Scandinavia: Overview

Gross bathrooms. Blood on the floor. These glaring imperfections at the arrivals gate in Copenhagen’s airport gave me the hope that I would be able to write a blog post about how Scandinavia does not actually conform to the squeaky clean image it has earned itself abroad. “Leave your stereotypes at the door!” I was going to write, “You can pick them up later at the Little Mermaid statue.”

But no. Scandinavia is basically just as organized, efficient, and “figured-out” as one would expect.

My guidebook states that Scandinavians are “confident, happy, healthy, and tall.”*  I can see it. “Confident” probably because they never have to worry about things like health insurance or tuition payments. And they know that even if life deals them a blow like job loss or even, say, old age, they’ll be taken care of. But that’s just a guess.

When I was there, the happiness seemed mostly due to heavy vitamin D infusion from the sun. Even in early May, the sun rose a little after 4am and set just before 10pm. Its rays were intense: I came back with a nice tan (though only on my face, neck, and hands, because I still had to wear my coat most of the time). It wasn’t uncommon to see people doing nothing, just facing the sun with their eyes closed. Transcending.

Healthy, for sure. Everyone rode bikes, particularly in Copenhagen, where virtually every street has a bike lane, complete with walk lights so that tourists don’t step out into two-wheel traffic. Joggers had invaded Stockholm and Oslo, serious joggers (I’m guessing by their serious jogging apparel) attracted to these cities’ many lovely parks and waterside running paths. Add the omnipresence of all things organic and you start to realize why everyone has such great skin.

Tall. And blonde. And gorgeous. In Stockholm, this constitutes “average.” (Note to gentlemen: you can try, but you’ll be competing with equally tall, blonde, and gorgeous Swedish men . . .) It just seems to be one of those stereotypes that springs from reality, like loud Americans or the French on strike.

In fact, after two weeks of Scandinavian efficiency and ease, I was dismayed today to have to dive back into the obstacle course of French bureaucracy in preparation for moving out. When I was in Copenhagen, I once wondered, why don’t I just move to Denmark, where everything is so healthy and organized?

Then the clouds rolled in on a bitter Northern wind, and I thought: oh, that’s right. So I ducked into the metro and bought my $8 ticket . . . and that’s the other reason.

*Steves, Rick. Rick Steves’ Scandinavia. 

The Church Next Door

Only a few weeks left of living in Clermont-Ferrand. An American friend asked me today what local experiences I still need to have before leaving (in other words, what tourist activities I've managed to put off for eight months). There are several things I haven't done around here. Most of them did not make it to the bucket list. My life won't be any less complete, for example, if I don't visit the Michelin museum.

But there is one thing, I realized this evening while sitting in my apartment and listening to the church choir, that I absolutely need to do. I can see the tower of Saint-Genès des Carmes through my skylight. Though the original 12th-century church fell victim to the Revolution, the people of Clermont rebuilt it shortly afterward using the dismantled façade of a medieval structure nearby, so it retains the eerie, fairy-tale quality of the pre-Arthurian era. I see the church every morning when I get up to open the shutters, and every night before bed. Its bells serenade my weekends. Now, the French are not a religious people; they banned it during the Revolution, and seem to have lost it completely after the world wars. But even they can't deny the beauty that the Catholic church contributes to everyday life in this country. It's not everywhere that you can wake up to the same orchestra of bells that people heard a thousand years ago. 

And yet, I've never visited. It would be a shame to live a year in the shadow of this church-- which is as close as I have to a roommate-- without ever meeting it personally. Michelin, take it or leave it. But this I have to do.

Istanbul: The Man Who Could Bargain Like an Arab Trader (and the Arab Trader)

It began, as it always does, when he decided that he just wanted to ask some questions. “I’m not going to buy anything,” my friend, Hagop, told me. And would repeat.

We stand in Istanbul's Grand Bazaar. The hum of tourist activity mingles with the call and clamor of merchants: “Spend some money for your honey!” “Nervous New Yorkers! Don’t be so nervous!” Apparently we give off a Woody Allen vibe.

We find an authentic-looking rug shop. A pleasant young man, who surprises me with his informality and natural demeanor (considering he’s a rug merchant), greets us. He and Hagop delve into an interesting and educational conversation about the various types of rugs hanging on the walls of the small enclave. When he realizes that we (meaning Hagop) are serious buyers, he invites us to their main shop, a much larger gallery a few bazaar aisles away, and introduces us to the boss.

The leader of the operation is a portly, well-dressed man who compulsively checks his iPhone every few minutes. As one would expect, he is incredibly friendly, speaks fluent English, and just happens to visit the U.S. every chance he gets!

Hagop begins to describe the type of carpet he is (not) looking to buy. Talking a mile a minute, the dealer tells his young employee to pull this or that rug from the pile and roll it out on the floor, then another, then another, until I am cross-eyed from trying to process so many patterns and shapes. Seeing that none of them pleases the customer, he proposes an alternative:

“We go to Floor Five, where you will see more rugs.”

Oh good!

He leads us down a winding path through a darker and less touristy corner of the Grand Bazaar until we arrive at an antique lift elevator. He waves us inside with a smile. The iron gates snap shut, and we begin our lurch to Floor Five.

The dealer throws us a smile. We smile back politely. Then look at the floor. And wait.

When the doors creak open, we find ourselves in a softly lit, wood-paneled room, lined with more money than I will ever make. Two overstuffed armchairs sit at one end. The dealer picks up right where he left off: as a small brigade of helpers heft carpet after carpet off of piles and unfurl them across the floor, he describes the style, the provenance, and the age of each one. (Apparently rugs age at the rate of twenty years every ten minutes. Who knew?) The workers hold up one end of each rug to let Hagop inspect the design; when a look of skepticism crosses his face—as it inevitably does—they set it down and go for the next one. None pass the Hagop test.

It's an odd moment to have a flashback to The Christmas Story, but suddenly I'm Ralphie, watching his father buy a Christmas tree and thinking: “The man could bargain like an Arab trader.”

Because Hagop really can bargain like an Arab trader. Not only does he manage to make the real trader sweat, but the latter actually offers to pay him.

“I’ll give you a good price for it,” the trader says, referring to the rug inherited from Hagop’s grandmother. This constitutes Hagop’s brilliant strategy for avoiding approval of any of the fifty million rugs in view: his grandmother’s rug, located somewhere in Michigan, is an antique of exceptional quality, with the perfect fringe length, and it will fly you to a Whole New World and grant you three wishes, and anything less simply won’t cut the mustard.

“I think we’re going to keep that one.”

“But if you ever want to sell it, you come back. I’ll give you a great price.” His iPhone jingles again. He peers at it furtively. “Excuse me,” he says, and steps aside.

While his back is turned, Hagop rushes over to me and murmurs, “That tea had better get here soon.”

Free tea? That’s why we’re here?

“I wonder if they have sahlep*,” he continues, half-joking.

The dealer ends his phone call and turns around. Hagop stands up straight, hardens his mouth into a stern line, and strolls back toward him, carefully examining a carpet’s unacceptable fringe on the way.

The tea arrives. Finally. An old man silently hands me a shot glass of very strong, very sweet liquid on an elaborate blue and gold saucer.

Hagop perpetuates his conversation with the dealer. When I finish my tea, he has barely made a dent, carefully stirring and talking about fringes.

The chief steps away for another phone call. “Suck it down,” I whisper.

“I’m trying.”

The dealer returns. “So, my friend?” he asks.

Hagop nods slowly, reflecting. “Let me come back with a picture of my grandmother’s rug,” he says.

Nice.

We set our empty glasses on a mahogany end table. After over an hour of hemming and hawing and sipping and pondering rug fringes as if I actually knew something about them, we are free.

To be fair, Hagop really did return to the rug shop, as he had promised the dealer. And, as he had promised me, bought nothing.  

*A heavenly dessert beverage made from the crushed bulb of the lotus blossom and unicorn sweat.

Day One

To understand the evolution of stress levels in a French university, imagine a ski slope. Envision yourself starting at the bottom and working your way up. At the beginning of the semester, the route is long, flat, and easy. Halfway along, things start to get a little more difficult. The workload starts to accumulate. The end of the semester-- which we're precipitating toward now-- is straight up-hill. 

Admittedly, I enjoy working. (Really.) Still, it's impossible not to look back on those initial, empty days with a pang of nostalgia. 

I found this post, which I wrote upon arrival in France, while searching for a homework file on my computer. It was fun to go back to those days in early August before I got here, the excitement of an unknown city and the fantasy that I would have nothing but time. Nothing. Like, not even hot water.

Well, I made it. No bad luck on my thirteenth transatlantic flight. Dragged my bodyweight in luggage through the train station with great comedy and pain, but no accidents. The rental agent showed up on time at the train station and took me to my new apartment.

Which I am loving.

The photos I had received by email called to mind some modern rendition of La Bohème: attic room, skylight flanked by unfinished wood, pockmarked stone walls, big wooden beams lending some old-timey architectural interest. The theme was solidified by the agent’s caveat that-- by the way-- I may or may not have electricity when I get there. And since it’s August, it could take up to a week to see an electrician. So bring some candles.

(Note to self: start writing tragic opera!)

Not willing to sacrifice the fabulous location of this apartment, I packed a small flashlight and some warm clothes. In a way, it was comforting to know what the problem would be before I got there. Because there would most certainly be some problem. This is France, after all. Last year, it was a broken heater immediately followed by broken light fixtures. This year, no electricity.  Totally manageable.

But (almost to my dismay) I did in fact have fully functional electrical outlets when I arrived. And hot water. And the rental agent just gave me a well-labeled map of Clermont. And he’s going to help me set up Wifi.

What? Where is all the red tape? How can this possibly take less than six weeks?

Where am I?!

I realize it’s only my first day, but this all seems to be going a little too smoothly . . . Have I found a way around the bureaucratic nightmare that clings to France like a stubborn tick? Only time will tell, my friends. Only time will tell.

Central Europe: Summary

As if a summary of Central Europe were even possible. Nonetheless, I'm going to try to recap what I learned on my tour through Bratislava, Vienna, and Budapest:

These three countries (Slovakia, Austria, and Hungary) once formed a major chunk of a vast empire ruled by the Hapsburg family. The Austrians remember the glory of the Hapsburgs fondly, while the Hungarians speak of them as an oppressive regime (though not the worst they’ve encountered). The Hapsburgs managed to suppress independence movements within their empire, and thus to survive, until the twentieth century. The victors of World War I divided the family's holdings into a collection of smaller states, between which the next world war would drive an even deeper wedge: the Iron Curtain fell right along the Austrian borders with Slovakia and Hungary. The collective Eastern mind has yet to find closure from the dark days that followed. The Cold War’s insistence on separating “East” from “West” in cultural as well as political terms became something of a self-fulfilling prophecy: while today, Vienna is every bit as Western as Paris or London, Bratislava and Budapest seem somehow different. This unique flavor is a source of frequent comment from travel journalists, but hard to define.

Despite this difference—or maybe because of it—these former Eastern Bloc countries are in the process of asserting their Western values. Massive, American-style shopping malls attest to an embrace of capitalism. Foreign tourists swarm the streets. English is spoken widely and well.

While each of these cities has a different level of experience in the tourism industry (Vienna's museums have marshaling tour groups down to a science, while Bratislava's seem clumsy), they are fascinating and wonderful places to visit. I have to insert a shameless plug here for the hospitality of Central Europeans. After the history, the architecture, the culture, and the food, it’s the people that make Central Europe so addictive for travelers. This is a region that demands more than one visit. . . . So stay tuned.

Budapest: Hey, At Least They're Not Totally Naked

Do you have qualms about jumping into an unchlorinated pool full of strangers? Do you become squeamish at the sight of elderly men in Speedos?

What's that? You don't? Well then, head on down to the Hungarian bathhouse!

I sure did. I spent the afternoon at the Szchenyi (no idea how to pronounce it) baths, the largest and most popular bathhouse among many in Budapest. The city sits right on top of a number of thermal springs, which the Ottomans took full advantage of to engender this cultural habit.

The experience was gross, fun, awkward, and relaxing all at the same time. As I mentioned, the pools are not chlorinated. Supposedly, the water is not recycled like it is at the one in your neighborhood, but rather, constantly drained and replaced with fresh, mineral-rich water from the springs. (Nonetheless, posted signs constantly remind guests to shower with soap before getting into a pool or sauna . . . Honor system?) At any rate, it's probably safe to say that Szchenyi would not have remained in business so long if people got diseases there. (I'll keep you updated.)

The huge complex features three outdoor pools, several indoor pools at varying temperatures, steam rooms, a fitness center, and probably some other stuff, but the layout of the building was so confusing that that's all I saw. There were indeed a good number of old-timers flaunting their goods, but Szchenyi, along with being the most popular bathhouse, is also the most clothed. Apparently Budapest offers other, more . . . um . . .  "traditional" set-ups as well.

In addition to soaking up the minerals with dozens of my closest international friends, I decided to indulge in a Thai massage while I was there. Thai massage is the one where they lull you into a deep state of relaxation by rubbing you down with oil, then have you sit up and proceed to punch you like they're tenderizing a piece of meat.

But yes, when all is said and done, the bathhouse is definitely a worthwhile use one's time in Budapest. It's deeply cultural, and at the same time, great for what ails the tired tourist.

Budapest: The Cool Kid on the Bloc

If Paris and New York moved to Istanbul and had a baby, it would be Budapest. And if you understood that metaphor, congratulations, because I only sort of do. 

Budapest looks vaguely like Paris to me due to its plethora of tall, ornate buildings. The architecture is more varied, however. During the city's construction heyday in the late nineteenth century, Neo-Historicism was all the rage, meaning that architects picked and chose their designs from whatever past era they felt like. Hence, the Parliament building's crimson Renaissance-style dome is surrounded by a multitude of Neo-Gothic spires, and a flat, glossy Art Nouveau exterior coexists with the bas relief-ridden Baroque façade next door. 

But the city feels gritty and urban, as if it were dreaming of New York. Budapesters are sassy and tough. During the 70s and 80s, even the Communist regime was a little afraid of them, and began to allow the Hungarians more freedoms than other satellite states in order to keep their rebellious spirit at bay. 

The influence of the Ottomans, who occupied Hungary for a century and a half, can be seen in the cultural details. Soaking in one of the city's many Turkish baths is a top activity for tourists and locals alike. The food combines Eastern spices and fruits with Germanic meat and potatoes into something slightly exotic and utterly delicious.  

Above all, Budapest is itself: stubborn in its uniqueness, it forces the traveler to conform to its customs, not the other way around. In other words, it's very, very cool.