I calculated my final route on the Great Circle Mapper, and it turns out I went 40,098 kilometers around:
Here's a wrap-up of my too-few days in Prague.
The city was beautiful . . .
. . . but the real highlight was the chance to spend some time with Sasha and Jana, the cool Czechs I met in the Cameron Highlands in Malaysia. We caught up at the Shadow Cafe, a dark, quirky bar near the extremely spooky Memorial to the Victims of Communist Despots.
(It's especially spooky because the stairway leading up the hill to the memorial is basically contiguous with the stairway the statutes are on, so it's as if these figures are marching down toward you.)
The next day, I took a long walk over to Josefov, the old Jewish quarter. It was sort of an appropriate capstone for this trip. I've seen a dozen vibrant cultures reduced to tourist pap, and now it was time to see the same happen to my heritage -- Eastern European Jewry.
My visit to the Old-New Synagogue (so named because it was called "New Synagogue" when built, but the name eventually became rather inaccurate) was really pleasant -- it's the oldest operating synagogue in Europe, built in 1270.
But anything -- even historical centers of Jewish learning, even legends that helped Jews survive persecution -- can be turned into tacky tourist attractions. I mean, look at this.
From there, I headed back to the hostel, where Bruce, the American nurse occupying the next bed over, gave me a strong recommendation for dinner at a vegetarian restaurant called the Clear Head. It was like stepping into Berkeley in 1973.
Jeremiah: "So what do you do?"
Me: "I'm a lawyer. I do all sorts of things, but I'm really into copyrights and trademarks. What do you do?"
Jeremiah: "Oh. Uh. Hm."
Jameson: "Dude, it's OK. He hangs out with the EFF guys. He's on our side."
Jeremiah: "Oh, cool. I'm an artist. I'm doing a series based on video games . . . "
So even halfway around the world, "EFF" is shorthand for consumer- and artist-friendly intellectual property advocacy. Pretty neat. (In the unlikely event you're reading this blog and have no idea who or what the EFF is, go here. And either way, give them some money.)
I got home very late, got up very early, and headed to the airport. On the flight from Prague to London, I was asleep before the plane left the ground.
I'm in the middle of a layover at Heathrow, and after flying in on my connecting flight from Prague, I'm about to board my flight back to San Francisco. I'm sort of stunned that I'm actually going home. There are lots of Prague stories to fill in, and I'll get to that soon, but for now -- I'm almost home!
Hi. I'm in Prague. It's lovely. See?
Since I last wrote, I've been having a good time in Geneva. I had dinner at the Cafe de Paris, whose menu features exactly one dish: an entrecote steak in a "secret," peppery, spiced butter sauce. It was pretty fantastic, as you'd expect from the one dish served at a packed restaurant.
I ran out of cash on my way to dinner, and had to go to an ATM. The nearest one was at Credit Suisse, and to my chagrin, the smallest withdrawal I could make was 200 Swiss Francs (US$160), in the form of a single bill. I suppose this is a city of high rollers.
This morning, I headed for the airport, and I'm now in Prague, the last stop on my trip.
Once again, on my easyJet flight from Rome to Geneva, I ended up in my ideal seat (exit row, on the aisle) despite the lack of assigned seats. Getting from the airport to the hotel was comically easy -- every train leaving the huge Cornavin station starts at the airport, so there are trains every few minutes. I'd booked a room at a hotel which seemed to be somhow connected to a larger hotel, I checked in at the larger hotel, then they sent me around the corner to my building, which seemed set up for much more long-term guests. My room is basically a small studio apartment from the mid to late 70s. It's fantastic, and about half the cost of a room at the big business hotel next door.
I started out in the morning with a wander, and ended up at Cafe La Thiere qui Rit (The Laughing Teapot Cafe). I had the plat du jour (some sort of fish in some sort of sauce -- it was quite nice) and a pot of Darjeeling tea from Margaret's Hope Tea Estate . . . which I was in the middle of, about a month ago. It was a little odd to be in Geneva drinking tea I'd seen growing in India on the very same trip.
Confiserie E. Hautlé. ZOMG GOOD. A big delicious hazelnut covered in chocolate on a bed of hazelnut chocolate mousse. A simple crescent of caramel chocolate mousse, covered in chocolate. A sticky ganache in a rustic box of praline squares. something that tastes like peanut butter with the world's best Necco wafer in it. Finally, incredibly rich, full coffee bean mousse with a bean on top, covered in chocolate.
I'm in Geneva now, and I'm getting seriously behind on my blogging. So, here's a quick Rome wrap-up. For the full story,as always, see my Flickr stream.
That same night, I also visited the Church of Santa Maria in Trastevere, which was gorgeous. . .
. . . then wandered the alleys for a while, looking for a place to eat.
I found a place with no sign that turned out to be Hostaria Da Olindo, a little family-run restaurant. I arrived at 7:30,but they didn't open until 8, so I went to nearby sidewalk cafe and had a beer, surrounded by locals meeting up to go to dinner together later on.
I startedwith a primo piatto of penne arrabbiata, which was simple and delicious. For my main course,I ordered aninvoltino di carne al sugo, which I knew had something to do with meat and sauce. It turned out to be abunch of thin-ish slices of pot roast and a few strips of pancetta rolled up into a cylinder, with a carrot at the center, and cooked for a really long time until everathing was just about to fall apart, then covered with a nice chunky tomoato sauce. It was amazing.
On the way home, I was mistaken for a local by a couple from Ohio. At least I was fooling somebody.
The next morning, I walked to the former Jewish ghetto via the ruins of the Forum.
(That last one is actually a misprint. The name of the restaurant is MKosher, not McKosher, for obvious trademark reasons.)
That night, I had dinner at Pizzeria di Baffetto,widely reputed to be the best in Rome. It was very popular, and getting a table for one was tough. The owner, who was working the door, commented loudly to the people behind me in line that I should find myself some nice "femina bella" to take out to dinner. There were general chuckles. The pizza was indeed the best I've ever had, though only by a little bit. (Its close second is the pizza at Punch in Minneapolis, which is made in Neapolitan style in a Neapolitan wood oven, occasionally by Neapolitans.)
The next morning, before my plane, I had time to fill in some gastronomic gaps. First stop was Tazza d'Oro, apparently a strong contender for best espresso in the world. It was beautiful. My journal says, "rich, creamy, not at all bitter, with dark brown crema that sticks around, nutty and spicy at first, not overly hot . . . pretty perfect." Then I went right back and had another, this time a ristretto. Then I went to lunch and came right back to Tazza d'Oro for another shot. I felt a little bit like a lab rat hitting the pleasure button over and over, but it was delicious.
Lunch was at Enoteca Corsi, a small restaurant with a smaller menu. As I walked in, the waitress said, "Buon giorno. Pasta e faggioli o gnocchetti?," giving me the two possible first-course choices right away. I had the gnocchetti, then a delicious veal roast.
After that, I headed to the airport. After buying lunch, I had exactly 90 euro cents left, so I bought the only thing available in the airport shop at that price -- a copy of the newspaper La Repubblica -- and sat down to stumble through various scathing editorials about George Bush and the Democrats' big win, even though I don't speak Italian.
After a very long walk and after crossing the Tiber, I made it to Trastevere. I walked through tiny alleys with clothing hanging from lines, past unnamed restaurants spilling out onto the sidewalk, and then finally into an icky, touristy bit, which I quickly left. My guidebook had a nice walking tour of the neighborhood, and it took me, to my delight, to the Church of St. Cecilia.
I was alone.
St. Cecilia is my favorite saint, though I'm far from Catholic, mostly because she's the patron saint of musicians and has inspired a whole pile of really fantastic pieces. At the altar was a statue showing her martyrdom.
It reminded me really strongly of L'Histoire Centrale and Les Amants by Magritte, because of the way the white shroud is draped over the face. (I remember something about the white shroud over the face paintings having something to do with his mother or wife drowning herself in the river and being found with her scarf tied around her neck and over her face. Perhaps he thought she was a saint?)
Beign there all by myself, on the site of the former home of the woman who became the patron saint of music, in total silence except for the faint sound of the fountain in the courtyard, was an intense experience.
After St. Peter's, in the late afternoon, I decided to head to Trastevere, the old, somewhat rustic part of the city across the Tiber from the city center. The Metro doesn't run to Trastevere, and I didn't feel like figuring out buses, so I just walked. I started out going precisely the wrong way, which was perfect, since I ended up in an area of 1950s apartment blocks. I stopped first at a small espresso and snack bar, sitting down for a few minutes with a macchiato while housewives played slots in the back room and the barista picked up his girlfriend and twirled her around. There were lots of old men discussing things on chairs out on the sidewalk -- not at the cafe, just having brought chairs from home out to the sidewalk to discuss things all day.
Back on the road, I stopped at a supermarket to grab a snack, then headed on my way toward Trastevere, only to find that Rome was kind enough to place a small park full of playing children and park benches right next to the supermarket, providing a place for me to eat my snack and read a little. A Malaysian immigrant child was pushed on a swing by her mother; next to them, a 5-year-old Italian boy was loudly encouraging his heavily coated and hatted grandmother to push him higher. The energy of the children was great, and energized me for the long walk to Trastevere. It turned out to be about three miles, half of which was along a walled-in, one-way, no-sidewalk arterial road, which was a bit difficult to negotiate. But after being a pedestrian in Calcutta, I'm very hard to spook when it comes to cars nearly running me over, so it was actually sort of fun. Along the way, I saw this weird, cool doorway on one of the few houses along the road.
I spent a chunk of Tuesday at the Vatican. My first stop after entering the country was, of course, the Vatican post office. The woman in front of me in line was mailing two huge packages to El Salvador (how apropos) -- apparently the Vatican mail service is substantially more reliable than the Italian mail service. I just sent a couple of postcards -- one to tellumo, since he's a low-intensity postal geek, and one to myself ("Wish you were here!").
Saint Peter's Basilica was rather unphotographable and, sadly for you, dear reader, rather indescribable. Imagine the most beautiful church you've ever been inside, and then double everything, then double it again. Here are some pictures.
There were a few candles burning -- not many -- leaving just enough haze in the air to create those columns of light you see in the photos. Now imagine a church filled with hundreds or thousands of tallow candles, as St. Peter's would have been when it was built, filling the space with smoke. Imagine what the light columns would look like then -- what they were designed to look like. I suspect they looked a lot like God.
I climbed to the top of the dome, stopping first at the level just below the windows, near the text. For scale, keep in mind that those blue letters are actually about seven feet high. See?
Then I continued up to the cupola, along a seriously weird, fun stairway. It's built between the inner and outer shells of the dome, so the walls are curved up. Close to the top, the passage is about two feet wide, and the outermost point where your head is is further in than the innermost point of the stair tread, so you end up tilting tot he side and feeling a bit like John Cleese.
The view from the top is spectacular. It's the highest building in the area (by law), so you can see everything.
