Is it possible that I have now slept SIX nights in my comfy double bed, in my little apartment which I have entirely to myself? "How does it feel to be home?" Ahh yes, the familiar, inevitable, and thoughtful question. Be warned: If you ask me (and please do), you're likely going to get an entirely authentic and entirely non-brief answer, one that I am entirely thrilled to give. My word of choice remains 'content'. I've also been saying "zenned out" a lot. I was content to spend the last 5 days of my trip in Paris. I was content while sitting on the plane for eight hours last Tuesday. And I am content, sitting here in my living room in Waterloo. Are there things on my mind? Of course there are. Do I feel how easy it would be to slip back into life "as it were" and into a number of old patterns that I am hoping to be rid of? Absolutely I do. But I also come armed these days with a fierce determination to bring the spirit of my adventures in Europe to my life in Waterloo. My mind seems to have chilled out a bit, allowing me to rest, recuperate, process, and actually just be still and accept each moment I am in. I don't exactly know how to articulate this, other than to say that there is a sense of calm about me that I haven't felt in a really (really) long time. So the answer to "Could you have traveled for longer?" and "Are you glad to be home?" is yes. Yes to both, with acceptance and gratefulness for my three months of travelling and self-discovery, and also for my present reality, which is my cozy apartment, my incredible circle of friends, a career that I am thankful for, and my now rooted comfiness in my own skin.
My last day in Paris was everything I could have asked for, and more. With no "must sees", no sense of agenda, I set out to wander an area of the city I had not yet visited. I sat in several sanctuaries, walked through the lovely Luxembourg Gardens, ate a delicious chocolate croissant (which, in combination with my previous day's baguette, was the extent of French cuisine sampling for this broke traveller), carefully perused my way through a second-hand English book store (while a charming cat purred and rubbed up against my ankles), and allowed myself to get lost. More importantly, I sat for a good two hours in a delightful and slightly pretentious cafe, drinking my coffee black (as it cost an extra euro for a bit of cream), being served by a man in a tux, and sneaking nibbles from a bun in my backpack, as I was hungry but couldn't afford the pretentious prices. Here, I wrote a letter to myself: from content-and-drinking-strong-black-coffee-in-a-Parisian-cafe-feeling-confident-and-empowered-Liz, to future Liz - Liz of next year, month, week, or even of the next day. Abudantly clear that each day was not going to feel as zen as that one did, I was also abundantly clear that my experience of myself and the world while travelling - confident, empowered, guided by intuition and self-love and care, present in the moment, seeking beauty, connected to others while also comfortable in solitude - these things were real and true. I am well aware of my mind's tendency to rationalize away these kinds of beautiful experiences when I feel overwhelmed. So I wrote a letter about it all, from me to me. It's documented. It happened.
I will share one final trip anecdote, pertaining to my last evening in Paris, which I had planned to spend at a cafe drinking red wine and listening to live French chanson (at Au Limonaire, a spot Lonely Planet recommended to be a bit off the beaten track). I arrived at this cute, vibrant, artsy little spot at 7:30pm, and though the vibe felt like one I would enjoy, I immediately also got the feeling that there was a secret I didn't yet know, that my presence among these locals was a bit unusual. The music hadn't started yet, and I was being stared at. Endeavouring to remain confident, I sat down, and learned that indeed, on every OTHER night of the week, this is a great place to come to hear traditional French music. Mondays, however, feature "La Goguette": a 19th century French tradition, this is a kind of "open mic" night, except that the performers write songs which involve their own original lyrics, set to a familiar tune of their choice. Traditionally, this form of expression was a context for stating one's strong political/social views in an often satirical and biting sarcastic kind of fashion, and this little group on Monday nights at Au Limonaire is faithful to this tradition. And. To top it all off, on Monday nights, the kitchen is closed (the bar of course remains open), because everyone just brings an item of food to share with everyone else.
Yep. This is where I found myself. I heard this explanation, and briefly considered leaving, as I felt a bit intimidated by this sacred Monday night French ritual, I had no food to offer, and briefly, I was also a bit stuck on a different sort of image for my final night in Paris. On second thought, I realized that this was clearly exactly where I was meant to be. No food to offer? You can sing then, Liz. And so I got to work, writing lyrics based on the evening's suggested theme, "Ce matin un lapin". There was a fabulous accompanist there, but I much prefer playing for myself when performing, and so I thought about what songs were immediately under my fingers but would also perhaps be remotely familiar to my Parisian audience. Sarah McLachlan's Angel was the first thing that came to mind. "This morning a rabbit hopped through my yard, and made me think of my love". Yes, I wrote a love song for a bunny, from a "cold, dark French city", words that I could only pull off because I was fairly certain that I was the only person in the room for whom English was their first language. My poor French introduction and my silly English words somehow endeared me to my French audience, and I was a happy girl to be singing. And more importantly, I was thrilled to have found this quirky little pocket of French culture, watching individuals of all ages get up and sing lyrics that were clearly more heartfelt than my little bunny ditty, and being part of an audience that was so open and appreciative of each person's offering.
...We'll eat lettuce and carrots all night
It don't make no difference
I never liked steak
Or chicken, or venison, or...rabbit...
There it is, the final anecdote, and the perfect last night in Paris. I got up the following morning, jumped on the metro, and then promptly the wrong train (the first time I had done that the whole trip), but still managed to make it to the airport with loads of time. Oh yes, and I didn't mention that one of the movies I had to choose from on AC881 last Tuesday was the 1986 classic, The Labyrinth. Dance Magic Dance. Those who know me well will be grinning already. Two years ago my friends threw me a Labyrinth themed birthday party - that is how much I adore this movie, and watching it while over the Atlantic took our relationship to a whole new level (refraining from reciting every word of its dialogue and singing every word of its songs took a significant amount of self-control).
I've been a bit of a weird hermit since I returned to Waterloo. With the knowledge that my return to work will come soon enough (tomorrow, in fact), I have been staying home (with the exception of doing groceries and laundry, going for jogs, dropping by a couple of friends' places, and seeing my massage therapist (not Josef) this morning), cleaning up my space, reading, talking on the phone a lot, nursing my jet lag, and letting friends come to me. My week has been a constant reminder of how rich in people my life is. Amidst all of this richness in people, I have felt a strong desire to purge my apartment and simplify my life a bit further. I know that I'm not someone who is bursting with material possessions, as all that I own fits inside my little one-bedroom apartment. Still, there's something about living out of a backpack for 3 months that is a perfect and poignant reminder of what I need and what I don't need. Admittedly, having more than two pairs of pants is a really nice luxury. But I am filled with an urge to de-clutter my space; as one friend put it, I am throwing away my literal baggage now, as I have been throwing away so much of the meta-physical kind over the last few months.
I've also learned the difference between physical exhaustion and mental/emotional exhaustion (aka burnout), and can see clearly now how much the latter had been a normal part of my day-to-day life. Sure, I am tired after 3 months, 10 countries, 28 "stops". But I also feel rested when I wake up in the morning, I feel motivated to enter into the day, I feel steady.
So. How does it feel to be back? It's true, Waterloo is not as aesthetically beautiful as Paris, the Swiss Alps, the coast of Italy, and so on. And, it's also true, that I'm soon to enter back into a much more predictable way of life - going to work each day, coming home in the evening, staying relatively put in one place for a while. As I said before though, there's a fierceness to my determination to live my life here and now with just as much intention as I did in the here and now in Europe. I guess it is still feeling a bit surreal in some ways, this whole business of having more than two pairs of pants to choose from, of not sharing my living space with complete strangers, of being surrounded by that which is familiar. There are certainly many challenges associated with travelling, and travelling-solo, but finding beauty and adventure is not really one of them. Divine beauty, riveting adventures - these were things I was blessed with on a daily basis, just through the nature of my day to day life. But finding beauty and adventure, while living intentionally and authentically, within this more "familiar" setting - this is my work now. I believe it's possible.
Wings. Check.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Let's take Liz to the o-p-e-r-a
The stark juxtaposition between the opulence of Notre Dame Cathedral and the gypsies who beg on its front steps struck me today, as it often did in Italy as well. I don't pretend to know a solution, I just know this image always leaves me pondering this need that Christian folk have had, through the ages, to build these shiny, opulent, yes, beautiful, structures. I imagine, hope, that these are often acts of worship (and know also, at least when Notre Dame was built, these were also statements of power, etc...); and still, the hungry beg on the steps. "Whatever you've done unto the least of these"...surely we've all missed something.
It is truly breathtaking though, Notre Dame, an incredible snapshot of history, at once imposing, reverent, grand, stark, humourous. My roomate, Hélèn, suggested that I attend an evening mass as a way to see the church without the hords (and I mean hords) of tourists: "When mass ends you can hang around, and be 1 of like 20 people in the church". And so, for the first time in my life, I attended Catholic Mass yesterday - a serious, never smiling old priest, a young woman and man leading the sung responses with gorgeous and pure voices, a booming organ and an acoustic in which its sound lingered and lingered and lingered. After dark the church's eerieness is also inviting; it is seemingly as grateful as I was for serenity after the day's crowds.
Prior to attending mass, living proof that this not-quite-so-young-anymore dog can indeed learn new tricks, I ended up at the ballet. Spontaneity. I had planned a little walk for myself, past/through a number of buildings that I wanted to see, and my first stop was the opera house - the famous Palais Garnier. I noticed that people were entering the building with tickets in hand - I inquired, and learned that a ballet would be starting in 30 minutes. Found a sign. A ballet company from Hamburg. A contemporary title Parzival – Episodes and Echo by John Neumeier, names which meant nothing to me. Set to music by Richard Wagner, Arvo Pärt, and John Adams. Pärt and Adams?? One million times sold. More inquiring taught me that there were seats in the "partially obstructed" section for €12. Done.
Beaming, ticket in hand, I walked into this world renowned building (a building which just to enter and take a look around would cost €9). I then realized that I was uttering noises similar to those a young puppy makes at the prospect of a w-a-l-k. In this moment, I am certain I was the happiest girl in Paris. The ballet itself was emotional, evocative - I couldn't necessarily follow a storyline for much of it, but was content to let my mind wander and my feelings feel, in response to this beautiful art.
Today included a brief visit to the Montmartre district, including such tourist traps as the gorgeous Sacre Coeur church and the Moulin Rouge, and also some wandering off of the main touristy streets as well. And, my unexpected trip to the ballet yesterday meant that I returned to Notre Dame this afternoon in order to meet my favourite singing gargoyles. Sigh. I would start quoting the movie again here, but it's entirely possible that I am the only person I know who knows every single word to every song from Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame. And yes, I am fully aware that Disney butchered Hugo's tale. After meeting these charming fellows today though (the gargoyles, not the folks at Disney), I do completely understand the artistic vision that was behind turning them into Quasimodo's singing sidekicks. They are fantastic. Oh yes, and the view from the top is quite something too.
Aside from the gargoyles, my path has crossed with many additional interesting characters over these past few days that have spoken back to me. Ali, a questionable (questionable in terms of, "Am I safe right now? Hard to say. Make pleasant conversation, be firm, keep walking confidently.") gentleman who decided he would accompany me for a good stretch of my stroll along the Seine last night after mass, and who was unable to speak English or slower French, despite my polite requests for the latter. Three cute Lithuanian boys in matching French berets who helped me find the metro last night. The gypsy on the metro this morning, baby asleep in her arms and young daughter walking ahead of her, begging, as she sang "Merci beaucoup...s'il vous plait...pour manger..." loudly, walking up and down the metro cars. And Julie, with whom I ate breakfast this morning: maybe 60, from Australia, staying at my hostel, and travelling for 7 weeks without her dear husband because "he just can't give up his comforts at home".
That "must-see" list, if you are wondering, was condensed, condensed again, one more time still, and is no longer really relevant. Tomorrow I will wander wherever I am led, I will drink coffee, I will write and reflect, I will vision for the next phase of my advetnures in authenticity (living, working, Being in Waterloo), and I think will treat myself to a glass or two of red wine in the evening. I've suprised myself in lots of ways over these past three months. One of these is the fact that I've rarely, if ever, found myself "counting down" to the end of this trip. I think I had imagined that I would often find myself longing for home, tired of living out of backpack. I do think I can say that I am ready to return home, but my sense is that if I were travelling for longer, I would be ready for that too. I'm content. For the most part, I've been content, settled, centred, as I have travelled. I feel content to return home as well, and have a new sense that Home can be found, of course in certain relationships and familar places, but also within myself. And so it seems this sense of contentment (subject to further proof...) is coming from within.
So no, there's never been a countdown, but 48 hours is what it is. I feel content. And so far, I'm not worried about the flight. Like I wrote in my first blog entry from Prague, one way to overcome a fear of flying was to do something a whole lot scarier - embark upon a three month backpacking trip. I can't look at myself in the mirror without smiling.
It is truly breathtaking though, Notre Dame, an incredible snapshot of history, at once imposing, reverent, grand, stark, humourous. My roomate, Hélèn, suggested that I attend an evening mass as a way to see the church without the hords (and I mean hords) of tourists: "When mass ends you can hang around, and be 1 of like 20 people in the church". And so, for the first time in my life, I attended Catholic Mass yesterday - a serious, never smiling old priest, a young woman and man leading the sung responses with gorgeous and pure voices, a booming organ and an acoustic in which its sound lingered and lingered and lingered. After dark the church's eerieness is also inviting; it is seemingly as grateful as I was for serenity after the day's crowds.
 |
| Ring the bells of Notre Dame... |
Beaming, ticket in hand, I walked into this world renowned building (a building which just to enter and take a look around would cost €9). I then realized that I was uttering noises similar to those a young puppy makes at the prospect of a w-a-l-k. In this moment, I am certain I was the happiest girl in Paris. The ballet itself was emotional, evocative - I couldn't necessarily follow a storyline for much of it, but was content to let my mind wander and my feelings feel, in response to this beautiful art.
 |
| Palais Garnier |
Today included a brief visit to the Montmartre district, including such tourist traps as the gorgeous Sacre Coeur church and the Moulin Rouge, and also some wandering off of the main touristy streets as well. And, my unexpected trip to the ballet yesterday meant that I returned to Notre Dame this afternoon in order to meet my favourite singing gargoyles. Sigh. I would start quoting the movie again here, but it's entirely possible that I am the only person I know who knows every single word to every song from Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame. And yes, I am fully aware that Disney butchered Hugo's tale. After meeting these charming fellows today though (the gargoyles, not the folks at Disney), I do completely understand the artistic vision that was behind turning them into Quasimodo's singing sidekicks. They are fantastic. Oh yes, and the view from the top is quite something too.
 |
| How could I not be singing while walking through these streets? |
 |
| This guy knows the city like none other |
That "must-see" list, if you are wondering, was condensed, condensed again, one more time still, and is no longer really relevant. Tomorrow I will wander wherever I am led, I will drink coffee, I will write and reflect, I will vision for the next phase of my advetnures in authenticity (living, working, Being in Waterloo), and I think will treat myself to a glass or two of red wine in the evening. I've suprised myself in lots of ways over these past three months. One of these is the fact that I've rarely, if ever, found myself "counting down" to the end of this trip. I think I had imagined that I would often find myself longing for home, tired of living out of backpack. I do think I can say that I am ready to return home, but my sense is that if I were travelling for longer, I would be ready for that too. I'm content. For the most part, I've been content, settled, centred, as I have travelled. I feel content to return home as well, and have a new sense that Home can be found, of course in certain relationships and familar places, but also within myself. And so it seems this sense of contentment (subject to further proof...) is coming from within.
So no, there's never been a countdown, but 48 hours is what it is. I feel content. And so far, I'm not worried about the flight. Like I wrote in my first blog entry from Prague, one way to overcome a fear of flying was to do something a whole lot scarier - embark upon a three month backpacking trip. I can't look at myself in the mirror without smiling.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
singing gargoyles
You might think that someone with a couple of music degrees would have a vast number of the most beautiful songs running through her head while wandering the streets of Paris, perhaps French art-song or cabaret, for example. Though I know I have these types of resources to draw on, Disney's "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" is relentlessly prominent...
"...Paris the city of lovers is glowing this evening...True, that's because it's on fire, but still, there's l'amour..."
Resistance to these sorts of things is futile, and so I've decided to embrace it, even singing outloud as I walk these streets. Afterall, these are streets that would inspire anyone to break out into song. Like Rome, the city itself feels like a museum. You can go into actual museums should you wish, but there is culture, history, life, brimming from its monuments, buildings, parks, and people. Yes, I am content to be in Paris.
On my first night here, after the aforementioned freak-out busride, I settled into my hostel, got out a map of the city and my trusty Lonely Planet book (thanks, Sawa!), and began making a list of the must-sees. It was a long list - this is Paris, afterall. And then, I seriously re-considered this giant list, in light of the spirit of my trip, my seeking for closure, my need for stillness. Perhaps my final 5 nights should have been spent in a cabin in the woods somewhere. :) So yes, re-considered, and realized I have more than enough self-discipline and love to NOT allow myself to see everything on the list, despite the fact that I am in Paris and not a remote cabin. I have a little notebook that I have been carrying with me, the closest thing to a calendar I have seen in 3 months, where I record information about accomodations, travel, and so on, for each day. I wrote Monday's date, and wrote in big letters: "NO MUSEUMS ALLOWED". So, the list has been refined. Lots of sight-seeing yesterday, and yes, probably a bunch more today (afterall, I really should go see the gargoyles that sing this song that is continually playing in my mind), but with a spirit of staying connected to a greater intention. From there, I'm imagining spending my final two days in this city drinking strong French coffee in charming little cafés while writing in my journal to my heart's content.
Yesterday was a pretty cliché sort of first day in Paris, but I suppose cliché in these parts is cliché for good reason. L'Arc de Triomphe, for example, in the middle of the world's largest traffic circle is quite a grand and imposing sight. I enjoyed gazing upon its statuary almost as much as I enjoyed sitting and watching the cars, buses, and motorcycles going around and around this loop, honking, cutting each other off (there's no choice, really), and wondering how this possibly works. Somehow it does, though. I walked along the Seine, and found my way to the Eiffel Tower, where I walked up the stairs to the second platform, gazed out across the city and all of its famous landmarks and spires, and realized just how huge and dense this place is. A funny thing about travelling becoming regular life, as it has for me this past while, is that it becomes "normal" to be in beautiful places, to be surrounded by newness all the time. Sometimes I need to remind my brain as to where I am - "Hey, we're in Paris now." Gazing out at the city of Paris from the Eiffel Tower was one of these moments for me. This is real. I'm actually here.
I must admit, that I find the Eiffel Tower a lot more romantic and lovely by night. Last night, the clouds turned the most incredible shade of pink at sunset, and with rays of sun still peeking through them, the view of the tower with all this in the background was gorgeous. And then the tower becomes illuminated, just like in the photos, and this too, is quite lovely. By day, well, impressive, indeed, and, a bit funny looking...can I say things like that? Last night, the Louvre was open until 10pm, with tickets substantially discounted if you arrived after 6pm. Wandering around the Louvre after dark on a Friday night was perfect, as tired as I was from all of my walking during the day. The Louvre is HUGE - over 35 000 exhibits - and its giantness was almost a relief. The fact that seeing everything is actually impossible means that there is no need to even try. I allowed myself to wander, relax, and be led to what I most wanted to see. Of course, this involved a peek at the Mona Lisa, and the gallery's other groovy greats, such as the Venus de Milo, and huge murals by Rubens. I always wonder, when I look at paintings of fleshy, curvy, gorgeous women by folks such as Rubens, what the effect would be if girls in our society were shown these types of images of the female form from a young age, rather than the media ideals we are infiltrated with. Rubens' women are beautiful, and also real, forgiving. I may have already written this in an earlier blog entry, but it was impressed upon me again last night as I gazed upon this art.
Aside from the tourist traps, the images from yesterday that will stay with me are the fabulous accordion player busking to the tune of "Spanish Romance" through the metro cars, men selling tacky Eiffel Tower souvenirs (one tried the less-than-successful "you are sexy" sales tactic on me) running in all directions when police officers arrived on bicycles, practicing my French over breakfast with my quirky and vibrant artist roomate Hélèn, seeing church spires of sanctuaries yet to explore, eating farrrrr too much baguette, and gazing upon a beautiful sunset.
And yes, thinking lots about endings, new beginnings, continuings (my new word for the day), and striving for lots of the latter. Life invites us all in, to live fully, courageously, authentically, no matter our surroundings. I am inviting the spirit of this journey to remain present with me wherever life takes me next.
(which, in this moment, is off to see my favourite singing gargoyles)
xo
"...Paris the city of lovers is glowing this evening...True, that's because it's on fire, but still, there's l'amour..."
Resistance to these sorts of things is futile, and so I've decided to embrace it, even singing outloud as I walk these streets. Afterall, these are streets that would inspire anyone to break out into song. Like Rome, the city itself feels like a museum. You can go into actual museums should you wish, but there is culture, history, life, brimming from its monuments, buildings, parks, and people. Yes, I am content to be in Paris.
On my first night here, after the aforementioned freak-out busride, I settled into my hostel, got out a map of the city and my trusty Lonely Planet book (thanks, Sawa!), and began making a list of the must-sees. It was a long list - this is Paris, afterall. And then, I seriously re-considered this giant list, in light of the spirit of my trip, my seeking for closure, my need for stillness. Perhaps my final 5 nights should have been spent in a cabin in the woods somewhere. :) So yes, re-considered, and realized I have more than enough self-discipline and love to NOT allow myself to see everything on the list, despite the fact that I am in Paris and not a remote cabin. I have a little notebook that I have been carrying with me, the closest thing to a calendar I have seen in 3 months, where I record information about accomodations, travel, and so on, for each day. I wrote Monday's date, and wrote in big letters: "NO MUSEUMS ALLOWED". So, the list has been refined. Lots of sight-seeing yesterday, and yes, probably a bunch more today (afterall, I really should go see the gargoyles that sing this song that is continually playing in my mind), but with a spirit of staying connected to a greater intention. From there, I'm imagining spending my final two days in this city drinking strong French coffee in charming little cafés while writing in my journal to my heart's content.
Yesterday was a pretty cliché sort of first day in Paris, but I suppose cliché in these parts is cliché for good reason. L'Arc de Triomphe, for example, in the middle of the world's largest traffic circle is quite a grand and imposing sight. I enjoyed gazing upon its statuary almost as much as I enjoyed sitting and watching the cars, buses, and motorcycles going around and around this loop, honking, cutting each other off (there's no choice, really), and wondering how this possibly works. Somehow it does, though. I walked along the Seine, and found my way to the Eiffel Tower, where I walked up the stairs to the second platform, gazed out across the city and all of its famous landmarks and spires, and realized just how huge and dense this place is. A funny thing about travelling becoming regular life, as it has for me this past while, is that it becomes "normal" to be in beautiful places, to be surrounded by newness all the time. Sometimes I need to remind my brain as to where I am - "Hey, we're in Paris now." Gazing out at the city of Paris from the Eiffel Tower was one of these moments for me. This is real. I'm actually here.
I must admit, that I find the Eiffel Tower a lot more romantic and lovely by night. Last night, the clouds turned the most incredible shade of pink at sunset, and with rays of sun still peeking through them, the view of the tower with all this in the background was gorgeous. And then the tower becomes illuminated, just like in the photos, and this too, is quite lovely. By day, well, impressive, indeed, and, a bit funny looking...can I say things like that? Last night, the Louvre was open until 10pm, with tickets substantially discounted if you arrived after 6pm. Wandering around the Louvre after dark on a Friday night was perfect, as tired as I was from all of my walking during the day. The Louvre is HUGE - over 35 000 exhibits - and its giantness was almost a relief. The fact that seeing everything is actually impossible means that there is no need to even try. I allowed myself to wander, relax, and be led to what I most wanted to see. Of course, this involved a peek at the Mona Lisa, and the gallery's other groovy greats, such as the Venus de Milo, and huge murals by Rubens. I always wonder, when I look at paintings of fleshy, curvy, gorgeous women by folks such as Rubens, what the effect would be if girls in our society were shown these types of images of the female form from a young age, rather than the media ideals we are infiltrated with. Rubens' women are beautiful, and also real, forgiving. I may have already written this in an earlier blog entry, but it was impressed upon me again last night as I gazed upon this art.
Aside from the tourist traps, the images from yesterday that will stay with me are the fabulous accordion player busking to the tune of "Spanish Romance" through the metro cars, men selling tacky Eiffel Tower souvenirs (one tried the less-than-successful "you are sexy" sales tactic on me) running in all directions when police officers arrived on bicycles, practicing my French over breakfast with my quirky and vibrant artist roomate Hélèn, seeing church spires of sanctuaries yet to explore, eating farrrrr too much baguette, and gazing upon a beautiful sunset.
And yes, thinking lots about endings, new beginnings, continuings (my new word for the day), and striving for lots of the latter. Life invites us all in, to live fully, courageously, authentically, no matter our surroundings. I am inviting the spirit of this journey to remain present with me wherever life takes me next.
(which, in this moment, is off to see my favourite singing gargoyles)
xo
Thursday, November 11, 2010
(appendix a)
Yes, tis a day worthy of an appendix. I am in Paris!
Likely Paris would be worthy of an appendix any day, but today, I am overcome with gratefulness at being here. I was STRESSED about my bus ride here today (refer to previous post for background on Moody Liz), my mind leading me down roads of getting lost/pickpocketed/mugged/worse and so on, and I was having a hard time shaking this general sense of unsettledness. My decision to take the bus rather than the train was based entirely on the state of my bank account - I found a promotion bus fare for €22, whereas the regular train fare was anywhere between €64-88. This seemed a no-brainer. And so I arrived at the bus terminal in Brussels (already feeling unsettled), walked down a dirty staircase with a strong smell of urine, then passed a very large puddle of urine, and read signs that warned me of pickpocketers and told me that "I could not purchase my bus ticket with cash for my own safety". And then I gazed upon many of my fellow passengers. It became quite clear to me in that moment just how vast was the socio-economic divide between bus and train travel is in Belgium (this is not the case in all countries, as at times there are more expensive bus options and less expensive train options). Here I was, presented with one of very few moments in which I have felt incredibly vulnerable as a single woman travelling alone...
...So, you know, lots of self-talk, lots of reminding myself to take things moment-by-moment, and the brief version of the story is that all is fine. In fact, all is more than fine. As the crowd waiting to board the bus grew, I met two other solo-backpackers. Instantly, I felt so much less like I was standing-out in this crowd; I had lovely companions to chat with during the journey, and also with whom to figure out the metro when we arrived in an East suburb of the city. We rocked the metro, and as I walked up the stairs from the metro station, on my own once again (this was one of the moments I had been nervous about: the walk from the metro to my hostel in an unknown area after dark - what if the streets were deserted? etc...), I emerged onto a bustling city square. People everywhere, stores lit up, and a huge, beautiful statue illuminated before me. I burst out laughing. Paris. Of course. I'm fine.
Grateful for safety, grateful for this city whose vibrancy I can already sense, and grateful for my humble little hostel. As I made my way up the 4 flights of stairs to my dorm room, I opened the door, to find two beds. Two. I am in a two-bed dorm. I laid down, laughed again, and repeated "thank you, thank you, thank you" over and over.
Likely Paris would be worthy of an appendix any day, but today, I am overcome with gratefulness at being here. I was STRESSED about my bus ride here today (refer to previous post for background on Moody Liz), my mind leading me down roads of getting lost/pickpocketed/mugged/worse and so on, and I was having a hard time shaking this general sense of unsettledness. My decision to take the bus rather than the train was based entirely on the state of my bank account - I found a promotion bus fare for €22, whereas the regular train fare was anywhere between €64-88. This seemed a no-brainer. And so I arrived at the bus terminal in Brussels (already feeling unsettled), walked down a dirty staircase with a strong smell of urine, then passed a very large puddle of urine, and read signs that warned me of pickpocketers and told me that "I could not purchase my bus ticket with cash for my own safety". And then I gazed upon many of my fellow passengers. It became quite clear to me in that moment just how vast was the socio-economic divide between bus and train travel is in Belgium (this is not the case in all countries, as at times there are more expensive bus options and less expensive train options). Here I was, presented with one of very few moments in which I have felt incredibly vulnerable as a single woman travelling alone...
...So, you know, lots of self-talk, lots of reminding myself to take things moment-by-moment, and the brief version of the story is that all is fine. In fact, all is more than fine. As the crowd waiting to board the bus grew, I met two other solo-backpackers. Instantly, I felt so much less like I was standing-out in this crowd; I had lovely companions to chat with during the journey, and also with whom to figure out the metro when we arrived in an East suburb of the city. We rocked the metro, and as I walked up the stairs from the metro station, on my own once again (this was one of the moments I had been nervous about: the walk from the metro to my hostel in an unknown area after dark - what if the streets were deserted? etc...), I emerged onto a bustling city square. People everywhere, stores lit up, and a huge, beautiful statue illuminated before me. I burst out laughing. Paris. Of course. I'm fine.
Grateful for safety, grateful for this city whose vibrancy I can already sense, and grateful for my humble little hostel. As I made my way up the 4 flights of stairs to my dorm room, I opened the door, to find two beds. Two. I am in a two-bed dorm. I laid down, laughed again, and repeated "thank you, thank you, thank you" over and over.
offerings
Heading out into the big wide world in this way has allowed me to experience the generosity of others in new and beautiful ways. My friend Melissa gave me an envelope of letters before I left, one to open for each week of travelling. My Dad and Step-Mom bought me a new camera as a going away gift, which has allowed me to take better photos than I ever have before. My friend Kristin and I spent the day before I left together, and as she was helping me pack, she literally gave me the shirt off her back ("Do you have a quick dry shirt? No? Here, have this one"), as her husband Cle washed her earplugs for me so that I could take those as well. No kidding. I am blessed with true friends.
Often when I explain Couch Surfing to others, their first question is "Do you have to pay anything?" When I respond that you don't, the question that typically follows is, "What do the hosts get out of it then?" There is regularly this sense of bafflement at the fact that there is no monetary exchange involved. I typically explain that I normally buy a small gift for my hosts, and also that Couch Surfing can be seen through the lense of "paying it forward" - I am graced with the generosity of others while I am hosted, and then someday I will treat a surfer in my own community (provided that anyone ever wants to visit K/W) with the same generosity that I have been treated with. Even this isn't mandatory though. I guess it surprises us, this genuine human generosity without any expectation of payment in return. I remember my first Couch Surfing experience so clearly, showing up at Maren and Espen's door in Bergen, Norway, with my friend Deb, in April 2009, and being given a key to their small one bedroom apartment almost immediately, as though we were old friends, and an air mattres to sleep on, in the middle of the kitchen floor. So giving were these two, that so long as Deb and I were asleep, they couldn't even open their fridge. I remember being speechless at the capacity for generosity within each of us. Another common question is, of course, "Is it safe?" I could rattle on about the variety of safety features built into the site, and you know, probably there is a tiny minority of people on Couch Surfing who are creepy, socially inept, etc. However, in my experience (which betwen 2009 and 2010 now includes being hosted 11 times), not only is this safe, but it is perhaps the way to meet the most kind, generous, and interesting people in your chosen destination.
Here I am in Hoeilaart, just outside of Brussels, couch surfing with a couple who embody generosity. Ian, born in England, and Monique, born in Mauritius, met in Brussels, are retired from the European Commission, and spend their days doing things like attending biology lectures at the university, cooking gourmet meals, playing with their 5 grandchildren, and I am sure countless other things. Everytime I say "thank you", Monique replies, "Pleasure", with such genuineness in her face and voice that it is evident that hosting strangers in her home truly is a pleasure. I arrived on Monday to a dinner of savoury pancakes with smoked salmon, vegetables from the garden, and a delightful apple/plum pudding for dessert; as Monique showed me the guest room and bathroom (I have my own king sized bed), she said, "We have been given all of this, and so we want to share". This feels luxurious; I feel like I have eaten and slept like royalty while I have been here, while at the same time, in conversation, Monique and Ian have the warmth of old friends.
Perhaps I am thinking more about generosity these days as I have been on the receiving end of it so much over these past 3 months. It's been quite a different way of living for me, being so generous with myself (being able to ask each morning, "What exactly do I want to do today?"), while receiving such kindness from others. I am reminded that sometimes I stink at allowing others to truly care for me. I also realized, as Monique and Ian cooked for me, did my laundry (in my defence, I asked several times if I could do this, but Monique would have nothing of it - "The machine does it, it's no problem" she kept saying), and allowed me to lounge around their house, that I am actually more tired than I had realized. Dare I say it? I am becoming ready to be back home.
Lonely Planet describes Belgium's weather from Nov-April as "wretched", and I must admit that I have been on the receiving end of this as well. A bit like visiting St. John's, NL, at Thanksgiving last year, yesterday the weather went from rain, to overcast and dreary, back to rain, to, oh look a bit of sun, to...hail? Yep. Hail. The rain yesterday was actually less than Tuesday's however, so I was able to see a good portion of the City Centre by foot.
Brussels is an interesting combination of stately, delicious, sleekly modern, and political. After taking the escalator up from the train platform on Monday, I was greeted with the smell of...chocolate. Or was it waffles? Probably both, in fact. This is not a normal train station smell, but then again, nor is it a normal downtown street smell, but wafts of chocolate and waffle irons are present in the city centre as well, given the density of these types of shops. Belgium is known for their chocolate, beer, and waffles; I have had all three since I have been here, and have not been disappointed. (They also claim to have invented French Fries, but apparently there is some controversy about this. At any rate, after my fries smothered in mayo at 1am in Amsterdam, I figured I was good for a little while.) The EU Headquarters are here, which makes the city culturally and linguistically quite diverse. During my short stay, I have learned a little bit about the language conflict between native Dutch and French speakers in Belgium; Brussels is in fact the only area of the country that is officially bilingual. Aside from Quebec, this is my first time travelling somewhere that is French speaking, and I am really enjoying practicing my French. I have also surprised myself at the fact that, though it is certainly not pretty, it is somewhat functional. Yesterday, a woman asked me for directions to the Contemporary Art Museum in French, and a) I knew the answer and b) I replied in French and c) she understood me. This felt great. One of the many things that inspires me about European culture is the value that is placed upon learning several languages. I have been catered to, linguistically speaking, in 10 differenent countries now (another incredible form of generosity - people leaving behind their Mother Tongue to speak to you in yours), and someday I hope to be able to switch to somebody else's language for them. I am inspired to brush up on my French and start learning some German. A funny little quirk about Brussels is Mannekin Pis, a tiny statue of a little boy peeing that has become a bit of a phenomenon in the city: Mannekin Pis chocolates, Mannekin Pis t-shirts, Mannekin Pis, well, everything, pretty much. And, a sizable crowd gathered to take photos at all times, regardless of the wretched weather.
I leave both Belgium and the Netherlands wanting more, and I am reminded of Michaela, my Couch Surfing host from Vienna (over 2 months ago - hard to believe!) who, with travel-wisdom that I had not yet acquired, told me that when I didn't see everything in a place that I had wanted to, this was not a reason to despair, but simply a reason to come back some day. These past 6 nights, 3 in Brussels and 3 in Amsterdam, have been a bit of a tease really, and very different from my normal style of travelling, spending several weeks in each country. I thought it would be worthwhile taking a short peek while I was in the area, and perhaps I will indeed be back someday...There is certainly a charm about these countries, and culturally speaking, I have much left to learn about them.
I've been a bit of a moody Liz these past few days as well. Already an introspective highly-sensitive personality, my menstrual cycle (sorry if this is too much information) tends to wreak havoc on my body and emotions when life is proceeding rather normally. So, I decribed this week recently to a friend as "PMS meets leaving-Europe". It's been interesing, and still I can see changes in myself that this trip has perhaps brought about. My newfound ability to remain a bit more present in the moment for example has been helpful. I can witness my insanely intense emotions without being overcome by them. And I can be okay on my own in Belgium the midst of this. Newness. And good to remind myself of this sort of newness, when the mean voice in my head counters with, "You're going back home and you don't have your life figured out yet". Mean voice, what does that even mean? I'm soooo done with that voice.
I will leave you with a few more photos from Belgium, and then two photos which I will refer to as "The many faces of Amsterdam". I am now off to jump on a bus to Paris, where I will spend these last five days of this adventure, sight-seeing of course, while also preparing myself for the adventure that is returning to Waterloo. As I have been endeavouring to see this time as Being, real-life, NOT as a vacation, then perhaps it's not an ending at all. A transition, sure, but not an ending. Real-life continues on, and life can continue to be as authentic and intentional as these past three months have been. Yes? Yes.
Sending my love
xo
Often when I explain Couch Surfing to others, their first question is "Do you have to pay anything?" When I respond that you don't, the question that typically follows is, "What do the hosts get out of it then?" There is regularly this sense of bafflement at the fact that there is no monetary exchange involved. I typically explain that I normally buy a small gift for my hosts, and also that Couch Surfing can be seen through the lense of "paying it forward" - I am graced with the generosity of others while I am hosted, and then someday I will treat a surfer in my own community (provided that anyone ever wants to visit K/W) with the same generosity that I have been treated with. Even this isn't mandatory though. I guess it surprises us, this genuine human generosity without any expectation of payment in return. I remember my first Couch Surfing experience so clearly, showing up at Maren and Espen's door in Bergen, Norway, with my friend Deb, in April 2009, and being given a key to their small one bedroom apartment almost immediately, as though we were old friends, and an air mattres to sleep on, in the middle of the kitchen floor. So giving were these two, that so long as Deb and I were asleep, they couldn't even open their fridge. I remember being speechless at the capacity for generosity within each of us. Another common question is, of course, "Is it safe?" I could rattle on about the variety of safety features built into the site, and you know, probably there is a tiny minority of people on Couch Surfing who are creepy, socially inept, etc. However, in my experience (which betwen 2009 and 2010 now includes being hosted 11 times), not only is this safe, but it is perhaps the way to meet the most kind, generous, and interesting people in your chosen destination.
Here I am in Hoeilaart, just outside of Brussels, couch surfing with a couple who embody generosity. Ian, born in England, and Monique, born in Mauritius, met in Brussels, are retired from the European Commission, and spend their days doing things like attending biology lectures at the university, cooking gourmet meals, playing with their 5 grandchildren, and I am sure countless other things. Everytime I say "thank you", Monique replies, "Pleasure", with such genuineness in her face and voice that it is evident that hosting strangers in her home truly is a pleasure. I arrived on Monday to a dinner of savoury pancakes with smoked salmon, vegetables from the garden, and a delightful apple/plum pudding for dessert; as Monique showed me the guest room and bathroom (I have my own king sized bed), she said, "We have been given all of this, and so we want to share". This feels luxurious; I feel like I have eaten and slept like royalty while I have been here, while at the same time, in conversation, Monique and Ian have the warmth of old friends.
Perhaps I am thinking more about generosity these days as I have been on the receiving end of it so much over these past 3 months. It's been quite a different way of living for me, being so generous with myself (being able to ask each morning, "What exactly do I want to do today?"), while receiving such kindness from others. I am reminded that sometimes I stink at allowing others to truly care for me. I also realized, as Monique and Ian cooked for me, did my laundry (in my defence, I asked several times if I could do this, but Monique would have nothing of it - "The machine does it, it's no problem" she kept saying), and allowed me to lounge around their house, that I am actually more tired than I had realized. Dare I say it? I am becoming ready to be back home.
Lonely Planet describes Belgium's weather from Nov-April as "wretched", and I must admit that I have been on the receiving end of this as well. A bit like visiting St. John's, NL, at Thanksgiving last year, yesterday the weather went from rain, to overcast and dreary, back to rain, to, oh look a bit of sun, to...hail? Yep. Hail. The rain yesterday was actually less than Tuesday's however, so I was able to see a good portion of the City Centre by foot.
Brussels is an interesting combination of stately, delicious, sleekly modern, and political. After taking the escalator up from the train platform on Monday, I was greeted with the smell of...chocolate. Or was it waffles? Probably both, in fact. This is not a normal train station smell, but then again, nor is it a normal downtown street smell, but wafts of chocolate and waffle irons are present in the city centre as well, given the density of these types of shops. Belgium is known for their chocolate, beer, and waffles; I have had all three since I have been here, and have not been disappointed. (They also claim to have invented French Fries, but apparently there is some controversy about this. At any rate, after my fries smothered in mayo at 1am in Amsterdam, I figured I was good for a little while.) The EU Headquarters are here, which makes the city culturally and linguistically quite diverse. During my short stay, I have learned a little bit about the language conflict between native Dutch and French speakers in Belgium; Brussels is in fact the only area of the country that is officially bilingual. Aside from Quebec, this is my first time travelling somewhere that is French speaking, and I am really enjoying practicing my French. I have also surprised myself at the fact that, though it is certainly not pretty, it is somewhat functional. Yesterday, a woman asked me for directions to the Contemporary Art Museum in French, and a) I knew the answer and b) I replied in French and c) she understood me. This felt great. One of the many things that inspires me about European culture is the value that is placed upon learning several languages. I have been catered to, linguistically speaking, in 10 differenent countries now (another incredible form of generosity - people leaving behind their Mother Tongue to speak to you in yours), and someday I hope to be able to switch to somebody else's language for them. I am inspired to brush up on my French and start learning some German. A funny little quirk about Brussels is Mannekin Pis, a tiny statue of a little boy peeing that has become a bit of a phenomenon in the city: Mannekin Pis chocolates, Mannekin Pis t-shirts, Mannekin Pis, well, everything, pretty much. And, a sizable crowd gathered to take photos at all times, regardless of the wretched weather.
I leave both Belgium and the Netherlands wanting more, and I am reminded of Michaela, my Couch Surfing host from Vienna (over 2 months ago - hard to believe!) who, with travel-wisdom that I had not yet acquired, told me that when I didn't see everything in a place that I had wanted to, this was not a reason to despair, but simply a reason to come back some day. These past 6 nights, 3 in Brussels and 3 in Amsterdam, have been a bit of a tease really, and very different from my normal style of travelling, spending several weeks in each country. I thought it would be worthwhile taking a short peek while I was in the area, and perhaps I will indeed be back someday...There is certainly a charm about these countries, and culturally speaking, I have much left to learn about them.
I've been a bit of a moody Liz these past few days as well. Already an introspective highly-sensitive personality, my menstrual cycle (sorry if this is too much information) tends to wreak havoc on my body and emotions when life is proceeding rather normally. So, I decribed this week recently to a friend as "PMS meets leaving-Europe". It's been interesing, and still I can see changes in myself that this trip has perhaps brought about. My newfound ability to remain a bit more present in the moment for example has been helpful. I can witness my insanely intense emotions without being overcome by them. And I can be okay on my own in Belgium the midst of this. Newness. And good to remind myself of this sort of newness, when the mean voice in my head counters with, "You're going back home and you don't have your life figured out yet". Mean voice, what does that even mean? I'm soooo done with that voice.
I will leave you with a few more photos from Belgium, and then two photos which I will refer to as "The many faces of Amsterdam". I am now off to jump on a bus to Paris, where I will spend these last five days of this adventure, sight-seeing of course, while also preparing myself for the adventure that is returning to Waterloo. As I have been endeavouring to see this time as Being, real-life, NOT as a vacation, then perhaps it's not an ending at all. A transition, sure, but not an ending. Real-life continues on, and life can continue to be as authentic and intentional as these past three months have been. Yes? Yes.
Sending my love
xo
 |
| Grand Place, Brussels |
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| Smothered in Nutella. Good good. |
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| Me and crazy Mannekin Pis |
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| World famous condom shop (Statue of Liberty: bottom row, 4th from left) |
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| Charming. |
Sunday, November 7, 2010
vast cultural generalizations
On my last night in Berlin, Katrin asked me, point blank, "Do you find people friendly here? BE HONEST." I considered how to describe my experience of the people in Berlin, or Germany in general. I said that I had definitely noticed that it was harder to meet people in Germany than it had been in any of the other countries I had visited, but I couldn't put my finger on exactly why this was the case. Maybe people were more shy? Reserved? Or yes, perhaps a bit more closed? She affirmed this experience that I had had, explaining that this was a stereotype about German culture, specifically in the north - that people are generally not warm and are extremely direct (if anyone gets to make this kind of vast cultural generalization about the Germans, it is definitely Katrin, as she grew up in the south of the country and is now living in the north). "Don't take it personally". Now, I'm not usually one for vast cultural stereotypes, but it's true that the people one encounters when travelling, especially in this manner (solo backpacking), contribute largely to the overall "feel"of a place. I thoroughly enjoyed Germany, and also left with a sense that as a solo-traveller, it's not the easiest place to meet people.
After a 6 hour train ride from Berlin on Friday, one of the first Dutch people I met was Nelly. I was standing in line at the public transit office at the Amsterdam train station that afternoon, confused as to how to get to my hostel (the directions from the hostel had stated to take tram 14 when arriving by train, but neglected to mention that you have to walk 10 minutes south of the station first). One of my running shoes was untied. I was wearing my giant backpack (and had been for at least 40 minutes at this point), and getting to my feet to tie my shoe was simply not a priority. This lovely stranger, also in line, pointed to my untied shoe and smiled. I pointed to my backpack, shrugged my shoulders, smiled, and said something to the effect of, "Thank you. I'll fix it soon". Before I knew it, this lovely woman was handing me the things she was holding, and then bending down to tie my shoe for me. I told her this was the nicest thing anyone had done for me in a while, and we struck up conversation. Nelly, maybe 50, loves her city, Amsterdam - she also loves to travel, but she is always glad to come home to a place where "you can always discover something new". We talked about the ways that travelling helps us to learn about ourselves and open our minds, and she described a recent trip to Nepal and Tibet with her 20 year old son: "I was so honoured that he chose to travel with me, his mother". A brief reminder that kindred spirits are to be found in many places. And, if I were to take my turn at making a vast cultural generalization, the Dutch are friendly!
(The Dutch also have fun quirks in their cuisine. The breakfast at the hostel includes squares of chocolate and sprinkles, they put salt on their licorice ("drop" - I have discovered a love for this stuff), and they smother their french fries with mayo. Soooo tasty.)
I met Robin, from Vancouver, upon arriving at the hostel on Friday night, and I immediately enjoyed chatting with her about travels, life, etc. She invited me out "for a drink" with some people that she had met earlier that day on a city tour, and I was really glad to join this little group: Robin, George from New York, Fabhi from Pennslyvania, and Georgina, from Seattle.
**A quick but essential tangent about "going out" in Amsterdam: it's important to note that a "coffee shop" is where one buys and smokes weed (there is no risk of making a mistake about this, as you can get a contact high by just standing on the sidewalk outside of one), and a cafe is a pub.
Liz: "So, if a coffee shop is where you smoke pot, and a cafe is a pub, where do I go if I actually want a coffee?"
Robin: "Good question. Maybe just go to Starbucks."
It took me until today to figure this one out; it seems as though the places that I would normally refer to as "coffee shops" just display a business name, and then a word like "coffee" or "espresso" on the sign as well. At times, there is even a picture of a coffee mug or coffee beans on the logo, to assist the less savvy traveller.**
So. We met these three Americans at their hostel, and I was immediately thankful thankful thankful (yes, 3 thankfuls) that I was staying at a hostel located outside of the city centre. The smell of pot, from the not-too-separate smoking room, completely infiltrated the bar at the hostel (the same room where breakfast is served in the mornings); this was a grungy kind of place where some people don't leave the smoking room for the entire duration of their stay. After having a couple of beers here, the group announced their plans to head to a coffee shop. I considered this. Robin asked me if I smoked pot, and I said that I didn't, that I actually never had in my life. I asked her the same question, and her response was, "I'm from Vancouver". Vast cultural generalizations. :)
I was enjoying the company of my little group, and so decided to venture alongside them on this excursion, to at least witness this cultural thing that Amsterdam is known all over the world for. It makes a great blog story too, right? :) And, even without being stoned (an experience I didn't have in my adolescence and that I'm quite happy to avoid now as well), the experience of witnessing all of this was quite something. You walk in, and the bartender hands you a menu. You peruse the various types of hash and weed that they offer - if you would like to see or smell a variety, the bartender will grab a large container of it for you, so that you can see your purchase in its bulk form. These well-informed bartenders will also inform you of the various properties of your options, to help you make up your mind. All of this happens while standing at the bar, as though you were deciding on which beer you were going to order. Finally, you decide whether you would like to buy it pre-rolled, or roll it yourself, and then you go and relax at a table with your friends, stare at the psychadelic paintings on the walls, listen to the hypnotic synthesized percussion blasting from the speakers, and enjoy. Ladies and gentlemen, the Amsterdam coffee shop. For those wondering, buying a joint at a coffee shop starts at 3 Euro. 3 Euro! I have paid almost that much just to use a public washroom recently.
Today, I was glad to get out of the touristy, crowded, cloud of pot smoke that is a good part of downtown, and wander the Jordaan district for a while. This is a very pretty area of town, featured in the postcards that aren't of the Red Light District - colourful old leaning homes, bicycle lined streets, quaint bridges, canals. And, more coffee, yet fewer coffee shops: I was successful in finding myself a latte that did not come with the added benefit of a contact high. Good. This is also the area of town where the Anne Frank Huis is located. Financially, I'm in a "one museum/gallery per city" kind of place, and the famous Van Gogh museum was my choice for Amsterdam. Realistically, I'm also pretty saturated with WWII history. And so, it felt sufficient to just be in this area of town, walking around her old home, and the streets in this area.
The Van Gogh museum yesterday was one of the museum highlights of this trip. Arranged chronologically, the gallery started with works by artists who had influenced Van Gogh, then went through the various stages of his art, and then finally, presented works by artists who were influenced by him. Beautiful. I fell in love with a painting of Odilon Redon's, an artist I had never heard of before, called "Closed Eyes". I could have stared at this work for an hour I'm sure - it's a print I'm going to have to track down when I get home. I noticed how drawn-in I am by art of the mid-late 19th century, not unlike my tastes in music. I love going to contemporary galleries as well, and can appreciate this work while enjoying the intellectual challenge of it. But drawn in I am by the 19th century. A broody, imaginative, romantic at heart, I suppose. :)
Of course, some words about the Red Light District. I'll admit that though I knew that prostitution was a major focal point of this area, until quite recently I had no idea that the women actually stand in storefront windows (it is very possible that everyone reading this is already fully aware of this fact). So yes, sex-trade-workers in windows under red lights, sex shops, strip joints, live sex shows, coffee shops, and then amidst all this, lovely restaurants and canals. I took my time wandering this district yesterday night, feeling initially like I had entered some different world, and then realizing that I was in fact in the exact same world, just a more overt version of it. Curiosity did not kill the cat, and this was a fascinating area to people-watch and then look away quickly, gawk at times, laugh, and be comtemplative (not what everyone does in the Red Light, but hey).
The women in the windows ranged from a very young 18 (I hope at least 18...) to likely 60ish. Could-be runway models to very "normal" looking women. Nearly naked to more modestly clothed. 90lbs to 250+lbs. A large variety of ethnic backgrounds. Some dancing. Some dancing with the woman in the window next to them. Some clearly bored, sullen, even talking on a cell phone. Others actively coaxing, gesturing to men as they walked by, or opening the doors to try to seduce further. Men choose their woman, enter through the door, and the curtain closes across the window where the woman had been standing. I watched men enter, men leave, men comtemplate and then decide to walk away (men who were just as diverse as the women in the windows). As one young guy exited, his group of friends (waiting outside for him) broke into a rousing rendition of "Happy Birthday" and people on the street spontaneously began cheering for him. I watched a group of middle-aged women standing and staring at a woman in a window, until a different, fully clothed woman emerged from the door (a female pimp?), furious, yelling, "Why do you look? Are you lesbians"? as though this word were the dirtiest swear word. I walked through this maze of streets thinking, "I don't know what to think". I know that many of these women choose this work freely. I also know that many others are forced, pressured, or believe that it is all they are worth, and so on. Someone recently said to me, "There is good social security here, they make their choices", but I don't think that "choice" is always such a black and white thing. My experience of choice/free-will is different than someone else's, based on the life they have lived, the experiences they have had.
There's a lighter and quirkier side to all of this too. Like the world famous speciality condom shop, where one can be fitted/sized and order custom made condoms - Statue of Liberty, anyone? Or like the ridiculous marketing techniques of the various sex shops (I'll spare you the descriptions here). Coffee shops with names from "The Greenhouse effect" to "Happy Times" to "Popeye's". Public urinals all over the city, which run the risk that a drunk/stoned/both young man will imagine it to be a great idea to drop his pants/boxers to his ankles as he uses it. The streets of Amsterdam in general are in interesting mix. It's one of the most culturally diverse cities I've been to on this trip, and there is a certain vibrancy and colour about this place. There are beautiful lookouts over canals, windmills, and museums galore. There are more bicycles than people, and the streets are lined with bikes. It's fantastic. There is also a fair amount of poverty it seems. I was moved by a gypsy woman yesterday, sitting, playing two chords over and over on a completely dilapidated accordion, singing random pitches to "la la la" as she rocked back and forth in the central "Dam" square of the city. To use a phrase of my brother-in-law's, this is not a place that numbs the senses, and I am enjoying the mystery in wandering these streets. And, my first impression of the Dutch, facilitated by my shoe-tying angel, has held quite true for the most part. Whether it's a shop owner, the person serving my latte, the local giving me directions, or the local trying to pick up in the park this evening (lovely to talk to, but my intuition was shouting a loud "ABSOLUTELY NOT"), it seems these are a friendly people.
Later tonight, Robin and I are heading to a bar that apparently has live music. I am partaking in nightlife these days. Who knew? Tomorrow I journey to Brussels, but will have time here in the morning to check out a few of the city's famous markets - food market, flower market, book market, flea market. Good good.
Sending my love.
xo
After a 6 hour train ride from Berlin on Friday, one of the first Dutch people I met was Nelly. I was standing in line at the public transit office at the Amsterdam train station that afternoon, confused as to how to get to my hostel (the directions from the hostel had stated to take tram 14 when arriving by train, but neglected to mention that you have to walk 10 minutes south of the station first). One of my running shoes was untied. I was wearing my giant backpack (and had been for at least 40 minutes at this point), and getting to my feet to tie my shoe was simply not a priority. This lovely stranger, also in line, pointed to my untied shoe and smiled. I pointed to my backpack, shrugged my shoulders, smiled, and said something to the effect of, "Thank you. I'll fix it soon". Before I knew it, this lovely woman was handing me the things she was holding, and then bending down to tie my shoe for me. I told her this was the nicest thing anyone had done for me in a while, and we struck up conversation. Nelly, maybe 50, loves her city, Amsterdam - she also loves to travel, but she is always glad to come home to a place where "you can always discover something new". We talked about the ways that travelling helps us to learn about ourselves and open our minds, and she described a recent trip to Nepal and Tibet with her 20 year old son: "I was so honoured that he chose to travel with me, his mother". A brief reminder that kindred spirits are to be found in many places. And, if I were to take my turn at making a vast cultural generalization, the Dutch are friendly!
(The Dutch also have fun quirks in their cuisine. The breakfast at the hostel includes squares of chocolate and sprinkles, they put salt on their licorice ("drop" - I have discovered a love for this stuff), and they smother their french fries with mayo. Soooo tasty.)
I met Robin, from Vancouver, upon arriving at the hostel on Friday night, and I immediately enjoyed chatting with her about travels, life, etc. She invited me out "for a drink" with some people that she had met earlier that day on a city tour, and I was really glad to join this little group: Robin, George from New York, Fabhi from Pennslyvania, and Georgina, from Seattle.
**A quick but essential tangent about "going out" in Amsterdam: it's important to note that a "coffee shop" is where one buys and smokes weed (there is no risk of making a mistake about this, as you can get a contact high by just standing on the sidewalk outside of one), and a cafe is a pub.
Liz: "So, if a coffee shop is where you smoke pot, and a cafe is a pub, where do I go if I actually want a coffee?"
Robin: "Good question. Maybe just go to Starbucks."
It took me until today to figure this one out; it seems as though the places that I would normally refer to as "coffee shops" just display a business name, and then a word like "coffee" or "espresso" on the sign as well. At times, there is even a picture of a coffee mug or coffee beans on the logo, to assist the less savvy traveller.**
So. We met these three Americans at their hostel, and I was immediately thankful thankful thankful (yes, 3 thankfuls) that I was staying at a hostel located outside of the city centre. The smell of pot, from the not-too-separate smoking room, completely infiltrated the bar at the hostel (the same room where breakfast is served in the mornings); this was a grungy kind of place where some people don't leave the smoking room for the entire duration of their stay. After having a couple of beers here, the group announced their plans to head to a coffee shop. I considered this. Robin asked me if I smoked pot, and I said that I didn't, that I actually never had in my life. I asked her the same question, and her response was, "I'm from Vancouver". Vast cultural generalizations. :)
I was enjoying the company of my little group, and so decided to venture alongside them on this excursion, to at least witness this cultural thing that Amsterdam is known all over the world for. It makes a great blog story too, right? :) And, even without being stoned (an experience I didn't have in my adolescence and that I'm quite happy to avoid now as well), the experience of witnessing all of this was quite something. You walk in, and the bartender hands you a menu. You peruse the various types of hash and weed that they offer - if you would like to see or smell a variety, the bartender will grab a large container of it for you, so that you can see your purchase in its bulk form. These well-informed bartenders will also inform you of the various properties of your options, to help you make up your mind. All of this happens while standing at the bar, as though you were deciding on which beer you were going to order. Finally, you decide whether you would like to buy it pre-rolled, or roll it yourself, and then you go and relax at a table with your friends, stare at the psychadelic paintings on the walls, listen to the hypnotic synthesized percussion blasting from the speakers, and enjoy. Ladies and gentlemen, the Amsterdam coffee shop. For those wondering, buying a joint at a coffee shop starts at 3 Euro. 3 Euro! I have paid almost that much just to use a public washroom recently.
Today, I was glad to get out of the touristy, crowded, cloud of pot smoke that is a good part of downtown, and wander the Jordaan district for a while. This is a very pretty area of town, featured in the postcards that aren't of the Red Light District - colourful old leaning homes, bicycle lined streets, quaint bridges, canals. And, more coffee, yet fewer coffee shops: I was successful in finding myself a latte that did not come with the added benefit of a contact high. Good. This is also the area of town where the Anne Frank Huis is located. Financially, I'm in a "one museum/gallery per city" kind of place, and the famous Van Gogh museum was my choice for Amsterdam. Realistically, I'm also pretty saturated with WWII history. And so, it felt sufficient to just be in this area of town, walking around her old home, and the streets in this area.
The Van Gogh museum yesterday was one of the museum highlights of this trip. Arranged chronologically, the gallery started with works by artists who had influenced Van Gogh, then went through the various stages of his art, and then finally, presented works by artists who were influenced by him. Beautiful. I fell in love with a painting of Odilon Redon's, an artist I had never heard of before, called "Closed Eyes". I could have stared at this work for an hour I'm sure - it's a print I'm going to have to track down when I get home. I noticed how drawn-in I am by art of the mid-late 19th century, not unlike my tastes in music. I love going to contemporary galleries as well, and can appreciate this work while enjoying the intellectual challenge of it. But drawn in I am by the 19th century. A broody, imaginative, romantic at heart, I suppose. :)
Of course, some words about the Red Light District. I'll admit that though I knew that prostitution was a major focal point of this area, until quite recently I had no idea that the women actually stand in storefront windows (it is very possible that everyone reading this is already fully aware of this fact). So yes, sex-trade-workers in windows under red lights, sex shops, strip joints, live sex shows, coffee shops, and then amidst all this, lovely restaurants and canals. I took my time wandering this district yesterday night, feeling initially like I had entered some different world, and then realizing that I was in fact in the exact same world, just a more overt version of it. Curiosity did not kill the cat, and this was a fascinating area to people-watch and then look away quickly, gawk at times, laugh, and be comtemplative (not what everyone does in the Red Light, but hey).
The women in the windows ranged from a very young 18 (I hope at least 18...) to likely 60ish. Could-be runway models to very "normal" looking women. Nearly naked to more modestly clothed. 90lbs to 250+lbs. A large variety of ethnic backgrounds. Some dancing. Some dancing with the woman in the window next to them. Some clearly bored, sullen, even talking on a cell phone. Others actively coaxing, gesturing to men as they walked by, or opening the doors to try to seduce further. Men choose their woman, enter through the door, and the curtain closes across the window where the woman had been standing. I watched men enter, men leave, men comtemplate and then decide to walk away (men who were just as diverse as the women in the windows). As one young guy exited, his group of friends (waiting outside for him) broke into a rousing rendition of "Happy Birthday" and people on the street spontaneously began cheering for him. I watched a group of middle-aged women standing and staring at a woman in a window, until a different, fully clothed woman emerged from the door (a female pimp?), furious, yelling, "Why do you look? Are you lesbians"? as though this word were the dirtiest swear word. I walked through this maze of streets thinking, "I don't know what to think". I know that many of these women choose this work freely. I also know that many others are forced, pressured, or believe that it is all they are worth, and so on. Someone recently said to me, "There is good social security here, they make their choices", but I don't think that "choice" is always such a black and white thing. My experience of choice/free-will is different than someone else's, based on the life they have lived, the experiences they have had.
There's a lighter and quirkier side to all of this too. Like the world famous speciality condom shop, where one can be fitted/sized and order custom made condoms - Statue of Liberty, anyone? Or like the ridiculous marketing techniques of the various sex shops (I'll spare you the descriptions here). Coffee shops with names from "The Greenhouse effect" to "Happy Times" to "Popeye's". Public urinals all over the city, which run the risk that a drunk/stoned/both young man will imagine it to be a great idea to drop his pants/boxers to his ankles as he uses it. The streets of Amsterdam in general are in interesting mix. It's one of the most culturally diverse cities I've been to on this trip, and there is a certain vibrancy and colour about this place. There are beautiful lookouts over canals, windmills, and museums galore. There are more bicycles than people, and the streets are lined with bikes. It's fantastic. There is also a fair amount of poverty it seems. I was moved by a gypsy woman yesterday, sitting, playing two chords over and over on a completely dilapidated accordion, singing random pitches to "la la la" as she rocked back and forth in the central "Dam" square of the city. To use a phrase of my brother-in-law's, this is not a place that numbs the senses, and I am enjoying the mystery in wandering these streets. And, my first impression of the Dutch, facilitated by my shoe-tying angel, has held quite true for the most part. Whether it's a shop owner, the person serving my latte, the local giving me directions, or the local trying to pick up in the park this evening (lovely to talk to, but my intuition was shouting a loud "ABSOLUTELY NOT"), it seems these are a friendly people.
Later tonight, Robin and I are heading to a bar that apparently has live music. I am partaking in nightlife these days. Who knew? Tomorrow I journey to Brussels, but will have time here in the morning to check out a few of the city's famous markets - food market, flower market, book market, flea market. Good good.
Sending my love.
xo
Thursday, November 4, 2010
unfoldings
As I have travelled, I have often been asked about how this trip came to be. How long had I been planning it? How had I gotten so much time off of work? What prompted it? I have already written a great deal about the various catalysts for such a trip, my desire to cultivate spontaneity and to live life in an “unplanned” fashion, my intention to live my life fully and in gratefulness for what I do have, rather than always wishing for things I don’t have. A mentor of mine introduced the idea of framing this trip as a quasi-adolescence, given how ridiculously responsible and focused I was during my actual adolescence. I like this.
In terms of how the actual logistics of this trip unfolded, I must say that in the course of their unfolding, it was confirmed for me time and time again that I was meant to be doing this, and doing it now. It was as though my life had just been waiting to be asked, “Can I take 3 months off?” The answer was a resounding “Yes”. From my employer, Lutherwood, it was more than a yes in fact, but rather “a kick in the butt”, in the words of my boss, Kathy, who told me to go and not to dare think about work while I was gone. My boss' boss response, when I made the formal request in writing, was to say, “Of course you can go. My only question is, are you sure you don’t want longer? Why don’t you come back just in time to take your Christmas holidays?” Another example of this kind of effortless unfolding happened in July, when I attended the wedding of my friends Matt and Jodi in London, ON. I arrived on my own, and knew very people present. I ended up sitting beside a lovely woman named Katrin, who had done her masters with Jodi in New Zealand, and who was German. In making conversation with Katrin, I began talking about this trip I would be embarking on in about a month’s time. Without hesitation, and after knowing each other for about 20 minutes, Katrin said, “Come to Berlin and stay with me!” Without hesitation (and without knowing the route I would be taking through Europe), I said, with confidence and gratitude, “Thanks…Absolutely!”
And so here I am, in Katrin’s cozy and immaculate apartment in Berlin (a building on the East side that once housed the SS), thankful for her generosity to a stranger back in July, her openness, and her assistance in finding my way around this huge city. Berlin is the largest, or at least the densest, city I have ever been in I think, with a population of 3.4 million, a figure that doesn't include the sprawl around the city. It is huge. I arrived on Sunday to Europe’s largest train station, taking a few moments to just breathe in the order amidst the chaos of this place. My impression is that many Berliners are exceedingly proud of their city, that its history of being reduced to complete rubble, rebuilt, divided up, and then finally re-unified instils a sense of gratefulness for freedom in one’s homeland, that at least those who are old enough to remember the division in this city, do not take lightly. I’ll be honest that the story of the Berlin Wall for example, had never been more to me than a fact to learn about history – I had never given it that much thought. Now that I am here, I am enthralled by this city’s history. It’s both fascinating and sobering, and the city has done a lot of work to keep this history alive and accessible, so that future generations do not forget. There are also some fun quirks about the fact that this city was divided in two from 1961-1989. For example, there are double the number of many things. There are actually hundreds of museums here, and the complex public transit system is a meshing of what once belonged to two cities. In walking around the streets, the surest way to know whether you are on the former East or West side, is to look at the pedestrian signals at crosswalks. On the West, these signals look like they do in the rest of Europe. On the East, it's Ampelmann, who has become a bit of a symbol for the city of Berlin:
There have been many empowering moments on this journey, and I was reminded yesterday to never underestimate how satisfying and confidence-building it is to master a giant city like Berlin’s public transit network on one’s own. If I may say, I am kicking ass in Berlin. Yesterday, my choice of activities for the afternoon was scattered around various parts of the city. No problem! Two S-Bahn lines from the East Side Gallery to the modern art museum. Then two U-Bahn lines from the art museum to the Turkish district for dinner. Then a third U-Bahn line, transfer to a tram, and bam! I am back to Katrin’s place. European cities put any public transit that we have in Canada to shame exponentially. That’s right. I can totally do this.
I have seen so much in this city, and can’t begin to describe it all…
…Remaining segments of the Berlin Wall, including the East Side Gallery, the longest remaining portion (1.3km), which was recently turned into a gallery, with artists from all over the world painting murals along the entire stretch:
…The Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, which was left in its bombed state after the war, as a reminder to the city of the horrors of war. A modern, and also somewhat eerie worship space was built on the same site in the 60s.
…The Bookburning Memorial at Bebelplatz, on the grounds of Humbolt University, where National Socialist forces led a burning ritual of thousands of “un-German” books (including books about psychology, philosophyz, art, religion, etc…)
…Checkpoint Charlie, a famous division between the former American and Soviet sectors of the city, which has been left largely as it was during the Cold War, and is now a haven for tourists, snapping photos of the sign “You are Now Leaving the American Sector” and paying for a photo with the “Soviet guard”...
…The Neue Nationalgalerie, which houses important works of the 20th century, and follows the political scene in Germany through the works of European artists. Many of the works here were displayed in the Nazi Regime`s 1937 exhibition entitled, “Degenerate Art”, and the gallery has since managed to have them returned. In addition, at least 5000 important works of art were burnt at this time, and the gallery has black and white photos of some of these pieces.
...The Deutscher Bundestag, or German Parliament, which was moved back to Berlin from Bohn in 1999. The building dates from the 1890s, was restored after the war, and then again since 1999, to include a fancy glass "cupola" that offers a 360 degree view of the city, and also a clear view down into parliament itself (proclaiming the value of transparency within political process):
…The Topography of Terror open air museum, which sits on the site of the former Nazi party headquarters…
...The eerie and sobering Memorial to the Murdered European Jews (a 4.7 acre sight covered with 2711 slabs of concrete of different heights - designed to make you feel uneasy, lost, and confused as you walk through them) and the less eerie, but no-less thought provoking Memorial to murdered homosexuals (a hidden television screen inside a rusted metal room, showing a video of two men making out)...
It’s been a full 4 days, but not so full to preclude finding great Thai and Turkish food (Berlin is specifically known for it`s Turkish markets and restaurants, as a large Turkish population immigrated here after the war), sitting in a café with my journal and munching on fabulous chocolate walnut cake, reading, sleeping no less than 8 hours a night, and almost recovering from my head cold (I’m really close). I am enjoying a very lazy morning of blogging and chilling out at Katrin’s place, and am going to head back to the city centre sometime this afternoon to wander a bit. Katrin and I are meeting at 6pm at the “Museums Island”, a UNESCO protected cluster of museums in the centre of the city – they are free on Thursday evenings, so Katrin will pick her favourite one, and I will gladly follow….
Tomorrow I head to Amsterdam – I found a cheap (relatively speaking) train ticket, and decided to drop in for a few days. The price of my accommodation is another story, however; I can frame this as the fabulous result of my newfound spontaneity, no? (i.e. this is a location I probably should have booked ahead) One thing that is tricky in Germany, if I compare it to Italy, for example, is meeting people. There seem to be fewer solo-travellers around. In hostels, there have been many large groups, and it’s rarely easy (and often not really desirable) to break into a group. Perhaps it's the time of year. Culturally, I am also somewhere much less outgoing, more reserved. No more waiters telling me that I am delicious, for example. People keep to themselves more here (more similar to North America). I am remaining open to meeting people, stepping out of my own comfort zone at times, while also listening to what increased solitude has to teach me.
After my last update email, I received a response from a wise colleague of mine reminding me that two weeks is still a long vacation. It’s a good reminder, and I had thought of this myself, endeavouring to frame this final portion of the trip as just as long as some people have for "vacation" for their entire year. Indeed, I am grateful for this, and am striving to live each day keeping my mind, body, and spirit present in Europe, rather than in planning Waterloo-life. Just as this trip unfolded with lots of intentionality, but not so much orchestration, I imagine life back home can be the same. This will be one of the most important lessons for me to transfer back to life in Ontario, I am guessing. On the other hand, I suppose it’s normal that I am starting to think about home. I have experienced this time away in phases, and though two weeks is certainly still a long time, in relation to 3 months, it’s also an ending. Like any good therapist, I’m preparing for closure…
xoxo
In terms of how the actual logistics of this trip unfolded, I must say that in the course of their unfolding, it was confirmed for me time and time again that I was meant to be doing this, and doing it now. It was as though my life had just been waiting to be asked, “Can I take 3 months off?” The answer was a resounding “Yes”. From my employer, Lutherwood, it was more than a yes in fact, but rather “a kick in the butt”, in the words of my boss, Kathy, who told me to go and not to dare think about work while I was gone. My boss' boss response, when I made the formal request in writing, was to say, “Of course you can go. My only question is, are you sure you don’t want longer? Why don’t you come back just in time to take your Christmas holidays?” Another example of this kind of effortless unfolding happened in July, when I attended the wedding of my friends Matt and Jodi in London, ON. I arrived on my own, and knew very people present. I ended up sitting beside a lovely woman named Katrin, who had done her masters with Jodi in New Zealand, and who was German. In making conversation with Katrin, I began talking about this trip I would be embarking on in about a month’s time. Without hesitation, and after knowing each other for about 20 minutes, Katrin said, “Come to Berlin and stay with me!” Without hesitation (and without knowing the route I would be taking through Europe), I said, with confidence and gratitude, “Thanks…Absolutely!”
And so here I am, in Katrin’s cozy and immaculate apartment in Berlin (a building on the East side that once housed the SS), thankful for her generosity to a stranger back in July, her openness, and her assistance in finding my way around this huge city. Berlin is the largest, or at least the densest, city I have ever been in I think, with a population of 3.4 million, a figure that doesn't include the sprawl around the city. It is huge. I arrived on Sunday to Europe’s largest train station, taking a few moments to just breathe in the order amidst the chaos of this place. My impression is that many Berliners are exceedingly proud of their city, that its history of being reduced to complete rubble, rebuilt, divided up, and then finally re-unified instils a sense of gratefulness for freedom in one’s homeland, that at least those who are old enough to remember the division in this city, do not take lightly. I’ll be honest that the story of the Berlin Wall for example, had never been more to me than a fact to learn about history – I had never given it that much thought. Now that I am here, I am enthralled by this city’s history. It’s both fascinating and sobering, and the city has done a lot of work to keep this history alive and accessible, so that future generations do not forget. There are also some fun quirks about the fact that this city was divided in two from 1961-1989. For example, there are double the number of many things. There are actually hundreds of museums here, and the complex public transit system is a meshing of what once belonged to two cities. In walking around the streets, the surest way to know whether you are on the former East or West side, is to look at the pedestrian signals at crosswalks. On the West, these signals look like they do in the rest of Europe. On the East, it's Ampelmann, who has become a bit of a symbol for the city of Berlin:
 |
| Despite the fact that he's a symbol of communist oppression, I think he's kind of cute... |
I have seen so much in this city, and can’t begin to describe it all…
…Remaining segments of the Berlin Wall, including the East Side Gallery, the longest remaining portion (1.3km), which was recently turned into a gallery, with artists from all over the world painting murals along the entire stretch:
 |
| Me at the East Side Gallery |
 |
| A rose for every person killed while trying to escape East Germany, East Side Gallery |
…The Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, which was left in its bombed state after the war, as a reminder to the city of the horrors of war. A modern, and also somewhat eerie worship space was built on the same site in the 60s.
 |
| Kaiser Wilhelm Gedächtniskirche |
 |
| Inside the modern worship space |
…Checkpoint Charlie, a famous division between the former American and Soviet sectors of the city, which has been left largely as it was during the Cold War, and is now a haven for tourists, snapping photos of the sign “You are Now Leaving the American Sector” and paying for a photo with the “Soviet guard”...
…The Neue Nationalgalerie, which houses important works of the 20th century, and follows the political scene in Germany through the works of European artists. Many of the works here were displayed in the Nazi Regime`s 1937 exhibition entitled, “Degenerate Art”, and the gallery has since managed to have them returned. In addition, at least 5000 important works of art were burnt at this time, and the gallery has black and white photos of some of these pieces.
...The Deutscher Bundestag, or German Parliament, which was moved back to Berlin from Bohn in 1999. The building dates from the 1890s, was restored after the war, and then again since 1999, to include a fancy glass "cupola" that offers a 360 degree view of the city, and also a clear view down into parliament itself (proclaiming the value of transparency within political process):
…The Topography of Terror open air museum, which sits on the site of the former Nazi party headquarters…
...The eerie and sobering Memorial to the Murdered European Jews (a 4.7 acre sight covered with 2711 slabs of concrete of different heights - designed to make you feel uneasy, lost, and confused as you walk through them) and the less eerie, but no-less thought provoking Memorial to murdered homosexuals (a hidden television screen inside a rusted metal room, showing a video of two men making out)...
It’s been a full 4 days, but not so full to preclude finding great Thai and Turkish food (Berlin is specifically known for it`s Turkish markets and restaurants, as a large Turkish population immigrated here after the war), sitting in a café with my journal and munching on fabulous chocolate walnut cake, reading, sleeping no less than 8 hours a night, and almost recovering from my head cold (I’m really close). I am enjoying a very lazy morning of blogging and chilling out at Katrin’s place, and am going to head back to the city centre sometime this afternoon to wander a bit. Katrin and I are meeting at 6pm at the “Museums Island”, a UNESCO protected cluster of museums in the centre of the city – they are free on Thursday evenings, so Katrin will pick her favourite one, and I will gladly follow….
Tomorrow I head to Amsterdam – I found a cheap (relatively speaking) train ticket, and decided to drop in for a few days. The price of my accommodation is another story, however; I can frame this as the fabulous result of my newfound spontaneity, no? (i.e. this is a location I probably should have booked ahead) One thing that is tricky in Germany, if I compare it to Italy, for example, is meeting people. There seem to be fewer solo-travellers around. In hostels, there have been many large groups, and it’s rarely easy (and often not really desirable) to break into a group. Perhaps it's the time of year. Culturally, I am also somewhere much less outgoing, more reserved. No more waiters telling me that I am delicious, for example. People keep to themselves more here (more similar to North America). I am remaining open to meeting people, stepping out of my own comfort zone at times, while also listening to what increased solitude has to teach me.
After my last update email, I received a response from a wise colleague of mine reminding me that two weeks is still a long vacation. It’s a good reminder, and I had thought of this myself, endeavouring to frame this final portion of the trip as just as long as some people have for "vacation" for their entire year. Indeed, I am grateful for this, and am striving to live each day keeping my mind, body, and spirit present in Europe, rather than in planning Waterloo-life. Just as this trip unfolded with lots of intentionality, but not so much orchestration, I imagine life back home can be the same. This will be one of the most important lessons for me to transfer back to life in Ontario, I am guessing. On the other hand, I suppose it’s normal that I am starting to think about home. I have experienced this time away in phases, and though two weeks is certainly still a long time, in relation to 3 months, it’s also an ending. Like any good therapist, I’m preparing for closure…
xoxo
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