Tommy says…

Travel Tip #6: Navigating a foreign city without a map? All you need is a camera – and the ability to take photos of local area maps posted at bus stops.

Munich is a city of many contrasts. The industrial brutalism of its main station leads across a tree-lined, bustling and jumbled avenue to the simple lines of the Selingor Tor, one of the city’s several gates, and narrow, winding streets filled with medieval houses and baroque churches. A blue-and-white striped maypole makes it seem like a small Bavarian town, yet just down the road, the sprawling Gothic New Town Hall and the disproportionately lofty towers of the cathedral reminds the visitor that this was the capital of one of the great German kingdoms. A short subway ride away are reminders of Munich’s modern claim to fame: the stately curves of the BMW headquarters, and the more fluid shape of the BMW museum, sit snug against the graceful web-like canopies of the Olympic Park. Then there’s the curious mixtures of the old and new. The Residenz, the Munich palace of the Bavarian kings, is all Italiante splendour on the outside; but closer inspection reveals that that facades are painted on. Much of the palace burned down during the war, and reconstruction efforts have tried their best to connect surviving parts of the original, with mixed success. For me though, Munich stood out for its food, food, food, and drink. One of the city’s key attractions is the Hofbrauhaus, a temple to beer. The Ratskeller, a beer hall underneath the town hall, is one of my all time, worldwide favourites. Here are sausages like you’ve never had them before. For a carnivore like me, it was heaven.

And now, for my photos…

Munich’s Town Hall, built from 1867 to 1908, houses council offices, shops, and a restaurant in the cellars. In the main tower is the Glockenspiel – “story clock”

The working parts of the Town Hall are just like any other government office building, but quite suddenly the drab corridor would break into a little landing, framed by Gothic fireplaces and arched windows.

Munich has a habit of keeping its modern institutions of government in great buildings from the past – the Palace of Justice is another example (this time, in Baroque)

Whereas the town centre feels very Germanic with a dash of Baroque, the area around the Residenz is firmly Italianate, from the Feldherrnhalle modelled after Florence’s Loggia dei Lanzi, through the Italian high Baroque Theatine Church, to the neo-classical concert hall.

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Events, Reviews, The Sydney Grind, Travels beer, food, germany, munich, photography, royal palace

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.

Random facts, Reviews, The Sydney Grind, Travels bavaria, castle, germany, ludwig, munich, neuschwanstein, tourist attraction

Tip #3: The best way to walk cross-country in snow is to always fall forward: this will naturally cause the front of your foot to sink, placing you in the athletic starting position for the next step.

During our sojourn in Germany, three German words became very familiar to us, owing to constant repetition: hauptbahnhof, “central station”; rathaus, “town hall”; and dom, “cathedral”. Every town had, it seemed, these three basic sights. In Potsdam, a little city some 25 km south-west of Berlin, the city skyline (as much as a row of mutli-storey blocks of flats could be called a “skyline”) was dominated by the brilliant turqouise dome of the local cathedral, topped by a glittering golden angel. The church has recently been renovated, and, like many historical sites that were patched up (or completely re-constructed) after the war, looked remarkably new and smooth, almost botoxed.

The keyword in Potsdam, though, is not hauptbahnhof, rathaus, or dom: it’s sans souci. As in the Sydney suburb. As in French for “no worries”. In 1744, Frederick the Great built his palace, named Sanssouci, in Potsdam. His successors continued the work to create what we see today – a network of palaces and smaller manors, scattered throughout spacious parklands, and a small, pretty town nestled in between.

The most famous of these is Sanssouci itself, a small, elongated building with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out, on one side, towards a semi-circular colonade behind which, in the distance, is a hill with an artificial romantic ruin; on the other side, a grand terrace takes up an area several times the size of the palace itself, descending towards a central road connecting the various palaces in the park.
Being winter, the terraces are not their usual lush green, and the fountains are all boarded up, looking like a collection of modernist, wooden sculptures. The most popular part of the park was the slopes of the terrace, being put to good use by kids armed with toboggans. We noticed, however, that there were a couple of people gathered near a corner of the garden, to the left of the house facing the terrace. From afar, it looked like any other garden bed. Up close, however, it turns out to be a flat, square stone set into the ground, heaped with potatoes. Potatoes? That’s right – they mark the final resting place of Frederick the Great, King of Prussia. Elevated into the state mythology of both the Nazi and Communist regimes, Frederick was an ambiguous character. On the one hand, his military victories consolidated Prussia into the most powerful of the German states, the foundation of the Reich. On the other, he is equally famed for his tumultuous personal life – a wife he was forced to marry, then saw only once a year; hiding himself away at Potsdam with a string of intimate friends, including Voltaire; violent and public rows with said friends; acquiescing to, even encouraging, the rumours of his homosexuality. In death, his fate was almost equally dramatic. Though he desired a burial at night, without pomp, on top of the terrace of his favourite palace, his nephew and successor instead buried him in the garrison church of Potsdam. To save them from bombing, his remains were dug up during World War II and transfered, first to a bunker, and later to a mineshaft. From there, they fell into American hands. They were moved between locations (Potsdam being by then part of East Germany and out of reach for the Americans), including a stint at the dramatic Hohenzollern Castle. It took until German reunification in 1991 for Frederick to be finally returned to Potsdam. After an official lying in state at the Court of Honour of Sanssouci palace, he was laid to rest – at night, without pomp – on his beloved terrace, alongside his favourite greyhound. And the potatoes? Frederick had the foresight to greatly promote the potato – then a new fangled New World import – as a way to feed his people, whether they liked it or not. A popular story tells of Frederick overcoming popular suspicion of the tuber by planting a royal field of potatoes, which he kept under armed guard. Assuming that anything worth guarding is worth stealing, local peasants found ways to sneak in and take the plants for their own gardens – thus beginning the popularity of potatoes in Germany.

It is oddly fitting that this man who once led his armies across central Europe, who is remembered as ‘the Great’, is now marked with a simple stone in a garden bed, right next to his dog, commemorated by a mound of base vegetables. The empire that he laid the foundation to is long gone; Prussia, according to the Treaty of Versailles, is forever dissolved. His greatest achievement, though he himself would scarcely have thought so, turns out to be his enthusiasm for a simple tuber, that “neither tasted nor smelled, that even dogs would not touch”.

The park and the palaces have been well maintained. Walking through the monumental tree-lined avenues and past the backs of the grand terraces of the palaces, with only a few other visitors braving the cold and snow, it felt not so much like touring a historical site, as wandering around a home temporarily vacated by the residents – perhaps, judging from the scaffolding erected in some parts – for renovation during the winter. At that moment, I half expected to see a carriage trumdle past, carrying the Kaiser and his family.
However, the past quickly blends into the present. Potsdam is not just the repository of Prussian grandeur – its other claim to fame is through the Potsdam Declaration, the product of a conference between the heads of the Allied powers near the end of World War II. The declaration was to have a profound – perhaps everlasting – effect on the German nation.

To get there, we had to take a bus – then a tram – then a bus – diagonally across Potsdam. Owing to our totally awesome navigational skills and the lack of a detailed map, we managed to get lost right in the town centre. With sunlight rapidly fading, and the thought of giving up on my mind, I asked Brian,  ’If you were Churchill, where would you have the conference? Would you pick the best palace in town?’ ‘Well … I’m not Churchill, but I have just spent most of a year in Britain… and I reckon I know how Brits think,’ he said after a moment’s thought, ‘I would pick the smallest, most decrepit place I could find, because I wouldn’t want Stalin to think, like, “this is awesome, I want this country”.’

As it turns out, he did know how Brits think – Cecilienhoff, located in Neue Garten on the other side of the town, was a charming little hunting lodge and a huge contrast to the Baroque grandeur of Sans Souci. Its gardens, as well, were human-sized, more pleasant dell than monumental cascading terraces. A small path wound from the front gate to the lodge, then through the woods of the garden. Smoke drifted from the chimneys dotting the pitched roofline. The lodge itself is now a hotel, though visitors are encouraged to stroll around the court yard, at the centre of which is a garden bed arranged with a star pattern to commemorate that meeting 60 years ago.

It was at this fateful meeting that Churchill, Stalin and Truman decided the post-war fate of Germany: it would be divided into zones occupied by each of the Allies; its borders would be contracted; its war potential, as far as possible, would be destroyed. What was intended as a temporary division soon became the focal point of the global Cold War, with the Iron Curtain manifested nowhere more clearly than in Berlin, just an hour away from where the leaders sat those two weeks in the summer of 1945. The same conference also had great significance for hundreds of millions of people on the other side of the world: the Potsdam Declaration, released officially by the  United States and China, gave a final ultimatum to Japan to surrender or face the threat of the powerful new weapon the United States had recently and successfully tested.

The rest, as they say, is history.

The sun had set by the time we wandered out of Cecilienhof onto the pleasant little street lined with suburban cottages. I felt a little tired. This, I thought, might be what they call the weight of history. Or it may just have been a day spent walking in the snow.

Until next time,

Tommy

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Random facts, The Sydney Grind, Travels berlin, frederick the great, germany, palace, potato, potsdam, sans souci, snow

Tip #3: Take your earphones everywhere. They are not only useful on long train journeys, but can be plugged into audioguides at most museums and attractions, leaving your hands free unlike the suckers who have to hold the machine to their ears.

Berlin is a fascinating city. It is at once a mixture of Baroque elegance and Soviet austerity. An ornate, cast iron lampost stands on the street corner across from my window, here in East Berlin. It casts its light over a “building” made out of three stacked shipping containers. Across a snow-covered square are banks of Soviet-style housing estates. Tonight, the ground is glistening with snow and sleet. In the distance, the East German TV tower dominates the skyline.

Here in East Berlin, one can hardly turn a corner without running into a reminder of the DDR (German Democratic Republic) – literally. For 50 years, East Berliners marched (well, crossed the street) to a different beat to their Western cousins. Instead of the boring stickfigure, East Berlin pedestrian traffic lights used a cute little bowler-hatted man (called an “Ampelmännchen” in German). This became such an icon that, after the fall of the Berlin wall, the little green men were not only retained, they even found their way across the border onto some West Berlin street corners.

In Berlin, I got my first taste of German efficiency, and I am impressed. While the London tube had seemd like the epitome of efficient public transport compared to Sydney, in Berlin, a complex system of different modes of transport work seamlessly, efficiently, and more or less cheaply. One thing that struck me was that stations don’t have ticket barriers, and ticket inspections are few and far between (I didn’t encounter a single one) – a huge contrast compared to CityRail in Sydney, which seems to dedicate all its efforts into policing for revenue rather than improving service. And to be honest, I am much more willing to pay for a train ride that gets me to where I want to go, even if there are no ticket barriers or inspectors.

Rail stations in Berlin are a revelation. While London takes pride in its Victorian-era arched train sheds, but seems to no longer be able to afford such grandpublic works, Berlin has in recent decades covered many of its major stations with imposing structures. Stations on the intra-city network are often covered by arched, steel-and-glass train sheds. In the historical centre, the external facades of the stations are designed to blend them into the environment. Some look more like cathedrals than stations from the outside. The most impressive is the new Berlin Hauptbahnhof (central station; I love the sound of that word. Dynamic. Germanic. Grand). It has three levels of platforms, with the upper two levels aligned perpendicularly, and each covered by an arched train sheds which together form a cross pattern.

I think beautiful train stations are good for the soul. Commuters are, generally, not in the happiest of moods when they catch public transport. An airy and uplifting station helps to break between the depressing, crowded train ride and the monotony of work. That’s why death is too good a fate for the fools who demolished Euston station.

We took a “Free Walking Tour” – they’re organised on the principle of no cost, no fee, and that each participant ‘tips’ the tour guide something like 5 euros at the end of the tour. Our tour guide was not inspirational. She spoke English with a mixed Swedish and Japanese accent. Her guide speeches were dumbed down history lessons with lots of German words: “and so Adolf Hitler was elected Recichskanzler. Adolf was a bad, bad man who wanted to kill Jews.” She was boring. And they made us wait for two hours on the frozen Pariserplatz, the square in front of the Brandenburg Gate, at the start of the tour. I caught a cold.

Dinner, however, made up for the suffering. We walked into a tiny restaurant on Alexanderplatz (a big square near the town hall, with a major station and lots of big, Soviet-style commercial buildings), and asked the proprietor – there was only one guy there – to see the menu. “No menu.” He said, in English. We didn’t really know how to respond. “Well, what do you have to eat, then…” He opened the oven door, and pointed out the racks upon racks of roast pork knuckles. I was sold, on the spot. The pork knuckles came served with gravy, mustard, mashed potatoes, saurkraut and purple cabbages. It was probably the best pork knuckle I’ve ever had, and – even better – was only €6.50! Awesome.

Until next time, from the land of pork and beer.

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Random facts, The Sydney Grind, Travels berlin, free tour, pork knuckle, railway, station, trains

Travel tip #2: Buy a cheap thing the first time you see it!

January is shopping season. I never used to understand why anyone would fly halfway across the globe to shop in countries where the cost of living is so much higher. But now I do. The reason is the heavy discount, which we just don’t see in Australia. The thing is, after a 50% discount, prices at Harrod’s, and designer labels like Zegna, are fairly comparable to normal prices you pay in a department store in Australia. Except what you are getting is what in Australia would be counted as “luxury” (read: “extremely expensive”). So, for example, an Armani Collezioni suit at Harrods, after 50% off, was £200 – about $500. $500 can just about buy you a badly cut, made-in-China no-brand suit in Australia. A brand-name tie there was about £25 after discount – the price of a Home Brand-equivalent tie at Myer. And Myer simply has too many bad patterns in its tie collection.

Of course, none of this was much use for me at Harrod’s. I didn’t have the luggage space to shop, and what I did buy (souvenirs) weren’t on discount. What intrigued me more was the institution that is Harrod’s.

Once very much “establishment”, Harrod’s has become somewhat … eccentric since Dodi al Fayed, the son of the store’s owner, became involved with the former Princess Diana. The al Fayeds have always taken a non-conventional approach to running the store. The main escalator well, for example, is decorated in an Egyptian motif, with a large Pharaohnic statue at its base. They also famously used an Egyptian cobra to protect the luxury shoe counter.

The relationship of the company with the royal family steadily became worse. The royal warrants, shields declaring that a merchant is the appointed supplier of a certain class of goods to a royal, were removed from the store’s facade in 2001. Finally, when Diana and Dodi died, al Fayed turned bits of his store into memorials – a temple to their memory surrounded by a temple of consumerism. Pretty creepy, really. That said, I can sort of sympathise with al Fayed’s anger and his conspiracy theories. It is entirely plausible that The Establishment wanted Diana “removed” from the scene. Al Fayed’s reputation as a little crazy is probably as much the result of media exaggeration as his being driven to extremes by frustration at being largely ignored. Kind of like Lady Lucan.

Until next time,

Tommy

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Random facts, Reviews, The Sydney Grind, Travels christmas sale, discount, harrods, london

In January 2009, I took a one-month trip to Europe, transitting for a few days at each end through China. Not having reliable access to internet, I decided to write my thoughts down – with a pen – in my little black notebook. So here they are, now twice edited and with a travel tip heading each note.

Travel tip #1: Write down travel tips as you think of them; writing them down “later” probably means you’ll forget them.

Some would define a city by a landmark building, a particular view, or, failing all else, a three-letter abbreviation.

For me, a city is first defined by its smell. When the airlock doors open at the airport, the smell of a city impresses itself even before the eye adjusts to the light outside. Whether it’s day or night, and regarldess of the weather, a city’s smell is probably its most indelible character.

In Sydney, it is the smell of a sun-burnt country overlaid with a fresh yet salty hint of the sea.

I don’t know what ingredients make up Shanghai’s odour. At a guess, it’s six parts air-borne pollutants and three parts the muddy East China Sea. To me, however, it is the pregnant hint of an exciting metropolis of 20 million souls.

Shanghai’s growth is incredible – that probably sounds cliched now. Still, I was struck by some surprise even on the fairly short journey from the airport. The futuristic wavy form of the new airport seems to have reproduced itself across the highway – in the form of a second terminal every bit as grand as the first. A maglev train zooms past alongside the highway. A giant, inverted step yramid dominates the skyline to the south – it’s the centrepiece of the 2010 World Expo site. As we ascend the great concrete rings that lead onto Lupu Bridge – Sydney Harbour Bridge magnified in concrete – I spot the new IFC, in the shape of a polygonic bottle opener.

Despite having read about and seen the building in print, I was struck by the way it dominated the Pudong skyline – and dwarfed the Oriental Pearl TV Tower, once the pride of Chinese engineering, now at a mere 284 metres tall (if my Communist-drilled memory serves) a ridiculously disproportional bulbous erection beside the IFC.

The city’s cultural life has also changed. Mandarin is even more dominantly the lingua franca. The person sitting next to you on the bus could be of any nationality. The traditional pancake-and-fried-dough breafast I grew up with is gone, replaced by a myriad of options ranging from bacon and eggs to northern Chinese fried buns – this I found out after an hour of fruitless searching one cold, cold morning.

Some things, though, have not changed. The subway announcement still says “Nexus stop” instead of “Next stop”. There are huge crowds everywhere. When I got up on a ledge to take a photo of the famous crowds on Nanjing Road, I noticed two other photographers doing exactly the same thing.

London, on the other hand, smells like grilled ribs.

Until next time,

Tommy

Random thoughts, The Sydney Grind, Travels cities, crowds, london, Shanghai, smells, sydney, travel

A favourite book genre of mine is museum books. When I say “museum books”, I mean those publications which sit curiously between a catalogue and a scholarly publication. These are not meant to be academic treatises. Instead, they showcase the highlights of the museum or gallery’s collection. At the same time, they are more than a mere catalogue. The works are presented in their chronoloigcal and stylistic contexts. For a well-resourced museum or gallery, this means an entry-level introduction to the body of artworks and artefacts represented by the collection, which is accessible but at the same time, of sufficient depth to be interesting for the keen amateur.
This loose categorisation covers a whole range of publications. On the one hand, there are brief highlight catalogues with small blurbs introducing the period or style – in the nature of a (rather heavy) souvenir brochure. On the other, there are comprehensive introductions to an entire movement, illustrated with the museum’s own collection.

One of my favourites from the latter category is The Asian Collection from the Art Gallery of New South Wales. I happened upon this book while roaming the stacks one day at Fisher Library (as one does). Published on the occassion of the opening of the new Asian galleries at the AGNSW, the book traces the development of several strands of Asian art, with comprehensive illustrations from the Gallery’s extensive collection. One part I found most fascinating was the coverage of Chinese and East Asian porcelain – from which I understood exactly what “celadon” is – what it corresponds to in Chinese, and how it fits in with the styles that came before and after it. The illustrations are superb, of course, but the writing was a delight as well. Authoritatively authored and edited, it was also great prose, with great clarity and narrative quality. Read more…

Random facts, Reviews, The Sydney Grind, Travels

On the off chance that I still have readers, after months of inactivity, I thought I might just note that I’m still alive. In fact, I’m alive back in the Southern Hemisphere, and working from sunrise to sunset, to increase your GDP. And my account balance. But that’s purely incidental, you understand. You’d better be grateful!

Thought I’d just record a couple of snippets from the Northern Hemisphere…

Avoid Heathrow Airport like the plague

Here was the plan: catch the 300 km/h Eurostar train from Paris Gare du Nord to London St Pancras, seamless connection to a Piccadilly Line train from King’s Cross-St Pancras to Heathrow Airport (right, pictured on a quiet day), hop off the train, hop on a plane, back in Sydney in 23 hours.

All of that in 5 hours. Sounds easy, right? First the 300 km/h turned into a 15 km/h service once it reached England, and was half an hour late getting into St Pancras. Then I walked to the National Rail end of the station thinking, for some reason, that there was an express service to the airport from St Pancras. Finally it was a huge, huge hike from the station to the airport terminal, nothing like the advertised five minute stroll.

All of that would have been okay, because I got to Heathrow airport an hour before the flight.  But what I didn’t count on was that Virgin Atlantic used stupid check-in machines. After I took a few minutes to rearrange my luggage due to the stupid “one-bag rule” (curses unto a thousand generations to whoever came up with that daft idea), the machine wouldn’t let me check in. Not realising that I was running out of time, I tried wrestling with it. By the time I was directed to the manual check-in, it was too late. Yes, it was five minutes past last check-in, and I had to sleep in the airport, £42 lighter in the wallet department, on a bench in an airport terminal that looks like it was last renovated back when the sun never set on the British Empire. And I still had to face the Greyshirts enforcing the stupid “one bag rule” (one piece of carry-on baggage per person), the ludicrous “size rule” (that single piece of carry-on baggage has to fit within a thoughtfully provided wire basket the size of a small walnut), and the evil “no liquid rule”.

Avoid Heathrow like the plague.

Macarons

 Paris is possibly my favourite city anywhere, simply because of the sheer genius of the French when it comes to delicious food. There is a bakery on every second street corner selling the most delicious pastries or baguettes for about half the price you would pay in London. Every street is filled with restaurants serving deliciously mysterious-sounding fares. And then – and then there are the crêperies. Who else but the French could create such a simple yet glorious delight as the Nutella crêpe?

The only food item I brought back from Paris, though, was a box of mini-macarons from PAUL, a bakery chain that started in Lille in France but now has branches in several countries, including the UK. These come in an assorted tray with six flavours each in its own vivid colour – “magenta” for raspberry, green for pistachio, brown for coffee. Each is delicately crisp, shattering at the first impact with one’s teeths – or sometimes hands – while deliciously moist at the centre as one gets to the filling.

 And what made it even better was that it was about half the price compared to the same product from the same store in London!

Travels

From Tommy’s notebook. Photo link: London – Westminster

Where: Palace of Westminster, London SW1A

When: Saturday 29 September 2007, 11am-12:30pm

Blurb: The Palace of Westminster, also known as the Houses of Parliament, is the site of the two houses of the United Kingdom parliament.

My thoughts: The Houses of Parliament are open for guided tours during the summer recess, and for public observation during sittings. The former gives you wider access and more information, but the latter is free, and lets you see politicians in action.

While the intricate (fiddly) carvings and Gothic towers give the building the image of a relic of a bygone era, it is very much a living organism still full of vitality. At the entrance to the House of Commons, for example, the hall is ringed with busts and statues of great prime ministers, and not just Winston Churchill or Benjamin Disraeli – Margaret Thatcher launches forth, fingers pointing, from her pedestal. Several pedestals and alcoves remain bare, a reminder of the future.

Ceremony and symbolism is everywhere, and much more palpable than at, say, Buckingham Palace. At the same time, there is a marked contrast between the Lords’ section, and that of the Commons. The tour enters from the sovereign’s entrance. At the end of a long corridor is an ante room filled with busts of Prime Ministers who have come from the House of Lords – unlike the equivalent colleciton at Commons, there doesn’t seem to be provision for any future additions. This part of the Palace is decorated in red from head to toe. The architectural design aims to facilitate the monarch’s procession. The art focuses on the glories of the British nation – Waterloo and Trafalgar, King Arthur, other great kings of the past.

As one moves towards Commons, the theme changes. A series of paintings around Saint Stephen’s Tower, the central tower that separates Lords from the Commons, reminds the visitor of the violence and turmoil that lead to the uneasy truce between Parliament and Sovereign. The House of Commons chamber is significantly smaller than the Lords – apparently as a result of Churchill’s

The division between the Commons on the one hand and the Lords and Sovereign on the other extends outside. The courtyard outside the Lords’ section features an equestrian statue of King Richard I, while the much smaller space outside the Commons’ section features a standing statue of Oliver Cromwell. On the other side, Westminster Bridge, which crosses the Thames at the Commons’ end of the building, is painted in a green theme, while Lambeth Bridge, at the Lords’ end, has a red theme.

Tips:

Travels, Uncategorized

From Tommy’s notebook. Photo link

Where: Great Russell Street, London WC1B 3DG

When: Saturday 29 September 2007, 3-5 pm

Blurb: Established in 1753, the British Museum is one of the world’s greatest museums of human history and culture, with a collection of more than 13 million objects.

My thoughts: Depending on your view, the British Museum is either a spectacular gathering of human achievement, or a painful record of imperial aggression. I certainly felt a bit of both. It is enlightening and exciting to see the evolution of civilisation brought together under the one roof; but looking at the lone Egyptian pillar, the transplanted whole Lycian temple, and the more famous Elgin marbles, I wandered what they would be like in situ, and what had happened to the places from which the artefacts were taken. I think I would be more relieved if the temple was ruined without a trace. The more uncomfortable thought is if the temple is ruined but standing, missing its pillar like an amputee.

There was a little pamphlet in the Elgin Marbles gallery, putting forward the British Museum’s case for retaining the scuptures, and a summary of the Greeks’ argument for seeking their return. I was surprised to learn that while Athens and London each hold about an equal share of the Parthenon’s scultpures, there were significant bits in lots of European cities. Now while I’m not entirely sure whether the London marbles should stay or return to Athens, I’m pretty sure there is no excuse for Parthenon scultpures to be in Copenhagen, where hardly anyone can access them.

Like all national museums in Britain, entry is free. This means that the forecourt and lobby are as crowded, messy, and dirty as any street market.

Once you head past the entrance section, however, the majestic collection of antiquities make the crowds barely noticeable. The “wow” factor begins with the Great Court, a recently refurbished courtyard surrounding the round Reading Room (which every victim of Communist indoctrination will know as the place where Marx researched and wrote Das Kapital), and topped by a giant glass canopy. The courtyard houses information, ticket offices, and other amenities.

The Great Court was designed to bring order to the maze of galleries of the British Museum. To that, I would say that it brings a sense of order, but a sense is all it is. It acts as a central focal point, from which you can easily navigate to the entrance, and by which you can reference your location from signs. However, it is no easier to get to a specific gallery. To do that, I frequently had to walk the length of exhibition rooms, up and down stairs, and backtrack from dead-endds.

The British Museum is big, and I had left myself just 2 hours on my first visit. I decided that I would aim for the Elgin Marbles, passing through Egypt, Assyria, and Lycia on the way. One highlight along the way was the Rosetta Stone. Remember how I said you barely notice the crowds? Well the crowds are emphatically brought to your attention at the Rosetta Stone, contained in a glass case at the junction of two galleries. It was surrounded by a 5-deep crowd, all craning to see (and photograph) the famous stone. Not only was I stuck behind a tall, burly fellow, but he stood there staring at the stone for about ten minutes. I can only guess that he could read hieroglyphics and was appreciating the style of the prose.

I went back a few days later – this time at night, to take advantage of the Museum’s late openings (Thursdays and Fridays). There was a Mid-Autumn Festival-themed event, complete with Chinese music performances and moon cake eating. On my way to the Asian galleries, I noticed that the Rosetta Stone was relatively free by 8pm – the crowd was only 3-deep.

Still have to go back to see the other galleries.

Tips: Don’t try to see it in one day, much less a couple of hours. Ideally, spread your visits over several days, every time concentrating a discrete portion. If you don’t have the luxury of time, aim for the highlights.

Entry is free, so it can be quite crowded on weekends and in peak season.

Website: http://www.britishmuseum.org/

Travels