Tag Archives: Travel

The invisible building

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Once upon a time, I got a masters degree in architecture, and then I went to work for a well-known and well-respected architect and urban designer, Lou Sauer, a Fellow of the American Institute of Architects. Sauer was teaching at the University of Pennsylvania at the time, and he spoke passionately about the need to teach architects good urban-design principles. In one conversation, he said he had assigned a project to his architecture students to design a building to be located in the central quadrangle of the Penn campus. It was a “trick” project because the right answer, according to Sauer, was not to put a building in that beautiful iconic space at all. Only one of his students got it right, putting the programmed spaces underground and leaving the quadrangle more or less as it is. “When you give a person a hammer, all problems look like nails,” he lamented (or something to that effect), “but sometimes they’re just not.” I’ve never forgotten this lesson, for it applies to so much in life, not just buildings.

However, after all these years, I’ve finally seen another solution to the problem of putting a building in an iconic open space that is arguable better to leave untouched. An uncompromisingly modern building in a beautiful classical environment best left unspoiled. For I have seen an invisible building.

My mind is still reeling a bit from this. Was it a trick of the sky and the time of day, the weather and the angle of approach? The building happened to be along a route that my husband and I walked getting to and from our hotel. It can be seen a bit better from another angle and another time of day, but it’s still tricky.

The building is the Cartier Foundation for Contemporary Art. Its architect, Jean Nouvel, has this to say about it:

Architecture where the game consists in blurring the tangible boundaries of the building and rendering superfluous the reading of a solid volume amid poetics of fuzziness and effervescence. When virtuality is attacked by reality, architecture must more than ever have the courage to take on the image of contradiction.

Well, I’m not entirely sure what all that architect-speak is about, but I do know that this building makes me laugh in delight. And there’s a lesson here, too. It’s always worth looking around the corner for an unexpected answer to a problem. You just might find it.

An un-electrifying trip to Ribe

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Ribe was the far point in our planned trip through the Danish countryside, almost 300 kilometers from Copenhagen. But our goal was to see some of the Danish countryside outside of Copenhagen, and Ribe was worth the effort to get there. At well over a thousand years of inhabitation, Ribe is the oldest settlement in all of Scandinavia. It’s also lovely, as is the countryside along the route. The clouds were magnificent, and so was the pristine farmland with nary an electric line in sight. Approaching Ribe, we got a sense of the delightful experience that awaited us.

But we were feeling frazzled and stressed, or at least I was. Why? It involved an electric car we rented from Hertz that had a fairly short range. “Don’t worry, they’ve got electric chargers at almost every gas station,” said the rental agent at the counter in Copenhagen. “You can just use your credit card.”

I’ll be as brief as I can in summarizing the woes of this car. Enough to say that your credit card will be denied unless you’ve downloaded an app for that charger (and maybe even if you do have the app). That there are many brands of chargers, and each requires a different app. That you cannot download the app “on the fly” unless you have internet on your phone. That I do not have internet on my phone while traveling abroad. And that although the chargers exist at many gas stations, they are not affiliated with the stations, and the attendants know nothing about them and can’t help. Fortunately, the very nice Danish customers at other chargers nearby will help, and after two painful charging experiences, we arrived in Ribe. There, we were completely unable to charge our albatross car at three separate charging locations.

But this blog post is not about that. It’s about the charming town of Ribe and the curative properties of the magical Wadden Sea.

Ribe has been inhabited for some 1,600 years. I think it’s safe to say that none of the houses we saw this month has survived since that time. But still, the town changes slowly. Here are two pictures of the same spot ninety years apart.

Some of the houses do show their age and look to be, well, maybe three or four hundred years old. Maybe more. They seem right for a town that’s as proud of its long history as Ribe is. All in all, the effect is unmitigated charm.

The residents are welcoming. Open gates lead to charming inner courtyards. For example, the Bladt-Hansen family welcomes visitors to their backyard, with a view over the gardens. A café and shop in the same structure face the street. Here’s a link to read about their house and its history. On this page, you can also see the commercial side of the property, and how they have restored it to a look similar to the one it might have had when it was built–over five hundred years ago.

Thank you, dear family, for giving us a peek inside!

Fortunately, the friendly hotelier in the lovely Kammerslusen Hotel outside of Ribe allowed us to hook our electric albatrossvehicle up to an outdoor electric outlet.

I’d like to add here that, in addition to a sparklingly clean room with a view of the river Ribe Å, the Kammerslusen also offers an excellent dinner menu and great Danish hospitality. Surprisingly (to us, anyway), it’s not within walking distance of the town, an attribute we generally look for. Instead, it’s located well withing the Wadden Sea National Park, a large nature preserve of marshes and tidal flats that borders (and extends into) the North Sea.

We climbed the protective dike along the coastal marshlands and got a close look at the lock at the mouth of the river. I gained a whole new respect this day for the sheer beauty of this seaside terrain.

The next day, we knew with certainty what we had to do. Thanks to the Kammerslusen, we had enough charge to get to a Hertz counter, where we traded in the car for a car whose fuel we could pay for with credit card or with cash.

The most charming island

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It’s a lovely island. Enchanting, beautiful, windswept, and enduring all at once.

Its name is only three letters long, and apparently I can’t pronounce even one of them correctly. It’s spelled Ærø. To my ear, that sounds a lot like “Air-rue” [with the “r” trilled slightly]. But try as I may, I can’t seem to tell about it to anyone who actually lives in Denmark. The conversations go like this:

Me: “We visited this really great island. We liked it a lot.”

Danish person: “Oh? What island is that?”

Me: “Ærø.”

Danish person (with a squinty-eyed, puzzled look): “Uh… where?”

Me: “Maybe I’m not pronouncing it right. It’s spelled with that letter that looks like an A and an E combined, then R, then an O with a slash through it.”

Danish person (with a broad smile of recognition): “Ah… Ærø!”

They pronounce the island’s name in a way that sounds to my American ears exactly, but exactly, like the way I pronounced it.

My linguistic failures notwithstanding, I loved the name with its alluringly foreign letters. And I loved the island even more. Its soul is sailing the seas, and its heart is on the land.

Seafaring is particularly evident in Marstal, the largest town on Ærø, from the building of large wooden ships to the small details on the buildings.

The ferry from the mainland town of Svendborg arrives in Ærøskøbing, a delightful town of cobbled streets and colorful houses.

Everywhere, there are hollyhocks and roses, and many of the windows seem to be made for passers-by to look in as well as homeowners to look out.

Outside of the towns, the island has its beauty as well. Sea and sky and land come together very harmoniously on Ærø.

Melbourne — where architecture is fun

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It’s confession time: I studied architecture, have a masters degree in it, in fact, from a university that is very serious about good design. And I believe that most modern architecture, particularly the high-rise vernacular of our center cities, is anything but good design.

But Melbourne is different.

Any city where the architecture makes you smile or even laugh, or shake your head in sheer disbelief… Well, that city has to be fundamentally delightful. And Melbourne is.

Now, come on, tell me, doesn’t this make you laugh out loud? Or at least maybe smile, just a little?

There’s something about the sheer modern exuberance of Melbourne that’s positively contagious.

(Yes, the reflective glass really is purple and blue and orange and green.)

And here’s another thing I like about Melbourne’s architecture: There is a certain respect for their architectural heritage. And that heritage is rich.

Often, the facades of old buildings are preserved even after the building is torn down to make room for a modern high-rise. Sometimes, in fact, the entire old building is preserved, and the high rise is cantilevered right out over it.

The juxtaposition is jarring, but also in a strange way, delightful. And Melbourne is fortunate to have preserved these fine old buildings.

Here and there, too, are classic, timeless, and perfectly lovely details.

Needs no translation…

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Sign seen in the restaurant last night:

MENO INTERNET
PIU CABERNET
ANONIMO
(SCRITTO SU UN MURO)

I’d trade a bit less internet for a bit more cabernet indeed!

And the restaurant? La Piola Sabauda: vino e cucina del piemonte dal 1966. It’s heartwarmingly authentic with an incredible wine list of Italian wines. One of the most unusual (and good!) meals we’ve ever had–but it was tricky. We had three of the only four items on the menu that have no mammal meat (cows, pigs, lambs, rabbits, etc.). This is definitely a restaurant for meat-eaters.

Possibly the most luxurious hotel room ever

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Well, maybe the most luxurious in Turin, anyway.

All this, and it has a balcony, too! As nearly as I can tell, this one hotel room is about 1/4 the size of our entire home… Palazzo del Carretto. (Also, it comes with parking–an apparent necessity in this city.)

Now it’s time to go out and explore Turin!

Spain, a pilgrimage of sorts

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The last time we visited Spain, almost exactly two years ago, we chanced upon preparations and rehearsals for the joyous Alarde festival in Hondarribia. We must, I decided, return sometime for the event itself, and Dan kindly agreed.

Practicing for Alarde
Practicing for Alarde, 2017

But of course, it makes no sense to travel to Hondarribia for a day or two, then back to California. So we are now embarked on an entire two-week vacation partly involving wine-tasting in Bordeaux and partly an in-depth exploration of Basque country, which we passed through too quickly last time around.

Yesterday, we drove through the mountains at the heart of Basque country while traveling from Azpeitia to Tolosa. Surprisingly, the road crossed and re-crossed one of the main pilgrimage routes to Santiago de Compostela (indicated on the map by the scallop shell, the sign of the pilgrim).

In Azpeitia
In Azpeitia
Basque countryside
Basque countryside near the pilgrimage route
In Tolosa
In Tolosa

Something moves me deeply about crossing the pilgrimage route. And so, I was reminded of our own pilgrimage to Santiago two years ago. We did not walk one of the established routes, except for the 3.5 kilometers at the end. No, we flew, drove, were driven, then drove again in order to get there. And then, at the end, we walked. And thought about what it meant to be a pilgrim. You can read that blog post here.

Today I am still thinking about being a pilgrim. The hero of my as-yet-unpublished award-winning novel Alien Son is named Mikel Pelerin. His surname, which means “pilgrim” in French, is not an accident. I chose it because he leaves Earth, the planet of his birth, to live on another planet, where he takes on a role critical to his new home’s survival. And is willing to risk his life for his beliefs.

Restaurant Cola Pasta, Ortigia

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Dan was pretty effective at shepherding me away from the computer to go to dinner tonight. “Where are we going?” I asked as we walked along our street. I use the term “street” loosely here; it is the element of the circulation network that passes along the front of where we are staying, but our neighbor “across the street” is the sea, and the whole thing is barely wide enough for a couple of pedestrians to pass each other next to the tables that the restaurants put outside.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but I do know where we are not going.”

“Well, that’s a start. There are only about a thousand restaurants in Ortigia. Where are we not going?”

“Here,” he said.

The young man at the front of the seaside tourist restaurant smiled broadly at us. “Buon sera! Menu?”

“No,” we assured him. “Grazie.”

“That’s one down,” I said. “Nine hundred ninety-eight to go.”

“Well, I don’t know all of the places where we’re not going. If I did, then I’d know where we are going.”

That made sense. “Okay, we’re not going to the tourist places like that one.”

“Right. And we’re not going to any more pizza places.”

I remembered yesterday’s pizza. The cheese. My stomach protested even at the memory. “No more pizza.”

“And no fancy expensive restaurants. I’ll know where we’re going when I see it.”

We turned into a side street, on our way to see a shop Dan wanted to go back to. We were about to turn again, but there was an attractive-looking little piazza just ahead, so we decided to check it out. There, we were greeted by a friendly woman. “Would you like some pasta?” she said. “Normally, we use these tables in the piazza, but it was too windy.” She gestured at the dozen or so tables, with their folded umbrellas, in the darkened piazza. “So tonight, for the first time, we have just set up two tables inside the restaurant.”

It looked inviting enough. She showed us a menu, which featured, unsurprisingly, fresh pasta of various kinds. She explained that we could pick a pasta (each of which had a price) and a sauce (priced separately) and create our own dish. Some of the sauces were traditional (such as Bolognese); others looked modern and creative (wild fennel with anchovies, swordfish with lemon peel). It all looked delicious, and reasonably priced. It was close to 8 p.m., early by Sicilian standards. The restaurant–all two tables of it–was still empty. We promised to come back.

And we were as good as our word. Yes, there were other tempting restaurants along the way, but we were, as Dan said, “trothed.” At least, one bottle of Nero d’Avolo later, I think that’s what he said.

We did return.

And we had our choice of (all two) tables inside.

This was definitely an informal restaurant. No tablecloths here. Paper plates. But.

Pasta and sauces that were out of this world good. A huge salad that couldn’t be fresher, with greens and tomatoes, olives, feta cheese, and cucumbers (um, “cetrioli”). And a staff that couldn’t be more friendly. Even the cook came out to say hello, and the others insisted it was his first time ever. They all spoke English (unusual, in our experience, so far in Sicily). They graciously posed for this picture.

(That’s Dan, in the dark, in the foreground, so you know where our table was!)

The restaurant was only big enough for the two tables. The other was occupied by a friendly young couple from Germany and the Netherlands. The kitchen was about the same size as the restaurant.

Was everything delicious? You bet!

Would we go back here again, if we were staying? Without a doubt!

Did I mention that the inexpensive bottle of Nero d’Avola was good, and the panna cotta for dessert even better? Well, I have now.

ColaPasta
Via San Martino, 2
Ortigio, Siracusa

Thank you for a perfect dinner our last evening in Ortigia!

 

Ortigia, Siricusa

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When I was researching this trip to Sicily, I knew I wanted to go to Syracuse. Of course, Syracuse was the home of Archimedes, one of the world’s more preeminent ancient scientists. Even more so, though, is that the city, which is some 2,700 years old, was a force to be reckoned with in the Mediterranean for centuries. Originally a Greek colony, it was allied with the Peloponnesian powers of Sparta and Corinth. By the fifth century B.C., it rivaled (and some say surpassed) Athens in importance. Even in Roman times it was preeminent, and famous for its beauty. Briefly, it even became capital of the Roman Empire.

Ortigia, the island-peninsula on the eastern side of the modern city of Siricusa is the site of ancient Syracuse, and so of course that’s where we stayed. We have a great room overlooking the city’s harbor and bay, on this street:

Here are some sights in this charming ancient city. First, the Piazza Duomo. This half-moon-shaped piazza is paved with beautiful tiles of what might be marble, and ringed with magnificent buildings, including the exquisite Duomo.

Here are some details from the Duomo’s facade.

Running from this piazza to Via Roma, a lively pedestrian shopping street, is the pleasant Piazza Minerva.

There’s also a lively plaza surrounding the stunning Fontana di Diana.

But Ortigia isn’t all piazzas–and neither would we want it to be. It’s full of interesting narrow streets, too, some of them commercial and others of no particular significance except for their charm.

We loved the rhythm of the balconies.

And we enjoyed occasionally finding something completely unexpected, such as this art exhibit inside a former church.

 

Pilgrimage

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Sitting in the Bar de Mon, about three kilometers from the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela, Dan and I watch the passers-by. Mostly they are pilgrims, with their hiking sticks and ponchos pulled over their heads and backpacks for protection against the light rain. Even in this weather, they arrive in the city in a steady stream. By the time they get here–many from quite far away, and always by foot–the very existence of the city must seem a little miraculous.

The streets of the old city are attractive, even in the rain.

A little weather won’t deter the pilgrims.

The old city is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Santiago has been a major European pilgrimage destination for about a thousand years. And the flow of pilgrims is increasing. In 2010–the last year for which I have seen a statistic–some 270,000 pilgrims came to the city.

Pilgimage routes lead to Santiago from all over Spain, and Europe beyond.

We saw these pilgrims in Logrono, Rioja, more than 600 km away. The scallop shell on their backs marks them as pilgrims.

On this drizzly day, the pilgrims pick their way carefully on the less-flooded paving stones. Every so often, there is a brass scallop shell—the symbol of the city–embedded in the sidewalk to mark the pilgrimage route and help them on their way.

We have seen a few places where the scallop shells along the pilgrimage path have been pried out of their mortar and stolen. “Those people,” I tell Dan mock-seriously, “will burn in Hell for eternity for taking those shells.” “No,” he replies, “they were already going to do that. The city should install shell-cameras. Then the city could come and arrest the thieves. They’ll spend three years in a Spanish jail.”

A worse punishment indeed!

But the truth is that those people who steal the shells are probably going to get away with it. They’ll pay a price, though, and it’s a steep one. They’ve traded the grace and enlightenment that others hope for, who follow this path, for a material souvenir.

In the cathedral plaza, at the spot where the five main pilgrimage routes come together, pilgrims raise their walking sticks jubilantly and cheer. They take each other’s pictures. Or they just stand and look around. They rest, weary and happy, and seem a little dazed by the miraculous fact of arrival.

In the background is the Hostal dos Reis Católicos, built in at the end of the 15th century as a hospital for pilgrims, and now a marvelous Spanish parador.

As for Dan and me, our journey has been decades in the desire to come here and months in the planning. But the walking part has been short. We are staying in the parador next to the cathedral, and we walked outbound as far as the Pilgrim’s Gate, maybe three and a half kilometers. Then we turned and joined the flow of pilgrims inbound to the cathedral, our spirits light and our hearts full of admiration for the walkers and the deep significance of this journey.