It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the culture of Islam, it was the culture of Buddhism, it was the beach by the sea, it was the hamlet in the mountains, it was the spring of relaxation, it was the autumn of inner–reflection.
Usually, we sign a one year contract and stay in a place from September to June. However, when the opportunity to volunteer and live at a Buddhist monastery in the foothills of the HimalayanMountains for six months presented itself, we had to take it. Now, from where I sit – on my private balcony overlooking the crystalline MediterraneanSea – I can see the decision was destiny.
Following our volunteering, we accepted a six-month position (to round out the year) with an American NGO (non-government organization) in Tunisia: Amideast. When we were hired, we were supposed to have been placed in one of the largest cities in this small north African nation, Sousse (you may remember it from the terrorist attacks in the summer of 2015). But fate reared its head yet again and our assignment shifted to a smaller city about 20 kilometers south along the eastern seaboard.
Yep, you guessed it. The name means monastery. So while we’ve been staying put for 10-12 months at a time, we moved to two different locations within the same year and both were – for all intents and purposes – monasteries.
My firstimpressions of Tunisia were mostly unexpected. The people smile all the time. They seem much friendlier in general than in other similar countries. Perhaps it’s the climate. The summers (theysay) can get very hot, but all in all the coastal cities share the weather of Greece, Italy and southern Spain.
There is a lot of litter around on the streets and blowing in the wind. The beaches aren’t up to American or even European standards (probably one of the reasons tourism has dipped recently), but what surprised me is that the air seems cleaner than Nepal and Egypt. There seems to be much lessdust and there is an ability to take deep breaths and smell the salty sea air.
Monastir as a city is quaint and quiet. It juts out on a little peninsula that faces east so the sunrises sparkle off the blue-green water. The view from our balcony looks out over the Mausoleumof Bourguiba and the ribat (a medieval fort) as well as the eastern wall of the medina (old city). There is a lot of traffic along the busier streets, but it’s nothing compared to the hectic turmoil of Nepal. So maybe first impressions are relative. If we had arrived in Tunisia directly from the United States, we may have been in for much more of a shock than we were.
The costofliving is much lower here than many other places, including Spain. In fact a kilogram of oranges costs about $0.25 and rents are a fraction of what a similar apartment would be in America or Europe. We’ve started running again, now that we have room to do so, and there are lots of benefits to exercise so near to the sea. More importantly than any of that though: we feel safe. There was a lot of speculation regarding our security before we got here. I’m pleased to announce that as of the writing of this blog, all is well.
One of the initial downsides that may impact the entire time here is the workschedule. Many of the classes are geared toward adults and therefore must take place in the evenings and on weekends. It makes planning meals and leisure time activities difficult. On top of that, it’s not a static schedule. There is the potential to get more classes each month when new sessions begin.
Like everywhere else in the world, Tunisia is full of positives and negatives, advantages and disadvantages. Only time will tell if the pluses outweigh the negatives, but so far, it’s looking quite good.
Just like people are either Elvis fans or Beatles fans (you can like both, but not equally – sooner or later you have to choose), people are either fact–based or faith–based. They subscribe to science or to religion. I have never considered myself a faith-based person. Growing up RomanCatholic taught me to mourn my faith instead of celebrate it like many Protestants do. When I posed logical, scientific inquiry into the dogma and doctrine of the Church, my questions were met with answers that never really satisfied my intellect. Since I was a teenager, I have spent a good amount of time seeking those answers – seeking the truth.
I have read books and had lengthy conversations with people. I have prayed and meditated. I have lived all over the world and experienced many different cultures through their traditions, customs, and ways of life. And still, I came up empty every time. With a heavy sigh, I just figured that religion was opium for the masses (to quote Karl Marx) and not for me. I never denied the possibility of a higher power or some great organization to the universe; however, I could never find any truth in the organized religions of the world.
So when we moved to a TibetanBuddhistmonastery in the foothills of the HimalayanMountains just outside of Kathmandu, I was curious, I was interested, but I wasn’t sold. I remained skeptical and cynical in my outlook on religion. Perhaps because Buddhism isn’t technically a religion (it’s a philosophy) I came to it more open-minded or willing to accept certain tenants than I had in the past. Perhaps I’m just growing up and getting older and the need for life to be more than simply random subatomic particles flung together to create existence is overwhelming. Whatever the case, I have spent my time here wisely and come to accept Buddhism as the truth for me.
I willingly participated in a TakingRefuge ceremony given by the abbot of the monastery. The short ritual is a verbal affirmation that I will live my life according to the Buddhist ideals, mainly to end the suffering of others, to not bring harm to anyone in any way through my actions, thoughts, and speech, and to continue on the path – or Dharma – in learning as much as I can about the teachings of Buddha through personal meditation, conversations with Sangha (the community of Buddhists, specifically monks and nuns), and reading books upon books of the Buddhist philosophies.
About ten of us were escorted into the abbot’s room, where he spoke about what it means to take refuge. He asked us all for our individual reasons why we wanted to take refuge and he explained that we would have to show respect to Buddhist ideas and images as well as follow the basic five precepts (no killing, no lying, no stealing, no sexual misconduct, and no intoxicants). Once we affirmed this, in both English and Tibetan, with a bit of assistance, he gave us all Tibetan names, took some photos, and sent us on our way. My Tibetan name is ThubtenSherab. All Tibetan names have meanings and one of the reasons that Buddhists are given new names is so that they can strive to achieve the quality of their names. Thubten means “teachings of the Buddha” and Sherab means “wisdom.”
Buddhism isn’t a religion, although it has religion-like qualities. Buddha wasn’t a god, although he has some god-like qualities. Buddha means “enlightened one.” Similarly, the word messiah, which Christianity deems was Jesus, means “anointed one.” Many Buddhists, especially Westerners who were brought up Christian, believe that Jesus himself was one of the many Buddhas, or enlightened ones, who have walked the Earth. So it’s quite possible for any Christian to become Buddhist as well without giving up his faith. That is one of the aspects that is so great: it’s a philosophy, a way of life, a way of thinking, acting, and speaking. To be a Buddhist is to bring compassion to the world around you. To be a Christian is much the same. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Turn the other cheek. Love your enemy. These are all Christian ideals that can equally be applied to Buddhism. I encourage all of you to read about Buddhism. Look up some information. Learn more. It’s wonderfully fulfilling.
Finally, after years of searching, I feel like I have found a way of living and thinking that I can really grasp and hold onto. Thank you for having me Kopan Monastery. I shall always treasure my time spent with you, look back fondly on the memories and friends I’ve made, and miss you from wherever I eventually end up calling home.
America has a carculture. I remember quite distinctly being a teenager in the suburbs and waiting with baited breath to turn the legal driving age so that I could get around to see my friends and have the ultimate freedom. I remember getting my learner’s permit and those first few times starting up the ignition and backing down the driveway. I remember all the lessons: parallel parking, checking mirrors, signaling before changing lanes… and the infrastructure is something that most Americans take for granted. Traffic lights, stop signs, painted lines on the roads, mile markers, and other conveniences are abnormally absent from third world countries.
So when I decided to become an expat, I knew that driving was one privilege that I didn’t want to lose. I went to AAA and got my internationaldriver’spermit so that I could operate a motor vehicle in every country in the world. While living in SouthKorea, I bought a motorcycle and took lessons so that I could get around town without having to rely on the public transportation system – the metro line was in construction in JisanDong (myneighborhood) and overcrowded buses were the only option.
In Turkiye, I only drove once when I had to leave school and get back to my apartment for some important paperwork that I had left at home. I borrowed my supervisor’s car and braved the Middle Eastern roads and traffic (my wife was a mess thinking about it). It’s something that I couldn’t have done without my international permit.
While living in China, the school provided us with an eBike – it topped out at 40 kph (whichisnothing), and only for a short time before needing to be recharged, but we were able to get back and forth from the school campus to the bus station or the supermarket in town when we needed to. Incidentally, I didn’t need a permit to operate such a small eBike anyway.
In Spain, we rented a car a few times to drive around the country, or between countries. We took an amazing roadtrip through the south of France in October of last year (with a detour through Andorra) and then when we were in Germany over the Christmas holiday, we rented a car to get us back and forth to Prague in the CzechRepublic. Driving in Germany was one of the best vehicular pleasures of my life – the roads are well-lit, the drivers know what they’re doing, and sometimes there’s no speed limit at all.
Whether or not I was behind the wheel in these countries, I sure as heck saw some weird, crazy, and sometimes amazing things on the roads.
For example, in Ankara we saw people get into a fight on the road. They literally got out of their stopped cars in the middle of the lanes of traffic, went into their trunks and pulled out ironbars and baseballbats. Apparently, a lot of drivers keep weapons on hand in case of incidents of roadrage. Pretty freaky!
In another instance, we were in the backseat of a car in China (driven by one of the workers of our school), who proceeded to not only drive into lanes of oncoming traffic, but then swerved onto the opposingshoulder of the road to try and make a leftturn by avoiding the intersection completely and cutting off four rows of cars, buses, and trucks to do so. It was single-handedly the worst driving I have ever seen in my life.
The roads in Nepal and Cambodia are a nightmare. Yet somehow, the drivers seem to know how to successfully navigate the traffic. I have yet to see any kind of accident here. The speeds top out at probably 35 mph anyway, so no one is really gunning it – pedal to the metal – down the dusty, pot-hole-filled streets, but still. The roads are twisting and turning, and in both countries, 5 cars are squeezed into the space of where only two would normally fit. Don’t get me started on the motorbikes either. They are everywhere and will cut off the larger vehicles on both sides just to get around a jam.
If you choose to drive overseas, make sure you are completely comfortable behind the wheel. And if you’re an avid driver in the States, thank your lucky stars that you get to drive in such amazing conditions.
As all of you already know, it’s very difficult to be away from home for the holidays. There’s just something about surrounding yourself with friends and family that makes the Christmas season all the more special. Living abroad, Jen and I often find ourselves alone and have to make the best of it. This year was particularly hard since we don’t have many comforts of home living at the monastery. So we took it upon ourselves to make our own holiday magic.
For Thanksgiving, we ate on a balcony overlooking the BoudhanathStupa, which was all lit up like it was Christmas. It was quite a festive feeling to be had on our holiday, as well as a great kick-start to the season. Surprisingly, the monastery helped set the mood too. On the night of December 23rd they held a candle-lit vigil in front of a very “Christmas-y” looking gompa. We processed around the grounds, including a walk through the stupagarden, along with almost four–hundred monks. It was quite a thing to behold.
On the morning of the 24th, we took a two hour taxi ride outside the KathmanduValley and up into the Himalayan Mountains. There is a small hilltop village called Nagarkot where we stayed at a really nice hotel called the CountryVilla. We got a corner room overlooking the snow–cappedpeaks. The ‘suite’ came complete with a queen–sizebed, heating in the room (a rarity in Nepal), hotwater in the shower (that doesn’t go out after five minutes), and roomservice.
We spent almost three full days simply relaxing in the mountains. We read. We played games. We ordered in. We woke up early to watch the sunrise on our private balcony. We drank hot cocoa and egg nog. And we, of course, opened our gifts. It wasn’t the fanciest Christmas ever, but we managed to enjoy it quite a bit.
So far, we have no plans for New Year’s Eve. The monastery closes its gates at 9:00pm and we cannot be out later than that without special permission – which we probably won’t worry about getting. We’ll see what happens. This will be my final post for 2016. We wish you all a wonderful holiday season and a happy new year!
Sometimes it’s nice to be pampered: to go to a spa and relax with a hot stone treatment, deep tissue massage, and the whole works. Sometimes it’s just nice to be able to get a haircut. Living abroad can make doing these kinds of things difficult.
Recently, I went to a local Nepali barbershop to get my haircut and I was reminded of all the other haircuts we’ve tried to get since living overseas. In Korea, I couldn’t get the stylist at the salon I went to with my buddy Luke to agree to the haircut I wanted. Perhaps it was the language barrier, or perhaps he knew what I wanted and simply refused to give it to me. Either way, I never went back and didn’t try getting my haircut anywhere else since then. Until now.
In China, I didn’t get my haircut, but Jen did (she didn’t in Turkey, what with her coworkers all wearing hijabs, she didn’t have anyone to ask about salons). It cost her very little money and the stylist spent the better part of an hour working her hair over and she looked glorious when it was all said and done. He did an amazing job for practically pennies. He cut it, styled it, layered it, thinned it, blew it out, and did whatever else it is that you ladies always get done at the salon.
See, my hair is simple and I own my own set of clippers so 99% of the time, I just do it myself. I cut my own hair in Turkey, in China, and in Spain. However, trying to give myself a trim here at the monastery would prove to be a hassle. We don’t really have our own living space: essentially living a dormitory lifestyle, we have a room and a bathroom and we get our meals in a dining hall. But we don’t really have the money to spend on cleaning products (volunteersthatweare) and I don’t really feel like having to stoop down and pick pieces of my hair up one at a time off the floor. On top of that, our bathroom is minuscule, I would have more room if I used the outdoor shared bathroom in our old building. However, then I have to worry about the cold, the inadequate lighting, and potential people walking in on me while I’m half-naked and shaving my head.
It’s just not going to work.
So I went to get it done. And what an experience it was. The salon – spelled Sailoon on the window – was a dirty, one room business on the corner at the bottom of the hill beneath the monastery. The owner is a young twenty-something who took over the family business from his father. He’s been cutting hair since he was nine years old. He sat me down, flipped the skirt thing around me, and asked me what I wanted. I told him and he began with the clippers, but he didn’t last long with them. He quickly switched to the scissors and comb.
His deft fingers flew across my scalp, faster than anyone’s ever cut my hair before. But I wasn’t scared he was going to cut me; he was simply that good. It was like EdwardScissorhands or something. He got halfway through my haircut and then declared a fiveminuteteabreak. He went next door and came back with a glass of tea for me and one for himself. He sat next to me chatting in his very broken and difficult to understand English. Super nice guy.
After we finished our tea, he commenced my haircut. When he was finished, he asked me if I liked it and I told him I did. He then proceeded to massage my scalp. I thought that was all I was going to get but when he was finished with my scalp, he moved to my forehead and eyelids and then down the back of my neck. He massaged my neck, back, arms, hands, and even crackedmy knuckles on both hands. Following the massage and the haircut, he then moved into style mode. He put three products in my hair: gel, pomade, and hairspray – all of which he applied using a blowdryer. When I left, I looked like a movie star. I guess that’s what you get when your barber has been cutting hair since he was in the single digits.
I’m sorry to have to report this back to you guys in the States who pay upwards of $20 (for men) and $60 (for women) just to get your haircuts. But this very able barber charges his Nepali clients a total of 50 rupees (50 cents) for their haircuts. I felt generous after such a good job. I gave him $3.00.
Drums out in the wilds of the deepest jungles of central Asia! The beating will drive madness into the mind! Danger! Excitement! Wild beasts! And now, presenting a safari trekking excursion!
Our third day began with an early start. When we finished breakfast, we walked down to the river and got into a special kind of canoe, made by the hollowing out of a special type of tree trunk. The canoe held about ten people and slowly made its way downstream to the entrance of the jungle. Along the way we saw plenty of waterfowl including egrets, cranes, and smaller, more colorful birds, and even a few crocodiles near the banks. I was worried the boat would tip too far to the left and start taking in water, but magically, it never did. We arrived at our destination dry as bones. Now it was time for our jungle trek.
The guide gave us his spiel about what to do if we encountered some of the area’s more dangerous critters: sloth bears, rhinos, and tigers (fun fact: did you know that you’re supposed to stare down a tiger if he comes across you, looking fierce, making funny faces, and loud noises while waving your arms at him? Truthfully, the last thing you want to do when facing a tiger is turn tail and run away). Rhinos have bad eyesight so if they charge at you, you’re supposed to run in a zigzag pattern and possibly either hide behind or climb up a tree.
So we hiked through the dense vegetation of the rain forest and the adjacent grasslands with 12 foot high grasses (whichmadevisibilitynegligible) and didn’t encounter anything dangerous. We saw lots of brightly colored insects and birds, a few monkeys, a flock of spotted deer, and tiger tracks (weevenheard one barking in thedistance), but we didn’t see any. I thought I saw the back half of a panther, jaguar, or some other type of smaller jungle cat, but it disappeared before our guide could identify it. What we did see was big piles of animal stool, like sloth bears and rhinos. It was like we were tracking the beasts and our guide could tell us how recently the animals had been in the very spot we were standing. Too bad they had vacated the premises before our arrival.
Three hours later, we were sitting on a raised platform under the shade of a tree overlooking the river, watching an elephant cross the water. We hadn’t seen any rhinos yet, so our guide promised to take us out the next morning to a spot on the river where he knew they would be so that we could see them. All in all, our jungle safari trek was fun, but uneventful. At one point Jen had a leech on her pants, which came off easily with one small tug, but otherwise not much else happened. We returned to the town for showers, more a/c card games, and dinner.
Our fourth day started with a bang. RHINOS! We hiked to the river and saw two of them, one in the water taking his own bath and another up on the bank eating some grass (they’reherbivores). They are truly amazing creatures that made me feel as if I were in Jurassic Park. They really do resemble dinosaurs with the horn and armor plating. The rhino in the river crossed paths with a wild elephant too. They were really awesome to see.
After the rhinos, Jen wanted to bathe with the elephants again since it was our main reason for coming to the area and she had so much fun the first time. So she did that again, this time she spent close to 45 minutes scrubbing down a twenty-five year old girl named Elisa (orEliza), who had walked for five days across India just to get into Nepal with her teenage owner and his five year old little brother. Both Jen and the elephant were all smiles that day and I got some great pics, so I was all smiles too.
Following more showers, we took a quick motorcycle ride to the ElephantBreedingCenter, where baby elephants run around amok. We arrived just as they finished their grazing in the forest and were coming back for feeding time. We both got to play with and touch them (something you could never do in the States); one of the younger ones was running around the entire place looking for something sweet to eat, barreling toward the tourists, who jumped out of her way.
Their mothers are chained up while the babies roam free so that when they’re playing with tourists, the mothers don’t stampede or do anything else dangerous. We finished up just as the rain started coming down so we went back to town to wait out the rain and then head around for some souvenir shopping and more dinner at KCs.
When dinner was over we took a walk along the river, saw some more crocodiles and tried to see the sunset, but because it was cloudy we only got more changing, shifting colors and didn’t ever really get a chance to see the brilliant ball of gas slipping lower behind the horizon. That night was awful because the electricity never came back on and we had to sleep in a muggy, bug-infested room (the screens had holes) and I barely slept a wink. It was awful, especially knowing what followed the next morning: another horrible, terrible, no good, very bad bus ride back up to Kathmandu (we found out the hard way that this time took 8 hours, not 6 because of muddy roads and traffic).
All in all, we had a great adventure in the jungles of Nepal. As always, the people are marvelous and well worth visiting. They really seem to care about going above and beyond to ensure you’re enjoying yourself. If you can stomach the bus ride, and have a few extra days, Chitwan National Park is worth it in spite of not ever getting the guarantee of seeing animals on your jungle trek. We recommend it!
Drums out in the wilds of the deepest jungles of central Asia! The beating will drive madness into the mind! Danger! Excitement! Wild beasts! And now, presenting a safari trekking excursion!
Our adventure began with the bus ride from hell: six grueling hours on bumpy, unpaved, dusty, twisting and turning mountain roads in a vehicle without comfort (no a/c, cramped seating, and some bad body odor). When we wiped our foreheads, our hands came back black with soot and dirt. We weren’t sure the bus would even be operating on the day we needed to go because the monsoon season had brought with it a fair share of mud and landslides, blocking the roads. The tourism company had to find out if the roads would be cleared first, before they would even consider selling us tickets.
The bus did end up going and once we arrived at the dirt parking lot of the Sauraha bus terminal (there was no terminal), we negotiated a taxi to the hotel with a local driver, hopped into the back of his “junglejeep” (nothing more than a pickup truck with seats in the back) and drove through more bumpy, unpaved, and dusty roads to get to our hotel. Our backs and backsides were killing us, but as the rain started pouring, we just wanted to get into our room and get showered.
The hotel was called the RiverBankInn, aptly named as it is (asadvertised) on the edge of the RaptiRiver. The staff, all three of them, were very helpful and friendly. We chose the hotel because the guidebook said they owned three of their own elephants and that idea sounded marvelous to Jen; however, when we got there we learned that only four months earlier, the owner sold the elephants because they were too expensive to keep and business wasn’t doing so well. During our time there we learned why.
The hotel had zero ambiance. Up and down the main strip in the town, you can find dozens of safari themed lodges and campgrounds – totally immersing visitors in a jungle experience. The River Bank Inn didn’t do any of that unfortunately (but their breakfasts were some of the better hotel breakfasts we have had over the past few years).
After the rain ceased, we wandered around the town for a while, checking out the local shops and restaurants. The town of Sauraha feels like you’re stepping into a time warp; it’s not just being in an exotic location, it had a very Bedrock vibe to it. We had dinner at a wonderful little place called KCs, which had an entire garden out back and a diner-style menu featuring Indian, Mexican, Italian, and American foods. They’re known for their tandoori dishes so we stuck with eating Indian food while we were there (we went back every night for dinner – it was the best restaurant in town). The sky lit up with beautiful colors of magentas and violets as the sun set across the river and we were treated to some unique sights: elephants walking down the town streets, something we had never seen, nor even fathomed seeing before. Jen’s reaction was priceless!
Our second day activities opened with the primary reason for our visit. Jen donned her bikini and we hiked down to the river so that she could meet and bathe with the elephants. Basically, there are two kinds of elephants in the ChitwanNationalPark area: government owned and privately owned. Private owners let the elephant handlers, aka mahouts, take their elephants out and around town for various money-making enterprises, one of which is the bathing.
Tourists can help scrub the elephants down while they lay around in the river, or they can get on the beasts’ backs and allow themselves to be sprayed with trunk loads of water. The elephants are trained to suck up the water and then blow it all over their backs and the people on their backs. It’s a lot of fun to watch and even more fun to be soaked. Needless to say, Jen had a blast, no pun intended, playing around with a couple of elephants and then we headed back to the room for showers again.
Southern Nepal (headingtowardIndia), where Chitwan National Park is located is much closer to sea level than the mountainous valleys of Kathmandu. Therefore, it’s much hotter and way more humid than the weather at the monastery. Every day peaked in the mid to high 90s with humidity at about the same. So following our morning activities, we spent the better part of the afternoon holed up in our room in front of the a/c (when the power worked – don’t forget this is Nepal and they only get electricity that works 50% of the time) playing cards or reading together. Once 4:00pm hit and the temperature and humidity dipped down did we brave the elements to venture out into the town again for some shopping, dinner, and night life.
And night life meant the TharuStickDance performances at their cultural hall. Following dinner, we were entertained by a troop performing ancient, local dances to a very loud bongo drum. There was some chanting, but overall it was a bunch of people moving about in a large circle with smaller one-handed sticks or larger two-handed sticks, beating them together to the rhythm of the drum. The announcer had a really bad microphone (andnot–so–hotEnglish) so while we couldn’t understand what she was introducing, we were entertained in an awkward sorta way by their costumes and musical numbers. It was obvious that most of the participants cared about their heritage and wanted to put on a good show for those in attendance (aboutfiftypeopleorso). At the end, they even called willing spectators on stage to join in the final number. That was hectic and chaotic, but everyone appeared to enjoy it and have a great time.
There are many advantages and disadvantages to living abroad as you have read so far in this series, and most of them can be rather humorous. One such example is stayingactive and workingout, which can sometimes present interesting challenges and unforeseen difficulties in third world countries.
As I’ve mentioned before, teaching ESL in South Korea ran like a Swiss clock. The school not only provided housing and healthcare, but also gave their teachers memberships to a local gym. I could work out to my heart’s content (typically about 3 times a week when I lived there – before Jen started forcing me to do it every day). The club was within walking distance of both the school and the apartment building where the teachers were housed. Since leaving Korea, however, keeping fit has been something of a hassle, in spite of my wife’s prodding.
While in Turkiye, Jen and I had to walk down (and then up) hill for 15 – 20 minutes just to get to the park with the outdoortrack so we could run. Unfortunately, the track wasn’t only used for running. We had to play Frogger with the other pedestrians and their strollers and toddlers and wheelchairs and senior citizens – not to mention the actual cars that would cross over the track on their way to the parking lot nestled on the other side. I actually ran into a toddler once and inadvertently knocked him down. I didn’t look back but could hear him crying as I continued along my way.
In China, we ran through the ruralvillage in the countryside near our school campus. In Taoyuan, the people had never seen anyone white before so we’d get our photo taken countless times during shopping trips to the market. You can imagine what running must have looked like. People began to expect to see us (as far as I can tell) since they would cheer when we went by and even offer high fives or butt slaps on occasion (okay, okay, I’m exaggerating about the butt slaps). Yes, they would’ve been sitting on their front porches anyway, but it is truly hard to run when you’re laughing so hard because you just got punched in the shoulder by some old Chinese woman as you ran past her house.
And in Spain, Jen was such a drillsergeant that she made me (and our friend Alicia) run through all weather conditions including rain, snow, sleet, and hail. I felt like a postal carrier. On a more positive note, we did our first international5k while in Pamplona, last October for breastcancer awareness. On a negative note to that positive note, most of the Spaniards walked instead of ran, you can just guess how well that went over with Sergeant Jen. But it was practice for her, at any rate, to runwiththebulls in July.
Here, in Nepal, we can’t even run at or around the monastery because there just isn’t a place to do it. There aren’t any paved roads on the side of the mountain for us to run up and down (not that we’d want to run up and down a mountain), so that’s not an option. And while the gompa sits in the center of the grounds and a stone path circumnavigates it, because of last year’s earthquake, it’s covered with rubble and construction equipment as the contractors rebuild and repair the damaged structures (if we ran that loop, we would also have to deal with stairs and stray dogs).
Oh, you want to hear a dog story? Back in Ankara, Jen was attacked by a pack of the wildbeasts when she tried to run one evening. They were jumping all over her. And if you don’t know Jen very well, let me tell you she just loves dogs. Loves them. All animals really, especially the strays. Not.
But running isn’t the only thing we like to do to be healthy. We also enjoy yoga from time to time. Since coming to Nepal we’ve been doing it on the roof of our building (the only place with enough flat space and some amazing Himalayan views) every morning between 5:30-6:30am. We’ve tried to do yoga other places though with some hardships. In Spain, for instance, we didn’t have wifi in our apartment and since we were streaming episodes from the internet, it was difficult. Since then, we have had to download episodes and then save them all, knowing we were coming here with limited internet access. When we run out, we’ll have to just repeat the same couple dozen that I’ve saved over and over again.
Wherever we go, we do our best to make the best of the situation. There’s always time and a place to work out and take care of your body. You just have to look for those options. You can’t shortcut health and fitness. Make a schedule and stick to it. Don’t let weather or laziness or bad internet or even unpaved mountain roads get in your way. The moral of the story: Just Do It!
On Sunday, Jen and I attended a four hour puja in the gompa at the monastery. Now, if a bunch of those words don’t make sense to you, you’re not alone; just let me explain. A puja is a prayerservice and a gompa is the building, like a church or a temple. Over 1,000 people attended this very special prayer service on Sunday, which was dedicated to one of the gurus, who passed away a few years ago and has since been reincarnated into a now three and a half year old little boy. Sound a bit far-fetched? Not if you’re Buddhist.
A lama is a spiritualleader in the Buddhist faith. But more than that, lamas are people who have learned how to control when and where they will be reincarnated. They aren’t all “enlightened”, at least not yet, but they all have achieved a certain level of understanding of the universe around them. In Buddhism, the main concept is to still your mind through meditation so that you can learn the truths of the universe – the major one being the idea of emptiness (or selfless-ness, loss ofego). All Buddhists are somewhere along the Dharma or the path to enlightenment. They are striving to attain the status of Buddha. There are stops along the way, including the title of lama.
This particular puja was dedicated to a man named LamaLundrup, the former abbot (head) of KopanMonastery. His reincarnation appeared in a boy named TenzinRigsel, who lives in the city of Kathmandu until he becomes old enough to enter monastic life. Hopefully, he’ll accept his destiny. But what happens if he doesn’t? Well, it happened recently.
A few years ago, a young man denied his Buddhist order after being chosen by the DalaiLamahimself as a reincarnation of another lama. OselTorres, now lives in Spain and studies film at a university in Madrid, but he was supposed to be a monk. So what happened? He was the finalist chosen out of nine boys to be whisked away to a monastery in northern India, where he was denied sports, movies, and girls. “It was like living a lie,” he told ElMundo (aSpanishnewspaper). I suppose ultimately, we’re born with free will and that can mean turning your back on your fate if you want to, and choosing another.
So the puja lasted four hours with an intermission and involved a lot of bowing, offerings, and chanting in Tibetan. It was very hard to follow, but with the help of our English translation, Jen and I at least got the gist. Visitors from Singapore sponsored the event, which meant they brought along snacks and relics to hand out to the participants. Other than being in a foreign language and in a foreign temple, all in all, the services were a lot like a Catholic Mass or a Christian church service. It was quite an experience.
Recently, my wife and I moved in with one of her coworkers in an effort to save money over the summer during the period of time we won’t have an income. It’s a great help and we’re very thankful to her and her family for their sacrifice.
That being said, they have to do something about their hotwaterheater. The flame randomly goes out all the time, especially when someone has a face and hair full of soap and shampoo in the middle of their shower. The water turns icecold to the point of being very painful and the difficulties we’re now having with our bathing have reminded me of some of our past issues while living overseas.
One would think bathing is a fundamental human activity. After all, everyone has to do it. So even the most under-developed nations should have a system in place of helping people to bathe and shower easily and conveniently. Not so.
Bathrooms are vastly different from continent to continent. Some people in Africa and the MiddleEast don’t have running water and indoor plumbing. The FarEast doesn’t use shower stalls and bathtubs, preferring instead to just open up the entire bathroom to wetness while showering (you get the toilet and sink drenched every time). Most countries, other than the US and Canada don’t implement clothing dryers when doing your laundry (this isn’t exactly bathing, but still). One has to hang their laundry on lines or racks; Asians even used these circular hangers with clips for their naughty bits to dangle from while drying.
In Turkiye, before we bought legitimate towels, Jen and I had an experience of drying ourselves off with paper towels from the kitchen after our shower. But perhaps of all these weird and wild experiences trying to keep clean abroad, the craziest happened to us in China.
Last year we lived in a dormitory for teachers and students in a ruralboardingschool. The building didn’t offer freehotwater to its residents. Instead, we had to charge money onto a special card that went into a reader that was bolted to the wall in the bathroom when we wanted the hot water to come on. Unfortunately, hot water was onlyavailable certain times of the day, typically between 6-8am and 8-10pm. If we wanted to wash dishes or shower in the middle of the day we were either freezing our tushies off or just plain out of luck (you would think they would either limit the time or charge us money, not both).
One time, when we absolutely needed to shower, but the hot water wasn’t turned on, I had to boil water in our electric kettle and then dilute it with cold water until it was a decently warm temperature so that the mixture could then be poured over top of Jen’s head while she scrubbed herself down. You can imagine this picture: Jen covered in soap, shivering… me fully clothed and pouring buckets of water over top of her while she’s in the bathroom, getting me and everything else wet.
The moral of these stories: don’t take your nice, hot showers for granted. Ever.
Cultures of the world are full of traditions. Some are time-honored. Some are silly. Some both. Made famous by Hemingway in his novel, The Sun Also Rises, Pamplona Spain is home to one of the most random I’ve ever encountered that is all of the above: The Running of the Bulls. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?
Hundreds of people, dressed in red and white, take to the street (only one, sectioned off by wooden blockades) to run and jog alongside half-ton beasts with pairs of 18″ daggers protruding off the front of their heads. Many of these runners are drunk – let’s face it, you’d have to be right? But not all of them.
My wife was recently one of the sober ones (and she still chose to do it). If you don’t know what it is, allow me to wax intellectual about it for a brief moment. Six bulls are let loose to run as fast as their little hooves can carry them up and around the twisting, turning streets of the medieval section of Pamplona during the festival of San Fermines every July.
Originally, the custom dates back to the 14thCentury when it became necessary to use fear and excitement to entice the bulls to run faster and faster (and the butchers themselves wore white). What evolved was a competition between men to see who could do the best job of scaring the bulls into the corrals. Enter the Spanish concept of Machismo with men trying to showcase their bravado and you have the contemporary Running of the Bulls.
The course ends at the PlazadelToros where the bulls are kept for a few more hours between the morning run and the evening bull fights, an event during which time the bulls are ruthlessly toyed with for the amusement of the expectant crowd before being callously slaughtered – by the matadors – for no apparent reason. They do eat the meat, and honestly the killing is more humane than most American slaughterhouses. And it’s tradition. So it’s okay.
Jen decided she needed to run, not once, but twice. The first time was just a run through (nopunintended) and she felt as if she could do better. So she did. The second time around, she waited for the bulls to make their presence known before starting her brief jaunt. Two men tripped and fell in front of her so she had to leap over their bodies, solidifying her opinion that she actually participated in the event (because running in and of itself doesn’t quite count). Don’t forget, this is the girl who sneaked into the Domeof the Rock and drove across the Sinaipeninsula with an armed escort.
Contrary to popular belief, Pamplona isn’t the only city that hosts a running of the bulls. Smaller villages all over northern Spain do their own version of the run, sometimes with less bulls, sometimes with cows instead (did you know they have horns as well?), and sometimes with both. For example, the principality of Viana does a run with three cows and one bull. And another small village of Alfaro (in the La Rioja region of Spain) does an afternoon run with bulls and another run in the mornings with cows.
Additionally, there’s a firebull for the children. What’s a fire bull? Funny you should ask. A fire bull is a 30kg headpiece with handlebars and fireworks shooting out from the sides. Some guy dons this device and chases after children as young as three years old. The saying goes that if you get burned by the fireworks, you’re running too close to the bull. That way, when you’re old enough to run with the real bulls, you’ll know to keep well ahead of them. Fun, right?
So the next time you’re bored, you can either head off to the local bull ranch and tease a bull, or just shoot off some fireworks at your kids. That’ll get ’em running!
I’ve gotten some feedback recently that many of my readers enjoy the articles filled with anecdotes about some of the troubles in living abroad. Therefore, I have decided to create a little series of blogs called the Overseas Series, in which I will explore various aspects of life as an expat in humorous and poignant ways. This will be the debut article in that series.
It’s the little things, most of the time, that make living abroad difficult. Likewise, it’s an entirely different set of little things that help create a homeawayfromhome. What do I mean? Let me share a few stories with you so you can see for yourself.
When hopping from country to country, one also hops from apartment to apartment. In so doing, you’re forced to abandon and then re–buy items that make you feel comfortable in your new surroundings. Simple household items such as curtains, coffeepots, and holiday decorations can turn a drab and empty flat into a cozy place you can return to at the end of a work day for R&R. However, finding these items (and then affording them) can be quite difficult.
For example, most recently Easter came and went and Jen and I had a tough time dying our eggs. Why? Because in Spain (as in many of the other nations across the globe) white eggs are difficult if not impossible to come by. America is one of the few countries whose dairy industry pressure washes the eggs (additionally, only in America is it necessary to refrigerate your eggs – while abroad, we leave ours out on the counter and they’re perfectly fine).
Another example is Christmas decorations. In Turkiye and China (two cultures in which Christmas is foreign), decorations are put up for the NewYear celebration and those decorations look strikingly similar to what we would use for Christmas (ie twinkling lights, glittery wall-hangings, even a fully-trimmed tree). So it wasn’t that hard to find, but again, there were little differences. In the Basque region of Spain, only about 20-30% of the population knows anything about SantaClaus. The other 70-80% either get their gifts from the TresReyes (orThreeKings) during the Feastofthe Epiphany, or from a Santa “knock–off” who wears blue and sweeps chimneys: Olentzero (and many of the decorations are him or the kings).
Which quickly swings me around to my next point. Many of the customs and traditions are similar to ours in the West, but are slightly different. For instance, Spanish people celebrate their birthdays not by being taken out to dinner (or drinks), but by taking their friends and family out. Needless to say, they can get quite expensive, especially if you’re a popular guy. In Turkiye, when a couple gets engaged, they are expected – yes, expected – to bring in little sweettreats to share with their coworkers (even the ones who weren’t invited to the party).
Sometimes, our holiday traditions are so foreign to those we befriend, we find ourselves explaining them in gross detail. Like the time I had to call a restaurant to make dinner reservations for Jen’s birthday in China, and the concierge didn’t exactly understand what I meant by having a birthdaycake with candles (that phone call lasted way longer than it needed to). Or the occasion that Jen taught her class about Halloween and Trick or Treating. She invited them to knock on our apartment door to get some candy (they didn’t have costumes so I wanted to “trick” them, but she wouldn’t let me).
As you can see, there is a lot to learn on both sides of the proverbial aisle when it comes to living in a foreign land. We are constantly learning about other cultures and teaching the people we meet about ours (at least the ones they don’t pick up from American films and television shows). These are just a few of the ways in which it’s possible to create a home away from home.
That famous song and scene from My Fair Lady depicts Audrey Hepburn learning to pronounce the long A vowel sound in English. I wish my students displayed such a love for education as she does. Alas, they do not.
The most difficult aspect of my job this year, teaching in an Opus Dei high school in Pamplona is a single question: What kind of adults does a school system create? Or to put it another way, how does the school system affect the culture of a nation and its people?
40 years of a fascist government under Francisco Franco has dictated (no pun intended) the direction that the culture has shifted. You’re probably scratching your head and wondering how one has anything to do with the other. Well, let me connect the dots for you.
The first element of this equation is the culture. Spaniards are known to be a very friendly and relaxed people (see my other article about it). Because of that, they don’t put as much emphasis on work or career that Americans or Germans do. The Spaniards simply enjoy their lives to the fullest. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
The second element is the aftermath of Franco’sregime. For generations, who are still very much alive and can remember, Spain wasn’t allowed any semblance of freedom. Franco told everyone what to do, how to do it, when and where to do it, etc. When the country became a democracy in 1975, the pendulum swung the other way completely. Now, there’s a underlying feeling of political correctness in the air.
Add these two parts together and what do you get? One of those firecrackers that doesn’t go off. Students in Spain lack any type of motivation to learn. It’s a struggle to get even the brightest of minds to complete his homework or ask a question in class. They rush through their assignments so that they can play smartphone games, or join their friends on the soccer pitch (don’t get me started on Europeans’ obsession with soccer).
So what came first? The proverbial chicken or the egg?
The students seem to want to do only the bare minimum of work to get through the class. There isn’t any inherit curiosity about their world. There isn’t any value for education or where a good one will take them in the future. Most importantly is something I’ve noticed in all my travels. The UnitedStates gets a bad reputation all over the world. We aren’t loved, and I’m not sure we ever were. When I first began teaching, it was my goal to escape my home country.
Four years later, I have now found the single greatest thing that makes America and Americans great. Criticalthinking. No nation on the globe teaches their students to be critical thinkers like the US does. Sure, I’m speaking in broad generic strokes and there may be elements of it in other countries (I’m sure the U.K. and Germany do a pretty damn good job too). But overall, from Turkiye and Spain to China and South Korea, there is no emphasis placed on a learner’s ability to plan ahead. There’s just not enough problem solving going on.
In Spain specifically, the reason goes again back to their government. Most students want to scrape by because when they graduate, they want to get a civil service job. There are 46 million people living in Spain and 3 million federalcivilservice positions including administrators, police, healthcare, and even street sweepers to name a few. There are even more per capita region by region.
With a gradually decreasing unemploymentrate (from 23%-20% in just one year), and so many civil service positions available for many who do not have an education, students in Spain just don’t have the motivation to apply themselves. And the few that do, haven’t developed the necessary critical thinking skills to succeed (they’re too content to play their video games and text with their friends all the time – check out this article from the Guardian).
From early primary school, children aren’t taught to behave properly in public. I have seen it in my school and in other schools. From the age of 3+, they run around like wild animals, screaming and fighting, and doing God knows what else. It is this awful behavior (which remains uncorrected by both parents and teachers) that continues through secondary school. Unlike in Turkiye, Spanish students do not get 10minutebreaks between classes, but classes runtogether as the schedule is written, making the transition between lessons confusing.
Additionally, the long lunch break affects learning as well. Students are in school between 8:30 and 11:15. Then they get a 30 minute recess. From 11:45 to 1:20, they are in classes again, but the two hour lunch break follows and the next class doesn’t begin until 3:10. This concept is bad enough for teenagers, but the schools subject primary school and even kindergarten students to it as well. Can you imagine a classroom of 25 four-year-olds stuck in school from 8:30 to 4:50? It’s baffling.
To sum up, four countries with four distinct educational systems. The only real insight I’ve gathered is that parentalinvolvement is key. Parents need to show their children that they not only care about them, but they care about their education. Students need to build self–respect, because if they can’t respect themselves, they’re certainly not going to respect anyone (or anything) else. After all, education is the silver bullet.
We don’t need little changes, we need gigantic, monumental changes. Schools should be palaces. Competition for the best teachers should be fierce. Teachers should be making six figure salaries. Schools should be incredibly expensive for government and absolutely free to the citizens.
Officially known as the Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition, the SpanishInquisition was established to maintain Catholic orthodoxy in rural regions throughout Spain. In the latter half of 1500s, it came to the attention of the church and QueenIsabellaI that some of their citizens were practicing unconventional religious ceremonies, rituals, and customs. In a massive effort to stamp this “witchcraft” out, cardinals and bishops were dispatched to the farthest reaches and the most rural villages to exterminate those ideas and people. The region of Navarre was a hotbed of this kind of activity.
You may ask, what exactly is witchcraft? Well, I’d like to begin by telling you what it isn’t. Nowadays, people think of witches as they have been depicted in popular culture films, television, cartoons, and literature. In TheWizardofOz, the wicked witch of the west has greenskin and wears a pointyblackhat while she flies around on her broomstick. More recently, the wizarding world of HarryPotter depicts witches and wizards wearing long flowing robes (also flyingaroundon broomsticks), making potions in cauldrons, and playing with magicalcreatures such as unicorns, hippogriffs, and dragons. In reality, witches were nothing of the sort.
Prior to modern medicine and science, little was known about commonailments of the human body. The genome hadn’t been mapped and people didn’t even know what bloodcells were. A group of people, typically rural country folk, used homeremedies to cure these afflictions. Ever heard of homeopathy? They had a vast knowledge of plantlife because they were farmers and the daughters and wives of farmers. They understood certain plants had healingproperties and would use them to create salves and drinks that helped with a variety of symptoms including headaches, stomach aches, and skin disorders. These salves and drinks worked on both animals and humans.
Unfortunately, there were many who didn’t understand these naturalmethods of healing. Those who didn’t get it grew scared and believed these women (and some men) to be worshipingthedevil. Their weird rituals and symbols were distinctly non–Christian and therefore considered evil. Something had to be done about them and their primitive beliefs. In Basque (the oldest language in Europe), the word for witch is sorgin (the origin of the word is sortze: to be born, and egin: to do – or she who makes born, ie a midwife).
Midwives were the precursors to modern day doctors and they used the resources at their disposal to help new mothers bring their children into the world. They were revered themselves, as they should have been for being the bearers of new life. But what they themselves worshiped was the naturalorder of the world (not what they felt was just some guy on a cross who had been dead for six hundred years).
These same sorginak (pl.) closely resembled people who are today known as Wiccans. They are a group of people who worship Mother Earth and love all things natural. They pay attention to the stars and positions of the planets and they pay homage to the cycle of birth, life, and death that can be found in all walks of nature from plants to animals to humans ourselves. But four centuries ago, the HolyCatholicChurch didn’t see it this way. These women weren’t going to church and they weren’t practicing Christianity. You couldn’t find crosses or palmbranches in their homes. And since they were different, they were deemed bad.
Last weekend, we took a trip to the small village of Zugarramurdi, which was a hotbed of witchcraft and Inquisitorial punishments. The locals performed orgiastic rituals and festivals in nearby caves that celebrated life and the seasons. They had secret knowledge of how medicinalherbs could heal the body. And for this, they were hunted down and murdered, burnedat the stake. Anybody could be accused of witchcraft and that threat would have been taken very seriously.
The equivalent nowadays to the rampant fear that accompanied the Inquisition is terrorism (but the witches were healers, not harmers). Muslims the world over are being persecuted for their beliefs, and only a small minority are doing anything wrong. In Europe during the 17th century, people who believed anything different from what the Holy Church deemed appropriate were destroyed. The goat, their symbol of fertility was rebranded by the church into an image of the devil and demonicworship. Imagine how they must have felt though? If you had stumbled into a Catholic Mass for the first time, never having heard of Christianity before, the rituals would freak you out too.
What is the biggest shame is that the fear that took control so many years ago can still be found today. People are scared of anything different from what they know. Any cultural people, customs, language, food, style of dress… is looked down upon by those outside, who don’t understand its importance. Can’t we please learn from the mistakes of our ancestors? Stop the witch hunts. Stop the killing. And enjoy the video below.
One of the main reasons I initially decided to leave the safety of my home country and move out abroad, teaching English as a second language (ESL) to foreigners overseas was for a mental focus that comes with only working one full-time job instead of three or four part-time jobs. I have been blessed since leaving to have completed twonovels and started work on two more in addition to a handful of short stories and articles. Writing has become an avenue of creativity and solace for me.
So when I moved to Pamplona, Spain and realized that one of the all-time greats lived, and wrote, here, I was flabbergasted. I was beside myself with giddy joy. Here I was, just doing my own thing, and I followed in the footsteps of arguably one of the greatest prose writers of all time: ErnestHemingway. I was in good company.
Like these great names, I have embarked upon my own adventure to see the world, meet interesting people, and witness exotic cultural traditions, while at the same time learning and polishing my craft as a writer. In addition to my fiction, I have also had articles published in newspapers and magazines about my experiences living abroad. Look for my work in the CourierPost, the SouthJerseyTimes, and GlobalLiving magazine (to name a few).
And like me, Hemingway thoroughly enjoyed his time in Europe. In 1921, he was hired by a Canadian newspaper as their foreign correspondent and left immediately for Paris. It is said that he wanted a life in Europe because of the comforts such a life provided (at the time the exchange rate was profitable for Americans overseas). He first visited Pamplona for the SanFermin festival, aka the RunningoftheBulls in 1923. He and his family returned for the next three consecutive years, Ernest becoming obsessed with bullfighting and bullfighters.
It was during this period of the mid-1920s that he wrote what is his greatest work of fiction: TheSunAlso Rises. It’s the story of a group of expats who go to San Fermin for the festivities. They also sit around in many cafes drinking wine, something we have done quite a bit since adopting the European lifestyle. Hemingway drew on his personal experiences while visiting the festival and wrote aspects of his friends into the characters: two things necessary for good fiction. The details he paints jump off the page and make the readers feel like they’re right there with him.
I’ve spent some time writing in the bar/cafe where Hemingway relaxed. It’s called Cafe Iruna, and yes I have sipped both wine and coffee whilst sitting with my laptop. I can only hope that someday, my writing is remembered half as much as Ernest’s. That’s what’s important to me. But my adventure, getting there, is a lot of the fun too.
I have now been fortunate enough to have traveled extensively around Europeancities, as well as living in one. I began to notice a trend that few (if any) American cities can boast. It all goes back to history. Sure, NewYork, Philadelphia, and Boston all have their Colonial neighborhoods out from which the modern-day limits extended. But they just don’t have the same gravitas that their European counterparts do.
Want to know why? Well, I’ll tell you… The Dark Ages!
From Nuremberg to Prague and Vienna to Carcassonne, aw hell I can’t stop there: Buda and Pest, Florence, Dublin, Zurich, Istanbul, St. Petersburg, Madrid, a bunch in the UK, and the obvious two Athens and Rome (in fact, here’s the entireLIST), European cities needed fortified defensive walls built to protect their citizens since – you guessed it – the Roman Empire. In the medieval times and the Renaissance, nations weren’t as static as they are today. Borders weren’t controlled by armed guards, security checkpoints, and people didn’t have passports (most of the commoners couldn’t even read and write).
These walls not only were built to keep aggressors out, but also to keep people in as a means of population control. The nobles who ran the city would never have even fathomed the idea or had the means to keep tabs on all the rural villages in the surrounding countryside, but they were able to monitor who came in and out of each city gate through the use of a highly automated, state-of-the-art system (for its day): a couple of guards and a big, heavy f’ing door.
My current home, the Spanish city of Pamplona in the northern region of Navarre, has an almost complete defensive fortification around the city center that borders the Ciudadela on its southern edge. In the past few hundred years, the star-shaped citadel has been transformed into a park with some garden sculptures and an art gallery (it’s also where Jen and I go running a few times a week).
It’s obvious to me where the city walls can be found even before I stumble across them. Each city changes in a distinct way between the inner and outer sections. The external neighborhoods would be familiar to most of you: wide, straight, paved streets that intersect at mostly 90 degree angles, lined with tall buildings (mostly apartments and offices). However, the charm of Europe’s oldest settlements can be found within.
Narrow, twisting streets that zigzag all over, and criss-cross at awkward angles (many times even with an odd number of roads) cover the majority of these medieval neighborhoods. Buildings only three or four stories high, lean across above you as you stroll through time (and in a few cases, the roofs of those buildings have come together to form an arch that even protects you from the elements).
In Spain as well as other countries, the narrow streets open up to become squares (plazas or piazzas), where tourists and locals relax along a sidewalk cafe sipping espresso, wine, or ale. The term ‘charming’ doesn’t even begin to describe it all (even Audrey Hepburn films don’t do it justice).
And all in all, these enclosed time machines might just be this traveler’s favorite part of Europe. Whenever life gifts you with the chance, you should come relax – even if only for a short while.
Fun fact: Spanish feminists are promoting the use feminine and masculine plural titles being necessary, instead of masculine titles being all inclusive. Anyway…
As many of you know from reading Justin’s blog, I am willing to do almost anything for an authenticculturalexperience. From wearing a hijab and sneaking into the DomeoftheRock to breaking vegetarianism to eat dog and scorpion, when I have an opportunity to try something unique, I jump at the chance. Well, in this case, I “walked” at the chance.
Did you know that Catholicpilgrimages are a very honored tradition here in Spain? As soon as I heard about this beautiful, cultural past-time, I knew that I should join in. Oh, are you wondering why Justin isn’t writing this blog?
Because he didn’t walk 55 kilometers!
After a lot of begging among my coworkers, I finally convinced an amazing friend, Nuria, to do it with me. Everyone else complained about the difficulty without training. I had faith I could do it.
Here are the basics of the pilgrimage. Javier, the patron saint of Navarre (the region where we live), was born in a castle in his namesake city. He traveled the world as a missionary and is incredibly respected among the people here. Nuria even named her first-born son Javier. In fact, when I’m not sure of a student’s name, I can simply say “Javier” and have a good chance that he will respond. The people of our region created this annual pilgrimage to his birthplace called: Javieradas.
Here’s how the trials and tribulations of the weekend went. Justin packed me lots of meals and snacks. Nuria loaned me a backpack, sleeping bag, and hiking boots. Because I knew it was going to rain and snow over the weekend (andboy, diditever), I had decided to wear her waterproof hiking boots.
Unfortunately, I had to start the journey without Nuria. For this reason, she signed us up with a churchgroup so I wouldn’t be totally alone. Awkwardly, no one raised their hand when we asked if they spoke English. Thankfully, I did find a few people to talk to! Sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanish. Good thing we’ve been taking classes.
We walked allday Saturday, only stopping twice to eat, until, under the light of the moon, we finally reached an old church. Here, there was a celebratory service. While some people were celebrating, however, I was in severe discomfort. A shout out to the cutest little old Spanish woman that you ever saw, who went out and bought me a Coke to re-energize me because she noticed my excruciating pain during the mass.
Remember those boots I borrowed? Bad move.
One should never walk 30 miles in new shoes! My feet were covered in blisters. And being obsessive compulsive about germs does not bode well for these experiences. I refused the offer of help with my blisters, not trusting other people’s tools, and continued the rest of the way. While walking, I was actually daydreaming about my sneakers and wanted to kiss them upon our reunion.
After church, we still had a kilometer to go before our overnight destination. Being in so much pain, the group tried to convince me to drive to the house. Umm no. That’s cheating. I told them, “Soycabezota.” I am stubborn. Plain and simple: I would walk the entire pilgrimage no matter the pain. After all, isn’t suffering a part of the process?
The next day, we walked the final 8 kilometers, stopping 14 times along the route for the Stationsofthe Cross. As we came around the final bend, the castle came into view. I’ve never been happier upon seeing a castle in my life. Seriously, Cinderella’s castle in DisneyWorld doesn’t even come close to my joy in this moment. Mission Accomplished!!!
Unlike eating scorpion (which I really don’t recommend), a pilgrimage is something everyone should take an opportunity to do, no matter your religion. It was a time of self–reflection and perseverance. The body and the mind are capable of much more than we often give either credit for.
I found mediation to be a powerful force in keeping me going. Ultimately, I came to regard the following three aspects of my life during the experience: gratitude for my body’s fortitude, blessed to have a friend in Spain willing to try something new with me, and happy to be graced with a life off the beaten path.
Call it the allure of the Spanish countryside. My parents came for a visit!
With our week off for Easter vacation, we met my parents in Madrid for a long awaited chance to show them around our home away from home. We went to the Prado museum (to see the Goyas and others) and the PalacioReal (to see the king of Spain, who wasn’t even there). We took a drive through La Mancha to see the windmills and then stopped for a walk through history in the capital of medieval Spain, Toledo. And we also visited Alcazar at Segovia – a castle that inspired SleepingBeauty‘sCastle in Disneyland.
Roughly translated to mean “Cityof Victory“, Segovia is about an hour and a half from downtown Madrid – the present-day capital city of Spain and their seat of royalty. In addition to it’s fairy tale like castle, the city has quite a rich history.
The aqueduct dates the settlement to the RomanEmpire (the city was the site of a battle in 75 BCE). And like all other ancient cities that have survived to today, it held an important position along trade routes. It was an important center for wool and textiles. Going back to the aqueduct, it is known as the most important Roman civil engineering work in the area, as it consists of 25,000 granite blocks which are held together without any mortar! It spans 818 meters and has over 170 arches! Quite impressive…
Likewise, the Alcazar is a royal palace of some majesty. Originally built as an Arab fort, the structure was built on top of a smaller Roman fort. Its design made it one of the favorite residences of the monarchs of the Kingdom of Castile. And in 1474, Isabella took refuge within the walls after learning of King Henry IV’s death. On December 13th, she was enthroned as Queen.
As fun as the castle is to look at from the outside, it is equally (if not more) impressive from within. Between portraits, armories, tapestries, and carpets, the ornamentation of the many rooms was completed by Arabian workmen during the Christian rule – combining elements from both religious traditions.
If you are a fan of Walt Disney, or just visit central Spain, you’ll be remiss if you don’t take a half day to visit this marvelous castle on the rocky crag.
Spain, as a country, has one of the most interesting Easter week traditions of anywhere I’ve learned about in the rest of the world. Holy week processions are very solemn traditions that date back hundreds of years. An interesting fact (for those of you unfamiliar with the Da Vinci Code), the KKK, or KuKluxKlan, stole their well-known, white, pointed head wear from these Spanish customs (although the KKK isn’t anywhere near as holy or self-deprecating as the Spanish are).
The town of San Vicente de la Sonsierra (just west of Logrono, Spain) doesn’t utilize the pointed masks. Their participants still wear white, but they do something no other town or village in Spain does. Their traditions are completely unique and different (in researching this blog, I discovered there are other Latin American nations which share these customs). Words can’t express it, but the photos below speak for themselves.
Hasta La Proxima…
The Procession Begins with the Altar Boys
Floats for Different Occasions – Holy Thursday and Good Friday use different ones
The Three Women who Accompanied Christ along the Via Dolorosa
The Men Take Turns Carrying the Cross
Feet are Bound in Chains
The Priest Reads the Stations of the Cross
The First Glimpse of the Men in White Masks (and the float of Mourning Mary)
He’s Carrying a Flag, but it might as well be a Cross
Then the most Interesting Aspect Begins: Self-Flagellation
The Men in White Masks Whip Themselves over and over again
They Represent Christ’s Suffering through the 39 Lashes by Pontius Pilate
As Many as 12 Men Participate
They Rotate Because their Backs get Ripped Up by the End
Also, The Men don’t Stop at 39 Lashings
They Continue until their Backs are Red and Raw, Stinging from the Pain
In 2012 when my plane took flight from LAX to Seoul, South Korea, I had never been off the continent of North America. Now, almost four years later, I have lived in or traveled to 19 countries on three continents. I have yet to visit SouthAmerica or Australia, and the Africa I’ve seen was limited to Cairo and the SinaiPeninsula. However, needless to say, I get around (kinda like a used bicycle, lol).
Crossing Asia from Japan to Turkey and then Europe from Budapest to Barcelona, I’ve noticed how gradual the cultural shift actually is. People don’t often think about how similar China and Italy are (only one example). The buildings, food, clothing, and customs seem like two different alien worlds, when in fact, there is a definite path one can follow to get from one to the other (you only have to pass through India, the Middle East, and Eastern Europe to see it).
East Asians eat noodles. Italians eat pasta. Indians eat rice. Spaniards eat rice. A flat bread with toppings is called Pizza in Italy and Pide in Turkey and Pita in Greece. Shrines and temples exist in Japan, Korea, China, Nepal, India, and all over Europe. All over the world, people care about spending time with family for important life events (weddings, births, funerals). So why is it that in a age of global communication, social media networks, and terrorism, each nation – and by extension each culture – feels more and more isolated and misunderstood?
I don’t know. What I do know is that the changes aren’t sudden. There isn’t some line drawn in the sand to separate where Asia ends and Europe begins. It’s gradual. It’s subtle.
Whether I meet people from Kathmandu who make me feel at home while I’m only visiting for a week, or I move to Pamplona and am warmly taken in by coworkers and neighbors, the fact remains that there seems to be so much hatred in the world just makes me sigh sadly. I want everyone to experience what I have.
I began writing this blog about the RomanEmpire’s re-purposing of pagan temples to Christian sites. But a stream of conscious tangent took me somewhere else entirely. Somewhere I didn’t expect to go. It ties in though… sorta.
While traipsing around Rome, I noticed that so many of the ‘Holy’ sites that bore crosses and statues of saints (or the baby Jesus) had previously been pagan. And not just one or two, and not only for a few years. We’re talking dozens of places where pagans worshiped for centuries! But after Constantine’s death, the Romans gradually ripped down the icons of the old gods and replaced them with crosses and other Christian motifs, motifs that weren’t even necessarily Christian to begin with (even inside the Colosseum). Pagan imagery is embedded in the art of the time and even later (medieval and Renaissance paintings and sculptures feature Christian figures that double as their mythological counterparts).
The term ‘pagan’ developed a very negative connotation over the past 2,000 years. However, if one were to look at the etymology, one would learn that the literal translation only means: villager, rustic, or rural. It was used in its time to denote who was from a city (like Rome) and who was from the countryside. So while Constantine is remembered for the Empire’s conversion to Christianity, all he really did for the fledgling religion was to allow the practice of worship legal for its adherents.
A 2001 New York Timesarticle discusses the many similarities between the pagan icons and Christian symbols. The Council of Nicea did a number on many of the early traditions that had stemmed directly from Judaism (for example, changing the holy day from the Sabbath – Saturday – to Sunday, a day that pagans worshiped Sol Invictus, or the Sun God). There are others… too many to list here.
Suffice it to say that the Empire made a conscious effort to ease the transition from the worship of many gods to only one. Christianity, therefore, shouldn’t be entirely viewed as a separate religion, but as the next stage in the development of theological beliefs by the human condition (just as Muslims believe Islam is an even newer stage).
The bottom line is that it got me thinking about how easily one culture can impact and influence another. In this InformationAge, the act of assimilation can be achieved with the click of a button, the swipe of a touch screen, or the delivery of a text-message. If 2,000 years ago the Roman Empire could alter the fundamental ideas of hundreds of thousands of pagan believers, we have no choice but to admit that corporations and governments can alter the course of our cultural development today.
Apple stock rises. Americans get their iPhones and iPads. Chinese work 15 hours a day in a factory for $2.00. The rich get richer. And there’s the gap.
Yet we all eat noodles and rice.
We all visit temples, churches, and mosques.
And we all enjoy spending our time with loved ones.
Let’s reinterpret our world to be better than the one we left it. Not so we’re all the same or to get ahead as individuals. You are entitled to your own beliefs and those may include monotheism, but just because you think there’s one god doesn’t mean there’s only one person. There are over 7 billion of us on Earth now. How about we start acting like it and share a bit? It’s time for another great reinterpretation.
If there has to be a melting pot, then the melting pot I want isn’t one of selfies, Facebook, and designer handbags. I want the melting pot of respect, diversity, and equality.
At this point they came in sight of thirty forty windmills that there are on plain, and as soon as Don Quixote saw them he said to his squire, “Fortune is arranging matters for us better than we could have shaped our desires ourselves, for look there, friend Sancho Panza, where thirty or more monstrous giants present themselves, all of whom I mean to engage in battle and slay, and with whose spoils we shall begin to make our fortunes; for this is righteous warfare, and it is God’s good service to sweep so evil a breed from off the face of the earth.”
“What giants?” said Sancho Panza.
“Those thou seest there,” answered his master, “with the long arms, and some have them nearly two leagues long.”
“Look, your worship,” said Sancho; “what we see there are not giants but windmills, and what seem to be their arms are the sails that turned by the wind make the millstone go.”
~ Don Quixote (Part I, ch 8), Cervantes
Published in two volumes in 1605 and 1615, The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha by Miguel de Cervantes, is considered the most influential work of Spanish literature. It appears on almost every list of greatest fiction works ever compiled; some even put it at the top.
Cervantes himself is not only known as the greatest writer in the Spanish language, but also as the world’s first novelist. His major work, DonQuixote (quotedabove), is a satire of the romanticism in the age of chivalry, and Cervantes’ choice to create a madmanhero enabled him to showcase various elements of human behavior such as deviance, aberrance, and other eccentricities.
The Man of La Mancha (an arid but fertile plateau region south of Madrid) is paired with his character foil: the bumbling and simplistic, Sancho Panza. The two of them travel across the area battling imaginary foes and winning the hearts of imaginary princesses as the hero sets out to revive chivalry and bring justice to the land.
The now widely used English idiom “TiltingatWindmills” refers to Don Quixote’s ill-advised bout against a group of what he perceives to be giants. The idiom implies a vain effort that cannot be won against a real or imagined opponent that is impossible to best.
Living in Spain awarded us an opportunity to witness these “giants” of La Mancha first hand just outside the town of Consuegra. Nine windmills remain there, perched in an uneven row along a rocky cliff. They are accompanied by a small castle, where visitors can tour. These windmills may have been the set that inspired Cervantes to write his famous scene, but there are also other windmills in the region – in fact, we passed quite a few on the way to Consuegra.
As I move from country to country and job to job, I find myself struggling against tilting at my own windmills, as I’m sure all of you do at times. Let’s just hope that we don’t find ourselves losing uphill battles more often than we win them.
When I began booking a trip to the homeland of my ancestors, I expected big, BIG things. And I was not disappointed – literally, at all. However, I was surprised when the train pulled up to a station in Florence. The northern Italian “metropolis” is perhaps one of the best known destinations in the entire world for art, beauty, culture, and food, but I didn’t realize just how little the city is like a city.
Florence isn’t anything like Rome, or Paris, or some of the other major markets in Europe. In fact, it isn’t like any other city I’ve ever seen. It’s quaint and quiet and has an air of relaxation to it. Obviously, it is swimming with tourists, but if you – as a tourist – can get yourself away from that, it is one of the most exquisite cities on the planet (US equivalent examples: Savannah, GA/Colorado Springs, CO/Columbus, OH).
It goes without saying that there is much more history and art than those cities I just mentioned. And it’s hard to convey the sense of serenity one feels strolling through the twisting and turning, narrow streets that date back over 1,000 years (note: this was the only city in which I got lost more than once and typically I’m very good at urban orienteering). So why go to Florence? There are so many reasons!
Take a leisurely walk along the banks of the Arno River, cross over the PonteVecchio (a covered bridge full of shopping stalls), or head up one of the winding mountain roads toward the Piazzale Michelangelo for a breathtaking view of the skyline, including the Santa Maria (aka the Duomo)
Pull up a chair at a corner sidewalk cafe for a cappuccino to soak in the ambiance of the old, medieval central district
Visit one of the many museums – including the Uffizi Gallery, the Galleria Dell’Accademia, and Palazzo Vecchio – to look upon the works of the Renaissance masters (the Birth of Venus by Botticelli, the Annunciation by Da Vinci, Michelangelo’s David, the Rape of the Sabine Women by Giambologna)
Take a short trainride to Pisa for some fun photos of the Leaning Tower of Pisa
Get lost (figuratively or literally), because the town is so small – cittadina translates to “small town” in Italian – you’ll eventually find your way to your destination or back to your hotel
There is a lot to see and feel in Florence, even if it doesn’t feel like the city has a lot to necessarily “do“. I highly recommend stopping by though, as there is nowhere like it in the entire world!
The Renaissance. Ah, twas a magical time of advancement in both the arts and the sciences. During the dark times of the MiddleAges (after the fall of the RomanEmpire), people were oppressed by the HolyCatholicChurch as well as “nobles” that used the feudal system to get rich while keeping lowly peasants poor and ignorant (not to mention the blackplague). But all bad things must come to an end. And they did.
When people think of the Renaissance period, dozens of names come to mind: Galileo, Da Vinci, and Michelangelo (yes, they‘re mostly Italians) to name a few. Nowadays, the term “Renaissance Man” refers to an individual who shows aptitude in a multitude of subject areas. Perhaps today’s Renaissance Men (and Women) would have also fit in with the likes of the great masters.
While visiting Italy (Rome& Florence), I took the opportunity to admire some of the works of these men – one in particular. Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni (1475–1564) was a painter, sculptor, poet, architect, and engineer (damn!), who is probably most famous for creating the statues of David and the Pieta, as well as the painting of the SistineChapel (in Vatican City). I saw more of his works than these (including the BasilicaofSt. Peter which he helped design), but for the purposes of this article, I would simply like to give my impression of his three major works.
David – He resides in the Galleria dell’Accademia in Florence and is pretty much the only reason to go to the museum. Like all museums in Italy (and I’m assuming France as well), you have to wait in long lines just to get in and once inside, the rooms are over-crowded with people. One of the more pleasant aspects of going to see David were the art students who had sketch pads and pencils. Overall, David met my expectations (particularly since we weren’t originally going to visit the Accademia). He is positioned in a great location with fantastic space and lighting to maximize his visibility (I think the curators did that to show off his naughty bits).
The Pieta – Stumbling upon this masterpiece was a bit of a surprise because I hadn’t researched where it was, and didn’t know to look for it inside St. Peter’s Basilica. While wondering around the immense church, I realized what it was. The statue was just sitting in an alcove, minding its own business. A few tourists were taking photos, but most were ignoring it (most likely ignorant of what it was). I found the positioning of this one perfect for the mood the work conveys. A wave of solemnity with a tinge of loneliness washed over me as I stood before Mary holding the body of her crucified son.
The Sistine Chapel – Unfortunately, the Sistine Chapel failed to meet my expectations. As reported in a previous entry, we were herded into another over-crowded room with men shouting through loudspeakers to be respectful. And while it was possible to stand directly beneath many of the scenes and stare straight up for any length of time we wanted, the magnificence of the work was lost to the hustle and bustle of the mismanaged museum.
Whether or not the works of this great artist ended up where they should be, it was obvious within seconds that they were the work of a master craftsman. To have a statue you sculpted residing in a building you designed is a feat unto itself. In my life, I have always striven to be a Renaissance Man. And I hope that one day, people will consider me one (fingers crossed, lol).
Juvenal, the Roman poet, said, “The people that once bestowed commands, consulships, legions, and all else, now concerns itself no more, and longs eagerly for just two things – bread and circuses!” Most if not all of you have heard that quote before, particularly if you’re familiar with the SuzanneCollins Bestseller, The Hunger Games (which takes place in a fictitious, post-apocalyptic North American nation called Panem – Latin for bread). But what exactly does the phrase imply?
It means that the proverbial Powers that Be can get away with literal murder, rape, robbery, and everything else, provided they divert the eyes of the masses to entertainment, while at the same time keeping their bellies full. As long as the public has the means to eat and to distract themselves with games, they’ll ignore everything and everyone, including their misdeeds.
At the height of the Roman Empire, the Colosseum in the capital city was primarily where those games took place. Truthfully, it was only the largest arena in the largest city in the empire, but all cities had arenas of varying sizes that held varying types of circuses and games. Similarly today, every major city across the globe hosts some type of sports arena whether it be for football, baseball, cricket, rugby, basketball, or tennis.
We have certainly produced our fair share of games. And just like the emperors of old – doing whatever they wanted – we have our own power-brokers who take advantage of us with variable interest rates (and other garbage) while we’re waiting idly for the snap on the line of scrimmage.
Back then though, one of the most exciting (and bloodiest) forms of this entertainment was that of the gladiatorial combat. The gladiator was an entertainer who fought for his very life, with weapons and sometimes without, in front of tens of thousands of screaming spectators. Some were criminals, some volunteers, most slaves of some sort. This version of entertainment lasted almost a millennium, and boasted a wide range of styles. Listed below are some ‘other’ types of fights than the standard one-on-one gladiator battles (which was by and large the most popular).
Bestiarii – beasts, including but not limited to lions, tigers, and bears (oh, my!), were used in a variety of ways from slaughtering criminals to parading around for mere show
Noxii – mythological reenactments from the stories of their pagan religion were possibly one of the most popular types of games as the “battles” were often fixed so that the correct side would come out victorious (if you’ve seen the Ridley Scott film, Gladiator – which won an Oscar for Best Picture in 2000 – then you’ve seen this game)
Comoedii – comedic fight scenes with no real victims or casualties were used between matches to “clean up” and give the audience a rest and chance to get some refreshments
Supplicii – criminal executions were very creative as the victims were sometimes blindfolded and told to fight each other, or just put in front of wild animals without any weaponry
Aurigas Cursoresque – chariot races (self-explanatory) weren’t held at the Colosseum in Rome but across the street at the CircusMaximus
Sometimes the arena floor would even be flooded to reenact a mythic waterbattle, but usually if the emperor wanted, he could command the entire audience to move to a nearby lake for that portion of the show. I don’t know about you but that sounds a lot more exciting to me than watching a bunch of sweaty Europeans kick around a ball.
While strolling through the streets of Italy’s (and probably Europe’s) most unique city, one cannot help but feel an overwhelming sense that you’re in another world; some alien species has abducted you and transported you away to some fantastical city that couldn’t possibly exist on the planet Earth. But, you’d be wrong. You’re only in Venice.
It would be impossible (and completely insane) for me to try and convey how it feels to be in Venice. Some have called it romantic. Others magical. Sure, it’s both of those, but it’s also so much more. It’s a quaint, quiet, small town that is like nowhere else I have ever been. There are buildings one cannot get to without being on a boat!
Of course, it’s far from perfect. Nowhere is perfect. And Venice is plagued by some of the same problems that other cities in Italy and elsewhere in the world have. There are places under construction. There are hawkers shouting to sell their wares. There are noisy crowds of half-lost tourists. And there are traffic jams. The only difference is that these jams aren’t in the streets: they’re in the canals.
The quintessential image conjured in most people’s minds when they think about Venice is the gondola – an elegant, streamline boat, built for two, and rowed by a crooning Italian local in a red and white striped hat and shirt. And that image, my friends, doesn’t exist in reality. It’s purely fantasy, just like the idea that you’ve stepped onto some alien planet millions of miles away.
The truth is that the gondola ride is one of Europe’s most overrated (and overpriced) tourist traps. Yep, I said it. Not attraction, trap. A 40 minute ride runs you about 80 Euros. And the price skyrockets from there (apparently the city regulates what the drivers can charge you). An additional 40 Euro for each additional 20 minutes! It doesn’t stop there. You want some of that crooning? The price and tip for the singer must be negotiated by each gondolier, and you better believe they know this will most likely be your only time in one of these boats. So they hose you for all you’re worth.
The horrors don’t end there. Let’s say you actually bite the proverbial bullet and purchase a ride, because, hey, it’s the thing to do and you’re only in Venice once, right? Well, get in line. Because you weren’t the first (and you won’t be the last) to come to that logic. The canals quickly become crowded with rows upon rows of gondolas. And most of the gondoliers can be heard shouting to each other, not singing, shouting.
I personally spotted one of these ‘cabbies’ (yes, they share a lot in common with NYC taxis) on his mobile phone – while he had passengers! His mobile phone! Need I remind you of the price again?
Suffice it to say, we opted to not take a ride on the gondolas. If we ever get back to Venice (which we would love to do), I doubt we’ll ride on one then either. Trust me, the city is an amazing place to be without being on the water.
One of the aspects of traveling Jen and I enjoy most is experiencing the local cuisine. We love eating in general, so when we arrived in the pasta capital of the world (Jen being a vegetarian – which pretty much makes me a vegetarian), we were ecstatic and eager to try as much as we could get our lips on.
In addition to good food, we appreciate when restaurants have a story or offer a unique ambiance for our meal. While in Rome, we found a very special eatery. It might have been the most amazing place I’ve ever eaten at and not because the food was to die for, though it was very good. What made this restaurant so great was it’s history.
Da Pancrazio is located in a building constructed on top of the ruins of the Theaterof Pompey, where it is believed that Julius Caesar was murdered by politicians in the Roman Senate, including Marcus Brutus and Gaius Cassius, on the 15th of March, 44 BC. Contrary to popular belief, he was not stabbed in the Senatorial chambers, but just outside the theater in an area of Rome that was only just uncovered a few years ago (the city won’t officially excavate the ruins of the actual theater because the buildings now sitting on top of them have used the original foundation and supports for the structures still standing and in use today)
Julius Caesar avoided the Senate chamber on the ides of every month prior to his assassination (up to a year) because his wife Calpurnia had disturbing dreams that made her fearful of her husband’s safety. Unfortunately, this precaution didn’t prove to be enough as the would-be king was stabbed over 23 times. It has been said that 60 men participated in the death of Caesar, though not all brandished steel in the physical act of violence that killed him.
There has also been some controversy over the discrepancy of Caesar’s final words. The best known version comes from the English playwright, William Shakespeare, but the phrase, “Et Tu, Brute?” has no basis in fact (it was merely a popular phrase during Elizabethan times). Many of the conspirators, who were present in Julius’ final moments reported that he said nothing. He simply fell to his death.
Whether or not he said anything had no effect on our enjoyment of the meal we ate in Da Pancrazio. I had the opportunity to meet the owner and discuss his family history as well as that of the restaurant. Apparently, the location (even before it was a restaurant) had been in his family for years. It was his grandfather who opened the first restaurant, and it was his father who excavated the basement to discover the storage chambers behind the stage of the theater, which were used for props and costumes (now, it’s filled with tables). The basement isn’t the exact location of the assassination, but it’s close enough for government work – and fun to think about!
If you are in Rome, I highly recommend making reservations at Da Pancrazio, as it promises to be one of the most unique dining experiences of your life.
I’ve gone out of my way to make the best effort to track down all the ancient wonders the world still has to offer. I crossed the Sinai Desert, passing through military checkpoints, to witness the majesty of the GreatPyramids and the Sphinx. I trekked through the southeast Asian jungles to explore the temples of Angkor in Cambodia. I ran, yes ran, along the Great Wall of China. I’ve been inside both the TajMahal and the HagiaSofia (and Jen even went inside Jerusalem’s DomeoftheRock – forbidden to non-Muslims).
I traveled to Petra in Jordan, Kappadokya in Turkiye, Chichen Itza in Mexico, Jeju Island in SouthKorea, the Statue of Liberty in New York City, and just about every single temple in KyotoJapan (including Kiyomizu). So what’s left? If you’ve been reading my most recent blogs then you already have the answer. The Colosseum in Rome, Italy.
Unfortunately, my loyal droogs and droogettes, I have disappointing news to report. I wasn’t all that impressed with Italy’s contribution to the New 7 Wonders list. Perhaps, it was because of all the hype surrounding it. Or maybe it was the fact that I had already been to many of the other places on the list.
Don’t get me wrong, it was cool. It just wasn’t as cool as I had hoped. Nobody has asked me to put my official stamp on which of the “wonders” is my favorite; thankfully, because I’m not sure I could choose one. But what walking around inside the “One Hit Wonder” did get me thinking about was all of the other ancient wonders that no longer exist… the ones none of us will ever get to see.
The two that always fascinated me as a kid were the HangingGardens of Babylon and the Colossus of Rhodes. In fact, while living in Turkiye, we almost took a trip to the Greekisland of Rhodes – knowing the Colossus had been destroyed centuries ago – just for the chance to take a boat ride through the mouth of the harbor where he previously stood and say we passed beneath him.
And the crux about Babylon is that nobody knows exactly where the ancient and mythological metropolis was! Of course, there’s speculation that it’s somewhere in present-day Iraq – I think near the present-day city of Hillah (but God knows I’m never going there).
So all things considered, I suppose the Colosseum wouldn’t be at the bottom of my list… but it certainly wouldn’t be at the top (and I’m Italian).
In honor of primary season hitting full swing in the States with SuperTuesday today, I thought I would take the opportunity to turn your heads away from American politics and explain a little bit about what’s going on over on this side of the “Pond” in Spain’s politics.
Europe is like America in a lot of ways. They have basically the same stuff here that we do at home, but a lot of times, it’s just a little bit different. History, however, isn’t one of them. The history of Europe is much more complicated than that of America, although they do share some history together. What might be difficult for a lot of Americans to understand is the sheer number and diversity of cultures that have existed and still exist on the continent.
The modern geopolitical map of Europe isn’t static by any stretch of the imagination, nor has it ever truly been. Borders move. Names change. Entire peoples are uprooted from one place and deposited on another as refugees seeking new homes or asylum from tyrannical governments. America has never experienced such problem (with the major exceptions of the slavery issue and the displacement of NativeAmerican tribes), as most of us simply consider ourselves American, and our culture “Western“.
Spain, for example, has only been the nation that it is since the end of the SpanishCivilWar in 1939. FranciscoFranco united various autonomous regions under the banner of Spain. Prior to that, the geographic area that is now known as Spain consisted of a half dozen different countries with as many dialects or separate languages: including Basque, Leonese, & Catalan.
One such region is Catalonia.
Catalonia is in the northeastern most section of Spain, bordering France and the MediterraneanSea. Barcelona, its capital city, is arguably the most economical prosperous market in the country. So last month, when Catalonia held elections, the rest of Spain held its collective breath. And Catalans, by a narrow margin (52% – 48%) elected a separatist president. Now, for the first time in three generations, Catalonia has a very good chance of becoming a sovereignstate again.
So what does this mean for Spain? And what does it mean for the Catalan people?
Nobody is certain. The modern world is much different from the pre–WWII era in which Catalonia was its own nation. The EU is under threat of collapsing due to the influx of Syrianrefugees. Greece is bankrupt, Italy is on their boot heels (nopunintended), and Spain’s been struggling with a recession for 4 years. If Catalonia (the most economically successful province in Spain) breaks off, then Spain might just enter their own great depression.
But for millions of Catalans, the issue isn’t about money. It’s about culturalidentity. Under Franco, the people, their culture, and even their own language were subjugated and – in some instances – banned altogether in favor of the more widespread and accepted Castilian (textbookSpanish). Half of Catalonia wants that back. Can you blame them? I know Texans can’t.
We’ll have to sit back and wait to see if Catalonia’s new president, CarlesPuigdemont, can lead his people to their freedom. He says he need 18 months. Until then, nobody knows.
Requiem is Latin for “rest“. Therefore, a requiem mass is a mass of rest, or a funeral – mass for the dead. When a composer writes the music to accompany such an event, it is also called a requiem. Many composers have written them: Faure, Verdi, Stravinsky, Haydn, Brahms, and of course Mozart.
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is perhaps the most famous composer who ever lived. He spent much of his youth being dragged around Europe by his father Leopold, labeled as a child prodigy. He played before emperors and bishops, and even composed works as early as age seven. As an adult, he enjoyed Vienna the most and tried to spend as much time living in the city as possible. Visiting many of the places he went to was perhaps my favorite aspect of traveling to the capital of Austria.
We toured the Mozarthaus, a museum built into an apartment in which he lived from 1784-1787 (and composed THE MAGIC FLUTE, DON GIOVANNI, andTHE MARRIAGE OF FIGARO). We had lunch at a small, medieval tavern – Griechenbeisl – where he frequented with his contemporaries. We went into the grand Church of St. Stephen, the cathedral where he celebrated both his marriage and funeral. We paid our respects at the St. Marx Cemetery where he was buried in a common grave (the marker was added later) with the likes of Beethoven, Strauss, and Shubert. We walked the streets he must have walked and saw some of the sights he must have seen.
It felt truly wonderful to step back into the history of this legendary figure. I wish there were more photo opportunities. Unfortunately, you have to be there to really feel his presence, and the few pictures I did manage to snap, simply don’t do him justice.
If you have seen the film, Amadeus (if you haven’t you should), you are aware of the mysterious circumstances surrounding his death. According to the film, it was the sheer act of composing his requiem, a job that was commissioned by a masked benefactor, that brought him to his untimely demise in 1791. The piece was finished in someone else’s handwriting. Eerie…
Guilt and shame over his father coupled with massive gambling debts are more than likely a closer cause. But the idea that he wrote his own requiem mass and that is what killed him sends a chill up my spine.
One cannot come to Vienna without spending at least one day retracing Mozart’s footsteps. Don’t forget to load some of his work onto your iPod and listen as you stroll.
As many of you know, when I travel the only souvenirs I require are my memories and my photographs. However, now that I’m traveling with a spouse, things are different. Jen loves herself some souvenirs. She wants to put them on shelves and hang them on the walls to remind her of all the wonderful times we’ve had traveling together. At first, I thought it was a waste of money. But… it brings a smile to her face and after all, what is marriage if not compromise?
The single souvenir she decided she wanted from our week in Italy was a Venetianmask. If you don’t know what they are, I guarantee that you’ve seen them at one point or another. Films such as Amadeus, EyesWideShut, or any other movie that features a masquerade ball or party shows them off. Essentially, the masks are paper mache which are hand-molded and hand-painted. The process is very extensive and was explained to us by the shop-owner of Ca’Macana – the place Jen hand-picked off the Internet before we had even taken off.
The major pitfall of souvenir shopping the world over is the cheap imitations. It doesn’t matter where you go, you’ll find crappy goods manufactured in some Chinese factory, bought in bulk, and shipped by some third-party vendor to be sold in tourist destinations all over the world. Venice was no different. There are kiosks up and down the GrandCanal with chintzy, plastic masks – some of which appear to be the genuine articles. Please don’t be fooled. They’re not.
If you truly want the full experience of trying on and purchasing an authentic Venetian mask, please visit Ca’Macana. There are two locations as well as a workshop owned by a husband and wife team (though not the inspiration for Shakespeare’s play), who employ dozens of different artists to make the masks in a variety of styles. You can browse, take photos, and try on the masks – which number in the thousands. Additionally, they offer classes where you can make and paint your own. Fun for the whole family!
Jen and I had a ton of fun looking around and finally choosing our mask. Someday when we move back to the States, come over and take a look. I’m sure she’ll have found a prominent place to display it, either on a shelf or a wall.
Contrary to popular belief, VaticanCity is not part of the nation of Italy. It is a city–state, fully sovereign and independent. When visitors pass through the walls, and enter the museum on the other side, they are in fact visiting the smallest country in the world, and leaving Italian soil.
That being said, however, the process of crossing the boundary couldn’t be more complicated. Finding out where to go, how to get there, and how long it will take once inside. I am usually pretty good about planning holidays and even the Papal State managed to baffle me.
With a bit of preliminary research I learned that the best idea would be to purchase tickets online in advance so as to skip ahead of the line on the day of the visit. The official Vatican Museum website asked to choose not only which day but also a specific time – down to the quarter hour. When we arrived at the doorstep, we found that the day-of line (non ticket holders) stretched around the block, and was perhaps 300 strong (at 10:30 am).
On the other hand, those who had purchased tickets already still had to wait in line, but that took much less time (approximately 30 minutes, mostly because of how slow security was feeding people through the metal detectors). Once inside, the crowd was moved through the museum like a herd being led to the slaughter-house. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that the museum was the only section of the Vatican visitors got the chance to see.
So after being shoved and prodded through various halls and galleries, finally emerging into the Sistine Chapel to glare up at the masterpiece (while the security guards yelled through microphones to keep quiet because the chapel is a holy place that needs to be respected – oh, and no photos), we found ourselves outside the Vatican again, and back on Italian soil, our heads spinning around confused.
Obviously, we circled around to St. Peter’s Square and Basilica to see the burial place of the popes and other attractions, which was all fine and good. But if you go to Vatican City, be prepared for what it actually is: a cattle–drive.
Since 1993, the tiny, central/eastern European nation of Slovakia has been LOST.
Prior to that, their acreage belonged to the former country of Czechoslovakia which was part of the WarsawPact formed in 1955. Of course, it existed on and off prior to that as well, however, this article isn’t about the sovereign state of Czechoslovakia. It’s about the insignificant nation that was left behind. Similar to Hungary, Slovakia drew a short straw with their location – sandwiched between Budapest and Vienna – and with Prague just a hop, skip, and a jump to the north. All in all not a very positive location for promoting tourism and trade.
Hence why they’re LOST (strateny is Slovakian for lost).
Most of the country is wilderness. There’s not much to see that visitors can’t get in the neighboring nations of the CzechRepublic, Austria, Hungary, and even as far away as Moldova and Romania. So why go? The dinky capital city of Bratislava – where I spent about 24 hours in (the only reason we went was to check another country off of our list) – has very little to offer in the way of interesting sights. In fact, it looks much like the smaller parts of Budapest and Prague. Since the split in ’93, Prague has received the lion’s share of tourism. Such a pity for the Slovaks.
It’s their own fault though. One would think that the people of Bratislava would go out of their way to project images of warmth and friendliness. One would think the citizens of Slovakia would dump money into their tourism and marketing, hoping to increase travelers coming across their borders. Quirky museums, churches, and statues do little on their own. Alas, no. The Bratislavans are lost, just like their country.
They aren’t friendly. They aren’t welcoming. And they certainly don’t seem to give a shit if tourists come to their city or nation at all. Which is a shame, since they’ve got no other major industries there. What a missed opportunity for Slovakia.
Budapest drew the geographical short straw. The city was founded during the RomanEmpire and the ethnic Hungarians arrived in the 9th century. Their history has been rife with war, however, as that first settlement was pillaged by the Mongols in the 13th century, and spent 150 years under the rule of the OttomanEmpire.
Actually two individual cities separated by the DanubeRiver – Buda & Pest – were unified in 1873 and became the second capital of the Austro–HungarianEmpire, which wasn’t dissolved until the end of TheGreatWar in 1918. World War II arrived on the Hungarian’s doorstep, but the people were no strangers to strife. They originally allied with NaziGermany and when they tried to pull out of the war, their leaders were overthrown and a puppet regime was installed.
That regime was called the ArrowCrossParty. From the 15th of October 1944 until the 28th of March 1945, this socialist political party ruled over Hungary and murdered or deported 600,000 Jews (many to Auschwitz, other shot into the Danube). The Arrow Cross shared many similarities and ideologies with the Germans; even the symbol of the party (an ancient symbol of the Magyar tribes who settled Hungary) slightly resembles the Nazi swastika.
The Arrow Cross rose to power by signing treaties with both the Nazis and the Soviets, directly leading to cease-fires. Prior to the winter of 1944-45, the Party committed atrocities against its own people living in Budapest and across Hungary. The short-lived rule birthed death squads, deportations, slave labor, and forced military battalions. When historians mention the Holocaust, the Nazis remain front and center, but the vast majority of exterminated Jews happened in, or came from, Hungary – and were committed by the Arrow Cross Party.
Toward the end of the war, Soviet forces surrounded and laid siege to the city (the BattleofBudapest), squeezing the lifeblood out of the people and the Arrow Cross Party. In the spring of 1945, the USSR’s Red Army officially took control of the city (their rule lasted until the Revolutionof 1956), and during the ColdWar that followed, Hungary maintained ties to Russia. The country didn’t actually gain its true freedom from tyranny until 1991, after the fall of the Soviet Union and the BerlinWall came tumbling down.
This violent history is obvious when walking around the city. Most, if not all, has been rebuilt, but one can feel the undercurrent of suspicion rippling through the landscape. I suppose it’s natural for a people who were placed smack-dab in the middle of two ‘evil’ superpowers and had been attacked and pillaged by various ’empires’ for centuries to be a bit wary of life. I’m not sure how, but they still manage to smile to tourists.
As an artist in my own right, I think about leaving my legacy behind in my writing, music, and films. So it is with a heavy heart that I learned about the Catalan artist and architect Antoni Gaudi (God’sArchitect) who passed away tragically prior to completing work on his most famous of works: the Basílica i Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Família, or la Sagrada Familia, for short. His magnum opus.
Gaudi’s thumbprint can be seen across the city of Barcelona from the basilica to CasaBatllo and to the works of his financierPalau Guell and Park Guell. Though, the structures do not dominate the entire skyline. During his life, he designed 19 buildings in Barcelona alone. His art defies traditional architecture and his style is often described as neo-gothic, moderniste, and even Oriental. He rarely drew up plans, choosing instead to mold three-dimensional models.
Perhaps one of the most interesting and appealing aspects of this designer’s method is how he used his creations to tell stories. Gaudi put relentless thought and consideration into each and every element of his design from the materials used to the way in which they would be used.
From the outside, the basilica facades tell the story of the birth and death of Jesus (on each side respectively). This can be seen in the statues that decorate the area surrounding the doors. The NativityFacade faces the sunrise while the Passion Facade faces sunset. By the time the church is finally completed, around 2026, there will be a total of 18 spires each representing a different person (12 for the disciples, 4 for the evangelists, 1 for the Virgin Mary, and 1 for Jesus). Currently, only 8 have been finished.
The exterior isn’t much to look at from a style standpoint, however, the interior will blow you away. The entire apse is designed as a geometric hyperboloid (I had no idea what this was, but it looks cool as hell). The pillars that hold up the entire structure are designed to look like trees (redwoods if you ask me) adding a natural element. The roof is so high, it appears these ‘trees’ reach up to heaven itself.
Interior of La Sagrada Familia (my photo)
Interior of La Sagrada Familia (my photo)
Interior of La Sagrada Familia (not my photo)
Interior of La Sagrada Familia (not my photo)
I suppose the fact that Gaudi is so well appreciated so many years after his death fills me with hope for my own creative works. Even if I end up destitute prior to my death, there is always that chance that my books are discovered and downloaded on Amazon.com in the next few hundred years.
What is Film Noir? Many critics debate whether or not this style of film-making is a genre unto itself or not. Film Noir, or black film, is a type of film from the 40s and 50s, typically gritty detective stories, that thematically deal with sex, drugs, crime, and the seedy underbelly of society. The films also utilize cinematography, lighting and shadows, and music to create a dark and ominous mood. Noir characters aren’t heroes. They’re flawed every-men.
Additionally, the narrative structure tends to drive the climax into some sort of maze or shrinking space, forcing the protagonist and antagonist together. The screenplays are often pessimistic, fatalistic, or nihilistic. But a film classified into this not-genre doesn’t have to have any or all of these and there are many films in the genre which have virtually none.
It’s confusing as hell. So when I was assigned an oral presentation on film noir during my first, freshman year, History of Cinema class in college, I butchered my way through it and escaped with a B+. Still, to this day, I’m bewildered when it comes to what makes noir, noir. And looking back, I’m pretty sure the rest of the class was as well.
During my recent trip to Vienna, however, I enjoyed watching a classic bit of film noir cinema greatness: TheThirdMan (with OrsonWelles). Shot almost entirely on location in Austria (including the theater BurgKino, in which we viewed the picture), the film takes place during a post-WWII rebuilding of Vienna, when the main character comes to town to find his best friend dead. The first line of voice-over narration says, “I never knew the old Vienna before the war…”
A mystery ensues (if you haven’t seen it I won’t spoil it for you) all over the capital city of Austria transporting the audience to 1949, but to many of the same places Jen and I had visited earlier in the visit. The film was very good and I recommend it. I’m still not sure I can explain exactly what makes it film noir, although the final chase through Vienna’s complex sewersystem – complete with elongated shadows and echoing footsteps – is most likely the film’s best indication.
In his review of the film, the late RogerEbert said, “Of all the movies I have seen, this one most completely embodies the romance of going to the movies.” I don’t completely agree with him, but I can see how he arrived at that opinion. I did feel very much engrossed in the golden age of Hollywood during the screening.
How many cities in the world rhyme with the word blog?
Combined with the trip to the German Christmas markets, we swung through the CzechRepublic for a couple days to see what all the hullabaloo was about their capital city: Prague. It’s been on the top of my life for over 10 years for a few reasons. The first of which is that everybody who’s been there raves about it. I’ve spoken to friends, family, and even strangers on the interwebs who claim Prague is one of the most beautiful cities in Europe.
Rightly so, considering it was one of the few major markets to avoid bombing during WWII. The Nazis marched across the border prior to their invasion of Poland – which was the inciting incident that brought the combined strength of Britain and France down upon the ThirdReich. With the city heavily occupied by the Nazis, and so geographically close to the German stronghold of Munich, it’s easy to see why many of the beautiful architecture dating back to the Middle Ages survived.
However, I must say that while I enjoyed my time in Prague, I was somewhat disappointed. Perhaps it was the level of expectations people set for me. Perhaps it was the weather. Perhaps the crowds (we happened to be there on a Czech specific holiday) stole some of the majesty away. These may have all been contributing factors, but I presume the real reason I wasn’t thrilled is simply due to the sheer amount of traveling I’ve done over the past few years. Many of the places I’ve seen around Asia and Africa just dwarf what Prague is and has been. It’s the way I choose to travel – more IndianaJones than AnthonyBourdain.
I guess what I most wanted to experience was that OldWorld feel of being in another place and time. I wanted to step out of the 21st century and into the central square and winding back streets of Prague to feel like I had been transported to the 16oos. If you’ve seen The Illusionist (mostly shot in the Czech Republic) you’ll understand a bit of what I mean. However, the massive amount of traffic – both pedestrian and automotive – didn’t help to get the job done. On top of that, there are hundreds of old buildings, yet their first floor storefronts have become GAPs, ZARAs, and other high end clothing and jewelry stores. That certainly takes away from the ambience.
Of all the activities we did, the one that made me feel the most like traveling back in time was a tour of the Clementinum: a series of buildings that now houses the national library, among other things. In the past, it was where Kepler and Brahedid a lot of their work high above in their astronomytower. That was where we were able to view the amazingly preserved BaroqueLibrary, as well as gaze out over the entire city. The view of the church steeples and Medieval and Renaissance roofs was astounding.
We also crossed the CharlesBridge a few times, back and forth to the old town square, or StaromestskeNamesti – which is home to both the AstronomicalClock (fantastic) and the famously haunting Tyn’sChurch that dominates the skyline. The bridge crosses the VltavaRiver, is over 600 meters long and over 10 meters wide. It dates back to the 14th century and is considered to be one of the most astonishing gothic style bridges in the world, decorated with over 30 statues (mostly of Christian iconography). It’s beautiful for sure, when you’re not crammed shoulder to shoulder with people trying to cross. It ended up feeling more like a through-way than an actual sight to go and see for itself.
Likewise, the old town square was so full of people, it became difficult to move. I’ll even go so far as to say it reminded me of being in China. Yep, it was that bad. The church was cool from the outside, but overly decorated and gaudy from the inside. The clock was perhaps the best part, though with so many people there, it became difficult to soak it in and enjoy it fully.
The clock was finished in 1410 and is the third oldest (and only still operational) astronomical clock in the world. The dial is an astrolabe, a medieval device used for star mapping. The clock face also boasts a zodiac ring. Normally, the center of the square is empty. Except we happened to be there during Advent and like their German neighbor, Prague boasts its own version of the Christmas market.
The fully lit tree was a nice touch, as was the stage (off to the side) where groups of children’s choirs would perform one after the other. And on December5th, Mikulas makes an appearance. The Czech version of Santa is slightly different from our own. He appears with two followers: an angel and a devil, also known as the Krampus. If the child has been bad over the year, the devil kidnaps him (or her) and tosses them in his sack to bring straight to hell. However, the angel pleads to Mikulas on the child’s behalf, to save him from damnation. Mikulas then asks the child to reciteasongor a poem and if he can, then he’s freed from the devil’s sack and given a treat. If he can’t, it’s said that there’s nothing else to be done but wave goodbye as the cackling krampus departs.
Quite a bit scarier than getting a lumpof coal in your stocking. Don’t you think?
So our trip was fun and delightful overall. I wish that I had felt more of the magic Prague has to offer. I suppose that’s the risk when one’s traveled to Kathmandu, Kyoto, and Cairo.
Without a doubt, one of the hardest aspects of being an expat is spending the holidays without family and friends surrounding you (hence the previous blog about Christmas movie viewing). Needless to say, every year we look for new and exciting ways to celebrate and curb the loneliness that comes from living abroad, while still keeping the traditions that we grew up with alive.
This year, our Christmas holiday season began with a trip to Germany, where we visited the town that invented Christmas: Nuremberg. Now, when I say invented Christmas, I don’t mean the entire holiday. The human observation of the daylight growing longer and overcoming the darkness dates back to prehistory. However, many of our contemporary western ideas relating to the festival of lights come out of Germany and other central European nations.
One way that many of the European cultures celebrate is through the markets. Christmas markets can be found all over the continent, but they – like many other traditions – originated in the area of Germany (ie. trees, wreaths, and Sinterklaas). The oldest of these is in Nuremberg where instead of Christmas market, it is called the Christkindlesmarkt.
Christkind translates to ‘ChristChild‘ in English and specifically in the Bavarian region (yes, we ate real pretzels and bratwurst), children write letters to the baby Jesus asking for presents. The letters are decorated with sugar to make them sparkle. The Nuremberg market opens on the Friday prior to the start of Advent, and a young girl with ‘Christ like’ qualities is chosen to participate in a parade as the Christkind. She wears a long, white dress and has blond curly hair with a gold crown atop her head. Sometimes she even wears wings like an angel.
Nobody really knows how the Christkindlesmarkt traditions began, but its been theorized to date back to 1628. The oldest piece of evidence is a wooden box with that date inscribed on the bottom alongside the words: Kindles–Marck. Additionally, the words Kindleinbescheren (handing out presents to children) or Weihnachtszeit (Christmas time) were used in official Nuremberg city documents as far back as 1610. Most historians believe that the markets gradually evolved between 1610 and 1639.
Most, if not all, of the Christmas markets in Germany, Austria, Switzerland, and other countries take place in or around the town square and Nuremberg is no different. The Hauptmarkt is the area of the town beneath the Frauenkirche – a very unique cathedral that appears to have jumped out of the pages of a steampunk novel, complete with a mechanical clock dating back to 1506 (but commemorating the Golden Bull of 1356).
There was a time when traveling meant capturing great photos of some far off places and experiencing the feeling of simply being there. That was when I took trips alone. Going on a holiday with Jen, however, is a completely different story. While I spend time researching hotels, airlines, and sights, she spends her time vigorously combing through internet forums for what people claim are the best souvenirs to buy. If I’m lucky, she chooses one. At a Christmas market though (at any sight with the word ‘market’ in the title), I felt lucky to get out of there with only a small handful.
During the trip we strolled through markets in Prague, Munich, RothenburgobderTauber, and Nuremberg. And after seeing the various styles of markets, I believe we made the right decision in doing all of our souvenir shopping in Nuremberg. The quality of hand–crafted goods far outweighed options at the other markets. Rothenburg ob der Tauber was such a small market, there were more Christmas shops than stalls (shops open year round so I’m told). Both Prague and Munich had a plethora of cheap, factory made chintz. It was frustrating to walk kilometers (literally) around the markets only to see the same junk being peddled at every booth.
On the other hand, Nuremberg showcased a variety of goods that none of the other markets had on display. For example, we purchased two very cute Christmas decorations. The first is called a smoker and is similar to a nutcracker. While the nutcracker sits on the shelf looking Christmasy and not doing much else (unless you really want to try cracking a nut), the smoker opens up and a small incense cone goes inside. The smoke comes out through a hole in the mouth, filling the room with the scents of pine trees, warm apple cinnamon, or anything else you might want.
The second is the Zwetschgenmannle, or Prune Men. They were supposedly invented in the 18th century by a man who only had wire and a plum tree. He wanted the perfect gift for his children so he created these little figurines. Today, the prune men come in all shapes and sizes (some even ride Harleys). It’s impossible to visit the Nuremberg market without getting at least one. They range in price from 3 to 20 euro, and unlike many of the other potential souvenirs (wooden ornaments, gingerbread, spiced wine, and more), the prune men can only be found in Nuremberg.
Another interesting aspect of the markets are the mugs. Visitors pay a deposit of 2 or 3 euro and get a special mug (every year has a different design and the date printed on it). You take your mug with you to every drink stall and order whatever hot beverage you prefer, whether it be hot chocolate, apple cider, or mulled wine. At the end of the evening, you can choose to either return your mug for the deposit, or keep it as another souvenir. We took a mug home from both Rothenburg and Nuremberg. Two more souvenirs and many cups of hot beverages that kept us warm while we shopped.
So, we enjoyed our short Advent trip to Germany and the Czech Republic. Next, we’ll be traveling to Italy, Austria, and Hungary. We both miss home and hope that all our family and friends are enjoying the build up and preparations for the holiday season… Stay tuned for more stories from our adventures!
Now that Thanksgiving is over, we find ourselves fully immersed in the holiday season. Because of this, I wanted to share some vital information to those of my readers who also double as film buffs. It’s come to my attention there has been a discrepancy about Christmas movies. So consider this article an brief guide to help steer you in the right direction.
To begin with, I would like to point out there are two types of films that will appear on this list:
Films about the Christmas spirit
Films that are set during the holiday season
If any of you Google any terms related to Christmas or holiday films, you will undoubtedly find rolls of film titles, some even 100 long. However, the vast majority of these movies are not Christmas movies in the traditional sense. The primary method of determining the validity of an actual Christmas film is where the holiday and its message fall within the context of the characters and story.
If the holiday of Christmas is nothing more than a set-piece, ie. in the background or backdrop, with lights and snow then that film is NOT a Christmas movie. I repeat… movies with a Christmas setting are not necessarily Christmas films. So what makes a movie a Christmas movie?
For starters, the holiday itself is in the foreground of the story and characters. The movie needs to take place during Christmas or it doesn’t make sense. Stories that can be transferred to other seasons and still maintain their dramatic integrity do not count as Christmas movies.
Secondly, the theme of the film must have a happy and uplifting ending. Christmas movies are meant to make us feel good. By the time the fade-to-black hits and the credits begin, the audience should be laughing, smiling, have tears of joy streaking from their eyes, or some combination thereof. They should be about family and love and forgiveness and new beginnings. They should, for the most part, be so sappy and saccharine you want to gauge your eyes out with an ornament on your tree.
Yes, yes, yes… we all cheered when Batman finally got rid of the Penguin in Batman Returns (but that doesn’t make it a Christmas film). Nor are Die Hard, Gremlins, Trading Places, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, Reindeer Games (though aptly named), Lethal Weapon, The Nightmare Before Christmas (again, aptly names), Meet Me in St. Louis, and Bad Santa (to name but a few) – as much as we may like them or think they are.
So, to sum up… A Christmas film must directly relate to the holiday AND leave audiences with a happy and uplifting ending. Got it? Good. Now onto the list of the top 25 “not-to-miss” Christmas films to watch this holiday season (in no particular order):
Miracle on 34th Street (either version)
A Christmas Carol (any version incl. Scroogedstarring Bill Murray)
It’s a Wonderful Life
Babes in Toyland
A Christmas Story (my personal favorite)
Elf (a contemporary classic)
National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation
The Santa Clause
The Bishop’s Wife
How the Grinch Stole Christmas
Just Friends (this one could go either way, but I believe it to be a Christmas-themed rom’ com’)
The Polar Express
The Holiday (on the fence)
Jingle All the Way
Christmas with the Kranks
The Nativity Story
And with the end of this blog, I wish a Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night – filled with hot, buttery popcorn, and 5.1 surround sound, high-def movie viewing!
During our travels, Jen and I happened to procure a bottle of authentic absinthe. It is an alcoholic beverage well-known in artistic circles for its distinctive greenish color as well as its hallucinatory properties. It is very difficult to purchase absinthe in the United States because of it complicated ingredients (the FDA has been all over it for about a century).
Since we found a real bottle of the controversial liquor here in Europe, we decided to take it out for a spin to see what happened (more on that later). During my research into the creation and popularity of absinthe, I discovered a very interesting story that begins with wine.
Just as the ancient Romans brought wine into Europe as they expanded north and west, the European settlers brought their wine across the ‘pond’ to the ‘new world’. However, the grapes couldn’t thrive in North American soil. Over the course of the next century or two, French farmers toyed around with American grape varieties without producing the same quality wines they had become accustomed to in their homelands.
Eventually, the Americans grafted European grapes with American grapes and shipped their yields back across the Atlantic to grow on European soil. Unfortunately, grapes weren’t the only things they brought back. A species of insect called the Phylloxera came along for the ride and caused irreparable damage to the French vineyards.
The Great French Wine Blight started in 1868 and within 40 years, wiped out almost all of the vines. What scientists eventually discovered was that the bugs preferred munching on the leaves of the imported American vines as well as the roots of the local French vines. No grapes were safe.
By the early 20th century, grape growers were using a combination of pesticides and hybrid, phylloxera-resistant, vines of American and French grafting to reconstitute the supply of wine on the continent. Even today, wine has been forever changed due to the Blight (few people living has ever tasted the robust flavors of French wines that existed prior to 1868). However, another effect of the drop in wine production was the rise of absinthe consumption.
Absinthe is a spirit, without any added sugar, that tastes like anise (so don’t eat it with pizzelles). Originating from Switzerland, production of this beverage expanded in France in the late 19th century – 100 years after it was invented. It rose to great popularity directly because of the lack of wine available during the time period (in France alone over 2 million liters were consumed per year during and after the Blight), particularly with artists and writers, who wanted to “see beyond”. Hemingway even created his own use for the spirit by mixing it with champagne (he named it Death in the Afternoon, but more on the American author in another entry).
In literature, films, and music (up to this day), absinthe has been vilified as a dangerous, addictive, and psychoactive drug due to the ingredient thujone, which is present in the plant known as wormwood (Artemisia absinthium). In spite of this inaccurate portrayal, nobody has been able to demonstrate the spirit to be more dangerous than any other alcoholic beverage produced in the world. Too bad, it’s still very difficult to find in the United States (some domestic liquor stores sell versions without wormwood).
Originally, wormwood was utilized as a plant with medicinal purposes from the ancient Egyptians through 18th century European doctors. They thought it had powerful healing effects and would prescribe it to patients with arthritis, fever, menstrual pain, tapeworm, to aid digestion, and even as an antiseptic. As it turns out, it was only a drug, and not a miracle cure (the story parallels that of cocaine use in Coke over a century ago, prior to the drug’s illegality and exclusion from the now popularly consumed carbonated soft-drink).
One of the most fascinating aspects of the spirit is how it’s prepared.
First, fill the bubble at the bottom of your Pontarlier (or another type of long, slender, or conical) glass with pure absinthe from the bottle (if you don’t have a Pontarlier, then fill the bottom 25% of the glass instead).
Next, place a traditional absinthespoon across the mouth of the glass (this spoon has holes or slits and looks a lot like a fancy cake serving utensil), but if you don’t have that spoon, a fork or another slotted device will work just as well.
Then, set a sugar cube on the spoon and slowly pour ice cold water over the cube and spoon until the sugar dissolves in the water and flows into the glass, mixing with the absinthe (the goal is 4 parts water to 1 part absinthe plus sugar).
At this point, you will notice that while the water and sugar dilutes the absinthe, the mixture also changes the color and consistency of the beverage (the clear green will fade into a cloudy greenish that loses its opaque quality).
Finally, sip and enjoy! Maybe…
Jen and I spent an evening trying out the drink. First of all, it tastes like ass run over twice… unless you’re a fan of licorice. The predominant (and I mean predominant) flavor ingredient is anise. Personally, I hate anise so that was already one strike against absinthe. Choking down the beverage all night didn’t provide the hallucinatory experiences the Bohemian artists of yesteryear claimed it did. What it did give me was a massive stomach ache with a touch of a foggy head (I couldn’t hear correctly for most of the night, as if I were underwater).
Do I recommend absinthe? Nah. It’s not worth the aggravation to create. It’s too strong to consume without diluting it. And if you simply want to get drunk or buzzed, there are plenty of other tastier ways to do it. I believe these are the reasons that absinthe has fallen out of favor with the general population over the past century.
Why drink nasty licorice flavors when you can have vanilla vodka or coconut rum and mix these with Coke or Sprite?
For Halloween, I was given the gift of an overnight stay in an authentic, medieval, European castle! The small town of Olite is home to one of the top 10 castle-turned-hotels in all of Europe. It would have only been better if it were haunted. However, being in an honest to goodness feudal town got me thinking about what life must have been life over 1,000 years ago, and how it compares to life now.
The MiddleAges were, for a long time, also known as the DarkAges. Primarily because the years between the fall of the RomanEmpire and the beginning of the Renaissance were void of social, scientific, economic, and cultural advances (and a lack of written records during this period). The CatholicChurch controlled much of the known world at the time, and kingdoms fought bloody wars that ravaged the countryside and the people who lived there.
The predominant type of government during this period was known as Feudalism, which was a way of structuring ownership of property (including land, goods, livestock, and servants) based upon the relationship between the owner and the user. Typically, a lord or a king would grand a temporary lease on his land or property, known as a fief, to a vassal. In return, the vassal would swear fealty or allegiance to the lord and pledge himself and his followers to join any fighting force if a war broke out.
One of the major aspects of Feudalism that allowed the practice to thrive between the 6th and 14th centuries was the serf. Serfdom was the condition of bondage or servitude that many peasants held while living on the fief lands leased to a vassal but ultimately controlled by the lord. Each serf or family of serfs occupied a plot of land and were required to work for the vassal who became the “lordof the manor“. They were granted protection and the ability to engage in subsistencefarming for themselves. This manor formed the basic unit of feudal society, and serfs were the lowest of the lowly classes.
According to Wikipedia, “the serf ‘worked for all’ while the knight ‘fought for all’ and a churchman ‘prayed for all’.” And while serfs couldn’t be bought and sold they way slaves were prior to the U.S.CivilWar, the land they lived and worked on could. So if a new lord came to own the land, that serf had no choice but to remain on said land, continuing to work for his new “master”.
The disparity of wealth between lords and serfs during this period was unconscionable. But relearning about the Middle Ages (I had done a lot of it in primary school) really got me comparing what the serfs went through to what the vast majority of people in the 21st century are going through. For all intents and purposes, the serfs were the medieval 99% (Occupy Europe?).
Through massive policy shifts that began in the 1970s under the NixonAdministration, including global privatization, multinational corporations, and free trade agreements, a new theory suggests humanity has entered into a modern era of feudalism. Neofeudalism is the belief that those who control the top 1% of wealth have positioned themselves as the new lords of the manors. They likewise, lease certain aspects of their holdings to vassals (CEOs, politicians, and bankers to name a few), who are then able to control the rest of us… aka serfs.
Essentially economic and commercial, Neofeudalism has been fueled by private interest groups, lobbying the governments of the world on all levels to scale back their involvement (and regulatory bodies) in a variety of industries. This widens the wealth gap and creates a larger population of poor and/or marginalized people, excluded from receiving basic needs as promised by their governments such as: healthcare, infrastructure, education, and civil services.
The 21st century is an age of CorporateFeudalism. The system of government and the ways in which these corporations evade regulations has prevented the 99% from fighting back in any way. Modern day serfs working three part time jobs, making barely enough money to live on, have no means to standing up to the corporate CEOs who control everything.
The people cannot risk losing what little they have already. And what do they truly want? Most ask for nothing more than the means to provide for their families – food, clothing, and shelter – yet aren’t even given a way to accomplish the simplest of these very easily. Look at escalating inflation for groceries and rent while the minimum wage has remained basically the same over the past 20 years!
Corporations are hardly new ideas. The original concept stemmed from the medieval guilds that attempted to restrain knowledge, power, and wealth to members only (remember those corny jackets in the 80s that tried to make a fashion comeback a few years ago?). The main guild goal was to maintain the interests of the existing power structure.
Sound familiar? It should. It’s exactly what corporations have been doing for decades when they throw money and influence at political campaigns, backing candidates who will vote with the corporations’ best interests (profit) in mind, and little care for anything else, specifically the modern day serfs.
In the United States, the words “federalism” and “feudalism” can be almost interchangeable when you look at the way our own Constitution was arranged. Most aspects of the employer-employee relationship was regulated by a common law that enforced principles of hierarchy derived from the feudal society of the late Middle Ages. The system of workplace regulation, the law of master and servant, permitted an employer to beat his worker until the courts ruled it unconstitutional in 1843!
Thus, corporations themselves were created to protect the employer interests during decades of cheap labor and plentiful fossil fuels. Our founding fathers probably hoped the vestiges of the feudal system would wither away with their shunning of corporations, however, their 20th century replacements – from Nixon onward – have undone a lot of the work that was done to make our nation a land of the free.
The development of our contemporary capitalistic Neofeudal system also makes one consider the implications of the “fight” against communism during the Cold War. And as my father used to say: every war that has ever been fought has been fought about money. Economics rules. If you have it, you win. And if you don’t you lose. That’s what the serfs had to deal with in the Dark Ages, and that’s what the 99% have to deal with today. Maybe that castle did have a few scary ghosts.
If any of you have read Dan Brown’s The Davinci Code, then you know where this post is headed. For those of you who haven’t, it’s worth a read. However, much of Brown’s source material came from one theory in particular – a theory chronicled in the non-fiction Davinci Code – a book entitled HolyBloodHolyGrail by British historians Leigh, Baigent, and Lincoln. Many of the places, characters, and themes that Brown used were lifted directly from the pages of Holy Blood Holy Grail. And like in any great work of fiction, those names and places were changed and altered for Brown’s purposes (in fact one of Brown’s characters, Leigh Teabing, is a blending of two of the authors’ names – Teabing is an anagram to Baigent).
In this article, I shall delve a bit into the truth behind the secrets of the Da Vinci Code. I won’t get too much into the specifics, but will just touch upon the tip of the proverbial iceberg where Brown got some of his ideas for his bestselling thriller. It all begins on top of a mysterious mountain in the south of France: Rennes-le-Chateau.
Beginning first as a prehistoric encampment and then a Roman colony, the mountaintop village and fortifications were situated within the wealthiest part of Gaul (present-day France, but inhabited by Celtic tribes during the Iron Age). It became an Visigoth town with about 30o people living in and around the area in the 6th and 7th centuries. And by the end of the Renaissance era, nothing remained but rubble. The present structures date to the 17th and 18th centuries, which is fine with me, because that is when our story begins…
The village church, dedicated to St. Mary Magdalene, had fallen into disrepair by the time a poor, local priest by the name of BerengerSauniere took over the parish and began renovating the buildings and grounds in 1887. Da Vinci Code fans will recognize the name Sauniere (the fictitious Jacques Sauniere was the murdered Louvre curator at the beginning of the story and GrandMaster to the even more fictitious Prioryof Sion). Where did a poor priest get the money to restore old buildings and build new ones in what essentially amounts to the middle of nowhere countryside? That is only one small part of the mystery.
Legend states that while he was excavating, Sauniere discovered an ancient tomb containing the remains of someone very important along with documentation that could be potentially earth-shattering to the Church. Or perhaps he discovered the long-lost gold of the Knights Templar(the museum features an old worn down stone tablet featuring the Templar seal). Again, those of you who have read Dan Brown’s book know where this is going, so I can skip over all of the theories. Needless to say, regardless of what you believe, Sauniere did find something down there. Whether or not his “treasure” would alter the face of Christianity or not, he found enough to give him (the equivalentin today’s money) $500,000 that it would take to finish his construction plans and afford him the lavish lifestyle he enjoyed until his death in 1917 (for additional information, click here).
Sauniere decorated his small church in very distinct ways. It is unlike any church I have ever been to. Apparently, he used the statues, frescoes, and even the stations of the cross as a map to the truth – a visual, three-dimensional scavenger hunt to help guide future seekers to the knowledge he possessed. It is also interesting to note there is an undisturbed crypt beneath the altar. Nobody has been allowed access to excavate and no entrance has been discovered. Above this crypt is where the priest left his puzzle for us to decode.
The puzzle was taken directly from two sources written by Sauniere’s predecessors at the church. The first, Abbe Antoine Bigou had been given a great secret by the Lady d’Hautpoul de Blanchefort, who owned the property, in 1781. The priest placed a large gravestone on the Lady’s tomb into which he carved a cipher. Hidden within this cipher are instructions to locate this great secret. He died after passing along the secret to two other priests.
Eventually, the secret made its way down the line of succession to another father at Rennes-le-Chateau, Abbe Henri Boudet. He retrieved the tombstone, decoded the cipher, and with the knowledge he obtained, wrote a book called, The True Celtic Language and Stone Circle ofRennes–les–Bains. His work wasn’t well received so he devised a plan to immortalize what he had learned from Lady Hautpoul. It was this priest who personally selected Berenger Sauniere for the job at Rennes-le-Chateau.
Sauniere was charged with maintaining this great secret so he took Boudet’s book and reinterpreted the map and key into his renovations of the church. Of note, as you walk into the entrance is a pedestal featuring four angels (looking in the four cardinal directions) with the initials BS in the middle and a phrase in Latin – Par ce signe tu le vaincras (By this sign shall ye conquer him). The angel in front is kneeling and pointing down to the figure of a devil, holding up the pillar itself (a very strange sight to see in a church, and it is said that the BS either stands for the two priests of Boudet and Sauniere or for the latter’s initials). But is the angel pointing to the devil or to the BS?
Above the confessional in the rear of the church is a fresco of the Sermon on the Mount with a few obvious irregularities. To begin with, roses are strewn across the hillside (the rose is the symbol for the goddess, according the Dan Brown and other historians). Secondly, there is a woman with a baby in the crowd. Could this be Mary Magdalene with Jesus’ infant son in her arms? Thirdly, to the bottom right you can see the top part of a wooden pillar under which was found a phial that enabled the abbe to uncover the crypt beneath the church. Fourth, on the left side you can see the seal of Solomon in the form of a pink lily blossom. Finally, in the bottom center, there is a penitence bag with a hole in it. But what do all of these subtle clues imply?
Around the room, you will find statues of saints, specific saints chosen for a variety of reasons. There are six and when you draw lines between them you will see theStar of David (or if you’re a Brown fan, the blade and the chalice). If you skip the statue of Mary Magdalene (with her skull and open book by her feet), the other five spell out the letter M – for Mary Magdalene, or mother. If you put the names of those other saints Sauniere chose in order (skipping Magdalene), they spell out G-R-A-A-L (the French word for Grail) – and their lines point directly to where the priest positioned her statue.
Lastly, we must take a look at the combination of the altar and the StationsoftheCross. It is said that the clues in each station lead to buried treasure somewhere near the mountain. But of particular interest to me was the 14th station, in which men are depicted carrying the body of Christ into his tomb (one can see this imagery in every Catholic church in the world), however, something is different at Rennes-le-Chateau. In station 14, Mary Magdalene can be seen crying into the arms of someone else. The moon is high in the sky and it would have been highly unlikely that this event was carried out in the evening. Are the men carrying Jesus’ body into the tomb… or out of it?
I smell a conspiracy here. Turning immediately to my left, I find myself face to face with the craziest altar I’ve ever seen. It is topped by a dome of blue with sparkling stars. On either side, you will see statues of Joseph and Mary, yet each carry a baby Jesus. Why two? Were there two babies perhaps? Did Jesus have a brother? Was he a twin? The name Thomas means ‘twin‘. Maybe every mention of Thomas in the Bible is of Jesus’ twin brother… Who knows?
The most striking though is the basrelief on the altar itself. It portrays Mary Magdalene praying in front of a cross, a skull sits are her feet, an open book next to her, and her fingers crossed at an odd angle. Additionally, she is staring up at a cross formed by two branches tied together (another twin reference… which one lived, which died?). Sauniere seems to be suggesting what Dan Brown learned of and ran with. Jesus and Mary Magdalene were married and had children (or perhaps if you stretch it even further, Jesus’ twin brother and Mary Magdalene were married and had children), and those children survived to carry his bloodline into the south of France.
Remember, this information is merely the tip of the iceberg. There is so much more to learn about. I can’t tell you how much I have read on these subjects, but I’ll hesitate to weigh in as I only wanted to share the imagery in this magnificent and unique church with you. Think about the possibilities and make your own conclusions. At the very least, if you’re interested, pick up a copy of Holy Blood Holy Grail. I enjoyed reading it far more than the Da Vinci Code.
With an extra day off last weekend, Jen and I decided to take a leisurely and scenic drive through the French countryside. Here is some of what we saw, including the medieval city of Carcassonne (which has a board game named after it and was one of the shooting locations for the 1991 film: Robin Hood Prince of Thieves, starring Morgan Freeman, Kevin Costner, and Alan Rickman)…
Sunset on the beach in Biarritz
Docked boats in Biarritz
Church of St. Jacques le Majeur in Bidache
Chateau du Gramont in Bidache
Church of St. Andre in Baigts-de-Béarn
Cemetery in Baigts-de-Béarn
Distant Church in Baigts-de-Béarn
Cathedral of St. Martin in Pau
Central Square in Tarbes
Jardin Massey in Tarbes
Chateau d’Aurignac, built by the Cathars circa. 1240
I have been in Spain for about a week now and my high school Spanish classes are slowly filtering back into the forefront of my mind (muchos gracias Senora Valentin). Jen even told me a few days ago how impressed she was with my ability to communicate with strangers (albeit with incorrect, incoherent, or non-existent grammar). So what is there to report so far?
I suppose the first order of business would be to address the famous (or infamous) concept of the Siesta. I’m sure all of you have heard of it at one point or another, but essentially the Siesta is a midday nap. Yes, here in Espana, naps ain’t just for kindergartners anymore. Everyone of almost every age has taken culturally approved and condoned two to three hour breaks for meals and rests (around 1pm or 2pm), every day for the past seventy years.
What’s the point of such a rest? Well, for starters people used to work outdoors and when the temperatures became unbearable, they would take breaks. They would also work later to compensate. That habit led to late night socializing, and has since become the cultural phenomenon that it is today. Many experts will tell you that humans have a biological need for a nap in the middle of the day, however, the negative result of such a practice is that Spaniards end up working more hours than their counterparts in the rest of the European Union, yet at the same time, produce far less (and they get less sleep every night).
The biggest side effect of the Siesta is that late nights out have become the norm, even for the smallest of children. In fact, our Lonely Planet guidebook suggests that if you’re travelling with kids, you must get them adjusted to the late nights as quickly as possible so that they don’t miss anything (including the final meal of the day which isn’t typically eaten until 9pm or 10pm).
Put together, the Siesta in the afternoon coupled with the late nights out and about have drastically altered the business schedule as well. For example, most retail establishments don’t open their doors until 10am, but they close at 1pm for the Siesta and even though the break is supposed to only be a few hours, they won’t reopen their shops until after 5pm.
Restaurants have a different – and even crazier – schedule. If you get hungry between 11am and 4pm, you are good to go. However, if you find yourself needing a meal or a quick snack between 4pm and 8pm – good luck to you. All the restaurants close until the late night runs for tapas (pintxos, in Navarre). Getting stuck in the middle of the city with empty stomachs has already happened to us twice in a week.
I’m sure you can only imagine how difficult it must be to adjust your biological clock to this kind of schedule. I didn’t realize before we arrived, how much of a toll it would take on my body. I find myself getting tired (and hungry) at weird times. And until I began researching to write this article, I didn’t know exactly why. It all goes back to the Nazis… believe it or not. But we’ll get to that.
How did Spain get themselves into such a confusing mess? One major reason: they’re in the wrong time zone and most of the citizenry doesn’t even know it. Geographically, the GreenwichMeridian cuts across Spain, putting Madrid (the capital city) in the same longitude as London, UK. But, the nation is an hour ahead of the Brits, Scots, and Irish.
The outcome is that the sun rises and sets later in Spain than in the rest of the continent. Even the longest days of the summer, the sun doesn’t come up before 7am, and in the winter it doesn’t rise oftentimes until after 9am (thanks to daylight savings time)! Which means the people – both workers and students – have to wake up in total darkness.
Every few years, news reports surface that Spain’s political and economic advisers want to change the time zone to coincide more with the U.K. and thus creating a longer span of daylight. Instead of the population eating at 2pm and 9pm, they’ll eat at 1pm and 8pm (the standard time most of the rest of Europe eats and takes breaks). Hence why retail establishments and schools don’t get going until 10am in most cases, however, for office workers who begin their day at 8:30am or 9am, the lunch Siesta is a long way off. They need a coffee break in the middle of the morning as well – and why everyone must work even later in the evenings.
Siestas… Siestas… Siestas…
Changing the time zone to where it is geographically appropriate would have a huge benefit and cost the workforce practically nothing. They would gain so much in the way of energy and efficiency. Now, let’s get back to those damn Nazis. The year was 1942 and Spain’s dictator, General Francisco Franco wanted to show Hitler, his fascist ally, his support. Therefore, in an often criticized and bewildering move, he altered the time zone to coincide with Germany’s. And there it has remained ever since.
In history classrooms in the United States, Spain’s role in WWII is marginalized, but the totalitarian regime under Franco did a lot of damage to the people on the Iberian Peninsula in much the same ways Hitler did in central Europe (thanks to a lot of financial and military support from Germany, Italy, and even Russia). I won’t go into it now, but there were concentration camps and executions in addition to his time zone change. The combination of these events made Spain an international pariah and halted their inclusion in the U.N. and NATO following the ending of the war.
Which brings me to the end of my first blog from Spain. I hope you enjoyed reading it and having me back online again. I’m now six hours ahead of the Eastern states, so I’ll try and post them when you’re waking up in the mornings to read over your coffee, tea, or other hot beverages. And in the meantime, I will adjust the rest of my biological clock to sleeping and eating when it’s culturally appropriate here with the Spaniards.
Well, here I am again and another year has gone by. Happens to us all. But for me, as I live one year at a time, hopping from job to job, from country to country, this time of year means a reflection back on all that has happened to me and all that I have learned from immersing myself into a new culture in a new place with new people. As I prepare my own personal journey to the west for the summer, I thought I would share one of my souvenirs with my readers.
I have never been one to gravitate toward souvenirs, in fact I’m pretty much the anti-pack rat – throwing away as much of my ‘stuff’ as I can so that I can live lightly and (more importantly) travel lightly. Typically, I carry around my digital SLR and simply take photos that I hope to someday print and frame to hang around my home, reminding me of all my experiences. Until then, I was content to bring home only that which I brought. Until my wife, who is addicted to souvenirs, got me thinking about one in particular that I really wanted to have.
As a writer (most other writers will commiserate on this with me), I often imagine myself sitting at a thick and polished desk of dark colored wood, seated in a comfortable leather chair in front of a warmly lit fireplace, surrounded by walls upon walls of old, leather-bound books on shelves that reach from floor to ceiling. For those of you familiar with Harry Potter, think Gryffindor common room; for those of you not, see the photo.
It will be in this ‘study’ that I will continue to compose my stories. The study will be comforting. The study will have an old-world feel to it (perhaps even containing one of those giant, brown globes with the continents drawn wrong). So what I need to do in the meantime, is begin to gather books to fill those shelves. In China, I collected one of my first, and trust me, it is aptly named.
There are fourgreatclassicalnovels of Chinese literature, masterpieces if you will, that all students learn and most of whom are forced to read. They are often regarded to be the most influential works of pre-modern Chinese fiction, dating from the Ming and Qing dynasties, and have been adapted hundreds of times into television shows, films, operas, and other media. Some are among the world’s longest and oldest novels.
Obviously, I wanted one of these for my collection (although some of the Confuciuswritings were jockeying for first place, particularly the I Ching). Their titles are: Water Margin, Romance of the Three Kingdoms, Dream of the Red Chamber, and Journey to the West. I chose the latter because the subject matter appealed to me the most (if you would like to know more about the other three, I invite you to click the links after you finish reading my article).
Journey to the West was written by a man named Wu Cheng’en under the pen name Sheyang Hermit during the Ming Dynasty. He lived in Lianshui, near what is modern day Huai’an city (where Jen and I visited her family). At the time he wrote, the trend in Chinese writing was to imitate the very formal styles of the past. However, Wu went against this by writing his stories the way common people spoke. He first published Journey to the West (aka XīYóuJì) anonymously due to severe criticism of other “vulgar” literature written in the same style. It is for this reason that some people still debate the work’s authorship.
The story tells of the legendary pilgrimage of a Buddhist monk who traveled to the western regions (present day India, Nepal, and Tibet), to obtain sacred texts (sutras). He experienced many trials and suffering before returning home to the eastern parts of China (another journey I took in February – I told you this blog was aptly named). The tale has strong roots in Chinese folk religion and mythology as well as incorporates Taoist and Buddhist philosophies. It is essentially the definitive work of Chinese adventure and fantasy (and allegory). My copy is handbound and written in Chinese traditional script from the top to bottom, as opposed to modern day Mandarin, which is read from left to right like English.
In 1942, ArthurWaley translated Journey to the West into English for the first time. He named his version Monkey: A Folk-Tale of China and not only abridged the work, but also simplified it so that it would be much more digestible for a western audience. He translated only 30 of the original 100 chapters, but of those 30, he included them completely, only omitting lengthy sections of poetry. Humorously, he altered the characters’ names: Sun Wukong became Monkey, ZhuBajie became Pigsy, and ShaWujing became Sandy.
Waley’s translation was for years, the most popular version, and even now, English language books are hard to come by. If you would like to read a more detailed synopsis of the story (and I have to admit, I haven’t read it yet myself), or purchase an English version yourself, I’m sure you can search the Internet and find one or both (I still have to). In the meantime, I will be making my own journey west shortly and will hopefully see all of my loved ones, family, and friends over the summer.
Duanwu is the Chinese name for a summertime festival many of you across the world may be familiar with, as a great number of nations have adopted some of the traditions themselves. Duanwu occurs on the fifth day of the fifth month of the lunar calendar and is commonly known in the west as the DragonBoatFestival.
Most holidays and festivals take their cues from ancient practices and rites regarding the changing of the seasons and the cycle of birth, life, death, and rebirth associated with the sun. In the fall, I posted an article about the Mid-AutumnFestival here in China which corresponds to Chuseok in Korea and Thanksgiving in the Americas. Likewise, Duanwu is the Chinese equivalent of IndependenceDay in the US and other Midsummer Festivals around the globe (some of which call to mind a certain Elizabethan playwright).
For this festival, Jen and I traveled to the city of Huai’an for the last time to visit her family and share in their customs. We ate zongzi (sweetened rice dumplings wrapped in bamboo leaves and steamed to perfection) and exchanged five–coloredbracelets (typically reserved for children under 14) meant to ward off evil spirits. We enjoyed their company and even took a canal cruise to an ancient part of the city where one of China’s most famous novelists lived back in the 16th century.
To our dismay, there weren’t actually any dragon boat races in Huai’an (though we did take a nice leisurely boat ride down the grand canal that connects Beijing to Hangzhou). The races only occur where rivers are widest (and not in canals), so towns send a single crewed boat to represent them in regional races across the country. The dragon boat looks much like that of a collegiate rowing boat with the addition of a colorful and ornately carved dragon head at the front. The crew consists of 20 paddlers, 1 drummer (to maintain tempo), and 1 sweep (to steer) and the boats can vary in length and type of wood.
The races are very competitive, their crews training year round for a single race on this single day. The Duanwu race is a sprint of 500 meters (though some regions choose 1000 or 2000 instead), during which teams must complete two loops that includes three 180 degree turns. Occasionally, regions will decide to host long distance endurance race events, which may cover as many as 100 kilometers. Spectators drive in from all over to cheer on their favorite boat crew.
In the United States and Canada, dragon boat races are held in many major cities, including Philadelphia. Every day, along the SchuylkillRiver, crews practice and race. For those of you not from the area, you can drive along I-76 and see the many boathouses, known as BoathouseRow, where local colleges and universities store their boats and racing gear. But during Duanwu, the dragon boats come out to play as well.
The Schuylkill Dragons are an all women’s dragon boat racing team founded in 2001, and they’re not the only ones. The Philadelphia International Dragon Boat Festival hosts dozens of teams and has for dozens of years. I, for one, cannot wait to be back home during one of the races so that I can attend and cheer on the crews myself (something I didn’t get to do while in China).