"With feet like roots, and acorn boots".
I have landed in Vienna, Austria once and for all; the very country that threatened to tear my dear parents apart almost three decades ago. Thankfully, my Dad's brilliant display of rapid cutlery buying antics was their saving grace. Good on you, Pops, way to woo Mum back to Manitoba and into your arms with cutlery.
Upon arrival two nights ago, I dropped the achor that is my backpack with disdain and saw the clothes traipse out of my bag on imaginary limbs and waltz across the floor like the plague. There is a common thread in each city we arrive in, we drop our meagre belongings to the floor in back-breaking relief and make ourselves at home in the blink of an eye. We have to, or the unfamiliarity and upheaval that comes with every move, with every new transition, would swallow us whole.
We came to Vienna from Prague, a city that was held at an arms length for the duration of my visit. The city itself was so beautiful and clean, majestic and colourful on the surface; but after a few days of close observance of angry locals (yes, I know that is a sweeping generalization, but in Prague, the stereotype proved itself to be true: Eastern Europeans are a dissatisfied lot) the surface beauty wore itself through and I saw the city with fresh eyes. Well kept and clean does not always translate to lovely. It was almost as if Prague was this giant, freshly painted, one hundred year old, shining facade but behind it the people were rude and unfriendly, and the buildings crumbling messes. Eye contact alone was as scarce as mineral water and hot showers.
Bitterness and disappointment aside, Prague did rear it's majestic face more often than not. One day while at a Salvador Dali exhibit in Old Square, I was more taken by the mixture of light and busyness going on four stories below me, than by the artwork itself. The light in the Square was so eery and ghostlike, it captured me entirely. I grabbed a pen and wrote on a piece of scrap paper furiously, not wanting to forget what a observed that day through the gallery window. The beehivesque activity below was stunning. Babies in hip strollers, babe parents, cafes dappling the ground and kids walking around with wurst on sticks. So much activity caught up in the strange light coming from all directions around square made up of antique facades of towering cathedrals, galleries and apartments. It was like looking at an inverted, million year old kaleidascope. That sounds stupid, but I have no other way of wording it. I will never forget it.
We spent our days in Prague battling the predicted demons of the three week mark and eating well. I spent a day photographing other tourists, their habits and obvious awe was delightful. My usual targets were clusters of umbrella-clad Asians and old geezers in rainbow bright tams leaning over the St.Charles bridge. We sat in Illy cafes in cool neighborhoods, drank copious amounts of coffee (I thought of Alfie) and rode the tram around town (for free, obviously). On our last night in Prague, we got lost and ended up stumbling into the most brilliant local pub, underground. Music of the Alanis Morrissette variety welcomed us in like an athem and I took it as a good omen. Our english accents set us apart immediately and we were flooded with offers for drinks and dances by some dude named Andre.
I gave Andre the benefit of the doubt and we danced feverishly to Spicegirls' "Wannabe" while Rab and Kit looked on in stitches of laughter. Screw you guys. We left the anciet city on a high (and somewhat foggy) note; I learnt my "never-mix-800-variations-of-alcohol lesson (thank you Andre...) the hard way on the five hour train ride that followed our departure from Prague.
Now we are in Vienna and the somber viel that once covered us in Prague has lifted like an overnight fog. Life is good, full and well. I wrote to JJ this morning that I have never felt lighter, happier, slower, fuller, or more satisfied. This trip was called for, that much I know. Yesterday this notion was proved time and again while at the Leopold gallery. I stood an inch away from my favorite piece by E. Schiele and a calm flooded over me like the tide. To stand in the presence of art that was once only accesible in a glossy book in University is truly the greatest thing in the world.
Land ho. I am happy and actually slow paced for once in my life.
Be well,
Frances.
ps: Art, architecture, food and happiness aside, I am still awaiting the Christmas season with a vengeance. My mum and I have made a pact to park it in the airport terminal for all of December after my return to the motherland and await the arrival of our dear ones with the aid of Folk Festival chairs, beer helmuts, and breath that is baited. Brilliant.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Ought vs. Naught.
Dearest ones of all;
Güten naht from Deutchland, gems. I have only now, already two weeks into this journey, figured out how to sign in to this place. Generally, I am rather lazy when it comes to writing for an expectant audience. I will write as I please and the outcome will be as scattered and jittery as my current mindframe (thanks to three incredibly strong capuccinos, consumed in rapid sucession), woe is me-- I am as good as drunk today from the caffine alone. But here I am, all the same.
Okay, jittery piano hands aside; please know that I am happy and full. In the clarity of hindsight, it usually takes me about two weeks to make the dreaded 'change of pace' when I travel. The transition from working seven days a week like a wild stallion to doing absolutely nothing usually takes its toll. This trip has been no exception to the Kroeker rule, so I am surprisingly at ease with my lack of correspondance and overall laziness. Thank you for your patience friendly readers. These are my European days (children cover thine eyes):
This morning I woke up begrudingly in a twelve bunk-bed mixed dorm after being transferred from a glorious three bed private suite shared with my lovely travelling companions: Kit and Rabbi-- to an open backpack and a fresh cum stain on my rolled up black sheet. Nestled in the corner at the top of my pack, I stopped in my tracks and surveyed the damage with sleepy eyes. Horror and mirth collided in an instant and all I could do was scream in utter disbelief and then raise a fist in damnation to the masterbateur du jour (who I might add had long escaped my potential wrath). So, two weeks into this trip and the token dorm-room-pervert jerked off into my back pack. As my father would say (and probably not in this exact context...) "scenarios like these only build character". With Kit physically gagging in the corner of the room, and Rab and I long having dropped to our knees in hysterics over the soiled sheet, I had no choice but to take the advice of my dear Mave and "let hilarity seep in". Suffice is to say, we will no longer be roosting in twelve bed mixed dorms... fuck me sideways that story trumps all!
I suppose I need to back up the bus a bit. We flew into Londontown two weeks ago and have been eating and drinking like queens ever since. When we were not roosting on benches smoking LONG cigarettes, drinking merlot out of paperbags and getting mistaken for locals in Amsterdam (!!!), we were either on our knees in the Tate Museum in London (me at least... squatting on the floor with my giant hardcover journal open in my lap, paintset and brushes strewn about, babes to my right and left drawing the same wall-piece as me in the National Gallery) or sitting fur-clad in cafes in the Netherlands sipping copious amounts of espresso. Okay, first it was London which was a bit of a shitshow--we did everything in terms of unspoken tourist obligations--whether it was Shakespeares Globe Theater, riding around in double decker busses, seeing the London Bridge and the London Eye, the changing of the guards and old Buckingham Palace. We went to every museum known to man and shat our pants at sight of Big Ben. Cliches aside, I was in heaven. The London experience got us off on a good foot.
After London we hopped a train to Amsterdam, which proved to satisfy my every expectation and dream of what I thought the city should be, within the first 24 hours. Our hostel was TOO nice for only 15 euro a night and we met some good people. The Red Light District was laughable and we wandered with wide eyes. All the while, a line from my book 'The Unbeareable Lightness of Being' kept ringing in my head, "the women in the windows looked like giant, bored cats, bathed in red". We slipped into a comfortable rhythm in that city filled with more bikes than people; the warmth of the people and quaintness of Dutch living definately instilled a desire to return again someday. I also stood face to face with some of the most phenominal art work I have ever seen and studied: Rembrandt's "The Night Watch" was so captivating I held my breath to the point of near death until an ugly little dutch girl brought me back into reality with a fierce glare and stomp of the foot. Yes, Amsterdam fared us well.
Now we are in Berlin, our last night here. The train into the city was almost as majestic as Rembrandt's work. I asked myself at least one hundred times why I hadn't been born a Dutch goat farmer and about two hours later I realized what a fool I was for thinking such a thing. Dutch goat farmers would never get mistaken for a local while smoking on a park bench along a canal in Amsterdam! (It must have been the Gravol talking). I wrote in my journal today that "Berlin is everything I thought it NOT to be". At first glance, this historic city is sterile and unforgiving, but after being here for five days, I have begun to see it in a new light. In the first few days I was comsumed with a sort of second hand embarassment for this city run to ruin by the most brilliantly stupid and hideous leader mankind has ever known; but after a few enlightening tours around Berlin, I have come to see it more as a city of rebirth and renewal instead of a simple crime scene paved over. Berlin is one hell of a constuction site, but with a bit of patience and persistence I understand it as an effort to rebuild the glorious architecture that once lived.
Today I looked my heritage in the eye in a very unconventional way. I spent the day in it's entirety alone and decided that the best way to start such a day would be to find breakfast. Insert my heritage here. In a dingy cafe buried somewhere underneath the S Bahn Ostbanhof train station, I fell in love with Germany and everything of the German variation. In a muted and wild array of hand signals and passionate eye contact, I managed to order a giant steaming plate of the BEST fried potatoes and easter ham that I have ever tasted from a giant and wild German cook. It is funny that moments like these can make or break one's day, but that meal alone hit a chord in my heart. While I ate with the power of a thousand starved demons, everything that had occured in the past two weeks came to a head in my mind and I felt so proud to be Mennonite. God bless steaming plates of ham and potatoes. I might even go so far as to say that I found (part) of my heart in that very display of food this morning. Maybe. I still have yet to find a devilishly European to stamp my passport. So to speak. HAHAHA.
On this glorious note, I am off to join my dear ladybirds in yet another meal of thanksgiving. Be well all.
This trip is looking up, save for the bedsheet incident; I can feel my character building before thine eyes.
Prust (cheers).
Madge.
Güten naht from Deutchland, gems. I have only now, already two weeks into this journey, figured out how to sign in to this place. Generally, I am rather lazy when it comes to writing for an expectant audience. I will write as I please and the outcome will be as scattered and jittery as my current mindframe (thanks to three incredibly strong capuccinos, consumed in rapid sucession), woe is me-- I am as good as drunk today from the caffine alone. But here I am, all the same.
Okay, jittery piano hands aside; please know that I am happy and full. In the clarity of hindsight, it usually takes me about two weeks to make the dreaded 'change of pace' when I travel. The transition from working seven days a week like a wild stallion to doing absolutely nothing usually takes its toll. This trip has been no exception to the Kroeker rule, so I am surprisingly at ease with my lack of correspondance and overall laziness. Thank you for your patience friendly readers. These are my European days (children cover thine eyes):
This morning I woke up begrudingly in a twelve bunk-bed mixed dorm after being transferred from a glorious three bed private suite shared with my lovely travelling companions: Kit and Rabbi-- to an open backpack and a fresh cum stain on my rolled up black sheet. Nestled in the corner at the top of my pack, I stopped in my tracks and surveyed the damage with sleepy eyes. Horror and mirth collided in an instant and all I could do was scream in utter disbelief and then raise a fist in damnation to the masterbateur du jour (who I might add had long escaped my potential wrath). So, two weeks into this trip and the token dorm-room-pervert jerked off into my back pack. As my father would say (and probably not in this exact context...) "scenarios like these only build character". With Kit physically gagging in the corner of the room, and Rab and I long having dropped to our knees in hysterics over the soiled sheet, I had no choice but to take the advice of my dear Mave and "let hilarity seep in". Suffice is to say, we will no longer be roosting in twelve bed mixed dorms... fuck me sideways that story trumps all!
I suppose I need to back up the bus a bit. We flew into Londontown two weeks ago and have been eating and drinking like queens ever since. When we were not roosting on benches smoking LONG cigarettes, drinking merlot out of paperbags and getting mistaken for locals in Amsterdam (!!!), we were either on our knees in the Tate Museum in London (me at least... squatting on the floor with my giant hardcover journal open in my lap, paintset and brushes strewn about, babes to my right and left drawing the same wall-piece as me in the National Gallery) or sitting fur-clad in cafes in the Netherlands sipping copious amounts of espresso. Okay, first it was London which was a bit of a shitshow--we did everything in terms of unspoken tourist obligations--whether it was Shakespeares Globe Theater, riding around in double decker busses, seeing the London Bridge and the London Eye, the changing of the guards and old Buckingham Palace. We went to every museum known to man and shat our pants at sight of Big Ben. Cliches aside, I was in heaven. The London experience got us off on a good foot.
After London we hopped a train to Amsterdam, which proved to satisfy my every expectation and dream of what I thought the city should be, within the first 24 hours. Our hostel was TOO nice for only 15 euro a night and we met some good people. The Red Light District was laughable and we wandered with wide eyes. All the while, a line from my book 'The Unbeareable Lightness of Being' kept ringing in my head, "the women in the windows looked like giant, bored cats, bathed in red". We slipped into a comfortable rhythm in that city filled with more bikes than people; the warmth of the people and quaintness of Dutch living definately instilled a desire to return again someday. I also stood face to face with some of the most phenominal art work I have ever seen and studied: Rembrandt's "The Night Watch" was so captivating I held my breath to the point of near death until an ugly little dutch girl brought me back into reality with a fierce glare and stomp of the foot. Yes, Amsterdam fared us well.
Now we are in Berlin, our last night here. The train into the city was almost as majestic as Rembrandt's work. I asked myself at least one hundred times why I hadn't been born a Dutch goat farmer and about two hours later I realized what a fool I was for thinking such a thing. Dutch goat farmers would never get mistaken for a local while smoking on a park bench along a canal in Amsterdam! (It must have been the Gravol talking). I wrote in my journal today that "Berlin is everything I thought it NOT to be". At first glance, this historic city is sterile and unforgiving, but after being here for five days, I have begun to see it in a new light. In the first few days I was comsumed with a sort of second hand embarassment for this city run to ruin by the most brilliantly stupid and hideous leader mankind has ever known; but after a few enlightening tours around Berlin, I have come to see it more as a city of rebirth and renewal instead of a simple crime scene paved over. Berlin is one hell of a constuction site, but with a bit of patience and persistence I understand it as an effort to rebuild the glorious architecture that once lived.
Today I looked my heritage in the eye in a very unconventional way. I spent the day in it's entirety alone and decided that the best way to start such a day would be to find breakfast. Insert my heritage here. In a dingy cafe buried somewhere underneath the S Bahn Ostbanhof train station, I fell in love with Germany and everything of the German variation. In a muted and wild array of hand signals and passionate eye contact, I managed to order a giant steaming plate of the BEST fried potatoes and easter ham that I have ever tasted from a giant and wild German cook. It is funny that moments like these can make or break one's day, but that meal alone hit a chord in my heart. While I ate with the power of a thousand starved demons, everything that had occured in the past two weeks came to a head in my mind and I felt so proud to be Mennonite. God bless steaming plates of ham and potatoes. I might even go so far as to say that I found (part) of my heart in that very display of food this morning. Maybe. I still have yet to find a devilishly European to stamp my passport. So to speak. HAHAHA.
On this glorious note, I am off to join my dear ladybirds in yet another meal of thanksgiving. Be well all.
This trip is looking up, save for the bedsheet incident; I can feel my character building before thine eyes.
Prust (cheers).
Madge.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)