The Rhinish Rivalry: Düsseldorf and Köln

Düsseldorf

Düsseldorf is not on many travel agendas. Indeed, it doesn’t even merit a mention in the copy of Rick Steves’s Germany travel guide that I had brought with me. For my part, I knew close to nothing about the place. And yet this was my destination.

As it happened, a friend of mine from Spain, Sai, had moved here (for work), and offered me a place to sleep on his sofa. Another coincidence: my German conversational partner, Karen—whom I had met in Scotland—lived quite closeby, and offered to show me around. So Düsseldorf it was.

Düsseldorf is named after the river Düssel, a tributary of the nearby Rhine, which flows through the city. (“Dorf” means town or village.) While the Rhine Valley is famous for its dramatic hills and castles, at this point the land is extremely flat and highly urbanized. Not for nothing does Steves call it the “unromantic Rhine.” With over 600,000 inhabitants, Düsseldorf is a medium-sized city, somewhat smaller than nearby Cologne (with which it has a fierce rivalry). Despite this, it is Düsseldorf, not Cologne, which is the capital of the region.

Sai was busy at work, so it was Karen who showed me around the city. First, she took me to Königsalle, the widest boulevard in the country. It is so wide because a large landscaped canal runs through the center of it, with bridges covered in ornamental statues crossing the water. But Kö (as the locals call it) is mainly famous for its upscale shopping, with luxury store after luxury store. Each of these locales, as Karen pointed out, has a kind of bouncer out front, controlling access to the expensive goods within. It was a slightly sickening sight.

After that, Karen took me to the marina of the city, where a few dozen smaller, private boats are docked. There, we sat on a park bench and admired the Neuer Zollhof. These are a group of three buildings designed by Frank Gehry, which feature the characteristic twisting architecture familiar to anyone who has seen, say, the Dancing House in Prague or the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao. Each one is made out of a different material—brick, plaster, and reflective stainless steel—but when I visited, the plaster was in poor shape.

This pretty much concluded my first tour of the main sights of Düsseldorf. From there, we walked along the river Rhine. It was a hot day, and I wondered why nobody was swimming in the water. But I quickly gathered that that would be a bad idea. For one, the current is surprisingly fast and strong, easily able to sweep you downstream. I also doubt that the water is particularly clean, considering the constant traffic of barges passing up and downstream. Even now, the Rhine is a major artery of commerce. I enjoyed watching them go by, wondering at their cargo. The captains and crew must live a good chunk of their lives on these ships, which sometimes had the appearance of mobile homes—with their cars parked on the back and, in some cases, their kids playing on a swing set as the boat drifted downstream.

In Germany, drinking in public is perfectly legal (a wonderful state of affairs!). Thus, we bought beers at a stand and sat down on some beach chairs facing the river. This was my first taste of Altbier, the local beer of Düsseldorf. It is sort of rust colored and has a strong, hoppy taste. (It is called “old beer” because it is fermented with yeast that floats on top, which is older than the bottom-fermenting yeast used to make lagers.) Despite being brewed like ales, however, its taste is quite distinct, and significantly lighter. As I discovered later, Altbier—like Kölsch, its rival from Cologne—is typically served in small glasses, which are circulated by the waiter on a tray. When you take a glass, the server puts a mark on your coaster, thus keeping a tally of your drinks.

We finished up the day by going to dinner in a Japanese restaurant. It was excellent. Düsseldorf, you see, has one of the largest Japanese populations in Europe. Indeed, Düsseldorf is a highly diverse city in general, with a substantial Chinese population and a great many immigrants from within Europe. Shortly after I arrived, for example, Sai took me to one of the Asian supermarkets near his apartment, and I was astounded at the selection of available foods and ingredients. A few days later, Sai invited me to a picnic in the park with some friends of his, most of whom were of Chinese extraction. We had a veritable feast of non-German foods.

Sai has a demanding job, but he found the time to show me around the city a bit. We took a walk towards the Kö-Bogen, a large and flashy complex of office buildings near the Königsalle. Nearby is the Hofgarten, Düsseldorf’s central park. It was a beautiful day and the park was full of strolling families and youngsters lounging on park benches. Soon, we came upon an impressive neoclassical statue, consisting of a perfectly muscular young man who is dying on his bed, accompanied by a sympathetic lion. This is a war memorial, but not one dedicated to either World War. Instead, this commemorates the dead of the German wars of independence as well as the Franco-Prussian War of 1870. Since that time, war memorials have become less beautiful and more anguished.

*My friend Sai having fun in Düsseldorf*

As it happened, the day of the picnic with Sai was also some kind of museum day. This meant that many of the city’s museums were free to visit and open late. Many of these institutions are probably well worth a visit, but I had other plans. I wanted to go out to the city’s Altstadt (Old Town) to enjoy some of the famous nightlife.

This proved to be a mistake. Sai and I arrived shortly after dinner, and the entire neighborhood was completely overrun. There were bachelor and bachelorette parties, and groups of university students on the prowl. Every single one of the seemingly innumerable bars was packed. I was astounded that such a seemingly sleepy town could turn into what struck me as a giant frat party. During the day, Düsseldorf seemed so perfectly bourgeois; but at night, it was overtaken by a kind of adolescent, macho drunkenness. Sai and I had a few of the Altbiers at a bar, but quickly retreated from the noise and chaos. Instead, we got some beers at a corner store and walked along the Rhine. Even here, it was scarcely quieter. For me, being stuck in the middle of so many drunk young people made me distinctly uncomfortable, and it was a relief when we called it a night early.

Such was my experience of Düsseldorf, a city that perhaps deserved more of my time and attention. My brief impression was rather confused. With its high-end shopping, large immigrant community, and raucous night-life, the city seemed to have a split personality. Next, it was time to visit its rival.

Köln

Cologne is in every way a bigger city than Düsseldorf. With over a million inhabitants, it feels properly urban. Whereas the Düsseldorf train station makes very little impression, for example, Köln’s enormous Hauptbahnhof immediately conveys to you its size and importance.

I visited on a tight schedule. This was several days after my visit to Düsseldorf. That morning, I had left my Airbnb in Koblenz (in the Rhine valley, to be related in a future post) in order to return to Düsseldorf for my evening flight back to Madrid. Cologne was one of the major stops on the commuter train from Koblenz, so it was easy to get off and see this famous German city as a final sightseeing stop.

Indeed, Cologne seems custom-made for day trippers. The train station is full of automated luggage storage lockers, which bring your baggage to the basement via an elevator. It was easy to use, cheap, and worked perfectly.

Right next to the station is Cologne’s principal tourist attraction: the Kölner Dom, the city’s magnificent gothic cathedral. Like many European churches, it took several eras to complete. It was begun in the 1200s, in a pure gothic style; but construction was stopped in the 16th century, the Renaissance, with still half of the church unbuilt. For centuries, the half-built cathedral stood in the city, with the medieval wooden crane still mounted atop one of the towers. Finally, in the 1800s, when a romantic passion for the medieval past was sweeping over Europe, it was decided to finish the building according to its original plans. Its completion in 1880—632 years after it was begun—became a national celebration for the relatively new nation of Germany (unified on January 1, 1871).

*An unusual vantage point on the cathedral*

Since I had recently visited Italy, it was natural to compare the Kölner Dom to that other massive gothic church which took 600 years to finish: the Duomo of Milan. For my part, the German church is the clear winner. Whereas the Duomo is a confused mess of spikes and statues, the Cologne Cathedral has a unified and coherent aesthetic. Its first and last impression is of overwhelming verticality, as if the church is a kind of spiritual rocket about to take off towards heaven. Indeed, even today Cologne Cathedral is among the tallest church buildings in the world, stretching up 157 meters (or over 500 feet). Even its bell is big. The enormous Petersglocke (affectionately called “Fat Peter”) is the second-largest swinging bell in the world, weighing one ton more than the massive Pummerin in Vienna.

Like so many churches and monuments in Europe, the Cologne Cathedral was badly damaged during the Second World War. On a wall near the cathedral, you can see photos of the destruction. The entire city of Cologne was turned into rubble from Allied bombing raids, but the towers of the cathedral remained standing. In the final battle for the city, a German Panzer tank fought a rearguard battle against advancing Allied armor, disabling two Sherman tanks in the process. It was finally destroyed by one of the new American Pershing tanks—an event captured on video by an attached American cameraman.

*The still-standing cathedral amid the ruined city and the collapsed bridge.*

Right across from the cathedral is (or was, it seems to have been moved) the Roman-Germanic Museum. Cologne, you see, was originally a provincial outpost of the Roman Empire. Indeed, the name of the city comes from the Latin colonia. As a result, the area is abounding in Roman ruins, many of which are collected in this museum. Right nearby is the Ludwig Museum, the city’s premier institution of modern art.

But with my limited time, I decided to go slightly further off and visited the Wallrat-Richartz Museum. Its clunky name notwithstanding, this is a fantastic painting gallery, with a collection that spans from the gothic to the early 20th century. The medieval section is likely the strongest, as the museum has many excellent examples of gothic paintings, some of the best I have ever seen. But with Rembrandt, Monet, and Van Gogh in attendance, there is no lack of quality in the other departments.

Right across the street is the Farina Fragrance Museum. It was here that the Italian Giovanni Maria Farina (whose name is often Germanized to Johann) produced his famous eau de cologne (“water of Cologne”); and they are still in business to this day. (Curiously, although in English cologne is normally marketed for men, in Spanish “colonia” does not have such gendered connotations.)

From there, I went back in the direction of the cathedral. From there, I walked across the Heinrich-Böll Platz, where I noticed a strange sign in French. Apparently, the city’s concert hall was constructed under this square. But it was not well-conceived, for the sounds of people walking could be clearly heard in the Philharmonie. Thus, every time there is a performance, the plaza must be closed to foot traffic. Lucky for me, there was no symphony going on, and I could cross without issue.

I climbed up some stairs, onto the Hohenzollern Bridge. This is the busiest train bridge in Germany, constantly rumbling with traffic. It is also a landmark for lovebirds, who leave locks on the bridge’s railing. The bridge is named after Germany’s erstwhile royal family, and statues of the old kings guard the four corners of the bridge.

Across the bridge is one of the tallest buildings in the city (though still considerably shorter than the cathedral’s towers), the Kölntriangle. Situated on a little hill, this building is known for its viewing platform on the top floor. I paid and took the elevator to the top, where there is a 360-degree view of the city. Frankly, Cologne is not the most beautiful city to see from the air, but you do get a classic photo of the cathedral next to the bridge.

Finally, it was time to have lunch. My roommate at the time had a German boyfriend who was from Cologne, and he kindly sent me a long list of things to see and do. Unfortunately, I hardly had time to scratch the surface, but I did follow his advice as to where to have a good German meal. Früh am Dom is a traditional beer hall right near the Cathedral. Outside the place was bustling with activity and I was afraid I wouldn’t be seated; but as soon as I walked in, I saw that the beautifully furnished space was half empty.

To eat, I ordered Himmel und Ääd (the Rhinish dialect for “heaven and earth”), a formidable dish consisting of blood sausages over mashed potato and apple sauce. It was delicious—especially, when washed down with the city’s typical beer, Kölsch. Compared to Düsseldorf’s Altbier, Kölsch is much lighter in color and flavor. Though mild, I found it to be delicious and extremely refreshing. As in Altbier, the Kölsch was served in little glasses, and the drinks marked on your coaster. I believe I had three before the end of my meal.

Stuffed, I now had just a bit of time to kill before my train to the airport. To enjoy Germany’s lax laws, I got a Kölsch from a corner store, walked to the park along the Rhine, and drank it slowly in the sunlight. It had been a wonderful trip to Germany.

Epilogue: Travel Troubles

But my voyage was not to have such a tranquil end. For one, the train was absolutely packed. I quickly gave up on finding a seat and resigned myself to standing with my heavy backpack near the doors, as the crowd surged in and out. We passed stop after stop, with the train only growing more and more crowded. After a little more than an hour, the train was full almost to bursting, and I was very eager to get off.

Yet that was not to be. On the tracks between Düsseldorf and its airport, the train came to a halt. Then, a crackling and muffled voice came over the loudspeakers, and made a brief announcement. My German was good enough to get the basic message. My heart sank: the train was not going to stop at the airport, but would bypass the stop and go to the next town over, Duisburg. Full of anxiety now, I got off and looked for the next train back to the airport. It was supposed to arrive in just 10 minutes. But after more than a week in Germany, I knew that this was unlikely. (The trains in Germany are famously unreliable.)

As predicted, the train was delayed. Indeed, it was so late that it had not arrived by the time the next train to the airport was supposed to come. That one was delayed, too. Then this happened again with the next train, so I was waiting on three. I began to grow very panicked, since now I couldn’t tell which train would arrive first or what track it would be on. I was so frantic that I jumped on the first train appearing to head in the right direction, without even being quite sure what train it was.

I had chosen well, and after a delay of about 40 minutes I was at the airport. But my travel stress was not at an end. As I walked into the main lobby, I noticed two enormous lines stretching through the airport. After some reconnaissance, it dawned on me that these were the lines for security. I had given myself a large margin to arrive for my flight, so even with the previous delay I still had almost two hours. But as the line edged forward, I realized that I might be cutting it close.

An hour passed, and we were finally in view of the metal detectors and luggage scanners. Then, behind me, a frazzled woman started making her way through the line, explaining to each person that she was going to miss her flight if they didn’t let her through. Finally, she made it to me, and I let her pass me by (I still had about 45 minutes). But the main in front of me adamantly refused.

“Please, sir, I’m going to miss my flight,” she said, holding her hands in a gesture of supplication.

“That’s not my problem!” he shouted back.

“Please, it doesn’t affect you.”

“You think you’re the only one who’s going to miss their flight?” he snapped. “I’m going to miss my flight, too!”

The argument went on for about ten minutes, with the woman pleading and the man growing more enraged, until finally, exasperated, he let her pass by. (Later, I heard him talking to a colleague on the phone, reporting that he did indeed miss his flight. I don’t know if the woman made it.)

I made it to my gate with just twenty minutes to spare, feeling immensely relieved. I’d had a wonderful time in Germany. But I must say, the country’s reputation for efficiency is rather unmerited.

Review: Columbus (Laurence Bergreen)

Columbus: The Four Voyages by Laurence Bergreen

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I remember learning about Columbus when I was in elementary school. The story was simple: he was a daring, visionary man who set out to prove that the earth was round, heroically defeating the nay-sayers who thought that he would sail right over the edge of the earth. To the mind of a child, it is a compelling tale. It is also, of course, complete fantasy (to use a polite word). Since those Edenic days of unproblematic national heroes, Columbus has become a much more divisive figure. So I decided I ought to get the real story, hopefully from somebody without an ideological axe to grind.

As I knew from his books on Marco Polo and Magellan, Bergreen is in the business of writing popular histories of famous explorers. This book is up to his usual standards, though the raw material he had to work with is naturally somewhat messier. Both Polo and Magellan were famous for one iconic voyage, while Columbus travelled to the “New World” on four separate occasions. Instead of one grand adventure, then, we get a series of expeditions, each one drearier than the last. By the fourth voyage, I was quite ready to be done with the Genoese explorer.

But I did learn. For example, Bergreen makes it clear that the competing narratives of Columbus have existed from almost the very beginning. There were rumors and accusations regarding his cruelty and incompetence during his lifetime (which resulted in his imprisonment); and not long after his death the great Spanish anti-colonialist, Bartolomé de las Casas, skewered Columbus for his role in the destruction of the native peoples. In short, he was never a universally beloved hero.

Furthermore, Columbus only became a cornerstone of patriotic ideology centuries later. He started to be celebrated in North America, for example, after the Revolutionary War, as the young nation searched for a founding myth that wasn’t so tied to England. In Spain, October 12th (when Columbus “discovered” the New World) did not become a holiday until 1892, as part of the conservative restoration of the Bourbon monarchy. In the United States, it was not made a holiday until 1937.

So, should Columbus Day be celebrated? Insofar as celebrating Columbus is merely a way of celebrating European colonization of the Americas (which certainly seems to be the case), then I think the answer must be a clear no. I don’t think it is possible to learn about the cataclysm that engulfed the native peoples of the Americas—which resulted in millions dead and the disappearance of so many cultures and languages—and think that worth celebrating. Granted, there is a kind of paradox for European Americans in this, since if there had not been a Columbus we would not exist; and it is difficult to wish oneself out of existence. Even so, celebrating the enslavement and elimination of whole peoples does not seem quite right.

Yet what about celebrating Columbus himself? Well, he does not exactly make a good impression in these pages. Certainly he was a bold and determined man, willing to risk his life for an idea (as well as for gold and glory). And his talent as a navigator is impressive. But these positive qualities seem rather pale when compared with his narrow-mindedness, his incompetence as an administrator, his cruelty to others, and his messiah complex. In the course of these voyages he combats several mutinies (with varying degrees of success), strands his own men (to be used as a bargaining chip), and has untold numbers of people enslaved. And even if you focus exclusively on his role as a “discoverer,” it is difficult to celebrate a man who steadfastly refused to acknowledge the truth of what he, in fact, had stumbled upon.

The truth is that Columbus, contrary to what the legend says, did not have a more accurate notion of the earth than the experts of the time. Precisely the reverse: Columbus’s voyage was based on a profound underestimate of the size of the earth. Indeed, it was pure luck that there was an unsuspected continent in the middle of the ocean. If America did not exist, and there were nothing but open sea between Europe and Asia—as he thought—Columbus would almost certainly have died in the enormous expanse of water. And he never even had the good grace to admit his mistake, insisting to the end that he had found a route to Asia, despite the very clear evidence to the contrary.

Of course, the fact remains that Columbus thought to do something that nobody (to his knowledge) had ever done before, and in the process inaugurated a new period of history. Indeed, given the tremendous importance of his voyage, we ought to do our best to understand both the man and the colonial undertaking he stands for. And I don’t think that is accomplished with myths and unreflecting celebration.

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Aachen: City of Charlemagne

It was the summer of 2022 and Europe was in the midst of an energy crisis. As a response to the rise in fuel prices, many governments attempted to make public transportation cheaper. Spain, for example, reduced the price of monthly metro cards by half and offered free train passes for commuters. Germany, meanwhile, offered a nine euro monthly pass that was valid for the bus, metro, and commuter trains for the entire country. It was an incredible deal, and I had arrived in Germany right in time to take advantage of it.

Now, this may come as a surprise if you believe in the German stereotype of efficiency and timeliness, but the trains in Germany are a mess, with constant cancellations and delays. (This is partly because, unlike in Spain or France, the high speed trains in Germany use the same tracks as the local trains.) The new 9-euro pass had only added to the chaos, since the added passengers put additional pressure on the already overburdened system.

So the train ride was not exactly quick. But I was in a good mood, nevertheless. You see, Aachen had been on my list for years, ever since I watched Kenneth Clark’s magnificent documentary Civilisation. The first episode of that series begins with the so-called Dark Ages, and culminates in the rise of Charlemagne—an event which, for Clark, signifies the rebirth of European civilization from the brink of destruction. Though many historians would, I think, dispute this dramatic conclusion, it cannot be denied that Charlemagne is a figure of paramount importance in the history of Europe. And if you want to learn about Charlemagne, Aachen is the place to be.

But my arrival was something of an anticlimax. As it happened, my train pulled into the Aachen Hauptbahnhof at almost the same moment that several appointments were made available on the Spanish government website. As I was in desperate need of an appointment (in order to get a document that would allow me to travel back to the United States while my visa was being renewed), I spent a panicked 15 minutes navigating the poorly designed and unreliable website in order to secure myself a spot. After so many years in Spain, I still feel acute and almost crippling anxiety when I have to do anything regarding my visa. My hands literally shook as I confirmed the appointment. When I realized I had been successful, relief washed over me.

Now, I could explore the town with no distractions. My route took me to one of the two surviving medieval gates of the city, the Marschiertor. (On the other side of town is the even more impressive Ponttor.) Nowadays, this huge gate stands alone, as Aachen is happily safe from foreign invaders—for the foreseeable future, at least.

Speaking of invasions, Aachen has been under the control of France on at least two occasions. First, it was ceded to France for about 15 years after Napoleon defeated the Holy Roman Empire. Then, after World War I, it was controlled by the allies until 1930. Germany lost control of the city at least once more after that, to American troops, who virtually leveled the place in the process. It was the first German city to fall to the Allies during the Second World War.

*German prisoners of war marching through the ruins of Aachen.*

As you can see from these snapshots of its long and somewhat turbulent history, Aachen is not the sleepy town that is status as a spa city would have you believe (its hot springs have been appreciated since Roman times). Partially this is due to its history as a capital of the Holy Roman Empire (of that, more below). But this is also because Aachen is near the borders of Belgium and the Netherlands, making it simultaneously the door to Germany (in the Second World War) and, via Belgium, the door to France (in the First).

All this has resulted in a multitude of names for this place. In German it is, of course, Aachen, while in French it is Aix-la-Chapelle. Meanwhile, in Italian, Portuguese, and Spanish, the city is called some variation of Aquisgrán. This is an awful lot of historical and linguistic weight for one town of a quarter of a million souls to bear. But, on that sunny summer day, none of the residents seemed to notice or mind.

My first stop was the Aachen Town Hall. This is a venerable old building that, like Aachen itself, has suffered many reversals of fortune—burned down, left to crumble, burned down again, and then finally bombed. As it stands today, it is an imposing neo-gothic structure that looks more like the abode of a nefarious count than a civic-minded mayor. But the flocks of school children on field trips, and the wedding party out front, showed that—appearances to the contrary—this is indeed a beloved part of the town. For a modest price, you can even visit the interior of the Rathaus. If for nothing else, this is worth it to see the extremely well-made replicas of the Imperial Regalia of the Holy Roman Empire. (The originals are now in Vienna.) This includes the famous Imperial Crown, which is so encrusted with jewels that it looks decidedly uncomfortable.

My next destination was the Aachen Cathedral. This is by far the most famous sight in the city—the church built by Charlemagne himself, where 31 kings and 12 queens were crowned, one of the first places to be listed as a UNESCO World Heritage site. I walked in and was immediately awe-struck. But my amazement turned to confusion when I failed to find the legendary Throne of Charlemagne. I asked one of the tired-looking guards, in the best German I could muster, “Wo ist der Thron des Karl der Grosse?” He responded quickly, repeating the word “Führing” several times, which my dictionary told me meant “guided tour.”

With this new information, I left the cathedral and found the neighboring office, where tickets can be bought for the guided tour. Once there, I noticed an option to buy a combination ticket for the tour and the cathedral treasury—which worked out quite well for me, as it gave me something to do while I waited for the tour to begin.

Now, I have been in many cathedral treasuries by now, and most of the time I find them rather uninspiring—usually consisting of gold and silver reliquaries of various shapes and designs. But the artwork on display here was exquisite and unique. There is, for example, the Proserpina sarcophagus. Made of marble and carved in ancient Rome, it was brought here as a symbol of imperial rule by Charlemagne, who was quite possibly buried in it. Also (potentially) belonging to Charlemagne is a hunting horn and knife. But two works of the goldsmith stood out to me as the jewels of the collection.

*A detail of the Proserpina Sarcophagus*

One is the Cross of Lothair, made around the year 1000. On one side the gold cross is completely covered in jewels (much like the imperial crown). Strangely, in the very center of the cross is a cameo of Augustus Caesar. Now, it is possible that this pagan emperor was included to symbolize the connection between the ancient empire and the medieval so-called Holy Roman Empire. But it is just as possible that they simply did not know who it represented and thought it was a holy figure. In any case, the reverse side is certainly pious. Delicately engraved into the gold is a portrayal of the crucifixion. To modern eyes, it appears rather standard in design, if well-executed. But in 1000 the image of Christ suffering on the cross still wasn’t paramount in Christian decoration (notice the many depictions of Christ of the Last Judgments in medieval churches). This crucifix, then, is not only beautiful but artistically daring.

The other is the bust of Charlemagne, a reliquary containing a part of the king’s skull. Roughly life-sized, the bust was made hundreds of years after Charlemagne’s death, and so probably bears little resemblance to the actual king. But this portrait, however idealized, is shockingly lifelike nevertheless. The anonymous craftsmen who made it were obviously masters of their arts. The bust works on three levels, as a work of art, a religious object, and a symbol of imperial power. For example, the king’s tunic is covered with the imperial eagle and he wears a crown covered with jewels and, again, ancient Roman cameos (signifying the inheritance of the Roman Empire). It is a marvelous statue—delicate and beautiful, while authentically royal and imposing.

Now it was time to visit the cathedral. The visit began with the traditional entrance to the church, the Wolfstür. This is the subject of a legend, which (if memory serves) goes like this: The townspeople, lacking the time and resources to complete the church, made a deal with Satan. If he completed the church, he would be able to keep the soul of the first creature that entered its doors. But when it came time to honor the bargain, the townspeople craftily sent a wolf to enter the church doors, which is obviously not what Lucifer had in mind. The enraged devil tried to leave the church to punish the townspeople, but got his thumb caught in the closing door.

This story (repeated, in various forms, all over Europe and perhaps the world) has some physical manifestations. In the bronze door knocker, for example, there is a bump inside the lion’s mouth, which legend says is the satanic thumb. Once inside, there is a statue of the unfortunate wolf, and opposite that is (for whatever reason) a pine cone.

Finally we entered the church itself. The core of the structure—the so-called Palatine Chapel—goes back all the way to the year 800, though it has been so finely refurbished that you would hardly guess its age from its polished and immaculate appearance. In structure it is hardly like the typical European church, with its three names culminating in a main altar. Instead, the church is octagonal, with no natural front and back. It takes this design from the Byzantines, as the core of the church is closely modeled after Basilica San Vitale in Ravenna. Indeed, the structure even incorporates ancient marble columns taken from Rome. Clearly, Charlemagne was quite consciously forging a connection between his new kingdom and the splendor of the ancient world.

Hanging in the center of this splendid octagon is the so-called Barbarossa Chandelier, named for the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick I (who had a red beard). Looking like a giant crown, its symmetrical shape complements the octagonal space, creating a sort of tunnel view up to the mosaic on top of the cathedral.

Then, our guide took out a large key and opened the grated metal door leading up to the stairs. This was the moment I had been waiting for, as I knew that Charlemagne’s Throne was on the up there. After pausing to admire the railings, ceiling mosaics, and marble columns, we arrived at the legendary seat.

It is, at first glance, almost comically unimpressive. Far from being the gold and bejeweled seat one might expect, it is made of plain stone slabs, sitting on a platform of what appear to be cinder blocks. Apparently, however, the slabs which make up the throne are relics of some kind (there are different theories, but they all connect the stones to Jerusalem and the life of Jesus). This contrives to make the throne itself into a kind of relic. And, indeed, visiting pilgrims would crawl underneath the throne as an act of devotion.

Considering this religious nature, “throne” may not even be the best word to describe this esteemed seat—at least, as it was originally conceived. Charlemagne, for example, was not crowned here, but in Rome. And, certainly, it is strange to imagine that ruler issuing his decrees from the second floor of a cathedral. But it became a throne, if it was not one to begin with. As I mentioned, dozens of monarchs were crowned on this very spot. Napoleon, in a rare moment of humility, climbed the steps but refrained from sitting down himself. According to our guide, such scruples did not stop Heinrich Himmler.

Now it was time to enter the gothic church. The original Palatine Chapel has, you see, been supplemented with a gothic choir, of a much more conventional—not to say unattractive—design. This part of the church also has its share of famous objects. There is, for example, Henry’s Pulpit (also called an “ambon”), which is yet another example of the golden and encrusted style typical of the Carolingian period. It is covered with exquisite ivory carvings and, as typical of the Holy Roman Empire, it incorporates elements of pagan art pillaged from Italy and the Holy Land. Nearby are the Karlsschrein and the Marienschrein, two enormous gold reliquaries. The first contains the bones of Charlemagne himself (moved from the Roman sarcophagus, apparently), while the second is supposed to contain Jesus’ swaddling clothes and a dress belonging to the Virgin Mary. What is indisputable, however, is that these two are remarkable examples of medieval metalworking.

This is where the tour ended. Dazzled, I wandered back into the streets of Aachen. It had warmed up by now and my jacket was unnecessary. Extremely hungry, I was gratified to find a German sausage restaurant right around the corner. There, I tried to order the most “German” thing I could, and decided that would be a mug of beer and a plate of blood sausages, accompanied with mashed potatoes and applesauce. A bit over the top, but I enjoyed it.

Stuffed to bursting, I wandered back to the train to return to Düsseldorf, where I was going to stay. But that is a story for another post.

Milan & Lago di Como

The bus from the airport dropped us off in front of a monster of a building. We were in Milan, and this was the city’s Centrale train station. Its enormous stone facade looms over the viewer, the pile of stone seemingly poised to crush you. It is, in a word, rather an aggressive structure—with ferocious eagles and lions staring malignantly from its walls. It should come as no surprise, then, that this grandiose design was willed into existence by the Duce himself, who wanted it to represent the power of Fascist Italy.

Rebe and I had come for a little break. It was May—international worker’s day—and the weather was sunny and warm. The first thing we did was to eat some pizza. Within five minutes of walking, we saw a place that looked good and went in. I have no idea if it was special by Italian standards, but the pizza was better than the best you can find in Madrid. Yes, we were in Italy.

This was my second time in Milan. My first had been in high school, on a class trip, when we had seen The Last Supper. Of course, I was too young to appreciate anything about the art (I was far more interested in the airlocks that controlled the atmosphere inside the room than the fresco itself). A decade and a half later, the city looked entirely unfamiliar to me. Not even a shadow of memory remained.

We had a little time to kill before we could check into the Airbnb, so we decided to visit the Castello Sforzesco. This is a lovely Renaissance fortification made of brick, which is free to visit. The castle is named after Francesco Sforza I, an important ruler of the city, who turned the erstwhile medieval castle into the palace we see today. One of his sons, Ludovico, was a great lover of the arts and contributed to the palace’s further beautification—notably, by calling on artists like Bramante and Leonardo da Vinci. Today, this castle is home to several museums, notably the city’s painting gallery.

But we did not have time to visit any museums. Instead, we took a stroll around the lovely Parco Sempione, a large landscaped park. And as it was quite warm, we helped ourselves to some gelato. (Since we had traveled with Ryanair, which charges for carry-on luggage, we only had small backpacks and didn’t need to find a luggage locker.)

After some time relaxing on the grass, it was time to go. Our Airbnb was not in the city of Milan. We only had three days to spend in Italy, and I decided that it would be more fun to explore the nearby Lago di Como rather than stay in the city of Milan. So we walked over to the Cadorna train station and took a commuter train north. Soon, we were all checked in, and exploring the city of Como, at the southern point of the lake.

It was a relief to be outside of a big city. A cool breeze blew off the lake and green hills rose up above us. As if hypnotized, we began to walk along the water.

Perhaps I was just sleep deprived and delirious, but I remember this walk with a strange intensity. Everything seemed colorful, new, and interesting. The ferries in the harbor, the blue hangar full of sea planes, the colorful concession stand selling gelato and panini with Italian flags waving on the top… Soon, we came across a large, classical building. This was the Tempio Voltiano, a temple dedicated to Como’s most famous son, Alessandro Volta. It contains some of the great scientist’s devices, including his voltaic piles—the first ever batteries. (Unfortunately, by the time we arrived it was closed.) Nearby is the War Memorial, a large concrete tower dedicated to those who fought and died in World War I. Built in 1933, the memorial looks remarkably more modern than that, perhaps because it was based on a sketch by the Italian futurist Antonio Sant’Elia, who himself was a casualty of the war.

We continued to wander along the lake. With every step, more of the landscape came into view. It seemed too pretty to be real. The deep blue of the water, the dramatic hills, the unobtrusive architecture of the structures, all of it combined to make a kind of living postcard. It is no wonder that this lake has been a favorite resort since Roman times. But it is a minor miracle, at least, that after so many centuries of human habituation the environment seems so pristine, and the human presence remains tasteful and discreet. Sometimes one really has to hand it to the Italians. They may seem stubborn and stuck in their ways, but they know what they’re doing.

Eventually, we came upon the Villa Olmo, one of a seemingly endless number of lovely mansions that dot the lakeside. Now, I normally have scant interest in the ostentatious residences of the very rich; but this villa and its garden—like everything else—fit so perfectly the aesthetic of the lake that I could not possibly object. It was especially charming because, just as we arrived, a troop of people in period costumes walked by. I have no idea what they were doing.

It was getting late now and we needed to find a place for dinner. We decided that we would take the funicular up to Brunate, a small village on top of the nearby hills, and try our luck there. We had to wait in a queue for about ten minutes for it to arrive—a time that was rendered almost intolerable by the presence of a bunch of Erasmus students talking loudly in front of us. (One student, after professing to know “some Spanish,” proceeded to butcher the conjugation of a basic verb in a way I did not think possible.) Finally, the machine arrived and we boarded (as far away as possible from the students). It was a lovely, if crowded, ride, and soon enough we were in the sleepy town of Brunate.

It seemed like a ghost town after Como. Very few people were in the streets, and the light was fading fast. We hadn’t eaten in hours and were starving by now. We had to find a restaurant. After a quick search online, I guided us to the Trattoria del Cacciatore, crossing my fingers that the place wouldn’t be packed. Indeed, we had the opposite problem: the restaurant was completely empty and they hadn’t even opened up the kitchen yet. I suppose Italians dine as late as the Spanish. We were told we would have to wait half an hour, but were invited into the restaurant’s large backyard to have a drink. The view was shockingly nice—the lake and the mountains stretching out before us, the sky red from the setting sun. I drank an aperol spritz before being called in to enjoy a fine meal. It had been a wonderful day in Italy.

*Rebe posing at the restaurant. The view extends into Switzerland.*

The next day we woke up early and returned to Como. This was our big day to explore the lake. The Lago di Como is shaped like an inverted Y, with the city of Como at the southern end of the western branch. Our first destination was Bellagio, which sits right at the center, where the three branches connect. To get there, we had to take a ferry. There are several routes on the lake, some local, and others express. To save time, we elected to take one of the express ferries that go there directly—making the trip in about 40 minutes, instead of over twice that much time.

The trip had a few hiccups. For one, even though surgical masks were acceptable for traveling on trains and planes in Italy (oh, the COVID times!), for some odd reason the ferry company demanded that we use the heavy-duty N95 mask. Unprepared for this requirement, we bought some masks from some entrepreneurs selling them on the street (for a significant mark-up, of course).

Because of this scramble to cover our breathing holes, we were among the last to board the ferry, meaning we had to take a seat below deck. This was quite frustrating, since we knew the views of the lake must be gorgeous. Rebe decided to take matters into her own hands and marched up the stairs to take pictures. I attempted to follow, but was immediately told by an attendant to return to my seat. I went back downstairs feeling defeated—frustrated that Rebe was enjoying the scenery while I had a view of a wall. After about ten minutes I made a second attempt, only to be told by the same young Italian man to go back to my seat. I was flabbergasted by this, since I was standing right next to Rebe, who was entirely ignored by the attendant. Was this Italian machismo, or just chivalry? (Maybe it comes to the same thing.)

We arrived in Bellagio in good time. Like everything on this lake, but even more so, it was picture-perfect—a kind of Platonic ideal of a lakeside town. If you try to imagine a place where a world-weary Romantic poet would go to recuperate his spirits, or a disenchanted millionaire would go to discover the charms of the simple life, Bellagio is what comes to mind. It is, in short, a gorgeous town. We walked first to the end of the peninsula, which had a wonderful view of the lake with snow-capped mountains beyond. There, a woman was selling a private boat rental, which we briefly considered before we looked at the price. Then, we walked through the center of town. It was crowded with tourists and full of the expected shops selling gelato and trinkets.

The main site to see in Bellagio is the Villa Melzi d’Eril and its gardens. Melzi, the man, is principally known to history for his brief stint as the Vice President of Italy under Napoleon. But he was also an art collector who was determined to make his villa one of the greatest on the lake. He succeeded. Though we didn’t enter the villa itself, the gardens are as beautifully arranged as any in the world—full of statues, excellent viewpoints, and exotic plants, trees, and flowers. As with everything on the lake, the overall effect was of overwhelming beauty—to the extent that your eyes can hardly take it in. I wonder if the residents of the lake long for brutalist concrete structures and piles of garbage, if only for a contrast.

We went back to the dock to get on the ferry to our next destination: Varenna, which is just across the water. While Bellagio, with a population of about four thousand, feels relatively compact, Varenna is positively tiny: with 800 souls calling it home. And as tiresome as it must be to hear by now, it is another jewel. Indeed, I found myself thinking on the ferry ride that the residents of this place, from Roman times onward, had collectively turned it into a kind of communal work of art—a living landscape painting that they gradually composed.

There is really nothing to do in Varenna, which is the best thing about it. There is a kind of plaza that drops off into the water, and at any given time is covered with dazed tourists gazing at the scenery. After our own bit of gazing, we wandered inland, eventually ending up at what we would call in New York a “deli,” but which I believe the Italians would refer to us a salumeria. There, we got a couple sandwiches and then wandered into the local church, Chiesa San Giorgio. This modest bit of sightseeing done, we retreated to a nearby bar for campari sodas.

We had had an altogether lovely day on the lake. But the voyage back to Como was perhaps my favorite part. Instead of taking the express ferry, we took the local, which took nearly three hours in its meandering voyage from Varenna back to Como. If I felt deprived of lake scenery on the voyage out, I was absolutely saturated with it by the time we got back. The only thing that would have made it more enjoyable was if the ferry’s bar had been open. A nice glass of wine would have been ideal. But we were still in COVID times, and so I had to get drunk on pure aesthetic pleasure.

Our short vacation was coming to a close. The next day, we had a late flight back to Madrid. This did not leave us much time to explore Milan.

Milan is the second largest city in Italy. A capital of finance and fashion, it does not exactly fit the stereotype that many hold of Italy—neither quaint and full of art, nor chaotic and rugged. Old women aren’t shouting from their balconies and old ruins aren’t dotted the cityscape. It is, rather, a clean and rather posh place.

Our time was extremely limited, so we went to the symbol of the city: the Duomo. When we visited (and this may still be the case) you had to buy a timed ticket in order to go onto the roof. We selected a time two hours hence, and then set about to see something of Milan.

To start, the Duomo is ringed by important buildings. There is the Palazzo dell’Arengario, for example, which now houses the Museo del Novecento (museum of the 1900s). Right nextdoor is the old Royal Palace, which now serves as a cultural center. And across the piazza is the magnificent Galleria Vittoria Emanuele II. This is a beautiful shopping gallery, consisting of two arcades that intersect at a huge glass dome. The place is full of restaurants and shops that we could hardly afford even to look at, but it was a pleasure just to explore this piece of 19th century splendor. The floor mosaic in the center—representing the regions of Italy—is especially lovely. Rome is, of course, represented by a she-wolf, while Florence is a lily. Turin, meanwhile, is a much-abused bull, whose delicate parts have been worn away by visitors spinning on their heel over them. Supposedly, this brings you good fortune. Perhaps I ought to have tried it!

Then, we visited San Bernadino alle Osso, a church nearby famous for its ossuary. This is a small side-chapel that has been extensively decorated with human bones (apparently the cemetery got too full). It is free to visit and is certainly worth your time if you have any taste for the morbid.

Finally it was time for the Duomo. My first impression was of its sheer size. It is the third largest church in the world, narrowly beating the gargantuan cathedral in Seville. Stylistically, it struck me as odd. Unlike the other great Italian churches, this one is a medley of styles, owing to the ungodly long time it took to complete—from 1386 to 1965. The proliferation of spikes and spires indicates gothic (unusual in Italy, to say the least, where the Renaissance dominates), but the Milan Cathedral does not have the exuberance, the spiritual riot, of a true gothic creation. It is, rather, quite stiff and almost formalistic, the lines in its facade intersecting at right angles, ascending up in a straight line without giving a great impression of height. This sterility is due, I think, to its facade being actually neo-gothic (after all, it was completed in the 19th century).

Stepping inside, I was once again astonished by its size. I also thought the interior of the church more restrained and tasteful. The same cannot be said, however, for the cathedral’s most famous statue, Marco d’Agrate’s Saint Bartholemew Flayed. Here we can see the unfortunate saint posing like a Roman senator, his skin wrapped around him like a toga, his muscles, veins, and nerves exposed. It is a kind of tour de force of anatomy, and obviously executed with a great deal of skill. But it is hard to call such a gruesome display a masterpiece.

Next, we took an elevator up to the roof. Though it was somewhat expensive (over 30 euros a person, I believe), the visit to the roof proved to be a worthwhile experience. What was nothing but a tangle of statues hanging in the air when viewed from the ground became, from up close, a kind of stone forest. While the decorative statues, judged individually, were rather generic and unremarkable, the sensation of being surrounded by so many floating figures was genuinely uplifting. The visit culminated (pardon the pun) at the top of the roof, where visitors were stretched out on the stone as if it were just another beach.

This was it for us. After a quick lunch (more pizza), we made our way to the Centrale train station and caught a bus to the airport. It had been a wonderful trip, though we had left much undone. I was particularly disappointed that we hadn’t had time to visit the Cimetière Monumentale—the city’s massive and beautiful burying ground—or the Pinacoteca di Brera, Milan’s world class art museum. But after having seen so much beauty, it was impossible to have any regrets. Italy never disappoints.

*A special thanks to Rebe, who took some of the photos in this post*

Review: Long Day’s Journey into Night

Long Day’s Journey into Night by Eugene O’Neill

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

My first experience of this play was of an audio recording. It did not make an especially deep impression on me, and I was on the verge of writing a review saying as much, when another reviewer alerted me to the literary importance of the stage instructions. Chastened, I decided I ought to actually read the play before I made a fool of myself, and I’m glad I did. O’Neill, after all, never intended for this work to be produced as a play. It is, rather, like Goethe’s Faust a kind of closet drama, more effective on the page than on the stage.

The play is a masterful depiction of addiction and familial dysfunction. Indeed, I found it to be almost clinical in its psychology. O’Neill was clearly writing from personal experience. He ably captures the mixture of love and resentment that an unhealthy family bond can give rise to—perpetual annoyance, an endless buildup of grievances, non-stop bickering, all built on an unshakable foundation of love. And the characters of this play do love one another, quite dearly, even if they are stuck in a vicious cycle of blame and abuse.

Woven into this dreadful dynamic is addiction. Every member of the family is an addict, and all display the tell-tale signs. They search for excuses—good new or bad news, loneliness or companionship, special occasions or recurrent problems—to justify their habit. And then there is the deferral of responsibility, most exemplified by the mother in this play, who manages to blame everything in her life—her husband, her sons, her doctors, her upbringing—except herself for her morphine addiction. Yet of course the self-deception is never really believed. This awful truth is always there, burning underneath, a gnawing feeling that the substance will never quite deaden.

These contradictions—of great affection and resentment, of excuses and self-knowledge—are so starkly on display in this play that I think even the most brilliant actor would struggle to do it justice. The shifts of tone are too abrupt, the push and pull of conflicting feelings and truths are too violent. But, somehow, it works when read. On the page, a jostled, confused, and depressing mess becomes something orderly, transparent, and deeply tragic. A potentially pathetic group of boozers and dope fiends are transformed into symbols of aching humanity.

Considering that this play is strongly autobiographical, it is frankly amazing to me that O’Neill was able to create such a masterpiece. To confront what must have been a painful and traumatic time in his life and turn it into such a drama—a drama that pulls no punches, and yet condemns no one—is deeply impressive. As this play amply demonstrates, life too often conquers art. Routine deadens us to it, money woos us from it, addiction numbs us to it, so that we lose both our sensitivity to its beauty and the time and energy to create it. But sometimes, art conquers life. And this play is an example of that.

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Review: The Gathering Storm

The Second World War, Volume I: The Gathering Storm by Winston S. Churchill

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

When I first learned, many years ago, that Winston Churchill had written a history of the Second World War, I knew that I would have to read it. After all, I grew up watching documentary after documentary about the conflict (before the History Channel was all about aliens, it was mainly Hitler content). Finally, this summer, I found the complete set, cheap, at the Strand bookstore in New York. Looking at the six fat volumes on my bookshelf, I knew that I was in for a long campaign.

The book is, indeed, long (over 700 pages in this edition), but it is a surprisingly fast read. It was written in haste—if “written” is the right word, for most of the book was either dictated or excerpted from official documents—and reads like a series of dispatches or field reports. This is simultaneously the book’s weakness and its great strength. For Churchill does not attempt to give a universal, impartial overview of the war, but rather recreates what it was like for him to be in the thick of it. And although his perspective does impose serious limitations and distortions on the material, it also makes the narrative far more thrilling. The rush of events is palpable.

Half of this book is devoted to the buildup of the war. Churchill, to his credit, saw the Nazi threat coming from miles away, and tried again and again to rouse his country into action. Unfortunately, his warnings go unheeded, and Germany is allowed time and space to rebuild its military unmolested. It is truly maddening to contemplate all of the lost opportunities. When Germany invaded the Rhineland, for example—clearly violating the Treaty of Versailles—the French and English could have taken decisive action at a time when the German military was miniscule. But nothing can compare with the infamous Munich Agreement, in which a country capable of defending itself was given away to the Germans, which only further strengthened their military for the inevitable war.

One can imagine how such a book could devolve into a series of self-congratulatory told-you-sos. But Churchill, at least in print, is quite generous to his political opponents. In particular, Chamberlain, the architect of appeasement, comes off rather well in Churchill’s telling—portrayed a resolute, peace-loving man who made some very bad decisions. Indeed, I found Churchill’s narrative voice to be rather odd. He has a kind of boyish fascination with war and weapons, and a jingoistic faith in the British people and their empire. Indeed, although he was so very right about Nazi threat, I can easily imagine myself dismissing such a strong believer in king and country as a war-mongering kook.

But he was not a kook, at least not in this regard. Indeed, in his great attention to detail regarding military matters, and his ability to strike a brave, defiant note at a difficult hour, he proved that he was the right man for the moment.

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Return to Vienna

The train was boarding in Budapest’s Keleti station. An elderly Hungarian woman, speaking broken German, asked me to help her with her bags. I did so, and then took a seat on the train. We were bound for Vienna.

The ride was not quite as uneventful as I had hoped. For one, I soon discovered that the ticket I purchased online (for a very reasonable price) did not come with a seat number. Thus, anytime the train made a stop, there was a chance that I would be booted by someone who did have a reserved seat. This made the trip considerably less relaxing than it could have been. Then, the train stopped at the Austro-Hungarian border, and—surprising in Europe, where borders are so permeable—a troop of armed border agents got in and started systematically checking people’s passports. We were also instructed to put on our special N95 masks, mandated at that time by Austrian law for indoor spaces. Everybody complied, though it did seem rather silly to be putting on a mask after breathing in the air for well over an hour.

(I think somebody should examine the relative COVID rates between Hungary, which had no restrictions at all, and Austria, which not only had a mask mandate, but required the heavy-duty N95 masks. It is a natural experiment.)

A little after noon, the train pulled into the Vienna Hauptbahnhof. I took a metro into the city center, deposited my luggage in one of the many storage lockers, and then set out to re-discover Vienna. My first priority was lunch. For this, I headed to a Viennese staple, Buffet Trzesniewski (the name is Polish, I believe) for some of their tiny little open-faced sandwiches. I got five—with various combinations of egg, fish, mayonnaise, and bacon—and every one was delightful. Indeed, I admit that the description of the food did not sound at all appetizing to me, but each sandwich was scrumptious. I particularly liked the small glass of beer, called a “pfiff,” to wash it down.

*I later returned and had a glass of wine.*

Reinforced, I was ready for Vienna’s cathedral. The last time I had visited, which was in 2018, I had balked at the entry fee for the grand church, and contented myself with a peak inside. This time, I resolved not to be so cheap. The ticket comes with the option of an audio guide. But at the time of my visit, I was in the throes of an obsession with Rick Steves, and instead elected to use his free audio guide. I’m sure it comes to the same thing, although my choice allowed me to enjoy the nasal strains of his high-pitched voice.

The roots of St. Stephen’s Cathedral go back to the Romanesque period, though the church, as it stands today, is mostly gothic in design. The visitor will likely notice two things immediately: first, the majestic south tower—a classic gothic skyscraper—and second, the colorful roof tile mosaic. Perhaps the colors are so vibrant because it was installed after a great fire gutted the cathedral and destroyed its roof in 1945. The retreating German commander actually disobeyed orders to destroy the building, but a fire caused by looting nearly did the job, anyway.

This fire also destroyed many of the bells in the cathedral, including the famous Pummerin, which had been cast from the canons of defeated Turkish invaders in 1705. Thankfully, a replacement was cast and installed in the shorter, but stabler, north tower. This new Pummerin clocks in at over 20,000 kg, the third largest bell in Europe. (For context, the Liberty Bell weighs just 940 kg, not even half of a tenth as much.) It can only be heard on special holidays and other festive occasions, so I was not lucky enough to be the person for whom the bell tolls.

(On the topic of big bells, even though it has nothing to do with Vienna, I cannot help mentioning the story of the largest bell ever made, the Great Bell of Dhammazedi. It was cast in present-day Myanmar and weighed an unbelievable 300,000 kg—or, if you’re American, over 300 Liberty Bells! The great bell was stolen in 1608 by the Portuguese “adventurer” Filipe de Brito, who hauled it by elephant to a raft, hoping—of all things—to melt it down to make cannons. His scheme unwound when his raft sank, taking his flagship with it, as the incredibly heavy bell proved to be too… well, incredibly heavy. De Brito was captured and executed by being impaled on a stick. There have been many attempts to find the bell under the river, but so far it has eluded detection. In any case, I have no idea how it could be lifted.

Anyway, back to the cathedral.)

There are several highlights on the tour around the cathedral. In one corner of the cathedral is the stately tomb of Frederick III, Holy Roman Emperor. Like so many kingly sarcophagi in Europe, this one contains the bones of a Hapsburg. Another is the beautiful Neustädter altar, a massive, folding wooden piece that is a pentaptych rather than the traditional triptych. When it is fully opened, it reveals a marvelous series of reliefs; but when folded up—and it often is—the altar reveals only an uninspiring series of paintings.

*Unluckily, I was there on a day when the altar was closed.*

The pulpit, thankfully, is always on display, and it is marvelous. It is a perfect example of the Gothic style—gorgeous, meticulous, intricate, and heavily symbolic. As in so much Catholic art, the entire worldview seems to be represented using a panoply of saints and signs (many of them animals).

The architect of this stony florescence must have known that he had created a masterpiece, as he included a self-portrait below. You can see him peering from an open window, his compass in hand. This is known in German as the Fenstergucker (window-looker), and it is one of the most winsome self-portraits I can think of. Nearby, on a wall, is a similar figure. This time he is holding a compass and a framing square. And, like the builder himself, he symbolically holds up the cathedral at the base of an arch. By the way, it is not known who exactly this master builder was. The two prime candidates are Anton Pilgram and Niclaes Gerheart van Leyden.

It was getting late now, so I decided to visit the Weltmuseum Wien, which was open until 7pm on the day I visited. This is a large and rather miscellaneous museum located in one wing of the Hofburg Palace. The collection includes a great deal of medieval arms and armory—some of it quite beautiful, though the signs were only in German so I couldn’t learn much—as well as a smattering of objects of “anthropological” interest (meaning, from cultures outside of Europe). But I spent virtually all of my time in the collection of musical instruments.

This must be one of the greatest collections of this sort in the world. For one, there is an assortment of famous instruments—either because of who made them, or who played them. There is an Amati violin, for example, and a piano that was played by both Robert and Clara Schumann, as well as Johannes Brahms. But there are also many instruments special for their particular beauty or unusual design. After all, there is nothing inherently special about the design of a flute or a violin; anything that makes noise can be an instrument. Thus, there are bizarrely twisting horns and oddly shaped stringed contraptions. The collection goes even beyond instruments. There is a table specially designed to hold music for a string quartet; and another table, belonging to the bishop of Passau, is decorated with musical notation.

This visit put me in the ideal mood for my next destination: the Wiener Staatsoper (Vienna State Opera). Now, it is possible to buy standing-room only tickets a few hours before a performance. But I doubted that I could stand through an entire performance, and so opted to buy a cheap seat (for about $15). This price would have been worth it just to be given the privilege of exploring this fine building—a beautiful neoclassical construction fit for the Austro-Hungarian Emperor himself. Lucky for me, Carmen was playing during my visit, and I was able to see (or, rather, hear, since my seat had limited visibility) that marvelous opera performed with great panache.

In short, though I had arrived around midday, I managed to have quite a wonderful day in the Austrian capital.

As my Airbnb was nearby, I decided to start off my next day by visiting the great Schönbrunn Palace. According to Rick Steves—who would know—this is the one palace in Europe that can rival Versailles. But you would not think it from the outside. Whereas Versailles’s exterior is vast and resplendent, the Schönbrunn is, by palatial standards, relatively modest—painted plain yellow, with few frills. But if you pay the (somewhat steep) entry, you will see that the interior is indeed as sumptuous as could be desired. Even so, if you ask me, the best part of the visit is a (free) stroll through the palace gardens, which are vast and lush

Two figures loom over the Schönbrunn: Franz Joseph I and his wife, Elisabeth. Franz Joseph, the longest-reigning emperor of Austria, was born in this palace; and it is also here that he died, in 1916, at the age of 86. His wife, Elisabeth—affectionately known as “Sisi”—was quite a colorful figure. Highly neurotic and hugely dissatisfied with court life, she spent much of her time traveling around, unaccompanied by her husband. But when she was in Austria, she often retreated to this palace. Like so many public figures during this time, she was assassinated by an anarchist in 1898, making her the longest-reigning Austrian empress.

(Though it is not directly related to the palace, I cannot help inserting a little story. The marriage of Franz Joseph and Sisi produced only one son, Rudolph. This made him heir apparent to the throne; but in 1889, he died in gruesome murder-suicide pact with his lover, the 17-year old Mary Vetsera. Rudolph’s motivations are still unclear, but his marriage was very unhappy. This led to his cousin, Franz Ferdinand, becoming the new heir apparent. And, of course, his murder at the hands of Serbian nationalists kicked off the First World War, which eventually brought down the whole Empire.)

Palaces, even beautiful ones, tend to put me in a foul mood. (I suppose they bring together too many things I detest—obscene luxury, arbitrary power, and huge crowds of tourists.) To recover my spirits, I went to another of Vienna’s world class museums, the Albertina.

Located in another erstwhile palace (Vienna is full of them), the museum is named after Duke Albert, a Hapsburg Prince and art collector who used to live here. A visit to the Albertina is a complete experience. You begin by walking into an ornate foyer and exploring some of the palace rooms. Then, you get to the core of the museum: the collection of prints and drawings. Few, if any, museums in the world can rival the quality of these works. There is Dürer’s exquisite watercolor of a rabbit, Da Vinci’s study of the last supper, and a monstrous fish disgorging its insides by Pieter Bruegel the Elder. A study for Hieronymous Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights is on display, as is a muscular male nude from Michelangelo.

This riot of brilliant draftsmanship would be more than enough for any art lover. But the museum also has a substantial collection of Impressionist and Post-impressionist paintings. Indeed, with works by Picasso, Monet, Cézanne, and Magritte, this collection alone would also make a fine museum. I was particularly interested in the Munch exhibit that was on display during my visit. Aside from his famous Scream, I had known close to nothing about the Norwegian painter, and it was a pleasure to witness his artistic development.

*I like to take closeup shots of paintings.*

Right next to this museum is another classic Viennese attraction: the Wurst stand. It is recognizable from the large green rabbit on top (modeled after the Dürer painting). There, you can order from a range of delicious sausages for a quick and filling meal. Vienna is, of course, full of sausage vendors, though this one is the most famous.

My next destination was far outside the city center. To get there, I took the metro to the Wien-Heiligenstadt station, in the north.

Though Vienna is a beautiful city, it was a relief to be in a more humble, ordinary neighborhood, with no crowds to speak of. Vienna is so grand, so stately, and so full of tourists that it can feel like one big, outdoor palace. Now, at least, it felt like I was in a place where ordinary people lived. I wandered around a little, stumbling upon a little park named for Beethoven, and eventually decided to have lunch in a place called Mayer am Pfarrplatz. Though the place had seats for upwards of 100, it was mostly empty, and I was put at a table in the patio. I ordered the cordon bleu with the Austrian potato salad (that means vinegar and no mayo), and found it to be delicious beyond belief. The white wine was also stupendous.

While I ate, the waitress informed me that Beethoven used to live in the adjoining house. I later learned, however, that Beethoven lived in dozens of different apartments throughout his life, so this might not be such a claim to fame. Still, thinking of Beethoven did improve my dining experience.

I left in a satisfied stupor and continued to climb up the hill into the vineyards beyond the city. In no time, I was completely surrounded by fields of grape vines, and soon I came upon one of the famous wine stands. It was an Edenic vision: picnic tables full of happy people, all holding glasses of crisp white wine. I bought myself a glass and sat down. The view of the Danube and the city beyond was nearly as intoxicating as the drink; and the wine was scrumptious—light, dry, and refreshing. Indeed, I think I enjoyed those couple hours just sipping wine outside an order of magnitude more than I enjoyed visiting the palaces and museums. I highly recommend it.

This pretty much did it for my day, as far as sightseeing was concerned. After drinking so much wine, I went back to my Airbnb and had a short nap. Then, as a form of repentance, I put on my running shoes and went to the Donauinsel.

Much like Budapest, you see, Vienna has its own island park. Unlike Budapest’s Margaret Island, however, Vienna’s island is artificial. It was originally created as a form of flood control, but accidentally became the most popular recreational area in the city. The island is narrow and long. If you ran from the southern to the northern tip, and then back again, you would complete a full marathon. Yet it only takes a few minutes to go from one side to the other. When I went, the park was full of cyclists, joggers, and people out for a stroll. And for my part, I quite enjoyed running along the gravelly paths with the cool breeze coming off the water.

I woke up in a melancholy mood, as it was the last day of my trip. Lucky for me, however, my flight back was quite late in the day, so I had time to do some sightseeing. In cases like these, luggage lockers are an essential resource. I checked out of my Airbnb, stowed my bag, and was first in line at the Café Demel to get breakfast.

Now, Vienna is famous for its cafés, and justly so. They maintain the old musty smell of the Austrian Empire—with ritzy decorations, bow-tied servers, and a rack of newspapers. Demel is particularly attractive, filled as it is with sweets wrapped up in gift boxes. For breakfast, I ordered the obligatory Viennese classic: Sachertorte. This is a kind of dense chocolate cake with a bit of apricot jam in the center. To drink I ordered a “melange,” which is what the Viennese call a cappuccino for some reason. It was quite good—though, I must say, rather pricey.

From there, I got on a tram. My destination: Vienna Central Cemetery. This is an enormous cemetery which, its name notwithstanding, is on the outskirts of the city. With three million buried, it is one of the most populous cemeteries in the world. Though not as beautiful as Père Lachaise, this burying ground is an essential place of pilgrimage for music lovers. For it is here that the esteemed bodies of Beethoven, Brahms, Schubert, Strauss, and Salieri are interred.

Now, at first glance it may seem strange that Beethoven, who died in 1827, or Schubert, who died the following year, should be buried in Vienna Central—which, after all, opened in 1863. Their presence is due to a kind of marketing ploy. The cemetery was originally unpopular because of its distance from the city center, so they decided to relocate some revered corpses to make it more of a “destination.” Clearly, it worked.

Luckily for the visitor, all of these famous composers are right next to one another. For me, it is a subtly powerful experience to stand before the graves of such legendary figures. Their reputation is so enormous that they hardly seem real. But when you are standing above their bones, their humanity is palpable; and their achievements become all the more impressive for being made by somebody no different, in essence, from myself.

Aside from the musical greats, this cemetery is also interesting because of its interdenominational nature—not so common in Europe. There are sections for Catholics, Protestants, Greek Orthodox, Jews, Muslims, and even Buddhists. I was interested to find a large section devoted to Soviet soldiers who died during the Second World War.

After taking the tram back to the center, I only had a short time before I had to head to the airport. Since I was then in the throes of a Rick Steves addiction, I decided to follow his walking tour of the city. This proved to be a good choice, as it led me past a few interesting things I had missed. For example, I took some time to admire the enormous and bulbous Plague Column, which was erected in 1679 after a terrible epidemic. Strangely, the Baroque monument does capture (though perhaps unintentionally) something of the horror of a deadly pestilence.

I also was shown something I had overlooked before: the Memorial against war and fascism. This is in the Albertinaplatz, right near the museum. Designed by Alfred Hrdlicka, it consists of several free-standing sculptures made using rock quarried in the Mauthhausen mine. The monument commemorates victims of the Holocaust, as well as the innocent victims of all wars. In this spot used to stand a residential building that was struck by an Allied bomb in 1945, killing many hundreds of people—many of whom are still buried under the ground.

The “tour” ended at the Hofburg palace, the main residence of the Habsburgs. (The Schönbrunn was a summer palace.) It was strange to contemplate such a vast and monumental building which now serves no purpose except tourism. Like Vienna itself, the palace is a kind of head without a body—the wreck of foregone imperial grandeur.

But you cannot feel bad for the Viennese. After all, their city is consistently rated the most livable in the world. After just a few days, I could see why.

Review: American Colonies

American Colonies: The Settling of North America by Alan Taylor

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This is an exceptional volume of popular history. Few periods, I reckon, are as mythologized and misunderstood as the European colonization of the United States. In my public school, for example, I learned that the heroic Columbus proved the earth wasn’t flat, and that the Pilgrims lived in joyful harmony with the Wampanoag. To be fair, in high school, this ridiculously rosy picture was brought back to earth somewhat. Still, I think that many Americans (and I may still fall into this category) hold onto many misconceptions about our early history.

Taylor begins with Columbus and ends with the Russian and Spanish colonization of North America’s west coast. On the way, he discusses the Spanish conquistadores, the French fur traders, the main islands of the Caribbean, the slave trade, and of course the English colonies along the east coast. Even Captain James Cook and his fateful exploration of Hawaii gets a section. Taylor shows what dynamics in Europe motivated expansion—both the large-scale political and economic considerations, and the push and pull factors that made people want to leave. And, of course, Taylor mentions the many Native American groups who cooperated with and resisted, fought for and against, exploited and were exploited by the incoming Europeans.

This history begins with a calamity on a scale difficult for us even to imagine. European diseases ravaged the indigenous population of the United States, causing a population collapse so dramatic that it makes the bubonic plague seem mild by comparison. There is no way to exaggerate the loss this represents, both in terms of people and their lifeways. However, while Taylor does not minimize this tragedy, he also avoids falling into the opposite error of portraying the natives as innocent nature people. To the contrary, he shows how different groups adapted to European presence, often becoming essential allies and trading partners to the new colonists.

Taylor also gives ample space to that other original sin of America: slavery. It is not pleasant reading. His relatively brief coverage of the conditions aboard a slave ship, for example, is deeply disturbing. But even in this case, he does not ignore the agency of his subjects. He describes, for example, how slaves would subtly resist their overseers by feigning misunderstanding or working inefficiently. I also appreciated his explanations of how slavery operated differently in the Caribbean and on the continental United States, according to climate and economic pressures.

In sum, what emerges from these pages is a vivid portrait of a rapidly changing continent—a complicated story to which innumerable groups contributed. While Taylor does demolish the patriotic myth of heroic and benevolent European colonizers, this book is not simply a hit job. Rather, it is a rich, well-written, and dispassionate account of a one of history’s most consequential periods.

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Review: The Corner

The Corner: A Year in the Life of an Inner-City Neighborhood by David Simon

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Some authors have the power to make you feel that you are just understanding the world for the first time. This is, for example, Roberto Caro’s gift. In every one of his books, he seems to expose the world of politics, revealing its inner workings like an ant colony on display in a transparent container. And this is also the consummate gift of this writing team, Simon and Burns. Here, as in Simon’s Homicide, and as in their masterpiece The Wire, these authors show you something you think you already know about: urban poverty. But you really see it for the first time.

In many ways, this book is the ideal companion to William Julius Wilson’s book, When Work Disappears, which was published just one year earlier. Wilson, a sociologist, explains urban poverty using historical trends, statistics, and surveys, whereas Simon and Burns worked like anthropologists: following around their subjects for an entire year and more, trying to understand their world through their eyes.

These different methodologies converge on the same story. When decent working-class jobs disappear from an area, it sets off a chain reaction that erodes the fabric of the society. Those with means move out; those that remain behind are left with few and stark choices. The teenagers in this story, for example, are faced with the options of attending a struggling school system, working for a minimum-wage job, or selling drugs. And while there are significant risks to this last option—risks that, sooner or later, become terrible consequences for all of them—it is undeniable that the reward is immediate and great.

Another theme of both books is how strategies and mindsets that are adaptive on “the corner” are maladaptive anywhere else. The tendency to think in the short-term, to backstab, to lie and cheat, to never show vulnerability—all of these are essential for both the addicts and dealers, though of course they become self-defeating when any of them try to leave this world. And of course many do try to leave it, earnestly and repeatedly. But with so few economic opportunities and so many barriers to government aid (the struggle to just get into a rehab center is Sisyphean), these efforts meet with scant success.

When writing of people in such difficult circumstances, it is tempting to treat them as pure victims. Yet the authors manage to convey the full humanity of their subjects—their many shortcomings and also their strivings—while never minimizing what they are up against. Indeed, this is perhaps the most impressive aspect of this book, and what makes these stories so compelling simply as stories, and not just illustrations of American decadence.

If there is any moral to this book, it is the absolute failure of the war on drugs. Simon and Burns tell of an unending, unceasing drug market—an entire ecosystem of sellers and buyers, operating 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, right in the open. Yes, the police do come and make arrests and confiscate a few vials. But the risk of incarceration is nothing compared to the force of full-fledged addiction or the endless, easy money that dealing provides. At one point, the authors aptly compare the drug war to the debacle of the Vietnam War: all the money, manpower, and machinery in the world is not enough when a war is ill-conceived to begin with.

But what is the solution? What would help? The authors—wisely, I think—refrain from any policy suggestions. Instead, we are left with a kind of mirror-image of the America that Robert Caro describes. Whereas Caro focuses on extraordinary individuals who fundamentally change their worlds, Simon and Burns show how political inertia, economic forces, and human folly conspire to trap everyone—inner-city teachers, beat cops, social workers, rehab nurses, and everyone selling and using—in an endless cycle that chews people up and spits them out, generation after generation. As in Homicide, this is a remarkable work of journalism.

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Review: Homicide

Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets by David Simon

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

What led me here (as I suspect is true of many readers) was my love of The Wire. Of all of the television I have seen, I found Simon’s masterpiece to be uniquely engrossing and thought-provoking. And despite the obvious creative license taken with the plot, what makes the show so compelling is the bedrock foundation of fact upon which the story is based. Thus, I wanted to get to know some of Simon’s source material directly.

I am glad I did. This book is a triumph in its own right—worth reading even if Simon had never gone on to be a famous television writer. This is just an excellent work of journalism. Simon was given unique access to a squad of murder detectives and their work. He hung around the office on late nights, he listened to interrogations, he read case files, he visited murder scenes, he sat through trials, he went to hospitals and morgues—in short, he did it all. And by simply organizing his observations and writing them down, he has produced a wonderfully insightful look into crime and police work.

Anyone with even a passing acquaintance with detective stories—that is, all of us—has internalized quite a few myths and preconceptions, which are battered to pieces in these pages. For one, most murders do not have a motive beyond rage, greed, or simple recklessness. They are purely impulsive, so detectives rarely bother asking “Who would want this person dead?” Indeed, the Sherlock Holmes image of the cold, rational detective motivated by his love of the common good has virtually no shred of truth to it. The detectives in this book, while decent men (and they are all men), are not on a personal mission against crime. They are motivated by professional pride, by departmental statistics, by overtime pay—and occasionally, yes, by strong feelings of justice.

While we often hear stories of cold cases being solved through innovative scientific techniques, the basic tools of the detective are quite simple: evidence, witnesses, and confessions. And the first two are usually necessary to obtain the third, since most people don’t confess unless they’re backed into a corner. The interrogation techniques Simon describes are somewhat disturbing. Though the detectives do make their suspects aware of their Miranda rights, they do so in such a way that suspects are too intimidated or confused to really stop and consider their next move. The majority don’t use their right to call a lawyer, and instead endure hours of intense interrogation, while detectives browbeat and sometimes scream at them. A surprising number of suspects break and sign confessions.

It is hard not to feel uneasy about this. Indeed, studies have found that some innocent people will even confess to crimes they didn’t commit, just to escape from the intense psychological pressure of the situation. But Simon makes the point that, if detectives were prevented from using manipulative interrogation techniques, they would hardly convict anyone. And when he details the difficulties of actually convicting murderers in court (far fewer than 50% of those arrested for murder end up convicted by a jury of their peers), it is difficult to resist his logic. And when the top brass demand a high clearance rate for the department (that is, the rate of solved to unsolved murders), it is no wonder that detectives will resort to anything to put a case from red to black.

As is usual with Simon’s work, this is the story of ordinary, fallible people who are doing their best (mostly) in a failing, dysfunctional system. The reasons that there are so many murders in Baltimore in the first place go very far beyond the walls of the police department or even the city government. So even though the detectives often do admirable work and lock up obviously dangerous individuals, there is an overwhelming sense of futility in the book. After all, the detectives only arrive after a murder has taken place. They may find the man responsible (and it is usually a man), but even with him behind bars, the next murder is just a block, or a day, or a phone call away.

Yet the book is not wholly bleak. What prevents it from being so are the personalities of the detectives. For the most part, they are smart and, often, surprisingly funny—with a dark gallows humor imposed by the job. And they are surprisingly sympathetic. Indeed, although I share very little life experience with any of these men, somehow I often found myself identifying with them. This is, in essence, the charm of the book: rather than making you fantasize about being an investigative genius, it allows you to see what it would be like if you—the real you, but in another life, perhaps—became an actual, overworked, underpaid homicide detective.

It is a rare book that dramatizes police work while neither elevating the detectives into superheroes nor demonizing them as thugs. Like a good candid photograph, Simon’s portrait is both unflattering and endearing. It is both an uncommonly good work of journalism and a work of art.

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Lotz in Translation

Saving the world—one long, pretentious blog post at a time.

Author: Roy Lotz