Donde Esta La Biblioteca? Otra Vez

Even with the relaxed Italian notion of a ‘schedule,’ Lucca is only around an hour from Firenze by train. This refuge from the history-hysteria of Florence bathed us with peace and quiet. Lucca is surrounded by massive walls separating busy traffic from bike territory. Just like in Copenhagen, everyone rides bikes around Lucca: old, young, business, or casual.

Our not-so-long list of achievements from drowsy little Lucca includes strolling, me finishing Guns Germs and Steel, Lauren finishing Life of Pi, both eating some wierd Luccian pastry, and very nearly going for a run. One day we took a quick trip to Pisa to see the leaning tower. After a couple minutes of taking photos I realized that if you could position your body the right way, and if the camera was low enough, the perspective would create a shocking visual effect causing the subject to look like a giant who is either pushing the tower over, trying to hold it up, or hugging it. It was a breakthrough in tourist culture and the revolutionary idea spread like wildfire.

The Italian name for Florence is way cooler to say than our nerdy English version. Firenze (pronunciation above) has the same ‘stuck in Epcot Center’ crowd found in Siena along with a large population of study abroad kids sprinkled on top. What it lacks in charm, it makes for with art. Surrounding Brunelleschi’s famous dome-within-a-dome, the architectural marvel that kicked off the Renaissance, is an all-star cast of high Renaissance* masterpieces by all four Ninja Turtles (Leonardo, Michelangelo, Donatello, and Raphael.)

Lauren planned ahead and got us reservations to the Uffizi Gallery and the Accademia, so we skipped the unbelievably long lines and saw works like Michelangelo’s David and Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. When faced with so much art coming at you from all directions, it’s hard not to become numb to the extraordinary significance of what you’re looking at. After the 50th Virgin Mary and baby Jesus fresco, they started to remind me of characters in a 16th century Geiko commercial.

In order to counteract the effects of this kind of over exposure, Lauren and I read parts of the scholarly “A Very Short Introduction to Renaissance Art” we picked up in Edinburgh. That gave us a good lens through which to view all of the altarpieces, easel paintings and sculptures we came across in these two important museums. Being able to focus on the subtleties helped keep things as entertaining as they should be, Christ after Christ after Christ.

One tidbit that I found especially interesting was that before art was revered for its aesthetic qualities and creative expression, it was first and foremost a tool used for religious goals. Big shots would go to an artistic guild looking to commission a painting of their favorite biblical tale (usually somehow including themselves.) The interesting part is that they didn’t buy these huge, elaborate works of art because they would look great in their brand new living room, but rather to put up in a church and pay for a priest to hold mass in front of them for years after their death – thus ensuring the salvation of their souls. That’s why until the high Renaissance* the emphasis was on finding a craftsman who could get the job done instead of a creative and original artist. Superstars like Michelangelo changed all that by shifting the attention towards the artists’ themselves.

Florence and the worldwide humanist revolution it brought to bear is to thank for much of our modern way of life. If it wasn’t for the upheaval of the Renaissance I probably would’ve spent the last four years banging rocks together instead of reading Plato, Socrates, and Chalmers. It was cool to visit a town that has had so much influence on the world. Near the end of our time, however, we were ready to say goodbye to the vegetarian restaurant we ate at each night and escape the crowds towards a town that claims far less global significance – Lucca.

*a note about the difference between plain old “Renaissance” and “high Renaissance.”

I’ve gathered that it is somewhat like the distinction between a “teenager” and a “high school teenager.” At thirteen you’re technically a teenager, but far from the beard shavin’, pickup drivin’, party animal teenagers of the senior class. Similarly, “Renaissance” could describe the early stuff that hasn’t shed the gawky glasses and braces of the Middle Ages, while “high Renaissance” can only mean Leonardo and the other Homecoming kings who drove the cheerleaders crazy and smoked pot behind the bleachers.

My apologies to anyone who actually knows stuff about art and is probably vomiting right now.

Siena’s beauty is easiest to appreciate late at night after the endless herds of tour groups have had their way with the tiny mid-evil town. One night we went out with two Swiss girls, Laura and Nathalie, who we met during a wine tasting at a vineyard in Crete. We entertained ourselves by chatting our way around the narrow maze of streets and getting very lost. Thankfully Siena is a walled city, so we couldn’t stray too far. Eventually we found a place for dinner and drinks where we swapped facts about of our respective homelands and laughed about the selection of American TV shows that make their way over to Europe; the most popular being 90210, 7th Heaven and ER. We suggested they try Seinfeld and Arrested Development for more quality American television. It was nice to show them that at least 2 out of the dozen or so Americans at the wine tasting were capable of communicating something beyond crappy jokes about how drunk they were going to get (or how drunk they were last night.)

Siena was the first place where we encountered tourism gone overboard on such a ridiculous scale. I’ve come to think of the frustration we felt as the “tourists’ paradox.” Essentially Lauren and I are nothing but conceited tourists who hypocritically resent tourism itself. However, it is important to keep in mind the difference between a traveler (what we would like to think of ourselves as) and a tourist (what we are annoyed by.) Travelers try to appreciate a certain culture and really experience it, while tourists just want to look at it as if it were an attraction at the zoo. From the sound of many loud and imposing conversations in Siena, it seemed like most middle-aged Americans thought of Tuscany more as an extension of Disneyworld rather than a real place worth respecting. The tourists we resented were the ones that acted like they were just there to cross Siena off the list of places they’ve been and kill a few days by shopping in the meantime.

Maybe this theory amounts to nothing but the worthless rant of a smug, young, wanna-be adventurer who’s too busy complaining about the over-commercialization of an otherwise quaint Italian town to see that he himself is the cause of his own scorn. Or maybe I am justified in insisting that people should either act like they care about wherever they are visiting or stay at home on the couch. That’s for you to decide, but at least I got it off my chest.

Anyways, despite the aforementioned distractions, Siena was very beautiful and interesting. We bought some ceramic pieces from a local artist whose “contrade,” or neighborhood, had recently won the most important Sienese event of the year – The Palio. Horses from the 17 neighborhoods of Siena bring their jockeys to the central square (Il Campo) for a race to decide which part of town deserves a year’s worth of bragging rights. Her horse had won, so she bragged.

Federico, the freelance photographer we hung out with during the White Night, lives on a small Tuscan island called Isola D’Elba. When we told Diana about our plans to relax for a few days on the beach at Capri she suggested we instead go to Isola D’Elba for a less polluted, less touristy, and less expensive time. We caught the ferry with Diana and Federico’s promise of emerald water and hidden beaches.

Upon arrival we were looking to rent a car. We’ve learned that the best deals come from the place that looks the most dilapidated and Rent Chiappi fit that description. Inside we found three 70 year-old women playing what looked like an intense game of bridge. The gang disbanded and the ringleader explained slowly enough for us to understand that she could rent us a Fiat Panda. When the deal was done and the Panda was ours, we asked for directions to our hotel on the other side of the island. She replied with “Facile, facile, facile,” (it’s easy, easy, easy) along with some sort of vague hand gesture presumably in the direction we needed to go. That insider information plus a map that looked like a 5th grader’s rendition of Elba Island would be our navigational tools.

My friend Judson once described my other friend Eddie’s Hyundai as barely meeting the minimum requirements to technically qualify as an automobile. That same description came to mind as I popped our sea-foam aluminum box into first and shuddered off towards the west coast in search of Patresi. Oddly enough, the drive did turn out to be “facile, facile, facile” and roundabouts where the gambling grannies of Rent Chiappi had gestured.

Not a lot happened during our days on Elba Island – which is exactly what we were hoping for. There was a lot of sun, a bunch of little beaches, and plenty of wine. On the last day we circumnavigated the whole island and sang Stevie Wonder songs before returning our radio-less, yet charismatic Panda.

Elba is gorgeous and not yet infected with the plague of mass tourism. The same cannot be said for what was our next destination – Siena.

You know you are close to the Vatican museum, home of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel, when you see the giant line of ‘pilgrims’ wrapping around about a quarter of the tiny Catholic nation. We passed the time by doing a lot of preparatory reading and a little eavesdropping on the tour groups in line with us. Here’s what we learned for anyone whose religious history is as rusty as mine:

For a long time Christians were tortured, crucified, and used as human torches to light Roman horse races at the site of what is now St. Peter’s square. One day, St. Peter (Jesus’ right hand man) came to Rome to spread some love and the word of his recently deceased best friend. He was targeted for execution, hauled up to Nero’s Circus racecourse, and crucified upside down. His remains were buried in a nearby graveyard and almost forgotten until Christianity was legalized in 313 and Constantine built a church at the site of St. Peter’s martyrdom. The Old St. Peter’s lasted for 1,200 years until the Renaissance when the Church decided it was time for an update. In order to build such a massive, expensive church the Popes sold ‘indulgences’ to wealthy citizens who wanted a V.I.P. pass to Heaven. Sticklers like Martin Luther saw this kind of corruption as sacrilege and split to start the Protestant reformation. Michelangelo drew most of the plans, but they were changed a lot during the 120 years it took to build. What we see now is far from what ‘ol Miche would have wanted. Bernini was hired to do the interior decorating as well as the square in front of the Basilica. The whole complex was meant to let everyone know that the Church is kind of a big deal and they ought to consider giving it a shot.

Eventually we made it into the Vatican museum and did a self-guided tour through all of the past Popes’ lavish home furnishings before walking under the most famous ceiling in the world. When you see the Sistine chapel, it’s easy to understand why it is widely considered the greatest work of art ever created by one man. The subjective idea of beauty might be debatable (though not likely,) but the astonishing craftsmanship is sufficient to earn the title as champion. It’s uncomfortable enough twisting your neck just to look at it, much less to hold out your hand for hours working by candlelight with pain dripping in your eyes.

Once we passed the Sistine and broke free of the millions of fresco-hungry tourists, we cruised around the mountain of marble that is St. Peter’s Basilica. The view from the top of the dome was worth the clostrophobic climb up, and hanging out down amongst Bernini’s colonnades surrounding the square provides plenty of proof that Christianity is kind of a big deal.

How do you even begin to talk about Rome? It’s the most astonishing environment I’ve ever been thrown into. Modern civilization seems out of place, like a middle-schooler hanging out at a bingo hall. Although the city has been so many different things over the past 5,000 years, it doesn’t feel like it used to be anything. It still is all of those old places, just stacked up on each other like Kerbey Lane Cafe® pancakes. In Rome the past just refuses to go away.

While in Rome, we did as Diana Battisti did. She was our fourth Servas host and as amazing a Roman as we could have asked for. A fellow vegan, she sympathized with our soya gelato needs and took us straight to her local gelateria. Her and her mom are both passionate, strong-willed, and opinionated women. Diana seems to love every minute of meeting new people, and her presence ensures that conversation will be free flowing and anything but dull. No disrespect to our elders, but it was fun to stay with someone only four years our senior.

You can thank our time in Italy’s capital for the sluggish progression of this blog. I think I forgot I even had a computer as soon as we landed. The first few days you spend about 25% of your time staring, 35% taking pictures of whatever you just stared at, and the rest drinking wine. Aside from the big tourist sites we got to do a lot of ‘off the beaten path’ type stuff.

Diana’s friend hooked us up with a rare guided archaeology tour of some Mithras Temple ruins not open to the public. Either everyone else on the tour was a pseudo-archaeologist amazingly familiar with the complex history of Mithras, or they did a damn good job of acting like it. Lauren and I, however, only vaguely remembered the name of this strange cult from a few drowsy art history mornings. The tour was a crash course, and with the help of some historical context clues I think we got a good grasp on what was going on with the Mithras. Diana even came along because it is so rare to be allowed down below the street level and into what is still an active archaeological site.

Another highlight was ‘La Notte Bianca.’ We lucked out and made it to Rome just in time for this annual ‘White Night’ when everything (public transit, museums, shops, restaurants, bars) stays open all night and all kinds of entertainment is scattered throughout this labyrinth of a town. We accompanied Diana to Trastevere and ate dinner and sipped wine while she handed out flyers demanding the freedom of a bear recently ‘jailed’ by the Italian government for having caused some problems in Austria or something confusing, yet tragic.

Lauren and I met back up with Diana and a bunch of her friends when her flyer shift was over. Our motley crew was comprised of Romans Diana and Sergio, Florentine Elisabetta, Venezuelans Jessica and Daniela, Elba Islander Federico, Canadian Manu, and us Texans. Our first stop was to see a surprisingly young swing band play in a nearby bookstore. Second, an ex-mechanic shop turned bar called “Brakes and Gears” for drinks. Third, a museum to check out some sobering photos by Paolo Pellegrin and some disturbing drawings by Susan Crile. Fourth, a Scottish bar along the river for more drinks. From here we lost some of the crew and Diana, Federico, Elisabetta, Lauren, and I made a hike up one of the seven Roman hills to get a good spot for the 6 AM Sufi dance ritual. The religious dance was all the more enchanting with the sun rising over Rome in the background. It was a night to remember.

The guy sitting next to Lauren and I on the plane bound for Rome pulled out his laptop and a cloud of dust puffed from his keyboard. He was an Australian soldier anxiously awaiting his two weeks of Roman R&R after six months in Iraq. We all grabbed a free beer from the British Airways stewardess and talked about the war. He reported a lot of good things, a lot of terrible things, and a few even more terrible things. Maybe it was the thought of spending the next two weeks in Rome with his girlfriend that made him so upbeat, but he was as jolly as any other 19 year old I know.

Of course we wanted to know which nation’s army stationed in Iraq was the craziest and he emphatically replied “The Rumanians!” Apparently due to a mix of their completely outdated equipment, incessant binge drinking, and short tempers. When we inquired about his impression of the American troops stationed near his base he carefully recounted his experiences as respectfully as he could. “It’s just that there are a lot more Americans in general and therefore more bad apples as well,” was the main point. Regardless, I couldn’t help but admire the Rumanians’ reputation when he told us what he had witnessed some of the American ‘bad apples’ do. He assured us that many Aussies (himself included) had become good friends with some Americans and he realizes that the actions of a few do not represent the character of an entire nation. He said he always has, and always will, love Americans.

Never has the war felt more real than while talking with someone three years younger than us who, only 20 hours ago, was speaking Arabic to an angry Iraqi villager wrapped up in a conflict that no one really understands. It was as surreal of an experience as it was depressing. The only thing powerful enough to wash away our despair was the huge smile on our Aussie friend’s face when the captain announced our descent into Rome.

Copenhagen is Scandinavia after being hit with 10,000 volts of Danish attitude. The endless graffiti, easy rider bikes, Vikings, hip-hop clothes, squatting psychedelic villages, and little mermaids all crash together in a chaotic cultural pile-up that you just can’t help but watch. We were lucky enough to be hosted by Bjorn and his girlfriend Nana during our stay.

Bjorn is a wall of a man with more tenacity in his pinky toe than I could hope to muster up in my whole life. Apart from being a common judge, an active member of a leftist political party, nearly a black belt in Aikido, a social worker, a carpenter, and a father to two beautiful children, he also enjoys building Viking ships using traditional methods, crafting traditional Viking war clothes and weapons, and sailing around the world doing Viking warship reenactments with his troop of fellow Vikings. He has also been known to pack only what actual Vikings would have had for survival gear and set of into the tundra for weeks at a time. Talking to him definitely broadened my definition for the word ‘badass.’

‘Badass’ would be a good word to describe Copenhagen as well. Besides being home to outcasts like H.C. Anderson, the author of “The Ugly Duckling” and “The Little Mermaid,” Copenhagen hosts a rambunctious populace that isn’t afraid to stand up to the Man. The vigor seems to be the same whether it’s the youth fighting for the rights to the Ungdomshuset, or their middle-aged counterparts refusing to give up Christiania. On the way to the site of the recently demolished Ungdomshuset we noticed every other store window was destroyed by the anniversary riot just two nights previous. The nearby McDonalds (the poster child for everything the Danish youth loath) fared the worst.

At the other end of the spectrum is the less violent squatter village of Christiania. We walked around the ex-military base eyeing the hippie propaganda before sitting down to a hearty vegan meal. One thing that stands out amongst the usual cries for universal peace, freedom, and tolerance is the notion that these people don’t just talk the talk. They’ve ceased a part of this capital city and use it as a beacon to spread their message.

Fond memories of Denmark include playing Playstation with the two little miniature Bjorns – Sigga and Kelle, trying on homemade Viking chain maille, finding an Indian buffet and tearing it to pieces, reading about the sex lives of historical figures at the Museum of Erotica, discovering tons of progressive art, and of course hanging out with Bjorn and Nana who couldnt have been more accomodating as hosts.

Our flight out of Copenhagen took us towards a whole other world – Roma.

After 22 days of traveling, we realized we really didn’t need a decent amount of the stuff we brought, and decided to streamline our bags a little. We packed up a box, shipped it home, and my back has been thanking me ever since.

With a few hours to kill before meeting up with our second Servas hosts – Ylva and Lars-Ake (we never really figured out how to pronounce that name, or any other Swedish word really, despite help from Ylva) – we checked out the sad story of the Vasa.

It was built to be the greatest ship in some Swedish king’s fleet, but the overzealous Swedes loaded it with too many cannons at the top and too little counter-balance at the bottom. During its maiden voyage it only managed to stay afloat for 22 minutes. She sat at the bottom of the sea for over 300 years before archaeologists brought ‘er up, restored ‘er to ‘er former glory, and built a museum around ‘er. Near the Vasa is the first open air museum in Europe displaying Swedish historical architecture and culture. We ate some pastries, found some wild pears, watched a glass blower, and saw some reindeer.

We were a little nervous about our first Servas stay because we really didn’t know what to expect or exactly how everything worked. Ylva and Lars-Ake immediately put us at ease. We all got to know each other over a meal before driving to Ylva’s summer house on one of the 22,000 islands in the Stockholm Archipelago. Her island, Orso, is very small and only reachable by boat (like most of the islands.)

Lars-Ake pulled his new Volvo – the national vehicle of Sweden – up to a remote pier lit by the full moon. Ylva’s oar powered John-boat was filled to the brim with luggage, food, and giddy Americans. The beauty of Orso by moonlight was only a precursor to the carefree days to follow. The sun revealed thick woodlands surrounding traditional rustred houses and gorgeous, stark blue water. As if it wasn’t already enough of a dream world, I quickly discovered the billions of wild blueberries covering the ground. This landscape was to be the backdrop for delicious home-cooked meals, wine-soaked conversations, and most importantly, blueberry pies. There really wasn’t much to do on Orso that wasn’t relaxing, beautiful, or delicious.

My prayers wishing to be marooned on this tiny island with our new Swedish friends and their endless fields of blueberries went unanswered. Eventually our ferry back to Stockholm came and we waved goodbye to Ylva and Lars-Ake. For the first time on this whirlwind tour of Europe our excitement to reach the next destination was outweighed by the melancholy of having to leave the previous.

One little island away from Old Town is the site of the Modern Museet – Stockholm’s Museum of Modern Art. We got to see a lot of art that had been covered in previous classes as well as some familiar pieces from little ol’ Marfa, Texas. All of the major modern players made an appearance, but Duchamp stole the show with his brilliant readymade – The Fountain, so powerful it almost brings tears to your eyes.

On the way back from the Modern Museet heard music and saw a crowd (basically a tractor beam for any self-respecting tourist.) Upon further investigation it was the Royal Swedish Military band playing outside the Royal palace. We approached just as they started playing YMCA, showing a slightly more playful side than any military band I’ve ever seen. Lauren overheard a group of Italians near us singing along to what they thought were the lyrics.