Without Reservations

Arles: d'accord!

If you're keeping up with us, you're well aware that Paris rubbed us the wrong way and left us with the distinct impression that getting out of Dodge would be best for all concerned.

If nothing else, a few months of worldwide travel has taught me to trust my instincts. Three days in Arles chased away Paris' bitter aftertaste.

And then some.

In just three hours and change, our TGV train whipped us from Gare de Lyon in Paris to Marseilles in comfort. Le train à grande vitesse cruises along around 185 mph, but I was still able to absorb the fields, vineyards and farms that fill the spaces between suburban housing developments. I've never traveled overland at such a speed, and this was my first visit to France.

As a result, I was torn between a desire to see more of the countryside and an pressing need to put many miles between me and Paris. The City of Light isn't going away, and we will return one day. It's common knowledge that it's hard to keep people down on the farm once they've seen the lights of Gay Paree.

Bullet train notwithstanding, we were behind schedule: I got hip to this fact when we trooped downstairs to wait by the exit. A burly, clucking Gaul kept consulting his wristwatch while he chatted up a few matrons waiting to disembark. There was much animated discussion while they checked watches against cell phones and cell phones against timetables; I knew before we stepped down to the platform that we'd missed our connection to Arles.

By about thirty seconds.

I queued up inside the steamy ticket office in Marseilles-St. Charles station as the line snaked along, twice coiling back on itself. No shoving, but the air was as redolent with impatience as it was with humidity. A young man with a newly pierced eyebrow in front of me gave up the ghost and bugged out in a huff. I wanted to inform him that his latest adornment was likely infected, but my French just isn't that good.

After thirty-four minutes (Liz kept track outside, safeguarding our luggage), a relatively amiable fellow at the counter directed me to a platform where we boarded an Arles-bound train. This conveyance moved at the speed of a musket ball, giving me more time to consider the beauty of the aptly named Cote d'Azur.

Our hotel was a short walk from the train station -- six minutes, even with luggage. Outside the gare, we were greeted by two lions atop pillars; the east anchorage of a ruined bridge across the Rhône built by Romans after they'd settled into this quiet Provençal town two millennia ago.

Arles was a Roman retirement village -- a Bronze Age Sun City developed for favored veterans of foreign wars, a second capital of the Empire. An ancient amphitheater still hosts live performances, as does the arena -- a smaller version of Rome's coliseum -- though you'll no longer find gladiators going at it with tridents, shields and spears. They do have bullfights, but not the bloody spectacles I've always heard of.

Provençal bullfights are laid-back affairs; the bull has a ribbon attached to his nose, and the object isn't "gore or be gored" -- it's to pluck the ribbon with a maximum of finesse. Our guidebook indicated that a particularly well-executed move on the part of the taureau would elicit the familiar theme from "Carmen" from a band in the stands, and wild applause from the crowd.

Sadly, there were no matches scheduled during our stay. I'm against animal cruelty, but as I said to Liz, "I wouldn't mind seeing a bullfight where everyone gets to go home, eat dinner and go to bed afterwards." I consumed a grilled taureau sandwich during our visit, but I can only hope that my meal died of old age.

We split up one afternoon to see what we could see, and I paid four Euros to tour the ancient arena, still undergoing some serious renovation. Again, blame the movies, but the place had a very familiar feel -- one of my favorite films, "Ronin," has an extended sequence set here. I walked around each strata of the arena, eventually ascending to the top level.

In the Middle Ages, towers and fortifications were added to the top tier, making the 20,000 seat complex into a fortress. Of all the days to have left my camera in the room! I would have loved to have shared the view with you -- the cathedral spires in Beaucaire several clicks away, the low, rolling ranges of the Alpilles and Luberon mountains, fields of swaying sunflowers and terra cotta shingles capping homes that withstood two world wars and the relentless winds of le mistral.

Also of note: until 1826, the arena was a gated community. Over the years, les Arletans built an enclave within the arena walls, and families dwelled there for generations. When they began restoring the place, there were 212 houses and two churches inside -- all were demolished.

It was remarkable to stand there and envision all who had passed through.

Most days, we waited for the heat to dissipate before venturing out aprés-midi to explore. We became regulars at the Café Americain Bar on the main drag, sipping sangria, espresso and Stella Artois while we listened to the local gossip and classic rock.

One evening as we were leaving, an elderly couple preceded us out the door, their friends singing out goodbyes.

"Bonsoir -- à demain!" one shouted after them.

The husband took his wife's hand, both walking with an easy gait. "Nous espérons," he quipped. ("We hope.")

The night before we left, we decided to take advantage of the laundromat around the corner from our hotel. It wasn't slated to close until 2100 hours, so we put our clothes in the machine at 1915 and settled in at the bar next door with sangria and reading material. I kept a watchful eye on the door.

Imagine my surprise when the lights doused and the door swung shut at 8 p.m. -- one hour early.

A thirtyish guy from Morocco sitting at an adjoining table followed me to the door of the laundromat, aware that we were in a bit of a jam. In jagged French, I explained that we were leaving the next day, pointing at the posted hours on the door with an air of confusion and anxiety. Without a word, he produced his Nokia and called the owner, leaving a voice mail.

I went back to our table and explained the sitch to Liz. It was one of those moments when circumstances were clearly beyond our control, so we did our best to relax. Agip, the helpful samaritan, sat with us and made conversation, calling the laundromat owner twice more before getting through to him in person.

It turned into my best evening in France, getting to know this stranger who offered his help for no good reason other than we needed it. We sat and spoke in French and English, our conversation covering life in Arles, what it's like to be a Moroccan in France and a host of other big and small topics. He was joined by two friends, but as the sun drew down and mosquitos appeared, they made themselves scarce.

Agip abided. He wouldn't accept our repeated offers of a drink, instead suggesting that he buy us bevvies while we waited for l'operateur de la lavanderie. We mentioned that we wanted to see his country before returning to North America. According to him, Marrakech is the place to be, but his hometown of Rabat offers little to see, save plus le sable -- plenty of sand.

Our parley was all over the map, and he helped me as much with my French as we did with his English. After some talk about the nature of work, I evoked a hearty laugh from him after sharing the American maxim, "why is there so much month left at the end of the money?" It was an excellent encounter, and I was nearly disappointed when it was cut short by the arrival of the laundromat owner.

Also from North Africa, he arrived just before nine and casually explained that there was an error with the program that controls the facility. He didn't even seem particularly put out by having to make the drive into town so we could hurriedly retrieve our soggy clothes.

If we make it to Morocco, we will toast Agip liberally with glasses of hot mint tea. If not for him, we would have had to rise at 0600 to stake out the laundromat and keep an eye on our orphaned vestments, still soaking in the machine.

Our extended laundry vigil postponed dinner, so Agip directed me to a kebab place that was open until midnight. We gave him our sincere thanks and carried our wet clothes back to the hotel, where I attempted to explain the situation to our host.

I ended the monologue by asking him if he had any hangers we could use to dry our clothes before checkout the next morning, but he would have none of it.

"C'est ne pas de probleme," he said, suggesting that he use the dryer in the hotel's laundry room to finish the job we'd started. "I will call you in your room when all is done, d'accord?"

We giddily ascended the two flights to our room, humbled by our good fortune at the hands of Agip and our able hotelier. I know they were small gestures, but they made all the difference in the world to us. About forty minutes later, our phone buzzed, and I went down to the front desk to retrieve two warm sacks of clothes.

"Vous êtes un bon homme, monsieur!" I said, giving him a half-salute. He and his son-in-law behind the desk took my effusive compliment in stride.

The next morning, we rose and shone. Our bags were packed with precious, clean clothes and we were determined to see some more of the city before our afternoon train. I left Liz at the Internet terminal in the hotel and set off across town to mail some packages home.

One very confusing, expensive and perspiration-filled hour later, I returned to find Liz at the café where we'd had so much fun the previous evening. We set out to soak up a last bit of Arles, finding ourselves before the arena in a gastronomic frame of mind.

The arena is ringed with cafés catering to tourists seeking something "authentic," a wish restauranteurs accommodate by doubling their prices and halving the flavor. We made a half-circle around the mini-coliseum, passing the room Van Gogh rented during his brief Arles soujourn -- as well as the many shops and restaurants that still trade on his name.

I didn't feel any time pressure; by sheer dint of the people we'd met, I knew that we'd seen the best Arles had to offer. So, we relaxed and took our time wandering side streets, directing a Anglophone to her hotel like we were natives, and browsing the many menus on display.

We ended up at a small bistro facing the arena that was just about to conclude its lunchtime seating. The specials of the day called to me -- as did the 11-Euro prix fixe menu.

Liz had saumon, while I tucked into a tender pavé d'agneau that was cooked to a turn. We split a carafe of rosé with our meal, capping it off with a sweet, crunchy creme brulée. Parfait.

We perambulated around the arena, stopping off at one of many tourist shops so I could purchase a large sachet of Herbes de Provençe. I've never purchased it at home, as the foodie shops mark it up like Chanel bags before Mother's Day.

At home in our kitchen, I plan to use these herbs in a meal prepared for family and friends. I'm sorry I couldn't bring you all to Arles, but I look forward to sharing its flavor.

Ouvre ton yeux a Paris!

Previous entries aside, no one can deny that this is one of the most beautiful cities on Earth. We're tired, and we have an early train tomorrow to Arles; please enjoy this abbreviated album. We'll post more Paris snaps when we have connectivity, wherever that might be...

... à bientôt, mes amis!


Tour Eiffel from Rue Kleber

Vertigo-inducing shot from below


Tout le Tour in one frame. Quelle accomplishment!


Skandy Snap: Walter (Pont Neuf et Musee D'Orsay in b.g.)


Skandy Snap: Liz (sur la meme pont)


Waiters lawn-bowling on a break dans le Jardin de Tuleries


Some Arc thing, we forget...


Detail


Dome of Hotel des Invalides

Les Bienfaits de la Colèr

C'est vrai: Parisians celebrate their Liberté et Egalité, but Fraternity is in very short supply.

I just returned from Gare de Lyon (train station) where I picked up the tickets that will take us out of here and into Provence tomorrow. Standing in line at the ticket window, I kept a close eye on the woman behind me. She kept shifting from foot to foot, edging forward and making furtive glances my way -- as if she was seeking an opportunity to leapfrog me so she could handle her business toute suite.

Granted, I don't know what was in her mind -- perhaps she needed to use the bathroom, or had St. Vitus' Dance. After a few days in Paris, I wasn't feeling particularly generous of spirit. Watching her covertly, I steeled myself for more rudeness and conjured up a sentence in French in case I needed to give her a reality check:

"Ecoutez! Vous etes aprés moi dans le queue."

I was prepared to deliver this line with a thumb pointing emphatically over my right shoulder.

Order prevailed, and I was able to proceed to the next open window without incident. Paris is a major tourist magnet; for all I know, she was a librarian from Wichita, and not just another Parisian with an elevated sense of self.

As ever, I'm reminded of the movies -- in this case, "Casablanca." I felt like one of the hapless background characters seeking a transit visa so they could escape the limbo-state that was WWII Morocco. "Heelllp meee, Reek! Heellllp meee!"

Don't get me wrong; it's been a privilege to walk around Paris hand-in-hand with Liz. I've always wanted to come here and was never certain when I'd ever make it. "You must see Paris," my father said when he learned we were taking this trip. Before we left San Francisco, I had a sense of anticipation that stayed with me even after we'd arrived.

This city is romantic, beautiful, awesome. Walking the streets, I have a weird sense of familiarity, even though my only experience of Paris is through the magic of literature and film.

Our hotel is sur le Rive Gauche in a funky, multi-culti neighborhood populated by folks from North Africa, China, Vietnam, Cambodia, and a host of other places. Sure, there's a lot of public housing, but we walk past a well-tended community garden each time we come and go to the Metro, and it's nice to see people of every hue after spending a long while where we were always -- always -- a highly visible minority.

And, fortunatement, not everyone in this city fits the stereotype:

• The young woman at the supermarché who had to explain -- twice -- that I needed to bag and weigh my nectarines before she could ring them up. I made up for my lack of understanding when I got her to laugh by saying, "Je n'ecoute pas," my palms up in a gesture of helplessness.
• The helpful guy at the Internet cafe down the block who searched for and sold us two CD-Rs from his private stock so we could back up our travel photos.
• The dashing young couple who manage the Latin bar around the corner from our hotel. They took my halting drink order with patience and good charm, poured a helluva margarita, and danced the samba avec habileté in a tiny space in front of the bar, much to everyone's delight.

Liz points out that none of the folks I've described were ethnically French. In fact, they were African, Algerian and Hispanic, respectively.

Which brings me back to the title of this particular blog entry, which translates as "the upside of anger." It's an American movie that's due to be released here in a few weeks. I have no idea if it's any good; I skipped it at the multiplex before we left California.

Still, the title stayed with me today as I was out and about picking up train tickets and food. For me, the particular bienfait that comes from being treated like merde is that I was determined not to give as good as I got. No matter how we've been received, I've done my best to speak the language and be courteous.

So, when the fellow at the ticket window indicated with a unconcerned shrug that he spoke very little English, I conducted the entire transaction en Francais, much to my surprise. When I purchased a panini and salad to take back to l'hotel diabolique, I smiled at the stiff girl behind the counter, and got one back with my change.

It's been my experience that people who live outside cities are less flinty than urban dwellers, so I'm looking forward to Arles. They don't have a reputation for rudeness, even if they were a little less than understanding to Van Gogh when his mind began to unravel in their ville.

To quote Liz: "I wouldn't want anyone to visit Dallas and leave thinking that's what America is like." When she said this, I immediately flashed back on the memory of sitting at a gate waiting for a connecting flight at DFW airport:

Two big, beefy men in their fifties wearing Stetsons and s--tkickers were sitting behind me, cooing over a photo album and lingering over each page before turning.

"Isn't she gorgeous?" said one. "Aw, yeah. She's a real beauty." When I got up to toss away my coffee cup, I noticed that they were studying 8 X 10 color glossies of various handguns, instead of someone's granddaughter.

So, I'll leave this city with an open mind, the same suggestion I'd offer to any foreign visitor to the US who visited only Texas. Turnabout is fairplay, c'est non?

[Liz Post Alert] Insensitivity training, anyone?

Cultural sensitivity. It's an unwieldy phrase, but it's one I've kept in mind everwhere we've been so far. People stare more than I'd like? Dishes are washed in gutters? Poor people bathe and defecate on the streets? The food doesn't suit my palette? Crowding to the front of the line, elbows jabbing, is the accepted way to get things done? People have different ideas of personal space? I'm okay with all of that. I've even (I'm sorry to say) chided Walter once or twice if I felt like he wasn't taking cultural differences in stride often enough.

And now, I find, I've failed.

We're in Paris -- a gorgeous, ancient city; rich with culture -- and I've failed. Our hotel is awful. It's incredibly loud, so we fall asleep late, and housekeeping walks in without knocking or even speaking several times every morning (starting at about nine) to see if we've left yet so they can clean. They leave before we can ask them to come back at a certain time, or not come back at all. Then today after we foolishly decided to save money and extend our reservation exactly as instructed (go online and re-book with expedia, wait several hours, then call downstairs and make sure they have the reservation and know to save our room) not only did The Angriest Housekeeping Manager in Paris show up to indignantly scream at our sleep-deprived selves for not being out by noon, they freakin' gave our room away to a very confused French woman. Or at least she appeared very confused when she let herself in and saw Walter's shape under the sheets (he was trying desperately to get some sleep) and me in my sarong, browsing the 'net for more travel advice. The doors, of course, have no deadbolts.

Doors slam all night and morning, and of course every sound we hear makes us jump and wonder who's next to barge in. So we're tired, we're cranky, and I've reached the end of my gorram rope. Because with every mess-up, we get nothing but 'tude.

And, guys, you know us. We're polite. We're patient. Walter speaks more than enough French to make himself understood, and I can work things out and parrot enough polite words so that I almost never speak English. We are not ugly Americans.

And I KNOW it's just another kind of cultural difference. Just like the zillion we've dealt with, no problem. But the rudeness, arrogance, and sense of superiority in this city simply boggles me. It's everywhere, and I'm not enjoying it.

I know it's wrong. I know it's petty. I know I should be flexible. But frankly, I just want to get out of this town. We're planning on going to Arles next, and Walter seems to think I'll love it.

By the way, for someone who's never been here, the man has an uncanny ability to navigate Paris. He picked the perfect neighborhood for us based on a glance at a map (if not the perfect hotel -- of course not his fault) and as we wander he's constantly saying things like "let's turn right" and leading us, unplanned, to yet another wonder of the ciity. It's almost spooky at this point.

I'm looking forward, I suppose, to our wanderings tonight. We're supposed to take a boat trip around the Seine. But mostly I just want to get gone. And I don't think it's travel fatigue. I think it's culturally specific. And I'm well aware that it's a failing on my part to adapt.

Feh.

But, um... Prague and Budapest were beyond incredible. And I can't wait for Barcelona. So that's something.

Love and appreciation for the many kind comments. We're happy to feel connected to friends and family as we travel. I promise to get over myself by the next blog post. Really.

Photos of Buda and Pest

Here's the last batch: next images you see uploaded here will have been captured in The City of Light -- Paris, for you unromantic types out there.

Art Nouveau abounds in Budapest

Same building, but note the detailed artwork

One totally boss scooter

A lampost in search of a chiropractor

Another sample of belle epoque architecture along Andrassy Ut.

Best soup and sandwich this side of the Danube

The Terror Museum -- former home of the secret police

Can you believe -- this is an apartment building

Grumpy keystone in a archway

Kogart Gallery mixes the old and new, like everything else in Budapest

Heroes' Square, end of Andrassy

The style doesn't stop, even on the Budapest Metro

Vertigo-inducing escalator

Liz sez: "stand to the right!"

Looking across the Danube from the Castle

Hungarian Parliament (pretty sure)

Looking up the Danube (music festival was on middle island)

This keystone is pouty, not grumpy

Dad taking his kids out for some culture

Detail of Mattias' Cathedral tiled roof and spires

Gargoyles waiting for the rain

Mattias' Cathedral again -- I had to walk back about one block to fit the whole thing in one frame.

I think this is Mattias. Looking pretty regal, I must say.

Inside the cathedral -- all pics captured with slow shutter speed. Look, ma -- no flash!

Tryptich of St. Francis

Vaulted ceiling, pulpit off to the left

The main altar

Another angle on the ceiling vaults -- astounding work, isn't it?

Cathedral entrance/exit. I only wish more had observed the "silence please!" signs.

Painted wall decorations inside the cathedral

Some notable knights at their posts along the battlements

Exterior shot of stained glass window, just after interior lights were lit

Images of Prague

Again, these are bandwidth-rich images, so go to the library, access them from work, or sneak into your friend's house (assuming s/he has a cable modem).

A tip of the hat to Walter3 and Bonnie

The Powder Tower

Detail of Powder Tower -- King Wenceslaus with a city charter in his hands

The grand Municipal Hall offers concerts and fine dining nightly

Many structures were adorned according to the services/products that could be found within

Ancient church in Prague Centrum

The owner of this building might have had an apiary

Prague Muzeum, looking down Wenceslaus Square

Possibly St. Nicholas' Church, but I couldn't swear to it.

Mural, dome and Art Nouveau filligrees on Municipal Hall

Concert posters (perhaps dating back to the Velvet Revolution!)

Lamp post near Prague Castle

We really liked this museum poster. Appropriately, the museum is located above a McDonald's.

An allegorical statue near the castle entrance

Castle guards standing their posts. Liz and I couldn't agree on whether this was a plum assignment, or a lame one.

The Prague Castle Orchestra -- that's Josef singing

Classical art is full of people being smited. Or is that smote? Smitten?

If you're gonna be in the military, I think this is one sweet gig (sez Walter)

Spires of St. Vitus Cathedral

Gargoyles of St. Vitus will induce the heebie-jeebies

This monkey looks like he's ready for action: sinner, beware.

Stained glass inside St. Vitus Cathedral

Spooky demon in an archway -- another allegory?

St. Vitus is big

Vaulted ceiling with stained glass and the royal crest

The Great Hall inside the Royal Palace. Parliament meets here to choose a new president every 5 years.

View looking west across Prague -- our hotel was near the TV tower in the b.g.

Zlata Ulicka, otherwise known as Golden Lane

Bottom of Golden Lane: I don't know the artist's intent behind this one, and I'm not sure I want to.

Prague seemed to agree with Walter

The Charles Bridge

The Astronomical Clock -- can you tell what time it is?

Prague, then Budapest

There are a number of reasons for the extended silence on this frequency.

First: most, if not all Internet access points in Central Europe we found were unwilling to permit me to use this laptop to connect to their system. As a result, blog entries and photos were trapped on my hard drive like flies in amber. Our hotel in Prague offered free 'net access, but in a room the size of a phone booth that contained only a keyboard and monitor -- the rest of the computer was locked away from prying eyes.

Additionally: there has been much to see, but little to relate. Life in Europe is very similar to life in the US -- people conduct their affairs in offices, apartments, private homes. It's been hard for me to get a sense of the continent and its human rhythms.

In Asia, almost every aspect of life was on display to anyone who cared to look. I'm not romanticizing the poverty and deprivation we observed, but it was fascinating to see people living their lives entirely in the open. Work didn't take place in cubicles, but in fields, stalls and paddies. Water wasn't brought home in recyclable, collapsible plastic bottles, but often in earthen jugs or oversize buckets.

Julie opened the door wide enough for us to see a slice of German life in Hamburg. I left with a definite sense of place, but also with false expectations about what I'd be able to observe in our next two stops: the Czech Republic and Hungary.

Prague

We'd intended to see my friend Ray in Prague, but it was not to be. Ray decamped San Francisco after the dot-com bubble popped so messily, ensconcing himself in a gorgeous and inexpensive city. He teaches English, and so he's now enjoying his summer vacation, traveling. From Hamburg, we'd made vague plans to connect while he was home between jaunts, but when I called his mobile last weekend, he was off in sunny Italy. I'm sorry we missed him.

Prague was an unexpected delight. A few of my peers lived there after the Velvet Revolution in 1989, so I'd heard a few anecdotes about how inexpensive and beautiful the city was. Still, I was expecting to see a place that was still scrubbing off the grime of Soviet occupation -- not an Art Nouveau showcase with lovingly detailed architecture, camera-heavy tourists and veritable Bohemian cafes.

We spent two nights and two days in Prague, creating itineraries that suited our respective moods and levels of energy. Liz caught the cold I'd nursed throughout Germany, so we took it fairly easy. Riding trams and walking leisurely, we ambled around the city's old and new quarters.

Guided less by travel guides and more by a desire to see, we largely wandered through Prague without intent. We'd turn a corner and find ourselves before the elaborate Municipal Hall with its copper dome, or caught up in the hive-like pedestrian mall of Wenceslas Square. One afternoon, without even meaning to, we ended up at the elaborate 15th century Astronomical Clock. I couldn't tell what time it was, but I made damn sure to take a photo.

The high concentration of bookstores, museums and public art installations confirmed what we'd read -- Prague is a city with a strong literary and artistic tradition.

History rubs right up against the burgeoning free market, however. We walked past Franz Kafka's house and paid for the privilege. His home was along our last stop after our tour of the Prague Castle in a narrow, crowded alley called the "Golden Walk." The street was cozy but kitschy, lined with entrepreneurs who offered to lighten our pockets as we descended from the castle mount to the riverside.

After our inspection of Prague's castle, we waited out a downpour in the original Pilsner Urquell restaurant (woot!) before returning to our hotel to retrieve our luggage. Luckily, we'd given ourself plenty of time to arrive -- there are at least three international train stations in Prague, and we were at the wrong one. A short bus trip and a metro ride later, all was right again.

Buda and Pest

We left for Budapest on a evening train, arriving in Hungary on a gray morning that promised rain. Although we'd slept on the train, it wasn't exactly restful. It was hard to get into a deep REM cycle, knowing that we'd be interrupted every few hours for border checks in Slovakia and Hungary. When we arrived, the tourist office at the train station gave us the number of a bus that would take us to the outlying district where our hotel was to be found. We also received a tourist map touting strip clubs, youth hostels, and the Sziget music festival -- a weeklong party on a muddy island in the middle of the not-so-blue Danube.

Budapest is two cities in one. Buda is on the west side of the river, and Pest is on the east bank. We were booked into a hotel in a suburban conclave in east Pest.

Sadly, it was located slightly off the map, so we meandered in a light drizzle for several blocks after my travel partner was able to extract more precise directions from our bus driver. After checking in, I lay exhausted on the bed and tried to make friends with my lower back while she explored the neighborhood for beverages and snacks. After a night of righteous sleep and a continental breakfast, we caught a bus downtown to Andrassy utca, a UNESCO World Heritage site.

The broad avenue didn't receive this designation due to an ancient temple or a wonder of nature, but because Budapest's belle epoque aesthetics are still in full force. Strolling down Andrassy is a peep backwards into a time when offices, shopping arcades and apartment buildings were expected to be as beautiful as they were useful. For a city that chafed on the Soviets' leash for a few generations, it managed to retain a good bit of its character.

(I read in this morning's International Herald Tribune that the newest addition to the Las Vegas skyline will be an 80-story pink and black structure "designed" by Ivana Trump. It discomfits me that Americans build things with the full knowledge that we'll tear them down when they're no longer fashionable.)

We stopped for lunch along Andrassy -- Liz was served an enormous bowl of spicy, rich soup, while I was presented with a grilled sandwich that was large enough to have petitioned for membership in the EU. If I hadn't eaten it, that is.

Finishing our promenade at Heroes' Square, we hopped aboard the Metro and crossed into Buda, emerging at the base of a slope that led to the capital's colossal castle. We hopped aboard a bus with a castle logo on its LED display and chugged uphill until we were deposited at a spot that looked out over Pest, the Danube and its environs. Simply stunning.

We wandered the castle complex for hours. There was plenty to see, as Hungary's royalty had built the place out well enough to contain everything they might need -- without ever having to go downhill and mix with the commoners. Mattius' Cathedral, the palace grounds and the village that sprung up around the area are all well-preserved, or are undergoing reconstruction. The great hall in the palace has steps that are wide enough to accommodate a horse and rider -- apparently, merchants would set up an indoor market there for the hoi polloi, back in the day.

As the sun fell and the clouds drew in, Liz talked me into taking a tour of Mattius' Cathedral. Normally, I'm not engaged by ornate churches. I'm not a religious person, and I don't understand why elaborate structures that absorbed so many resources can bring you closer to the Creator.

Once inside, I softened my stance. Cathedrals were islands of beauty and solemnity in an otherwise uncomfortable world where life was short and cheap. If you wanted to visit a contemplative, beautiful place in the 16th century, you wouldn't go to a museum or an art gallery -- you'd go to a church. The artisans who hewed gargoyles from stone, painted elaborate friezes on walls and ceilings and carved timber into pews and altars achieved something truly awesome and enduring, even if it did take them 400 years to wrap up the project.

The next morning, we checked out and made our way to the train station, yet another product of architecture's golden age where form met function and became fast friends. The building was topped with statuary and symbols that were unfamiliar, but I was clearly able to pick out James Watt, the inventor of the steam engine, in his perch atop a portico. Credit where credit is due.

The station was crowded with hippie kids, many still with the mud from the music festival caking their bell-bottoms. They sacked out in piles of people and rucksacks swilling cheap beer and nursing hangovers, many still wearing their green wristbands that got them into the show. More than a few couples who'd clearly, um, connected in a deep and meaningful way were saying their languorous, passionate goodbyes on the platforms.

Many of them were on our train when we pulled out hours later, heading for Paris via Vienna. We'd been told by the Euraide office in Berlin (more on them later...) that our sleeper cars would be attached when we stopped in Austria. Confusion reigned as engineers scuttled about under the train and conductors met all requests for information with vague hand gestures that conveyed little information.

All the while, the Sziget crowd was whooping it up on the platform, gulping wine from bottles, a few literally sitting on cases of beer. With only a few minutes to spare, we determined (hell, intuited) that we were to change trains in Vienna so we could make it to Paris via Zurich. In retrospect, the conductors were probably grumpy after conveying scores of party kids over the rails. I can only imagine the mess they left behind.

We settled into our sleeper compartment with a massive sense of relief. We'd found our berth, and we were free of the vexatious crowd of young'uns who seemed intent on drinking and yelling. And then, drinking some more. I was never that young, and if I was, I apologize.

The train shuddered into motion, and Liz cocked her head to one side and furrowed her brow.

"Do you hear that?" she asked incredulously.

As the train picked up speed, I could still hear the bacchanalian chorus a few cars down. After a minute or two, wheels on rails drowned them out, and we settled in with the bag of books we'd picked up in Prague.

Despite the "help" we got from Euraide, we're now in the City of Light, sur le Rive Gauche, exactement. I've never had a chance to practice my French outside a classroom, but I'm sure it'll get a good workout before we're off to Spain and points south. After that, it'll be Liz's show, linguistically.

Until then, I bid you adieu.

Berlin Fotos

Pictures from Berlin to share with you.

We've shrunk them down from the original file size, but be forewarned that the full gallery has quite a few bytes for your browser -- if you're on dial-up, please don't send us any hate mail.

And now, to the pictures:

Travel guru and PBS personality Rick Steves -- we ran into him at the Euraide office in Berlin!

Accordion man getting his gig on outside Zoo Station

The Brandenberg Gate at dusk

That statue from "Wings of Desire" glimpsed through the Gate

The Quadriga, a winged goddess of victory -- have chariot, will conquer.

Detail of the Bundestag/Reichstag

View of the Fehrseturm along the Spree River

Berlin train station under reconstruction

The bridge over Willy Brandtstrasse

Looking back at the Reichstag (or is it Bundestag?)

Detail of gryphon on bridge

Checkpoint Charlie: looking east

Photo of US border guard that hovers over CC

... and his compatriot on the DDR side

Are your papers in order?

Berlin's metros may sparkle, but they're not lemon-scented.

Berlin

To be honest, I didn't really experience that much of Berlin, though not for lack of trying.

I came down with the sniffles our last day in Amsterdam, and spent our three days in Hamburg visiting Julie and her familia fighting a cold. By the time we got to Berlin, the virus was in full force, and I was laid low for the duration.

Liz did some exploring, mostly by way of finding cold remedies, healthy beverages and fruit for me to consume. Kind woman. Among other things, she says she saw rocks for sale in a vending machine in one of the Metro stops while she was checking on our train tickets to Prague.

She's not a prevaricator by nature, but I'm still reserving judgement. Rocks for sale in a vending machine?

I felt a little better our last day, so we went out in the afternoon to secure train tickets for the next two legs of our trip. Post-reunification, Berlin is still very much under construction. Nearly every time I turned my head, there was a giant crane working on an office tower or expanding a train station. Frequently, we passed sites that were just massive, square holes several stories deep, tiny men in hardhats visible from street level.

Stitching a country back together seems like hard work, so it's hardly a surprise that they're still at it nearly fifteen years after reunification.

Afternoon became evening, and so we found ourselves walking along the Spree River while the sun set. Even at dusk, there were several tour groups soaking in the scene. German, English and Japanese-speaking guides directed their charges' attention toward the reconstructed federal building, along with the other shiny edifices along the water. (A few days later, I saw a CNN report that repeatedly referred to it as the "Reichstag," but I'm almost certain "Bundestag" is now the preferred name for the place, history notwithstanding.)

Liz was interested in checking out the Checkpoint Charlie Museum, but we arrived thirty minutes before closing and didn't feel like paying thirteen Euros and change for a quick dash about the place. We take our history a little more seriously than that, and frankly, we still have a bit of sticker shock after almost two months in Asia.

Looking in, it seemed as though they'd managed to preserve many cold war artifacts. A VW beetle, air-lifted cans of Crisco and boxes of sugar, and the last Soviet flag to fly over the wall were all prominently displayed in the windows. Another party arrived around the same time we did. I watched them ask at the desk whether they needed to pay the full rate with a half-hour left. They were rebuffed, and I could have interpreted their bitter disappointment quite readily even if I hadn't taken four years of French.

We crossed the street and ordered dinner and drinks at a Tex-Mex restaurant about ten meters from the famous border between the Iron Curtain and the Free World. As Liz tucked into an enchilada, I looked out the window at the compact white guardhouse several yards away.

I sat there eating my first cheeseburger since leaving India. It was gristly, but I took it in stride. You're always better off going with one of the house specialties. As I considered this maxim, a Volkswagen zoomed down the street through the old checkpoint and came to a stop at the light outside my window.

Two young folks in their twenties, male and female, sat in the front seat. The stereo blared something Top 40, and they bobbed their heads in time to the music. I was pretty sure I saw a flash of metal in her eyebrow as the light changed and they attempted to peel out on the slick pavement.

I guessed that they passed this way several times a week, if not each day; en route to parties, jobs, dentist appointments. I tried and failed to imagine a DDR border guard drawing a bead on their vehicle with his Kalishnikov.

They might have been in kindergarten when the wall fell, perhaps even first grade. I doubt they have any distinct memories of bread lines, black markets or mutually assured destruction. Good for them.

Volk I know in Hamburg.

For starters, here's "The Girl," as Julie often calls her.

The divine Ms. J.






Julie's guy: Ellsworth




Zoe-Gissou and Mutte get re-acquainted




ZG's most orderly assembly of Barbies and Pretty Ponies


Zoe-Gissou and her pal Ribbit squirm about after 5 seconds of tickling

Posted by Walter at 06:08 PM |