Nobody wears sweatpants in Milan. Leaving one's living room is a serious exercise in fashionable expression.
Inside the Duomo.
Shopping is the main draw for tourists coming to Milan. I prefer my t-shirts and jeans, but watching from afar is fun.
Stepping out for a smoke.
At Rost-eat, a wonderful little panini and meat shop in the trendy canal district. Go there if you can: Ripa di Porta Ticinese, 49. The food is inexpensive and delicious.
Lake Como, an hour outside of Milan.
Too cool for school.
Heading home from work.
Train travel is not as glamorous as I imagined.
I had images of mysterious black-clad woman, red lipstick from beneath a veil the only splash of color around, waiving goodbye with a white handkerchief as a puff of steam rose toward the station roof. I would then settle into my sleeper car, where hours later I would emerge refreshed and dapper, with all the romance, history and intrigue of Venice before me.
Today, this was not the case.
At precisely 2:28 am, I crammed into my second-class compartment with four other weary travelers in a space perhaps large enough for two. No lady saw me off at the grimy platform in Ljubljana, but an old Italian woman also piled into our pod of travel misery. She carried four suitcases that most certainly carried lead, bowling balls, an engine block, and the kitchen sink. Her voice suggested a life dedicated to cigarette and whiskey, and her personal perfume and constant coughing confirmed this suspicion. We were now six peas in a smelly pod, en route to Venice, enveloped in a constant supply of fresh coughs, sneezes and husky sighs.
Ah, Venice. That dreamland of singing gondoliers, paddling amorous couples through centuries of romance to the tune of “O Solo Mio.” This would be the compliment to my rail travel fantasy, but in reality I feared throngs of shuffling tour groups making easy prey for pickpockets. After five sleepless hours in the overnight train, I decided not to chance further annoyance during my hour and a half layover. I despise crowds, loathe rushing to get things in, and am running low on money. So instead I had this breakfast of a train station coffee and granola bar, which I had brought from home.
I checked out my surroundings. I noticed that the signs in the station state that smoking is prohibited. Nevertheless, some swarthy ruffian clad entirely in denim sat on the counter of the station McDonald’s, pulled out his smokes, and lit up.
The manager’s pleas to go elsewhere fell on deaf ears. The Smoker just sat there, staring straight ahead through his dark sunglasses, smoking his cigarette. When he reached the butt, he flicked it towards the manager’s door. Real cool, real tough. Nobody was going to mess with him.
Enter the burger flipper. The Flipper spoke to Smoker, who didn’t move an inch or say a peep. Flipper moved his hands in front of Smoker’s shades, to no effect. Flipper looked around for hidden cameras. Then he grabbed Smoker’s arm, to which something was shouted, and forced the offending non-patron to leave the premises. It was time to serve burgers.
I found this whole scene, my introduction to Italy, amusing as an observer. Many people had told me that train travel was much more “civilized” than by bus. After a couple of trips on each mode of transport here in Europe, I would have to say that the train is behind the bus in terms of comfort, price and “civilization.” Like a bad date with a potentially interesting person, I’m willing to give the train another chance. Maybe it’s me. I may not be not that civilized. But if this doesn’t work out, I might have to start making eyes at the bicycle. That’s my last chance. I’m getting desperate.
Publicado: 19 May 2010
1 Comentario
The skies were not ideal for photography, but this is what I got today on a quick jaunt through Slovenia’s Julian Alps.
Many homes in this region look much as they did 250 years ago.
About an hour from Ljubljana, the Alps burst skyward and offer some great skiing.
Mass is still given weekly in this church.
Subtle beauty.
The water really is this color.
My sister Marija.
I’m beginning to understand.
As a child I was subjected to regular family outings to the mining town of Hibbing in northern Minnesota. The tourist attractions in Hibbing include the world’s largest open-pit iron mine, the Greyhound Bus Museum and Tuffy’s Bar, where you can still get a good hamburger and a beer at a decent price.
Tourism was not the reason we went north. Family was. I have vivid memories of sitting around a Formica countertop, my feet swinging between the hollow metal rungs of an ancient chair, answering questions from an old person I barely knew, but knew I had to answer. Suddenly, another relative would appear on the scene, without phoning ahead or even knocking on the door. There was uncle George. There was auntie Mamie. The volume of conversation would rise. A plate of dry pastries or cookies would appear on the table and I would take it in, wishing there were somebody my own age to play with, wondering why these familiar strangers spoke differently, forced strange foods on me, joked and laughed and then stood in silence before taking another cookie and waiting for more words to appear.
My grandfather’s family emigrated from Slovenia to Minnesota over 100 years ago. Life was difficult in Eastern Europe then. I come from a line of farmers and laborers, and a worldwide recession had hit Slovenia hard. Work was scarce. When word came from friends that the iron mines across the ocean were looking for workers, they made their way to England, boarded a ship, and headed for America.
Johanna and Peter Majerle eventually settled in Hibbing, a boomtown awash in the spoils of a city enjoying its position atop the world’s largest, richest deposit of iron ore. They opened a small grocery store. They endured. Their eight children grew up in Minnesota, and family roots grew deep.
A century later I saw the house where my great-grandmother was born. It is a simple stone and mud affair, heated by firewood, in the village of Vace, one of about a dozen houses clustered around a Catholic church. Family still live there. In fact, yesterday I found myself sitting around a Formica countertop, sipping a Lasko beer, eating pastries and chatting with family that I didn’t know I had. Atop the kitchen table were photographs showing my grandfather and his brother in Slovenia; another of my father and uncle on the steps of a home in Hibbing; another of the entire family in Hibbing. The faces sitting around the table proved that the family resemblance is very strong. It was almost as if the photographs had come alive.
I don’t speak Slovene, but Gvido and Zdenka, relatives who live near Ljubljana and who speak English, translated. They did more than translate. They took us around the countryside, showing us the Julian Alps and their craggy, snow-covered peaks; the Mediterranean, with its terra cotta tile roofs, church spires and seaside promenades; and the rolling hills and planes of the south, an agrarian life that works much as it did when my family left Slovenia; and the parliament building in the capital, where Gvido is a deputy in the legislature. He and Zdenka took off work and indeed sacrificed their entire weekend to bring people they had never met to see their family.
I found out that back in the States we mispronounce our surname. After a visit to the Majerle house in Kocevje, I had to adjust my pronunciation. In Minnesota, we pronounce it “Muh-JER-lee.” Here they say “MAI-er-luh.” Sitting around the Majerle family table in Kocevje, I heard the familiar intonations of conversation, the strange almost shouting outbursts, the revolving door of people coming and going without notice, gesture and facial expressions and shouts of “Na zdravje” before hoisting a cup of brandy. I now have new friends. I now know more family.
I’m beginning to understand. Wandering the streets of Ljubjana when I first arrived three days ago, I was flooded with an inexplicable sense of joy. I gazed into the storefront displays, felt the cobblestones under my Minnesota-made Red Wing boots, and wondered why anyone would ever leave such a beautiful place. Sure, things were different when Johanna and Peter left. And sure, Slovenia today is still very much and agrarian country: only a third of the population lives in towns of 10,000 or more. But since fighting to become a separate, capitalist state 20 years ago, the country has made impressive progress. The standard of living is excellent. Many people are multilingual. The GDP per capita is $25,000, and the economy is growing in spite of the current recession. Many rural areas still retain a traditional way of life, and cities are a delightful blend of old architecture, traditional cuisine and a hip, modern nod to the new global village. It’s unpretentious, with a tradition of architecture, music and literature that you usually find only in large cities. But Ljuljana has only 260,000 inhabitants, enjoys a much more manageable scale. It’s a place you come for a long weekend and end up staying months.
Earlier this evening, I stepped into a coffee shop. “Dober dan,” the waiter said. “Dober dan. Eno kavo, prosim.” I replied. He served me a coffee. I started to write. I felt right at home.
Publicado: 15 May 2010
1 Comentario
I’m in Ljubljana, the capital of Slovenia, right now. My paternal grandfather’s family emigrated from near here to Minnesota 100 years ago, and today I met Slovenian family that I didn’t know I had. They have been so incredibly gracious that I still have to process it before expressing myself adequately, so instead I leave you today with a few images from Ljubljana.
Ljubljana, Slovenia's capital, is the epitome of old-world European charm mixed with hip design.
Much of the center is open only to pedestrians and bicycles.
The best way to get around.
Fruit vendor at the downtown market.
If Prague approaches you like a rag-and-bones bum in a discarded Armani suit asking for some spare change, Vienna was that suit’s original owner. It just happens that Vienna got a newer, better tailored version of that same suit. And damn does he look good in it.
The center of Austria’s capital has efficiently buffed out any rough edges. Spectacular Victorian architecture stretches for miles along streets lined with names like Versace, Rolex and Cartier. It’s the kind of place that makes you want to put on your white powder wig, call up the coachman and head to the opera. And it seems that plenty of people still do that, at least with modern accouterments but all the same ostentation of bespectacled elite on their way to hear Mozart present his newest concerto. Vienna does not seem want for money.
There are tourists, yes, but none of the package groups waddling through the streets, and none of the tacky souvenir shops catering to fools looking to part with their money. No, Vienna is more dignified than that, with a look and demeanor befitting of the capital of an empire. City parks are veritable botanical gardens; the buildings are exercises in historic preservation and integration of avant garde design. Trams, trolleys, subways and buses combine to form one of the best public transportation networks in the world. Everything is at your fingertips, if you have enough money, and the multitude that do parade through the streets with shopping bags in tow, along an urban catwalk of Europe’s beautiful and hip and urbane.
Rules and order prevail. You’ll hear no music on the trains. Nobody crosses the street on red. Conversations are formal in hushed tones. There is no trash. A Costa Rican friend who had visited the city told me “Vienna is beautiful, but it’s too perfect.” She suspected something was amiss.
Perhaps it is. Other travelers and expats speak of a difficulty in penetrating the national psyche. Friends are hard to come by, they say. An African immigrant told me “It’s very difficult for a black man in Vienna. People say things, awful things, to my friends and me. But I do not let it bother me. I look at them and say, these people have not traveled. They know nothing.”
Below the rigid structure of being the world’s most livable city (according to the most recent Mercer ranking) lies an undercurrent that makes many outsiders uneasy. Just ten years ago an ultra-right-wing party was in power, and pundits spoke of rampant nationalism, heady anti-immigration movements and even throwbacks to Nazism. Recent years have brought much more social and political harmony to the parliament and daily newspapers, and a booming economy has helped keep the peace.
When I see a man in a new Armani suit, I am immediately jealous of his social standing, good fortune, and the obvious difference between him and me. I imagine how life might be so much better for him. But after I rub my eyes and adjust to the shine coming off of all the diamonds and gold, I realize that even though he looks good going out in public, I don’t know what things are like when he goes home. After this brief stay in Vienna, I am not privy to his dinner conversation and pillow talk. I suspect this is how he likes it.
Publicado: 12 May 2010
0 Comentarios
“It looks like a Disneyland scene!” my mother exclaimed. Indeed, the entire, sprawling historic center of Prague is an otherworldly display of seven centuries of architecture. To walk the streets of the old center is to immerse yourself in a celebration of historic preservation, all cornices adorned with cherubic faces and ostentatious flourishes all watched from afar by a spire-laden castle that combine to create a fantastic atmosphere reminiscent more of tales of knights and maidens than a working city. Most shops in the center seem to peddle crystals and amber and marionettes and post cards and clothing proclaiming that your friend went to Prague and all you got was this lousy t-shirt. Indeed, the main attractions of Prague are choked by day with trundling tour groups following a guide holding an umbrella aloft, like an adult version of a field trip to the local science museum, except on this trip you pay a lot more and can get drunk at the end.
And get drunk people do. Disneyland for adults features an endless supply of excellent Czech beer at less than US$2 for a half liter. This punctuates romantic nighttime strolls through the city with vignettes of drunken Englishmen with their heads between their knees, Americans bellowing about how they wish it were like this in Kansas City, and Germans letting their guard down just enough to acknowledge that just maybe that eighth pint is what pushed them over the edge. It’s a collection of cheap wannabe international glitterati mixing with a Czech smorgasbord of acid-washed jeans, dyed blonde hair and leather jackets with elastic cuffs, of languid-looking women and hard-edged men who look like any false move you make and they’ll slit your throat.
The food and language do nothing to belie the edgy undercurrent of Prague. Traditional Czech restaurants serve potatoes in all their bland glory accompanied with pork knuckle, boiled beef, sauerkraut, bacon, and beer. To the uninitiated, the language seems to suffer from a substantial dearth of vowels, and when spoken it sounds like a Beatles record played backwards.
Get outside of the city center and you see the other side of Prague. You’ll find more graffiti than house paint, garbage strewn about and broken-looking locals trudging between the bus stop and their home on the seventh floor of a Soviet-inspired apartment block, their balcony decorated with wilted plants and the day’s washing, common areas below unkempt. Prague has been free for just over 20 years, and yet many places still seem irreparably steeped in the very-near tumultuous past. If ever you find yourself in Prague, you will likely find yourself at the castle amid glorious surroundings and endless throngs of camera-toting tourists. When you finish with this necessary evil, take the #22 tram southeast, from the base of the castle, through downtown and to the end of the line. I think you’ll know what I mean.
Publicado: 10 May 2010
0 Comentarios
My German is limited to very basic caveman-style communication. However, when my “sprechen sie Englisch oder Spanisch?” is answered negatively, I give it my best shot. This happened the other day when attempting to change money in a bank. “Ich spreche kein Englisch,” said the teller. So I went into verbal Pictionary mode.
“Yes, hello, I have dollars. Dollars for Euros in this bank?” I said.
The teller looked at me and blinked.
“Dollars,” I tried again, pointing at me. “You Euros. Change?”
“No, not in this bank,” she said.
“Which bank?”
“There is one three blocks from here, to the left.”
“OK, left, three streets, bank? Yes?”
“Yes.”
I marched out triumphantly, proud of my seemingly successful communication in a language that I have never studied. Heading left, and with a heady sense of pride, I took in the street scenes of Prenzlauer Berg.
The streets of this affluent quarter of Berlin are in full gentrification bloom. If ever the neighborhood had a gritty past, the traveler today cannot see it, save for the requisite graffiti in doorways and on the sides of delivery trucks. Instead, Prenzlauer Berg seems like an idyllic slice of European living, where 150-year-old buildings stand proudly over winding streets, their five stories uniform in height but unique from one façade to the next, as if each architect were given a similar canvas and carte blanche to see what he could come up with. The sun shined this day, and people congregated in the myriad outdoor cafes, some sipping coffee, some half liters of beer, all under the spell of a warm spring afternoon with the intoxicating scent of lilacs in the air. In between the cafes there was not a vacant storefront, and the sidewalk buzzed with activity: doors to the pharmacy swung open and shut, next to a store with colorful wooden toys and traditional-looking baby buggies. Next to that a woman inspected carrots and onions at a produce market, which was next to a boutique offering locally designed fashion amid a setting that was all hip and edge and far out of my personal price and fashion comfort range.
Just about every block has its own bakery, and what a lovely concept this is. Germans love their bread, and they do it better than anyone else on Earth. On the next block, wafts of sweet air dance in from their doorways, where dozens of different types of dense loaves in all shades of brown await hungry customers. On the sidewalk patrons sip espresso and pick apart pastries, and I saw people chatting with friends, people watching the daily urban parade pass by, others filling sketchbooks with whatever moved them, reading newspapers, typing on computers.
The third block was more of the same, an outdoor festival under the budding shade of the tree-lined streets, a slice of daily life that I longed to be a part of. Trams and buses hustled denizens to parts unknown; bicycles zipped past; and pedestrians took up the rest of the wide sidewalks. A woman helped a customer select frames for his glasses. A man in a white apron watered flowers in front of a Vietnamese restaurant. A small boy played the accordion on the corner.
The third corner. I looked around for the bank: a hotel, two restaurants, a bakery, a travel agency, a leather-goods shop, a small plaza with benches, a store with a dozen bicycles in front. No bank. I stopped a man on the street and asked, “Wo ist die bank?” If I understood him correctly, he said to go three blocks to left. Maybe next time I’ll just go to the ATM, I thought. But I didn’t mind. Each block was a new world. I started walking without a Euro in my pocket, enriched.
Publicado: 8 May 2010
0 Comentarios
Excitement fills me when I arrive at a new destination, and I hit the ground running. Here are some images from my first 24 hours in Berlin.
Berlin’s personality alternates between a squeaky-clean model of efficiency and a gritty poster for personal expression. This dichotomy makes for fascinating urban exploration. If you’re willing to wear out your shoes a little bit, you’ll be rewarded with a closeness to Europe’s artistic capital that you just can ‘t get on a package tour.
Climb the stairs of the Berliner Dom, the city’s rebuilt cathedral, and you’ll be rewarded with sweeping views of the entire cityscape. Skyscrapers are rare, so the only thing that impedes your view is the curvature of the Earth.
A city once divided now only has vestiges of the old wall. Berlin has been unified for over 20 years, and denizens happily move about freely. The above picture is from Mauerpark, which is dedicated to the wall.
Berlin is also a young city. Aspiring musicians, artists, writers and hangers-on flock to the city, infusing day and night with a vibrancy few cities can match.
Buildings become canvases, too. Artistic expression enlivens spaces all over. Above, a small cafe on a side street outside of Mitte, downtown.
Publicado: 5 May 2010
0 Comentarios
Over the next three weeks, I will be traveling through central Europe. Berlin, Prague, Slovenia, Milan, Switzerland and Amsterdam are names that hold a magical appeal to me and live in my memory only as old National Geographic articles that I used to read in my parent’s garage. As a child I would page through the musty magazines, analyzing the photographs, marveling at imposing castles, the snow-capped peaks of the Alps, and villages that looked like the setting for a fairy tale. They all seemed so impossibly foreign, accessible only to retirees or debonaire millionaires or adventurous hippies with rucksacks and rich parents. Europe was but a fuzzy concept. Growing up, travel took place in a automobile, and the road ends at the ocean. Never did I think I would actually travel to those distant, exotic lands, much less at the tender young age of 31 (and far from a debonaire millionaire), and even less with my mother and sister. Yet here the three of us sit in the airport in Newark, where we will board a flight shortly that will take us to Berlin. For my mother and sister, this will be their first trip across the pond. The anticipation leading up to this moment has been great.
Half the fun of traveling is the anticipation. You study the map and research possible destinations like randy singles browsing a dating site. You buy new clothes, get ready, pack your bags and find out as much as possible about where you’re going. Mild curiosity crescendos into a consuming anticipation as the takeoff date approaches. Once you check in at the airport, it’s like a final phone call: Hello, Berlin, I’ll be stopping by shortly. I hope you’re ready. I know I am.
I asked my mother how she slept last night.
“Gosh,” she said. “I don’t think I slept a wink. I was just too wound up.”
“Yeah,” my sister Marija said. “I didn’t sleep too much either.”
I, of course, am much too cool to admit that much. “Huh,” I said. “I slept fine.” I am the International Traveler, the Tripmaster, after all, and I have a reputation to uphold. It is also true that my sense of anticipation has dulled slightly over the years, as I travel internationally several times a year. And yet there I was, wide awake at 2am, wondering about the language barrier and strange foods, about moving about, about currency conversions and train rides and strange lunches and cramped hostels and crowds bouncing to techno music and fresh rolls and…
And then it was 6am and the alarm went off. Like the National Geographic-reading boy on Christmas morning, I scampered downstairs to see what the day would bring. The difference now, I guess, is that I had to stop to make coffee. And I didn’t unwrap anything. I’ll do that in about 12 hours, when I finally unpack in Berlin. Christmas is unfolding slowly, and the sense of anxious wonder only grows. I look forward to celebrating soon.
Publicado: 4 May 2010
0 Comentarios
« Entradas más recientes —
Entradas anteriores »
