I think I can summarize my impressions of Venice in a few bullets.
-The city is a cleverly crafted scam. Example: the free map of the city gets you hopelessly lost, the "good" map will cost you €2.50. The house wine at the pizzeria is bland and tasteless. The Bascilica of San Marco is free to get in, but it costs money to go on the balcony.
-The city is extortion. Public toilets cost €1.50 in exact change.
-The city is Disneyland. There are stores EVERYWHERE trying to sell you kitschy "cultural" items like Carnival masks. One of the outlying islands, Murano, consists entirely of glass factories and glass shops. Basically, if you don't care about glass, don't bother.
-Gondolas are exclusively for old Japanese people with bad perms.
-It's a miracle that the pigeons in St. Marco's Square aren't too obese to fly. These same aforementioned old Japanese people enjoy wasting perfectly good Italian rolls on them and getting pecked, clawed and shat on for their trouble.
-Unless you have very deep pockets, expect to survive on street food.
-Anchovies are crap. I'd forgotten how much I hate them. Seriously, why don't they just throw seawater on the pizza and get it over with.
-No reason for the worst rain I've seen in ages to fall almost the whole time I'm in Venice.
All in all though, I'm glad I want. The city is beautiful, surreal, disorienting in the most artful way. Walking through the narrow streets with not the sound of a gasoline engine to be heard is an experience worth all the extortion and touristy lameness. No words can describe the grandeur of St. Marco's square. You have to see it, but for Christ's sake, bring money and a good umbrella.
Ciao
Monday, June 21, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Long overdue
Sorry about the delay in communication. Suffice to say, things have been chaotic the last couple days. I'm in Venice currently suffering from a pizza/red wine/hour ride on a water bus headache. But first, let me tell you about Slovenia.
The country certainly deserves the label of "quaint." The ride in featured a parade of alps demurely peeking out through thick veils of mist. The mist flows through the peaks here like steam off hot spaghetti. The train ride from Salzburg to Ljubljana was an extremely memorable tour of the Julian Alps and Slovenian karst landscape. I would look out my window, and oh, look, there's a 100-meter deep waterfall or a ancient castle perched on a hilltop like a bird of prey. Slovenia is a modest country of only two million people that has none of the imperial pretensions of Vienna or Austria. They weathered all sorts of invasions by jockeying continental powers. The capital of this young nation, Ljubljana, is traversed by several rivers, so it features numerous promenades and small bridges. Although it's a national capital, it has the feel of a trendy university town, with a plethora of quirky cafes, perpetual street music, and a thriving underground scene. Slovenia's real beauty, however, is in its natural majesty, dominated by caves, sinkholes, waterfalls, cliffs, and underground rivers. Proportionally, Slovenia has more caves than any other nation, including the legendary Postojna caves which I got the opportunity to tour. The caves are like something out of a dream, freakish surreal shapes which your mind can all too easily transmute into demons and bugbears. Caves are so common in Slovenia that one of the feudal lords even built his castle in the mouth of a huge cave. Predjama Grad has got to be the single most epic scene I've ever beheld. Look for pictures to come soon.
Friday, the US and Slovenia tied 2-2 in World Cup Soccer. Ljubljana was a riot, especially during the first half which Slovenia dominated. That night, some friends from the hostel and I checked out an alternative bar in uptown Ljubljana. We drank copious amounts of Lasko beer and had amazing conversations with the young Slovenians, all of whom speak excellent English. All in all, an amazing time. I really want to go back and see more.
The country certainly deserves the label of "quaint." The ride in featured a parade of alps demurely peeking out through thick veils of mist. The mist flows through the peaks here like steam off hot spaghetti. The train ride from Salzburg to Ljubljana was an extremely memorable tour of the Julian Alps and Slovenian karst landscape. I would look out my window, and oh, look, there's a 100-meter deep waterfall or a ancient castle perched on a hilltop like a bird of prey. Slovenia is a modest country of only two million people that has none of the imperial pretensions of Vienna or Austria. They weathered all sorts of invasions by jockeying continental powers. The capital of this young nation, Ljubljana, is traversed by several rivers, so it features numerous promenades and small bridges. Although it's a national capital, it has the feel of a trendy university town, with a plethora of quirky cafes, perpetual street music, and a thriving underground scene. Slovenia's real beauty, however, is in its natural majesty, dominated by caves, sinkholes, waterfalls, cliffs, and underground rivers. Proportionally, Slovenia has more caves than any other nation, including the legendary Postojna caves which I got the opportunity to tour. The caves are like something out of a dream, freakish surreal shapes which your mind can all too easily transmute into demons and bugbears. Caves are so common in Slovenia that one of the feudal lords even built his castle in the mouth of a huge cave. Predjama Grad has got to be the single most epic scene I've ever beheld. Look for pictures to come soon.
Friday, the US and Slovenia tied 2-2 in World Cup Soccer. Ljubljana was a riot, especially during the first half which Slovenia dominated. That night, some friends from the hostel and I checked out an alternative bar in uptown Ljubljana. We drank copious amounts of Lasko beer and had amazing conversations with the young Slovenians, all of whom speak excellent English. All in all, an amazing time. I really want to go back and see more.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
I must have done something good
And I promise, that's the last Sound of Music reference I make in reference to Salzburg. Seriously, there are other reasons to visit this place other than that lame movie. All the tourists here are obsessed with it. I passed a flock of old Japanese people in the main square singing "Crimb ebery mounutain." That and Mozart seem to be Salzburg's main claims to fame, which is a pity since this place has so much natural and architectural beauty.
Ive felt like such a little kid in this city. Every corner seems to offer a new opportunity for exploration. I see an alley or a staircase: hmm, wonder where this leads? Most seem to end up at a gorgeous panorama revealing the baroque grandeur of this mountain city spread out before you like a picnic blanket. I've had a very good time here. I find that I tend to enjoy myself more in smaller non-capital cities. The atmosphere here in Salzburg reminds me of Cork and the great times I had there.
Salzburg was originally the seat of archbishop-princes who got filthy rich on the salt trade, giving the city its name and its reputation for opulence. There was no "wall of separation" in medieval Salzburg, with the princes having final authority on matters temporal and spiritual. For all their awe-inspiring power, they were fearful people, constantly adding on the the bastion on the Mönchsberg hill abou the city in preparation for invasions by the Turks or by some rogue German prince. The fears proved ill-founded, since the castle was never taken (although it was surrendered to Napoleon in the 19th century), but it still stands today as a testament to the might, wealth, and fear of these enigmatic priest-kings.
The hostel I stayed in here had it's own bar, which was nice since the beer there was way cheaper than going out (Austria gives Ireland a run for its money) but it made me realize that most of my travel buddies end up being from other English-speaking countries. I've met tons of Americans, Canadians, Aussies, Kiwis, Brits and Irish, but comparitively few Czechs and Austrians. I feel like I've wasted something here in Austria where the people are pretty approachable and tend to speak excellent English. I think that English might be a comfort, a fortress as it were, that I use to bolster my own insecurity at approaching people. Like the archbishops of Salzburg, I build up walls against imagined threats since when I actually do swallow my fear and strike up a conversation with a native, I tend to have a great time. Steph, the Austrian hostel keeper here, was great fun and really easy to talk to (even if we did end up at an Irish bar).
I've also found that I kind of miss Ireland. I met Aoibhinn, Kristin, and Marie at the hostel and talked with them for about three hours. I feel like the country where I stayed in the longest became my home away from home. Still, I should really branch out a little more. It's a big continent, right?
Ive felt like such a little kid in this city. Every corner seems to offer a new opportunity for exploration. I see an alley or a staircase: hmm, wonder where this leads? Most seem to end up at a gorgeous panorama revealing the baroque grandeur of this mountain city spread out before you like a picnic blanket. I've had a very good time here. I find that I tend to enjoy myself more in smaller non-capital cities. The atmosphere here in Salzburg reminds me of Cork and the great times I had there.
Salzburg was originally the seat of archbishop-princes who got filthy rich on the salt trade, giving the city its name and its reputation for opulence. There was no "wall of separation" in medieval Salzburg, with the princes having final authority on matters temporal and spiritual. For all their awe-inspiring power, they were fearful people, constantly adding on the the bastion on the Mönchsberg hill abou the city in preparation for invasions by the Turks or by some rogue German prince. The fears proved ill-founded, since the castle was never taken (although it was surrendered to Napoleon in the 19th century), but it still stands today as a testament to the might, wealth, and fear of these enigmatic priest-kings.
The hostel I stayed in here had it's own bar, which was nice since the beer there was way cheaper than going out (Austria gives Ireland a run for its money) but it made me realize that most of my travel buddies end up being from other English-speaking countries. I've met tons of Americans, Canadians, Aussies, Kiwis, Brits and Irish, but comparitively few Czechs and Austrians. I feel like I've wasted something here in Austria where the people are pretty approachable and tend to speak excellent English. I think that English might be a comfort, a fortress as it were, that I use to bolster my own insecurity at approaching people. Like the archbishops of Salzburg, I build up walls against imagined threats since when I actually do swallow my fear and strike up a conversation with a native, I tend to have a great time. Steph, the Austrian hostel keeper here, was great fun and really easy to talk to (even if we did end up at an Irish bar).
I've also found that I kind of miss Ireland. I met Aoibhinn, Kristin, and Marie at the hostel and talked with them for about three hours. I feel like the country where I stayed in the longest became my home away from home. Still, I should really branch out a little more. It's a big continent, right?
Sunday, June 13, 2010
The Empire Strikes Back
It's been a pretty busy couple of days here in Vienna (Wien). Amy and I have certainly made the most of this old Imperial city. We started with a little midnight jaunt around the old town Friday night. On Saturday, we took the bus audio tour of both old and new Wien, getting an earful of the city's storied past. I felt a bit lame on that bus, which was completely unconducive toward snapping photos, but we really didn't see any other option. Unlike Praha, where you can walk most of the main sites in a few hours, Wien is a sprawling modern metropolis and it's main attractions are far-flung. That night, we got a special treat: a night of Viennese Opera and Chamber music performed in the Orangerie at Schönbrunn palace, the former royal residence of the Hapsburgs. It was certainly a memorable occasion, hearing Mozart in a hall where he himself debuted many of his works, but I'd forgotten that I cannot hear Strauss without thinking of Looney Toons. That evening, we searched about madly for a bar (not a cafe, not a discotheque, just an honest-to-goodness bar) and ended up in some dodgy watering hole which reeked of stale tobacco and spilt beer. There was loud Eastern European folk music playing through what looked like Gypsy MTV and all the other patrons seemed to be over-50 inebriated Yugoslavians. The waitress didn't speak a lick of English, but it seems I've picked up enough German to ask for "zwei weissenbier, groß bitte." I believe that if you can order drinks and swear in a language, you've mastered the important bits.
Today, we returned to the Schönbrunn and walked around the extensive palace gardens. We bought exhorbitantly priced soft drinks (Almdudler, a sort of Austrian sparkling lemonade) at the Gloriette Cafe, then headed back to the hostel to make sandwiches. We had a good Viennese coffee afterwards at a corner cafe, then walked along the Meiselstraße through a lively Turkish neighborhood. We came upon a huge neo-Romanesque church surrounded by a concrete plaza which hosted several bizarre metal fountains. A bunch of young Turkish guys were riding unicycles around the fountains. The whole scene struck us as a bit surreal, like a scene from a Michel Gondry film.
Here in Wien, more blatantly than in Praha, I've had to face somewhat of a bugaboo. Every educated Westerner knows about this ghostly figure called the Empire. You know what I'm talking about, that Empire which we know exists, which we know to be evil, and which we must rebel against at all costs. From Star Wars to Foucault's Discipline and Punish, we are trained to believe in the reality of this invisible Empire and the necessity of our rebellion. Wien is riddled with relics of a real Empire, one which was opulent and successful for hundreds of years before losing everything through fighting on the wrong side of two world wars. This Empire exuded an ambiance of epic scale, the stuff of which can only be guessed at by listening to Don Giovanni at Schönbrunn while a ferocious thunderstorm rages outside. I guess as a self-aware American, I like to think I'm with the rebels, which of course carries much more cachet than claiming to be part of the Empire. But then I see a place like Wien, where the Empire was an inescapable fact for almost half a millenium and I wonder just how farcical our rebellion is. If Foucault is right, then even the act of subverting (or claiming to subvert) the Empire, is paradoxically perpetuating that Empire. Despite my best efforts, the Empire remains, monolithic, shrouded in marble masonry and plaster fresco.
I must also own up to the uncomfortable fact that as an American travelling abroad, I am automatically viewed as an agent of a very real and present Empire, despite my best efforts to prove the contrary. To my hosts, I am a synecdoche for not just the political empire of Washington (a city, we must not forget, build to evoke the ancient powers of Rome and Athens), but also the commercial empire of New York and the cultural empire of Hollywood. The prevalence of this last and most shadowy empire is astounding; in Praha, I met a Swedish girl who had never been to the states who spoke English with an almost perfect American accent. A guy I met in Ireland says that American English has permeated the younger generation of English speakers across the world. The surfing community in California starts using words like "like" and "whatever" as nonfluencies and within a couple decades, the vehicle of popular entertainment has spread them to the most remote corners of the world. Europeans know their duty to resist the Empire every bit as much as we do. So what do you do when you become your own devil? What do you do when you are seen as an envoy of an Empire that you spend every mote of intellectual energy denouncing, even though it benefits you indirectly? It is only because of this Empire that I can walk into almost any establishment in Central Europe and the staff will speak my language. Did those Austro-Hungarian intelligentsia suffer from a similar crisis of conscience at the height of their empire? I can't really say for sure, nor do I think it's really my responsibily to apologize for every bad thing America has done any more than I would expect an Icelander to make an apology for the financial meltdown, the volcanic-ash cloud, and almost two decades of Björk. It's hardly their fault as a people that she sucks so badly. All I can do is try to reassure my hosts that yes, I'm an evil American, but that doesn't mean I'm blind.
Today, we returned to the Schönbrunn and walked around the extensive palace gardens. We bought exhorbitantly priced soft drinks (Almdudler, a sort of Austrian sparkling lemonade) at the Gloriette Cafe, then headed back to the hostel to make sandwiches. We had a good Viennese coffee afterwards at a corner cafe, then walked along the Meiselstraße through a lively Turkish neighborhood. We came upon a huge neo-Romanesque church surrounded by a concrete plaza which hosted several bizarre metal fountains. A bunch of young Turkish guys were riding unicycles around the fountains. The whole scene struck us as a bit surreal, like a scene from a Michel Gondry film.
Here in Wien, more blatantly than in Praha, I've had to face somewhat of a bugaboo. Every educated Westerner knows about this ghostly figure called the Empire. You know what I'm talking about, that Empire which we know exists, which we know to be evil, and which we must rebel against at all costs. From Star Wars to Foucault's Discipline and Punish, we are trained to believe in the reality of this invisible Empire and the necessity of our rebellion. Wien is riddled with relics of a real Empire, one which was opulent and successful for hundreds of years before losing everything through fighting on the wrong side of two world wars. This Empire exuded an ambiance of epic scale, the stuff of which can only be guessed at by listening to Don Giovanni at Schönbrunn while a ferocious thunderstorm rages outside. I guess as a self-aware American, I like to think I'm with the rebels, which of course carries much more cachet than claiming to be part of the Empire. But then I see a place like Wien, where the Empire was an inescapable fact for almost half a millenium and I wonder just how farcical our rebellion is. If Foucault is right, then even the act of subverting (or claiming to subvert) the Empire, is paradoxically perpetuating that Empire. Despite my best efforts, the Empire remains, monolithic, shrouded in marble masonry and plaster fresco.
I must also own up to the uncomfortable fact that as an American travelling abroad, I am automatically viewed as an agent of a very real and present Empire, despite my best efforts to prove the contrary. To my hosts, I am a synecdoche for not just the political empire of Washington (a city, we must not forget, build to evoke the ancient powers of Rome and Athens), but also the commercial empire of New York and the cultural empire of Hollywood. The prevalence of this last and most shadowy empire is astounding; in Praha, I met a Swedish girl who had never been to the states who spoke English with an almost perfect American accent. A guy I met in Ireland says that American English has permeated the younger generation of English speakers across the world. The surfing community in California starts using words like "like" and "whatever" as nonfluencies and within a couple decades, the vehicle of popular entertainment has spread them to the most remote corners of the world. Europeans know their duty to resist the Empire every bit as much as we do. So what do you do when you become your own devil? What do you do when you are seen as an envoy of an Empire that you spend every mote of intellectual energy denouncing, even though it benefits you indirectly? It is only because of this Empire that I can walk into almost any establishment in Central Europe and the staff will speak my language. Did those Austro-Hungarian intelligentsia suffer from a similar crisis of conscience at the height of their empire? I can't really say for sure, nor do I think it's really my responsibily to apologize for every bad thing America has done any more than I would expect an Icelander to make an apology for the financial meltdown, the volcanic-ash cloud, and almost two decades of Björk. It's hardly their fault as a people that she sucks so badly. All I can do is try to reassure my hosts that yes, I'm an evil American, but that doesn't mean I'm blind.
Friday, June 11, 2010
The Golden City
I cannot imagine that there is a more beautiful city than Praha. Even some of the most seasoned globetrotters from my hostel admitted that they had never seen anything like the place. The Czechs infuse every stone and brick with their passion for beauty. They have crafted a city the way ancient bards composed their sagas, expansive in scale, yet appreciable at even the most minute details. The old name for Praha was "the Golden City" since all the rooftops used to be gilded, causing the city to be bathed in a haze of light when the rays of the sun kissed these roofs. No wonder the Austo-Hungarians, not people known for modesty, chose Praha as their capital. The gold is long gone, pillaged by scores of invaders and by the dying empire's own need for funds, but that old radiance still lingers.
I have a redundancy of photos of rooftops, since even most of the dingy apartment buildings have spires of some sort. Architechture nerds will go a little crazy here since Praha exemplifies every major European style of architechture, sometimes within the same building. The city's most famous landmark, the St. Vitus Cathedral, has a bell tower that starts Gothic and abruptly changes to Baroque.
Amy showed up Wednesday, introducing me to her roommate Mike from Valencia. The three of us went on a walking tour of the city, escorted by an exuberant Welshman called Huw. He filled us in on the legends surrounding the grandiose and unique landmarks in Praha, particularly the sleepy Jewish Quarter, supposed home of the famous Golem (described by Huw as the Jew-bot). I saw another famous Clock, the Astronomical Clock of Old Town Square. It's the oldest piece of still-running machinery in the world. Huw also filled us in on the uniquely Czech method of dealing with tyrannical noblemen: defenestration. This word is essentially a fancy term for hucking someone out a high window, often with sharpened stakes at the bottom for good measure. I like this word, it's overly literary and describes something totally awesome. I really wouldn't mind defenestrating Glenn Beck for example.
Despite Praha's glorious imperial history, the city still bears the scars of years of communist oppression. Many of the old buildings were undergoing restoration to undo the damage of years of communist neglect and choking air pollution. You could see the line on St. Vitus where the restoration hadn't yet reached and the stones were still black with soot. Czechs were also much more reserved than other people I had met. Part of this is the language barrier; unlike, say, German, Czech looks completely incomprehensible to most English-speakers. Every time I read a sign, I though to myself "uh, can I buy a vowel Pat?" But the other, more sinister part of this silence is the damage dealt by half a century of repressive communist rule, where anyone could be an informant and your secrets were your tethers to your life.
In Vienna now with Amy. I typed this whole note on a German keyboard, which is just different enough to make me want to scream. Tomorrow, we venture into the other famed capital of the Hapsburg Empire. Guten nacht for now.
I have a redundancy of photos of rooftops, since even most of the dingy apartment buildings have spires of some sort. Architechture nerds will go a little crazy here since Praha exemplifies every major European style of architechture, sometimes within the same building. The city's most famous landmark, the St. Vitus Cathedral, has a bell tower that starts Gothic and abruptly changes to Baroque.
Amy showed up Wednesday, introducing me to her roommate Mike from Valencia. The three of us went on a walking tour of the city, escorted by an exuberant Welshman called Huw. He filled us in on the legends surrounding the grandiose and unique landmarks in Praha, particularly the sleepy Jewish Quarter, supposed home of the famous Golem (described by Huw as the Jew-bot). I saw another famous Clock, the Astronomical Clock of Old Town Square. It's the oldest piece of still-running machinery in the world. Huw also filled us in on the uniquely Czech method of dealing with tyrannical noblemen: defenestration. This word is essentially a fancy term for hucking someone out a high window, often with sharpened stakes at the bottom for good measure. I like this word, it's overly literary and describes something totally awesome. I really wouldn't mind defenestrating Glenn Beck for example.
Despite Praha's glorious imperial history, the city still bears the scars of years of communist oppression. Many of the old buildings were undergoing restoration to undo the damage of years of communist neglect and choking air pollution. You could see the line on St. Vitus where the restoration hadn't yet reached and the stones were still black with soot. Czechs were also much more reserved than other people I had met. Part of this is the language barrier; unlike, say, German, Czech looks completely incomprehensible to most English-speakers. Every time I read a sign, I though to myself "uh, can I buy a vowel Pat?" But the other, more sinister part of this silence is the damage dealt by half a century of repressive communist rule, where anyone could be an informant and your secrets were your tethers to your life.
In Vienna now with Amy. I typed this whole note on a German keyboard, which is just different enough to make me want to scream. Tomorrow, we venture into the other famed capital of the Hapsburg Empire. Guten nacht for now.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
When in Prague
Last night in Dublin was a pretty memorable au revoir to the nation of Ireland. I attended the Trinity College outdoor production of As You Like It and it rained buckets the whole time. Thankfully, they moved us indoors after the intermission. I was seated right behind the Lord Mayor of Dublin (who is, in fact, a lady). The play was fantastic, although it definitely reminded me that I like Shakespeare for his language and wit, not his plotlines.
Prague. I'm here, and yes, it is stunning. The main shocker for me has been finally being in a place where English is rare. I managed to get to the hostel without too much trouble, but I did get yelled at in Czech by the bus driver as he was trying to explain that I needed to validate the ticket I'd just bought. My money goes a long way here. Last night, I ate a gourmet meal at one of Prague's oldest restaurants "U Medvudo" with a beer and a mineral water for 400 kourna (about 16 euro). Later, the hostel-keeper, who's a damn nice guy, took a bunch of us to a pub where I had three pints and a shot for 150 koruna (about 6 euro!). Afterwards, like a typical bunch of ignorant drunk tourists, we stumbled to the nearest McDonalds for some midnight munchies. Me and the other Americans didn't even want to go; it was the kiwis and the Brazilian. Go figure.
Amy gets in today and we'll probably hit up the free walking tour, although I might do my own exploring before that. I hope to have some pictures up by tomorrow.
Prague. I'm here, and yes, it is stunning. The main shocker for me has been finally being in a place where English is rare. I managed to get to the hostel without too much trouble, but I did get yelled at in Czech by the bus driver as he was trying to explain that I needed to validate the ticket I'd just bought. My money goes a long way here. Last night, I ate a gourmet meal at one of Prague's oldest restaurants "U Medvudo" with a beer and a mineral water for 400 kourna (about 16 euro). Later, the hostel-keeper, who's a damn nice guy, took a bunch of us to a pub where I had three pints and a shot for 150 koruna (about 6 euro!). Afterwards, like a typical bunch of ignorant drunk tourists, we stumbled to the nearest McDonalds for some midnight munchies. Me and the other Americans didn't even want to go; it was the kiwis and the Brazilian. Go figure.
Amy gets in today and we'll probably hit up the free walking tour, although I might do my own exploring before that. I hope to have some pictures up by tomorrow.
Monday, June 7, 2010
"We owe it to each other to tell stories"--Gaiman
For what are our lives but the sum of the stories told about us and what is death but the sharp intake of breath taken in anticipation of the next story.
Listen.
A tiny community of monks, scratching out the lineaments of a livelihood on the Isle of Iona (a rocky outcrop of a rocky outcrop) are commissioned to make a book. The words of this book will be the words of the greatest story ever told as penned by Messrs. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. It is this story that has brought each and every one of these men from the green fields of Ireland to this forbidding island. But this book will not just be words on a page. It will be the labor of generations of scribes, illuminators, and bookmakers. It is a work of the highest and most eternal art, a pillar of light woven from the theads of a dark world. The book is the heart of the community, their most prized possession, the expression of their deepest desires and most ephemeral fancies. We think of creativity as a luxury of a stable society, but for these monks, the drive to create was a need, not a diversion.
The light of the great book shone far and wide and invaders from the sea came to try to capture that light and swallow it into their own dark desires. The monks knew that they could not prevail forever against these raiders, so with heavy hearts and worried brows, they sent the book on a treacherous voyage across the sea to their home in Ireland, where it could be kept safe. It came to rest in the sleepy village of Kells in County Meath, and eventually, the heart and soul of the Iona monks would become the heart and soul of Dublin, the city of a thousand songs and stories.
Each book, each person, each meal, each glass of whiskey has a story and as the traveller spins his own yarn through the rolling hills and winding alleys of Ireland, he touches for fleeting moments on all the stories that came before him and will come after him.
Had a fantastic last night in Cork. Met an Irish guy called David and his British girlfriend Chloe. We had a few drinks, talked religion, politics, music, film, the whole nine yards. We then retired to a nightclub and danced the into the small hours. We belted at top volume and in three different keys most likely Arcade Fire's "Wake Up." Hint America, adopt Irish tastes for your nightclubs.
Dublin's been great so far. I saw the above mentioned Book of Kells (my tourguide was a hung-over deadpan Irish chap who freakishly resembled Kyle Morgan), had a couple Guinnesses with a girl from Argentina at the oldest pub in Ireland, the Brazen Head (founded in the 12th century), and ate a €20 meal of Irish stew and bacon boxty at a trendy restaurant in the vibrant Temple Bar district. I visited the Jameson Distillery and tonight plan to attend Dublin's first Shakespeare festival at Trinity College. Tomorrow, it's farewell to the Emerald Isle and hello to Prague.
Listen.
A tiny community of monks, scratching out the lineaments of a livelihood on the Isle of Iona (a rocky outcrop of a rocky outcrop) are commissioned to make a book. The words of this book will be the words of the greatest story ever told as penned by Messrs. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. It is this story that has brought each and every one of these men from the green fields of Ireland to this forbidding island. But this book will not just be words on a page. It will be the labor of generations of scribes, illuminators, and bookmakers. It is a work of the highest and most eternal art, a pillar of light woven from the theads of a dark world. The book is the heart of the community, their most prized possession, the expression of their deepest desires and most ephemeral fancies. We think of creativity as a luxury of a stable society, but for these monks, the drive to create was a need, not a diversion.
The light of the great book shone far and wide and invaders from the sea came to try to capture that light and swallow it into their own dark desires. The monks knew that they could not prevail forever against these raiders, so with heavy hearts and worried brows, they sent the book on a treacherous voyage across the sea to their home in Ireland, where it could be kept safe. It came to rest in the sleepy village of Kells in County Meath, and eventually, the heart and soul of the Iona monks would become the heart and soul of Dublin, the city of a thousand songs and stories.
Each book, each person, each meal, each glass of whiskey has a story and as the traveller spins his own yarn through the rolling hills and winding alleys of Ireland, he touches for fleeting moments on all the stories that came before him and will come after him.
Had a fantastic last night in Cork. Met an Irish guy called David and his British girlfriend Chloe. We had a few drinks, talked religion, politics, music, film, the whole nine yards. We then retired to a nightclub and danced the into the small hours. We belted at top volume and in three different keys most likely Arcade Fire's "Wake Up." Hint America, adopt Irish tastes for your nightclubs.
Dublin's been great so far. I saw the above mentioned Book of Kells (my tourguide was a hung-over deadpan Irish chap who freakishly resembled Kyle Morgan), had a couple Guinnesses with a girl from Argentina at the oldest pub in Ireland, the Brazen Head (founded in the 12th century), and ate a €20 meal of Irish stew and bacon boxty at a trendy restaurant in the vibrant Temple Bar district. I visited the Jameson Distillery and tonight plan to attend Dublin's first Shakespeare festival at Trinity College. Tomorrow, it's farewell to the Emerald Isle and hello to Prague.
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