Our 3 nights in Prague were spent under a huge bridge. No, not sleeping outside, just in a suburb of the city where the freeway went over a valley. I was a little freaked out by this, but at least the noise wasn't as bad as I feared.
On our first day, we wandered around the city, as we do every time we arrive at a new place. We found cute little streets and shops, until we got to the tourist center. There are lovely parts of Prague where you can believe that you are the only person who doesn't live on that street, but then there are parts filled with loud tourists, as busy as Rome or London.
An entire day was spent exploring the multiple venues of the Jewish Museum. We had heard it was one of the best sites for learning about Jewish history, so we dutifully read lengthy histories (luckily in English) at 5 synagogues and other historical buildings. The amount of information was a bit overwhelming, but we learned more in 5 hours than we did from Dan in 5 years. One of the buildings included a tour of the Cemetery there, where for hundreds of years all Jews who died in Prague had to be buried in a surprisingly small plot of land. They buried people on top of each other, raising the ground level by several meters, to fit everyone in: a humbling sight.
Prague's islands are amazing, and amazingly empty. On an extraordinarily hot day, we walked across the bridges to a couple of them, and relaxed in the shade among only a few locals, no tourists. But shh, don't tell anyone else it's there, or they might overrun it!
Our last stop was the Petrin tower (the site of the photo from the last post). We climbed all 295 steps (I counted), for an amazing view. Colin's crazy homemade panorama will follow. Under the tower is a museum dedicated to the impressive (fictional) life of Jara Cimrman. He was, amongst other things, an inventor and autodidactic gynaecologist whose origins are hotly debated between Praguese and Viennese historians. It was my favourite museum so far, especially the completely unrelated facts and artifacts, including a newspaper that 'never printed any of Cimrman's articles.'
Of course, no trip would be complete without me going into a music store. I found a cute little used sheet music store near the Petrin tower's funicular, where I could have spent hours hunting through the random stacks of music. Next time, definitely (that list for next time keeps getting bigger).
Thursday, May 29, 2008
A tale of two concerts
There's an old joke: What do you call a guy who likes to smoke pot and hang out with musicians? The drummer.
We've seen three professional concerts in Europe thus far: the Florence Philharmonic Orchestra, a kammerorchester in Vienna and the Prague Royal Symphony Orchestra in Prague. The Florence concert was described here.
Vienna
Luckily for me, Jenn was around to translate. A kammerorchestre is a "chamber orchestra", which means about 15 musicians. A symphony orchestra is bigger: 50 to 100 musicians. A philharmonic orchestra is... well, sorta like a symphony orchestra. (Hmmm. Methinks someone needs to be retested on some of her music history courses.)
The chamber orchestra performed in the Orangery at the Schonbrunn Palace, which was a unique setting as it was in the Schonbrunn Palace that Mozart, at the decrepit age of six, first performed. After that concert, it was noted that "[Mozart] performed wonderfully, stopping only twice to ensure that Mr. Snugglesworth, his teddy bear of long acquaintance, was still paying rapt attention." After he grew out of his footsy pyjamas, he also had a sort of early duelling banjos concert with Salieri in the Orangery itself. All in all, a very cool site for the concert.
I thought the music was delightful--despite the lack of drummers--but Jenn, too smart for her own good, noted that "the thirds weren't as even as they should be." I'm content in my ignorance of what that means.
I'm also grateful: seats for the evening were funded by the Smiths as a graduation gift. Thanks, Wayne and Margaret! As the competing alternative was to enjoy the 2 euro standing-room-only tickets to the Opera, my feet (and ears) thank you.
Prague
The Prague orchestra had a drummer. I cracked the joke at the top of this post to Jenn, who haughtily informed me that it didn't apply to orchestras, and that they were properly called "percussionists," thank you very much.
Well, OK, I can buy that.
But it also had a cymbal...player? Cymbalist? A guy with giant shiny things on his hands. I mention this only because advertisements for the concert proudly proclaimed "Fifty musicians!" (exclamation marks theirs). Now, really... the cymbals? Is that a musician? I suppose "Forty-nine-and-a-quarter musicians!" isn't as catchy, though.
What are the auditions for that like? "OK, clap your hands. Good, good. Now, quickly. Good, good. Any allergies we should know about? Silver, brass? No? Great. You once worked with an organ grinder? You're hired!"
Jenn was quick to point out, with a meaningful glance to my feet, that at least the cymbals-man could stay on the beat. Point taken, but I still think the joke applies. After every cymbal crash, the man would slowly rotate the cymbals to be palm-upwards and navel-gaze at them with such fierce intensity that there could be no doubt what he was wondering:
"Dude...where are my hands?"
With a little further rotation the light would dawn, literally: the cymbals would reflect the light onto his face and he would realize, "oh...under the cymbals!"
So, fine. What do you call a guy who likes to smoke pot and hang out with well-dressed musicians? The percussionist.
Disclaimer: Yeah, yeah, he's a real musician and I can't dance. It's still funny.
We've seen three professional concerts in Europe thus far: the Florence Philharmonic Orchestra, a kammerorchester in Vienna and the Prague Royal Symphony Orchestra in Prague. The Florence concert was described here.
Vienna
Luckily for me, Jenn was around to translate. A kammerorchestre is a "chamber orchestra", which means about 15 musicians. A symphony orchestra is bigger: 50 to 100 musicians. A philharmonic orchestra is... well, sorta like a symphony orchestra. (Hmmm. Methinks someone needs to be retested on some of her music history courses.)
The chamber orchestra performed in the Orangery at the Schonbrunn Palace, which was a unique setting as it was in the Schonbrunn Palace that Mozart, at the decrepit age of six, first performed. After that concert, it was noted that "[Mozart] performed wonderfully, stopping only twice to ensure that Mr. Snugglesworth, his teddy bear of long acquaintance, was still paying rapt attention." After he grew out of his footsy pyjamas, he also had a sort of early duelling banjos concert with Salieri in the Orangery itself. All in all, a very cool site for the concert.
I thought the music was delightful--despite the lack of drummers--but Jenn, too smart for her own good, noted that "the thirds weren't as even as they should be." I'm content in my ignorance of what that means.
I'm also grateful: seats for the evening were funded by the Smiths as a graduation gift. Thanks, Wayne and Margaret! As the competing alternative was to enjoy the 2 euro standing-room-only tickets to the Opera, my feet (and ears) thank you.
Prague
The Prague orchestra had a drummer. I cracked the joke at the top of this post to Jenn, who haughtily informed me that it didn't apply to orchestras, and that they were properly called "percussionists," thank you very much.
Well, OK, I can buy that.
But it also had a cymbal...player? Cymbalist? A guy with giant shiny things on his hands. I mention this only because advertisements for the concert proudly proclaimed "Fifty musicians!" (exclamation marks theirs). Now, really... the cymbals? Is that a musician? I suppose "Forty-nine-and-a-quarter musicians!" isn't as catchy, though.
What are the auditions for that like? "OK, clap your hands. Good, good. Now, quickly. Good, good. Any allergies we should know about? Silver, brass? No? Great. You once worked with an organ grinder? You're hired!"
Jenn was quick to point out, with a meaningful glance to my feet, that at least the cymbals-man could stay on the beat. Point taken, but I still think the joke applies. After every cymbal crash, the man would slowly rotate the cymbals to be palm-upwards and navel-gaze at them with such fierce intensity that there could be no doubt what he was wondering:
"Dude...where are my hands?"
With a little further rotation the light would dawn, literally: the cymbals would reflect the light onto his face and he would realize, "oh...under the cymbals!"
So, fine. What do you call a guy who likes to smoke pot and hang out with well-dressed musicians? The percussionist.
Disclaimer: Yeah, yeah, he's a real musician and I can't dance. It's still funny.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Sprechen Sie anything-but-Czech?
Prague was a jolt to our lingustic systems as the Czech language doesn't share any grandparents with English. There were, however, some similarities.
* like English, Czech has many one letter words. For example: k, s, v, z.
* like Italian, every vowel in Czech must be pronounced. Therefore, in the following sentence, every vowel creates a new syllable: Strč prst skrz krk.
Luckily, we weren't the only ones struggling with the language. When Jenn was stopped on the street by a man asking directions, it was only after pausing to remember the Czech for "I don't speak Czech" that she realized he had asked: "Est-ce que vous savez trouver Florenc?" (Note: the French man in the Czech Republic was not asking for directions to a city in Italy; there is a subway stop by the same name)
Jenn, atop the Petřín Tower, where it was too windy for vowels:
* like English, Czech has many one letter words. For example: k, s, v, z.
* like Italian, every vowel in Czech must be pronounced. Therefore, in the following sentence, every vowel creates a new syllable: Strč prst skrz krk.
Luckily, we weren't the only ones struggling with the language. When Jenn was stopped on the street by a man asking directions, it was only after pausing to remember the Czech for "I don't speak Czech" that she realized he had asked: "Est-ce que vous savez trouver Florenc?" (Note: the French man in the Czech Republic was not asking for directions to a city in Italy; there is a subway stop by the same name)
Jenn, atop the Petřín Tower, where it was too windy for vowels:
Viennese Mountains with Doris
(Actual date: May 24)
We arranged to meet up with Doris, a family friend, during one of our last days in Vienna. We had two conflicting goals: we wanted to visit a "heuriger," or wine tavern, before we left, but we also wanted to go out to dinner with Doris, and we weren't entirely certain that a place that sold roast pork by the kilogram and wine by the litre would have the right ambience.
Alas, we thought, the heurigen of the Grinzing wine district, which came so highly recommended by my dad, would have to wait another day. So we asked Doris to recommend a nice place to eat. Her response immediately endeared her to me: "Have you heard of the 'heuriger'?" (Later, she would endear herself to Jenn by helping guilt me into taking dance lessons in Seattle. Given Doris's background, I should have seen that coming.)
We spent the better part of the day enjoying a leisurely walk through the mountains near Vienna, visiting Leopoldsberg and Josefsberg for amazing views of the area. With Doris's knowledge of the transit system, we were finally the sweat-free people in the parking lot atop the hill, snickering at the saps that were hiking all the way up. Oddly enough, we visited a church in the area and, with Doris as interpreter, learned that the parish priest's order had its main school located only a stone's throw from Jenn's first-year residence, on Westmount Avenue in Waterloo.
For dinner, Doris recommended the heuriger where she and her family had celebrated her 75th birthday, noting, en route, that the heurigen of Grinzing have since been spoiled by too many tourists--sorry, Dad!
We arranged to meet up with Doris, a family friend, during one of our last days in Vienna. We had two conflicting goals: we wanted to visit a "heuriger," or wine tavern, before we left, but we also wanted to go out to dinner with Doris, and we weren't entirely certain that a place that sold roast pork by the kilogram and wine by the litre would have the right ambience.
Alas, we thought, the heurigen of the Grinzing wine district, which came so highly recommended by my dad, would have to wait another day. So we asked Doris to recommend a nice place to eat. Her response immediately endeared her to me: "Have you heard of the 'heuriger'?" (Later, she would endear herself to Jenn by helping guilt me into taking dance lessons in Seattle. Given Doris's background, I should have seen that coming.)
We spent the better part of the day enjoying a leisurely walk through the mountains near Vienna, visiting Leopoldsberg and Josefsberg for amazing views of the area. With Doris's knowledge of the transit system, we were finally the sweat-free people in the parking lot atop the hill, snickering at the saps that were hiking all the way up. Oddly enough, we visited a church in the area and, with Doris as interpreter, learned that the parish priest's order had its main school located only a stone's throw from Jenn's first-year residence, on Westmount Avenue in Waterloo.
For dinner, Doris recommended the heuriger where she and her family had celebrated her 75th birthday, noting, en route, that the heurigen of Grinzing have since been spoiled by too many tourists--sorry, Dad!
Vienna
(Actual date: May 23)
As we waltzed into Vienna: "Hey!"
We look up to see Iulia and Cosman coming down the street. Clearly, software engineering students are creative people in the cities they choose to visit and the hostels they choose to stay at...
Vienna was, we think, one of the nicest cities we have visited. We conspicuously omitted certain experiences to give us an excuse to return in a few years' time.
We visited the Schonbrunn Palace, which was not only a beautiful palace in its own right but also sat on the largest, most well-manicured public park that we have seen so far. In fact, it was so nice that we came back at night for a concert (more details in a later post).
Continuing, we saw St. Stephan's Cathedral--probably a very nice church, but overshadowed in our minds by the recent memories of St. Peter's in Rome, the crypt of the Hapsburg royalty (the lid to your sarcophagus is 4,800 pounds?), the beautiful buildings around the Ringstrasse, the State Opera House and of course, a blue Danube.
Everywhere we went, we were amazed at how lucky the Viennese are. Danube Island is gorgeous to sit on with your feet dangling off the pier into the river and has amazing playgrounds for kids. There are nearby mountains easily accessible by public transit (more on that later, too) and plenty of cultural experiences.
Plenty of non-cultural experiences too: we caught the somewhat cheesy movie Made of Honour (McDreamy!) at an international-language theatre on our last day. Of course, as fate would have it, this was the same day that we bumped into Lisa, Jenn's roommate from first year, who was herself planning on attending the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra that evening. We're cultured, we swear!
In the spirit of culture experiences, we found where the Vienna Philharmonic practices their movements:
As we waltzed into Vienna: "Hey!"
We look up to see Iulia and Cosman coming down the street. Clearly, software engineering students are creative people in the cities they choose to visit and the hostels they choose to stay at...
Vienna was, we think, one of the nicest cities we have visited. We conspicuously omitted certain experiences to give us an excuse to return in a few years' time.
We visited the Schonbrunn Palace, which was not only a beautiful palace in its own right but also sat on the largest, most well-manicured public park that we have seen so far. In fact, it was so nice that we came back at night for a concert (more details in a later post).
Continuing, we saw St. Stephan's Cathedral--probably a very nice church, but overshadowed in our minds by the recent memories of St. Peter's in Rome, the crypt of the Hapsburg royalty (the lid to your sarcophagus is 4,800 pounds?), the beautiful buildings around the Ringstrasse, the State Opera House and of course, a blue Danube.
Everywhere we went, we were amazed at how lucky the Viennese are. Danube Island is gorgeous to sit on with your feet dangling off the pier into the river and has amazing playgrounds for kids. There are nearby mountains easily accessible by public transit (more on that later, too) and plenty of cultural experiences.
Plenty of non-cultural experiences too: we caught the somewhat cheesy movie Made of Honour (McDreamy!) at an international-language theatre on our last day. Of course, as fate would have it, this was the same day that we bumped into Lisa, Jenn's roommate from first year, who was herself planning on attending the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra that evening. We're cultured, we swear!
In the spirit of culture experiences, we found where the Vienna Philharmonic practices their movements:
Untersberg
Today's blog post is brought to you by tasty German coke, not to be confused with that inimitable emetic, Austrian coke:
(Actual date: May 21)
Five litres of beer later, we were wondering if perhaps we had overdone it.
But I'm ahead of myself. Our last day in Salzburg began with us once more unexpectedly bumping into our classmates Alicia Grubb and Andrew Zamojc as they were checking in.
We then headed out for some culture for Jenn (Mozart's house, complete with antiquated instruments and yellowing manuscripts). We moved on to the Hohensalzburg Fortress, which contained many of the same lessons from previous castles: in the olden days, it was good to be clergy, better to be royalty and best to be both.
From there, we began our odyssey to Untersberg for a little bit of hiking. The lesson of the day: do better research. We first took a regional bus (~30 minutes) to the base of Untersbergbahn, which is a cable car up the mountain. There we learned that we wanted to be at Furstenbrunn to actually hike the mountain. Another thirty minutes later, we arrived at Furstenbrunn and started hiking up a raggedy-looking path. About 20 minutes later, we found a rock quarry, somewhat to the surprise of the employees working there: oops.
With some miming and some broken German (us) and broken English (them), we figured out that we had started going up about 300m too far to the left. So we followed a road that they pointed out to us to get to the actual start of the trail. (Looking back on our way out, we saw a sign: "Eintritt verboten." Hey, I thought to myself, I know what that means! Entrance forbi... Oh.)
Eventually, we got to the path and started going up. We immediately lost the path we expected to be on, but followed other path markers instead. An hour later, we passed some friendly loggers. Five minutes later, we turned around, and passed them again and selected a different fork in the trail. About thirty minutes later, we arrived as high as we could go on whatever path we had ended up on, admitted defeat, and enjoyed some great views.
We stumbled back to Salzburg and, in a splurge of excess, visited three separate beer halls, convincing ourselves that this way we'd be able to appreciate the different nuances of each. As it turns out, doing this in one night makes the nuances somewhat fuzzy in one's recollections the day after. So, uhm, they were all quite nice.
(Actual date: May 21)
Five litres of beer later, we were wondering if perhaps we had overdone it.
But I'm ahead of myself. Our last day in Salzburg began with us once more unexpectedly bumping into our classmates Alicia Grubb and Andrew Zamojc as they were checking in.
We then headed out for some culture for Jenn (Mozart's house, complete with antiquated instruments and yellowing manuscripts). We moved on to the Hohensalzburg Fortress, which contained many of the same lessons from previous castles: in the olden days, it was good to be clergy, better to be royalty and best to be both.
From there, we began our odyssey to Untersberg for a little bit of hiking. The lesson of the day: do better research. We first took a regional bus (~30 minutes) to the base of Untersbergbahn, which is a cable car up the mountain. There we learned that we wanted to be at Furstenbrunn to actually hike the mountain. Another thirty minutes later, we arrived at Furstenbrunn and started hiking up a raggedy-looking path. About 20 minutes later, we found a rock quarry, somewhat to the surprise of the employees working there: oops.
With some miming and some broken German (us) and broken English (them), we figured out that we had started going up about 300m too far to the left. So we followed a road that they pointed out to us to get to the actual start of the trail. (Looking back on our way out, we saw a sign: "Eintritt verboten." Hey, I thought to myself, I know what that means! Entrance forbi... Oh.)
Eventually, we got to the path and started going up. We immediately lost the path we expected to be on, but followed other path markers instead. An hour later, we passed some friendly loggers. Five minutes later, we turned around, and passed them again and selected a different fork in the trail. About thirty minutes later, we arrived as high as we could go on whatever path we had ended up on, admitted defeat, and enjoyed some great views.
We stumbled back to Salzburg and, in a splurge of excess, visited three separate beer halls, convincing ourselves that this way we'd be able to appreciate the different nuances of each. As it turns out, doing this in one night makes the nuances somewhat fuzzy in one's recollections the day after. So, uhm, they were all quite nice.
Prague and postscripts
Jenn and I arrived into Prague just a little earlier today (details on Vienna coming soon!) and I noticed this new addition on my Quest transcript:
Yay!
- - - - - Degrees Awarded - - - - -
Degree: Bachelor of Software Engineering
Honours, Co-operative Program
Confer Date: June 14, 2008
Yay!
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Dachau
On Tuesday, we visited the memorial site at the Dachau concentration camp. The branch of the railroad that took supplies to the site has been paved over into a walking path with memorial signs describing some of the crimes that were committed at Dachau.
We followed this route to get to the camp, passing through urban and suburban areas. It was a very weird contrast: on your left, a row of houses, with a swing-set complete with blond-headed child playing on it; on your right, photos of cattle cars piled with corpses. Germany definitely did not shirk from its responsibility to the memory of the prisoners of Dachau.
The site itself was very emotional. It's quite abstract to study European history in Canada just due to distance alone. Additionally, we found that schools in Canada taught the history of the war very dispassionately. For example, the use of "terrorist" when describing the SS would probably not be used in a Canadian high school textbook, despite its accuracy. Here, it was to be heard in the first minutes of a film summarizing the camp's lifetime. Despite this and conspicuous omissions or glossing over of crimes that the Allied soldiers committed upon discovering the camp the museum was extraordinarily comprehensive and well laid-out.
We followed this route to get to the camp, passing through urban and suburban areas. It was a very weird contrast: on your left, a row of houses, with a swing-set complete with blond-headed child playing on it; on your right, photos of cattle cars piled with corpses. Germany definitely did not shirk from its responsibility to the memory of the prisoners of Dachau.
The site itself was very emotional. It's quite abstract to study European history in Canada just due to distance alone. Additionally, we found that schools in Canada taught the history of the war very dispassionately. For example, the use of "terrorist" when describing the SS would probably not be used in a Canadian high school textbook, despite its accuracy. Here, it was to be heard in the first minutes of a film summarizing the camp's lifetime. Despite this and conspicuous omissions or glossing over of crimes that the Allied soldiers committed upon discovering the camp the museum was extraordinarily comprehensive and well laid-out.
Monday, May 19, 2008
More notes on Italy/Austria
I'd like to expand on Jenn's notes on the differences between Germany and Italy.
The first thing we noticed: sidewalks. Not just their presence, but the evenness and width of them. Why, a person could conceivably walk on them here.
Second thing we noticed: costs. A private room with walk-in closet, en suite washroom (full-size, nonetheless), towels, breakfast, and wi-fi for 43 euros. In Venice, this would cover the cost of getting to and from the hostel with change left over for a coffee. With an accountant in the family, I don't think it's wise to disclose what the hostel in Venice actually set us back.
Third thing we noticed: juror number seven was right, anyone who speaks German can't be bad. Nice Germans or Austrians everywhere taught us some new words and pointed us in the right direction when we got lost.
Fourth thing we noticed: a public who enjoys their culture. We stepped out from the subway car (entering on the left, exiting on the right) to the sounds of piped classical music. We ascended to a local park, passing two separate, well-dressed buskers cranking out more classical music.
Fifth thing we noticed: a sense of order. In the same park, we crunched merrily along a gravel path, feeling some discomfort at dislodging the stones. Until we noticed the repair crew behind us, diligently re-raking the gravel paths.
Sixth thing we noticed: escalators. The first broken-down thing we saw in Munich was a stationary escalator. "Hey, at least it's bidirectional!" we joked. And then we stepped on it. And it started moving. Oops - it really was bidirectional.
Seventh thing we noticed: public toilets. In Munich, at least, there were free toilets--by law--for anyone in any establishment that serves alcohol. Therefore, it came as no surprise when we came across a portapotty in the same park. Grateful that it was at least free, I plugged my nose, thinking the magic of Munich would have to come to a smelly end. Wrong: the portapotty was clean and smelt of blueberry bubblegum.
Eighth thing we noticed: Coke. There will be a separate, lengthy essay on the nuances and costs of Coke in the countries we are visiting. But, on Coke in Austria, let me say this: it's cheap. Cheaper than in Canada. And it tastes like sewage. We are harbouring suspicions that the ingredient "Sauerungsmittel E 338" is German for "aspartame." Or "poison."
The first thing we noticed: sidewalks. Not just their presence, but the evenness and width of them. Why, a person could conceivably walk on them here.
Second thing we noticed: costs. A private room with walk-in closet, en suite washroom (full-size, nonetheless), towels, breakfast, and wi-fi for 43 euros. In Venice, this would cover the cost of getting to and from the hostel with change left over for a coffee. With an accountant in the family, I don't think it's wise to disclose what the hostel in Venice actually set us back.
Third thing we noticed: juror number seven was right, anyone who speaks German can't be bad. Nice Germans or Austrians everywhere taught us some new words and pointed us in the right direction when we got lost.
Fourth thing we noticed: a public who enjoys their culture. We stepped out from the subway car (entering on the left, exiting on the right) to the sounds of piped classical music. We ascended to a local park, passing two separate, well-dressed buskers cranking out more classical music.
Fifth thing we noticed: a sense of order. In the same park, we crunched merrily along a gravel path, feeling some discomfort at dislodging the stones. Until we noticed the repair crew behind us, diligently re-raking the gravel paths.
Sixth thing we noticed: escalators. The first broken-down thing we saw in Munich was a stationary escalator. "Hey, at least it's bidirectional!" we joked. And then we stepped on it. And it started moving. Oops - it really was bidirectional.
Seventh thing we noticed: public toilets. In Munich, at least, there were free toilets--by law--for anyone in any establishment that serves alcohol. Therefore, it came as no surprise when we came across a portapotty in the same park. Grateful that it was at least free, I plugged my nose, thinking the magic of Munich would have to come to a smelly end. Wrong: the portapotty was clean and smelt of blueberry bubblegum.
Eighth thing we noticed: Coke. There will be a separate, lengthy essay on the nuances and costs of Coke in the countries we are visiting. But, on Coke in Austria, let me say this: it's cheap. Cheaper than in Canada. And it tastes like sewage. We are harbouring suspicions that the ingredient "Sauerungsmittel E 338" is German for "aspartame." Or "poison."
Random Photos: Venice
There are ~230 bridges in Venice. We have ~229 more photos of Jenn like this.
No Muslim women allowed, I think it says.
Aww, it's so fun to feed these well-trained pigeons.
Until you run out of food, and they re-enact the great Dallas Pancake Kerfuffle of 2003, ripping your nice pink sweater off your back.
Well-trained pigeons, sure, but I don't know how they got them to pose for this.
No Muslim women allowed, I think it says.
Aww, it's so fun to feed these well-trained pigeons.
Until you run out of food, and they re-enact the great Dallas Pancake Kerfuffle of 2003, ripping your nice pink sweater off your back.
Well-trained pigeons, sure, but I don't know how they got them to pose for this.
Random Photos: Rome
Before heading into the Colloseo, we toured Palatine Hill (included in the ticket, and no lineup!), where we found this amazing view of the Colloseo.
However, we still went inside. See, proof!
Catholicism is really blossoming in Rome, as you can see from the papal shield in his private garden.
In Trastevere, they put trash in its place.
However, we still went inside. See, proof!
Catholicism is really blossoming in Rome, as you can see from the papal shield in his private garden.
In Trastevere, they put trash in its place.
Random Photos: Florence
We arrived at our hostel after an hour of searching to find this. Just then, I swear I heard a rumbling from the rapidly darkening skies above--this was not a good omen.
It took us an hour to find the hostel because, as we learned from a local, they often change the street signs. The trick, she says, is to go by the newest-looking one. Here's 2 of the 3 signs that belonged to one street:
From the top of Piazza Michelangelo, looking across the valley to Fortress Belvedere, we vowed to never again (take that, Jenn--two words splitting it!) plan routes without accurate, 1:50,000 topographical maps.
The plural of Vespa is Vespe. We think they mate with each other at night to produce more bastard offspring that threaten one's wellbeing.
It's not all bad: they use Windows. It's not all good, either: they use Windows 98.
Jenn near Fortress Belvedere.
Near the main bridge across the Arno (Ponte Vecchio: "Old Bridge". Clever.) is the site where lovers symbolically announce their love and throw away the key.
"Love at first poke" seems to describe the relationships of ourselves and many of our friends.
It took us an hour to find the hostel because, as we learned from a local, they often change the street signs. The trick, she says, is to go by the newest-looking one. Here's 2 of the 3 signs that belonged to one street:
From the top of Piazza Michelangelo, looking across the valley to Fortress Belvedere, we vowed to never again (take that, Jenn--two words splitting it!) plan routes without accurate, 1:50,000 topographical maps.
The plural of Vespa is Vespe. We think they mate with each other at night to produce more bastard offspring that threaten one's wellbeing.
It's not all bad: they use Windows. It's not all good, either: they use Windows 98.
Jenn near Fortress Belvedere.
Near the main bridge across the Arno (Ponte Vecchio: "Old Bridge". Clever.) is the site where lovers symbolically announce their love and throw away the key.
"Love at first poke" seems to describe the relationships of ourselves and many of our friends.
Random Photos: Nice
Nice had a pretty good lookin' coast. This is the view from a staircase cut into a nearby mountain. After 100m of vertical (with our full backpacks, since this was a travel day), we were greeted by this wonderful vista. (A less attractive vista behind us: a parking lot for those who had the brains to drive up the damned hill.)
This didn't look safe, but the kids seemed to love it.
Nice boat.
A photo of Jenn and Colin, before we discovered...
...the meaning of "fill flash".
This didn't look safe, but the kids seemed to love it.
Nice boat.
A photo of Jenn and Colin, before we discovered...
...the meaning of "fill flash".
Homeless in Munich
Our last day in Venice was supposed to include more romantic wandering along canals, more museums, perhaps some shopping, and then a night train to Salzburg. However, it rained. And when I say rained, I really mean rained (can you imagine cobbled uneven streets in a canal town flooded with rain? I couldn't before I saw this). So we left Venice on the next train we could find, which happened to be going to Munich.
Two trains and 9 hours later, we arrived at the station only to realize that we had no place to stay. Our night train idea precluded the need for a hostel, but that didn't happen. Luckily, there were several giant ads in the station for hostels, and super cheap ones! (did I worry you, mom? No need, we were fine)
Even on the way to the hostel (in the dark), we could see the orderliness of the streets and parks and the cleanliness of the city. There was construction, progress, and hostels put out signs instead of hiding: we were finally back in civilization!
We spent the next day seeing the expected sights of Munich: Marienplatz with its glockenspiel, the English Gardens with their beer halls, and the Maximilianplatz, including the local government housed in a beautiful 1870s building. All lovely, and a nice relaxing day after the tempest of Venice.
We then caught a late train to Salzburg and arrived safely at our next hostel.
Germany (and Austria) is definitely a good place for us, even though we don't speak their language and they don't all speak ours. We are slowly learning to say 'danke' instead of 'grazie,' but for me especially, context-switching is hard!
Two trains and 9 hours later, we arrived at the station only to realize that we had no place to stay. Our night train idea precluded the need for a hostel, but that didn't happen. Luckily, there were several giant ads in the station for hostels, and super cheap ones! (did I worry you, mom? No need, we were fine)
Even on the way to the hostel (in the dark), we could see the orderliness of the streets and parks and the cleanliness of the city. There was construction, progress, and hostels put out signs instead of hiding: we were finally back in civilization!
We spent the next day seeing the expected sights of Munich: Marienplatz with its glockenspiel, the English Gardens with their beer halls, and the Maximilianplatz, including the local government housed in a beautiful 1870s building. All lovely, and a nice relaxing day after the tempest of Venice.
We then caught a late train to Salzburg and arrived safely at our next hostel.
Germany (and Austria) is definitely a good place for us, even though we don't speak their language and they don't all speak ours. We are slowly learning to say 'danke' instead of 'grazie,' but for me especially, context-switching is hard!
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Marmot poo may be blue, but pigeon poo is white.
At this point, I think it is safe to say that we were getting pretty jaded with Italian palaces and museums. We get it: you're ostentatiously wealthy and you have a kickass set of builders. We zipped through the Correr Museum and moved onto St. Mark's Basilica, where our cyncism was put to the test.
As if a final show of one-up-manship (the act of building a church to St. Mark was itself an insufficient slight to the Pope and their St. Peter), the interior of St. Mark's is made up of golden mosaics that take the breath away.
The fines for picnicking in the square in front of the Church take your breath away too: 50 euros. There's a bit of a pigeon problem, you see. The fine for feeding the pigeons anything but the Venice-sanctioned birdfeed (nutritious, and complete with avian birth control) is the rather odd figure of 517 euros. Of course, several tourists had bought entire loaves of bread to surreptitiously feed to the pigeons. At first, we thought, 'silly tourists, they will be fined!' But then we remembered that wonderful phrase, 'non capisce Italiano.'
As if a final show of one-up-manship (the act of building a church to St. Mark was itself an insufficient slight to the Pope and their St. Peter), the interior of St. Mark's is made up of golden mosaics that take the breath away.
The fines for picnicking in the square in front of the Church take your breath away too: 50 euros. There's a bit of a pigeon problem, you see. The fine for feeding the pigeons anything but the Venice-sanctioned birdfeed (nutritious, and complete with avian birth control) is the rather odd figure of 517 euros. Of course, several tourists had bought entire loaves of bread to surreptitiously feed to the pigeons. At first, we thought, 'silly tourists, they will be fined!' But then we remembered that wonderful phrase, 'non capisce Italiano.'
Friday, May 16, 2008
Arrivederci, Rome. Arrive Venice.
On our first day in Venice we made a momentous discovery The 6.50 euro ticket for the waterbus is incredibly expensive and doesn't really save you that much time over walking. Arg!
Luckily, the rest of Venice was somewhat agreeably priced (excluding Internet: 4.50 euro for a half hour. Hang on, I can get a pizza for 3.50 that involved labour and, oh, yes, the consumption of inventory, but I can't get Internet for less? Thieves, I tal ya.)
We spent an amiable evening wandering Venice at night, getting lost in the maze of islands, perching on the hundreds of briges to watch the gondoliers go by and eavesdrop on the tunes sung for the tourists with just a little more spending money than us. Best of all, there were no eight-lane roads to cross. In fact, no roads at all.
Luckily, the rest of Venice was somewhat agreeably priced (excluding Internet: 4.50 euro for a half hour. Hang on, I can get a pizza for 3.50 that involved labour and, oh, yes, the consumption of inventory, but I can't get Internet for less? Thieves, I tal ya.)
We spent an amiable evening wandering Venice at night, getting lost in the maze of islands, perching on the hundreds of briges to watch the gondoliers go by and eavesdrop on the tunes sung for the tourists with just a little more spending money than us. Best of all, there were no eight-lane roads to cross. In fact, no roads at all.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Random Photos: Pont du Gard and Nimes
In Pont du Gard, our parents' backpacker training took over. We scrabbled up this face to find a quiet place for lunch:
Later, we realized that we had wasted some effort:
Nimes was hot, especially if you had an extra fur coat. Luckily, this was one cool cat:
We didn't have to get to Italy to see our first Raphael:
Later, we realized that we had wasted some effort:
Nimes was hot, especially if you had an extra fur coat. Luckily, this was one cool cat:
We didn't have to get to Italy to see our first Raphael:
The trains in Rome
On our fifth, and last, day we made a momentous discovery.
A 1 euro ticket for the metro in Rome also conveys the right to ride the urban rail network. For 1 euro, you can travel from downtown Rome, to the ruins of Ostia Antica, and from there on to a number of beaches on the Italian coast.
We did just that. The ruins of Ostia were... well, in ruins. The beach was very nice, however, by the time we arrived there was only an hour left before it closed. Apparently what feels balmy to Jenn and I is quite cold to the Romans. Nonetheless, we enjoyed a nice barefoot walk down the beach before heading into the Trastevere district of Rome for dinner. Of course, transit within Rome is a bit spotty, so we spent about three hours walking to and from our restaurant (which Jenn thought was worth it, for the amazing food, and to work off the amazing food). Oops.
A 1 euro ticket for the metro in Rome also conveys the right to ride the urban rail network. For 1 euro, you can travel from downtown Rome, to the ruins of Ostia Antica, and from there on to a number of beaches on the Italian coast.
We did just that. The ruins of Ostia were... well, in ruins. The beach was very nice, however, by the time we arrived there was only an hour left before it closed. Apparently what feels balmy to Jenn and I is quite cold to the Romans. Nonetheless, we enjoyed a nice barefoot walk down the beach before heading into the Trastevere district of Rome for dinner. Of course, transit within Rome is a bit spotty, so we spent about three hours walking to and from our restaurant (which Jenn thought was worth it, for the amazing food, and to work off the amazing food). Oops.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Rome (day 4): Last Pope, first
On Wednesday, Jenn and I made it to St. Peter's to hear the Pope give a blessing. Couldn't be long, right?
A priest read from the Bible in Italian. I nudged Jenn. "That's the Italian word for 'some'!"
Another priest read from the Bible, this time in French. Aha! "That's the French word for 'some'!"
Clearly, our time in France and Italy was doing wonders for our linguistic skills: one word out of a few hundred! Not bad, really.
A third priest read from the Bible, now in English.
A fourth priest read from the Bible, now in ... German? We began to realize we might be here for a while.
After three more languages, Pope Benedict read something in Italian which might have been a sermon. A lengthy sermon, too. Clearly, the Pope hadn't caught wind of Bishop Wiesner's sage advice that a homily should "be about God, and be about ten minutes."
Then a priest took to the podium and started speaking in French. Uh oh. Fortunately, it wasn't a reiteration of the homily.
Instead, it was the Pope giving shout outs to those who had come from French-speaking countries. We looked around the square. A sizeable square, too. Uh oh.
After about two hours in the sun, the Pope blessed us. (It would be, I think, somewhat sacrilegious to have added "by ending the service.")
We proceeded into St. Peter's Basilica, which was at last, something in Rome whose overwhelming nature didn't diminish the experience. It was truly awe-inspiring. It was the reverse of St. Paul's Cathedral in London, where we dodged a 6-pound admission fee by attending evensong. Here, we enjoyed free admission to the church itself, then paid extra for both the dome and the museum. Robbing Paul to pay Peter, I suppose. (Apologies for the lengthy setup.)
Touring the tombs of the popes felt a bit... odd? Of the hundred and sixty or so who are buried beneath St. Peter's, I couldn't stop wondering how they picked which ones to showcase. Showcase seems like a poor word, but an apt one.
Later that day, we visited the Pantheon, which seemed to be holding a mass in German. This did not deter tourists from talking and taking flash photography. Ah, well. It was remarkable to look at this domed building, built in the 2nd century, and realize that shortly thereafter, the knowledge of how to construct such a building would fall out of mankind's collaborative conscience. The next domed building was built in Florence, thirteen hundred years later.
Of course, the dome in Florence was fully enclosed, whereas the Pantheon's dome had a great hole in it to admit light (and water, should it rain). I can almost hear it now, in hushed, reverent tones: "Ombrello? Five euros?"
Apologies for the blog neglect. Italy is a bit of a police state: to use Internet, you must present your passport. Software then monitors what you do, and lists of sites visited, indexed by citizen, are handed over to the police at regular intervals. This annoyed us, so where this was enforced (Rome/Venice) we restricted ourselves to checking train schedules.
Also, in Venice, since everything has to be hand-trucked in, things are a bit more expensive. The Internets especially: 9 euros for an hour. Apparently, the Internets are extraordinarily back-breaking things to transport about. We are now in Munich, where Internet is a much happier 1 euro/hour and hope to catch up on blogposts and photos.
A priest read from the Bible in Italian. I nudged Jenn. "That's the Italian word for 'some'!"
Another priest read from the Bible, this time in French. Aha! "That's the French word for 'some'!"
Clearly, our time in France and Italy was doing wonders for our linguistic skills: one word out of a few hundred! Not bad, really.
A third priest read from the Bible, now in English.
A fourth priest read from the Bible, now in ... German? We began to realize we might be here for a while.
After three more languages, Pope Benedict read something in Italian which might have been a sermon. A lengthy sermon, too. Clearly, the Pope hadn't caught wind of Bishop Wiesner's sage advice that a homily should "be about God, and be about ten minutes."
Then a priest took to the podium and started speaking in French. Uh oh. Fortunately, it wasn't a reiteration of the homily.
Instead, it was the Pope giving shout outs to those who had come from French-speaking countries. We looked around the square. A sizeable square, too. Uh oh.
After about two hours in the sun, the Pope blessed us. (It would be, I think, somewhat sacrilegious to have added "by ending the service.")
We proceeded into St. Peter's Basilica, which was at last, something in Rome whose overwhelming nature didn't diminish the experience. It was truly awe-inspiring. It was the reverse of St. Paul's Cathedral in London, where we dodged a 6-pound admission fee by attending evensong. Here, we enjoyed free admission to the church itself, then paid extra for both the dome and the museum. Robbing Paul to pay Peter, I suppose. (Apologies for the lengthy setup.)
Touring the tombs of the popes felt a bit... odd? Of the hundred and sixty or so who are buried beneath St. Peter's, I couldn't stop wondering how they picked which ones to showcase. Showcase seems like a poor word, but an apt one.
Later that day, we visited the Pantheon, which seemed to be holding a mass in German. This did not deter tourists from talking and taking flash photography. Ah, well. It was remarkable to look at this domed building, built in the 2nd century, and realize that shortly thereafter, the knowledge of how to construct such a building would fall out of mankind's collaborative conscience. The next domed building was built in Florence, thirteen hundred years later.
Of course, the dome in Florence was fully enclosed, whereas the Pantheon's dome had a great hole in it to admit light (and water, should it rain). I can almost hear it now, in hushed, reverent tones: "Ombrello? Five euros?"
Apologies for the blog neglect. Italy is a bit of a police state: to use Internet, you must present your passport. Software then monitors what you do, and lists of sites visited, indexed by citizen, are handed over to the police at regular intervals. This annoyed us, so where this was enforced (Rome/Venice) we restricted ourselves to checking train schedules.
Also, in Venice, since everything has to be hand-trucked in, things are a bit more expensive. The Internets especially: 9 euros for an hour. Apparently, the Internets are extraordinarily back-breaking things to transport about. We are now in Munich, where Internet is a much happier 1 euro/hour and hope to catch up on blogposts and photos.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Rome (days 2 and 3): Ruins and the Vatican
Over the next two days, Jenn and I acclimatized to the city. With uncontrolled pedestrian crossings that spanned up to eight lanes of traffic, it's clear to see why Romans are a people of strong faith. To look both ways before crossing the street is to look unconfident: tourist websites encourage visitors to look straight ahead and stride purposefully to the other side, noting that traffic will not slow down to avoid you, but will "swerve around you." Comforting.
We visited St. Peter's Square and the Vatican Museums, including the Sistine Chapel. We had foolishly thought that we could fit the museums and the basilica into one day. Jenn sums up Rome best by saying it is "amazing, but overwhelming."
We also visited the Roman ruins: the old forum, the Colosseum, and the palaces of Palatine Hill.
Since Jenn has nixed us visiting Kutna Hora when we are in Prague, I convinced her to visit the Capuccin Crypt. Upon arriving, "we" realized that, unlike other crypts, where the bones are firmly tucked away in marble tombs, in this crypt, they formed the scenery and furniture of six rooms. "We" were a little creeped out. Bizarrely enough, as the notice in French (thank you, Mr. Bobby) explained, this wasn't considered sacrilegious. Rather, since the bones were of 4,000 holy monks who had died in "saintly" manners, and the layout of the bones invited the visitor to "meditation and prayer" (the last room, in several languages, more or less says, "You're gonna die"), people who pilgramaged to the bones on certain days actually got indulgences from the Pope at one time.
We ended the night with a stroll through Rome, admiring the sights and window shopping. Our path led us past the Trevi Fountain, where many florists were operating. Unlike Florence, I noticed that the mechanics of sales transactions worked a little differently: the flowerman would push some roses into the nearest girl's hand, then proceed to explain the system to said girl's man. Curiously, they spoke excellent English up until the point a "no" was heard, at which point they reverted to miming the timeless gesture for money. The operation as a whole was a sight to behold: in a manner that mixes the best of clandestine drug deals and pimps with their women, another man (who I call "Papa Giovanni") would go from florist to florist. As a result of years of experience, Papa Giovanni knew the exact number of fowers a man could hold in one hand while still being able to "keep his pantomime hand" strong. Papa G would periodially collect the proceeds of the evening from the various flowermen, thus ensuring they would always have a pitiful collection of coins to show for their evening's work. Quite a sight! The fountain was nice, too.
We visited St. Peter's Square and the Vatican Museums, including the Sistine Chapel. We had foolishly thought that we could fit the museums and the basilica into one day. Jenn sums up Rome best by saying it is "amazing, but overwhelming."
We also visited the Roman ruins: the old forum, the Colosseum, and the palaces of Palatine Hill.
Since Jenn has nixed us visiting Kutna Hora when we are in Prague, I convinced her to visit the Capuccin Crypt. Upon arriving, "we" realized that, unlike other crypts, where the bones are firmly tucked away in marble tombs, in this crypt, they formed the scenery and furniture of six rooms. "We" were a little creeped out. Bizarrely enough, as the notice in French (thank you, Mr. Bobby) explained, this wasn't considered sacrilegious. Rather, since the bones were of 4,000 holy monks who had died in "saintly" manners, and the layout of the bones invited the visitor to "meditation and prayer" (the last room, in several languages, more or less says, "You're gonna die"), people who pilgramaged to the bones on certain days actually got indulgences from the Pope at one time.
We ended the night with a stroll through Rome, admiring the sights and window shopping. Our path led us past the Trevi Fountain, where many florists were operating. Unlike Florence, I noticed that the mechanics of sales transactions worked a little differently: the flowerman would push some roses into the nearest girl's hand, then proceed to explain the system to said girl's man. Curiously, they spoke excellent English up until the point a "no" was heard, at which point they reverted to miming the timeless gesture for money. The operation as a whole was a sight to behold: in a manner that mixes the best of clandestine drug deals and pimps with their women, another man (who I call "Papa Giovanni") would go from florist to florist. As a result of years of experience, Papa Giovanni knew the exact number of fowers a man could hold in one hand while still being able to "keep his pantomime hand" strong. Papa G would periodially collect the proceeds of the evening from the various flowermen, thus ensuring they would always have a pitiful collection of coins to show for their evening's work. Quite a sight! The fountain was nice, too.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Welcome to Rome. Ombrello?
Travelling to Rome from Florence felt a bit like a trip from Dawson to the big-city lights of GP. That is, if Grande Prairie were filled with men peddling umbrellas at every corner.
"Ombrello? Five euros?"
I stepped out from the protection of my umbrella to see the man eye-to-eye. He wants to buy my umbrella? How odd.
Nope. He wants to sell me one. "No, grazie."
Five steps later, a different man: "Ombrello? Five euros?"
"No."
Next street corner. "Ombrello? Five euros?"
We pass in silence. The salesman mistakes this for deafness. "Ombrello?" He gestures with the umbrella. "Five euros?"
I am reminded of the time in Florence when I fatally said "Non capisce" to an eager, non-English-speaking street peddlar rather than "Non capisce italiano," at which point the man went into a laborious explanation of the mechanics of sales transactions, miming the exchange of goods for money. I contemplate how to improve on that experience this time. We decide silence is best and keep moving.
"Ombrello? Five euros?"
At this point, I consider buying a spare. Surely there could be no crime in concocting a sphere of umbrellas around ourselves to fool the peddlars into thinking there are no wallets passing by. And if, from that sphere, an umbrella should occasionally emerge to smack a street peddlar...
Nah, Jenn would never be cool with it. Besides, then we might get into turfwars with the real peddlars.
We got in and checked into what we are fairly certain was an illegal hostel, then enjoyed a very nice walk around Villa Borghese, a large park in the north of Rome, where peddling requires licenses.
Luckily, our future days in Rome would be quite sunny. I distinctly recall the sense of relief on the second day as I put on my sunglasses and asked myself, "What could they possibly want to sell on a day like this?"
"Ombrello? Five euros?"
I stepped out from the protection of my umbrella to see the man eye-to-eye. He wants to buy my umbrella? How odd.
Nope. He wants to sell me one. "No, grazie."
Five steps later, a different man: "Ombrello? Five euros?"
"No."
Next street corner. "Ombrello? Five euros?"
We pass in silence. The salesman mistakes this for deafness. "Ombrello?" He gestures with the umbrella. "Five euros?"
I am reminded of the time in Florence when I fatally said "Non capisce" to an eager, non-English-speaking street peddlar rather than "Non capisce italiano," at which point the man went into a laborious explanation of the mechanics of sales transactions, miming the exchange of goods for money. I contemplate how to improve on that experience this time. We decide silence is best and keep moving.
"Ombrello? Five euros?"
At this point, I consider buying a spare. Surely there could be no crime in concocting a sphere of umbrellas around ourselves to fool the peddlars into thinking there are no wallets passing by. And if, from that sphere, an umbrella should occasionally emerge to smack a street peddlar...
Nah, Jenn would never be cool with it. Besides, then we might get into turfwars with the real peddlars.
We got in and checked into what we are fairly certain was an illegal hostel, then enjoyed a very nice walk around Villa Borghese, a large park in the north of Rome, where peddling requires licenses.
Luckily, our future days in Rome would be quite sunny. I distinctly recall the sense of relief on the second day as I put on my sunglasses and asked myself, "What could they possibly want to sell on a day like this?"
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Florence, six hours later
As Jenn has mentioned, we entered Florence on a low note. Our experience, crawling tired from the train, gave us pause. We searched for a quickie breakfast first and found a cafe that wanted 15.8 euros (almost $25) for 2 orange juices, 2 coffees and 2 croissants.
Thieves! Or, as the Florentine composer Gioachino Rossini might say, la gazza ladra (thieving magpie)! We did not eat there, as you might guess.
We were somewhat down on Florence after our first day, so we did the second day adagio. I made a concerted effort to start learning some Italian vocabulary. Never one to be second fiddle, Jennifer played along with me.
"Ladro means thief. Ah, right, la gazza ladra."
Jenn stared at me. Apparently, this was the one classical (baroquical? orchestrical?) song whose name Jenn didn't know. Glad for the opportunity to make amends for using the word "baroquical," I explained that it was authored by a guy named Rossini, thus exhausting my knowledge of classical/baroquical/orchestrical music.
Later, we stopped by the Basilica di Santa Croce, where, as it happens, Rossini's remains are entombed. Rather harmonious, I thought.
That evening we even managed to find a small restaurant where we were able to share an appetizer, enjoy two dishes of pasta, a bottle of wine and two desserts for 30 euros -- music to our ears!
As we conducted ourselves home, we were feeling better about Florence already... and then we stepped into a square packed with people.
They were listening to a concert, being put on gratis by the Florence Philharmonic Orchestra.
The song?
La gazza ladra.
PS - I am convinced that Italian conductors must be the alpha males. They are so gifted at talking with only their hands that they are given a stick and told to embellish their movements even more. As proof, I submit the following video.
Thieves! Or, as the Florentine composer Gioachino Rossini might say, la gazza ladra (thieving magpie)! We did not eat there, as you might guess.
We were somewhat down on Florence after our first day, so we did the second day adagio. I made a concerted effort to start learning some Italian vocabulary. Never one to be second fiddle, Jennifer played along with me.
"Ladro means thief. Ah, right, la gazza ladra."
Jenn stared at me. Apparently, this was the one classical (baroquical? orchestrical?) song whose name Jenn didn't know. Glad for the opportunity to make amends for using the word "baroquical," I explained that it was authored by a guy named Rossini, thus exhausting my knowledge of classical/baroquical/orchestrical music.
Later, we stopped by the Basilica di Santa Croce, where, as it happens, Rossini's remains are entombed. Rather harmonious, I thought.
That evening we even managed to find a small restaurant where we were able to share an appetizer, enjoy two dishes of pasta, a bottle of wine and two desserts for 30 euros -- music to our ears!
As we conducted ourselves home, we were feeling better about Florence already... and then we stepped into a square packed with people.
They were listening to a concert, being put on gratis by the Florence Philharmonic Orchestra.
The song?
La gazza ladra.
PS - I am convinced that Italian conductors must be the alpha males. They are so gifted at talking with only their hands that they are given a stick and told to embellish their movements even more. As proof, I submit the following video.
Yay Gelato
Overnight train tip #1: get a bed. Even if it is in a shared room, with a tiny bed, it is worth it. We had 'reclining' seats for 9 hours from Nice to Florence, and there was not much sleep. Boourns.
Florence tip #1: there is heat, there is art, and there is not much else. Sorry Karen, I know you loved it, and it is beautiful, but we are not exactly art enthusiasts. We do not appreciate its finer points, and after several galleries full of paintings and statues in London, we are arted out.
Things of note that were wonderful: David (the real one and two copies) and other amazing statues everywhere, Piazza della Michelangelo (beautiful views from the top of a freaking huge hill), and the Duomo of Santa Maria del Fiore (a civil engineering feat, we hear).
Things of note that were far from it: Piazzale della Michelangelo (because it is at the top of a freaking huge hill), Forte di Belvedere (at the top of the next hill over, which we climbed before realizing that it was the wrong one), and the fact that one must pay to get into all of the nice gardens (alternatively, there are some lovely tree-filled piazzas where one can sit and watch children or soccer games).
Florence tip #2: there are lots of hills in the South of Florence. Hills should be avoided at all costs (see Marseilles post).
And that, my friends, is Florence. Tomorrow morning, Roma!
Florence tip #1: there is heat, there is art, and there is not much else. Sorry Karen, I know you loved it, and it is beautiful, but we are not exactly art enthusiasts. We do not appreciate its finer points, and after several galleries full of paintings and statues in London, we are arted out.
Things of note that were wonderful: David (the real one and two copies) and other amazing statues everywhere, Piazza della Michelangelo (beautiful views from the top of a freaking huge hill), and the Duomo of Santa Maria del Fiore (a civil engineering feat, we hear).
Things of note that were far from it: Piazzale della Michelangelo (because it is at the top of a freaking huge hill), Forte di Belvedere (at the top of the next hill over, which we climbed before realizing that it was the wrong one), and the fact that one must pay to get into all of the nice gardens (alternatively, there are some lovely tree-filled piazzas where one can sit and watch children or soccer games).
Florence tip #2: there are lots of hills in the South of Florence. Hills should be avoided at all costs (see Marseilles post).
And that, my friends, is Florence. Tomorrow morning, Roma!
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Tautology of the day: Nice is nice
But of course, hundreds of other tourists agree with us. Nice was beautiful, but the 'beaches' were crowded, as were many of the shady spots in town.
Being silly people, we didn't want to pay the 8 euro to leave our bags at the train station, so we carried them all over town. Out of spite, we spent almost 10 euro doing laundry, just because we had all of our things with us. So really, Nice wins either way.
And to end our 'relaxing' break from the train, we boarded a night train to Florence (Firenze).
Being silly people, we didn't want to pay the 8 euro to leave our bags at the train station, so we carried them all over town. Out of spite, we spent almost 10 euro doing laundry, just because we had all of our things with us. So really, Nice wins either way.
And to end our 'relaxing' break from the train, we boarded a night train to Florence (Firenze).
Nerds a Grande Vitesse
On the TGV from Avignon to Nice, we sat within view of a young guy who had, as the French might say, l'air nerd. That is, greasy hair, half-stache, dorky glasses: all crimes that I am often guilty of myself.
He had a honkin' computer and briefly looked over a piece of paper entitled, "Algorithmiques."
I poked Jenn and asked if she thought he was a CS student. Apparently, 4 years at UW wasn't enough for her: she wasn't sure.
Seconds later, he pulled out a World of Warcraft tips book and began reading intently.
Definitely a CS student.
He had a honkin' computer and briefly looked over a piece of paper entitled, "Algorithmiques."
I poked Jenn and asked if she thought he was a CS student. Apparently, 4 years at UW wasn't enough for her: she wasn't sure.
Seconds later, he pulled out a World of Warcraft tips book and began reading intently.
Definitely a CS student.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Pont du Gard et Nimes
Today we took a day trip out from Avignon to see the sights of the Pont du Gard (an old Roman Aqueduct that is now used as a bridge) and Nimes (a nearby town, site of the only legal bull fighting outside Spain, I hear).
Our backpacking backgrounds convinced us that in order to eat a picnic lunch at the Pont, we needed backpacking food: Wasa, cream cheese, and Nutella. Yumm yumm. Back to childhood for both of us, we climbed through some bush away from the tourist hordes to find a good spot. Unfortunately, we later found a staircase leading almost to our picnic spot (whereas we scaled a few boulders and bushwacked a little). Perhaps our backgrounds failed us here.
With no time to swim or raft in the river, we caught the bus to Nimes, where we hoped to find Festival activities going on. Of course, on the first day of a festival, everyone is just setting up, so nothing is ready but all the good roads are blocked. We did get to walk around town, see a tower and some amazing gardens, and eat carnival food, but then it was back to Avignon for the night, where we passed out from exhaustion.
Our backpacking backgrounds convinced us that in order to eat a picnic lunch at the Pont, we needed backpacking food: Wasa, cream cheese, and Nutella. Yumm yumm. Back to childhood for both of us, we climbed through some bush away from the tourist hordes to find a good spot. Unfortunately, we later found a staircase leading almost to our picnic spot (whereas we scaled a few boulders and bushwacked a little). Perhaps our backgrounds failed us here.
With no time to swim or raft in the river, we caught the bus to Nimes, where we hoped to find Festival activities going on. Of course, on the first day of a festival, everyone is just setting up, so nothing is ready but all the good roads are blocked. We did get to walk around town, see a tower and some amazing gardens, and eat carnival food, but then it was back to Avignon for the night, where we passed out from exhaustion.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Sur le Pont d'Avignon...
No one dances and you pay 4 Euro.
Okay, so that's a slight exaggeration, but I think they are milking the nursery rhyme just a little bit. This bridge is pretty, but it doesn't even go halfway across the river Rhone to the island, let alone to the other side (due to wear and tear). I wanted to go and dance and sing on the bridge, but really, 4 Euro each?!?
Things we did see or pay to go in: the Palais des Papes, where Popes lived when they had to escape assassination attempts in Rome; the cute island in the middle of the Rhone (photos to come), including the rowdy youth hostel, which we avoided; and the ferry boat that basically spins itself across the river.
This cute little town is a little overrun with tourists, but at least we blend in!
Okay, so that's a slight exaggeration, but I think they are milking the nursery rhyme just a little bit. This bridge is pretty, but it doesn't even go halfway across the river Rhone to the island, let alone to the other side (due to wear and tear). I wanted to go and dance and sing on the bridge, but really, 4 Euro each?!?
Things we did see or pay to go in: the Palais des Papes, where Popes lived when they had to escape assassination attempts in Rome; the cute island in the middle of the Rhone (photos to come), including the rowdy youth hostel, which we avoided; and the ferry boat that basically spins itself across the river.
This cute little town is a little overrun with tourists, but at least we blend in!
Monday, May 5, 2008
Marseille
We arrived into Marseille 55 minutes early.
It was sunny, 20 degrees Celsius, with a gentle breeze.
We arrived in the evening, and thus saw only those sights that were on the way to the hostel:
Somehow, I suspected Marseille was my sort of town.
Ever run across people who told you that even if you spoke French to the France French, they would answer you in English anyway? This is a lie. They will speak French to you and you will understand little of it, but things will improve with time.
In fact, by our second day in Marseille, Jenn was comfortable enough with the language barrier to obtain, through a mixture of polite French and obscene hand gestures, the necessary European plug/jack adapter for our electrical toys. Luckily, as the salesperson was a woman, there was a minimum of misunderstanding.
She also successfully replaced her red shoes with souliers verts, her red shoes having suffered a rather sad death in York when some clumsy oaf trod on them at the same time as Jenn herself was trying to walk in them. I have resolved to better watch where I'm walking (and, in case Jenn reads this later, to better watch where I place my adverbs).
We enjoyed lunch on the lawn of a palace built for Napoleon that had a bit of a view, then toured the coast before heading inland in search of Cathedrale Notre Dame de la Garde.
Marseille, as it turns out, is quite hilly. We thought we had finished the worst of it when we came to the staircase for the cathedral:
We figured missing one church wouldn't be so bad, and turned left (and downhill!) instead. As it transpired, this was an excellent decision for two reasons. First, we discovered that not only are the young women of Marseille enterprising, so too are the vandals:
And second, it meant that we arrived at our hostel a little earlier than expected... just in time to catch a former roommate of ours preparing to head out for an evening on the town. We spent the evening chatting with him and some other hostellers.
As suspected, Marseille was indeed my kind of town.
It was sunny, 20 degrees Celsius, with a gentle breeze.
We arrived in the evening, and thus saw only those sights that were on the way to the hostel:
Somehow, I suspected Marseille was my sort of town.
Ever run across people who told you that even if you spoke French to the France French, they would answer you in English anyway? This is a lie. They will speak French to you and you will understand little of it, but things will improve with time.
In fact, by our second day in Marseille, Jenn was comfortable enough with the language barrier to obtain, through a mixture of polite French and obscene hand gestures, the necessary European plug/jack adapter for our electrical toys. Luckily, as the salesperson was a woman, there was a minimum of misunderstanding.
She also successfully replaced her red shoes with souliers verts, her red shoes having suffered a rather sad death in York when some clumsy oaf trod on them at the same time as Jenn herself was trying to walk in them. I have resolved to better watch where I'm walking (and, in case Jenn reads this later, to better watch where I place my adverbs).
We enjoyed lunch on the lawn of a palace built for Napoleon that had a bit of a view, then toured the coast before heading inland in search of Cathedrale Notre Dame de la Garde.
Marseille, as it turns out, is quite hilly. We thought we had finished the worst of it when we came to the staircase for the cathedral:
We figured missing one church wouldn't be so bad, and turned left (and downhill!) instead. As it transpired, this was an excellent decision for two reasons. First, we discovered that not only are the young women of Marseille enterprising, so too are the vandals:
And second, it meant that we arrived at our hostel a little earlier than expected... just in time to catch a former roommate of ours preparing to head out for an evening on the town. We spent the evening chatting with him and some other hostellers.
As suspected, Marseille was indeed my kind of town.
Random Photos: Platform 9 3/4
I guess we're magicless Muggles, as the shopping trolley certainly didn't go anywhere for either us, or our friends, Andrew and Courtney.
Random Photos: Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
I'm told, by people who have taken philosophy courses, that there is no real answer to the question of "Who guards the guards?"
Turns out, they're wrong. There is an answer, at least, in the case of the Buckingham Palace guards.
Hey, it's a non-descript olive-green truck!
With soldiers! Who make excellent props in photos for the folks back home...
Photos! Photos for everyone!
Directions, too. Although, you'd hope it would take fewer than three soldiers to read a map.
Ah, the old joke: How many soldiers does it take to trigger a flashbulb? One.
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