Italians and Vegetarians... mutually exclusive

So... after more than a year, I am in Italy again... and wanted to write a note:

At age four, I sat on my great great uncle Albert’s (Alberto Valentino, to be specific) lap and decided something quite profound--

Ready? (listen closely)…
"There are two types of people in this world—vegetarians and Italians"
—and you could only be one.

I asked uncle Albert to confirm, and he said I was correct.

…

No… I genuinely believed this to be true --that the opposite of vegetarians were Italians, and not, as others may see it, carnivores. 

For fourteen more years, I remained an Italian—a Benaquisto, a Setta, a Valentino, a Vatucci, and a Lolli—those are and were the family names on my mother’s side.  Until 1998 when I became a Vegetarian.  According to my personal proclamation, I suppose I should have been addressed by my birth name,  which I discovered only last year, makes me Swiss German.  

Despite that we al get a small laugh at the expense of a cute four-year-old’s words, I learned last night that my discovery, my young proclamation was in fact…truth. 

And the sooner the rest of you catch on, the sooner we weill begin solving the world's problems.
I’m talking peace in the middle east, the economic crisis, the whole she-bang…

Staring my last flexible days as an independent consultant in the face, I chose to spend two weeks in Europe prior to mid-night on January 10, 2011 at which point I will turn into a pumpkin… or rather I will join the the workforce as a 9-5pm-er (finally).

So… given I have three Italian friends who all would be in Italy with their families over the holidays (they normally live in the Netherlands), I decided to take my vacation to visit them with their families in my motherland…or, as my first-generation Italian-American relatives call it, “The Old Country."  My great-grandparents were born Lolli’s and Setta’s about two hours east of Rome, in a village called Pacentro.  They emigrated in the early 1900’s to Detroit, Michigan.

Now that you have the background, I hereby recount the first hours of my visit to confirm my aforementioned point. I disclaim in advance that I generalize AND stereotype below.

 But I justify it that… well, if stereotypes and generalizations weren’t true, then we wouldn’t make them. J

28 Dicembre, 2010.

The last hour of two-hour KLM Flight from Amsterdam to Milan (following the 8 hour flight from Detroit to Amsterdam),  was stunning.  The Italian Alps are more beautiful than I could have imagined, and the contrast of the bright white snow, the bright blue sky, and the tiny villages dotting the hillsides nearly took my breath away.  

My friend Alessio picked me up at the airport in Milan and drove me 1 ½ hours  up into the mountains to a beautiful village called Trivero.

 (view from my bedroom)

Alessio’s sweet (Italian) mother greeted me at the door, saying in her best English, (she has had 10 lessons now!) “hello, hello… ciao! Ciao!”  (personally, I’m quite impressed. How many people do you know over 50 decide to learn a new language?)

She immediately ushered me into the house and then to where every other (Italian) mother ushers you…


the kitchen.

While Alessio parked the car, she and I and sat staring at each other trying to figure out what to say. I'll admit, it was kind of awkward. But I have this part mastered: “Non parlo Italiano”.  (It means, “I do not speak Italian.")
Alessio’s mother and I spent about three minutes staring out the window at the church (above) and the beautiful view repeating, “Church” in English and Italian (chiesa),  and “bello” in Italian (it means beautiful).

 Then we tried to get fancy and moved on to things like…”bello chiesa…” which means…(gasp!)

“beautiful church.” 

This fascinating conversation was followed up with another minute of “si! Si!” and lots of head nodding.  She then asked, “the´ ”? which is italian for “tea,” (or so I guessed--and luckily I was correct) and I  answered “Si” for two reasons:

1. I was cold, and
2. We needed something to talk about  other than the church. 

Fortunately, Alessio came in, interpreted a bit more, and we ate some Italian “tipici”  (typical in English) (you can see this is not rocket science here) cookies/pasticceria. I had brought home-made good ole’ American chocolate chip cookies as an offering and Gemma (his mom) ate one.
 Now, given the reputation Italians have for being both excellent cooks and food snobs (I think the former entitles the latter), I held my breath as she bit into a transatlantic, 24-hour old, 4000 mile jet-lagged-baked-at-375 FARENHEIT-slice of Americana…

Pause, crunch, crunch, crunch…

suspense!

“Brava, bravíssima!”

(relief).

Now, I have  no idea if she was just humoring me, but frankly,

I. DON’T. CARE.

My cookies are Bravíssima!

I may never bake again. 

I was then escorted up the marble(?) staircase to Silvia’s room. She was forced to stay at her boyfriends house all week so I could sleep there. (so kind :) )  Some two hours passed and we were called for dinner.  For a moment, I worried… should I have told them I am a vegetarian?

No… Alessio probably remembers the specially-baked-vegetarian dinner we had at Luca’s house three months ago in the Netherlands…

Or maybe he doesn’t.

Either way… I thought… if there’s a little meat, it's no big deal--I’ll eat around it or just take a little so that I won’t be rude.  Plus, how much could there really be?

(enter irony…)

First we sit through some slightly awkward silences speaking some English and some Italian while Alessio translates.  (he must have a headache by now for going back and forth).  Though my knowledge of Spanish has gotten me futher than I would have expected at least for understanding what people are saying.  So we chat a bit more and wait a bit more for Pappá, Sandro, because he “é sempre in ritardo. “
I asked the word for “brother” and then commented that I ALSO have a brother who is “sempre in ritardo.”  No, that doesn’t mean he’s a retard—it means that he’s always late. 

After five more minutes waiting for Pappa and then decide to go ahead with the antipasti—yes, just like you’ve had in Italian restaurants in the US. Now many of you may have salivating glands at this point, but my glands were terrified, tails between their legs, whimpering in the corner, and trying to run. 

So.. I see olives, bread, long thin crispy breadsticks,  and two types of very thinly sliced meat. I think one was parma ham, the other procuitto.  So I think I’m getting off easy with taking a small piece of one of them.  But then out comes another tray with a new darker kind of meat which I learn is beef, and they insist that I eat this. “Oh!” I exclaim, (excited J )… And just when I think that’s it, they noticed I haven’t yet tried all three and my friend says… “oh you must have this. I think it’s the best.”

*I’d like to note that the reason at this point I don’t want to tell them I’m a vegetarian is that 1) I don’t want them to worry and have to accommodate for a few days, 2) I do not want to be rude—it’s so wonderful that someone has prepared a meal for me, I can’t imagine telling them I want something else--(plus wasting the food as far as I’m concerned, is worse from a veggie perspective than eating it)

So… I try all of them. Actually I eat all of them. Completely. I carefully watched Alessio and his mamma, Gemma, cut their  meat and use their crispy breadsticks to eat.  Mostly because I haven’t cut meat in a while. And while I know that it is not rocket science, I do notice there’s a special way that carnivores hold their forks in general (not just Italians). And mostly, I didn’t want to give myself away.

It was probably obvious to them anyway, but even if not, it was certainly awkward, me cutting my meat, and them watching (I think they were watching).  First, I tried to pry the meat from the fat strips down the center of it. This proved impossible and after nearly separating the two (but never fully able to cut through the fat!), I was left with one long continuous strip of prociutto-fat (maybe at least 15 centimeters if we had stretched it out).  I tried to keep them engaged in conversation so hopefully they wouldn’t notice. Because ultimately unsuccessful at cutting the meat, I resorted to rolling it—like spaghetti.
That I know how to do.

I’m fairly certain they didn’t catch on that I was a vegetarian because they didn’t say anything—perhaps they just pegged me as one from the times before someone invented silverware.  I can see the newspaper headlines running through their minds now--
 “WOMAN DISCOVERS FORK”

Anyway… we move onto the cannelloni.  Something I had recognized from the United States—It’s like  cross between a crepe and lasagna.  It had some delicious white sauce mixed with cheese, stacked in layers, and baked with … you guessed it… more meat.  Ham to be specific. 

So, whatever… when in Rome, right? (oh how literal!)

 But it was good. I won’t say that I would prefer cannelloni WITH ham in it as opposed to without, but it was good nonetheless.  In fact, it was good enough that I even had a second serving to fill me up.

Then Pappa shows up.  And he is perfect. So friendly and nice, just like Mamma.  Pappa speaks English and, unlike Mamma, is not shy to practice with me. 

--Interruption—I’d like to bring up a fact that Alessios’ mamma, who, in addition being so sweet, thoughtful, kind, accommodating, a FABULOUS cook (like all Italian mothers—even Italian-American ones), likes shoving food down your throat as an expression of care, “Mangia, mangia!”… now… hold onto your seats…

she also NEVER. Sits. Down.

(sound like anyone you know?)

And if she does, it’s for ½ of a second to cut a bite of cannelonni, and then she gets back up again into the kitchen. 

So we all did sit finishing our food and I was feeling quite full, and getting excited to be a European and have an excuse for drinking (good) coffee late at night.

But then… (and if any of you have dined in  Italian restaurants or at an Italian wedding, you know what comes next)…

She brings out more food.

Pasta would have been a “primi,”  and here for a “segundi,” we had… what else than… beef skewers, potatoes, and chicken on the bone.  I tried to decline on account of being full (I can’t believe I asked for seconds).  But this appeared not to be an option.

Initially, Alessio kindly offered to share my chicken with me but, not knowing that it was on a bone, I blew it by trying to cut the chicken down the center. I cut perpendicular to the bone, making it entirely impossible for this to be a smooth and successful operation (there’s a reason I built trails and never became a surgeon… the room for error is much larger in the forest). 
When I looked to Alessio for help, he shrugged his shoulders, smiled, tilted his head and said, “I guess you’ll just have to eat the whole thing then.”

Alas, I ate what I could and made a mess of it in attempt to avoid eating the fat.  Success.

Meat was followed by fresh oranges which were delicious.  So THIS was how Italians ate dessert.  More my style (respite).… until

She came out with gelato. 

Good lord.

How much can you people eat??

Here I drew the line. Not on account of vegetarianism, but because I had already done a number on myself and I’m pretty sure this would have rendered me incapacitated, searching for the word, “ospedale” (hospital). 

To finish off the night (and 12 years of my carefully-chosen-on-ethical-grounds-of-fair-treatment,-energy-resources,-and-well,-I-can’t-kill-it-therefore-I-don’t-think-I deserve-to-eat-it-Diet), Alessio and I drove 15 minutes up the mountain for (another) real Italian dinner at a restaurant to join his sister and childhood friends.  Mind you this is 9:00pm and dinner number 2.  And like all Italians, they offered us EVERYThing on the table, and (including the cook/owner) took it personally every time I declined (which was almost every time).  So to make them happy, (and forget my sorrows), I accepted the offer to drink read wine and eat… you got it--polenta with deer.

I just hope it wasn’t Bambi.

29 Dicembre, 2010 a brief lesson from the day after…

The downside of lying (I clearly didn’t learn from after-school-specials), is that there is no way out of a lie except the truth.  You keep digging deeper and deeper, making new lies, so that you don’t get caught for the first.  And the following day, we went to a restaurant in the beautiful region of Liguria (look at it on Google maps). 

Alessio had to come here for work, so I joined him along with his sister Silvia and her boyfriend Paolo.  

On the menu outside the resturant ai saw Gnocchi Alla Sorrentina… my favorite food in the world as all the members in my family know. This means potato dumplings in tomoato sauce with garlic and mozzarella. 

Also, purely vegetarian. (yesssss!)  

 So I was pretty sure I was home free at this point.
 But much to my dismay, they all ordered antipasti again. I declined reasoning that I wouldn’t’ be hungry enough to eat my gnocchi, but they insisted again. 

Now, had I been up front, I could have gotten away without eating it, or at least encouraged the salad option.  But I only knew that telling them now meant Alessio would feel terrible, and then he would tell his mother, who, like a good Italian Catholic, would both: 1) feel guilty for the rest of her life, and 2) fuss over me for the next four days.

So… *sigh* I ate it.

Deeper and deeper I go. 

Going back to my original statement...maybe I've been lying to myself this whole time... if always an italian, to the blood, then maybe I was never meant to be a vegetarian...

I wonder what's on the menu tonight??

When in Rome... 30 november 2009

Last night I walked past the Colosseum in Rome and everything fell silent. Those walking stopped talking, the moon was extra bright, no carabinieri sirens, nothing.  Truly breathtaking and I didn’t take a photo of it --partially because photos don’t ever really capture feelings like those, and partially because I really only want to remember the Colosseum in that scene exactly as it was—perfect.

Having spent now five Thanksgiving Holidays in-a-row away from home, this by far must be the best one. I was in a beautiful country with some of my dearest family--though not blood family, but given we were in Italy, you know-- they were “family”… fuggedaboudit

I spent two days in Rome and though I intended to meet them on Tuesday in Siena (a couple hours north), coincidence would have it that I bumped into them in the Sistine Chapel a day early.  So we spent the rest of the day together and headed out to the countryside.

We stayed five nights at Spannochia—a farm/castle that is a few hundred years old, where we got a tour of the garden, took cooking classes, played Euchre(!!!) toured the smaller towns nearby and also visited Florence. 

The food—delicious. Scenery—beautiful, Company—restorative… and the setting? It’s the motherland so really, I couldn't have been happier...

Additional Highlights of italy:

*The flight from Prague to Venice

*First night in Rome, walking to an Irish Pub to catch the Michigan-Ohio State Football match, I just happen to pass ancient ruins on either side of me… just in the same way you pass the grocery store, the park, the beauty salon, or the bank … this city amazes me and there was something truly magical about it all. 

*Going for a run in the same track the Chariot Races took place

*Making pasta with a Loredonna, who was just like my aunt. (she's clearly making sure I was doing it right)

*The quiet and the fog in the morning

*The comfort of friends...

*Feeding the pigeons in St. Marks’ square, Venice

*The suave Venetian Servers trying to convince me to eat at his restaurant... I pause and realize I can't pretend I don't like whats on the menu (since EVERY restaurant has fresh Italian food) so I say instead that "I'm going to return to my hotel first."  Then he says, "Okay you come back and I buy you a drink."

I say, "Okay thank you that is very kind." (no intention).  Then as I leave, he looks me in the eye and whispers loudly, "Come back and I SHOW YOU VENICE!!!"

my heart be still. please sense the sarcasm.

*Meandering through sleepy ancient towns in the Tuscan Countryside with people who may know me better than I know myself

*Finally waving goodbye to my well-loved pair of running shoes I had been toting around with me. Someone in Rome will use them to climb the Spanish Stairs I am sure.

   

I am thankful for so many things this year and do my best to make sure that those important to me know I am thankful for them too...

this is somewhat an abbreviated post, but posted nonetheless
so with that, i will leave you in my newly acquired italian skills...

CIAO BELLA!!!

Nights in Schweitz Satin

Going to be a bit late…

A friend of mine who lives in Zürich e-troduced me to her friends in Basel, Schweiz (German for Switzerland) who kindly offered me to stay in their home for 3 day duration of my research. 

Intending to leave Dresden Monday night on the overnight train to Basel (10 hours) and arrive Tuesday morning at 8am where I would meet Reto (my host), I was quite surprised to receive a text message at 8am on Monday MORNING which said, “Sorry Jessica, I missed my train and I’m running about a half hour late, I’ll be there by 8:30am.”

Um… I was still in Dresden…

 So I quickly went back to check the communications I had made to inform my hosts of my arrival when I realized I apparently mixed up the dates on account of the overnight train.  Yes, I was leaving Dresden on November 2, but would not Arrive until November 3^rd.  Doh!

or, in German, Döh!

So, feeling like a schmuck, I replied to Reto’s apologetic message with one of my own to absolve him of any guilt he may be feeling text which read,

“No worries, take you’re time because I’ll be a day late.” 

 

What a great way to start my visit to this country.  Fortunately he was not upset. Then when he missed his train and was late again the following morning however, and felt guilty, I reminded him that at least he wasn’t a day late like me.  And he could play that card for a while.

After arriving, I immediately went into town to wander the streets just prior to meeting my first contact there, Thomas, who works for an emergency planning organization. When he called to give me directions, he told me to make sure not to take the street car in the direction “France” but to take it in Direction “Marktplatz”

… I said, “France? As in, the Country? France?” 

And he laughed at me.  

 I still cannot get over how close everything is here. After growing up in the US where we are so spread out, and we are so far away from the countries whose languages we study, whose histories we learn, it is strange to be just down the tram stop from "France."

Markt Platz.

Basel is a town on the Rhine River (which I know you all know because you’ve been doing your own research on my flood-chasing), also on the border of Germany and France.

The Rhine River divides Basel into Klein Basel (small basel)

And Großer Basel (grosser).

Gross basel is also where most of the tourist stuff is because it is so old, but both towns have a nice feel to them.

 The couple with whom I stayed live just near Gross Basel and were very sweet. I set up post in their living room for a couple of days to explore the city and continue my research.  (YES, I am actually doing research). 

Bear unfortunately didn’t make it out into Basel with me (pity, he would have loved the river) because he was laying down in the flat all days with a couple of valium after the sticker shock of the first cup of coffee we enjoyed at the train station.  So I did most of the exploring on my own.

One quirky thing about Basel right now is that there is a festival going on, the Autumn Fair.  It apparently started some 500 years ago when the Pope decided that this city must be able to have a festival.  So , they have one every year at this time—indeed—just because they can.

The Autumn Fair is like a combination of a carnival (minus the carnies, these folks are much different than those who run carnivals in the states… short of offending anyone, these carnies don’t smoke, they have all of their teeth, good hair, style, and appear to actually enjoy children—oh, and you can’t win any goldfish), a bake-sale (amazing local treats  and spice cakes designed to send you to the hospital on cardiac arrest,) and a craft fair. 

 The festival also spread all over the city and held in seven locations. It is in front of the cathedral, the Rathaus (town hall), the other churches, on BOTH sides of the river  and there are people everywhere so there is quite the positive energy bouncing about.

And after my first 3 full days in Switzerland, aside from it being perhaps the most expensive place I have ever been (Benchmark: small Starbucks coffee = $6.90), Switzerland is exactly as we stereotype it to be, and even more, it is happy to be so...

Proof:

Swiss Cheese

Swiss Banks (yea uncle J, I checked on your account, and… I’m looking up the German word for “foreclosure” right now)

Swiss watches

Swiss Chocolates

Swiss neutrality (see, dont' these people just look ready to not-take-a-stance-on-a-conflict?)

(actually what is funny about this picture is that the tree was just put there (it's cut at the bottom, not planted) by the crane. And they made us all walk around it. Then they wedged it into place with. Maybe they decorate it? Apparently conifers are not endemic to Basel.

Swiss Cheetah’s on leashes

Swiss Army Knives

Swiss Cuban Cigars  (wait—what??)

Accountability

This is a brief post, to pass on a landmark decision regarding flood policy in the United States issued just two days ago.

For a couple of years, there have been numerous lawsuits against the US Army Corps of Engineers to hold them liable for the damages and devastation which ensued as a result of errors before and during Hurricane Katrina in August, 2005.

A 1928 Flood Control Act (after some of the worst Mississippi River Floods) granted the US Army Corps of Engineers complete immunity from any damages resulting from floods, even if damages were caused by mistakes made by the Corps (for example, poor design, poor operation or construction, poor maintenance (not fixing leaks in levees or maintaining navigational canals, etc)).

Incidentally 80% of all "disasters" are human caused, not nature-caused.

Therefore, this made it very difficult to find the Corps liable for any damages resulting from failures of Corps-built and maintained structures which "protected" New Orleans. Most of the lawsuits have not been successful because of this act, but one suit with a new angle was.

The story is here on this link NY Times Article

There are no doubt pros and cons to this and I'm happy to share my opinion but would rather you form your own.

One large plus (that I will share) is that this decision now requires that the Corps of Engineers (responsible for all flood "protection" in the United States) be accountable to their decisions, their designs, their flood control structures, navigational channels, etc with special regard to protection of citizens, property etc... it is a step in the right direction...


Floods in England
On another note, massive floods in England unfortunately. I think sometimes it is difficult for us to imagine what it is actually like during a flood (and even those who have experienced tend to forget)... but here is a link to an article with a video, which does a little bit of justice to the situation.  It's quite cold which is important to remember.  Flooding In Cumbria   And see photos

One important take home message comes from a quote from the NY Times article where Environment Secretary Hilary Benn said, ''What we dealt with last night was probably more like one-in-a-1,000, so even the very best defenses, if you have such quantities of rain in such a short space of time, can be over-topped,'' 


This town in England was supposed to be defended to a one-in-100 year flood.  But this was a one-in-1000 year flood.  Which means that the protection measures could not handle the volume from the rain, and even when we have protection, there is still a residual risk from larger floods.  The policy in the US is the same, protection for the one-in-100.  

30 Oktober, Double-O7 in Double-09

 30 October, 2009 

Sorry this is dated!

After only 2 hours in Dresden, it already it seemed like the friendliest city in Germany.  People smiling, chatting, its’ very young it seems (or at lest the “neustadt” is).  People walk around smiling. So far, this place is the most laid back, friendly place I have been in the whole country.  Not only did I pass a restaurant with Veggie Burgers on the menu (rare for home of the brat-loving peoples), but there is an organic market nearby, and (the best part), an apartment on my street with a Michigan flag on its balcony.  So I guess this may be one of the first times I have felt “at home”…

Does it get any better?

Now, some of you may (or may not) know Dresden as the infamous town Kurt Vonnegut writes about in his World War II era-book, Slaughterhouse Five.  Others may know it as the town in Eastern Germany that on February 15 1945, the Allied Forces (aka, U.S, Great Britain, etc) bombed the living daylights out of for 48 hours, killing anywhere from 35,000 people, many of whom were refugees, women, and children.   It is arguable (in this part of the country for sure) that the forces had no business in doing so because the war was over, and these were civilians.  No, I’m not knocking on the Allied Forces and I have nothing but respect and appreciation for battle fought on my behalf, but I’m telling you the story of this place. 

Needless to say, while other parts of Europe are incredibly old, Dresden Germany is all reconstructed since 1945.  Then more of it is being reconstructed after Reunification (1990), and even a lot of it (and the whole Saxon State and parts of the Czech Republic) is being reconstructed still after the  flood on the River Elbe in August of 2002.  Incidentally, this is the reason I came to Dresden.  Hence, this place is a particularly interesting landscape.  That, and Eastern Germany is a bit different culturally and economically from western Germany.

And as soon as I walked into the Dönner shop, (there are loads of them around Germany, its essentially a place that sells kebabs (like gyros), falafel, and pizza, the Pakistani man running it was already asking me where I come from, how old I am, am I married…. Waaaait a second.

Ha!

Okay so once I realized where that conversation was going, I started to lie a bit. 

Do you have somewhere to stay?

Yes. (okay that wasn’t a lie. But what I didn’t add was that I was staying in the same building as the kebap shop)

Do you have a boyfriend?

Er… yes. Yes I do.

Do you know people and have friends in Dresden?

Um… yep.  Sure do.

In all honesty I think he was just friendly and you know what, I say let’s hear it for being direct and to the point right? Funny how in the US when people are direct like that, we automatically think they are creepy. But really I think they’re smart and not wasting time. J

Following our exchange, a young German woman my age (and style) came in and was chatting it up with him, they clearly were friends.  Everywhere people say, “Tchüss!” which sounds like of like, “cheers!”

Dresden is divided into two parts—the Allstadt (old City, south of the Elbe) and the Neustadt (new city, though not really much newere than the old city), north of the Elbe.  The old city is mostly new because it was leveled in 1945, and has all the famous buildings  (rebuilt of course) including the Frauenkirchen.  It is quite remarkable that they are trying to rebuild the exact same buildings as they were years ago before the flood and/or bombings. 

The moment I got here and checked into my hostel (which is just like someone’s home by the way, the coolest one I’ve ever inhabited), I walked down to the River. 

I am here (among other reasons) because there was a major flood in 2002 that devastated the whole state and also places upstream like Prague.  This was the impetus for Germany’s new flood policy.

  This is a small monument dedicated to the flood in 2002.  THe top of this wave (you cannot tell how high it is, but this is on top of a bridge, around 10.4meters above the Elbe River below) is to mark how high the hochwasser or water level was during the flood.

 German flood policy now is protection for the 100-year or 1% annual chance flood like in the U.S.  And the structure is such that the Federal Government lays a framework, but the individual Landers or States make their own laws, enforce them, and implement them.  This is because as a result of some dark German history, there is a fear of giving the federal government too much power. So most of the laws and regulations are actually just guided by the feds but enforced by the states. This of course does have its down side. 

I would have more city and flood-related photos for you but my camera battery died and the charger is broken so I can't take them off the card. Drat!

How Cliché!

On day 3, I officially  became an international criminal.  A friend even referred to me as James Bond, which I must admit, I quite like.  I disclaim that I will give you a lot of build up, to a potentially disappointing story when I finally get to the point, but for now lets just enjoy this together J.

In desperate need of SOMETHING less urban,  I escaped for the day to a region called Säschisse Sweiss. National Park  (Pronounced: Zack-zee-shuh Svytze). Now try saying that five times fast.  Or if you’re like me, try for one.  Just one is difficult enough. 

On Thursday at 11am, I had purchased a day-ticket for the tram.  So on Friday at 8:30am, I rode the tram again with the same ticket making the assumption (I know we all know what happens when you assume), that a day-ticket actually meant 24 hours—you know, the length of a day?

After two stops, a German authority (but in sneaky citizens people clothes!) came on board, said something in German, and showed me her badge.  Only me.  And of course on Public Transit, no one has anything better to do (since the ipod-anit-social-craze hasn’t caught on in Germany yet) than to stare at you—esPECIALLY if you’re talking to authorities who have just showed you their badge.

But I feel fine and hand her my ticket, because I have done the correct thing, bought a “Day” ticket, good for 24 hours in my brain.

She shakes her head and says, “Nei!”  (pronounced Nay.)

“Nei?” I repeat.

“Nei.” Fierce eyebrows.

“Sprechen-sie English?” I asked her if she spoke English.

“Nei.”

Nei?  Okay so how do I explain this one to her.

Fortunately, there is a student sitting next to me on the tram who speaks English fluently and he offers to translate.  Apparently my “day” ticket was not good for 24 hours, but actually only valid arbitrarily  up until 4am the next morning. 

At this point, my life became a walking cliché as she asks in her harsh German accent, for “your documents please…”

Really?

Ha!

My “documents”? 

I wish I had fake ones, just to make this story better.  But alas, I never cheat (except in an 8^th grade history exam), so I will never tell a good story. 

She takes my passport for a while  (as the crowd looks on) and I’m not entirely sure what she is doing.  Normally I would argue, or at least plea for sympathy that I REALLY wasn’t trying to pull a fast one on the German government and I DID think that my ticket was still good.  But the student didn’t feel like translating that for me.  So instead, after a long hard look at the “documents” she handed my passport back. And thru the translation, I learned that normally I would be fined 40Euro, but since I was a foreigner and didn’t speak German, if I would pay her 20 Euro on the spot, I could be done with it all.  (Aka, if I paid her hard cash, she could put it in her pocket and make no record that this event ever happened, but at least it would be 20 Euro instead of 40.)

So I complied.

Then, the sweet German-translator-boy-who-did-not-help-me-negotiate-a-cheaper-price-or-my-actual-honest-mistake gave me the three German kisses goodbye, and we went on our separate ways. 

Or rather, he went to school and I went to Saxon Switzerland to get lost on the trails and curse German National Park System with 20 fewer Euros in my pocket.

Don't worry--if it looks like I'm holding onto that tree to keep from falling down the mountain, that's actually just because I'm holding onto that tree to keep from falling down the mountain.

See you in int'l prison--

Ludy.

Jess Ludy

something amiss...

We'll play a game called, Where is Jess?

Clues.

banks, cheese, chocolate, army knives, watches,  mountain dogs, chalets, miss, neutrality, and current holder of the America's Cup
(not to mention the most expensive country in the world)...

There will be actual photos and commentary to post in the near future, but alas I am busy with "research" today in Basel, so perhaps soon.  Also soon (tomorrow) I'll be in Zurich to meet up with a couple of friends.

much love

to the resistors... (in bear's words)

Last week, Bear was feeling all gezellig, so we decided that after so much travelling, we would take a night in with lebkuchen and hot schokoladen (bears love chocolate).  He got very quiet , which is not entirely bjorn-like, and so I tried to ask him what was on his worried bear mind.  But he didn’t want to talk.  So instead, we fell asleep watching German-dubbed versions of Bay Watch (Germans love David Hasselhoff). And then I felt a tug on my hair.

Bear expressed something has been bothering him for a while now and he feels really confused about some of the things we’ve seen on our trip.  “About the floods?” I asked.  “No,” Bear replied.  “About the deportations, the camps, the violations of rights, all of the memorials,” he began,  “none of this seems very  gezellig ,” he thought, and I agreed. 

“Is this why you tried to jump off the train when we passed through France?”

“Partly,” he said.  “(And that is the reason I shall move to Switzerland—the land of banks, knives, excellent watches, and neutrality!)” he thought.

Bear said he felt so helpless and so frustrated.  And now what could he even do about it?  I said he could share with his friends what he has seen, to keep the memories alive, to educate... just like is written on the memorial and statue to the unknown inmate of the Holocaust in Dachau Concentration Camp: “To honor the dead and to warn the living.”

That seemed like an alright idea to Bear, but “I’m no writer, I’m no historian, who am I to talk about it? I’m just a bear who is a bit homesick for the woods…”

I told him that was fine, that he doesn’t have to be a writer or historian, but just to share what he feels in a bear’s words. 

Bear explained to me (he is quite shy and didn’t want to write directly) that he feels all that we have seen, the Anne Frank House in Amsterdam, the Memorial to Murdered European Jews in Berlin, Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp outside of Berlin, and Dachau Concentration Camp just near Munich, are really personal and individual experiences and so he did not want to share about them.  Anyone who reads about them or visits them should see them in their own way. 

Fair enough.

Bear said he always had struggled with the German people during the 1930s and 40s and the rest of the world during WWII and the Holocaust—how could people and bears just stand by and let something like this happen.  Yes, they knew it was going on.  So didn’t they ever do anything?  Didn’t anyone try to stop Hitler, the SS, the NAtionalsoZIalistische.

Bear does want to tell you something about which he knew very little prior to his trip to Europe—The Resistance. 

Not everyone supported the Nazis.

Big resistance, small resistance, organized resistance, every day resistance…

These gold stones above mark a path down a sidestreet in Munich near Odeonsplatz.  It was here (actually in the Hofbräuhaus) in Munich where Hitler staged a coup in 1923 intending to take over Germany (Prior to having been elected).  The Coup was unsuccessful, and in the struggle, a couple of Nazi soldiers died and Hitler’s bodyguard was severely injured after throwing himself in front of a bullet aimed for Hitler. (Bear imagines how different history may have been if the bodyguard had not stepped in front). 

In any event, after Hitler was elected and took office, this site became a memorial site to the fallen Nazi soldiers.  There was a plaque on the wall and Nazi soldiers guarding the site.  Any time a person or a bear walked passed the site, they were required to give the Nazi solute.  Anyone who refused could be arrested and punished.

So, rather than give the Nazi solute, people began cutting over one street earlier, to get to the place they needed to go without having to pass the memorial and give the solute.  Eventually the Nazis caught on to this, and they began counting the number of people and the number of times someone “avoided” walking past the memorial.  If the number got large enough, the person would be arrested. 

These gold stones mark and commemorate the alternate path taken by those every day resistors to the third reich.

Next, Bear wanted to mention to you, even if briefly, about the infamous “Anne Frank Huis” in Amsterdam.  Most of you have read Anne Frank’s Diary in school and this is the house where she was hidden, her secret annexe and all.  The wallpaper is the same, even the same magazine cutouts with movie starts are still on the wall.  Anne celebrates her 80^th birthday this year and there are adoreable pictures of Anne up on the wall right at the entrance.

Bear appreciates the risk it took for this family to hide the Franks, given that they and others like them could have been arrested or killed on the spot when they were found out.

German Resistance Memorial Center

In Berlin there is an entire museum and memorial dedicated to the resistance movement against the Third Reich.  Bear strongly suggests going there or at least reading a book on the resistors.

The museum is housed in the same building where Scharffenbarg and others, (the character played by Tom Cruise in the release Valkyrie) unsuccessfully staged a coup an assassination attempt on Hitler.  And the courtyard out front is the same courtyard where Tom Cruise and the main other contributors were shot on site.  

Lesser known, there were also 15 (documented) additional attempts of Hitler’s assassination throughout the times. 

There was resistance within Sachsenhausen Camp by a group of Jewish inmates who thwarted the German plan to counterfeit the US Dollar and the British Pound in an attempt to wreck the Allies’ economies.  If the “Counterfeiters” had not succeeded, it is possible the Germans would have followed through on their objectives and there may have been a very different outcome. (Bear suggests checking out the movie actually by the same name).

There were also organized resistance groups, college students, conscientious objectors, teenagers who distributed pamphlets about the atrocities, religious figures (though Catholic bishops had been forbidden to speak out against the German government), there were political opponents, there were revolts within camps, ghetto uprisings, there were (few) people who helped hide Jews, Roma and Sinti, political opponents and resistors, homosexuals, intellectuals, and anti-socials from deportation to concentration camps and they are all commemorated here in this museum.  Bear didn’t know about all of these small movements, so just incase you didn’t either, he wanted to share them with you. 

“So there was resistance...” Bear said, dropping his head. 

We decided to go for a walk this night. Just down the street, Bear tripped over something and he looked down to see what it was.

“Stolpersteine,” replied our friend Josef.

Pronounced, “ schtoll-pa-scht-ine”

“Stolper” in English is “stumble” and “steine “ are “stones.”  So quite literally, stolpersteine are stumbling blocks or stumble stones.

Stolpersteine are an art project by a man named Gunter Demnig  who began the project in 1993. 

The Stolpersteine are gold “stones” or blocks that replace regular stones in the sidewalks in front of houses, buildings, and apartments where all those previously lived who were deported and killed by the Nazis.  These Stolpersteine are now all over Germany, parts of Austria, and the Netherlands. 

The idea is that you may stumble upon them because they standout from the normal blocks and stones in the street.  When you stumble upon them, it forces you to stop and ask a question. What do they mark?  Who lived here?

Bear did some of his own research because he found this really interesting, but thinks he’d rather you do exploring of your own, so he found you the website all about the stones just by clicking HERE. 

So, not to leave you hanging at all, but Bear decided that this is where he will leave you with his thoughts and sharing.  There is so much more to say, of course, on a subject like this, and he doesn’t really know how to close.  But Bears tend to be brief, and don’t feel like they can take on such a weighted topic.  Maybe it is better for a conversation than a bear blog.  Yea, definitely so…

Gutenacht.

(Just to clear for anyone who was concerned about the seriousness, Bear did not actually visit Dachau, Sachsenhausen, or the Annefrank Huis. We both have respect and tact of course.)