I liked making one-sentence summaries of the cities I'd visited in Italy. Perugia sits cramped and high on a hill. Assisi sits within a ringed wall, dropped on a hill. Florence sits in a river valley, bejeweled by its cathedral, il Duomo. This game was hard to play with Bologna because you don't get a feel for its geography upon your approach by train. You have to walk past the modern monstrosities to its center before you are cognizant of its magic. Shades of burnt amber, red, and orange color the buildings walls. The flagstones of the streets aren't crudely cut off incongruously by cement sidewalks. There are no sidewalks per se, but the stones of the streets run right under the arched overhangs of the buildings, which run the length of the streets, supported by columns consistent with the edifice's color. So you walk the city, protected from the sun, rain and traffic, embraced in shadow, free to window shop in a kind of enclosed privacy. It's dangerous to jaywalk because as soon as you step out from the overhang between a building's columns, you are, in fact, in the crazy street, subject to the mad flow of motorcycles and buses, mopeds and taxis. On the busiest promenade that runs from the main square to the station, there are iron fences to prevent such an ill-advised adventure.
The cathedral is interesting because, in spite of being lovely to behold, there seems to have been a mistake. From the ground to the horizontal line that intersects each corner of the lower end of the roof, the facade consists of the glorious marble that we've come to expect of Italy. Above that line, the marble ends, and a dark red brick, ornately set, takes over, running clear to the top. I didn't understand it but liked it for being so different.
Finally, maybe I was just lucky, but my visit to Bologna was also noteworthy for the two meals I had, which were the best I've ever had in Italy. Maybe that's par for Bologna....or maybe the god of travel whimsically decided to be prompt in rectifying my balance sheet for Italy. A little fine pasta and wine definitely put me in the black.
09 July 2008
08 July 2008
un viaggio su un treno italiano
On May 31st, 2008, I rode the train from Lausanne to Bologna. The train arrived into Milan five minutes late, which squeezed my transfer time to ten minutes. Milano Centrale is an end-stop station, so you have to walk up to the head of the station, down to the platform of your connecting train, and then up to your assigned car on that train. Approaching Milan, I might have been capable of understanding the connecting train info, but the noise of my fellow passengers coupled with the sound quality of the audio system -- a warble on par with Charlie Brown's teacher -- made this impossible. Of course, my car was at the back end of the train, almost still in the Alps. The platforms were jammed with people. I ran half the length of the platform like a panicked participant of Smear the Queer. I stopped to read the schedule and found my train. Only eight minutes. I made it to the general area and looked at the main train listings overhead, which listed a different platform than what I'd read. The hordes of people, the missing letters on the arrival board, the mismatch between the current and posted listings...this was not Italy; it was India. I found my train with two minutes to spare. There was no one on the platform, and all doors were closed. I ran to my car, but the door would not open. I ran back to the head and found a train employee.
"Questo e' il mio treno. Che pasa?"
She answered in English. "It is eh-closed-eh. You can go to eh-track-eh nine."
I showed her my ticket. "Questo biglietto e' bene?"
"Si, bene, bene."
It turned out the ticket was not entirely bene. I boarded the other train. I went from a nice express service with a reserved seat to a slower service where I kept having to move seats because ticket holders with reservations kept showing up at the seats I kept choosing to sit in. When the ticket master came, I offered a short Italian version of my situation, finishing with "the lady in Milan told me this ticket was good." Given that random scrap of information, he looked at me with a serious dose of contempt, squinching up his face to say only: "Non e' bene." How much? "Costa otto euro il cambio." (The change will cost you eight euros.)
I could feel a volcano roiling within. What change? This was no voluntary change, Signore! What about the late train? What about the hordes? What about the sealed doors two minutes prior to departure? I did the best I could within your shite system. I had a paid, express reservation, but now I'm a homeless scrub shuffling from seat to seat. It's not my fault!!
I looked closely at that pinched, unsympathetic face again and decided to save my breath. How, after all, do you say "In Milan, there was a discrepancy of information available to passengers" in Italian? And would such a claim find the miniscule customer service node of this gentleman's brain?
It's beautiful how money makes problems disappear. I paid my eight euros and was free of him. Still, I was left with the feeling that Italy owed me one.
"Questo e' il mio treno. Che pasa?"
She answered in English. "It is eh-closed-eh. You can go to eh-track-eh nine."
I showed her my ticket. "Questo biglietto e' bene?"
"Si, bene, bene."
It turned out the ticket was not entirely bene. I boarded the other train. I went from a nice express service with a reserved seat to a slower service where I kept having to move seats because ticket holders with reservations kept showing up at the seats I kept choosing to sit in. When the ticket master came, I offered a short Italian version of my situation, finishing with "the lady in Milan told me this ticket was good." Given that random scrap of information, he looked at me with a serious dose of contempt, squinching up his face to say only: "Non e' bene." How much? "Costa otto euro il cambio." (The change will cost you eight euros.)
I could feel a volcano roiling within. What change? This was no voluntary change, Signore! What about the late train? What about the hordes? What about the sealed doors two minutes prior to departure? I did the best I could within your shite system. I had a paid, express reservation, but now I'm a homeless scrub shuffling from seat to seat. It's not my fault!!
I looked closely at that pinched, unsympathetic face again and decided to save my breath. How, after all, do you say "In Milan, there was a discrepancy of information available to passengers" in Italian? And would such a claim find the miniscule customer service node of this gentleman's brain?
It's beautiful how money makes problems disappear. I paid my eight euros and was free of him. Still, I was left with the feeling that Italy owed me one.
07 July 2008
Lausanne: Montreux
On my final day in Lausanne, I met Le, whom I met the previous December in Bremen while we were both taking German classes at the Goethe Institute. She came from a small town in China and was among the best and brightest of her region, earning a place at the prestigious regional school, which meant she left home at 12 for a career of serious studying. Now she's a PhD candidate in neurobiology and works in Lausanne. (It's interesting that the only Chinese friends I've made in my life were while studying German.)
Her idea was to take a train to Montreux and walk to the Chateau de Chillon. This allowed us to be in constant contact with that magnificent view I wrote about earlier. Splendiferous. The next thing of interest I saw was a life-sized bronze statue of.....Freddie Mercury. The lead singer of Queen who died of AIDS in 1991 had been beloved in the town, where he and the band had a recording studio. It's interesting because Le had no idea who he was. I sung a few bars of "We Are the Champions," but she waved me off as if to say, "You have no chance of helping know who he is, and I have no real interest." Or maybe my singing was horrific. Still, I persisted ("Come on, sister, you need to get out of the lab!") and started up a few animated thumps of "We Will Rock You!" She did know that one, and I cherished the small success of my effort. Score a point for the utility of pop culture.
We walked for an hour and made it to the castle, which is well worth the visit. Along the way, I told her of an exhibit I had seen in the Olympic Museum, which she has yet to visit. (She says that her life is learning, so in her free time, she has not taste for museums.) A Chinese artist who lived in Germany for many years made side-by-side depictions of different life-themes (Old Age, Dining Out, Mealtime, etc.) and how they manifest in China and Germany. The differences were stark and compelling, and it gave us something to talk about. Score one for the value of visiting museums.
http://europeforvisitors.com/switzaustria/vaud/montreux/castle-of-chillon.htm
Her idea was to take a train to Montreux and walk to the Chateau de Chillon. This allowed us to be in constant contact with that magnificent view I wrote about earlier. Splendiferous. The next thing of interest I saw was a life-sized bronze statue of.....Freddie Mercury. The lead singer of Queen who died of AIDS in 1991 had been beloved in the town, where he and the band had a recording studio. It's interesting because Le had no idea who he was. I sung a few bars of "We Are the Champions," but she waved me off as if to say, "You have no chance of helping know who he is, and I have no real interest." Or maybe my singing was horrific. Still, I persisted ("Come on, sister, you need to get out of the lab!") and started up a few animated thumps of "We Will Rock You!" She did know that one, and I cherished the small success of my effort. Score a point for the utility of pop culture.
We walked for an hour and made it to the castle, which is well worth the visit. Along the way, I told her of an exhibit I had seen in the Olympic Museum, which she has yet to visit. (She says that her life is learning, so in her free time, she has not taste for museums.) A Chinese artist who lived in Germany for many years made side-by-side depictions of different life-themes (Old Age, Dining Out, Mealtime, etc.) and how they manifest in China and Germany. The differences were stark and compelling, and it gave us something to talk about. Score one for the value of visiting museums.
http://europeforvisitors.com/switzaustria/vaud/montreux/castle-of-chillon.htm
02 July 2008
Lausanne: Chez Richard
I was wandering about town later that same day that I visited the Olympic Museum. I misread the bus schedule and found myself a small ways from where I wanted to be. I got off the bus and began walking toward the train station when I passed the open door of an empty bar. The barkeep sat by herself at a table. I kept walking, but it occurred to me that a beer was the perfect thing for a wayward lad. Something about the place called me back.
I ordered a draft and started taking in all the soccer club flags on the wall. I chatted briefly with a young man and the barkeep. They were kind to tell me how to say a few things in French. After my second beer, I began to leave when the star of the show appeared. It was the "Richard" of Chez Richard. I stayed longer as he spun tales of his playing days. This was no den for fans, as I had thought, but the keepsakes were personal tokens of Richard Duerr's playing career. He'd been an important figure for Lausanne during their glory days in the late fifties-early sixties. He'd also played for the Swiss national team during both the '62 and '66 World Cups. (They went three and out both times.) I discreetly pumped him for stories about those days, and he discreetly told them, as well as showing me an album of photos, which included a thorough accounting of the Swiss team's adventure to WC 1962 in Chile. After they'd been eliminated, they behaved like star-struck fans heading to the training site of Brazil and capturing photos of Garrincha, Pele, and all the Brazilians.
He offered me a few more beers as we laughed for another hour or so. He gave me a souvenir, a Swiss cigarette lighter, and encouraged me to cheer for his boys once Euro 2008 began. After our goodbyes, I walked out into the spring night, full of wonder at such a spontaneous visit producing a motherlode for a soccer-addled brain like mine.
I ordered a draft and started taking in all the soccer club flags on the wall. I chatted briefly with a young man and the barkeep. They were kind to tell me how to say a few things in French. After my second beer, I began to leave when the star of the show appeared. It was the "Richard" of Chez Richard. I stayed longer as he spun tales of his playing days. This was no den for fans, as I had thought, but the keepsakes were personal tokens of Richard Duerr's playing career. He'd been an important figure for Lausanne during their glory days in the late fifties-early sixties. He'd also played for the Swiss national team during both the '62 and '66 World Cups. (They went three and out both times.) I discreetly pumped him for stories about those days, and he discreetly told them, as well as showing me an album of photos, which included a thorough accounting of the Swiss team's adventure to WC 1962 in Chile. After they'd been eliminated, they behaved like star-struck fans heading to the training site of Brazil and capturing photos of Garrincha, Pele, and all the Brazilians.
He offered me a few more beers as we laughed for another hour or so. He gave me a souvenir, a Swiss cigarette lighter, and encouraged me to cheer for his boys once Euro 2008 began. After our goodbyes, I walked out into the spring night, full of wonder at such a spontaneous visit producing a motherlode for a soccer-addled brain like mine.
07 June 2008
Lausanne: The Olympic Museum
The Olympic Museum is the kind of place that celebrates itself. There is a fine line here. When the Olympics manages to be about the athletics, then the so-called "Olympic Movement" is everything it claims to be: a positive celebration of humanity. However, when it aspires to be a positive celebration of humanity, it can end up being a silly charade. The museum treads both sides of the line.
It was the Nazis who dreamt up the idea of starting a relay with a torch lit on Mount Olympus. Of course, there's nothing wrong with invoking the historical precedents of the Games, but since the Nazis brazenly exploited the Games, their idea was more about them, not the Greeks.
It seems the Chinese sought to inflate their own Games by planning and staging the longest relay ever: world-wide, far-flung and even sky-high up Mount Everest. Since no one counted on the March uprising in Tibet and the fact that many non-Chinese would be upset with China's handling of it, the relay has been plagued by protests. They crossed that fine line, taking something simple and making it grandiose, and they are paying the price. The best laid plans of mice and men often go astray....
The relay will and should survive......but for God's sake, keep it elegant, simple, and small.
Near closing time, I caught a 3-D film that showed highlights of the Sydney Games in 2000. It featured the full running of the women's 100 m final and the medal ceremony, complete with the angelic-looking Marion Jones tearing up throughout the national anthem. Since she owned up this year to taking steroids, it's difficult to watch this without feeling that the Games has become a sorry spectacle. Why are they still showing this clip at the Olympic Museum?
It was also interesting to see the pictures of all the Committee members. I couldn't help scanning this gallery of non-athletic looking people from small countries with bloated, despotic faces and wondering.....which ones are selling their votes for favors?
It's nice to see fairy tale stuff unfold at every games, but since the Olympics is just a reflection of humanity itself, the real fun is watching the whole shooting match....corruption, grace, pomp, courage, cheating, beauty and all.
It was the Nazis who dreamt up the idea of starting a relay with a torch lit on Mount Olympus. Of course, there's nothing wrong with invoking the historical precedents of the Games, but since the Nazis brazenly exploited the Games, their idea was more about them, not the Greeks.
It seems the Chinese sought to inflate their own Games by planning and staging the longest relay ever: world-wide, far-flung and even sky-high up Mount Everest. Since no one counted on the March uprising in Tibet and the fact that many non-Chinese would be upset with China's handling of it, the relay has been plagued by protests. They crossed that fine line, taking something simple and making it grandiose, and they are paying the price. The best laid plans of mice and men often go astray....
The relay will and should survive......but for God's sake, keep it elegant, simple, and small.
Near closing time, I caught a 3-D film that showed highlights of the Sydney Games in 2000. It featured the full running of the women's 100 m final and the medal ceremony, complete with the angelic-looking Marion Jones tearing up throughout the national anthem. Since she owned up this year to taking steroids, it's difficult to watch this without feeling that the Games has become a sorry spectacle. Why are they still showing this clip at the Olympic Museum?
It was also interesting to see the pictures of all the Committee members. I couldn't help scanning this gallery of non-athletic looking people from small countries with bloated, despotic faces and wondering.....which ones are selling their votes for favors?
It's nice to see fairy tale stuff unfold at every games, but since the Olympics is just a reflection of humanity itself, the real fun is watching the whole shooting match....corruption, grace, pomp, courage, cheating, beauty and all.
03 June 2008
Approaching Lausanne
It took seven flights and two days to get from Japan to Zurich. Since I crossed the date line, it was three actual days and two calendar days. I caught the first train to Lausanne and joined a couple from east Texas who worked for Mercy Ships, a charitable organization that provides medical care to developing countries from....this is no lie....a ship. (http://www.mercyships.org/) The woman was the group's CFO and had to attend a conference in Lausanne. They were lovely, and we traded Dallas and Iowa stories. (I don't have any real Iowa stories, but my fake ones entertained them well enough.) Monolingual and new to European travel, they leaned on me for some assurance. Is this the right train? What does that say? etc. Near Lausanne, a female train employee approached us and offered a gentle "Bon soir." The woman got a little nervous and said, "What? Tickets?" with some panic. I answered, "Bon soir" to bring some calm into the equation and shared a smile with the rail employee as we all produced our tickets. Innocents abroad.....her smile to me said. I'm not with them, said mine.
Nothing on the two-hour ride from Zurich prepares you for the stunning view of Lake Geneva when it finally comes. Any city that sits on a lake is made beautiful by the water. Add mountains, and you are tripling the beauty quotient. Many Swiss cities enjoy both factors, but given the size of Lake Geneva and positioning of the city on a gentle, open slope, Lausanne's view has an unparalleled grandeur to it, which is intensified every time you see a storm over the lake. During my stay, I found it's beauty bewitching me with obsessive thoughts: look at the lake, go to the water, see the mountains, watch the sky.
Lausanne is Switzerland's fifth largest city and has over ten quality museums. It's easy to travel in because everyone, in addition to French, seems to speak some German and English. Also, it has the most tourist-friendly policy I have ever encountered: hotel guests are given free city transport passes for the length of their stay. That is a revolutionary example of largesse. It left me speechless with gratitude. Dieu bénit Lausanne! Lots to see, lots to do.....but the view is reason enough to treat yourself to this place.
Nothing on the two-hour ride from Zurich prepares you for the stunning view of Lake Geneva when it finally comes. Any city that sits on a lake is made beautiful by the water. Add mountains, and you are tripling the beauty quotient. Many Swiss cities enjoy both factors, but given the size of Lake Geneva and positioning of the city on a gentle, open slope, Lausanne's view has an unparalleled grandeur to it, which is intensified every time you see a storm over the lake. During my stay, I found it's beauty bewitching me with obsessive thoughts: look at the lake, go to the water, see the mountains, watch the sky.
Lausanne is Switzerland's fifth largest city and has over ten quality museums. It's easy to travel in because everyone, in addition to French, seems to speak some German and English. Also, it has the most tourist-friendly policy I have ever encountered: hotel guests are given free city transport passes for the length of their stay. That is a revolutionary example of largesse. It left me speechless with gratitude. Dieu bénit Lausanne! Lots to see, lots to do.....but the view is reason enough to treat yourself to this place.
19 May 2008
Takarazuka
Sachiko took me to Takarazuka, near Kobe, this past weekend. About a hundred years ago, a businessman founded the all-female Takarazuka Revue to attract more visitors to the area. The performances are American-style musicals whose (romantic) stories come different sources, e.g. anime, literature, legend. The fan-base is 99% women, who perhaps see the in the female leads who play men the perfect romantic partner that a man could never be, and the phenomenon is a kind of "cross-dressing" meets "Broadway" scene, as fascinating as it is odd. We didn't catch a show...perhaps next time. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Takarazuka_Revue
We stayed at a spa hotel which had to have been built during the wild speculation of the now-gone Bubble Era of 1986-1991. With columns and statues reminiscent of ancient Rome, the hotel exuded a contrived opulence that reflected the heady arrogance of those bubble days. However, managements recent and sober attempts to keep costs down were evident everywhere: rooms and carpeting in need of renovation, non-professional, part-time staff, etc. The place felt a little dead, but it's good to be the king...if only for a while.
We stayed at a spa hotel which had to have been built during the wild speculation of the now-gone Bubble Era of 1986-1991. With columns and statues reminiscent of ancient Rome, the hotel exuded a contrived opulence that reflected the heady arrogance of those bubble days. However, managements recent and sober attempts to keep costs down were evident everywhere: rooms and carpeting in need of renovation, non-professional, part-time staff, etc. The place felt a little dead, but it's good to be the king...if only for a while.
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