Now you might have thought, given the encounter of the previous day, unmitigated by a refreshing shower (the neighbours were enjoying the evening and at a certain point, even your trampess gives up, makes dinner and crawls into bed where at least a movie will take her mind off the bull – though she did reject the tramp’s helpful suggestion of Apocalypto as the night’s entertainment; those of you who have seen it will perhaps understand why something a little more subdued – Middlemarch or Prairie Home Companion – was the order of the evening), the tramp would have offered the trampess a quiet day in the WLW – but it was beautiful, and on the principle of working off the excesses, he encouraged the trampess to take the car to Bezau and climb Baumgarten on her own. It may not surprise you, dear reader, to know that at the point where a decision was to be made to go up (and perhaps have to face down the bull again) or to go on a long hike through the forest to the middle station, your trampess (call her a coward if you will) decided on the latter course.
Not that it made much difference. Another gate, another herd huddled near it. What is it with these cows? Are they feeling timid in their first weeks at altitude? Have they no fortitude? Must they huddle and gang up on happy-go-lucky hikers who suddenly feel a little less happy and a lot less lucky? At least this herd was definitely female. Huddled near the gate but female. The choice however was similar: uphill or muddy, steep downhill? Uphill seemed the safer way but as I moved cautiously around the southern ends of a number of cows, the uphill choice became less attractive: one cow, standing perpendicular to the path, was munching on the uphill grass. Did I dare pass between her and sustenance? Could I get a foothold and go above her? I thought better of it, retraced my steps – gingerly - and proceeded to walk in the very mushy downhill grass. As I emerged up onto the path once safely past the cows with mud on the five fingers and looking slightly fed-up and probably a bit dishevelled, I spied another couple coming toward me. I smiled and gave my usual friendly Austrian greeting. I admit to turning and watching as they arrived at the same dilemma I had faced only minutes before. Obviously bigger, braver, and male, the husband (though it has to be said not with the macho authority I had been hoping for) pushed the cows gently to the side as his wife followed behind. It can be done – and they did it. I must remember to be braver. But at least I had no ill encounter, made it to the lift on time and without having to explain my appearance.
Still, it is somewhat worrisome to think that every time one reaches a gate designed to keep cows in the appropriate fields, one is going to meet a huddle which could turn unfriendly. Being at the bottom of a bovine scrum is not my idea of a wonderful hiking holiday. So, I decided to take up the topic of how to deal with what was turning into a daily occurrence with the tramp at dinner. What, I asked the tramp, should I have done – both the previous day, and today (though I was less worried about today since my evasive tactics seemed to work adequately). Clearly, the tramp said with great authority (after all, he did grow up in the country and knows a lot about horses which are, all said and done, large, four legged and easily spooked), you should have used your sticks and just whacked the bull (oh and by the way, it couldn’t have possibly been a bull – no farmer would allow an un-castrated male to roam in open pasture; the tramp can say that, but up close and personal that creature was very bullish – and strong as an ox doesn’t make me feel more secure when it’s his 500 kilo to my 50 at less than a meter apart! testosterone or no; which makes me realise where the expression “testy” must come from – that creature was definitely testy). He would have moved along the path and you would have been free to go. And then he smiled. So, your trampess is a wimp – face it, a wimp. The only consolation was that her decidedly not wimpish (and much larger) sons, all said that in such close quarters, while the theory of whacking the bull/ox was undoubtedly sound, the risk was simply too high to do anything but avoid confrontation. So I can whack if there is a straight run to the gate but not if I am trapped between cows, bulls and rocks. Tramp son 4, on reading my woeful tale, did ask if he had ever told me his grizzly bear story. Grizzly bear story???!!!!! Grizzly bear story??!!! These are the sort of things that mothers find out, happily, when it is too late to worry. I have the courage to listen but am still waiting to hear the tale.
The following day, with no reason to fear (after all a clear strategy: chase him off with your sticks; and de-classification of the level of threat: an ox not a bull), your trampess set out to the upper station (one could not admit fear in the face of such expert counselling and besides, the tramp was taking the road to the middle station). As she approached the higher climbs, your trampess did wonder if there would be the smell of fear on her (be brave, remember your favourite things, smile, you made it through the previous close encounters, surely it will only get better, why didn’t you bring perfume?, will flowers help or will they only want to eat them – and as a consequence me??). But as she approached the gate (that gate) there were no cows; she breathed a sigh of relief and walked on. Ha! Did you think that sense of security would last??? Did Captain Hook leap out of his skin whenever he heard the tick-tock of the crocodile? Did your trampess make a similar leap when she heard the cow bells’ ding-dong thinking one of those bells might be on him???? Well, this time at least there were only four of them; and praise to the Almighty, all of them cows; but we were on a path wide enough for one person, or one cow (and only because they have such small feet). Were they all huddled together? Did they look at me??? Did I gently tap them on??? Yes to all of those, and the front two were persuaded to move (one small step for the trampess’s confidence), but as the third stood firmly in place, the first turned around (unbelievably doubling up with her sister in a space two Austrians would find difficult to share) and started sniffing my backpack. Now this is getting ridiculous. I carry no food, only water, what could possibly be interesting about my backpack? I pushed her off, and decided that I would simply climb into the weeds (hoping that poison ivy was not one of the plants in the undergrowth) and push forward til I was beyond the path occupying cows. By now these cows must think I am crazy: climbing above them, slipping, cursing, and waving my sticks – what a sight. But the sight of one still alive trampess. This time, I did not lose my stride and I arrived at the bergbahn in good time.
The tramp is beginning to wonder if someone has cast a cow attraction spell on me. He recommended that for the next hike, I should take his path to the middle station and then follow a gentle path up to the top – not the more challenging – and particularly if you take into account bovine encounters – path I normally take. His path, he said, was not muddy (particularly delightful as it had thunderstormed all night and I knew my path was guaranteed to require a full shower and not one of the usual commando ones) and there were no, underscore, no cows. He was right about the mud. Of course, as I turned the path near a farm house and greeted the farmer’s wife, what should I encounter but their entire herd coming home for the evening!!! No cows, he promised me no cows, and there were 20 or more heading straight toward me! I stood straight, walked to the right of the happily wide path (well we are in Austria not England and I expect the cows to know which side of the road they should be walking on), stick in hand to nudge any animal that took too familiar an interest. A few gentle taps with the stick and I was past them all. Hurrah! I met the tramp back at the car and just looked at him. No mud I said. He smiled. A herd of cows I said. He fainted.
Tuesday, 28 June 2011
Friday, 24 June 2011
The Joys of Hiking Alone – or How To Deal with Raging Bulls
The Joys of Hiking Alone – or How To Deal with Raging Bulls
Not that your trampess has extraordinary adventures just for your benefit, or because ordinary life doesn’t provide enough entertainment, but sometimes it just happens, and lately it seems to be happening more than enough. Your trampess has just come back from being gored by a bull (well, let me clarify, he had his head down and shoved his horns toward me several times. We did touch but I used my hands to good effect so the horns never penetrated my flesh).
Your trampess has always been quite content passing through fields of cattle in the mountains – after all they are basically domestic creatures and used to being man handled. Even my earliest encounter with a cow at close quarters, when I was about 3, my great Aunt Ethel was considerably older, and the cow was somewhere in between, was only a cause for much amusement on my Aunt Ethel’s side, the result of which is that I remember it with laughter even now (she asked me if I would like to milk a cow; being 3, happy around animals and curious, I, of course, replied in the affirmative. She showed me what to do; I grabbed the cows teats and squeezed; nothing happened; Aunt Ethel let out the most adorable peel of laughter and took over the milking; I watched in wonder).
The recent encounter that has led your trampess to committing it to paper was not of the same kind. The tramp was having a short hike to the middle station but recommended that the trampess head up to the top of Baumgarten on her own. It was such a lovely day and a pity to let it go to waste, besides after 3 weeks of decadence in London it was important to get the old hind side up a mountain for as long and as frequently as possible in order to keep evening gown fit. So, five fingers on the feet and backpack on the back, off your trampess set. Apart from meeting too many trucks, cars and tractors on the way (while a hiking route the path also provides access for farmers to the higher barns and occasionally one meets the odd vehicle – today’s encounters were excessive). Once above WildMoosAlpe, the path was once again clear, and all the tree felling that had been the bane of my existence in April was now over. That did not mean peace though.
I walked along the path, on the part of the walk where I usually gain speed (this was good as I had begun to worry that I would not make the last bergbahn down for the day – suddenly I was back in control and confident that the Tramp would not be worried that his dinner would be unduly late owing to the Trampess taking 2 hours instead of 5 minutes to make it to the car!). But things turned rather more eventful than planned as your trampess reached a previously non-existent gate with a lot of cows huddled near it on the other side. Not good, but not necessarily bad. I opened the gate, let myself in, and shut it again and proceeded to go along the mountain side of the herd (the other side was fenced with barbed wire, a sleep incline down, and all things considered probably the less wise option).
As I was in the middle of the herd working my way to the far side, trying to keep to the path, one ornery bull decided he didn’t much like me in the midst of his cows – and perhaps more importantly, calves. He turned and gave me a threatening look. Not best pleased but trying my best not to look intimidated by a creature several times my weight, with hooves and horns, and not more than a foot away, I more or less told him to move on and tried to shoo him away (with my superior Nordic walking sticks – not that I hit him or poked him – this was just meant to be a gentle indication of the way he should move). He nudged me (I admit I took it personally) and then lowered his head, in that way that bulls do, and pushed his horns toward me. Aarrggghhh, your trampess has crossed paths with many a cow and young bull, one time dressed in bright red and significantly pregnant, but without fear, and never arousing more than faint curiosity, but this was quite different! I pushed him away sucking in my tummy (the idea of being impaled on a bull’s horns as a kind of bucolic martyrdom is not my idea of an elegant death). He tried again. I tried to scramble up the hill. No dice: too steep, too soft, no footholds, no roots to grab, no rocks, nothing.
Finally I decided on a different tact: to retreat, walk along the outside of the barbed wire (on the downward slope) and then find a place, farther along, where I could crawl under (not fun with the ground full of mud and soft cow pats but the backpack would protect me from the barbed wire as long as I didn’t get stuck). Of course as I started my marine training belly crawl, the cows all decided they were interested and started coming my way. As it turned out, this was not an easy manoeuvre what with being up hill and under barbed wire, so your trampess was not setting world records on making the distance quickly. Once again, a change of plan: to retreat to the gate and try again the conventional way since the cows were no longer in a huddle there and the chance of passing easily was – how shall I say, more likely to be normal.
Well blow me if as I was half way through the herd one calf didn’t start licking my leg and the bloody bull didn’t start taking an unseemly interest again. So a few more times with the head down and the horns in my direction and a few more times my pushing him away (feeling just a touch vulnerable at this point what with cows on all sides of me). Nothing was working. He was determined; your trampess was trapped. Escape was the only answer: to try to get up the hill once more was the only way. Of course, the past is always the best predictor of the future and your trampess kept slipping down (one does not need to mention that her language was not the purest at this point) but finally got a small foothold, just enough to throw herself in the direction of a strong root which she grabbed to advantage and hoisted herself up with.
Safe at last, I managed to walk along the very steep pasture until I was in well in advance of the herd (no chances this time that the curious would block my forward movement) and then I ran back down to the path. By now I had lost considerable and valuable time and realised I had to hoof it to make the bergbahn. Adrenalin was on my side of course, and as I got to just beneath the station (not quite at full VO2 max) I could see the bb was in place and ready to depart; I saw a man just about to enter and waved frantically with my sticks. Luckily he saw me and screamed down if anyone was behind me. I said I was alone and steamed ahead. They waited – hurrah!!! I was of course rather muddy and dishevelled, so explained I had had an encounter with a bull which had slowed me up. Much laughter. But hey, your trampess is alive and here to tell the tale. I was a bit of a sight in the supermarket (shopping for supper could not be put off until your trampess had been home and changed – stores close early here; Austria is still a God-fearing country and the stores close at night and are never open on Sunday) and my seat in the Smart car is now on the disgraceful side. I did wash most of the mud and cow dung off my legs and shoes with the outdoor hose, but I have to wait for a shower until the tramp can off load the dirty water tank (which he is loathe to do while the neighbours are all having drinks in the afternoon sun!). Your trampess will wait, but she is not holding her breath!
Not that your trampess has extraordinary adventures just for your benefit, or because ordinary life doesn’t provide enough entertainment, but sometimes it just happens, and lately it seems to be happening more than enough. Your trampess has just come back from being gored by a bull (well, let me clarify, he had his head down and shoved his horns toward me several times. We did touch but I used my hands to good effect so the horns never penetrated my flesh).
Your trampess has always been quite content passing through fields of cattle in the mountains – after all they are basically domestic creatures and used to being man handled. Even my earliest encounter with a cow at close quarters, when I was about 3, my great Aunt Ethel was considerably older, and the cow was somewhere in between, was only a cause for much amusement on my Aunt Ethel’s side, the result of which is that I remember it with laughter even now (she asked me if I would like to milk a cow; being 3, happy around animals and curious, I, of course, replied in the affirmative. She showed me what to do; I grabbed the cows teats and squeezed; nothing happened; Aunt Ethel let out the most adorable peel of laughter and took over the milking; I watched in wonder).
The recent encounter that has led your trampess to committing it to paper was not of the same kind. The tramp was having a short hike to the middle station but recommended that the trampess head up to the top of Baumgarten on her own. It was such a lovely day and a pity to let it go to waste, besides after 3 weeks of decadence in London it was important to get the old hind side up a mountain for as long and as frequently as possible in order to keep evening gown fit. So, five fingers on the feet and backpack on the back, off your trampess set. Apart from meeting too many trucks, cars and tractors on the way (while a hiking route the path also provides access for farmers to the higher barns and occasionally one meets the odd vehicle – today’s encounters were excessive). Once above WildMoosAlpe, the path was once again clear, and all the tree felling that had been the bane of my existence in April was now over. That did not mean peace though.
I walked along the path, on the part of the walk where I usually gain speed (this was good as I had begun to worry that I would not make the last bergbahn down for the day – suddenly I was back in control and confident that the Tramp would not be worried that his dinner would be unduly late owing to the Trampess taking 2 hours instead of 5 minutes to make it to the car!). But things turned rather more eventful than planned as your trampess reached a previously non-existent gate with a lot of cows huddled near it on the other side. Not good, but not necessarily bad. I opened the gate, let myself in, and shut it again and proceeded to go along the mountain side of the herd (the other side was fenced with barbed wire, a sleep incline down, and all things considered probably the less wise option).
As I was in the middle of the herd working my way to the far side, trying to keep to the path, one ornery bull decided he didn’t much like me in the midst of his cows – and perhaps more importantly, calves. He turned and gave me a threatening look. Not best pleased but trying my best not to look intimidated by a creature several times my weight, with hooves and horns, and not more than a foot away, I more or less told him to move on and tried to shoo him away (with my superior Nordic walking sticks – not that I hit him or poked him – this was just meant to be a gentle indication of the way he should move). He nudged me (I admit I took it personally) and then lowered his head, in that way that bulls do, and pushed his horns toward me. Aarrggghhh, your trampess has crossed paths with many a cow and young bull, one time dressed in bright red and significantly pregnant, but without fear, and never arousing more than faint curiosity, but this was quite different! I pushed him away sucking in my tummy (the idea of being impaled on a bull’s horns as a kind of bucolic martyrdom is not my idea of an elegant death). He tried again. I tried to scramble up the hill. No dice: too steep, too soft, no footholds, no roots to grab, no rocks, nothing.
Finally I decided on a different tact: to retreat, walk along the outside of the barbed wire (on the downward slope) and then find a place, farther along, where I could crawl under (not fun with the ground full of mud and soft cow pats but the backpack would protect me from the barbed wire as long as I didn’t get stuck). Of course as I started my marine training belly crawl, the cows all decided they were interested and started coming my way. As it turned out, this was not an easy manoeuvre what with being up hill and under barbed wire, so your trampess was not setting world records on making the distance quickly. Once again, a change of plan: to retreat to the gate and try again the conventional way since the cows were no longer in a huddle there and the chance of passing easily was – how shall I say, more likely to be normal.
Well blow me if as I was half way through the herd one calf didn’t start licking my leg and the bloody bull didn’t start taking an unseemly interest again. So a few more times with the head down and the horns in my direction and a few more times my pushing him away (feeling just a touch vulnerable at this point what with cows on all sides of me). Nothing was working. He was determined; your trampess was trapped. Escape was the only answer: to try to get up the hill once more was the only way. Of course, the past is always the best predictor of the future and your trampess kept slipping down (one does not need to mention that her language was not the purest at this point) but finally got a small foothold, just enough to throw herself in the direction of a strong root which she grabbed to advantage and hoisted herself up with.
Safe at last, I managed to walk along the very steep pasture until I was in well in advance of the herd (no chances this time that the curious would block my forward movement) and then I ran back down to the path. By now I had lost considerable and valuable time and realised I had to hoof it to make the bergbahn. Adrenalin was on my side of course, and as I got to just beneath the station (not quite at full VO2 max) I could see the bb was in place and ready to depart; I saw a man just about to enter and waved frantically with my sticks. Luckily he saw me and screamed down if anyone was behind me. I said I was alone and steamed ahead. They waited – hurrah!!! I was of course rather muddy and dishevelled, so explained I had had an encounter with a bull which had slowed me up. Much laughter. But hey, your trampess is alive and here to tell the tale. I was a bit of a sight in the supermarket (shopping for supper could not be put off until your trampess had been home and changed – stores close early here; Austria is still a God-fearing country and the stores close at night and are never open on Sunday) and my seat in the Smart car is now on the disgraceful side. I did wash most of the mud and cow dung off my legs and shoes with the outdoor hose, but I have to wait for a shower until the tramp can off load the dirty water tank (which he is loathe to do while the neighbours are all having drinks in the afternoon sun!). Your trampess will wait, but she is not holding her breath!
Tuesday, 17 May 2011
Five Finger Barefoot Hiking Shoes – or How To Make Friends in the Alps
Since your trampess does not write of her adventures at home (now split between London and Miami Beach as those who remember the tramp’s “simplification” of their life into 3 parts from one, the third being nomadic), you are unaware of the revolution that has gone on in the trampess’s choice of footwear. This is, I hasten to add, not a foot revolution that affects the finer shoes in life, which the trampess remains as much addicted to as any red blooded American or European female. No, no I speak of functional footwear (the kind that goes with wicking hiking clothes, or the latest running shorts). And just as there has been a revolution in athletic wear (merino wool notwithstanding), so has there been in footwear. It all comes down to Kenyans and barefoot running. It seems that it is unnatural for man (or any running animal) to run on anything but the forefront of the foot. But running shoes, which are bigger and bulkier than ever, have been building support and additional cushioning for the heels. Why? To reduce the impact of full weight landing on the heels which happens as runners try to increase speed by lengthening their stride. While all this additional shoe protects the heel, it doesn’t change the way the muscles and the joints work when the body lands heel first which is both hard on the joints and puts more strain on the small muscles (in front of the shin) instead of letting the big muscles of the calf and thigh absorb the landing. Result: shin splints and bad knees. The solution: run barefoot (try it, you can’t possibly run on your heels, you naturally run on the balls of your feet). Of course, running barefoot if you have delicate feet or don’t want to risk the dirt, broken glass and God only knows what else might be lurking on the ground, is not a very happy prospect. The solution? Five finger barefoot running shoes. And if you are hiking, five finger barefoot trekking shoes. Obvious, no?
Well, not really, but having seen the trainers at Canyon Ranch tripping around in their, it has to be said, very strange looking shoes precipitated the trampess’s curiosity and she attended the Running 101 class which explained the anatomy of running, and also put forward the case for barefoot running. After the trampess wrote up her notes and emailed them to the tramp (who was of course sitting only a few yards away such is the way communication in a modern family works), it was agreed that they would drive to south Miami in search of these miracle shoes. (It is possible to order them online but the fit is crucial and until one knows one’s size and has experimented a bit with the strange feel of multiple cloven feet, it is probably wiser to find a shop where one can try them on). The tramps came away with two pairs each (it’s a long drive and there is no point in making it twice): one for running and gym activities and one for hiking. It is important (very important) to learn to run again – slowly, by which I mean 100 yards jogging, 100 yards walking and eventually build up to sustained running. The trampess followed these instructions carefully on her first run (a morning run along the boardwalk with several other running enthusiasts and the trainer – your trampess and the trainer being the only five finger wearers in the group). Her second run was on New Year’s Day early in the morning (the tramps do not stay up on New Year’s eve and the tramp sons met up with friends who were in town for the Orange Bowl so no need for the trampess to celebrate en famille and break her early to bed routine). Not surprisingly, to the tramp sons, your trampess was the only one to turn up. So she and the trainer went together – in their barefoot shoes. The trainer, knowing that the trampess is not a wimp and had run a marathon not that long ago, decided to up the pace a bit. The trampess, not wishing to appear wimpish, gave it her all. (Tramp son 1 later pointed out, as only a Yale educated lawyer can, that 100% is not the same as 80% which is what the trainer had asked for). It was a wonderful bit of interval training for the first half hour but as we neared the end I felt a pain in my left foot. Not horrendous but definitely in the not very pleasant category. I mentioned this and we jogged slowly back. It seems I had strained the tendon. Not good. It would have healed more quickly if I had followed tramp son 4’s advice to RICE immediately (rest, ice, compress, elevate) – as all good rugby players know. Not being a good rugby player (or a rugby player at all), I thought a little ice and a little rest would be enough. Sigh, will mothers never learn to trust the wise advice of their children? Back to short intervals and a long build up!
Meanwhile back in the alps, the five finger barefoot trekking shoes do not require such careful breaking in, and your trampess assaulted her first mountain with ease, though the tramp insisted that she carry her very heavy, leather hiking boots in her backpack just in case. On the principle that the heavier the backpack is, the more calories one is likely to burn carrying it, the trampess agreed. Besides before the first hike she had not established empirically that the hiking shoes did not need a breaking in period (though the thought of changing shoes every 100 yards didn’t seem a plausible proposition and since hiking is not running it is hard to imagine what the breaking in would look like other than that). I continue to carry them just in case: coming down might be harder than going up (going uphill is a natural forefoot action, going down hill is definitely not); there could be snow at the top and the combination of socks and heavy shoes might be welcome etc etc, but so far, none of those has proved to be the case so I rely on burning extra calories as sufficient reason (of course you might argue that I am not carrying extra weight – if I were wearing the shoes I would simply be carrying the weight on my feet not on my back, but I think the fact that both shoes are on the back while one foot is always resting on the ground means that the weight of at least one shoe is extra). Psychologically of course, there is no doubt that the extra weight in the backpack surely means extra weight is being carried and is no doubt the cause of the trampess’s improving slenderness.
What I have not yet mentioned is the reaction of the natives to five finger barefoot shoes and how wearing them has improved my German and increased the number of my hiking acquaintances. (Nor have I mentioned the excitement of trying to get each toe into a separate compartment – it’s a little like trying to get babies feet into over the ankle shoes: it was always my experience that they curled up their toes and you just couldn’t get their feet into the shoes! One had to be very fast or very clever to outwit the babe. These are a little the same: one has the advantage of wanting to put the shoe on, but not necessarily the cooperation of each toe. Still after about 5 minutes of hiking the toes spread out into the shoes as though they had always wanted to be in that sort of a shoe and not any other).
People do stare; sometimes they even jump in astonishment (this usually happens in the lift down the mountain when they are idly staring at the ground and suddenly notice 10 grey toes staring at them); most ask, any shyness overcome by extreme curiosity. The universal question is (after all any shoe that dares call itself barefoot – an oxymoron if there ever was one – has to be very light: stretchy technical fabric on top, a light rubber sole with noughts and crosses on the bottom with a bit of rubber curling over up and over each toe – useful if one trips – not that one would in shoes which must be not unlike moccasins that the Indians wore – in fact I often imagine myself now in a James Fennimore Cooper novel as I hike through the woods up a mountain): but what about stones? Don’t you feel the stones? Well, as I explain in my best German, one does feel them but not in a bad way just in a sort of I know you are there but it doesn’t hurt way. Unless of course, unwittingly, one steps on a rather pointed stone just in the middle of one’s arch. (You can hear my vocabulary increasing already, can’t you?) Not pleasant but worthy of no more than a mild expletive. Of course, it is not enough to explain that stones are not the problem one might think, one has to explain why one is wearing just ostensibly crazy shoes.
The two most exciting encounters occurred at the two opposite ends of the age spectrum. On the first occasion as I was racing to make it to the lift on time (the tramp and I thought we could starting at the same time wind up on the same lift down with him going to the middle station and me to the top – while I am faster I am not that much faster – but I try at least to be only one lift, ie 30 minutes, behind) and just as I over took a mother and two children (having given a polite Gruess Gott! as I passed) I was called – plaintively even – to come back. The mother begged me to show and explain my shoes to her astonished children (who perhaps thought I was the devil or some equally forbidding modern monster). What could I do? One cannot leave children in the dark. I missed the lift (and had an espresso as a reward while waiting for the next one) but had a most engaging conversation with two very curious children. The second occasion was waiting for the lift. An older couple were occupying the bench while also waiting. The woman looked down at my shoes and exclaimed the usual, what kind of shoes are those???? As I started talking she reached down and touched my toes (not typical Germanic behaviour – I mean one expects people who speak German to behave with a certain – uh – formality which does not include touching another person’s toes!). I laughed and explained that the rubber of the soles (which I showed her – also not done in some cultures but we had clearly broken all taboos here) curves over the top of the toes no doubt to protect from stubbing in case of a stumble. By this time others arrived (the lift was due) and the whole group was now engaged in lively five finger shoe conversation (and my vocabulary increased yet again geometrically!).
The only totally po-faced encounter occurred when your trampess was walking past one of the high pasture farmers. He looked at my feet; I repeated my now oft used refrain “Funf Finger Barfuss wandern Schue” and he replied, “ja wie Tiere” and went on working. So there you have it, I am simply walking like the average animal – which is, as the five finger barefoot shoe website will tell you, exactly how I should be. Never underestimate a simple farmer’s ability to cut through to the core of a matter!
Well, not really, but having seen the trainers at Canyon Ranch tripping around in their, it has to be said, very strange looking shoes precipitated the trampess’s curiosity and she attended the Running 101 class which explained the anatomy of running, and also put forward the case for barefoot running. After the trampess wrote up her notes and emailed them to the tramp (who was of course sitting only a few yards away such is the way communication in a modern family works), it was agreed that they would drive to south Miami in search of these miracle shoes. (It is possible to order them online but the fit is crucial and until one knows one’s size and has experimented a bit with the strange feel of multiple cloven feet, it is probably wiser to find a shop where one can try them on). The tramps came away with two pairs each (it’s a long drive and there is no point in making it twice): one for running and gym activities and one for hiking. It is important (very important) to learn to run again – slowly, by which I mean 100 yards jogging, 100 yards walking and eventually build up to sustained running. The trampess followed these instructions carefully on her first run (a morning run along the boardwalk with several other running enthusiasts and the trainer – your trampess and the trainer being the only five finger wearers in the group). Her second run was on New Year’s Day early in the morning (the tramps do not stay up on New Year’s eve and the tramp sons met up with friends who were in town for the Orange Bowl so no need for the trampess to celebrate en famille and break her early to bed routine). Not surprisingly, to the tramp sons, your trampess was the only one to turn up. So she and the trainer went together – in their barefoot shoes. The trainer, knowing that the trampess is not a wimp and had run a marathon not that long ago, decided to up the pace a bit. The trampess, not wishing to appear wimpish, gave it her all. (Tramp son 1 later pointed out, as only a Yale educated lawyer can, that 100% is not the same as 80% which is what the trainer had asked for). It was a wonderful bit of interval training for the first half hour but as we neared the end I felt a pain in my left foot. Not horrendous but definitely in the not very pleasant category. I mentioned this and we jogged slowly back. It seems I had strained the tendon. Not good. It would have healed more quickly if I had followed tramp son 4’s advice to RICE immediately (rest, ice, compress, elevate) – as all good rugby players know. Not being a good rugby player (or a rugby player at all), I thought a little ice and a little rest would be enough. Sigh, will mothers never learn to trust the wise advice of their children? Back to short intervals and a long build up!
Meanwhile back in the alps, the five finger barefoot trekking shoes do not require such careful breaking in, and your trampess assaulted her first mountain with ease, though the tramp insisted that she carry her very heavy, leather hiking boots in her backpack just in case. On the principle that the heavier the backpack is, the more calories one is likely to burn carrying it, the trampess agreed. Besides before the first hike she had not established empirically that the hiking shoes did not need a breaking in period (though the thought of changing shoes every 100 yards didn’t seem a plausible proposition and since hiking is not running it is hard to imagine what the breaking in would look like other than that). I continue to carry them just in case: coming down might be harder than going up (going uphill is a natural forefoot action, going down hill is definitely not); there could be snow at the top and the combination of socks and heavy shoes might be welcome etc etc, but so far, none of those has proved to be the case so I rely on burning extra calories as sufficient reason (of course you might argue that I am not carrying extra weight – if I were wearing the shoes I would simply be carrying the weight on my feet not on my back, but I think the fact that both shoes are on the back while one foot is always resting on the ground means that the weight of at least one shoe is extra). Psychologically of course, there is no doubt that the extra weight in the backpack surely means extra weight is being carried and is no doubt the cause of the trampess’s improving slenderness.
What I have not yet mentioned is the reaction of the natives to five finger barefoot shoes and how wearing them has improved my German and increased the number of my hiking acquaintances. (Nor have I mentioned the excitement of trying to get each toe into a separate compartment – it’s a little like trying to get babies feet into over the ankle shoes: it was always my experience that they curled up their toes and you just couldn’t get their feet into the shoes! One had to be very fast or very clever to outwit the babe. These are a little the same: one has the advantage of wanting to put the shoe on, but not necessarily the cooperation of each toe. Still after about 5 minutes of hiking the toes spread out into the shoes as though they had always wanted to be in that sort of a shoe and not any other).
People do stare; sometimes they even jump in astonishment (this usually happens in the lift down the mountain when they are idly staring at the ground and suddenly notice 10 grey toes staring at them); most ask, any shyness overcome by extreme curiosity. The universal question is (after all any shoe that dares call itself barefoot – an oxymoron if there ever was one – has to be very light: stretchy technical fabric on top, a light rubber sole with noughts and crosses on the bottom with a bit of rubber curling over up and over each toe – useful if one trips – not that one would in shoes which must be not unlike moccasins that the Indians wore – in fact I often imagine myself now in a James Fennimore Cooper novel as I hike through the woods up a mountain): but what about stones? Don’t you feel the stones? Well, as I explain in my best German, one does feel them but not in a bad way just in a sort of I know you are there but it doesn’t hurt way. Unless of course, unwittingly, one steps on a rather pointed stone just in the middle of one’s arch. (You can hear my vocabulary increasing already, can’t you?) Not pleasant but worthy of no more than a mild expletive. Of course, it is not enough to explain that stones are not the problem one might think, one has to explain why one is wearing just ostensibly crazy shoes.
The two most exciting encounters occurred at the two opposite ends of the age spectrum. On the first occasion as I was racing to make it to the lift on time (the tramp and I thought we could starting at the same time wind up on the same lift down with him going to the middle station and me to the top – while I am faster I am not that much faster – but I try at least to be only one lift, ie 30 minutes, behind) and just as I over took a mother and two children (having given a polite Gruess Gott! as I passed) I was called – plaintively even – to come back. The mother begged me to show and explain my shoes to her astonished children (who perhaps thought I was the devil or some equally forbidding modern monster). What could I do? One cannot leave children in the dark. I missed the lift (and had an espresso as a reward while waiting for the next one) but had a most engaging conversation with two very curious children. The second occasion was waiting for the lift. An older couple were occupying the bench while also waiting. The woman looked down at my shoes and exclaimed the usual, what kind of shoes are those???? As I started talking she reached down and touched my toes (not typical Germanic behaviour – I mean one expects people who speak German to behave with a certain – uh – formality which does not include touching another person’s toes!). I laughed and explained that the rubber of the soles (which I showed her – also not done in some cultures but we had clearly broken all taboos here) curves over the top of the toes no doubt to protect from stubbing in case of a stumble. By this time others arrived (the lift was due) and the whole group was now engaged in lively five finger shoe conversation (and my vocabulary increased yet again geometrically!).
The only totally po-faced encounter occurred when your trampess was walking past one of the high pasture farmers. He looked at my feet; I repeated my now oft used refrain “Funf Finger Barfuss wandern Schue” and he replied, “ja wie Tiere” and went on working. So there you have it, I am simply walking like the average animal – which is, as the five finger barefoot shoe website will tell you, exactly how I should be. Never underestimate a simple farmer’s ability to cut through to the core of a matter!
Thursday, 12 May 2011
A Sleeper in Cologne and at Long Last – the Alps!
The original plan was to go back to the Ludwig Museum (outstanding building, important German expressionist paintings) but your trampess read in her guide book that it was only recently that the collections of the Ludwig family and Ferdinand Franz Wallraf had been separated that that each was now in its own museum. The Wallraf-Richartz-Musuem (Richartz having funded the first building) was in a new building finished in 2001. If the Ludwig Museum merits a visit the WRM merits a dedicated journey - quite possibly the best museum of its kind your trampess has ever been to. The tramps spent a full 4 hours in the museum (with a break for lunch) – while the trampess has a higher tolerance, the tramp’s normal preferred time span in a museum is 1 hour on the basis of maximum concentration, maximum benefit, and no visual fatigue. He is more than willing to return, but unlikely to stay much longer. Four hours is a statement. The hanging is superb, the explanations are interesting and on different levels (both historical and technical), the paintings are clean and well lit, the composition of each room is well conceived, the path through each floor is clear and the sequence of floors makes sense (well it is Germany – but after the gross disappointment of Hamburg . . .). Oh, and by the way every room is a different colour selected perfectly to match the period and the paintings in the room.
The tramps spent 2 hours on the first floor alone and began to wonder if they would have time to see the whole collection. On the other hand if the rest was anything like the first floor there was no question that they would stay til closing time (or later if the guards didn’t forcibly throw us out). Instead of being numbered (though they are that as well), the rooms are each titled, and while at first blush the titles may seem a little more like advertising headlines, they are in fact very apposite and enticing. The first floor (there are three) covers the Middle Ages (we spent 2 hours there!) and begins with The Invention of Art and proceeds onward. For example, the 4th gallery is Beauty as Style and has a number of crucifixions (with sub-headings such as Multimedia in the Middle Ages, and the Lead and the Extras – explaining how a great number of people, not necessarily from the period, come to surround the crucifixion, and what they represent). And on to the Baroque floor and then the 19th century floor.
The tramp was sent at the end of his 4 hours to the museum shop to find suitable gifts for the young children of the family we stay with in Austria (a really good museum almost always has a really good gift shop and this on was no exception), while the trampess dashed down to the special exhibition in the basement: Alexandre Cabanel – The Tradition of Beauty – with exhibition architecture by Christian Lacroix. What, one has to ask oneself, is exhibition architecture and what is a dress designer doing in a serious museum? Cabanel, it turns out, was the Alma Tadema of France – sumptuous paintings in a pre-Raphaelite style of ancient myths and contemporary heroes and great beauties from all ages (including, of course, Cleopatra). I raced through knowing that the tramp would be chomping at the bit. As I was about to dash out, the guard grabbed me (not the normal sort of behaviour from a museum guard, but then this is no ordinary museum) and told me I had missed a room. OMG how could I (I had hoped he hadn’t timed my whiz ‘round as he surely would have thought me the Philistine of Philistines, not realising I was beginning my fifth hour)??? I thanked him and dutifully went in the direction he pointed. I am still not sure why Lacroix was necessary (maybe he helped fund the exhibition?) but what was clear was that this was every bit as fantastic in every way as the rest of the museum, basement exhibition or no. What is impressive about the whole WRM is the total quality of content, description, and display. As the tramp related over supper that night, he looked (but really looked) at every single painting. Have you ever said that about any museum?? So it was not totally surprising that the tramp, proud of the presents he had found, also asked, somewhat sheepishly, since he is opposed to buying any books any more (as opposed to books on Kindle which he has the trampess order with abandon) if it was, please, all right to buy the catalogue - explaining that it had every picture and every wall text (all of which are in both German and perfect, literate English). Since it is not the trampess that has banned book buying, it was pretty easy to say yes especially since he wanted the English version. So all in all a stunning experience. And so stunning that there was no time for much else – some shopping was squeezed in (Cologne is an easy place to spend money and it was good that our shopping time was severely curtailed by our cultural dedication) before heading back to the WLW.
The next morning after an early breakfast, the WLW headed in total confidence torward Mellau. If there is one village we know how to reach without 5 maps, both GPS systems geared up, and the trampess on the verge of a nervous breakdown, it is Mellau. So with Parsifal in our headphones we set off. (Please note the perfect choice of music for the pre-Easter rush to the mountains.) The arrival was as easy and happy as anticipated. Presents were pulled out the bag from the WRM for the children (which they immediately – and most satisfyingly – began to play with) and a bottle of wine was handed over to our friends; another was opened and the prospect of long days in the mountains and no more struggles with maps or GPS systems or unplanned factory visits lay before us. Of course, nothing but nothing ever goes as smoothly as one hopes and the first small obstacle thrown in our path (others were to follow) was that the local lift does not begin to operate until the 1st of June. But happily, the new lift (which last summer was closed for much needed refurbishment) in Bezau is already zooming up and down the mountain (what determines the different opening dates for the spring season of two villages approximately 2 miles apart? Do they have different ski seasons as well??? Did they simply agree that the new lift in Bezau was so expensive that it should have a clear 2 months of revenue before neighbouring villages with higher peaks started to compete in the supply of lifts????). While the lift was running in Bezau it was not yet the official spring season – so a trip from the top of Baumgarten down to the parking lot (my daily hike is to the top station) is 10 euros!!! From the middle station, the cost is a mere (!) 5 euros (the tramp’s preferred hike). Since a season ticket is 40 euros and goes until October, this is clearly hiking robbery! A family of about 10 (from grandparents to grandchildren) were a little stunned when they got on at the middle station and said they wanted to ride to the top, but were told they had to ride down to the bottom to buy full tickets for the journey (so much for encouraging exercise in the great outdoors! Or maybe it is designed to encourage exercise – hike up, hike down, attain total fatigue and maximum calorie outlay.) Luckily extravagance was mitigated by a 10 point ticket (effectively giving a 20% discount) and a long weekend in Zurich for a family wedding! But not before a few adventures.
The tramps spent 2 hours on the first floor alone and began to wonder if they would have time to see the whole collection. On the other hand if the rest was anything like the first floor there was no question that they would stay til closing time (or later if the guards didn’t forcibly throw us out). Instead of being numbered (though they are that as well), the rooms are each titled, and while at first blush the titles may seem a little more like advertising headlines, they are in fact very apposite and enticing. The first floor (there are three) covers the Middle Ages (we spent 2 hours there!) and begins with The Invention of Art and proceeds onward. For example, the 4th gallery is Beauty as Style and has a number of crucifixions (with sub-headings such as Multimedia in the Middle Ages, and the Lead and the Extras – explaining how a great number of people, not necessarily from the period, come to surround the crucifixion, and what they represent). And on to the Baroque floor and then the 19th century floor.
The tramp was sent at the end of his 4 hours to the museum shop to find suitable gifts for the young children of the family we stay with in Austria (a really good museum almost always has a really good gift shop and this on was no exception), while the trampess dashed down to the special exhibition in the basement: Alexandre Cabanel – The Tradition of Beauty – with exhibition architecture by Christian Lacroix. What, one has to ask oneself, is exhibition architecture and what is a dress designer doing in a serious museum? Cabanel, it turns out, was the Alma Tadema of France – sumptuous paintings in a pre-Raphaelite style of ancient myths and contemporary heroes and great beauties from all ages (including, of course, Cleopatra). I raced through knowing that the tramp would be chomping at the bit. As I was about to dash out, the guard grabbed me (not the normal sort of behaviour from a museum guard, but then this is no ordinary museum) and told me I had missed a room. OMG how could I (I had hoped he hadn’t timed my whiz ‘round as he surely would have thought me the Philistine of Philistines, not realising I was beginning my fifth hour)??? I thanked him and dutifully went in the direction he pointed. I am still not sure why Lacroix was necessary (maybe he helped fund the exhibition?) but what was clear was that this was every bit as fantastic in every way as the rest of the museum, basement exhibition or no. What is impressive about the whole WRM is the total quality of content, description, and display. As the tramp related over supper that night, he looked (but really looked) at every single painting. Have you ever said that about any museum?? So it was not totally surprising that the tramp, proud of the presents he had found, also asked, somewhat sheepishly, since he is opposed to buying any books any more (as opposed to books on Kindle which he has the trampess order with abandon) if it was, please, all right to buy the catalogue - explaining that it had every picture and every wall text (all of which are in both German and perfect, literate English). Since it is not the trampess that has banned book buying, it was pretty easy to say yes especially since he wanted the English version. So all in all a stunning experience. And so stunning that there was no time for much else – some shopping was squeezed in (Cologne is an easy place to spend money and it was good that our shopping time was severely curtailed by our cultural dedication) before heading back to the WLW.
The next morning after an early breakfast, the WLW headed in total confidence torward Mellau. If there is one village we know how to reach without 5 maps, both GPS systems geared up, and the trampess on the verge of a nervous breakdown, it is Mellau. So with Parsifal in our headphones we set off. (Please note the perfect choice of music for the pre-Easter rush to the mountains.) The arrival was as easy and happy as anticipated. Presents were pulled out the bag from the WRM for the children (which they immediately – and most satisfyingly – began to play with) and a bottle of wine was handed over to our friends; another was opened and the prospect of long days in the mountains and no more struggles with maps or GPS systems or unplanned factory visits lay before us. Of course, nothing but nothing ever goes as smoothly as one hopes and the first small obstacle thrown in our path (others were to follow) was that the local lift does not begin to operate until the 1st of June. But happily, the new lift (which last summer was closed for much needed refurbishment) in Bezau is already zooming up and down the mountain (what determines the different opening dates for the spring season of two villages approximately 2 miles apart? Do they have different ski seasons as well??? Did they simply agree that the new lift in Bezau was so expensive that it should have a clear 2 months of revenue before neighbouring villages with higher peaks started to compete in the supply of lifts????). While the lift was running in Bezau it was not yet the official spring season – so a trip from the top of Baumgarten down to the parking lot (my daily hike is to the top station) is 10 euros!!! From the middle station, the cost is a mere (!) 5 euros (the tramp’s preferred hike). Since a season ticket is 40 euros and goes until October, this is clearly hiking robbery! A family of about 10 (from grandparents to grandchildren) were a little stunned when they got on at the middle station and said they wanted to ride to the top, but were told they had to ride down to the bottom to buy full tickets for the journey (so much for encouraging exercise in the great outdoors! Or maybe it is designed to encourage exercise – hike up, hike down, attain total fatigue and maximum calorie outlay.) Luckily extravagance was mitigated by a 10 point ticket (effectively giving a 20% discount) and a long weekend in Zurich for a family wedding! But not before a few adventures.
Wednesday, 20 April 2011
Hamburg, Factory, Aachen, Factory
Do you notice a pattern here? Is it the just-when-I-thought-things-couldn’t-get any-worse,-they-did pattern? If that’s what you read into today’s chapter heading, you are right. But every cloud has a silver lining – or at least is counterbalanced by something that goes right for a change. And I shall continue to hold onto that thought. No matter what. Really.
The factory near Luebeck did a fine job (the garage door was shut with only a small gap – not enough to allow the Smart to escape or anyone else to enter) and at a reasonable price – cash of course but still reasonable. The trampess handed over all her funds to the tramp and he returned with change. Since plastic is so prevalent, funds are only kept for small treats like a coffee on the hoof or alternatively emergencies. This was clearly in the latter, and rather more expensive than a coffee, category. Still, we headed back towards the mother factory aiming to get there before dinner or at least before bedtime. As we passed the exit to Hamburg the tramp suggested that maybe we should actually spend the night there, go the next day to the Kunsthalle, and then drive on, after all the new door would not be ready for some time (did I mention the tramp offered to let me go back to London while we waited for it? A noble gesture since he intends to wait at the factory) – probably 2 weeks – and the back was secure enough to allow us to park with garage door against the wall in the harbour parking place we didn’t get into only a few days ago. It seemed a sensible suggestion so once more the trampess found herself on her knees changing the destination on the navigation system as the tramp took the next exit and reversed direction. This time all went well, there was plenty of space, we parked just as the tramp wished and awaited the next day.
It was grey and miserable – the perfect day for a museum. The museum, naturally enough, was a very long hike away (much closer to our former, free parking place, but the harbour was more scenic and on a weekday an altogether better place to be). After walking past a very modern building and across what looked like a truncated pyramid we arrived at what should have been, according to my EyeWitness guide, the main entrance to the Kunsthalle. There were people inside, the carved letters over the portal said Kunsthalle, but the door did not budge. A kindly face appeared at the window next to the door; the young man pointed to the modern, rather bureaucratic building we had just passed (no signs, no banners, no seals) and indicated we should go there. We did. It was indeed the new main entrance to the Kunsthalle. We bought tickets (reduced price for seniors on Fridays – it was not Friday - including Kaffee und Kuechen but otherwise no concessions; clearly the Austrians are not yet worried about too many sweets in the diet!). Then we were directed to the basement and told this was the way to cross over to the main building. They didn’t mention that we would be walking through major building/installation works on the way. Once there the logistics of getting to the galleries we were particularly interested in were just as tortured. And every time we needed to alter course, we had to walk through the café and pass the Kuechen! Not so pleasant for those trying to enjoy their treat, and rather crazy from out point of view (did they seriously think I would let the tramp have cake in the middle of the morning???). Furthermore, the paintings were badly hung and badly organised – jewels were hard to find and no special attention was drawn to them. The trampess often had to call an impatient tramp’s attention to something hidden and wonderful. What was the director thinking? Does he/she exit? Does he want people to enjoy the museum? More is the pity because there were many gems in the collection, including many wonderful German paintings (Lovis Corinth in particular but also the Maxes Beckmann and Liebermann other members of the underrated Berlin Secessionist school) as well as rather better know examples of French and Italian painters – this could be an outstanding museum but sadly it is not. More money should have been spent on re-organising and displaying the existing works than on building an expensive, but not beautiful, modern building (the truncated pyramid which covered the cross over between the buildings was solid, ugly and had nothing of the inspiration – or light - of the IMPei pyramids at the Louvre) to display works of questionable interest. The paintings were worth the visit, but the experience was not uplifting, sadly matching the grey, rainy day.
The long walk back to the harbour included a walk through the old part of Hamburg, including the Rathausplatz. Here the blend of old and new architecture works extraordinarily well and the tramp stopped several times to photograph particularly well-conceived modern insertions into the gothic setting. But our attempt to enter the major cathedral was frustrated by closure for a christening so we proceeded back to the harbour and a late lunch. Eager to move on before dusk, we set sail once again in the direction of the mother lode. And there we stayed for 3 more days. Happily the repair went much better than expected, and we have a fully functioning, if somewhat less than beautiful, garage door. The Smart is no longer locked in with no hope of escape and the tramps can go back on the road, fully equipped with all pistons firing, so to speak. And not just all pistons, but the battery as well. It seems all our electrical problems (have I mentioned needing to turn on the generator to make a cup of coffee? Or flush the loo? clearly superior German engineering did not intend that this should not happen) were due to the fact that the battery was not fully charged and the generator not fully connected. The combination was lethal. The tramp’s detailed recording of data had paid off – it was clear that he was not daft, something was wrong. Battery replaced, generator fully hooked up, we really are road worthy! On to Aachen!
With more attention to navigation systems (GPS coordinates and address), destinations, and multiple maps, the tramps set off. It has to be said that the trampess was now in a state of total trepidation since the tramp expects serious navigation from her – just when she thought the navi systems had taken over! As we approached Aachen, the tramp decided that the stellplatz he had chosen was perhaps not so ideal but we could happily park in the car park of the Real supermarket we just spotted (end of trauma for trampess – at least for awhile). Other trucks were doing the same so it seemed safe enough. The tramp wisely unloaded the Smart so as not to be wedged in and unable to release her. After a major visit to the Real to stock up on provisions, the tramps had lunch and then drove into Aachen (one of those multi-fold Falk plans on the trampess’s lap to ensure our perfect arrival – it has to be said that the voice was rather better at guiding us in but the trampess tried to keep up and generally was not surprised when we reached our destination). We headed straight to the cathedral built for Charlemagne (or Karl der Grosse if you are German, as the locals obviously are) where his throne stands (you will, of course, remember that he was crowned emperor in 800 at which time Aachen became the capital of the Holy Roman Empire) and his remains lie in a golden coffer behind the altar (a simple stone cube, faced in sheet gold in 1020 thanks to the magnanimity of Heinrich II). The old Karl was a man of the world and lived to a great old age (I won’t mention the 3 wives – he outlived the first two - or the several mistresses). As a great traveller, he had seen much and had his own ideas of how to build a church. His model was the Byzantine octagon, and the size was modest, the decoration simple. Not a showy emperor (where have we gone wrong??). The cathedral has since been expanded to include a high gothic nave with stained glass windows, a tower and a dome over the original church. The octagonal area with two levels of arches remains the principal seating for the congregation, but the decoration is now dark but glittering mosaics modelled on San Vitale in Ravenna. It is, dear reader, quite stunning. A small, simple jewel. Of course, with the luck the tramps have been having, you would not be remotely surprised to find that the best parts (the Ambo, the shrine with K der G’s remains and the Schatzkammer with the Lotharkreuz and sarcophagus of Proserpina – thought to be the original sarcophagus of KdG until his canonisation when the remains were transferred to the gold shrine) were closed except by guided tours the last one of which had only just departed (it being a half day). We were encouraged to return.
Of course, we did but as the first tour was at 11 and the Couven museum opened at 10, that took priority: a small but rather interesting museum perfectly illustrating the life of an upper middleclass merchant of the 18th century. An apothecary was on the ground floor and contained instruments, weights and measures, and jars. The rest of the building was the home – full of the interests and status symbols of the day: much porcelain imported from China, some fine examples of the first German porcelain by the man who discovered the process (and later, if I am not mistaken, founded the Meissen factory), stunning tiles not just from Holland but from the Middle East and southern Europe as well; numerous paintings of varying degrees of quality and one room of Biedermeier furniture. My very favourite thing of all was a magnificent pagoda chandelier, delicate, colourful and quite unlike anything I had every seen. A small thing, but totally appropriate for a house of the haute bourgeoisie, it was warm inside! (given the cold and rainy day outside, this was a more than a small blessing). From there it was a short walk to the first tour of the cathedral, which meant it was in German (one a day at 2:30, is in English). Trust the trampess’s luck – again - (normally quite good but clearly the tramps are not on a lucky streak) this particular guide spoke the fastest and most complex German she has ever heard; it reminded her of the time she heard Henry Kissinger give an after dinner speech to a small group following a conference on economics and world politics. He had been told, he said, to speak for about 20 minutes on the state of the world and how he saw the next 25 years unfolding (would anyone else be asked to do so much in so little time?). He paused, and then said, “For those of you who know might native tongue, that is about 2 sentences.” It turned out to be more. The tramp, of course, had no difficulty with our German guide, but the trampess had to rely on her eyes, her college memory, and her previous day’s reading. Notwithstanding the impediments, the tour was more than worth it. And KdG’s throne, like his church, was simple – but convincingly royal.
Rushing on to the Schatzkammer on her own (the tramp is rather less interested in chalices and reliquaries), leaving the him to go to a bookstore he had discovered and which did a particularly good number in maps, the trampess was left to explore the treasury. To their credit, the holy fathers of the cathedral were modest in their attributions: many of the relics were “said to be”; these numbered: the hunting horn made from an elephant’s tusk of KdG, his sabre, a piece of Christ’s belt (!), a piece of the rope used in His flagellation (!!), and the bones of many saints. There were also more believable relics and treasures: Margaret of York’s crown, a rather important Cornish chest, and, of course, the promised Lothar cross and Proserpina’s sarcophagus. All beautifully, simply but dramatically displayed (Hamburg take note).
After lunch in a reasonable Thai restaurant (not the Blue Elephant but tolerable – and with an unusually sullen Thai waitress – the trampess had thought this an oxymoron but was sadly proved wrong), the tramps proceeded to the Rathaus which was originally connected to the cathedral and all part of the original Pfalz. The top floor comprised a huge mediaeval hall with paintings and frescoes of KdG’s many triumphs. Downstairs was rather more grand, in the ornate sense of the word, and included two huge, full length portraits of Napoleon and Josephine (not exactly heroes in Germany so one has to ask . . .). After a brief walk around town (a longer one had been taken that morning before anything was open), the tramps went back to the WLW and prepared for take off – the tramp’s goal was Cologne.
And a worthy goal it was, too. But sadly, one which was not achieved, owing to a not so brief encounter with another vehicle after the first intersection from our ever so convenient parking place. As was now SOP the trampess was armed with multiple maps (exiting Aachen, big picture motorway maps, and multiple maps for entering Cologne – her only fear, since the bus parking place we had found in Cologne before moving on to Aachen can only be entered from one direction – approaching from the other direction requires a u-turn that the WLW simply cannot make – and besides u-turns are out of favour at the moment for reasons that do not require stating). The departure was dead simple: exit car park, proceed to intersection (a few hundred metres down the road), turn left and immediately move into the right lane for entering the motorway 200 metres down the road. After that, a clear way to Cologne via motorway and then anxiety for the trampess as to whether she and the voice would agree on the approach post motorway. (I believe I left out any mention of our visit to St. Augustin – wonderful in all respects – and Cologne, before Aachen – visit wonderful, navigation disastrous; no doubt the anxieties of trying to keep up with a very large WLW heading down increasing narrower streets – think of a lobster trap – or a small but speedy Smart while trying to reach off road sites was more than slightly stressful and as such pushed the memory into deep, distant, please-don’t remind-me,-just-memorise-every-street-in-central-Cologne,-know-where-you-are-at-all-times-and-save-your-marriage mode).
The tramp, it must said at the outset, is an outstandingly good driver (after all he did have to drive a 40 tonne articulated lorry in reverse around a corner and then proceed 200 metres, still in reverse, along the road without losing control of the rear 20 tonnes as one small part of getting his HGV licence in Germany), so you must assume, and particularly since such a large vehicle as the WLW cannot speedily turn left, that the tramp looked in all directions once he had a left turn green light before turning into the intersection and moving into the right lane (which is almost inevitable even if going straight since the WLW cannot possible move straight away into the left lane even if she wanted to – she is trim but simply too large, a traditionally built WLW you might say). So the sudden crunch caused by an encounter with a small VW Polo on his right flank slightly behind the front of our beloved WLW (who by this time could be excused for feeling a bit battered) was, to say the least, startling. She was not in any of the tramp’s mirrors or tv cameras (there are 6) and whether she was trying to overtake us on the right or simply sneaking through the left hand turn light herself before it turned red, may never be known.
What is known is that her front bumper and our front wheel cover were interlocked in such a way that for either vehicle to move forward would cause considerably more damage to both. Normally, one would exit the vehicle, exchange insurance details and move on. A bit difficult in the tramp’s case since the only door was blocked by her car, (it should be clear from this that any collisions should only take place on the left side, anything else is just too complicated). Jumping out of the window was perhaps possible, though very awkward and even then probably only with a rope, but re-entering would not be. Plus there was the complication of how to move on without further damage. iPhones and cameras came out. The trampess hung suspended out the front side window and photographed the entwined bumper. She was then instructed by the tramp to photograph the view from the driver’s side (another out of the window effort) back to the intersection to show that the angle of entry from the intersection made his intentions (we won’t even mention the perfect signalling) transparent to anyone who cared to look. Police were summoned but did not appear for over an hour. Meanwhile the intersection was well and truly blocked – at least for large vehicles; cars drove along the central island to pass on the main road and on the side road cars and some very skilled trucks could pass on the right entry slip road that we were not completely blocking (the skill of truck drivers is not to be underestimated and to say that an inch is as good as a mile when applied to a very long vehicle significantly understates what such a manoeuvre requires – as well as a large intake of breath on the trampess’s part). With neither party willing to admit guilt, and with the problem of the interlocking, neither of us moved.
An off-duty policeman was the first on the scene. Not of the same polite nature (perhaps owing the great inconvenience being caused to other drivers, him included) he merely screamed at us all to pull up and off to the side of the road to clear the intersection. The tramp politely asked if he would mind photographing the vehicles from the front (something which you, dear reader, understand was impossible for us, trapped as we were inside the WLW) and then we would happily try to disengage. Not a chance. He drove off as quickly as possible muttering as he went. Various discussions continued between the tramp and the other driver, all suitably polite (the politeness of Germans is vastly underrated: had this been in Italy, I can assure you, as I have witnessed such things in the past, jackets would be off and fists in the air). Conversation with a bus driver trapped behind us on the other hand was less so. When the local, on-duty policeman eventually arrived, he took photos from the front (of his own volition), guided the vehicles out of their locked position, and politely (by now, you would expect no less) fined both drivers 35 euros for blocking the intersection which both (of course) accepted with good grace. As it transpires the damage was not as great as it might have been, but nonetheless required immediate attention. Another day, another factory. Let’s just say that the next factory was in a rather obscure location and the way out was no longer onto the motorway as expected. The trampess’s worst nightmare (well, let us be frank, what she had expected to be her worst nightmare, the worst having already happened) was realised, and the entry into Cologne was completely different from the agreed route. God, having been off duty for awhile, finally came back into the picture on the trampess’s side, granted her His blessing by making the route to the bus parking place relatively straight forward, not without some, ah, discussion, but without difficult and certainly without a u-turn.
The factory near Luebeck did a fine job (the garage door was shut with only a small gap – not enough to allow the Smart to escape or anyone else to enter) and at a reasonable price – cash of course but still reasonable. The trampess handed over all her funds to the tramp and he returned with change. Since plastic is so prevalent, funds are only kept for small treats like a coffee on the hoof or alternatively emergencies. This was clearly in the latter, and rather more expensive than a coffee, category. Still, we headed back towards the mother factory aiming to get there before dinner or at least before bedtime. As we passed the exit to Hamburg the tramp suggested that maybe we should actually spend the night there, go the next day to the Kunsthalle, and then drive on, after all the new door would not be ready for some time (did I mention the tramp offered to let me go back to London while we waited for it? A noble gesture since he intends to wait at the factory) – probably 2 weeks – and the back was secure enough to allow us to park with garage door against the wall in the harbour parking place we didn’t get into only a few days ago. It seemed a sensible suggestion so once more the trampess found herself on her knees changing the destination on the navigation system as the tramp took the next exit and reversed direction. This time all went well, there was plenty of space, we parked just as the tramp wished and awaited the next day.
It was grey and miserable – the perfect day for a museum. The museum, naturally enough, was a very long hike away (much closer to our former, free parking place, but the harbour was more scenic and on a weekday an altogether better place to be). After walking past a very modern building and across what looked like a truncated pyramid we arrived at what should have been, according to my EyeWitness guide, the main entrance to the Kunsthalle. There were people inside, the carved letters over the portal said Kunsthalle, but the door did not budge. A kindly face appeared at the window next to the door; the young man pointed to the modern, rather bureaucratic building we had just passed (no signs, no banners, no seals) and indicated we should go there. We did. It was indeed the new main entrance to the Kunsthalle. We bought tickets (reduced price for seniors on Fridays – it was not Friday - including Kaffee und Kuechen but otherwise no concessions; clearly the Austrians are not yet worried about too many sweets in the diet!). Then we were directed to the basement and told this was the way to cross over to the main building. They didn’t mention that we would be walking through major building/installation works on the way. Once there the logistics of getting to the galleries we were particularly interested in were just as tortured. And every time we needed to alter course, we had to walk through the café and pass the Kuechen! Not so pleasant for those trying to enjoy their treat, and rather crazy from out point of view (did they seriously think I would let the tramp have cake in the middle of the morning???). Furthermore, the paintings were badly hung and badly organised – jewels were hard to find and no special attention was drawn to them. The trampess often had to call an impatient tramp’s attention to something hidden and wonderful. What was the director thinking? Does he/she exit? Does he want people to enjoy the museum? More is the pity because there were many gems in the collection, including many wonderful German paintings (Lovis Corinth in particular but also the Maxes Beckmann and Liebermann other members of the underrated Berlin Secessionist school) as well as rather better know examples of French and Italian painters – this could be an outstanding museum but sadly it is not. More money should have been spent on re-organising and displaying the existing works than on building an expensive, but not beautiful, modern building (the truncated pyramid which covered the cross over between the buildings was solid, ugly and had nothing of the inspiration – or light - of the IMPei pyramids at the Louvre) to display works of questionable interest. The paintings were worth the visit, but the experience was not uplifting, sadly matching the grey, rainy day.
The long walk back to the harbour included a walk through the old part of Hamburg, including the Rathausplatz. Here the blend of old and new architecture works extraordinarily well and the tramp stopped several times to photograph particularly well-conceived modern insertions into the gothic setting. But our attempt to enter the major cathedral was frustrated by closure for a christening so we proceeded back to the harbour and a late lunch. Eager to move on before dusk, we set sail once again in the direction of the mother lode. And there we stayed for 3 more days. Happily the repair went much better than expected, and we have a fully functioning, if somewhat less than beautiful, garage door. The Smart is no longer locked in with no hope of escape and the tramps can go back on the road, fully equipped with all pistons firing, so to speak. And not just all pistons, but the battery as well. It seems all our electrical problems (have I mentioned needing to turn on the generator to make a cup of coffee? Or flush the loo? clearly superior German engineering did not intend that this should not happen) were due to the fact that the battery was not fully charged and the generator not fully connected. The combination was lethal. The tramp’s detailed recording of data had paid off – it was clear that he was not daft, something was wrong. Battery replaced, generator fully hooked up, we really are road worthy! On to Aachen!
With more attention to navigation systems (GPS coordinates and address), destinations, and multiple maps, the tramps set off. It has to be said that the trampess was now in a state of total trepidation since the tramp expects serious navigation from her – just when she thought the navi systems had taken over! As we approached Aachen, the tramp decided that the stellplatz he had chosen was perhaps not so ideal but we could happily park in the car park of the Real supermarket we just spotted (end of trauma for trampess – at least for awhile). Other trucks were doing the same so it seemed safe enough. The tramp wisely unloaded the Smart so as not to be wedged in and unable to release her. After a major visit to the Real to stock up on provisions, the tramps had lunch and then drove into Aachen (one of those multi-fold Falk plans on the trampess’s lap to ensure our perfect arrival – it has to be said that the voice was rather better at guiding us in but the trampess tried to keep up and generally was not surprised when we reached our destination). We headed straight to the cathedral built for Charlemagne (or Karl der Grosse if you are German, as the locals obviously are) where his throne stands (you will, of course, remember that he was crowned emperor in 800 at which time Aachen became the capital of the Holy Roman Empire) and his remains lie in a golden coffer behind the altar (a simple stone cube, faced in sheet gold in 1020 thanks to the magnanimity of Heinrich II). The old Karl was a man of the world and lived to a great old age (I won’t mention the 3 wives – he outlived the first two - or the several mistresses). As a great traveller, he had seen much and had his own ideas of how to build a church. His model was the Byzantine octagon, and the size was modest, the decoration simple. Not a showy emperor (where have we gone wrong??). The cathedral has since been expanded to include a high gothic nave with stained glass windows, a tower and a dome over the original church. The octagonal area with two levels of arches remains the principal seating for the congregation, but the decoration is now dark but glittering mosaics modelled on San Vitale in Ravenna. It is, dear reader, quite stunning. A small, simple jewel. Of course, with the luck the tramps have been having, you would not be remotely surprised to find that the best parts (the Ambo, the shrine with K der G’s remains and the Schatzkammer with the Lotharkreuz and sarcophagus of Proserpina – thought to be the original sarcophagus of KdG until his canonisation when the remains were transferred to the gold shrine) were closed except by guided tours the last one of which had only just departed (it being a half day). We were encouraged to return.
Of course, we did but as the first tour was at 11 and the Couven museum opened at 10, that took priority: a small but rather interesting museum perfectly illustrating the life of an upper middleclass merchant of the 18th century. An apothecary was on the ground floor and contained instruments, weights and measures, and jars. The rest of the building was the home – full of the interests and status symbols of the day: much porcelain imported from China, some fine examples of the first German porcelain by the man who discovered the process (and later, if I am not mistaken, founded the Meissen factory), stunning tiles not just from Holland but from the Middle East and southern Europe as well; numerous paintings of varying degrees of quality and one room of Biedermeier furniture. My very favourite thing of all was a magnificent pagoda chandelier, delicate, colourful and quite unlike anything I had every seen. A small thing, but totally appropriate for a house of the haute bourgeoisie, it was warm inside! (given the cold and rainy day outside, this was a more than a small blessing). From there it was a short walk to the first tour of the cathedral, which meant it was in German (one a day at 2:30, is in English). Trust the trampess’s luck – again - (normally quite good but clearly the tramps are not on a lucky streak) this particular guide spoke the fastest and most complex German she has ever heard; it reminded her of the time she heard Henry Kissinger give an after dinner speech to a small group following a conference on economics and world politics. He had been told, he said, to speak for about 20 minutes on the state of the world and how he saw the next 25 years unfolding (would anyone else be asked to do so much in so little time?). He paused, and then said, “For those of you who know might native tongue, that is about 2 sentences.” It turned out to be more. The tramp, of course, had no difficulty with our German guide, but the trampess had to rely on her eyes, her college memory, and her previous day’s reading. Notwithstanding the impediments, the tour was more than worth it. And KdG’s throne, like his church, was simple – but convincingly royal.
Rushing on to the Schatzkammer on her own (the tramp is rather less interested in chalices and reliquaries), leaving the him to go to a bookstore he had discovered and which did a particularly good number in maps, the trampess was left to explore the treasury. To their credit, the holy fathers of the cathedral were modest in their attributions: many of the relics were “said to be”; these numbered: the hunting horn made from an elephant’s tusk of KdG, his sabre, a piece of Christ’s belt (!), a piece of the rope used in His flagellation (!!), and the bones of many saints. There were also more believable relics and treasures: Margaret of York’s crown, a rather important Cornish chest, and, of course, the promised Lothar cross and Proserpina’s sarcophagus. All beautifully, simply but dramatically displayed (Hamburg take note).
After lunch in a reasonable Thai restaurant (not the Blue Elephant but tolerable – and with an unusually sullen Thai waitress – the trampess had thought this an oxymoron but was sadly proved wrong), the tramps proceeded to the Rathaus which was originally connected to the cathedral and all part of the original Pfalz. The top floor comprised a huge mediaeval hall with paintings and frescoes of KdG’s many triumphs. Downstairs was rather more grand, in the ornate sense of the word, and included two huge, full length portraits of Napoleon and Josephine (not exactly heroes in Germany so one has to ask . . .). After a brief walk around town (a longer one had been taken that morning before anything was open), the tramps went back to the WLW and prepared for take off – the tramp’s goal was Cologne.
And a worthy goal it was, too. But sadly, one which was not achieved, owing to a not so brief encounter with another vehicle after the first intersection from our ever so convenient parking place. As was now SOP the trampess was armed with multiple maps (exiting Aachen, big picture motorway maps, and multiple maps for entering Cologne – her only fear, since the bus parking place we had found in Cologne before moving on to Aachen can only be entered from one direction – approaching from the other direction requires a u-turn that the WLW simply cannot make – and besides u-turns are out of favour at the moment for reasons that do not require stating). The departure was dead simple: exit car park, proceed to intersection (a few hundred metres down the road), turn left and immediately move into the right lane for entering the motorway 200 metres down the road. After that, a clear way to Cologne via motorway and then anxiety for the trampess as to whether she and the voice would agree on the approach post motorway. (I believe I left out any mention of our visit to St. Augustin – wonderful in all respects – and Cologne, before Aachen – visit wonderful, navigation disastrous; no doubt the anxieties of trying to keep up with a very large WLW heading down increasing narrower streets – think of a lobster trap – or a small but speedy Smart while trying to reach off road sites was more than slightly stressful and as such pushed the memory into deep, distant, please-don’t remind-me,-just-memorise-every-street-in-central-Cologne,-know-where-you-are-at-all-times-and-save-your-marriage mode).
The tramp, it must said at the outset, is an outstandingly good driver (after all he did have to drive a 40 tonne articulated lorry in reverse around a corner and then proceed 200 metres, still in reverse, along the road without losing control of the rear 20 tonnes as one small part of getting his HGV licence in Germany), so you must assume, and particularly since such a large vehicle as the WLW cannot speedily turn left, that the tramp looked in all directions once he had a left turn green light before turning into the intersection and moving into the right lane (which is almost inevitable even if going straight since the WLW cannot possible move straight away into the left lane even if she wanted to – she is trim but simply too large, a traditionally built WLW you might say). So the sudden crunch caused by an encounter with a small VW Polo on his right flank slightly behind the front of our beloved WLW (who by this time could be excused for feeling a bit battered) was, to say the least, startling. She was not in any of the tramp’s mirrors or tv cameras (there are 6) and whether she was trying to overtake us on the right or simply sneaking through the left hand turn light herself before it turned red, may never be known.
What is known is that her front bumper and our front wheel cover were interlocked in such a way that for either vehicle to move forward would cause considerably more damage to both. Normally, one would exit the vehicle, exchange insurance details and move on. A bit difficult in the tramp’s case since the only door was blocked by her car, (it should be clear from this that any collisions should only take place on the left side, anything else is just too complicated). Jumping out of the window was perhaps possible, though very awkward and even then probably only with a rope, but re-entering would not be. Plus there was the complication of how to move on without further damage. iPhones and cameras came out. The trampess hung suspended out the front side window and photographed the entwined bumper. She was then instructed by the tramp to photograph the view from the driver’s side (another out of the window effort) back to the intersection to show that the angle of entry from the intersection made his intentions (we won’t even mention the perfect signalling) transparent to anyone who cared to look. Police were summoned but did not appear for over an hour. Meanwhile the intersection was well and truly blocked – at least for large vehicles; cars drove along the central island to pass on the main road and on the side road cars and some very skilled trucks could pass on the right entry slip road that we were not completely blocking (the skill of truck drivers is not to be underestimated and to say that an inch is as good as a mile when applied to a very long vehicle significantly understates what such a manoeuvre requires – as well as a large intake of breath on the trampess’s part). With neither party willing to admit guilt, and with the problem of the interlocking, neither of us moved.
An off-duty policeman was the first on the scene. Not of the same polite nature (perhaps owing the great inconvenience being caused to other drivers, him included) he merely screamed at us all to pull up and off to the side of the road to clear the intersection. The tramp politely asked if he would mind photographing the vehicles from the front (something which you, dear reader, understand was impossible for us, trapped as we were inside the WLW) and then we would happily try to disengage. Not a chance. He drove off as quickly as possible muttering as he went. Various discussions continued between the tramp and the other driver, all suitably polite (the politeness of Germans is vastly underrated: had this been in Italy, I can assure you, as I have witnessed such things in the past, jackets would be off and fists in the air). Conversation with a bus driver trapped behind us on the other hand was less so. When the local, on-duty policeman eventually arrived, he took photos from the front (of his own volition), guided the vehicles out of their locked position, and politely (by now, you would expect no less) fined both drivers 35 euros for blocking the intersection which both (of course) accepted with good grace. As it transpires the damage was not as great as it might have been, but nonetheless required immediate attention. Another day, another factory. Let’s just say that the next factory was in a rather obscure location and the way out was no longer onto the motorway as expected. The trampess’s worst nightmare (well, let us be frank, what she had expected to be her worst nightmare, the worst having already happened) was realised, and the entry into Cologne was completely different from the agreed route. God, having been off duty for awhile, finally came back into the picture on the trampess’s side, granted her His blessing by making the route to the bus parking place relatively straight forward, not without some, ah, discussion, but without difficult and certainly without a u-turn.
Friday, 8 April 2011
Hamburg, Luebeck or Bust! And . . . . the winner is . . . . Bust!
The tramp had to wait longer for the spare part than originally expected so Hamburg was delayed yet again. Just as the WLW was about to pull out of the factory and the trampess was saying her last goodbyes to the staff (we are all quite friendly now), the owner came over to find out where we were planning to stay in Hamburg. All the tramp’s careful research was rejected and a new campsite right on the harbour was suggested (much quieter and a very good location; the one in the Stellplatz guide while not a bad location sits under an U-bahn stop and is very noisy; quiet is good and harbour is even better). This change had one small consequence (which is never small but the trampess is improving) which was that the carefully debated navigation routes and entries on both navigation systems (one can never be too careful, but don’t ask me how we decide when they disagree – this is worse than being a parent) had to be re-entered. It is always more stressful to do this when the engine is running, the tramp is in the driver’s seat and the only place for the trampess is on her knees in front of the navi systems. Add a glaring sun to the mix and mistakes can happen. With relative calm, and a few deep breaths before and during, despite the prevailing conditions, the re-entries took place and the drive began. Sound having been restored, the navigation voice once more deigned to speak to us, making the trip much easier. Earphones on and Wagner on the iPod and the trip promised to be pleasant.
Sadly, on arrival in Hamburg (all three maps – from autobahn to big view of city to detailed city map – in full use with full commentary by your trampess and only an occasional comment from the tramp) at the preferred campsite which was really just a parking lot on the harbour – but conveniently located as promised - the tramps were unceremoniously chased away by the parking lot attendant: full – to the gills. I won’t mention that we passed it (with the tramp noting that these places all have gps addresses which get us within 3 meters of the destination so why didn’t we see the entrance in time???!!!) and had to make a u-turn (u-turns do not come naturally to a vehicle over 11m long) – meaning we drove a long way down the road before coming to a rather tight traffic circle where we could reverse direction (tension by this time was mounting in the cockpit) so that this rejection was doubly wounding (and time consuming).
Once more on her knees, this time in Friday night traffic (did I mention the trip took at least two hours longer than it should have owing to exceptional traffic entering the city?), the trampess re-entered the original destination. I will spare you, dear reader, the details of the journey from one campsite to the other but let’s just say that we did make it and it was relatively straight forward, though by now definitely past our supper time. As we entered the correct street (and from that vantage point saw nothing like a campsite even though the street was not so very long) the tramp re-iterated the gps location remark and decided to check out our destination on foot before committing the vehicle (one does not wish to be like a lobster in a trap – able to enter, not able to exit). Wise decision, as it was as described: under the U-bahn and very noisy. In the meantime, the tramp spotted a legal parking space (free even) behind a truck (safety in numbers) and the area being largely industrial would be quiet on the weekend. We circled the block and settled in for the night – indeed for the weekend. And while the view of the impounded by customs car lot we were next to was less than what we have become accustomed to, we were happy to call it home for the night.
Our patience and acceptance were rewarded the next day with sun. But instead of sightseeing we, of necessity, turned to finding a suitable supermarket. Not so easy in an industrial area (there were warehouses selling food to retailers but no retailers and even though the tramps eat large quantities of vegetables even we do not qualify, nor could we carry, a wholesale quantity of all that we needed). Nonetheless, after half an hour walking, and some good directions from the nearest petrol station, we arrived at a more than adequate supermarket, called Real – hopeful, no? Not, the tramp told me, an upmarket brand but the produce was actually very fresh with a huge organic selection. Your trampess was in vegan heaven. Of course the walk back to the WLW was also half an hour only this time the tramps were laden (running out of olive oil is a serious matter and one bottle will not do – not to mention the trampess’s tipple). Still, in good spirits, with the sun shining we arrived home and the trampess made lunch – 11:30 is a very early lunch but since the morning had been spent doing errands the afternoon had to be extended to allow for the purpose of being in Hamburg: to see Hamburg.
The tramp decided that such a nice day should not be spent inside a museum (along with churches always first on the trampess’s list) to which the trampess could only concur, so we set out to the harbour and the site of all the old warehouses (Speicherstadt). It has to be said when the Germans do urban renewal they don’t mess around. The old buildings are beautifully restored, the new ones are striking (more about which later) and the space for pedestrians (and bikes) is well thought out – as long as you remember that bikes are everywhere, silent and have their own lane – perish the thought that you should walk on red bricks when you should be walking on stone! There is a marvellous maritime museum, a stunning walk along the harbour with restaurants and cafes (all of which look remarkably un-German – no bier and bratwurst here). The number of cranes and building sites is unbelievable but there is enough already finished to understand just how fabulous this area will be, and indeed already is. We kept walking past the still-being-built-concert hall (the subject of much controversy as the original budget was 180m euros and is now expected to reach 500m euros), which can be visited for a small fee in a guided tour, (they have to bridge that 320m somehow) and as the tramp loves building sites as much as he loves harbours the tour was added to the to do list, and then carried on along the water until we reached the working harbour – and principal tourist area. After finally reaching our original (campsite) destination there and finding that Monday morning would be a good time to arrive, we returned to the boats offering tours of the harbour. What better to do on a sunny afternoon than take a boat around the second largest harbour in Europe (Rotterdam, in case you were wondering – please see the Turner painting in the Frick – it was big back then, as indeed was Hamburg, which in fact may be on the opposite wall). Swimming docks, shipyards, container ships coming and going, tugboats waiting for action – and we weren’t walking any more (not much more a trampess could want after about 8 miles non-stop – excluding the morning’s shopping). The long walk home was interrupted by a coffee in one of the cafes in the rather nicer part of the harbour and a determination to visit the concert hall and the maritime museum the next day.
It was good that we did the harbour tour on Saturday – being on the top deck of a boat on a grey, rainy day is not fun. Neither, as it turns out, is waiting to see if there are returns for the concert hall tour (apparently it sells out as quickly as the Ring at Covent Garden – in a few minutes the tickets for one month, three months in advance, are sold out). The trampess, who can always find good coffee in a storm, found a student hangout which had soya cappuccinos (a small miracle in German where the word soja generally produces a screwed up expression and the German equivalent of “come again?”) and silent(!) videos made by Red Bull of extreme sports (worth the detour) on the wall. The return to the model of the concert hall (where there was a brief lecture, and a number of videos plus schematics of the building) resulted in no returns so the tramps set off for the nearby maritime museum in a splendidly redone old warehouse, situated on a canal, reached by going over an old iron bridge and with a marvellous piazza in front. Nine storeys of outstanding exhibitions left your tramps panting (texting accelerated – it is a long standing rule that everyone’s pace in a museum is different, the larger the museum therefore, the greater the distance between the tramps becomes - near the end as it was well past lunchtime and the tramp wondered if the chef would ever make it to the end; she did). The possibility of lunch out had been vetoed the previous day – the tramp declared his willingness to take the trampess out but not if it meant eating the only possible (and pathetic) choice on the menu that would satisfy our vegan eating habits. The one restaurant that looked a distinct possibility was Thai (a good solution in London) but the posted menu revealed not one vegetarian (we won’t even speak of the extremist vegan) option. So, in the full understand of what is meant by an army moves on its stomach, the tramps rumbled home and lunch was finally served at about 3pm. The rules of hiking should now be applied to cities: either eat a bigger breakfast or always have chocolate and nuts in the handbag.
Monday morning meant driving to Luebeck where the tramps were to see the finest example of Backsteingothik in the cathedral (no point in staying in Hamburg to go to the museum since museums are closed on Mondays), churches (unless closed for restoration) are always open. The tramp had given the trampess a gift of the navigation system manual in English, had located a Stellplatz (with full coordinates) in Luebeck and the trampess dutifully put the gps data into the first navigation system and the address into the second (reliable but slightly more old fashioned) . It wasn’t til well beyond Luebeck on the motor way that the trampess remarked that it looked like the tramps wouldn’t be walking to the cathedral. The tramp nearly jumped out of the driver’s seat and said that we would, the spot he had chosen was only a short walk from the centre. The trampess referred to the Stellplatz guide book and read the description. The tramp took the next exit from the autobahn and pulled off the road as soon as was safely possible. It was a grim tramp that repeated the words that have hung over our heads this spring: “we have to get better at this”. Another set of coordinates was entered. And that should have been that. But it wasn’t. the command: Wenn moeglich bitte wenden (if possible make a u-turn) was for once taken literally by the tramp. The trampess could not quite believe the manoeuvre the tramp was about to perform but said nothing (John Gray says men do not like to have their driving prowess questioned) so the trampess bit her tongue (knowing that even in a more benign state the tramp might have taken offense, but certainly in the current state such a suggestion might re-open discussion about the Oder-Neisse line). No one came to a screeching halt and the WLW proceeded in the opposite direction.
You might therefore expect, dear reader, that I was reporting on the delights of Luebeck, having had our spirits restored by our visit to the cathedral and our bodies by a coffee and perhaps one, little, delicious piece of Luebecker marzipan (my Polish grandmother’s favourite – when she was worried about becoming diabetic, which she never did, she allowed herself one small piece a month – you will not be surprised to know that she lived well into her nineties with that kind of discipline), but I am not, and we are not in Luebeck (nor did we ever get there)– we are in some truck factory forecourt waiting for the door of the garage (of the WLW) to be secured so that the German autobahn police who stopped us are content that our progress (now back to our factory not to either Luebeck or Hamburg) will not kill or maim anyone sharing the autobahn with us (they might have been less friendly if they had seen the tramp’s u-turn but luckily they did not – they only spotted us as we drove past a petrol station – our rear door, unbeknownst to us, badly ajar). They gave chase - not that it was hard to catch us given our top allowed speed of 80km/hr. So, suddenly in front of us was a car marked Polizei – looks more ferocious in German with that Z – blue flashing lights on top and a flashing red sign on the back window screen: Bitte folgen; which means, as you have no doubt guessed, Please follow. Polite notice but not really an invitation given the nature of the car signalling. When the tramp got out of the car he must have nearly fainted. Possibly not optimal behaviour for demonstrating complete awareness and control of the vehicle, but no one gets out of a tight spot better than the tramp (apologies to George Clooney). The gap between the garage door and the main frame of the car was more than enough for your trampess to squeeze through. Not exactly falling on the ground, but certainly not inspiring to anyone following!
It is only fair to add at this point that the trampess’s own desire to beg the tramp not to make a u-turn had nothing to do with foreseeing the incident which actually caused the accident (the bottom of our garage door catching the top of a small pillar in the lay-by where we had been contemplating our fate), so any thought that I was trying to prevent the disaster that ensued would have been badly misplaced. And even if I had told him to please not make the u-turn any notion that “I told you so” was applicable would also not have been and would only have added insult to injury. It was clear, the only thing for the trampess to do was to start cooking. So here we are, post lunch, waiting til we are pronounced safe enough to return to my favourite factory.
Sadly, on arrival in Hamburg (all three maps – from autobahn to big view of city to detailed city map – in full use with full commentary by your trampess and only an occasional comment from the tramp) at the preferred campsite which was really just a parking lot on the harbour – but conveniently located as promised - the tramps were unceremoniously chased away by the parking lot attendant: full – to the gills. I won’t mention that we passed it (with the tramp noting that these places all have gps addresses which get us within 3 meters of the destination so why didn’t we see the entrance in time???!!!) and had to make a u-turn (u-turns do not come naturally to a vehicle over 11m long) – meaning we drove a long way down the road before coming to a rather tight traffic circle where we could reverse direction (tension by this time was mounting in the cockpit) so that this rejection was doubly wounding (and time consuming).
Once more on her knees, this time in Friday night traffic (did I mention the trip took at least two hours longer than it should have owing to exceptional traffic entering the city?), the trampess re-entered the original destination. I will spare you, dear reader, the details of the journey from one campsite to the other but let’s just say that we did make it and it was relatively straight forward, though by now definitely past our supper time. As we entered the correct street (and from that vantage point saw nothing like a campsite even though the street was not so very long) the tramp re-iterated the gps location remark and decided to check out our destination on foot before committing the vehicle (one does not wish to be like a lobster in a trap – able to enter, not able to exit). Wise decision, as it was as described: under the U-bahn and very noisy. In the meantime, the tramp spotted a legal parking space (free even) behind a truck (safety in numbers) and the area being largely industrial would be quiet on the weekend. We circled the block and settled in for the night – indeed for the weekend. And while the view of the impounded by customs car lot we were next to was less than what we have become accustomed to, we were happy to call it home for the night.
Our patience and acceptance were rewarded the next day with sun. But instead of sightseeing we, of necessity, turned to finding a suitable supermarket. Not so easy in an industrial area (there were warehouses selling food to retailers but no retailers and even though the tramps eat large quantities of vegetables even we do not qualify, nor could we carry, a wholesale quantity of all that we needed). Nonetheless, after half an hour walking, and some good directions from the nearest petrol station, we arrived at a more than adequate supermarket, called Real – hopeful, no? Not, the tramp told me, an upmarket brand but the produce was actually very fresh with a huge organic selection. Your trampess was in vegan heaven. Of course the walk back to the WLW was also half an hour only this time the tramps were laden (running out of olive oil is a serious matter and one bottle will not do – not to mention the trampess’s tipple). Still, in good spirits, with the sun shining we arrived home and the trampess made lunch – 11:30 is a very early lunch but since the morning had been spent doing errands the afternoon had to be extended to allow for the purpose of being in Hamburg: to see Hamburg.
The tramp decided that such a nice day should not be spent inside a museum (along with churches always first on the trampess’s list) to which the trampess could only concur, so we set out to the harbour and the site of all the old warehouses (Speicherstadt). It has to be said when the Germans do urban renewal they don’t mess around. The old buildings are beautifully restored, the new ones are striking (more about which later) and the space for pedestrians (and bikes) is well thought out – as long as you remember that bikes are everywhere, silent and have their own lane – perish the thought that you should walk on red bricks when you should be walking on stone! There is a marvellous maritime museum, a stunning walk along the harbour with restaurants and cafes (all of which look remarkably un-German – no bier and bratwurst here). The number of cranes and building sites is unbelievable but there is enough already finished to understand just how fabulous this area will be, and indeed already is. We kept walking past the still-being-built-concert hall (the subject of much controversy as the original budget was 180m euros and is now expected to reach 500m euros), which can be visited for a small fee in a guided tour, (they have to bridge that 320m somehow) and as the tramp loves building sites as much as he loves harbours the tour was added to the to do list, and then carried on along the water until we reached the working harbour – and principal tourist area. After finally reaching our original (campsite) destination there and finding that Monday morning would be a good time to arrive, we returned to the boats offering tours of the harbour. What better to do on a sunny afternoon than take a boat around the second largest harbour in Europe (Rotterdam, in case you were wondering – please see the Turner painting in the Frick – it was big back then, as indeed was Hamburg, which in fact may be on the opposite wall). Swimming docks, shipyards, container ships coming and going, tugboats waiting for action – and we weren’t walking any more (not much more a trampess could want after about 8 miles non-stop – excluding the morning’s shopping). The long walk home was interrupted by a coffee in one of the cafes in the rather nicer part of the harbour and a determination to visit the concert hall and the maritime museum the next day.
It was good that we did the harbour tour on Saturday – being on the top deck of a boat on a grey, rainy day is not fun. Neither, as it turns out, is waiting to see if there are returns for the concert hall tour (apparently it sells out as quickly as the Ring at Covent Garden – in a few minutes the tickets for one month, three months in advance, are sold out). The trampess, who can always find good coffee in a storm, found a student hangout which had soya cappuccinos (a small miracle in German where the word soja generally produces a screwed up expression and the German equivalent of “come again?”) and silent(!) videos made by Red Bull of extreme sports (worth the detour) on the wall. The return to the model of the concert hall (where there was a brief lecture, and a number of videos plus schematics of the building) resulted in no returns so the tramps set off for the nearby maritime museum in a splendidly redone old warehouse, situated on a canal, reached by going over an old iron bridge and with a marvellous piazza in front. Nine storeys of outstanding exhibitions left your tramps panting (texting accelerated – it is a long standing rule that everyone’s pace in a museum is different, the larger the museum therefore, the greater the distance between the tramps becomes - near the end as it was well past lunchtime and the tramp wondered if the chef would ever make it to the end; she did). The possibility of lunch out had been vetoed the previous day – the tramp declared his willingness to take the trampess out but not if it meant eating the only possible (and pathetic) choice on the menu that would satisfy our vegan eating habits. The one restaurant that looked a distinct possibility was Thai (a good solution in London) but the posted menu revealed not one vegetarian (we won’t even speak of the extremist vegan) option. So, in the full understand of what is meant by an army moves on its stomach, the tramps rumbled home and lunch was finally served at about 3pm. The rules of hiking should now be applied to cities: either eat a bigger breakfast or always have chocolate and nuts in the handbag.
Monday morning meant driving to Luebeck where the tramps were to see the finest example of Backsteingothik in the cathedral (no point in staying in Hamburg to go to the museum since museums are closed on Mondays), churches (unless closed for restoration) are always open. The tramp had given the trampess a gift of the navigation system manual in English, had located a Stellplatz (with full coordinates) in Luebeck and the trampess dutifully put the gps data into the first navigation system and the address into the second (reliable but slightly more old fashioned) . It wasn’t til well beyond Luebeck on the motor way that the trampess remarked that it looked like the tramps wouldn’t be walking to the cathedral. The tramp nearly jumped out of the driver’s seat and said that we would, the spot he had chosen was only a short walk from the centre. The trampess referred to the Stellplatz guide book and read the description. The tramp took the next exit from the autobahn and pulled off the road as soon as was safely possible. It was a grim tramp that repeated the words that have hung over our heads this spring: “we have to get better at this”. Another set of coordinates was entered. And that should have been that. But it wasn’t. the command: Wenn moeglich bitte wenden (if possible make a u-turn) was for once taken literally by the tramp. The trampess could not quite believe the manoeuvre the tramp was about to perform but said nothing (John Gray says men do not like to have their driving prowess questioned) so the trampess bit her tongue (knowing that even in a more benign state the tramp might have taken offense, but certainly in the current state such a suggestion might re-open discussion about the Oder-Neisse line). No one came to a screeching halt and the WLW proceeded in the opposite direction.
You might therefore expect, dear reader, that I was reporting on the delights of Luebeck, having had our spirits restored by our visit to the cathedral and our bodies by a coffee and perhaps one, little, delicious piece of Luebecker marzipan (my Polish grandmother’s favourite – when she was worried about becoming diabetic, which she never did, she allowed herself one small piece a month – you will not be surprised to know that she lived well into her nineties with that kind of discipline), but I am not, and we are not in Luebeck (nor did we ever get there)– we are in some truck factory forecourt waiting for the door of the garage (of the WLW) to be secured so that the German autobahn police who stopped us are content that our progress (now back to our factory not to either Luebeck or Hamburg) will not kill or maim anyone sharing the autobahn with us (they might have been less friendly if they had seen the tramp’s u-turn but luckily they did not – they only spotted us as we drove past a petrol station – our rear door, unbeknownst to us, badly ajar). They gave chase - not that it was hard to catch us given our top allowed speed of 80km/hr. So, suddenly in front of us was a car marked Polizei – looks more ferocious in German with that Z – blue flashing lights on top and a flashing red sign on the back window screen: Bitte folgen; which means, as you have no doubt guessed, Please follow. Polite notice but not really an invitation given the nature of the car signalling. When the tramp got out of the car he must have nearly fainted. Possibly not optimal behaviour for demonstrating complete awareness and control of the vehicle, but no one gets out of a tight spot better than the tramp (apologies to George Clooney). The gap between the garage door and the main frame of the car was more than enough for your trampess to squeeze through. Not exactly falling on the ground, but certainly not inspiring to anyone following!
It is only fair to add at this point that the trampess’s own desire to beg the tramp not to make a u-turn had nothing to do with foreseeing the incident which actually caused the accident (the bottom of our garage door catching the top of a small pillar in the lay-by where we had been contemplating our fate), so any thought that I was trying to prevent the disaster that ensued would have been badly misplaced. And even if I had told him to please not make the u-turn any notion that “I told you so” was applicable would also not have been and would only have added insult to injury. It was clear, the only thing for the trampess to do was to start cooking. So here we are, post lunch, waiting til we are pronounced safe enough to return to my favourite factory.
Thursday, 31 March 2011
On the road again – well almost
You might have been excused – once again – for thinking that your trampess had fallen off the end of the world or alternatively found Nirvana. Both are close to the truth. Winter in Miami was a wonderful escape from the cold and grey of northern Europe, though even in paradise it is possible to encounter self-inflicted hell. In your trampess’s case, this comes in the form of early morning spinning class taught by demons who smile as they scream “another turn to the right” (meaning: increase the resistance) over pulsating music followed by “and keep the cadence” (meaning: don’t slow down just because you are going uphill) with a gleam that Faust would have recognised. I won’t mention the kinesis wall where strength training is further challenged by dynamic movements while standing on one leg – possibly doing squats at the same time. Because, obviously, that is part of what we expect to have to do to maintain muscle mass and little grey cells both. The private swimming lessons do count as self inflicted torture since changing from graceful, head above the water breast stroke (learned in one session from the tramp at the age of 29 no less) to head in the water crawl is, for someone who is blind and has avoided trying to figure out how to breathe in an alien element since last flunking beginner two swimming twice, nothing less than traumatic. But with the best swimming teacher in the world (apart from the tramp of course who overcame all those flunked courses at the Y in one easy lesson by de-constructing what I was doing wrong – a lot – and what inhibited success – blindness, solved with a snorkel and mask) and the conviction that every year one should learn something new, added to the challenge of a triathlon for my 65th birthday next year, it seemed a now or never opportunity. The first lesson was a masterclass in patience (his) and overcoming panic (mine). The second session was much better. The third was a triumph: believing Malcolm Gladwell’s theory of 10,000 hours your trampess set about putting in as many as possible between the 2nd and 3rd lesson (and her imminent departure from Miami). I can only say that MG is right and teacher was suitably knocked out (as were all the residents who watched me doing “my homework” every afternoon). As a reward I gave him Outliers as a thank you (two masochists deserve each other). The lesson went on (after all I had not done 10,000 hours yet so another one with instruction would only take me further to my goal of being ready for the over 90 Olympics when that day comes – according to my calculations 26 years should be enough to become accomplished in swimming, running and biking given my starting position in all three).
After almost 2 weeks in London (where miraculously despite infinite breakfasts, coffees, lunches, teas and dinners, I did not add weight to the sleek self I had managed to attain – it was the swimming that did it: one more hour a day on top of the existing programme made all the difference, curious that; probably means I was meant to be a farmer and do manual labour 7 hours a day), I find myself reunited with the tramp and back on the road. Well, almost - we are actually back in the factory! (a perfect setting for a birthday, no? - well, actually the spot where we park is quite lovely and the views of the fields are charming so even though we are on Industriestrasse it is much better than it sounds). I think we may head to Hamburg later today though which could be very romantic.
Meanwhile, the perils of the trampess continue unabated despite all the upgrades on the WLW! Nothing like being tied to the railroad track by Simon Legree but still – finding the loo won’t flush is mildly disturbing (it is a wonderful, normal looking loo but works by push button – many choices the excitement of which I won’t bore you with but when you push a button and nothing happens and it feels as though it hasn’t registered your finger well . . . ), then the internet went – one has learned to live without it for the odd hour so not hopeless or unduly distressing. But imagine going to turn the cooker on and no gas, no spark (actually no gas because no spark – an obviously sensible safety override but one that means that the handy old match cannot rescue the situation)! Well, as God was clearly looking over me when these various unplanned, unexpected and random disasters occurred, we were parked in front of the tramp’s sister’s house (it was deemed easier for me to cook and then carry over the food – no fighting for hob space – more about which later), so I merely carried pots into the house and put them on the fully functioning hob where we cooked side by side - our vegan approach meant adding a few more pots of greens to the evening meal – it is fair to say that our level of green vegetable consumption is held in awe here in sunny Germany, international influences notwithstanding - and in due course we all sat down to dinner together. Now ask yourself, if you can’t cook, can’t go to the loo and can’t get your emails, what is there? Working in the garden and learning to golf. My brother-in-law provide the latter diversion while the tramp, dumbfounded, spent hours, nay days, pouring over manuals on our generator etc. Even now he hasn’t quite been able to tell me why it all happened, but he keeps muttering, “we have to learn these things better . . .”
But worse was yet to come: as we were about to exit early one morning to go to the tramp’s sister’s for breakfast, we couldn't open the door. There is only one door so not being able to open it is rather disastrous. We tried everything: electrical, mechanical, manual. Nothing worked. (This has happened before, dear reader you may recall the day we spent in Mellau trapped inside while our neighbours tried everything to rescue us). I rang to say we would be late for breakfast and explained the difficulty. Naturally they asked if there was anything they could do (like help me out the window or something similar) but the tramp said no. Luckily the brother-in-law ignored the tramp and came rushing over and . . . yes, you guessed it, opened the door from the outside without a key! Somewhat overwhelming and shocking - and not good (the bad possibilities are endless: not being able to escape in an accident; burglars escaping but leaving us locked inside . . .). So we left, locked the door (hoping it wouldn't reverse the pattern and we’d find later that we couldn't get back in) and had breakfast. Needless to say a long email was sent to the factory and we returned the following Monday. In the meantime we read manuals as part of our anti-Alzheimer's programme.
I am taking a break from the current anti-Alzheimer’s programme the tramp has assigned me which is to understand the navigation system better (it is apparently very clever – and very highly rated; such I have found out from the English website rating it) - but it did a very weird thing to us yesterday which was to send us under a 4m bridge (we are 4m high so it was close) on a road that was forbidden to trucks (since it is a very clever system, it knows we are a truck and shouldn’t do such a mean thing – especially since the road was far too narrow to perform any kind of a u-turn in less than 20 manoeuvres and even then it is likely we would wind up in a ditch). On top of it the radio (yes the radio, not a phone hooked into the navi system) demanded a password! Why does anyone need a password to listen to a car radio??? A totally surreal experience. Luckily the tramp was right that the iPod works on its own so I could still get music – and no longer just country: one of the tramp’s many improvements was to have head phones connected to the iPod so we don’t have to listen to the ambient noise when listening to the iPod (the ambient noise in the WLW on an autobahn is significant so this makes a huge difference – it is actually possible to listen to classic music – and voice not just symphonies – through our superior head phones). So in an effort to understand the navi system, I can tell you that I am learning the most atrocious German words (how did they ever make them up???) in order to avoid such calamaties as losing the voice of the navi and the radio at the same time. I am sure an English manual is available (after all I read an English review of the system) but not on line. So my anti-A programme continues.
We have had some wonderful excursions though, and I am catching up with my personal as yet un-ticked list of great things to see. The best so far has been Hildesheim where the wonderful bronze doors (which I remember from Dean Frisch, freshman year at Wellesley, art 101) are not at the moment on the cathedral because it is being refurbished/restored/cleaned for its 1,000th birthday (makes my modest 64 this month seem young really) in 2015. Luckily they are in the museum for Egyptian art so we saw them there. Spectacular. Definitely worth a detour. The column, commissioned by the same bishop Bernward, 7 years later – also in bronze, with stories from the life of Christ, was in another church and equally magnificent. I managed to persuade the tramp to visit the upper floors of the museum where we found some fabulous Egyptian objects plus a perfect facsimile of Sennefer’s tomb (mayor of Thebes as I am sure, dear reader, you know). We were the oldest people to crawl into it and I enjoyed sitting on the carpeted floor as the tramp read from the book he’d bought describing each of the tomb paintings. Setting an example for the youth of Germany, who did enter but didn't stay for long; meanwhile other older people bent down to peer in and were rather astonished to see two OAPs sitting on the floor but didn't enter despite the fact that it was obviously the sensible thing to do and the tramps are nothing if not sensible). On the ground floor there was an exhibit which we kept passing through which is one of those exhibits that one would only really find in Germany or Holland – called Duckomenta – yes every great painting or sculpture you can think of with at the very least a Donald Duck duckbill, and sometimes a complete face or body (think Man in the Golden Helmet, Dejeuner sur l’Herbe, Cleopatra, anything!!!) millions of them, everywhere. Crazy. We ate at the museum (tolerable pasta) and then drove on to Goslar – one of the villages that was spared bombing during WWII so filled with timbered and plastered houses from the 15th C. We arrived in a timely manner in the town square where the glockenspiel had miners instead of the usual mediaeval craftsmen (the wealth of the town came from the silver mines). The next day we drove to Hannover and went to the Sprengel museum (clearly you can get very rich making chocolate – I am very supportive of that) - a very smart, modern building with reputedly one of the most important modern art collections in Germany. It was here that the tramp declared modern art too depressing, too negative, too miserable. I can see him as an 11th C bishop in Hildesheim. Definitely making progress – who knows he might even believe in God before he is 80!!! That would send tramp 1 around the bend! Spirituality is one thing, God is quite another.
Which leads us from Kirche to Kueche (the Kinder having been done some time ago). He also declared, in light of the food offerings available in Germany (not much in the way of vegetables, salads that are primarily potato – well the list goes on), that I had done a good job of cultural indoctrination. I have decided (in my role as cultural dictator) that all Germans should be forced to live in Italy long enough to understand the joy of eating vegetables (especially green ones). In my favourite Roman restaurants (even before becoming vegan) I always lit on the anitpasto table and filled a plate full of lovely green things. A grilled fish to follow, some honest wine. What more could a girl want? I was looking at a health (they do have them) magazine at my younger sister-in-law’s and it had a recipe for rucola salad: hard boiled eggs, boiled potatoes and two decorative rucola leaves! The good news is that both sisters grow fresh herbs and salad, and one makes her own jams and marmalades as well (all delicious). But I do my best and we did have a delicious ratatouille with quinoa for lunch yesterday. All the vegetables were bought in the organic market in Muenster (someone must be cooking them) - a decent selection given the time of year.
Our political life will take an upturn shortly as we have an invitation to drop by the one of the tramp’s former colleages again - where we will be guaranteed some serious discussion on the state of the world (meaning mostly the state of the Middle East). Our friend is no longer in the government but he still is actively involved in thinking about policy. Of course the last time we were there it was the European cup and lightening struck the lamppost in the street during the all important Germany v Argentina game. They lost their computers for 2 days (and telephone as well) but managed to restore the television and the game. Even foreign ministers like war on the football field! No such diversions this year so I guess we can concentrate on the real wars (I am amazed at the one in Libya is being called “kinetic military action” and a “time-limited, scope-limited military action.” The online parodies that I have seen are merciless: “Make love, not time-limited, scope-limited military actions!”).
So Hamburg tonight where I just might get a romantic dinner out (anniversary, birthday and Mother’s Day all rolled into one). Fingers crossed.
After almost 2 weeks in London (where miraculously despite infinite breakfasts, coffees, lunches, teas and dinners, I did not add weight to the sleek self I had managed to attain – it was the swimming that did it: one more hour a day on top of the existing programme made all the difference, curious that; probably means I was meant to be a farmer and do manual labour 7 hours a day), I find myself reunited with the tramp and back on the road. Well, almost - we are actually back in the factory! (a perfect setting for a birthday, no? - well, actually the spot where we park is quite lovely and the views of the fields are charming so even though we are on Industriestrasse it is much better than it sounds). I think we may head to Hamburg later today though which could be very romantic.
Meanwhile, the perils of the trampess continue unabated despite all the upgrades on the WLW! Nothing like being tied to the railroad track by Simon Legree but still – finding the loo won’t flush is mildly disturbing (it is a wonderful, normal looking loo but works by push button – many choices the excitement of which I won’t bore you with but when you push a button and nothing happens and it feels as though it hasn’t registered your finger well . . . ), then the internet went – one has learned to live without it for the odd hour so not hopeless or unduly distressing. But imagine going to turn the cooker on and no gas, no spark (actually no gas because no spark – an obviously sensible safety override but one that means that the handy old match cannot rescue the situation)! Well, as God was clearly looking over me when these various unplanned, unexpected and random disasters occurred, we were parked in front of the tramp’s sister’s house (it was deemed easier for me to cook and then carry over the food – no fighting for hob space – more about which later), so I merely carried pots into the house and put them on the fully functioning hob where we cooked side by side - our vegan approach meant adding a few more pots of greens to the evening meal – it is fair to say that our level of green vegetable consumption is held in awe here in sunny Germany, international influences notwithstanding - and in due course we all sat down to dinner together. Now ask yourself, if you can’t cook, can’t go to the loo and can’t get your emails, what is there? Working in the garden and learning to golf. My brother-in-law provide the latter diversion while the tramp, dumbfounded, spent hours, nay days, pouring over manuals on our generator etc. Even now he hasn’t quite been able to tell me why it all happened, but he keeps muttering, “we have to learn these things better . . .”
But worse was yet to come: as we were about to exit early one morning to go to the tramp’s sister’s for breakfast, we couldn't open the door. There is only one door so not being able to open it is rather disastrous. We tried everything: electrical, mechanical, manual. Nothing worked. (This has happened before, dear reader you may recall the day we spent in Mellau trapped inside while our neighbours tried everything to rescue us). I rang to say we would be late for breakfast and explained the difficulty. Naturally they asked if there was anything they could do (like help me out the window or something similar) but the tramp said no. Luckily the brother-in-law ignored the tramp and came rushing over and . . . yes, you guessed it, opened the door from the outside without a key! Somewhat overwhelming and shocking - and not good (the bad possibilities are endless: not being able to escape in an accident; burglars escaping but leaving us locked inside . . .). So we left, locked the door (hoping it wouldn't reverse the pattern and we’d find later that we couldn't get back in) and had breakfast. Needless to say a long email was sent to the factory and we returned the following Monday. In the meantime we read manuals as part of our anti-Alzheimer's programme.
I am taking a break from the current anti-Alzheimer’s programme the tramp has assigned me which is to understand the navigation system better (it is apparently very clever – and very highly rated; such I have found out from the English website rating it) - but it did a very weird thing to us yesterday which was to send us under a 4m bridge (we are 4m high so it was close) on a road that was forbidden to trucks (since it is a very clever system, it knows we are a truck and shouldn’t do such a mean thing – especially since the road was far too narrow to perform any kind of a u-turn in less than 20 manoeuvres and even then it is likely we would wind up in a ditch). On top of it the radio (yes the radio, not a phone hooked into the navi system) demanded a password! Why does anyone need a password to listen to a car radio??? A totally surreal experience. Luckily the tramp was right that the iPod works on its own so I could still get music – and no longer just country: one of the tramp’s many improvements was to have head phones connected to the iPod so we don’t have to listen to the ambient noise when listening to the iPod (the ambient noise in the WLW on an autobahn is significant so this makes a huge difference – it is actually possible to listen to classic music – and voice not just symphonies – through our superior head phones). So in an effort to understand the navi system, I can tell you that I am learning the most atrocious German words (how did they ever make them up???) in order to avoid such calamaties as losing the voice of the navi and the radio at the same time. I am sure an English manual is available (after all I read an English review of the system) but not on line. So my anti-A programme continues.
We have had some wonderful excursions though, and I am catching up with my personal as yet un-ticked list of great things to see. The best so far has been Hildesheim where the wonderful bronze doors (which I remember from Dean Frisch, freshman year at Wellesley, art 101) are not at the moment on the cathedral because it is being refurbished/restored/cleaned for its 1,000th birthday (makes my modest 64 this month seem young really) in 2015. Luckily they are in the museum for Egyptian art so we saw them there. Spectacular. Definitely worth a detour. The column, commissioned by the same bishop Bernward, 7 years later – also in bronze, with stories from the life of Christ, was in another church and equally magnificent. I managed to persuade the tramp to visit the upper floors of the museum where we found some fabulous Egyptian objects plus a perfect facsimile of Sennefer’s tomb (mayor of Thebes as I am sure, dear reader, you know). We were the oldest people to crawl into it and I enjoyed sitting on the carpeted floor as the tramp read from the book he’d bought describing each of the tomb paintings. Setting an example for the youth of Germany, who did enter but didn't stay for long; meanwhile other older people bent down to peer in and were rather astonished to see two OAPs sitting on the floor but didn't enter despite the fact that it was obviously the sensible thing to do and the tramps are nothing if not sensible). On the ground floor there was an exhibit which we kept passing through which is one of those exhibits that one would only really find in Germany or Holland – called Duckomenta – yes every great painting or sculpture you can think of with at the very least a Donald Duck duckbill, and sometimes a complete face or body (think Man in the Golden Helmet, Dejeuner sur l’Herbe, Cleopatra, anything!!!) millions of them, everywhere. Crazy. We ate at the museum (tolerable pasta) and then drove on to Goslar – one of the villages that was spared bombing during WWII so filled with timbered and plastered houses from the 15th C. We arrived in a timely manner in the town square where the glockenspiel had miners instead of the usual mediaeval craftsmen (the wealth of the town came from the silver mines). The next day we drove to Hannover and went to the Sprengel museum (clearly you can get very rich making chocolate – I am very supportive of that) - a very smart, modern building with reputedly one of the most important modern art collections in Germany. It was here that the tramp declared modern art too depressing, too negative, too miserable. I can see him as an 11th C bishop in Hildesheim. Definitely making progress – who knows he might even believe in God before he is 80!!! That would send tramp 1 around the bend! Spirituality is one thing, God is quite another.
Which leads us from Kirche to Kueche (the Kinder having been done some time ago). He also declared, in light of the food offerings available in Germany (not much in the way of vegetables, salads that are primarily potato – well the list goes on), that I had done a good job of cultural indoctrination. I have decided (in my role as cultural dictator) that all Germans should be forced to live in Italy long enough to understand the joy of eating vegetables (especially green ones). In my favourite Roman restaurants (even before becoming vegan) I always lit on the anitpasto table and filled a plate full of lovely green things. A grilled fish to follow, some honest wine. What more could a girl want? I was looking at a health (they do have them) magazine at my younger sister-in-law’s and it had a recipe for rucola salad: hard boiled eggs, boiled potatoes and two decorative rucola leaves! The good news is that both sisters grow fresh herbs and salad, and one makes her own jams and marmalades as well (all delicious). But I do my best and we did have a delicious ratatouille with quinoa for lunch yesterday. All the vegetables were bought in the organic market in Muenster (someone must be cooking them) - a decent selection given the time of year.
Our political life will take an upturn shortly as we have an invitation to drop by the one of the tramp’s former colleages again - where we will be guaranteed some serious discussion on the state of the world (meaning mostly the state of the Middle East). Our friend is no longer in the government but he still is actively involved in thinking about policy. Of course the last time we were there it was the European cup and lightening struck the lamppost in the street during the all important Germany v Argentina game. They lost their computers for 2 days (and telephone as well) but managed to restore the television and the game. Even foreign ministers like war on the football field! No such diversions this year so I guess we can concentrate on the real wars (I am amazed at the one in Libya is being called “kinetic military action” and a “time-limited, scope-limited military action.” The online parodies that I have seen are merciless: “Make love, not time-limited, scope-limited military actions!”).
So Hamburg tonight where I just might get a romantic dinner out (anniversary, birthday and Mother’s Day all rolled into one). Fingers crossed.
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