With the bulk of my first teaching week behind me (still another class tomorrow), this morning I decided I had to stretch the old legs and head out on a ramble. Before we hit the streets, though, here’s proof that I actually did work the last four days. Brave Wendy here is pretending to be the President of Peru (who everyone vehemently hates, apparently) during our “Answering Difficult Questions” exercise:
Tomorrow I teach a different group of folks, attempting in cram into four hours what I taught the weekday class in 16. (Wish me luck.) But then’s then and now’s now, and I’m sure the gods will be with me.
So most days I miss the breakfast buffet because the MFA picks me up (a new Lexus! a driver!) at 6:30 am, which is precisely the moment when the doors open for breakfast. I’ve been doing with a carry-out bag consisting of a chicken sandwich, a yogurt, and two small croissants for a few days, but this morning, I got to experience the Real Meal Deal again, as it were. Saints be praised:
Heartily fortified for the day, I spent the morning preparing my PowerPoint for tomorrow and then I strapped on my trusty sandals and headed out. First stop – the lovely park with the olive trees for a blessing from the Virgin herself:
…followed by a short chat with the resident turtles:
My goal today was a section of Lima called Miraflores. I couldn’t hit all the highlights, but I was curious to see what are called the Inka Markets, a series of highly commercial bazaars where (ahem) allegedly authentic souvenirs and local goods could be bought. More soon on that. But between HERE and THERE, I found a lovely bike and walking path down a major thoroughfare which would take me very close to my goal and help me avoid a lot of treacherous sidewalks and intersections. If you know Lima, this is part of the Avenida Arequipa:
Another great thing about this stretch of safer pavement was that it gave me good perspectives for snapping shots. Here’s a picture of the Alliance Francais, which, because of the prominent use of its abbreviation, sent my mind in a sadly puerile direction:
Here’s a vibrant mural with historical themes, I think:
…and a sad phone booth suffering its inevitable fate in a country which now, like most, is blanketed in mobile devices…
….a school of engineering and a curious passing cyclist. I hope I haven’t violated any privacy regulations…
…and finally a local bus which crossed my path…
I finally reached my destination, a cosmic sinkhole of tourist shops:
Since I didn’t want to be immediately judgmental, I tried, I really tried, to give the place/s a chance. However, it felt a good bit like the Great Bazaar in Istanbul, if you have been there. Everyone is WAY too friendly, everyone trying to lure you into their teeny tiny stalls chock-a-block full of alpaca hats and sweaters, llamas in wool or wood or felt or silver or whatever, lots of woven bracelets, you get the idea. I did want to take this fellow home:
At least he’s somewhat tasteful, even if you can’t “tocar” him. For you chess players out there, consider these bad boys:
But if you really want to set your teeth on edge, I’ve got just the ticket. And behold:
“Llamasutras,” indeed. And you thought YOU had seen it all. Finally unable to take any more of the local color, I fled back to my quiet expat paradise and shocked the bar staff by mixing a lemonade with a local pilsner for a Lima version of a British shandy. (Actually quite quite good. I’m going to make them try it next time.) Adios amigos…hasta luego.
Thanks to all of you who commented so positively on my last post. I’m going to offer a few more views before my teaching starts to eat up my whole life. Yesterday was my free day and today was my very first day with my class, and so far everything is going extremely well. Knock wood.
In terms of showing more of Lima, I find myself in my typical challenge in a developing country. That challenge is….how to photograph sensitively. Much of wealthy Lima is walled, guarded, heavily camera-ed. One or more slightly bored security guard/s might take my actions amiss. And much of unwealthy Lima isn’t scenic at all, and people might not take kindly to me shooting pictures of things…that just aren’t much to write home about. So I am proceeding with caution, and hopefully the following will give you a good idea.
So, here’s a typical street scene in my hotel’s neighborhood:
High buildings, low buildings, not much street life, trees here and there. There’s a lot of this. An interesting unguarded house gives you an idea of the (ahem) range of architectural styles:
So instead of street walking, I set out to explore some of the archeological ruins that dot the city. Here’s one (closed Sundays, of course) that’s quite near my hotel:
This is Huaca Huallamarca, originally located near one of the main settlements of the Pinazo peoples dating from about 200 BCE. It appears to have been a cemetery of sorts, with nearly 50 funerary bundles of human remains having been extracted. Both cool and slightly creepy to have this just sitting there, surrounded by urban sprawl.
So, since the quick, close, and easy option was out of the question yesterday, I continued my quest and strolled down to the Huaca Pucllana Site Museum, which is supposed to look something like this:
This is another adobe and clay pyramid structure located a few kilometers from the first one. It is constructed of seven staggered platforms and, according to Wiki, served as an important ceremonial and administrative center for the advancements of the Lima Culture, flourishing between 200 AD and 700 AD.
Alas, all I could see, since it was too hot for me to enter and be unshaded long enough to tour the site, was a bit of the dirt. Still pretty cool.
By now I was just plain hot and tired, and on my way back to my air conditioned expat heaven, I ran into this lovely urban green space, known as Parque El Oliver de San Isidro.
The story here is that a Spanish colonialist in the 16th century brought several olive trees from Seville to Peru, but only three of them survived the voyage. He planted them in this area, at that point far outside the small settlement of Lima. Those three grew to an orchard of over 3000, and the grandaddy of them all is this bad boy:
By this time I was well and truly done in, with only one clear path of action: dinner. Here’s proof positive that I have actually now finally had a pisco sour, and a fine fine beverage it is indeed, here served with some damn tasty tacos:
As I was heading back to my hotel, I saw the most interesting sign on the wall of another local restaurant:
…which crudely translated into the vernacular of my peeps states:
“It is prohibited to carry out physical or verbal behavior of a sexual nature or connotation that offends any personnel who is and/or transits through this district.”
Hmmm. One truly wonders what must have been the provocation for this posted sign. Any and all cultural insights welcome.
So by now you’ve completely forgotten that I have actually come here *to work.* But today the adventure began – I met a group of smart young Peruvian government employees facing a huge task. We got off to a good start and I hope I can continue to deliver the support they need. Here we are in some group exercise or other, enjoying a lovely ceremonial room in a lovely historical building in downtown Lima:
More soonish, inshallah. Enjoying every moment of this wild ride.
As some of you know, I have been selected for a three-week English teaching contract working with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Lima, Peru. This assignment comes from a branch of the English Language Programs office that sent me to Georgia lo these many 12 years ago. These “specialist” assignments are pretty demanding and pretty cushy in equal measure, and today I get to share a little of the “cush.” But, as is often the case, first we climb onto a plane…
My first flight left Berlin at 6:00 am, so there I was with 2000 of my new best friends checking in at 4:00 am yesterday morning. (I had no idea that beer bars could be open and frequented at that hour, but they are at BER.) I just hopped on board and zzzzzed my way to Amsterdam, where it’s always a challenge to navigate one’s way through the always under construction Schiphol (“Shi-pil”) Airport. Fortunately, amusing venues like this chain of tulip stores (!!) kept things interesting as I struggled to find my way to my next gate:
I don’t get to make my travel arrangements in these government-sponsored programs and normally one has to fly on only US flag carriers and only in economy class. But, because I’m going from Berlin to Lima, I got to fly KLM (Delta codeshare) AND I begged for and was granted an *upgradeable* ticket. Since the main leg of the journey was just over 12 hours and I’m no longer the flexible indestructible traveler I used to be, I blew the big bucks and bought myself a little piece of heaven, aka a seat in KLM World Business Class.
OMG. What made Biz Class so amazing was literally that seat. The damn thing reclined to completely flat and was well and comfortably padded with an ottoman. The food was good, not great (fresh orange juice, though, yum), the screen worked perfectly, and the flight attendants were as charming and personable as humanly possible. A very pleasant experience all around. Here’s the appetizer before the main course, salmon with a bit too much hollandaise, and you’ll see a bit of my tan-shod food on the ottoman which kept my legs blissfully elevated throughout the flight:
Like the travel arrangements, the government chooses the amount of time I can be in the country of assignment and makes no allowances for any additional travel. So, even though Cuzco and Manchu Picchu have been on my bucket list for decades, I won’t have a chance to see them this time. I’m consoling myself with at least these charming fellows as my touch of the Andes:
Once on the ground in Lima, the hotel had arranged a pickup for me, and Señor Willie, complete with my first bottled water, took me to my hotel. Again, I had little choice in the matter of the hotel, since the Embassy had to balance safety and transport concerns against my desire to be in some cool and groovy local neighborhood. So here’s a shot of my crib for the next three weeks or so:
Just your garden-variety shiny spiffy expat heaven. Happily for me, the room is cozy, the bed amazing, and the staff very accommodating. Just feels a little…odd.
This morning I enjoyed the lavish breakfast buffet, with everything one’s little heart could desire. I figured “When in Lima,” so I dug into a delicious chicken tamale and fried sweet potato plate, complete with papayas and a chocolate croissant chaser…
You’ll notice I haven’t showed you much of Lima. That’s because I haven’t SEEN much of Lima, aside from Señor Willie’s ride (where he cruised me along the Pacific coast, very nice indeed). So far, most of what I’ve seen is from my window, where the southern view looks like this (please excuse the ghostly image of me in the background, like something out of Wim Wenders movie):
So, as there’s more (hopefully there will be), I’ll share more. Aside from that, tomorrow at 7:00 am I start a training class with 25 (I think) members of the MFA who want to improve their English. How that all takes shape remains to be seen – but I’m looking very much forward to the challenge and I remain extraordinarily grateful for this amazing opportunity. As always, stay tuned!
I’m not going to tell you to rush and visit Mannheim – it’s not that kind of place. But if you do find yourself there for any reason, there are some true local gems that are well worth appreciating. My choice of Mannheim for a quick getaway was because dear friend A, who lives in France, and I decided that we wanted to have a good long chat and we needed a place that was: halfway between our respective abodes; not a tourist paradise and hence reasonably priced; and only required one train transfer each. Bingo, Mannheim.
Mannheim, with its current 310,000 inhabitants, is and has always been a place where things get done. It’s an industrial and commercial city, a university city, and a transportation hub, including Germany’s largest inland port. Its notable citizens invented the automobile, and bicycle, and the tractor (Karl Benz is from there, as is, cough cough, Albert Speer). It’s also a city of music and culture, with a long rich history that dates back to the Roman era.
What it isn’t, alas, is very pretty these days. Allied raids completely destroyed the city center and aside from a few carefully rebuilt relics, there is very little of the lovely Baroque city that stood for centuries. And in addition, even by their own admission, Mannheimers have a very strange German dialect which even they enjoy poking fun at.
A and I booked ourselves into a cheery little B&B near the train station where we found charming folks and inexpensive digs that made us feel right at home. Here’s my cozy rack at the Hotel Kurpfalzstuben:
After a long train ride, A an I were both starving and we headed out for dinner. We stumbled onto the best Japanese noodle house I’ve found this side of Tokyo and we dug into tremendously good bowls of ramen and a side of edamame, which A had never tried. HiKoo, I really wish you would franchise to Berlin:
Stretching our legs after dinner in the balmy evening air, we first strolled the main commercial drag, the Planken, which is lined with lights and allows pedestrians to mingle with the occasional tram. At the end of the Planken, we enjoyed a lovely moonlit view of Mannheim’s iconic Water Tower:
Next morning we awakened ready for busy sight-seeing but not before we had a breakfast feast, of which you only see the beginning below. A, a Brit, needed a lot of tea to get going, and, of course, the whole reason for the trip was chatting, and here’s a great place to do all of it.
One of the most curious and interesting facts about Mannheim is the layout of the central city. A huge Baroque palace was built near the Rhine River by Electoral Prince Frederick IV of the Pfalz in the early part of the 17th century. His architect, the Dutch fortification expert Bartel Janson, then laid out a city that consisted of a large circle containing a carefully numbered grid pattern which remains to this day:
But those streets, while busy and full of life are, well, just a bit…dull…
…which made the discoveries of charm, curiosity, and beauty all the more worthwhile. We visited the Jesuitenkirche, which was green and golden Baroque restored loveliness, but I was most attracted by this most striking sculpture near the votives:
Delp was a Jesuit Catholic priest who was a member of the German Resistance against the Nazi movement. He was falsely accused of being part of a plot to assassinate Hitler and was therefore imprisoned and hung in a Berlin prison. A quote of his that touched me was “God does not need great pathos or great works. He needs greatness of hearts.”
After that somber moment, we needed a break. Not far away, A spotted a charming little cafe and we settled in to do our best imitation of Sartreans enjoying an espresso and Gaulois (absent the Gaulois, of course) in Cafe Prag:
Fortified, we sheaded back near the Water Tower to Mannheim’s justly well-known Kunsthalle (art museum). This museum was reputed to have a large collection of the work of Anselm Kiefer, one of my favorites, but of course that wing was closed in preparation for a new exhibit. ^%$#. We really enjoyed the place anyway, and here’s A doing a little photo art of her own:
At least there was one Kiefer to console me:
One now enters the museum through the new wing, where A is standing above, but the older wing is connected and is a marvel of Art Nouveau architecture:
After the museum we walked around the area nearby and enjoyed seeing a few remainders of pre-WWII architecture, some which appears to form an arcade (see the green space at 3:00 o’clock on the Quadrate map above). There were more cafes and some high-end shops to enjoy and then melt at the sight of the prices. But one window stood out to me, and A and I decided it won the day:
Carpe diem, dear ones, and catch you on the next round.
There must be a word for what I experience in life…”Amor novarum urbium,” in Latin, perhaps, or “Neuenstadtliebe,” in German, a word that describes the euphoria I feel when I have the chance to explore a new cityscape. After a very long hiatus, I was able to experience this truly transformative emotion once again on a recent trip to the ancient city of Strasbourg, France.
So why Strasbourg? you might ask, as well you should. It turns out there is a biannual European Youth Event which a group of students from CODE University wanted to attend, but the school requirement was…they had to have ten people and they had to have a faculty “sponsor.” As said sponsor, however, I was not allowed to attend the conference, which meant, oh heck, that I just had to wander about the town for two days. Which I gladly did. And the photos below will give you a little hint why, starting with…
Lexical stew
If you have been reading this blog for some time, you may remember that one of the things that makes cityscapes particularly compelling to me is when that space is what I call an “edge zone,” a location where any number of cultures, languages, or civilizations collide and intermix. It’s part of the reason I love Berlin so much (old and new, East and West, high art and graffiti, so on and so forth), and now I’ve found another city which truly straddles two distinct cultures and creates its own unique environment between France and Germany, as evidenced by the two languages embedded in the city locations themselves.
Yes, of course I went to the city museum and yes of course there’s a long and fractious tale to be told, but I’ll sum up 2500 years on steroids so I can get to other news. Here we go: Gauls – Romans – Saxons – Franks – Catholic Bishops – Protestant reformers – France – Germany – France – Germany – France. (More or less.) The museum gave me the chance to channel my inner medieval warrior, but I gotta say that hat really hurts and I would have probably died a painful death regardless:
Maybe a feather would help?
Fun historical fact: Johannes Gutenburg of printing press fame, was actually a very interesting character. While he was born and died in Mainz, Germany, as a young man his family was expelled from there due to an uprising against the nobility (of which he was a minor member) and they moved for a time to Strasbourg where his mother had roots. There allegedly he trained as a goldsmith, made polished metal mirrors, and perfected his work with moveable type, based on some research he had done entitled “Aventur und Kunst (enterprise and art).”
Nearby, a bookstore keeps the tradition alive for current lovers of the printed page:
Enough of the heavy stuff. Time to tour the place. Strasbourg is simply a lovely, lovely town, mixing, somehow, the best of France and Germany both in the architecture and in the street life. The city is small but has distinct neighborhoods and not only is extremely walkable but also has an easy-to-access public transport system (gosh, I sound like the Chamber of Commerce). After the museum, I paid my respects to the cathedral, where I saw two remarkable items. First is the famous astronomical clock, this incarnation dating from 1843, with predecessors from the 14th and 16th century:
Waiting for the moving parts
The second was a moving memorial to Americans who liberated Alsace in the Second World War. I hadn’t realized this and the site was quite moving for me:
…which included a talented young leather craftsperson, who of course seduced me into obtaining a couple small items:
As the days were long and hot and dry, I quickly learned to enjoy the local beverage spin on the ever-present Aperol Spritz; this the Lille and Tonic. Quite tasty, but not quite a substitute for Mother’s Milk:
A final shot, this of the train station where the older building has not been replaced; rather it has been surrounded by a glass enclosure which allows it to look both classical and hip. This plaza, near our hotel, was buzzing nearly 24 hours a day – joyfully, excellent thick windows and drapes gave us no problems with noise or light:
Au revoir, Strasbourg – I’ll be back as soon as I can. Preferably in the winter, when I can better enjoy your fabulous but somewhat rich and heavy food…..
We’ve had what the Germans call a “Golden October” this year, continuing to linger on still in to the first cool days of November. My environmental dashboard notes that this is perhaps more than we Northern Europeans actually deserve; that we should be well and truly grey and damp and dismal by this point in the calendar, but my romantic soul loves that we can still walk through streets lined with yellow-leafed trees and enjoy dry sunny days sitting at cafes with our faces turned to the sun like lizards on rocks.
Last weekend I made my way down to Potsdam to visit a newly renovated museum/cafe called “Das Minsk.” Potsdam, the capital of the state of Brandenburg and a fascinating historic city in its own right, was until 1989 part of old East Germany, in fact it was the KGB-infested nest of espionage and listening devices made famous in the Tom Hanks movie “Bridge of Spies”since it was literally just across the Havel River from the Allied-controlled West Berlin. Das Minsk was an East German restaurant during the DDR heyday but after the fall of the wall and German reunification, it fell out of favor into crumbling disrepair. Interestingly, Hasso Platner, the German partner of the SAP software firm, bought the site from the city of Potsdam and has turned it into an art center and a reincarnation of the formerly beloved eatery. It had a grand opening in September and was highly touted but I’ve been distracted of late; with this lovely fall weekend I finally had the time and inclination to go.
Buuuutttt….I was completely underwhelmed. Ten Euro! Only two small exhibits! The place packed with visitors and screaming children! In under 15 minutes I had retrieved my belongings from my rented locker and had run screaming for the exit myself. But I’ll share one lovely picture by Wolfgang Mattheuer called “Wintersonne “Winter Sun,” painted in 1994, almost but not quite worth the visit:
Okay, I sez to myself, NOW what? Too soon to turn tail and head home. Of course the obvious answer is “ramble on, girl, ramble on.”
First, a lovely signpost, a reminder that Potsdam, like Berlin, is truly in the middle of everywhere. I was particularly charmed by the useful information about the Südtirol, an astonishing magical place if ever there were one, and well worth the 1700 km trip, although perhaps not by bike. The Baltic Sea (Ostsee) island destination of Rügen is perhaps more attainable at 600 km.
Since I had no time limits and no plans, I decided to see where my feet took me. While Potsdam is chock-a-block full of justly famous historic places and possibilities (Frederick the Great! More palaces than any other city in Germany! Close to the German film mecca of Babelsburg!) this post will be about the odds bodkins that I found in a completely random fashion that afternoon. And isn’t that the most interesting way to learn about a place anyway?
On my way to the more historic parts of the city, I came across this piece of guidance of use for a local park. Verboten, verboten, verboten! (Just exactly IS one allowed to do here?) And if anyone knows what the cryptic symbol is in the lower right-hand corner, I’d be grateful to be enlightened. (Update: the hive mind suggests this is a banana peel thus enjoining us not to litter. I’ll buy it.)
Chastened and humbled, I then moved in the direction of the historic center, now home to the recreated Museum Barberini and the recreated St. Nikolaikirche Potsdam. Shortly thereafter I found myself in the city square known as the Bassinplatz, something that looked like a perfectly normal city park, until I looked a little closer and saw…these…
…graves, which on closer inspection….were clearly inscribed in Cyrillic. I had unknowingly stumbled onto the Sowjetisches Ehrenmal, the Soviet Memorial to “680 ‘Red Army’ soldiers and officers buried in 291 individual and 18 mass graves. They fell in the last days of the War in the struggle for Potsdam.” What we in the US appear to be very ignorant of is the incredible role (and incredible human toll) the Soviet Army played (and paid) in the liberation of Berlin. The US troops stayed quite a distance outside the city while estimates of around 80,000 Soviet soldiers died and an additional nearly 300,000 soldiers were wounded to defeat Hitler in the final days of World War II, around late Spring and early May 1945. The mind can hardly take it in.
I was particularly struck this one grave:
My Russian is rusty, but what I make out is “Martinenko, Maria Timofeevna, 1920-1946. If anyone has anything to add, I’d be grateful. (Update: friends suggest several lines read “Sleep well dear, your faithful Vasily.”) But of course like so much in Germany, the place asks more questions than it answers.Who was she and why was she here?
Close by was another memorial, this one to the demonstrators who helped bring about the end of the East German regime. Nearly 100,000 people joined this peaceful demonstration in Potsdam on November 4, 1989, just five days before the fall of the wall.
Musing on all these brave souls, I kept moving onward closer to the center of town. I soon entered the delightful Dutch quarter of Potsdam. According to local authorities,
“The Dutch Quarter, also known as ‘Little Amsterdam’, includes four squares and a total of 134 two-storey houses. The unique district is home to the largest closed Dutch-style buildings outside the Netherlands. The facades of terraced houses consist entirely of red Dutch brick with white joints…
Frederick William I, the ‘Soldier King’, originally commissioned the construction of the Dutch Quarter to attract skilled workers from the Netherlands. A large number of well-trained craftsmen were needed to help with the expansion of Potsdam, which at the time was largely a garrison town. The shortage of workers meant many craftsmen were recruited from outside Prussia, including the Netherlands. To attract potential immigrants, workers were offered a home and attractive work contracts. The result was the creation of the new Quarter, which was built by Dutch architect Jan Bouman between 1732 and 1742. The area also attracted military families, as well as French and German artists and artisans.”
But on this sunny afternoon, I just mostly enjoyed seeing the lizards:
Nearby, another Russian echo, interesting enough. I wouldn’t want to be trying to write their business plan for 2023, but it appears their hearts are in the right place, or at least I’d like to think so. The translation reads: “Dear Friends, we cook, bake, roast ourselves and every day (the peace sign).”
This is just one of the multitude of interesting and inviting cafes, shops, and restaurants to explore throughout the historic town center, which goes one for blocks and blocks, a veritable feast for eyes, feet,(and probably pocketbook). Every time I come to Potsdam, I say to myself “Why aren’t you here more often?” It’s only 30 km away, maybe 45 minutes by public transportation, but truly another world.
Perhaps it’s because I just can’t behave myself very well in Germany sometimes. My dear spouse knows signs like this one below, advertising a fish restaurant specializing in flounder, typically send me into paroxysms of giggles. (Lord knows when I’ll ever grow up.)
Even after nearly fifty years of East German rule and neglect, the city continues to shake off its socialist dust and rise again into astonishingly beautiful civic elegance. Here’s an entryway to one of the local postal complexes:
And as a parting shot, an advertisement for a local cabaret theater. This is a complicated picture that needs some explanation. First, the photo is of Karl Lauterbach, the Federal Minister of Germany for Health. It’s been his doleful task to oversee, with others, the whole COVID situation for the last nearly three years. The sign reads “Killer Variant,” and clearly this latest show is a some kind of political play on the pandemic and its impact on all of our lives. Herr Lauterbach is known for his limited fashion sense, hence the somewhat greasy coiffure. And the point of all this is…Karl was actually one of the students in the programs I was running during my time at the Harvard School of Public Health in the early 1990s. I never thought that quiet nerdy guy, always turning in things late and missing meetings and sporting food stains on his sweater…would end up at the top of the health food chain in his native land. Ya just never know:
Trust me, I’ll hurry back here again soon. So much to learn and explore. Stay safe and healthy.
Due to a complete lack of college counseling and a great love of marching band, I started my undergraduate career in 1972 at the University of Southern California in Los Angeles, thrilled in addition to have been admitted to the Trojan Marching Band, which was then enrolling only the second class that included women (!). Before the actual academic term began, I found myself high in the San Bernardino mountains at USC’s Idyllwild campus for the required week-long band “boot camp”, sweating and straining from dawn to dusk to memorize endless fight songs and extensive half-time routines and and as well to conquer the various physical challenges of USC’s wild and crazy performance style, something, well, sort of like this:
Hasn’t changed a whole lot, so you get the idea
I quickly met and was drawn to another overwhelmed frosh named P, a tall lanky clarinet player from Huntington Beach. We bonded over a shared repugnance of the uncomfortably blatant macho culture of the band, but more importantly, over classical music, science fiction, and an unseemly enjoyment of word play. We quickly found other outliers at USC, folks who didn’t fit the blond/bronze/beautiful mold, and together enjoyed some typical freshman shenanigans before most of us transferred away to more appropriate institutions. (Okay, to be truthful, D on the far left below never enjoyed much of anything. Not sure why we kept him around.) Here you see us enjoying a midnight run to the Griffith Park Observatory, either before or after a visit to Tower Records on Hollywood Boulevard where we frequently salivated over the various delicious audio options, many showcasing the legendary Berlin Philharmonic, then conducted by the equally legendary Herbert von Karajan.
Oh, the hair. Such magnificence. Sic transit gloria mundi.
A bit later in the fall, P and I attended a concert performed by the USC Student Symphony Orchestra, then under the baton of Daniel Lewis, a recently arrived professor who went on to make that orchestra and other ensembles in the department among some of the finest in the country. I had heard symphonies before, but *never in person,* you understand, only on records at home. I didn’t realize, for example that all the violins would bow together all in the same direction at once.
The orchestra played, as the final number, the Symphony No. 7 in A major, Op. 92 by Ludwig von Beethoven. I was utterly strickened. I had never heard anything so powerful, so moving, in my entire life. P was equally affected. (Remember, now, we’re all of eighteen years (seventeen in P’s case), fresh off the boat of Hermann Hesse, Desiderata, American Pie, and The First Time Every I Saw Your Face. It was a powerful, primal moment.)
Life went forward, the decades rolled on, empires rose and fell. P and I pursued different paths, he to journalism and ultimately international web work in media and science fiction, I to the diplomatic world and then to various incarnations in academe. We stayed in touch intermittently through our various moves and spouses, albeit with goodly long stretches in-between. P had studied German in college (I had somehow chosen Russian), and when he and his lovely wife M came to Berlin in 2017, we rebonded over our love of this city and its bottomless opportunities. P and M came through again in 2019 and then just recently concluded yet a third visit, gently aware, but not dwelling, on the miracle and mysteries of a 50-year friendship.
But P and M had planned a very special surprise for me. Some months ago he had written and asked if T and I would be available to attend a concert with them at the Berlin Philharmonic of Beethoven’s Seventh on 30 September. (Is this a serious question? Does a bear shit in the woods?) But now comes a little hiccup. Due to circumstances completely out of their control, P and M were not able to attend the concert themselves and handed the pile of four tickets to me just the day before. After my initial shock and dismay, I quickly found two willing enthusiasts to join us.
Anticipation…
You know me by now, I love to do the deep dive, and here’s the scoop. Beethoven’s Seventh was written somewhere between 1811 and 1812, while “improving his health in the northern Bohemian spa town of Teplitz,” just over the border from Germany, according to Wiki, a popular venue at the time for the wealthy bourgeois which included obviously the Maestro himself, but also the poet Goethe and various European monarches. The work is dedicated to Count Moritz von Fries, an extraordinarily wealthy Austrian patron who apparently, among his other favors, had recently bailed Beethoven out of a large debt to a certain London publishing company.
In the event that you haven’t heard the Seventh, what makes it magical to me is a combination of elements. First, it was written in the shadow of the Napoleonic threat to Europe, and there is always, to my ear, a dark undertone in every movement, reminiscent for me of these days in which we find ourselves now. Second, on top of those dark sustained chords and minor keys he places motifs and rhythms of great playfulness, wild joy, and almost exhausting enthusiasm, probably the “happiest” Beethoven you’ll ever hear (except for the second movement, that’s kind of a downer). But always with the backdrop of the wolves outside the doors. Kind of his “Carpe Diem,” one might say.
L’Chaim!Waiting for the magic to begin.
And then the conductor. Oh.my.god. When I discovered we’d be hearing the Seventh conducted by the legendary Herbert Blomstedt, I just about lost it. Not well known on the US side of the pond, Maestro Blomstedt has been conducting around Europe and the world *since before I was born.* At 95, this vibrant spirit takes command of the stage and of the musicians like Mario Andretti or Lewis Hamilton. Total passion, total control. Makes one wonder if there must something to say about the Seventh Day Adventist lifestyle – it sure as heck seems to be working for him.
So what a great circle of life and music. Grateful to P for 50 years of keeping it real; grateful to P and M for this gift, grateful for this life in Berlin, and grateful to T and B and B that they were able to join me. And if you don’t have anything better to do for the next 42 minutes, how about this?
So the muse clearly has been…hiding out for the last while. That being said, it certainly hasn’t been much of a time to travel for most of the world, no exception here. My summer teaching was finally over a week or so ago and I decided it was time to hit the road again, to try to get my travel “mojo” back after nearly two and a half years of masks and lockdowns, yada yada.
It made sense to head down to Leipzig for a couple days. It’s close, only about 160 kms away from Berlin, easy to reach by train or bus, and a rich historic location in its own right. It started as a trading city during Roman times and of course is well-known in musical and cultural circles as having hosted J.S. Bach, among others. It’s now considered by some to be “the most livable city in Germany” and is a economic and intellectual powerhouse, “the new Berlin,” if the hype is to be believed.
But…I couldn’t find its soul. I couldn’t feel the energy of the place. It didn’t help, of course, that it was hot as blazes the days I was there and any sane people had probably decamped to cooler greener spots, but all the same, I’ve found soul in hot cities before. My experience can best be summarized by saying Leipzig felt to me like a celebrity cosmetic procedure gone a bit wrong. Think Darryl Hannah with really big lips, Jennifer Grey with a bad nose job. The center of Leipzig is, basically, just a lot of big new shopping malls, chock-a-block full of the usual global franchises interspersed with generic restaurants sporting nearly identical umbrellas and panting tourists enjoying nearly identical Aperol Spritzes. It was disheartening, frankly.
That being said, I’ll do my very best to give you the soulful bits I could unearth in my quick gallop through the place. First, an entryway shot of my crib, the lovely Hotel Fregehaus, originally built in the Renaissance and “updated” about 1706:
The hotel is near the center of the city and only a few steps away I spotted this lovely roof detail:
Since I didn’t want to eat in a tourist trap, I asked my hotel about how to escape the rabble and hang out with the locals. I was directed to a lovely restaurant, Pilot, a short walk outside the city center. There I enjoyed a classic Sachsen meal of roast pork and potatoes:
Nearby, I spotted Leipzig’s spare but moving memorial to its Jewish population whose fate was similar to many others during that time. This presentation is on the site of the former synagogue destroyed in 1938. The chairs form a mute testament to the community that was lost.
A short walk away (it’s a very small inner city, everything is basically a short walk away) is the Thomaskirsche, where J.S. Bach worked from 1723 to 1750. Originating as a monastery in the 12th century, it also hosted during its lifetime Mozart, Mendelssohn, and Wagner. The statue is, of course, J.S., and he is buried inside:
…charmingly, the back of the statue is as detailed as the front, but just the pipes, ma’am, just the pipes:
…and then inside, the organ itself, most probably not the original, but in the original spot:
In a very different vein, not far away but still a musical pilgrimage site, here is the home of the Leipziger Kammerorchester, clearly a bit of an architectural change of pace:
The musical theme is woven pretty tightly throughout the city. I found this little gem nearby:
As I headed back to my bus to head homeward, I saw this interesting juxtaposition of the “new” town hall with a “mini-me,” joined together at a busy intersection:
Nearby, a cheery mural advocating for all the lovely progressive virtues we wish our societies would adopt:
A shocking storefront, even when I was girded for the worst:
And finally a cool spot to wait for the bus…aesthetically lovely benches that were hell to sit on for an hour and clearly discouraged any napping, but at least a respite from the sun and heat:
I don’t want to end on a complete downer so I’ll quickly add that I plan to go back during a cooler month and avail myself of some of the outstanding museums that I know await me there. But those of you who have traveled with me here know my sense of frustration and sadness at the “urban taxidermy” that afflicts a lot of the beautiful old haunts in this part of the world. So welcome back to my excursions, and hopefully you won’t have to wait so long for the next installment.
This won’t be a travel piece. This will be a homage to two very special people in my life who left the planet in the fall of 2021. If you want to go on a short geographic excursion today, just skip right by this post. But if you’d like to take a deep dive into how I became who I am, if you want to learn how I have been emotionally and spiritually fueled through the decades, come with me as I take a moment to express, at least to myself and perhaps to you, what these two people meant and continue to mean to me.
About Janet (aka J) I have spoken here and there throughout this blog. My BFF; companion for wonderful times in Maine; keeper of all the deep dark secrets. But there aren’t super exciting adventures and Inst-worthy photos or TikTok-worthy videos to share in a medium like this. You have to picture two women of a certain age, still in their pajamas and robes and bedheads at 11:30 in the morning, still sipping lukewarm coffee and still just nattering the hours away like jaybirds in springtime. We never finished any conversation ever; rather topics were abandoned like fast food wrappers along the interstate when we either ran out of time or were distracted by another shiny object. The conversation was indeed the purest gold, and it never faltered. In that way, Janet was my rock and my salvation; she gave me the kind of unconditional support, interest, and encouragement one often gets from one’s parents.
About Jim I have spoken not at all in this context. Partly that is because the vast bulk of our relationship predated this blog and partly out of respect for his family (for whom I was a slightly controversial figure). But when I read yesterday that the dementia that had haunted him for decade had finally conquered him forever, I felt a need to express and describe how my life has been immeasurably enriched by his presence.
It all started here on a humid June day in the mid ’80s when I was sworn into the U.S Department of State Foreign Service. I’m on the left-hand side of the photo in a light linen suit with two mustachioed men behind me; Jim, the director of the A-100 orientation program, is on the far right.
A-100 is a “drinking from a fire-hose” introduction to the diplomatic profession. In the space of six weeks, we listened to innumerable lectures, visited innumerable government offices, were introduced to and practiced a variety of trade-craft skills (no poison pens and shoe-phones, sadly), read piles of background papers and made a variety of video-taped presentations. At the end of the class, in a rather tense and dramatic “commencement” celebration, we were named to our initial assignments and then either parceled off to months more training or immediately clapped on a plane and sent overseas.
Jim encouraged collegial socializing and was often a lively participant in Friday TGIFs. Just about the time I finished my months of training and departed for Copenhagen, Denmark, Jim and his family headed off to his next posting in Aukland, New Zealand where he had the unenviable task of trying to negotiate between a particularly bone-headed US government policy (that wanted American nuclear submarines in New Zealand harbors) and the Kiwi government (who definitely did not). I didn’t envy him that particular assignment. It was a no-win situation and after three years he ended up resigning from the Service, not long after I resigned as well, finding myself not well suited to some of the more vexing bureaucratic challenges and “big personalities” in my job.
And this is where the magic truly began. Because of his experience in training American diplomats, Jim was asked very early in his retirement life to take on the task of training other diplomats around the world. In the beginning, these trainings were in the islands of Micronesia, but they later extended to many of the newly created and emerging nations of the early 1990s. Jim ended up working and teaching as a State Department contractor in Albania, Bosnia, Croatia, Kyrgyzstan, Macedonia, Moldova, Montenegro, Romania, Slovakia, Ukraine, and perhaps some other places as well.
And he asked me to be a part of these adventures. And of course, I said “YES!” just as often as I could.
Part of the reason for his invitations was that it’s pretty hard to teach a two-week all-day training program alone. Frankly, it’s exhausting. Part of the reason was that it’s lonely to teach a two-week all-day training program by yourself (there’s only so much socializing you want to do with the participants at the end of a long day). And of course, part of the reason was that he fancied me a bit, and while we drew a very sharp line in the sand, occasionally we danced nearby.
Because of Jim, I visited Palau, the Federated States of Micronesia, the Republic of the Marshall Islands, Guam, and Fiji, some of these places multiple times. Here we are with another training colleague Nancy in one of those far-flung island outposts – but to be perfectly honest I don’t remember which one:
It’s no easy feat to travel around in the Western Pacific. Just getting there from the US is a huge challenge. It’s five hours to Honolulu from the West Coast (longer from the East Coast) and then another nine hours to Guam. From Guam you get off the big birds and get on the little island hoppers that put-put their way from island to island to island, occasionally spending an extra 24 or 36 hours in a locale when a typhoon blows through. Thank goodness for great chilled Australian beer and the best and cheapest sushi I’ve ever had, although the natives actually preferred imported Spam.
Because of Jim I visited Bratislavia, Slovakia, making a weekend side trip to Nitra, Banska Bystrica, and Kosice. We laughed ourselves silly in a local restaurant where the menus were only in Slovakian and our translations of entrees made no sense (“Grilled Locksmith” and “Chimney Sweeper’s Balls” being two unforgettable options). We ended up pointing at something yummy-looking being carried by our table and were served shortly with Wild Boar Goulash, more than acceptable under the circumstances.
Here we are with members of the Slovakian Ministry of Foreign Affairs training class:
The redhead to Jim’s left had a rather casual view of professional attire, it seemed to me. “I didn’t need to know she was wearing a pink bra,” I said to Jim later that evening. “I didn’t need to know she didn’t match,” he replied.
Jim wasn’t fond of being photographed (neither am I). but I did manage to wheedle him into posing for me during one of our strolls around Brat. While later in life he devolved to a wardrobe that consisted mainly of Fisherman Casual with Baseball Cap, this picture epitomizes for me the sharp, suave, charming, intelligent, diplomat from Central Casting which Jim always played to a tee. (On the other hand, Bratislava was just starting its urban renovation efforts; I’m sincerely hoping the building behind him…looks a bit better today than it did then.)
Because of Jim, I saw Sarajevo in Bosnia, Dubrovnik and Cavtat in Croatia, Podgorica and Kotor in Montenegro, Skopje and Lake Ohrid in Macedonia, Sofia and Plovdiv in Bulgaria, Thessaloniki in Greece. Not in one trip, of course, but over multiple trips over many years. It felt at the time – and continues feels even more in retrospect – extraordinary. I have no words for my gratitude and appreciation.
One weekend in Brat we made a trip to Lake Bled in Slovenia. It’s one of the most magical places I’ve ever been:
The hotel we stayed at was, as so many Slovenian things are, a quirky blend of Austrian comfort, Italian charm, and Slavic eccentricity. There was an accordion player there who specialized in the Anton Karas music from the movie “The Third Man,” the Orson Wells classic from 1949 shot primarily in Vienna. That, plus an outstanding slivovitz, blazed a golden memory into my mind.
But if I were to tie Janet and Jim together, my personal roots and wings, it would be for the quality of the conversations we shared. Very different, of course, but both to a level that itched my mind and soul in the places that needed scratching. And with Jim, obvious enough from the pictures already shared, there was usually some adult libation involved. (The motto of the State Department is, after all, “I have only one liver to give for my country.”) So with a final salute, I give you a picture of Jim in paradise. We’re lunching in the restaurant patio of a great eco hotel called “The Village” in Pohnpei, FSM (since closed; a real shame) and we’re discussing Life and the Universe in grand style. Vale, Jim, safe travels, and save me a seat at the bar.
If you know me personally, you know that I have recently suffered the loss of my dear friend J. You may have seen references to her throughout this blog, and if you have the inclination to go back to 2013-2015, you’ll see various posts dedicated to our all-too-brief time together in Maine. Such a life event demands reflection, and as I come out of my fog, I realize that I want to continue to embrace my glorious life in Germany, with all the challenges these days seem to bring. But I will still miss her like hell.
The challenge of “no travel” has been a big one for the last couple years, and understanding that, some of the local transport companies have offered annual pass holders *free travel* on regional trains running nearly all over the country for a period of two weeks this month. Up-side: free! Down-side: these trains stop at every damn barn and outhouse and it takes sometimes double or triple the time to get anywhere from anywhere. But since I can’t see the words “free” and “travel” without a huge dopamine hit, it was time to hit the rails.
First stop: Lutherstadt Wittenberg, a place that I’ve been meaning to visit for a while. I studied religion as an undergraduate, even did a graduate degree in Applied Theology and as a result was quite familiar with the name Martin Luther and his outlaw deeds (in the mind of the Catholic Church at least). But I had never seen him quite like this. Nice to see the locals have a sense of perspective on their main man:
Originally settled by Flemish colonists in 1180, Wittenberg (the Lutherstadt is basically an honorific) became an important regional center in the fifteenth century, seeing the foundation of the University of Wittenberg in 1502 and hence Luther’s arrival there as a professor of theology in 1508. On the 31st of October, 1517, as legend has it, Luther nailed his 95 theses (his complaints against the Catholic Church) to the wooden door of All Saints, the castle church, and so marked the official beginning of the Protestant Reformation.
Because of its significant religious history, the town center was spared from Allied bombing during World War II. The consideration only went so far, however… just outside the city limits there was an aircraft parts factory which was bombed to holy hell, as it were, taking with it over the one thousand prisoners and POWS who manned it. Wittenberg fell to the Soviets after the war and then became part of East Germany until the reunification in 1990. Here’s a map of the main historical section of town:
Because tourism is such a key part of the town’s economic foundation, the local inhabitants have gone out of their way to make sure people can find their way around and can appreciate the various offerings. Here two bikers read one of the many civic markers (the ones in orange above) that help us hapless visitors navigate this vast expanse:
If you’re been following my blog for any time at all, you know I am not particularly happy about the “Disneyization” of many Europe’s historic inner cities. Unfortunately, Lutherstadt Wittenberg has fallen prey to this condition as well. I don’t envy the civic mothers and fathers who had to decide how to move forward at various difficult economic moments and decided to take piles of money to turn their towns into World Heritage sites, but I still rue that I will never see any of these places as they were most of their lives, vibrant lively urban centers. Here’s a very beautifully restored but somewhat antiseptic main street:
Just when I was getting really grumpy about this, I finally saw something seemed mostly authentic and unrestored. Here’s a boot selection from….a while back, goodness knows when…showing the various styles available by some local bookmaker at some not-so-recent point…mysterious, but at least, not made last week and flown here from China:
Okay, now, time to stop whining and get to the attractions. First up, of course, the main city square (#9 Platz in the map above), seen here through the fisheye of the 500-year Jubilee marker. You might make me out as well as the single human on the square at that moment:
Nearby a dignified statue of Martin himself, graced this day by a fresh new communicant:
But since you know me, you know that once I get the main idea of a place, I start looking for the chewy interesting bits that I didn’t know about before I arrived.
First up was that Lutherstadt Wittenberg was also significant in the lives of Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472-1553) and the Younger (1515-1586). These German Renaissance painters and portraitists worked for the Electors of Saxony and ended up immortalizing many of the leaders of the Protestant Reformation. (Martin apparently was a good friend of the Elder Cranach.) They are considered among the most successful German artists of the period, although I must confess I hadn’t been aware of them before I moved to Europe.
The Cranach painting studio has been renovated and the rest of the Hof (Courtyard) that included his living space and barns is currently being upgraded as well. Here’s a “before” picture of the Hof, which shows that some places really do need an Extreme Makeover:
And after some tender loving care and mountains and mountains of Euros, voila:
Cranach himself was seated nearby but seemed to be lost in his work…
Just a few steps further along the main street, I came across Haus der Geschichte Lutherstadt Wittenberg. Now, you know I love museums, and the crazier the better. I’ve been to the Museum of Tobacco and Salt in Tokyo, the Museum of Dirt and Soap in Bydgoszcz, and a few other gems. But this one…was verrrrrry interesting. Here’s the floor plan. Look carefully:
Hint….here’s who greeted me on the stairs…a youngish, “handsome” Erich Honecker:
So, yes, although they didn’t say it in so many words, this is a museum dedicated to the “good old days” of the East German 20th century and showing a good bit of what we call “Ostalgia” (Nostalgia for the East (Ost)). Each room of the museum is inhabited by a different family of curious and creepy aging mannequins and shows a different decade of the 20th century, paying particular attention to the furniture and furnishings of the era, kind of a snapshot of each ten-year period. Most didn’t catch my eye particularly, but I was taken by the re-creation of a swingin’ groovy East German nightclub circa 1970 or so:
Probably a favorite of the AfD. Hmmmmm. Moving right along…
Speaking of political parties, the German elections are coming up soon, to be held this year on Sunday the 26 (those practical Germans) and as you probably know, Frau Merkel will be departing the stage after her 16 years at the helm. I’ve been curious to know what the future holds in store for her, so I was happy to see she already has some plans to stay active:
Ba-da Boom! It’s dirty exhausting work trying to learn and share all this history and culture. Fortunately, among its many attractions, Lutherstadt Wittenberg offers a variety of restaurant options for the weary and peckish visitor. Most seem to be either Italian or Indian, but it seemed that in this most historic of German historical towns I wanted to stay local as it were. I ended up having salmon (being Friday and all; not that local), but the beer was superlative and came from Leipzig, only 72 km away.
So, since the free travel lasts until election day, get ready for a few more of these quick hits from here and there. Until then, cheers, and thanks for coming along for the ride.
Berlin Byways 