Rome has been a trend setter for years, dating to the Ancient times, a style that can still be seen at any keg party, to the runways, where Prada, Louis Vuitton and Gucci all make their homes. But despite all of their fashion success, they still find time to watch a little reality TV; how else to explain the big hair, curls and over done make-up made famous by Bravo?
Yes, the 80s look that died everywhere but North Jersey also rages on in Rome, and not with much success. The accents are different, but the attitude is the same; as the Parisians were passively aggressively rude, the Romans did not attempt to hide it. As Maggie and I fumbled through our final language barrier, there were an uncountable number of rolled eyes, “Whatsamattayous” and those infamous, impatient arm gestures that translate directly into English.
Rome had the unfortunate circumstance of being our last stop, and by that point, Maggie and I had begun to tire from a life on the road. The consistent traveling, strange beds and foreign roommates by this point had begun to wear on us, and Rome’s oppressive humidity did not help matters. Undeterred, we were determined to set out and make the most of our last stop, to soak in the Catholicism that floats over the river from Vatican City and the ancient stench that comes from years of history and not the heaping trash on the street corners.
The lines to enter the Vatican Museums, a collection of never ending art that Popes have - ahem - acquired, were supposed to be among the longest in Europe, so Maggie and I arrived at 8 a.m., one half-hour before the doors opened. The line stretched around the block, but once the doors opened, it began to move. As we crept toward the door, a group of four people, two women and two men, appeared at our right hand side. The acted as they belonged, jabbering on in Italian, laughing and having a grand time, but they clearly had cut the line. The group behind them began to fuss, and in stead of giving way, the man turned around, shoved a few pieces of colorful paper into the man’s front pocket, laughed it off, and turned back around. Tony Soprano would have been proud.
Once inside, we were faced with one of the most impressive collections of ancient Egyptian artifacts, including an actual mummified woman dating from the 1st century B.C., never ending hallways of marble statues, breathtaking frescoes and of course, the world famous Sistine Chapel. It would seem that some Popes spent their entire Pontificate attempting to acquire world treasures as opposed to saving the souls of the world, but judging by the throngs of tourists and never ending tour groups that muscled their way past us time and again, no one seemed to mind.
While the museums were impressive, Maggie and I were a little disappointed to learn we did not need to see them in order to enter St. Peter’s Square and the Basilica; at this point, marble statues and frescoed ceilings had become a bit run of the mill, even if these were the most famous in the world. We had journeyed to Vatican City to visit one of the holiest places of the world, not to merely gawk at more art.
The Basilica of St. Peter’s was truly, truly breathtaking. Aside from its gargantuan size, its sheer beauty would humble even the most staunch atheists. The famed Pieta greets you as you enter the Basilica, and the beauty of Jesus’ mother as she holds her lifeless son’s body is awe-inspiring, but her forlorn expression makes it impossible to rip your eyes away from the marble sculpture. Michelangelo not only articulated the pain of Mary, but of all mother’s who have been forced to bury their sons, or have seen their children through hard times. It is a powerful religious symbol, but also a testament to the role women play in the lives of their sons, the nurturing that never dies, and the love that sees us to the end.
We also traveled to the crypt, to see the final resting place of Karol Wojtyla, known to the world as John Paul II. The beautiful, understated marble stone lies just feet from the entrance to the tomb where it is believed that the Apostle Peter, the first Pope of the Church, is buried, a fitting place for one of the finest men to ever reign should enjoy his well-earned eternal sleep. After traveling through the Eastern Bloc, visiting his old home in Krakow and seeing the scars that Communism left, it was a moving experience to visit the man who played such a large role in not only breaking down the Communism power, but for instilling hope and keeping the faith of the persecuted people who used it to overcome their dictators. Surrounded by ornate sarcophaguses and monumental tombs, John Paul’s simple stone lightly adorned by golden roses was one of the most beautiful in the entire tomb, which housed approximately 30 other former Popes.
After a day at the Vatican, we turned our attention to the other great draw of Rome, the remains of the last great ancient power of the world. The Colosseum still dominates downtown, even though more than half of it has crumbled. The Roman Forum stretches from the Colosseum north, and its Via Sacra still houses 2500 year old pagan cathedrals guarded by original doors and locks and keys. The ancient city remains impressive to this day, a testament to the ingenuity of the Roman people and their wealth and power. Upon learning that so much still survived, like a 2500 year old key, I was curious how so many walls had crumbled and statues gone missing. The answer? Well that beautiful square in Vatican City had to be built somehow, so the Popes of the Renaissance ordered the marble statues of the Colosseum to be melted down, the concrete to be “recycled” and the mosaic floors to be removed. See, the Colosseum was designed to withstand earthquakes, and it was built so well that the present day metro runs right below it. The Romans placed leaden blocks in between the concrete bricks to withstand the shocks of earthquakes and to make the walls more pliable, so they could move and shift without succumbing and falling over. But the Roman people knew this, and during the Middle Ages, when they were short on supplies, they dug into the walls of the Colosseum and mined out the lead, causing the building to crumble. Today, you can still see the holes in the walls where the lead was pulled out. So, as the tour guides are fond of saying, if not for the Romans, Rome would still flourish today.
A beautiful city with three different generations of power, the ancient Romans, Vatican City and the present day, still visible and vibrant, Rome is a must-see for any visitor. However, travel weariness, oppressive humidity and throngs of tourists made it a tough stop for Maggie and I. With a week past and some appreciation for the entire trip beginning to settle in, I will attempt to recap our entire trip, and pass along some advice for future travelers to the home of our ancestors. Ciao!
Monday, August 31, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
View from Abroad
Pardon the gap in posts, internet dried up at the end of our trip, so this is not quite timely. Home safely now, I'll try to do a couple wrap ups this week.
One decision had been made as another one was weighed; Maggie and I had gone back and forth on visiting Aushwitz as our stop in Krakow loomed. I first pushed the idea but Maggie feared marring her return home to Poland. But just as I began to change my mind after seeing the memorial in Berlin and the letters written by people just hours before they entered the gas chambers, Maggie changed her mind, and decided she did want to go. While we weighed the decision whether or not to journey to Aushwitz, Andy Reid had already decided to sign the Dog Killer, fresh from a federal penitentiary, to join his team.
A trip to a concentration camp seemed obligatory upon arriving in Europe. Historically, they are shrines to the most horrific attempted genocides of our world, and serve as a testament to the ugliness of bigotry, racism and power. On the other hand, the stories of survivors, the horrifying pictures of emaciated bodies stacked in pits to be burned and the rhythmic thud of the AK-47s that I had encountered at Washington’s Holocaust museum proved to be too much for my nerves, and the thought of viewing the site at the center of the Nazi’s terror sent shivers through my body.
But the Aushwitz-Birkenau museum was not like the memorials, which were structured in remembrance of the individuals who had died and their stories. Rather, the concentration camp was more fact based: here was where the gas chambers existed before the fleeing Nazis destroyed them, there is the wall where prisoners were shot, and that is the platform where it was decided who would go straight to their deaths and who would suffer for approximately three months under the tyranny of the guards until collapsing in exhaustion and malnourishment. The majority of the prisoners exited the train and went straight to the gas chambers, to their deaths; the men who were strong enough worked, many pulling the dead bodies out of the chamber and loading them into the ovens in the crematorium, but only after shaving the victims’ hair, pulling out gold teeth fillings and removing any jewelry.
The horrors in southern Poland are too great to name, and the skill and order that the Nazis exhibited in carrying out the atrocity is terrifying. Ironically, as I studied a genocide abroad, the U.S. media was building up its wrath against a perceived genocide at home, the one Mr. Michael Vick, the newest Philadelphia Eagle, served two years in Leavenworth Penitentiary for carrying out.
Allow me to digress to fill in those who are unfamiliar with his case. Vick was convicted on counts of federal dog fighting, for funding an illegal dog fighting ring and for transporting dogs across state lines for the purpose of fighting them. He was often found guilty of torturing and murdering dogs that did not do well, as alleged by prosecutors and his co-conspirators, who rolled over on him in order to avoid lengthy jail sentences themselves.
Vick’s actions suggest a deviant and violent personality, one that appears to have gone on unchecked for quite some time and who took his frustrations out on defenseless animals. I have always maintained, however, that Vick truly got shafted, first by his celebrity and secondly by a media that plundered the man’s soul with its sensationalist reporting. And it has continued, as he is railed upon from local Philadelphia writers and their national peers, eviscerating Reid and the front office for signing a player of such poor moral conduct and such malicious character, all for the attempted betterment of the team, an attempt which is certain to fail, because it did the last time the team took a risk with a character we all know by two simple letters.
But what they miss are the white players who go hunting, the lesser known players who commit vehicular manslaughter and only serve 30 days in jail and the millions of human lives who are lost around the globe due to governments similar in their bigotry to the Nazis. Vick murdered, tortured and fought dogs, certainly a terrible crime, but Dante Stallworth killed a man earlier this year because he was driving drunk and has already been released from jail. Leonard Little, defensive end for the St. Louis Rams for so many years, killed a man when he was driving drunk, did community service, returned to the playing field, and a few years later, was again arrested on drunk driving charges, only to restart his career anew once more.
So, why has Vick been treated so harshly while the media sweeps these other instances under the rug? Certainly, we don’t value the lives of dogs over people, do we? Does Vick’s intent to hurt the dogs outweigh the reckless stupidity of getting behind the wheel intoxicated when you are fabulously wealthy and could easily afford a taxi, or a limousine, ride home? Is this merely a case of malicious intent that has our priorities so skewed?
But what has truly frustrated me is the idea that Vick should be banished to the netherworld, that the NFL’s system of justice should for some reason be stricter than the government’s, that he should never play another down of football ever again. It is impossible to believe he could be rehabilitated, and on top of that, he is only a 56 percent career passer, so to hell with him.
Perhaps the Nazis were right then, and Vick, along with all other criminals, should just be wiped from the face of the earth. The NFL is a privilege, and Vick is unworthy of its lofty standards, those set by greedy white men who rob their fans with seat licenses and $30 parking fees and $200 shirts with fans’ favorite players’ names on the back. The man killed dogs and served his time for it, while each day, hundreds of young men drop dead in our own streets and we do nothing more than gloss over to the next news story. The world is full of evil men, and when we begin to put ourselves above others, complexes such as the one in southern Poland are erected to eradicate the unworthy ones.
One decision had been made as another one was weighed; Maggie and I had gone back and forth on visiting Aushwitz as our stop in Krakow loomed. I first pushed the idea but Maggie feared marring her return home to Poland. But just as I began to change my mind after seeing the memorial in Berlin and the letters written by people just hours before they entered the gas chambers, Maggie changed her mind, and decided she did want to go. While we weighed the decision whether or not to journey to Aushwitz, Andy Reid had already decided to sign the Dog Killer, fresh from a federal penitentiary, to join his team.
A trip to a concentration camp seemed obligatory upon arriving in Europe. Historically, they are shrines to the most horrific attempted genocides of our world, and serve as a testament to the ugliness of bigotry, racism and power. On the other hand, the stories of survivors, the horrifying pictures of emaciated bodies stacked in pits to be burned and the rhythmic thud of the AK-47s that I had encountered at Washington’s Holocaust museum proved to be too much for my nerves, and the thought of viewing the site at the center of the Nazi’s terror sent shivers through my body.
But the Aushwitz-Birkenau museum was not like the memorials, which were structured in remembrance of the individuals who had died and their stories. Rather, the concentration camp was more fact based: here was where the gas chambers existed before the fleeing Nazis destroyed them, there is the wall where prisoners were shot, and that is the platform where it was decided who would go straight to their deaths and who would suffer for approximately three months under the tyranny of the guards until collapsing in exhaustion and malnourishment. The majority of the prisoners exited the train and went straight to the gas chambers, to their deaths; the men who were strong enough worked, many pulling the dead bodies out of the chamber and loading them into the ovens in the crematorium, but only after shaving the victims’ hair, pulling out gold teeth fillings and removing any jewelry.
The horrors in southern Poland are too great to name, and the skill and order that the Nazis exhibited in carrying out the atrocity is terrifying. Ironically, as I studied a genocide abroad, the U.S. media was building up its wrath against a perceived genocide at home, the one Mr. Michael Vick, the newest Philadelphia Eagle, served two years in Leavenworth Penitentiary for carrying out.
Allow me to digress to fill in those who are unfamiliar with his case. Vick was convicted on counts of federal dog fighting, for funding an illegal dog fighting ring and for transporting dogs across state lines for the purpose of fighting them. He was often found guilty of torturing and murdering dogs that did not do well, as alleged by prosecutors and his co-conspirators, who rolled over on him in order to avoid lengthy jail sentences themselves.
Vick’s actions suggest a deviant and violent personality, one that appears to have gone on unchecked for quite some time and who took his frustrations out on defenseless animals. I have always maintained, however, that Vick truly got shafted, first by his celebrity and secondly by a media that plundered the man’s soul with its sensationalist reporting. And it has continued, as he is railed upon from local Philadelphia writers and their national peers, eviscerating Reid and the front office for signing a player of such poor moral conduct and such malicious character, all for the attempted betterment of the team, an attempt which is certain to fail, because it did the last time the team took a risk with a character we all know by two simple letters.
But what they miss are the white players who go hunting, the lesser known players who commit vehicular manslaughter and only serve 30 days in jail and the millions of human lives who are lost around the globe due to governments similar in their bigotry to the Nazis. Vick murdered, tortured and fought dogs, certainly a terrible crime, but Dante Stallworth killed a man earlier this year because he was driving drunk and has already been released from jail. Leonard Little, defensive end for the St. Louis Rams for so many years, killed a man when he was driving drunk, did community service, returned to the playing field, and a few years later, was again arrested on drunk driving charges, only to restart his career anew once more.
So, why has Vick been treated so harshly while the media sweeps these other instances under the rug? Certainly, we don’t value the lives of dogs over people, do we? Does Vick’s intent to hurt the dogs outweigh the reckless stupidity of getting behind the wheel intoxicated when you are fabulously wealthy and could easily afford a taxi, or a limousine, ride home? Is this merely a case of malicious intent that has our priorities so skewed?
But what has truly frustrated me is the idea that Vick should be banished to the netherworld, that the NFL’s system of justice should for some reason be stricter than the government’s, that he should never play another down of football ever again. It is impossible to believe he could be rehabilitated, and on top of that, he is only a 56 percent career passer, so to hell with him.
Perhaps the Nazis were right then, and Vick, along with all other criminals, should just be wiped from the face of the earth. The NFL is a privilege, and Vick is unworthy of its lofty standards, those set by greedy white men who rob their fans with seat licenses and $30 parking fees and $200 shirts with fans’ favorite players’ names on the back. The man killed dogs and served his time for it, while each day, hundreds of young men drop dead in our own streets and we do nothing more than gloss over to the next news story. The world is full of evil men, and when we begin to put ourselves above others, complexes such as the one in southern Poland are erected to eradicate the unworthy ones.
Friday, August 14, 2009
The Louvre
Unfortunately, quite a bit is lost in translation when it comes to art. The Lourve is an amazing museum, and a bit of a piece of art itself, with the beautifully decorated rooms, painted ceilings and of course that famous pyramid. These were just a couple of the pictures we took, but some of my favorite paintings.
It's not a purse, it's European!
"Officer, he's got my European carry all!""Your what?"
"It's a leather case with a strap and..."
"You mean a purse?"
"Yes, a purse! I carry a purse!"
Parisian fashion on display at Notre DameEurope sure is strange. If not for the tiny cars or the funny license plates, the street signs on buildings instead of hanging over the road, or handles that suggest doors should be pulled when it is necessary to push, Maggie and I have had some interesting encounters that have left us scratching our heads and locals chuckling in our direction.
These cultural differences have not waited long upon on arrival in a new city to manifest themselves. The Parisians were rude, the Berliners entertained us at a Beerfest, and when we got to Prague, it was all I could do but say, welcome to Eastern Europe. Maggie, of course, slapped me upside the head, but on first sight of Prague on a dreary day, it sure looked like all the stereotypes told me it would.
And then we got on the tram. After getting burned in Berlin with an all-inclusive public transport card that we barely used, we decided to just pick up a one-way ticket, figure out where the hotel was in relation to what we wanted to see, and go from there. So after transferring from the undergroud to light rail (the last form of public transport I hadn't used) we hadn't gone more than a few stops before culture caught up to us.
On the DC metro, the best seats are reserved for the elderly, handicapped and travelers with children. It is actually federal law that those seats be available whenever needed by someone of those three groups. Usually, people will rise and let someone who needs the seat more have it, but I have seen some people look across the aisle at a fellow passenger taking up a seat as if to say, "who's budging first?"
It seemed from simply walking around in Paris, London and Berlin that the cities were made up of baby boomers and younger generations. However, in Prague, the opposite is true, and many of the elderly of Prague use the public transport system with ease. With this in mind, a young woman began to rise and offer her seat to an elderly woman as she climbed aboard. There were plenty of seats on board the tram, but this woman was sitting adjacent to the door, a prime seat and one I would assume was reserved for the elderly, if I could read Czech. However, the elderly woman did not seem to notice the gesture, and tried to matriculate her way past, cane and all. The younger woman stopped her, gestured to her seat, and (I assume) asked the elderly woman to sit down. She did not like this.
Her face contorted into one of extreme insult, and she began to scream in Czech. She motioned wildly with her arms, flinging her cane in the air and berating the girl as she marched past. She sat down right behind me, tapped me on the shoulder and continued to spout off in Czech. Maggie, sitting across the row, merely smiled as I nodded and prayed I didn't get Sumner-ed upside the head. After exiting the train, Maggie exploded in laughter, and translated best she could, since Czech and Polish are closely related.
"She was just going on about how she's not a feeble old woman and she still has her strength. But you looked horrified."
Hey, these women have dealt with a lot: world wars, dictators, communists, I figured some young punk would have been nothing more than another notch on the belt. I was impressed by the woman, but not surprised by a stubborness and toughness that is often synonymous with Eastern Europeans. It reminded me of an old, terrible joke a former teacher of mine used to tell about a city in Northern Va.
"I'm not dead, I'm just Reston." Eastern Europe is only 20 years removed from the tyranny and oppression of the communists, but its beauty and history are unsurpassed, and it is truly moving to see how much has survived the brutal 20th century. Prague is a beautiful city, and it mostly survived the Nazi and Communist invasions. The architecture of the city is famous, combining Romanesque, rennisancese, and even a style only seen in Prague, cubist.
Prague is not world famous for any one thing, but it does have the largest castle in Europe. It currently houses the Czech president and offers beautiful panoramic views of the city. The city also began the 30 Years War, a battle between the Catholics and the Protestants. The had a great deal of religious uprising and is one of the Protestant havens in a Catholic continent.
I will save Krakow for Maggie, as it marks her return home to Poland, and I will get some more pictures up from our trip to the Catacombs, since I accidently deleted them off of Flickr.
Monday, August 10, 2009
A Promise in Pictures
Maggie at the gates of Buckingham
In front of the House of Parliament
The famed Big Ben
The Tower Bridge
Bye London! We hardly knew ye!
Thanks to all who are fervently following our trip. The picture uploading has been a great headache, because Flickr charges money, the computer we brough has very little memory and few of the hostel computers have Flash Player, which is required to upload the pictures. But, have no fear, we've gotten some up. You can visit Flickr.com, search mbpmeurope and see the about 80 pictures, which was free. I am working on getting the rest up, and some that I hastily removed on the blog.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
The City of Scars
The poetic cafes that line the elegant Parisian boulevards and the calculated brush strokes which add beauty and life to everything they touch are in stark contrast to the dour utilitarian power of Berlin‘s architecture.
Upon arriving in Paris, le Arc de Triomphe met our eyes before we met the city; today, in Berlin, we were dumped off in an alley way and greeted by gruff Germans polishing their Volkswagens to a pristine sheen. VW makes a fine auto to be sure, but our arrival certainly lacked the grandeur of our French welcome.
Two cities could not have made better consecutive stops for the freshman traveler. Paris is breathtaking at each turn, but Berlin simply provides air. Paris wows its visitors’ with each landmark, but at first glance, you might wonder why you bothered to stop here in Berlin. Fois gras is decidedly French, whereas the Germans seem more suited to a lumpy stew.
But Berlin’s beauty must be seen without fanfare, for there is none. A Parisian tour leaves one inundated with an excessive culture in a society that masks its history with gold. But Berlin ‘just be’ with subtleness that drips historical significance, allusion and comedy.
The city is haunted by the atrocities it has seen in just the past 100 years. After their final monarch, Kaiser Wilhelm II, brought war to Western Europe which spread throughout the world, the city and country were plunged into terrible debt, first stemming from the reparations they paid for losing the war, to millions of dollars in debt being recalled by the United States following the stock market crash of 1929. The shame from the Treaty of Versailles encouraged extremism throughout the Duetchland, and the fascists won, naming an Austrian as their leader who imprisoned most of Europe before being beat back to the capital by the four Allied powers.
Nearly 90 percent of the city was razed, a large part of Europe lay smoking from Nazi bombs and Germany was again without a government. And at its weakest, yet another foreign dictator came to rule, and shackled half of Berlin along with part of the country behind the Iron Curtain.
The Germans have lived through a historical history that makes this American tremble, and the scars left behind are not covered by a Band-Aid. A Holocaust memorial resides downtown, but unlike its haunting peers, it acts as a subtle, constant and gentle reminder at the apex of the legislative and business districts. It bears no signage to suggest what it is, and it is comprised of a series of rectangular stone blocks that stretch out across a city block. At each of the four street entrances, the blocks gently begin to rise from the ground, growing in height as they reach the middle before gently receding into the opposing block. The memorial does not beat its message into any visitor’s head, but like most things in Berlin, it causes one to think.
The city is not without startling allusion. The public square in front of the renowned Humboldt University was where the Nazi’s burned 20,000 texts from the university library. Today, below the bricks of the square, a memorial to the books is laid out. It is visible only by a glass window from the square, and houses empty shelves with a capacity for 20,000 books, and has been permanently sealed by the designer, suggesting that the books can never be replaced. Not 50 meters away is a plague with a quote from Heinrich Heine, which roughly translates to, “When books are put to the flame, people are not far behind.” The quote, however, predated the Holocaust by more than 100 years, having been written in 1820 in one of the books that was burned by the Nazi party.
But despite their dark history, the Germans are not without a sense of humor. The aforementioned Brandenburg Gate was commissioned to pronounce peace amongst the German people, but Lil’ ol’ Napoleon stormed into town and stole the statue on top of the gate and placed it on display at the Lourve. After the Germans successfully won the war, they requested the sculpture back, but found that Napoleon had placed Victoria, the goddess of Victory into it. Instead of changing it back, the German people placed it back on the gate, and faced Victoria towards the building at the north end of the square: The French embassy.
The cities beautifully juxtopose one another, and not merely because they have been opponents many times. A German couple woke up one morning in 1961 to find they were on opposite sides of the wall, and their relationship ended soon after when the male, in West Germany, quickly moved on and found a new girl. The new relationship progressed quickly, and they soon decided to “holiday” in the new East Germany, easy enough with their West German passports. But when the new couple arrived, they came upon the former girlfriend. The male asked his new beau to open her door to get a view, and swiftly kicked her out, stole her identity and took his true love back across the wall. Unfortunately, the second girl was the daughter of a diplomat, and the two lovers did not pass go.
We have left Paris, the city of lovers, and landed in a town where it once sent you to jail.
Upon arriving in Paris, le Arc de Triomphe met our eyes before we met the city; today, in Berlin, we were dumped off in an alley way and greeted by gruff Germans polishing their Volkswagens to a pristine sheen. VW makes a fine auto to be sure, but our arrival certainly lacked the grandeur of our French welcome.
Two cities could not have made better consecutive stops for the freshman traveler. Paris is breathtaking at each turn, but Berlin simply provides air. Paris wows its visitors’ with each landmark, but at first glance, you might wonder why you bothered to stop here in Berlin. Fois gras is decidedly French, whereas the Germans seem more suited to a lumpy stew.
But Berlin’s beauty must be seen without fanfare, for there is none. A Parisian tour leaves one inundated with an excessive culture in a society that masks its history with gold. But Berlin ‘just be’ with subtleness that drips historical significance, allusion and comedy.
The city is haunted by the atrocities it has seen in just the past 100 years. After their final monarch, Kaiser Wilhelm II, brought war to Western Europe which spread throughout the world, the city and country were plunged into terrible debt, first stemming from the reparations they paid for losing the war, to millions of dollars in debt being recalled by the United States following the stock market crash of 1929. The shame from the Treaty of Versailles encouraged extremism throughout the Duetchland, and the fascists won, naming an Austrian as their leader who imprisoned most of Europe before being beat back to the capital by the four Allied powers.
Nearly 90 percent of the city was razed, a large part of Europe lay smoking from Nazi bombs and Germany was again without a government. And at its weakest, yet another foreign dictator came to rule, and shackled half of Berlin along with part of the country behind the Iron Curtain.
The Germans have lived through a historical history that makes this American tremble, and the scars left behind are not covered by a Band-Aid. A Holocaust memorial resides downtown, but unlike its haunting peers, it acts as a subtle, constant and gentle reminder at the apex of the legislative and business districts. It bears no signage to suggest what it is, and it is comprised of a series of rectangular stone blocks that stretch out across a city block. At each of the four street entrances, the blocks gently begin to rise from the ground, growing in height as they reach the middle before gently receding into the opposing block. The memorial does not beat its message into any visitor’s head, but like most things in Berlin, it causes one to think.
The city is not without startling allusion. The public square in front of the renowned Humboldt University was where the Nazi’s burned 20,000 texts from the university library. Today, below the bricks of the square, a memorial to the books is laid out. It is visible only by a glass window from the square, and houses empty shelves with a capacity for 20,000 books, and has been permanently sealed by the designer, suggesting that the books can never be replaced. Not 50 meters away is a plague with a quote from Heinrich Heine, which roughly translates to, “When books are put to the flame, people are not far behind.” The quote, however, predated the Holocaust by more than 100 years, having been written in 1820 in one of the books that was burned by the Nazi party.
But despite their dark history, the Germans are not without a sense of humor. The aforementioned Brandenburg Gate was commissioned to pronounce peace amongst the German people, but Lil’ ol’ Napoleon stormed into town and stole the statue on top of the gate and placed it on display at the Lourve. After the Germans successfully won the war, they requested the sculpture back, but found that Napoleon had placed Victoria, the goddess of Victory into it. Instead of changing it back, the German people placed it back on the gate, and faced Victoria towards the building at the north end of the square: The French embassy.
The cities beautifully juxtopose one another, and not merely because they have been opponents many times. A German couple woke up one morning in 1961 to find they were on opposite sides of the wall, and their relationship ended soon after when the male, in West Germany, quickly moved on and found a new girl. The new relationship progressed quickly, and they soon decided to “holiday” in the new East Germany, easy enough with their West German passports. But when the new couple arrived, they came upon the former girlfriend. The male asked his new beau to open her door to get a view, and swiftly kicked her out, stole her identity and took his true love back across the wall. Unfortunately, the second girl was the daughter of a diplomat, and the two lovers did not pass go.
We have left Paris, the city of lovers, and landed in a town where it once sent you to jail.
Gucci, Louis, Prada and New Jersey wannabes
Paris
It’s 7am and we’re on the flight from Paris to Berlin. Coming from London where there were no language barriers, Paris definitely took some getting used to. I promised myself before this trip that I wouldn’t let stereotypes prevent me from trying to get to know the city/people I was visiting but that was hard to do in Paris. Mostly because I really felt like most of the Parisians I encountered held very strong disdain for Americans. It was evident in the tone they used when answering questions. This made it much harder to ask for help because we basically knew we would be ignored. Thankfully, the map we got from our hotel became permanently attached to my hip and we made it through the last three days in this wonderful city without getting into too much trouble.
We did most of the general touristy stuff like going to Notre Dame (I even found a Polish tour group which I snuck into for a half hour), the Eiffel Tower, the Catacombs, the Louvre, Luxembourg Palace, etc. However, the thing I will remember the most is definitely the Catacombs. Although we had to wait in a two hour line to get in, it was totally worth it. Just the idea of thousands of bones piled up in large tunnels and caverns several stories below ground is intriguing but actually being there and seeing it was pretty chilling. After we made it through the initial passageways and the bones started piling up it literally felt like forever before they ended. The passage we walked through was 1.7 kilometers long, which is about a 30 minute walk and about 70% of it was lined with bones on each side about 3-4 feet deep and 5 feet high. There were several guards sitting down in the tunnels and we found one napping. It was kind of funny and pretty creepy that he was able to sleep so soundly while sitting among all those bones. And lastly, believe it or not, they had to check bags on our way out because they’ve had incidents of people stealing bones. It’s pretty unimaginable that someone would even want to touch them, much less take one home as a souvenir.
Now, onto the important stuff like food and fashion and cute boys (cough, Lauren). It’s safe to say we were both waay under-dressed for being in Paris. Although about 50% of the people we encountered were also tourists and dressed even worse than we were, you still felt out of place whenever a Parisian looked you up and down with a condescending look. As for the men, they pretty much all gel their hair back, wear pointy black leather shoes with small heels, and have on dark jeans with a button down dress shirt. I think they have to sign something before being able to live in Paris stating that they will always wear such outfits because this was the preferred dress at all times of day, in all temperatures, and on all occasions. At the risk of sounding un-cultured…they looked pretty fruity. I think the funniest display of this was early this morning…we were leaving our hotel and saw two visibly drunk Parisian guys laughing, yelling, and what can only be described as frolicking down the street. They kind of reminded me of the blonde German brothers in Beerfest, except substitute the German for French.
After being sternly warned by Steph about obeying pedestrian signals we made sure to stay out of motorists way but saw many wandering tourists get honked and yelled at for walking out into the middle of the street. One lady totally walked into a pole because she was so engrossed in her map. She didn’t get hurt but provided some great amusement for us as she tried to pretend it didn’t happen and disappeared off down the street.
This is for Stephie: So one night I was watching British CNN in our hotel room because it’s the only channel that we got in English and they had a video of the day about some restaurant in a Wisconsin town that served chocolate covered fried bacon on a stick. I immediately thought of you. It was pretty funny tho, I mean no wonder Parisians have such disdain for Americans tho…all they think we do is dress badly, have no manners, and eat chocolate bacon.
One last note about the culture differences: One night we wanted to have a picnic on the mall right below the Eiffel tower and wanted to find grocery store to get some cheese, bread, wine, etc. We asked the concierge and she directed us down the street giving us its name and saying we couldn’t miss it. However, finding it proved to be much harder than expected. We walked to the street she instructed and found the name she gave us only to find a small clothing store. After two days of getting very bad directions from Parisians, we were convinced that the concierge was messing with us. We asked another person near-by and they pointed at to the same building. At that point we both thought we were going crazy because there was no way there was a grocery store in this small store front. Then we noticed people walking into the store without so much as looking at the clothes and disappearing in the back. We followed and discovered that there was an escalator to the grocery part of the store in the basement. Who knew that grocery stores are disguised as boutiques in Paris? After this realization the whole situation just became so ridiculous that we couldn’t help but laugh at ourselves.
I can’t remember any more right now but we’ll write again soon. Now its off to Berlin (after almost missing our flight btw, cause EasyJet decided it would be a good idea to have two check-in desks and one security pass-through for about 5 flights worth of people all departing at the same time.) Ahh..the joys of travel.
Bye!
It’s 7am and we’re on the flight from Paris to Berlin. Coming from London where there were no language barriers, Paris definitely took some getting used to. I promised myself before this trip that I wouldn’t let stereotypes prevent me from trying to get to know the city/people I was visiting but that was hard to do in Paris. Mostly because I really felt like most of the Parisians I encountered held very strong disdain for Americans. It was evident in the tone they used when answering questions. This made it much harder to ask for help because we basically knew we would be ignored. Thankfully, the map we got from our hotel became permanently attached to my hip and we made it through the last three days in this wonderful city without getting into too much trouble.
We did most of the general touristy stuff like going to Notre Dame (I even found a Polish tour group which I snuck into for a half hour), the Eiffel Tower, the Catacombs, the Louvre, Luxembourg Palace, etc. However, the thing I will remember the most is definitely the Catacombs. Although we had to wait in a two hour line to get in, it was totally worth it. Just the idea of thousands of bones piled up in large tunnels and caverns several stories below ground is intriguing but actually being there and seeing it was pretty chilling. After we made it through the initial passageways and the bones started piling up it literally felt like forever before they ended. The passage we walked through was 1.7 kilometers long, which is about a 30 minute walk and about 70% of it was lined with bones on each side about 3-4 feet deep and 5 feet high. There were several guards sitting down in the tunnels and we found one napping. It was kind of funny and pretty creepy that he was able to sleep so soundly while sitting among all those bones. And lastly, believe it or not, they had to check bags on our way out because they’ve had incidents of people stealing bones. It’s pretty unimaginable that someone would even want to touch them, much less take one home as a souvenir.
Now, onto the important stuff like food and fashion and cute boys (cough, Lauren). It’s safe to say we were both waay under-dressed for being in Paris. Although about 50% of the people we encountered were also tourists and dressed even worse than we were, you still felt out of place whenever a Parisian looked you up and down with a condescending look. As for the men, they pretty much all gel their hair back, wear pointy black leather shoes with small heels, and have on dark jeans with a button down dress shirt. I think they have to sign something before being able to live in Paris stating that they will always wear such outfits because this was the preferred dress at all times of day, in all temperatures, and on all occasions. At the risk of sounding un-cultured…they looked pretty fruity. I think the funniest display of this was early this morning…we were leaving our hotel and saw two visibly drunk Parisian guys laughing, yelling, and what can only be described as frolicking down the street. They kind of reminded me of the blonde German brothers in Beerfest, except substitute the German for French.
After being sternly warned by Steph about obeying pedestrian signals we made sure to stay out of motorists way but saw many wandering tourists get honked and yelled at for walking out into the middle of the street. One lady totally walked into a pole because she was so engrossed in her map. She didn’t get hurt but provided some great amusement for us as she tried to pretend it didn’t happen and disappeared off down the street.
This is for Stephie: So one night I was watching British CNN in our hotel room because it’s the only channel that we got in English and they had a video of the day about some restaurant in a Wisconsin town that served chocolate covered fried bacon on a stick. I immediately thought of you. It was pretty funny tho, I mean no wonder Parisians have such disdain for Americans tho…all they think we do is dress badly, have no manners, and eat chocolate bacon.
One last note about the culture differences: One night we wanted to have a picnic on the mall right below the Eiffel tower and wanted to find grocery store to get some cheese, bread, wine, etc. We asked the concierge and she directed us down the street giving us its name and saying we couldn’t miss it. However, finding it proved to be much harder than expected. We walked to the street she instructed and found the name she gave us only to find a small clothing store. After two days of getting very bad directions from Parisians, we were convinced that the concierge was messing with us. We asked another person near-by and they pointed at to the same building. At that point we both thought we were going crazy because there was no way there was a grocery store in this small store front. Then we noticed people walking into the store without so much as looking at the clothes and disappearing in the back. We followed and discovered that there was an escalator to the grocery part of the store in the basement. Who knew that grocery stores are disguised as boutiques in Paris? After this realization the whole situation just became so ridiculous that we couldn’t help but laugh at ourselves.
I can’t remember any more right now but we’ll write again soon. Now its off to Berlin (after almost missing our flight btw, cause EasyJet decided it would be a good idea to have two check-in desks and one security pass-through for about 5 flights worth of people all departing at the same time.) Ahh..the joys of travel.
Bye!
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
A Scenic View of a Life Left Behind
The City of Lights has been but a mystical dream built by moving pictures of Le Tour de France bouncing down the storied cobblestones of les Champs and around le Arc de Triomphe during the last stage of the great race. The historical bounty of the city filled my brain with visions of crimson streets, Robespierre manning the guillotine and mighty, mini Napoleon achieving the greatest highs of French military might.
But when booking for the trip began, my romanticized view of the city did not develop a desire to visit it. The tales of Parisian pride, to put it delicately, had put me off to ever visiting the great city. I suppose I feared a renewed Reign of Terror, where prejudiced Parisians would sniff out my non-oppressive scent and send me to the blade. While its beauty was unsurpassed, the pictures I had seen would suffice, because I just couldn’t shake El’Equipe’s headlines that have routinely beaten down the American who had the audacity to repeatedly win their bike race, and in the process, take a shot at the rest of us.
However, while my fears were not exactly assuaged by those who have visited here before, they assured me the sights and views I would enjoy would outweigh the snooty looks and comments surely uttered but not understood by my uncultured ears. So, with London in our rearviews and the tourist signs attached to our backs with all of our belongings for the next few weeks, Maggie and I arrived in Paris this morning and set off on the Metro for our Hotel.
Crammed in with overstuffed bags on our backs during rush hour, we come upon the first stop, where Maggie and I needed to exit to transfer to the line that would take us to the hostel. I stood at the door, anticipating its opening and freeing me from the glances of harried commuters, when I felt a jabbing in my ribs. It was an elderly lady, pushing her way past me to the door. Off to a good start, I thought to myself, as the famed attitude towards tourists shone through not 10 minutes into my stay. I let her pass, and she taught me my first lesson of the trip; Parisian metro doors are opened by the passengers, not the operators. As she flipped the knob I had failed to notice before and the doors swung open, I chuckled to myself while stopping in my tracks. It was karma, and it had me by the trousers.
It is not unusual for me to come across a befuddled fanny-packer fumbling with a metro gate, and my response is to push past and mutter something disparaging about the state of Kansas and how the machine doesn’t take soy beans. Or to roll my eyes when walking down the street at one with his nose in the map, only to realize he’d been circling the attraction he had been trying to find for a half-hour.
But the truth is, tourists are people too. Sure they stand on the wrong side of the metro, take pointless pictures while driving that cause traffic and insist on stopping in the middle of walk ways instead of moving to the side out of everyone’s way, but God love them. Whenever I travel, I try to put on an air of confidence, use my city savvies to avoid the tourism pitfalls that drive locals nuts and just simply blend into the crowd. But when you don’t speak the language, have a huge, orange, protruding bag on your back and are forced to consult the map before taking each step, its hard to mask your identity as a traveler.
Having spent the past two days as such, I’ve reflected on my own prejudices against the wheat farmers of the U.S. In all honesty, it is a great honor to call a place home that is a must see for so many, and gives me a little boost when I can lead them to their destinations with ease. Tourism is a bounty to any local economy, and it is an opportunity to inflict a little local culture into everyone that comes into your local land.
But, this trip has proven to be a greater lesson. It has resonated with the homily I heard this past weekend at mass. Father preached on the reading from Genesis that reflects on the Jews’ trip through the desert, and their complaints to Moses about the lack of food, water and shelter. Conditions had become so bad that some openly longed for the Pharaoh’s whips, because at least he fed them after he worked them near death. Father spoke on the idea of exiting one’s comfort zone; the Jews had become comfortable with their lives, even though they weren’t very gratifying. They’d wake up, be handed breakfast, and head out to do work against their will, but it had become so ingrained in them that they began to associate it with life. Even when a good change came into their life, they rebelled against it, because it was different and new and forced them to their differ their habits.
This trip is much like that. I am in a strange land, do not speak the language and don’t possess a great grasp of the land until it is time to move on to the next city. At home, I have left the apartment I lived in for two years, have moved on from college and am seeking a career. Great changes are abound in my life, and this trip is pushing me to accept and adapt to them, albeit in a beautiful, once in a lifetime opportunity. Change is hard, but it doesn’t have to hurt, right? Au revior!
But when booking for the trip began, my romanticized view of the city did not develop a desire to visit it. The tales of Parisian pride, to put it delicately, had put me off to ever visiting the great city. I suppose I feared a renewed Reign of Terror, where prejudiced Parisians would sniff out my non-oppressive scent and send me to the blade. While its beauty was unsurpassed, the pictures I had seen would suffice, because I just couldn’t shake El’Equipe’s headlines that have routinely beaten down the American who had the audacity to repeatedly win their bike race, and in the process, take a shot at the rest of us.
However, while my fears were not exactly assuaged by those who have visited here before, they assured me the sights and views I would enjoy would outweigh the snooty looks and comments surely uttered but not understood by my uncultured ears. So, with London in our rearviews and the tourist signs attached to our backs with all of our belongings for the next few weeks, Maggie and I arrived in Paris this morning and set off on the Metro for our Hotel.
Crammed in with overstuffed bags on our backs during rush hour, we come upon the first stop, where Maggie and I needed to exit to transfer to the line that would take us to the hostel. I stood at the door, anticipating its opening and freeing me from the glances of harried commuters, when I felt a jabbing in my ribs. It was an elderly lady, pushing her way past me to the door. Off to a good start, I thought to myself, as the famed attitude towards tourists shone through not 10 minutes into my stay. I let her pass, and she taught me my first lesson of the trip; Parisian metro doors are opened by the passengers, not the operators. As she flipped the knob I had failed to notice before and the doors swung open, I chuckled to myself while stopping in my tracks. It was karma, and it had me by the trousers.
It is not unusual for me to come across a befuddled fanny-packer fumbling with a metro gate, and my response is to push past and mutter something disparaging about the state of Kansas and how the machine doesn’t take soy beans. Or to roll my eyes when walking down the street at one with his nose in the map, only to realize he’d been circling the attraction he had been trying to find for a half-hour.
But the truth is, tourists are people too. Sure they stand on the wrong side of the metro, take pointless pictures while driving that cause traffic and insist on stopping in the middle of walk ways instead of moving to the side out of everyone’s way, but God love them. Whenever I travel, I try to put on an air of confidence, use my city savvies to avoid the tourism pitfalls that drive locals nuts and just simply blend into the crowd. But when you don’t speak the language, have a huge, orange, protruding bag on your back and are forced to consult the map before taking each step, its hard to mask your identity as a traveler.
Having spent the past two days as such, I’ve reflected on my own prejudices against the wheat farmers of the U.S. In all honesty, it is a great honor to call a place home that is a must see for so many, and gives me a little boost when I can lead them to their destinations with ease. Tourism is a bounty to any local economy, and it is an opportunity to inflict a little local culture into everyone that comes into your local land.
But, this trip has proven to be a greater lesson. It has resonated with the homily I heard this past weekend at mass. Father preached on the reading from Genesis that reflects on the Jews’ trip through the desert, and their complaints to Moses about the lack of food, water and shelter. Conditions had become so bad that some openly longed for the Pharaoh’s whips, because at least he fed them after he worked them near death. Father spoke on the idea of exiting one’s comfort zone; the Jews had become comfortable with their lives, even though they weren’t very gratifying. They’d wake up, be handed breakfast, and head out to do work against their will, but it had become so ingrained in them that they began to associate it with life. Even when a good change came into their life, they rebelled against it, because it was different and new and forced them to their differ their habits.
This trip is much like that. I am in a strange land, do not speak the language and don’t possess a great grasp of the land until it is time to move on to the next city. At home, I have left the apartment I lived in for two years, have moved on from college and am seeking a career. Great changes are abound in my life, and this trip is pushing me to accept and adapt to them, albeit in a beautiful, once in a lifetime opportunity. Change is hard, but it doesn’t have to hurt, right? Au revior!
From London with Love
London - Tuesday, August 4th
Our crazy European odyssey has finally begun… It didn’t start out crazy so much as very overwhelming. The flight from DC to London was about 7 hours. After some recommendations from friends, we decided to shell out the few extra bucks for British Airways and it was more than worth it. The service on the plane was what you imagine the old-school air travel to be. The stewards and stewardesses were so accommodating that with everything from meals to drinks to blankets and pillows that the eight hours passed by fairly enjoyably. It also helped that the flight was overnight so we managed to get some winks before heading off for a day of sightseeing in London.
When we got into London, we took the tube to our hostel. We took the tube many more times throughout the day during out sightseeing and were grateful for how well designed, efficient, and on-time it was. The hostel we were staying at didn’t allow check-in until 2:30 so we decided to drop our bags off and make the most of our one day in London. I must say that it felt like we crammed in two or three days of sightseeing into just a few hours. We managed to take a tour through the Tower bridge, see the Eye of London, the tower of London, as well as take some amateur artsy pictures of Big Ben. We also took a surprisingly informational and in-depth (thanks to our knowledgeable guide) tour of the Parliament building (attached to Big Ben). The building was incredible and the amount of ornate decorations backed by rich English history and tradition really left an impression. Unfortunately, we weren’t allowed to take any pictures inside except for the main hall, known as Westminster Hall. We also took some pictures of Westminster Abbey although we couldn’t go in because it was too late in the day.
After walking around in the city a little bit and taking a stroll along the Thames River, which runs through London, we decided to go to a local pub for dinner and a beer. The food was great (we tried some of London’s tried and true staples, which included fish and chips and bangers and mash, or sausage with mashed potatoes & gravy state side) and the local beer was definitely worth trying. I had some sort of ale brewed with honey, which was delicious.
After dinner we walked to Buckingham Palace. We didn’t get to see the changing of the guards but we did see one of them strolling back and forth and that was good enough for us. They really do look like little toy soldiers. We were planning to go to Hyde park but after what felt like a 48 hour day we decided to call it quits. We did get to walk through Green Park, which is located right next to Buckingham Palace on our way back to the metro.
When we got back to the hostel we were a little nervous about the accommodations since this was our first hostel experience. The rooms were pretty cramped and we were sharing two bunk beds with two other travellers but they were nice enough and we were so tired that at that point we might have paid for a roomy park bench. I fell asleep almost instantly and our new roommates probably thought we were pretty lame for going to bed at 9:30 but we had a 5:30am train to Paris that we needed to catch the next morning.
Onward to Paris…
Our crazy European odyssey has finally begun… It didn’t start out crazy so much as very overwhelming. The flight from DC to London was about 7 hours. After some recommendations from friends, we decided to shell out the few extra bucks for British Airways and it was more than worth it. The service on the plane was what you imagine the old-school air travel to be. The stewards and stewardesses were so accommodating that with everything from meals to drinks to blankets and pillows that the eight hours passed by fairly enjoyably. It also helped that the flight was overnight so we managed to get some winks before heading off for a day of sightseeing in London.
When we got into London, we took the tube to our hostel. We took the tube many more times throughout the day during out sightseeing and were grateful for how well designed, efficient, and on-time it was. The hostel we were staying at didn’t allow check-in until 2:30 so we decided to drop our bags off and make the most of our one day in London. I must say that it felt like we crammed in two or three days of sightseeing into just a few hours. We managed to take a tour through the Tower bridge, see the Eye of London, the tower of London, as well as take some amateur artsy pictures of Big Ben. We also took a surprisingly informational and in-depth (thanks to our knowledgeable guide) tour of the Parliament building (attached to Big Ben). The building was incredible and the amount of ornate decorations backed by rich English history and tradition really left an impression. Unfortunately, we weren’t allowed to take any pictures inside except for the main hall, known as Westminster Hall. We also took some pictures of Westminster Abbey although we couldn’t go in because it was too late in the day.
After walking around in the city a little bit and taking a stroll along the Thames River, which runs through London, we decided to go to a local pub for dinner and a beer. The food was great (we tried some of London’s tried and true staples, which included fish and chips and bangers and mash, or sausage with mashed potatoes & gravy state side) and the local beer was definitely worth trying. I had some sort of ale brewed with honey, which was delicious.
After dinner we walked to Buckingham Palace. We didn’t get to see the changing of the guards but we did see one of them strolling back and forth and that was good enough for us. They really do look like little toy soldiers. We were planning to go to Hyde park but after what felt like a 48 hour day we decided to call it quits. We did get to walk through Green Park, which is located right next to Buckingham Palace on our way back to the metro.
When we got back to the hostel we were a little nervous about the accommodations since this was our first hostel experience. The rooms were pretty cramped and we were sharing two bunk beds with two other travellers but they were nice enough and we were so tired that at that point we might have paid for a roomy park bench. I fell asleep almost instantly and our new roommates probably thought we were pretty lame for going to bed at 9:30 but we had a 5:30am train to Paris that we needed to catch the next morning.
Onward to Paris…
Leading off
Welcome friends near and far to the Maggie and Patrick blog. We are spending three weeks abroad on the clichéd, post-college backpacking trip, and will take turns chronicling our visit. We arrived in London Tuesday morning, and from there will spend time in Paris, Berlin, Prague, Krakow, Vienna and Rome before crossing back to the States. Maggie is enjoying her first trip to Europe since emigrating at age 7, and I am making a second trip, the first of which took me around the Emerald Isle post-high school. A flickr account is in the works as well, so you might enjoy a visual tour if our amateur words don’t do justice to the history and beauty of the continent.
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