Showing posts with label trams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label trams. Show all posts

Sunday 20 November 2022

2022 Bratislava

12.11.22

Sitting in the Františkánske námestie next to the main square, with the Jesuit Church to my right.  Still early, few people around – but not quite as dead as Stavanger.  Arrived 11pm last night, on 11/11, in room 11 of Beigli Hotel, very central.  Car picked me up at the airport after a full flight (Ryanair) from an incomprehensibly busy Stansted… Driving in, the roads looked modern and immaculate: the EU has been good to Slovakia.

My hotel in Baštová ulica, the narrowest street here.  Going west, towards the castle, surprising number of derelict buildings.  Very typically middle European – baroque buildings, paved squares, no grass.  Sun shining, showing the city to best effect.

Down to the Hviezdoslavovo námestie, by the national theatre.  A red tram rumbles by – Bratislava is a city wise enough to have trams.  Both this and the other main square rather spoilt by the tacky little kiosks that are being installed for the Xmas fairs here soon.  Golden leaves everywhere on the ground – autumn in full swing.  Seems to suit Bratislava…

By the DanubeThe. Danube.  To my left the Old Bridge, and the Apollo Bridge, to my right the UFO tower where I hope to go.  Being here makes me think of other Danubes – in Vienna, in Budapest – and other rivers such as the one in Riga - the Daugava
.  Sun is reflected on the waters, blindingly – and inevitably makes me think of Luxor, Karnak, and Ra

The wind whipping along the Danube's banks.  Leaves piled up against the stone balustrade.  A few runners out.  And who can blame them? - a morning run along the Danube – what's not to like…?  

Up on the observation platform of the UFO tower by the Danube.  Best views of Bratislava, especially on a sunny day like today.  A band of fog/smoke rolls down behind the castle.  On the horizon to the north, the radio tower – reminds me of Tbilisi.  To my right, the new skyscraper of Eurovea – not too intrusive.  The Apollo Bridge clearly visible.  Out to the east, huge chimneys belching smoke/steam, surrounded by the miasma of their own making.  South, a forest of Soviet-style flats – looks like Hong Kong, but without the insane density or ambition.

Disturbingly, the tower shakes slightly from time to time.  As did that crazy youth hostel I stayed in – Vienna, I think – which was located in a church bell tower.  Smog is beginning to form – Bratislava has this problem like bigger cities.  Although from up here, the city is bigger than I expected, and clearly growing, not least in the business area to the east.  I have to say the castle looks sad: it has lost its lustre and gleam, and needs re-painting…  The odd, long barge plies the Danube. 

Back across the vaguely shaking bridge, then east along the Danube, searching for Moyzes Hall, where there is a concert tonight at 7pm of contemporary music.  Took me ridiculously long time to find it, just before the old bridge.  Then up Štúrová to the Hummel Museum.  Not to see the museum, but to buy a ticket for the concert (10 euros).  To Hlavné námestie, also spoilt by Xmas booths (empty).  More people around – at least 30. Noticeable how many smoke here…

In the Koliba Kamzik restaurant.  Ironically, this is part of the Hotel Perugia, which I nearly chose to stay in.  More central, but Hotel Beigli looked better overall.  Very heavy pork menu – and I really don't want to eat such intelligent creatures.  So after 
(less intelligent) rooster soup, I chose (less intelligent) duck pierogies, with a glass of Slovenian red – Frankovka modrá.  Vaguely rustic ambience in the restaurant, came recommended by the Bradt Travel guide, another excellent tome in this series.

For dessert, a conventional strudel, but accompanied by the infamous Tatratea – actually a highly alcoholic liqueur – but only the weak one – 44%, not the "outlaw" version, which is 72%.  Pretty much like other strong liqueurs of this kind.

Time for some culture.  To the Central European House of Photography – 5 euros.  Interesting photos of old Slovakia – 1930s – 1990s – by Milos Dohnanyi.  Black and white, evocative.  Striking portraits by Antonín Kratochvíl – of the famous and not so famous.  Blurred, superposed, craggy, indistinct.  Always interesting to see famous faces – and faces famous for being famous – in this new light.  For example Bob Dylan, Keith Richards, John le Carré, David Bowie, Ray Liotta.  I love these photography galleries – they are always so minimalist – white walls, polished floors – to highlight the concentrated images.

Past the palace where Liszt played – Leopold de Pauli Palace.  Just a plaque on the wall now… Nearby another palace, the Pálffy Palace, where the 6-year-old Mozart played.  Plaque on the wall of a "juice shop".  Looking for Zoya Gallery – and failing to find it.  To St Martin's Cathedral – gothic, with a choir that looks quite English.  Spiky, over the top pulpit in dark wood.  Otherwise clean, light stone, whitewashed walls, modern organ.

Finally found Zoya – you just have to head towards the Armenian consulate…  Nice pix by Erik Johansson – Swedish – trompe l'oeil.  Obvious – like people installing the moon, a watermill on the edge of a waterfall made of fields, a Meteora/Avatar-like town in the sky, its supports scraped away by diggers.  Not deep, but entertaining.  Clever photography.  More direct is "Man and Winter" of Ragnar Axelsson.  Icelandic, and it shows.  Lots of huskies, and amazing pic of Inuit hunter with his harpoon.  

A roomful of curious bird photos – Sanna Kannisto, Finnish, but working at Lake Baikal.  The birds look dead or posed – and are the latter, in a portable studio, before being released again after being caught. Weird, but pretty in a way.  Another Finn – Pentti Sammallahti – pure photography – images, black and white, that are complete in themselves.  All of them have one animal or more.

To the Johann Pálffy Palace.  Downstairs to Celtic minting in a dark cube, with underfloor exhibits.  More modern stuff – short videos, disturbing pix, installations.  Then upstairs to a display of gothic panel painting.  Then, unexpectedly, to the famous book-lined walkway of death: clever use of mirrors makes it look like a narrow pathway between infinite rows of books – clever and run.  Up again to some absurdist pix – legs sticking out of houses heads in walls.  Erwin Wurm – another floor of his stuff right at the top of the palace.  A little of it goes a long way…  Great gallery, though.

Since I am going to the concert at 7pm, I need to eat early, on the way.  I find myself in Urban House, down with the cool kids, waiting for my Beyond Burger.  Be interesting to compare it with the Impossible Burger I had in Hong Kong a few years back…  Walking here, I found the main streets buzzing – people out on the pavements, eating, drinking, smoking.  Has a good feel to the city, very liveable.  Obviously very similar to Prague, but not nearly so touristic.  Also more walkable – much more compact – quite like Yerevan in that respect.

Now in the Moyzes Hall, after a brisk walk from the restaurant.  Beautiful Art Deco hall, all gilt, garlands and geometrics.  Small chamber orchestra, nearly outnumbering the audience, currently at about 50.  I saw a TV/radio van outside, so I presume this is either being broadcast live, or recorded.  I'm sitting just behind the sound desk.

First piece by Peter Zagar (2022), quite melodious, uses full orchestra well.  Very tonal now. Reminds me of Gavin Bryars.  Second piece by Marek Piaček – three songs, amplified voice.  Bit
Nymanish melodically, also sounds influenced by musicals – in the best way.  Rhythmically quite varied.  Overall, though it meanders, musically at least – since I can't understand a word, it's hard to say how well the music serves the texts.  Harmonic changes very reminiscent of some Nyman.  Final piece of first half Ľubomír Burgr – combines some rather crude electronic sounds with Pärt-like arpeggios on the violin.  Doesn't work for me…

13.11.22

To the castle, wreathed in mists.  No one about, except a few dog walkers.  Near the main facade, an incredible, ornate, cast iron gate – with a huge drop the other side.  Equestrian statue of Svatopluk.  Cold, damp morning, but that seems to suit this place.  The castle looks better in this vague, looming form.  My hands freezing – I can barely write… 

Interior courtyard nothing special.  Inside the History Museum of the castle.  Big and – the main thing – warm.  A room about the reconstruction of the castle, which burned down, and was in ruins for many years.  Took lift to the basement, weird feeling of descending who knows where.  In fact, when I got there – nothing.  Nearby, stairs marked "Celts in Slovakia" – I descend – nothing again.

Along to a huge gleaming staircase in white and gold, looks newly restored.  A chapel, with a modern organ, looking very Finnish.  Alongside, a large Assumption of the Virgin Mary by Anton Schmidt (1762-63).  Impressive for its size, if nothing else.  Around the walls, 14 rather murky representations of the stations of the cross.

Up a gleaming white staircase.  Very minimalist – looks almost 30s Italian Fascism in style.  To an exhibition of Martin Benka (1888-1971).  Slovak modernist.  Some nice neo-impressionist landscape à la Sisley.  Early works.  Later pix more pared down, Kandinsky colours, Cézanne 
forms of mountains.  Final phase Soviet realism of strong men and beautiful women, mostly peasants, heart of the nation etc.  His travel pix more varied – good ones of the Adriatic, blue seas, pines and cypresses.  A musician too, who painted – and made – cubist violins.

Opposite, an exhibition about Slovak life in the 20th century – photos, videos, recordings.  Soviet world and its circumventions.  In the cafe – devoid of people, devoid of food bar a rather crusty cake (nope) – risking a cappuccino, which is unlikely to be good, but hey…  Outside, fog still not lifting.  Being inside a castle is a good place to be…  Coffee not too bad – and hot – plus "free" caramel biscuit.

The castle's museums are better than I expected – just as well given the rather miserable weather.  I did the right thing making the most of the fine sunshine yesterday.  In the background, chants of perennially angry Slovak students demanding who knows what – freedom, probably – in a time capsule of captured rebellion.  Judging by contemporary Slovakia, I'd say they got it.  It's a very pleasant, highly functional society now.  Safe, too.  What more could one ask?

To the Romans in Slovakia  - huge exhibition.  Facsimile of an amazing map: Tabula Peutingeriana – itself a copy of a Roman map… One part marked "Colchi".  Excellent exhibition – shows how much Roman stuff has been found this region – and how much we know, in detail – and how much more there must be under the earth.

Now in the castle gardens, which are delightfully autumnal.  St Martin's Cathedral in front, the castle behind.  The morning fog slowly lifting, the sun breaking through occasionally.  Should be nice this afternoon.  St Martin's chimes 12.  Not heard many bells here, so makes a nice change.  There's another church sounding, contrapuntally with the cathedral.  Now a carillon, plus a low bell under it all.  Wonderful: "Mortuos Plango, Vivos Voco…"  Incredible random symphony of bells, lovely cross rhythms.  Now dying away; a lone bell sounds…

Clever public seating here: the backs of the seats form a platform you can sit on standing up.  Doubles the seating capability in a compact way.  More people around now – 100s, out on a Sunday stroll.  Quite a few tourists – Italians, Spaniards, Chinese, Koreans, Japanese, Brits, Irish.  A camera crew recording to my right – such a palaver.

In the Hradná restaurant – convenient, prices not too bad.  Nice modern interior; warm.  Eating beetroot starter, cheese dumplings for the main.  This place starting to bubble – as I've just posted on Mastodon about Mastodon…  One strange thing here and elsewhere – the napkins are almost diaphanous – is there a paper shortage or something?  The sun pours through the windows, illuminating the few remaining leaves on the trees outside.

After lunch, out to understand transport.  First, find a tram stop for #1, which goes to the main station.  A little way away from the hotel, but not too bad.  Road is a typical central European tram road – reminds me of Riga, when I was looking for – and found – that Georgian restaurant, and I also travelled by tram.  Those long, broad streets.  Then to find a ticket machine: done, but they only take coins.  So to the Tourist Office near Hummel's house, who explain where the nearest machine is that takes credit cards.  Then to here, the Primate's Palace – historically important, and also the site of a remarkable discovery: tapestries from the UK (Mortlake).  No pix allowed, alas…

Decent portrait of Maria Teresa; Francis I looking weird in his get up, Bratislava and St Martin's in the distance.  Mozart's mate, Joseph II, quite a characterful face.  Tapestry of Hero and Leander – a putto looks on, and appears in another, smaller tapestry – copy and paste…  A Guercino, Abraham and the angel.  Nice moody pic of Bratislava from the north.  Lots of ignorable pix of peasants, dogs, cows etc.  Amazing view down into the chapel from a glassed-in balcony.  Odd from this perspective.

In the Hummel Museum, where he was born 14/11/1778 – nearly his birthday today.  His piano trios  noodling nicely in the background.  One room with two square pianos, plus a harmonium.  The other room with an Érard grand.
 Reminds me of Pushkin's house in Chișinău... The rooms so small, but cosy.

To the National Gallery, most of which is closed as they prepare their renovated wing.  On the first floor, a wonderful installation that consists of thousands of books on shelves, arranged alphabetically – but all in Slovak, which I can't really read.  A few people sit on comfy sofas, reading.  I wonder where all these books came from.  Oh, yes, at one end, there is also a horse – stuffed, I presume.  Not sure why…  Quite a few books in German, in fact, but no other language that I can see…

Now in an installation about "The Bridge", which is what the newer part of the gallery is apparently called.  Interactive – press a key – currently there is a cow on the screen, with The Bridge's characteristic gantries moving past.  Seems to be a decapitated cow, from which blood is pouring – complete with trickling sound effects.  Hmmm…  Let's try another button.

Moving through a shattered brick wall, darkness broken by a candle.  Gypsy music grows louder...a woman sings in Slovak (I think).  Another candle, on a round table, with a high-heel shoe on it.  That's it.  Now the architecture button.  Moving through The Bridge – blurred, the sound of water dripping, and light reflecting on the surface of a body of water…  We approach a blind wall at the end… Which is the end.  Probably enough for me, even though there are four more buttons…

From the SNG, along the Danube, to the Old Bridge.  Wonderful effect created by the lit girders.  Boats on the river, moored and moving.  Pinkish glow to the west, behind the UFO tower.  To the east, the Apollo Bridge more delicate.  Shoals of fish suddenly rising like a local rainstorm on the water's surface.  A gentle slapping sounds mingles with the thunder of a passing tram on the bridge.

Yesterday I made the mistake of not taking a coffee and bun in the afternoon, and a headache as result.  Today, no such mistake – here I am in Pollito – a cheesecake shop in Laurinská
.  Nice vibe.  Nice cheesecake…

To Nedbalka Gallery.  Fourth floor – late romantic – lovely stuff by Ladislav Mednyansky – great Tatra landscape – amazing view of what looks like fjord with craggy mountains on both sides of a lake (called "The Tarn").  Another painter with the splendid name of Edmund Gwerk.  Down to the third floor – where I see my old mate Martin Benka – quite a few.  Lots of others painting those stern peasants.  Also sub-Picasso Blue period/pneumatic phases.  Second floor – Galanda group.  Mostly derivative stuff – I saw Léger, Braque, Modigliani, Bacon, Hockney…  But overall a good showing of Slovak modern art and great gallery design with the opening on each floor – a bit like the New York Guggenheim.  

To the first floor – again, obvious influences – Rothko, de Kooning, Freud.  One rather disturbing pic: "Proximity of Time" – by Michal Jakabčic.  Shows two figures with big heads and tiny eyes, nose and mouth starting up at the sky while a third head emerges from light green earth, on which there is a triple-headed bird, and two other animals – one in a vase.  Striking.  To the ground floor – brand new stuff, quite a lot of photo realism, or approximations thereto.  I particularly liked "Frozen in Time" by Juraj Duris, which shows some kind of boat/ship on the wet floor of a warehouse.  No explanation, but striking.  Definitely one of the best galleries in Bratislava.

Since the restaurant I was looking for – Wolker on Biela – seems not to exist, I opted for U nás dobre nearby – on Michalská – bit bright inside, but has plenty of Slovak dishes.  I ordered the turkey (chrumkavé morčacie) with sheep's cheese, since they too are less intelligent than pigs, which I really really do not want to eat.  That's awkward, because Slovak cuisine is basically pig…  Also ordered a glass of the white and flowery Müller-Thurgau – bit fruity for me, but I wanted to try it to complement the Frankovka modrá I had (red) yesterday – which was really good.  Finished off with the cherry pierogi – devastatingly sweet, apparently sprinkled with cigarette ash.  But good.

14.11.22

Mondays in Bratislava seem to be like Mondays in Stavanger: practically every museum is closed.  So a morning of walking – and of churches, which are open.  Mostly: I went to look at the Poor Clares church: closed.  Now in the Capuchin Church: lots of baroque paintings and woodwork, architecture uninspired.  

Not having much luck.  The superb Holy Trinity Church: closed.  The Brothers of Mercy church: open – but locked inside with a huge grille.  On the floor, a homeless man snores in the warmth.  Beautiful baroque altar, bubbling and undulating wildly.  The pedestrian street Poštová rather nice.  To the Blue Church, which is...rather shockingly light blue, everything, with Art Nouveau curlicues on the outside and inside.  Closed, alas, but worth seeing from the outside.

Interesting: just seen the tram driver get out and use a big metal stick to change the points – I wondered how that was done…

Sitting by the National Theatre, trams thundering by as usual.  Leaves still falling, but will soon all be gone.  Blue sky, fresh wind.  

Incredible, two restaurants I tried were closed, and another non-existent.  Must be the Stavanger curse.

On tram #1 – very smart and modern – announcements in Slovak and English…  This is one long carriage; the older ones have separate parts.  On bus #61… Despite the fact that driver wouldn't let me on the bus, which said "leaving in 3 minutes"… Turns out it was leaving to move around to the actual stop, where lots of people were waiting.  Interesting ride out here – 20 minutes through the suburbs of Bratislava.  Looking smart and modern, usual shops and shopping centres – little sign of the Soviet world, unlike in Georgia or Armenia, say.

Airport, too, spanking new, big, efficient.  Bought some of the lethal Slovakian liqueur – Tatratea (52% alcohol), an apricot liqueur, and Carpathian brandy...

Sunday 7 November 2021

1993 Prague

3.11.93

Grey, misty, cold...perfect.

Airport very efficient, the coach outside less modern looking.  On the bus Kr.20 each – about 50p.  Tickets that poor quality pink paper I remember from East Germany and Russia.

The Czech language looks as if the vowels have been crushed out of it – perhaps by the imperialists and oppressors.  Or to create a dense, secret language only Czechs can speak…  On the radio, Spandau Ballet...rediscovered?  Preserved in a time warp?  After changing our room (327 to 209), we now have a spacious double with hot and cold running trams outside…  Very atmospheric ting-a-ling of the bells.  I think we may have been stung with the taxi – and with a meter: Kr.220 – compare Kr.20 for the bus from the airport. 

For some reason, I feel as if I am in Poland.

Dinner in the café here – very cheap (Kr.270), not very good.  Strange: the waitress was dressed in a very short skirt.  Fine legs, but the faces she would pull if you dared to ask her for anything.  A sodium light outside the window goes on and off randomly… On TV, three channels in Czech, CNN, Eurosport etc. (saw my first Indy car racing – can see why it is likely to take over.  Impressed by young Mansell, who clearly has something….)

The light and the trams are like some intense East European film...full of brooding intensity.  The hotel is large and labyrinthine.  Probably 60s originally, through modernised recently.  At dinner, my Czech pronunciation of dishes provokes torrents of near-inappropriate words.  But German seems to be the second language.

4.11.93

The Old Town Square – having bought a Kr.100 five-day ticket for the metro/trams.  Up from Wenceslaus Square to here.  Town Hall – fine doors – carved dogs' heads.  This place really does lack Mozart…   To Charles Bridge – very atmospheric in the mist.  River reminds me of Bath… Up to Prague Castle (stopping off for a glühwein).  Amazingly massy city – full of huge buildings piled together.  And buildings are big here.  Passed Italian Embassy.  The statues on the bridge, in perspective and the mist.  Black…  Autumnal colours everywhere – matching the Baroque oranges and browns.  To the information office – so many concerts – Prague really is a city of music.

Amazing how little English is spoken – in the metro, none, elsewhere some German.  Great.  Now in Staropražská Rychta – cheap, but seems quite good – despite the synth playing bouncy tunes in the background.  We have two tickets for The Magic Flute (in Czech) at Mozart's opera house tonight – Kr.240 – for two.

Visited St Vitus Cathedral – very English in design, but lacking the monumentality, spirituality.  Few tourists around – only schoolkids, really.  Then caught tram #22 direct to the centre – great views, especially from the bridge.  

Various pork obscenities – especially two great fat wobbing phallic sausages – one a blood sausage.  But after the article in Der Spiegel I really feel very unhappy about eating meat… Heavy but nice plum dumplings/pancakes after.  Pity about the music – the music of hell in its triviality – imagine condemned to an eternity of it…  
2 o'clock, restaurant quiet now – probably because offices were busy at 7.30am this morning.

In Mozart's opera house – for Die Zauberflöte – appropriately…  Glorious eggshell blue and gilt here, quite deep the horseshoe – we are on fourth level, there is also a fifth… Pompeian ceiling.  Curtain "up" – and it was already up.  Good programme – in English and German.  "Modern" production – Pamina emerges from the audience.  Papageno – Kabuki, Monostatos – Miles Davis in a samurai outfit.  Sarastro is… Head of a Freemason lodge.  Acoustic tremendous – perfectly audible up here.  Band small – just three double-basses – but loud enough.  Unusual disposition of band – strings to one side, wind and brass to the other.  But just who as the Jesus figures playing the flute?  Great value, though.

Bought "The Prague Post" – US, of course, but interesting glimpses.

5.11.93  

Tram #9 and 22 to Prague Castle.  The room of the defenestration.  Fine green-glazed oven – still warm...with history?  Darkness falling at 3.15pm.  Wencelaus Hall – amazing columns – they seem to move away as you pass.  Beautiful wooden door to the north.  Up the stairs then to a room full of coats of arms – whose…?  A room with a cabinet of fat books – blue, green, flowers.  The chapel, smelling of wood and cold and history.  Everything has a real presence in this place, as if so much that has happened here has soaked in to this spot.  Small organ with gilt cockle shells.  I am being photographed, background a misty, cold Prague.  A Union Jack flutters below us.  To St George's Basilica – wonderful pure Romanesque inside with half-raised altar.  Beautiful subdued crypt – six columns, low.  Interesting to note that even here, in the ticket office, a PC (DOS).

Then to the Golden Lane – pity about the bloody graffiti on the walls – this sad urge.  (Heard a snippet of Dvořák's Requiem – never knew it existed – sounds good.  Also very good prices on Czech CDs….)  Overall the castle has grown on me considerably.  It has real character: rather melancholy, what with its defenestrations, but rather touching.  Tram #1 direct to hotel.  I do like trams (especially since they're included in the Kr.100 five-day pass – wonderful).  Ate in the hotel: Kr.240 for filling (pork) food.  Good soup: milk and potatoes, onions and egg.  Plenty of slivovice.

Wandering through the back streets from Charles Bridge to the National Theatre (we have tickets to The Makropulos Affair on Sunday – and ecco another good reason for learning Czech, old Janáček boyo…).  So much in a state of ruin: I had worried that everything would be plastic and capitalist, but too much remains to be done – it'll be a decade before everything is finished.  Went to ask about private rooms: Kr.1200 for a double in the centre – about what we're paying, Kr.800 outside.

Metro very Stalinist – very deep, abstract design on walls – and no litter (yet).  Trains frequent (there is a countdown clock) and fast.  As are some escalators – presumably to cover the great depth.  And yet here too the handrails travel faster than the feet: why?  Is this the Fourth Law of Thermodynamics?  National Theatre a sooty black monster; next to it a modern horror, bug-eyed like Argos.

Queued in butcher's to buy water – very orderly – and a very sweet young lady behind the counter – Slav blonde, not too spoilt by Czech health system.  Streets very animated in the dusk, light rain falling.  Very lived-in feel, the trams thundering past like dinosaurs.  And German, German everywhere.  And Mozart.  In this week there is Die Zauberflöte (twice), Così fan tutte, Die Entführung aus dem Serail, and marionette versions of Don Giovanni, plus free interpretation of Die Zauberflöte, Don Giovanni and Figaro.  And more Requiems than you could shake a stick at.  Vienna/Salzburg, eat your heart out.

6.11.93

To Mozart's house yesterday – closed and daunting, a plaque on the wall.  One day this'll be a tourist mecca.  To Wenceslas Square.  Raining, progressively harder.  A comedy of trams (fine title…) - trying to get to St Agnes, take #5 in wrong direction.  End up past Mozart's lodging near the Old Town, finally find somewhere with 
glühwein.  I like the rain.  Bar looks like the crypt of a church, but has a large Art Nouveau thing in the middle.

In Lidový dům = "Mozart Brasserie" [catchphrase: "walk in, dance out…"?]  We ate downstairs in the restaurant in the north-east corner of Old Town Square, then spent £50 on 10 CDs – old classical, Suk, Dvořák, Janáček, Martinů – about £5 each, some £3.  Then to here, which at least is warm and with a high ceiling not too smoky.  Fine chocolate cake.

After CDs, to the National Gallery in the Kinský Palace – rather depressing contemporary graphic stuff – poor Klee etc.  The Bohemian glass: like silver in Bali – miles of it.  But without the push: service is a concept barely known here. Nice in a way – tiresome in others.

The Slav faces – either very box-like, or thin.  The women with thin, slit eyes in both cases.  Strange how in Italy ugly women almost don't exist, but here the reverse is true (relative, of course).  Redheads and blondes quite common.  Eyes indeterminate in colour.  That characteristic Prague sound: the beep-beep of the metro's guides for the blind.

One thing, though.  In "The Prague Post", under Thursday November 4, there is: "Who'd Believe It Anyway, Mr Moody?" (Kdo mi to uvěři, pane Moody?).  In Czech with English text to follow.  Black theatre fantasy with actor Jan Potměšil.  Divadlo Mionor 7.30."
How did they know I was here?

7.11.93

To the Castle (comedy of trams II); to the Gothic and Baroque collection in the cloisters of St George's Basilica.  Free today.  The omnipresent ladies of the galleries wave us through like something out of "Blue Velvet".  The Gothic art has a strange quality: you sense for the peasants these were miraculous images, icons; more powerful than in West Europe, say.  The sense of synchronicity: what happened here, and in Italy at the same date.  The Slav eyes in the pictures.

An Annunciation with a wonderful cubist angel – wings everywhere, and a fractal sky.  A gargoyle dog, baying at the rain.  A Christ of Master Theodoric, almost twentieth-century naive.  Many more pix here than in UK for this time (dissolution of monasteries later?).  A crucifixion: with a man leaning on a shield in the form of a face – fine pic.  Amazing abstract Madonna and Child.

To St. Vitus Cathedral, where there is mass.  Rather dull – sermons in Czech are worse than in Indonesian.  Cold too.  Interesting trying to read the service book "Otčenáš".  Good organ, so to speak.  Then to self-service restaurant for unsatisfactory meal.  Sky lighter now.

Back to the cloisters of St George's Basilica. – and the world's first hologram – a painting that changes as you move round it: 1603 painted, Maximilian I and Ferdinand I, by Paulus Roy.  Some brilliant portraits – many by Jan Kupecký.  Landscapes of Vaclav, Vourinec Reiser, not bad.  The vignettes of Norbert Grund – cross between Pietro Longhi, Gainsborough and Guardi.  

Tremendous gargoyles on the cathedral, now slobbering after the rain.  The stuff of nightmares.  Did I see one move…?

To Kinský Palace, national collection of European art.  Familiar ground.  Lovely Vivarini, also fine icons – some from Benátky – Venice and Řecko (Greece).  St Luke drawing the Virgin – with another image deep in the background.  Dürer's Feast of the Rosary – very heavy, virtuoso but not moving.  Stunning view of London by Canaletto (1746).  Westminster Bridge spanning Thames, Westminster Abbey to the left, Lambeth Palace to the right – used by Canaletto as his viewpoint.  Also visible Banqueting House, St Paul's in the distance.  Rembrandt – The Scholar in his Study.  And even a Willem Kalf – with peeled lemon…  Two fine Kokoschka's of Prague.

Dinner in Bistro Mozart – good but expensive.  To National Theatre for The Makropulos Affair, Kr.160 for brilliant seats II balcony, first row, seats 15 and 16.  Lots of gilt and maroon and sumptuous naked ladies on the ceiling.  The orchestra desperately practising the tricky bits.  Not very full, alas, for such a great work.

Fine music indeed.  And the singers not bad.  Indeed, the only real difference between them and better-known names is that the latter...are better known.  That is, in some sense Prague is a pre-television world.  But for how much longer?

8.11.93

Thoughts about The Makropulos Affair: consider, a woman who travelled Europe for 300 years, spoke Greek, Spanish, French, Czech, and searches after a document, written in an obscure language: surely a symbol for Europe and the Maastricht Treaty.  Also Charles Burney's travels through Europe, musically, and the Grand Tour.

To the Ghetto – amazing jumble of gravestones in the cemetery.  The graves with small stones balanced on them.  Very peaceful with the autumn colours. (And pieces of paper, coins, stamps, chestnuts, majolica.)  Amazing effect of the higgledy-piggledy gravestones – a sea of them – like the view from the plane in Kashmir.  Also the trees add something – especially in the middle of the city.  A tomb with lions – with pieces of paper in every crevice.  Some graves pitch black, others pink, white.  To Pinkas Synagogue – amazing to see the wall of names being re-created, one by one.  What a task – painful to see.  77,927 names – the only such memorial.  

We pass two Italians we sat opposite at lunch yesterday·  Prague is small: you really do keep crossing paths (like in Venice, Piazza San Marco).

To the exhibition of children's and adults' drawings for Terezin.  What a waste of life and creativity there.  Into antique shop – sewing machine: Lada.  Underwood typewriter with Czech keyboard.  To the Rudolfinum – in the empty café – very grand, as is the main entrance hall.  Drinking 
glühwein and grog (supplied as rum, very perfumed, and a glass of hot water).  Grog (if put together correctly by me) – no great shakes.

Over in the old part under the castle (over Charles Bridge, still very romantic) – to a fine restaurant – U Modré Kachničky (The Blue Duck) – three rooms, very luxuriously done out – walls painted plus turn of the century pix – heavy credenza, floral carpet, crystal glass.  We are in the back room – glass roofed.  Soups – quail's eggs and potatoes, venison consommé and vermicelli.  To follow, carp and caviar (the real stuff).  Behind me a fine white heating oven (as in the castle).  (Address: Nebovidska 6, Praha 1, Mala Strana).  

Across the bridge to the island (complete with pink carnations courtesy of the Blue Duck restaurant).  Beautiful park in autumn, and stunning views across the Vltava.  Charles Bridge, the weir and in the distance the sugar-loaf form of the National Theatre (trams passing).  Subdued roar from the weir.  Swans glide gracefully below us.  The black forms on the bridge like frozen pilgrims, or the gargoyles on the cathedral.  The swan ringed on its right foot.  A beautiful island to the right, its trees a fine spray of yellow.  Raining slightly, but not too heavily.

Walk back under Charles Bridge – fine piazza to the west.  Then up to St. Nicholas Church, massive from the outside (one of my favourite squares).  Inside much lighter – partly because of the sheer size.  Fine trompe-l'oeil on nave roof – with St Nick very palpably swept away.  Mozart played on the organ here, and after his death the Requiem was sung here.  Wonderful organ – covered in scrambling, tumbling putti (gilt).  And each pillar ends in a huge cardinal's beret, with sharp diamond points.  The ceiling's fantasy is rather fine: a tower with a ship moored behind, a triumphal arch at the crossing of the nave.  Everywhere gilt and fine marble.  Organ banked in three tiers on each side, and three tiny ones in the middle.  Glass in windows mercifully clear.  And the whole of the altar very effective – the crescendo of pillars, statuary.  Has to be one of my favourite Baroque churches now…

9.11.93

Our penultimate day – and already sad at the thought of leaving this hospitable city.  To the St Agnes Cloisters.  Exhibition of Chinese wall paintings – very simple, very effective.  And I think of all the beautiful things that exist, and wonder why there is so much ugly suffering.  To the picture gallery.  Fine portraits by Machek.  Curious allegory from the ceiling of the dining car of Franz Joseph I.  Amazing effect of light.  Evening in Tyrska Lane by Jakub Schikaneder (1855-1924).  In the last room, a tiny Caspar David Friedrich – a jewel whose magic is instant.  Robert Russ – Mill in the north Tirol – amazing effect of light, and of the trees.  Quite a rich gallery – if you're into Czech art – and quality surprisingly high.  Again just goes to show that it's history/choice/fate that decides who is great/mainstream/famous.

Heard the clock-tower strike – gawping with hundreds of others… not very impressive – either spectacle.  Eating downstairs at one of the restaurants neaby .  Poor meat again.  Upstairs to Café Mozart...two espressi.  Outside a jazz band – and a man blowing the biggest, softest soap bubbles you ever did see.  The most wonderful rainbow-coloured wobbling gyrations as they miraculously rise (why?).

Walking around Můstek – buy book on Mozart – then metro, tram #22 to the Baroque St Nicholas church (fantastic fish shop on the corner on the way – with caviar).  Buy cassettes. now in Fruit Café with great view of this contrapuntal square.  Very noticeable that Czech magazines use every inch of the paper.  Old-fashioned design, too.  Poor half-tones.  Seeing the banner across the square for the Dubuffet exhibition up by the castle reminds how little France/French culture is in evidence.  Apart from the boulevards, this is the land of the Teuton, Slav – increasingly, obviously of the Anglo-Saxon…

To Beriozka for a minimally Russian meal (really for caviar).  Now in the Old Town Square – beautiful.  The Tyn church looms blackly over the sodium-lit buildings.  On the Bridge.  Prague Castle lit up in green and yellow – a wonderful slab of light on the hill.  Below us improbable seagulls squawk.  "Young people" play guitars and sing; the weir roars untiringly.  The church is orange ahead of us.  Trams cross by the National Theatre, which is lit green.  Everywhere domes and steeples and statues and facades and pillars.  Behind us, the Rudolfinum.

10.11.93

Sad to leave.  In "Der Spiegel", the President of Estonia, Lennart Meri, says "Eine Grosse Bibliothek ist ohne Wörterbuch nutzlos.  Wir wollen der Wörterbuch für Europe sein" – speaking of Estonia's position in Europe.  This morning, a final walk from tram #26 to the Old Town Square, across the bridge to the other bank.  Bought caviar.  Fine city.  

Now at the airport – outside, following an "explosives" alert.  Ironic for the country famous for Semtex...

Saturday 2 October 2021

1989 Zürich

18.2.89

The great bell of St. Peter strikes 9.  A grey but bright morning; cold.
I arrived here at 10pm last night, a mere one hour and a bit from London.  This is almost a test-run: what is the viability of jumping across to Europe for the weekend.  I am staying at the Hotel Florhof behind the Kunsthaus.  Last night I watched TV in German, French and Italian.

Now I sit in the pleasant St Petershofstatt – very quiet everywhere.  Zürich is full of pastels: lime greens, strawberry pinks, vanilla creams.  The architecture is terribly circumspect, nothing is garish or untoward.  Everything is very neat.  Walking along the Limmatquai, things were only vaguely familiar.  Driving in from the Hauptbahnhof last night I did recognise the high stone wall of Seilergraben.  I think I stayed near here – the street Zähringerstrasse is marked on my old (1979) map.  I remember only the shower of the old youth hostel (?) where I stayed.  Zürich was pelting with rain, and I was freezing; it was one of the best showers of my life.

Zürich very quiet all morning until 10, when I go to the Oper.  "Marriage of Figaro", sold out for tonight.  Then to the Kunsthaus.  9 francs to get in – which includes the last day of an Egon Schiele show (£1 ~ 2.70 Fr).  Round the museum – lots of dreck, especially modern.  Few decent old ones – Canaletto, view of Molo with reception of ambassador.  Good Chagalls and Munch.  Lots of boring Schweizer and old German stuff. Few decent Impressionists.  To the Schiele.  Frightening stuff.  But what a fiercely personal vision this boy – died when 28 – had.  Lots of lacerating self-portraits, lots of nudes – the flesh beginning to turn like dead meat.  Some of the landscapes were new to me – strange gleaming reds, like haunted houses – impressive.

Almost casually, I decide to visit the "Je suis un cahier" Picasso exhibition.  I expect to be bored after the Tate show.  It is miles better.  The virtuosity which was hinted at there becomes explicit.  The sheets from the sketch books are all dated: often there are ten from one day.  Rarely is there a correction to them: just sure, swift lines.  Many are masterpieces.  But even more fascinating is to see how he worried at a theme, teased out nuances – and then changed completely.  For example, he draws a baboon's head a few times, simplifies, then leaps to Shakespeare.  Pure disjunction or inspired transition?  Now in the Kunsthaus restaurant, I gaze at the familiar Zürich rain…

Grossmünster: typically Swiss – no ornaments inside, just clean, grey walls.  It all looks too new: there is no sense of time passed. I wonder if I came here before?  P.m., the rain holding off a little.  A few more people around – about as busy as Bournemouth on a quiet winter's Saturday…  To the Fraumünster Church – more churches – dull inside. But brilliant Chagall windows, five of them, long and thin. Jacob, Christ, David in the middle, blue, green and yellow.  Wandering in the rain.  Zürich is still quiet – definitely a one-day place.  

Back to the hotel to watch 16 channels of TV.  Several times I have tried to take coffee at the Café Bar Odeon – Lenin's old haunt, and one that I found very pleasant ten years ago.   Today it is noisy and smoke-filled – hardly the haven of civilised quiet it once was.  One thing I have noticed: there is a fad here for deeply unattractive glasses – huge square things, odd wing shapes – yuk.  Also, it has to be said, there are not many attractive women here.  They look Swiss and serious – no spark or flair.  But then there is very little squalor  either – I have seen only one tramp, and everyone else looks well-off.

I am now sitting amidst the guildic (?) splendours of das Zunfthaus zur Saffran.  I received a very snooty welcome – no tie, unshaven, jeans, trainers: will he pay? They think.  I hope they take Visa…  This is a strange city.  It looks like a film set – it is too neat and tidy, too perfect.  I am on the first floor; as the trams go by, their metal conductors creep past the eighteenth-century windows like huge silent spiders.

More destinations:


Friday 29 May 2020

1993 Istanbul

25.3.93 Istanbul

A strange situation in that I know next to nothing of Istanbul, and nothing of the language.  But what a name: Istanbul.  And yet one that figures so little in our consciousness.  It belongs to no one, culturally, as far as the West is concerned, and so hovers on the horizon like some strange mirage.

Jackpot.  As soon as I came out of the visa section, I knew things were going awry.  Thanks to a bunch of Italians pushing in front, this took ages.  When I arrived at the luggage carousel, the cases were off, lined up on the ground.  Mine was not there.  I knew it was not in Turkey, but dealing with the bureaucracy – as well as translating for some Italian ladies with a similar problem – took half an hour.  Then changing money – somehow I knew I'd need it – took another 15 minutes.  By the time I got out, there was nobody there to pick me up.  I waited.  Still nobody.  I spoke (in French this time) to others waiting, who said the bloke I wanted wasn't there.

So, a taxi.  Arguments outside should have told me that I had a madman, and his driving soon confirmed it: at least 100 mph, often yards away from the car in front.  We took a huge arc around the city – the signs worryingly saying to Ankara (it seemed quite possible that we'd go all the way there at 100 mph) – and finally arrived, 141K lira (about £10) later.  As I checked in, who do I find but the Herbert who was supposed to meet me.  Yeah, well, if he was there before me (and assuming he drove at less than 100 mph), he certainly left before me.  So I refused to pay all the outstanding 93K lira, and we argued long about this and that.

And then, of course, the real fun begins: being Ramadan, all the shops are shut – now, and tomorrow.  No new clothes.  So if the bag doesn't turn up tomorrow, it gets interesting.

Strange wandering the streets to here, a Pizza Hut (well, I'm not in a fit state to be more adventurous tonight).  George Michael playing in the background, even more than in Cairo, things felt alien, or rather very distant: I felt I was in Mongolia (appropriately) not Turkey.  The drive was delightfully frightening: mile after mile of concrete blocks, dusty roads, thick smog, descending darkness, ruddy sunset.

26.3.93 Istanbul

Well, here I sit in the Sultan Safrasi café, Aya Sofya to my left, the Blue Mosque just in front of me, and vaguely soporific Turkish music coming from within.  The sun is starting to break through, and things are looking up a little.  After a hearty breakfast (another benefit to the kind of package hotel I'm in), out to see what shops, if any, were open.  Luckily, I find a clothes shop soon, and bought a shirt for 99K lira.  Later, I found the address of one of the few chemists open, and bought a few necessaries.  Back to the hotel to shave and shower (for the third time – a good way to keep clothes non-pooh-y), then out by taxi (£3) to here.  According to the information man at the hotel, everything open as usual.  I hope so.

First impressions: Istanbul is pretty dirty in a "typical" middle east/far east way: dust, litter, concrete, rubble, everywhere.  Colours uniformly grey and brown, a few dull reds and greens.  Turks look, well, Turkish, deep eyes, thick hair, very different.  And how right that of all the Europeans it is the Germans who are linked to this race: the same ü and ö, the same ultra-logical grammar and syntax.

Now drinking my first çay, which puts me in mind of the Parisian tea-room I sampled less than a year ago.  Reading Libération last night; really one of my favourite papers.  Everyone smokes like a chimney here.  These mosques really soar.  Well, back in Sultan Safrasi café – I'm not that hungry, so I'm reluctant to go to a restaurant.  Çay and "tost".  Behind me, a Turk speaks fluent German to the same.

Walked to Topkapi Palace – the grounds full of picnickers – quite the most litter-strewn place I have seen on this earth.  In fact, Istanbul is fast becoming litter capital of the world, in my eyes.  The Archaeological Museum and palace open from 9.30am, closed Monday/Tuesday respectively, so I'll go later – now it's full of tourists and locals.  On the way back, I bought five pairs of sox for 25K lira – about £2.  I was done, but my need was great.  Lacoste-branded, but the alligator was stuck on – as were the labels.  But they're clean (ish).

One thing: the Turks are certainly keen to talk; but being British, I am less keen to listen.  Unfairly, probably, but there we are.  I've never been one for "mixing", for getting into these fake relationships.  Either I'm too suspicious, too shy, or, more likely, too arrogant.  Most people bore me, and if I can't talk with people I respect, and whose conversation I value, I'd rather talk with myself – which I have little enough time to do, heaven knows.  Noticeable the number of women wearing the chador – full body stuff.  And men with caps.  But against that, you can see pornography displayed pretty freely.  A country of meetings and contradictions, then.

My first monument, the incredible Basilica Cistern – looks like something out of a Peter Greenaway film.  Dripping water (Tarkovsky) and Corinthian columns.  The floor soaking, the air dank, dank, dank.  The constant sound of drip, sharp, and the distant echoing sounds of classical music.  And at the end of it all, the crazy Medusa heads: one upside down, the other on its side, squashed beneath simple columns, meeting its mirror image in the pool of water around it, green with age.  And the drops fall even heavier.  Above, the ceiling pattern recedes to infinity, like something out of Escher.  This is what I came to Istanbul for…  What a wonder of the world.  Reminds me of La Mezquita in Cordoba, but that had no mad opera singing in the background, nor the Chinese torture of drips…

At last down by the Golden Horn, waiting for the ferry boat to leave behind me.  In front, the iced water seller – fine, except I have seen the ice in a bag broken on the ground next to one of the few rubbish bins not full and used.  Overcast now, but the sun weakly peeking through.  Cool breeze. Nice.  

In the middle of the bridge, richer by two pairs of underpants (5K lira each – about 30p), I remember Harvard...except that this bridge is wobbling up and down like hell…  Fine view of Topkapi palace, Aya Sofya and several other mosques (strange to see the occasional efflorescence of Arabic here…).

Across the bridge to the Tünel – brilliant value: 2K lira for the most grinding part of the journey back.  Supposedly the oldest metro in continental Europe – nice to see the French metro trains here.  Longish, steep tunnel, then out to what turns out to be the continuation of a street I took this morning for clothes.  Everyone out promenading – thousands of them – with trams in the middle.  Back to the hotel, buying water and oranges en route.  Still no news on my bloody case.  How can they not know where it is?  Shower, then read some more Libération.

Now in Han Fast Food, near Taksim Square.  Eating baked potato – cheap, and may even be vaguely healthy.  Quite a happening sort of place.  Buses thunder outside.  Before, returning to the hotel, I went along to the main cultural centre, trying to find something.  There's Der fliegende Holländer for 40K lira, which seemed a bit ridiculous for me to see here.  There's also some kind of ballet programmed – with some Nyman...but this is elsewhere.

Very noticeable here the preponderance of same sex – and mainly male – groups.  Few mixed, and those have a distinctly racy air to them.  Also noticeable is the youth of some of the lads smoking here – 13, 14 at most, trying to act big…  It would be interesting to write – well, read at least - a history of the blue jeans, and their sociological rise: here, as everywhere, they seem ubiquitous and indispensable.  What did people wear before?  Like India, the things people sell: men with scales, selling your weight.

I have this heart-rending image of my poor case endlessly circulating on a carousel in the middle of nowhere (just where is the middle of nowhere?  Perhaps nowhere is nowhere these days).  Down by the Golden Horn – how I like writing this – a boat moored, cooking meat amidst swathes of smoke.  Reminds me of Varanasi in its waterside bustle.

27.3.93 Istanbul

In the gallery of Aya Sofya.  Here as the gates open, so I enter this huge space almost alone.  In a strange way, not at all as I expected it – lighter, perhaps less oriental than I thought. The overriding impression inside is of golden yellow and rich marbles.  Some fine shafts of light cutting through the space.  And the great shouts of Arabic – too florid for me to read, alas.  In their use of two dimensions they remind me of Tom Phillips' stuff – vaguely…  To here by train (3K lira), Tünel (2K lira), and taxi (10K lira – bastard took me the long way).  Warming up outside.  But inside, a lovely coolth.

The stunning mosaic of Christ, Mary and the John.  Amazing detail and the expressions…  Extraordinary that the heads have survived so well (maybe because higher up?).  Also noticeable the filigree capitals.  Weird.  Down again.  After the exonarthex, sitting in the narthex, noticing the doors.  The relief and the mosaic above the door through to the nave.  But mostly from the back of the narthex you are enthralled by the sense of space through the doors: this is the essence of architecture – the articulation and definition of space.

Just reading the excellent guide to Aya Sofya gives you a sense of the architectural achievement – all those apses, conches, tympanums et al.  Walking round it is a wonderful experience in space.  Interesting contrast with San Marco – visibly part of the same world, but so dark and medieval.  Aya Sofya is part of a literally enlightened tradition – albeit the fag-end.  The builders of this church knew they were part of a glorious civilisation; San Marco's were struggling against the pull of mud and the lagoon.

After eating my illicitly-got bun and cheese in Sultan Safrasi, to the Turkish museum.  Sitting now in the courtyard, great view of the Blue Mosque, the amplified muezzin doing his stuff.  Reasonable museum, mostly Arabic script, carpets, patterns.  Reminds me of another museums: Cairo (the Gayer-Anderson House), East Berlin (Pergamon Museum), but feels insufficiently forgotten and strange.  The obelisk, but so different here from those in Karnak (ah, Karnak…)  In many ways the ethnographic section is more immediately suggestive, particularly with its real yurts and interiors.  The thought of these Turcoman nomads wandering across Asia, taking their tents with them, and ending up at the gates of Vienna (imagine: no Mozart, no Schubert…)

Inside the Blue Mosque – incredibly delicate interior with wonderful ceiling of lamps – about 10 feet off the ground – giving a vertical forest of supporting wires.  To the "little" Aya Sofya – glorious, partly because I am alone here.  This feels real.  Crumbling, cracked but very beautiful.  An old ticking clock – miles out (Mecca time?).

Along the main street Divan Yolu to the Column of Constantine, still charred black, nice group of mosques.  Then to the covered market, which, though very touristy, is nonetheless impressive.  Very gaudy, very big.  Wander through it (nice kiosk at one point), then out to the book market – a little disappointing (I can't help recalling that second-hand bookshop – warehouse? - in Guildford: I wonder if it is still there?).  Now in small, slightly grubby café in the market, trying elma çay – apple tea – though it contains neither.  Taste like a pleasanter version of Lemsip.  

Back in Pizza Hut – well, it's about the cheapest place round here.  I've just found the concert hall – spent 80K lira on a ticket for what looks appropriate: Brit-Turkish ballet programme with Nyman's music.  Surprising number of blue-eyed people here – and almost blond, too.  Perhaps that old Circassian influence… and anyway, who were these Circassians?  Strange how you remember people.  Two blokes, Turks by the look of it, in Aya Sofya, wearing "Buffalo University" t-shirts.  I saw them later in the Turkish Museum.  (Also met the Italian ladies from the airport again – but they had their cases…)

In Praise of Difference: art is difference, evolution is difference.  Imagine being trapped with someone whose every thought echoed yours, and was known to you.  Huis Clos.  We/I depend on difference to make life interesting.  And how fast humankind changes – the languages of Irian Jaya (I must go there…).  "The global is the local without walls."

Interesting this case business (I speak linguistically).

28.3.93 Istanbul

Yes, interesting this case business, but not interesting enough to stop me eating.  I was going to say that not having my case with me has taught me at least how little you need: two pairs of clothes, toothbrush, razor, etc.  In fact, I shall make this the core of my "survival kit" that I carry separately.  Interesting last night watching satellite TV: TV5 and TVE – French and Spanish respectively.  Up late-ish this morning, later than I thought, since clocks go back here too.  Walked to the Tünel, then taxi-ed the other side.

Here in the Archaeological Museum – looks wonderful. I am sitting with the Alexander Sarcophagus in front of me – what a work.  The detail of the carving is stunning – especially the naked men's bodies (Greek sculpture really does make the human – male – body beautiful).  The folds of the skin on the horses and deer.  The horses remind me of the Elgin Marbles.  In one of the pediments, crouching in the left-hand corner, a figure straight out of Michelangelo.  Traces of paint still.  The sarcophagus of the Mourning Women – less varied, but beautiful.  I have these masterpieces to myself.  Back towards the entrance, the biggest sarcophagus, with the barrel-vaulted top: interesting 3D effects of overlapping horses and riders.  Nice diagonals.

Fascinating "usurped" sarcophagus – Egyptian, re-used for king Tabnit Sidon. On it, what looks like Phoenician script.  In the entrance, fine old Hercules, very crude, very vigorous.  [One thing: the first sight to greet me outside my hotel this morning were two bears, great big light-brown things, led by two men.  Are we talking medieval or what?] Face to face with Alexander.  Fine Ephebe – reminds me of Rodin's Balzac.  Bust of Sappho.  Later, upstairs to the sections on Anatolia in general.  Great stuff on Hittites et al. (another language I must learn).  And places like Palmyra, Ephesus, Pergamon

Then out, leaving the Turkish Pavilion – I am cold, and it is starting to rain.  After a cheap but filling lunch – shish kebab and baklava – back to the Tiled Pavilion.  Nice, but I find it hard to get worked up over pottery.  Attracted by the medieval sounds I have returned to the park below.  Brilliant sunshine now.  An ad hoc band is vaguely practising – I love the shawm-like lead and percussion.  Below, a puppet show.

Back across the Galata Bridge, a fine view after the rain, Tünel, and then to here, a very untouristy, untacky tea-room for çay, and rich honey-soaked shredded wheat – well, ish.  This is merenda – no dinner tonight.

Out now in the concert hall found so laboriously.  Functional, vaguely Turkish inside, good sightlines, seats a little deep. Turns out the Nyman is Zed and Two Noughts – I haven't heard it for a while.  There's also some Turkish music which is nice – one İlhan Usmanbaş – other than this, I can read barely a word of the 15K lira programme.  The most god-awful cod-pop/classical stuff in the interval.  WHY? And a lousy amplifier system – Nyman was painful.  Dancing quite good though – emphasises Turkey's bridge between West and East – these female bodies wobbling away.

29.3.93 Istanbul

I was forced to leave the concert early: the second part had music so loud I had my fingers in the ears for most of it.  So unnecessary.  The Brits flew the flag, and I'd seen and heard the concert hall.  Back and watched the French elections in French and Spanish (the latter rather embarrassing). Amazing result.  In an odd way, I'm glad old Lang got back in – a fine paragon of French culture…

To Topkapi – 'orrible weather.  After tram and Tünel, I decide to avoid the rain and take a taxi on Galata bridge.  Which then proceeded to go the wrong way, then dump me by the side of the road.  I didn't pay, and at least I'm over the bridge.  Another taxi to here – one I am able to catch out as he nearly doesn't take the right turn to the palace after the lighthouse.

Here too early, but first to get a ticket.  Up to the harem, and buy another for 10 o'clock start.  A quick wander – glorious views over the sea and the great ships out there.  Into the harem – with a big group alas, and snapping away like mad to show people back home.  A fine warren inside – for a minute, I catch a glimpse of a vanished world of caravans, 1001 nights.  Strange melange of cultures in parts, barely digested ideas – like the diminutive capitals on columns.  The Koran everywhere.

Now wandering through the capacious collections – porcelain et al.  Many people here – perhaps not surprising given that practically everything else is closed today.  Seeing the Japanese and Chinese stuff here reminds me that they represent now the last great unknown for me.  The palace overall reminds me greatly of the kraton in Java – perhaps there is some distant relationship, mediated by the Arab traders.  

To the café – thank god they built galleries around the courts – it is bucketing down now.  Strange how all sodden cities take on a similar aspect.  I remember Vienna, Paris (Palais de Tokyo), etc.  Perhaps it is just that you become very introspective, conscious only of being cold and wet.  Nice in a masochistic sort of way.  Ridiculous prices here – 10K lira for tea, but obviously, I ain't going walkies in this weather.

Up to the Galata Tower – blowy but brilliant sunshine.  Stunning view south across the Golden Horn and Bosphorus.  From here you see clearly how massive Aya Sofya is, particularly compared with the Blue Mosque, for example.  Beyond the city, hazy mountains – very Greek-like, unsurprisingly.  Which reminds me: I was conscious last night of how this trip is filling in a whole region hitherto rather mysterious.  Travel is like that: a gradual infilling of space and time.

From Galata back to the hotel – where I carry out my daily ritual of a call to the lost luggage office – and miraculously they have found my case.  But I have to go myself – customs, not unreasonably.  Still, a chance to find the Havaş Airport Bus. I try it on, asking for a free trip – refused, quite rightly.  I miss my stop, going on to the domestic terminal – and am kindly taken back by the driver (who was also dropping people off hither and thither).  To the Arrivals, back to the desk I was at before.  I then follow the man deep into the bowels of the airport – finally, at the end of a corridor behind double padlocked doors, there is my beloved case.

The man gives me a form to sign: which I nearly do.  But I read it, and notice that I am signing away all claims.  Er, no, thank you; I'd like some dosh.  So back upstairs, where I try it on further, bringing out the receipts for shirts, medicaments, travel etc. - which, mirabile dictu, they agree to, finally.  We settle on 300K lira – about £20.  Hardly a king's ransom, but better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.  Just goes to show.  Back the way I came.  I note, as before, how orderly Turks are, forming queues for things (rather like Mexicans) – and spontaneously giving up seats in buses for women and elderly men.  Puts us to shame.  Coming back from the airport, we passed the old city walls, now rather brazenly but impressively restored.  Past amazing spaghetti junction – but it works – then to the Tünel. 

Am now drinking sahlep for the first time – totally inappropriate, being hot and sweet, but very nice – great for this chillish weather. Back in Han's, cheap and near – one disadvantage of Taksim is that it is a real haul to the Golden Horn (interesting that the Greeks called it that, for unknown reasons).  I did, however, see it this evening on the way back, a sheet of golden foil (etc.) - very nice.  Well, sahlep is powdered orchid root, and I note that Bill Gates is getting married.

30.3.93  Istanbul

Suleiman mosque very impressive – so light and airy inside – almost recreating the open-air mosques I've seen in India.  Filthy weather – wet, cold – but with my suitcase it seems less of a problem.  Very noticeable sharpness in the air – lots of poor coal and wood being burnt today.  I had this place nearly to myself – now a couple of coachloads of tourists have arrived...pity, it was very peaceful here.

I have just read the Blue Guide's description of this place: a masterpiece of factual analysis, informed comments and judicious enthusiasm.  I see the building with new eyes, and understand its dynamics far better.  The comparisons with Aya Sofya are illuminating.  Once again, you can see how far ahead the imperial architect Mimar Sinan was compared to West Europeans.

Across to the Museum of the Ancient Orient – small but lots to see, especially of Hittite stuff.  The Kadesh treaty – hi, Ramses – but also the early Arabic inscriptions – before Islam.  This tremendous sense of ferment – peoples, kings, empires coming and going in this relatively small area.  Writing, laws, poems, epics – I feel a book coming on – "The Book", in fact.  All I've got to do is learn Arabic, Hebrew, Assyrian, Babylonian, Sumerian, Akkadian, Aramaic...etc. Perhaps I'll wait a few years.

One problem being out of season – no boats leaving regularly.  So I am forced to hire one – just for myself. 100K lira to Eyüp and back – hope it's worth it.  Well, up the Golden Horn is not exactly beautiful – though the great bowl of Eyüp's hill is – but interesting.  Obviously, the Bosphorous would have been better – I should have thought to do this over the weekend.  Next time…  Vague feeling of Venice – the shipyards, the thudding engine, the smells, the constant buffeting of the wind.  Also of Paris, on the Seine.  But with the differences compared to these.  Strange UFOs on the horizon, rockets pointed Allah-wards.  

But cold.  My head is freezing, so back to the hotel for a rest, then out again to the Tünel – to check the bus times.  Then past a possible fish restaurant, to the old Pizza Hut again, usual reasons.  A week here is enough: I'd have liked to get out – Troy beckons, as do numerous other sites.  It'd be great to drive down the coast.  One day, perhaps…  At least Turkish looks doable: one irregular verb, one irregular noun ("to be"and "water").  But what really fascinates me is this sense of reaching into this whole region – where civilisation was born (pace the Chinese).  Also of Turkish stretching across into the other Turkic languages: Azerbaijani, Turkmen, Uzbek (hi, Samarkand) – a great swathe across the steppes of Central Asia, the heart of the world (good title…).

Jolly busy this place, I must say, where all the young folk "hang out", as they say.  In some ways, it sums up Turkey's integration into the West – something it claims for itself, but that the West has always rather patronisingly pooh-poohed.  You would be hard-pushed to identify any specifics here, and yet it is no mere anonymous, soulless clone.

31.3.93 Istanbul

Up by the great mosaic in Aya Sofya's gallery again.  The tourists (well, other tourists) are awful – especially the Spaniards, for some reason – lots of school parties here, it seems.  Up late, lazy breakfast.  Not doing much today – I need a holiday from this holiday, which has been pretty exhausting.  But as I like it – walking and looking a lot.  Hotel room really quite good – especially with French and Spanish satellite TV – very useful, particularly for improving my understanding of French Canadian sounds – very odd… Very cold today – as ever in Aya Sofya.  Up to the usual restaurant in Sultanahmet.  Ate döner the right way, and then followed with muhallebi (tavukgöğsü).  Very sweet, slightly rubbery, not unpleasant.

By the Blue Mosque: muezzins in stereo – one from here, the other behind me somewhere. Weird.  After buying some cassettes (including what sounds rather groovy Sufi stuff), along to the baths.  Opt for the 195K lira job.  Into cubicle – rather cold, it has to be said.  There are about 30 of these, in two tiers, in the entrance hall, old and domed.  Strip, wrap tablecloth around middle, clogs on feet, then through towel room and main hall (double door) to steam room.  There for 5 to 10 minutes, working up mild sweat.  The through to the central hall – without spectacles, not so wonderful: small openings in the ceiling, water dripping down (hi, Andrei again), steam, vague smells of soap, male bodies.

My masseur, a reasonable, apparently non-gay bloke, works me over mildly – I was expecting much more.  But it was worth it for the sense of imperial coddling, of being some lord attended to.  Lying on the warm marble, vaguely naked, relaxing, sweating, stretched etc – I felt 2000 years ago.  To one of the alcoves, where I sit and then have tepid water poured over me.  Then soaped on the head, and scrubbed rather vigorously with what looked like an oven mitt – I hope it was clean given the depth it went into my skin.

Then the haggling began: did I want a super-soapy massage? All this "assisted washing" lark was vaguely embarrassing, it has to be said, although no improprieties were committed beyond some use of body contact – on the arm, I hasten to add – by the bloke.  Poor sod: I suppose he has to make a living.  So instead of 100K lira, we agree on 50K lira, and no tips.  This service consists of lying on the floor and being massaged when soapy.  Ho-hum.  But quite relaxing, though a work-out and reflexology knocks the spots off it.  The thing about this place is its atmosphere.  Hidden away in dusty concrete Istanbul is this living fossil.  Altogether, 250K lira to experience it – rather a rip-off in retrospect.  But worth doing once, the old Cağaloğlu Hamam.

To my left, a barber (inside) snips away; the masseurs wait, dressed in their Italian-red-and-white tablecloths.  Unfree drinks are on offer (declined).  Turkish music plays in the background.  Wonderful dome above, flaking and stained plaster.  Life is...pretty good.

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