A Quick Look at Lutherstadt Wittenberg

If you know me personally, you know that I have recently suffered the loss of my dear friend J. You may have seen references to her throughout this blog, and if you have the inclination to go back to 2013-2015, you’ll see various posts dedicated to our all-too-brief time together in Maine. Such a life event demands reflection, and as I come out of my fog, I realize that I want to continue to embrace my glorious life in Germany, with all the challenges these days seem to bring. But I will still miss her like hell.

The challenge of “no travel” has been a big one for the last couple years, and understanding that, some of the local transport companies have offered annual pass holders *free travel* on regional trains running nearly all over the country for a period of two weeks this month. Up-side: free! Down-side: these trains stop at every damn barn and outhouse and it takes sometimes double or triple the time to get anywhere from anywhere. But since I can’t see the words “free” and “travel” without a huge dopamine hit, it was time to hit the rails.

First stop: Lutherstadt Wittenberg, a place that I’ve been meaning to visit for a while. I studied religion as an undergraduate, even did a graduate degree in Applied Theology and as a result was quite familiar with the name Martin Luther and his outlaw deeds (in the mind of the Catholic Church at least). But I had never seen him quite like this. Nice to see the locals have a sense of perspective on their main man:

Originally settled by Flemish colonists in 1180, Wittenberg (the Lutherstadt is basically an honorific) became an important regional center in the fifteenth century, seeing the foundation of the University of Wittenberg in 1502 and hence Luther’s arrival there as a professor of theology in 1508. On the 31st of October, 1517, as legend has it, Luther nailed his 95 theses (his complaints against the Catholic Church) to the wooden door of All Saints, the castle church, and so marked the official beginning of the Protestant Reformation.

Because of its significant religious history, the town center was spared from Allied bombing during World War II. The consideration only went so far, however… just outside the city limits there was an aircraft parts factory which was bombed to holy hell, as it were, taking with it over the one thousand prisoners and POWS who manned it. Wittenberg fell to the Soviets after the war and then became part of East Germany until the reunification in 1990. Here’s a map of the main historical section of town:

Because tourism is such a key part of the town’s economic foundation, the local inhabitants have gone out of their way to make sure people can find their way around and can appreciate the various offerings. Here two bikers read one of the many civic markers (the ones in orange above) that help us hapless visitors navigate this vast expanse:

If you’re been following my blog for any time at all, you know I am not particularly happy about the “Disneyization” of many Europe’s historic inner cities. Unfortunately, Lutherstadt Wittenberg has fallen prey to this condition as well. I don’t envy the civic mothers and fathers who had to decide how to move forward at various difficult economic moments and decided to take piles of money to turn their towns into World Heritage sites, but I still rue that I will never see any of these places as they were most of their lives, vibrant lively urban centers. Here’s a very beautifully restored but somewhat antiseptic main street:

Just when I was getting really grumpy about this, I finally saw something seemed mostly authentic and unrestored. Here’s a boot selection from….a while back, goodness knows when…showing the various styles available by some local bookmaker at some not-so-recent point…mysterious, but at least, not made last week and flown here from China:

Okay, now, time to stop whining and get to the attractions. First up, of course, the main city square (#9 Platz in the map above), seen here through the fisheye of the 500-year Jubilee marker. You might make me out as well as the single human on the square at that moment:

Nearby a dignified statue of Martin himself, graced this day by a fresh new communicant:

But since you know me, you know that once I get the main idea of a place, I start looking for the chewy interesting bits that I didn’t know about before I arrived.

First up was that Lutherstadt Wittenberg was also significant in the lives of Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472-1553) and the Younger (1515-1586). These German Renaissance painters and portraitists worked for the Electors of Saxony and ended up immortalizing many of the leaders of the Protestant Reformation. (Martin apparently was a good friend of the Elder Cranach.) They are considered among the most successful German artists of the period, although I must confess I hadn’t been aware of them before I moved to Europe.

The Cranach painting studio has been renovated and the rest of the Hof (Courtyard) that included his living space and barns is currently being upgraded as well. Here’s a “before” picture of the Hof, which shows that some places really do need an Extreme Makeover:

And after some tender loving care and mountains and mountains of Euros, voila:

Cranach himself was seated nearby but seemed to be lost in his work…

Just a few steps further along the main street, I came across Haus der Geschichte Lutherstadt Wittenberg. Now, you know I love museums, and the crazier the better. I’ve been to the Museum of Tobacco and Salt in Tokyo, the Museum of Dirt and Soap in Bydgoszcz, and a few other gems. But this one…was verrrrrry interesting. Here’s the floor plan. Look carefully:

Hint….here’s who greeted me on the stairs…a youngish, “handsome” Erich Honecker:

So, yes, although they didn’t say it in so many words, this is a museum dedicated to the “good old days” of the East German 20th century and showing a good bit of what we call “Ostalgia” (Nostalgia for the East (Ost)). Each room of the museum is inhabited by a different family of curious and creepy aging mannequins and shows a different decade of the 20th century, paying particular attention to the furniture and furnishings of the era, kind of a snapshot of each ten-year period. Most didn’t catch my eye particularly, but I was taken by the re-creation of a swingin’ groovy East German nightclub circa 1970 or so:

Probably a favorite of the AfD. Hmmmmm. Moving right along…

Speaking of political parties, the German elections are coming up soon, to be held this year on Sunday the 26 (those practical Germans) and as you probably know, Frau Merkel will be departing the stage after her 16 years at the helm. I’ve been curious to know what the future holds in store for her, so I was happy to see she already has some plans to stay active:

Ba-da Boom! It’s dirty exhausting work trying to learn and share all this history and culture. Fortunately, among its many attractions, Lutherstadt Wittenberg offers a variety of restaurant options for the weary and peckish visitor. Most seem to be either Italian or Indian, but it seemed that in this most historic of German historical towns I wanted to stay local as it were. I ended up having salmon (being Friday and all; not that local), but the beer was superlative and came from Leipzig, only 72 km away.

So, since the free travel lasts until election day, get ready for a few more of these quick hits from here and there. Until then, cheers, and thanks for coming along for the ride.

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A Brush with Brandenburg

Everyone knows the Brandenburg Gate, that iconic symbol of Berlin, known in German as Das Brandenburger Tor. You can see a detail of it on the front page of this blog. But it wasn’t until I started looking more deeply at the names of some of the subway stops on Berlin’s astonishing public transportation system that the nickel finally dropped. Hallesche Tor, Schlesisches Tor, Kottbusser Tor, Frankfurter Tor, and Oranienburger Tor. What was the deal with all these Tors that today are….just grubby uBahn stations smelling of doner kebaps?

Well, of course, the word “tor” (which means gate) implies a wall, standard in medieval cities, and then the name of the gate…indicates the city that could be reached if one were only to walk through the Tor and… just keep walking, often for quite a while. Hallesche for the city of Halle to the southwest, Schlesisches for region of Silesia to the east, Kottbusser for the city of Kottbus (now Cottbus) to the southeast, Frankfurter for Frankfurt Oder, directly east, Oranienburger for Oranienburg to the north….and therefore ergo ipso facto Brandenburger for…the city of Brandenburg to the west, now the name of a state (Land) and the new local airport as well.

Long warm days and lower virus rates have, of course, put me in the mood to ramble, so one bright Saturday recently I took my very first train ride in a year and a half and meandered down to Brandenburg an der Havel. Wikipedia satisfied my initial curiosity by confirming old (established in 950 or so), lots of crazy history, good architecture, and, at 70,000 souls or so, easy to manage in an afternoon.

The initial opinion wasn’t great – the main train station pulls in across from a health center and a rehab facility so ugly that only their mothers could love them. I tried not to turn right around and head straight back, but before long a helpful little set of signs appeared that seemed to indicate better sights ahead:

And indeed the yellow brick road brought me over the first little branch of Brandenburg’s complicated waterway system and into a part of town that looked more promising. Brandenburg is actually three rather distinct parts: Neustadt (the first bit I came to; “neu” meaning from 1186); the Altstadt, only a few years older, and the Dominsel (Cathedral Island). The division comes from the course of the Havel River and its smaller cousins that run through the city.

My first stop was the State Museum of Archeology, no shock to most of you, which is cunningly located in the medieval abbey of St. Pauli, brilliantly repurposed. As is my want, I dashed through thousands of years of human history, pausing only briefly at the fascinating exhibits about the arrival of the Slavs into this region between the Elbe and Oder Rivers around the seventh century (which had been vacated by the local Germanic tribes a bit earlier, no one knows why). I’ve mentioned this before, and now I am happy I can show you a map that clears up all the confusion, clarifying where all the churches and forts came to be:

Clear? Good. Moving along, here’s a shot of what was apparently the unique circular building style used for defense of the various tribes in the region. Photographic evidence suggests that here are still many of these lying spread across the local landscapes, buried under a bit of earth, that are still yet to be explored:

But the clock was ticking and I had to leave the momentos of the past for the pleasures of the moment. I found my way to the Hauptstrasse in hopes of finding signs of life, and was pleased to see a little local color and conviviality on a beautiful afternoon:

I was fascinated to see some civic classical adornment of what must have been the headquarters of the main utility provider in town for a while. The three figures are titled “Light,” “Power” (or energy) and “Heat.”

A little further down along the Strasse, I saw a type of shop I have never seen before – that of an accordion maker and repairer. Since I am currently espoused to a craftsman, I appreciated this sight perhaps more than I would have some years ago. You can’t see much except the little red guy in the center and the erstwhile photog, but believe me, accordion makers and repairmen aren’t just everywhere:

Makes, repairs, sells, and offers accessories

Much of the city seemed quite deserted to me. This is a pattern in many of the formerly East German cities within a two-hour radius of Berlin – after the unification, local industries were determined to be not up to snuff economically and environmentally and simply closed down. Thousands lost jobs and many relocated. These lovely little cities with long noble histories have been trying for decades to redefine themselves, some more successfully than others. But a street like this one below reminded me more of Hungary or Slovakia than a short ride outside of Berlin:

I crossed another bridge, this time the Havel itself, and found myself in the Altstadt.

Before we go any further, though, I have to fill you in on the bare facts. Brandenburg was founded in the 10th century when a local Slavic settlement was conquered. Control of the city went back and forth for a few centuries, often being held by a Scythian or a Pole until finally one of the Wends (another Slavic tribe) converted to Christianity and thus was granted the city. In the 14th century Brandenburg joined the Hanseatic League; during the Thirty Years War (1618-1648) the city lost so much power that Potsdam became the new capital of the region. In the 19th century a lot of industrial manufacturing entered the region due to its water accessibility; there was a most distressing concentration camp here during the Second World War where the Nazis experimented with various forms of evilness. (Look it up if you have to.) That’s in in a nutshell.

My first stop was the Altstädtsches Rathaus mit Roland, the Oldtown City Hall with Roland. Roland, a loyal vassel of Charlemagne, hadn’t always stood here, he had originally graced the city hall in the new town from about the year 1402 or so. But his former home became a military parade ground and Roland was in the way, as it were, so he was moved to his current location in 1716.

Old and new

Nearby, another rather curious figure:

This is one of the (locally) famous “Ausgewilderte Waldmöpse,” or “Wild Forest Pugs,” apparently a beloved motif. I’m told there are 20 or so of them about the town (think dwarves in Wroclaw and dragons in Krakow). I only glimpsed this one; perhaps they are a bit timid with strangers…

My next stop was the St. Gotthardtkirke, a beautiful Gothic pile which, along with St. Katharinen and the Cathedral, are the main churches in town. You’ve seen plenty of churches if you’ve been following along with me, so I’ll just add some more personal notes. When I entered the church, off to the left-hand side I saw a lovely little room for personal reflection. I was absolutely charmed and sat for a few moments before adding my own candle to the basin:

A welcoming sight indeed

I entered the sanctuary and had a bit of a tour around, but of course was eventually drawn to the tower. My dear T knows I have never met a tower I didn’t love, and this one was no different. The first sight was a bit daunting, but I didn’t let it stop me; these steps clearly having been improved over the centuries with some well-placed concrete and a most sturdy rope:

…and of course after some zillions of steps I was rewarded by a perfect June panorama:

And then as I hastened to see the Cathedral Island, I thought I was clever to catch this departing shot of St. Gotthardt….

…but of course was chagrined to see that others had had precisely the same idea. Here from 1921:

Sic transit gloria mundi

The cathedral was, no surprise, another big old lovely Gothic pile in an absolutely gorgeous setting which no picture could quite capture. You have to imagine a triangle with the front of the cathedral as one leg, a set of several buildings which are now a hotel and a fantastic restaurant (I had the zanderfilet with potatoes and cucumbers, thank you) as the second leg and a third set of buildings completing the triangle with a lush grassy patch in the middle. The cathedral chimed a small carillon of multiple bells while I was eating my lunch and I thought I might just be called to the angels at that moment.

But now it was time to head back to catch the train. Just a couple shots to share how important the Havel has and is to the life and livelihood of the city. As I made my way back through the Neustadt to the train station, I passed some fish smokers plying their trade (eat in or take away) along the waterfront:

And finally, I’ll share a shot of how many of us only dream of spending our weekends:

So Brandenburg…a city with a long and fascinating history, a bit of a fall from grace after 1990, and now clearly trying to rebrand itself as a destination with something to offer almost everyone. I’m adding this to my growing list of places to explore again; here’s hoping the good times keep rolling and we all get to have some adventures for a while.

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“Wending” our way through the borderlands…

The travel muse has been on holiday for much of the past year, sitting on some tropical veranda sipping some adult beverage and waiting for this challenging season of lockdowns and quarantines to pass. I’ve been applying myself to studying German via Zoom in my slow and erratic way, hoping this year to finally pass the dreaded B1 exam and end the slow drip of grammatic torture that is every permanent expat’s fate. But this past weekend, dear friends K and M, basically my entire social “posse,” invited me out for a spin, something the Germans call “ein Ausflug,” or an excursion, into the beautiful countryside along the Oder River, the border with Poland.

Our first stop was Frankfurt an der Oder (henceforth “F/O”), a source of some confusion for newcomers to Germany since of course it shares its name with the bigger version to the west, Frankfurt am Main. In both cases, the second part of the name identifies the river on which the city sits and the reasons for their existence and growth.

Lying roughly 80 km east of Berlin, F/O is one of those places whose past is considerably grander than its present. It began as a Slavic settlement and ended up passing under the control of a range of ruling entities including the Poles, the Bohemians, the Prussians, the Swedes, the Russians, the Poles (again), the East Germans, and of course then the reunified Germany. One of the civic gems is the Marienkirche, originally built in 1253.

We were bummed to realize that, of course, the church would be closed due to COVID, so we walked briefly around the town only to realize that F/O has suffered the fate of many other cities in the region – a handful of jaw-dropping ancient architectural wonders surrounded on most sides by ghastly functional modern blocks of concrete and steel. We took small comfort from this charming sculpture outside the doors of the public library but then quickly exited Stage Left…

Reading to a friend always improves the experience

You’ll notice the word “wending” above. On my trip to Görlitz a few years back, I discovered that much of the area south of the east-west line between Berlin and F/O and running clear south to the Czech border is an historic region previously known as either Lusatia or Sorbia, home to the Slavic Sorb and Wend peoples. The Wends may have been the inspiration for the name “Vandals, and these fiercely independent groups held out against the invading Christian Germans until around the 12th century or so. Although living throughout the ages under many flags as suggested above, the language and elements of the culture have remained and have protected status in Germany. So as soon as one crosses into these previously Sorbian or Wendish lands, one sees place names and other signs in both languages.

From F/O we headed southward, roughly following the twists and turns of the Oder River, a lovely ride that kept confusing the heck out of my Smartphone, which kept welcoming me to Poland and telling me about my roaming charges. Our next stop was the tiny town of Neuzelle, a new place to my mental map and one that you probably haven’t heard of either. Here’s my entry into the “Most Bucolic Photo of the Day:”

Just to the right of this shot is the local brewery (closed at the moment – damn!) and then up the hill behind me is the group of buildings and gardens that makes up an ancient cloister complex:

So I knew I was in for something special, but after we walked through the gates, I really did drop my jaw. I looked at K as if to ask if he took a wrong turn somewhere and landed us in Austria. But he just looked at me and smiled. “Welcome to the Abbey.”

The complex was established as Nova Cella in 1268 by a group from the nearby Cisterian Altzella Abbey. The complex grew in the 14th century, but was destroyed in the 15th century during the Hussite Wars. The Hapsburg Monarchy (ah HA! Hence this style of building) extended its reach in the 16th century through the Bohemian Crown lands and the complex remained Catholic even though the entire surrounding areas became Protestant after the Reformation. Heavily damaged during the Thirty Year’s War in the early 17th century, the church was rebuilt AGAIN in this astonishing Baroque style, unlike much of anything else in this neck of the woods. Today the monastery complex is held by a public foundation run by the State of Brandenburg and includes two churches, the living quarters for the monks in residence, a school, and a museum, along with a developing formal garden. The site has applied for World Heritage status.

We wandered inside just as the resident monks started their noon chant, which ran for fifteen minutes. This gave us time to take in the interior of the church:

Chanting like it’s 1685

You just don’t see anything like this anywhere in Northern Germany, and particularly in the areas that used to be under East German control, where many of the churches were literally stripped of every internal piece of frippery. To see this much ornamentation still intact was….head shaking.

M and K taking in the view

To the rear of the complex, the old formal gardens are being re-established after decades, if not centuries, of neglect. In a year or two, this view will be even more enjoyable.

On a clear day, you can see…..Poland

By this time I was ready to call it a day, but K had one more stop in mind. We drove south another 75 kilometers through the perfect spring afternoon and finally arrived in Bad Muskau, a little spa town on the banks of the Neisse River. But the real reason to go is to see the “Fürst-Pückler-Park,” a UNESCO-World Heritage site since 2004 and the brainchild of the prince and landscape artist Hermann von Pückler-Muskau, “The Green Prince,” a man with a vision and the means to realize it.

Pückler-Muskau was born in this building in 1785. He spent some time in the army and traveled extensively through France and Italy. He was briefly the governor of Bruge in Belgium after the defeat of Napoleon.

After retiring from military service, he traveled again, this time through Great Britain, spending time in London, Wales, and Ireland. Later in his life he traveled through Algeria, Tunisia, Egypt, and Sudan. He was “promoted” from count to “Fürst,” a higher level of nobility divorced his first wife, and looked for a second one who could support his growing interest in…..gardening. The palace here, seen below, was the result of his first effort; he sold this estate and developed a second one near Cottbus, another city in the region.

The Fürst died childless after a long and eventful life at the age of 85, after having been a travel writer, a military man, a landscape gardener, and apparently quite a ladies’ man and freethinker, creating a bit of a stir in his day. A lucky nephew inherited his estate which included the original house on the left and the palace:

Here’s another view from the backside…

Waiting for the cafe to open…whenever that will be….

…and a shot of one of the guarding spirits….

The surrounding gardens are massive and were divided at the end of the Second World War between Germany (520 acres) and Poland (860 acres). A decent exploration would take at least a whole weekend or more.

We tumbled back into the car and headed to Berlin, our heads filled with images of beauty and tales of artistry that spanned the centuries. I’m just hoping there are many more such adventures ahead as we all begin to venture back into the world. In the meantime, stay thee safe and well and you can be sure I’ll bring you along with me wherever I go.

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The power of a portrait’s gaze…and the power of an artist

If I were to try to explain my relationship with my father, I would have to fall back on that useful and time-honored Facebook status phrase, “It’s complicated.”

To his everlasting credit, however, at approximately the mid-1950s time period represented above, my father took it into his head to expose me to fine art. My parents had bought a series of small books on specific artists, a set like others of the 1950s and 1960s available monthly in grocery stores for a quarter or so. My father trained me, at approximately 18-24 months of age, to recognize the artist from the piece on the cover of the book. I would be trotted out at cocktail parties, family legend goes, to demonstrate my precocious virtuosity. “That’s Mr. Utrillo!” I would chirp, pointing at one book cover. “And that’s Mr. Rubens!”

Like most parlor tricks, this one had limited utility in the rest of my life, although it did give me some extra points in my college humanities classes. But the value and delight of this rather unorthodox early training has meant that I have been endlessly seduced by art and art museums of all shapes and sizes around the world. Sometimes I have enjoyed Renaissance paintings, sometimes 20th century suprematism, sometimes American impressionism, whatever. But lately, I’ve become enraptured by….portrait painting.

“Huh,” you say to yourself. “Portrait painting. Um, gosh, that sounds….ah……er…… fascinating.” I know, I know, it’s not everyone’s cup of tea and I can understand your impulse just at this moment to click out of my blog and get on with something more….dynamic…if you will. But please give me a chance to plead my case on this one.

A couple years back, in the “before” times when we could travel to places and explore venues more interesting than the grocery store and the post office, T and I went to Madrid for the annual big pen show there. We left ourselves an extra day at the end of our stay for some final business and a bit of sight-seeing, since pen shows normally mean one is locked in a ballroom for ten to twelve hours a day. I had plans to drag T off to a couple of the smaller, less famous art museums since 1.) they were close to our hotel and 2.) I had hoped the crowds would be smaller, which they were. We were walking through the first one, the lovely Museo Lazaro Galdiano, when I stopped dead in my tracks in front of this work:

The title of this piece is “Retrato de dama joven,” “Portrait of a young lady,” 1560, by (officially attributed to) Sofonisba Anguissola, c. 1532-1625. Interesting details to unpack in a moment, but first, the look on the subject’s face:

Forgive me my projections, but that is…grief. Or at least, tremendous sadness, anguish, resignation, and still, underneath, duty, grit, resolution. Or at least, that’s what I see. I was instantly haunted by this picture, and went home to research it, of course.

No-one seems to know who this person is, except that she was a noblewoman in the court of Phillip II of Spain, the location where the artist was working (more about that in a moment). The descriptions I found only spoke to her “serene expression,” her dress and ornate embroidery, the detail in the ruff, the jewels in her hair. She’s holding gloves, perhaps an indication of outside wear. But, IMHO, this girl is hurting, and I wanted to know more.

1560 Spain.

Phillip (Felipe) II was the most powerful ruler Spain ever had, by some accounts, and his 42-year imperial rule, his Golden Age, spanned large swatches of Europe and the discovery of much of the Americas as well as the Philippines. When he actually inherited Spain in 1556, he and his wife became “Philip and Mary, by the grace of God, King and Queen of England, Spain, France, both the Sicilies, Jerusalem and Ireland, Defenders of the Faith, Archdukes of Austria, Dukes of Burgundy, Milan and Brabant, Counts of Habsburg, Flanders and Tyrol.” Not a bad bit of real estate. But what that meant of course, was wars, wars, wars, wars, and then of course, more wars, against just about everybody just about everywhere, including a brutal set of navy battles against the Ottomans in which thousands of Spanish sailors were lost. The Battle of Djerba (near Tunisia) in May of 1560 was one of these.

My based-on-absolutely-nothing intuitive sense is that the young lady’s true love was lost at sea or in battle or something along those lines…and that this painting, her engagement portrait as I am guessing it is, shows both her wounded heart and the knowledge that she must go forward with a different marital outcome, shall we say, than the one she had hoped for, dreamed of, just a short time ago.

But who was the artist who could capture this look, this feeling, this beauty and this pain that arrested me across 460 years? Ah, here the story gets…even better.

This one could, and she did:

Self-Portrait at the Easel, 1556 Although she painted women in glorious colors, the artist herself wore a modest and virtuous black.

Sofonisba Anguissola was born in Cremona, Italy, then a Spanish dominion, to a noble family of modest means in 1632. She was the eldest of six sisters and one brother, all of whom were educated to a high standard by parents who believed in the values of “The Book of the Courtier” by Baldassare Castiglione.

By the artist. A family portrait group with her father, Amilcare, sister Minerva, and brother Asdrubale, circa 1559.

Her artistic talent, and those of her siblings, was nourished and supported by her family, extremely unusual in the day. This resulted in training with Michelangelo in Rome for two years and a resulting invitation to paint the Duke of Alba in Milan. He in turn recommended her to King Phillip and in 1559 Sofonisba became officially a court painter and a lady-in-waiting to the new queen, Elisabeth of Valois (the Mary mentioned above had died, apparently).

Sofonisba spent 14 years in residence with the royal Spanish court, guiding the artistic development of the ladies in residence in addition to painting dozens of portraits of the extended family, many of which were destroyed in a 17th century court fire. At the age of 40, due to the death of her patron, Sofonisba accepted an arranged marriage with a Sicilian nobleman and left Spain forever. After her first husband died, she fell in love with a much younger Genoese nobleman, Orazio Lomellino. They married and lived apparently very happily together until her death in 1625.

A portrait by Anthony van Dyck, 1624, who credited her with much useful artist guidance

According to Wiki, “Anguissola’s adoring second husband, who described her as small of frame, yet “great among mortals,” buried her with honor in Palermo.Seven years later, on the anniversary of what would have been her 100th birthday, her husband placed an inscription on her tomb that read in part:

To Sofonisba, my wife, who is recorded among the illustrious women of the world, outstanding in portraying the images of man. Orazio Lomellino, in sorrow for the loss of his great love, in 1632, dedicated this little tribute to such a great woman.

Fathers and daughters, lovers lost and found, the waxing and waning of empire, women known and unknown who have danced across the planet – all manner of delights await us when we spend a moment with art and then dig for the deeper meaning. In this time of lives lost and found, months of trial and isolation, I try to reach to the possible and the positive, to find meaning in the present through the exploration of the past. Thanks for coming on this journey with me today.

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A Christmas like no other…

It’s December 15th here in Berlin, and tomorrow we start a hard lockdown, or, I should say, we start another hard lockdown, where all shops except basically groceries and pharmacies will be closed up tight. My friends in the Netherlands started a similar lockdown today today and theirs runs until January 19th – ours is nominally until only January 10th, but with caveats that it may be extended. So with this all front of mind, I decided to suit up, head out, and enjoy as much as I could of this most odd and unusual conclusion of this most odd and unusual year.

If you’ve been following this blog at all for the past few years, you’ll have a dim recollection that Christmas Markets in Berlin are among my favorite things on the planet. I’ve been fortunate to have been here for part, if not all, of the last six Decembers, so I’ve seen my fair share of the local offerings (which I am told pale in some in other cities, but so be it). I’ve been to somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 or so in Berlin and other German cities and a few more in places as far-flung as Vilnius, Stettin, and Marseille. For someone who loves the spirit of the holiday (but dislikes the commercial aspect, the religious aspect, and has weak family ties), it’s the perfect solution to the midwinter doldrums, particularly in these northern latitudes.

So it was with more that a bit of regret that I saw this, one of the only markets even open at this moment, the one at Breitscheidplatz, reduced to…

A remnant of its former glory

You can just make out, on the other side of the security bollards (installed since the truck bomb in 2016, a few little huts where normally dozens are crowded around with lights and greens and hordes of happy revelers. And even these modest outposts will have to close, I believe, on the morrow.

Here’s a close-up of one of the street huts, a fairly standard one selling the amusingly named “Little Quark Balls” and the Hungarian favorite, Langos (a fried doughy thing). Note the disinfectant…adds a certain “je ne sais quoi” to the greasy offerings, or so I’m told…

But just walking down the street, Berlin’s famed Kurfürstendamm, things looked, well, more or less normal for a December afternoon. Folks were out strolling about and queueing for shops and chatting with friends. Not surprisingly, Berlin’s edgy humor was, as often is the case, on full view:

…and on sale, to boot…

Not surprisingly, having been given exactly two days to prepare for a four-week Christmas-and-New-Year’s lockdown, people were doing their level best to get everything done by asap. Although Escada and Versace have given up the ghost and just shut down entirely, Louis Vuitton, still functioning, had seen fit to give people appointments (Termin) to make sure everyone got their LV swag in an orderly fashion:

A little further away, I was more enchanted by a line at a local bookstore. Take that, Amazon:

But it’s always the small things that continue to enchant me in this faire city. One store showcased a number of lovely small nativities from around the world, just cuz. This one from the Czech Republic seemed particularly appropriate for this year…making do with what we have, and being grateful:

So about this time my Grinch’s heart was beginning to soften. But what almost moved me to tears was when this ‘brand ambassador’ ran out of her shop and sat down in front of me, imploring for a bit of a cuddle. How could one possibly resist?

“You know you want to, you really want to…”

Sweet boo. I do miss canine energy. So when I spied this shop sign a few steps further, I almost hooted out loud. Yes, hearing ads for dogs “exclusively here with us.” Free consult included:

I headed away from the fancier neighborhood back toward my more modest neck of the woods. And here, of course, another line, this one for TKMaxx, the local version of TJMaxx, this one much longer. This line in actuality extends twice as far as you can see here, everyone queueing patiently. Thank god for iPhones:


Nearby was the most curious “COVID compliance” sign I’ve seen yet. I think the translation is: “Don’t cucumber. Mask for the beet. We abide by the Corona rules.” Clearly my German is still not yet quite up to par. Corrections grateful accepted:

Quick update – my translator chimed in once this blog was published. Rumgurken means wandering around, aimlessly, and vor die Rübe would be cover your head. I think it liked the earlier version…so basically “Wear a mask and stay close to home.” (Better with vegetables.)

Well, by now as is so often the case, I was cold and thirsty. Happily, this past weekend I had discovered a lovely little delicatessen not far from my house that served up a damn fine white wine “Glühwein” with orange slices, so I dropped in for another dose. The proprietor graciously agreed to pose for me pre-dip:

One scoop or two?

It was, as it had been before, absolutely smashing, and he assured me that since he was indeed a delicatessen he was allowed to stay open. I told him I would be back regularly. It may not look like much, but damn, this stuff is fine:

Back home again, much improved from my five kilometers and my brief brush with conviviality, I thought I would show off one of my treasures from today. I “elfed myself” with a lovely pair of 15 euro knock-off pearl earrings from my favorite German and Thai jewelry store. Merry Christmas to me.

Ho ho ho…

….and now I will bid you a fond adieu on this quickly darkening afternoon as we begin our Advent retreat, with the thought that we must, all of us, all together, everywhere, set our intention and find our inner resolve to endure this period as one world, one people, one family, and do what it takes to get this nasty virus out of our lives forever. Wear the damn mask, do the damn social distancing, make your damn peace with Zoom. In the immortal words of Nike:

With that exhortation, please accept my warmest wishes to you and my fervent hopes and dreams that 2021…brings us all more health and happiness. Not a high bar, but fingers crossed. ❤

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Wandering and wondering in Warsaw

The days are shortening and the temperatures are dropping – on this side of the Atlantic at least. T and I took advantage of a mild early fall and a seeming absence of coronavirus spikes to make a quick trip to Warsaw, Poland, the goals being to strengthen friendships and to fan potential business collaborations. T had never been to Warsaw before; an added incentive. We decided to take the six-hour ride on the intercity train, even though I was a bit concerned about border crossings. (I shouldn’t have been.) It felt, aside from the masks and the limited seating, a bit like The Before Times, and for that I was grateful.

I’ve been to Warsaw before, on my blitz trip through Poland in 2015, and I felt many of the same tugs and tangents on this trip as I did then. Warsaw is a complicated place in many of the same ways that lots of European cities, including Berlin, are complicated – war, devastation, rebuilding – but with a different edge that I am still struggling to explain to myself or to describe well to you. Jarring, in a way. Painful. Resilient. All this and more. Perhaps some of the images I share will help us both.

Arriving in Warsaw and exiting the train station, one is greeted, as is often the case in Poland, by a huge shopping mall, this one with a curious aquatic feel:

Once inside, it is pretty much your usual Euro-brands consumer paradise, and it is a good distraction for travelers with hours to kill. But I wanted to introduce T to some of the more, er, uniquely Polish attractions, so we remained immune to the sirens of commerce.

Our crib for this trip was the Hotel Bristol, a magnificent pile with a complicated history. First constructed in 1899-1901, it opened to great fanfare and was the gathering place of  glitterati until the local German commanders saw fit to make it their own in 1939. (I am particularly fond of the place because my Uncle Bob mentions it in his letters home in 1938.) It survived the war unscathed somehow, returned to being a hotel under the new communist regime, later serving briefly a library for the local university, and then sliding into sad disrepair until being renovated in 1991-93 and then again in 2013. (The bedding is not to be believed).

I started the tour with the old town, of course, a short walk from the hotel. This part of the city was Ground Zero for the Warsaw Uprising from August through October 1944, a tragic historical note that is difficult to equal. As a result, although the Bristol kept her footing, literally every other building for miles around was leveled and more. So the charming old town that is there to be see and explored…is all a complete reconstruction of the original place and buildings. Here’s a bronze map showing the main layout:

The big squarish thing on the right is the royal castle, originally built in 1598. The market square on the left, looking like an open depression, is now the charming touristy “beer garden” seen below:

If you read my posts regularly, you’ve seen quite of few of these. I do so love the way Europe tumbles out of doors as soon as it’s even vaguely warm and stays that way until the winter storms drive the smokers away. (I even don’t mind smokers here as much.) I just love sitting and watching the world go by in this manner.

T indulged me in one of my main urban passions, and that is, of course, museum slogging. I’ve learned that city museums have some of the most intriguing artifacts and insights, and that proved to be the case that morning with the Museum of Warsaw, a wonderful resource that is actually located in and through six or so of those very same buildings you see above. Wiki tells us “The various collections in the fields of archeology, painting, graphics, iconography, sculpture, decorative arts, numismatics and architectural drawings, now exceed 250 000 objects.” And what a deliciously varied and curious set of collections they were indeed. Here T ponders….a fish, I think…

You’ll note the yellow arrows. I don’t know if these were added during corona times for proper spacing or if they’ve always been in place. This museum is a literal maze – multi-building, multi-floor, multi-tunneled, quite the wild ride. But the yellow arrows kept us on the straight and narrow, as it were.

The most hard-hitting fact we had to confront in the museum (in a well-curated wall chart) was how the local civilians were affected by World War II. In the period 1941-1944, the population of the city went from roughly 1.6 million to 160,000. Yup, you read that right. Only ten percent (*ten percent*) of the city’s inhabitants survived. And yet they persisted.

Aiding the fight, here’s someone I didn’t expect to see hanging in the portrait gallery:

Meet August Agbola O’Brown (1895-1976), a jazz drummer born in Lagos, Nigeria who came to Warsaw from London in 1922, at which point he was, mostly likely, the only African man in town, if not in the country. He found musical success, settled down, married a Polish woman and had had two children by the late 1920s. He became a soldier during the uprising and fought with the partisans under the handle “Ali.” O’Brown survived the war and re-immigrated to London at the end of the 1950s, working again as a musician. Wiki tells us “His friends and neighbors remembered him as a very intelligent, courteous person, and a polyglot (he spoke six languages).”

Another set of treasures in the museum – a collection of advertising on boxes used for all manner of everyday items, dating from the 1920s or so. I am enchanted by their gentle and colorful creativity, as well as the clever presentation:

As we were trying our damndest to navigate to the end of the exhibits, an *extremely* friendly guide buttonholed us and tried to give us a very personal tour. Before we managed to slither away, he gave us a memorable background story about this interesting piece:

In the process of designing a set of plates intended for the Hotel Bristol, Pablo Picasso was asked what his three favorite things were in life. He answered, “Art of course, the Blues, and Polish vodka,” thus obviously endearing himself to the locals for all time.

And it must take a lot of vodka to understand all the pain that this city and its inhabitants have endured. Memorials to the dead are everywhere and appear to be, for the most part, well maintained and well-floralized. Here’s one in the old town:

Warsaw Uprising August 1944

“The field hospital of the home army’s “Gustaw” battalion, commanded  by Dr. “Morwa” Tadeusz Podgorski, was located here in the basements of the buildings at Kilinski Street No. 3. After the fall of the old town on September 2nd, 11 inujred people who could not be evacuated through the sewers including 2 nurses were murdered by the Germans.”

Yes. And these are frequent throughout the city, specific, painful, and clearly still deeply personally remembered. Closer to our hotel, a heartfelt memorial to the unknown fallen, this particular one the most important of all such in the country:

This venue is situated in the only remaining portion of the Saxon Palace, a ginormous pile that used to grace this spot and may again, if current hopes prevail. The guards change every hour, on the hour, every day of the year.

One more odd historical quirk – a memorial to Herbert Hoover. Yes, THAT Herbert Hoover. The one that we remember, if we remember him at all, as the overseer of the Wall Street Crash of 1929. But he has another – and perhaps more lastingly significant – role in Poland.

“After World War I, he became the head of the American Relief Administration and organized one of the biggest humanitarian initiatives in history. Its beneficiary was, to a large extent, Poland…in February 1919 alone, 16,000 freight railway cars and 500 river barges…were unloaded in Gdansk. (In addition) Hoover donated thousands of horses, cars, tractors, large quantities of dynamite and nitroglycerin, locomotives, machines, medicines, and medical equipment…American aid covered over 1.3 million Polish children fed  in 3000 cities and villages, mostly in eastern Poland…Herbert Hoover received the Honorary Citizenship of the Capital City of Warsaw and Lviv in 1921 and the title of Honorary Citizen of the Republic of Poland in 1922. He also organized food aid for Poland after World War II.”

No wonder they’re happy to see Americans, in a country that never forgets.

Well, by now you’ve probably completely forgotten that the reason T and I even went to Warsaw was for fun and frolic with pens and friends. I feel duty-bound to provide you with actual evidence that that event took place as planned and anticipated, accompanied by excellent local brew and chow:

We live in interesting times. But I continue to be very grateful for all that is still available to us, particularly our good friends, whether in person (rare and all the more valuable) or increasingly through these electronic media. And the longer I live, the more I become aware of how the sufferings of others have led to the rich life we have led and are leading, even constrained as most of us are at the moment. I wish for you, my dear readers, every moment of meaning and connection you can conjure these days. Know that I appreciate you reading my thoughts more than you can imagine.

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The brave new world of Zoom…

As some of you know, I often spend a good chunk of my summer surrounded by rice paddies at the International University of Japan in Minami-Uonuma, Niigata Prefecture. There I have been privileged to work with a wonderful team of fellow visiting faculty and a most diverse and enjoyable group of students from all over Asia, many sponsored by the International Monetary Fund in preparation for their master’s programs. The quad and main classroom buildings at IUJ looks like this in the height of the very hot and very humid Japanese summer:

While appearing tad austere, the campus actually has provided the palette for some intense learning experiences balanced with all manner of fun and merriment, some a bit rowdy, to be honest. But it is always a bright bold adventure.

This year I had planned to take the summer off and enjoy life and warm breezes from my balcony in Berlin. But such was not to be the case. In early June I received a frantic SOS from the IUJ program administration requesting my assistance to deliver our four-week intensive writing program…remotely….for the very first time and with very very little time to prepare. After some serious soul-searching – I have *really been trying to avoid this type of activity* – I agreed to join the “pioneer caravan.”

But before we laid eyes on our students, oh my what a scramble. First of all, the personnel involved….were global. I am, of course, in Berlin. My teaching colleagues A and B are in the US – California and Kansas, respectively. Our boss T was in Japan, and the students were physically located anywhere from Kazakhstan to Indonesia and many points in between. For the four members of the teaching team and boss to actually meet at the same time, we had to ask A to drink coffee with us at 8:00 am, B to have her second cup with us at 10:00 am, me to join with my signature G&T at 5:00 pm….and the boss T to chime in at midnight. Quite the temporal circus.

Here’s the intrepid Team ABC in one of our many lesson planning meetings:

Secondly, just to make things work and to deliver as much of the program as humanly possible, we were allowed to acquire a variety of technical equipment (much of which I did not end up using), but which had to be ordered through a laborious and multilevel multi-organizational approval process involving, shall we say, a lot of chefs:

And, third, naturally, when all this equipment met up with the required range of different computer systems, teaching software, Zoom connections, program materials, administrative spreadsheets, and whatever else, the technical and technological interconnectively challenges were seemingly endless. Here is the most patient IUJ tech support guru, for whom all the chocolate in the world is not enough, on one her of several emergency visits with me:

Here’s what my “classroom” (aka kitchen table) actually looked like for about five weeks:

Note the outdated map taped to the wall in an effort to look vaguely school-like. The cat normally occupied the little slot beside the computer shelf – you’ll see this later.

And here’s what we were trying to accomplish in four weeks, four days a week (the fifth day was tutorials) and three hours a day:

In addition to Zoom and email, we also used portions of the Google Suite called “Drive” for the faculty, (basically an online library space where we could upload and edit documents and materials) before sharing them with the students in  “Classroom.” Here’s what my students saw in preparation for the first week in our classroom:

Once I got the hang of it – the method of posting is rather clunky – the interface itself is pretty cool. Students can access the materials either online or print them out, and *there’s no way the dog can eat your homework.* The contemporary version of that excuse is that the internet is down, so same result in the end, I guess.

Because of the time differences and the fact that the university administration wanted all the classes to run at the same time IN JAPAN, I was initially asked to teach from 5:00 am to 8:00 am. If you know me at all well, you know this is tantamount to bamboo shoots under my fingernails while sitting on sharpened thumbtacks. After my heart started pumping again, I was able to take comfort in the RULE of German quiet hours which in my building translates to being able to make noise only starting at 7:00 am. So I got a reprieve, at least this year, and 7:00 am to 10:00 am were my teaching hours. Ahem.

Computer, cat, and coffee…good morning class…

Once I got over the initial shock of how to manage ten screens, admit people, create breakout groups, share screens, and use chat, it actually started to feel almost normal. Almost. Here’s a shot of the chat window, where your students can keep you honest:

This is a really handy feature where you can send a message to the whole group OR just to one individual person. Budi, listed above, lives in Indonesia near a mosque. The call to prayer was a regular feature of our classroom.

And finally, here’s my class – the brave and patient group of stellar individuals who had to stifle their expectations of a summer in Japan and substitute several months of sitting in their bedrooms for multiple hours a day interacting with faculty who were themselves just learning how to manage this medium. It’s been a year of massive adjustments, to be sure, and IMHO, this group managed it as well or better than most.

This lovely group of folks hails, listing top left to bottom right, from Myanmar, Mongolia, Kazakhstan, Laos, Thailand, Indonesia, Bangladesh, Mongolia (again), Bangladesh (again) and Kyrgyzstan. They certainly brought me their best game and I did my very best to give them the same in return. And truth be told, I think I am the better teacher for it. Live long and prosper, y’all.

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A sliver of Stralsund

This is the final post covering my lovely little mini-holiday last month in northern Germany, written in a bit of a rush today because I am preparing to teach my first-ever online course over Zoom. I know this is old old news for much of the world, since you grizzled veterans have been doing this since March, but I have been scrupulously avoiding this type of activity and now it is upon me full-bore, so I will have to give up my adventuring for a couple months or so and throw myself into learning a bunch of crazy stuff on a bunch of new machinery and then deliver it for three hours a day to students in four different time zones. Wish me luck; I’ll need it.

But before I turn my attention to Turnitin.com, here’s a last look at our northern excursion. We had stopped for lunch in Rostock, site of the fountain at the end of the post below, and took a brief turn around the city center to walk off the excellent cuisine at Blauer Edsel, the Blue Donkey. Just off one of the main pedestrian thoroughfares, we stumbled across a quiet courtyard with some of the inhabitants enjoying the perfect summer weather. I was enchanted by this living Impressionist painting of peace and serenity:

Back on the road, on our way to Stralsund, my dear spouse pulled a dramatic U-turn and blew dust up a country road to show me something he knew I had always wanted to see – a stork on its nest. Storks to us in the US are rare sightings and their personal habits – mated for life, extraordinary migration patterns returning always to the same locale – are the stuff of legend. Blog, meet my closest stork encounter to date:

The height and complexity of the nest suggests a habitation of long duration and a tolerant human population that never burns a fire too brightly….

I wanted to see Stralsund because it is, together with Wismar 150 km/93 miles away, a World Heritage site due to their amazing architecture and shared history. But in addition, Stralsund has been under an astonishing number of different flags and sports, among other things, the most Swedish tourists of any site in Germany because of its long association with that country.

Take a deep breath…Stralsund was initially established by West Slavic tribes in the region but politically was initially Danish. In 1293 Stralsund became a member of the Hanseatic League, and although the nearby island of Rügen fell under control of Pomerania in the 14th century, Stralsund maintained its independence. In 1630, as a result of the Thirty Years War, Stralsund, along with Stettin (now a Polish city) fell under Swedish control and stayed there for two hundred years until 1809-1815 when it was briefly French, thanks to the long arm of Napoleon. It became part of Prussian Pomerania after the Congress of Vienna in 1815. Stralsund was heavily damaged by the Americans in World War II and fell under the control of East Germany following the war. Whew! Currently home to nearly 60,000 souls, the city has in addition to an active tourism scene, commercial activity in fishing, shipyards, and increasingly, high tech.

Traveling in the age of corona has new wrinkles, as you might imagine, and one of them is that some locations and venues have new regulations about durations of stay. We had hoped to make a return trip to Aeroe on this trip, the lovely little Danish island where we married three years go, but the public-health-prudent Danes currently require proof of six nights of hotel stays before one is admitted to the country (unless one has Schleswig-Holstein license plates, which means next time we borrow the in-law’s car…). Many hotels also require stays of more than one night, so our hotel options were oddly limited on this trip, even though the overall number of tourists was considerably down. As a result, that evening we stayed at a hotel outside the old city in Stralsund, which gave us a nice walk each way to the main attractions. In one city park, we saw the following monument:

This is a memorial to the man who tended this city park for a good chunk of his gardening career. It reads along the lines of “In commemoration of the faithful caretaking of Ernst Billich.” Such a lovely gesture; one I have never seen before.

Not far away, another thoughtful concept. The picture below is of an institutionalized ride-sharing site “Mitfahrbank”, where people select and advertise the name of the village to which they want to travel – Prohn is the current objective, but you can see a map below the sign with other alternatives in the area – and then sit on the nearby benches to wait until someone stops by and gives them a lift. I’ve never seen anything quite so organized, and I love the idea:

Once inside the beautiful old city, the absolute “must see” is the Saint Nicholas Church, the oldest of the three main churches in town and built as a council church, to balance, as it were, the sacred as well as the mercantile, legal, and diplomatic functions of the city. The original founding of the church was in 1234; it was rebuilt as a basilica from 1270-1350; and the towers were finally finished a hundred years or so after that. It is huge huge huge, and it had, in its heyday, 56 altars. Yup. You read that right. 56, most dedicated by guilds and more to the glory of secular egos than to any heavenly figures. me thinks.

It was impossible to take a picture to show much of anything because of the scale of the building and all the renovations, so here are just a couple details. The first is a somber and sobering memorial to the victims of the First and Second World Wars:

As I usually do, I lit a candle so that the Powers that Be know I’m still kicking. But this simple and modern stage touched me deeply; I lingered a while.

At the other end of the great hall, we spied this curious object:

Wiki tells us “behind the high altar is (a model of ) the astronomical clock, which was built in 1394 by Nikolaus Lilienfeld. The clock is part of a whole series of monumental clocks, which were installed since the 14th century in churches in different cities of the Hanseatic League It has a wheel train with a mechanical escapement. In addition to day and night times, the positions of the sun, moon, and fixed stars can also be read off the clock. It is the oldest almost completely preserved astronomical clock in the Baltic region and also the oldest mechanical clock in the world that still contains its original wheels.” Don’t give up on weather.com, but I still think this is pretty damn cool, particularly the 1394 part.

Next door to the church was the Rathaus, the city hall. Hanging on the wall in the stone arcade, filled with interesting little shops, was the following memorial:

In rough paraphrase, “It’s possible without bloodshed. The time of oppression is past.” ‘On the 30th of October, 1989, thousands of Stralsunders demanded the establishment of a group for social dialogue. Between the 7th of November 1989 and the 2nd of May 1990,” The Stralsund 20″ worked to define the peaceful revolution and the development of a democratic community in Stralsund.’ Lovely to have that permanent reminder for all to see.

As always, history, culture, and politics combine to create a tremendous thirst for….learning….and of course the local beer. T and succumbed to the warmth, the weather, and the closing of all the establishments promptly at 6:00 pm by repairing to a cozy table on the town square, where we joined the fortunate few able to be in this place at this time, free for a brief celestial moment from the cares of the world (and our masks). Prost!

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A Whisper of Wismar

Trigger alert: This post, and perhaps the next, will feature an ungodly amount of red brick. I can’t help it, truly I can’t. Red brick was the preferred building material for much of northern Europe for a very long time because a.) it is relatively easy to produce and, more importantly, b.) it protects against fire. But you might find this post a bit pictorially repetitive and find yourself longing for green spaces. I am sorry. I will try to be more chromatically diverse in the future. Feel free to move right along if this doesn’t interest you.

After the last location, Schleswig, T and I continued to head due east. Once past Lübeck, we entered a new German state, Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, formerly one of the four states that made up East Germany. This was an area that I have long been interested to explore for its complicated historical, political, and cultural threads. Known locally as either MV or MeckPomm, the region initially saw its first inhabitants about 10,000 BC, with the original Germanic peoples leaving at some date and Western Slavs moving in around the 6th century AD. Vikings populated much of the coastal areas, known by some as the Baltic Sea and for the Germans as the OstSee, for centuries before the region was handed over to the Holy Roman Empire in the 1180s. Later the Swedes held sway for a goodly long time. It’s very sparsely populated state overall, but its beautiful old cities and lovely rolling countryside (along with its coastline) attract a lot of tourists, both domestic and international, in non-Covid times.

Our first stop was Wismar, and I will have to to come clean and say that I was immediately captivated. But for this post I will have to start yet again with a Famous Unknown:

Frege? Any guesses?  No, me neither.

“Friedrich Ludwig Gottlob Frege, 8 November 1848 – 26 July 1925) was a German philosopher, logician, and mathematician. He worked as a mathematics professor at the University of Jena, and is understood by many to be the father of analytic philosophy, concentrating on the philosophy of language, logic, and mathematics. Though he was largely ignored during his lifetime, …. Bertrand Russell (1872–1970) and others introduced his work to later generations of philosophers….Frege was described by his students as a highly introverted person, seldom entering into dialogues with others and mostly facing the blackboard while lecturing. He was, however, known to occasionally show wit and even bitter sarcasm during his classes.”

Well, I personally would have quickly withered and died in such an academic environment. Good thing German students of the day were composed of sterner stuff. But I’m happy to have met him in this form, particularly since his bronze bust was unable to reduce me to analytical and emotional dust.

Wismar, Frege’s hometown, was a bit more accessible for me. Founded in the 13th century and ruled mostly by Swedes during its history, the city is part of the fabled Hanseatic chain of cities that was responsible for so much wealth creation during its five-hundred-year history. The old towns of both Wismar and Stralsund are together a World Heritage site, and it’s no wonder. Here’s a map of Wismar’s Altstadt:

As with many of the wealthier cities in the region, Wismar is marked by its astonishing number of big churches and cathedrals. Apparently this was a way that the local merchants demonstrated their spiritual, as well as their commercial, prowess. At my insistence, T and I headed up to the viewing station of the St.-Georgen-Kirche, I believe the center building in the map above. The view that balmy June day was spectacular:

….but what was equally interesting to me was the church’s interior, a real contrast to many such edifices. Remember, the East Germans were, shall we say, not particularly religious, and as a result, the interiors of many of the amazing Gothic structures…..were stripped of their theological frippery and can now be seen in a different light – the bones, as it were, of an ancient treasure. Here’s T reading up on the history of the building:

The churchwas damaged during the Second World War but has been restored to this state. To me, this is really spectacular and showcases the astonishing architectural and structural abilities of the late Middle Ages’ craftsmen.

Nearby are the ruins of the of the St. Marien church, the location of the Frege bust. In a way, this is even more heart-rending – the church was damaged during WWII, but then political interests took the destruction yet another step:

“For political reasons.” “…processed into stone chippings.” Sigh. In the memorial center, there’s a remnant of one of the remaining frescos:

A short distance away, yet another Grand Dame is reflected in a city canal:

….and nearby is the city museum that we didn’t have time to visit (but I will return to, asap, pinky finger promise, you have been warned…):

….in front of which is, what I am quickly learning, is a major Good Luck Charm in Germany….

Wismar really REALLY rang my chimes. You can expect a much expanded story sometime in the not-too-distant future. The city, barely 25,000 souls, has managed to keep its historic core, encouraged and sustained a variety of interesting and unique shops, and has preserved a sense of history well intact. I’m told rainy winters are brutal here, but if I have one more move in my future, it might well be to this neck of the woods.

We left Wismar wistfully, but on the way to Stralsund, enjoyed a lovely lunch in Rostock. There we were treated to the sight of children at play in the center city fountain, a sight to melt the heart of even the most curmudgeonly of old ladies:

Which leads me to the ancient trope, hope springs eternal. Bis gleich. Until soon.

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A slice of Schleswig and a hint of Haithabu

As I mentioned in a previous post, T and I were moving pretty fast this trip, and I must confess that part of my eagerness to tell these stories is to give me a chance to reflect a bit more on the places we went through at such a blistering pace. Today I’ll share a bit about the modern city of Schleswig and the ancient city of Haithabu (Haddeby) nearby. But first, do you know this guy?

No, me neither. I saw this bust in the little village of Garding on the west side of the country, where we stopped briefly for T to meet with a colleague. The Greek Key motif below the bust suggested something of a classical or academic bent, so I looked him up.

Yowza! Wiki tells us “Christian Matthias Theodor Mommsen (30 November 1817 – 1 November 1903) was a German classical scholar, historian, jurist, journalist, politician, and archeologist. He was one of the greatest classicists of the 19th century. His work regarding Roman history is still of fundamental importance for contemporary research. He received the Noble Prize for Literature in 1902 for being “the greatest living master of the art of historical writing, with special reference to his monumental work, “A History of Rome,” after having been nominated by 18 members of the Prussian Academy of Scientists.He was also a prominent German politician, as a member of the Prussian and German parliaments. His works on Roman law and on the law of obligations had a significant impact on the German civil code.”

Okay, then. Wow. Even a tiny town of 2700 souls can turn out a world-class scholar and Nobel Prize winner. His younger brother, no surprise, was a writer and the director of the local high school. Such accomplishment, and yet to have never heard his name. There is a actually Mommsenstrasse in Berlin; I will be more thoughtful next time I stroll down it.

I normally don’t take pictures of food and am ungenerously quite dismissive of those who do. Buuuut, we had dinner in Schleswig at an unprepossessing little cafe…that simply blew my socks off. Food, I must say, is one of the very few disappointments in Berlin; at my price point, it’s decent but not very interesting. But for an extremely reasonably priced meal, this was a show-stopper – grilled shrimp and potatoes, a glorious veggie salad, and what you can just barely see at the top of the place, a delicious chickpea/grainy/curry thing that was amazing. Oh, and an excellent local beer that we’d never heard of. *This is the reason you go off the beaten path.* Cheers, Patio!

Well, we’re multiple paragraphs in and you haven’t gotten the history lesson yet. Schleswig is the follow-on community to Haithabu; after the latter was destroyed around 1066, Schleswig grew as a local trading center in the Danish kingdom. The dukes of Gottorf made their home there, and their lovely castle, initially built in 1161, is still here for the viewing (we missed it). Schleswig, now a town just over 25,000, was Danish until the Second Schleswig War in 1861, when it became Prussian, now German, of course.

The city skyline is dominated by St. Peter’s Cathedral. Its backstory is amazing: “In 1134, the Danish King Niels’ headless body was laid out in St. Peter’s Cathedral after it was pulled from the Schlei in the nets of local fishermen. The monks who attended the corpse heard strange noises and thought that the spirit of King Niels was wandering about in the church. As a result, the king’s body was taken to Gottorp and stuffed into a boggy grave. Someone hammered a stake through Niels’ chest to keep him there. Legend has it that King Niels’ still haunts the cathedral, and that he still hunts across the moors and forest of Schleswig with his hounds.”

Clearly the cathedral was, of course, under reconstruction when we strolled by, no ghost, no hounds, thankfully. But that history might explain the odd sense of sadness that permeated the town, even on this most glorious day of summer weather and into a long gloaming evening. We enjoyed exploring the city, but wondered to ourselves…where the heck the local inhabitants were. A local plaza asked more questions than it answered:

Of course, the EU has just opened some of its borders for tourists, but one might think more locals might be inspired to enjoy a balmy evening in the square.

The next day, we headed across the bay to Haithabu (Danish: Haddeby), a destination that I have longed to visit for quite some time. If any of you have read or watched “The Last Kingdom” series (BH, I know you have), Haithabu is frequently mentioned there, the big Danish trading site where all the toothsome women and young children captured in battle are sold into slavery for transport to points south. Just for your point of reference, here’s a map showing its location:

Now a UNESCO World Heritage site, Haithabu “is the most important archaeological site in Schleswig-Holstein. Around 965, chronicler Ibrahim ibn Ahmed At-Tartûschi, an Arab from Cordoba in Spain, visited Hedeby and described it as, “a very large city at the very end of the world’s ocean….Hedeby was the second largest Nordic town during the Viking Age.” Active between the 8th and 11th centuries, the city was an early Christian center and a wicked important trading town. It was ultimately destroyed by two forces – the Norwegians in 1050 and then the Western Slavs in 1066. The site was rediscovered about 1900 and early excavations began then; the adjoining museum opened in 1985.

We didn’t have time for the museum this trip (the time theme again), but we did take a beautiful stroll to see the reconstructed houses. On our path there, I noticed this tree with the most amazing root system I have ever seen:

…and soon we found ourselves on top of the massive dike works that had originally surrounded the city. First here’s a view of what is visible today – you can just see the tops of the houses in the center midground:

…aaaanddd here’s what was there, during the height of its three centuries of influence:

Hard to imagine, but of course the world is filled with incredible Places That Were.

Al-Tartushi continued,

…The inhabitants worship Sirius, except for a minority of Christians who have a church of their own there…. He who slaughters a sacrificial animal puts up poles at the door to his courtyard and impales the animal on them, be it a piece of cattle, a ram, billy goat or a pig so that his neighbours will be aware that he is making a sacrifice in honour of his god. The town is poor in goods and riches. People eat mainly fish which exist in abundance. Babies are thrown into the sea for reasons of economy. The right to divorce belongs to the women…. Artificial eye make-up is another peculiarity; when they wear it their beauty never disappears, indeed it is enhanced in both men and women. Further: Never did I hear singing fouler than that of these people, it is a rumbling emanating from their throats, similar to that of a dog but even more bestial.”

Foul singing aside, the houses themselves were as basic and utilitarian you might imagine, and my photos of them are a bit dull, hence the omission. Basically they are long houses with cooking and heating elements at each end and a large room in the middle with raised beds covered in fur. But here’s a shot of a contemporary tool workshop, and as always it gives one pause to realize and remember that real people just like you and me lived their whole lives for hundreds of year on this material level.

Nearby there was a truly amazing “gift shop,” run by a family who *actually made* the items strictly according to the materials available and based on models from the museum. The family itself, a charming group of husband, wife, and grown son, dressed in appropriate 10th century garb and even offered refreshments that were available in the era. I bought a charming little silver Viking ax pendant – pagan pride at its best.

As we hastened to the car, we passed a delightful final scene, the preparation for outside church services on that Sunday in the time of Corona. This site is a memorial to one of the bishops of the region, a man who must have labored mightily against the rather bloody Sirius worshipers. Chairs were being placed with proper social distancing and there was a disinfectant and other tools of the trade along with the order of service and a humble wooden cross.

To say I’m itching to return is of course an understatement. But don’t dispair – the next stops are Wismar and Stralsund. So happy to have you along for the journey!



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