagen’s was entertaining more for watching the tourists chase after the guards as they marched across the courtyard to each post for than the guards. London is the same, the appeal is less the guards and more the tourists who imitate baboons as they try to get the guards to flinch. But Stockholm - - Stockholm’s changing of the guards was a performance well worth the price of a ticket to an evening show at any world-ranked performing arts center.

I was crossing the bridge to Kuntstragarten when I looked across and saw uniformed men riding cavalry across a parallel bridge. Heeding my curiosity’s call, I turned around and ran back along the path I had come to catch up with and follow them. It was an impressive sight, young men in bright blue uniforms with swords at their side riding proud tall brown steeds with long thin faces. The horses looked as if they had all been sired by the same mare and stallion. They circled the royal palace and entered the courtyard which the palace buildings encircle. A young blonde fierce little female cadet was corralling the crowd, trying to keep the path where the horses would exit clear of tourists. It was an absurd task but quite entertaining watching her snap and bark and wave her rifle around (she definitely suffers from penis envy). Every time tourists would pour into the entrance, she would chase them off to the sides, forcing them to stand in front of the people who were there first and now would not only lose their view but were packed tighter and tighter together. Tensions would mount every time a new pack would be pushed to the sides. She obviously loved her job, being paid to yell at people, but a couple of well placed ropes would have replaced her quite efficiently and eased the sentiments of the crowd.

Being short comes in handy when it comes to attic apartments and low hanging branches, but not so handy as one sardine trying to peer over the rim of the tin. I could hear the sounds of the men bringing their heels together, drawing their swords, and a sound I could only take as actually jumping off in time together from the horses. I finally tired of seeing sword tips and watching the blonde medusa, and set out to see if I could get a better view from any place else. I tried a few other entrances to the courtyard but all were packed so I dejectedly headed down a small alley in what I thought was the direction of the bridge from which I had detoured. Fortune was smiling upon me for instead of leading to the bridge, the small alley wound around and deposited me on the far side of the courtyard where there were about thirty people with a full view of the performance. A perfect view! Thank god for digital cameras. If I was shooting film, I would have wasted a good $30! There was a fully mounted band – five white steeds in front and fifteen brown following The drummer, who loved his job even more than the blonde barracuda, rode atop an unusually large horse – it actually resembled a Clydesdale The performance alternated between the foot soldiers in their marching formations and the band playing. It was one of the best marching band performances I had ever heard (do you still call them marching bands when they are on horses?) and lasted close to an hour. I was duly impressed. Stockholm undoubtedly wins the Changing of the Guard award.

I was swept up with the crowd, still reveling in the sound of the music, the idea of tradition, and the coolness of the concept of FREE. Finally I found my bearings again and headed to Kungstragarten. Sitting at a table over coffee and Stockholm’s complimentary wireless signal, one of the first things I noticed is the idea of Swedish beauties is a myth. I think the Vikings did the same thing with girls that they did with Iceland and Greenland. You know that Iceland is strikingly beautiful and Greenland is a sparse chunk of ice, right? The Vikings switched the names to confuse countries seeking to conquer new lands. I think they did the same thing with their women – put all the beautiful ones in Denmark and said they were in Sweden. This country is definitely full of blondes, but there aren’t nearly as many strikingly beautiful women as there were in Copenhagen. I people watched and surfed while suffering the terrible music blaring from the stage as long as I could before deciding it was time to buy my Stockholm Card.

Stockholm also wins the best tourist value and convenience award. At the tourist information center in the corner of Kungstengarten, you can purchase The Stockholm Card. This little baby costs about $40 for 24 hours from the time you enter your first tourist attraction. Sounds like a lot, yes? No. It is good for all public transportation and no less than seventy-five of the city’s best museums, castles, and cathedrals. I didn’t pay another dime for the next 24 hours. You just flash your card at the metro attendant or the ticket counter and they wave you right on in – makes you feel like a VIP, even if you are a cheapskate trying to get the most out of a buck! What is particularly cool about the concept is if you want to go into a museum just to see one particular painting or you prefer to take palaces in at a brisk trot rather than a snail stroll, you don’t feel like you wasted the nine or ten bucks you just paid to get in.

Since the rain had returned I decided my first stop would be The Royal Palace. It was interesting but nothing to write books about, though I’m sure somebody has. One exhibit that was particularly cool and I think rather unique was the ballroom exhibit. They lined the center of the grand ballroom with mannequins dressed in the actual gowns the queen had worn every year for the last thirty or so years. (I tried later to look up if it was one event in particular, but when I put in royal-palace-ballroom-gowns-queen in a google search all I came up with were things to do in the gay community in Stockholm!) It was interesting how beautiful the gowns looked in all the pictures compared to how ugly many of them looked in real life. It was also interesting how varied the styles were. I tried to imagine what it is like to have a designer come design a gown just for you to match your particular whimsy in any given year. I couldn’t…

Like Denmark, Sweden is proud of their royal family and its role as fodder for the paparazzi. The king and queen have three children. Interestingly, Sweden is one of the few countries in the world where the eldest child ascends to the throne, regardless of gender. Their eldest is a girl. Women in general seem to be more advanced in Sweden than in other societies. Stockholm’s city hall has 53 women to 49 men. There were fourteen women members when it was opened in the early 1900’s! The true power position in Sweden is the Minister of Finance who is also a woman. Guess that explains why everything is so well organized!

I lingered over the ball gowns, raced through the armory, and walked at a decent clip through the luxury apartments that look pretty much all the same after ten or so royal palaces with their beautiful tapestries, ornate ceilings, and antique furniture. I’m glad I zipped through the palace for it left more time for the Vasa Museum – one of the most impressive museum exhibits I have ever seen. The Vasa was the Titanic of the 1600’s. Sweden was in the midst of its empire building efforts and was at war with Poland. In 1625, the Swedish king, Gustavus Adolphus ordered several new warships, including the Vasa. Now ship building wasn’t so terribly precise in the 17^th century. There were no scientific methods for calculating a ship’s stability. Instead they used ‘reckonings’ which recorded certain ship measurements. I reckon that’s where we get the verb to reckon – basically, to guess. The Vasa was grander than the warships on which her “reckonings” were based. She had two gundecks with heavy artillery, whereas the previous warships of the time had only one. Whether it was the excessive weight of the second gun deck, the negligently left open gun port holes, or the cockiness of the Admiral who refused to heed the failed stability test (performed by having 30 men run back and forth across the deck), the Vasa sunk just 20 minutes into her maiden voyage. The entire city had been given the day off to see the maiden voyage and the ship was carrying not only the crew, but the wives and children of the officers. Many people died in the tragedy.

The ship remained at the bottom of the bay for the next 300 years. In the 1960’s a salvage operation was begun. The Vasa was raised and placed in a museum where she now sits in glory for all the world to see. She is immense in size. The mere fact she is sitting there, inside a building, is itself impressive. One can walk all the way around her on a walkway about midway up her hull. She is truly beautiful, her wood glows in the low golden lights of the black walled museum. Numerous exhibits tell her history and the story of her rescue from the depths. This is a must-see if you are ever in Stockholm.

From the Vasa I headed to my own boat for the Royal Canal tour that circles the Island of Djurgarden, heading out into sea at the beginning of the 24,000 island archipelago, and then back around in a circle. The Island of Djurgarden is a royal island and home to not only the Vasa museum, but the architecturally impressive Nordic museum, and the the Skansen open air museum. It is a huge island also boasting an amusement park, the Italian Embassy, several villas, wildlife preserves, and miles of walking trails and park lands. The Royal Canal tour was interesting and a great way to relax in the setting sun as the day ended. After searching in vain for a bank machine for an hour, I finally returned to the apartment where Anita greeted me with a cigarette and eagerness to hear about my day.

The running was not over Thursday. I was up by 8am to pack, chat with Anita, stash my bag at the train station, and hit the streets again. First stop was Stadshuset or City Hall for a guided tour. Now this is an impressive place. From the Blue Hall to the Council Chamber to the Gallery of the Prince, the tour is packed with beautiful rooms and interesting information. The true glory however is the Golden Hall. This room contains over eighteen MILLION mosaic pieces made of glass and gold. The room is dominated by the Queen of the Lake Malaren who reigns in balance and justice between the symbols of East and West (which include an American flag and the Statue of Liberty). The Queen was intended to resemble Botticelli’s Venus but ended up looking a bit more like Medusa. You really should look at the pictures on the website – she’s pretty funny looking.

From City Hall I caught the History Tour which took us down the canals through the business section of town and out past Christiana. It was interesting hearing how much this little country has influenced the world. From the music of Abba to the worldwide influence of Ericsson, I was surprised how many Swedish born companies I knew. It was also interesting to hear the efforts the city had undertaken through time to deal with city crowding and poverty including the suburban efforts in Christiana to encourage larger families and the lease-hold garden plots outside the city. I would have been a bit disappointed with the tour if I had paid the actual cost rather than using my Stockholm Card but for a fraction of the forty dollar cost, it was a worthwhile fifty minutes.

Ideally I would have hopped off the history tour boat and on the ferry to Drottingham Slot – one of the world’s most famous castles. The ferry is half price with the Stockholm Card and entrance is free though it takes about three hours to see it and get back. Usually historic sights win out over shopping streets for me, but I had spotted the work of a glass sculptor named Mats Johanson and wanted to look at some of his art. It has been a year now since I gave up house and home. The upside of not having a home is that it seriously diminishes any temptation you have to buy things. After all, you have no place to put them! But his work had captured me and I decided it would be my first purchase for the home I will have again someday. The shop owner at Wasa Crystal, whose name unfortunately escapes me now, was wonderful. He patiently set each piece I liked atop the display light, letting me see it from every angle. When I finally selected my piece and a few Christmas presents he gave me a great price and agreed to ship it to the states for free. He even let me bring a few other things I had bought to add to the box! I was very pleased. If you’re ever in Stockholm check them out at www.wascrystal.com.

Since the day’s plan had been Drottingham, I was left with wandering time when I finished my shopping. I just walked the streets, taking pictures, and stopping here and there. The Riddarholm Church with the unique black wrought spire was interesting. It is no longer a church but is famed as a burial place for the Swedish Kings. King Magnus Ladulus was buried here before the high altar in 1290! Strange to look at a tomb and think of the man who had rested there for nearly eight hundred years! The walls are covered with the coats of arms of the Knights of the Seraphim Order and it is impossible to walk on the ground without walking across tombs. Interesting, though a bit creepy too.

Another free internet stop at Kunstragarten and it was time to catch the ferry to Helsinki. I look forward to returning to this city one day to really explore it rather than barely skimming its shining surface.

Calling on Copenhagen

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Saturday Lars had to work so I set off solo to call on Copenhagen. Interestingly, the first thing on most tourists’ lists is the last thing we should do according to the Danes – in the figurative, not literal sense. The Danes HATE the Little Mermaid. Every single one I met, including the two brainless hotties visiting Poland, said, “NO! Don’t GO! She’s terrible! She should be drowned!” Lars told me, teasingly, that I wouldn’t be allowed back in the house if I went to see her. I smiled sweetly and said, “But of course I HAVE to see her, what with being a travel writer and all. It’s my responsibility.” Really, I had to see her for the same reason everyone else does - everyone has heard of her. Besides, I loved Hans Christian Anderson as a girl, never realizing that the author of the Silver Skates was also the original author of my favorite Disney movie from which I took my pseudonym in part. Maybe all the Danes dissing her lowered my expectations, but I found her to be just lovely.

Trudging through the mist under clouds thick with rain for the twenty minute walk from Amalienborg where I had caught the tail end of the changing of the guards to her lone place in the bay, I was getting rather irritated with her myself and began to wonder if the Danes were right – maybe she wasn’t worth such a long, cold, wet walk. But when I came around the corner and saw the dozens of umbrellas creating a black accented rainbow of colors around her, my heart skipped that beat it always does when you are about to see something for the first time that you have imagined seeing all your life. I’m glad it was raining, for the tourists were duly reserved in a manner befitting her contemplative and somewhat melancholic character. She is just sitting there, her fin-feet curled about beneath her, shining gold at the edges, on her little perch upon a boulder set just slightly off shore. You can’t help but wonder what thoughts are going through her mind. Everything about her is so wrapped within and yet reaching out. You can’t think of her as a statue but see only the young girl who must have posed for Edvard Erichsen and what she must have thought about to create such deep reflective expression. I found out later his “model” was a ballerina he became smitten with after watching her perform the Little Mermaid on stage. The sculptor, though relatively unknown, brings to life beautifully the emotion of the lost little mermaid. She seems to be entirely within herself, reflecting on some deep loss while at the same time nursing the slightest embryo of hope that the loss is not forever. I wanted everyone to go away so I could climb on her rock beside her, and sit with her, looking out at the ocean, thinking of the years that have passed and years that will come, what they have taken, and what they will bring. She touched me, deeply.

I took my pictures, gave my respects, and left her to the chattering, shivering tourists before making my way back toward the city. Taking a different route, one set back a few paces from the water, I came upon the wild crashing waters of the Gefjun Fountain. This statue depicts the Norse Goddess Gefjun as she tames four wild oxen to work the land that according to legend became the Danish island of Zealand. The statue, sculpted by Anders Bundgaard, is dramatic, reflecting the intense power of a determined woman; quite the sharp contrast to the maiden-like simplicity of the little mermaid, though perhaps she is befittingly the virgin maiden waiting to be taken under the wing of Gefjun. An interesting piece of etymology, ‘Gefjun’ brought us the word ‘give’ which translates to wife for wives gave their dowry upon marriage.

Aside the Gefjun Fountain is St. Alban, Denmark’s only Anglican church, and one of my favorites for its quiet simplicity. Copenhagen, like most European cities, is filled with amazing churches. I’ve prayed in enough churches to enough gods of enough different religions and lit enough candles in the last three months that I and every person I know and love, not to mention the rest of the world, should all be happy, healthy, and blessed with love and family forever! While Denmark has faced the same migration away from the church as all western countries, they have a perspective here I have never heard before. They still revere the church’s position, not so much as a means for communing with God but rather for its importance in maintaining the continuity of tradition. People go to church at Christmas and Easter and marry in church not to earn God’s approval, but for the sake of maintaining the customs of man. I mourn our loss of tradition for I believe with it we lost a sense of the bridge that links past with future and our own sense of place in the circle of life. Yet I celebrate the movement from an externally motivated world where punishment and reward and power are the motivating forces to the internally motivated world that arguably was the initial intent of Jesus’ teachings. The loss of tradition seemed an inevitable side effect of ending the institutions that had dominated us for so long. I had never thought before of the possibility of keeping the traditions while letting go of the institutions in the sense that they externally mandate conduct and acceptance. What a wonderful perspective for those of us who cannot follow a church but still appreciate the (potential) beauty of religion.

Just a few steps from the church is the star-shape moated island which is home to the Kastellet, claimed to be the oldest still functioning barracks in Europe. On a pretty day it might be worth more than a cursory tour, but being already soaked through to the skin, just a peak was enough for me. From there I wandered through the abandoned streets of one of Copenhagen’s numerous university areas, blatantly staring into the windows to see the universal Danish love for simple, sleek, sparse decoration – in America it would be school-endured poverty, here it is style. These Danes do have a knack for designing in a way that is sleek and modern yet still beautiful and warm. Many of the buildings in the university area I was exploring and throughout the town are made of brick, a relative rarity in Europe. Interestingly, in Copenhagen many of these older brick buildings were colorwashed with some thick stucco type substance in ochre shades of red and yellow, giving them the textured look of brick without the mundanity of red brick (I know it is not a word, but I like it anyway).

I emerged from the university area to find the castle gardens. Despite the weather, people were still strolling amongst the manicured paths, admiring the sculptures and various flower gardens. By the time I reached the famed Rosenburg Castle, I was getting grumpy from being cold and wet so long. A couple oblivious people and one rude person between me and the process of getting a ticket and I skipped the castle and headed in search of coffee. There are no Starbucks in Copenhagen but their Baresso is a worthy wanna-be. Like Starbucks, they are bustling with energy yet plush chairs invite you to relax for awhile with a cup of warmth on a cold winter’s day (or chilly, wet summer’s day). When you order a mocha latte you will be asked, “Dark or bright?” It took me some confused moments to figure out dark meant dark chocolate and bright meant milk chocolate. When the latte arrives, it is not made with chocolate syrup mixed in, but with a huge chunk of real, delectable chocolate on a stick! You swirl the stick around the coffee, giving it a moment to melt in pure chocolaty goodness. Mmm, mmmm. My first chocolate coffee on a stick experience was set to the melodic sounds of ‘Bad Bad Leroy Brown’ – jazz style. I’d like to say it sucked, but it was actually quite a decent little musical piece. But then it was my favorite song as a little girl because the performer at the night club my parents used to take me to all the time would sing it for me.

Revived and restored, though still with wet feet, I made my way from Baresso down one of the popular shopping streets to the bookstore. I got there just as they were closing and raced to pick up a book on Scandinavia – my first tour book this trip. I scoured the four choices for the one I wanted and raced back to the check out counter, never bothering to do the currency conversion in my head. As I was walking down the street it hit me - I had just spent fifty-bloomin’-dollars on a travel book! Geesh – that’s almost two days’ budget! I drowned my sorrow in what would now be my meal for the day, a $3 hotdog, wrapped in bacon, and smothered with dry onion bits. It was so good I actually felt a bit better. I found a cheap pair of dry socks and with a semi-full tummy and dry feet was beginning to feel human again despite the hole still burning in my pocket from the book purchase.

I must have built up points somewhere, for as I ascended the Round Tower, the sun broke through the clouds casting shafts of light through the windows to light the spiral walkway. The slowly ascending ramp that spirals around the hollow core of the Round Tower is unique in all of Europe. Built around the turn of 16th century, the Round Tower is now also the oldest functioning observatory in Europe. The walkway ends in a short small spiral staircase at the top of which is a small door. On the other side you emerge to 360 degrees of breathtaking views of the city; a city now bathed in beautiful sunlight. I lingered a long time – fighting with my camera (that SUCKS!) to get a few decent shots and enjoying the blue sky and sunshine.

After the tower, I explored Stroget, Copenhagen’s famed shopping street. It was interesting despite the fact I couldn’t afford so much as a bobby pin. While Copenhagen is not dollar friendly, it certainly is tourist-friendly. The tourist sights are actually the only things in town priced reasonably. The city is well-organized and there is plenty of information on the many things to do. They have a transportation website that will tell you how to get from anywhere to anywhere, breaking down train, metro, and bus connections and even linking to walking maps if you have to walk from the station to the site you want to see. The official tourist site for Copenhagen, unlike many, actually gives not only the Top Ten recommendations, but Top Tens for sunny days, rainy days, and other alternative interests. It is one of the few official tourism sites I actually found to be helpful, interesting, and user-friendly.

The non-shoppable shopping street led me to Nytorv, where the extensive train system meets the budding metro system. Nytorv is a huge square that regularly features photo exhibitions. While I was there it was a wildlife exhibition with some of the most impressive photos I have seen since The Earth From Above exhibition I saw in Barcelona. From Nytorv you can take a stroll along Nyhaven – one of Copenhagen’s most famous streets. Paralleling a channel laden with boats, it is lined with bright colored buildings fronted by bustling sidewalk cafes filled with tourists. A short detour takes you to the bridge to Christianshavn – one of the premier neighborhoods in Copenhagen. Here there is a fascinating mix of wealth-meets-wharf and old architecture meets new. I wandered the streets of Christianshavn until I found the Church of Our Savior. I had seen it pictured in a postcard and bought the postcard, knowing that the purchase meant I would have to find and scale the tower. Of the dozens of towers I have now scaled, it would be the first one I climbed on the ouside of the church! Protected by a gilded iron railing, the staircase winds four times around the outside of the church steeple. The young architect had modeled it after a church he had seen in Rome while studying. It was truly a trip, walking an outdoor, spiral, staircase up a church spire! Needless to say, the views were breathtaking.

From Christianshavn I made my way back into town, passing the Danish Parliament known as Christiansborg. Brisk business is at hand in this area with traffic rushing across bridges, bicycles racing by with women and men in business suits, and people walking in and out of the beautiful architecture of the parliament and other buildings that make up the area. I never did find out the name of the huge abandoned building with the odd snail-like spiral spire. I’ll just have to go back for some recon on that. Nor did I get to see Tivoli Gardens, or the Pornography Museum (which I laughed at when I passed it but later read an article describing it and realized it was quite interesting). I hadn’t even touched the area of Norreboro, their Greenwich Village of sorts, which is centered around a cemetery park where the Danes are said to actually sun themselves on the graves. Can you imagine! “Sure Hans, a picnic sounds great! Let’s meet at Eric Ericson XII’s grave over by Ariel Schlemming’s tomb.” So many things I still hadn’t seen but unfortunately the long awaited sun was beginning to set and any more exploring would have to wait until the next day.

The highlight of my next tour day, again shortened by rain and to-dos, was the boat ride with Lars which gave me the canal view of all the places I had walked the day before, including, much to Lars’ dismay, little Miss Ariel herself. On the way to Little Miss we passed the royal boat where Lars pointed out the flag was flying, indicating the Queen herself was on board. Denmark is quite proud of having the longest standing royal family in Europe. Interestingly, the royal family is not only not involved in politics, but its members are not allowed to even take political positions. They are, it seems, mere fodder for the paparazzi; and popular fodder they are for you see their pictures throughout the town, especially those of the recent wedding between the prince and an Australian ‘commoner’. From the bay where the royal yacht was anchored, our tourboat passed briefly through the canals of Christianshavn, passed the impressive new apartment buildings, and around the channel to give us a straight-on view of the stunningly designed Black Diamond – Copenhagen’s new library completed in 1999. The Opera, the Theatre that is under construction, and the Library are each amazing feats of modern architecture in their own right but seeing them just a short space from each other as you travel through the water gives you a profound appreciation for the Danish dexterity with modern architectural design.

The next day I took the train out to Helsingor to see Kronborg Slot. Don’t know it you say? Oh yes you do, you just don’t know you know it. Kronborg Slot is the famed castle of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Not only did Shakespeare write the play set in this castle, but the majority of Hamlet reproductions have been filmed on the castle grounds. Kronborg is not only an elegant Renaissance castle but a monumental military fortress, surrounded by major fortifications replete with ramparts and canons. Unfortunately when I arrived at 4:46 the ticket office was shut up tighter than a drum. It seems “Closes at 5” didn’t mean exactly that. It was nevertheless amazing walking through the grounds and courtyard. They were setting up for a Shakespeare production right there in the courtyard of the castle! I will have to put that on my someday to do list (damn that list is long!)

Tuesday was one of the challenge travel days required in every traveler’s life. It began with the rather bitchy metro attendant who told me the rail pass that the last attendant said was fine, wasn’t fine. She insisted I buy a ticket for the one stop I would have walked if I had known it would cost me $4. I had to fight every impulse in my Taurean nature not to argue with her, knowing full well she was bitchy enough to write me the ticket if I sassed too much. She was the first of a day plagued with transportation challenges. My destination for the day was Rosenkilde, just a few kilometers west of Copenhagen and home to what is claimed to be the best Viking Museum. It was the sort of thing Patrick would have loved and with his birthday coming up, I wanted to do something to honor him and pick up something cool for his birthday. The plan was to stash my suitcase at the main train station, run out to Rosenkilde, then pick up my bag on the way through Copenhagen and continue on to Stockholm. I missed the first Stockholm train I had planned to be on trying to finish up internet to-dos at Lars’. I missed the second train waiting for the rain to stop in Rosenkilde – I didn’t realize it was a 20 minute walk to the Viking Museum from the train station and I had my computer in my back pack and no umbrella. If I turned around then I could make the Stockholm train but I was certain the Viking Museum would have the coolest Viking stuff and just knew I would find the perfect present for Patrick. I was wrong. The shop was terribly disappointing and by the time I looked in every nook and cranny for something decent to buy him, the museum had closed. I grabbed a train back to Copenhagen, threw his less-than-thrilling presents in an envelope at central station, and leapt on the train to Stockholm as the doors were closing.

Even a bad travel day filled with bitchy attendants, rain, and foiled plans couldn’t blemish my impression of this city and its people and nothing could undo the simple enjoyment of my time with Lars. Copenhagen is undoubtedly a city I will not only return to but if I find a way may even live in some day – but only on Danish wages!!

It's The Little Things In Life

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Sunday, August 12, 2006

The greatest sacrifices in traveling are often the little things we take for granted in everyday life - curling up with a good book wrapped up in your favorite blanket, renting a movie after a long hard day at work, having a drink with a friend, doing laundry, home cooked meals. Copenhagen was full of these things for me. Lars is a rarity as a person. Despite the fact he is damn good looking and built to boot, he was, as they say, easy like a Sunday morning. We quickly slipped into a comfortableness with each other – sometimes teasing, sometimes talking deeply, and generally sharing a light fun banter. We spent a fair amount of time together the four days I was there and developed precious beginnings of a friendship.

When he opened his door to me, I was met with a bright smile, striking blue eyes, and the delicious aroma of stir fry. Vegetables are few and far between on the road and I crave them constantly. Lars chased me off to take a hot shower and wash away the long travel day. If I ever get to heaven, I want to kiss the feet of the man who invented hot running water. When I returned refreshed (and probably smelling a bit better) Lars poured me a glass of wine and we talked for hours over a delicious dinner. There is something about a home cooked meal and a glass of wine that a restaurant can never replicate.

Later that night we had drinks with friends at their new home. I felt part of their world sitting in the sparsely decorated home – sparse in part because they had just moved in and in part because the vision of “Scandinvaian” design – straight edged metal and wood in minimal quantities – is the only design in Copenhagen. Languages flew around the room – Danish, English, even Italian as everyone laughed in the glow of candles and soft lights. Danes, it seems, love candles – their way to keep away the gloom of the long overcast winters I guess. I was surprised to learn it doesn’t snow much in Copenhagen, only once or twice a year, but the winters are filled with overcast and rainy days more often than not. I was exhausted after the short night’s sleep and long travel day, but stayed to enjoy the sound of longtime friends enjoying one another – something you don’t often get to be a part of when you are traveling.

Saturday we took the socializing out on the town – heading to the Grill Bar for drinks. Kenneth, who I had met the night before, met Lars and I there. Grill Bar was the thirty/forty-something bar I wish Charlotte had. Hopping with hotties, the music rocked and the conversation never stopped. It was interesting watching the Danes. Certainly they were “playing the game” – who do I want to pick up and how do I do it – but unlike Americans they seemed to genuinely enjoy it. You know how some cocktail parties seem forced with everyone talking just enough to make their appearance and get the hell out? While at others everyone seems to genuinely be having a good time? American bars, especially the older pick up bars, always seem to have that forced quality. The Danes though all seemed to genuinely be enjoying the whole pick’em up process. I, on the other hand, was enjoying just watching. The best part was watching the girls swoon for Lars. They would bat their eyes and look at him doe-like while surreptitiously glancing sideways to give me a dirty who-the-hell-are-you look. I haven’t seen such cattiness since a TJ Ross clearance sale in the states.

We were just tipsy enough to think a whopper sounded really good, so Lars and I trekked in the direction of central station after the Grill Bar closed. Wow, what a contrast. You see Sweden’s alcohol tax is absurdly high and with the new bridge that connects Sweden and Denmark, the young’uns from Sweden can grab a train and head to Copenhagen for a few brewskies. And a few brewskies they had certainly had! There were drunk teenager and twenty-somethings everywhere. Quite the contrast from our high-falutin’ bar of perfectly coifed older types. We got our whoppers and a taxi and headed home, eating our whoppers and laughing about the look on my face when the bartender told me my drink was 190 Kroner – uh, that would be thirty American greenbacks. I nursed that baby for over two hours! Copenhagen is a great place to visit but you better have money if you want to eat or drink there!!

Ah but Sunday… Sunday night was the greatest night of all. We ordered take out Thai food and watched Lord of War. It was sheer heaven for me – to dine on take out by candlelight with a friend and watch a movie at home. That is one of the things I miss most in this new life. Patrick and I used to call them snuggle movies when he was young enough to spoon with me on the couch. It was one of our favorite forms of evening entertainment. As he got older, the snuggles stopped but the movies continued, always with a pizza or Chinese food. It was our way to enjoy each other’s company even when teenage tensions ran high and our relationship was challenged. No one’s company will ever match snuggle movies back in the day, but just the experience of sitting at home and watching a movie takes me back to the joy and the beauty of that time in my life.

Monday was laundry day. Doesn’t sound romantic does it? Wash clothes for five people and laundry day is a burden. But when you have had only a couple laundry days in the last year, it is sheer pleasure. There is something about pulling fresh clothes hot out of the dryer that just makes the world seem fresh and new again. I paid bills and took care of problems online while listening to the familiar and unappreciated song of jean buttons clanging in the dryer. What a delight. Monday night I got to wear my fresh, soft clothes to one last dinner with Lars. We talked about love and life and the roads that lie ahead. Later I snuggled into the warm down comforter one last time, listening to the soft patter of rain outside the open balcony door, hoping that whatever paths we are on, one day they will cross again.

The Danes Got It Down!

Saturday, August 12, 2006

The Danes definitely got it down. With the unemployment rate nearing two percent, the working population (and that makes about everyone) are happy, well-paid, and well-fed – fed quite literally that is. It is a common practice for larger corporations to keep an in-house chef to cook for the employees throughout the day. Can you imagine?! We’re not talking cafeteria food either. These are well-paid restaurant chefs cooking top quality food. Quite the fringe benefit when you consider the prices in Denmark – a salad in the center of town will set you back $25. With their minimum wage at $15 an hour for unskilled labor and their professionals amongst the highest paid – a $25 salad is certainly no big deal.

Well surely they work hard these Danes, right? Well maybe hard, but not all the time. A 35 hour work week is standard and everyone gets six weeks, let me say that again SIX WEEKS paid vacation - that is NOT counting government holidays, not counting sick days, and, get this, not counting your children’s sick days. Parents are entitled to take a day off when their children are sick. Does all this affect company productivity? It seems not. Companies are thriving. Copenhagen is in a peak construction boom, interest rates are low, property values are soaring, and people in the streets cheerfully ride around on their bikes conserving energy and car costs. Copenhagen has almost as many bikes as Amsterdam, almost.

Now they do have one of the highest tax rates in the world, running as high as 59% income tax for some in comparison to our top bracket of 35%. But for this they have full medical benefits, retirement benefits, an excellent elementary and secondary school system, and free university, yes free. I think they are getting a little more for their money than we seem to be. Of course they don’t have any nuclear warheads…. Then there are the other little benefits – the entire city is single-female safe, anytime, day or night, the library is astounding architecturally and the largest library I have ever seen, the train system is excellent and the metro system growing, streets handle well what little traffic there is, and with the premier opera house that opened a few years ago and the new theatre that will be completed year after next, arts and culture options abound. Needless to say I was pretty impressed.

As if all this isn’t enough, Copenhagen is the land of cuties. Let me assure you ladies and gents, the next time you want to fetch yourself a new love interest, forget about the Caribbean – head to Copenhagen. Girls, this is the land of Brad Pitt. There are Brad Pitt look-alikes everywhere! Actually there are look-alikes for the whole ‘Legends of the Fall’ cast plus a few George Clooney’s thrown in. I haven’t seen so many good looking people in one place since Fernando’s party in Rome – and that could be accounted for by Fernando’s taste. This is an entire city of hotties. And guys, don’t feel left out, there is a blonde for everyone – tall blondes, short blondes, cute blondes, exotic blondes. Of course the Danes like the dark-haired girls better (rare things are always the coveted things) so you Americans and Brits don’t have to compete with the Brad Pitts for the blondies and you brunette babes have the leg up (literally and figuratively) on the blondes with the Copenhagen Cuties. Nothing like turning tables to make life a little interesting!

So how would you talk to the Danish dreamcakes? No worries. The Danes also win the prize for the most fluidly bilingual country I have been to. Before it was Austria, tied with Netherlands, but the Danes beat them both. English could be the national language here. Every person I spoke to switched not only from Danish to English, but to a virtually flawless, natural, and only lightly accented English no-less. The Danish accent is actually quite lovely in contrast to many others. University is actually taught in English here and most corporations require English as the “office” language.

The Danes are fiercely proud of the fact they don’t dub their movies – you will find the affirmation repeatedly in tourist information. You can walk into any movie theatre and see all movies in their original language. I had never noticed before the high correlation rate between the countries that don’t dub and the countries that speak English easily as a second language. The Italians, the French, even the Germans, all of whom dub, are all lacking in bi-lingual fluency, even in their tourists sections. The Swiss, Austrians, Danish, and Dutch are completely bilingual societies. Says something for subtitles doesn’t it? Says something too for the influence of Hollywood on the world. In Denmark, not only can you see movies in their original language, but you can watch them uninterrupted both in the movie theaters AND on TV. Networks are not allowed to interrupt a program for commercials. They can only play commercials between programs. Can you imagine? Network TV without commercials! The downside to this of course is that the stations make less money and can’t afford to buy the higher priced programs.

And how do those who have the most time on their hands to watch movies, the students, afford to watch them? Well if you are male you are in luck. For Denmark is the world’s highest exporter of sperm. Yep, those Brad Pitt look-alikes are filling the world with blondies one test tube at a time. I can think of worse countries to name this claim to fame. The system is actually quite interesting. They go in three times to, um, you know… and the sperm is tested for quality. If they qualify, they are given a card that is their identification and all previous information on them is destroyed except the vital statistics that are linked to the card. It is then impossible to identify them. When they go in to, um, you know… they are paid according to the quality of sperm. Low quality sperm gets you a nominal nil, good quality sperm will score you about $100 (pun intended). Yep, one hundred buckaroos, cash on the barrelhead, tax free (and that’s pretty significant in a country with one of the highest tax rates in the world). Once you are in the program, they prefer that you donate two to three times per week. Yes, boys, you got that right – upwards of $1,200 a month for doing what you do anyway. Not bad, huh? The down side? (There always is one you know.) You are paid by the quality of the sperm, not by production. If a man ejaculates more than once every three days, the quality goes down significantly. If you have to produce good quality sperm every three days, you guessed it – you ain’t pumpin’ spermies anywhere but the bank. Life is never fair. Of course you could look at it this way, it is just like paying $100 for each blonde you score. You can’t get prices that good in Vegas!

Finding Family

Friday, August 11, 2006

Time may fly when you are having fun, but it lingers where there is love and laughter. I spent just two little days with Asia and her mother, Maria, in Szczecin (sh-ch-e-ch-een) (rhymes, sort of, with fetching) but left feeling as refreshed as if I had just taken a two week vacation. Their home was so warm and welcoming, their hospitality so freely-given without reserve, and their affection so profoundly genuine, I felt I was home in a sense of home I have rarely touched in life, in neither the one constructed for me or by me. Being with them was like slipping into sheer silk sheets on a warm summer’s night and cuddling in a blanket before the fire on a cold winter’s day all rolled up together. If you had told me just two days in the care and company of two lovely ladies could restore and soothe my body, spirit, and soul so completely, I would have never believed you. But here I am – refreshed and restored and ready for the Scandinavia border that lies ahead of me as I ride the ferry ‘cross the Baltic.

Asia and I met studying Italian in Ascoli Piceno. I immediately took a liking to this beautifully dressed, perfectly figured, round faced, little porcelain doll who was quick as whip yet kind and caring and could be mistaken for my sister (okay so she could be mistaken my daughter). She always aroused an array of emotions in me – sometimes I felt very motherly towards her, others I felt like a college girlfriend (and it has been a long time since I felt like a college anything!). Often I admired her; and, admittedly, often I envied her. There were five girls and one guy from Poland in the study program there at the time, but I never felt particularly a part of their group. With traveling back to the states twice in less than two months to help Patrick, I missed most of the classes and in turn the “bonding” period that ties foreign students together. But I adored Asia and welcomed any opportunity to spend time with her. Ludmilla was often the catalyst to get us together for an appertivo. Sometimes I arranged a get together like skating outdoors at Piazza Arringo or a little Baileys and Coffee party at the house. Some nights the whole group got together to go dancing. Many times, Asia and I would pass the cold winter afternoons at the school chatting over the internet or the American magazines I had brought back from America. Asia gave me many ‘warm fuzzy’ moments in those cold winter months just in the way she accepted me and saw beauty in things about me that others see as flawed.

When I made plans for this trip initially, I wanted to start the trip with Ludmilla in Portugal and end it with Asia in Poland – an alliterated bookend plan you might say. Plans never worked out with Ludmilla and even though the trip had by then morphed into a ‘Western’ Europe trip, I couldn’t go from Berlin to Copenhagen without stopping at Sczcecin on the way to see Asia and her mom who I had met one time for coffee in Ascoli. I arrived to a friend I knew from Italian school. I left feeling like I had a new family.

Asia’s mom is the most delightful, warm-hearted woman with mother-ness just oozing out of her pours. With the same round face, and beautiful pale blue eyes, she is the spitting image of Asia, except older. She too is an attorney and raised Asia as a single mom since Asia was five. I would have given anything to have long conversations with her about love and life and raising children but unfortunately while she understands a fair amount of English she doesn’t speak it. Despite the language barrier, she had taken the whole week off of work just because I was coming to town.

They met me at the train station with big smiles, grabbed my bags, against my protestations, and whisked me off to their apartment outside of town. Dinner was on the table before you could shake a stick – an array of sausages and meats, bread, fresh veggies, and these wonderful sauerkraut filled delicacies – something between a crepe and a pancake. They were mmm, so good. I was about to burst but just had to have a fifth! We lingered over the table in conversation for hours before they finally tucked me off to bed. I tried to argue about taking Asia’s bed instead of the couch, but they said no. When I continued to insist, Asia pointed out, quite kindly, that she would sleep with her mom on the couch. I blurted out, American style, “But why doesn’t she sleep in her room?” I hadn’t noticed that there was not another bedroom. You see in Poland the children get their own rooms and the parents sleep on couches that convert quite handily into double beds (much better than the sleeper sofas we have). I did a very poor job of hiding my shock. “You mean you have your own room and your mom doesn’t?” I asked, incredulously. This was so beyond American conception – if there was one room to be had, it would be mom and dad’s surely – not that even our poorest families have two room houses anymore. Not in Poland. Under the communist regime one child meant one bedroom, two children – two bedrooms, the parents took the living room. I apologetically took my bags back into Asia’s room, noting once again, as I often do how damned lucky we are in America – often in ways we never even stop to think about.

Wednesday morning began with hardboiled eggs with mayonnaise – something I’d never had or heard of but knew I’d like as a tuna fish, egg salad, and deviled eggs junkie - more meats, orange juice, and coffee and again delightful conversation. Asia and I set out after breakfast for a walk through Puszcza Bukowa, one of Europe’s largest forests, emerging on a plateau with a beautiful view of the city beyond and a seemingly alpine blue lake below. In Ascoli I had often felt aware of our age difference, but here it was as if we were the same, not 20, not 40, just two women talking about life and love, mostly love…

On the way to the forest we cut through a cemetery. Now I don’t mean to bring up a morbid topic of conversation, but the Polish have the most beautiful cemeteries I have ever seen. Instead of simple headstones or marble markers, they have marble slabs about four feet long by 2 ½ feet wide (they bury their dead vertically so the markers can be shorter than the size of a coffin) with a headstone at the “head” of the grave. The difference is in the top of the majority of these marble slabs there is a space cut out to serve as a planter, yes a planter. You have to check the picture out on the website. Instead of plastic flowers you can actually plant flowers in the marble grave-covering itself. Certainly there are plastic flowers as well and even potted plants scattered around the plot, but the flowers blooming out of these sculpted grave top planters give the cemetery a most beautiful, living (excuse the reference) touch. The Polish people also try to maintain the tradition of keeping an eternal candle for their deceased loved ones. You can purchase one-week candles (and flowers and anything else grave related) at the dozens of cemetery shops that line the streets on every side of the cemetery. There are closed lanterns of all sizes scattered amongst the graves and traditionally the family gathers together on Sunday to pay their respects to loved ones and light the new candle from the one soon to burn out. Many graves are tended preciously and meticulously like gardens, with little lockboxes under the mourners’ benches to keep gardening tools, candles, and other things needed to keep the graves lovely and respected. I mourned the unkempt graves for they were a sure sign that a family line had died out and been forgotten.

While I feel blessed to be a part of this world of crumbling institutions that have in turn opened the way for women to work, races to integrate, and people to express themselves and their sexuality, I hate that one of the prices we had to pay was that of traditions. I’m sure in time we will develop new traditions, new ways of acknowledging the passing of time and tide. It is in such acknowledgment that we remember our place – both in the sense that we too will pass and in the sense that it is important we are here to link the last generations with the new ones, and especially in the sense of knowing where we are now in the cobblestone path of life.

Apparently not only is paying respects to those resting important in Poland but enjoying the abundance of food that was once restricted by the communist government is also important. They have not three, but four meals a day. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and supper. Lunch started with a wonderful goulash type soup. Just as the first plate in Italy is always pasta, the first plate in Poland is always soup. Strangely the soup and the meat entrée that followed it tasted remarkably like my grandmother’s cooking. Even the wonderful jello-with-raspberries topped cheesecake tasted like something my grandmother had made. Not only that, but my grandmother was the only person I ever knew who called lunch dinner and dinner supper. I always thought it was a southern thing growing up, but I think it was just my grandma’s thing. Now I will have to research our family line further. I know that both her mother and father were descendent from Native American ancestors, and I remember her telling me that one of her grandfathers was Dutch – thus explaining our coloring ( the blonde genes ALWAYS win out in our family) – but she couldn’t tell me anything else about our family tree.

Just a few months ago I discovered something fascinating in a Bill Bryson book about my likely heritage. My favorite game my grandmother played with me as a little girl was a face-naming game – she would point in succession to the parts of my face, cooing in her sing-song voice, “Fore-bender, Eye-winker, Tom-tinker, Nose-dropper, Mouth-eater, Chin-chopper…” going slower and slower until she shouted gitchy-gitchy goo while tickling under my chin. Every time I swore this time I would see it coming and I wouldn’t laugh – but she got me every time. I can still feel her fingers running under my chin, across my throat, as I giggled and scrunched my chin down. I thought all my life this was a southern game. It wasn’t until I was an adult I realized no one else knew Forebender. No one.

Flash-forward to reading Bryson’s linguistic book called “The Mother Tongue” (FYI - a fascinating read on the English language). He began the book talking about nursery rhymes and the importance of them to linguistic studies for their tendency to remain unchanged through the times, despite constant shifts in all languages, and the clues they can give to the origins of people and idioms. He told the story of a couple who spent their professional lives studying the linguistics of nursery rhymes. They had been stumped by one rhyme that they could not find the origin of, despite years of research. Having all but given up, one night they heard their own nanny tucking the children into sleep with the mysterious nursery rhyme – it was my grandmother’s very own Fore-bender. The couple traced the nanny’s lineage and found that the rhyme came from a Dutch colony.that had been isolated for much of its existence. Unfortunately, Bryson didn’t mention the name of the colony nor could I find it onthe internet. Maria told me, however, that a small Dutch colony had once been a part of Poland. I seriously wonder now given the similarities with my grandmother’s cooking and language tendencies and other physical traits I see in common with these people, particularly in the body build of my son, if we aren’t descended from that colony. I remember the jokes about the “dumb” Polocks in grade school, but from my experience here, I would be proud to be called a part of this humble, genuine people.

We spent lunch discussing these things. Greg, one of Asia’s dear friends had joined us. Extremely bright, and despite his excited personality, he is the spitting image of John Boy Walton – down to the mole on his cheek. His sandy blonde hair hung in his eyes as he and Asia and I bantered sexual innuendo jokes and English plays on words to Maria’s delight. It was great to see another “cool” mom in action who could appreciate the humor of US kids. It was probably a bit cruel given she was only ten years my senior, but I was calling Asia’s mom, Mom, by lunch the first day. ‘Maria’ just wasn’t filled with enough of the affection I felt for her and appreciation for taking care of me like her own.

Igor, the brainiac I had met in Berlin, joined us after lunch just before Greg had to go back to his over-possessive wifey. While I understand a little healthy jealousy, I will never understand people who have to keep their beloveds on a leash the length of their arm. Nor will I understand the partners who accept it. There are many things I can support in a relationship, but over-possessiveness and excessive jealousy were never on my patience list. We said our apologetic goodbyes to Greg and headed into town for a historical tour of the Szczecin sights.

Szczecin was a bittersweet town. Filled with beautiful architecture and a rich history, home to a once-vibrant port and incredible parks, it has obviously been poorly governed through the last century and now simply left to rot. It was sad seeing buildings that would rival any turn of the century jewels of Paris or Vienna left to the ravages of time - paint peeling, balconies collapsing, moldings falling off the sides. The city was actually modeled after Paris in a star shape with wide avenues on either side of tree lined medians and roundabouts. The eighty years of change, decay, war, and communism, however, have left the people tired, worn, beaten down, and dejected. The population is shrinking as people make way for the bright future of Berlin, just two hours to the south west. They are still trying to rebuild some structures but clearly with little care as to the quality or accuracy of the restructures. It is like a mafia-managed city – you can smell money in the air but it is in people’s back pockets and not in the city where it belongs. In fact Wikipedia states that the mayor, Marian Jurczyk’s achievements are widely criticized and he is blamed for over 10 millions zloyts compensations which the city must pay for canceling a land selling deal, his lack of formal education, and his apparent cluelessness in many important matters. Jurczyk's famous errors include forgetting the name of his own deputy he just nominated, quoting Jesus in his speech to the council, and most recently showing up late to a meeting with a crowned prince interested in investing money to build a resort in the city limits. Under the law, a mayor can be “impeached” upon the signing of 32,000 names to a petition. The people rallied, skipping school and work to sign the petition and oust Jurczyk. The petition carried but the government found a loophole to keep the mayor in place and so the city continues to die under his not so watchful eye.

Pomerania, as it was once known, gained its independence back in 1005 but this land and city was to change hands several times over the next thousand years before being passed from the Germans to the Russians after World War II. It was strange to imagine just sixty years ago, this city had been part of Germany. We walked past city hall where Hitler once spoke and through the park that commemorated Pope John Paul’s visit in the 80s. We strolled a small part of the Central Cemetery, the third largest in Europe and even more beautiful than the one we had seen the day before, and wandered through the numerous parks, admiring and criticizing the many statues in the town. The town symbol is the Gryphon though apparently the town sculptor wasn’t particularly good at creating a likeness for his subject, gryphon or otherwise.

The tour of the city would not be complete without a stop at the most important sight – Galaxy, the latest and greatest edition to the Szczecin scene; a three-story shopping extravaganza fit to rival most American malls. Actually some might say the bar in the center makes it better than most American malls. My favorite spot was Coffee Heaven – one of the dozen Starbuck takeoffs except this one’s got it down. I had a Kaluha, Caramel, Chocolate latte that was absolutely to die for! After warming up with a coffee we continued on, admiring St. James’ Cathedral, founded in 1187, passing the Tower of the Seven Coats, the only structure remaining of the medieval fortifications from the 1400’s, and continuing on to Old Town to see the Pomeranian Duke’s Castle. Unfortunately much of the castle was destroyed during the war and the reconstruction has done little to maintain a sense of antiquity. Finishing up our tour with a quick stroll through the new old town with its romantic restaurants and cozy bars and past the lovely piazza overlooking the harbor we had just enough time to dash home and change to meet two of the other students from Ascoli for drinks, Alecia and Pavlo.

It was great having our mini-Ascoli reunion interesting to see a club called B-52 replete with a replica B-52 which served as a private room in the back and DJ booth up front (I guess no-one else thought it was strange they modeled a club after a plane that destroyed much of their city). Asia and I had fun on the dancing, observing evidence that Polish men are indeed the worst dressed men on the planet in their short-sleeve, untucked, button up, colored shirts, and watching Igor work his magic on two pretty hot Polish blondes. We had even more fun picking up the cuties from Denmark who unfortunately were as dumb as they were cute and laughing over the Polock who sadly supported the stereotype long ago presented to me about their people when he argued that California was considered the Southwest. Apparently this is a common, and understandable, geographic misconception – the stupidity was that he was arguing the fact with an American! We walked home, Asia, Igor, and I, pretty tipsy at 4am (from drinking vodka and applejuice (?!) under the full moon, making up limericks that I’m sure were far more funny with a few drinks and a full moon than they would be any other time. It was an awesome day.

Unfortunately the next day began at 8:30 am with the workers literally outside the high-rise apartment window putting up new rockwall with power drills. It was as if they were drilling directly into my head, or maybe that was the vodka. We all rallied and escaped the construction site, heading for the seaside town Miedzyzdruje. It amazes me how all sea-side towns in all the world are exactly the same – people strolling down boardwalks in that no-place-to-go stride, tacky shops selling postcards, memorabilia, and cheap knickknacks made of shells, – dust-collectors as Asia’s mom would call them - stand after stand of fattening irresistible meats and treats and sweats filling the air with passing aromas – first popcorn, now pizza, now the smell of roasting meat.. We stopped for Szaszkyk – roasted pork on skewers with onions and a special sauce - oh, soo, sooo good! We just meandered the day away, walking the promenade, filling up on meat and ice-cream, coffee and snacks, wandering in and out of the little shops, people watching, and enjoying the warm summer day. We had eaten so much I thought surely we would just head to bed but I barely had time to check email before Maria had another meal on the table! We laughed until almost midnight as they told me stories about the crazy aunt – the one most southern families have who knows everything about everything – love, marriage, children, the world, society - but has never been married, had children, traveled, or really even socialized herself. The days had lasted forever and still passed too quickly. I packed my bags, prepared another shipment for home, and wrote my postcards before settling into my last night’s sleep in this wonderful home. Hugs, kisses, and promises to see each other soon were passed around as we said our goodbyes alongside the local bus that would take me to the ferry that would drop me in Copenhagen. We all marveled over the sense of family that had come between us in such a short time. I hope the day will not be long from now when our paths happily pass again.

Broadband in Berlin

Monday, August 8, 2006

I arrived in Berlin to blissful rain. Blissful because my body is wearing down and my internet todo list piling up. A little rain and a broadband connection is a great combination for a traveling writer! The hotel was a lucky find – a beautifully appointed room, a good price, a great connection, and around the corner from the premier shopping district in west Berlin – not that I can afford to shop at Hermes but being a stone’s throw away means you are in the midst of one of the nicer areas of town with convenient takeout coffee shops for burning the midnight oil. I spent a few hours writing until hunger drove me out to the little take out Asian restaurant across the street. I haven’t seen a particularly predominant Asian culture in this notable ethnically diverse city, but Asian restaurants undoubtedly predominate the restaurant scene – from walk up Sushi stands to five star restaurants, you can eat raw fish to your heart’s content.

I haven’t seen a TV in months and decided to flip on the suave flat screen for a little tour of German TV while I ate my noodles. What an interesting array of programs! From a surprisingly entertaining (given I couldn’t understand a word) German version of Candid Camera (a childhood favorite), to a smart-little-shits children’s jeopardy show, to dubbed over John Wayne and Sylvestor Stallone movies, an old dynasty re-run (did what’s-his-name really wear that much black eyeliner?), war documentaries, and a surprisingly large selection of unattractive older men singing for huge ballroom and TV spectacular programs. The show that had me mesmerized though was the new-millennium-German-Lawrence-Welk type production (Welk? Was he German come to think of it?) It was a HUGE production - tens of thousands in the audience, a light spectacular to rival the best rock shows, and what must have been a 200 piece orchestra. The show went on for hours with various guest singers and performers brought to stage by a host who honestly looked like an older German Lawrence Welk, assuming I even remember what Lawrence Welk looked like other than he was OLD. I was about eight when he was popular. He was probably my age now!

I had passed the show a couple times on my channel surfing expedition. Once there was a definite primadonna singer all done up in a Gone with The Wind ball gown. Now there was this Teddy Bear Telly Savalas type singing a real tap-your-feeter while these beautiful women did a dance urban-cowboy-style in white and red cowboy chaps. Now you have to picture this. The fancy, shmanciest of cowboy get ups – a long red-sleeved cowboy shirt with appliqué and tassels under a white vest and chaps replete with fringe and rhinestones doing a yee-haw with the whole gitty-up dance going – you know the one I’m talking about – the one you’ll do to make your friends laugh when you hear country music come on in the mall and no one is really looking. You got the picture? So here are these beautiful women whooping it up in full cowboy regalia next to this overweight short bald man just having a grand time singing a how-dee-doo and then the girls, in their line dance, turn around. They are wearing ass-less chaps! Every other square inch of their bodies is covered with fabric and rhinestone, tassels and appliqué except two side by side watermelons hanging out for the world to see – some of the firmest watermelons you have ever seen I might add. I had to take a picture. Now I KNOW some of you will go look at the pictures on the site!

I was still laughing when I finished my noodles and turned the TV off. Despite a long train ride, I worked until well past three in the morning. Maybe it has just been my bad luck – but every single train I have caught in Germany has been late. Most are old and dirty though the ICE from Bamberg to Berlin was new with a wonderful first class section. Some of them have business class sections as well with black leather chairs and sleek wooden tables, electrical connections, and small conference-like rooms - great way to do business. Regardless the quality, I can’t say enough positive things about train travel. Even in the countries where the trains are slow and dirty or the systems poorly run, trains are an incredibly more effective way to travel than cars. I can’t imagine arriving in each one of these cities and trying to learn street systems, finding (and paying) for parking spaces, and generally being tied to a car. Not a single host of mine has had a car. Not one. Can you imagine? No car payment. No car insurance payment. No monthly parking payment. No traffic jams. No car accidents. AND a more effective, efficient, timely system for getting around! AND you have half an hour to an hour everyday to read or work on a project instead of driving a car. Don’t get me wrong. My car is the only real material possession I kept. There are few things I enjoy more than putting the top down and driving (twice the speed limit). But it sure would be nice for it to be a fun pastime on the weekend rather than a headache every day of the week. We, as a country, were complete #+@#& morons for letting our railroad tracks rot over and never developing a train system when we had a fair amount of the substructure in place. Of course, I’m sure the failure had more to do with the self-interest of our government in oil and industry and our tendency to believe what we’re told than a conscious decision on our part at the crucial turning point moment not to effectively pursue mass transit. If Europe could put in effective systems in these thousand year old cities with infrastructures that date back before our lunch with the indians, there’s not a reason in the world we can’t.

Speaking of Indians and pilgrims– did you ever stop to wonder how the pilgrims learned to hunt and fish and work the land from their buddy Squanto; what with them being English speaking white men and Squanto being a native Indian and all. Did you know it was because he spoke perfect English (and Spanish). Know why? Because the white men who fished the coast of America long before the Mayflower thought of sailing kidnapped him and several other Indians to take back to show off and/or sell into slavery. He was kidnapped first and taken to England and again and taken to Spain. The first Indian to speak to the pilgrims, Samoset, also spoke English though he had never left “American” shores. He had learned from all the English fishermen running up and down our coast. Funny how we are taught the pilgrims were the “first”. Did you know also that neither Columbus nor Vespucci, the two men Italy and Spain fight over for claim to have discovered America, ever stepped foot on American soil. In fact both were unimpressive men – Columbus an undeservingly conceited ass and Vespucci a repeated failure who actually fictionalized his adventures so effectively that a historical textbook writer believed them and incorporated them into his history textbook and maps - thus giving “America” Vespucci’s name….

What was I talking about? Oh yes, train systems. We should have them. I love them. Switzerland’s are still the best. Germany’s are a distant second. So I took my first nice German train and fifth late German train into Berlin. I could smell Starbucks in the air when I arrived. Not literally, I can just tell when I’m near a Starbucks. I walked the length of the station, impressed with the new, modern, clean, and bustling train station, (I learned later it was only opened six weeks ago) before taking the escalator up. There they were, my precious little green letters. For all the complaints about Starbucks contributing to globalization and reducing the world to a cookie cutter version of itself, I will always love that man for giving America a place to commune that it sorely lacked and a little piece of ‘home’ on distant shores. The girl at Starbucks rolled her eyes when I called my drink out slowly with careful intonations, afraid she wouldn’t recognize the English word Hazelnut (not realizing in German it is Hazelnus). She responded in perfect English with every bit as much condescension for my presumption that she wouldn’t speak English as the man in Nuremburg who was offended that I hoped he could.

The Austrians were undoubtedly the most fluidly bilingual, with the Swiss running a close second. Most Germans speak “a little” English and are happy to do so, though some clearly take issue with the whole “should speak English” issue. Personally, I’m behind the English movement. Not just because it is my mother tongue, though that certainly will be an advantage as time moves on, but because I believe deeply in the power of communication. There are generally three ways to resolve an issue – any issue be it between spouses, friends, or countries. You can fight, you can ignore each other, or you can communicate. Of the three, communication is the one most likely to lead to resolution. Without a common language, we seriously impede our ability to communicate. It is difficult enough to understand the intrinsic differences between cultures, without language it is virtually impossible. And speaking strictly linguistically, English is best-suited of the primary world languages to be the common language.

In fact, English was originally a lingua franca, a language developed as a method of communication between people who didn’t speak the same language. That is why we have all those inexplicable spelling deviations. Words were taken hodgepodge from French, Norman, Anglo-Saxon, Latin, and any languages lying around, making English naturally syncretistic. While the French actually had a legislative body responsible for enforcing fines against people for using foreign words, English welcomed all variations and thus, in time, became a language rich with synonyms and an increased ability to describe with precision. While maintaining its synonym richness, it is still an extremely facile language. Did you know it takes native speakers of Arabic and Chinese four years longer to become fully literate in their own languages than it does native speakers of English? Making literacy all the more difficult for non-native speakers. English by contrast can be learned far more readily by speakers of all languages than the majority of languages in the world. Unfortunately, the reverse is true as well. It is often more difficult for English speakers to learn other languages.

Spanish has many of the same advantages as English and may become a world language simply by the Toro stubbornness of Spanish people about speaking their language; that combined with their growing population numbers. Yet I would argue that Spanish still requires a pronunciation precision that English doesn’t require. We are lazy pronouncers and for this we are facile comprehenders. If you get close to the word, even the first few letters, we get you, we understand. Not so for the other romantic languages, a strong accent kills your communication abilities, even if you know perfectly the rules of the language.

I think people take issue with English as a common world language more because they see it as one more way America is trying to dominate the world and put our fingers in everyone’s business. While it would certainly be to our advantage to be have the world language of communication, I think it is a disservice to the world to rule out English simply because the Americans and Brits are a bit holier-than-thou. Besides if you think about it, it takes only two generations, forty little years to create an entire world of mother-tongue English speakers. Any child who is born into a bilingual home takes on both languages as a mother tongue. Even if one of the languages is not spoken with perfect fluency, the child will develop perfect fluency as long as he is exposed regularly to that language.

All the European countries function like this already – with a “standard” language taught in schools and used to communicate generally and a dialect spoken with the family and at home. They move easily, almost without conscious intention, from speaking standard Italian or high German with someone like me to their dialect with friends. Imagine, if everyone in the world learned English now as a second language and spoke it alongside their language, the children of their children would all speak the same language. If a common world language is possible, a common world spirit is possible. We have seen it already in the fortification of Italy and others into a common political country bounded by a common language. What happens at a micro level, can happen at a macro level as well.

Speaking of national identity (can you tell I have decidedly taken the day off and have time to mentally meander?), I was surprised at Neuschwanstein that I couldn’t find a German Flag pin for my little pin collection on my backpack. There were flag combinations with every country – a German flag with a Japanese flag, with an American flag, even with a French flag (?!) but not a single solitary German flag pin by itself. Even the magnets tended to be the symbol for Deutschland instead of the flag. I didn’t think too much of it at the time though I’ve been able to buy a flag for every other country I’ve been to in almost every tourist junk store that I passed. When we arrived in Ausborg, it was the same; Nuremburg, the same. Plenty of Deutschmark pins – the black, yellow, and red striped patch with the eagle at the top, plenty of locality banners, plenty of ‘I love Germany’ things, but only a couple souvenirs with the actual flag, and absolutely none of my damn stickpins.

Fastforward to the breakfast table with Johannes in Bamberg. He was telling me what a powerful event the World Cup had been for their country; how it had swept up everyone into the celebration. It became the answer to every “what should we do tonight” question. After five weeks, everyone was a bit lost when it was all over. He explained how the new coach for their soccer team has brought in all these alternative modes of coaching, from psychotherapy, to natural healing approaches and, to the surprise of the Germans, has created not only a stronger team but one not so boring to watch, as he put it. Then he said it was great to see so many people actually waving German flags, something before that very few would do. Wait a minute. What did you just say about flags? He explained that the country is still a bit reserved about displaying its flag – that it doesn’t use the flag to express solidarity within a country for sports (or presumably anything else) the way countries like Italy do. Hmmm, could this be a possible explanation for the flagless pins? Oh, he replied, surely not. You’ll find them in Berlin. I stopped in eleven shops in Berlin. No single German flag pins. Funny how insiders don’t notice what outsiders do. I asked the clerks at every store – not one had ever noticed the missing flag. Some were curious as to why. Some could have cared less. I finally settled and bought a German/Berlin pin

The souvenir shops were about all I saw the first day here. I left the hotel at 3pm eager for a walk and a short break from the computer. After two hours, I cried uncle and went running back to my broadband. Berlin is HUGE. This is NOT a walking city. I planned this nice walk through the Tiergarten and around to the east side figuring it would take about three hours – apparently I was looking at the map with Switzerland scale eyes when Berlin was designed on US scale! It is actually geographically nine times the size of Paris. I walked almost two hours and didn’t even make it from the hotel to the other side of the Tiergarten. The Tiergarten alone spans over two miles, a gigantic green mass practically in the center of the city map though it is not actually all green space like they make it seem. I was more impressed with its size than beauty though I did not very much. In fact, I was more concentrated on the hyenas – a homeless man who had lifted a wallet and was perusing its contents while he scoped every trashcan and phone changer he passed, and the actual hyenas running around – no not in the park itself, in the zoo exhibit backs up to one of the park paths.

It was clear Sunday I couldn’t even begin to touch this city walking. Because of the wall there are in a sense two distinct city areas worth viewing – the west side being known for its shopping and nicer areas and the east for its position of political prominence. As the New Berlin has grown up, and there is a fierce identity around here with the NEW Berlin, the areas between East and West have been filled in as new areas like Kreuzberg to the south and legendary for its nightlife, and Prenzlauer, known for its bars, to the north. Sunday night I spent the same as Saturday (except I had rice instead of noodles :-); another 3am night on the computer and a little rest for my weary bones.

Monday was a light day as well, though quite enjoyable. Asia, the cute little blonde who I loved so dearly in Ascoli, was in Berlin for the day with her friend Igor. We met at the world clock and took a nice easy walking tour past the Cathedral, Brandenburg Gate, and Kurfurstendamm, stopping for bratwurst along the way (did you know they serve a 15 inch bratwurst on a 5” roll in Germany and Poland?) Igor knew an incredible amount about the history and monuments of Berlin. I felt badly for him as Asia and I were more into our girl talk than the architecture. I hate when I love something and want someone to appreciate it with me and they won’t even look up! But Asia and I had catching up to do and Berlin would be here tomorrow (course Asia will be too since I’m going to her home in Poland!). In reality I was so exhausted I could barely focus on the conversation much less the sights around me. By 6pm I had to excuse myself and head back to the hotel. I understood later why I had been so tired as I sweated out a fever from 7pm until I got up the next morning at 9am. I’ll do a bus tour Tuesday until my train leaves for Poland and that will be it for my Berlin experience. I hate to have essentially missed such an interesting city but it will have to go on the “another day” tour list. At least I took advantage of the broadband!

Bam! Bam! Bamberg

Friday, August 4, 2006

Can you hear the beer mugs? Bam! Bam! Bam! in time on the long wooden plank tables….

I had my first REAL German beer (Cologne doesn’t count – they serve baby beers) sitting with my host, Johannes, at a local brewery in Bamberg. This is a wonderful little off-the-beaten track town, recommended, and rightly so, by my dear German friend Achim. Bamberg is known for its breweries – with nine in this small little town, it ranks the highest brewery per capita in the world. Unlike most who come to Bamberg, though I didn’t come for the beer. I had decided to make a quick run through Germany, a top tourist site, a small town, and a large city, saving the rest of my railpass for Switzerland. Bamberg was a great stopping point between the castle and Berlin, and a nice break from the madness of Neuschwanstein and Salzburg, being more a tourist destination for Germans than for the world.

Bamberg is an interesting little town – quaint in that German way with high pitched roofs and brown wood accent pieces on the colored stucco walls. It is well-maintained, having escaped the bombing during World War II that most vibrant town centers faced. In fact, Bamberg is recognized as a World Heritage Sight for having one of Europe’s largest intact old town centers, with over 2,000 historic houses, numerous museums and art works, both beautiful and curious architecture, and a rich history. Its fortune began when a childless couple bequeathed lands and money to the church so as to be remembered throughout history despite their inability to carry on the family name. Money might not buy you love, but it can definitely buy you a spot in heaven. They were both canonized for their contribution to this little town.

The Cathedral is impressive, but I thought less impressive than many - or maybe I have just seen too many at this point. It does some interesting features such as the famous Bamberg Horsemen, an equestrian statue that has set on the north pillar of the St. George choir for about eight hundred years now. Crafted by an unknown medieval sculptor around 1230, it is considered the first monumental equestrian statue since classical antiquity. The Cathedral is also the final resting place for Pope Clemens II and the only Papal burial place north of the Alps.

I actually found St. Michaels more lovely than the cathedral. It is a monastery situated on a hill just above the city. Rather than the traditional ceiling works of stone or fresco, the ceiling of St. Michaels is white washed with beautifully painted representations of hundreds of medicinal plants with commendable botanical accuracy in each of the corner crossovers of the vaulted sections of ceiling. Personally, I was enthralled by the sculpture of the saint whom I lit candles before. Her expressions seemed to change for the twenty minutes or so I sat in communion with her. Sometimes she smiled serenely, sometimes she seemed almost to laugh, others she had the patience of a mother, and sometimes a look of empathy so profound I thought she might cry. The exchange was so intense, I began to wonder if I was about to have an enlightened encounter. When I finished my prayers (it takes a long time to pray for all of you!), I was so deeply moved I forgot to even see who she was.

From St. Michaels, I wandered down into the town and quite by accident passed the town’s third most famed attraction – the Old Town Hall. It was constructed in the 14^th century on an artificial island in the middle of the River Regnitz. Why you ask? It was an attempted marriage of church and state, placed equidistant between the clerical city on the hills and the merchants Island city; the “citizens” and the “church”. The building is both beautiful and curious in its little spot in the middle of the river. From the Old Town Hall, you can see the area known as Little Venice – accessible by small river boats, these houses sit right on the river’s edge, beautifully adorned with overflowing flowerboxes.

I didn’t make it up one of the seven hills to experience the renowned beergartens – a concept similar, I think, to Vineyard hopping, but I did get to try two of the local brews courtesy of my host Johannes. The second was a smoked brew – an interesting experience indeed. I actually felt like I was drinking smoked sausage. I enjoyed chatting with Johannes over both beer and breakfast - a lovely experience indeed to breakfast in the garden of their artistic and feng shui flowing home. Johannes is a glass artist and his wife a herbal specialist and reflexology therapist. Unfortunately, she was out of town so I did not get to meet her. Their house was amazing. Four floors in a building almost five hundred years old. The design was a cross between minimalist and cozy southern – an interesting combination indeed. The walls were painted great chakra colors – reds and oranges, yellows and Asian greens, always in blocked lines with a two foot white blocked space at the top. The colors and blocking created a vibrant energy in the home – it really felt like the house of an artist and herbologist! Johannes is one of those rare people who brings vision into reality. He spent hours walking me through his website and the many projects he has seen to fruition from Che Guevara photo reproductions and exhibitions to his growing Domino Club. He was preparing for an exhibition while I was there this weekend of his glass work. Currently he works with a two-pane suspended design that I found stark and warm at the same time in an appealing play of emotion and light. I would love to buy a large one for a room division in the loft chakra apartment I have been designing in my head. You can see some of his work and other interests on his website www.schreiber-glaskunst.de though unfortunately there is not a flattering picture of the double-paned form he is working with now.

I learned all sorts of fascinating things in my time at Bamberg between my conversations with Johannes and the well-done tourist guides. For example, did you know that the Murano glass artisans were practically prisoners of the island? The Venetian powers-that-be were terrified of losing their financially profitable monopoly on glass making if the secret recipes were to be recreated outside Venice so all glass makers who were privy to the knowledge were bound to the island – facing fine and even death if they left without permission. A pretty stringent trade secret regulation! I also found it interesting that the town has its consistent baroque appearance thanks essentially to tax incentives. Any citizen who turned over rights to construct a façade to their house to the state received a three year reprieve on their taxes. Any citizen who undertook the façade themselves at their own expense received a twenty year reprieve! Johannes said that many of the houses turned over to the state are actually like houses inside houses, with the facades located several feet in front of the actual house. Funny to think of tax incentives hundreds of years ago -we think of it as such a modern issue.

If I had more time, there were many more things worth seeing in Bamberg. I would especially enjoy a sunset brew in the hills above the city. But it is ideal for a quick overnight stop on the train between Munich and Berlin just to taste a little of the more peaceful German countryside and days of old.

The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of

Thursday, August 3, 2006

Well, it wasn’t the warmest welcome to Germany – literally or figuratively. It was cold and wet with a blanket of grey clouds that covered the land with a steady rainfall that never changed. It definitely wasn’t the fairytale day I had imagined for seeing Neuschwanstein – the storybook castle built by Mad Ludwig and the castle that served as Walt Disney’s inspiration for the universally known Disney icon. I didn’t know all this the first time I laid eyes on this wonderful fairytale palace. The first time I saw the castle was on a poster in a little gift store – you know with the poster racks at the back of the store? I was flipping through the racks, past the Dukes of Hazard girls in their short shorts, Pat Benatar, Murphy’s Laws, and various cute and cuddly puppies and kittens, when there I saw a poster of this amazing castle. It stood in the middle of nowhere, rising majestically on a small peak as if floating in mid-air. It was fall in the picture and the tress were painted shades of yellow and orange and red with mist settling off in the valley beyond. It was a place I had imagined only in dreams. I bought that poster. It hung on my wall all those years as a young teenage girl dreaming of my prince charming and happy-ever-after.

I never made the connection between my fairy tale castle and Disney’s icon. In fact it wasn’t until I was perusing internet sites for places to stop on my quick run through Germany that I saw a picture and realized the famed Neuschwanstein was the castle of my young girl dreams. I was almost giddy last night with the thought of actually seeing this vision of my dreams in real life. I had always imagined it was deep in a dark forest in some strange land called Bavaria and virtually inaccessible to modern man. Little did I know it was one of Europe’s most popular attractions with over 6,000 visitors a day during the summer tourist season. If seen from above, it must look like a busy ant colony for all the Japanese tourists coming from all directions, determinedly trudging the thirty minute climb uphill, for the chance to photograph this legendary icon. I must look like the giant albino ant.

I decided I would dress up in honor of my fairy tale dreams in my orange dress with the wide skirt that billowed kinda like a ball room gown if I twirled fast enough. It seemed apropos, though I generally prefer comfies for ten hour train days like this one. I was up at 5:30am to partake in the rare luxury of a hair dryer, courtesy of my host, and to curl my hair (a vanity I continue both to indulge and be embarrassed by). I guess there is a little girl in me who still hopes to meet prince charming at the ball. It doesn’t hurt to look pretty – just in case. Karin, sweetheart that she was to get up at six am, fixed me breakfast and we chatted until it was time for me to dart to catch the 7am train.

It was cloudy in Salzburg, drizzling as we crossed the border of Germany, and pouring by the time we arrived in Munich. There was no sign for Fussen in the Munich station so I set off to find an information counter. I had to laugh at the information lady – she wasn’t rude particularly, she just wasn’t the least bit interested in giving one syllable of information more than was asked.

Me – “Hi, English?”

Her – Hmmph – “Little.”

Me – I need to go to Fussen.

“9:51” She says and looks at me blankly.

“It is not on the screens.”

She checks – “Yes, Fussen, 9:51”

Um, what is the destination? (as in the city that will show on the screen so I can get on the right train)

She says something unintelligible.

Um, what track?

31

Do I have to change trains?

Yes. …

I wait – nothing more

Um, where do I change trains?

She rolls her eyes and says something that sounds Italian

Excuse me?

“BUCHLO!!” She all but shrieks

Great, thanks…

I’m not going to even attempt asking other questions like do they have lockers or what platform is the connection.

The train is there when I reach the platform. Already chilled, I make the wise, practical decision that it is not a day for fairytale skirts and white beaded tank tops and so when the train pulls out of the station, I take a t-shirt and yoga pants into the bathroom to change. Now I know not to set anything on a watercloset floor in the train, so I prop my backpack carefully in the corner and set my clothes on top of it. These bathrooms always reek and are about the size of a coffin on end, but I manage to strip down and change without any items of clothing ever touching the floor. I glance in the mirror as I’m about to walk out to see a large brown stain across the shoulder of my shirt. I don’t even want to know. I take the shirt off, wash the stain, trying not to throw up, put the shirt back on and walk out. How exactly someone managed to get shit on the walls is beyond me but there it was – large brown streaks down the side of the wall. The day was turning out to be my typical fairy tale – significantly better in the imagination than in the reality.

While Disney may have based his inspiration on this castle, the castle has clearly based its business plan on Disney. The farthest you can get by taxi or city bus is to the little “town” just above the valley and below the castle. I use the term ‘town’ loosely since it consists basically of souvenir shops, high priced restaurants, and hotels – like any entrance to a Disney area. There you cue for tickets. I spied a counter for reserved tickets with narry a soul in line. Too bad I didn’t research beforehand and discover that for a small service charge you can buy tickets online and walk right in. It took about forty minutes to make it through the ticket lane, standing outside in the rain for most of the time.

It turns out there are two castles available for viewing – Hohenschwangau , Ludwig’s parents’ castle, and Newschwansteain, his dream castle. Admission is by guided tour only but is available in twenty odd languages. Ticket price for both castles 18 euro. Walking time to get to both castles? Over one hour. Time between tour of mom and dad’s spot and Ludwig’s? Two hours. Worried I might miss the last train out, I opted to do just the Disney castle. Waiting time for the next available tour? Three hours. Great. The day was not improving, though at least the smell emanating from my shirt had lessened. Hoping I could talk my way into an open spot on an earlier tour, I began the forty minute uphill hike.

It was heartwarming to see so many people out, braving the cold rainy day. Old couples, young families, lovers. I always wonder where the single men traveling alone are – why couldn’t I meet Ethan Hawke in Vienna or Cary Grant in Paris? But no such luck. I was the only solo wanderer trudging uphill in the rain. Most people were pretty enthusiastic for such a gloomy rainy day and I enjoyed listening to the symphony of different languages. German and Japanese making up the woodwinds and English filling in with strings.

Taking my time, I arrived as the 2:15 tour was about to begin. No chance of sneaking in – everything is automated with well-barricaded turnstiles. There wasn’t even a person to whom I could try to talk my way through. A couple of clues for future Neuschwanstein goers - don’t hang outside with the hundreds of people waiting for their tour time under the wall entrance. On the other side is a courtyard with plenty of room to mill around and lots of picture taking opportunities. Second clue, there is a ticket counter just for Newshcwanstein to the right when you enter the courtyard, with no line. If I had come straight here, I would have been down the hill and changed into dry clothes by the time my assigned tour had started. I had been outside in the rain for the better part of two hours, soaked up to my knees in sandals, socks, and yoga pants with narry a place to lean much less sit down. Imagine my thrill at discovering this unknown ticket counter in a room, albeit still cold, that was dry and had benches to sit down! I asked at the ticket counter if I could get on an earlier tour – no luck, all sold out. Fortunately with computer in tow, I always have work I can do. I found a spot and clipped away at my keyboard until my tour started.

The castle was impressive indeed. I always imagined it was barren stone inside like the medieval castles of old. In actuality the castle was only begun a little over a hundred years ago and never was completely finished. Even poor old Ludwig only lived there for seven weeks before his untimely death. Due it seems to his penchant for spending money to build incredible castles (Neuschwanstein was not the only one) and his lack of interest in political affairs, his cabinet conspired to have him declared insane and remove him from office. The following day he was found dead in the river along with the psychiatrist responsible for his care. Theories abound as to what exactly happened that stormy night though no one will ever know. The king had built his fairy tale castle as a private residence to escape the people whom he never found his comfort with. Instead just seven weeks after he moved in, it was opened to the public and has remained so ever since.

The castle is dedicated to Ludwig’s passion for the operas of Wagner. Themes from Wagner’s works run throughout the rooms. The Singers Hall is most impressive – designed solely for the purpose of presenting Wagner pieces for the king’s pleasure, it was never actually used as a performance hall until 1969. It must be stunning to take in a concert or performance in this luxurious room. The 2,000 pound chandelier in the Throne room is impressive enough to make up for the missing throne, and the artwork throughout the palace rivals much of the neo-classical art I have seen elsewhere. Swans decorate the ceilings, the doors, the floors, the walls, and the furniture. He was actually nicknamed The Swan King and though the citizens ridiculed him for his shy and fanciful ways, the country mourned his death deeply. The world would have some astounding works of art and architecture if he had not been undermined at the young age of 40. I guess his fairytale world was no more of a fairytale for him than my day visiting it. At least I have not been declared insane. Well… not officially anyway.

The Hills Are Alive With The Sound of Mozart

Wednesday, August 2, 2006

I arrived expecting to see the Von Trapp children singing on tabletops and skipping down the streets of Salzburg and to hear Julie Andrew’s melodic voice as she spun in circles on a hilltop beyond the city. What I found instead where pictures everywhere of the little white-wigged composer and hundreds of thousands of tourists. The Sound of Music has a small piece of the marketing attention for Salzburg – you can spot an occasional tour and there are a few postcards indicating the places where the movie was filmed. There is even an attractive little book priced at a hefty 14 euro, but well done with the history of both the musical and the real life experiences of Maria Von Trapp who actually wrote the story (and I was sad to learn was bamboozled by Wolfgang Reinhardt and never earned a red cent for the film rights or other royalties for the story that is so dear to the hearts of so many).

But the real attraction to this small, quaint riverside city is its fortune of having been the birthplace of Mozart – never mind that he had little love for the city and spent most of his life elsewhere. His picture is everywhere in this town; a semi-profile pose with his head turned just enough to gaze at you from every candy bar, liquor bottle, marquis, shop window, and postcard in the city. Even Hermes had a huge elegant poster picture of him in the window next to a sharply designed woman’s outfit done in rich silk, complimented by a gorgeous vest depicting a reproduction of what presumably was his favorite style violin. I learned later that I had unwillingly arrived not only during the year celebration of the 250^th anniversary of his birth, but also during the world-renowned Summer Festival which showcases many and some of the best of the town’s 4,000 performances a year. With one in three people employed in the tourist industry, Salzburg is generally filled with tourists, but now it was excessively so. One could barely walk down Getreidegasse; the famed shopping street boasting all the standard la-de-dah stores for the rich and famous. Supposedly there were actors and actresses, millionaires and heiresses roaming the streets with the rest of us, though I never saw any of them.

Salzburg is situated on the Salzach River and has been a wealthy stronghold throughout history thanks to its plentiful supply of, can you guess it? Salt. Literally, Salzburg means Salt Tower and Salzach - Salt River. The first settlements to grow up around this salt mining paradise date back to the Stone Age with a stronghold during Celtic times which was eventually taken over by the Romans. Warring territories fought over the land until around 700 AD when Franconian Bishop Rupert founded the monastery of St Peter and the Convent Nonnberg. Salzburg became an archbishopric and was given rich landholdings in 798. It is interesting to me that the citizens of any given town can generally tell you whether their town was originally run by the church or by the proverbial state (i.e. by an archbishop or a prince). Construction began on the Hohensalzburg Fortress, considered Europe’s largest and most well preserved fortress, in 1077 and it was continuously re-modified until the 17^th century. The Fortress sits pristine and white, like a crown jewel, high on a hill above the city. It was the Archbishop Wolf Dietrich who in the early 1600s turned Salzburg into a royal seat, creating many of the famed buildings of today. But it was in 1756 that the single most important event took place for Salzburg’s future – Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, was born in number 9, Getreidegasse. The rest is history for the world; marketing history for Salzburg.

By a stroke of luck, Michi had dropped her mother off in Salzburg and had time to meet me for lunch before taking the train back to Vienna. I was happy to get one last time to chat with her in the turn of the century ‘grand station’ restaurant. I think we were the only people in there who weren’t alive when it was constructed in like 1910. With her linguistic support (i.e. ordering for me), I finally had my first Weiner Schnitzel. I always thought Weiner Schnitzel was a sausage. Imagine my surprise to learn it is basically Chicken Fried Steak – a childhood favorite. The time flew, as it does in good company, when suddenly we realized it was three minutes until her train left. We said quick goodbyes and she dashed off, calling me from the train to let me know she had made it. It truly was an unbelievable stroke of luck to meet Eva on the night train and then Michi. I am strongly considering spending a couple months in Vienna in the spring to practice my German. Knowing I already have friends there makes it all the more tempting.

I tried to brave old town after I left the station, but the tourists were just too much for me. It was like being in Disneyworld during a joint AARP/Samsung convention. I didn’t really begin to enjoy Salzburg itself until I escaped Tourist Land and climbed up the backside of the hill to the fortress. The back path I chose took me past Nonnberg Abbey, the convent where, both in the movie and in real life, Maria had lived before being hired as a nanny by Mr. Von Trapp. The walk was lovely, winding through neighborhood streets, past perched houses on the hillside, and encountering a new view of the town below and the hills and the mountains beyond at every turn. The fortress was indeed impressive, giving one a true sense of what it was like to live behind these fortified walls, with many rooms still intact and even canons standing at the ready in the firing windows above the city. I was elated to discover that since I had arrived after the museum closed but before the fortress closed I only had to pay half price. I was then bummed to discover that since there was a concert that night, when the fortress closed the ticket man left the door open and went away. Worth remembering on future trips to Salzburg though next time I’d like to see the museums and do the audio guide as well

From the fortress I wandered down to Mirabell Gardens to catch a concert in traditional music and costumes. The Mirabell Castle was built by Archbishop Dietrich for his mistress in 1606 (funny how “celibate” bishops always had mistresses back then). It was almost completely destroyed in the city fire of 1818 but later rebuilt and today still holds weddings for happy brides and grooms from around the world. The gardens are beautifully manicured and tastefully accentuated with fountains and statues. My host Karin had suggested the concert as she had other plans when she agreed to host me – just two days after she signed up on the site mind you. We had too little time together between her work obligations and my short time to see the city, though I have no doubt we could become great friends.

When I arrived Tuesday afternoon, the heat wave that had gripped Europe had just broken. It was beginning to get chilly when she met me at the station and by the time we stashed my bags at her place and headed out for lunch and a quick tour, the clouds had moved in. Before we even made it to the information stand to get me a map it started pouring. We ran, sharing an umbrella, through the streets of Salzburg searching for a coffee shop that wasn’t overrun with tourists hiding from the rain. Karin told me that it rains quite often in Salzburg, especially the mid-afternoon rains known in many regions of the world. I was soaked to the skin and shivering by the time we arrived at one of the more famous coffee houses outside of the tourist district but I wasn’t about to complain after having been traveling in oppressive heat without air-conditioning for so many weeks.

We got acquainted at the café until it was time for her to head to a meeting. Almost my age, she is at the beginning of a life transition and is full of eagerness for what lies ahead. It is funny how when we embrace transitions, all things become possible again. We are, for a time, like teenagers full of dreams and ideals, aware of the significance of coincidences, and faith that we are on the right path and that dreams do come true. It is strange how time and life and the world beats this eagerness out of us, though it seems it is always there to be found again, when we let it come out. We only had a couple more opportunities to really talk though I promised I would come back again, and I will - when the tourists are gone!

Envious of the Viennese

Monday, July 31, 2006

Some cities you just connect with. Vienna was such a city for me. Maybe because I started my time here over cappuccino with new friends, but I think it has more to do with this city. Vienna is a beautiful, well-maintained “European” city. It has all the European beauty and elegance we expect from European cities like Paris and London - the ornate architecture, impressive churches and cathedrals, parks filled with statues and monuments yet it has something other great European cities lack – tranquility. There is an ease in the streets of Vienna more akin to a small country town than a large city. When you step off the metro in most large cities, you are swept into a rushing frenetic pace, bordering on insanity in cities like Rome. Stations are overflowing, people running to catch the metro, knocking others over, despite the fact there is another metro just three minutes behind. In Vienna they stroll to the metro – if there is one sitting there, they walk more slowly. It is just as well to catch the next one as race to catch the one there. The tranquility is everywhere – in the restaurants, the plazas, even the Museums Quartier filled on a Saturday night with young people has a quiet peaceful hum about it.

You could see the pervasiveness of easy energy in the families traveling together. Again and again I saw families walking through the streets or in the parks, laughing, joking, telling stories – completely engaged with one another. Teenage daughters held their mothers’ hands, young boys practically skipping backwards filled with the excitement of some story they were recounting to their parents, brothers and sisters teased and tickled each other, laughing in the warm summer sun. Typically when I see a family vacationing in Europe, especially American families, the son is wandering off on his own at least ten feet away from the family, the teenage daughter humphing and rolling her eyes about something, and the parents are arguing about whether the street to the hotel is across the piazza or to the right of the Cathedral. Another couchsurfer actually asked me if I had noticed how happy the families were here so I know this wasn’t my dreamed up idealism.

There is undoubtedly plenty to do and see – dozens of museums; plenty of classical music, opera, and theatre; shopping that rivals the major cities with all The Names – Loro Piana, Chanel, Hermes; wading parks; horse drawn carriages; architecture and monuments. It is all well organized with efficient transit systems, navigable streets, and plenty of pedestrian areas. The costs were inordinately reasonable, contrary to what I had heard before about Vienna (and especially in contrast to Switzerland). You could get a full breakfast – omelet, toast, coffee, and orange juice for 4.95 and a decent dinner for less than eight euro. Museums are average priced (though unfortunately for me student discounts are only for those 27 and younger) and almost all performances offer standing tickets for ten euro. Even a horse and carriage can be had for forty – cheap in comparison to many places. The streets are safe. Women can and do walk alone at night through all parts of the city. There are plenty of places to hang out – man made sand beaches along the side of the river, piazzas and parks, and a vibrant youth culture with a bent for dance music. Streets are clean, buildings freshly painted, shops keep liberal hours. Many restaurants offer free internet service, encouraging people to linger over their coffee or meal.

All these things work to make Vienna an enjoyable, peaceful, relaxing yet entertaining city, but I would argue what contributes the most is the gemütlich.. This is a word used especially to describe Austrian people and supposedly is not directly translatable My interpretation of it would be an easy-going, slow paced, down to earth sort of people but with more “city culture” than the simple uneducated country folk who in America are about the only slow-paced folk around. This gemütlich , it is claimed, is why Austrians have such wonderful coffeehouses – famed places where you can relax with a complimentary newspaper, chat with your friends, or enjoy a good book. Sound familiar? Now I know the inspiration for Starbucks came from Italian cafes, however I would say in practice they have come more to resemble Austrian cafes, filled with entrepreneurs on their own schedules, students with more time on their hands than they can begin to understand. I loved sitting at Starbucks from dawn to midday on a Saturday or Sunday just watching the easy tide of people as they rolled in and rolled out again. Vienna is like this everywhere.

I may just have to live here for awhile next spring. I have to come back anyway - I promised my Aunt Kay I would see the Lippanzer horses. Little did I know the pampered ponies summer in the country side. Apparently they are there with the opera singers and the boys choir for during July and August there is no Vienna Boys Choir, no Opera House performances, and no horsies. Worth noting if you ever plan to visit Vienna. For me Vienna was more a time to socialize in the easy gemütlich way.  Michi met me Saturday morning for breakfast and a stroll through the quite impressive weeklong farmers market and the Saturday flea market.  We met Eva later at Grinzing where Michi co-shares a small garden.  We sat at a table drinking coffee, eating little cakes from the market, and talking about boys!  The next day Eva and I took in an Operetta – a specialty of Vienna, basically a musical but with Opera – then had something to eat sitting in the lounging blocks of the Museums Quartier. Another day she fixed lunch for me at her place and we went together to the Kunst Haus Wein for the Giger exhibition. I figured as long as I had done the Giger Bar, I had to do his exhibition as well. There was also an exhibition for Friedensreich Hundertwasser whom I had never heard of but who, it turns out, was a bit like Gaudi with his taste for the fanciful and unusual in architecture and his willingness to stretch the boundaries of man’s common conceptions in art and architecture. His paintings were too 2^nd grade watercolor-like for me at first, but his style had grown on me by the end of the second floor. Giger was the opposite, I was mesmerized by his early work – he is truly a marvelously gifted artist – but put off by the degeneration into the mechanistic, macabre, and masochistic work of his later years.

Fortune took me across Serena’s path one last time before she headed east to Budapest with Gregoire. I had tried to call her a couple times, not knowing she had broken her phone, and was terribly bummed when I missed them at the couchsurfing picnic in Vienna. I was just leaving the Belvedere, having savored Gustav Klimt’s “The Kiss” and gained a new appreciation for “Judith” and some of his other works after having learned something of the inspiration behind them. I glanced up as I was headed to return my audio guide and there she was – hair pulled tight in a bun, bug eye sunglasses that only a woman as lovely as she could make look good, a one shoulder black top and bohemian black and gold skirt that was leaving a trail of gold sequins across Vienna. I was so happy to see her one last time and quickly abandoned my plan for Schonbrum Palace in favor of spending the afternoon walking with her and Sonya, another couchsurfer, through the streets of Vienna pausing at every fountain to dip our toes in and chat in the afternoon sunlight. The couchsurfers had arranged to meet at the Strand Bar – a brilliant Vienna mastermind. There alongside the Danube someone created a sandy beach – lounge chairs, tiki huts, sand as thick as any good beach, music, and an array of little bars where you could order anything from a gin and tonic to a mojito. I felt a bit ou of place, but it was still pleasant sitting in the afternoon sun, sipping a mojito and watching the young kids. I embarrassed myself in one of those for real did-I-say-that-out-loud moments when a young good-looking bartender type told me he was from Colorado. I responded “I lived in Colorado for awhile” then under my breath, I thought, “before you were born!” He heard me and called me on it then looked at me ever so 20-something and said “age is just a number, darlin’” Yeah, tell me that when your number is 40! I said - this time really to myself.

I loved everything about Vienna – the breeze blowing through Michi’s wonderful top floor apartment every morning when I woke up, the easy pace, the elegant architecture, the social acceptance of solitary sorts who sat at restaurants, in cafes, or on piazzas reading or typing or just watching the world, the history, and the art, but mostly the wonderful people I met in my short time here. I look forward to spending some real time getting to know this city and its people one of these days.

It's not about the places you see; it's about the people you meet

Thursday, July 27, 2006

The Couchsurfing Collective was being held in a school in the small town of Eisenstadt, an hour outside of Vienna. I had really looked forward to volunteering my time to a project that I believe in so completely and that has already given me many memorable experiences and the opportunity to meet such wonderful people. Sadly my timing was off. The workshops on various topics were wrapping up Wednesday when I arrived and the “kids” were getting down to the serious business of just relaxing together. Everyone had pretty much established their smaller groups, as large groups always do, and were talking (and/or drinking) in groups, wandering the town, or enjoying the local swimming pool down the hill. Having arrived too late to contribute anything of significance, I felt at first like I had wasted the time in coming - though I was happy to at least shake the hand of Casey Fenton, the man who conceived, programmed, and implemented couchsurfing.com. Though I didn’t talk to him to any great extent, he was fascinating to watch – one of those people who remains an idealistic dreamer with their feet planted firmly in the ground. He has a quiet way about him but in the way of great leaders who command by respect rather than words. When people speak to him, he listens, really listens. No matter how young, naïve, drunk, or foolish they may be, he looks every single person in the eye and listens intently to what they have to say. It was an impressive quality in a man so young. He has touched so many lives by simply bringing into reality the vision he saw in his mind. If only we all had the guts and the glory to create that which we imagine. What a place this world would be.

I wandered a bit lost Wednesday, trying to find my place in this already bonded group. As I always do in such situations, I reverted to the position of the observer - a place of comfort for me and probably part of what drives the desire to write – a longing for the opportunity to express all that I see. I could see the little melodrama stories unfolding, girls lamenting the unfairness of others, boys with their testosterone battles, country prejudices, divides in the collective regarding directions to go as the project moved forward. This was the first time this group had put a meeting together and while they really tried hard, they just didn’t have the experience to know how to account for reality within theory. The ‘planned’ two hour scavenger hunt, which was brilliant on paper, kept people out in the woods until one in the morning the last night we were there. Meetings were undirected and schedules poorly coordinated. But life is only learned through the school of hard knocks. Sometimes we get lucky, but as a general rule, especially where large groups of people are concerned, you only learn what works by doing what doesn’t first. All things considered, namely inexperience, I think they did a grand job.

It was entertaining to me waking up Thursday morning in the gym on my little mat in a sea of mats to a symphony of snores and ringtones. Alarms were going off everywhere, unheard by their owners many of whom were passed out from drinking the night before or just plain exhausted from the week. One of the coordinators was going around searching bags for singing phones to turn them off. Between the snoring and the ringing, it was all quite amusing. Commune living, along with studying abroad, should be an educational requirement. We shared the work, the chores, the cooking, the cleaning, and the privileges like the computer room with full internet access. The computer room was filled with travelers searching couches and activists promoting their particular program. The energy and enthusiasm of youth is such a beautiful thing. They see ways and worlds we “old folk” can’t even conceive. Did you know there are still tribes of “nomads”:? People who still live Siddhartha style of the generosity of others, spreading their word to make this world a better place. I asked one of these young men how he traveled for years at a time. He explained to me, with a light-filled look reminiscent (please don’t strike me down God) of our depictions of Jesus, that he used to need 200 euro a month to survive but had learned how to get by on 50. I don’t get by some days on 50 euro! Many of the kids at the collective get around by hitchhiking instead of rail. Apparently you don’t see them on the road anymore because they pick up rides at the service stations these days. It is hard to imagine American kids having such spunk… and faith.

The highlight of my two days was sitting on the field Thursday morning as we waited to say our goodbyes to Casey, talking with Serena, Gregoire, and Konstantinos about couchsurfing, America, Europe, education, and various other soap boxes that I happily climbed onto. Gregoire is from Brussels, Belgium. With long dark hair and penetrating though soft eyes, he reminded me of the classic Bohemian Frenchman. He had a gentle, easy spirit – a comforting presence. Konstantinos is from Athens, Greece and I later learned is one of the couchsurfing administrators. He maneuvered easily between light hearted joking and serious conversation, one of those people who gets along with everyone. They had been up all night and were in that peaceful, world-waking-around-you place that we have all known after deep conversation with a new love or friendship. Serena reminded me of a dragonfly, small and long and light. She is from Florence, Italy, speaks seven languages fluently, and is the only Italian besides Antonella I have ever met who speaks English without a brutal accent. She is an attractive woman but all the more beautiful for her graceful, easy way. She even moved like a dragon fly, lighting up as she talked, twisting her lithe body to adjust her legs, sitting up cross legged when she was excited, bending her knees and tucking her legs behind her when she was listening casually, pulling one knee to her chest when the conversation was more intense.

We talked for hours as the sun began to warm the day, mostly about America and Americans and why I believe so much in what I am doing. It was one of those intense “college” conversations that aside from Carrie in Madrid, I haven’t had (in quite that way) in years. Gregoire told me I had a “relaxing” voice. I have been told many things when I’ve been talking for hours, but never that my voice was relaxing! Those hours on the field were powerful for me. So often, on this trip and otherwise, I am running, pushing to see the next place, write the next piece, do the next thing. So often I have a sense that I am losing time, that there is a list and it needs to get done and spending too long just talking and not being productive fills me with guilt. For a few hours I just sat still and bonded with these strangers from different corners of Europe. We re-grouped that night and talked until the sun came up the next day. At some point during our conversations about traveling, Serena said in her melodic, clear voice – “It’s not about the places you see, it’s about the people you meet.” It is nice when a forty year old can learn something so powerful from a 27 year old. I hope our paths cross again, but regardless whether they do or not, I believe I will always hear her voice in my head when I am pushing too hard, too fast, past the people who can touch and enrich and nourish my life, reminding me what it is all about. I didn’t see Eisenstadt but I sure met some great people there and for that it will forever remain in my heart.

Unbelievable Luck!

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

So there I was headed to Vienna to volunteer for the Couchsurfing Collective. The Collective was actually being held in Eisenstadt, an hour away, but then would move to Vienna on Friday for a weekend party. When I decided to extend Switzerland and do Austria on the back-end of my volunteer time, I didn’t stop to think that would mean I would be searching for a couch in Vienna at the time eighty other couchsurfers had already planned to be there. I had sent out dozens of requests to no avail – everyone was full with two or three or more couchsurfers. No way I could afford a hotel but I was determined to see this city I thought of as at the edge of the “west” (it is actually two hours further East than Prague and west of Lecce, Italy) even if it meant sleeping in the park. But then I am a firm believer that this is a supportive Universe we live in. I find that generally when you jump into the unknown with the faith it will be okay, nine times out of ten it is. And this was one of the nine.

I picked up my first night train in Bregenz for the ten hour ride to Vienna. My rail pass is first class (only because you can’t buy rail passes from the US in second class), but all the first class single sleeper compartments were sold out. I was stuck in a second class SIX bunk sleeper car. Every only-child-don’t-wanna-share-American-want-my-space cell in my body was wailing when I saw the 6X6X6 room that was supposed to sleep six with bunks stacked three on each side only two feet apart. There was an undisciplined four year old running up and down the hall banging on doors and screaming while his mother sat on her bunk in the next room and talked with a friend. Claustrophobia was setting in just thinking of sleeping in that teeny space, so I went outside to smoke a cigarette and hopefully, miraculously, find an English speaking rep who I could bribe for a solo sleeper. No luck. I was miserable with anticipation of the night ahead.

Believing the train was non-stop from Bregenz, I thought I had lucked out when the train pulled out of the station and my bunkmates were just me, myself, and I. I popped a Tylenol pm and crawled into my sleep sack. There was no sleeping with Damien’s spawn running up and down the halls so I donned headphones and disappeared into ambient twilight sounds. Ten minutes later the train pulled into another station. The door opened and two women came in together. Damn. They both spoke English and apologized for disturbing me then quietly put their bags away, changed into pjs there in the room, slipped into their bunks, and went off to neverland. I was not far behind.

I wouldn’t say it was a good’s night sleep, but I did sleep. I heard the door open up at 6:30 am and saw the porter standing there with two bagels and a cup of REAL coffee (as in American style) – and they say there’s no such thing as love at first sight! I quietly nibbled my bagel and jam (jam is much better and more varied in Europe), drank my coffee, and wondered how the girl in the next bunk could sleep so soundly. She didn’t even stir for another half an hour. I don’t know what made me start the conversation as she started putting her bags together – maybe it was just the intimacy of having slept two feet away from each other, maybe it was “fate”. For whatever reason we began to chat.

It turned out the two girls weren’t traveling together as I had thought. Eva, the girl in the bunk next to me, was returning home to Vienna after a vacation with family in Bregenz. We chatted easily as the train pulled into the station. Normally I would wish her well on the platform, maybe give her a card and tell her to check out the site, and be on my way. Instead I asked if she would like to get a cup of coffee. She patiently trudged with me to find the police station to ask for a stamp for my passport. This whole open borders thing is just fascinating to me. I couldn’t get a stamp for Austria, not even from the police. In Italy no one is checking but when I flew in from Spain, I found the police at the airport and they were at least able to stamp me. Going into Switzerland I had to plead with the border control officer on the train. His partner was laughing at me and nudged him to go ahead and stamp me. He declared, “We can’t do this for everyone you know!” How far the world has come from a time when a city’s most important resource was its walls and ingress and egress was tightly controlled, to a time when it is too inconvenient to put a little ink on some paper to say you have permission to be there. I don’t know how they enforce any temporary visas when they refuse to even mark your entrance.

Eva was as patient as, excuse the metaphor, Eve (well she was the mother of all children, she must have been patient!) for the half hour it took to firmly confirm (hey, I never noticed the etymology of that word – “with firm”) that it was absolutely not possible to stamp my passport in Vienna. They were supposed to check it at the border and if they didn’t, oh well was the position of the police. I was down to one space in my old passport and paid stupid money for a new one with room for stamps and no one will stamp the damn thing. One more reason to travel to Asia! After our wild goose chase, she carrying the equivalent of ten geese in a bag with no wheels, Eva suggested we take the tube and head to the Museums Quartier for breakfast. She gave me the scoop on the functioning of the Vienna metro system on the way.

Trams fun every five minutes on a pretty well-designed system. There are more one stop changes necessary to get around than in some other cities but the stations are well designed and easily navigated on metro changes. Interestingly, the metro system is not monitored in Vienna. Anyone can walk on and off – no turnstiles, no guards. There are machines to time stamp your ticket. If you are traveling without a valid time stamped ticket, the fine is 60 Euro – though I never saw a single guard checking tickets. These systems amaze me – Americans would never run the risk of letting so much money walk on and off. They would spend a million dollars setting up control systems to keep $500,000 worth of free–riders from getting away with not paying!

I love ferreting out the sly schemes to take advantage of the tourists across Europe. If you go to the tourist information center and pick up a brochure on the metro system it is bright and colorful, written in several languages, and proudly displays the “Vienna Card” your ‘ticket to Vienna’ which gets you 72 hours on the Metro AND the buses, along with some entrance discounts. All for a mere 16.90. Of course you could buy the boring one line 72 hour card for just the metro – or so it appears because it doesn’t say buses. If you have a local standing next to you then you know all tram cards are good for buses as well so the Vienna card is 5 euro for nothing extra except the discounts and I use my student ID for those. The brochure also describes the single ride tickets for 1.50 and the eight non-consecutive day card for 24 – a bargain if you are splitting your time. So I arrive Tuesday but will only be taking the metro twice then returning Friday for a three day weekend – clearly my best option is two single tickets and the 12 euro 72 hour pass, right? So Eva and I thought. I bought my two single tickets and my 12 euro 72 hour pass and she bought her week pass – the non-advertised week pass, the one that gives you a whole week, 148 hours for how much? 12.50. Eva felt so badly she didn’t realize the week pass cost the same as the 3 day weekend.. I assured her they do this everywhere.

We arrived so early at the Museums Quartier, the cafes weren’t even open. The city of Vienna did a marvelous job designing this little haven. Surrounded by the Kunsthalle Wien, the Leopold Museum, and MUMOK, they created a piazza of sorts with cafes and bars filling the outer edges and large modern sitting circles scattered randomly throughout the square. The sitting circles were block constructions. Imagine life sized red Lego-like blocks shaped like a boat - \__/ - and placed end to end. Rings of big red lounging blocks, for lack of a better word. The sides of the ‘v’ are just the right incline to lean back against comfortably while reading a book and wide enough for two or three people to sit facing each other cross wise. The square is filled all day - in the morning, with students busily completing unfinished homework before class, studying, or tapping on their computers. Friends meet at the little cafes for lunch. Lovers snuggle in the large red arms as the sun sets beyond the architecturally magnificent museum buildings. Music plays from some of the stands and young people drink and smoke and laugh, enjoying each others company until the wee hours of the dawn. It is like a mammoth sized outdoor Starbucks.

I was struck the first time I entered the MQ by how abruptly the hustle and bustle of the cars on the nearby ring road disappeared, almost as if by magic. Every time I returned again, I was struck by the quiet tone of the place. No matter how many people filled the square, there was always this soft soothing hum of humanity, never abrasive, never a raised voice, just the gentle purr of people enjoying company and solitude.

Eva called her sister and her friend, Michi, and told them we were having breakfast at the MQ. Within an hour I was surrounded by a delightful, intelligent, lively group of women and an adorable little four month old baby. Michi, it turned out, was a couchsurfer. Having surfed in Hawaii and a couple other places, she had just hosted a family from Japan a few days before. She is a strong person, largely built, with wild hair. Everything about her is solid - solid on the ground and in herself; the kind of friend you go to for advice who will listen and then kindly, but firmly, give you her opinion. Brigetta, Eva’s sister, had the same calming nature but she was lean and languid, like the cool water of a lazy stream. She was home for an extended vacation from Albany, New York where she and her husband have lived for two years. Amon, her baby boy, was long and lean like his mother – four months old and not an ounce of baby fat but full of smiles. Though Eva is quite opposite me physically, lean like her sister with dark hair and an attractive defined face, internally we are quite similar. As the weekend unfolded, we found more and more commonalities in how we think and see and react in the world. It is fascinating to me that two people so alike can be “randomly” in the same sleeper car together. . The sun rose on the square as we five sat at little wood tables beneath green umbrellas drinking cappuccinos with the ease of long time girlfriends. It is amazing how quickly an easy conversation with friendly people can give you a sense of belonging to a place.

We cooed like love sick teenagers over Amon, as women do over little babies. Holding him in my arms the years flashed through my mind – how is it possible my little baby, just yesterday a little muppet on my shoulder, can be starting college? It still boggles my mind. I would do it all over again, the diapers, the tears, the sleepless nights, the troublesome teenage years. Every second of suffering, struggling, sacrificing was more than worth the moments tickling, snuggling, laughing, talking, wave walking and just being in the presence of a love so precious and the beauty of a baby growing into a man. I still hold some hope that there is a man who can love and accept me as I love and accept him and that I could be blessed with the joy of motherhood again; but the days pass faster and faster and soon that hope will be an impossibility. One of the things only time will tell.

I loved the simple grace with which Brigetta breast fed her son at the table - without the shy apologetic embarrassed stumblings of American women who in their political correctness shield the sensitivities of others and create something unnatural out of something so beautifully natural. We talked over our finished breakfast plates while Amon had his breakfast until I realized the morning would soon wear into afternoon and I was already two days late for the collective. Michi was going to Venice with her mom for the weekend and offered the keys to her apartment to me there on the spot - until she realized she didn’t have the spare set in her bag. She told me she would send an email with directions to her place and how to get the keys. I never cease to be amazed by such displays of trust and hospitality. “Here are my keys, have a nice time.” If couchsurfing can’t make people believe in the goodness of mankind, nothing can. I got off the train with no plan, no place to sleep come the weekend, and two hours later had not only a place to stay but friends to share this city with. I gave hugs around the table with promises to see everyone soon and made my way to Eisenstadt.

Writing in Walzenhausen

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

I am writing this sitting in my window, literally, at Hotel Walzenhausen as I watch the sun set over Lake Constance (yes I can type, and often do, without looking at the keyboard). From my perch above the little town of Rheineck, I can see the shores of Germany on the other side of the lake. This is one of those places I want to stay for a year or so and write. My room is perfect, a tiny little L-shaped corner room in the upper attic floor of this French architecture hotel. The long side of the L has a twin bed under a slight attic-sloped ceiling and a dormer window that looks out over the lake. The view is breathtaking – especially now as the sun sets, turning the lake a pale reflective blue and filling the sky with a dance of colors. I imagine a ballroom where women in beautiful purple and blue gowns swirl like cascading leaves around sharp men in pink and orange suits that streak across the dance floor. It is one of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen in my life. The short end of the L has a wardrobe, a little old wooden school desk, and another window that looks out over the cottage-dappled hills and.

I watched until the last golden-red glow of light had disappeared beneath the horizon. From the moment I entered this little paradise, I didn’t want the day to end – stretching each second of the steadily descending sun with my presence, appreciation, and joy. These are the moments when I am glad I am so good at rationalizing. Between the internet connection, the view, and the days behind I am in writing, I’m sure I’ll find a way to justify the sixty dollars and stay another day.

Saturday was a lovely last day with Mirjam, my host in Fribourg. We lingered over breakfast, did a little shopping together, then rode bikes through the countryside out to a beautiful convent. For those of you who don’t know, many of the convents in Europe take guests who need a few days of tranquility. Some charge a nominal fee; others nothing at all. Guests are generally expected to observe curfews and any vows of silence – at meals for example – but it is a wonderful option for finishing a focus project, or just to take a break from the world at large. Students in the area will go there for intense study periods. From the convent we rode to the river. I was amazed how many people were lounging about or picnicking on this rock bed river – easily enjoying a sunny Saturday afternoon. We sat near an ethnically diverse group of Austrians – some just lounging, some skipping stones, the rest playing volley ball without a net, or rules, so contrary to Americans! It reminded me of books written in the time of Huckleberry Fin when people could make their own entertainment rather than expecting to be entertained or having to have an objective. Saturday night we ate at Mirjam’s favorite Turkish restaurant. Did you know in Europe a Kebab is the type of meat they make Gyros out of and that Gyros made with a flour tortilla instead of Pita bread are considered Turkish? We had our traditional last cigarette (or four) of the evening before I packed and headed to bed. I was sad Sunday morning to wake for the last time on my little mattress in Mirjam’s living room. It was such a pleasure spending this week with her. We had breakfast one last time before she walked me to the train station for our last goodbye. I look forward to the time I will see her again.

English had completely disappeared from both the signs and the store clerks when I stepped off the train in St. Gallen, a tourist attraction in its own right though unfortunately I didn’t have time to explore. It already earned my heart with a WiFi Starbucks right in the train station. Every once in a while I just have to be American. St. Gallen is the largest city center in an area that has been popularly seen as a “health” resort of sorts for over 200 years; thanks initially to the doctor who founded “movement therapy” and more recently to its numerous trails suitable to the Nordic Fitness Walking fad – a special type of power walking with poles to give the whole body a workout. You know the Nordic Walking Machine you see on the info-mercials? It is that only here they do it outside instead of on a machine. Over the last few decades, the area has continued to develop itself as a health resort with most hotels boasting spa services to complement the natural health options of bicycling or walking the plentiful trails. It was entertaining the contrast between the rolling hills, simple folk, and palpable tranquility in the air and the occasional $100,000 sports car flying up the hill. The rich always know where the best spas are!

I had no idea where I was going actually – just happened to find a good deal on the internet and needed a day of downtime to catch up on my writing. I knew I had lucked out when I stepped off the train in Rheineck and saw a little single cable car waiting to take me up the hill adjoining the city. I learned later the RhW Mountain Railway has been carrying people between Rheineck and Walzenhausen for over one hundred years – driving up the side of the mountain on a track and a cable above, at one point across a teeny narrow bridge where you can look straight down several hundred feet into a gully below. You then disappear into a tunnel which carries you up through the hill and to the surface, arriving in a little teeny station in the center of the cul-de-sac where my hotel was. It was really quite romantic (in the yearning of yesteryear since as opposed to ga-ga in love sense).

This canton is known as Appenzell and has the unique quality of being not only the only canton within a canton, but a canton itself subdivided. The divide was originally a result of the division between the protestant and catholic religions, though now it seems more a geographic division between the rolling green hills of the north and the alpine region of the south. I was fascinated to learn of its political institution known as Landgemeinden – open air democratic assemblies that require the presence of every male citizen over twenty. Failure to appear results in a hefty fine. It is the supreme legislative authority for the area, responsible for electing representatives and deciding local issues. For time immemorial, meetings have been held the last Sunday in April. Various old fashioned ceremonies continue to be observed at the gatherings and the members still appear with a girded sword. This is something I would love to see one day.

The tranquility in this area is pervasive. It lingers in the air, settling in and around your body, your spirit. The tinkling of cow bells, the cool blue of the lake, the rolling hills dotted with quaint cottages. It well-deserves its reputation for convalescence. The very air soothes the spirit and soul. I took a walk in the late afternoon just to see the town. The view of the lake ahead and the mountains off in the distance seemed to change markedly every few steps I took. There is nothing in Walzenhousen to speak of, a couple little shops, and pretty little buildings with the wonderful Swiss window boxes full of flowers. Every street you walk down you see someone with a watering can tending the little plants around their home. There was something so endearingly simple about little old men or young wives standing with an old metal watering can of yesteryear tipping the can in little flower boxes and planters. It made me feel like I was part of a simple life I had only read about in books.

One of my Switzerland traditions has been to try the local cheese from each region so I stopped at a little store for some Appenzell cheese. Gruyere is my favorite so far. The Grindelwald was too soft and plain. Appenzell cheese had the unique quality of smelling rotten but tasting quite good. Generally a bad smell wins out over tastebuds, but not with Appenzell cheese. A few minutes with it open in a hot room and I felt nauseous. I had to eat it all so I couldn’t smell it anymore!

It is interesting to me that America never really carried on Europe’s love for cheese. Sure we like our wine and cheese and most people prefer a slice of cheddar on a hamburger, but for the Italians, Swiss, and French, cheese is almost a staple. Where we have 36 toilet papers to choose from and about 15 cheeses, they have about 42 cheeses and the two TP options. I never appreciated how delightful a hunk of bread, a chunk of cheese, and a bunch of grapes can be – even without the wine!

I enjoyed my two days, sitting at the little desk or in the windows, mesmerized sometimes by the woman in the house down the hill who loved red. She looked a bit like Madonna except straighter-bodied, and always had a red flower in her hair. The flowers that decorated her beautiful split-level home were all red. I could see her out on the balcony sunning herself in a red swimsuit or riding her bike down the street in red sport pants. The car out front was red, as was the bike. Her door was opened when I walked by one evening and I could see the mix of natural woods, contrasting cool greens, and accents in red. It was really quite lovely. I decided when I finished my todo’s, I was going to go knock on her door in the hopes she spoke English and ask her to join me for a coffee. Unfortunately, I never finished the to do list and will never know anything more about her except her passion for the color of passion.

My diminishing wallet put its foot down with my rationalizing brain after the second day. I was still behind on work but it was time to move on to the Couchsurfing Collective. I decided to take the night train to Vienna and make the most of a last few hours in Appenzelland - namely by visiting Appenzell, its largest village and the political capital. Appenzell, the town, has a reputation for being very conservative and so has preserved many old customs and costumes. The town is clearly dedicated to the tourist industry, teeming with shops taunting wallets with tons of Swiss delights – watches, regional art, housewares and of course all the tourist trappings. Yet it still keeps its quaint appeal. In fact it is almost annoyingly adorable. There is, however, enough sense of every day life that it doesn’t smell of the cardboard façade and painted plastic of Gruyere and other “Disney” cities. Pretty painted pictures adorn the houses and shops of main street and over the doors hang quaint hand painted metallic monikers with apropos designs to describe the store - pretty perfume bottles for the perfumerie or helpful people and a train over the information station.

Appenzell was undoubtedly more adorable than Rheineck, yet personally I preferred the area around Lake Constance. There was a realness to the tranquility there; tranquility born of simple people living everyday lives. From the moment you step off the train and follow the long park where people lounge and chat on benches beneath the trees, the tranquility in Appenzell is palpable, yet it is the touchable tranquility of people who have put away their troubles for a day or two and are intentionally relaxing – a force, false tranquility in a sense. Underneath the people chatting at the tables and spending their euros in the shops, was the knowledge that soon they would have to go back and earn the money to pay for all this relaxing. It would be nice to spend a few days here – especially for their New Year’s Day festivities which are still held on the 14^th of January according to the Julian calendar - but if I were to choose a place to settle for a year it would be nearer to Rheineck.

After a couple hours wandering Appenzell, I made my way to the foot of Mount Santis where a suspended cable car takes you to the summit. At 2,502 meters. (8,208 feet), you can see six countries from the summit, even as far south as Italy. The view is almost as incomprehensible as the thought of the men and women who had the vision and fortitude to scale this peak over one hundred years ago and begin building what is now a grand complex and meteorology center. They run all sorts of specials, from full moon dinners beneath the stars to Jazz festivals to sunrise services. It is really quite impressive. This is one of those moments where a picture is worth a thousand words:

I walked around for two hours, mouth agape, snapping photos despite the less than clear day (check the website) before heading back down for the long trek back to St. Gallen and on to Austria for my first night train. Tomorrow morning I would be in Vienna. Two months on the road and so far I never want to stop!

Dumb Blonde American Survives Mountain Hike

Friday, June 21,2006

Well I never did find Heidi (though I’ve heard rumors she is on the east side of the country). But I did find the Switzerland of my adult dreams and imaginings. While the valleys below with their milking cows and fairy tale memories brought back recollections of Heidi and grass covered hillsides, my adult visions of Switzerland were shaped by the first moment I saw the Alps from above. I was flying from London to Italy on a half empty plane. With the entire row of seats to myself, I had curled on to my side, my head propped on a pillow against the window, and quickly gone back to sleep. For me, plane connections are mere nap interruptions – those moments in a night’s sleep when you recall being awake for a few minutes in some dreamlike state. I don’t know why I woke up at that precise moment, pulled from a dream of my meditation place where fields of flowers lead to swimming pools and forest covered waterfalls. When I opened sleepy eyes to catch my bearings, I saw through the window pane what I thought to be a continuation of the dream. White waves, caught mid-crest, looming, reaching for the sky above, as far as the eye could see. Had I awoken or just changed dreamscapes? The landscape below was unlike anything I had ever seen, magical, as if it belonged to some solar system with two suns and four moons in some galaxy far from our milky streak of sky. I watched mesmerized at these white caps that never ended. One after the other, in endless succession, some peaks like egg whites beat stiff to make meringue, pointing, spire like, to the heavens above; others more like the whipped topping that curls in soft graceful swirls. I saw vanilla ice cream cones and the trays of the divinity candy my house mother taught us to make when I was eleven (I remember we filled a spoon with Crisco, which looked just the same, and fed it whole to an unsuspecting dormmate). Reflecting now I realize I must have been hungry when I woke up..…

The Switzerland of my adult years was some marriage of this personally beheld sight and the marketing clips on television and in tour books. Somewhere beneath all that white, I imagined, opened magical green valleys with little A-roofed houses and wooden shutters, teetering precariously where the vertical cliffs lessened their grade only for a moment to greet one another; two lovers holding hands, little houses hanging precariously from the arms extending outward and upward equally. As the train climbed the hill to Grindelwald in the Bernese Overland (Berner Oberland), this was the Switzerland I saw stretching before me. The houses were not balanced quite as precariously as I had imagined for the valley is relatively level, albeit for only a breath between one mountain and the next. As the train trudged upward, I could catch, in the gaps created by the Vs of hand-holding mountains, glimpses of the snow capped peaks in the distance. Sixty foot evergreens perched upon the tiniest of ledges painted the sheer rock faced cliffs a deep dark green. It was hard to imagine how they root in those tiny little footholds, or should I say rootholds. I later saw with my own eyes how – they actually root in the side of the mountain and grow out perpendicular to the mountain for two or three feet before turning a right angle and going straight upward. It is amazing how nature adjusts herself to her own demands – if only we could learn how to accept and adapt as beautifully as she does.

The Bernese Overland is incredible. If you have only a few days to do Switzerland and you want the marketing brochure Switzerland, this is the place to come. I sat on the train, mouth agape, at the mountains and hills, little towns, and the steel grey rivers rushing from the glaciers still melting above. That brings us to another travel lesson - when you ask for advice pay attention to the ‘yes’s more than the ‘no’s. A couple people had told me Grindelwald was a great little town and the area was beautiful but I second guessed my plan for the 2 ½ hour journey when a local rolled their eyes and declared “Oh, Grindelwald…. It is sooooo touristy.” Indeed it is, but often there is a reason why touristy places are touristy. I was debating whether to go back to Lausanne on Lake Geneva based on this advice. Thank goodness I didn’t. I would have missed what I consider the heart if not the soul of Switzerland. I think the things that make a YES place tend to be more or less the same for everybody, while the things that make a NO place are more individual.

I am now sitting at a little café – the only restaurant that had a lunch meal for under $15 – carbing up for the day. There is no way I cannot hike in this amazing place, despite the fact I came here wearing a skirt and sandals with computer in tow expecting to meander through little tourist towns rather than climb mountains. As usual I haven’t eaten a real meal since Bern three days ago, so I forced myself to sit down.and devoured a Green Giant sized plate of french fries with mayonnaise, a chicken bacon BBQ sandwich (well Swiss BBQ which isn’t really BBQ, in fact I don’t quite know what it was) and a small salad. I’ll be lucky if I can move now, much less hike.

But hike I did and what a hike!! Being my naturally blonde self I managed to pick an innocuous looking little trail that went through the forest, straight up. In seven hours of hiking, which including hundreds of photo stops, three cheese and grapes breaks, and one cat nap, there was not a single solitary soul going the direction I was going. In fact, there were only a handful of couples going the other way. I basically had the side of two mountains to myself; skipping along in my sandals and skirt with my pin-laden backpack and the water bottle clipped to the zipper, passing once in awhile some couple with professional hiking sticks and boots, camel packs, and wick-it gear. They looked at me like I was crazy. At least I didn’t spend a thousand dollars to go walk around outside!

The first half of the path was mostly through forest with an occasional rock-face interruption. All of the sudden, I would walk out from the trees and find myself on a sheer cliff that leveled out for just a moment with trail marks painted to lead the way over and through boulders before going back into the forest. It surprised me every time I came to a new clearing how much tinier the villages below were from the last clearing. The trail leveled out only a handful of times. Most of the way I was climbing, and climbing, and climbing then emerging on the face of the mountain for a few minutes before plunging back into the forest. It was humbling to stand on these pieces of granite, millions of years old, a tiny speck above villages hundreds of years old that were tiny specks in the time of all things. How can we be so insignificant and so significant all at the same time. If I fell the world wouldn’t blink and yet whole lives would be changed forever. My head would start hurting in the midday sun if I started philosophizing, not to mention I needed a distraction from the constant ascent, so I played Generation X and put on my earphones, dancing my way up the side of the mountain.

At about the midway point I crossed a ridge and found myself in fields of grass sprinkled with field flowers – blues, purples, pinks, yellows, and whites were everywhere as if God had just decided to sprinkle confetti on this side of the mountain and not the other. To my left was the notorious Eiger North Wall - one of the major attractions in the Bernese Oberland and a favorite among mountaineers. I had hoped to do the Eiger trail; a six kilometer walk along the foot of this 1,800 meter high vertical rock face. Unfortunately I had dawdled so long taking pictures, there wasn’t enough time to finish the trail before sundown. Next to Eiger is Mönch with Jungfrau visible in the gap where the two meet. The Jungfrau Railway will carry tourists with Swiss Franks to burn through a seven-kilometer tunnel to the eternal snows of the Jungfraujoch – which they claim to be the “Top of Europe” at 4,000+ meters. It is also home to the Jungfrau Railway colony of Greenland dogs. It was the first thing I decided to do when I arrived in the Bernese Overland but was quickly undecided when I found out my railpass wouldn’t work. It was 10 just to get up the hill to Grindlewald. Imagine the price to go to the top of Europe! When I come back to Switzerland, and I will, I will plan on three days in Bernese and buy the railpass that takes me everywhere!

But this time around all I had were my little sandal-clad feet carrying me along the trail just below the tree line, through these fields of green and flowers as I stared, slackjaw, at the three “friends” towering above and ahead of me. I could hear the sound of rushing water from the all the streams and waterfalls where water was still making its way from the melting glaciers to the rivers below. The trail turned a corner and then I saw it - Snow! Having grown up in California and Texas, snow has never ceased to delight me. I’ve never had to deal with it day in and day out as an adult long enough to be annoyed by it. Just the sight of white sends girlhood thrills up my spine. There, lying just ahead of me was a huge patch of snow, at least two feet thick. I could tell how thick it was because it was actually a snow cave – snow suspended by two boulders. Part of the cave had collapsed leaving a hole on one side so I could see how thick the snow was. I was fascinated. I had never seen a snow cave before. I must of shot a hundred pictures - turning left to the snow cave, right to the fields of flowers, behind me to the forest I had crossed and Mattenburg rising in the distance, and then down to the town far below from which I had climbed almost 1,500 meters (approximately 5,000 feet). I couldn’t decide which view was more photo-worthy.

I had seen three people on a ridge ahead and kept expecting them to appear around a corner as I was clicking snapshots. There were no decent ledges here for a timer shot and I wanted to ask them to take a picture for me. I couldn’t imagine what was taking them so long; they weren’t that far away. Thinking this, I rounded the corner and saw the hold up. My snow cave, the one I had seen from above, continued down until it covered part of the trail. This wouldn’t be so bad except pouring out of the mouth of the cave was a small, rushing river. The people were standing on my side of the river, looking at the cave and talking excitedly. It was really cool looking, this cave of snow in the middle of all this rock above green fields of flowers. What perplexed me was what happened to the trail. I could see it on my side of the baby river. I could see the rope that was nailed into the ice of the snow cave, seeming to go inside. But on the other side of the river was a sheer 70 degree, 8 foot embankment, covered in gravel. Surely I wasn’t supposed to cross this river and climb a 70 degree, 8 foot embankment! Remember, now I’m wearing a skirt and sandals.

I had let the people pass me, focused on what was going on with this snow cave on my trail. Upon investigating my two apparent options – go in the cave or up the gravel hill – I decided go back and ask the people if I was missing something. I wasn’t. The trail picked back up after the gravel embankment. So I had two choices. I could continue on, across the little rushing river, to Alpiglen which was less than an hour away now. Or I could turn around and go back down the mountain I had just spent almost six hours climbing. There was no way in hell I was going back down that way. I’m sure the three people thought I was insane. Here they were in full regalia with hiking poles and ropes and boots and here is little-miss-blondie boppin’ along in sandals on a damn glacier melt.

They agreed to wait until I had crossed in case I fell. I suggested the guy have his camera ready – surely he would be able to sell the photo for the byline – Dumb Blonde American Dies Crossing Glacier Melt In Sandals (anybody catch the dangling adjective?) Okay, I have to tell you, I’ve only been that scared maybe three times in my life. It wasn’t that the river was that wide where I had to cross - it was only about two feet across and only a foot or so deep. Two large steps would get me across it and there was a rock in the middle to step on. The problem was on the other side there was no flat surface. It went straight up at a 70 degree angle. Even that would be fine if it were dirt, but it wasn’t dirt. It was little silver rocks, pebbles, and gravel. Good hiking boots would have a hard time getting a hold, with tractionless sandals it would be nearly impossible. Now, that would be fine if it just meant sliding into the river and getting wet. The problem was about a foot past the crossing point, the water plummeted down at a 45 degree angle, gaining strength for about 10 feet before it careened over the side of the cliff in a free fall. Waterfall would be a bit of an overstatement since it was more like a stream fall. Still there would be no way to find purchase if I fell into the water flow. If I slipped, the chance was pretty good I would be hurt (if not dead). And the chances were pretty good I would slip.

The three hikers were standing at the top of the next hill waiting. My heart pounded as I stood on the flat side and planned my strategy. I would have a hand hold for just a second as I stepped onto the center rock but I would have to let go, leap to the other side and immediately scramble up the hill. There would be no pausing or in the water I would go. There was no way I was turning around. I leaned on the rock with my right hand, stepped onto the rock in the middle of the rushing water, leapt, and scrambled. My feet lost traction on the third step. I was sliding into the water. I dug my heels in and planted my hands in the ground, scrambling like a daddy long legs. My feet took hold just at the edge of the water as I found a hand hold. I can’t even imagine how retarded I looked to the hikers who are probably still telling the story over beers and laughing. Still I managed to scramble to the top, give them a carefree wave of thanks, collapsing on the ground once they were out of sight. It was all I could do not to cry. It was thrilling and devastating all at the same time. I pulled out the last of my grapes and cheese, adjusting to the idea that I had actually lived.

The rest of the hike was a serene slice of paradise. Mount Mattenburg behind me occasionally emitted a low rolling rumble of thunder, while ahead of me the sun was setting – brightening patches of pastures through the clouds as if God had covered the countryside with gold dust. I was back in cow territory and kept having to walk around the little trail hogs. Cows are the most curious creatures. I feel like a zoo animal the way they stare at me when I walk through their fields. It started to rain as I skipped, literally, down the last of the path and into the grand town of Alpiglen – with its eight or so buildings. It was almost 8pm and I hadn’t seen the funicular or a train or a bus in the 45 minutes since Alpiglen came into view. I was afraid I was going to have another Schwartzee experience. At least Grindelwald was only 8 miles away instead of 15. But lady luck was smiling, for I rounded the corner and encountered two brothers from America who informed me the last train of the evening should arrive in five minutes. It cost me $10 to get down the hill, but it was worth it after seven hours of hiking!

I chatted with Matt and Brian on the ride down. Engineers from St. Paul, they had gone to Germany with their mom and dad to visit relatives they had never met before. It was great listening to them recant the story. They planned the trip to the small little German town to coincide with a festival held only once every five years and so they were welcomed amidst great pomp and circumstance to partake in the festivities and celebrations. There eyes shone as they talked about seeing the house built in the 1800’s with their name etched in the side and about the genuineness with which they were welcomed by cousins and family members they had never met before. I was admittedly jealous of their experience. My surname goes back to one of the first ships after the Mayflower. We know when and where John and James got off the ship but have no clue where they got on it. No long lost family lines for me….

The train back to Interlocken was sitting there waiting for me when we got back to Grindelwald. Wanting to enjoy the setting sun a bit longer, I took a walk from Interlocken East to Interlocken West before taking the train back to Fribourg. Clearly it is a money city, boasting its French style Hotel Savoy and British style Victoria hotel, along with several designer stores, and lovely lake and parks, but I couldn’t really tell what the draw was to Interlocken. The walk was enough of a view for me.

Just two trains and less than an hour and I was back in Fribourg . I thought I would be exhausted but with my 17^th wind, I twisted Mirjam’s arm to go out for a drink. The Fribourg streets were hopping with a music festival and hundreds of people. It is called the Jazz Parade but like the world famous Montreux Jazz Festival there is much music but little jazz – tonight was hiphop. I look forward every time to the couple hours chatting with Mirjam at the end of a long travel day. How fortunate I was to risk my first “virgin” host (she had only signed up on the site a week or so before I arrived) and luck out with such a wonderful woman, interesting individual, and future friend, as I’m sure she will be – now that I survived the hike!

Switzerland Gets An A++

Sunday, June 23, 2006

Switzerland has the best train system in the world. Period. Now I realize that is a categorical statement made by someone who has not been on the majority of the world’s train systems, but I would stand by it none the less. For one reason, I have been on enough bad ones to see the contrast to this one. And I’ve never even been on the really bad ones; the ones where the train will come today, meaning sometime today for the “when today?” is unknown. I also stand by the statement because most things can only be improved so much, a perfect score is a perfect score, and Switzerland gets a perfect train score.

The first impressive convenience they offer are these pocket-sized schedule books - about the size of a Swiss Frank note folded in half. They have these little pocket miracles for every city in the country. The little booklet not only tells you the departure and arrival times and stops for every train coming and going into that city, it also tells you the type of train and type of service. There are few things worse than walking into a station, grabbing the first train you see to your desired destination instead of the one leaving in half an hour later only to find out once you are on the train that it will take four times as long because it stops at every city. Regional trains probably cause more sea-sickness than a cruise ship with all the lurching as they stop and start every five minutes and clatter and bang and roll in between.

These little booklets take all the guesswork out of everything. You can, at your leisure, scan the day’s schedule not by time, as most schedules are organized, but by destination. The best you usually get in other places is a large poster – three times the size of Shawn Cassidy or Bo Derick or whoever you had on your wall during middle school – listing trains in order of departure hour with the hour in large font and double bold, the main city in bold, then the intermediary cities in print so tiny you have to crawl up on someone’s back with a magnifying glass to get close enough to read it. The types of train are usually in some indecipherable code and generally there is not space to list all the intermediary stops. If you happen to be going to a city that has only two or three trains a day you can put money down that you’ll spend an hour searching the poster for the name of the city and discover, upon finding it, the train left five minutes ago. Depending on the country you are in, these posters run between a 20 and 70 percent updated accuracy ratio. While they can be helpful, they are far from convenient as they are AT the train station. Now of course you can check the schedule when you arrive and make a plan for when to leave, but if something comes up and you want to change the plan, as I always do, you are out of luck. Of course there’s the internet – if you can find a connection, and if the country has a decent internet timetable (Italy’s is the WORST). In Switzerland you arrive, grab the little booklet as you pass the ticket counter, throw it in your wallet and you always have all the train information to get in and out of that city right at your fingertips.

As if this isn’t great enough, in reality you don’t even need the darn things because the train system is so efficient. I don’t understand how the Spaniards could do so badly what the Swiss do so well. There are never reservations required because there are always plenty of seats available. There are no sold out trains because the next one probably leaves within half an hour instead of four hours from now. After my third day of day tripping with the Swiss train system, I quit checking schedules because I never, not once, ever waited more than fifteen minutes for a connection. EVER. Not into the little towns, not even for the single hundred year old cable car that went up the side of a mountain. Trains run generally a half hour or hour apart and they run ALL DAY LONG on that schedule. For example, the trains from Fribourg to Bern (the closest major city) run at :04 and :34 beginning at o’rooster am and running until sometime after midnight. Amazingly, the trains back from Bern to Fribourg are the same. So you know always just get to the station at four or thirty-four minutes past the hour and you can get to and from Bern and Fribourg. With trains running in and out of every town with this kind of consistency, you never have to wait more than a few minutes for the next train or connection.

If there doesn’t happen to be a train because the area is less accessible, there is a bus system instead – just as effective, just as timely, just as easy. If you have to take a combination of trains and buses, no problem - the bus station is on one side, the train station on the other. Much to my surprise and appreciation, bus transportation is even included in your rail pass in Switzerland. Not only do you not pay supplements for trains that you have already paid for, but you don’t even pay supplements for buses that you haven’t!

Now I will make a caveat that this was my experience for a week of traveling the main tourist areas of Switzerland. Maybe it was just these areas, maybe I was inordinately lucky – but I doubt it. I can’t say it is that way in every part of Switzerland, but it certainly was everyplace I went – from large cities to small towns and everywhere in between. How they can coordinate that many trains with such perfection and convenience for the traveler is beyond me. I wish we would hire a few Swiss to coordinate the stoplight schedules in America though! They could probably solve the rush hour traffic problem overnight.

As if life could get any better – SwissCom, their main mobile telephone company, has made every train station a hotspot and participates in an internet network that includes USA T-mobile users amongst others. As the train pulls into the station, I can flip open the computer to receive and send email and maybe even research a point or two before the train pulls out of the station the other side. The other major internet alliance that I joined includes Boingo. They have all the hotels, McDonalds, and Starbucks. Now granted the roaming charges are a bit high for both these networks, but the bottom line was I could at a minimum check and send email for a nominal cost in any city, anywhere in the country, even from my couchsurfing host’s balcony on the fifth floor on the edge of the train side of town!

For those who prefer to travel from one overnight spot to the next, stopping at some sightseeing point on the way, lockers become a necessity rather than a convenience. Unlike Italy and Spain, almost every Swiss train station has lockers, even ithe smaller towns. There were several times I wanted to stop off in Spain – for example at El Escorial between Madrid and Avila or Toledo between Madrid and Seville but couldn’t because there was no place to stash my suitcase. In Switzerland you can take a cross country train, pick any city to stop off for lunch or a quick sightseeing tour and be 90% sure you can toss your bag in a locker, wander to your heart’s content, and return to catch a train to continue on within a few minutes.

Personally I prefer to pick a central spot and day trip out – the ol’ spokes on the wheel approach. The incredibly efficient train system and easy access to internet made this a practical possibility for me. From Fribourg, which is more or less in the center of the western half of the country, I could get to Geneva in the west, Basel in the north, the Bernese Overland area to the south, and to Zurich in the east and everywhere in between in less than two hours. Not only are the schedules plentiful and convenient, but the only time I ever paid additional in an entire week of traveling by train and bus everyday was in the Bernese Overland which is serviced by a private rail company. You do get a discount on their tickets if you have a railpass, but the prices are still pretty hefty. They have three day rail passes just for their private system that are well worth the price and if you love the outdoors or like to hike, the area is well worth the three days.

Perhaps it is thanks to the efficiency of the country, perhaps it is the unassuming, non-imposing personality of the Swiss people, but there is a deep sense of tranquility here. Granted I did not step foot in Zurich except to change trains, so I wasn’t exposed to their only “real” city. But even in Geneva which is a well-sized and well-known European city, there was a calmness not normally felt in cities its size. Except in the shopping district, there seemed no more hustle-bustle in Bern than in Fribourg, a fraction of its size. Maybe it is just the fact that with their train systems, they can have the convenience of a car without the cost and stress of a car. Maybe it is the fact that the secretaries and medical transcribers and manicurists average about 30 Swiss Francs an hour ($24 US) and yet rent is comparable to the states (though food costs more). Maybe it is this fairytale land of cragged peaks, rolling hills, and blue green lakes of every shade and hue and magical bells that are always tinkling in the distance. Maybe all the Alpine air just makes people breathe easier (or maybe not breathing exhaust all the time does). Maybe they’re just all happy now because it is not snowing.

Maybe it is all the water. The Swiss have a fascination with water. Americans go to “the beach” or “the lake” or “the pool”. The Swiss go to water, any water, any where. You will see them up and down the sides of rivers, playing volleyball on embankments made of large round stones, laying their blanket across beds of rocks, splashing each other in the two feet deep water. If there is enough room to sit, there will be a Swiss sitting there, reading a book by the side of the river. In Bern people go on their lunch break, put on their swimsuits, jump in the river, float down half a mile or so, then walk back up to the jumping point, shower, put on their clothes and go back to work. Can you imagine an American running down to swim in the river on a lunch break? If there is a lake, there are sailboats, and swimming corners, and people walking along the sidewalks. Swimming pools are teeming all summer long. I’ve never seen a people so drawn to water. You could dig a hole in the center of town and when the rain filled it the Swiss would congregate around it. Perhaps it is because they are landlocked by ocean bound neighbors. Perhaps the country’s little efficiencies make it so that people can tend to life’s responsibilities and still have a little energy to actually enjoy life, to gaze out over the land beyond or splash in its water and remember our connection with nature, our place in ‘God’s’ world as opposed to man’s.

Whatever creates this tranquility, this connectedness, it warms my heart to see that man can live in modern times and still retain his connection with tradition and nature. For this Switzerland definitely gets an A++

Heidi Where Are You Hiding?

Thursday, July 20, 2006

Wednesday morning was internet catch up time. What was supposed to take two hours took six (as if things ever change). My plan was to leave at eight in the morning to hike the Euschelpass. Instead I walked into the station at 2:36 in the afternoon. Lo and behold at 2:37 there was a bus to Bulle, where I could catch my connection to Jaun (pronounced ee-yawn). I walked hurriedly to the bay, hoping I could buy my ticket on the bus since there wasn’t time to wait in the line at the window. The driver shook his head and pointed backward when I showed him my railpass and asked if I could buy a ticket. “Huh?” I said in my inimitable English. He spewed a bunch of unintelligible French words. The only French I know is my name, the numbers 1-10, and how to ask someone if they want to sleep with me tonight – what else do you need to know in French? I pointed to the pay machine then to me. He shook his head again and pointed to the back of the bus. We weren’t getting anywhere. I pulled out my wallet, pointed to me, to the money, to the machine, and back to me again. He pushed open the little turnstile, then pushed me through it. A rail pass in Switzerland is valid for the bus system as well. I love Switzerland. I don’t, however, love that in my excitement to make a bus I don’t notice little things like whether it is the Dirette bus or not. One hour and twenty minutes later we arrived in Bulle, 15 miles from Fribourg. Oops…

The ride was beautiful though. Meandering through the Fribourg Canton, along the Lac de la Gruyere and through the Sarine valley, the bus turned off the highway and went through every little town and village along the way. I was mesmerized by the adorable little Swiss houses set in the beautiful green rolling countryside. Everything is cute and quaint. The houses are all picture perfect, freshly painted, with their little shutters and every window decorated by flower boxes in full bloom. It took me the longest time to figure out what made the Swiss houses so adorable compared to American houses. The roofs are made of a different, and I think more attractive material, and range from short fat A’s to tall skinny ones, sometimes with little folded envelope ends. But then American houses have A roofs as well, except the big monstrosity houses with convoluted roof designs. Most all Swiss houses have the precious dormer windows that I have always loved, but these are not uncommon in America either. Certainly the shutters and flowers and rows of windows made everything fresh and charming, but there was still something notably different from American houses. Then it hit me – the front of their houses is the side of our houses! We front our houses on the pitch of the roof – one side of the roof comes down over the front door, the other over the back door. When you face the front of a Swiss house you see both sides of the roof. That was the difference! That’s why it was so noticeable whether there were fat A roofs or thin A roofs. The larger houses split the A roof, so that all four sides have A-pitched roof lines, creating a larger usable top floor. Remember the game we used to play as kids with a piece of paper? You would fold the paper so you could open it in each direction with your finger and thumb and you would play “tell the future” or “who you like games” – writing boys names on the flaps. You would tell the paper-holder to stop and they would lift the flap to see which boy you liked or would marry someday. Remember? These houses remind me of how the paper looked when it was all closed. Who knows why… Then there are the life sized cuckoo clock houses, with beautifully etched wooden balconies on wooden frames or the white washed ones with the brown wood accents. I never saw a single house that I wouldn’t be thrilled to live in. While the Italians are clueless about “curb appeal”, the Swiss have it in spades.

When I first saw the beautiful pale blue green color of the Aare river in Bern, I thought it was something special about that particular river. I was wrong. Switzerland has captured the blue green rainbow of the Caribbean in their lakes. If you made a Crayola box and filled it with every shade of you can see off the shore of the islands in the Caribbean, you could find a lake that color in Switzerland. From the palest sea-green to the deepest ocean blue and every blue-green color you can imagine in between. The lake between Fribourg and Bulle is a beautiful pastel green with a turquoise tint reminding me of a butterfly’s wings shimmering in the dazzling sunlight of the day. These bodies of water seem as if they are of a dream, from a fairy tale book of a land forgotten, passed by time, yet here they are dropped like petals throughout this beautiful country.

Thank goodness when we at last arrived in Bulle, the bus to Jaun was sitting in the next bay. Though I loved the ride through the countryside, it was getting late to start this hike. Fortunately the Jaun bus only stopped twice. Once was to pick up about 37 Japanese tourists – all moms with their kids. I had to wonder where all the dads were. Kids ranged in age from about 3 to 16. I groaned in anticipation of the bus filling with noisy, rambunctious, vacationing youngsters and slipped down into my seat behind my book as they filled in around me like dam-released water rushing to fill an empty gorge. To my surprise and delight, they were quieter than church mice and perfectly behaved. Either they were exhausted or the moms were feeding them poppies off the trails. I’m guessing the Yen is doing pretty well against the Swiss Franc because there are Japanese tourists EVERYWHERE. Now there are always Japanese tourists everywhere, but in Switzerland they are everywhere squared. If you ever want to learn Japanese, you can come here and get just as much practice as you could in Japan. I’ve not been in a train car yet that wasn’t either empty or had at least four Japanese tourists.

The bus dropped me (and the 37 Japanese tourists) off in Jaun. I stopped at the store to buy some water and chocolate – how could I hike the Alps and not find a precious perch where I could savor a little Swiss chocolate? Glancing at my phone as I approached the trail, I saw it was five ‘till five. Well not exactly the early morning hike I planned, but at least it wouldn’t be so hot. The hike was about four hours so I would make it down by sunset… hopefully. I brought a pack of cigarettes just in case I got stuck somewhere for the night. The only thing worse than being stuck all night in a pass in Switzerland without food or water would be being stuck there without food, water, or a cigarette if you wanted one. The first forty minutes was pretty steep upward but then the path leveled out into a pleasant country stroll. I didn’t find out until later I was technically in the Pre-Alps not the real alps. Guess I should have realized “country stroll” would not be a likely adjective for an Alpine hike.

I was expecting to be hours from any form of civilization and was surprised to see a farm/restaurant a little way up the initial steep climb. It turned out to be the first of many. These ‘farmhouses’ have patio decks built into the side of them where the wandering tourist can sit at little umbrella covered picnic tables and enjoy the view while sipping something to drink or having a little snack (for the cost of a small car). They reminded me of ski lodges - which they probably are eight months out of the year. A row of cow bells was proudly displayed on the wall above the deck. I guess these belonged to beloved cows of days gone by. The sound of cowbells fills virtually every cube of airspace in Switzerland. Whether it is a soft tinkling sound in the distance or the loud clang of a bull-bell up close, you find the sound everywhere except the very center of the cities. Even then it doesn’t take more than a brisk walk a few minutes away from the center before you can hear the bells again. As I approached the farmhouses the sound of cowbells for the herd belonging to that farmhouse would grow louder and then recede in the distance behind with the farmhouse as I continued along the path. I thought I was heading into four hours of wilderness, but there was never a moment I couldn’t hear the cows ahead or behind me with a farmhouse and the option of a cool drink and an outhouse. I hope it didn’t hurt my grandmother’s feelings in heaven that the outhouse reminded me of her. My grandparents had a little outhouse at the shanty on their farm in De Leon, Texas. It was the first one I ever used. When I saw the outhouse at the little Swiss farmhouse, I was flooded (no pun intended) with the memory of being a scared little city girl trying to act big and brave in the outhouse. After all if an old lady like my grandmother could use this awful place and thought it was normal, I ought to be able to. (She was not too much older than me at the time).

I find a child-like freedom whenever I hike alone. Lost amidst the trees and the flowers, far from the sounds of man, I skip and sing, and talk out loud (okay so I do that anywhere). I love doing silly things, making jokes with myself, and just frolicking without a care in the world. Does everyone do this when they are alone in a field? For me it is like a time machine to when I was 7. How could the world be anything but beautiful and carefree? Especially when there is no one I have to share my chocolate with. About halfway through the hike I picked a stone looking over a field of cows, beneath the towering wedge of the Moleson in the distance, and sat down to taste my first bought-in-Switzerland Swiss chocolate… mmmm mmmm. I suddenly remembered that I had my Italian SIM card that I had set up before with a call back service and that I could actually call the states. I didn’t want to share my chocolate but did want to share the moment. My daughter was the only one who answered and got to hear the melody of cow bells played in the Euschelpass..

The sun was beginning to set, so I made my way down the pass toward Schwartzee, the black lake, and its little town where I could catch the bus back to Fribourg… I thought. I did not stop to think that little town bus service might end a little earlier than big city bus service. I arrived in Schwartzee a little after 8pm. The last bus? 7:50. Shit. I had glanced at a little B&B I passed on the last leg of the road into town – it was about $260 for a room. That was not going to happen. My choices were sleep in the phone booth – not too appealing – or walk the 25 kilometers to Fribourg. I decided to walk. Twenty-five kilometers = about 15 miles = about four hours. Well, I’d be home by midnight. I set off with determination then spotted a tourist office that strangely enough seemed open. Perhaps they knew of a cheap room or another way to get to a train somewhere. It was my lucky night – they were having a meeting that night. The man who came to the door told me to come back at 10pm and someone would give me a ride.

I was no sooner settled into the café across the street with my book and cup of coffee when the sky let out a shriek of thunder accompanied by a nuclear flash of lightening and the heavens opened up. If I had been walking my camera and on-loan Nabokov first print would have been ruined. I don’t mind taking a shower in the great outdoors but cameras and books sure do. I passed the hour reading and thanking my lucky stars as the rain poured down.

By 10pm it was clear skies again. My life saver, Nicholas, was a delight. He is a high-school teacher. Remember the cool high-school teacher who all the kids liked? The one who knew how to get along with the kids and still motivate them? It was obvious Nicholas was one of those rare few, with genuine eyes and a curious, kind, but subtly strong character. He teaches writing, German, and politics and clearly knew more about American politics than I do (though I’m afraid that is not saying much). Is it true the Rice lady might run against Hillary in the next election? Can Hillary run again after she has already been president once?

Nicholas and I chatted easily the short drive to Fribourg and by 10:30 I was happily sitting on Mirjam’s balcony with a glass of wine and the emergency cigarettes recounting the tales of the day

The next day, after errands and other to-dos, I made my way late in the day to the little hill top castle town of Gruyere – yes as in the cheese. I never knew I liked Gruyere cheese so much. It is a traditional, creamy, unpasteurized, semi-soft cheese with a earthy, nutty flavor. I couldn’t wait to get a real sample from a real Gruyere factory. Unfortunately, the term “bankers’ hours” applies to most tourist sights in Switzerland. If you’re not there before 4 or 5, you are generally out of luck. I missed the cheese factory tour and the castle tour but I did get to partake in an Alien coffee. What is an Alien coffee you ask? Well it seems that Mr. Giger, one of the worlds foremost artists of Fantastic Realism and creator of Alien, as in the Oscar winning Alien, bought a house in of all places little Gruyere (maybe he likes the cheese) where he opened the Giger Museum. Across from the Museum is the Giger Bar.

Unfortunately the museum was also closed, so after my short walking tour of the little village, I made my way into the uniquely designed Giger Bar. It turns out Mr. Giger is an architect as well as is obvious by the interior of this unique space. His designs capitalized on the Gothic architecture of the 400+ year old space with giant skeletal arches following the natural vaults of the ceiling. Skull candles, a silver bar, intriguing Giger statues, intricately carved floors, and stone like furniture create an other worldly sensation, giving the eye something new to take in at every blink. I loved the black leather alien backbone chairs that swiveled in slow circles, like the door of a haunted house, slowly, steadily opening with building anticipation for the nothing that is behind it. They were downright eerie. My pictures just couldn’t do the place justice, but you can see pictures at Giger’s official website: http://www.hrgiger.com/frame.htm

Being a coffee addict, I had to order the Alien coffee – coffee in a silver mug, a glass of stout green liquor, two little silver cups of pure cream, a cookie, a chocolate, and three meringues on a metal plate, all on a special little wooden plaque with perfectly sized holes for each accoutrement, including the spoon. It was an absurd 14 Swiss Francs (about $11) but I love things that are done to perfection and it certainly was.   

Alien-ness aside, Gruyere is a precious little town – more like a Walt Disney World village than a real town. Set high on a hill with a castle that overlooks the land below you feel as if you have stepped into the past. Well you would feel that way if instead of tourist shops up and down the streets, there were blacksmiths and bakers. You could buy every Swiss tourist trinket known to man in these little shops – cheap reproductions of the guys with the big long horns (somehow that doesn’t sound right), cheese, cheese, and more cheese, chocolate, chocolate and more chocolate, cow bells in all shapes and sizes, cuckoo clocks, little wooden jewelry boxes that croon Edelweiss, Edelweiss earrings and necklaces and t-shrits, Swiss flags, and knives, and all things red. I wandered through them all in search of the one thing missing from this rolling hill, flower-bedecked, snowcapped-mountain-in-the-distance memory of my childhood but to no avail. I never saw Heidi anywhere. No little blonde braids, no little Gingham dresses, no key chains or magnets with pictures of Heidi and her milk cow pail. I could hear her soft yodel every step I took along the Euschelpass, lost in the little-girl delight of my younger days. A beautiful memory she is, but a marketing tool for Switzerland, it seems she is not. I am surprised, but in a way a little pleased as well. I’m sure she is much prettier in my visions than in plastic.

(I do hope the Aliens didn’t eat her…)

Beautiful Bern

Wednesday, July 18, 2006

The smell of salt water fills the air together with the sound of rushing water where I sit aside the breakwater for the Aare River below Bern. The Aare, rising in the Bernese Alps and fed by several glaciers, is the longest river contained entirely in Switzerland. It immerges from the dam-impounded Grimmel lake and weaves its way northward through the country until it joins the Rhine river near Waldshut Germany. Here, below Bern, it is a beautiful blue-green color. Locals and tourists alike swim and raft down the section of the river that precedes the breakwater. From my perch I can see the Cathedral high above to the right and Parliament to the left.

Bern, the capital of Switzerland, is a beautiful city. The shopping areas near the train station are bustling with people and trams. As you pass the Prison Tower, the city-pace slows a bit until you pass the Clock Tower where it becomes a pleasant tourist meander. Flags representing the 27 cantons (states) of Switzerland line the street, extending from the limestone green buildings that are accented by beautiful window boxes filled with red and pink flowers. The city has a playful fairy-tale like quality with fountains every block or so adorned with statues depicting legendary and fairy tale figures. The Pied Piper, a favorite from my childhood, plays an eternal song before the Prison Tower. A bear masked in what appears to be a hockey mask (called Zahringen), guards the entrance to the Clock Tower from the other direction. Lady Justice stands with her scales in perpetual balance at the end of the long fairy tale like road. The most entertaining statue is the mean, ferocious ogre captured by the sculptor in the act of eating a small child. The child’s head is almost completely inside the ogre’s mouth as the ogre prepares to bite it off. Other children captured by the ogre surround his body, faces frozen in terror for they know they are next. Can’t you hear the mothers of long ago now? “If you don’t behave, that ogre is going to eat you too!”

The statues are bright and colorful bringing to mind the pictures of fairy-tale books read long ago. While the Germans may have written most of our fairy-tales I think the Swiss must have illustrated them. Even the Swiss passport is a child’s delight, filled with frolicking colorful pages and color-book pictures of the same heroes and heroines of the legends and fairy-tales from days gone by.

Unlike the majority of European cities, Bern has suffered neither war nor fire damage since the 1400’s. It is beautifully preserved. The buildings were made of limestone and are a charming shade of green –somewhere between a pastel baby green and a light army green. It doesn’t sound pretty, but it is quite lovely with its many nuanced shades, especially with the accenting flower boxes scattered here and there from windows and balconies. Limestone is an unusually soft stone. Unlike the roughly cut stone that gives Italian towns that rustic, lovingly worn look, this stone is cut with clean flat edges, giving the buildings a pristine look worthy of the Swiss reputation for fastidiousness.

You don’t need to read a tourist book to know that the bear is the symbol of Bern. There are bears everywhere – they adorn the statues, the buildings, the towers, rings in the jewelry stores, tourist bags, t-shirts, and postcards. The Bern canton flag boasts a bear as well. If thousands of inanimate bears aren’t enough, you can find live ones at the bear pit across the river at the end of the old town. They are the laziest bears I have ever seen. Sitting on their back ends, they place their paws together in prayer for a peanut. Any peanut that comes in the vicinity of their head they catch with a slow roll of the head in one direction or the other. Any peanut that can’t be easily caught with a minimum of movement, they can’t be bothered with. There is even a bear watching me now as I type. No not a live one, though the statue that stands in the midst of the rushing breakwater is certainly life sized!

The path to reach the breakwater runs from the bear pits down alongside the river and is desolate except the random picnicking family or lone swimmer. There are benches everywhere for a little rest looking out over the water from beneath a canopy of trees and dappled sunlight. It is amazing to find such a peaceful, solitary, still place this close to the city center. Eventually the trail comes to an opening with a handful of restaurants looking out over the breakwater, many boasting lounge chairs and young girls decked in long white aprons to bring the cocktail of your choice. I can’t afford to breathe in Switzerland much less drink a cocktail so I settled on the free, yet still cushioned, bench to write - though now I must continue on…

Four hours later I am settled at a little café clicking away at the keyboard once again. When I left my riverside spot I scaled the 45+ degree slope back up to the city to see the Parliament building in its full splendor. Unfortunately they are in the midst of renovation so I couldn’t get a very good view though it must be astonishing without all the scaffolding around it. Normally it is open to the public and any joe schmoe is welcome to listen in on the deliberation. I sat awhile and watched the children (and even parents) playing in the randomly shooting water fountains that have replaced the ugly parking lot that was once an eyesore. Now it is not only a lovely plaza, but one filled with the delighted cries and laughter of children. What a wonderful incentive for the lawmakers! Watching the ‘future’ playing endlessly in the square below their hallowed halls.

Switzerland has a federal system similar to ours in the US. Some matters are decided at the national level while most are decided at the canton (or state) level. The rest are made at either the regional (similar to our counties) or the city level. What is different, and rather smart I think, is that rather than the people electing a President to head the executive branch, the 200 or so canton representatives, who are elected by the people, elect seven members every four years to act together as the head of the executive branch. Each year, one member is named President, but more in the sense of a head of a committee rather than the primary source of power. Interestingly, these seven members, as well as the other representatives, conduct themselves as mere citizens. They take coffee or have lunch at cafes near the Parliament without any fuss or fanfare. No secret service agents. No elitism. Members walk to work down the streets of Bern like every other citizen, greeting people they know with a smile and a nod.

What I did not know – and am probably the only one who didn’t – is Switzerland is not a part of the European Union. They are truly an island – surrounded on all sides by members of the Union. The people I spoke to believe they will join one day but not until it is undoubtedly in the absolute prime interest of the Swiss people. As a people they differ dramatically. The country has four official languages – French, German, Italian, and Romansche (a little spoken dialect that survived from the old Roman outposts generally left untouched by time) and, I’d say, four official color schemes with what seems to be equal numbers of blondes, brunettes, and black haired people with a sprinkling of Irish red. I’ve never seen so many blondes, some with blue eyes so light you can’t help but stare. Even though the languages and skin tones are different, there seems to be something identifiably Swiss about many of them – perhaps it is the long, thin, often downward drawn faces; perhaps the somewhat timid, yet wanting to appease personalities, perhaps it is just because I’m walking Swiss streets and think I can actually tell a Swiss from a German! Wherever the people working are from, they are always friendly, acknowledging you with a hello or a nod when you enter any shop or restaurant. As soon as they deduce your mother tongue, they switch to that language even if all they know are the few words necessary to help you or get your dinner to you. The waitress serving me now obviously never studied English. This became apparent when she asked “Rice and Potatoes?” Being hungry I replied, “Sure, why not!” She looked at my quizzically. It took me a moment to realize she meant, “Rice or potatoes?” Still, she tried her best to communicate with me entirely in English, the gentleman at the table next to me in German, and the ones across from me in French. This linguistic nimbleness is a beautiful quality, I think, and is a special treat for travelers accustomed to trying to order ham and ending up with pigs’ feet.

From the Parliament I headed to the Cathedral where I trudged up all 390 stairs to the top for a breathtaking view of the city below. The Cathedral is smaller but similar to Notre Dame with gargoyles and odd characters extending from the walls, and the swirling braces along the length of the Cathedral. Someday I must take an art and architecture course to learn the names of all those things! The pews were aligned to face the pulpit which was placed more or less in the center of the church, giving it a very different feel than the Catholic cathedrals of Italy. The stained glass work was both beautiful and interesting, especially the entire panel of figures interacting with a skeleton. I’ll have to do some research to find out what that was all about. I lit a candle for posterity sake and made my way out to wander the streets and take pictures of the statues. Don’t forget all pictures are posted on the website in photo albums with names of the city if you want to see pictures of the things I write about.

Thus far I really like Switzerland, with the exception of the prices. Costs are outrageous, especially to eat in a restaurant. Even the little sidewalk cafes charge 20 – 25 Swiss francs for an entree (approximately 18-22 US dollars). I can’t imagine what the real restaurants cost. It is by far the most expensive place I have been. But the clean streets, the perfectly run train system, the friendly people, the charming architecture, and the breathtaking countryside make it difficult to complain about anything, much less money.

I had forgotten that I once had a fascination for Switzerland as a child. Presumably it was brought on by the book “Heidi”. In my mind’s eye there is a perfect view of that little pigtail-braided-blonde girl running down flower covered slopes crying in delight “Grandfather, grandfather!” This memory has always been part of my repertoire – easily accessed when someone mentioned Switzerland or braids or any other related concept. But I had forgotten all the other experiences during this fascination - how I used to walk around yodeling, believing I was actually quite good and thinking maybe one day I would go to Switzerland and become a great yodeler; how I used to dream of living in one of those perfect high pitched houses with the dormer windows and the flower boxes and the shutters that opened outward off oval windows creating little half moons on the side of the house. I’ve loved dormers all my life, even designed the house in Plano with dormers, but had completely forgotten the love was started with a love for the little Swiss houses I had seen in books I checked out at the library. I had forgotten too that I found the Pied Piper in those journeys and used to pretend to play the flute as the tarantulas and preying mantises and scorpions would follow me (I did grow up in Texas, remember.) I forgot how much I wanted a cuckoo clock. It seems I remember somehow getting my hands on a little one, not much larger than a cassette tape box, but I don’t remember where it came from. For years I sang Edelweiss to myself in the dark of the night when I was walking alone or swinging in a deserted park, but I had forgotten that I loved the song originally because it was related to this country that I loved as a child. In a very surreal way, I have been discovering long forgotten memories of my little girl self as I have walked the streets and hills of Switzerland, filling me all over again with a child-like love for this fairy tale land.

From Montreux to Fribourg

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Monday was a lovely, long, lingering day in Dmitri’s home high above Lake Geneva. I had already been writing for almost three hours when we sat down for breakfast. Dmitri was so very kind to take me in on short notice despite the fact he was in the midst of many projects. He gave me the run of the house as he tended to business and I spent the rest of the morning writing from every view – the patio, the garden, the balcony. We lunched together then spent the afternoon working side by side at the dual internet connections in the study. He was a wonderfully gracious host and a fascinating person. Indeed, I felt privileged to have this time to spend in his company. At four his sweet Magdalene, one of his three house keepers who cooks marvelously and continuously chattered to me in French despite the fact I can’t understand a word, drove me down to the train station to catch my train to Fribourg and meet my next host.

Mirjam is a bright, perky, vibrant woman – a few years younger than me with lovely short brown hair tossed about in exuberant curls that match her personality. She is the only person I’ve ever met who can talk with the same exhaustive vibrancy that I can. Being with her is often a bit scarily like looking into a mirror. I am her first couch surfer and she could barely contain her excitement though tinged with twittering apprehension. Generally I won’t stay with people who haven’t hosted before, but there was something in her profile that made me think we could relate well to each other and indeed we do. She met me at the train station and we walked the few blocks to her house as she chattered happily about couchsurfing and Fribourg and school, her work in the past with the Red Cross and the interesting places she has lived including Africa She is a naturally skilled linguist, speaking perfect English with a lovely (though inexplicable) Irish brogue. She also speaks fluent French and German and can read equally well in all three – a notable skill, trust me. Italian she picked up on a short vacation and she speaks it perfectly without the hint of an accent. She even speaks sign language! (That sentence doesn’t make sense, does it?) Within two hours, after dropping my things off and taking a walk through town, we were settled in at a café overlooking Fribourg talking deeply and personally about ourselves and our lives, the kinds of things you share with lifelong friends not new acquaintances. Our life paths have paralleled in many ways giving us a unique base from which to relate as we talked and watched the sunset over Fribourg below.

Fribourg is quaint and quiet. Situated, like most medieval towns, on a hill that rises above the river, it has done a nice job of blending the old with the new and keeping both clean, well-appointed, and well cared for. Even the area near the train station, though modern, is simply but attractively designed with decent architecture and inviting shops. The houses along the river that we could look down upon from the bar are charmingly Swiss with the characteristic high pitched roofs and dormer windows and little baby chimneys randomly protruding here and there. We sat for hours talking before setting back off to walk down to the river. The hill back into town was steep leaving me to gasp for breath as I chattered on about couchsurfing and why I believe so much in its underlying philosophy.

It was after 10pm when we returned to the house to fix dinner – a light spring salad with beets and tomatoes, potato walnut bread, Gruyere cheese, made near here, and apple slices; a healthy and wonderfully delicious accompaniment to our continuing conversation. It was well after midnight when we finally decided we had to quit talking if I was going to do any sight seeing tomorrow. Tuesday morning when I awoke, Mirjam fixed us a wonderful breakfast spread then drew me the most precious map of Bern and all the sights she suggested I see – something I will put in a photo album and keep forever. When I returned that night she had written out all the information for a hike she had suggested I do and gathered information on other places I had talked about going. She even drew a little decorated map of how to get to the nail salon to give my poor destroyed feet a little loving and a much needed pedicure. I am delighted I took the chance on a “virgin” host and have had the chance to meet Mirjam. I will be staying here a few days as I day trip out to the surrounding areas in search of my memories of Heidi!

A moment of light is sometimes enough to cast a shadow of greatness

July 16, 2006

“The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.” That is the first line from the book “Speak, Memory” by Vladimir Nabokov. It is in his son’s home where I am typing these words as the sun rises over Lake Geneva. By way of the path called “a friend, of a friend, of a friend,” I made my way by taxi yesterday evening to Dmitri Nabokov’s house high on the hill above Montreux, Switzerland. Arriving a few minutes early for dinner, I awaited my “new friend”, filling the time, as I always do in strange houses, by perusing the titles of the books in the room. This particular living room was brimming with books, walls lined with shelves, books from floor to ceiling. There are few things that raise girlhood giddiness in me like rooms walled with floor to ceiling bookshelves. The first time I saw the library from the movie musical “My Fair Lady”, I was both red with rapture and green with envy. What delight it would be to drown in such a room.

I excitedly crossed the room of Dmitri’s home to drink in his taste in literature. As I approached the shelves, I noticed that there were books in at least a dozen languages. Then it dawned on me that ALL these books, this entire room, filled floor to ceiling, boasted books by the same author – Vladimir Nabokov. “Vladimir Nabokov?” I said the name out loud to myself – butchering it I’m sure. I had never heard of Vladimir Nabokov. Looking more closely, skimming past Japanese, Russian, and other languages I couldn’t decipher in search of those I could, I sought a title I recognized. None.

I am often abashed by the great gaps in my literary experience. You would think having attended two of the top high-schools in the country, graduating University of Texas at Austin with a Liberal Arts degree, and from University of Miami with a Juris Doctorate degree, not to mention doing post-graduate work in Humanities and Literature of all things, I would have by now read “War and Peace”. I haven’t. It is packed in a box with dozens of other great classics that I was never forced by presumptuous English teachers to dance with nor found time to kick up my heels with at a beach or in an airplane. The gaps are embarrassing. Vogel, Goethe, Dostoevsky, Joyce, . How is it a woman who claims such a great love for books has not read these? How is it a woman who claims such a great love for books has not heard of this man before me whose writing and translations fill a room? I am ashamed.

Continuing to peruse the titles, I see one I recognize, “Lolita.” Wasn’t that a movie?” I ask myself. “Or was that Run, Lola, Run?” My awareness of pop culture is worse than my familiarity with Russian writers – what exactly do I do with my time? At last my host arrives. While I may at times be uneducated, and often downright ditzy, Socrates would nevertheless love me. His great issue with man was man’s inability to admit stupidity. He claimed he was intelligent not for what he knew, but for the fact he knew how much he didn’t know, and this made him smarter than all the fools who thought they knew it all. (Of course it also pissed off the powers that be of his time.) For so long I lived with the fear of others discovering me for the intellectual fake I always presumed myself to be, I finally learned to just start off with the premise that I’m clueless and work from there. Unfortunately, in topics of politics, most scientific inquiries, and Russian literature, it is quite true. So when my host arrived, I pointedly asked who is Vladimir Nobokov and why have I never heard of him (I did not know Dmitri’s last name and had not made the father/son connection). There was no good answer. Nabokov’s “Lolita” is the one made, not once but twice, into a movie to a fair amount of fanfare in the US and abroad. Vladimir Nabokov, much to my astonishment, wrote numerous classics in BOTH Russian and English. Sometimes I can hide behind the façade of being an American. After all, the whole world knows how poorly educated we are. But Nobokov not only lived in America for many years, but received the American National Medal for Literature in 1973. There was no justifiable excuse for my ignorance.

I spent a delightful evening talking with Dmitri about his life, his father’s writing, which he continues to translate, languages, and a variety of other subjects. He has piercing steel -blue eyes that roll upwards when he talks, an easiness for stories, and a direct manner. Though I wouldn’t say they resemble one another, I kept getting flashes of Alfred Hitchcock as he spoke. Something in his manner reminded me of the great movie director – perhaps just his intellectual intensity, though it was never intrusive and was most pleasantly softened by the lightness of conversation. He has had an astounding life. He speaks fluent Russian, Italian, English and French and when he was not writing in his own right, translating, and otherwise working on his father’s compendium, he was racing Ferraris and power boats, skiing, and, I would venture to guess, living the life of the quintessential playboy. He is still captivating in conversation though a rare disease has, for the moment, taken him out of his Ferrari and off the slopes. We talked for hours as we dined on his balcony overlooking Lake Geneva and the Alps off in the distance. The view is simply breathtaking, especially when the blues and pinks begin to dance in between the mountain tops reflected in the water. When the last rays of the sun had disappeared, we made our way indoors. I asked if I could borrow one of his father’s books. He suggested “Speak, Memory” and also gave me an article published just yesterday on a photo exhibition linking his father’s writing and butterfly studies (a field in which he was also acclaimed), and a piece he himself had written on his father and the book “Lolita”. His writing, in contrast to his easy conversation, is intellectually thick and intricate, crossing, and crossing back through intense imagery and intellectual parry until the mind is dizzy with the effort to follow. It was like trying to follow every movement of a world level fencing match – challenging, engaging, and exhausting all at the same time. I went to sleep feeling intellectually feeble.

This morning I awoke at 6am in the gentle pastel shades of the morning and began reading “Speak, Memory”. Nabokov’s writing has a lovely, lyrical quality yet traverses such intellectual ground, I felt, as I read, like a fly in the shadow of a giant – small, insignificant, and unable to have any affect on the shadow of greatness. I read things like this and wonder what right I have to even presume to be a writer. There is such great talent in this world and I can’t even learn how to not write I seven times in every sentence. These moments are crushing, and yet the first thing I want to do in the midst of a depressed sense of worthlessness, is turn on my computer and write. I fear, often, that my “brief crack of light” will be imperceptible in this turning of millennia, brushing only the lives of a few cherished friends. I envy the Nobokov’s who have touched and changed so many lives, including mine now. While I have yearned for greatness, I have always wallowed in mediocrity, caught somewhere between the fear of actually being as good as I could be or as bad as I am afraid I might be. I know greatness will never come if I stand in the shadow of fear, greatness probably won’t come no matter where I stand, but in its place I would happily accept the ability to simply do what I love for the passion of the love and pursuit of its betterment without regard to the light it shines upon the world in my moment between darknesses. That would be a life well-lived. (Though it would be nice if one day someone was ashamed they had not yet heard of me!)

Geneva - My Tastebuds' Home Away From Home

July 15, 2006

Ah, Geneva will forever hold a place in my heart. No, not for the breathtaking beauty of the second largest lake in Europe, one corner of which the city is centered around. Not for the quiet and quaint cobblestoned streets of old town with its pale grey stone buildings, unique stores, surprisingly plentiful trees, and precious little cafés. Not for the parks, though they are numerous and filled with lingering vacationers and locals alike relaxing in the cool tranquility created by azure blue water and sunny skies. Not for what this city – home to the United Nations and more than 200 world organizations headquartered up and down the Avenue de Pais - has contributed to the world’s search for peace and harmony amongst nations and man, nor for its contribution to religion throughout the world, and particularly some of our puritanical roots . Certainly all these qualities make the city a lovely and interesting place to spend a beautiful Sunday afternoon. But it secured a place in my heart when I spotted the familiar maroon can in the hand of a Japanese tourist standing in the shade on the path that runs along the lake. Could it be? Is it really? No, it’s not possible. Yes, those are white letters. Yes! Sure Enough! It is!! D-r- P-e-p-p-e-r! They have Dr. Peppers here! Glory halleluiah be to God in heaven above. I all but ran into the first grocery store I saw. There they were, in the refrigerated section no less, eight whole rows of Dr. Peppers! I love Geneva!

Dr. Pepper wasn’t my only satiated America craving this trip. When I arrived around 9pm last night on the train from Milan, the first priority was finding internet to check on my couches for next week. A quick check for Boingo hot spots on the train told me that the Geneva McDonalds all had internet connections. Hmmm, McDonalds…. I get a McDonald’s craving about twice a year – and one was hitting now, hard. How guilty I felt. I arrive in Geneva and where is the first place I go? Not the lake, nor the old town, nor the United Nations, I head straight for the McDonald’s, one block from the train station. I paid $10 for that Bic Mac meal but damn was it good. How much more American can you get than sitting with your laptop and rolling backpack eating McDonald’s fresh off the train in one of Europe’s great cities. My son is going to give me grief for this one, I know!

I called my hosts to tell them I had arrived. (I didn’t tell them I was calling from McDonalds.) They gave me directions to take a train near where they were having dinner and told me they would meet me at the station. After a bit of backtracking I found the train and headed for what looked like an empty car at the back. As I sat down, I heard the unmistakable sound of sobbing from the section of seats behind where I was. There was a girl talking on the phone and crying. She was clearly American and was telling her friend that she was stuck in Switzerland. She had fallen asleep on the train and someone had lifted her money belt from her backpack with all her money and her passport. She was supposed to meet friends in Paris for the next three days before catching her flight home. Now she would be stuck in Switzerland and it was unlikely she would even catch her flight. I know it is rude to eavesdrop, but every mother instinct in me was crying out to do something for her. I heard her say goodbye and close the phone, still sobbing quietly to herself. The mother instincts won. I leaned around the seat, apologized for eavesdropping, and asked if she’d like to talk. She nodded her little face up and down, tears rolling down her cheeks even faster. I asked if she’d like a hug. She nodded emphatically. I wrapped my arms around her and she cried into my shoulder for several minutes. As I held her in my arms, I felt not only her suffering in this moment but the suffering of many lost moments – my own moments when I travel and feel lost and want only to go home, and those of my girls when they felt lost and alone, Erika in her teenage years, and April in the transitional days from childhood to adolescence, when I had whipped away their tears all those years ago. I cried a silent tear for all the moments we women suffer as little lost girls inside. When she had cried all she needed to for that moment I sat back and let her dry her tears and we just talked for awhile. She had received other tragic news that day in an email and now had the whole problem with the passport. I consoled her as best I could. We ended up talking about the World Cup and her eyes brightened as she told me how she and her friends had watched it from Circo Massimo surrounded by half a million celebrating Italians. My stop came too soon. I gave her my card and wished her luck. If you read this, Elizabeth, I am still thinking of you and wishing you a safe journey home.

My hosts, Maya and Iddo, met me at the station and took me to their friend’s house where they were having a barbeque. There was one other couple, a single guy, and an overgrown Golden Retriever puppy named Ben. (Oh how I miss Buffy sometimes.) All five of them are from Israel and their mother tongue was Hebrew (though four of the five spoke perfect English). Sometimes I feel like such a stupid American. Am I the only one who thought Hebrew, like Latin, was a dead language used now only for religious purposes? They told me it was a dead language but had essentially been reborn and was now spoken by over six million people. Why don’t I ever know these things? I felt like such an idiot. I wasn’t about to admit I just ate McDonalds off the train, so when Maya told me, quite mother-like, I was eating dinner even though I said no thanks, I obediently complied – and happily so for it was quite good. The single guy and I quickly entered a parry and thrust verbal war – one of my favorite interactive games from back in my bartending days. Garrick and I could get so verbally abusive with witty cut downs people actually thought we didn’t like each other. No one understood it is sheer fun. This guy (I don’t remember his damn name) said he was afraid he would injure my American ‘sensitivities’. I responded, doesn’t he know Americans are insensitive and to fire away (ha ha).

I love these unexpected moments in traveling when suddenly you find yourself sitting around a candlelit picnic table outside on a summer evening talking with people you’ve never met who have had lives you can’t even imagine. The conversation moved easily enough until I asked if they would give an ignorant-American their view of what is going on in their side of the world and why. I know so little about Israel and the Middle East and all that is happening there. Despite occasional efforts to take in some understanding, it all just goes over my head. That’s what I get for being taught history was about memorizing dates as opposed to understanding the human psyche and the struggle for power and prominence. For someone supposedly so smart, I am awfully stupid about a lot of things. I was politely told that this was a conversation they didn’t engage in for there were different views around the table. Little did I know that as I was prodding for a kindergartener understanding of the conflict, at a time when emotions were particularly raw as Israel and Lebanon had essentially entered into war again. I hadn’t seen a television or newspaper in six weeks and knew nothing about the bombing that was happening. The easiness of conversation never returned. I felt like a cartoon character who unknowingly said something incredibly insensitive and stupid and in the last frame of the cartoon track when everyone has stopped talking and is standing around stiffly asks in an innocent voice: “What? Was it something I said?” Now I know it was late and they were tired and one of the girls didn’t feel well and that I am always oversensitive, but I was disappointed that I couldn’t take advantage of such a rare opportunity to converse with people who know personally the experience that we can only read about in newspapers – a source I don’t consider very accurate.

We said our goodbyes and dropped the other couple off at home. When it was just Maya and Iddo, I asked if I had done or said something wrong. They assured me not then explained to me what was going on at that moment in the world. My ignorance is in a way a double-edged coin – it is in part thanks to my naiveté that I can look at the world through rose-colored glasses and see such beauty. I believe we need people who see the world and the people in it as lovely and beautiful and good. Yet because I insist on maintaining my naiveté there is also a depth of understanding about what is not so lovely and good about the world that I will always gloss over. If you dive deep you can’t see the sun at the same time. Sometimes I wish I understood man’s dark side at a deeper level, but I’d hate to give up the light I see cast around everyone to do it. I guess that is what they mean by the saying Ignorance is Bliss, but the knowledge that you are ignorant steals a bit of the bliss.

We changed the subject and chatted about other things as Iddo pulled the car into the garage. Actually it wasn’t their car. Switzerland is piloting a new concept in auto-sharing. In many European cities it is not cost effective to have a car, yet there are times where it is more convenient to have one. For a small annual membership fee, they can join this program that allows them to select the type of car they want and the amount of time, and pick it up at a central garage location – a van if you are moving, a sports car for a Sunday afternoon drive, a sedan when you have company in town for the evening, or anything else you might need. They pay 3 dollars so per hour plus 50cents per kilometer, but do not have to pay for gas. Everything is automated. There are no check-in counters. They have a garage access card and they enter their account information in a computer system in the car when they pick up and drop off the car. It is a really great concept.

We walked the few blocks to their apartment in the center of Geneva. They are in the process of moving and Maya began frantically trying to neaten things. I tried to assure her not to worry, that I didn’t mind the disarray in the least, but to no avail. I had to giggle to myself because I am exactly the same way. They were both obviously tired but took the time nevertheless to sit and chat awhile longer before going to bed. Iddo coordinates an MBA program for the university and Maya works for the airline industry. I thoroughly enjoyed meeting them, though our time to talk was short. If I were married and settled, they are the kind of couple I’d love to have in a circle of friends. As it is I am a single vagabond, I know not when or if our paths will cross again, though I hope they do.

I slept soundly on my little “f&f” on the floor and awoke early to write awhile before heading out into the streets Geneva. Maya had left early for a business trip but Iddo gave me the scoop on Geneva highlights for the day. As I was zipping up my backpack, he brought me a bag with two bananas and two nectarines and insisted I take them with me, knowing how difficult it is to eat properly on the road. These little acts of kindness and hospitality never cease to amaze me. Sitting on my bag at the train station, eating my banana, I smiled with the thought of the genuine kindness with which it was given and with which they shared with me their time and home.

This too is a city I would like to return to, and not just for the Dr. Peppers. The diversity is striking – with people from many walks of life scattered throughout the streets. There were people still garbed in their traditional clothing from the Middle East, India, Asia, and Africa. The lake creates a common bond, a centrifugal force as people gather to admire the shooting wall of water near the harbor, or to swim in the many swimming holes, to picnic with friends or family, or just to stroll slowly along the water’s edge. Pots with blooming flowers are everywhere, suspended from lampposts or placed upon rails, and otherwise scattered here and there. The water is interrupted by the occasional white swan and the green grass of the parkways by an occasional statue – many of them lovely female nudes. There is a certain energy to lake cities – I felt it in Boston and in Vancouver and feel it here as well. A certain tranquility that rather than breeding stillness, breeds a peaceful yet vibrant activeness.

I finally heeded the call of hunger and stopped at a little crepe stand. I know, I know, I’m in Switzerland – I should eat some chocolate or cheese or something. But with French all around me I just had to have a crepe instead. Even at the little stand on the shores of Lake Geneva, my mushroom/cheese crepe was made with the flair and precision of a French chef. The man spread the batter just so, turning it with deft precision and purposefulness, before sprinkling exactly the right amount of cheese in perfect proportion, no wait a little more here, a little more there, then stepping back to eye it and make sure it was evenly distributed before doing the same with the mushrooms. He dropped the last mushroom with a flourish of the hand more reminiscent of a chef extraordinaire at a five star restaurant topping off his masterpiece with a sprig of perfectly placed parsley than a guy in a paper apron standing in the sweltering heat of a cardboard crepe stand on the side of a lake. He then folded one end then the other, carefully creasing each before creating a perfectly folded rectangle, flipping his creation on to a paper plate, and handing it to me. It was truly an art form. I ended up chatting, as I ate with a lady named Rose from San Francisco. She works in outsourcing and, with a daughter now 20, took up a position that lets her do a fair amount of traveling. She was eager to learn about couchsurfing. I have a feeling it will prove a wonderful resource for her as she travels. I guess I’m turning into a couchsurfing ambassador of sorts. Maybe I should get a job with them!! I have actually volunteered to help for two days at the collective they planned as it just so happened to be at the same time I planned to be in Austria. It will be nice to give a little something back to this project that is giving so much to me.

Having refueled, I made the long walk to the United Nations building, just to say I have stood there. The flags out front were impressive but the gates were closed and I could see little else. With the heat of the day becoming unbearable, I decided it was time to make my way to the train station and to my next stop – Montreaux…

Milano Meanderings

Saturday, July 15, 2006

Ah, today my faith is restored, and, thankfully, my keyboard. I guess it was just tired last night. Or maybe I drank more Jack than I thought??!!

I woke up this morning, quickly checked my head which thankfully wasn’t pounding, and opened my eyes. The first thing I saw from my couch/futon/fold out mattress that took up almost every last square inch of this study/dining/living room, was my host Rino’s computer system. Two computers amidst piles and piles of papers, photos, and CDs. It dawned on me that everything precious in his life (in a material sense) was probably sitting somewhere in the disarray of the desk and table that took up half the room. All his photos, stories, work as a photo journalist - there at the foot of my bed, and this man had never even met me.

He works until 2am so he emailed me a map with directions how to get from the train station to his home and left the keys for me at the bar downstairs from his apartment. As I stared at his private world before me in the morning sunlight, I was flooded with a profound sense of love for man and appreciation for our ability to trust and be trusted, to give and receive and help one another. That is what makes couchsurfing a great concept. It is not just the free place to sleep (though what a wonderful fringe benefit), it is the opportunity to experience the kindness of strangers and in so experiencing carry on the view of people as good and kind. Every person who believes this helps to create a world where it is true.

The idea that what exists is a manifestation of what is believed has been a modicum of “positive thinking” for years– if you think you can, you can; of Asian philosophy for millennia– what you believe, you create. It is part of the Toltec tradition – what you fear, you move toward, and even western psychology in the idea of self-fulfilling prophecies. Did you know the concept is now grounded in physical science? The Quantum physicists have ‘discovered’ that there are no actualities, that all is probability and that probability becomes defined by observation. In very simple terms, once an object is viewed it is determined; before it is only a possibility. This doesn’t make the idea of getting on an elevator very appealing, but it certainly makes for some interesting questions. Are, for example, Americans so scared because we have high murder and kidnapping rates or are murder and kidnapping rates higher because we go around every day scared that we might be attacked or are children kidnapped? Do we create these realities with our expectations?

The answer is clearly yes on some very practical levels – if no one leaves home at night because they are scared of being mugged, they leave the streets empty for the muggers to take over and attack any unfortunate lone stray soul. If everyone was out taking a walk, the muggers would have less ability to mug. If I believe all Spaniards are rude and I walk into a bar expecting rude service I may subconsciously send out defensive energy that brings out rudeness. But I believe the idea that we create reality with our expectations is true at a fundamentally deeper level, perhaps even as Quantum physicists would say at a sub-cellular level.

This is why I love couchsurfing, love the idea of bringing it to the population at large. Think how the world would change if everyone believed, through experience, that the people of this world could be trusted and could give trust; that people were not out to get you but to help you. If we stopped feeling like we had to defend, maybe we could start feeling like it was safe to give. Tell me that wouldn’t change the world. These were the paths my thoughts traced as I road the train from my beloved Italy into new frontiers - this time Switzerland. Other than one long, lonely night in the Zurich airport, I have never stepped foot in the land I see in my mind’s eye of vast mountains and a little girl with blonde braids running down flower-covered slopes with delighted cries of “Grandfather! Grandfather!” (Boy how I loved that book as a little girl,)

My time in Milan was short but delightful. At last I got to visit with my old friend Laura. For ten years I used to work the Lipton Tennis Tournament every year – taking in the film from the photographers. Seeing the same people for two weeks every year, I developed real friendships with several. It was the Lipton’s in a way that started my love for Italy for it was there I met Claudio who took me to Italy eight years ago and changed my life. June, who I have written about, is also a friend from the Lipton days. Laura, who lives in Milan, and I have stayed in touch for years through letters and emails, though I hadn’t actually seen her in many years.

We had no trouble spotting each other walking from opposite directions down the street – we both have the exact same haircuts as we did 15 years ago when we met. It is funny how time can bond people. Even though we have never seen each other’s homes, met each other’s loved ones, not even had a dinner or lunch together, I still consider her a dear friend. It was wonderful lingering in her company as we walked through the piazzas, past the Sforzesco Palace, and, of course, toured the Duomo. She patiently waited almost twenty minutes while I lit candles and said prayers for my friends who are tending ailing parents, longing for babies, searching for love, or just generally struggling with computers or problems, trying to catch up and keep up with life.

The Duomo, by the way, is breathtaking. I never cease to be amazed by these cathedrals – each awe inspiring in its own way. The Milan Duomo is made of Carrera marble - the marble Michelangelo insisted on using despite how difficult, and dangerous, it was to quarry and transport. Gentle pastels of pink and white and beige give the Duomo a fairy-princess like feeling. It is imposingly gothic yet it doesn’t penetrate you ominously the way the Cathedral in Cologne does with its dark, dreary, grey imposing mass. These playfully light spires, and there are hundreds, seem to reach up into the heavens, searching with the playfulness of a child hunting Easter eggs for God’s love and light They work hard to keep the light pastel colors. The pollution accumulates so fast, it is a constant process to keep it clean. They proceed continuously, cleaning one section and then the next. When they have returned to the beginning, it is dirty again. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of individually carved statues sitting atop little platforms extending from the cathedral walls. What a great photo exposition to photograph all their glorious forms and faces. The inside is simple yet grand. There is little to interrupt the immense size of the place - something I actually found quite appealing. It created a sense, for me, of bonding with God rather than being awed by ‘His’ power and wealth. Enormous paintings hung between the columns that line the interior apse, creating the idea of a wall along the pews while not actually dividing the space - thus keeping the openness of the room while creating some subdivision. It was something I have never seen in a cathedral before. Everywhere I was struck by how successfully the illusion of simplicity was maintained yet with art and design of great intricacy.

After the Duomo, we took a lovely stroll, stopping for a gelato. Italians never get just one flavor – it is always three or at least two. I chose pear, since I had never heard or imagined pear ice-cream, and strawberry. Oh my god was it good, especially in the scorching heat of high noon in Milan! When we finished our walking tour, we headed to the bar I was at last night, this time for a coke without Jack, where Laura gave me the “inside scoop” on Switzerland, one of her favorite countries. We parted with hugs and promises to see each other in less than eight years this time and I headed upstairs to finally meet Rino, my host.

I walked in to the smell of tomatoes and shrimp in the air. He had made lunch for me! He kissed me on both cheeks like a life long friend, explaining he had cooked lunch and it would be ready in just a moment. We settled in at the tiny little two person table in a precious little kitchen about one/fourth the size of an American kitchen. I actually love these teeny little Italian kitchens with the half-sized refrigerators and the dish drying racks above the sink. His apartment is a sottotetto – under the roof or attic apartment – so sunlight was streaming into the kitchen from the skylight above. We slipped easily into conversation, going back and forth between English and Italian, discussing everything from the couchsurfing philosophy to languages to photography to gun control. With a degree in law, a passion for photo journalism, and an important position with Corriere della Sera, Italy’s largest newspaper, he is obviously a skilled conversationalist and quick observer. We talked for two and a half hours over pasta and cantaloupe (why is there a ‘u’ in cantaloupe?) and white wine until it was time to catch the bus back to the train station. I look forward to the next chance we have to chat.

Between my last night in Ascoli when I was fortunate to have both Giorgio’s and Antonella’s company amidst the crowds of people who had turned out for a piazza world music concert under the stars, to meeting Rino and his wondrous hospitality, to seeing Laura again, at last, it has been a wonderful two days of conversation and friendship. And now I must go – Lake Geneva just came into view and it is breathtaking.!

What Would You Do?

July 14, 2006

How i-s th-is fo-r- a –moment of honest ? I am wasted off m ass. Notice all the wods whee thee shold be cetain- lettes ae missing those letters? Oh look the r is back! -Woo hoo!!. Notice to-o thse andom dashes (oops the is gone again) well that would be because my keyboard seems to be having (look the r is back) a mental breakdown. I;;t is rand;;;omly inserting s;ome letters/charactes while andomly efusing to inset those I equest. So, I----- arrive in Milano afte;--r two hours on the train----------- full;;; aware of this problem, walk into the bar wh;ere m couchsurfing host;;;; has left the kes because he is working late, order a jack and coke (because it is the onl thing A;;LL Italian bartenders can understand;;d the first time---- despite m American accent) and she ha;;;nds me a glass with half a p-------------------int; of Jack and-------- some coke - I’m not kidding – it wa;;;;;s a pint glass and she -------filled it a lit---tle over half wa with Jack. I guess she took one look at m fac;;;e and knew I was having a bad da. All I ate toda wa; ;; a half otted tuna and tom;;;; ato sandwich so the liq;;l uor quickl incapici;;tated me. ---;;; So tell me – if ----------------------------------------------------------ou had just cashed in your life savings and sold/gave away everything you owned to write a book/blog, with photos on our experience, and the second week discovered the camera you spent $800 on has a problem that can’t ;;;;;;;;;;;be fixed because you are overseas, the third week discoveed you compute battey couldn’t chage, spent $1,000 and two weeks the fifth and sixth weeks tying to eplace the batte, which happened;;; to be when ---the site you ae witing the book about cashed, and the day you receive-----------d the ne;w bat;;tery had the key;;;;;;;;;;;board fry on your computer, wou-----ld you:

A: join a monaste

B. Join a convent

C. Step in font of a speeding tain

D. Disappea into the Calabac bowels of Italy

Or E. Get a job as an attoney in New York and bill yourself to death?

Just looking fo input ….

Everybody Gets Their Cut While I Get Ripped (in more ways than one!)

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Here I am – still in Ascoli. I planned to visit three days. I have been here two weeks. It has been wonderful in many ways – my time with Daniele especially, the chance to visit old friends and wander the streets of a city that holds such a special place in the book of my life experiences, the simplicity of life here, the olive oil…. Daniele and I took a quick trip to Assisi – an amazingly beautiful town set in the hills of Umbria, filled with the life and spirit of St. Francis of Assisi, and also filled with tourists. Unfortunately we didn’t have the chance to see much, but it is a place I know I must return to with time to savor its beauty and rich history. The extra week in Ascoli has given me time to linger with Giorgio in conversation, to see Valentina and her crazy crew of friends, to visit all the people who brought smiles to my daily life at the grocery store, the phone store and other places, to tease a bit with Alessandro and remember the wonderful first days in Ascoli at Café Italia, and, most importantly, to listen to Antonella’s sweet soothing voice (once she finally forgave me for showing up and surprising her). I’ve met interesting new people like Diana, a professor from Maine, Valerie, who keeps a blog similar to mine at baci2.blogspot.com, and Linda, who took my room when I left the old apartment. It is her new attic apartment, filled with sunlight and breezes from the mountains, where I have been staying and where I am writing now. It was a rare opportunity to stand in the streets of Italy as the Azzurris claimed the World Cup, their fourth in the history of the tournament. It was exhilarating just to watch these people celebrate, filling the streets, the piazzas, waving thousands of red, white and green flags, setting off fireworks, cruising through the towns, horns blaring, singing their anthem. This in itself was an amazing experience. The entire country held its breath for three hours during the final. Streets were empty with not a car, moped, bike or person to be found. Piazzas, on the other hand, were overflowing – large projector screens or TV’s brought out from the bars using extension cords – chairs surrounding every screen as people sat, stiff backed anticipation. The first scores were made early then the game lulled interminably until the stress filled tie breaker – and boy is it stress filled! Each team takes turns making just one clean kick – just the player and the goalie, face to face, trying to anticipate the other’s movement. At each successful kick for the Azzurris the streets filled with shouting. France missed the second kick but could still win if Italy missed two. As the fourth Azzurri kick planted the ball in the net, you could probably feel the earth shake as every Italian in the country jumped to their feet – screaming, kissing, some even crying. Being part of such a patriotic excitement alone was, well almost, worth the delay.

I have tried to patiently accept the absurd hold up that has kept me here. I must admit, however, that objects have flown across the room more than a few times - including my telephone which thankfully survived. And so you ask, why am I still here? Laugh--- on account of a little bottle of a mineral supplement called Lysine. You see, Italians (or at least Ascolani) have an unusually high occurrence of fever blisters - maybe because so many of them bite their nails, maybe because they kiss when they greet, who knows. But virtually every friend I know here gets fever blisters. Lysine is a little miracle pill for fever blisters. Pop a few the day a fever blister starts and you will stop it in its tracks. So when I called my daughter to send me the package I had left for her to send when I reached Ascoli, I asked her to pick up a bottle of Lysine for me to giv to my friends. The package was filled with magazines and a couple little gifts for Antonella, postcards I never sent from Ascoli and wanted to finish here, a couple books, and other non-essentials that I didn’t need until later in the trip. Nothing terribly important. Except… My contacts didn’t arrive in time for my departure and so were added to the package after several hours of phone calls to resolve an issue with the prescription. This wouldn’t be such a necessity if not for the fact that two weeks ago I got an infection in my eye and was told to get these contacts replaced immediately. Then there were the business cards that were to be sent to Vaughan Town and never arrived. No big deal, really, just a little easier for giving out my website address. And then my computer battery went dead. Well not dead, dead. It can hold a charge, for about thirty minutes. This was an issue. See for every hour of tourist-ing it takes about the same amount of time to write, edit, compile photos, and post. Eight hours of sight-seeing equals eight hours of work, sometimes more. Most of this work I do on the trains, at cafes while I’m eating, or in piazzas where I can write immersed in the feel of a place – all are places that require battery power. That would be why I bought the baby Vaio with the 9, yes 9, hour battery. A new battery costs 200 euro. Not in the budget – and not something I should have to buy for an eight month old computer. Three hours of phone calls with Sony working around the international and warranty issues and they finally agreed to send a new battery to April who could add it to the package and forward it to me. This was an urgent necessity.

So the package was to arrive in Ascoli on Friday, two weeks ago. It didn’t. Nor did it arrive on Monday. Tuesday I called to check on it. Fourth of July –everything closed. Wednesday, I got through to the states. They gave me numbers in Italy but with the time difference everything here was already closed. Thursday I finally got the scoop. You see ANY bottle of ANYthing – vitamins, minerals, aspirin, can be held up for a declaration to be completed that says it is for your personal use. It would be nice if they called either of the numbers on the Fed Ex form to tell me this when the package was stopped a full week before. No, you are supposed to somehow intuit the problem. The first conversation went something like this:

“We’ll need a declaration from you that this is for your personal use. The process will take a few days. ”

“Look, I’ve been waiting a week already for this package. I HAVE to get back on the road. Throw the bottle away and send me the rest of my stuff.”

“We can’t do that.”

“What do you mean you can’t do that?”

“We can’t open your package”

“Of course you can open my package. Customs opened my box on its way to America and lost half the contents, including my Grandmother’s recipes. I know full well you can open the box.”

“No, we’re a private company. We’re not customs. We can’t open the box.” (What the hell right do you have to HAVE my stuff – I didn’t say it)

Deep Breath

“Okay, how do we solve this problem?”

“Well, the declaration is easy. I’ll email it to you. You fill it out and sign it then fax it to or email it to me with a copy of your passport.”

“Okay, no problem.”

“It is the payment that is more difficult.”

“The WHAT?”

“The payment.”

“What payment?!”

“You have to pay to process the declaration. Probably 80 or 90 euro though I can’t say for sure.”

“WHAT!!!!!!”

Deeper breath.

“Okay, look. I have to leave tomorrow. How do I get this all done today.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Why not?”

“We have to send you an email with all the information.”

“And?

“And it takes at least two or three hours.” (what fucking email system are you using – I didn’t say it)

“Then, once we receive everything, it takes two to three days to process. Business Days.”

“WHAT??!!!”

Now I’m hyperventilating and have to get a paper bag.

Through strained teeth – I say, slowly, “F-I-N-E… what time can I expect the email.”

“Around 2pm, 3pm at the latest. “

“Fine. Uh, thanks.” (for bending me over and… - I didn’t say it)

At 3pm I am sitting at the internet café. And at 4pm. At 5pm I start calling the company. It takes 40 minutes to get a response. It’s my friend Eleanor.

“Um, Eleanor, I’m still waiting for the email. You said 3 at the latest and it is almost 6 now.”

“I never said it would be 3pm for sure. It will get there when it gets there.”

At 6pm the email arrives.

Here’s the breakdowsn.

Diritti Doganali: 64.77

Ns competenze: 52.00

Sanitario: 7.33

Diritto Fisso: 15.00

IVA 3.00

Grand Total: 142.10.

That is Euro, mind you. We’re talking almost 200 cold American cash dollars.

“FUCK YOU!!!.” I scream in Italian, in the middle of the internet café.

I call Fed Ex, after the internet lady has unscrewed me from the ceiling.

“I don’t want the #*!#% package.”

My grand scheme is to return it to April who can take the damn bottle and ship it back for less in less time than it is going to take to pay for and release the bottle.

“No problem. We will return it to the shipper. It will take a week to process.”

“WHAT!!!”

“And we will charge your account for the shipment.”

The lady at the internet café has to revive me.

I take a deep, deep breath…

“So let me get this straight. I have two choices. I can wait a week and pay 150 euro to have what already belongs to me or wait a week to pay 150 euro and have nothing.”

“Yep, that’s about it.”

“Great scam you guys have going on.”

I take my instruction sheet to the post office where it takes an hour and a half to process the payment. The copy places are closed by the time I leave. Te passport will have to wait until tomorrow.

Commission to the post office for the payment: 5.16

Cost to fax proof of payment: 2.60

I’m not happy.

I get up early Friday morning to copy and fax the passport and declaration. The fax number doesn’t work. I scan everything and send it via email to the address as instructed.

Cost of Scan and copies: 6.20

I call to make sure they received it as Daniele and I are getting ready to leave for Assisi.

“Oh yes, we received it. But we can’t print attachments. You’ll have to fax it.”

“WHAT??!??!?” (Why the hell do you instruct people to email it if you are too fucking stupid to print a goddamn attachment – I didn’t say it)

“Your fax machine doesn’t answer!”

“Sure it does.”

“I am trying to leave town – can’t you process the information and I’ll fax a copy when I get back.

“No, I have to have a paper copy. Not my rules, you know. You’ll have to fax it now or I can’t process it.”

Daniele hands me a brown paper bag.

Deep breath – strained voice

“F-I-N-E. I will go BACK to town and fax it now. Please call if you have any problem.”

“Sure.”

Now I have to say, Eleanor is fine. She is firm but for a bureaucracy-employed Italian she is actually quite nice.

We go back to a different fax place.

Cost to fax everything that I already sent by email: 2.60

Our grand total is now 158.66 euro – over $200. Keep in mind the only thing of value in the package is the $200 battery that I fought to get replaced for free.

Daniele and I leave for Assisi, content that finally everything is in their hands and the package is being processed and knowing that with two business days to process it should arrive Tuesday morning.

It doesn’t.

I call the broker – no answer for over an hour.

I call Fed Ex.

“You have to speak with the broker. Hold on I’ll connect you.” (Good to know this trick for the future.)

“Oh Hi Sherry” cheerful voice “We are still waiting on your passport. When are you going to be able to send it?”

“WHAT??!!!!!!!”

“Well, we have everything else except your passport.”

“What are you talking about – I emailed my passport, I faxed my passport, you have my passport.”

“No we don’t.”

“YES, YOU DO! We talked. You received the email.”

“I told you we can’t print the email.”

“Then I faxed it, again. If you have the declaration, you have the fax. If you have the fax, you have the passport.”

“Oh, yes, we received that. But its too dark. We can’t read it. You’ll have to fax a better copy.”

I lose it.

Ten minutes later I have stopped crying, yelling, and hyperventilating. Eleanor, shocked that I could be so upset over such a little thing as waiting for two weeks for a package while my dreams wash away down the drain with my money, is scolding me for crying but at least being patient and even helpful. “Look, Sherry, just send another copy of the passport and we’ll get the package on over to customs today.” I’m still breathing in those heaving breaths of crying fits.

“You,” sob, sob, sob, “you,” sob “can.”

“Sure, no problem. Just dry your face and go fax your passport. It’s not the end of the world.”

(Not the end of your fucking world, but I’ve just thrown one third of my money and one third of my time for this trip down the drain. – I don’t say it out loud).

“Okay,” sob “I’ll go now.”

I send a rainbow of passports – light, medium light, normal, medium dark, and dark.

Cost to send passport rainbow: 4.50

I call. I apologize for crying. Eleanor tells me she can’t read any of them very well but at least one is acceptable. (Maybe they should consider a new fucking fax machine that is worth a fuck since their business receives hundreds of faxed passports a day as part of this fucking scam. – I don’t say it out loud.)

“So the package will ship tonight?”

“Well, it will go to customs tonight. Then its out of my hands.”

I’m too emotionally wrecked to exclaim ‘What’.

“You might get it tomorrow. But I doubt it. Maybe Thursday. There’s a pretty good chance for Friday but I can’t tell you for certain. Though maybe there’s a hundred percent chance for Friday. Maybe.”

“Great, thanks Eleanor.”

So the grand total in agency payments, copies, and faxes: 164.16 Euro

Cost of apartment for the two weeks I’ve been waiting: 200.00 Euro

Loss of value for the rail ticket: 300.00 Euro

Grand Total 664.16 Euro

Add the cost to ship the package in the first place and we’re talking a nice round one thousand little green and white pictures of Mr. Washington.

The company slogan should be: “Thank you for letting us rip you a new one and have a nice day!”

Now I understand why people go postal….

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Having A Great Time in Barcelona

Sunday, June 25, 2006

Let me just say simply – I Love this city. It is a wonderful vacation city – well organized, vibrant, relatively clean for Spain, with plenty of things to do. This is a city I know I will come back to. A weekend was not nearly enough time to take everything in.

I arrived on Friday, after twelve hours of traveling, to the festival of San Juan – a crazy, insane, party night with the streets overflowing with people. Handheld fireworks explode every few seconds, sometimes right at your feet. The night air fills with what seem to be gunshots in all directions. Las Ramblas, the famous pedestrian street Barcelona is known for (and where, I’d venture, we get the verb “to ramble”), was so crowded with people I felt more like a salmon swimming upstream than a human being. While this would be a wonderful night to be settled into your hotel room with a group of great friends ready to go out and party, or staying at the house of a new friend and a local who can show you the intricate details outlanders miss, it was not a night to be arriving without a reservation and with luggage in tow. First hotel, $150 – I don’t think so. Second, third, fourth – full. Fifth – 90, better. Full, full, full then 60. Then I spotted it “Pensione”, down a side street. The door opened so fast when I rang the buzzer and said I was one person, I felt like a long lost relative. Scaling three flights of stairs, with bags, I decided anything 30 or less I would take.

It seemed more like the set of a “Finding Forrester” movie - other side of the tracks kid makes it out - than a real place. The paint was peeling off the wall, where there was paint. The steps were concave and the staircase actually caving inward in some places. As I reached the second level I heard locks sliding on a door above me. A young Asian man came down the steps and, to my endearing appreciation, carried my bag the last flight. He was prim and proper, full of decorum, with straight posture and a brisk manner but there was a definite kindness in his eyes. He was apologizing before he opened the locks to the hallway of rooms, and again before he opened the lock to “my” room, explaining that this was all he had. The door opened to the teeniest room I have ever seen. Orange plaster walls, a small window that opened to an interior vent shaft, a half-size twin bed, a square 2 ft by 2ft cabinet, and quite literally, just enough room to turn around between the cabinet and the sink that jutted out of the far wall. I couldn’t put my suitcase on the floor and stand in front of the sink at the same time. I burst out laughing. He apologized again. It was all he had. “How much?” “20 euro” “I’ll take it.” He knew I was out of my element and was ever so kind. He came back a moment later with a fan which he plugged in with another apologetic smile. “You need anything. Have any problem. You call, okay.” I, uh, settled in i.e. put my suitcase on the bed, stood in the 2ft square foot space in front of the sink, washed my face, and headed out the door into even greater insanity.

They say it is the favorite Barcelonian past time – to amble up and down Las Ramblas, past the craft booths and street performers, the tourist shops and café tables. While I love ambling, and I love street performers and outdoor cafes, Las Ramblas is just a little too much for me, especially on a festival night. The energy is frantic on any given day, but the night of the San Juan festival it is downright frenetic. I walked the length of the street, sat and people watched for awhile, politely refused, seven times, a proposal for coffee with one man and politely refused the old man who stood glaring at the proposer the entire time then, when the other man left, approached me to tell me I was smart not to give the other my number and asked if I would I like to come live with him. It was definitely time to go back to my closet with the little door-handle lock. I’ll be the first to admit it. I was scared - one easily kicked in door between me and whoever else would stay in this place. The gun shot sounds from the fireworks every few minutes didn’t help. After an hour of nervous sleeplessness I finally barricaded the door with the clothes cabinet - which I wedged, diagonally, between the wall on the opposite side of the room and the door – that’s how small the room was. I popped a whole Tylenol PM, little sleep-inducing miracles, and slipped into a surprisingly deep slumber.

I woke up, still alive (this surprises me many mornings), with not a cockroach or rat to be found, though I think a few visited in my dreams. I threw on clothes and headed out for a walk in the hopes of finding a hotel with air conditioning and a little more peace of mind. I stumbled into a little two star pension, St Remo, that was just perfect. Set on a small circle, just two blocks from the Plaza Catalunya, and only 35 euro. I had my own room, bathroom (sans toilet), air conditioning unit, and balcony. Heaven!

To every negative there is a positive and so it is with the St Juan festival. The shops are all closed the following Saturday, and most people are at home or in hotels sleeping off hangovers, leaving what I imagine are unusually peaceful streets to the few tourists who did not see the wee hours of the morn. I’ve always loved walking streets of a party city early on a Sunday morning when you can feel the energy of the night before still pulsating in slow waves yet the streets are yours alone. Barcelona was like this all day Saturday. I wandered the streets past the impressive Triumphal Arch, built for the 1888 Universal Exhibition, through the Ciutadella, Barcelona’s largest city park which rivals Central Park in size, and past dozens of young folk passed out cold on benches and statues, in the grass or on stairs, baking, obliviously, in the high noon sun, with half-empty cups of beer next to their heads, before heading back to get my bags. The day was sweltering so I lingered awhile in my precious air-conditioning, rejoicing in the pirated internet signal from my room, before heading out again.

Barcelona has a wonderful air about it. It is a large cosmopolitan city, filled with museums, diverse architecture, great shopping, impressive tourist sights, beautiful gardens, a vibrant port, a culturally diverse population, and all the other elements of a cosmopolitan city. Yet it somehow miraculously still keeps a small town air about it, especially in the winding pedestrian streets of the Gothic Quarter and Old Town. The city definitely has something for everyone - the rich who like to shop, the artsy who like museums, the intellectuals who like history, the architectural buffs, the partiers, the wanderers and ponderers. I was sad to miss the impressive lineup of museums – 28 in total – everything from the Museum of Chocolate and of the History of Shoemaking to the Picasso Museum with an impressive selection of works by the great painter to the Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya, housed in the Palace of the 1929 International Exhibition overlooking Plaza de Espanya and boasts an impressive collection of Romanesqe Art. The museums were closed Saturday for the festival, had shortened hours on Sunday and were closed again on Monday so I didn’t see nary a one. I will go back for this alone.

The still and tranquil energy of the still recuperating city enveloped me as I meandered from place to place with no real itinerary. When evening came I retrieved my computer to search for a little café where I could eat and write. As I was walking through the old district, I spotted an incredibly enticing little place called Sukúr – small Arabic style tables made of dark worn wood sat clustered in the front near the street windows, candles and soft lights created a soft glow, warmed by the long flowing sheer fabrics that divided the long, slender restaurant and bar into little private sections. It was clearly a fusion of Turkish, Arabic, and Middle Eastern influences and irresistibly inviting. I took three steps backward for I had already passed before my mind had processed the intricate, warm, appealing atmosphere, and walked in. There were three, I must say, extremely attractive men chatting at the bar. Sometimes I surprise myself – so often I am shy, closed in my own little world, trying to hide in my book or computer where hopefully no one will notice me and sometimes I walk into a place like I’ve been there every day of my life for years and know everyone knows me or should. This was one of those nights. I was so brazen in my approach, I think I threw these men off a bit. If I had to guess, I’ll bet they thought I was looking for a little action rather than just some good conversation and a cool drink after ten hours of walking. Luckily I found both there. Nicholas the bartender made the best damned Mojito I have ever had in my life (and was oh-my-god-cute). Dimitri, the owner and hot as hell, didn’t have much to say though he had one of those great mysterious untouchable energies – the proprietor of the disco type that all the girls want to seduce. Costas was attractive as well in his own beatnik, armchair philosopher way. He and I engaged in most of the conversation, dancing around philosophical topics. He was clearly a Nietzsche-ist – not that he necessarily follows Nietzsche, we didn’t get that deep, but in that disdainful philosopher attitude I always imagined Nietzsche to have where the first tenet of the philosophy is everyone else in the world is an idiot. Actually come to think of it Socrates was a bit like this as well. It began to be fun watching him swallow the condescension in his words despite the fact it showed so clearly in his eyes. The conversation, though, was intelligent and engaging and I was happy to have a little time to play philosophical cat and mouse in my own mother tongue. It was almost 11pm when I finished my Mojito. They were all so cute in such different ways, it was impossible to decide which one I’d want to seduce, so I shouldered my backpack and headed out in the night.

The still and tranquil energy of Saturday was nowhere to be found at 9am Sunday morning. There were tourists everywhere – lines circled up and down the streets for entrances to museums and Gaudi designs. Even the hop on/off bus stops were cued. There was no way I was going to get in everything I wanted to do with this madhouse of tourists. This would not be a meandering day - to get even half my list done would require a carefully conceived strategy. Now my kids will tell you no one is better at conceiving a perfectly planned strategy for a day of fun. Fortunately, now it is a skill I can invoke. Ten years ago it was an anal-retentive–compulsive necessity, much to the consternation of my children – especially at amusement parks. I would sit them down at the fountain that you find at the entrance of every amusement park and take a poll of what everyone wanted to do. Then I would pull out the map and develop the most efficient route that allowed us to see everything with a minimum amount of backtracking. Can you imagine these poor kids – 5, 9, and 13 – chomping at the bit to ride roller coasters and drive bumper cars that lay just beyond this dancing water and mom sitting there with the map saying “just a minute more” (for thirty minutes) while she analyzed whether it was better to cut through It’s a Small World or Old Colonial America! I’m not sure they have forgiven me to this day, actually I know they haven’t.

The day was grueling but I did make the most of it – focusing on Barcelona’s world famous architect, Antoni Gaudí. Never having heard of Gaudí before I came to Spain, I was blown away by the uniqueness of this man’s architecture and the willingness of a city to let him express his vision. If you have never heard of him, run a google search and check out his life and accomplishments. His designs are playful, fun, enticing, entertaining, and daringly original. His masterpieces are sprinkled throughout the city – the Mila, Vicens, and Calvet houses, the Palau Guell, Bellesguard, Finca Miralles, but it is the church of the Sagrada Familia that is considered his masterpiece. It was his dream and he threw himself heart and soul into the work, even living within its walls. His sudden death in 1926 left the project unfinished yet his vision was so strong, despite the fire that destroyed many plans, the city continues to work on its completion, funded entirely by private donations. The west façade is dedicated to the Nativity, the east to the Passion, and the south to the Ascension (still incomplete). The Nativity and Passion are breathtaking and captivatingly unique. There are pictures in the Barcelona photo album though they don’t begin to do the work justice. Personally, I was a little disappointed inside given the percentage of the place that was under construction but was happy to have walked through and seen this masterpiece, the vision of a man, and the will of a city to continue the vision through lifetimes of work as mankind did hundreds of years ago.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough time to tour any of the other Gaudí buildings but I did scale the hill up to Guelle Park – what an amazing place. With the popularity in the early 1900s of the English garden-cities, Gaudí and his patron, Eusebi Guell, undertook what was to be a residential district of 60 homes on 15 hectares of land where the residents were promised a radically new way of life. Gaudí was to prepare an “ideal town plan” with complete freedom of expression in the buildings and decoration. Unfortunately, the project failed. Only two lots were sold, one to Gaudi himself. In 1922, the city acquired the area and transformed it into a park. It says, I think, a great deal about Barcelona and its people that they embraced so completely this fascinating, unique individual, even in his failures.

I continued the hop on/off tour – which unlike Seville is well worth the 18 euro in Barcelona. The buses and stops are frequent, on all three lines that encircle the city, and the guide is replete with information and coupons for virtually every attraction. The major loop is a little long to use for transportation, but it is excellently designed to hop off at each stop, tour that area, and hop back on for the next one. They don’t tell you, but the second day is only $4 more and well worth the money given how large the city is. I “hopped off” to take a walk around their Plaza d Espanya, the beautiful Palace that sits on the Montjuic hill overlooking the city below, through the Guell Pavillions, past the Olympic City, and ended the day with a walk through the port. I had wanted to ride the Funicular at sunset but was disappointed to find it closed.

It is Sunday night now. I am sitting at a little outdoor table at a sidewalk café across from the port area. Soccer is playing on the TV set behind me and I am so obviously American sitting by myself, typing, with my back turned to what is clearly the most important thing in life for Europeans. Ah, paella and sangria, the perfect dinner for my last night in Spain – according to my 8^th grade Spanish book. Tomorrow I take a plane to Italy for a few days downtime with Daniele. Having averaged ten hours of walking a day and about 500 calories a day of food for the last two weeks, it will be good for me to give my body a break and nice to be taken care of for a few days. As I prepare to leave and look back over my four weeks here, I have mixed feelings about Spain. Vaughan Town was wonderful, yet a strange surrealistic land where there was no free time and yet in a strange way stress-free time, a peace that comes from doing rather than deciding. Max was a great host and a great person to meet, as was Geoffrey. Carrie too made an impression on my heart. As did the kind people I met in passing. But the conversations and people to relate to (not to mention the couches) were few and far between. Spain is filled with amazing places, some of which, like Barcelona and Santiago, I know I will return to one day, some of which, like Avila and San Sebastian, I know I won’t, and some, like Cordoba, Cadiz, and Toledo, I hope to see someday. Yet for me, it was difficult to keep overcoming the abrupt attitude of the service industry. People like Jose Luis, Nancane, Alfredo, the hotel staff in Santiago, the Greek boys at the restaurant, the sweet train hostess, and others all did their share to overcome the negative attitude of those in the service sector, yet for me, personally, consistent negative attitudes are hard to get past. I left Miami in large part for the abrasive attitudes of virtually every bank teller, gas station attendant, and store clerk. I guess I was spoiled growing up in the south where entering a business, one is greeted with a smile and a “how’do’ya’do” – something I am sad to say is disappearing also from the southern states. Even my kindergarten teacher said I was an oversensitive child. I guess it is still true because it only takes about ten mean people before I have to break down and cry, like the night in the Seville train station. That said I am glad to have seen at least some of the beauties that this land has to offer and experience, just a bit, its culture and vibrant life. It will be interesting to see what lies in the lands ahead…

Siesta in Seville

Friday, June 23, 2006

I think the best part of Seville was actually making my 8:30 am train to Barcelona - the one I anticipated since my arrival, desperately fought for, and it turns out didn’t need – to find I had both seats to myself and hearing, as I settled in for the all day journey, Led Zepplin’s “Stairway to Heaven”. It is amazing how soothing your own language and something familiar from home can be. I remember as a high-school freshman reading the Senior Pages. That particular school gave each senior their own page in the yearbook that was their space to say what they wanted. There were these pictures of beautiful young women I never thought I would become, and poetry, and letters of thanks to parents or friends, and lyrics to songs – namely “Stairway to Heaven”. That song must have made a tremendous impact in 1979 because I remember page after page the seniors had included lines from the song – a song I had actually never heard being an oldies fan myself at the time.

I learned the words from the yearbook and I dreamed. I dreamed what my life would be like when I was a senior instead of a white-headed, pleasantly plump, scared, argumentative, unattractive little freshman shrimp. Much to my surprise, and despair, I was still all those things when I became a senior. Actually I was still most of those things when I became a senior in college... “There’s a feeling I get, when I look to the west, and my spirit is crying for leaving….” was the most popular line in the Senior Pages followed by “And it's whispered that soon if we all call the tune then the piper will lead us to reason. And a new day will dawn for those who stand long and the forests will echo with laughter.” It was interesting pulling the rest of the words up online today and reading them again from the eyes of a forty year old instead of a fourteen year old. I guess those words made an imprint on my soul. Despite the racing and sweating, the frustration of packing the new walking sandals that had become a necessity, hauling my suitcase, finding a cab (buses are death in Seville), and dealing with the (almost) never-helpful train people, when I saw the empty seat next to me and heard that familiar tune, my soul was instantly soothed (if not my spirit).

Seville was a bust – too much money, too little time to make the most of it. Short trips are great when everything falls into place but run into one or two problems and all is quickly lost. That problem, once again, was the train; well - my stupidity and over-sensitivity combined with these damn Spanish trains. It started off well. There was an information center at the train station when I arrived from Granada and a wonderfully helpful lady who checked hostels for me, gave me directions, told me how to take the city bus, and booked a hop on hop off bus since my time here was so short. Generally, I prefer to walk but with Seville so spread out and just one day to see it all it was, it seemed, a better idea to do the tourist bus. It was a little after 8pm when I arrived, still daylight with a nice breeze blowing and no hint of the oppressive heat of the day to follow.

The bus ride to the hotel was something akin to hell, but I did get the right bus and the right stop and found the hotel with only a couple wrong turns so I was thankful enough. The pension was just precious. Passing through the old door off the abandoned courtyard to face an ironed bar window created more than a bit of skepticism at first. I stood there for a minute before a Spanish man, who looked amazingly like a roadie for the Grateful Dead, came in behind me, passed me, and begin gibbering in a Spanish I couldn’t for the life of me understand. This didn’t look good. Then I realized he was telling me to come in through the door. Stepping through the huge rotting old wooden door, I discovered a beautiful courtyard entry, tiled in bright blue and yellow ceramics, filled with plants and furniture painted to match my mind’s eye of Spanish painted furniture – red with yellow trim and scenes of beautiful ladies in intricate dresses dancing and fanning themselves. In some places it would have been overdone, but here with Señor Garcia himself, it all seemed just perfect. The pension was three floors surrounding the courtyard which was open to the sky above. I loved walking up the terracotta tiled floors facing sunshine at every landing. It was like camping, with air-conditioning. My room was as teeny as a cat box (and smelled a bit like one) but a cute shuttered window looked out into the sky, the shower was small but hot and hard (hmmm….) and the air-conditioning rocked, unfortunately it also dripped which forced the use of earphones to sleep. All-in-all, Seville was looking pretty good.

I had made plans with someone from couchsurfing who didn’t have a place to stay but was willing to have coffee and show me around a bit. It would be nice to have a real conversation. The longest conversation I had had since Reinosa was about five minutes. Paco was a delight. I had my choice of languages given he spoke English, Spanish, Italian, German and French. He was a language professor for years but a year ago began working teaching singers how to enunciate and pronounce words properly when they sang in foreign languages – mostly he works with opera singers. He had a beautiful passion for languages – carrying a little podcast that would pick up broadcasts from around the world so he could listen to whatever language he was learning or brushing up on. Surprisingly, we spent most of the evening speaking Italian, only switching to English once in awhile when one of us couldn’t find a word or expression. I felt truly bilingual, switching at will from English to Italian. It is a bit of a false sense of ability though since it is always easier to understand someone else who also has learned the language as a second language.

We had tapas at a little restaurant around the corner from my hotel. It turned out my hotel was in Santa Cruz, definitely one of the prettier, more lively, more enjoyable areas in Seville in my opinion. Afterward we went for a walk around the Cathedral The Cathedral is indeed an impressive sight – the Muslim and Christian religions sit side by side in architecture, Muslim domes rising on one side, the traditional bell tower of Catholicism on the other. At night, all was lit in a beautiful yellow glow. Unfortunately I never had the chance to see the inside as I had hoped.

I started the next day with the hop on/hop off bus, learning that this was more a name than a reality. There were only four stops and all on one side of the city so it wasn’t feasible to do much more than just ride the entire tour to learn a bit and get an idea what was worth the walk to see. Moving through the day with determination, I took the entire bus tour then wandered the streets of Santa Cruz and Macarena, visited the famous Plaza de Toros, known for its bull fights, walked along the river (depressingly let go to waste), through part of the Expo area, explored the Plaza de España – truly impressive – and the Plaza of Americas before finally collapsing under the crushing heat of the day. It was 105 degrees at 3pm when I admitted defeat and returned to the hotel. We’re not talking the dry heat of Arizona – this was full on, high humidity, river-side heat. It was the first time I had been forced to a mid-day siesta in Spain. It didn’t help that I still won’t eat when I’m exploring – well except ice-cream and I don’t think ice-cream counts as food when it is used to lower your body temperature back to normal. I took a cold shower, cranked the air-conditioning to a steady drip high, and napped with great plans of the last few things I wanted to see in the evening hours. Great plans of mice and men….

Instead of exploring, I spent my last daylight hours in the train station. The frustration and downright hateful, unhelpful behavior of the counter people literally brought me to tears. At last a lady took pity on the tear streaked blonde American and helped me find a solution for getting to Barcelona the next day where I had planned to meet the girl I met on the plane to Madrid for a festival. It was almost 11pm when I finally left and I was destroyed - tired, emotionally beaten, starving, pissed I had to pay 40 euro despite my railpass when a normal ticket cost 60, and terribly disappointed to have lost the last few precious hours.

I crawled onto the bus and took the last open seat next to a shriveled little old man. Lost in my own mourning, it took me a while to wonder if his elbow was moving up and down my hips in time with the bus movements or the movements of his dirty old mind. The seats were indeed small and people had no choice but to sit pressed against each other but he seemed to be pressing a little more than necessary. I got up and went to ask the bus driver how I would know my stop since they weren’t announcing them and when I returned to my seat I very carefully sat with great intention as to leave a fair modicum of space between us – in other words half my ass was hanging in the aisle and I was sitting at a 45 degree angle. Sure enough not two minutes later he was sitting at a 45 degree angle, rubbing his elbow into my stomach and hips. Can this really turn a man on? I mean seriously – how many sexual stimulation nerves do you have in your elbow??! I got off a stop early, relieved to escape his exploring knobby protrusion. Don’t you know, there he was, at the next stop, waiting for me. He approached me and began gibbering in Spanish and trying to put his hands on me. I swear to god, if he hadn’t been about 90 I would have hit him over the head with my purse (which has my computer in it). Knowing I could crawl faster than he could run, I just gave him a dirty look, dodged his groping hands, and walked briskly in the other direction. Dirty little creep.

I wandered the streets for an hour, depressed about the train scene, pissed about the dirty old man, and desperately looking for a wireless signal to pirate. What did I find when I checked my email? The girl I was supposed to meet got called in on emergency at work. She would not be in Barcelona. Now I had the train ticket, but no one to go out with, and no place to stay. I drooped my way back to the hotel, took a Tylenol pm, and went to sleep. Does Rick Steves have this much trouble when he travels? Do you get better with this as time passes or will I always be crying in train stations, running through metro stations, and lugging my bags all over dirty streets looking for a cheap place to sleep?

Looking back over my two days as Led Zepplin played on the speakers above, I knew Seville had beauties to share that I just wasn’t meant to see this time around. Some places I think are meant to be enjoyed with the company of another. Generally I prefer my own company traveling, but Seville had so many enticing little cafes and restaurants, and inviting bars and discos, it was the first place I really wished there was another person next to me with whom I could explore and uncover this interesting city. Seville was particularly interesting as an American. It was thanks to trade with the Americas, namely tobacco, that Seville uprooted Barcelona as Spain’s trade-rich city. They obviously feel a tremendous gratitude to the Americas and our place in their history. It was strange for me as an American to realize we had such an important chapter in the history of this city. Many of their great buildings were built for the Iberia-America expo in 1929. In fact, much of their city development has been driven by exposition activities – from plazas to bridges, to an entire section just outside the city for the 1992 expo which brought forty million people to this city that year. It was a little sad to see how much they had let go to waste – weeds in the flower beds at the Plaza de Americas, trash all along the riverside, the beautiful tile work of the Plaza de España left to crack and peel in the burning light of day. But despite the waste in areas they seem also to be always striving to build new places to attract visitors and maintain their reputation as one of Spain’s leading cities.

Side note from the present - I am writing this on my train connection to Barcelona. There are six Spaniards sitting around me and every single one of them is playing with their cell phones. Six phone-tappers in a circle and me tapping away on my keyboard in the center. It is kinda funny. I am in first class and have the bitch from hell alongside one of the sweetest flight/train attendants I have ever had. I struck up a conversation with a lovely girl named Nakane from Barcelona and Alfredo from Madrid. Alfredo had actually lived in Alaska and spoke fluent English and Nakane had studied it for several years. Both were wonderful to talk with on the way to Barcelona. Meeting and talking with them helped restore my faith a bit in the Spanish people. I’m sure many are lovely once you get past the rough abrupt exterior. I must admit even my beloved Italians can be that way….

I will surely never visit again in the heat of summer, but I wouldn’t mind one day returning to the palms of Seville with a friend to chat over tapas in Santa Cruz and enjoy the mix of vibrant life here.

There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold
And she's buying the stairway to heaven.
When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed
With a word she can get what she came for.
Ooh, ooh, and she's buying the stairway to heaven.

There's a sign on the wall but she wants to be sure
'Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings.
In a tree by the brook, there's a songbird who sings,
Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.
Ooh, it makes me wonder,
Ooh, it makes me wonder.

There's a feeling I get when I look to the west,
And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who stand looking.
Ooh, it makes me wonder,
Ooh, it really makes me wonder.

And it's whispered that soon if we all call the tune
Then the piper will lead us to reason.
And a new day will dawn for those who stand long
And the forests will echo with laughter.

If there's a bustle in your hedgerow, don't be alarmed now,
It's just a spring clean for the May queen.
Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run
There's still time to change the road you're on.
And it makes me wonder.

Your head is humming and it won't go, in case you don't know,
The piper's calling you to join him,
Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow, and did you know
Your stairway lies on the whispering wind.

And as we wind on down the road
Our shadows taller than our soul.
There walks a lady we all know
Who shines white light and wants to show
How everything still turns to gold.
And if you listen very hard
The tune will come to you at last.
When all are one and one is all
To be a rock and not to roll.

And she's buying the stairway to heaven.

Granada - Land of the Alhambra

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

I am now in Granada, Granada of the Moors, of the Catholic Kings, of the Alhambra. Thanks to my mistake with the train from Santiago, I have only one day to breathe in this place. Between the nine hour train ride from Santiago to Madrid, about four hours sleep at Max’s (who is the greatest, letting me show up on last moment’s notice just to sleep a few hours), and another seven hour train ride to Granada, I’m afraid my energy is not its highest. The train ride was easy this morning. I actually enjoy the train rides. They are the perfect time to catch up on my writing and not feel I am missing out on some new place outside my door. In fact I can see everything that is going on outside my door – well, windows. The most amazing thing on this trip was the olive trees – miles and miles, actually hundreds and hundreds of miles of olive trees. Now obviously, having lived in Italy, I’ve seen olive trees before, but never have I seen every square inch of land for hundreds of miles, up the sides of hills, down into valleys, as far as the eye could see in every direction, perfectly- lined groves of olive trees. No houses, no towns, just an occasional road, the train tracks, and rows upon rows of olive trees. Like a never ending beige colored green polka dotted quilt….

The car was empty except me and one of the happiest couples I’ve ever seen. They must have been about sixty years old, comfortably dressed, relatively fit, and talked with each other the entire seven hour trip – laughing, joking, sharing. They got into one little tiff about something and there was silence for a moment then a simple apology and they were off talking again. They enjoyed each other so much I began to think they must be having an affair and were slipping off for a little rendezvous together. When the train pulled into the station and we were waiting to get off, I tried to tell them how much I enjoyed just being in their presence. It took a little effort with the language barrier, but finally the wife finally understood what I was saying. She laid her hand on my arm, and told me they had been married for 34 years! Thirty four years and still they could still carry on a seven hour conversation – amazing.

Knowing I would only have one day in Granada, I decided this time rather than wasting my time researching hotels on the internet, I would just stop at one of the dozen hotels that are always outside every tourist city train station in Spain. Unfortunately I decided to try this approach in the one city in Spain that has NO hotels outside the train station. There was one down the street and around the corner – 44 euro. I was sure I could do better than that. If I had known it would take me an hour and a half of lugging my bags through the feverish pitch energy of the University area, on a 90 degree day, following hostal signs that never seemed to lead to a hostel, trying hotels that were rich, rude, or full, all to save 14 euro, I would have paid the extra euro. At last I actually found a hostel, with rooms, for 30 euro. My clothes were so drenched with sweat, I had to wash every stitch. A nice bath and fresh clothes and I was out the door – for another walk in the feverish pitch energy, on an 85 degree evening, following directions that never seemed to lead to the post office, carrying the surprisingly heavy bag of things I had decided I didn’t need and souvenirs and gifts I had picked up along the way. After an hour waiting in the post office, my patience with Granada was wearing thin.

If you ever go to Granada, trust me on this, pick a hotel in an area you think you’ll like – near the Alhambra, in the small winding hill streets of Albaicin, in the shopping district of town, wherever and Take a Taxi! You will be in a much better position to enjoy what the city has to offer, and it does indeed have a lot to offer. You see everywhere elements of the Islamic/Muslim influence and the European/Catholic influence, living side by side. In some ways, they haven’t done a very good job of preserving their heritage. The Cathedral is built up around on all sides with ugly fences barring the half dozen entryways so that it is absolutely impossible to get a decent shot from any vantage point. Much of the lower Albaicin area has been let go to waste, shops closed, buildings abandoned. Yet it still holds the charm of times gone by, along with the scattered flower pots of today that add so much to these old Spanish dwellings. Despite what seems to me to be a lack of foresight for their tourists, the city is thriving and vibrant. Between the people of all ages running around with locks, more piercings per capita than a Marilyn Manson concert, street singers and beggars with their dogs, students all around, music from every culture playing in bars and hotels and stores, and about sixty percent of the female population in long wide skirts that almost drag the ground the city has a wonderful bohemian feel.

My favorite spot thus far is the alcaiceía. A little street done up with the flair of the Grand Bazaar in Instanbul with men on stools, awnings overhead, miles of bright, ornamented fabrics, and every Arabic handicraft a person could desire. I walked until the sun was about to set and then found myself a little tetería at the end of the bazaar row where I could write and eat and people watch as the shops closed down and the kids gathered in the street. My frustrations of the day drifted with the setting sun as the ease of night approached. I couldn’t help but think of my best friend Cheri who has long held a fascination for the Arab culture. She would love this place. It is surprising how immersed I feel in the Arab culture in this little area of Spain. Arabic hangs in the air spoken by people of obvious Arabic descent. The smell of curry lingers all around. At each table sits a little silver Arabic style teapot with the little crystal and gold rimmed glasses I have seen only in movies. Many signs are in Arabic and Arabic music pours from the stalls that line this narrow winding street. As you look down the street you see booth after booth, pressed tightlt together, with shelves out front boasting slippers and outfits straight from the set of I Dream of Jeanie. Piles of ornate pillow coverings spill over from one booth into the next and beautiful skirts and blouses are hung from the doorways. As you actually walk down the street, you realize that several of the little “booths” are far larger than meets the eye. As you peak inside, past all the colors and fabrics, the hookah pipes and the souvenirs, you see a narrow hallway that then opens up into a showroom beyond, brimming with silver and gold, ornate fabrics, beautifully crafted wood pieces polished to a mirror-like shine. If I had a thousand dollars, another suitcase and a porter to carry it, I could spend a week here. But I don’t and so I enjoyed the feeling in the air, window shopped, without the window, and kept my money

It is one of the lovely advantages of not having a home. Before I would see the “perfect thing” to go in some particular nook or crannie, the shelf in the hall or the mantel over the fireplace.. I would look at the price and battle with myself about spending the money, carrying whatever it was, whether it would actually match, etc. etc. Now there is no nook, no crannie, no shelf, no mantelpiece to fill. Now I just walk and admire the craftsmanship, the colors, the energy of the particular place. Before shopping was a quest. Now it is a simpl experience – a particularly enjoyable experience at an Arabic bazaar.

Oh my god – I just had my first bite of food. I had to come the Spanish land of the Arabs to find good food – and oh my god is it good. Couscous, sweet onions, chickpeas, and raisins ladled over a big bowl of couscous. The tea is to die for. It is called Sueño de la Alhambra - Dream of Alahambra. It is a mixture – black tea, bergamot, cinnamon, rose, and fruit teas – and oh so yummy.

One of the unique qualities of Granada that I just love is the pavements. Yes the pavement. The older streets were cobblestoned, much like European streets though the rocks and the stones seemed to be a little different. But throughout the city, particularly in parks or plazas or the entrance ways to cathedrals are these patterned designed sections of pavement. Small, long thin black rocks are used against rounder white rocks are contrasted against each other to create an amazing array of designs. Such a simple thing and yet it gave the city an ornate feeling, such as generally pervades churches and other monumental buildings. We spend so much time looking at the ground, especially in these many cities upon a hill, it made me wonder why man stopped decorating the ground sine the fall of the Roman Empire. The best we do is lay marble in office buildings.

My dinner was wonderful, the service kind (for a change). I love sitting at outdoor café’s typing to my heart’s content – especially with something to eat besides a hunk of bread and meat. The day could not have ended better, and then it did. On the way back to the hostel I spotted a little internet café called “Central Perk.” Wasn’t that the name of the coffeeshop on Friends? I had to go in and check it out. It was a internet café but with the feel of a full service bar and a bartender who not only spoke English but was very friendly. I had stopped a couple other places and had the same issue as previously with hooking up my computer. He was kind enough to tap me into his own personal wireless service and share tips on the Alhambra.

Thanks to him, I made the tour the next day. Another tip for the future – you have to buy your Alhambra tickets in advance during the summer. They sell 5,000 tickets a day (at $10 a pop). The travel services get 4,000 and the remaining 1,000 are generally sold out at the door by 8:30 am. I think they are making more money than the Sultan did!

The Alhambra was amazing. So amazing I am too tired to describe it and the pictures simply can’t do justice to the intricacy of the craftsmanship and luxuriant embellishments throughout the palace. You’ll just have to see it yourself.

Great Tourist Days

Saturday, June 18, 2006 (continued)

I still can’t get the damn food right here. I’m sitting at a table, in a wireless internet café no less. I ordered what for 95 cents I thought was a little appetizer – it turned out to be a huge hunk of bread with about half a slab of sliced sausage on it. It is good, but my body desperately needs vegetables. Mistake number 1. Anything for 95 cents couldn’t possibly be enough for a meal, I thought, so I also ordered a sandwich. Geoffrey had brought me what was basically a BLT a couple times when I was working in the internet café and said it was a ‘vegatal’ sandwich. A little BLT sounded pretty damn good so I ordered the vegetal sandwich with Bacon. I should have known I was in for a surprise when she looked at me strangely. I tried to bridge the communication gap and ask what exactly was on the vegetal sandwich. She said words which sounded very much like lettuce and tomatoes so I thought I was okay. Mistake number 2. Yes, it has lettuce and tomato… and carrots…. and onions and asparagus and some strange vegetable I’ve never tasted before, all with about six slices of hot-off-the-frying-pan-fatty-bacon thrown on, wilting everything else. Lovely. So I haven’t eaten in three days other than the little all day breakfast bar at the hotel and my churros y chocolate earlier; I finally make myself sit down and eat and I get basically a loaf of bread and a half a pig with some wilted rabbit food. MMMMmmmm.

The Clara con limon is damned good, though, and the bartender was actually a little nice, although she kept rolling her eyes and cracking jokes with the locals at the bar about dumb tourists who can’t speak Spanish and can’t read a menu. Apparently she didn’t realize some dumb tourists can’t speak, can’t recognize food names, but CAN understand about 70 % of what people are saying. What is it with people who speak Spanish? They come to our country they expect the right to keep talking Spanish. We go to their country and they’re perturbed we can’t speak their language. They can take tourists’ money but they can’t learn the word thank you in any of the four languages spoken within a 600 mile radius! That said, they have been much, much nicer here in Santiago. Not to the level of actually being nice, mind you (except at my hotel, they are all very nice) but they are definitely not mean here and even the not nice ones at least acknowledge your presence with a sort of pity reserved for the poor ignorant tourists. Personally, I’d rather be pitied than yelled at.

Actually, I’m quite impressed with Santiago in all respects. The historic center is undoubtedly tourist-ville but the locals actually seem to recognize that tourists are their bread and butter and appreciate their presence – unlike many tourist towns. Food prices are high but you can get a coffee for a euro and a glass of wine or a beer for two. Everything is clean, well-designed, easily accessible, with that sort of energy-high permeating not only the pilgrims but, to a lesser extent, the locals who provide for them. The “modern” city circles the historic center and is clean, thriving, also well-designed with more than a few impressive modern city attributes yet people still stop at crosswalks for pedestrians and give up their seat in the cathedral for a limping pilgrim.

One of the things I am quite enjoying as a vagabond writer is the many opportunities it gives to do little things for strangers. I guess we live day to day immersed in our own thoughts so much we don’t see the little sufferings of people all around us. Traveling, writing, taking pictures forces me to be very present with my surroundings, aware of everyone and everything. Like the older British lady walking mesmerized down the street, staring, mouth wide open, at everything she passed, with puffy arms white as snow underneath and red as a lobster on top. I knew from personal experience how much that was going to hurt later! I had spray sun block in my bag and stopped her to ask if she would like some. It was a wonderful feeling, standing in the middle of the pedestrian street, under the glaring midday sun, spraying cool sunblock on her shoulders and back and neck as she rolled her eyes upward and said “Oh it is so nice and cool. That feels SO good.” She thanked me and we went our separate ways, each, I think, with a smile on our faces.

Then there was the older lady on the train. She kept tapping her feet, as if her circulation had stopped. I worried for her with eight more hours to go, but when she stopped the conductor, I could follow enough of her conversation to realize it wasn’t because she was sitting – she was so cold her feet were going numb. The conductor said there was nothing he could do for her. I keep my towel that doubles as a blanket in the outside pocket of my suitcase so it took just a second to get it and offer it to her. She accepted my offer, smiling so kindly, and stayed wrapped up and warm for the rest of the trip. As we pulled into the station she folded up the blanket and returned it to me with a smile of such deep appreciation words weren’t even necessary.

Then there were the nuns who had no place to sit on the circuit train. I was taking up more than my fair share of space with my suitcase and backpack and realized I could squeeze all of three of us – backpack, suitcase, and me into one seat area of I sat with my knees in my chest. I motioned to them to take the other seats as I crawled over my bag and curled into a ball. Two were young girls, from Africa I would guess, the third was as ancient as the hills with so many deep rivulets traversing every part of her face you could no longer see that she had ever been anything but old. Yet she had a beautiful glow around her – kind soft eyes and a smile filled with love. She was obviously worried about me sitting with my knees scrunched up and tried to squeeze her little legs tighter to her seat to make room for mine though I insisted I was fine. I would have given anything to talk with her, to know who she was, what her life was like, how she had come to have such a peaceful, gentle glow about her. It was obvious the girls loved her dearly as she teased them to make them laugh or talked to them about their next assignment with solemnity. These little passing moments of communion with mankind fill me with a warmth and, interestingly, a sense of peace – perhaps that is why she was so beautiful to me.

Side note from the present:

I think John Lennon just walked in the door. Were there conspiracy theories that he didn’t die? Wouldn’t he be about 65 now? I’m serious, I think he just asked if he could have the newspaper and sat one table down from me. Actually he looks a bit like Yoko too. Did they have a kid? How old would their kid be? Weird… Now the radio just started playing the song by the Proclaimers “I would walk 500 miles.” This was the song I was listening to when I got mugged at a Taco Bell. I don’t think I’ve heard it since then – oh 17 years ago.

Now they’re playing a remake of Three Dog Night “Mamma Told Me Not To Come.” You can never get homesick for American music when you travel; it fills the airwaves everywhere I’ve been. They really should be playing “I Just Want To Be Your Underwear” by Bryan Adams for the couple making out across the way that are about to crawl into each others’ – underwear that is. I really want to click a picture of the all tongue-couple. Would that be rude?

Anyway, today was a great play day with the Farmers Market this morning and my walking tours afterward. They even do guide books well here with a large selection in varying detail and translated into several languages. The only thing I couldn’t find that I really wanted was Paulo Coelho’s book The Road to Santiago. I finally bought it in Spanish which surprisingly I can more or less read. How weird is that? I can speak Italian but I can’t read it and still struggle to understand it. I can understand and read Spanish, but I can’t speak it to save my life. Languages are just bizarre.

I had a decent little guidebook with enough information to highlight everything without taking a mini-course in art or architecture. Most of Santiago as it is known today was built in the 18^th century when a fair number of older buildings were destroyed to make way for the new. Even the Cathedral which was originally finished in 1125 was extensively redesigned in the 17^th and 18^th centuries such that most of its Romanesque features are barely visible beneath its Baroque exterior. Santiago has often fought the battle between old and new leaving today a fascinating city where the different styles live together in impressive harmony. The modern porticoed walkway made of conical steel columns and a glass ceiling that leads into the old city was built in the 50’s amidst great controversy over the bold contrast between modernity and monumentaility. Now it sits in the landscape is if it has always belonged there this marriage of old and new.

Side note from the present

Damn, I want someone to do that to my ear! I might have to go before I get turned on sitting here typing. … I’ve got to sneak a picture, especially after all of you scolded me for not taking one at the internet café! You’ll have to check the website to see it.

After the café, I headed back to the Cathedral to tour its three museums, one of which lets you out to a balcony that over looks the main square where I spotted another balance-the-camera-and-run self-timer photo opportunity. I’m trying Aunt Kay, I promise. Afterwards I sat on a bench on the square and read a bit about St. James and Santiago….

According to legend the Apostle St James crossed the seas to preach in the Finis Terrae – literally the ends of the Earth. His life ended when Herod had him decapitated in 44 AC. Having been refused a proper burial, his disciples fled with his body which they buried in Iria Flavia and marked with a marble tomb. The tomb was lost to the passing of time and the many invasions by Barbarians and later the Arabs until Hermit Pelayo, it is said, was guided to the grave by a shower of stars. The church authorities confirmed the remains as belonging to St James in the 9^th century. Santiago was born as a site for pilgrimage.

By the middle ages, Santiago had become one of the capital cities of Christianity along with Rome and Jerusalem with established pilgrimages from all over the world. In fact “A Pilgrim Guide of 1130” is said to be the first tour guide ever written. It describes the inhabitants, climate and customs of different regions, the most interesting routes, and the sights on the way. The pilgrim in those days was in no hurry and frequently made detours to visit a sanctuary or shrine. Many of the other cities in Spain grew up around the pilgrim detours.

There are many symbols associated with the pilgrimage to Santiago even to this day and ritual still surrounds arrival. According to legend, St James appeared mounted on a battlefield and bearing a white standard with an unusually designed red cross to help beat back the Moors. The red cross with its round Arabic-like points became a symbol of the saint. Later the scallop shell became adopted as the pilgrims’ symbol and was given to pilgrims as they arrived in Santiago to carry home as a keepsake of their journey. Other keepsakes typically purchased include silver-wares and jet-ware. Jet (as in jet black) is a fossil substance – a hard and highly compacted form of lignite (lapis gagates). It has been believed to have magical properties since prehistoric times and in Santiago has become associated with the Way of Saint James.

Since the 15^th century and still to this day, pilgrims are presented with a Compostelana – a certificate of completion upon presentation of their pilgrims book showing marks from the places they have stayed along the way. Pilgrims who arrive in a Holy Year – when St James Day falls on a Sunday – receive a jubilee, an absolute indulgence, valid for all the pilgrim’s sins (guess I should come back in 2010!). Also upon arrival it is traditional to go to the chapel where one can kiss the Apostle’s cloak and descend to the crypt to pay respects. They then head to the Portico de la Gloria (the main entry way to the cathedral and considered one of the greatest works of art of all time) to touch the slender mullion column and knock their head on the Santo dos Croques. This traditional rite is said to convey intelligence and wisdom from the saint to the pilgrim. They then attend the Pilgrim’s Mass at high noon which I had stumbled into, uninitiated in these ways of the pilgrims, on Thursday.

I looked up from my reading trip into the past and realized it was 8:00. For some reason, I just can’t adjust to the sun setting at 10:30. It is always later in the evening than I think it is. The plan was to take a catnap, a shower, and go enjoy the well-reviewed bar districts of Santiago on a Saturday night. I sure wouldn’t mind a real conversation with a real pilgrim, or local, or anyone. Unfortunately the plan and reality didn’t coincide. I laid down for my nap at 8:30 and woke the next morning. Oh well.

I was up with the sun, even though you couldn’t see it until afternoon. In Santiago it is said that “rain is art” – a lovely euphemism for ‘it rains all the bloody time here” - !40 days out of the year, on average, and a good number of the rest are cloudy. I was actually pretty lucky with the rainstorms always hitting while I was working on line. But Sunday it was just cloudy so I and every other tourist in Santiago it seemed hit the streets for a little shopping – a swinging incense holder in silver (well it looks like silver), a shell with a red cross for my magnet collection, a red cross stick pin for my backpack – a new collection for this trip - and some silver and jet earrings; all the traditional pilgrim souvenirs. I bought candles so I could light real candles for my friends and loved ones at the Cathedral and set out to search for the column so I could knock a little wisdom into my head. It took me almost two hours to figure out where it was – not sure what that says about my need for wisdom…

Now I am at a restaurant trying to eat again. I haven’t eaten since my plate of bread and meat yesterday afternoon. I am supposed to be on the overnight train to Madrid right now but I guess the knock on the head didn’t work since it didn’t dawn on me that the only Sunday night train to Madrid (the only connection point to virtually every other city in the country) might be full. So now I am eating some soupy mussels with onions in a restaurant in the tourist quarter. Actually, I was observant enough to spot the teeny tiny little print at the bottom of the last page, in Spanish when the rest of the menu was in English/German/French/Italian (the Spaniards had their own separate menu), that had a set menu for 15 euro with guess what as the main course? the dish I wanted which was 17 euro in English.

It was actually kind of nice tonight wondering the typically tourist laden quarters that were now quiet and empty except the sound of Spaniards filling the little bars watching soccer. Everything had a surreal kind of air – like big party cities on Sunday morning when the last of the bars are closing down.

Oh real food how glorious. Fish, potatoes, salad, bread and wine – calories with real nutrient content – woohoo! I don’t know what my issue is around eating. I don’t mind eating alone especially, when I have a book or my computer, I just can never find the restaurant I want to stop at. Not counting this dinner I have spent exactly 12 euro on food and coffee in the last four days. My bread and meat luncheon yesterday at the bust-the-bank cost of 3.85, a glass of wine (I had to order wine called Vino de Toro – wine of the Bull) for a wopping 1.35 (and pretty damn good), a glass of sangria for 1.80– kindly served with a meatball some french-fries and a little dish of very yummy olives, appertivo style – my 2 euro churros y chocolate and three cups of café con leche. That’s it – for four days. You’d think I’d be wasting away. Trust me, I’m not.

Side note from the present: The guy just shut the grate on the window in front of my little table where I was watching the people go by – think that is a not so subtle way of telling me to quit typing, finish my fish, and get the hell out of here? I guess I’d better do just that. Santiago has been wonderful for me. I feel renewed and full of spirit. In a way I feel that Santiago is the beginning of my pilgrimage where it is the end of so many others. Then again I was born breech. As my daddy always said I was born back-ass-wards and I’ve been that way ever since!

Churros y Chocolate

Saturday, June 17, 2006

This writing is especially for my photographer friend, June. I am sitting at the Market in Santiago partaking in the traditional churros y chocolate per her recommendation. And what a wonderful recommendation it is! I remember the mustard yellow Spanish textbook I had in the 8^th grade and the picture of churros y chocolate. I remember reading about Sangria and Paella and looking forward to trying both one day when I grew up. Though I don’t think I actually thought of going to Spain to try them – what with Mexico right across the border and all. I remember we had to use our “Spanish” names in class. The teacher said my name couldn’t be translated so they called me Sarita. I found out this trip that supposedly my name is the anglicized version of the word Jerez from the town Jerez where they make the drink Jerez which the British imported in mass quantities and called, you guessed it, Sherry. I haven’t researched to see if this is true or not – actually I like the story, so I think I’ll just take it to be true. Thinking my name might be J-e-r-e-z makes me feel all Moorish and exotic.

I hadn’t thought of that class in years, probably decades until June emailed me to have Churros for her. June has been a godsend the last few days, holding my hand through the several days of frustration with my new Canon. Which by the way, don’t ever buy unless you’re a real photographer and want a real camera – when I explained to the tech rep that I was shooting these pictures for travel articles and couldn’t be out of a camera for the month it would take them to fix my three week old camera which they refused to replace he told me basically that a real photographer wouldn’t use this camera and so they don’t offer the warranty, repair, and return options that they offer the real photographers. I had a consumer camera – a $500 consumer camera mind you – and they just couldn’t afford to back everyone’s products the way they back the professional photographer’s product. Gee, maybe if the damn thing worked, it wouldn’t cost too much to back it.

June, who is by the way a loyal Canon real photographer, has looked at pictures, listened to me vent, empathized, and tried to help find someone to help me at the cost of several hours I’m sure over the last few days so when I spotted the Churros sign in the Farmers Market I knew I had to stop and partake for her vicarious enjoyment (oh how I suffer for my friends ;-)

My god this is good!!! A cup of pure chocolate - liquid, melted, smooth, yummy goodness. Mmmm-mmmm – I’ll never go through period cravings again without thinking of churros y chocolate! They have food at this little café too. I really should eat a meal with vegetables and meat. It has been three days now and I’ve had nothing but the fruit and yogurt and pastries from the free food room at the hotel. I’m afraid my body will go into insulin shock after this cup of chocolate - and I’m not even not diabetic!

I almost didn’t have this experience today. The fates or gods or travel angels were watching over me. After my wondrous experience at the cathedral yesterday, I headed back to the hotel to finish my internet chores. Thirteen hours later, at three o’clock in the morning, I finally turned the computer off and went to bed. I set my alarm for 7am thinking I would get up with the sun to walk the stone streets and watch the sunrise over the hills beyond the Plaza Obradorio. Waking to the sight of steel gray clouds through my attic skylights, I abandoned all thoughts of a sunrise walk and curled back up into my crisp linen sheets for a few more hours sleep. How guilty could I feel for sleeping in when it was cloudy outside? I rolled out of bed at a quarter till 10 and lingered through my yoga and breakfast and shower – not actually walking out the door until after 11am.

I decided to walk a different way this time out and found myself in a business and governmental district that was deserted this cloudy Saturday morning. But the muse lives in Santiago streets, full or empty, cloudy or sunny, and so I wandered pen in hand scribbling away in my little notebook. I was rounding back towards the old quarter when suddenly I remembered my sunrise walk was in part planned on the advice of the guide book that said it was worth getting up early on a Saturday to experience the market. I checked the time 1pm – damn. I missed it. I hate those – could-have-had-a-V8-moments when you realize you missed something that you might very well never again have the opportunity to experience. I pouted for a while, scolded myself for my stupidity as I do far too often, and then decided to do some of the guided walks through the city. I had worked so much since arriving, I had seen little of the old city except the cathedral and the few streets I had wondered through on my sanity walks.

Picking a random street that I thought might take me near the University Plaza where the first guided walk began, I scaled the hill up into town. Town was to my left at the top of the hill, but for reasons only the muses know I followed the people I saw continuing up the hill to what looked like a dead end. I don’t know why I followed them; often I go the opposite direction of the masses, but in this instance I followed. I reached the top of the hill, stepped through a walled area with an open iron gate, and lo and behold the market opened up before me.

In time with the seeing came the tumult of smells - hundreds of them all rich, ripe, filled with potency and battling for prominence. One second you are knocked over by the raw smell of fish, tumbling you back in time to childhood memories of your first smell of the ocean. Movie images flash through your mind of places, experiences, books read, movies watched and all that is the archetypal energy of the sea and the men who work it. The next second you are warmed by the smell of sweet breads. Large waisted women with cotton dresses standing before tables laden with bread and pastries bring thoughts of grandmothers and simpler times – the Little House on the Prairie memories of my generation. Then the greens take over – vegetables, herbs, spices – these battle with each other as well as the other scents. First it is tingly mint then the rich smell of garlic, the earthiness of basil, the pungency of sage. Sweet onions try to win the battle but cannot for even the seemingly scentless vegetables like cauliflower and broccoli have a role on this olfactory stage. A few more steps and the herbs and vegetables disappear entirely, replaced by a smell of sausage so palpable you begin to salivate as you turn down the aisle of meats.

These are the moments I long to speak the language. I am at once filled with questions. Why are those pigs legs so white? Like the fermalgahide (how do you spell that word?) baby pigs we had to dissect in science class. And what is that soaked blanket like looking substance laying over them – is that pigskin? What is it for? What exactly do you do with an entire cured pigs head? Why are their chickens purplish-red while ours are yellowish-white? How long does it take to eat one of those pig legs that is half my height? I love the whole chickens lying there with their feet still attached; the cheese rounds that look like firm young breasts in all shapes and sizes; the fish and shrimp and lobster still whole, just as they were when swimming alive in the ocean. I love that you can tell this food was once a moving, living creature and in a split moment you are simultaneously appreciative of the life that was sacrificed for your meal and aware that one day your life will be sacrificed for the youth that must fill the world tomorrow.

Then came a smell I knew but never knew existed - handmade clothes. I never thought of hand made clothes as having a smell of their own, but I turned the last corner and my mind filled with memories of my great-grandmother sitting at her sewing machine, heaps of fabric beside her helping me find little swatches to make clothes for my dolly. She died when I was just 7 and the few memories I have of her are almost all sensory – the bright yellow sugar coated lemon drops she kept in the little crystal dish that she got out of the old Quaker Oats oatmeal boxes, the horny toads I used to catch in her garden and the way their cold scaly bumpy skin felt when I ran my fingers up and down their backs (how they must have hated me), and the smell, the smell of her next to her sewing machine that I never knew was the smell of cut fabrics, and thread, and stitching until I walked down the last stall of the farmers market in Santiago. Suddenly other images flashed through my mind with memories carried by that same smell. The closet where my grandmother kept all her beautiful hand made quilts; the brass coat and hat rack my Aunt Zola kept her collection of handmade toys for the kids to play with, including my very favorite - the sock monkey; the shanty at the farm where I would sometimes go with my grandparents – everything in there was probably made by hand. The memories associated with smells carry such power. I walked up and down the aisle three times, inhaling precious moments of my past.

And now I sit in my present, embraced by memories from the innocence of youth and at the same time filled with appreciation for the path that has led me to this moment in life – sitting in a café, beneath the warm glow of the sun doing something I love while drinking a cup of sweet, warm chocolate and relishing in a new experience never before tasted. Does life get any better than this? (Well, I guess I could be using the churros to paint chocolate over the body of the man with whom I am passionately in love and vice versa in a glass house tucked in the Swiss Alps filled with fresh cut flowers and brimming with sunshine… but short of that little mid day fantasy, I don’t think it gets any better.)

The market is closing now – vendors are one by one rolling down their still grates or carrying off baskets of fresh food, and fruits, and vegetables. My bill just came – 2 euros. Two euros for a small piece of paradise. Life is beautiful.

The Pilgrimage to Santiago

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June 16, 2006

I woke well rested to my first full day in Santiago. A little yoga, a little free breakfast (I love that free food thing!), a quick check of the emails and I was off. I wandered the city streets awhile making my way to the Cathedral where it was suggested tourists attend the high noon mass. There is an amazing energy in the air here in Santiago. Something of joy or maybe it is just an aliveness I haven’t seen many other places in the world. I entered the old town through the Arco de Mazarelos, the only gateway that has been preserved from the old city walls, and entered the University area. With young twenty-somethings drinking coffee at little outdoor tables, running around with books, and sitting on benches talking deeply about the important matters of life, it was filled with the same vitality any university area anywhere in the world seems to have. The youth carry such hope – of life ahead, of loves to come, of all the many possibilities that lay before them. Whenever they are gathered together in the pursuit of learning (as opposed to drinking), there is a certain energy that permeates everything around them. Santiago was no different in this regard.

The difference is that you continue walking, wandering through stone streets that weave like tangled yarn, staring wide-eyed at each new façade of the Cathedral that you come upon, feeling that energy all the while until suddenly you realize the energy is the same but you are no longer surrounded by students. Everywhere you look there are people in their 50’s and 60’s and even 70’s with backpacks and walking sticks - some alone, some in groups, some on bikes, some laying prostrate on the pavement, but all of them there, sharing a camaraderie, a spirit, a sense of having done - of having made the pilgrimage to Santiago. It is truly an amazing sight. I have never seen so many older people with such excitement and energy and enthusiasm. Every ounce of spirit that pervades university areas filled the air of Plaza Obradorio but with the occasional exception of a lone solo pilgrim like me, I would say the average age in that square was at least 55.

I made my way with these hundreds, if not thousands, of happy folk into the cathedral. Words cannot do the Cathedral justice, from neither the outside nor in, and I shall not try where Hemingway and others have failed. I can say that the energy, the excitement, the very essence of life was palpable as predominately older people sat in benches, on confessional steps or the edges of the many columns, and even kneeled or sat on the cold stone ground waiting for the mass to begin. An ancient nun came out and asked for silence, a request relatively well met for a cathedral filled with excited people from all over the world, and began to sing in one of the most angelic voices I have ever heard. It was a full mass with song and prayer. Some parts were translated into other languages but most was in Spanish. I was beginning to get a little restless by communion and so wandered off to kiss the mantle of St James as hundreds of thousands of pilgrims have done before me. I was about to leave, figuring whatever I had heard about some incense burner being swung through the air - to cover up the smell of those hundreds of thousands of (can you imagine) unbathed pilgrims who had hiked cross country for days generally timing their arrival for this mass - couldn’t be that impressive. Fortunately, I followed the advice of the guide book and stayed. Wow.

It doesn’t sound like much, but this was an impressive sight indeed. The priest finishes the mass then eight men in traditional monk robes take up these large ropes suspended from a pulley mechanism in the ceiling that looks just like the ones you saw in your second grade science book when you learned how inventions like the wheel and the rope and pulley changed the life of man. Attached to the other end of the rope is a beautiful silver larger than man-sized incense burner. The men pull on the rope, hefting the incense burner that is now spilling over with smoke and the light smell of incense (I unfortunately didn’t recognize what kind) and begin pulling so that it swings from side to side. Not that impressive. Then just as you are about to yawn, the burner extends past its centrifugal point (I think that’s what it is called). Remember the way the swing would drop when you went higher than the bar as a little kid? Now imagine this gigantic silver incense burner falling straight at you out of the rafters in what looks like a free fall then suddenly catching the rope and swinging off in the other direction to do the same thing on the other side. Now remember that you are in one of the greatest and largest cathedrals of all time. Imagine the immensity, the height of the rafters, the sheer impressiveness of the building from the inside and then picture the size and length of the rope and distance it can travel – far enough to require eight men to control it! I was impressed. Everyone was impressed. As the sweet smelling silver urn plummeted toward you and your fellow travelers there was a sensation much like riding the Wild Claw at the carnival – you just know you are about to die when suddenly the laws of physics sweep you out of harm’s way. You know that exhilaration you feel when you get off one of those rides? That’s what you feel inside the Pilgrim’s Mass. I’ll bet you never thought a Catholic church service could be exhilarating!

I love this about traveling – not just the chance to have these experiences, see such things, but the experience of camaraderie that naturally grows around them. Mankind is, I believe, at his best when engaged in sharing the spirit of joy, of accomplishment, of common experience. This is an everyday reality in the little town of Santiago de Compostela. I feel blessed to have been a part of it.

Santiago de Compostela

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Don’t you love it when un-propitious things happen in the most propitious ways?! I lost (or won depending on your perspective) my argument with myself today about whether to shell out the five euro for the taxi or be my normal obstinate self and walk (40 minutes) through winding streets to the hotel. Remembering the lessons of Cuenca, I flagged down the cab in front of the bus station. (I love when I actually learn from my mistakes.) After my Avila experience, I was extremely hesitant about this hotel and its claim to have wireless internet access. I would be one pissed puppy if I dropped five euro for a taxi this time and still no access.

What a joyous contrast to my awful experience with the El Rastro in Avila! The man at the desk of Rosa Rosae was kind and smiling, he spoke a bit of English, had my room key ready and waiting for me, and put me in the room with the best internet signal in the house when I explained I had work to do. Pointing to the dining room he told me to help myself any time to the FREE coffee, pastries, yogurt, juice, and fruit and suggested I settle in while he finished up my passport information. I dropped my bags off, checked the internet signal – which actually works - WOOHOO! – and just as I was debating between all the work I needed to do and the fact I really should get out and explore it started to rain. How glorious – all afternoon in my own hotel room with my own internet access and endless cups of free coffee and fresh fruit without one smidgen of guilt for the touristing I should be doing. The cost for my lovely attic hotel room with warm wooden floors, flat screen TV, skylight windows in the ceiling, free food, and free internet? 50 euros a night! I’ve already extended for a day (actually by the time I finished this entry, I had extended for two).

I can’t tell you how happy and relieved I was to have an internet connection. There were several things I needed to tend to back in the states that I could handle online and a handful of extended phone issues, like tech support calls, that I would not in a million years do on a cell phone now that there is Skype. I got a cup of coffee and some fruit and settled down at the computer to get caught up on some things. By about 7pm I’d had enough and headed out for an evening walk. I decided to follow the off-the-beaten-path walk that went around the center city, passing through some of the parks and by some of the newer architecture. The rain had stopped around 6pm and the sky cleared in time for the sunset causing a beautiful swirl of clouds and color.

Again I have to say I do love the Spanish love for parks. The Almeda park on the northwest side of town is just lovely, well-landscaped with an array of statues, some amazing views of the Cathedral, and trees that take your breath away. I passed down through the University area, past the Carbelleiras de San Lourenzo, an amazing grove of hundred plus year old oak tress and into what seemed to be a poorer neighborhood, very old and entirely whitewashed with little green doors no more than five feet high. Although it was a bit run down, it was an interesting little area and would be quite charming if it were fixed up a little. Passing through three more parks I came upon the Auditorio de Galicia. They are very proud of this structure designed by Julio Cano Lasso and Diego Cano Pintos and situated in the Parque de Música above a reflective lake and amidst interesting modern art statues. I circled back up to the Avenida e Xoan XXIII – a street that leads down the hill to the historic center next. Alongside the road is what I found to be a fascinating art piece. It is basically a porticoed walkway done in an entirely modern design. It is angled, with mirror-like steel columns on either side and covered with glass plates. The walkway is shaped like a square that has been squashed from the top corner so one side is higher than the other.

If you stand behind one of the steel columns you see this very modern, new millennium, glass/steel structure to your left and to your right ths Convento de San Franisco. It is said that St. Francis of Assisi founded this convent in 1214 when he undertook the pilgrimage to Santiago. The convent and statue dedicated to St. Francis out front is one of my favorites in the city. It is a interesting to say the least to see such antiquity juxtaposed with modernity. Santiago has actually done a wonderful job blending the old and the new. My hotel is about a five minute walk from the old town but I actually like the contrast of the modern, hustle-bustle of cars and people against the quiet, quaint, car-less, cobblestone streets of the old town that fill the air with a sense of days gone by. Throughout the city you see elements of great modern architecture and great classical architecture not side by side, but truly integrated one with the other like the Avenue Xoan and St. Francis’ Convent. It is nice to see a city that does what it does as well as Santiago does.

The last rays of the sun had vanished leaving a deep blue sky as I walked up the Costa Vella and continue my walk along the outer wall of the historic center. Without ever pulling out the map, I somehow magically walked straight back to my hotel from the opposite direction. What glory to check email and work a bit before crawling into my crisp cotton sheets and falling into a blissful deep sleep beneath the stars that shone through my attic skylight above. There is something in the air around Santiago that speaks to me. Cuenca was beautiful, but Santiago speaks to my soul. This is a place I will come back to. I can’t wait to begin exploring tomorrow.