Monday, June 30, 2008
Moving On
As I think we made clear in our last posts, our grande trip to Europe is over. However, the continuing adventures of Colin and Jenn (et al) can be viewed at nerdsinseattle, our new blog. Enjoy!
Friday, June 13, 2008
Coming Home
In Vienna, the symbolic half-way point of our trip, Jenn and I got a little maudlin about its waning days. To hear us talk, the horizon was very bleak indeed.
Doris, of course, would have none of this. Coming home is always a highlight of any trip, she insisted. Sure, we agreed half-heartedly at the time.
But "home" is a fairly nebulous concept for us right now. How do you quantify home? Where you have a legal right to sleep? Where your worldly possessions are? By the first, we're homeless; by the second, our home is a rather stuffy 8' by 5' apartment with poor lighting in a seedy part of Kitchener.
Clearly, the house as home concept only gets you so far. Maybe home is where you return to in triumph after a successful invasion. This seems to have some legs--we were sort of a modern-day imperial phalanx in miniature, going from far-flung outpost to far-flung outpost ensuring that the local culture was dying. "Speak English?" To which we usually got the correct answer: "Yes, how may I help?" So successful was the cultural imperialism, in fact, that we could always rely on hearing English songs on the radio no matter where we were.
You might suggest they were playing something screechy by Alanis Morissette as a deliberately showy facade, as if to say "So fully is our own culture vanquished, we consider even the worst English crap to be better." Not true! For reasons of our own, we had two portable radios with us for the trip. France, Italy, Germany, Austria, Czech Republic, Belgium, Netherlands...they're all playing the same crap. It was a jagged little pill to swallow.
On the flight back to Toronto I jacked in my headphones and twiddled the channel dial on my seat.
Click. Movie dialogue, English.
Click. Movie dialogue, French.
Click. African drums?
Click. Mongolian throat-singing?
Click. Someone murdering a set of bagpipes.
Click. An Italian ballad--a fairly timeless one, if I recall correctly, where a young Lothario is forced to eke out a living on the mean streets of Rome, selling ombrellos to passersby for the rather reasonable rate of five euros. The refrain still echoes in my head.
And then it hits me. None of this is English pop music, but I've heard it all before somewhere.
It's like seven Sundays of CBC, all compressed into one seven-hour long flight.
Clearly, home is where the CBC is. Right now, that's Tyler's apartment (thanks!), and Doris was right: it's one of the many highlights of the trip.
Doris, of course, would have none of this. Coming home is always a highlight of any trip, she insisted. Sure, we agreed half-heartedly at the time.
But "home" is a fairly nebulous concept for us right now. How do you quantify home? Where you have a legal right to sleep? Where your worldly possessions are? By the first, we're homeless; by the second, our home is a rather stuffy 8' by 5' apartment with poor lighting in a seedy part of Kitchener.
Clearly, the house as home concept only gets you so far. Maybe home is where you return to in triumph after a successful invasion. This seems to have some legs--we were sort of a modern-day imperial phalanx in miniature, going from far-flung outpost to far-flung outpost ensuring that the local culture was dying. "Speak English?" To which we usually got the correct answer: "Yes, how may I help?" So successful was the cultural imperialism, in fact, that we could always rely on hearing English songs on the radio no matter where we were.
You might suggest they were playing something screechy by Alanis Morissette as a deliberately showy facade, as if to say "So fully is our own culture vanquished, we consider even the worst English crap to be better." Not true! For reasons of our own, we had two portable radios with us for the trip. France, Italy, Germany, Austria, Czech Republic, Belgium, Netherlands...they're all playing the same crap. It was a jagged little pill to swallow.
On the flight back to Toronto I jacked in my headphones and twiddled the channel dial on my seat.
Click. Movie dialogue, English.
Click. Movie dialogue, French.
Click. African drums?
Click. Mongolian throat-singing?
Click. Someone murdering a set of bagpipes.
Click. An Italian ballad--a fairly timeless one, if I recall correctly, where a young Lothario is forced to eke out a living on the mean streets of Rome, selling ombrellos to passersby for the rather reasonable rate of five euros. The refrain still echoes in my head.
And then it hits me. None of this is English pop music, but I've heard it all before somewhere.
It's like seven Sundays of CBC, all compressed into one seven-hour long flight.
Clearly, home is where the CBC is. Right now, that's Tyler's apartment (thanks!), and Doris was right: it's one of the many highlights of the trip.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
On Getting Ripped Off in Europe
We were ripped off three times to our knowledge. €4, 150 kč and €7.65; or, in English, a little less than $30 in 49 days.
And it kills me. We should be grateful to be taken for such small sums, but in truth, it grates all the more. I can respect you if you rack up a great big fraud; a pittance of a fraud, however, is just that: pitiful. It was mean, in every sense of the word.
Luckily for us, these incidents were rare. Due to my anal nature, I'll never forget them, of course (as I don't forget that night in Mexico, winter of 2004, when Jorge wrote himself a 25% tip on 32 beers. Fie on you, sir!)
But I'll also never forget the Bad Homburger cyclist who not only took the initiative to ask us if we were lost, but also rode with us until we reached a main road and sent us on our way. Nor will we forget the Czech ticket-taker who winked at us and gave us early-bird discounts for the symphony for no good reason. There are numerous other examples, worth far more than $30 in money, and incalculably spirit-lifting when in a foreign country.
Fine, for you bottom-feeders who want the details on our dupings. The 4€ "swindle" was in Marseilles. Somehow, 3 serving staff were involved in our 8€ meal, which we paid for with a 20. Through malice or purple-monkey-dishwasher, we got 8€ back instead of 12. New to the money and with a train to catch, we were on our way to Avignon before we realized the error.
The 150kč swindle was at a place with two dishes identical in name, contents: everything but price. Screw you, sir. Or, said with the accent of someone with too-dry goulash in his mouth: Skrw u sr. Which I think is also an insult on his mother in his native tongue.
The 7.65€ swindle...well, hey, maybe it wasn't a swindle. Maybe we honestly were in the only bar in the world where a cocktail is cheaper than a beer. A domestic beer. Maybe the posted prices really were for a thimbleful of ale; not the manly pint-sized drinks that we enjoyed! Which cost almost 8€. Each. For domestic beer.
And it kills me. We should be grateful to be taken for such small sums, but in truth, it grates all the more. I can respect you if you rack up a great big fraud; a pittance of a fraud, however, is just that: pitiful. It was mean, in every sense of the word.
Luckily for us, these incidents were rare. Due to my anal nature, I'll never forget them, of course (as I don't forget that night in Mexico, winter of 2004, when Jorge wrote himself a 25% tip on 32 beers. Fie on you, sir!)
But I'll also never forget the Bad Homburger cyclist who not only took the initiative to ask us if we were lost, but also rode with us until we reached a main road and sent us on our way. Nor will we forget the Czech ticket-taker who winked at us and gave us early-bird discounts for the symphony for no good reason. There are numerous other examples, worth far more than $30 in money, and incalculably spirit-lifting when in a foreign country.
Fine, for you bottom-feeders who want the details on our dupings. The 4€ "swindle" was in Marseilles. Somehow, 3 serving staff were involved in our 8€ meal, which we paid for with a 20. Through malice or purple-monkey-dishwasher, we got 8€ back instead of 12. New to the money and with a train to catch, we were on our way to Avignon before we realized the error.
The 150kč swindle was at a place with two dishes identical in name, contents: everything but price. Screw you, sir. Or, said with the accent of someone with too-dry goulash in his mouth: Skrw u sr. Which I think is also an insult on his mother in his native tongue.
The 7.65€ swindle...well, hey, maybe it wasn't a swindle. Maybe we honestly were in the only bar in the world where a cocktail is cheaper than a beer. A domestic beer. Maybe the posted prices really were for a thimbleful of ale; not the manly pint-sized drinks that we enjoyed! Which cost almost 8€. Each. For domestic beer.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Amsterdam
Booze, sex, and drugs. And parks--grassy parks, just right for lazing in. In fact, glancing around the Vondelpark during our own eight hours of sunbathing, I was surprised. It was 2PM on a work-day and it was packed. How do they get anything done here?
Simple answer: they don't. We visited more than one museum that noted the Dutch heyday was the 17th century, and damn it, that's good enough for us. As proof for those who think I'm being flippant, we also visited more than one museum proclaiming "Grand re-opening: Spring 2008" on their shuttered doors. Through the haze of pot we counted the seasons on our fingers. Dude. It should be open by now. Maybe that explained all the sweaty, burly men in construction safety vests in the Vondelpark on a work-day. 'Course, it'd make more sense if they weren't wearing only the vest. (In Germanic languages, it seems that 'v' is pronounced as an 'f' sound -- all in all, the Vondelpark was a rather vestive place.)
Amsterdam was very picturesque. Venice must have a great PR crew: of the three cities with canals that we visited, Venice was the most hyped and least enjoyable. Amsterdam pulled down a comfortable second behind Bruges. It was a good thing we had a plane to catch as I would have been content to spend months stretched out in the parks, reading books in the sun, pausing only to rehydrate with a beer from the nearest street- (park-?) meat vendor.
Amsterdam was an excellent capstone to a great trip, even to Jenn and I, who had no vested interest in the place. (Sorry, had to get the last travel puns off of my...vest. Not there's anything wrong with that, mind you.)
Simple answer: they don't. We visited more than one museum that noted the Dutch heyday was the 17th century, and damn it, that's good enough for us. As proof for those who think I'm being flippant, we also visited more than one museum proclaiming "Grand re-opening: Spring 2008" on their shuttered doors. Through the haze of pot we counted the seasons on our fingers. Dude. It should be open by now. Maybe that explained all the sweaty, burly men in construction safety vests in the Vondelpark on a work-day. 'Course, it'd make more sense if they weren't wearing only the vest. (In Germanic languages, it seems that 'v' is pronounced as an 'f' sound -- all in all, the Vondelpark was a rather vestive place.)
Amsterdam was very picturesque. Venice must have a great PR crew: of the three cities with canals that we visited, Venice was the most hyped and least enjoyable. Amsterdam pulled down a comfortable second behind Bruges. It was a good thing we had a plane to catch as I would have been content to spend months stretched out in the parks, reading books in the sun, pausing only to rehydrate with a beer from the nearest street- (park-?) meat vendor.
Amsterdam was an excellent capstone to a great trip, even to Jenn and I, who had no vested interest in the place. (Sorry, had to get the last travel puns off of my...vest. Not there's anything wrong with that, mind you.)
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Ypres
If you're a British Columbian in Flanders, you go to Ypres, apparently: we did, and so did the Liuetenant-Governor of BC.
The "In Flanders' Fields" museum was, appropriately enough, a living museum. In addition to a permanent exhibit (located in the faithfully reconstructed cloth hall, which was bombed to bits in the war), they also have temporary exhibitions. During our visit, the temporary exhibit explored the nationalities and ethnicities of the fighters of the war. Over 60 countries were involved and the racism of the imperial forces was staggering. Many countries trained non-whites as soldiers, then shipped them to the front where, in actuality, they would contribute to the war effort as porters.
We spent a fair bit of time on foot in the area. We walked through memorial gardens with the requisite poppies in full bloom, paid our respects at one of the hundreds of military cemeteries, and attended the 24,807th Last Post Ceremony at the Menenpoort.
The Menenpoort is a monument with the names of the Allied war dead inscribed in it. It's a huge monument, but all the same, it is not large enough for all the Allied war dead, nor even for all those who died at Ypres. Instead, it contains only the names of those who died during the first two years of the war at Ypres, and only those whose bodies were never recovered. There are 54,000 names.
Every night, at 8 PM (save during World War II), a volunteer group of buglers lead a ceremony with a minute of silence and the playing of the Last Post. On June 4th, the ceremony involved a platoon of French soldiers, a British group of schoolchildren, and the B.C. Lieutenant-Governor, who all laid wreathes.
The "In Flanders' Fields" museum was, appropriately enough, a living museum. In addition to a permanent exhibit (located in the faithfully reconstructed cloth hall, which was bombed to bits in the war), they also have temporary exhibitions. During our visit, the temporary exhibit explored the nationalities and ethnicities of the fighters of the war. Over 60 countries were involved and the racism of the imperial forces was staggering. Many countries trained non-whites as soldiers, then shipped them to the front where, in actuality, they would contribute to the war effort as porters.
We spent a fair bit of time on foot in the area. We walked through memorial gardens with the requisite poppies in full bloom, paid our respects at one of the hundreds of military cemeteries, and attended the 24,807th Last Post Ceremony at the Menenpoort.
The Menenpoort is a monument with the names of the Allied war dead inscribed in it. It's a huge monument, but all the same, it is not large enough for all the Allied war dead, nor even for all those who died at Ypres. Instead, it contains only the names of those who died during the first two years of the war at Ypres, and only those whose bodies were never recovered. There are 54,000 names.
Every night, at 8 PM (save during World War II), a volunteer group of buglers lead a ceremony with a minute of silence and the playing of the Last Post. On June 4th, the ceremony involved a platoon of French soldiers, a British group of schoolchildren, and the B.C. Lieutenant-Governor, who all laid wreathes.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Bruges
Bruges has, in other quarters, been described as a "fuckin' fairytale."
We, of course, are educated folk from Dawson Creek. We don't believe in fairytales. Therefore, we'd say that Bruges was "fuckin' spectacular." With a lasting cool and intermittent drizzle that brings to mind the climate of our eventual home in Seattle, Bruges was a pleasant contrast from the baking heat of Frankfurt.
Bruges had the romance of Venice with the canals, but without the tourists and pigeons. And their bridges were flat, unlike Venice's, where every bloody bridge had four steps up and four steps down. (I'm a lazy, lazy person.)
Bruges had the free Internet of Frankfurt, but without the drug-users asking, in perfect English, "Excuse me, my English is not that great: but can you spare me a euro, please?"
Bruges had the beautiful churches of York, but without the steep admission fees. It also had the vial of holy blood -- with venerations thrice daily. I had to explain the Catholic process of kneeling and kissing things to Jenn. Rosaries? Veneration of the Cross on Holy Thursday? Stations of the Cross? There's a lot of Catholic ritual to absorb, and, to her credit, Jenn has taken it all in. Indeed, while I am usually the proud owner of the worst pun in each city we visit, Jenn took the cake in Bruges, while pondering the concept of the vial of holy blood: "Have they substantiated the church's claim that the blood wasn't transubstantiated?"
We, of course, are educated folk from Dawson Creek. We don't believe in fairytales. Therefore, we'd say that Bruges was "fuckin' spectacular." With a lasting cool and intermittent drizzle that brings to mind the climate of our eventual home in Seattle, Bruges was a pleasant contrast from the baking heat of Frankfurt.
Bruges had the romance of Venice with the canals, but without the tourists and pigeons. And their bridges were flat, unlike Venice's, where every bloody bridge had four steps up and four steps down. (I'm a lazy, lazy person.)
Bruges had the free Internet of Frankfurt, but without the drug-users asking, in perfect English, "Excuse me, my English is not that great: but can you spare me a euro, please?"
Bruges had the beautiful churches of York, but without the steep admission fees. It also had the vial of holy blood -- with venerations thrice daily. I had to explain the Catholic process of kneeling and kissing things to Jenn. Rosaries? Veneration of the Cross on Holy Thursday? Stations of the Cross? There's a lot of Catholic ritual to absorb, and, to her credit, Jenn has taken it all in. Indeed, while I am usually the proud owner of the worst pun in each city we visit, Jenn took the cake in Bruges, while pondering the concept of the vial of holy blood: "Have they substantiated the church's claim that the blood wasn't transubstantiated?"
Monday, June 2, 2008
Who needs a cruise? We've got trains!
Our departure from Frankurt did not go according to plan. It should have begun with a very early train to Konigswinter where we wanted to see a pretty mountain and park, then a cruise down the Rhine to Bonn, before seeing the sights of Bonn and taking the train on to Brugge. Here is what actually happened.
We began the day with laundry, still in Frankfurt. We had planned to do this on Sunday, but apparently laundromats are closed on Sundays. Who knew? So we already had to make a later start of it.
By noon we had left the city, but we realized there was no time to see Konigswinter, and were seriously rethinking the Rhine cruise. Apparently the train is much faster than a boat, even one going downstream.
Of course, all of our ideas of taking a cruise went out the window when we realized that to get to the departure point on our cruise to Bonn, we would have to switch trains in Bonn - backtracking is not our style. So the cruise was out (sorry mom, I know you reccommended it, but it just wasn't meant to be).
We did make it to Bonn, where we toured the Beethoven Museum (in his birth home) and walked along the Rhine (about as close to a cruise as we got in Germany) before taking a late train into Brugge. It ended up being a lovely afternoon, despite our failed plans.
We began the day with laundry, still in Frankfurt. We had planned to do this on Sunday, but apparently laundromats are closed on Sundays. Who knew? So we already had to make a later start of it.
By noon we had left the city, but we realized there was no time to see Konigswinter, and were seriously rethinking the Rhine cruise. Apparently the train is much faster than a boat, even one going downstream.
Of course, all of our ideas of taking a cruise went out the window when we realized that to get to the departure point on our cruise to Bonn, we would have to switch trains in Bonn - backtracking is not our style. So the cruise was out (sorry mom, I know you reccommended it, but it just wasn't meant to be).
We did make it to Bonn, where we toured the Beethoven Museum (in his birth home) and walked along the Rhine (about as close to a cruise as we got in Germany) before taking a late train into Brugge. It ended up being a lovely afternoon, despite our failed plans.
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