Here and Now

As you gaze across the bobbing sea of heads and cameras, meeting Mona Lisa’s eyes across the room, as the echoes of the constant murmur of “no photo” from Italian polizia fills the Sistine Chapel, as the man next to you exclaims, “It’s a unicorn,” and laughs at the absurdity of the Crown Jewels, one begins to ponder the nature of tourism.

On this trip we have spent not an inconsiderable amount of time in what I would term “dead” monuments. The Tower holds no more executions, no kings live in Neuscwanstein, and the last battle in the coliseum, well, you get the idea.



It’s part of why I enjoy visiting places of worship. Because most of them are still alive.

Now, I will not pretend to be the most reverent of visitors to these embalmed places. I quite enjoy the imagined consternation of the Hapsburg ghosts as they see their venerated grounds invaded by the masses. But why do we go? Where is the line between overprotective snobbery and appreciation, between good humor and a loss of wonder?

When we were wandering the Louvre Chelsea and I were passed by a gentleman with a camera. He walked directly to each case in the room, snapped a photo and walked on. Without looking at what was there. This baffled us then, and still does. Where is the worth in that? What was the point of your admission? To say that you were there?

(And again, I am not above doing some things for the mere purpose of making a factual statement. We took a train ride to Malmo and back, and proudly count Sweden on our itinerary. Yes, yes, laugh at us.)



All of this makes Venice an interesting case. Venice, we were told, is a city of tourists. The old town, the part everyone thinks of when we think of Venice, gave us no evidence to the contrary. We heard a lot of languages, and very little Italian. There were street hawkers and cheap masks, gaudy gondolas and plenty of “I heart Venice” shirts.

And yet.

Some mask shops boast finer ware: fragile metal butterflies and swirls of stiff fabric, glittering crystal and delicate flourishes of gold. Some canals are still a breathtaking aqua, and some streets are deserted, left for the dreamers who wish they were wearing cloaks and lace and had important business about in the floating city.



And then it is back to the irreverent noise of cameras coming on and gelato running down your fingers. And the ice cream is marvelous, and you’ll be glad you got that shot later, when you are trying to convince yourself that you ever traveled halfway around the world.



If any of this seems to contradict itself, then I suppose that’s my point. I don’t know if there is a solution. I don’t know if there is a problem. I’d be sad if these treasures were locked from sight, I am sad that our dead have so little weight.

God's House

Nothing is quite like walking into a cathedral. One immediately looks up, to the dark vaulted ceiling, then ahead, along the row of pillars that disappear into a chapel for Mary or a saint. The weight of that great open space pushes a breath from you, and maybe you forget the camera in your hand and the couple muttering in English next to you.



The first time I walked into a cathedral I was twelve. And it taught me more about religion in a moment then I had learned in all more short life before. It made more sense.

We’ve seen a lot of churches on this trip, and a few spectacular cathedrals – Notre Dame and the York Minister, San Marco and the Sagrada Familia. But in Bavaria we got to see a new kind of church.

Klaus, my mother’s cousin, says that they were built as a catholic reaction to the success of the Lutherans in Germany.



They are perhaps more spectacular because the outsides are so modest – simple pink or white stucco with a copper cap on the bell tower. You do not walk in under a scene of the last judgment, no damned souls.



Where the cathedrals make you gulp, these churches make you want to laugh for joy. They have over-gilded altars, angels and trumpets bursting from the walls, and pink and gold filigree circling clear windows that let the sunshine in. They make you full of wonder rather than the awe of a cathedral.



When you walk in, you still look up. Instead of the imposing stone and shadowed corners are huge rainbow bright murals: more angels and Mary, the infant Christ and various miracles and saints. Even in the small ones. The ceilings are high, and there is still that sense of space, but free rather than enclosed.



On top of that we caught them at harvest time, so in front of every church is a pile of food – cabbages and rice, a round loaf of bread and squash, tomatoes, apples, and zucchini. The expression of bounty is an ancient one: look we have enough food for winter, so we can offer some to God.



On the wall of one of these were small amateur paintings, done by supplicants in thanks to Mary for her help. Klaus deciphered a few, reading the cramped old scripts. And he found one from a family dated 400 years ago. He chuckled because he had taught students from that family.

When we were planning this trip I saved Bavaria as the last place we would stay with family before going south and east to Istanbul. We're very glad we did.

The Mad King

Ludwig the Second of Bavaria might well be my favorite monarch. He’s certainly my favorite crazy one. Where many of the most famous nutters to sit on their thrones got the reputation by the occasional witch burning, random slaughter or horse senator, Ludwig built castles.

And they weren’t just your regular, dime a dozen keeps or citadels, this man dreamed big. Epic. The most famous is unfinished Neuschwanstein, recognizable the world over as the basis for the Disney castle, but he built two others – Herrenchiemsee and Linderhof – which were completed.



Neuschwanstein was dedicated to Wagner and his operas. One room – on the third floor – is a fake cave, stalagmites and stalactites and all, from Tannhauser, and the royal bedroom is decorated with paintings from Tristan and Isolde, along with years’ worth of master carpentry.

I’m sure that as a politician he was a problem. He had a habit of leaving one castle and fleeing to another whenever someone important wanted to talk to him. He did not like to see people. One of his dining rooms has a table that can be cranked down into the kitchen below so he would not have to see the servants.

He drowned mysteriously, along with a psychiatrist who was supposed to testify that he was mad and unfit to rule. He was the last king of Bavaria. Six weeks after his death Neuschwanstein was opened to the public, less than half finished.

The opulence and extravagance of this man, the arrogance and wealth are all apparent in his palace – in the individually painted stones, the gold sculpture of Sigfried slaying the dragon, in the beautiful little fake cave with a window and gilded reading chair looking out on the courtyard.

He doesn’t seem like someone to pity. And we felt so bad for him. Because he never saw the castle finished – because no one tried to finish it for him. Because there is a painting of what would have been his fourth castle on the wall of a throne room without a throne. A tiny silhouette of his next dream.

I don’t know whether he was aware that his eccentricities would make him into a modern fairytale. He certainly had the sense of drama for something like that. I doubt though, that he expected the end. The tragedy. But perhaps he did. He did love Wagner after all.

A Hole in the Ground

On February 14th of this year I sent Hanna an email with the subject "Can we go here?" The only content of the email was this URL: http://maps.google.com/maps?q=47.587801,13.269387

Hanna's reply:

sure ^_^

umm... where is it?

But the truth was, besides the coordinates, I hadn't the slightest idea. All I knew was that, in my search for good reference pictures on gorges, I had found what appeared to be a sinkhole in the ground surrounded by evergreens and oaks with this surreal Caribbean teal water in its belly. It was pretty. I wanted to see it.

So Hanna, bless her, researched these google coordinates, figured out the town they were in, how to get there, and slotted it into our itinerary.

A few days ago we arrived in Salzburg, from whence we took a train to the wee town of Golling-Abentau, from whence we took a bus to the Oberscheffau stop called Lammeröffen.

Yes, those are clouds beneath the mountains :)

A huge informational board stood at the bus stop, extolling the wonders of "The Lammerklam" (klam = gorge). It turns out my hole in the ground was not merely a lone sinkhole, but a winding whitewater river rushing through cracks in the Austrian Alps.

The Path to the Lammerklam

After walking somewhat awkwardly through what appeared to be several persons backyards, we reached an unimpeded view of the river. The water was unreal. I always associate blue/green water with the tropics, which meant, of course, that when I saw the white-green river, I had to double check to make sure it was actually cold.

It was.

"Hanna, my hand, it's cold now!"

A short while after this, both my and Hanna's cameras died. We managed to get a few good shots of the water, first.

Also noteworthy is the weather: a European drizzle that drifted into rain every few minutes, and on top of that Alps-chilled air. On any other occasion, I'd call the weather atrocious, but in this case it just added to the overall atmosphere. It added challenge, it added fun, it made us feel like real adventurers on an epic trek. We loved it.

Sallying forth, brave adventurers!

The coolest part, and the part from whence the initial, fantastic photo was taken, is at the top of the trail. Called the "dunkelklam" or "Dark Gorge", it's a natural dome carved by the waters, like a sliver of a cave, and there the water is at its deepest - and greenest!

Descending to the Dunkelklam!

There's something indescribably charming about going on such an adventure, finding a strange new world in the middle of nowhere that you only caught a glimpse of a long time ago in a digital slice. I broke into this dumb smile at the bottom and turned to Hanna, "We did it! We finally found my hole in the ground!"

Nothing is impossible.

On German Kezboards and Drinking

We are presentlz stazing with Hanna's Great Uncle Klaus and his wife Hilga in Lauterhof, Bavaria. Thez onlz have a land line, so we are forced to use their computer, and consequentlz, their kezboard. It#s not that bad, reallz. There are onlz a few misplaced charactersÖ the y and z for instance are switched, the apostrophe is hidden over the # kez, and everz so often, when zou least expect it, zou get an umlaut. Of course, when I intentionallz want to make an umlaut, saz for the word 'Umlaut', I find mzself mzstified bz the kezboard and absolutelz unable to -- oh, wait, I lied! There it is! Ü


So, here we are.


Now, I want to address mz latest facebook post, something about a blearz memorz of dear Bavaria wherein I have had more alcohol than the rest of mz life combined. I believe this single post got more likes and comments than anz other I#ve made on this trip. What are zou guzs trzing to saz, huh_ That zou want me to grow into a crayz drunkard_ That mz inebriation improves mz character_


I did have the... unique opportunitz... zesterdaz to trz 'Rauchsbier', a tzpe of beer malted over woodfire that retains much of the smokz taste. When Klaus pitched it to Hanna and I, his exact words wereÄ 'It tastes like smoked ham'. ...

SMOKED HAM IN A GLASS!_!_!! (Now if that didn#t have me sold, I don#t know what would.)


I declined a glass, opting for water instead, but Hanna forced me to have at least one sip.

I was suspicious - even the smell was awful

After the sip I was horrified at the signals sent from mz tongue and tried to wash it awaz with water.

Which onlz made it worse.

Hanna dealt with this much more easilz ß in fact she almost finished her glass ß and that evening had another when we were with her other great uncle, Stefan.

The wurst, bz the waz, was amaying. All organic (or 'bio' here in Europe) and with local animals onlz. Deeeelicious.

The wine, which was actuallz the reason for mz facebook update, came from a partz one of Hilga and Klaus#s friends threw. We were invited and promptlz given a cocktail upon arrival, followed bz wine for dinner, and also an offer of beer, followed bz schnapps for dessert. There was no waz I was going to be able to do the beer or schnapps, but I DID drink all of the cocktail and half the wine. See_ All zou people who have been trzing to make me drink ß all zou had to do was put me in a situation where it would be impolite to refuse. It worked for the Englands, and it worked here. Simples!