Salzburg ist Gemutlichkeit

In recent years, two German words have made inroads into American intellectual--and now--pop culture discourse.  There are omlauts in both words, but I can't figure out how to key 'em. One word is schadenfreude, which translates as getting pleasure from others' suffering or discomfort.  Fortunately, schadenfreude merely applies to our trip in mildly amusing ways: Like when some North African girl wanted to run her hand through Darren K.'s hair on the Paris Metro or when a German guy, needing to kiss someone after Deutschland defeated Turkey 3-2 in the Eurocup semi-finals last night, chose Stephanie H. What ensued after, we call teasing, hopefully steering clear of the most hurtful schadenfreude--what one witnesses on reality TV shows.

I started reading the word gemutlichkeit a few years ago in some literary reviews.  I still don't know exactly what it means, but I can use it in a sentence.  Isn't that the way life is: I haven't figured it out yet, but I can fake my way through it.  It was when I heard 'gemutlichkeit' in a country song called "I'm gonna take you home (and make you love me)" by Robbie Fulks that I knew the word had arrived.  (Although I bet it's the only known use of the word in American pop song history.) I've tried saying it to some locals here in Salzburg with varying degrees of failure.  Mostly I get quizzical looks.  You can get the same reaction when you mention The Sound of Music to any Salzburgian under age 25.  They've never heard of it.  Sabine, who rented bikes out to 27 of our kids this morning, said only Americans are the ones who want to bike the do-re-me streets.  She also was not worried that our possibly rain-soaked riders would ditch their bikes along the river.  "You and Tim have come here every year for 5 years, and your kids have always been extremely responsible. "  She called them kids too.

So Salzburg is categorically gemutlichkeit, and that is a good thing.  We had perfect weather in the morning for the Salt Mines tour--everyone made on the bus this year!--and crazy Archbishop Marcus Sitticus's mansion and Trick fountains. (I have pictures in the week two link.) And then the rain came.  But it was more a benediction then a Debbie downer. Last night the fussball party-ers watched with hundreds of Turkish and German fans the game outside at the Bismark Platz while four boys--Garrett D., Michael K., Theo N. and Matt O.,--and six girls--Hillary D., Christine D., Devon D., Nicole E., Amy G., Michelle Y, and Michelle Y.--went for highbrow entertainment.  They saw a string quartet perform Mozart pieces in the castle hovering above the city.  It was incredible, they said, as the quartet finished with "Eine Kleine Nacht Musique."  The one that goes: Doot, (pause) da Doot, (pause) da Doot da Doot da Doot.

That's gemutlichkeit to my ears. 

Tonight, it's cards in the Augustiner.  Let the Hearts poseurs emerge.

Truly but wryly,

LV

P.S. I think some of the girls are in love with our Portuguese coach driver, Rui.  They think he's actually a secret agent.  

Week 2 Photo link: http://gallery.mac.com/mjhoeger/100026. 

Mitterand's Last Meal

From memory, here's the story.  French president Francois Mitterand, 10 years ago, was dying of cancer.  He decided, for his last meal, to have a forbidden-by-law delicacy--the tiny ortolan, which is smaller than a hummingbird.  It began disappearing from the south of France in the 1950's and thus was put on an endangered species list.  The way to eat it is to catch live in a net, feed for a month with grits and grains to fatten, drown in cognac, quickly cook and then--after blindfolding yourself to heighten the taste sensation--hold by the bill and place on the tongue.  Oh, yes, earlier the eyes were gauged out. Well, you let the juices run down your throat before chewing the tasty bonelettes (two t's, my choice).  'Sposed to be the best.  They kept it a secret for years after he died.  Someone squealed.  Many interesting ethical debates can be gleaned.

So what was our last meal in the fabled city of gastronomical delights.  You'll have to ask your son or daughter.  For the first year most reports were over the top.  And the price wasn't bad either, believe it or not.  Coach Hall and I took the tennis team to Chartier for their first stab at es-car-go.  Some went to eat crepes in Montparnase.  Some went to the Ille of St. Louis.But I think the award for best decision for a meal goes to Christine D., Stephanie K., and Chelsea T. who had a picnic on the Champs de Mars today--the lawn with the mad view of the Eiffel Tower.  Nice going.

Some pictures of all of us at the Eiffel Tower a few hours ago.

go to: http://gallery.mac.com/mjhoeger/100013

Truly,

LV

Paris is 99% Cocoa--and that's good

In years past, Paris has been difficult for the kids--The Metro is confusing, the people not particularly gracious, and the lines at museums long.  We're not hearing that this year.  The weather has been perfect, the people helpful, and the various reports about last night's dinner were either tre bien or magnifique.  More on this in the next post. 

We arrived Friday at 2 p.m. and the kids had time to explore before a 7 p.m. dinner in the hotel. By and large, the boys went to the Rodin Museum while the girls went to Galleries Lafayette. We had an early curfew so we could charge or mount or disable the city Saturday.  In other words, we had our second of only 4 trip tours.

The tour started well.  Our guide, Christine, showcased the sights as we drove around easily through the slowly awakening City of Light.  It was quite a contrast to London where, because President Bush was in town and streets closed for his calvacade, we felt the crush. (In fact, the Prez's car caravan cut off Hillary and Jillian and I after we lost the group after Westminster Cathedral.  We didn't mind and waved to him.  He didn't wave back.) So anyway, the Parisian bus driver dropped us off at the base of Montmartre, and we hoofed it up 210 steps to Sacre Coeur, the lovely white stone church with 5 Onion-shaped domes.  Two of my favorite movies, Francois  Trauffaut's The 400 Blows and Amelie--both of which I showed in class--are filmed in this area, and it gives me the cinematic shivers retracing the characters' steps. Eleven kids either felt the same way or had nothing else to do and followed me as we hoofed it to Amelie's cafe, The Two Windmills.  This peregrination lasted only an hour as we had to make it back to the bus.  But cameras clicked (not mine, battery dead) and good-natured chatter filled the air. Montmartre Village is classic Paris, and the locals were out on the sidewalks buying from the fish, vegetable, and fruit markets for the evening meals.  Christine D., Jordan R., Gary I., Chelsea T., and Melissa L. actually stood at the bar and ordered cappuccinos and cafe au laitsand lee-mon-ahde's while the others, Adriana H., Becky M., Patrick S., Cameron K., Matt O. Mike K., and Helen L. ate watermelon outside.  On the walk back, Patrick snagged a tiny chocolate candy bar with 99% cocoa for two Euros .  99%--Should be delicious, P Scott. But hey, I truly get it, and Trader's Joe's doesn't even have this.  It's why we come. Hope you can get it back home without it melting. 

After that we went to Notre Dame Cathedral and after that some slipped behind for ice cream from Berthillon's on Ille St. Louis.  Is this the best ice cream, ever? We'll wait for Florence to decide. After that a chancellor of the Sorbonne University gave us a back door tour of his venerable college.  Evidently, he showed us baroque rooms no one had ever entered.  We were all too tired to enjoy the hidden symbolism of each wall mural, but Garrett (with two t's) had the best response to his often challenging questions.  When the chancellor asked,  "What do you think of when you think of Sorbonne?" Garrett cooly responded, "Sorbet." (one t, i believe)  I guess Garrett was still thinking of Berthillon's. 

Truly but Wryly,

LV

     

Bruges Canal Bike Ride

The 17 kilometer bike ride from Bruges to Sluice, Holland was accomplished today by nearly all, some without a fall, but at least no one fell into the canal--see last year's blog.  Once we passed three windmills on the outer-ring of the city, it was a direct, wind-aided ride along the canal. Pictures do not capture the pastoral beauty.  One can easily imagine the Flemish Masters beside the water painting the lush and green, the bittern below and stork nesting above (Michelle Crose has a good photo of the storks), and the serenity of the tall cottonwoods.  Now imagine the joyous cackling of bike-riding kids lining both sides of the canal in a race to Holland. Don't they realize I don't give out A's for bike-riding class.  Some figured it out and they fell back with me--the stragglers.  That would be David S., Neil S., Barry K., Devon D., Gary I., Alec G., Stephane K., Becky M., Mona Y., Alexa N., and Chelsea T.  At the 6 Kilometer mark we turned off at the quaint little village of Damme for the 10-1 fruit and candy market.  What a treat--but I could only chew on one side of my mouth.  Mini-strawberries were the hit but the exotic candy made for better picture taking.  

See this web link for some pictures of the trip: http://gallery.mac.com/mjhoeger/100008.

I abandoned the group at this point and headed back to the Groeningemuseum to see the Flemish Primitives such as Pieter Pourbus, Hans Memling and Jan Van Eck, all of whom were upstaged by one triptych by the Dutch Hieronymous Bosch, whose Judgement Day vision of hell may keep me awake for centuries.  Outside again, and with clouds breaking above, the rest of my walk through this dreamlike city was like all the other reports.  Mickey Brown commented, "We saw this sign for stress-reduction classes, and we thought, 'How could anyone have stress in this place."  Sorry that possibly the kindest, most romantic city came second on the trip.

Wryly, but truly,

LV 

P.S. Garret and David fell off their bikes--that I know for sure.  Who else did? 

Terminal Man

Samuel Johnson said, “If you tire of London, you tire of life.” Well, I’ll add that if London can’t revive you, your mother can’t either. I woke up this morning determined to check the architecture of my legs and the vertigo of my head, having survived my first airport sleepover. JFK, I hardly knew thee. But London, ah London, your Edwardian symmetry, your Lime Tree breeze, your double decker confidence—sent me back into a revere of memory as I made my way through Bloomsbury, over Oxford Street to Monmouth Coffee for a redoubtable $4 (2 lbs.) cappuccino, a Pain de Raisin pastry and three fresh chocolate truffles to share with Tim and our tour guide Allison. No wonder the young Parisians are moving to London by the 1000's and so what if each truffle costs a pound each. I had survived a bad 1970’s disaster movie and needed reconciliation, vindication, abdication.

And the kids—and that’s what I’ll call them, if only because ‘students’ takes too long to type and ‘young adults’ is condescending—well, the kids had a blast. They needed no revitalization. My ordeal was their ADVENTURE as they took over the west terminal and play-acted Airport and Airplane and If You Can’t Catch Me Now, renouncing sleep. “Everything has a purpose, LV,” and “Don’t worry, coach,” “We believe in karma, Mr. Hoeger” they naively spouted. Still, they hadn’t lost a tooth or more specifically a lower left molar crown. I had—on one of those peanuts treats for which we now pay.

So we missed a half day of London, but we made up for it in a hurry. With headache gone, toothache disremembered, and truffles hidden, we charged through Westminster Abbey, past the changing of the guards, into Leichester Square for lunch. After, we stumbled with awe under the dome of St.Peter’s and paraded with Beefeaters through the Towers of London. Tonight they’re all out with a midnight curfew, and we are all happy little ravens.

Photos won't upload now. Check later. Incidentally, I’ll start mentioning kids by name and making sure each kid gets a picture or two. Don’t expect a report on a regular basis. They come when they come.

Truly but wryly,
LV (the Literary Vagabond)

P.S. Here’s a joke our tour guide told us as we drove through the financial district of Westminster. “Those men in black suits you see on the sidewalk?” she said. “We call them a ‘wunch of bankers.’” (switch the first two letters of each big word). I've got another variation: "If you tire of English humor, you tire of life."