This evening T. and I attended the free performance of Beethoven's opera Fidelio at the Staatsoper. We rode in the bus to the Kulturforum, and stepped out to find that Potsdamer Platz was, for once (and I never expected I'd say this), sublime. The deep blue summer sky shone behind it, greyish white clouds drifting on it; the red brick Kollhoff building sparkled and gleamed; and the glass façade of the Deutsche Bahn building evinced a great clarity and cleanliness. The scene, as we passed through the Brandenburger Tor and then strode along Unter den Linden, past the Russian Embassy and Komische Oper and the car store, was scarcely less beautiful. It was brightly thronged with people, buses and cars, underneath the strong green trees, and in front of the stately buildings, and joyously alive.
Finally we came to the Bebelplatz, where thousands of presumptive music-lovers already sat on chairs which they had brought with them, or on the ground. On the parapet of the Staatsoper, the sculptures, the red fluttering opera house flag, and two men surveyed the scene; formally dressed men and women sipped drinks and chatted on the roof of the Hotel de Rome; and the further sculptures ranged above the sheet that conceals the façade of the Law Faculty of the Humboldt University, were watching too. Black-suited secret service men kept a professional eye on the crowd. T. and I at last found a place to stand at the railing that fenced in a sound system tower, near one of them.
After waiting for twenty minutes or so, we beheld three men ambling out onto the stage, among them our mayor Klaus Wowereit, and each of them held a brief speech of introduction. There was also a taped introduction to the plot of Fidelio, which I industriously ignored as I do not like melodramatic opera storylines. The crowd was a trifle boisterous, though not as far as the speeches were concerned, which they rewarded with polite applause. People who were sitting shouted at people who were standing to sit down, and the people who were standing muttered about not being told that they had to sit down, so they bloody well weren't going to do it. After the speeches, we had to watch the interior of the Staatsoper. Among the victims, captured nolens volens by the camera, there was one man who was gaping in a beatific grin, and another who looked at the camera with much interest and then pushed up his glasses, at which points a low laugh rose from the audience, which I joined despite feeling guilty about it. It was very stupid of me, but I thought the concert would be taking place on the stage outside (and that the singers would merely sing their roles instead of acting them out, which I wouldn't have minded (c; ), and was much disillusioned when I at last grasped the fact that it wasn't going to happen.
Then we were finally shown the orchestra pit, where Daniel Barenboim then sat down, vide slouched down, and we had a mildly embarrassing view of him that must resemble the television's view of a couch potato. The camera should have provided views of the musicians too, but it didn't, so we uncomfortably stared at the conducting, largely the reverse of vigorous, of the musical director for the entirety of the overture. At least some of us tittered when the tip of a violin bow reared itself in the foreground (the camera work was not exactly impeccable). But I gazed at the ground and tried to listen to the music itself, and I was enchanted. The score was truly brought to life and truly substantial; I thought that I should like to listen to the performance repeatedly and often, which is high praise indeed. There were nice flute solos, and a nice cello solo that T. also admired; altogether the sole disturbing element (Fidelio was — and, to a great degree, still is — wholly unfamiliar to me) was the frequent Mozartiness of the music itself.
At first the opera was, as usual, overacted and offensively perky. My main objections to opera are that it appears to me to be artificial and overblown, and that it draws me into a world that is unhealthy since it holds no common sense, no humour (except the aforementioned offensively perky variant), and none of the breadth and variety that is lent to real life by diverse outer influences. It looked as if this performance of Fidelio would confirm my objections. Also, the costume of Marzelline, a cheery vision in yellow plaid, reminded me of High School Musical for some reason. Later on I didn't find the settings tasteful, either, what with the three men in red prison uniforms who were suspended from the ceilings as if hung; and the minimalist grey metal backdrop, the white grid of rectangular holes that represented the jail cells, the cypress-like tree, and the glow of blue-rimmed spotlight in the background were not my cup of tea.
However — once Rocco appeared on the scene, portrayed by an excellent actor who has the virtues of genuine seriousness and restraint, and a face that even when serious has no deficiency of humour, I began to be reconciled. Waltraud Meier was a surprise as Fidelio at first, but in the course of time I felt that her worn and more experienced face was deeply suited to her role as someone whose beloved has been incarcerated for two years. A gravity and earnestness settled on the opera, and I became very much absorbed in the questions of political imprisonment and civil rights, and the mean-souled machinations of pompous idiots who pass as politicians. The extreme relevance of the situations to the present day struck me, too; when the prisoners' chorus spoke about being watched, it reminded me of the proliferation of public surveillance in the past years. I don't believe in militant political activity in the pursuit of abstract ideas, but only in the pursuit of freedom from foreign occupation; this was, however, not so much an issue in the opera as the plight of the prisoners in itself. (Also, I kept on wishing that someone would push Don Pizarro off a cliff or something, thereby cutting the Gordian knot and ending the problems, before remembering that this is a reprehensibly bloodthirsty wish, and moreover that it is absurd to become so involved in a fictional tale.)
So an hour and a half passed, and I thought it was twenty or thirty minutes at most. Still, T. and I had sore feet from standing the whole time, and we wanted to go home, so we detached ourselves from the throng and set off along Unter den Linden again. The sunset was unbelievably beautiful, a rich orange that did resemble a furnace that was lighting and warming the world. What was even more unbelievably beautiful was Brandenburg Gate, illumined palely against the intense indigo of the clear night sky, where Mars or Venus twinkled, and grey birds passed swiftly and silently overhead so that they resembled shooting stars where the spotlights lit them. Even before, at the Bebelplatz, there had been a flock of birds pouring through the serene sky. I had an odd feeling that something momentous and good would happen to me today; as far as I can tell, it didn't really, and still it was a strangely lovely day.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
A Week of Wandering: Rothenburg ob der Tauber
The Romantic Road begins in Würzburg and wiggles southward to Füssen. It sounds very much like the brainchild of the tourism industry, and, if it isn't, I haven't bothered to read up on it sufficiently to find out. One of the towns along the way is Rothenburg, which has a well preserved medieval town centre, and is essentially a conglomerate of shops. As we stepped out of the comically roomy special train that shuttles tourists to and from Steinach and Rothenburg itself, I quipped about the medieval satellite dishes, garbage containers, etc. In any case, we only had to walk a little before we reached a gate, and a moat filled with a shallow puddle of the most noxious green sludge I have ever beheld, where a suicidal pigeon was killing time by pecking away vaguely at the shore.
Above the moat there rises a town wall surmounted by wooden hoardings, and M. climbed it later. But first we strolled along the cobbled streets and peered in the shop windows. The town is not so bad; it is not too sanitized, not too bright and shiny, and altogether not the Disney experience I had expected. Mysterious, or beautiful, or quirky, it isn't either, though, nor does it have the nobility of age, at least not in my view. M. ended up buying us "Schneeballen" or snowballs, a local specialty which is a tangle of egg dough that is deep-fried and dusted with icing sugar; after experimenting, we found that the best way to break them down for eating is to grasp them in one hand and pry off chunks through the cellophane with the fingers of the other hand. In Schlecker's, the omnipresent drug store chain, M. bought Coke, too, which she likewise shared with me. Out of the less than 3 Euros I had left in my wallet, I bought a nectarine and an apricot from a stall in one of the squares.
The culmination of our trip was, however, our descent into the recesses of the Christmas store. We were greeted in the entrance by a scene of animated stuffed animals, who industriously saw away at wood, etc., in the windows of a tremendously phony facsimile of a traditional house facade. Then we plunged down the stairs into the suffocating cellar, bristling with fans and air conditioning that fail to relieve the heat. Shelves run along the walls, and stand in the centre, and curve around the niches, teeming with armies of Christmas tree decorations and enamel tankards and other articles that are invariably expensive, and either charmingly old-fashioned or, more often, positively tasteless. Mulberry plush baskets are at the disposal of the shopper, and so are the saleswomen, who are decked out in rustic checkered(?) skirts, white shirts, and thin vests. The seasonal theme is further illustrated by a horrid white plastic Christmas tree luridly adorned in red globes, larger house facades, and clusters of artificial fir branches that are slung across the ceiling and ranged along the walls. First "The Entertainer," then the theme from The Third Man, and then "Edelweiss" were playing in the background, as I thought with mingled amusement and pity what Mama would say and feel if she were with us.
There are deep brown cuckoo clocks in the grand old tradition, ticking away in chorus like a cemetery full of tell-tale hearts; if I'd had hundreds of Euros and a love of them, I'd have been in heaven. Then there are the Erzgebirge nutcrackers, and little wooden men in which to put incense cones, and the light wooden carousels in which one places candles, whose heat then turns the blades at the top, which in turn rotate the little figures inside. What struck me above all was the feeling that Christmas is no longer so enjoyable if it costs so much. Even if I were a millionaire, I am sure I'd still find that presents that cost more than, let's say, 50 Euros (except in the case of trinkets like necklaces or bracelets, if they do not flaunt their costliness), are excessive.
* * *
In any case, M. and I were soon on our way back to Würzburg, where we picked up our bags at the hostel, and I finally managed to withdraw money using my EC card, which put me in a good mood. Hesitatingly, we took a train to Bamberg, which does, however, lie along the ICE route between Berlin and Munich. It rattled and shook as if it were about to fall apart. M. went to explore another train compartment, to see if the seats were more springy, only to hurry back, remarking in shocked tones that she could see the ground between the cars. When we finally arrived at Bamberg, and waited at Platform 6 for the train, I was overcome with joy at the prospect of returning to Berlin, and the appetite that had been missing for over a week suddenly returned. The ICE is always a pain to take, as so many of the seats are reserved, but we were lucky and found good seats soon, opposite a mildly sad-eyed, blonde lady who was absorbed in a pile of newspapers and magazines and rather interested me. The rest of the trip went well, and, though we had trouble getting home from Südkreuz station, which is not connected to the U Bahn as I'd thought, it was lovely to be back.
Altogether I am very glad that I went travelling, and very grateful to M. for inviting me to come along and be her "tour guide." It was nice to find something of the Germany I know from the literature, in the scenery alongside the train tracks. It was also interesting to try to find what is characteristic of the German landscape. On a superficial level, here is a list: churches, cornfields, green meadows, fields of wheat stubble, dark brown horses, cows (white and black, brown, grey), red roof tiles, pink fireweed and Canada goldenrod, elderberry bushes and pale purple butterfly bushes, wind generators, firs and beeches and maples, tranquil rivers, factories, haybales, shooting platforms, sunflowers, mountain ash, apple trees, soccer fields, solar panels, and gardening colonies. Lastly, I am a little in love with Munich; and, whenever I can, I should like to return to the hills in Füssen or elsewhere, so that I can stretch my legs and breathe the clean air, in the wilder and freer natural surroundings that I have missed since we left Canada.
Above the moat there rises a town wall surmounted by wooden hoardings, and M. climbed it later. But first we strolled along the cobbled streets and peered in the shop windows. The town is not so bad; it is not too sanitized, not too bright and shiny, and altogether not the Disney experience I had expected. Mysterious, or beautiful, or quirky, it isn't either, though, nor does it have the nobility of age, at least not in my view. M. ended up buying us "Schneeballen" or snowballs, a local specialty which is a tangle of egg dough that is deep-fried and dusted with icing sugar; after experimenting, we found that the best way to break them down for eating is to grasp them in one hand and pry off chunks through the cellophane with the fingers of the other hand. In Schlecker's, the omnipresent drug store chain, M. bought Coke, too, which she likewise shared with me. Out of the less than 3 Euros I had left in my wallet, I bought a nectarine and an apricot from a stall in one of the squares.
The culmination of our trip was, however, our descent into the recesses of the Christmas store. We were greeted in the entrance by a scene of animated stuffed animals, who industriously saw away at wood, etc., in the windows of a tremendously phony facsimile of a traditional house facade. Then we plunged down the stairs into the suffocating cellar, bristling with fans and air conditioning that fail to relieve the heat. Shelves run along the walls, and stand in the centre, and curve around the niches, teeming with armies of Christmas tree decorations and enamel tankards and other articles that are invariably expensive, and either charmingly old-fashioned or, more often, positively tasteless. Mulberry plush baskets are at the disposal of the shopper, and so are the saleswomen, who are decked out in rustic checkered(?) skirts, white shirts, and thin vests. The seasonal theme is further illustrated by a horrid white plastic Christmas tree luridly adorned in red globes, larger house facades, and clusters of artificial fir branches that are slung across the ceiling and ranged along the walls. First "The Entertainer," then the theme from The Third Man, and then "Edelweiss" were playing in the background, as I thought with mingled amusement and pity what Mama would say and feel if she were with us.
There are deep brown cuckoo clocks in the grand old tradition, ticking away in chorus like a cemetery full of tell-tale hearts; if I'd had hundreds of Euros and a love of them, I'd have been in heaven. Then there are the Erzgebirge nutcrackers, and little wooden men in which to put incense cones, and the light wooden carousels in which one places candles, whose heat then turns the blades at the top, which in turn rotate the little figures inside. What struck me above all was the feeling that Christmas is no longer so enjoyable if it costs so much. Even if I were a millionaire, I am sure I'd still find that presents that cost more than, let's say, 50 Euros (except in the case of trinkets like necklaces or bracelets, if they do not flaunt their costliness), are excessive.
* * *
In any case, M. and I were soon on our way back to Würzburg, where we picked up our bags at the hostel, and I finally managed to withdraw money using my EC card, which put me in a good mood. Hesitatingly, we took a train to Bamberg, which does, however, lie along the ICE route between Berlin and Munich. It rattled and shook as if it were about to fall apart. M. went to explore another train compartment, to see if the seats were more springy, only to hurry back, remarking in shocked tones that she could see the ground between the cars. When we finally arrived at Bamberg, and waited at Platform 6 for the train, I was overcome with joy at the prospect of returning to Berlin, and the appetite that had been missing for over a week suddenly returned. The ICE is always a pain to take, as so many of the seats are reserved, but we were lucky and found good seats soon, opposite a mildly sad-eyed, blonde lady who was absorbed in a pile of newspapers and magazines and rather interested me. The rest of the trip went well, and, though we had trouble getting home from Südkreuz station, which is not connected to the U Bahn as I'd thought, it was lovely to be back.
Altogether I am very glad that I went travelling, and very grateful to M. for inviting me to come along and be her "tour guide." It was nice to find something of the Germany I know from the literature, in the scenery alongside the train tracks. It was also interesting to try to find what is characteristic of the German landscape. On a superficial level, here is a list: churches, cornfields, green meadows, fields of wheat stubble, dark brown horses, cows (white and black, brown, grey), red roof tiles, pink fireweed and Canada goldenrod, elderberry bushes and pale purple butterfly bushes, wind generators, firs and beeches and maples, tranquil rivers, factories, haybales, shooting platforms, sunflowers, mountain ash, apple trees, soccer fields, solar panels, and gardening colonies. Lastly, I am a little in love with Munich; and, whenever I can, I should like to return to the hills in Füssen or elsewhere, so that I can stretch my legs and breathe the clean air, in the wilder and freer natural surroundings that I have missed since we left Canada.
A Week of Wandering: Würzburg
In the morning, I ate a free breakfast in the dining room on the first floor. Despite the temptingness of the spread, I still had a poor appetite; so I stuck to a slice of iced cake loaf and a cup of café au lait. The only quibble I had with my lodgings was that there were only two keys for my room, and even when I borrowed one of them, it refused to unlock the washroom door, so I'd had to change in the bedroom.
As I walked along the streets back to the Bahnhof, they were empty, as it was Sunday morning. The restaurant tables and chairs were locked together, the street tram rails unused, and the election posters (among them a xenophobic one for the right-wing Republikaner party: "Wir lassen die Kirche im Dorf . . . und die Moschee in Istanbul!") were ranged along the sidewalks in forlorn state. There seems to be much resentment against the right in Würzburg, by the way. The CSU and Republikaner posters were sometimes defaced, whereas the Green Party, etc. posters were untouched; an FDP poster bore the slogan, in yellow lettering on a black background, "The strongest contrast to black." (black is the colour of the CSU); and in an arched tunnel at the hostel someone had scrawled, in German, "Nazis and cops = right-wing pigs."
After endeavouring in vain to use my EC card to withdraw money again, I went to the hostel where M. was staying, and waited for her in the kitchen. This hostel has an amusing anything-goes attitude. When I thought that the door wasn't open, and rang the doorbell at the cellar, an ex-hippie with long, flowing hair popped his head over the roof (six or so floors above me) and shouted directions, not losing patience even though I had no clue where his voice was coming from for two minutes or so. I could pay for my room right away or later, it didn't really matter. I just had to give my name to register (I'm not sure if this is even legal, as I had to provide a boatload of information at the other hostels, and when M. asked in Munich why we had to give our passport numbers, the lady at the front desk said that it was required by law). The kitchen is an informal affair, with a heterogeneous collection of dishes, shelves full of food brought by the people staying there, counters whose sides are constructed of untreated OSB, and a tall refrigerator scribbled over with a black flurry of names. There is free coffee and tea, though other drinks had to be paid for; in the lounge at the other end of the room there is a computer with free internet access (wireless, and the browser was Firefox 3).
The reunion with M. was very nice. She had had a bad night — bed linen would have cost an extra 2.50 Euros, so she had gone without, and had slept shivering with the cold as a result; also, her bedroom door wasn't locked — but was willing to go off adventuring again. We retraced my steps (and hers; she had also looked for it and hadn't found it) to the hostel, crossing the Alte Mainbrücke again, but turning to the right on the far end to climb to the Fortress Marienberg. We were tired; our progress, up stairs, past a toppled portable toilet, up more stairs, and then up a bridge into the maw of the fortress, was slow and interrupted by pauses where we sat on benches and refreshed ourselves with hazelnuts and chocolate.
It is a beautiful hill, clad on one side with rows of grapevines, and steeped in green elsewhere by grass and dandelion and clover leaves; pale blue chicory; rosebushes bearing black hips, and elderberry bushes laden with dark fruit; and apple trees, horse chestnuts and other leafy trees. The edifice itself has a mighty old foundation from the 13th century, immensely thick-walled and with immensely tiny windows. Altogether it fit with my train reading of Nathan der Weise (which is set during the Third Crusade) very well. The crest of the prince-bishops of Würzburg is carved in stone on one side of the wall, and its quarters are filled with two wheels, a set of three zigzags, and a flag that resembles a key; two swords are crossed behind it, and a crown hovers above.
Then we climbed up further to the Renaissance and Baroque buildings that surmount this old foundation. They are not so impressive, in my view, though the moat between the outer and inner wall was; and the red sandstone of the window lintels wept into the whitewashed walls. But the light-blue-ceilinged chapel where the prince-bishops are buried possesses no small share of pomp, and the grey keep in the middle of the courtyard, though not at all ornate, is not so shabby either. The other visitors were mostly German.
After that we descended the hill, and, to our own surprise, summoned the courage to attempt the hill beside it. There the bright yellow and white, black slate-roofed Baroque chapel of the Wallfahrtskirche (pilgrimage church), built from 1748 to 1752 by Balthasar Neumann, stands. As we wound up the Nikolausstraße, we were tempted to climb into one of the gardens and partake of the apples in an orchard, but we resisted, and went on. We reached the first of the fourteen stations of the cross, which are sheltered in yellow and white niches, and were carved by Johann Peter Wagner from 1767 to 1778. There is also a row of four prophets, Jerodias and Moses among them, who stand in the midst of the stairway overlooking a lovely courtyard shadowed by plane trees; they taunted us by implying in a choice selection of Biblical verses (which were engraved on books or scrolls that they held) that the effort of climbing the hill was nothing. As for the chapel, it is a Baroque fantasy. M. was deeply in awe. I, on the other hand, didn't like entering a church to gawk; also, the ornamentation expressed (in my view) much more of the expensive tastes of the prince-bishops than of true devotion. So I promptly slipped out again. M. then bought a postcard, after which we climbed down the hill again, talking about religion.
We then walked onward to the Residenz, a palace also built by Balthasar Neumann for the prince-bishops, by way of the Ringpark, which is a swathe of green that embraces the city on its eastern perimeters. Along the way there is an impressive university building, which bears the bronze legend "Veritatis" and is surmounted by an outsize sculpture. The garden of the Residenz is most pleasing. Presently there are yellow roses, trimmed evergreens, and a lively ring of flowers: heliotrope, crimson dahlias, amaranth, larkspur, white cosmos bipinnatus, etc. A tall staircase and wall overlook and embower it; a fountain or two mists and cools the air; and the shady passage of silvery evergreens and linden (?) trees, fitted out with stone benches and sculptures of cherubs, is a charming specimen of its kind. I rested there and read, while M. went off to take photos from a finer vantage-point.
We did not enter the Residenz itself, except to peek at the chapel, which was well worth it, and to go as far as the ticket office, which was temporarily closed. Then, parched by the heat, I bought a bottle of Apfelschorle in a bakery that was avidly visited not only by people but also by wasps, and we returned to the hostel.
As I walked along the streets back to the Bahnhof, they were empty, as it was Sunday morning. The restaurant tables and chairs were locked together, the street tram rails unused, and the election posters (among them a xenophobic one for the right-wing Republikaner party: "Wir lassen die Kirche im Dorf . . . und die Moschee in Istanbul!") were ranged along the sidewalks in forlorn state. There seems to be much resentment against the right in Würzburg, by the way. The CSU and Republikaner posters were sometimes defaced, whereas the Green Party, etc. posters were untouched; an FDP poster bore the slogan, in yellow lettering on a black background, "The strongest contrast to black." (black is the colour of the CSU); and in an arched tunnel at the hostel someone had scrawled, in German, "Nazis and cops = right-wing pigs."
After endeavouring in vain to use my EC card to withdraw money again, I went to the hostel where M. was staying, and waited for her in the kitchen. This hostel has an amusing anything-goes attitude. When I thought that the door wasn't open, and rang the doorbell at the cellar, an ex-hippie with long, flowing hair popped his head over the roof (six or so floors above me) and shouted directions, not losing patience even though I had no clue where his voice was coming from for two minutes or so. I could pay for my room right away or later, it didn't really matter. I just had to give my name to register (I'm not sure if this is even legal, as I had to provide a boatload of information at the other hostels, and when M. asked in Munich why we had to give our passport numbers, the lady at the front desk said that it was required by law). The kitchen is an informal affair, with a heterogeneous collection of dishes, shelves full of food brought by the people staying there, counters whose sides are constructed of untreated OSB, and a tall refrigerator scribbled over with a black flurry of names. There is free coffee and tea, though other drinks had to be paid for; in the lounge at the other end of the room there is a computer with free internet access (wireless, and the browser was Firefox 3).
The reunion with M. was very nice. She had had a bad night — bed linen would have cost an extra 2.50 Euros, so she had gone without, and had slept shivering with the cold as a result; also, her bedroom door wasn't locked — but was willing to go off adventuring again. We retraced my steps (and hers; she had also looked for it and hadn't found it) to the hostel, crossing the Alte Mainbrücke again, but turning to the right on the far end to climb to the Fortress Marienberg. We were tired; our progress, up stairs, past a toppled portable toilet, up more stairs, and then up a bridge into the maw of the fortress, was slow and interrupted by pauses where we sat on benches and refreshed ourselves with hazelnuts and chocolate.
It is a beautiful hill, clad on one side with rows of grapevines, and steeped in green elsewhere by grass and dandelion and clover leaves; pale blue chicory; rosebushes bearing black hips, and elderberry bushes laden with dark fruit; and apple trees, horse chestnuts and other leafy trees. The edifice itself has a mighty old foundation from the 13th century, immensely thick-walled and with immensely tiny windows. Altogether it fit with my train reading of Nathan der Weise (which is set during the Third Crusade) very well. The crest of the prince-bishops of Würzburg is carved in stone on one side of the wall, and its quarters are filled with two wheels, a set of three zigzags, and a flag that resembles a key; two swords are crossed behind it, and a crown hovers above.
Then we climbed up further to the Renaissance and Baroque buildings that surmount this old foundation. They are not so impressive, in my view, though the moat between the outer and inner wall was; and the red sandstone of the window lintels wept into the whitewashed walls. But the light-blue-ceilinged chapel where the prince-bishops are buried possesses no small share of pomp, and the grey keep in the middle of the courtyard, though not at all ornate, is not so shabby either. The other visitors were mostly German.
After that we descended the hill, and, to our own surprise, summoned the courage to attempt the hill beside it. There the bright yellow and white, black slate-roofed Baroque chapel of the Wallfahrtskirche (pilgrimage church), built from 1748 to 1752 by Balthasar Neumann, stands. As we wound up the Nikolausstraße, we were tempted to climb into one of the gardens and partake of the apples in an orchard, but we resisted, and went on. We reached the first of the fourteen stations of the cross, which are sheltered in yellow and white niches, and were carved by Johann Peter Wagner from 1767 to 1778. There is also a row of four prophets, Jerodias and Moses among them, who stand in the midst of the stairway overlooking a lovely courtyard shadowed by plane trees; they taunted us by implying in a choice selection of Biblical verses (which were engraved on books or scrolls that they held) that the effort of climbing the hill was nothing. As for the chapel, it is a Baroque fantasy. M. was deeply in awe. I, on the other hand, didn't like entering a church to gawk; also, the ornamentation expressed (in my view) much more of the expensive tastes of the prince-bishops than of true devotion. So I promptly slipped out again. M. then bought a postcard, after which we climbed down the hill again, talking about religion.
We then walked onward to the Residenz, a palace also built by Balthasar Neumann for the prince-bishops, by way of the Ringpark, which is a swathe of green that embraces the city on its eastern perimeters. Along the way there is an impressive university building, which bears the bronze legend "Veritatis" and is surmounted by an outsize sculpture. The garden of the Residenz is most pleasing. Presently there are yellow roses, trimmed evergreens, and a lively ring of flowers: heliotrope, crimson dahlias, amaranth, larkspur, white cosmos bipinnatus, etc. A tall staircase and wall overlook and embower it; a fountain or two mists and cools the air; and the shady passage of silvery evergreens and linden (?) trees, fitted out with stone benches and sculptures of cherubs, is a charming specimen of its kind. I rested there and read, while M. went off to take photos from a finer vantage-point.
We did not enter the Residenz itself, except to peek at the chapel, which was well worth it, and to go as far as the ticket office, which was temporarily closed. Then, parched by the heat, I bought a bottle of Apfelschorle in a bakery that was avidly visited not only by people but also by wasps, and we returned to the hostel.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
A Week of Wandering: Kevelaer
The funeral mass was in the Basilica in the early afternoon, and the day was fittingly cloudy and quiet. It was my first church funeral, as I'd only attended a memorial service and a scattering of ashes before, and so the ceremony was even more absorbing.
Altogether I strongly felt that Opa would have been pleased by the funeral. It took place in a church he knew well, and which his father had helped to decorate; a fair assembly of family and friends and neighbours was present; the priest who pronounced his eulogy was an old acquaintance; his humour and love of family and art were duly honoured; Oma was remembered; and altogether the traditional rites of the church were observed in a sincere way that made them not formulaic but truly fitting.
If something did bother me, it was the reference to Soviet Russia, a quotation from Opa's memoirs. Evidently Opa had every reason to speak of a "Stalinist beast" as he was in a Soviet prisoner-of-war camp for so long, but I do not understand why the priest chose that quotation. It sounded as if it were still the 1980s and the Vatican were still inveighing against "Marxist heresies," and so on and so forth, and did not exactly breathe the spirit of forgiveness and reconciliation; besides, it ignored the fact that Russia was hardly the only country to have horrible camps in World War II. I think that the "Fürbitte" did more justice to Opa in pointing out his general abhorrence of war and its consequences.
Afterward we came together in the restaurant where we often meet for our family reunions; Mama finally talked with old friends and relatives she had not seen in years, and so did we, but to a lesser degree (J. and I, for instance, were contentedly ensconced in one corner). Then the family straggled over to the A*** Straße, for a uniquely warm and unstrained version of our past family reunions. Everyone talked, the children shrieked and played games, and we ate a little, ignoring the passing of time. Even the photography session was unforced, though protracted, so that there was some impatient groaning. After the travelling, it was comforting and reviving for me to be among many friendly people whom I knew again, and already during the church service I felt that it had been good that I had come.
* * *
On the following morning I bade goodbye, and, after a lengthy but relaxing conversation at the train station with N., rode off to Nürnberg. I sat in the restaurant compartment, ordered a drink, and, after paying for it, wondered if I should have paid a tip, too. So I went to the counter to inquire and found out that financial considerations are most welcome. It appears that the employees are not very well paid, and this day was most unpleasant for them as there was no food being served due to technical(?) difficulties, and the drinks would not bring in much tip-money. One girl said that, in her year or so of working in the restaurant car, I was the only one who had ever inquired about tips. Whether this meant that I was uniquely idiotic or considerate was unclear. In any case, I paid up. But my waitress had cared for all the customers in such a kind, but not obsequious or overbearing, grandmotherly manner – without expecting it to bring her much – that she merited much more. She quietly looked after my comfort for the rest of the train ride, too.
I mention this because in travelling (I think) one is so dependent on the consideration and politeness of others that little episodes like these seem disproportionately important. Besides, I think I partly understand now what it means to be desperate for work and an income, to have to save money, and to be overtasked; this is why I was so interested in the welfare of the Munich tour guide, waitress, musician, etc.
* * *
After staying in Nürnberg for a good hour or so, as I described in a past blog post, I went to Würzburg. In the information centre at the train station, I was given a map and pointed to the youth hostel, which lies on the far bank of the Main River and was once a female correctional institute. The twilight walk to the hostel was not so agreeable, as the Kaiserstraße and Juliusstraße were all right, but the streets after that were lonely, poorly lit, and frequented only by little groups of juveniles. Still, it was superstitious, but when I came to the Alte Mainbrücke, I felt guarded by the figures of the saints (and of Charlemagne (c: ). I walked too far up the bank, but then found the hostel. My friend was not in the register, but I decided to stay there for the night anyway. It did cost 34 Euros, comprising not only the board but also a 12.50 Euro charge for a youth hostel association card. Fortunately the 75 Euros that I had withdrawn in person from the bank in Munich covered it.
My room was nice. There were three wooden double beds in a generously large chamber, windows that opened onto a green courtyard and were hung with curtains, security lockers, a wooden table with two chairs, and an orange-tiled area with two sinks, towel hooks, and ledges for holding one's toiletries. The tiles and the black carpet had such a clean effect that I had no compunction about walking barefoot on them. Best of all, one of my two roommates was a nice Japanese girl, who spoke English well and German less well, in a very good accent. As she was sitting at her laptop, listening to music on iTunes, she played fine recordings of Bach and Pachelbel's Canon for me when she found out I liked classical music (she likes rock and classical music). Bach's famous toccata, she remarked with a smile, was too dark. Within a minute or so, she had thereby quite won my heart. So I happily spread the pink linen, which I had carried up from a bin on the ground floor, on my bed; brushed my teeth and rinsed my face and changed into my pyjamas; phoned home and checked my e-mail with the help of T., so that I found out where M. was staying; and went to sleep.
Altogether I strongly felt that Opa would have been pleased by the funeral. It took place in a church he knew well, and which his father had helped to decorate; a fair assembly of family and friends and neighbours was present; the priest who pronounced his eulogy was an old acquaintance; his humour and love of family and art were duly honoured; Oma was remembered; and altogether the traditional rites of the church were observed in a sincere way that made them not formulaic but truly fitting.
If something did bother me, it was the reference to Soviet Russia, a quotation from Opa's memoirs. Evidently Opa had every reason to speak of a "Stalinist beast" as he was in a Soviet prisoner-of-war camp for so long, but I do not understand why the priest chose that quotation. It sounded as if it were still the 1980s and the Vatican were still inveighing against "Marxist heresies," and so on and so forth, and did not exactly breathe the spirit of forgiveness and reconciliation; besides, it ignored the fact that Russia was hardly the only country to have horrible camps in World War II. I think that the "Fürbitte" did more justice to Opa in pointing out his general abhorrence of war and its consequences.
Afterward we came together in the restaurant where we often meet for our family reunions; Mama finally talked with old friends and relatives she had not seen in years, and so did we, but to a lesser degree (J. and I, for instance, were contentedly ensconced in one corner). Then the family straggled over to the A*** Straße, for a uniquely warm and unstrained version of our past family reunions. Everyone talked, the children shrieked and played games, and we ate a little, ignoring the passing of time. Even the photography session was unforced, though protracted, so that there was some impatient groaning. After the travelling, it was comforting and reviving for me to be among many friendly people whom I knew again, and already during the church service I felt that it had been good that I had come.
* * *
On the following morning I bade goodbye, and, after a lengthy but relaxing conversation at the train station with N., rode off to Nürnberg. I sat in the restaurant compartment, ordered a drink, and, after paying for it, wondered if I should have paid a tip, too. So I went to the counter to inquire and found out that financial considerations are most welcome. It appears that the employees are not very well paid, and this day was most unpleasant for them as there was no food being served due to technical(?) difficulties, and the drinks would not bring in much tip-money. One girl said that, in her year or so of working in the restaurant car, I was the only one who had ever inquired about tips. Whether this meant that I was uniquely idiotic or considerate was unclear. In any case, I paid up. But my waitress had cared for all the customers in such a kind, but not obsequious or overbearing, grandmotherly manner – without expecting it to bring her much – that she merited much more. She quietly looked after my comfort for the rest of the train ride, too.
I mention this because in travelling (I think) one is so dependent on the consideration and politeness of others that little episodes like these seem disproportionately important. Besides, I think I partly understand now what it means to be desperate for work and an income, to have to save money, and to be overtasked; this is why I was so interested in the welfare of the Munich tour guide, waitress, musician, etc.
* * *
After staying in Nürnberg for a good hour or so, as I described in a past blog post, I went to Würzburg. In the information centre at the train station, I was given a map and pointed to the youth hostel, which lies on the far bank of the Main River and was once a female correctional institute. The twilight walk to the hostel was not so agreeable, as the Kaiserstraße and Juliusstraße were all right, but the streets after that were lonely, poorly lit, and frequented only by little groups of juveniles. Still, it was superstitious, but when I came to the Alte Mainbrücke, I felt guarded by the figures of the saints (and of Charlemagne (c: ). I walked too far up the bank, but then found the hostel. My friend was not in the register, but I decided to stay there for the night anyway. It did cost 34 Euros, comprising not only the board but also a 12.50 Euro charge for a youth hostel association card. Fortunately the 75 Euros that I had withdrawn in person from the bank in Munich covered it.
My room was nice. There were three wooden double beds in a generously large chamber, windows that opened onto a green courtyard and were hung with curtains, security lockers, a wooden table with two chairs, and an orange-tiled area with two sinks, towel hooks, and ledges for holding one's toiletries. The tiles and the black carpet had such a clean effect that I had no compunction about walking barefoot on them. Best of all, one of my two roommates was a nice Japanese girl, who spoke English well and German less well, in a very good accent. As she was sitting at her laptop, listening to music on iTunes, she played fine recordings of Bach and Pachelbel's Canon for me when she found out I liked classical music (she likes rock and classical music). Bach's famous toccata, she remarked with a smile, was too dark. Within a minute or so, she had thereby quite won my heart. So I happily spread the pink linen, which I had carried up from a bin on the ground floor, on my bed; brushed my teeth and rinsed my face and changed into my pyjamas; phoned home and checked my e-mail with the help of T., so that I found out where M. was staying; and went to sleep.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
A Week of Wandering: The Night Train
After we returned from Füssen, M. and I wandered about Munich in search of the Hofbräuhaus, which is not far from Marienplatz but tucked away in the irregular tangle of streets beyond the Neues and Altes Rathaus. I wasn't too enthusiastic, as I have a probably unfair dislike of beer culture as the pursuit of drinking one's self stupid and useless (though M. later told me that the important element is not so much the inebriety as the socializing), but figured that the Hofbräuhaus was an important sight anyway. When we entered, there was a sea of people roaring away on the wooden benches, beer glasses in hand, in the warm, dim light. The atmosphere was a stifling compound of steaming breath, beer, and a whiff of sauerkraut. An agitated waitress in her obligatory dirndl was stalking along with a tray of beers, and in patches the floor was sticky with the spilt liquid. There was room upon room, we walked through and found few empty spots (I wasn't keen on staying anyway), and then we were out in the pure, fresh city air again.
So we bent our steps to the Viktualienmarkt, and found another beer garden, where there was apparently a greater proportion of natives. It was a nice atmosphere, cool and dark and intimate with the sheltering trees. After much discussion, we ordered a fine beer, a glass of mineral water, two pretzels, and a dessert. I only had a sip of the beer, but it was excellent, from the dark amber colour to the flavour and the lack of a metallic aftertaste. The dessert was 6.80 Euros, and thereby quite expensive like the other menu items, but it was fully justified by the quality. It was apple rings fried in beer batter, accompanied by a scoop of light ice cream (which unfortunately had a hint of fridge flavour, but seemed to have been made in the restaurant itself with yoghurt or Quark), a berry sauce that was very good and natural, and a garnish of a blackberry, raspberry, mint leaf, and sprig of red currants.
When it was time to pay the waitress, I was conflicted. She had been impatient with us and had taken an unnecessarily long time to come with the bill, reminding me of the dreadfully humiliating time five years ago when Mama and I went to a restaurant near Museum Island and the people essentially refused to serve us. On the other hand, her service was not sneering or sloppy. She was brisk, competent, and friendly, and only quite busy and quite sure that she would not be getting any decent tip from us. So I gave her a generous tip (given that the bill was ca. 15 Euros, it still wasn't much), hoping also that it would encourage her to give another chance to the next tourists who order the cheapest items on the menu; it worked, I think, because she was grateful and clearly felt bad for having been short with us.
* * *
It was late, but I was then determined to catch the night train to Düsseldorf in order to attend my grandfather's funeral. I could have taken a train at 6:15 a.m. the next day, but we had no alarm clock and it would have been cutting it quite close, time-wise. So we returned to the hostel, which was a fairly long trip; I packed up; and then we hurried off to the Hauptbahnhof, running part of the way. I should have arrived too late, but the 10:42 p.m. train was delayed. Still, we had to hurry along the train to the back half, and then an official told us that I could buy reservations in the restaurant car in the back of the train. M., who was extremely nice and helpful throughout, then waved goodbye, and I set off in the train.
Then the purgatory began. The train was crowded; the people were generally the type who would lounge about an empty city square or bar at 3 a.m; it was dark; I was tired and malnourished and worried about obtaining a reservation. I tried to make my way through to the restaurant car, but after three or so cars where the narrow passage was crammed with people, I gave up, also as I had no idea where precisely the restaurant car was. Instead I decided to occupy an empty compartment in the sleeper car, keeping the curtains open and waiting for the conductor there. When the conductor came along, he was highly annoyed to find that I had apparently just marched into a compartment that didn't belong to me. I explained as briefly as I could, so his face cleared up a bit; then I zipped up my handbag and took up my bag, ready to set off to the restaurant car (which, he informed me, was in the very back). But then I was annoyed, and humiliated, when he popped his head back in, apparently to check that I was actually leaving, as if I were a delinquent. As he was still checking the tickets in the rest of the car, he would have been able to tell if I left or not anyway. Hopefully he was seeing if he could help me, instead.
On the way to the restaurant car, I stepped aside into a niche to let someone pass through the door unhindered. As the man passed me, he looked at me and said, with quiet venom, "I would have held the door open, even for you." The only explanations I can think of for saying something so mean is that I may have unwittingly given him a baleful glare, though I was only tired, and that he has had bad experiences with women. Anyway, I was in emotional shock after that, and then tried very hard not to cry when I reached the restaurant car.
The nice lady at the bar directed me to the conductor, a few cars down. So I went off again, still lugging my duffel bag, but before I reached the conductor, I passed two people who asked the passengers in one compartment to show their passports, saying that they were the police. I'd completely forgotten that this train crossed the border to Amsterdam, and the supposed policemen were not only plainclothes but criminal types if I ever saw them, so I suspected something, stopped and asked them if they had their badges with them. They were surprisingly polite considering, and asked me rhetorically if I was the one who was being asked to show her documentation, implying that it was none of my business. But I felt that it was, persisted (hopefully not irritatingly), and one of them said that the other had shown his badge, so it was all right. So I was finally (mostly) convinced, said, "Good, sorry," and continued, feeling dreadfully for having made such an error.
Then I bought my reservation, and the conductor said that I could choose whichever empty seat I wanted in the front of the car (but I chose one that was reserved after all, and had to move again). Then I cried as quietly as I could, certain that the people around me thought of me as a stupid "Heulsuse," and wondering what awful thing I had done or was going to do to deserve what I'd gone through. But I tried to get to sleep as soon as possible. The lights were off, the blinds were closed and I didn't feel free to open mine because another passenger (who had lifted the back of his chair for me, so at least that was something) was trying to sleep at the same window right in front of me, so I had no idea which stations were coming up. There were no announcements. I went to sleep, then woke up again every time the train slowed down and stopped. At length there was music to announce upcoming stations, which was a hip-hop tune with the sound of clapping hands and cymbals. At the time I thought it was funny, but now I fear I will have bad associations with hip-hop for the rest of my life. Five glorious hours later, Düsseldorf came up, I got out, checked the train schedule, went to the washroom, bought food, and then got into the train for Kevelaer.
When I reached Kevelaer, I had forgotten how to get to the right house, so I went to the Basilica square and then orientated myself from there. At the church of St. Antonius, I made a short stop to tie up my hair again, when a trio of schoolchildren walking through the square shouted out "Hey lady, you're ugly!" and so on and so forth, oddly enough in English. I had my back to them, so I had no way of knowing if they were referring to me or not, and I certainly wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of turning around and letting them know I heard them, if they were. But the gratuitous meanness of it, more than the silly words, really got to me, and also reminded me of my bad experiences at school; so I was, more than ever, an emotional wreck by the time that I got to the house. I had no more sleep, but showered, and poured out my woes, which did make me feel better. Still, I haven't even gotten over it yet; it reminds me of the few lines of Dante's Inferno that I know, in which the traveller speaks of the dark, wild forest which he encounters in his journey, "Che nel pensier rinova la paura."*
* (Taken out of its grammatical context) = "Which in the thought renews the fear."
So we bent our steps to the Viktualienmarkt, and found another beer garden, where there was apparently a greater proportion of natives. It was a nice atmosphere, cool and dark and intimate with the sheltering trees. After much discussion, we ordered a fine beer, a glass of mineral water, two pretzels, and a dessert. I only had a sip of the beer, but it was excellent, from the dark amber colour to the flavour and the lack of a metallic aftertaste. The dessert was 6.80 Euros, and thereby quite expensive like the other menu items, but it was fully justified by the quality. It was apple rings fried in beer batter, accompanied by a scoop of light ice cream (which unfortunately had a hint of fridge flavour, but seemed to have been made in the restaurant itself with yoghurt or Quark), a berry sauce that was very good and natural, and a garnish of a blackberry, raspberry, mint leaf, and sprig of red currants.
When it was time to pay the waitress, I was conflicted. She had been impatient with us and had taken an unnecessarily long time to come with the bill, reminding me of the dreadfully humiliating time five years ago when Mama and I went to a restaurant near Museum Island and the people essentially refused to serve us. On the other hand, her service was not sneering or sloppy. She was brisk, competent, and friendly, and only quite busy and quite sure that she would not be getting any decent tip from us. So I gave her a generous tip (given that the bill was ca. 15 Euros, it still wasn't much), hoping also that it would encourage her to give another chance to the next tourists who order the cheapest items on the menu; it worked, I think, because she was grateful and clearly felt bad for having been short with us.
* * *
It was late, but I was then determined to catch the night train to Düsseldorf in order to attend my grandfather's funeral. I could have taken a train at 6:15 a.m. the next day, but we had no alarm clock and it would have been cutting it quite close, time-wise. So we returned to the hostel, which was a fairly long trip; I packed up; and then we hurried off to the Hauptbahnhof, running part of the way. I should have arrived too late, but the 10:42 p.m. train was delayed. Still, we had to hurry along the train to the back half, and then an official told us that I could buy reservations in the restaurant car in the back of the train. M., who was extremely nice and helpful throughout, then waved goodbye, and I set off in the train.
Then the purgatory began. The train was crowded; the people were generally the type who would lounge about an empty city square or bar at 3 a.m; it was dark; I was tired and malnourished and worried about obtaining a reservation. I tried to make my way through to the restaurant car, but after three or so cars where the narrow passage was crammed with people, I gave up, also as I had no idea where precisely the restaurant car was. Instead I decided to occupy an empty compartment in the sleeper car, keeping the curtains open and waiting for the conductor there. When the conductor came along, he was highly annoyed to find that I had apparently just marched into a compartment that didn't belong to me. I explained as briefly as I could, so his face cleared up a bit; then I zipped up my handbag and took up my bag, ready to set off to the restaurant car (which, he informed me, was in the very back). But then I was annoyed, and humiliated, when he popped his head back in, apparently to check that I was actually leaving, as if I were a delinquent. As he was still checking the tickets in the rest of the car, he would have been able to tell if I left or not anyway. Hopefully he was seeing if he could help me, instead.
On the way to the restaurant car, I stepped aside into a niche to let someone pass through the door unhindered. As the man passed me, he looked at me and said, with quiet venom, "I would have held the door open, even for you." The only explanations I can think of for saying something so mean is that I may have unwittingly given him a baleful glare, though I was only tired, and that he has had bad experiences with women. Anyway, I was in emotional shock after that, and then tried very hard not to cry when I reached the restaurant car.
The nice lady at the bar directed me to the conductor, a few cars down. So I went off again, still lugging my duffel bag, but before I reached the conductor, I passed two people who asked the passengers in one compartment to show their passports, saying that they were the police. I'd completely forgotten that this train crossed the border to Amsterdam, and the supposed policemen were not only plainclothes but criminal types if I ever saw them, so I suspected something, stopped and asked them if they had their badges with them. They were surprisingly polite considering, and asked me rhetorically if I was the one who was being asked to show her documentation, implying that it was none of my business. But I felt that it was, persisted (hopefully not irritatingly), and one of them said that the other had shown his badge, so it was all right. So I was finally (mostly) convinced, said, "Good, sorry," and continued, feeling dreadfully for having made such an error.
Then I bought my reservation, and the conductor said that I could choose whichever empty seat I wanted in the front of the car (but I chose one that was reserved after all, and had to move again). Then I cried as quietly as I could, certain that the people around me thought of me as a stupid "Heulsuse," and wondering what awful thing I had done or was going to do to deserve what I'd gone through. But I tried to get to sleep as soon as possible. The lights were off, the blinds were closed and I didn't feel free to open mine because another passenger (who had lifted the back of his chair for me, so at least that was something) was trying to sleep at the same window right in front of me, so I had no idea which stations were coming up. There were no announcements. I went to sleep, then woke up again every time the train slowed down and stopped. At length there was music to announce upcoming stations, which was a hip-hop tune with the sound of clapping hands and cymbals. At the time I thought it was funny, but now I fear I will have bad associations with hip-hop for the rest of my life. Five glorious hours later, Düsseldorf came up, I got out, checked the train schedule, went to the washroom, bought food, and then got into the train for Kevelaer.
When I reached Kevelaer, I had forgotten how to get to the right house, so I went to the Basilica square and then orientated myself from there. At the church of St. Antonius, I made a short stop to tie up my hair again, when a trio of schoolchildren walking through the square shouted out "Hey lady, you're ugly!" and so on and so forth, oddly enough in English. I had my back to them, so I had no way of knowing if they were referring to me or not, and I certainly wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of turning around and letting them know I heard them, if they were. But the gratuitous meanness of it, more than the silly words, really got to me, and also reminded me of my bad experiences at school; so I was, more than ever, an emotional wreck by the time that I got to the house. I had no more sleep, but showered, and poured out my woes, which did make me feel better. Still, I haven't even gotten over it yet; it reminds me of the few lines of Dante's Inferno that I know, in which the traveller speaks of the dark, wild forest which he encounters in his journey, "Che nel pensier rinova la paura."*
* (Taken out of its grammatical context) = "Which in the thought renews the fear."
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
A Week of Wandering: Füssen
In the morning of our third day in Munich, M. and I took the train to Füssen, a Bavarian hilltop town on the banks of the Lech River. We walked up to the Hohes Schloss, a cheerful white castle which was built in the Middle Ages and then heavily rebuilt beginning in 1486. It did not awe me much and the trompe-l'oeil paintings of cornerstones and bay windows – their glass panes ringed as they so often are in Bavaria – did not trompe l'oeil* very much either. What charmed my imagination was a nearby portion of grey ruined wall and inbuilt grotto, which were embedded into the slope, but whose date of provenance was, however, 1876. *(fool the eye)
The town itself is very friendly – no stares of hostile apathy – and the tourist hordes had either not quite arrived yet, or they tend to bypass the town. I loved the surroundings: firs, fresh air, leafy trees, grassy fields out of a Swiss cough candy advertisement (purple-flowering spearmint and clover, yellow arnica, tender dandelion leaves, lady's mantle, plantains, etc.) and little mountains. We went to a quiet corner, passed the bench that was labelled "private property" and sat down on another to eat lunch. A fountain splashed away in front of us, a lawn reposed in the shade, and from a vine-sheltered backyard we heard the subdued clinking and conversation of people having a peaceful lunch, too. It strikes me that the sole element missing from this glowing description is a circle of rabbits dancing a minuet; but the scene truly was idyllic, all the more as it was not too glaringly so.
Then we walked off to the village of Hohenschwangau, for three or four kilometres, though we could have taken the bus, too. Our trip was not too steep, it was sunny, and cheerful pedestrians and cyclists passed us on our way up. The Lech River is a milky aquamarine tint, which lends a toxically artificial appearance; but as there is no black dead zone above the waterline, and we spotted bubbles that a fish made on its surface, the colour is presumably due to glacial pristineness and not to mining waste.
Hohenschwangau's village is now a cluster of immodestly large Teutonic buildings, inns or shops; it overlooks the Alpensee, and is overlooked by the yellow castle of Hohenschwangau, which was built by the father of the Ludwig who was responsible for Schloss Neuschwanstein. We stood in line for an estimated forty minutes to buy tickets, which cost 9 Euros for Neuschwanstein, and would have cost 17 Euros if we had wanted to enter both castles. There are English, French, Spanish tours, and if you do not join one, you may not enter. Fortunately for them, the pleasingly diverse tourist crowd did largely seem to be American, British, German, or Spanish. But a little girl, or the paterfamilias, in the family behind us, remarked unenthusiastically that this was like [waiting in line at] Universal Studios. When we had paid, we went out and discovered that our tickets were for a tour at ca. 5:30, which in turn was ca. 30 minutes after the last train directly for München left from Füssen station. (Which reminds me that one beautiful thing about living in Berlin is that the train schedules don't have asterisks and daggers and fine print all over because the trains run so differently on holidays, Sundays, Saturdays, Fridays . . . every second Monday after a full moon . . . and so on and so forth, ad absurdum.)
So we sold our tickets to a nice Spanish couple, and then, after I had purchased ice cream and eaten it, we ascended the path to Hohenschwangau. It has a delightful courtyard with a swan fountain, oleanders, a potted lemon tree and apricot trees, lavender, a lion fountain, plane trees, etc., in an homage to the beauties of Italy. Winding along into another courtyard, we found an unpromising concrete basin that was filled with fresh, pure, and cold water. We inquired after its salubrity at the gift shop, then indulged in the luxury of washing our hands and, in M.'s case, filling up her water bottle. Schloss Neuschwanstein loomed quietly from its hill. I think it much maligned now; at least on a mildly cloudy day, it was not the hectic technicolour experience I had expected. Its proportions, too, are modest given the towering mountain, where sparse firs straggle up the rounded peak and dried-up waterfalls run down the heights, in the background.
Slowly we walked back down to the Alpensee, in which one is permitted to swim. One of the tiny beaches was crowded with people, and a black-footed swan and fish were tranquilly flocking near the humans. We pulled off our socks and shoes, hung our socks to air, and then waded out into the limpid water. It was a beautiful experience, at least for me – so cool, and the feet felt wonderful after it. Putting on the socks and shoes again was no torment, either; my socks were not wet with perspiration as I had expected, but cuddly and warm and dry.
Then we went to the bus station, waited for the bus, rode back to Füssen train station, and then took the train back to Munich. Along the way we had the opportunity to admire more of the squat, comfortable Bavarian houses, armed with red roof tiles, solar panels, satellite dishes, and every other modern convenience. I did enjoy, too, seeing farmers wielding pitchforks to rake up the cut grasses on their fields, instead of threshing through the field with hay-baling machines. There were terraces, fields with horses or cows, cornfields, gardens bright with calendula and sunflowers, balconies overflowing with pink and red geraniums or petunias, stacks of firewood, woods with firs and maples and birches and meagre pines that resembled paintbrushes, mountain ash trees full of red berries, a striped blue and white maypole, etc., so the route painted a hearty picture of rural German life, straight out of a children's book. Then there were apartment buildings in the middle of nowhere and factories and an apparent gravel pit.
The town itself is very friendly – no stares of hostile apathy – and the tourist hordes had either not quite arrived yet, or they tend to bypass the town. I loved the surroundings: firs, fresh air, leafy trees, grassy fields out of a Swiss cough candy advertisement (purple-flowering spearmint and clover, yellow arnica, tender dandelion leaves, lady's mantle, plantains, etc.) and little mountains. We went to a quiet corner, passed the bench that was labelled "private property" and sat down on another to eat lunch. A fountain splashed away in front of us, a lawn reposed in the shade, and from a vine-sheltered backyard we heard the subdued clinking and conversation of people having a peaceful lunch, too. It strikes me that the sole element missing from this glowing description is a circle of rabbits dancing a minuet; but the scene truly was idyllic, all the more as it was not too glaringly so.
Then we walked off to the village of Hohenschwangau, for three or four kilometres, though we could have taken the bus, too. Our trip was not too steep, it was sunny, and cheerful pedestrians and cyclists passed us on our way up. The Lech River is a milky aquamarine tint, which lends a toxically artificial appearance; but as there is no black dead zone above the waterline, and we spotted bubbles that a fish made on its surface, the colour is presumably due to glacial pristineness and not to mining waste.
Hohenschwangau's village is now a cluster of immodestly large Teutonic buildings, inns or shops; it overlooks the Alpensee, and is overlooked by the yellow castle of Hohenschwangau, which was built by the father of the Ludwig who was responsible for Schloss Neuschwanstein. We stood in line for an estimated forty minutes to buy tickets, which cost 9 Euros for Neuschwanstein, and would have cost 17 Euros if we had wanted to enter both castles. There are English, French, Spanish tours, and if you do not join one, you may not enter. Fortunately for them, the pleasingly diverse tourist crowd did largely seem to be American, British, German, or Spanish. But a little girl, or the paterfamilias, in the family behind us, remarked unenthusiastically that this was like [waiting in line at] Universal Studios. When we had paid, we went out and discovered that our tickets were for a tour at ca. 5:30, which in turn was ca. 30 minutes after the last train directly for München left from Füssen station. (Which reminds me that one beautiful thing about living in Berlin is that the train schedules don't have asterisks and daggers and fine print all over because the trains run so differently on holidays, Sundays, Saturdays, Fridays . . . every second Monday after a full moon . . . and so on and so forth, ad absurdum.)
So we sold our tickets to a nice Spanish couple, and then, after I had purchased ice cream and eaten it, we ascended the path to Hohenschwangau. It has a delightful courtyard with a swan fountain, oleanders, a potted lemon tree and apricot trees, lavender, a lion fountain, plane trees, etc., in an homage to the beauties of Italy. Winding along into another courtyard, we found an unpromising concrete basin that was filled with fresh, pure, and cold water. We inquired after its salubrity at the gift shop, then indulged in the luxury of washing our hands and, in M.'s case, filling up her water bottle. Schloss Neuschwanstein loomed quietly from its hill. I think it much maligned now; at least on a mildly cloudy day, it was not the hectic technicolour experience I had expected. Its proportions, too, are modest given the towering mountain, where sparse firs straggle up the rounded peak and dried-up waterfalls run down the heights, in the background.
Slowly we walked back down to the Alpensee, in which one is permitted to swim. One of the tiny beaches was crowded with people, and a black-footed swan and fish were tranquilly flocking near the humans. We pulled off our socks and shoes, hung our socks to air, and then waded out into the limpid water. It was a beautiful experience, at least for me – so cool, and the feet felt wonderful after it. Putting on the socks and shoes again was no torment, either; my socks were not wet with perspiration as I had expected, but cuddly and warm and dry.
Then we went to the bus station, waited for the bus, rode back to Füssen train station, and then took the train back to Munich. Along the way we had the opportunity to admire more of the squat, comfortable Bavarian houses, armed with red roof tiles, solar panels, satellite dishes, and every other modern convenience. I did enjoy, too, seeing farmers wielding pitchforks to rake up the cut grasses on their fields, instead of threshing through the field with hay-baling machines. There were terraces, fields with horses or cows, cornfields, gardens bright with calendula and sunflowers, balconies overflowing with pink and red geraniums or petunias, stacks of firewood, woods with firs and maples and birches and meagre pines that resembled paintbrushes, mountain ash trees full of red berries, a striped blue and white maypole, etc., so the route painted a hearty picture of rural German life, straight out of a children's book. Then there were apartment buildings in the middle of nowhere and factories and an apparent gravel pit.
A Week of Wandering: Munich
Here is a thorough account of M.'s and my journeyings, which will fall into this schedule (estimated times):
August 19th, 10:15 p.m. - August 21st, 8:52 a.m.: Munich
August 21st, 10:55 a.m. - 3:45 p.m. - Füssen
August 21st, 5:50 p.m. - 10:45 p.m. - Munich
August 22nd, 8:30 a.m. - August 23rd, 1:30 p.m.: Kevelaer
August 23rd, 3:30 p.m. - 6:30 p.m.: Nürnberg
August 23rd, 8:00 p.m. - August 25th, 9:41 a.m.: Würzburg
August 25th, 9:41 a.m. - 2:30 p.m.: Rothenburg ob der Tauber
August 25th, 10:13 p.m.: Back in Berlin!
Our arrival in Munich I have described, I believe, sufficiently. After my internet session, which was expensive at 1 Euro for 20 minutes, we locked our bags to the metal double bed, took our purses, and went off for a walk on our own account. Though the M— C— Hostel is nominally on the Landsberger Straße, it is really on the Bayerstraße, a broad unhappy wasteland of clean large buildings leading down to the Hauptbahnhof and the joyous bustle at the square with the great modern fountain and flowers and light brown façade of the Osram building. There are two tram lines running down the centre, patched road to either side, but the sidewalks are a trifle too narrow, if one factors in pedestrians, and cyclists speeding past each other in opposite directions as half of them are apparently too lazy to ride along their rightful side of the street. Across from us there were two tall brick buildings which were presumably from the late 19th century: an Augustiner beer house, which has a nice but expensive air, and a beer distillery, with a large brick smokestack. The distillery emanates a disagreeable yeasty odour that filled our room.
As we walked down the street, we saw signs for Bavaria's state congress ("Landtag") elections. The represented political parties were the CSU, Green Party, and the Ökologisch-Demokratische Partei, and the posters for the last two were spattered with brown liquid or torn up the next time we walked past. Street construction workers were laying a new strip of asphalt along the edge of the road, which made for an unpleasant interlude in the promenade, near the long-stretching European Patent Office with its bridge over the street. Then we turned right toward turquoise church spires that we spotted over the apartment buildings, to find St. Paul's, a nice Neogothic church (built 1897-1906) that was unremarkable but most satisfactory, with its generous sprinkling of gargoyles, a demonic bull sculpture that jutted out above a doorway in companionship with a grinning sheep, a flying buttress or two, knobbly arches over the doorways, and the golden weathervanes that perched on the spires' peaks.
Turning back, we returned to the hostel to find that the free guided tour of the city would start shortly. If we started at the hostel, however, we would have had to take the bus, and we were determined to avoid this. I was particularly determined, as I had spent 249 Euros on my train pass, and had arrived in Munich as the proud but anxious possessor of only a 10 Euro bill and small change. For some reason (presumably because I have a weekly withdrawal limit, which I had reached), the EC automated teller machines would not allow me to withdraw any more money after I took out 50 Euros at the Munich Hauptbahnhof on the day of our arrival.
* * *
So we walked up the Bayerstraße, through the cheerful fountain square, along the Neuhauser Straße with its gate and its fruit vendor stands and its upscale shops, to the uproar that is Marienplatz. By the time we saw the Platz, I had a most favourable impression of Munich. There were many people, not only tourists but also natives, strolling about the streets, so it was alive; these people were well-dressed and often had a relaxed and intelligent air; the flowers and older buildings were beautiful; the streets and sidewalks were reasonably well tended; and I liked the trams. When we reached Marienplatz, I liked the Neues Rathaus very much, though the Glockenspiel and its cutesy figures dancing around to the chiming tune of the Marseillaise and who knows what else are not quite my cup of tea. The edifice is intricate, impressive, and venerably aged, has a suitable air of mystery in its interior courtyards and otherwise, and I love the banks of pink flowers that lend life and vigour. Earlier on I was trying to explain the visible difference between Gothic and Neogothic (a subject I admittedly don't know much about) to M., and one difference that came to mind is that Neogothic buildings are often simplified or adhere to familiar patterns to avoid the strain of imagining and executing more fanciful and original designs. But this criticism cannot be levelled at the Neues Rathaus, even if it was built in the first decade of the 20th century.
* * *
In the middle of the square there is, of course, the Mariensäule, built after Munich was spared by the Swedish army during the Thirty Years' War, from 1638. It is a red stone pillar, whose base is defended by four armed bronze cherubs who are trampling on a basilisk (=plague), a snake (=heresy=Protestantism), a dragon (=famine), and a lion (=warfare), and whose tip is graced by the golden statue of Mary. There were three or four young people in red T-shirts standing there, surrounded by a flock of tourists. One of the people bellowed out in an Aussie or Kiwi accent that we should get our free tickets from him, which M. and I promptly did. At length we were given an introduction to the tour, herded into the courtyard of the Neues Rathaus, half-voluntarily crowded together to pose for a group photo (I was concealed behind a tall person, and quite content to leave it that way), and then divided into groups. Then we wandered off and saw a fair list of the major sites in Munich, with the sole glaring omissions of St. Lukas, the Michaelskirche, the Nymphenburg Palace, and the Alte and Neue Pinakothek.
The tour itself was quite friendly and conscientiously thought through. The jokes (in-jokes that are intended to give one the sense of being initiated into special knowledge, mildly amusing anecdotes, or puns) and the information were carefully scripted and popularized; and this information was designed to enlighten people who know nothing about Germany, except for the concepts of Berlin and Hitler and sauerkraut. But that is a question of taste and not of quality. As for the other people in the group, they were mostly Australian, Irish, Canadian, Brazilian, Portuguese, or German.
The Frauenkirche did not impress me much. The "Devil's Footstep" in the entrance of the church is a tame imprint of a human shoe (surely the devil has cloven hooves?) with a little smear coming off the heel, as I've seen often enough in asphalt or in cement if someone has walked on it too soon. — I'm a terrible grouch, I know. (c: — The Altes Rathaus and St. Peter did not impress me much either, though we entered neither, so maybe I would have felt differently about them if I had. Beside the Altes Rathaus there is a statue of Juliet, which was donated by the city of Verona, and the legend goes that those who place flowers in her arms will find love; at this point in the tour I was skeptical again, and thought what a convenient thing it is that there are so many lucky sculptures in places which just happen to want to attract tourists.
After these stalwart older buildings, we ambled along the rich shopping street of the Maximilianstraße, with its ridiculously expensive objects and reasonably nice buildings, then to the environs of the Theatinerkirche and the Residenz, the latter of which was unimpressive when we saw it because it was obscured on one side by a sheeting due to renovation. We also passed the Hofbräuhaus, where we were refreshed by a tasteless anecdote or two. The tour guide also broached newer history, extremely soberly, and he lowered his voice and wanted us to crowd closer to him whenever he mentioned the Nazi era. He pointed out the spot where Hitler was almost assassinated, and then the trail in brass(?) cobblestones that marks the route where people would walk in the 1930s and 40s to avoid having to give the Nazi salute at the spot, as well as a plaque on the wall of a building which, as a Jewish-owned department store, was destroyed on Kristallnacht. His thesis on Munich's attitude toward the Nazi years was that it prefers to quietly remember and to look forward, unlike Berlin, with its ostentatious Holocaust Memorial. I did not like the new Jewish Synagogue at all, not least because the colours and bleakness reminded me a good deal of Nazi architecture. When the tour guide explained that the rough blocks of tan-coloured stone at one end of the building are intended to represent the desert, I felt marginally fonder of it, but learning that the black superstructure is intended to represent the tent of Jacob still did nothing for me.
We stopped at the Viktualienmarkt, which I liked very much, with its flourishing range of pricy fresh fruit and vegetables, honey and wines. The tour guide company is hand-in-glove with Starbucks, so we were encouraged to enter it, but M. and I bought green grapes at the market instead. We finished the tour at the Hofgarten, where a violinist was standing in an echoing portico playing the "greatest hits" (Kreisler's "Liebesfreud," etc.) with much absorption and sincerity. I worried about how much to tip the tour guide; before we went on the tour, I had thought that it was free because the hostel was paying the guides, but it wasn't. The guide had mentioned earlier that his rent was 450 Euros per month, and at another point that he contributes a portion of his earnings to his tour guide company. As M. and I were the first to tip him, and at least a third of the rest of the group had no apparent intention of doing so, I was wondering how he can scrape together enough money to live. His aspect was dejected as he accepted the 3 Euros I gave him (I would have made it more if I hadn't wanted to give money to the violinist, too), and I felt guilty about it.
As for the violinist, I did give the money, and later when we returned to the Garten I quickly talked with him. He had a round pink face and beetling brows, a country- rather than city-dwelling aspect, and was presumably in his sixties. He had studied at a conservatory in Minsk, then played in a symphonic orchestra for years, and that now he teaches. When I had said that I had liked his playing, he offered one of his CDs; but I refused to buy any as nicely as I could, and felt guilty again, this time for giving the impression that I was admiring his music without being willing to go so far as parting with any money (I don't think he had seen me throw the coins into the violin case earlier).
We walked on to the Englischer Garten, which Papa and Mama had highly recommended, and found the park beautiful, but the prospect of a long walk was not enchanting to either M. or me, so we soon turned back toward the city. It was fun to watch the surfers in the mechanically created "whitewater" where the river water flows in near the Japanese tea house, though, and we liked the "temple" that overlooks the south of the park and the Frauenkirche. As we passed the art gallery, we also passed someone who looked like Günter Grass, at which point I was quite excited. But I always tell myself that, where famous people and lavish furnishings/buildings/etc. are concerned, the order of the day is nil admirari, unless the admiration is a genuine and spontaneous response to their worth and not their fame or pomp.
Then we went back to the hostel, quite tired, buying provisions at Galeria Kaufhof along the way. I ate and drank a little, showered, cried a little, and then went to sleep early.
August 19th, 10:15 p.m. - August 21st, 8:52 a.m.: Munich
August 21st, 10:55 a.m. - 3:45 p.m. - Füssen
August 21st, 5:50 p.m. - 10:45 p.m. - Munich
August 22nd, 8:30 a.m. - August 23rd, 1:30 p.m.: Kevelaer
August 23rd, 3:30 p.m. - 6:30 p.m.: Nürnberg
August 23rd, 8:00 p.m. - August 25th, 9:41 a.m.: Würzburg
August 25th, 9:41 a.m. - 2:30 p.m.: Rothenburg ob der Tauber
August 25th, 10:13 p.m.: Back in Berlin!
Our arrival in Munich I have described, I believe, sufficiently. After my internet session, which was expensive at 1 Euro for 20 minutes, we locked our bags to the metal double bed, took our purses, and went off for a walk on our own account. Though the M— C— Hostel is nominally on the Landsberger Straße, it is really on the Bayerstraße, a broad unhappy wasteland of clean large buildings leading down to the Hauptbahnhof and the joyous bustle at the square with the great modern fountain and flowers and light brown façade of the Osram building. There are two tram lines running down the centre, patched road to either side, but the sidewalks are a trifle too narrow, if one factors in pedestrians, and cyclists speeding past each other in opposite directions as half of them are apparently too lazy to ride along their rightful side of the street. Across from us there were two tall brick buildings which were presumably from the late 19th century: an Augustiner beer house, which has a nice but expensive air, and a beer distillery, with a large brick smokestack. The distillery emanates a disagreeable yeasty odour that filled our room.
As we walked down the street, we saw signs for Bavaria's state congress ("Landtag") elections. The represented political parties were the CSU, Green Party, and the Ökologisch-Demokratische Partei, and the posters for the last two were spattered with brown liquid or torn up the next time we walked past. Street construction workers were laying a new strip of asphalt along the edge of the road, which made for an unpleasant interlude in the promenade, near the long-stretching European Patent Office with its bridge over the street. Then we turned right toward turquoise church spires that we spotted over the apartment buildings, to find St. Paul's, a nice Neogothic church (built 1897-1906) that was unremarkable but most satisfactory, with its generous sprinkling of gargoyles, a demonic bull sculpture that jutted out above a doorway in companionship with a grinning sheep, a flying buttress or two, knobbly arches over the doorways, and the golden weathervanes that perched on the spires' peaks.
Turning back, we returned to the hostel to find that the free guided tour of the city would start shortly. If we started at the hostel, however, we would have had to take the bus, and we were determined to avoid this. I was particularly determined, as I had spent 249 Euros on my train pass, and had arrived in Munich as the proud but anxious possessor of only a 10 Euro bill and small change. For some reason (presumably because I have a weekly withdrawal limit, which I had reached), the EC automated teller machines would not allow me to withdraw any more money after I took out 50 Euros at the Munich Hauptbahnhof on the day of our arrival.
* * *
So we walked up the Bayerstraße, through the cheerful fountain square, along the Neuhauser Straße with its gate and its fruit vendor stands and its upscale shops, to the uproar that is Marienplatz. By the time we saw the Platz, I had a most favourable impression of Munich. There were many people, not only tourists but also natives, strolling about the streets, so it was alive; these people were well-dressed and often had a relaxed and intelligent air; the flowers and older buildings were beautiful; the streets and sidewalks were reasonably well tended; and I liked the trams. When we reached Marienplatz, I liked the Neues Rathaus very much, though the Glockenspiel and its cutesy figures dancing around to the chiming tune of the Marseillaise and who knows what else are not quite my cup of tea. The edifice is intricate, impressive, and venerably aged, has a suitable air of mystery in its interior courtyards and otherwise, and I love the banks of pink flowers that lend life and vigour. Earlier on I was trying to explain the visible difference between Gothic and Neogothic (a subject I admittedly don't know much about) to M., and one difference that came to mind is that Neogothic buildings are often simplified or adhere to familiar patterns to avoid the strain of imagining and executing more fanciful and original designs. But this criticism cannot be levelled at the Neues Rathaus, even if it was built in the first decade of the 20th century.
* * *
In the middle of the square there is, of course, the Mariensäule, built after Munich was spared by the Swedish army during the Thirty Years' War, from 1638. It is a red stone pillar, whose base is defended by four armed bronze cherubs who are trampling on a basilisk (=plague), a snake (=heresy=Protestantism), a dragon (=famine), and a lion (=warfare), and whose tip is graced by the golden statue of Mary. There were three or four young people in red T-shirts standing there, surrounded by a flock of tourists. One of the people bellowed out in an Aussie or Kiwi accent that we should get our free tickets from him, which M. and I promptly did. At length we were given an introduction to the tour, herded into the courtyard of the Neues Rathaus, half-voluntarily crowded together to pose for a group photo (I was concealed behind a tall person, and quite content to leave it that way), and then divided into groups. Then we wandered off and saw a fair list of the major sites in Munich, with the sole glaring omissions of St. Lukas, the Michaelskirche, the Nymphenburg Palace, and the Alte and Neue Pinakothek.
The tour itself was quite friendly and conscientiously thought through. The jokes (in-jokes that are intended to give one the sense of being initiated into special knowledge, mildly amusing anecdotes, or puns) and the information were carefully scripted and popularized; and this information was designed to enlighten people who know nothing about Germany, except for the concepts of Berlin and Hitler and sauerkraut. But that is a question of taste and not of quality. As for the other people in the group, they were mostly Australian, Irish, Canadian, Brazilian, Portuguese, or German.
The Frauenkirche did not impress me much. The "Devil's Footstep" in the entrance of the church is a tame imprint of a human shoe (surely the devil has cloven hooves?) with a little smear coming off the heel, as I've seen often enough in asphalt or in cement if someone has walked on it too soon. — I'm a terrible grouch, I know. (c: — The Altes Rathaus and St. Peter did not impress me much either, though we entered neither, so maybe I would have felt differently about them if I had. Beside the Altes Rathaus there is a statue of Juliet, which was donated by the city of Verona, and the legend goes that those who place flowers in her arms will find love; at this point in the tour I was skeptical again, and thought what a convenient thing it is that there are so many lucky sculptures in places which just happen to want to attract tourists.
After these stalwart older buildings, we ambled along the rich shopping street of the Maximilianstraße, with its ridiculously expensive objects and reasonably nice buildings, then to the environs of the Theatinerkirche and the Residenz, the latter of which was unimpressive when we saw it because it was obscured on one side by a sheeting due to renovation. We also passed the Hofbräuhaus, where we were refreshed by a tasteless anecdote or two. The tour guide also broached newer history, extremely soberly, and he lowered his voice and wanted us to crowd closer to him whenever he mentioned the Nazi era. He pointed out the spot where Hitler was almost assassinated, and then the trail in brass(?) cobblestones that marks the route where people would walk in the 1930s and 40s to avoid having to give the Nazi salute at the spot, as well as a plaque on the wall of a building which, as a Jewish-owned department store, was destroyed on Kristallnacht. His thesis on Munich's attitude toward the Nazi years was that it prefers to quietly remember and to look forward, unlike Berlin, with its ostentatious Holocaust Memorial. I did not like the new Jewish Synagogue at all, not least because the colours and bleakness reminded me a good deal of Nazi architecture. When the tour guide explained that the rough blocks of tan-coloured stone at one end of the building are intended to represent the desert, I felt marginally fonder of it, but learning that the black superstructure is intended to represent the tent of Jacob still did nothing for me.
We stopped at the Viktualienmarkt, which I liked very much, with its flourishing range of pricy fresh fruit and vegetables, honey and wines. The tour guide company is hand-in-glove with Starbucks, so we were encouraged to enter it, but M. and I bought green grapes at the market instead. We finished the tour at the Hofgarten, where a violinist was standing in an echoing portico playing the "greatest hits" (Kreisler's "Liebesfreud," etc.) with much absorption and sincerity. I worried about how much to tip the tour guide; before we went on the tour, I had thought that it was free because the hostel was paying the guides, but it wasn't. The guide had mentioned earlier that his rent was 450 Euros per month, and at another point that he contributes a portion of his earnings to his tour guide company. As M. and I were the first to tip him, and at least a third of the rest of the group had no apparent intention of doing so, I was wondering how he can scrape together enough money to live. His aspect was dejected as he accepted the 3 Euros I gave him (I would have made it more if I hadn't wanted to give money to the violinist, too), and I felt guilty about it.
As for the violinist, I did give the money, and later when we returned to the Garten I quickly talked with him. He had a round pink face and beetling brows, a country- rather than city-dwelling aspect, and was presumably in his sixties. He had studied at a conservatory in Minsk, then played in a symphonic orchestra for years, and that now he teaches. When I had said that I had liked his playing, he offered one of his CDs; but I refused to buy any as nicely as I could, and felt guilty again, this time for giving the impression that I was admiring his music without being willing to go so far as parting with any money (I don't think he had seen me throw the coins into the violin case earlier).
We walked on to the Englischer Garten, which Papa and Mama had highly recommended, and found the park beautiful, but the prospect of a long walk was not enchanting to either M. or me, so we soon turned back toward the city. It was fun to watch the surfers in the mechanically created "whitewater" where the river water flows in near the Japanese tea house, though, and we liked the "temple" that overlooks the south of the park and the Frauenkirche. As we passed the art gallery, we also passed someone who looked like Günter Grass, at which point I was quite excited. But I always tell myself that, where famous people and lavish furnishings/buildings/etc. are concerned, the order of the day is nil admirari, unless the admiration is a genuine and spontaneous response to their worth and not their fame or pomp.
Then we went back to the hostel, quite tired, buying provisions at Galeria Kaufhof along the way. I ate and drank a little, showered, cried a little, and then went to sleep early.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Notes from the Wanderpfad, II
I arrived in Nürnberg in the afternoon, after a very agreeable train ride. When I got here, I went to the tourist information centre, and was told that there are two hostels in the town: the one on the Kaiserburg, where the Holy Roman Emperors once lived, and a backpacker's hotel near the train station. So I duly trekked up to the Kaiserburg, asked at the hostel and found that they had no one by that name, and duly took a tour of the battlements (which were impressively broad, but the red stone was so neatly flattened and squared that I feel sure that much of it has been rebuilt). Then I (and hundreds of other tourists, among them an amazingly large contingent of -- if I have my popular culture down properly -- aficionados of punk rock) decided to take a long winding tour down the streets, over the charming river (polluted as heck, of course, and twice because my orientation was a trifle off), past the churches and over the square (where fresh Lebkuchen are still to be sold), and then back down to the information centre, where Internet Explorer on the free computers still failed to load.
So now I'm in an internet café in the train station. But Google Mail is deeply incompatible with Mexx Solutions (more like Mexx Problems (c: ), so I could read my friend's bewildered emails (she has left Nürnberg for Würzburg, and may come back, or may not) but not send any reply to her. Maddening.
I have a great deal more to write about, but I don't want to take too long, so it will have to wait.
So now I'm in an internet café in the train station. But Google Mail is deeply incompatible with Mexx Solutions (more like Mexx Problems (c: ), so I could read my friend's bewildered emails (she has left Nürnberg for Würzburg, and may come back, or may not) but not send any reply to her. Maddening.
I have a great deal more to write about, but I don't want to take too long, so it will have to wait.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Notes from the Wanderpfad
Last night at around 10:15 my friend M. and I arrived in Munich. It was raining, we took a taxi, and sped down the street from the Hauptbahnhof to the Meininger City Hostel, where we checked in and then ascended the stairs to the fifth floor. Mentally I felt leached by the long train ride, but it took a long while to sleep after all, and I woke up again before 7 a.m. But I don't feel too bad, especially as I just ate breakfast, a poppy seed bun with strawberry and with raspberry jam, and a cup of strawberry tea. The place is full of schoolchildren and people of all other ages; M.'s and my roommates are two nice Korean girls. At around 10 a.m. we can set off for a free guided tour of the city centre, which is pretty exhaustive and moreover should be, considering that it will take three hours.
As for the train ride, it was beautiful. Until, I'd say, Leipzig, there were fields upon fields of tanned grasses, pine and birch woods, brick houses, and rows of wind generators and even, at one point, a little wooden windmill that sat in a backyard confined in a neat wooden fence. There were fields of corn, wheat of whose stalks the grains had been stripped, and sunflowers; shooting platforms; and, near towns, sunken gardening colonies. Ridges of forest rose in the distance, and at last the train tracks were enfolded in them, as we ran along into the valley of the Saale. This was, aside from the inevitable modern factory buildings, a landscape that strongly recalled the Germany of Romantic literature: apple trees, brown castles on hills, oak and beech and fir woods, the winding river which at times reminded me of a Rubens (?) landscape in the Gemäldegallerie, the towns full of houses roofed in red tiles and (later) shining black shingles, and the clock-faced spires rising from them in peaked bulbs or pyramids. The region of Jena struck me especially.
There is little internet time left to me, so I'll have to stop here. (c:
As for the train ride, it was beautiful. Until, I'd say, Leipzig, there were fields upon fields of tanned grasses, pine and birch woods, brick houses, and rows of wind generators and even, at one point, a little wooden windmill that sat in a backyard confined in a neat wooden fence. There were fields of corn, wheat of whose stalks the grains had been stripped, and sunflowers; shooting platforms; and, near towns, sunken gardening colonies. Ridges of forest rose in the distance, and at last the train tracks were enfolded in them, as we ran along into the valley of the Saale. This was, aside from the inevitable modern factory buildings, a landscape that strongly recalled the Germany of Romantic literature: apple trees, brown castles on hills, oak and beech and fir woods, the winding river which at times reminded me of a Rubens (?) landscape in the Gemäldegallerie, the towns full of houses roofed in red tiles and (later) shining black shingles, and the clock-faced spires rising from them in peaked bulbs or pyramids. The region of Jena struck me especially.
There is little internet time left to me, so I'll have to stop here. (c:
Monday, August 18, 2008
The City on a Monday
Yesterday evening my friend M. arrived, so today we went on two excursions: the first, an unglamorous one to Plus, where we bought dinner; the second, a long promenade through Winterfeldtplatz and Nollendorfplatz, to the Siegessäule ("Victory Column"), then along the Straße des 17. Juni to Brandenburger Tor. There were loungers in the seas of sidewalk tables and chairs in front of the cafés at Nollendorfplatz, but a modest quantity of people in general. The vicinity of the CDU headquarters, Malaysian embassy, etc., behind Potsdamer Platz was, as much as ever, a deserted playground of modern architecture and asphalt. Innovative buildings are, I find, like shiny new toys; they are exciting for a moment, and then they sit around unused and unnoticed for eternity, to be interesting again only if our instinct of cupidity is aroused.
A group of cyclists had gathered at the Großer Stern, and a friendly flock of tourists were loosely distributed around the base of the Siegessäule, but otherwise it was very quiet there. By the time we arrived at Brandenburger Tor, M.'s shoes were bothersome, and it was warmer than we found quite pleasant, so we wandered over to the Reichstag and kept our eye out for a bus station. The lineup for the Reichstag dome was incomprehensibly long as always, so we stayed outside.
As we left, a woman approached us, asked if we speak English, and, when I answered in the positive, handed me a card. I thought that there would be an address written on it, and that she wanted me to tell her the way. Instead it was a begging appeal, informing whichever tourist it may concern that she was Bosnian and had two children. Without taking the time to think it over, I gave her some change, upon which she put her hands together, bowed, and blessed me (which was a bit embarrassing, even as a routine form of thanks, especially as the grand sum I had given her was 2.20 Euros). A moment later, of course, the realization came that it was stupid of me because I needed change for the bus fare (but M. paid for me). Still, whether she has two children or genuinely needs the money or not, I didn't have the impression that the money is going to drugs. Besides, she interested me. She was likely a gypsy. Twice I've seen a gypsy (once at the Kleistpark colonnades, and once waiting for the bus at, I believe, the Staatsbibliothek), who greatly impressed me because his face was so marked with deep experience and character, and a dignified melancholy; he looked, too, as if he might travel through time as well lands, for he would have fit into the scene as easily in the 19th or even 17th century. It was the same with her. So I don't regret having given the money.
Before the tour, however, we passed through the Kleistpark and I saw that a door in the entrance of the Kammergericht was open. So we went in, to a little room at the left with an inactive baggage screener, where a security guard who generously tried to thaw out of his gruff boredom looked into our bags, handed us and an elderly man (who had happened to enter at the same time) roughly folded brochures and print-outs from Berlin.de about the Kammergericht. Then he waved us through the door into the great round hall where the staircase rises to the upper levels of the building.
The Kammergericht is in the Neobaroque style, built 1909, but the flattened romanesque arches, heavy piers, and the white vaults that ran around the hall on the ground level strongly suggest an ancient church or abbey. A wooden announcement board that was once used by the Allied Control Centre stands to the left. The balusters of the staircase, which runs grandly down, facing the door, are quite evidently "neo," however, being oddly square and slanted. Underneath the staircase there is a delightful pair of little arches that mysteriously leads into the hall behind. We went to the window, protected by a wrought-iron(?) railing, and looked out into the courtyard, which is a square of black asphalt, preternaturally void of any greenery but fitted out with a lone trash can (largely intended to receive cigarette butts), around which rise white stucco walls full of windows and pebbly designs (e.g. a triangle with an eye in it!). On the upper floors we found flourishes in plaster, ornate wooden doors, and brass or gilded chandeliers with white bulbs, and halls lined with black tiles. It was all pretty quiet and empty, though a handful of employees did pass through when we were there.
So one unifying element in our trip was probably the silence and emptiness, which is only to be expected on a Monday when everyone is inside at work, but which is saddening. I read somewhere that the population of Berlin was once 4.9 million (but I think that 4.5 million is the right figure) and now it is 3.4 million. In any case, I wish that the empty spaces in the city core of Berlin had not all been claimed by office buildings and government buildings — which are great nutshells for tiny kernels to rattle in, and inaccessible to the vast majority of mortals — or grandiose architectural experiments. I think they should be filled with tasteful and liveable upscale apartment buildings. But, on the other hand, I like the generous proportions in Berlin; and the sad loneliness, which not everyone may agree exists anyway, does have its dignified charm.
A group of cyclists had gathered at the Großer Stern, and a friendly flock of tourists were loosely distributed around the base of the Siegessäule, but otherwise it was very quiet there. By the time we arrived at Brandenburger Tor, M.'s shoes were bothersome, and it was warmer than we found quite pleasant, so we wandered over to the Reichstag and kept our eye out for a bus station. The lineup for the Reichstag dome was incomprehensibly long as always, so we stayed outside.
As we left, a woman approached us, asked if we speak English, and, when I answered in the positive, handed me a card. I thought that there would be an address written on it, and that she wanted me to tell her the way. Instead it was a begging appeal, informing whichever tourist it may concern that she was Bosnian and had two children. Without taking the time to think it over, I gave her some change, upon which she put her hands together, bowed, and blessed me (which was a bit embarrassing, even as a routine form of thanks, especially as the grand sum I had given her was 2.20 Euros). A moment later, of course, the realization came that it was stupid of me because I needed change for the bus fare (but M. paid for me). Still, whether she has two children or genuinely needs the money or not, I didn't have the impression that the money is going to drugs. Besides, she interested me. She was likely a gypsy. Twice I've seen a gypsy (once at the Kleistpark colonnades, and once waiting for the bus at, I believe, the Staatsbibliothek), who greatly impressed me because his face was so marked with deep experience and character, and a dignified melancholy; he looked, too, as if he might travel through time as well lands, for he would have fit into the scene as easily in the 19th or even 17th century. It was the same with her. So I don't regret having given the money.
Before the tour, however, we passed through the Kleistpark and I saw that a door in the entrance of the Kammergericht was open. So we went in, to a little room at the left with an inactive baggage screener, where a security guard who generously tried to thaw out of his gruff boredom looked into our bags, handed us and an elderly man (who had happened to enter at the same time) roughly folded brochures and print-outs from Berlin.de about the Kammergericht. Then he waved us through the door into the great round hall where the staircase rises to the upper levels of the building.
The Kammergericht is in the Neobaroque style, built 1909, but the flattened romanesque arches, heavy piers, and the white vaults that ran around the hall on the ground level strongly suggest an ancient church or abbey. A wooden announcement board that was once used by the Allied Control Centre stands to the left. The balusters of the staircase, which runs grandly down, facing the door, are quite evidently "neo," however, being oddly square and slanted. Underneath the staircase there is a delightful pair of little arches that mysteriously leads into the hall behind. We went to the window, protected by a wrought-iron(?) railing, and looked out into the courtyard, which is a square of black asphalt, preternaturally void of any greenery but fitted out with a lone trash can (largely intended to receive cigarette butts), around which rise white stucco walls full of windows and pebbly designs (e.g. a triangle with an eye in it!). On the upper floors we found flourishes in plaster, ornate wooden doors, and brass or gilded chandeliers with white bulbs, and halls lined with black tiles. It was all pretty quiet and empty, though a handful of employees did pass through when we were there.
So one unifying element in our trip was probably the silence and emptiness, which is only to be expected on a Monday when everyone is inside at work, but which is saddening. I read somewhere that the population of Berlin was once 4.9 million (but I think that 4.5 million is the right figure) and now it is 3.4 million. In any case, I wish that the empty spaces in the city core of Berlin had not all been claimed by office buildings and government buildings — which are great nutshells for tiny kernels to rattle in, and inaccessible to the vast majority of mortals — or grandiose architectural experiments. I think they should be filled with tasteful and liveable upscale apartment buildings. But, on the other hand, I like the generous proportions in Berlin; and the sad loneliness, which not everyone may agree exists anyway, does have its dignified charm.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
The Fourth Plinth, and Other Tales
My latest project is a book review blog, The Lighthouse at Alexandria. It is my job now, and it is at least a part-time job as far as the time and effort spent in reading the books, finding links, and writing the reviews themselves are concerned. So that has kept me busy for the past three days. (c: On Saturdays the plan is to review my favourite articles among the ones that have appeared in newspapers and magazines over the past week. Last evening I started exploring, but so many articles were delightful that I decided to do a riff on the New York Times bestseller lists there, and write about the articles here, instead.
One of my minor obsessions is the Fourth Plinth, which is a stone block at the corner of London's Trafalgar Square whereupon a statue of William IV was supposed to be raised but never was, and which is now host to a rotating exhibition of contemporary art. That I am obsessed with it is odd considering that not all of the art on it is exactly to my taste. I did like the effects of Bill Woodrow's "Regardless of History," a tangle of bronze tree with a book engulfed in the roots and a man's head crushed underneath, and Thomas Schütte's "Hotel for the Birds," a colourful, strong, and bright statement in layered red, yellow and blue glass amid the gloomy grey.
Lately there was a competition for a new design. None of the finalists truly thrilled me, but I did like Tracey Emin's meerkats. They remind me of people standing on the end of a sinking boat. That is not cheerful but thoughtful and mournful, and still it's nice, as the meerkats are standing there together, unmoved. I like meerkats in themselves, too — their dignity and agility, their ability to kill snakes, and their quiet vigilance as they stand guard at the entrances of their burrows. Yinka Shonibare's ship in a bottle (I am very fond of wooden sailing ships, whether they are four inches high and in a bottle, or forty yards high and on the sea) is attractive, too. But Antony Gormley's concept, the upturned transparent collar and the idea of having one member of the public standing on top of the plinth at a time, does not speak to me. Probably my likes and dislikes are boringly conservative, but everyone has their own sensitivities, and I guess that it's fine.
The Guardian has written extensively on this weighty matter. In January there was a nice article on Mr. Schütte and his design. On August 8th there was an amusing blog about the rumour that Boris Johnson has backed down from his intention to change the use of the plinth, as he was informed that it's "being kept warm" for an equestrian statue of Elizabeth II, "to be commissioned after her death." It must be unnerving to know that a whole industry is waiting to blossom upon one's demise. But in a way it's funny, too. Generally I support the idea of an open plinth, where the art changes. It is a fine source of income for the artist community, and it also freshens a historical square with a nice breeze of modernity, and if one of the artworks is truly dreadful one has the consolation of knowing that it will be replaced. On the other hand, I hope that less well-established artists are actively encouraged to submit their ideas, too.
* * *
The most delightful articles were about architecture, a field that greatly interests me but that I know very little.
As J. will go to Barcelona in September, I was especially interested in a photo gallery of Antoni Gaudí's Sagrada Familia church. In one sentence, I'd describe it as a crown of spires, intricate and fanciful, with a futuristic, extraterrestrial vibe. Among the photos, there is an excellently observed one that depicts a bird's-eye view of a spiralling interior staircase; it exactly resembles the cross-section of a snail's shell and the broad steps even look like the shell segments. I like the church, but there are many aspects of it I don't like. First of all, it is outlandish and disproportionate to everything around it. Secondly, it is a paean to a very beautiful and complex aesthetic; despite countless details which it takes from ecclesiastical architecture, I think it is scarcely religious, except in this artistic sense. Thirdly, it is tremendously expensive and complicated, and it is an exponent of a personal whim and not an outreach to the community. So I think, but I may be wrong.
THEN there was a photo series on observatories. I took these notes:
1. Kielder observatory: Ikea ("karg" setting)
2. Telescope: Star Wars ship gun
3. Greenwich observatory: hill
4. Jaipur observatory: paper cut-outs
5. Very Large Array: Very Stupid Name (also, moon-flowers)
6. WM Keck observatory, Hawaii
7. Parkes observatory: black latticed fan with a windmill base
The note on the Greenwich observatory is meant to remind me that our aunt L. took T. and me to see it when we were in London. I stayed at the foot of the hill, reading Jane Austen's Love and Freindship, but L. and T. courageously strove up the steep slope to the observatory itself. What fascinated me about the hill is its visual effect. As the people who streamed up and down the slopes were so high and far away, and tiny, I had the odd feeling of seeing a miniature world laid out before me. It now reminds me of an old New England embroidery or painting, of people flocking up a hill that is its own little ideal realm. And that reminds me of the famous passage in the 1630 sermon of the Puritan John Winthrop:
THEN there was a droll article on the "Cheesegrater" (thus nicknamed for its tapering rectangular shape), a 235-metre-tall, 47-floor building, which is to stand beside the Gherkin in London. Sadly its date of completion has been moved ahead into 2012 due to the financial situation. The "Shard" finds itself in a like predicament. Two of the finest passages in the article:
One of my minor obsessions is the Fourth Plinth, which is a stone block at the corner of London's Trafalgar Square whereupon a statue of William IV was supposed to be raised but never was, and which is now host to a rotating exhibition of contemporary art. That I am obsessed with it is odd considering that not all of the art on it is exactly to my taste. I did like the effects of Bill Woodrow's "Regardless of History," a tangle of bronze tree with a book engulfed in the roots and a man's head crushed underneath, and Thomas Schütte's "Hotel for the Birds," a colourful, strong, and bright statement in layered red, yellow and blue glass amid the gloomy grey.
Lately there was a competition for a new design. None of the finalists truly thrilled me, but I did like Tracey Emin's meerkats. They remind me of people standing on the end of a sinking boat. That is not cheerful but thoughtful and mournful, and still it's nice, as the meerkats are standing there together, unmoved. I like meerkats in themselves, too — their dignity and agility, their ability to kill snakes, and their quiet vigilance as they stand guard at the entrances of their burrows. Yinka Shonibare's ship in a bottle (I am very fond of wooden sailing ships, whether they are four inches high and in a bottle, or forty yards high and on the sea) is attractive, too. But Antony Gormley's concept, the upturned transparent collar and the idea of having one member of the public standing on top of the plinth at a time, does not speak to me. Probably my likes and dislikes are boringly conservative, but everyone has their own sensitivities, and I guess that it's fine.
The Guardian has written extensively on this weighty matter. In January there was a nice article on Mr. Schütte and his design. On August 8th there was an amusing blog about the rumour that Boris Johnson has backed down from his intention to change the use of the plinth, as he was informed that it's "being kept warm" for an equestrian statue of Elizabeth II, "to be commissioned after her death." It must be unnerving to know that a whole industry is waiting to blossom upon one's demise. But in a way it's funny, too. Generally I support the idea of an open plinth, where the art changes. It is a fine source of income for the artist community, and it also freshens a historical square with a nice breeze of modernity, and if one of the artworks is truly dreadful one has the consolation of knowing that it will be replaced. On the other hand, I hope that less well-established artists are actively encouraged to submit their ideas, too.
* * *
The most delightful articles were about architecture, a field that greatly interests me but that I know very little.
As J. will go to Barcelona in September, I was especially interested in a photo gallery of Antoni Gaudí's Sagrada Familia church. In one sentence, I'd describe it as a crown of spires, intricate and fanciful, with a futuristic, extraterrestrial vibe. Among the photos, there is an excellently observed one that depicts a bird's-eye view of a spiralling interior staircase; it exactly resembles the cross-section of a snail's shell and the broad steps even look like the shell segments. I like the church, but there are many aspects of it I don't like. First of all, it is outlandish and disproportionate to everything around it. Secondly, it is a paean to a very beautiful and complex aesthetic; despite countless details which it takes from ecclesiastical architecture, I think it is scarcely religious, except in this artistic sense. Thirdly, it is tremendously expensive and complicated, and it is an exponent of a personal whim and not an outreach to the community. So I think, but I may be wrong.
THEN there was a photo series on observatories. I took these notes:
1. Kielder observatory: Ikea ("karg" setting)
2. Telescope: Star Wars ship gun
3. Greenwich observatory: hill
4. Jaipur observatory: paper cut-outs
5. Very Large Array: Very Stupid Name (also, moon-flowers)
6. WM Keck observatory, Hawaii
7. Parkes observatory: black latticed fan with a windmill base
The note on the Greenwich observatory is meant to remind me that our aunt L. took T. and me to see it when we were in London. I stayed at the foot of the hill, reading Jane Austen's Love and Freindship, but L. and T. courageously strove up the steep slope to the observatory itself. What fascinated me about the hill is its visual effect. As the people who streamed up and down the slopes were so high and far away, and tiny, I had the odd feeling of seeing a miniature world laid out before me. It now reminds me of an old New England embroidery or painting, of people flocking up a hill that is its own little ideal realm. And that reminds me of the famous passage in the 1630 sermon of the Puritan John Winthrop:
For we must consider that we shall be as a city upon a hill. The eyes of all people are upon us. So that if we shall deal falsely with our God in this work we have undertaken, and so cause Him to withdraw His present help from us, we shall be made a story and a by-word through the world.By "moon-flowers" I mean that there are enormous white satellite dishes that are reposing in isolation on a darkened field, and pointing expectantly toward the sky, as sunflowers point expectantly toward the sun. As for the Hawaiian observatory, I wrote no notes because I wanted to check if it is among the ones on top of Mauna Kea. It is, so I can proudly say that I have seen it in person (though at a distance which made it seem infinitesimal), gleaming on the vast mound beyond the red lunar landscape of Mauna Kea's flanks.
THEN there was a droll article on the "Cheesegrater" (thus nicknamed for its tapering rectangular shape), a 235-metre-tall, 47-floor building, which is to stand beside the Gherkin in London. Sadly its date of completion has been moved ahead into 2012 due to the financial situation. The "Shard" finds itself in a like predicament. Two of the finest passages in the article:
The previous building at 122 Leadenhall Street, a 1960s office block, is being destroyed from the ground up around its central concrete core. For some time it resembled an ice-lolly, but now the floors have gone and only the "stick" remains on the site.and
A sign pinned to the barriers that prevent office workers and shoppers from toppling into the huge hole left by the excavation promised "57,000 square metres of the highest quality office space".
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
A Farewell To Opa
On August 7th, my grandfather died after going into a decline due to old age. He was ninety-six years old, barely a week short of his birthday.
My siblings and I didn't know him very well, as we visited Kevelaer whenever we flew to Germany, but this was a rare occasion. Still, he was a presence in our house, not only through the cards that Oma sent us for Christmas and Easter, but also through photos and his memoirs and his art. For a long time we've had three stained-glass panes that he made, all three bearing Biblical motifs like the dove and flames of Pentecost, and a gouache(?) prototype for a fourth pane depicting Russian onion domes. I quite impartially like these very much, because they are not at all kitschy, the tints are very beautiful, and there is a harmony and depth to them. They are traditional but distinctive; and the relative simplicity of the lines and shapes reconcile their old-fashioned elements to modernity. But (as art was his profession) he also worked in many other media: pencil sketches, bronze and majolica sculpture, mosaics, sgraffito, etc.
As for his life, he was born in a German enclave in Belgium, and experienced World War I there. When the next war broke out, he was with the German army in Russia, and had a predictably disagreeable time where his conscience and religious upbringing were in constant conflict with his environment. Even after the war was officially over, he was interned in a Russian prisoner of war camp for years. Back in Germany, he settled in Kevelaer and worked as an artist, eventually marrying my grandmother and raising twelve children (all boys, except for my mother) with her. He lived and wrought peacefully in the small-town atmosphere of Kevelaer, though he also corresponded with and hosted people from abroad. The town itself is also constantly stirred by the passage of domestic and foreign pilgrims; they come to the basilica and chapel in honour of Mary's appearance in the dreams of a merchant, and his subsequent building of a chapel dedicated to her, in the 17th century.
There is a good assembly of his works at a website that Uncle B. set up for Opa, here. (The girl with the tousled hair in the photos is Mama. (c: )
My siblings and I didn't know him very well, as we visited Kevelaer whenever we flew to Germany, but this was a rare occasion. Still, he was a presence in our house, not only through the cards that Oma sent us for Christmas and Easter, but also through photos and his memoirs and his art. For a long time we've had three stained-glass panes that he made, all three bearing Biblical motifs like the dove and flames of Pentecost, and a gouache(?) prototype for a fourth pane depicting Russian onion domes. I quite impartially like these very much, because they are not at all kitschy, the tints are very beautiful, and there is a harmony and depth to them. They are traditional but distinctive; and the relative simplicity of the lines and shapes reconcile their old-fashioned elements to modernity. But (as art was his profession) he also worked in many other media: pencil sketches, bronze and majolica sculpture, mosaics, sgraffito, etc.
As for his life, he was born in a German enclave in Belgium, and experienced World War I there. When the next war broke out, he was with the German army in Russia, and had a predictably disagreeable time where his conscience and religious upbringing were in constant conflict with his environment. Even after the war was officially over, he was interned in a Russian prisoner of war camp for years. Back in Germany, he settled in Kevelaer and worked as an artist, eventually marrying my grandmother and raising twelve children (all boys, except for my mother) with her. He lived and wrought peacefully in the small-town atmosphere of Kevelaer, though he also corresponded with and hosted people from abroad. The town itself is also constantly stirred by the passage of domestic and foreign pilgrims; they come to the basilica and chapel in honour of Mary's appearance in the dreams of a merchant, and his subsequent building of a chapel dedicated to her, in the 17th century.
There is a good assembly of his works at a website that Uncle B. set up for Opa, here. (The girl with the tousled hair in the photos is Mama. (c: )
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
A Hermit's Meditations
[N.B.: I don't honestly expect anyone to wade through all of this.]
Normally I don't much like talking about "My Future," firstly because the fear of it and the conviction of being a failure has hounded me since Grade 10, and secondly because I'd rather do something than discuss what I might do, only to look indolent and vacillating if I never do it after all. But at present the plan is to find an internship at a magazine or newspaper, write freelance articles (e.g. travel articles on Berlin) and short stories and poems, and in the meantime be as up-to-date as possible by reading newspapers and magazines and blogs. I've conveniently decided to postpone the job-hunt until my friend M. comes to Germany on August 17th, because I want to be free to traipse around Berlin and elsewhere with her. Then I want to take my place in the grown-up world — if I were male, I would say "give up my childhood and become a Man."
Also, as I'm not going to university, I need to pursue my general education, and in any case I need to work on my music. The gaps in knowledge are evident enough — the sciences, information technology, politics, economics, psychology, philosophy, music theory, German and French literature, etc. — and I could stand to learn another language or two. So I'll have to read and I'll hopefully audit a few courses, too. My daydreams change, and I use them mostly as encouragement and not so much as definite aims, but my most cherished present one is to find an internship in New York.
Nevertheless I am happy with my life the way it is. The benefit of the grim slog of school — the guilt about not doing my homework, the isolation, etc. — is that, even though I've had my crises, I know I've had it far worse. What I ask of life is to have my self-respect, to be able to unfold freely in character and mind, to be around people whom I trust, to have food and shelter, and to be at ease with myself and the world around me. Now I have it.
* * *
Besides, though I tend to disapprove of everyone else's religion unless it's a peaceful and beneficial one, and I don't feel guilty for having small respect for the Pope, I have found a faith that greatly comforts me. The central tenet is that, as long as I honestly strive to do right in little things as well as big ones, everything will turn out well, and even if it doesn't I won't have to reproach myself for much. Even as a tiny Munchkin I was already analyzing the motives for what I said and did, and seeing clearly enough where my shortcomings were, making concerted efforts to grow into a better person, and being prodded by a pretty active conscience; so the most difficult part is the trust.
As for going wrong, I don't fear it so much, because my idea of atonement is to freely recognize the misdeed, feel genuinely sorry and do one's best not to repeat it. Shortcomings shouldn't be hidden and repressed, but brought to light and dissolved through analysis or diverted into harmless channels. I don't believe in punishment, either. Instead I believe that any act in bad faith has unhappy consequences attached to it, which do not wait to pounce on a sinner down the road (I deeply dislike this concept) but are immediate. To use an illustration, if life is a stream that runs to the sea, the misdeed is an obstacle that fleetingly redirects it into a different course, though the stream will eventually reach the sea like any other. Also, I am convinced that the only sins are actions where other people are harmed, or offenses against one's own integrity. Lastly, I don't believe that there are "good" people and "bad" people, except in the extremely rare cases where people have no moral code at all; treating other people as lepers, on any pretext whatsoever, is only a reflection on one's flawed self.
I'll freely admit that the problem of evil, and the question of what it is, is one I haven't been able to properly explain to myself. I don't doubt that it exists. Still, one of the nice things about humans is that, in us, evil tends to take a banal concrete form, which is easy enough to spot and counteract. Our personalities are rarely monolithic or powerful enough to be demonic, though I suppose that we can become temporarily demonic e.g. as part of a mob. But at times I have felt evil as an abstract atmosphere, where one must be careful not to be infected; still, the infection is that of superstition and fear and loneliness, and not of any dramatic journey to the "dark side." And the best antidotes to superstition and fear and loneliness are common sense, the right kind of strength, and a belief that there is goodness in the world.
Beyond this I see no point in minute theological discussions. The Bible and the thoughts of others are helpful guides, but I don't feel called upon to believe every detail. As far as God, the Trinity, the saints, etc. go, I incline to think, as Alexander Pope put it in the full couplet of his famous quotation: "Know then thyself, presume not God to scan; / The proper study of mankind is man." Nor do I believe that one can arrive at the absolute truth; one should investigate, weigh ideas, draw one's own conclusions, but keep in mind that there can always be flaws in one's observations and logic.
Above all, I believe that one's thoughts and deeds should have as their end the welfare of one's fellow human beings. Though I tend to the less harsh, Hippocrates-like belief that living without harming anyone else is already an accomplishment, I sympathize with the quotation, which Dr. Johnson included in his Rambler, to the effect that "no life is pleasing to God that is not useful to man." This doesn't mean arbitrating the fates of other people, but helping them to help themselves when needed, letting them find their own good in their own way, and treating them with respect. As Mama has often remarked à propos of the "Golden Rule," a problem is that what is good and useful for one person can be bad and worse than useless for another, so one cannot thrust benevolent intentions on others.
As far as one's self is concerned, I think one has a responsibility, too; one is a person like any other, with the same rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Denying an elementary respect and care to one's self is as iniquitous as denying it to someone else. It also defeats one's purpose because if one treats one's self poorly, one tends to treat others poorly too. For example, when I despise myself, it makes me self-centred, torpid and uncommunicative, so that I am quite the opposite of a ray of sunshine to the people with whom I come into contact.
Self-sacrifice can too often be like mercy in reverse, I think, blighting him who gives and him who takes. When I was ten or so, I was much taken by the tales of martyrs, and thought about the concept a good deal. But I felt that I couldn't bear, for example, to die for someone else if he or she didn't know about it and didn't remember me gratefully after I'm gone. In the course of time, however, I've come to believe that martyrdom is admirable only if it is veritably beneficial. Also, I've thought about the feelings of the beneficiary. It is probably a terrible burden to know that someone has literally or figuratively crippled himself, even condemned himself to death, on one's behalf. It is an almost tyrannous claim on one's gratitude. For the benefactor, too, I think it would be somehow embarrassing. So now I find it much kinder to leave the beneficiary in ignorance, and to see one's reward in the knowledge that one has done some good. And if a significant sacrifice is prompted not by generosity but by the urge to self-annihilation, I find it positively criminal.
Lastly, as for the rewards of virtue, I think that they are being at peace with, and being able to respect, one's self. Also, I think that good deeds govern the direction of our lives much as bad ones do; but they guide them into happier and more tranquil courses, so that we are content with our existence and ready to leave the world when we do.
Normally I don't much like talking about "My Future," firstly because the fear of it and the conviction of being a failure has hounded me since Grade 10, and secondly because I'd rather do something than discuss what I might do, only to look indolent and vacillating if I never do it after all. But at present the plan is to find an internship at a magazine or newspaper, write freelance articles (e.g. travel articles on Berlin) and short stories and poems, and in the meantime be as up-to-date as possible by reading newspapers and magazines and blogs. I've conveniently decided to postpone the job-hunt until my friend M. comes to Germany on August 17th, because I want to be free to traipse around Berlin and elsewhere with her. Then I want to take my place in the grown-up world — if I were male, I would say "give up my childhood and become a Man."
Also, as I'm not going to university, I need to pursue my general education, and in any case I need to work on my music. The gaps in knowledge are evident enough — the sciences, information technology, politics, economics, psychology, philosophy, music theory, German and French literature, etc. — and I could stand to learn another language or two. So I'll have to read and I'll hopefully audit a few courses, too. My daydreams change, and I use them mostly as encouragement and not so much as definite aims, but my most cherished present one is to find an internship in New York.
Nevertheless I am happy with my life the way it is. The benefit of the grim slog of school — the guilt about not doing my homework, the isolation, etc. — is that, even though I've had my crises, I know I've had it far worse. What I ask of life is to have my self-respect, to be able to unfold freely in character and mind, to be around people whom I trust, to have food and shelter, and to be at ease with myself and the world around me. Now I have it.
* * *
Besides, though I tend to disapprove of everyone else's religion unless it's a peaceful and beneficial one, and I don't feel guilty for having small respect for the Pope, I have found a faith that greatly comforts me. The central tenet is that, as long as I honestly strive to do right in little things as well as big ones, everything will turn out well, and even if it doesn't I won't have to reproach myself for much. Even as a tiny Munchkin I was already analyzing the motives for what I said and did, and seeing clearly enough where my shortcomings were, making concerted efforts to grow into a better person, and being prodded by a pretty active conscience; so the most difficult part is the trust.
As for going wrong, I don't fear it so much, because my idea of atonement is to freely recognize the misdeed, feel genuinely sorry and do one's best not to repeat it. Shortcomings shouldn't be hidden and repressed, but brought to light and dissolved through analysis or diverted into harmless channels. I don't believe in punishment, either. Instead I believe that any act in bad faith has unhappy consequences attached to it, which do not wait to pounce on a sinner down the road (I deeply dislike this concept) but are immediate. To use an illustration, if life is a stream that runs to the sea, the misdeed is an obstacle that fleetingly redirects it into a different course, though the stream will eventually reach the sea like any other. Also, I am convinced that the only sins are actions where other people are harmed, or offenses against one's own integrity. Lastly, I don't believe that there are "good" people and "bad" people, except in the extremely rare cases where people have no moral code at all; treating other people as lepers, on any pretext whatsoever, is only a reflection on one's flawed self.
I'll freely admit that the problem of evil, and the question of what it is, is one I haven't been able to properly explain to myself. I don't doubt that it exists. Still, one of the nice things about humans is that, in us, evil tends to take a banal concrete form, which is easy enough to spot and counteract. Our personalities are rarely monolithic or powerful enough to be demonic, though I suppose that we can become temporarily demonic e.g. as part of a mob. But at times I have felt evil as an abstract atmosphere, where one must be careful not to be infected; still, the infection is that of superstition and fear and loneliness, and not of any dramatic journey to the "dark side." And the best antidotes to superstition and fear and loneliness are common sense, the right kind of strength, and a belief that there is goodness in the world.
Beyond this I see no point in minute theological discussions. The Bible and the thoughts of others are helpful guides, but I don't feel called upon to believe every detail. As far as God, the Trinity, the saints, etc. go, I incline to think, as Alexander Pope put it in the full couplet of his famous quotation: "Know then thyself, presume not God to scan; / The proper study of mankind is man." Nor do I believe that one can arrive at the absolute truth; one should investigate, weigh ideas, draw one's own conclusions, but keep in mind that there can always be flaws in one's observations and logic.
Above all, I believe that one's thoughts and deeds should have as their end the welfare of one's fellow human beings. Though I tend to the less harsh, Hippocrates-like belief that living without harming anyone else is already an accomplishment, I sympathize with the quotation, which Dr. Johnson included in his Rambler, to the effect that "no life is pleasing to God that is not useful to man." This doesn't mean arbitrating the fates of other people, but helping them to help themselves when needed, letting them find their own good in their own way, and treating them with respect. As Mama has often remarked à propos of the "Golden Rule," a problem is that what is good and useful for one person can be bad and worse than useless for another, so one cannot thrust benevolent intentions on others.
As far as one's self is concerned, I think one has a responsibility, too; one is a person like any other, with the same rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Denying an elementary respect and care to one's self is as iniquitous as denying it to someone else. It also defeats one's purpose because if one treats one's self poorly, one tends to treat others poorly too. For example, when I despise myself, it makes me self-centred, torpid and uncommunicative, so that I am quite the opposite of a ray of sunshine to the people with whom I come into contact.
Self-sacrifice can too often be like mercy in reverse, I think, blighting him who gives and him who takes. When I was ten or so, I was much taken by the tales of martyrs, and thought about the concept a good deal. But I felt that I couldn't bear, for example, to die for someone else if he or she didn't know about it and didn't remember me gratefully after I'm gone. In the course of time, however, I've come to believe that martyrdom is admirable only if it is veritably beneficial. Also, I've thought about the feelings of the beneficiary. It is probably a terrible burden to know that someone has literally or figuratively crippled himself, even condemned himself to death, on one's behalf. It is an almost tyrannous claim on one's gratitude. For the benefactor, too, I think it would be somehow embarrassing. So now I find it much kinder to leave the beneficiary in ignorance, and to see one's reward in the knowledge that one has done some good. And if a significant sacrifice is prompted not by generosity but by the urge to self-annihilation, I find it positively criminal.
Lastly, as for the rewards of virtue, I think that they are being at peace with, and being able to respect, one's self. Also, I think that good deeds govern the direction of our lives much as bad ones do; but they guide them into happier and more tranquil courses, so that we are content with our existence and ready to leave the world when we do.
Friday, August 01, 2008
My Moment of Brilliance
Woohoo! T. phoned with the language institute in the Kantstraße where she and I wrote our Test DaF exams, which are a gauge of our proficiency in German, and she found out that I aced it! I received 5/5 in every category. As far as the spoken component goes, I don't think I deserved the 5, but otherwise, like Mrs. Bennet, I "quarrel with no compliments." Even on the written component, I stayed well within my vocabulary and the essay-writing skills instilled by two years of university flowed back to my pen; so, though I'm by no means perfect there, I did achieve what the Test DaF requires, which is to be comprehensible though not perhaps impeccable.
As I remarked to Papa and Mama, this is the first successful thing I've done in a long time. The closest thing I can remember at UBC is the 87% on my (as I now find, largely factually incorrect, but still entertaining) Romanticism History essay, and the two "A"s my professor gave me for my English 220 essays. That was in early 2006. Then there was T.'s and my (undeserved) 100% in Spanish 11. Though I am of the general opinion that perfection is boring, this does not mean that I haven't often wished to approach it more nearly in the academic realm.
Anyway, having enjoyed my moment of jubilation, I will admit that there may be a mistake, which would come out when T. and I pick up the certificate later today. Then I'd post a correction, but if there isn't any, it's all true. (c:
P.S.: In the interests of full disclosure, I'll add that I didn't study for the test. I went in expecting to do really well or really badly (tending toward the latter). I'm not proud of this — at all. But I don't feel entirely guilty, because I have read a fair amount of German on my own initiative over the years, from Otfried Preußler through Grimms Märchen to Der arme Spielmann, as well as the Tagesschau website.
As I remarked to Papa and Mama, this is the first successful thing I've done in a long time. The closest thing I can remember at UBC is the 87% on my (as I now find, largely factually incorrect, but still entertaining) Romanticism History essay, and the two "A"s my professor gave me for my English 220 essays. That was in early 2006. Then there was T.'s and my (undeserved) 100% in Spanish 11. Though I am of the general opinion that perfection is boring, this does not mean that I haven't often wished to approach it more nearly in the academic realm.
Anyway, having enjoyed my moment of jubilation, I will admit that there may be a mistake, which would come out when T. and I pick up the certificate later today. Then I'd post a correction, but if there isn't any, it's all true. (c:
P.S.: In the interests of full disclosure, I'll add that I didn't study for the test. I went in expecting to do really well or really badly (tending toward the latter). I'm not proud of this — at all. But I don't feel entirely guilty, because I have read a fair amount of German on my own initiative over the years, from Otfried Preußler through Grimms Märchen to Der arme Spielmann, as well as the Tagesschau website.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
