Graffiti, Seville

Ancient Street, Pompeii

Although Pompeii is a ruined and partially buried Roman city, accidentally rediscovered in 1748 and now excavated, there is no doubt its streets are frozen in time -- since 24 August 79 AD. 1900-plus years later, we can contemplate Roman road construction, engineering.

I was initially impressed by the street scape of Pompeii as not being much different than those one may encounter throughout European centrums today -- the stone and cobblestone workmanship of the streets.

The oddity was wheel grooves, an obviously indicator Pompeii's streets were adequately accommodating its robust wheeled traffic. These street were constructed in a way to elevate foot traffic above the road's surface for water runoff, perhaps even sewage. Roman architects and engineers managed water and sewage quite well, though not necessarily in the open, in the streets. There are many examples of drainage pipes beneath the surface, some still operational. Not only is the water distribution system in Pompeii impressive, it reveals a great degree of forethought and urban planning.

Could the strength of the Roman Empire, at least in part, be borne of its engineering prowess?

Unfortunately, as all ancient excavations experience, renewed exposure to the elements hastens deterioration. In tight financial times, seeking funds to protect these sites is a low priority. Thus, the curious observer should visit sooner rather than later.

Spandau Prison

I witnessed Spandau Prison, at the time located in West Berlin, during a helicopter tour of the city in 1986. Rudolf Hess was the lone prisoner and unbeknownst to me or anyone else at the time, he had a year to live -- and the demise of the prison would soon follow as well.

After his death, Spandau Prison was demolished as a means to prevent it from becoming a Neo-Nazi shrine. But the West Germans did not stop there. To further ensure its erasure, the site was made into a parking facility and a shopping center, and all materials from the demolished prison were ground to powder and dispersed into the North Sea.

I'm a bit sad -- it was a magnificent structure, even as a prison. Built in 1876, it initially served as a military detention center and later housed civilian inmates. After the Second World War, it was administered by the Allies to house Nazi war criminals after the Nuremberg Trials -- the seven which had escaped the death penalty.

Ultimately, Spandau Prison itself could not escape its association with its Nazi past. Erased.

Zeughaus

Graz. If this name sounds familiar, you must either have visited Austria’s second largest city or you know that Arnold Schwarzenegger is one of Graz’s more famous sons. Or perhaps you may recall that its football stadium was once named after him. Once. That was until the city's assembly condemned the California governor's refusal to grant clemency and halt the execution of a convicted murderer. Literally overnight, they had the large letters spelling his name pulled from the arena. Capital punishment is illegal in Austria. Am I sensing a degree of passion -- or testosterone? Governor Schwarzenegger subsequently returned by post the honorary ring the city had presented to him. Now, now.

For many other and better reasons, Graz is unique. Its old town is one of the best-preserved city centers in Europe -- it somehow avoided the mass destruction of Allied bombing raids during the Second World War. This is most fortunate since Graz had been the resident city of the younger Austrian line of the Habsburgs, beginning in the 14th century. They lived in Schloßberg castle and from there ruled Styria, Carinthia, portions of Italy and Slovenia. Later, Italian Renaissance artists and architects contributed to the city's planning and design. Located between Italy, the Balkan States, with Central Europe to the north, Graz over time absorbed various influences from these neighboring areas -- from Gothic to Modern.

Graz is situated in the Austrian federal state of Styria (Steiermark). The older German interpretation of the word mark literally refers to an area of land utilized as a defensive frontier. In these areas the local population was trained to organize and fight against invaders. Given its location, Graz was often assaulted -- by the Hungarians (1481) and the Ottoman Turks (1529, 1532). Unsuccessfully, mind you. In fact, its fortress was one of only two fortifications in the region which never fell to the Turks. The city also withstood two occupations by Napoleon's army (1797, 1809). Ironically, though the Austrian forces within Schloßberg were outnumbered and repelled numerous attacks by the French, their emperor, Francis I, ordered their surrender after Napoleon overwhelmed Vienna. Unfortunately, the Treaty of Schönbrunn (1809) imposed harsh terms on Austria, to include the destruction of Vienna’s and Graz’s fortifications. Schloßberg was demolished; though its Uhrturm clock tower was spared by ransom.

Naturally then, Graz is home to the region's provincial armory, the Landeszeughaus. The strategic importance of Graz required its armory to be a vital arsenal for the Habsburg Empire on its south-eastern flank. Completed in 1645, its Baroque entrance is guarded by Mars (god of war) and Minerva (goddess of war). The Landeszeughaus now houses an impressive collection of pikes, pistols, rifles, swords, coats of mail, and various forms of armor.

When I wandered through the Landeszeughaus, exploring the world's largest historical collection of Baroque weaponry, I literally stepped back in time. The armory consists of five floors, with different types of military hardware arranged by historical period. I was struck by the armory’s pristine state of preparedness -- it was as if it was still standing ready to outfit an entire medieval militia, mustering to oppose an imminent invasion. I also noticed that most of the armor appeared to have small battle scars or dents. A curator pointed out that they were not marks left by conflict, but were “tests” to insure the proper strength of the metal. Aha -- medieval armor making was an exacting life or death craft.

There are certain situations in which we must erase all doubt.

The Landeszeughaus also has a few of the last surviving sets of horse body armor. I was captivated. I had to touch, feel -- with the requisite protective gloves on, of course. But I could not stop there. Blades, swords. Several of the swords I handled, to include a long two-handed sword, or Zweihänder, were amazingly light to wield. The Zweihänder was apparently used by specialized swordsmen to reach beyond the front line spears, hewing through the difficult barriers which spearmen and pikemen presented. My mind drifted into visions of charging brigades, brandished swords, flanking cavalry -- the chaos of swift deadly thrusts, slices, cuts.

Brutal. Blood, sweat and tears.

I'm pleased that we've seemingly progressed. But I can't help but wonder if we've become oblivious to the cost of employing lethal force -- even in defense. Penetrating and blunt force trauma. Devastation -- pestilence occupies the ensuing void. Mortal combat has always been horrific. History becomes legend, then myth -- and we forget. But what if we're ignorant of history in the first place?

The Landeszeughaus is history.

Thai Street Food

Wander Bangkok's streets and you'll experience many things. A full range of sights, sounds, smells. Some rather exotic. Some quite organic. And most sidewalks are populated with vendors peddling a range of foods.

Hey, I've got an idea, let's take time for a quick snack. But hang on here for just a sec. I see insects, spiders, bugs. Everywhere.

Yes, you read correctly. As food. Thais seemingly have developed quite a taste for bugs. I could see what appeared to be steamed or fried water scorpions, diving beetles. Big ones. Grasshoppers, cicadas, crickets. Spiders, scorpions. Rather large larva. Young beetles, I presume. Seasoned. Some with garlic. Accompanied by sticky rice or fried rice. Garnished. No, not ant eggs. Yes. Ala carte. Or, in rice, mixed with other stuff. Perfect. Delicacies. Rich in protein, calories, vitamins and minerals.

I'd say grasshopper tastes like roasted peanut.

First Time Bangkok

There are a whole bunch of people in Bangkok. Locals and tourists. Without doubt, it is Asia’s dominant tourist hot-spot. And by sheer numbers, it must be in the top tier of the world’s most visited destinations. It is also a large air hub, meaning that it’s the region's major tourist gateway. I spent a few days there as a transient while I worked my visa to Vietnam -- a common practice.

Allow me to briefly mention the negatives, for they’re unavoidable. Bangkok’s reputation is famously soiled by its seedier side, even though prostitution is technically illegal there. Rocker Billy Idol’s three-week, $250,000 excursion into hedonism dramatically ended with his forced ejection from Bangkok, carried out by the Thai Army. Addicted to lust, he had refused to vacate his hotel penthouse at the end of his reservation. The good news is that even in Bangkok, there are limits. The other bad news is that Bangkok’s traffic is horrendous. Air and water pollution are major issues -- the water table has also been depleted. Droughts are common. Filth.

Yet, Bangkok is an alluring paradox. It’s perhaps the Orient's most cosmopolitan city; but it seemingly has preserved its cultural heritage. Its urban pace is somewhat relaxed, despite its 20 million-plus population and congested traffic. Religion does not appear to have an influential role in the capital; but one can observe monks walking neighborhoods, collecting alms. I did. And Buddhist temples are scattered throughout the city.

Although this was my first brief introduction to Thai culture, I quickly learned that for Thais, the head is sacred and the foot is foul. Don't point with your foot. Don’t ever step over a person or food. I was advised to never touch anyone on the head, even a child; do not pat people on the back or shoulders; always give up your seat on a bus or train to a monk who is standing; never walk in front of praying Thais in a temple; and beckoning is done with the palm down, fingers waved toward the body. Okay, what else? Are such stark cultural differences captivating?

I read Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha (1922) and Steppenwolf (1927) in school. Hesse’s literary works reveal his fascination with India, Buddhism and an individual's search for spirituality outside of society. Gautama Siddhartha (563-483 BC), The Buddha or the Awakened One, certainly had influenced Hesse's life and writings. As achieving Nirvana is esoteric, cloistered or removed, I expected to find Buddha's influence on Thai culture to be relatively subtle. Thailand has traditionally been characterized by its tolerance for alien religions. I'd expect it to be there, but where? Seek and find. Was this my academic preparation for Bangkok?

What is interesting is that Thailand's religious diversity is literally nonexistent. Roughly 95 percent of the population observes the oldest surviving form of Buddhism (Theravāda, founded in India). The remaining four percent of the population is Muslim, with a fractional mix of other religions, to include Christianity. Therefore, Buddhism permeates Thai culture and its temples are key social and educational institutions -- functioning as school, hospital, dispensary, hostelry, employment and community center. Although there were tourists present, the temples I visited were alive with various locally-oriented activities. Its traditionally high literacy rate, particularly before universal education, was obviously due to temple education.

Adherents to the Theravāda school consider themselves followers of the form closest to Buddhism as it was originally practiced. The spiritual liberation of the individual is its primary focus. Pursuit of the law of Karma. Individuals are considered responsible for their own actions and destiny -- everyone has a specific place. Undertake meritorious acts, avoid those which earn demerits. Cause and effect. Perform this role with a minimum of fuss and hassle. Failure to do so involves a loss of personal dignity -- loss of face. Thais often employ the phrase "never mind or no worries" (mâi pen rai), as a reminder not to risk opposing that which should not be opposed. Find your place, stay there, perform. Lock step.

At some point in their lives, Thai males are expected to train as Buddhist monks. It is a prerequisite for many leadership positions within Thai communities. Likewise, temporary ordination is the norm. The Thai government even allows its civil servants to take fully paid leave to train as monks for three months. And most do at some point -- whether it is for a single rainy season (phansa in Thai) or a few years. During the annual rains, all monks fore go travel and cloister in monasteries. And after this period, most young monks return to lay life, marry and begin families. Young Thai men who reach monastic ordination are viewed as more suitable marriage partners. As a matter of fact, those ordained are referred to as "cooked;" the un-ordained are called "raw." It is as if social position is the result of nurtured karma, not personal achievement. Learn, practice. Here, Siddharthas abound.

Perhaps I had discovered a parallel irresistibility to this place, in the tradition of Hesse -- hopefully for the right reasons. Though I had a basic academic understanding of Buddhism, I think that I had stumbled upon a more practical Buddha. Buddhism's strength in Thailand is linked to the fact that practically all Thai families have at least one ordained male member; its popular form also incorporates elements of Brahmanism, animism, and ancestor worship. What is learned outside of society is carefully integrated within society.

I have to remind myself often that the real lessons in life happen outside the classroom. Academia is static and sterile.

Oh, and the shopping was good.

B-52 Lake, Hanoi

I have recurring visions of the few weeks I spent in Vietnam a few years ago. One is of an an ordinary Hanoi neighborhood, in which there is a small pond. In this pond rest the remnants of a B-52D downed on December 19, 1972. Callsign, Rose 1.

Operation Linebacker II, conducted over 11 days in December 1972 against Communist targets in North Vietnam, was the largest aerial bombardment conducted by the United States Air Force since the end of the Second World War. The entire crew of Rose 1 survived the shootdown and were confined in the infamous Hanoi Hilton (Hoa Lo Prison). They were repatriated. Rose 1 remains -- silent, rusting.

There is little doubt war is one man's of the most destructive activities -- if not the most destructive. Curious, I had to query a willing local on his or her view of America, the belligerent. As I was bartering with a local merchant, his English was good and he seemed more than willing to chat. So I asked him what he thought of Americans. "I do not like America but I like your money."

We tried to change the course of Vietnamese politics with military force, ignoring a thousand years of history and the failure of French colonialism. At what cost? As I drifted through Hanoi's streets, markets, I began to believe it will be market economics, as opposed to military force, that will define both Vietnam's and America's futures. 

Graffiti, Hanoi

I'm not sure I'd classify the street stencils which decorate the flat surfaces in Hanoi as graffito. They are commercial signage for a full range of services -- laborers, goods, and who knows what else. Tight, compact, everywhere. Some places more than others. They must work, given their abundance and seeming permance. Or is it an indication of desperation? There seemed to be no sign of attempts to cover or hide anew.

Whatever the cause, they are a part of Hanoi's street life. I observed absolutely no other attempts to mark, deface, express. This is a regime-driven society. Communism -- everyone obey, follow.

Okay, commercial graffiti. Allowed.

Hanoi's Mannequins

I spent most of my three days in Hanoi within its historic quarter. The street life was very diverse, busy and colorful. People standing, walking. Selling. Squat and have a Coke.

But what seemed a bit out of place were the mannequins. In very modern clothes stores, encased in French colonial buildings. Dilapidated façades. Inside, an over population of adolescent mannequins. Silent chaperons. Distant stares.

Orphaned, begging one to come in. Take us with you. Please.
Surreal. Haunting.

Of Dog and Scooters

The week I spent in Hanoi was anything but what I expected. I had a robust collection of mental images, having grown up watching the CBS Evening news throughout the 1960's and early 70's; I had been strongly impacted by the battlefield death of a young man who attended our church -- I knew his sister and I listened to the numerous adult conversations that erupted at the crest of the tragic news and continued for months after his solemn return and internment; the "Peace Movement" swirled all around me -- in class, in popular culture; from my bike, I literally watched B-52s methodically launch for points west (we lived near an active Air Force base); one of my good friend's brothers spent a tour near Đà Nẵng as a "military" water ski instructor at an officers' club; I certainly was familiar with the anti-communist rhetoric that flooded the American landscape during the duration of the Cold War; I watched the Second Indochina War (1959-1975) bring down President Johnson and torture Richard Nixon; and I had a draft card in my wallet -- I was eligible for and followed the last two draft lotteries with increasingly keen anticipation. So watching the movie "Apocalypse Now" was akin to sensing my cerebral concrete set. The horror.

What was missing, however, was an awareness of Vietnam's long history. Bordered by China to the north, it had broken away in the 10th century and flourished more or less until it was colonized by the French in the mid-19th century. Efforts to resist French domination and then Japanese occupation culminated with Japan's collapse and the failure of France's effort to restore its colonial empire. In a way, America slipped into this Southeast Asian vacuum as it tried to mitigate the post-Second World War collapse of Britain and the emergence of China and the Soviet Union. Divided now into two countries (Geneva Conference, 1954), Vietnam erupted into an ideological civil war -- the Viet Minh in the north backed by the Chinese and Soviets; the United States supporting the South's struggle against the North's communist insurgency.

Upon my arrival, I could see out to the Red River to the northeast as I looked across Hanoi from my 20th floor hotel room window. The French influence in old town was prominent -- from the tree-lined boulevards to prominent French colonial buildings and residences. I later learned that Hanoi was host to the first western universities in Indochina -- a university, a medical school and a school of fine art, established in the first two decades of the 20th century. On the streets below, Vietnamese commerce appeared robust, with individuals (mostly women) coming and going, carrying or pushing sacks or parcels, large and small, on flatbed bicycle or tricycle -- and a few with equal loads hung at the opposing ends of shoulder-borne poles, balanced.

I therefore had to explore a street market next to the hotel -- it appeared full of strange and exotic items, goods such as traditional clothing and hats, hammocks, knives, slippers, tropical fruits. Or at least that is what I thought they were. The smell was sweetly foreign, hinting of dried fruits and candies -- perhaps intertwined with an occasional air of candle or incense or perfume. I browsed, pondered and poked. I also tried to do a bit of mental math as I converted đồng to dollars, dollars to đồng -- without appearing to use my fingers or lip-sink the final result.

As I ventured further into this side street market, the environment turned organic. Aha -- I'm moving from the clothing and knickknack section into the food section. It was at this point that my senses went on the alert. Battle stations. I noticed a trough in the middle of what was now a v-shaped walkway. I was following this trough and I could see increasing moisture ahead. Drainage was seeping from both sides. Forward and to my right, there were live chickens and rabbits, caged. Let's have a look, shall we? No worries -- I had a tin of Altoids in my pocket which could overpower any offensive odor. A few steps and 30 seconds later, I saw a chicken selected, dispatched, de-feathered, wrapped and whisked away for dinner. Yikes! In slow motion, a hose flushed remnants towards me.

I touched my Altoid tin -- and reminded myself to keep moving. I shifted into National Geographic mode -- snap a picture and go -- gawk at the results later. It did not take long for the smell to become overpowering. I stopped and released the "curiously strong" mints. One. Two. Three. "Further back in the mouth and exhale," I instructed myself. "Up through your nose -- mouth closed." I looked and saw dog -- the dog stand. Hot dog! Boiled dog, barbecued dog. Dog, dog, dog. Various sizes, various parts. Pieces here, pieces there. That's a tail, that's a snoot! I held my breath and rapidly stole several pictures -- then fled towards the light at the end of the market.Fast forward, please. Okay.

Further down the street, I found a side walk cafe next to a French colonial house-as-restaurant. Incredible food -- at least half of which I have no idea of what I was partaking. The shrimp were gigantic and fresh. Here, large fans blew a pleasing mist towards patrons to counter the 90-plus degree, 90-percent humidity. Beware the fish sauce, extremely organic. Noted, but late. Could I cleanse my mind or are those market images forever seared deep? I reminded myself that I was in a very colonial French area in old town Hanoi. A couple nearby was kissing. I relaxed into documentary mode. This time, I took many pictures -- and reassured myself, "Edit as I go. Enjoy. Forget. Relax. Breath." Dogs.

On a positive note, I immediately noticed that in Hanoi, if not most of Vietnam, scooters were everywhere. On the taxi ride from the airport to the hotel, I assessed that the scooter-to-car ratio had to be at least ten-to-one, if not more. Mind you, these were not full fledged motorcycles. These were bona fide scooters. Italian scooters -- relatives of those I'd seen throughout the Mediterranean. Now I am sure that there were others -- Japanese, Chinese, or who knows -- knockoffs or copies. What do we do with the fakers?

And every intersection seemingly duplicated the start of a motocross race. Cyclists revved their engines in anticipation of the imminent green light. Bikes were stacked ten, twenty, thirty deep. Men, women, boys and girls, sitting single, double -- with or without extra cargo -- running up their engines in anticipation. And most wore no protection -- no helmets, many flip flops. (I understand that now helmets in Vietnam are mandatory for those that scoot.) As I walked block-to-block, I was amazed at the mass of scooters zipping down streets. How can I count blue cars if there are no cars?

Fine, count blue scooters. The more I looked, the more I observed that there were predominantly two eras of scooter here on the road -- the old and the new. There were newer Honda, Yamaha, Suzuki scooters. But it also appeared that there were many Piaggio Vespas from the 1960s and 70s that were very much in use. And occasionally I spotted a Lambretta or two. What was this? The older bikes looked good and were apparently functional. Color now did not matter -- how could I get one back to the states? And at what cost?

Certainly, I could find a Vietnamese shop to find and restore a Vespa for me. Having instituted free market reforms in 1986, also know as Đổi Mới (renovation), Vietnam has provided a means for commerce with the West -- and for me to get me a 1960s era scooter. One local shop keeper told me that although he despised Americans, he liked our money. It was then that I realized that the loss of more than 50,000 American and upwards to three million Vietnamese souls would shroud Vietnamese and American relations for decades. If not for a millennium.

And the dogs? Scooter!