Et in Arcadia Ego

We have entered the lazy golden days that herald the end of spring semester, and the beginning to the long, lovely summer.

Of course, now that I’ve begun higher education, and my first tentative steps into the “real world”, the blissful empty days of summer tend to mean: find a job/internship, make arrangements for the next school year and beyond, and squeeze in a few adventures with friends when you can spare the time. This year is means a month in London, followed by five weeks working at camp before needing to pack to go back to Tech for my senior year. Down at Tech, I would be in the full thrall of the final days of classes, and preparing for exams. Technically, I’m doing that over here as well.

But, I am still in Switzerland, and the sun shines down on our little valley. And for a few hours, I can ignore the call of my essays and the 18 hours of travel that await me in a week as I finally return to the States.

I am surrounded by my fellow students, but we have all succumbed to the lethargy that sunshine brings, and so we all venture forth to the garden, and soak up the April UV-rays, enjoying the slight disconnection that being in a foreign country creates.

Which is why I spent five hours of my Friday, the day after I took two exams, and with several essays still to go, laying out on the lawn reading Camus’ “The Plague” and burning my back and shoulders to a crisp. And for those five hours of roasting and reading, never once did I think about the troubles and tasks that await me inside the villa, and within the next few weeks. All I could think was that there must be something wrong with stretching out in a tank top and short and reading something called “The Plague”.

I should clarify; I don’t find a problem with settling down for some serious tanning with works of what I am led to believe are “great” literature. That’s my usual summer schedule; the difficultly lies with the subject matter. In my family, my father is notorious for finding and reading books about the plague (and I do mean the bubonic type). This is usually a source of much amusement among the children, and has created an aversion to anything plague-oriented. And yet, I was drawn to a plague-book, albeit not one that also dealt with the medieval period. I suppose it’s simply a sign that I will eventually turn into my parents, but for now, I shall enjoy the sun and self-imposed ignorance of responsibilities.

It really is just like a BBC miniseries

I have this image of Venice in my head based entirely on the BBC; most notably “Brideshead Revisited” and “Casanova”. Thanks to the BBC, I see Venice as a city of sun-dappled piazzas and coffee shops. Gondolas float by gently, steered by men in striped shirts with flat straw hats, sometimes singing. The sky is blue interspersed with a few fluffy white clouds, and the water is the most beautiful jade color. All the buildings seem to be held up by pure faith, and are in some quaint state of decay; delicate structures of plaster that you’re fairly sure can’t possibly be where people actually live.

It turns out Venice is exactly like that. Remarkable, really; Venice is the only city that actually fits the idealized view. And I didn’t see everything actually; completely missed the interior of the Doge’s Palace and the Accademia.

The recap goes something like this: Woke up before dawn was even an option, and got on a train for Venice; arrived around noon, checked into the world’s most “interesting” hostel, and decided to go searching. I had no idea what I was supposed to see in Venice, other than a vague notion of this “San Marco” place, and the Rialto. Luckily signs were everywhere to point me towards things. From the hostel to the Rialto I wandered through cramped streets, twisting with no great sense of where I was going. Every thoroughfare was packed with tourists, and I was fairly close to not enjoying this as much as I would have liked, and then I could see down one alley the edge of a really big bridge. Follow instinct, I discovered the Rialto; white and shining in the sun, even covered in shops and tourists, spanning the green waters of the canal. Clearly, I was going to be surprised.

From the Rialto visit I followed signs to San Marco. I emerged from the darkness of the alleyways into an open space, bathed in sunlight. And then there’s the Basilica, golden with mosaics, and edged in a variety of marbles. Next to the Basilica is the Doge’s Palace, and beyond is the open water, and a few islands.

I spent six hours simply walking to get a feel for the city, and when I finished for the day I was exhausted. I still had no idea what I would do for the remainder of my trip. As it turned out, I met some girls at breakfast on the second day who were studying in Barcelona, and originally from Chicago. We bonded over knowledge of neighborhoods, and I ended up spending the day with them. This happened mainly because I joined the three of them to share the cost of a gondola ride.

Yes, I was excessive and went for a gondola ride. Arguably the best decision ever. Rain was expected for the duration of my trip, but while we were on the canal, nothing but pure sunshine. Our gondolier, Marco, was friendly and informed, and I got the memory of being on the canal. After that we wandered the city, got a late lunch, did some Rialto shopping, and finally visited Santa Maria della Salute.

The third day only really counts as a half day, as I needed to get to the train station by mid-afternoon. I had originally thought to visit the Doge’s Palace, and actually go inside something. When I reached San Marco’s, I discovered the piazza covered in four inches of water. Yes, the rain I had been promised had delivered, but at night when I was safe in my bed. In another city, waking up to a sunny day after a rainy night would have little or no consequence. Venice is not “another city”; it’s below sea level, and so a night of rain leads to flooding. San Marco was covered, and the only way to the Doge’s Palace, or into the Basilica was on a series of platforms only four feet wide. You try shuffling several thousand tourists across a single platform path four feet wide, and not lose your patience. I gave up on my thought of the Doge’s. I managed the interior and museum of San Marco’s, but I think I will someday make it back to Venice, before it finally sinks. For that reason, I turned away from San Marco’s, wandered to the Rialto, and then found a quiet spot to enjoy the sunshine. Sunshine and spring weather has been in short supply of late, so simply sitting outside was lovely.

Just before I left I paused in the church next to the train station to let my feet rest, and my back recover from wandering with a heavy backpack. It was a lovely little baroque church, and wonderful to simply sit and enjoy the peace of the building. I’m somewhat burnt out on churches and museums at this point, so being able to sit with no need to admire some aspect of a building because someone else told me it was important was a bit of a treat.

I left Venice with some lovely memories, and a mind to return someday. I have just less than two weeks before I fly home, so the time for reflection has begun. Venice is my favorite Italian city, and the only one I think I would like to return to within the next few years, given the opportunity.

Living History and Fictional Cities

This is a rather important week for Virginia Tech, as one might imagine. I get to spend the anniversary of April 16 very far away from home, and most of those that I really want to be with at this time. We’ll be marking the anniversary in our own way over here; I’m not sure how just yet, but we’ll be remembering and thinking it over.

That said, I had a moment today where I recalled something I wanted to discuss.

The great difficulty with Europe is that absolutely everything was important at one time or another. You can’t go very far before tripping over a UNESCO World Heritage Site, or some local icon, or anything. When we took our Italy trip some months ago, this was obvious; Rome is littered with all the “Roman” stuff, which basically amounts to what Eddie Izzard refers to as “a series of small walls.” Of course, these small walls are the remnant of one of the greatest civilizations, but that’s all there is. At the time, we marveled at the realization that we were standing in the Roman Forum, where all sorts of marvelous figures had walked, lived, bartered, and set off to conquer lesser civilizations. I couldn’t quite feel the same sense of wonder at the time. A few too many tourists were in my way to feel the wonders of walking with Augustus….some 2000 years late.

Germany was different; it’s harder to find areas left as they were centuries ago, or the streets that you’re fairly certain some emperor or other was one.

And then we got to Nuremberg. On our way out of the city the group paused at the old Nazi Parade grounds. It’s not half so impressive today as it looks on the History Channel, filled with crowds and troops. Now it’s empty, and overlooks a high school soccer field, with a more impressive professional soccer league stadium just beyond. All around the stands there are fences and warning signs, with crews attempting to bolster the structure. There’s nothing to prevent the casual visitor from climbing all over the stands, and eventually you find yourself standing just where Hitler did as he inspected the troops and made his speeches.

This was the time I got chills; there’s nothing I found creepier than standing in the exact spot, on a virtually unchanged structure, and knowing exactly what happened on that spot. In Rome everything is a bit broken down, so seeing the grand glories are more easily achieved for me through film. Nothing looks like it does in the movies. Nuremberg has been left unchanged, except for emptying out.

I’m planning on spending the weekend in Venice, and as I plan for that trip, I have a newspaper clipping of author Geraldine Brooks explaining which fictional character she would spend a week as. I’m not too interested in Ms. Brooks, but she matches my answer perfectly. She describes the week Charles Ryder spent in Venice with Sebastian in “Brideshead Revisited”. I reread this passage just before leaving for Riva, and was surprised when I realized that the story of the fortnight in Venice is barely more than 3 pages in a 300 page book. And yet, it’s one of the most beautiful scenes of the book, and the BBC adaptation.

I, however, will not be 19, in love, and working towards my destiny as an artist on this trip. I’ll be 21, and trying to forget just how much work I have to do in order to enjoy a city I’ve seen and heard about in so many books and movies. This is the other side of travel; finding the places I’ve read about in fiction, trying to find out if those marvelous cities that inspired so many writers could have a similar effect on me.

Country Hopping Should be a Sport

Some six years ago I spent four days in Germany, basing my travels out of the city of Pforzheim. I remember being slightly giddy at the novelty of being able to cross the border into France and thus spend an afternoon in a different country. I did that again for this trip.

On our way from Freiberg to Heidelberg, Fabio drove us into Strasbourg, the very same city I visited six years ago, and luckily there have been no new conflicts about Alsace-Lorraine, so it’s still France. Everything was just as I remembered it, but now I had educated guides to tell me about the historical significance of the area. And this time I was more able to appreciate the wonders of European borders.

On our way home at the end of the Germany excursion we ended up passing through Austria, then driving along the Liechtenstein border. The novelty of that experience was lessened by the pause at the world’s most terrifying rest stop. It was simply called “Heidiland”, and resulted in absolute terror for the group. Austria did look rather lovely for the five minutes I was there.

Now, some context for these musings: when I returned from Dublin, I called home from the Milan airport. I was asked “What country are you in?” My response was a bit more elaborate, explaining that I had woken up in the Republic of Ireland, passed through Italy, and finally ended the day in Switzerland. Border crossings are terrifically easy, so country-hopping has become so normal to me. I don’t get to do this at home. At the same time, I never encounter the same language difficulties so prevalent with country hopping in Europe. It’s remarkable to travel around with polyglots; the ability to switch between languages so quickly is so amazing to witness, especially on the scale required here. I mentioned to a friend on the bus that it was impossible to do this sort of country-hopping in North America. I don’t think I could manage to drive from Canada to Mexico in just one day. And unless I began in Montreal, I wouldn’t have to know a language other than English for the entire trip, until I reached Mexico.

The United States is a remarkable place, in its sheer size and minimal language requirements. I appreciate the ease of this, but I do love the variety of culture available in a day trip through Europe.

Uber Alles?

I may never get a chance to say this again without certain friends of mine claiming a moral victory: I really like Germany. Germany is a really cool country; and it’s pretty impressive that it can do so much and be so prosperous in such a comparatively short time. It’s been just over sixty years since most cities in Germany were obliterated by Allied bombings, and now it’s beautiful.

I think part of my affection for Germany stems from the simple fact that I feel comfortable here. I mentioned once that I loved Prague because I felt at home in the city, and Dublin was even better, if only because of the prevalence of the English language. I really am a Northern girl at heart I think, even if I grew up in the South under the most technical of terms. This seems to be a worldwide impression, as I am never happier than in a cold, damp city that feeds me sausage.

I understand the appeal of stretching out on a beach sipping sangria, and can’t deny the allure of absorbing UV rays, but I really am happier in my coat and scarf, braving the downpour for a coffee run. That’s not to say that I don’t like beaches, I just happen to like the northern ones, like Scotland or Canada. There’s something very appealing about Viking country, as well as the landlocked areas of mountain and river.

Simply put, Germany is a fabulous place. I’m feeling a little overwhelmed from this trip. We began in Riva, drove to Freiberg, then a day in Strasbourg (France), on to Heidelberg, day trip to Rothenberg, on to Bamberg, day trip to Nuremberg, then finally Munich; all of this over nine days. It’s a punishing schedule, and prohibitive to really getting a feel for a city or seeing many sights. I had lots of fun, and more than a few cultural experiences, and I can safely say that I’ll need another jaunt into Germany sometime in my future.

This trip belonged to the Political Science aspect of the semester, so I spent most days in meetings and watching power points about environmental policy and sustainability. Germany is all sorts of wonderful compared to many other countries with regards to sustainable development, and yet we’re still in trouble. As if that wasn’t enough fun, part of the trip including a visit to the BMW factory and seeing some of the research laboratories. I don’t really understand cars, but I do so love the nice machines that go fast.

Outside of the educational program, I had a full range of cultural experiences, mostly culinary: pastries everywhere and sausage. I have never eaten so well than those street vendors with delicious sausage. I must make a passing reference to the beer: it exists in Germany. As for the history; there’s lots. We saw quite a few rebuilt cities as a result of World War Two, and it’s amazing to consider the state the country was in only sixty years ago. And now it’s prosperous and pretty, as well as a world leader in environmental policies.

I Went Down to Dublin Town, to See What I Could See

I think some of my earliest memories involve books; specifically very detailed children’s books like Jan Brett’s, and in particular one about the production of the Book of Kells. I remember from those bygone days a certain fascination with the intricacy of the Celtic knot work. I got older, and my interest grew. My favorite history comes from the British Isles and Ireland, and when I finally realized jewelry could be more than plastic, I always drifted towards the Highland Games and Irish festivals to find the local jewelers who always had the best options for cheap, pretty knot work. Even now I have a ring of a dog in the Irish style. It never fails to attract interest.

And then there was the music. I like pretty much everything under the sun, but I never had much interest in going to concerts because I never liked any band enough to want to spend the money. That changed freshman year of college when I discovered Great Big Sea, a Newfie band that plays a mix of original works and traditional songs, often of Irish descent. With them came Gaelic Storm, again a mix of original works and tradition.

Suffice to say, there’s a personal interest in Ireland: the people, the culture, the history. Add to that the family background. The Irish side of the family is the only one I can actually claim to know much about. So, a weekend trip to Dublin should have been a good time.

Dublin is pretty much the best thing ever. I’ve had lots of great experiences; Prague was wonderful, I loved Nice, but Dublin is great.

First off: English is everywhere! I don’t speak Gaelic, and it’d be nice to learn the language, but that’s not happening anytime soon. Better than that- oodles of history and literature! Do you know how many Nobel Prize winners hail from Dublin town? There’s Yeats, Beckett, Heaney, Shaw…everyone except James Joyce is on the list. It’s rather impressive to look at the notable graduates from Trinity. Oh, and Trinity. I thought I liked Oxford, but Trinity is just too beautiful, and they have the Book of Kells! My favorite medieval manuscript is right there!

Um, Second- Guinness and Jameson’s. Both of the original distilleries of the city have shut down, but the shells and tour remain. I love visiting distilleries; they’re such fun, and every employee is happy to see you. I like seeing people content with their careers. Then you get out to the pubs, and there’s always music, frequently live, and lots of friendly people and the locals all get confused when the poor little American girls ask for Guinness. It would appear that girls do not drink beer in Europe; far more appropriate for women to take wine or something else. No one mentioned this. I’ve never had such good fun.

Our first night out my party met a number of wonderful people, including one gent who offered us the use of his Masters in Irish history to give us a tour of Dublin. Very nice to be taken around and have 1916 and the process of Home Rule explained.

This is a bit muddled, so let me clarify the past weekend:

Wednesday: Fly out of Milan, and get to the hostel. Kinley house is very nice, and has a bed for tired little students.

Thursday: Up and out. Discover the hostel is next door to Christ Church. We find our way to the Kilmainham Gaol, which dates form the mid eighteenth century; notable for holding many a political prisoner, especially the leaders of the Easter Rebellion of 1916. Out and around to visit the Guinness storehouse; the top level provides a 360-view of Dublin, well-labeled with Joyce quotes. After that it was Grafton Street, and the great quest for fish and chips. Remarkably, it’s far easier to get a kebab than fish, but fish we found! I also discovered that half the convenience stores sold Tim Horton’s doughnuts, further confirming my conviction that Dublin is the greatest city in the world. After food back to the hostel for naps before trying out Temple Bar.

Friday: I did some private exploring in the morning, discovering the Oscar Wilde statue, several parks, and finally Trinity and Kells. No end of wonders, and then across the Liffy. I met the group and our Irish guide at two for touring, and some museums before hunger sent us into Hard Rock. Do not doubt the wonders of a Hard Rock Café; it’s far classier than succumbing to the lure of McDonalds. Again, another evening discovering the local flavor.

Saturday: Rain. Oh, it had rained before, but this was annoying. As was the discovery that on the weekend Dublin Castle is only open 2-4:45. So much for that. We ended up at the Library to see the W.B. Yeats exhibit; pretty good, and lots to be known about Yeats’ mysticism tendencies. Ahhh….the origins of celebrity interest in mysticism religions better left to people who actually understand what’s going on. Well, maybe not. Yeats seemed to know what was going on. Out from there to attempt some shopping and other wondrous activities before Jameson’s. Not my favorite distillery, mainly because it wasn’t active. I like being able to smell the process, and see the whiskey being made, rather than just finding the end product in the gift shop. Still, learned a lot about whiskey I hadn’t known. Irish whiskey is always distilled three times, providing a smoother flavor, and the peat taste of Scottish whisky comes from the roasting process of the malts. Final night of exploring local culture, but not before meeting a boy from New Zealand and a girl from Australia; both were very nice, and I learned quite a lot about higher education. Amazing the power of the hostel.

Sunday was home again, leaving the Emerald Isle. As beautiful as it is in the mountains, I miss Dublin. I’d like to go back and get out into the countryside, maybe the Ring of Kerry and Galway, but that will have to wait for another day. My list of cities still to see or return to continues to grow longer. I may need to get a job with Frommer’s or Lonely Planet to achieve this. Or just find a nice pile of money to support my increasingly expensive needs. Did I mention the Republic of Ireland has one of the highest costs of living in the EU? Might need a work visa, and be prepared to settle for a time.