Yesterday was International Women's Day, so maybe I should have given voice to the quiet feminist in me, but the commemorations around Budapest were nearly as quiet, so I'd rather use the holiday as an excuse to make some observations about romance. In fact I didn't know about Nonap until reading a sign that mentioned it. But after that I did notice women carrying gifts from men and Eliza Doolittle's approaching people in restaurants and cars at stoplights to peddle their flowers. And one friend always brings flowers to his mother and has lunch with her on Nonap.
I don't think I would be exaggerating in saying Hungarians treat Nonap almost like Valentine's Day (plus I've just watched the V-Day episode of The Office and my sense of time is a little off). Not that they don't celebrate Feb. 14, too, because there were plenty of red candy boxes and other useful heart-shaped things in stock a month ago. But, strangely, I was in Vienna that day and was hardpressed to find any Valentine paraphernalia there (nor in Bratislava).
In just about each European city I've visited so far, though, love is evidently in the air. In Rome, it could have been that the city just inspires romance. My friend and I even received roses during our last dinner there (OK, they were dying, and we never figured out if they came from the waiter or the septuagenarian who winked at us, but still). But I don't think it was Rome. Public displays of affection reign everywhere on the continent, and somehow the couples transcend the realm of distastefulness and are actually sweet to see.
Showing posts with label Vienna. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Vienna. Show all posts
Monday, March 9, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Vienna - photo albums
[Click on the headline for the Facebook album]
And here are more photos from Vienna's torture museum and amusement park.
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Listening to: Green Day, "Emenius Sleepus"
Art in Vienna
[Click on the headline for the Facebook album]
Three hours away by train, Vienna makes for a popular weekend trip, so I took one with my study abroad program. Going into these things, I'm never armed with enough background knowledge, but with a general understanding of the Habsburgs, the World Wars, and Kurt Waldheim, I could appreciate the time there - at least more so than the people who inspire the "There are no kangaroos in Austria" postcards. Seriously. I don't forgive the ignoramus I encountered at Columbia who believed Schwarzenegger is from Australia.
I will grant, though, that there is some benefit to not doing your homework, namely, the pleasant surprise in discovering just how much art the Habsburgs amassed. Bruegel! Rembrandt! Even Raphael! It almost made up for all the art I missed in Rome (I forgot most museums close Mondays). There is something magical about standing a foot away from Madonna of the Meadow or Napoleon of the Saint-Bernard Pass, remembering not just the hands that painted them, but the shared experience with admirers from a century ago or half a millenium ago as they interpreted the work in their respective contexts.
"I can't believe I'm looking at THE Napoleon," said at least one member of the study abroad group. But I find this initial awe meaningless if you don't get to stop and experience the process that the artist went through, imagine Jacques-Louis David (who also did my favorite, The Death of Socrates) moving from one color to the next, question why he placed the break in the clouds where he did, wonder whether it was he who created the change in texture from cloth to leather or us who imagined so. That's hard to do when a guide is rushing you from one room to another.
But even that is not enough. I sometimes like a painting or sculpture for its aesthetic appeal, but I can only look at so many Madonnas (there was just one in the Kunsthistorisches Museum, but I mean in general) and have realized I favor paintings that depict the ancient or historical over the religious or vain (read: portraits). That may be my atheist bias, but also I'm not enough of a connoisseur to value a piece just for the style, form, and decisions of the creator. It's the same with literature, except that the latter doesn't have as much leeway to offer a legacy based chiefly on the author's technical abilities. We are more likely I think to venerate the books whose meanings transcend plot and prose; hence my preference for literature over art. So it is with ancient/historical paintings.
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Listening to: Feist, "My Moon, My Man"
Three hours away by train, Vienna makes for a popular weekend trip, so I took one with my study abroad program. Going into these things, I'm never armed with enough background knowledge, but with a general understanding of the Habsburgs, the World Wars, and Kurt Waldheim, I could appreciate the time there - at least more so than the people who inspire the "There are no kangaroos in Austria" postcards. Seriously. I don't forgive the ignoramus I encountered at Columbia who believed Schwarzenegger is from Australia.
I will grant, though, that there is some benefit to not doing your homework, namely, the pleasant surprise in discovering just how much art the Habsburgs amassed. Bruegel! Rembrandt! Even Raphael! It almost made up for all the art I missed in Rome (I forgot most museums close Mondays). There is something magical about standing a foot away from Madonna of the Meadow or Napoleon of the Saint-Bernard Pass, remembering not just the hands that painted them, but the shared experience with admirers from a century ago or half a millenium ago as they interpreted the work in their respective contexts.
"I can't believe I'm looking at THE Napoleon," said at least one member of the study abroad group. But I find this initial awe meaningless if you don't get to stop and experience the process that the artist went through, imagine Jacques-Louis David (who also did my favorite, The Death of Socrates) moving from one color to the next, question why he placed the break in the clouds where he did, wonder whether it was he who created the change in texture from cloth to leather or us who imagined so. That's hard to do when a guide is rushing you from one room to another.
But even that is not enough. I sometimes like a painting or sculpture for its aesthetic appeal, but I can only look at so many Madonnas (there was just one in the Kunsthistorisches Museum, but I mean in general) and have realized I favor paintings that depict the ancient or historical over the religious or vain (read: portraits). That may be my atheist bias, but also I'm not enough of a connoisseur to value a piece just for the style, form, and decisions of the creator. It's the same with literature, except that the latter doesn't have as much leeway to offer a legacy based chiefly on the author's technical abilities. We are more likely I think to venerate the books whose meanings transcend plot and prose; hence my preference for literature over art. So it is with ancient/historical paintings.__
Listening to: Feist, "My Moon, My Man"
Monday, February 16, 2009
Day trip: Bratislava
[Click on headline for the Facebook album]
With Anna Karenina's suicide fresh in my mind, I got on a train to Bratislava, though I was only spending Friday there en route to Vienna for the weekend. It seems few visit the Slovakian capital except while passing through, and the winter cold made it even less appealing to visitors than other seasons, so I almost felt that we had the quiet city to ourselves.
As if as testament, my friends and I had trouble thinking of famous Slovaks, unless you count those who made Czechoslovakian history, and most of those associated themselves with the Czech Republic after the split. Jeff, our tour guide in Vienna and Budapest, said it was a shame but due in large part to the ambiguity of the Slovakian identity, a tool mainly of the rural nationalists who struggled for an independent state. It's true that Slovakia probably had/has relatively less bearing on international history, but I think it also seems less significiant because of a superficial, self-perpetuating cycle in which we're taught little about the country, so we teach little about the country.
Understand our irritation, then, that such an unvisited city should newly be on the Euro and relatively expensive, while the more popular Budapest is still on the Forint and more affordable. We should probably shed Hungarian attachments when crossing the border, but the difficulty is apparent when we keep trying to speak Hungarian (what little we know) to Slovaks. Then again, that probably has more to do with foreign languages in general, as people often confuse them when learning more than one, no matter how different.
An effect of my limited knowledge of Bratislava was to wander the day away, surprised by the Gingerbread-house-like designs of some buildings and amused by statues that didn't take themselves too seriously. At some point I always end up roaming the streets alone, or actually, allowing myself to get lost, like taking apart a car to see if you can put it back together. I took that time to see the requisite castle, New Bridge (main photo), and Danube River, where I would have snuck on to a deserted boat if a gate hadn't cut if off. But most of the time I didn't know where I was, walking east when I thought I was walking north.
As much as I love navigating and as much as my navigational skills improve with each trip, maps can be less simple than you expect. There can be a Vorosmarty Ter as well as a Vorosmarty Utca, or an Antelope Road as well as a North Antelope Road. My most recent epiphany is that I expect to look at a map and follow simple directions, only to immediately lose the correspondence between the paper and the street, i.e., reading the one and walking down the other. I expect something more like a GPS, as if I had a broader perspective and were to go outside myself to watch and guide from above.
I rely instead on instinct (successful much of the time) and strangers, and never worry because things always work out. While lost in Bratislava, I was lucky enough, as the dark descended and compounded the cold, that the next bus I saw would take me to the train station. I was one of the first to arrive, but the last to board because, succumbing to the negative temperatures, I bought a glass of wine just so I could sit next to a radiator at a restaurant and lose track of time in Sartre.
A possible high point of the day, I'm almost sorry to report, might have had little to do with Bratislava itself: from inside the evening bus, I watched a light snow fall unlike any I'd seen. Not sleet, not flakes, not powder; I can only liken it to sand that reflected the city lights the way clouds do, sand that the wind effortlessly twirled into a Flamenco dancer or dragged along the road as if by magnets.
__
Reading: Sartre, "Nausea"
Listening to: John Legend, "PDA"
With Anna Karenina's suicide fresh in my mind, I got on a train to Bratislava, though I was only spending Friday there en route to Vienna for the weekend. It seems few visit the Slovakian capital except while passing through, and the winter cold made it even less appealing to visitors than other seasons, so I almost felt that we had the quiet city to ourselves.As if as testament, my friends and I had trouble thinking of famous Slovaks, unless you count those who made Czechoslovakian history, and most of those associated themselves with the Czech Republic after the split. Jeff, our tour guide in Vienna and Budapest, said it was a shame but due in large part to the ambiguity of the Slovakian identity, a tool mainly of the rural nationalists who struggled for an independent state. It's true that Slovakia probably had/has relatively less bearing on international history, but I think it also seems less significiant because of a superficial, self-perpetuating cycle in which we're taught little about the country, so we teach little about the country.
Understand our irritation, then, that such an unvisited city should newly be on the Euro and relatively expensive, while the more popular Budapest is still on the Forint and more affordable. We should probably shed Hungarian attachments when crossing the border, but the difficulty is apparent when we keep trying to speak Hungarian (what little we know) to Slovaks. Then again, that probably has more to do with foreign languages in general, as people often confuse them when learning more than one, no matter how different.
An effect of my limited knowledge of Bratislava was to wander the day away, surprised by the Gingerbread-house-like designs of some buildings and amused by statues that didn't take themselves too seriously. At some point I always end up roaming the streets alone, or actually, allowing myself to get lost, like taking apart a car to see if you can put it back together. I took that time to see the requisite castle, New Bridge (main photo), and Danube River, where I would have snuck on to a deserted boat if a gate hadn't cut if off. But most of the time I didn't know where I was, walking east when I thought I was walking north.As much as I love navigating and as much as my navigational skills improve with each trip, maps can be less simple than you expect. There can be a Vorosmarty Ter as well as a Vorosmarty Utca, or an Antelope Road as well as a North Antelope Road. My most recent epiphany is that I expect to look at a map and follow simple directions, only to immediately lose the correspondence between the paper and the street, i.e., reading the one and walking down the other. I expect something more like a GPS, as if I had a broader perspective and were to go outside myself to watch and guide from above.
I rely instead on instinct (successful much of the time) and strangers, and never worry because things always work out. While lost in Bratislava, I was lucky enough, as the dark descended and compounded the cold, that the next bus I saw would take me to the train station. I was one of the first to arrive, but the last to board because, succumbing to the negative temperatures, I bought a glass of wine just so I could sit next to a radiator at a restaurant and lose track of time in Sartre.
A possible high point of the day, I'm almost sorry to report, might have had little to do with Bratislava itself: from inside the evening bus, I watched a light snow fall unlike any I'd seen. Not sleet, not flakes, not powder; I can only liken it to sand that reflected the city lights the way clouds do, sand that the wind effortlessly twirled into a Flamenco dancer or dragged along the road as if by magnets.
__
Reading: Sartre, "Nausea"
Listening to: John Legend, "PDA"
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Redemption
That is, if I needed to be redeemed, today gave me enough fodder to justify (culturally, educationally, historically) coming to Hungary. I generally grimace at all things touristy but went on a tour this afternoon thinking it can/should be done once. Then, our guide (Jeff, I thought, but he didn’t respond when called it) made a case for his existence, though I’m pretty sure it was unintentional: past halftime, we were asking which nearby cities he recommends visiting, which led to a spiel on remembering to read the guidebooks and go to the tourist hot spots because one can, believe it or not, learn a lot from them. Now that I think of it, he was referring to the Disneyworld in the Czech Republic. Previously I had been attracted to Hungary’s communist past, revolutionary pride, and developing status, but now on to more specific points of interest:
- Jeff put on a German accent and tells us what he says other tour guides would tell other tourists: two lions greet you at the entrance of the famous bridge over the Danube, and when it was first erected, people admired and praised the bridge as the first (after Vienna's) to connect East and West, but one little boy remarked that the lions had no tongues, which put the creator of the bridge to such shame that he jumped off said bridge. Bull shit, as it turned out. Moral of the story: don’t believe everything guides tell you. After all, they’re in the business of “edu-tainment,” in his words. I thought that was a good way for Jeff to begin our tour. (Disclaimer: the above photo was taken by a friend, not me.)
- I think the East-West part was true.
- At first I was cynical that he should show us hotels, but those, too, had their redeeming qualities. Namely, they broke ground in ushering in Western capitalism, therefore symbolizing goulash communism, Hungary’s soft approach to that craze of the second half of the 20th century.
- An even better symbol is the nearby McDonald’s, the first to open doors in a communist country. For its debut, journalists hailed the event as groundbreaking and Hungarians turned out in droves, dressed to impress.
- Hungary’s is the second largest synagogue in the world, after the one on Fifth Avenue. A fellow student pointed out: one would think Israel could hold its own in that race.
- It’s built in the Moorish style in homage to the days when Jews and Muslims got along. Later synagogues included organs, flouting the Christian patent, because Hungarian Jews couldn’t get enough of that Beethoven.
- After World War II, the best preserved (not entirely sure what that means) group of Jewish people were those in Hungary.
- The country’s name derives from the initial impression that the first settlers here were related to the Huns, which despite a physical resemblance at the time, has been disproved. In fact, they were genetically much closer to the Mongols. (Two words: lion’s tongues).
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