21 April 1992
Dear
Mom and Dad (and by copy as noted),
We
arrived home Saturday morning at two in the morning from our spring holiday,
doing it right this time: home with three days before school starts again.
The
big news since we returned is the story of the young British woman who seemed
to have everything going for her and was murdered in New Orleans last week by a
lifelong young criminal needing drug money.
In Germany I happened to see something on TV (in German) about schools
in the US. I couldn't understand the
language, but the point wasn't hard to miss, as the school children learned to
dive under desks to get out of the line of fire of gun carrying kids. On Sunday, the Independent newspaper had a piece identifying London as the crime
capital of Europe. I don't necessarily
doubt the story's truth (London is, after all, a huge city, though I suspect
that British statistics are a bit more reliable than French or Italian); but
there still seems to be an enormous gap between crime here and crime in the
US. I'm sure there are lots of
explanations and reasons, but the thought of the random brutality in the US
that seems to walk about so freely is quite depressing. The worst part of things is that it is
American culture which is taking over the world, not the other way around. (We were in Salzburg, Austria and Munich,
Germany on the Sunday Euro Disney opened up.
There seemed to be nothing else on the news that day and the days before
and after.)
Well,
to travelogue!
On
Saturday the 11th, we were off again to Salzburg: a 450 mile drive. We had tried for five nights in Munich
(Munchen), but only managed four, staying the extra night instead at Salzburg,
about 100 miles slightly southeast of Munich.
The drive up was absolutely magnificent, as we headed north out of Italy
through a beautiful valley lying in a split between the snow covered
mountains. (One could easily imagine the
Germanic tribes attacking through this pass fifteen hundred years ago.) This was around Trent. The road rose gradually until at last we
reached the mountains of Austria, where, at one point, we rode a bridge across
a valley almost as if we were in a gondola going up to the summit.
Innsbruck
looked graceful and pleasant, business-like and comfortable in a long valley at
the foot of the mountains with the river Inn on its other side. We crossed into Germany for awhile, before
going back into Austria and arriving in Salzburg at 6 p.m. Saturday night. The town, and it seems to be little more than
that, was quiet. It is absolutely
charming, pushed up against a couple of large outcroppings of rock; atop the
steeper one is the oldest remaining fortress in Europe (c. 1077) and atop the
other are trees and a monastery. On
Sunday, we happened into Palm Sunday 11:30 mass at the cathedral (again looking
at the art work while listening to mass in a foreign language); we took the
funicular up to the fortress afterwards.
It was our prettiest day of the trip, and Salzburg the most picturesque
of our stops, not just because of the city, but the Alps in the background, all
rugged and snow covered. The green
countryside could not fail to impress anyone.
Visits to the Mozart museum and Mozart birthplace were obligatory, as
were various flavors of pretzel and a hot dog, before we set off to Munich.
Hit
Munich Sunday night. Once again a nice room
with TV, but nothing in English. Monday
we did the walking tour of downtown, in the light rain, again stopping at the
churches: the one with Fr. Mayer's
grave, (Fr. Mayer being the Jesuit who spoke out against Hitler and who is in
the process of being canonized), St. Michael's and St. Peter's. But we also had bratwurst, sauerkraut and
beer, and managed to find in Munich our restaurant of the year: Pizza Hut (to
go along with the one in Cambridge, and other places on our journeys). I
sampled the local brew, a cloudy, clove tasting beer called Weiss beer. Cathy and I spent several hours in the Alte
Pinakothek, the art museum with the standard treasure trove of works, which here
are particularly early German painters and Albert Druer. We learned that Germany's art history is
largely influenced by the country's location between the Renaissance of Italian
art and the realism of Dutch art.
On
Wednesday Robert, Cathy and I had the sobering experience of visiting the model
Nazi concentration camp (KZ) at Dachau.
It is hard to describe the feeling of walking around there. It was a cold, windy, wet day. The museum and grounds have mostly an
informative, historical aspect to them (the museum with its description of the
rise of Nazis and the reasons, the statistics), but it is, of course, the human
suffering which makes the greatest impact.
One picture can do more than all the writing; the gas chambers were not
actually used at Dachau, but they are there and one can stand inside them, next
to the crematorium. I like to think it
was a good lesson for Robert, but even he might be too young to
understand. What I thought of was the
amazing evil of the Nazis: through the use of lies and euphemisms and double
talk one can make the most horrific things sound banal and mundane; it is a
scary side of law and politics, and a powerful argument for the importance of
truth at all costs.
Munich
did have its brighter sides: the Hofbrau with its beer only by the liter, the
colors of the glockenspiel and town towers, the BMW factory and Olympic park;
Thomas and his ongoing study of life.
The town itself even looks relatively new, remembering that much has
been rebuilt since 1945. (Cathy said
some of it reminded her of UNLV!)
Thursday
we had an early start and did nothing but drive: 550 miles to Brugge in
Belgium, along the way passing through a new snowfall in the hills, several
traffic jams, the beginnings of the Danube (which flows to the Black Sea!), the
Rhine, Luxembourg on a hilltop, and a glimpse of the Atomium off in the
distance in Brussels, as we took the ring road around the city proper. Friday we slept in, but drove into Brugge for
lunch, a walk around town and a boat ride on the canals. Brugge is the "Venice of the north." Having seen them both, one can appreciate the
comparison, but it is hard to compare Venice with anything else. Of course we bought Belgian chocolates and
had a waffle. On our last stop, we
visited the Church of Our Lady in time to see the Michelangelo madonna, while a
choir finished off its lovely Good Friday hymn and the candles were all
extinguished in the church, in respect, we assumed, of the occasion of the
death of Jesus.
We
had a smooth crossing back from Ostend at 9 pm, gaining an hour on the four
hour crossing as we returned to England.
Nothing eventful on the crossing except for some creaks which sounded
funny; one also has a tendency to be a bit concerned with all those seasick bag
dispensers at every turn throughout the ship.
(And how does it carry all those busses and trucks?)
Thus
our holiday.
There
have been so many other goings on, it's hard to remember. I attended a poetry class in the Lake
District (one of the prettiest spots in England with magnificent mountains and
lakes) and learned about S. T. Coleridge over a weekend. Mostly retired people, but all with a love
for poetry, and teachers who could rattle off a line of poetry at the drop of a
hat. Lovely setting in an old manor
house, and a good class. Stopped by
Wordsworth's houses: what gardens and views!
A few days later Cathy and I attended the black tie Times Literary
Dinner in London. Famous writers, a nice
reminiscence by William Trevor as writer of the year, nice conversation at the
table (no one famous at our table, just book lovers). We will do the same, attend a black tie
literary debate on May 8th in London, between John Mortimer and P.D. James
about whether detective fiction is better than serious fiction. (I think this is a smaller group, we won a
ticket in a lottery.) All these things
seem to be available here, so close, so in reach; that's one of the very nice
things about England. We are an hour
away from one of the major cities in the world, and yet live basically out in
the country.
We
missed the election while we were gone.
The Conservatives (John Major) won again. They have a great system here, only about a
month of real campaigning, but most of the stories were about the polls, all
saying Labour would win. If nothing else,
it was good to see the people prove the
opinion polls for nought, a bit like Truman in '48. I think it really boiled down to a few
things: a lot of people didn't like the Labour leader, Kinnock, who is retiring
now, having lost three elections; people sort of trust Major (or perhaps,
better the devil you know...), though he is a bit boring; plus Labour was going
to bump up taxes for a lot of people.
Conservatives seem to be a lot like Republicans, but there are
differences, beginning with the premise that there already exists national
health, rails, etc. Conservatives are
also "greener" than Bush, though that's not saying much!
Last
note: the roads in France and Germany
are terrific, Italy not that bad; all of them better than England, and what fun
to drive on the right hand side again, though a guy honked at me in France
after I made a left turn and drove for a bit on the left! Gas here is about 45p per liter, that is
about $3 a gallon. In Italy they seem to
have a better idea: instead of taxing the hell out of sin, cigarettes and
booze, they tax the gas and roads and keep the sin items cheap. (That must be why the cars are so
small.) It cost about $35 in tolls
between Milan and Rome (tolls are also high in France); gas in Italy is about
$4.50 a gallon. Even the VW seems like a
Suburban!
Will
see you shortly!
Love,
Michael
et al
P.S. How can I ever forget the scene in St.
Peter's, Saturday morning, the day we left.
I walked over at about eight in the morning, and there must have been
ten or more masses going at the side altars; most being said by priests all by
themselves. In the arms of the cross,
with three altars at the end (a cul de sac of altars), masses going on next to
each other. Some in Latin, some in
Italian; old style, new style. Each
priest with an altar boy. The main
altars with several nuns in attendance.
When one mass is over, another begins, priests on their way to altars
like airplanes at an airport, each with a slot for take off time. Some masses concelebrated. Voices echoing through the grates from mass
below. I finally picked a mass that was
just starting and the five of us (perhaps the brother or sister of the priest
and spouse, nun, a man and myself) stood at the rail for mass in Italian. Wow!
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