The Boxer

I'm not sure if it is still there, but the Boxer used to be in Berlin's Altes Museum. (Museums do that -- loan, borrow. Reinvent exhibits.) It is a life-size bronze portrait of an ancient prize fighter, a Hellenistic statue from the first century BC. This statue, one of two, is thought to have been a part of the furnishings of Constantine’s spas. Rome was enthralled with Greek art.

The portraiture's realism suggests that it is in fact a particular boxer, with his broken nose and unique scars highlighted in copper. One can see his exhaustion -- the swelling face, the wrappings on his bloody hands. Victorious, but at what price?

His fingers are also worn -- rubbed. Marked forever by countless passers-by. In antiquity, they had to have known of him. Or that for which he symbolized. Strength and honor.

Nameless today, yet still admired. Hollow immortality.

Ägyptisches Museum

The Egyptian Museum of Berlin (Ägyptisches Museum und Papyrussammlung) is home to one of the world's most important collections of Ancient Egyptian artifacts. The museum originated with the royal art collection of Prussian kings and the first objects were brought to Berlin in 1828 under Friedrich Wilhelm III.

My first visit to the museum was breathtaking. I experienced ancient Egyptian culture as I could not have imagined. I browsed through ancient sculptures, busts, masks, mummies. Human and animal. And common, everday personal items. Used eons ago. Combs, brushes, mirrors, jewelry, toys. I gazed upon the face of Nefertiti and was not distracted by the single eye. I contemplated Julius Ceasar's brow. And I strolled through the endless scrolls and hieroglyphs of the Egyptian underworld.

These were real people with sophisticated accoutrements. Thousands of years ago. This was not the beginnings of civilization, this is civilization. Evolution or de-evolution. I had to re-evaluate my historical paradigms.

I've heard that this portion of the museum in now closed. I hope this is not the case. Or at least it has been relocated and open to the public somewhere else.

Ishtar's Gate

In addition to the Pergamon Alter, Berlin's Pergamonmuseum houses a reconstruction of the Ishtar Gate, rebuilt from excavated materials (1899-1914). Several prominent museums around the world have remnants of the gate, mainly the glazed-brick reliefs. Archaeological diaspora.

Originally erected during the reign of Nebuchadnezzar II (604-562 BC), it is the eighth gate to the Babylon's inner city. Through this gate ran Babylon's Processional Way, leading to a seven-story ziggurat. The Processional is also recreated here, with friezes of the Lion of Ishtar, the Bull of Adad, the Dragon of Marduk. No doubt, the prophet Daniel and his fellow countrymen at some point walked through Ishtar's Gate during their period of exile (597-538 BC). For it was this King Nebuchadnezzar who sacked Jerusalem, destroyed its temple and carried away Judah's more prominent citizens.

Dedicated to the goddess Ishtar, and being part of the Walls of Babylon, it was considered one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World -- until it was superseded by Alexandria's Lighthouse in the third century BC. What I did not know is that the Ishtar Gate was a double-gate. Before me stood the smaller frontal portion. The larger back was considered too massive for the museum and is in storage.

It is an amazing sight to behold.

Market Gate of Miletus

This is one of the three grand exhibits at Berlin's Pergamonmuseum. It was transported piecemeal from its 19th century excavation site to Berlin and reassembled. Displayed. At least partially abducted. The main collection of town's artifacts appropriately reside in the Miletus Museum in Didim, Aydın -- Turkey's Aegean region. (Miletus was one of the 12 Ionian cities of Asia Minor; an important regional harbor. Now grossly silted, reset centuries ago, several miles inland.)


Here, again in Berlin, the Bible and history meet. The Apostle Paul met with the elders of the Church of Ephesus at Miletus in 57 AD (Acts 20:15-38). Yes, another one of Revelations' Seven Churches. Later, Paul left Trophimus, one of his travelling companions, at Miletus due to illness (2 Timothy 4:20). It is generally assumed that Paul transited Miletus at least one more time, perhaps as late as 66 AD. Miletus had to have hosted an emerging Christian community. After all, Paul was a decent missionary.

Can one then assume that he passed through this gate to shop or browse the market? Or proselytize? Oh yes.

Pergamonmuseum

Berlin is home to over 150 museums. Several prominent ones are located in an area often called Museum Island (Museumsinsel), the northern half of the Spreeinsel, a Spree River island in the city's center. There, the Pergamon Museum (Pergamonmuseum) houses reconstructed monumental buildings such as the Ishtar Gate (the eighth gate to the inner city of Babylon), the Market Gate of Miletus (one of ancient Ionia's most important ports) and the Pergamon Altar. These reconstructions consist of artifacts and materials excavated from their original sites.

As an aside, those places would really like their historic stuff back. Antiquities. Okay, back then they were weak and abused. Others were strong. They also pilfered and sold their own past, their heritage. But how do we undo that which was moved, taken, bought or stolen in the past? Open box, welcome contents. Thanks Pandora.


Built in the 2nd century BC, the Pergamon Altar is a magnificent structure thought to have been a part of a temple dedicated to Zues in Pergamon (now Bergama, Turkey). In antiquity, it is described as the "battle of the gods." Here, the goddesses Asteria and Phoebe, Hekate and Leto, appear; on a corner, Triton and Poseidon. Another frieze is reserved for the Olympians, where Hera guides the chariot of Zeus into battle. To the right is Herakles. Zeus then follows, followed by Athena and the war chariot of Ares. Eos, Helios and Selene wage war. Is this an ancient comic?
The temple and altar also appear to have been mentioned in the Book of Revelation, "... in Pergamos ... where Satan's Seat is ..." (Revelation 2:12-13). Satan's Seat.


What is this Berlin? Am I looking at real property described in one of St. John's revelations? The one directed at Pergamon's Christian congregation, one of seven archetypal churches? My mind raced through years of Sunday School lessons. Parables, prophecies. Apocalypse, final judgement. Stories. Whispers. Sleeping with one eye open. 666. History of biblical proportions, here. Oh my.

More Graffiti, Zaragoza

Graffiti, Zaragoza

Zaragoza's graffiti is more than just writing on walls. Its artistic caliber and esoteric stature melds and compliments its urban environment. It fits. There are random echos of Dali, Goya, Miro, Picasso, Saura -- the Spanish School, Cubism, Surrealism. All, drawing outside the lines, venturing beyond the wire -- exploring the agonies of war, poverty, broken relationships, never ever civil. Inquisition. Man versus man, man versus beast. Blurred, obscured, reinterpreted.

This is evidence of the city's resident fringe, the part of society where stray artisans reside. Creating in alleys, moving amongst the shadows. Propaganda. Invitations. Whispers.

"Come closer, gaze, decipher."

Who are they? Street artists or vandals? ¿Decoración o devastación?

Perhaps a good deal of the work is sanctioned or even commissioned. No doubt there are plenty of instances of decorating someone else's property without permission. But this is more than tagging, defacing. This is niche artwork which cries for legitimacy.

Yet, it simply cannot escape the canvas upon which it is placed -- and its fleeting nature. It appears, disappears. Obliviated. The next coat of whitewash or paint is inevitable.

Art crime. Lost.

Of Graffiti

If you could not tell, I pay attention to graffiti. Who were these people and why did they make these little scratches, etching stone, marking time? Perhaps it is because of our ageless need to mark things -- with our names, our opinions, our angst -- to notice all this social, to whisper, gossip. Is it simple self promotion or something else? Boredom? Rebellion? Imagined immortality?

At the Chapel, King's College, Cambridge, the internal stone is soft, easily worked, deep. In the dark, obscure corners, handwritting abounds. Names, dates. William, 1771. The penmanship confirms a specific point in time. We don't make our "Js" like that any more. For ages.

Stenciling has recently become a popular venue. The stencil is to the street artist as the printing press was to the author. Take your time creating the master pattern -- in this case, Prince Charles. Okay, I get the political satire -- monarchy, anarchy -- is Charles not behaving well or are you not a fan of the Royals? Regardless, pick a spot, tag and go. Unleash chaos from its aerisol cannister, if only for a moment, in remote places.

This graffiti is from Prague -- found under a modern bridge, for concrete is a modern palette, perfect for typically modern graffiti -- words. A name, a singular message, a stylized technique -- ego with no future. Mark your territory for less than cheap. Good luck with that.

It is for this reason I find Zaragoza's graffiti intriguing. It is simply on a different plane, dimension. Artistic distortions of someone's reality, an invitation to join in, understand. Gaze.

I want to understand. Spain.

Bernd das Brot

Meet Bernd das Brot. German children's TV star, talking loaf of bread. Philosophiser. If you've spent any time in Germany or nearby countries which air his show, you've likely seen Bernd. And thought, "what the hey?" I have. Too often.

Were you aware that Bernd was recently kidnapped from his permanent fixture in front of Erfurt's town hall, his hometown? Probably not. Horrific. Children cried. His kidnappers actually contacted the police. Demands? They were evicted squatters -- give us back our building or Mister Loaf gets it. Really. Bernd appeared on YouTube, sympathizing with his captors. Patty Hearst, Stockholm Syndrome. Stalemate. Standoff.

Fortunately for the children of Erfurt, a group of kids found Bernd in another abandoned building. As for the squatters' former home? Toast. Remodeled. Converted into office space, flats.

Bernd in der Hölle

Bernd das Brot. Ich bin im ernst. Genau. Alles klar?

Zaragoza

It was Zaragoza that first introduced me to the bull fighting. Siesta. Eating dinner at 11pm, or later. Tapas. Alien street art. Steak tartare. (Yes. It was good. But please Lord, let it be beef -- not horse.) And the Spanish festival -- fiestas.

Sitting on the banks of the Ebro River, Zaragoza, capital city of the region Aragón, is perhaps best known for its splendidly ornate cathedral -- the Basilica of the Pillar (Catedral-Basílica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar). Surrounding this place of pilgrimage are Zaragoza's historic quarter (Casco Histórico) and the Tube (El Tubo), a maze of narrow alleys which nurture innumerable cafés and tapas bars.

Originally a Carthaginian military outpost, Zaragoza was colonized during the reign of Augustus as the Roman city Caesaraugusta. The Romans also called the Ebro River the Iber -- hence the Iberian Peninsula, since it is Spain's largest river. It later became part of the Arab Emirate of Cordoba (714), renamed Saraqusta, which eventually evolved into an independent Muslim state. (Today, the influence of Muslim culture is readily evident in the abundance of Mudéjar brick architecture.) Later it was conquered and incorporated into the Kingdom of Aragón (1118). Zaragoza also witnessed the martyrdom and Jewish repression of the Spanish Inquisition (1480-1530); Napoleon laid siege to Zaragoza twice (1808-1809); and it was brutalized during Spain's Civil War (1936-1939).

Within this rich and complex environment, I stumbled upon its festival. Quite accidentally. Completely unaware.
Zaragoza’s Pillar Festival (Fiestas del Pilar) is celebrated annually on October 12th and the city comes alive with parades, theater and music to honor the Virgin of the Pillar. Not only is October 12th the Día de Nuestra Señora del Pilar in Zaragoza, it is also the Día de la Hispanidad, Spain’s national celebration of Columbus Day. During this time, it’s impossible to miss the random and abundant paths of flowers which lead one to the Plaza de Pilar. For the newcomer, it is evident that something of significance is going on here.

The beginning of this festival reaches back to 40 AD when Saint James the Apostle was evangelizing pagans in the area. As the story goes, the Virgin Mary appeared to him on a marble pillar and asked him to build a church on the land upon which he was standing. She left, the pillar remained. A small church was subsequently built around said pillar -- and over the years more grandiose structures evolved. The current basilica was designed in 1681, altered in the 18th century and completed in the 20th. The pillar on which the Virgin is supposed to have descended is displayed inside the Holy Chapel (Capilla Santa). Hundreds of pilgrims visit the chapel every day to kiss a small piece of the pillar which is unprotected. Oh.

The Spanish festival, this one included, takes to the streets. There are processions of big heads (gigantes y cabezudos) which have to mingle with the crowd. Excelente. But they entice little children to cry, amidst an ongoing barrage of music -- jazz, pop, rock, reggae, and folk. Spontaneous flamenco dancing erupts without warning. And no, you can’t just stand and watch. If you’re caught watching, locals drag you into the melee. It is even worse if you are caught snapping pictures. Dance class and you're now the star. The Festival of the Pillar is about total participation. Partake or flee.

Although this festival is officially recognized on a singular day, festival activities themselves last for nine days. All kinds of events occur, reoccur -- carnivals, one act plays, neighborhood firework displays. Pedestrians pack the streets at night. Spanish festivals run their cultural course. Uninhibited, uninterrupted.

And as it is a tradition in Spain, bull fighting is a central theme of this celebration. Everyone seemingly awaits the appearance of the bull. The bull must come. Celebrity -- beast and man. Perform and die well. For whom and why are we cheering? On a pleasantly warm October Sunday afternoon, I witnessed six matadors confront six bulls. I heard the bell toll, more than once. I learned the next day that a matador had in fact perished. Gored, ruptured femoral artery. Grueling. Haunting. Olé.

Since I have reflected for several years on the visits I have made to Zaragoza, this will probably evolve into several posts. Please excuse me.

Introducción. Por favor perdóneme.

Cantilevered

Sometimes we miss the obvious. I think I certainly did in this case. Ferris wheels. Now there's a quite large one on the bank of the Thames, across the river from Parliament and Big Ben. The London Eye. It is pretty hard not to notice. I've seen many, noted them, but have never been on one. Why? Well -- perhaps they are just a big, slow moving amusement ride -- for the weak kneed or enthralled romantics.

The original Ferris wheel was built for the World's Columbian Exposition in Chicago, Illinois (1893), to rival the main attraction of the 1889 Paris Exposition -- the Eiffel Tower. I've seen the Riesenrad (1897), a first generation observation or big wheel in Vienna's Prater (an amusement park). It's old and traditional and if I was going to spend money for an amusement ride, there's got to be a little speed involved. Employ unexpected g-forces, positive and negative -- you know the routine. Drop, turn, spin. Hold on, scream, wince or squeal. After all, I am part of the original Disney generation -- I've stood long enough in line for this thing, paid my dues, now entertain me -- and more than just a little, please.

When it was built, the London Eye (also called the Millennium Wheel, since it was dedicated in December of 1999) was the tallest Ferris wheel in the world. It is now just the largest wheel in Europe, being surpassed by two newcomers in Asia. Because it is supported by a frame on a single side, it is also termed "the world's tallest cantilevered observation wheel." But what caught my attention -- and forced me to give this one a go -- was the fact that the wheel carries 32 sealed, air-conditioned passenger capsules attached to its external circumference -- pods, dangling, supported on the outside of the wheel, pods which can hold up to 24 people. That's upwards of nearly 800 podnaughts on board at any given time -- a communal habitat. Though seating is available, individuals are free to walk around inside the pod, socialize. One revolution takes about 30 minutes, slow enough that that riders easily can walk on and off without the Eye ever stopping. And the London Eye is the second most popular place in Europe for "popping the question." The Eiffel Tower is first. No surprise -- popping the question is often a weak kneed affair.

The fare for a standard ride on the Eye is just £15.50 for adults and £7.75 for children. Private capsules can be had from £299 to £1200 -- with champagne of course. I'm sure that cost also encouraged me to be even more disinterested. And since Eye rides are considered "flights," tickets must be booked via British Airways. I'm not quite sure I completely understand -- but that's okay. The Eye, as all big wheels, exists to fulfill a single function -- to lift people up from the ground, take them round a giant loop in the sky, then put them back down where they started. In self-supporting habitat-bubble-things. With spectacular views. So simple, so clean. I just may have to give this cantilevered Eye another dawdling whirl.

Chippy

"Chippy" is British slang for a local fish and chip shop. I lived, worked and went to school in England a couple of decades back and I quickly learned to endure the rather large que at our local chippy. It would only open for a couple of hours in the late afternoon on select days -- the fresh catch of fish was prepped, cooked and sold. Until depleted. Sorry, see you next time.

Legend has it that fried fish shops, spreading north from the south of England, merged with fried potato shops descending from Scotland. The fish is traditionally Atlantic Cod or Haddock, battered or breaded -- and the chips are slab cut potatoes. All deep fried. Simple, fresh, hot.

As with a lot of English fare, fish and chips became a standard staple with the working masses. The emergence of trawl fishing and rail transport in the second half of the nineteenth century allowed the North Sea's fresh catch to remain cheap. Mass distribution, then popularity. Chips may also have appeared at the same time -- first mentioned by Charles Dickens in his A Tale of Two Cities. Welcome the Industrial Revolution, Capitalism and their benefits (most frequently maligned). Yes, there are many ways in which labor is rewarded. In this case perhaps, symbolized by a bit of malt on one's blue collar.

I've never had better fish and chips.

Seat 96

The Seat 96 I know (and occupied) is in a first class rail car which services Central Europe. Several years ago I had flown into Vienna and was en route to Prague. I had calculated it was cheaper for me to fly direct to Vienna (Wien) and then to train it to Prague (Praha), as opposed to flying into Prague via several other European air hubs. The cost was a simple extra 4-6 hours of travel time. No sweat. But what I had not calculated was the benefit of viewing the world at a relative distance from a rail car.

First, I chose Seat 96 since it was in an empty cabin with four seats. I could sleep unencumbered -- I had complete freedom to do whatever I chose. Is not freedom what we Americans are all about? Second, sitting in Seat 96, by the window, I could witness countless picturesque European urban-to-rural, rural-to-urban transitions, if I so chose. And I did. As a result, I witnessed a parade of countless villages, dominated by prominent church spires announcing their village squares.

What are these places? Who are these people?

Over time, as the rolling hills and villages passed, I realized I had transitioned from northeastern Austria into a region best know as Bohemia. Is this somehow tied to Bohemian Rhapsody? We abruptly stopped. The train was boarded by Czech immigration officials looking to validate passenger credentials as a result of the border crossing. As I was to discover later, they paid little attention to me, as a US passport holder. I was the least of their worries. Romas, or? In addition, they were about to lose their jobs as the European Union was on the verge of incorporating the Czech Republic into its domain. The Czech Republic was becoming a member state in a larger federal union, a process which would erase its traditional internal border controls. (The European Union's Schengen Area now allows the free movement of persons amongst signatory states.)

Was the Czech Republic and Austria then becoming something like bordering American states? California and Oregon? There would be no need for passport checks at the border -- immigration control would be strengthened at the European Union's external boundaries. Breaking news -- Europeans are now free to wander about, mingle. Oh my.

Did we even notice? Our awareness of geography and the on goings in other countries, especially the subtle yet important shifts, is weak at best. I'm often asked how many kangaroos I saw the last time I was in Austria. And most of us stateside are uni-lingual. Immersing oneself in another culture can only be eye and mind opening. But it's also work.

More news, delayed. Gone is Czechoslovakia -- in 1992. It's the Czech and Slovak Republics, having split in what is termed the "Velvet Divorce", which speaks much to democracy. But that's another subject. I felt the need to catch up. I scurried to read up on Central European history -- the Habsburgs, the Holy Roman Empire, the aftermaths of both world wars, particularly how the Allies reshaped the post-1945 continent. Austrian neutrality. The Iron Curtain. The Prague Uprising of 1968.

Okay, I'm slow, though I am now learning. The world is changing, as it always has. And I now take detailed notes -- from Seat 96.