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A Room at the Bauhaus

Friday, April 25th, 2008

Wagenfeld [Bauhaus]Dessau isn’t the most attractive town in Germany. The British flattened it in the 1940s and the Soviets towerblocked it after the war. The city seems an unlikely destination for an architectural pilgrimage, but hidden away behind the station is one of the great buildings of the 20th century, the Bauhaus.

I booked a room in the Atelierhaus [student wing] of the Bauhaus for 25 euros a night. The room was high up on the third level of the building with a shiny crimson floor and a tiny-lipped balcony.  Internal walls were painted white to create the illusion of more space and furniture was sturdy and functional; just a bed, coat stand, storage unit and two Marcel Breuer chairs tucked under a table. Two spotlights threw shadows around the walls and I quickly tidied my possessions away. This wasn’t a room that would tolerate mess,

I remembered my own halls of residence in the north of England; the nylon carpet and the wonky shelves. Nothing like this. I used the balcony and the clear February night to chill my Riesling.

There are other Bauhaus buildings dotted around Dessau. Walter Gropius designed a low brick Employment Office and a whole suburb was built to a Bauhaus spec. Beautifully preserved are the four Meisterhausers Gropius added for the college teachers and their wives. These are now open to the public and restored closely to their original design. Beautiful as they are they appear more museum than house. Door handles are gleaming and the smell of fresh paint hangs in the stairwells. The clutter and spills of daily life have been removed.

My favourite building was the Kornhaus restaurant, a lovely sweep of glass designed by Carl Fieger in the late 1920s. I got lost in the woods looking for it and then discovered I only had eight euros in my pocket when I arrived. I ordered a salad and a fruit juice from the menu and hurried out after leaving a measly fifty-cent tip. It was the last of my cash!

 Before I left Dessau, I bought a 1950s Wagenfeld cup and double saucer from the Bauhaus shop. It was so nice I bought the rest of the set from ebay for about £100 when I got back to London. A week later I was photographing some Bauhaus-inspired houses in Stanmore and found an identical set in a charity shop for £5.

James Joyce & the Adriatic

Friday, April 11th, 2008

Our first encounter was in Trieste. Back in the days of empire this city port belonged to the Habsburgs and later became the southern pin of the iron curtain. Most of the surrounding coastal towns are Venetian in character, with tall campanile towers and arched loggias. Trieste has greater subtlety, atypical of Italian cities; a kind of Vienna-on-Sea. It’s graceful rather than attractive, the squares floored with Carrera marble and behind the imposing civic buildings sits a crumbling medieval quarter built across Roman foundations.

One hundred years ago, in strode the young James Joyce. He was newly married with a degree in Latin and keen to take what we now call a gap-year, teaching English abroad. The year away eventually stretched to an on-off decade in this pretty corner of Europe. It was here, among the cafes and piazzas that he wrote Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and large chunks of The Dubliners.

A bronze statue of Joyce stands by the Grand Canal in Trieste. He looks in a hurry, with a book tucked tightly under his arm. The sculpture is lifesize and in the bustle of a passegiate, he merges with the crowd, head down, thoughts of literary genius on his mind no doubt. After that he seemed to follow us everywhere. At the Hotel James Joyce with its traces of the 18th century and Italian copies of Finnegans Wake in reception, we drank cheap fiery grappa and awoke with headaches.

In Pula, around the coast in Croatia, we bumped into him again. This time he sat outside a cafe (Cafe Ulysses inevitably) legs crossed, enjoying the April sun. Joyce taught English here, but showed little affection for the town. Pula has beautifully preserved Roman temples and a colossal amphitheatre and now celebrates a writer immune to its charms.

He returned to Trieste with the germ of a Homeric idea and tapped out early chapters of Ulysses. This most Dublin of novels evolved so many miles away from its backdrop. He wrote to his wife calling Trieste “the city which has sheltered us” and a century on, with its statues and plaques and literary trails, it shelters him still.

Bad Guys in Buenos Aires

Friday, April 11th, 2008
How do you get under the skin of a city? Some would suggest spending time with locals, others, drinking your way around the bars. Me? I go to football matches. In Buenos Aires there are two decent choices; River Plate, colloquially ... [Continue reading this entry]

Vienna & the Curse of Franz Ferdinand’s Car

Friday, April 11th, 2008
I walk through Vienna across rain-sparkling cobbles to the History Museum. This Austrian city has fascinated me since childhood. At ten years old my favourite book was a mouldy paperback called Stranger than Science. These frightening stories of real life ... [Continue reading this entry]

Looking after Dracula in Transylvania

Friday, April 11th, 2008
A bust of Vlad the Impaler sat atop a stone pedestal. His eyes were mean and cold beneath thick matted hair. Laid around the base were a collection of offerings; ground saltpetre overlaid with flowers. The petals were ... [Continue reading this entry]

When is a tourist attraction not a tourist attraction?

Friday, April 11th, 2008
When it has Arbeit Macht Frei written above the entrance and harbours the apparatus for millions of executions. Auschwitz has been open to the public for a good number of years. Do you need to justify ... [Continue reading this entry]

Bruce Chatwin Hotel, Tuscany

Friday, April 11th, 2008
I've been a devotee of Bruce Chatwin's wrting for years and once formed part of the cliched Chatwin Traveller set, hitchhiking around South America with a scruffy copy of In Patagonia in my backpack. I've read the books, echoed his footfalls, ... [Continue reading this entry]

Kurt Cobain lives in Bolivia

Friday, April 11th, 2008
I couldn't place the song at first. It was drifting across the courtyard and flaking in the breeze. I wondered where the radio was and why it was playing American music. I roused myself and followed the source of the ... [Continue reading this entry]

Likoma Island, Malawi

Friday, April 11th, 2008
"Hey Mazungu!" a voice calls, "I am Gift, and this is my brother, Advice." The younger boy smiles shyly. Mazungu is a generic Swahili word meaning white man, although its curious literal translation is man without smell. Gift offers himself ... [Continue reading this entry]

Guggenheim, Bilbao, Spain

Friday, April 11th, 2008
In 1997 a strange thing happened to the Basque city of Bilbao. Amid the industrial gloom of its docks, an apparition was reported. The man behind the apparition was Frank Gehry, a Canadian with a unique eye for architecture. The apparition ... [Continue reading this entry]