Tommy says…

Travel tip #15: To avoid tourist trap restaurants, make sure you are at least two blocks from any tourist attraction.

When we formulated that rule, we didn’t take Rome into consideration. Rome, the eternal city, is littered with the debris of 2,500 years. You can hardly walk down a street in Rome without bumping into a classical ruin here or a medieval palace there. Finding a non-tourist-trap (or, on the west bank of the Tiber, “pilgrim”-trap) restaurant is hard enough. Finding one that’s two blocks from a tourist attraction proved to be a major endeavour requiring careful triangulation on our maps.
We did manage it, though, the first night we were there. Two blocks from Piazza Navona (location of the Fountain of Four Rivers), we spotted a little alleyway, which could only be reached from our side of the main road through a pedestrian tunnel which was, in fact, a bookshop (“Underground bookshop! Admission Free!” said the sign at the door in English). It claimed to be a trattoria, a traditional Italian eatery, and the prices displayed at the door was very reasonable. The fare seemed Italian – we were glad – with no sign of a fillet mignon or a wienschnitzel in sight.

We pushed open the lace-curtained door, and were warmly greeted by a Chinese lady and (I presume) her Chinese daughter, in English. We seemed to be the only customers in the shop. I asked for a menu, exchanged a look with Brian. I said, loudly, “hmm, this doesn’t seem to have that dish I wanted…”, then in a whisper, “okay, go or stay?” “Your call. I don’t give a fuck. They look Italian enough,” said Brian. We decided that we’ll brave the Asianness. Afterall, didn’t Enoch’s Chinese friend back in Sydney run an Italian restaurant that appeared to serve Italian food?

We sat down, and the girl – she couldn’t have been older than 13 – took our orders. “A bottle of your finest vino bianco, kind signorina,” I said, or words to that effect. I ordered a mixed seafood for my entree and a spaghetti with vingoli (“What’s vingoli?” “I think it’s a kind of shellfish.” “Cool.” “Or maybe it’s squirrel. Not sure.”), and Brian had tripe and another pasta.
We weren’t ready for the ambush at all. I’d been in Italy for a week, and was pretty confident I’d come to grips with the place. Then wham – it hit us like a frying pan in the face. Yes, that’s right. The wine was not that great – a tad astringent. “This wine – it’s probably worse than about 20% of Australian white wines!” I cried in horror. “It’s pretty shit,” Brian agreed, “But you can’t complain. I said it was your call!”

Everything went downhill from there. My cold seafood mix looked like it came straight from the fish shop counter. And the spaghetti with vingoli – well, it was stir fried pippies with a noodle base. “Does this look a bit Chinese to you?” I asked Brian. He looked down and looked up. “No.” “No? Look at this! It’s got bloody shallots! It’s stir fried pippies with –” “No,” he interrupted me, “because I can see into the kitchen from where I’m sitting.” “So?” I asked. “So I can see the chef. And he’s Indian.” My response was probably best summed up as -_-”.

At this point, though, we were disturbed in our enjoyment of our fine, traditional Italian meals. A distinctly Italian couple walked in – a man and a woman, both wearing a lot of black leather. They spoke rather sternly to the Chinese lady, who was soon joined by the proprietor – who we could now see was, in fact, Italian. The young girl – their daughter, I presume, started talking at length to the new arrivals. The conversation became rather intense.

“Mafia,” whispered Brian. I nodded. They certainly looked the part. Emboldened by my experience of watching Who Wants to be a Millionaire in Italian the previous night, I proceeded to translate their conversation…
“Fat Tony saysa to tell you he been hearing you been serving bad wine.”
“No! Curses to the lying son of a boar who spreads such lies.”
“Are you calling Fat Tony a liar?”
“No! I… ”
“I been also hearing where you been serving seafood salad straight from the fish shop.”
“Well, you know how it is, Indian chefs, seafood salad is not their traditional fare…”
“And worst of all, your protection money is late by three days…”
“Our business has been bad! We have no customers except these two stingy Asian boys who aren’t even going to tip! You know what they’re like!”

The intense discussion seeemed to reach an impasse, when the woman in black strode into the kitchen – probably to quiz the Indian chef on his Italianness – while the man in black sat down at the cash register, and started to count money –
We took one look at that, and decided to make a dash for it, leaving our money on the table. The owner barely noticed us – he was staring at the mafioso thumbing through his cash register.

Until the next day,

Tommy

Events, Random facts, Random thoughts, Travels

Travel tip #14: Don’t go to Pitti Palace

Florence. The capital of Tuscany. The home of Michelangelo, Machiavelli and the Medicis; the city of the Renaissance, of art, architecture, and finance. And it did not take long to see that the money-grabbing tradition of the medieval Medici Bank lives on in the city.

Italy in low season is great value. In Venice, we paid €25 each and stayed in a palazzo, 3 minutes from San Marco Square, breakfast included. Most major attractions, such as churches, are free, and €15 can get you a decent sit-down meal.

The rules are different in Florence. The San Lorenzo Church, across the street from the Medici palace, fronted by a statue of Cosimo de Medici, attached to the Medici chapel, charges 10 euros for admission. But to get around the no-charging-for-church-entry policy, they cleverly disguise the fee as entry to the “museum”, except you can’t get into the church without going into the “museum”. And the “museum” turns out to be the church’s crypt, with the key attraction being the tomb of – there’s that name again – Cosimo de Medici.

Then we made the mistake of heading to Pitti Palace. Built by the Pitti, another prominent family of Florence, it was acquired by the Medicis after they financially ruined the Pitti, and was the seat of the Medici dynasty for most of their reign over Florence. The palace was connected to the Town Hall, on the other side of the river, by the Vecchio Bridge. At the time, the bridge was monopolised by butcher shops. Not wishing to smell fresh slaughter on their daily saunter to and from the office, the Medicis ordered the butchers out, and replaced them with goldsmiths – which occupy the length of the bridge to this day.

Entry to the Pitti Palace costed €12. This seemed a tad excessive, given that the Galleria dell’Academia, home of the David, was only €6.50. We went in anyway, seeing as how this was the home of the Medicis. As it turned out, €12 gets you, well, not very much at all. A few mouldy rooms, a lot of second-rate paintings. All the pick of the Medici collection had been donated to the city centuries before, and are now displayed in the Uffizi (“Offices”) Gallery across the river. And no photography was allowed. Plus, the €12 covers only half the palace. The other half was another €8. AND the garden was another €6. My conclusion: don’t go there.

Writing this far, I’ve realised that the Medicis are really ahead of the curve on this one. Lorenzo de Medici must have modelled all this out way back when and decided – damn economic cycles, fleecing tourists is a much more reliable income stream than, say, selling hybrid securities. Hence why the Medici bank folded back in the 19th century and turned to ripping off tourists. Prescience!

* * *

We did however make two positive finds in Florence which gave us at least a psychological victory over the Medicis. The town hall, called Palazzo Vecchio, housed a number of museums, again with exorbitant entry fees. Normally, visitors climb a set of entry stairs to the top floor, and starting from the top floor, make their way down another set of exit stairs to each of the lower floors. Having been stung once, we clibmed up the exit stairs (unguarded) to the top floor. (“I don’t have a reputation to maintain in this country.”) The guy at the landing gave us a suspicious look, so we retreated back to the next floor down, and this time, we looked naturally like we’d just come from the top floor. By sacrificing the top floor, we toured the rest of the museum for free. That’s one for tourists, zero for the Medicis.

The other great find in Florence was a specialist pasta restaurant that served a pasta degustation for about €10. Every dish was awesome, as was the wine and the main that followed (not included in the €10). I had a steak in a mirtillo (cranberry) sauce. Awesome.

Until next time,

Tommy

Events, Random facts, Random thoughts, Travels

Travel tip #12: When visiting a foreign country, all the vocabulary you need to survive is the numbers 1-3, the characteristic food item of the place, yes, (no is a valuable bonus) and thank you.

Venice is truly the promised land. It’s been my life-long dream ever since this time last year to eat spaghetti with squid in ink in Italy. We dined last night at a restaurant in Venice recommended by Lonely Planet. It had an English menu, was fully of American tourists, and surly waiters. Have you noticed how tourist traps always have surly waiters? It’s as if they view you with contempt because you fell for their tourist trap. The meal costed €35 each (about $70). I couldn’t stop thinking about how many lobsters I could buy at home for that much money (okay, about one), or how many Armani ties I could get at the Harrods sale back in London.

So it was with some despondency that we took the boat out to Murano, an island in the suburbs of Venice renowned for glass-blowing. Venice, by the way, is a collection of marshy islands connected by bridges and separated by canals. There is just one road that fits a car – running alongside the railway line to the mainland. Whereas in any other city you see a cab rank when you come out of the train station, in Venice you see a line of wharves, with boat-busses, boat-taxis and gondolas waiting to take you downtown. We took one of the boat-busses out to Murano, and after getting lost down a tiny alley-way, saw a tiny restaurant across the church square. We decided to chance it, and the place was simply awesome! It had no signs indicating its name; it had a squat toilet; it was full of serious Italian men (no women) who looked like they worked down on the docks and were ducking in for their lunch. The menu was in Italian, and I had to fall back on the Italian I picked up from half a year of proper study back in year 7 and then randomly over the years. Between my broken Italian and the waiter’s broken English (“polpo, is a kind of…” [indicates many wavy arms] (it means octopus)), we managed to piece together the menu, whence comes my tip #10 above. Instead of a multi-label winelist as favoured by the pretentious arseholes at Lonely Planet, this place had just two – bianco o rosso – white or red. I’m probably sounding a bit like those spoof travel guides Molvania/Phaic Tan – The bits that go “Twenty years ago this place had no chair lifts. It took me 20 days of hard hiking and hacking through the jungle to advance 200 metres, and I was infected by malaria. Twice. But it was priceless…”

The wine came in a clear glass jug and was probably better than 80% of wines I’ve tasted in Australia. But the best part was the food. I had sardin a saor, sardines marinated in vinegar and other condiments, a Venetian delicacy, and spaghetti seppie, i.e. with squid in ink. The food was delicious, no-nonsense, not overly rich as Italian meals sometimes can be. In a word, it was perfect. And the price? €15 including the wine and water. Brilliant.

My second life-long dream, ever since the calzone shop on Norton Street closed down like 10 years ago, has been to eat a cheap calzone in Italy. I managed that tonight. Having gotten to Venice station for the train to Florence with an hour to spare, I decided to find a cheap calzone shop (which in some ways is the Italian equivalent to our kebab shop), so I struck off in a random direction, and two canals later – voila. I march in and, with my broken Italian, ask for “due calzoni tradizionale, per favore”. Dude doesn’t even blink, and replies in perfect American English “Mushroom and ham? Won’t be a moment”. I’m happy though. I may have been outted as a fobber, but he understood me.

So, language lesson of the day, your essential first aid kit of Italian:

one – uno
two – due
three – tre
essential food item – calzone
yes – si
thank you – grazie

Until next time, from the land of good beer and good wine,

Tommy

Events, Random facts, Travels

On 1 October 2009, a Supreme Court of the United Kingdom will replace the House of Lords as the court of final instance in most matters in the United Kingdom. This is a significant moment for the UK’s legal system. Constitutionally, it will mark the formal separation of the judicial arm of government from the executive and legislative (though functionally the separation has been in place for more than a century). The Law Lords will transfer to the new Supreme Court and become the justices of the Supreme Court. The first fresh appointment to the new court will be a replacement for Lord Neuberger, who is stepping down to become Master of the Rolls (to replace Lord Clarke, who is leaving the MR post to replace Lord Scott, who is retiring). New appointees will no longer be created life peers by reason only of their appointment to the Supreme Court – for lawyers around the Commonwealth, this marks the end of an era as they will stop talking about their Lordships in reference to new cases. The Supreme Court will be housed in the Middlesex Guildhall, which sits on Parliament Square, across from the Palace of Westminster and close to Westminster Abbey.

The Supreme Court’s website has been launched: http://www.supremecourt.gov.uk/index.html

Update: Read up on the workings of the UKSC at this (non-affiliated) blog: http://www.ukscblog.com/

Events, Law, Random facts

Travel tip #11: Four ways to survive in a foreign country with little or no skills:
- busking
- working as toilet attendant
- begging
- loiter around free food stalls

The busker: Italy doesn’t seem to have the strict busking licensing laws of, say, London, so buskers are everywhere. Some make an effort – the guy who’s painted all in gold posing in front of the Uffizi Gallery looked the part – kind of. It’s a pity that his white sneakers sneaked out and somewhat ruined the effect. The smartest busker, though, was one who set down a set of stereos, put on some opera, and walked away. Passers-by still dropped coins for him.

The toilet attendant: A job for candidates who have some proficiency with a mop and look good in a tux. A German phenomenon, a toilet attendant keeps a public toilet in a reasonable state of cleanliness, and in return gets to stand at the door and demand 50 euro cents off each person who comes in. Most of them are plump matrons, though there was one man in Berlin immaculately turned out in a waistcoat and dress shirt, who looked like he could have been a concert pianist.

The beggar: To the Tube carriage in London: “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please. I apologise in advance for disturbing your journey. Times are tough for us all, and I am looking for a little something to get through these times. So if you have any change, or any food or drinks left over from lunch, it would be greatly appreciated. Thank you very much for your kind help.” — delivered with confidence and clarity, and highly effective. Almost everyone in the carriage gave him something – money or a sandwich.

The food stand: The best ice cream I’ve had on this trip? Ferrero’s frozen grain dessert, free at Milan station from a promotional stand, not yet available in Australia and probably never will be. If you plan strategically around promotional samples, you can easily survive for a day without spending a cent!

Until next time,

Tommy

Random facts, Random thoughts, Travels

Travel tip #10: Swiss efficiency extends only as far west as the last German-speaking town.

French-speaking Geneva feels like an entirely different country. Street signs are in the familiar blue metal of Paris. Road directions are the same fat, black-on-white light boxes as those found in France. We’ve seen the last of our hauptbahnhofs – here it’s a gare. At the centre of the city stands – not a rathaus, but l’hotel de ville. On the square is the Notre Dame, and further down, the Opera (“deisgned by the same architect who built the Palais Garnier opera house in Paris!” enthused the young man at the tourist information centre). In a word, this is France.

With it comes the laissez-faire attitude of the French. In Zurich, jaywalkers are mown down like broken clocks. In Geneva, motorists and pedestrians go about their own ways, seemingly oblivious to each other, in an elegantly chaotic dance.

Geneva railway station is organised mayhem. Here, I saw my first late train since stepping on the Continent. Stations announcements went like this: “The 4:24 train to Prague is delayed by approximately 20 minutes. We apologise for any inconvenience caused.” “Attention passengers on Platform 15 waiting for the 4:36 train to Milan. This train will now be departing from Platform 18. Please make your way to platform 18″. Sound familiar? It was just like Strathfield station on a bad day. I’ll be honest – they did make me a little homesick.

When the delayed train finally arrived, the train was further delayed by people getting on and off the train – there were still people jumping on and off even as the train began moving away from the platform.

Old Geneva is a little hill-top town, combining French bon-vivre with Alpine charm. Just across the lake, however, it feels much less like a little mountain town, and much more like the alternative capital of the world it is. Charmless concrete apartment blocks flank an avenue leading to the Palais des Nations – which houses many of the UN’s instrumentalities.

After the initial impact of the giant three-legged chair standing on the square (a monument to victims of land mines – and not, as I thought, a monument to the death of the USSR set up by the other three powers) – I realised that on the other corners of the square were WIPO – the World Intellectual Property Organisation – and the UN High Commission for Refugees. Suddenly, I felt like I’d come face to face with the world that I’d only seen through text books.

The other international organisation that makes Geneva one of the most significant corners of the Earth is most famous for a giant hole that runs beneath it. The hole is the Large Hadron Collider, and the organisation is CERN, the European Centre for Nuclear Research. It turns out that a visit to the LHC – and a guided tour of CERN – had to be arranged months in advance. Nevertheless, the visitor’s centre was fascinating, and I got an inordinate amount of pleasure from just being near greatness.

Geneva’s Frenchness does carry with it one boon – French food. I had a duck dish and snails at a little restaurant in the old city. It also gave us a chance to enjoy a breackfast of pastries and coffee. From Geneva, we officially switched our evening meal beverage from beer to wine – we will soon be out of the Alps, and tomorrow we will be in Italy.

Written at Geneva station, en route to Milan.

P.S. The train tracks are bumpy, just like CityRail.

Until next time,

Tommy

Events, Random facts, Reviews, The Sydney Grind, Travels

Travel Tip #9: Always check for chargers and plugs before leaving your room for the night.

My idea of Bern, or Berne (will the Swiss ever work out whether they want that e at the end of their placenames?) — was of a European version of Canberra. Soulless but monumental architecture, faceless bureaucrats in faceless black cars, a cultural festival or flower show betraying the only sign of habitation. I was astounded to discover, however, that Bern was almost a fairytale city. Perched atop a narrow plateau surrounded on three sides by glacial valleys, central Bern is a little gem of a city, medieval Switzerland rebuilt in stone, with mountain streams running down the centre of streets, little trapdoor shops by the side of the road, long covered walkways, and fountains decorated with colourful totems. As befitting the federal capital of a country that owns half the continent, there were monuments: the federal parliament building occupies a magnificent position on the edge of the city. Fittingly for Switzerland, on the two sides of parliament square adjacent to the parliament are the headquarters of the Swiss National Bank, and the Bern Cantonal Bank. Under the square, extending downward for several dozens of metres, are the vaults holding Switzerland’s gold reserve. Equally disproportionate to the scale of the medieval town is the cathedral, a great Gothic pile dominating the skyline.

Random facts, The Sydney Grind, Travels

Travel tip #7: Exchanging money in Switzerland attracts a SFr 6 admin fee – easily avoided if you are a UBS or Credit Suisse employee or client.

Switzerland is a clockwork country. This was apparent as soon as we crossed the border from Germany. The timetable showed that we had 2 minutes to make a connection between the international train and an intercity express to Zurich – and 2 minutes were exactly what we got. Everything runs exactly on the dot – trains, ferries and buses.

The flip-side of this, though, is that every person is expected to operate like clockwork. The pedestrian crossing light is timed precisely for the amount of time it takes to cross the street. Dally a little, or cross on an amber light, and you are likely – if you are lucky – to be stuck in the middle of the road. Jay walking is as good as any other form of suicide. You see, in a less precise country like ours, drivers and pedestrians allow for the other to not always follow the rules of the road, that some people act like idiots – that people are human. Not so in the clockwork country – here, every person is expected to follow the rules with precision. Anyone who doesn’t won’t do so for long. When I foolishly walked onto a road, the oncoming car did not slow at all – it honked and – I kid you not – actually sped up. I have it on reliable authority that Swiss driver training teaches them to mow down jay walkers, for the good of the nation.

If Switzerland is a giant set of clockwork, then the Swiss banks are the grease that keep the machine happily humming away. I wanted to find the main UBS building on Bahnhofstrasse – “Station Street” – the main street of Zurich – and noticed a curious thing: everywhere there was a UBS branch, there would also be a Credit Suisse within sight. Though there are a variety of other banks, such as the cantonal banks, the two banking giants control the system in Switzerland. I’m not sure whether it is a result of their concrete power in Switzerland, or simply another symptom of this being the clockwork country — but the bank counters were not sealed off behind glass like every other country, but instead simply a free standing white table, looking more like a demonstration area in an Apple store than a cashier’s window.

One result of their virtual duopoly is that foreign exchange transactions here attracted a SFr 6 exchange fee. The first time I needed to change money, the man at the counter asked me whether I was one of their clients. “No,” I replied truthfully. The second time around, I figured I’ll try my luck: “no, but I’m an employee back in Australia. Does that help?” The cashier fiddled a little with his computer, and told me, “yes, it does this time” — the fee was waived, though the exchange rate I got was quite a bit worse than the first time.

Somewhat paradoxically, the mechanical efficiency of Switzerland also results in the preservation of both history and the environment. Zurich is at once quiet and efficient, and the town centre is an eclectic mixture of modern office buildings, 19th century neo-classical edifices, and winding medieval passages.

The river teams with wildlife. Next to the busy offices where vast sums are moved across the globe, pristine white swans glide under medieval stone bridges free from grafitti. From the shore, one can counter every pebble on the bottom of the river. As might be expected, littering is unknown here. Presumably, in this perfect land litterers are packed off to the forest to be fed to the bears.

The only downside, though, is that the mechanical efficiency seems to have robbed the city of its soul, like a perfectly proportioned marble sculpture but devoid of expression. The saving grace in that regard, for me, was the discovery of Sprüngli.

That name is probably best known as the other half of Lindt. Both trace their origins to the chocolate business founded in 1845. When the founder, Rudolf Sprüngli-Ammann, retired in 1892, one son received the chocolate factory, which grew to become the global industrial production line that is Lindt today (with its products found in supermarkets throughout Europe and the world), while the other son received the two stores that have stayed true to their roots – and remain, today, boutiques in central Zurich specialising in chocolates and candied fruits. The Paradeplatz store features a charming cafe, a format which seems to have inspired Lindt’s cafe ventures downunder.

So it was with the satisfaction of having discovered the sweet side of Zurich – and gingerly carrying a stack of its tin-boxed products – that we hopped on the train (running precisely on time, of course) westwards, and upwards.

Events, Random facts, Reviews, Travels

Tip #5: Don’t let the fear of a public loss of dignity get in the way of doing something crazy. Remember, you don’t have a reputation to maintain in this country*!

* (Unless you actually do)

We knew something was up as soon as we stepped aboard the train to Füssen, in the foothills of the Bavarian Alps. The carriage, you see, was full of Asians. I was pretty sure we hadn’t got onto the express to Beijing via Moscow. Or did we?

The slightly surreal feeling from being surrounded by Mandarin, Cantonese, Korean and Japanese speakers on a German train became a full blown Escheresque moment when we arrived at our destination and joined a line dominated by Asians of all nations – including a party of Mongols in full traditional regalia.

Neuschwanstein, you see, is the archetypal Romantic castle. Situated atop a hill in the Bavarian Alps, the castle was commissioned by King Ludwig II of Bavaria (1845-1886) as a homage to the fantasy world of German romanticism, especially as represented by the operative works of Richard Wagner (1813-1883)

Though today regarded as one of the most important composers of the 19th century, until 1864 Wanger darted from physical exile to artistic isolation, his lack of income exacerbated by a political ban imposed by the royalist Saxony government due to Wagner’s involvement in republican politics.

In 1864, the 19-year-old Ludwig had been freshly crowned King of Bavaria the year before, and was popular for his youthful energy and brooding good looks. Ludwig was introduced to Wagner’s latest wrok Lohengrin, the tale of the Swan Knight. Ludwig was immediately captivated by this fantasy world, and asked to meet Wagner. The king and the composer left a deep impression on each other. Immediately, Ludwig facilitated the performance of Wagner’s latest work, Tristan unde Isolde in his capital Munich. He paid off Wagner’s debts, and installed him in a large villa.

However, the world in the 1860s was very different from the world of the Swan Knight. The realities of being a head of state soon caught up with young Ludwig. Within the complex political world of 19th century German states, Bavaria was a middle power sandwiched between the stronger states of Prussia and Austria. The Seven Weeks’ War between Prussia and Austraia was fought in 1866. Bavaria sided with Austria, but was forced to accept a mutual defence treaty with Prussia after the war. This brought it into the midst of the brewing conflict between Prussia and France, later to culminate in the Franco-Prussian war. Though Bavaria was formally on the winning side, the war helped Prussia become the overwhelmingly dominant German state, and subsequently the creation of the German Empire. Amidst the celebration of the German victory over the French, Luwdig had to sign a humiliating proclamation giving away Bavaria’s sovereignty to the new Empire headed by Prussia.

1867 was no more pleasant for Ludwig on the personal front. Wagner’s extravagance scandalised conservative Bavaria, and the king was forced to ask him to leave the country. Pressure to produce an heir led to an engagement with his cousin, the Duchess Sophie in Bavaria. This made Ludwig even more morose – he longed, he wrote, to be with Wagner instead. After much dithering, he broke off the engagement. He wrote to Wagner: “Thank God I am alone at last. My mother is far away, as is my former bride, who would have made me unspeakably unhappy. Before me stands a bust of the one, true Friend whom I shall love until death. . . If only I had the opportunity to die for you.”

It was during this difficult period that Ludwig retreated to Hohenschwangau, a castle built by his father on the ruins of a knight’s castle first built in the 12th century. Ludwig had spent many summers with his family there, and he enjoyed the seclusion offered by the castle, nestled between the mountains and a pristine lake.

Hohenschwangau castle (still owned by the Bavarian royal family) is only a short stroll from the village of Hohenschwangau, a short bus ride from Füssen. Visits to the castles are carefully timed, so we used the short time we had before our scheduled entry into Neuschwanstein to run up the hill and look around the older castle. Painted yellow, the castle gives an impression of medieval solidity – with its square keep and stout turrets. One interesting flourish was a set of brightly painted knights installed on the outer wall of the castle facing away from the village. However, one is constantly reminded of the real star of the show – the eye is almost involuntarily drawn to the brilliant white jewel that is Neuschwanstein, seemingly perched far above, with its elegant tower and many-faceted ridgeline.

From Hohenschwangau, Neuschwanstein is approached via a long, sloping carriageway through the woods. Horse-drawn carriages convey visitors close to the top, though we chose to walk (and had to pick our way carefully between the mounds of horse manure).

It was during his self-imposed exile at Hohenschwangau that Ludwig began contemplating bringing his fantasy into reality. He chose the top of a hill above Hohenschwangau, where centuries ago there were two small knights’ castles, a complete ruin by this time. To realise his fantasy of the castle of the Swan Knight, he hired a stage designer to supply the design (and the royal architect to supply the technical expertise that would keep the castle standing at its perilous location). Constrution began in 1869, while Ludwig lived in seclusion in Hohenschwangau – and as the new castle became more complete, Neuschwanstein itself. He became increasingly eccentric, obsessively trying to retreat into his fantasy world. So much so that Ludwig earned the nickname “the Mad”. The Bavarian establishment became increasingly dissatisfied by his extravagance – although he did not use state funds, he borrowed heavily from his own family, and when that source ran low, wanted to borrow from all the royal families of Europe.

The castle in winter presents a unique perspective. While the surrounding fields of snow made the castle’s pure white exterior seem especially brilliant, the snow also means that a number of more picturesque paths up the mountain are closed. For example, the Mary Bridge, across a gorge behind the castle, offers a postcard overview of the castle – but is closed in winter. We decided to chance it up a closed path that wound around the back of the castle, despite the warning signs. I soon realised why it was closed – covered in ankle-deep snow, the path was steep and narrow, with nothing to hold onto except barbed wires (okay, nothing to hold on to, period.) The end of the path was blocked by a fence which we had to climb over. Still – it was worth it for the view of the back of the castle.

After clambering over the fence, we found ourselves in the small court at the gate of the castle. It was here that the Neuschwanstein castle saw its only siege – or something like it. The year was 1886. The conflict between Ludwig and his ministers were boiling over. His ministers, Luwdig felt, were cramping his (opulent) style, while his ministers saw little use for a monarch who held power over them but did nothing on matters of state. Ludwig considered dismissing the whole cabinet, which prompted the ministers to act first. They assembled a medical report from four psychiatrists who had never met the king, which diagnosed him of paranoia. With this as pretext, a group of government commissioners went to Neuschwanstein to demand Ludwig’s capitulation. Tipped off by a loyal servant, Ludwig summoned the local police, who held off the commissioners at the castle gate with bayonets. He held the commissioners prisoner, but released them soon after. One enthusiastic local baroness rushed to the castle at the news of the siege, attacked the commissioners with her umbrella, and then ran into the castle to identify the assailants to the king.

Immediately inside the castle gate is the main, outer courtyard. From here, stairs lead into the main buildings of the castle. The strange juxtaposition of the ancient and the modern was immediately apparent. The castle was built in a fantasy medieval style. Just 100 years later, most of the stonework still seems new, giving the sensation of being in a medieval castle newly built – or, more accurately, still under construction. Alongside Gothic dragon gargoyles are electric lights: Ludwig pioneered electricity in Bavaria. This juxtaposition was all the more apparent in Ludwig’s own bedroom. A posted bed was topped by a carved wooden top which represented all the prominent towers of every cathedral in Bavaria, a massive wooden hybrid between a beehive and a wedding cake. Yet, within the same chamber, is a basin (in the shape of a swan) fed by running water delivered via modern plumbing, and even a flushing toilet.

One of the grandest completed rooms in the castle is the Singer’s Hall. Intended as a place for Wagner to write and perform his plays, the hall is gloriously decorated with murals and frescoes. Though Ludwig never saw the hall put to use, the hall is today regularly used for musical performances.

However, the comical scene of the siege at the castle gates quickly turned serious. After the first attempt at deposing him, Ludwig took no measures to strengthen his position. Less than a week later, the government, now better prepared, arrested him at Neuschwanstein and deposed him. The crown, ingeniously, passed to his brother Otto, who was genuinely insane, and power passed to Prince Luitpold, his uncle, as regent, and a willing supporter of the conspirators. The next day, June 13, 1886, Ludwig went for a walk with the psychiatrist who diagnosed him, and both were found dead in the lake. Debate rages to this day about the circumstances of his death.

At this death, the interiors of the structurally complete parts of the castle were only 1/3 finished. A main structure, the Keep, was intended to be built in the upper courtyard (in front of the main structure seen today), but only the foundations had been laid. The new government halted all works on the site, and the castle later became state, rather than royal, property.

Ironically, however, a project lambasted at the time as an extravagant and lunatic waste of money is today one of the most iconic symbols of Bavaria and Germany. In parts of Asia, for example, it has become almost the symbol of the romantic Europe. As the inspiration for fantasy castles such as Disney’s Sleeping Beauty Castle, it is perhaps not a far stretch to say that Neuschwanstein has become a worldwide cultural motif. The castle is visited by 1.3 million people annually, generating hundreds of millions of Euros in revenue for the state and far outstripping the maintenance cost of the castle.

Ironically, too, for Ludwig, whose death was in a significant part caused by his extravagant spending on Neuschwanstein and other projects, the castle has become the legacy by which he is remembered. Hardly anyone remembers the few political and social decisions he made, and were it not for the castle, Ludwig would only be a footnote in the history of a regional dynasty.

For the hordes of foreign tourists, though – I wondered whether they stopped and thought about what they were seeing. Here they were, at the archetypal “European” castle, unmistakeably solid in all its gleaming splendour. Yet the castle was as much make-believe as the papier-mache that its designer would have been more accustomed to working with. The castle has no defensive purpose, and its beauty comes from the manipulation of traditional defensive forms – turrets, keeps, battlements – into aesthetically pleasing forms. The interiors, with pencilled-in drawings and unfinished plaster walls, intensify the feeling of walking through a stage set, especially when a roughly whitewashed corridor leads into a spectacular completed room. Perhaps, it’s best to see the castle, not as an archetype or a symbol, but a sui generis creation of its times and circumstances. That it remains unfinished is, in a sense, a blessing: it offers us a glimpse into 19th century Romanticism, whereas the finished product would have simply been an imitation of a real medieval castle. It is beautiful, and it is unique, and that’s what counts.

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The New York Times getting it wrong? Preposterous notion, right? And so I thought also – until reading this story recently.

The story is by now so well known that it’s featured on Wikipedia. A Chinese woman called Ma Cheng has a given name which uses an unusual character, which is visually composed of three repetitions of the character for “horse”. This character was recorded in a 1710 AD character dictionary as a variant form of a character meaning “gallop”. This variant form has fallen out of use over the last 300 years, and today is only found in comprehensive character dictionaries, with the 1710 publication being the most recent source. For a rough analogy, imagine having a þ in your name.

As might be expected, having an obsolete character in her name has caused Ms Ma some difficulty over the years. For one thing, modern type sets and computer character sets rarely feature the character. In earlier years, authorities would write-in the character “”cheng”” by hand on documents such as ID cards. However, with the conversion towards full digitisation, it is becoming more and more difficult to solve the problem.

A quirky story so far, but not too far out of the ordinary. The NY Times report takes a turn torwards the dark alley of dystopia, however, when it turns towards what it claimed was an 8,000 list of permissible characters. The Chinese government, it said, citing a Chinese newspaper report, had been developing this list in recent years, not just for standardising naming use, but for ordinary usage as well.  A Chinese linguistics official was quoted, via the state mouthpiece Xinhua, as saying that 8,000 characters (compared to the 85,000 in existence, and the roughly 30,000 in ordinary or literary usage) was ‘enough to convey most concepts’. Disturbing whiffs of doublespeak, newspeak, and the Thought Police?

I certainly thought it sounded just a little too shockingly Orwellian. So I went digging a little. The NY Times referenced two other sources for the statements about the 8,000-character “permissible word list”: a Xinhua news piece which it linked to, and a report from “another Chinese newspaper”.

First up, the Xinhua report. Headline? “Official refutes report that China will limit number of characters for new names“. Quite the opposite to the “limiting language to 8,000 characters” claim, it seems.

So how did this all come about? The Xinhua article cites – and refutes – a report by the Guangzhou-based Yangcheng Evening News that claimed that baby names would be limited to an 8,000 character list. It also offers another clue: an 8,000-character list of simplified characters, which a government official says “in combination, could convey almost any concept in any field”. So is it true? Is the Communist government embarking on a campaign to control thought by limiting the tools of thought?

Read more…

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