Art & Culture
various essays on, well, art and culture
Bookbinding & Conservation
lessons learned from this profession
Humor
ok, I'm not the guy from SNL, but I still have a sense of humor
'Jim Downey' Stories
mostly true stories from my adolescence
Personal Essays
more "it's all about me"
Politics
I’m at -7.13/-7.33 on The
Political Compass. Where are you?
Society
observations on the human condition
Travel
Europe 1994
Kronach
Coburg
Vienna
Mödling
Vättis
Ramsgate
Chester
Wales 1998
Wales 2003
Wales 2006
CCGA Vignettes
|
Vienna
I didn't know that a Festiva would even do 120 mph. But it wasn't topped
out, and in fact the car felt like it was eager for more. It was comfortable
driving at that speed, no swaying, no feeling like I was on a skateboard with a rocket
engine. I think the speedometer went to 240 kph, some 30 mph faster than I
dared to take it. They must make the things differently for sale in Europe
than they do here.
I don't generally like to drive fast, and got
100+ speeds out of my system when I was a crazed teenager. But as we left
the secondary roads coming out of Kronach, and got onto the autobahn, I knew that
I had little choice but to resurrect and indulge the speed-demon in me.
Otherwise I would be run over. So, as the rain cleared off to just an
occasional mist, and we got onto the autobahn, I went native, and pushed that
Ford further than I thought it could possibly go. Since we were moving
with the traffic (except for the occasional underpowered and overburdened truck
we passed, and the Mercedes sedans which went by us with what can only be called
a casual display of power), there really wasn't much of a sensation of speed.
Little wonder that the innkeeper had said it would only take about 40 minutes to
drive to Bamberg, though it was a good 60 miles. "Some time to get to the
autobahn, and then pffft, you're there" he had said. I had had my doubts.
Then we got on the autobahn, and they vanished.
Bamberg was a change. We didn't see
much of it, coming in off the autobahn near the US Military housing district,
since that was the area where the Hertz rental place was located. I didn't
have a very good impression of the place. Lots of standard '50's style
apartment buildings, not in the best repair. A strip with American
fast-food places, pawn shops, used car dealers. Grey skies, trash
blowing in the streets, even some graffiti. Depressingly like the things
I don't care for in cities at home, and I felt sorry for the military personnel
who thought that that was representative of Germany. After locating the
Hertz office (which was affiliated with a used car dealer, so they at least had
a real building), I dropped Alix off at the train station, went back and turned
in the car, and caught the bus to the station.
Off of the train in Nurnberg, about noon, with a little time to explore.
We dumped the bags in another locker, went down a series of escalators into a
full-fledged shopping mall built under the bahnhof and the central part of the
city. Up, and out into the daylight, coming to surface across a major
street from the bahnhof, at the threshold of the old city walls. That's
the nice thing about the German rail system: the central station is always right
in the heart of the town, being the center of the entire public transportation
net, where you can catch a bus or a subway, a taxi or just walk to the nearby
city center. I guess that's the by-product of having your cities bombed
into rubble . . . you get to redesign your transportation system the way you
want it, no slum clearance projects needed.
Where the ramp came up was at the roots of
the large old King's Tower, a massive gothic structure of red sandstone, black
iron work, and timbers on roof and doors so dark it looked like slate.
From there we looked down one of the narrow streets of the old city, filled
now with shoppers on their lunch hour. Little sidewalk cafes on the
cobblestones, kiosks selling a variety of 'bretzlen' (what we would call large
soft pretzels) with several different toppings, and a number of stand-up pizza
bars. Banners promoting sales and announcing Corporate locations danced
from the sides of the buildings. A raw mix of old world & new, with some
of the buildings straight out of the middle ages, the others bauhaus or newer,
all chrome and glass. Neon signs under gothic gateways. Baroque
cherubs supporting fancy signs for banks. Cobblestone streets turned
over completely to pedestrian traffic. A thousand years of layers of
human culture and commerce. It was wonderful. We headed further
into downtown, thought maybe we would find someplace to get a bite to eat,
perhaps something to drink. I was eager to sample the local beer,
maybe enjoy a couple of hot wursts, but everywhere that looked likely was
also filled to overflowing, since it was the lunch hour, and we didn't have
that much time.
Compromising on just stopping for a couple
of sodas from a pushcart, we went on. The delightful mural depicting
the old city that we passed in the shopping area under the bahnhof indicated
that there was some variety of cathedral not too far away, and we decided to
head that direction.
The cathedral (Saint Martin's ??) was small,
as such things go. Located in the center of a platz there in the heart
of the city, it didn't completely overpower everything else for miles, but fit in
with the large business structures around it, though it had a calmer presence.
I think that it was older than many of the churches and cathedrals we explored,
early gothic, short and squat compared to the soaring constructions of light
that came later. As with the King's tower, it had darkened with age,
becoming in my memory now almost black. After making a quick pass around
the outside, we went in, working our way past the crowd of teenagers sitting and
smoking on the steps outside. The contrast between the outside, dark and
almost forbidding, and the inside, filled with quiet light and openness, was
pretty amazing. Narrow windows of stained glass, clearly early in the
development of the great walls of glass that become so popular with the advent
of the grand cathedrals. Echoes of whispered prayer, hints of forgotten
psalms sung in childhood. Tones of incantation, a touch of grace in a
blessing almost remembered. I was so taken with it all that a kindly old
gentleman had to remind me to remove my hat, and my cheeks flush with
embarrassment. The church of my father, and a sense of respect that was
more intense than the usual consideration I have for houses of worship of
whatever faith came bubbling up inside me. We didn't have long to
explore, but it was the first cathedral I had seen with more educated and
appreciative eyes, and it left a powerful impression on me.
We left the cathedral, wandered around a bit
more in the plaza and side streets there, but then made our way quickly back to
the train station. Buying drinks for the journey from one of the travel
stores, we fetched our bags, went and met our train.
It was a fine day to ride, watching the country roll by our windows. Six
hours between Nurnberg and Wein. The forests of Frankenwald were left
behind. South through the farmlands and hills of Bavaria, rich with crops
just coming ready to harvest. The land evolved as we watched, becoming
broader between the hills, the rivers also wider and more graceful, few towns
or villages along the way. We munched our picnic lunch, read, chatted
about the first couple of days of the trip, and just enjoyed the quiet scene
before us. It was marvelously relaxing.
Slowly the landscape started to change,
become unfamiliar to me and more familiar to Alix. The hills started to
rise more prominently, with glimpses of granite showing through here and there.
The houses also started to shift somewhat, the eaves growing longer, more balconies
and decks showing up than what was common in the north. I had never been
this far south, nor this far east. Alix could see that the homes and
landscape were taking on the alpine influence characteristic of Austria.
Hints of clouds scattered among the tops of the low mountains. More sheep
and cattle, fewer cultivated fields. As we came closer to the frontier
with Austria, cities and towns grew more common, clustered on the hills and along
the rivers, until they grew together into one large metropolitan area as we closed
in on Vienna.
Even the comfort of first class travel on a 'EuroCity' train takes a toll.
We had been on that one train for about six hours, on another previous to that
for over an hour, and prior to that was the adrenaline high of the autobahn.
We were both tired and a little cranky when we came into the huge, arching train
station west of the 'First District'. The throng of American high school
students, complete with the vestiges of mall hair, leather jackets, and voices
too loud and shrill, didn't help. And those were the guys. The
teenage girls with them were worse. Usually, I found it somewhat a
comfort to hear American accents while we in Europe. Not then.
Not at all. Their accents and slang were harsh on the ear, piercing,
almost whining, hard to listen to, harder to admit as being a version of my own
tongue. Of course, I also discovered that the Austrian brand of German
was different enough that it was tough for me to understand initially, though
Alix was more comfortable with it, thanks to having been a student there.
No high German here, instead the relaxed, softer influences of the Mediterranean
which actually made the language a little more pleasant, less like a man choking
to death. We got in line to change more money into Austrian Shillings,
slumping down our baggage, trying to ignore the students.
Our hotel was only a couple of blocks away,
in easy walking distance. It was warm and windy, and we enjoyed the walk,
even having to cross a couple of main streets quickly so as to avoid the manic
traffic which jammed up, then pulsed with little apparent regard for pedestrians.
It was my first hint that the Viennese drivers were even more aggressive and crazed
than their German counterparts. One of the travel videos we had watched prior
to the trip had talked about the Viennese zest for life "with double (whipped)
cream." I didn't realize that this was due to the shorter life expectancy,
but the truth of that was pretty basic as I dodged cars. Even a mini Opel
can sting a little when it runs into you, especially when it is accelerating to
light speed.
The hotel was actually a YMCA. Meaning
that we had a climb up about fifteen flights of stairs, it smelled vaguely of a
locker room, and we got to sleep in separate beds in a small, oddly shaped room
that had a shower but no toilet. I think Alix was the only woman in the
building, and we had the whole 'married' floor to ourselves, which meant that
the bathroom at the end of the hall was essentially ours, and I gave up even
the pretense of worrying about dressing to go down to it in the middle of the
night. But it was a happy place, a 'happening' place straight out of the
'60's, complete with slightly overweight, very serious looking graduate student
types who wore berets, smoked a lot, and needed to shower. On the long
climb up the stairs we could hear a party going on in one of the meeting rooms,
complete with guitars (and bongos? were those bongo drums I heard????).
From another came the sounds of something like a revival meeting, though I
couldn't swear that it wasn't a poetry reading of the type I had been subjected
to while working on my master's at Iowa. The kind where people stilt
their voices enough to penetrate walls . . . thick walls . . . and still be
annoying. And the walls in this YMCA were not thick.
We dropped off the bags, freshened up a bit,
and went out searching for dinner. One of the main shopping streets wasn't
far from the YMCA, and seemed to be a good bet for finding food. The shops
really were impressive . . . most places were closed (it was about 9:00), but
their window displays and the level of neon was a rival to any shopping district
in any city in the States. We selected a small, crowded, family-type
restaurant, figuring if it was crowded at this time of night it was a good sign.
The schnitzel (this was Wien, after all) was marvelous, but I couldn't say the
same for the beer. I didn't know that the local taste for beer runs to
the sour . . . sort of musty, like it hasn't been in the vat quite long enough,
and still has that yeast cloudiness and tang to it. As we ate dinner I
watched a guy sitting at the end of the short little bar who kept feeding 1
Schilling coins into an ancient slot machine mounted there on the wall.
He was a young guy, wearing a sports jacket, and attractive enough to get the
attention of one of the waitresses who stood around there chatting with the
bartender. These 1 AS coins are worth less than a dime, and he had to
put dozens of 'em into the machine before it was loaded up enough to pull the
handle. He had a sack of these coins, and in the short time I watched,
he went through those, bought another sack from the bartender, and ran through
those, too. He'd feed the machine a stack of coins, sip some on his beer,
smoke vigorously on his cigarette, stare at the machine for a while until he
felt that the time was right, or his level of excitement was high enough, and
then pull the handle. He never won anything, but just got a blast out
of sitting there drinking, pumping coins into this machine. He was still
at it when we left.
We stopped back at the train station, popped
into one of the convenience stores there and got some beer (German, so I could
get that sour taste out of my mouth), juice for Alix, an English newspaper,
and postcards to send to our friends of places in Vienna that we hadn't seen
yet. Went back to the room, opened all the windows (it was rather warm
inside), and sat, chatting, drinking, writing cards, and looking at the paper
until settling in for bed.
The morning was bright, cheerful, amazingly clear. A quick, but
delightful, breakfast similar to those we enjoyed in Kronach down in one of the
common rooms with the same cast of characters we had seen the night before.
Over to the train station, where we called the Hertz office, made sure the car
was there, and let them know approximately when to expect us. Got passes
for the subway, and took it into the 'first district', the oldest part of the
city, inside the Ring (a busy four lane road which has replaced the old city
walls). I think that it was the first time I had ever been on a subway,
and I had my midwesterner's distrust of the idea. But with the quality
of the train system on the continent, and with Alix's encouragement, I figured
it was better than walking the distance. It was fine. Fast,
uncrowded, no graffiti or menacing youths. We came to surface downtown,
not too far from Steffansdom.
A marvelous structure, one of the truly great
cathedrals in Europe. Huge, beautiful on the outside with an ornate
geometric pattern to the roof tiles which I think is unique in western Europe.
Inside, the space, light and glory stunned me from the first. Bright
gilding, high glittering windows that glowed with color and warmth which were
even difficult for the inexperienced to look at for very long without becoming
giddy. Throughout the building was evidence of expert restoration work,
fresh gilding and cleaned stone, bright murals, polished wood. Clusters
of people around guides here and there, languages from all over the continent
and Asia, the guides gesturing wildly with their arms, infused with the expansive,
overpowering spirit of the place. It was so large that even the little
'private' worship areas off to the side would hold a hundred people and not feel
crowded. Binoculars were necessary to see the detail work on the supporting
pillars just halfway up, and could only give a decent view of the gross structure
of the tracery work of the stone supporting the ceiling. A telescope (and
several lifetimes) would have been necessary to appreciate it all. The
statues, usually from mid-chest up, of early 16th century people looking out
from the walls and pillars were lifelike, all the way down to the detail of
clothing, worn and tattered in places, and scars or warts on their faces,
jagged-tooth smiles, or deep set lines of a frowns held for too many years.
Alix found particular sympathy in the likeness of the master architect of the
cathedral, who was depicted at the base of one of the supports for the organ
balcony, the whole weight of the building upon his shoulders, bending him over,
seeming to crush him, his square and calipers in hand, but his vision still clear,
head still up, to supervise the construction and maintenance of his creation.
The legend below it only had his initials, and the date of 1513, but with that
watching face, there was no doubt who he was.
I took a seat in one of the pews, near a young
Japanese couple who had their toddler son, and like them I just sat and stared,
trying to take it all in, or at least get an impression of it worthy of the work
and centuries of worship that had built this place. Generations of men and
women had opened their hearts here, had poured out all their hopes and fears for
themselves and their children, filling the simple stone with their souls until
no place on earth could hold it any more, and a bridge, a tunnel, a sharing with
an other place was created. I don't believe in heaven, but in that cathedral
I could feel it pulsing around me. The small cathedral in Nurnberg left me
filled with respect for the church of my ancestors. This cathedral left me
in awe of the human spirit, and the soaring heights of vision and accomplishment
that it was capable of. I turned to the offertory candles there to the
side. I left a large enough donation for a score of candles, selected only
one, small, well used already, but perhaps brighter than any I had ever lit.
Sometimes I am surprised by the depth of things I find. It was a while
before I was able to talk.
Outside, walking on the large platz which gives Stephansdom enough room to breathe,
we heard singing. No accompaniment, just the sound of human voices, joined
together. But it wasn't connected with the cathedral, and as we wandered
toward the sound, identity sunk in for me . . . choral yodeling. Alix had
recognized it almost immediately, of course, but I'm not quite so quick on the
musical uptake. Sitting in the shade of umbrellas at one of the sidewalk
cafes, there was a group of friends, some of whom were yodeling. It was
apparently impromptu, and some of the spouses and friends who were with them
seemed quite embarrassed that this little exercise had gotten started. But
it was wonderful! Their voices - strong, deep, mature voices of men and
women - dancing off the walls of the nearby buildings, echoing from across the
plaza, playing in the side streets and valleys of the core of the first district.
A crowd quickly formed around their tables, but far enough back so that we weren't
crowding them, nor containing that wonderful sound, and encouraged them to continue
with clapping and delighted faces. Just friends, clearly members of some
choral group, deciding to play and entertain us between glasses of wine.
Down one of those urban valleys, the street
narrow and confining after the expanse of the Cathedral, following the little
guide map we had of the city, trying to identify the various landmark buildings
and statues. The first district is filled with buildings of historic,
and sometimes architectural, import. Churches around every corner, on
every corner Greek & Roman influenced government buildings or banks, their
Ionic columns out front supporting nothing but a facade. Little plazas
filled with wonderful Renaissance statuary, gilded breastplates and spear tips
of the classical figures, Mozart as even he wouldn't have appeared in public,
fountains bubbling and dominating the landscape. So much baroque art
and decoration that I was starting to worry that I would absorb some of it
into my own aesthetic sense, and perhaps even start to like the stuff.
And about that time we came across something which made me feel at home, gave
me an anchor to put things in perspective. In the heart of the first
district, the part of Vienna that is the most upper crust, there in a medium
sized platz across from another massive Government building with statues and
fountains everywhere, was a flea market. Cars with trunks popped open,
goods being sold out of the back. Folding tables heaped with old records,
magazines, photos, watches, jewelry, and just plain junk. There were
crates of treasures on the ground, blankets off to the side, kids running
around, asking mommy to buy them this trinket or that. It could have
been in any American Legion hall in any small town I've ever lived in or
travelled to, and it was great.
We got out of the first district, and walked along the Ring toward the Hertz
office, which was on the Ring. The first district was jammed with buildings
and art. The Ring was jammed with cars. And people. And shops
on both sides of the roadway wherever there wasn't a park, museum, or theatre.
And bicyclists who had their own path through the pedestrian walkways, and would
run you over if you were in their way. Underground pedestrian crossings,
so the mayhem on the roads was a little reduced. Kiosks selling newspapers,
cigarettes, and beverages, along with "Hot Dogs," "French Fries," and "Ice Cream."
In a very short while I had my fill of it all, and we went back into the first
district to try and find a restaurant or some other quiet place to sit down and eat
lunch. Just a half a block in, then down a side street, and there was this
little winegarden for a large restaurant. Green peace there among the hanging
vines and high hedges, a little black iron table, good wine and better food.
We could have been 30 miles outside of the city, it was so relaxing and restful.
After lunch, we went the short distance to the
Hertz office, got our car without incident, and got the hell out of Vienna.
Nice city, but there's too much 'city' to it for my tastes.
|
|