Kristi Marie Wilcox

2006

Itinerary

Lisbon, Portugal

Madrid, Spain

Barcelona, Spain

Paris, France

Ghent, Belgium

Prague, Czech Republic

Vienna, Austria

Salzburg, Austria

Schorndorf, Germany

Venice, Italy

Lucerne, Switzerland

Florence, Italy

Riomaggiore on the Cinque Terre, Italy

Rome, Italy

6/15/07

Hi All!!

Jay, please forward on to the rest of the Ramsey family.

The Great Idea of Exploration,

It might be ironic, but fitting in this case, to begin my first missive of the Great Ideas Tour talking about a horrible idea--the horrible idea of Bureacracy. I've become entangled in a hate triangle between Orbitz, Continental, and United Air. At this point, my flight itinerary has been changed about 4 times, making us miss basically two days of our Great Ideas Tour. The red tape found me yesterday, whipping out my mediocre Spanish skills to talk to a maintenance worker at Chicago O'Hare to find the Continental counter because United wouldn't reroute our missed connection because we were a Continental customer, of course, according to Continental we were an Orbitz customer . . . and the beat marches on.

The first night of our GIT, Brett and I couldn't even look at each other--and no, we haven't gotten in a fight on our first day--we couldn't look at each other because we would crack up laughing. We would crack up laughing because instead of being on an international flight somewhere over the Atlantic heading to Lisbon, we were stretched on two double beds, avoiding the cheap motel coverlets with their questionable hygiene, eating Denny's take-out with plastic utensils, while watching some horrible reality TV show in the Red Roof Inn 45 minutes outside of Chicago . . . ain't that America. The situation was even funnier because we arrived at our glamorous motel via a stretch limo that usually rents out to the jet set for a whopping $200 per hour. The limo driver took pity on us after we were kicked out of the Hilton for sitting on the floor.

So, we are now, finally, in Lisbon, Portugal fully intent on avoiding all airports for a month and a half after disentangling ourselves from the web of bureacracy between Orbitz (never use!), United Airlines (never fly), and Continental (at least they were friendly). However, I believe we are staying true to that Great Idea of Exploration and the twists and turns, mistakes and missteps, and tangential wanderings inherent in exploring new territory. Still, a part of me wonders how Christopher Columbus, or Vasco DeGama, would have dealt with Air Traffic Control, automated answering services as part of "customer service", and luggage that had to be re-routed.

Nevertheless, we are off to the Belem district. Thanks for all of your prayers in getting us here!

Much love.

Kristi

6/16/07

The Great Idea of Exploration: Part Dos (Doysh)

*Our hostel has free high speed, so I'm probably not going to be able to write as much in other places, but for now you can have the whole run-down.

Today was devoted to exploring Lisbon's love affair with the idea of exploration. Without the city of Lisbon, the world never would have known the Age of Discovery--and America, as we know it, may never have been "discovered." Portugal basically pioneered what we think of as the prototypical "navigator," and her seafaring legacy is illustrated in no neighborhood, or bairo, better than in Belem.

Under grey skies and a constant drizzle we bought one day bus passes and navigated our way on a complex of busses, trams, and metros out to the region of Belem, home to many treasures. The rain drove us in to the shelter of Sao Jeronimos Monastery. The order of St. Jerome was devoted to serving the royal family and to hearing the confessions of the sailor and navigators who created the tradition of exploration. The monastery itself reflects both of these purposes with extravagant sepulchres devoted to the royal family and to two explorers--Vasco de Gama and Cacoes. The cloisters have 12, correlating to the twelve apostles, confessional booths where the clerfy would listen to the "many, many sins of the sailors" as our tour guide informed us (okay, so she wasn't our tour guide, but she was giving a tour inside the monastery in English and we "just happened" to be near her at each stop).

Our next step was the modern (circa 1960) Monument of the Discoveries--a 7 story tall masterwork with various figures of the Age of Discovery carved into its sides. Lisbon's streets are art works in and of themselves with the cobblestones forming intricate designs--nowhere is the design more magnificent than here where the streetscaqpe depicts a map of the world--a world that is meant to be seen and explored and discovered--if the Portuguese have anything to say about it.

We also visited the famous (or infamous) Tower of Belem. This was the last site sailors had of their homeland before they were whisked away by wind and storm into the vast and uncharted Atlantic Ocean. A fortification, a home to political prisoners of high rank, the tower served many purposes. It was constructed in the Manueline architectural style--an interesting meshing of Gothic and Renaissance styles that is both bold and beautiful--and uniquely Portuguese.

We enjoyed the warmth (and dryness) of a small pasteria that served chocolates and pastiches de Belem--small custard pastries that were invented in Belem by the monks in St. Jeronimos Monastery, a contemplative order forbidden to do manual labor. Believe me, it is worth a trip to Lisbon just for one of these.

We wrapped up our day back in the heart of Lisbon with a visit to the Castelo de Sao George, patron saint of Lisbon. This castle was built in the 5th century by the Visigoths. We also happened upon (like Columbus "happened upon" this little continent known as North America) a little antiques shop and bought one of Lisbon's famous ceramic tiles. Lisbon is the world's number one place to buy ceramics; unfortunately, the costs for making the tiles that cover Lisbon's streetscapes have become so prohibitive that they have ended the age of tile making. As the shop owner said to me, "Madame, it takes too meesh to make these tiles." Soon, the only place to discover these artfully crafted tiles will be in little antique shops like the one we stumbled upon.

Besides exploring new places, the Great Ideas Tour allows us to explore different customs--and one of my favorites is the slow meal. Brett and I, used to scarfing down Americana portions in a rough and tumble caffeinated culture, enjoyed a leisurely three hour meal recomplete with a bottle of wine, pizza, bread and butter, a meringue-y dessert known as a Molotoff, and 2 rounds of cafes served in cute demitasse cups like real Lisboans.

Sometimes exploration seems to be about moving through the world and sometimes about watching the world go by, from either vantage there is the risk and thrill of the uncharted territory (really, where are those tram maps?!) the exotic, and the new that is nothing if not magnetic--the same pull the great navigators of yesteryear must have felt as they were pulled from Lisbon's ports into the great unknown to return bearing foreign treasures (like the famed rhinocerous) and weird stories (ask us later about the solicitation) back home.

Bon dia,

Krisiti

6/20/07

Great Idea of Preservation

Hi all!

Our last day in Lisbon found us wandering about aimlessly, with too much time on our hands to not do anything and too little to go to Fatima. We finally settled on going to mass at a church we stumbled upon in Lisbon´s city center. Even though it was in Portuguese, we both agreed it was a highlight of Lisbon. We took our first sleeper train to Madrid. I was in a car with 2 women from Kahzikstan (I withheld all Borat comments) and 1 from Portugal. We found our hostel just off the bustling Puerta del Sol with relative ease.

We were ready to begin our short tour of Madrid and the exploration of the great idea of preservation. . .

Madrid: P is for Preservation

P is for Post Office: Self-Preservation

Our first transfer of many between Lisbon and Madrid was enough to ensure us that we had packed far, far too much. So, we did what we had to do--dumped all our stuff on a bed, argued about who got to keep what, what was necessary (guys, hairdryers ARE necessaryñ never, never argue this point), and filled one of our suitcases with a load of stuff to ship home. Procuring mapas from the desk clerk, we made our way to the Palacio de Communicaciones (yes, their post office is in a palace) where no one spoke English. While we had practiced the ´´pretend like you are ordering something in a restaurant´´ scenario, we had never practiced the ´´pretend like you overpacked and now your luggage is too heavy so you want a price quote on how much it will be to ship some of it home¨ scenario. Nevertheless, through my broken Spanish and (I should say) artful charades,, we managed to come away with what we needed and returned the following day to rid ourselves of the excess weight and ensure that the rest of our transfer didn´t kill us and annoy everyone else.

P is for Pablo Picasso

After getting turned around a time or two we found our way to the Museo del Reina Sofia, one of the museums in Madrid´s great trifecta of art museums. The museum, an old converted hospital, had carefully preserved the history of art in Spain, but still maintained the very clinical feel of a hospital. THe museums holdings were most concentrated with more modern artists like Joan Miro, Robert Mapplethorpe, etc. But the highlight, hands down, and the reason we went in the first place, was to see Pablo Picasso´s wall-sized painting, Guernica. The twisted figures and dull greys and dark blacks of the painting conveyed the sense of horror and abomination the people felt from the bombing of the little Basque town of Guernica at the hands of the Germans but at the bidding of the Spanish dictator Franco. Reportedly, when quesitoned by the Nazis about who was responsible for this work, Picasso tritely answered ´´you are´´. The painting hung safely in New York´s Metropolitan Museum until democracy was restored in Spain. We particularly enjoyed the exhibit, which, while including the main work, also displayed Picasso´´s preparatory sketches and photographs of the work in transition. The delineation of his creative process, also showed Picasso´´s genius in not only creating one of the world´s greatest works of art but of creating a cultural memory of the pain and devastation unleashed by war.

P is for Paella: Bodily Preservation

We enjoyed paella a marisco for our first dinner in Madrid. This delicious traditional Spanish fair of mixed rice, vegetables, crawfish (or crawdaddies as we down South like to call them) mussels, and clams. Accompanied by a caña of the house white which tasted like a pinot grigio to me, the meal was rounded out to perfection. We enjoyed the paella much better than our bocadillos mixtos we had the next day. Fabulously Spanish, these sandwiches comprised of cured ham and stinky cheese served on hardened baguettes were okay, but not surpass.

P is for Parque: Natural Preservation

The next morning found us on the efficient metro system headed out to the Parque del Buen Retiro or ¨nice retreat´. Several acres of beautiful woodland, groomed gardens, fountains, 2 lakes, and 2 palaces (one made completely of glass), were beatufully preserved in the heart of Madrid´s urban landscape by the kings and queens of Spain, who in another time used the park as a private, royal retreat.

P is for Palacio: Royal Preservation

We were all set to visit the opulent rooms of the Palacio Real when we noticed several blue signs saying ¨cerrado,´ or closed, and a few bewildered tour guides with their equally bewildered tourists in tow. Apparently the government had closed the palace that day for ófficial ceremonies´. Did they think they were like royalty or something? That this was a palace? So, perhaps p here better stands for pouty. We wandered through the Playa de Oriente with its statue garden full of statues meant for the roof of the palace but placed there after the queen´s nightmare of the roof collapsing.

P is for Prado: Artistic Preservation

The Prado, another museum in the great trifecta, was our Plan B after our disappointment at the palace. After being harassed in Spanish several times and Brett having to check our water bottle at the cloak room, we made it into the famed museum. The portraiture of the Prado were really our favorite pieces. I loved Velazquez´s Las Meninas and the Prado´s 1 Rembrandt, as well as all of the pieces by Goya who served many years as the royal portrait artist. We also were enchanted by the Rafael pieces. Rafael, reknowned today, distinguished himself in his own day by being credited with painting the most realistic portraits of any of his compeers. Apart from preserving some of Spain´s greatest artistic treasures, the Prado is still nurturing current artists. We loved seeing the art students with their easels set up next to the great masterworks, their Ipod earbuds in place, trying to copy the techniques of the masters to preserve a tradition of artistic excellence.

P is for Passes: Financial Preservation

A word to the wise--if you are ever in Madrid, spring for a 1, 2, 5 day Abono Transporte Turistica. This pass lets you ride any of the city´s metro or bus lines an unlimited amount of times. You can get everywhere you want to go without paying point to point tickets which cost a fortune!

P is for Postres: Okay, so there is no preservation here, just pure indulgence

On our last night in Madrid, we couldn´t quite hand with the Madrileños who party into la madruga (read 4 a.m.), but we did decide to dessert like true Madrileños. At a little corner cafe in the Plaza de Somewhere, we ordered chocolate con churros. Ladies, it is like they melt a Hershey´s bar and serve it to you with a spoon. You dip your cylindrical, horse-shoe shapedchurro pastries into the thick chocolate and enjoy. I would vot on brining this little tradition back to the States if I weren´t concerned with the preservation of my waistline.

Now we have taken a high speed train across the Castillian steppe to the ancient city of Barcelona. We had no luggage mishaps this time, save our little carry-on dislodging itself from the luggage rack and rolling down the aisle. I woke up to cries of ´´esta maleta roja´´ or red suitcase and had to chase after it. Our hostel here is a little sketchier than our one in Madrid, but situated very near Spain´s own Arc de Triomf. Once we get to Paris, we´ll have to tell you who has done it better.

With love,

Kristi

6/25/07

Hello dearies!

DISCLAIMER: as an English major, my grammar appals me; but alas, so it is with European keyboards

Barcelona--The Great Idea of Architecture: The Gumption of Gaudi

One man defines the streetscapes and skyline of the trendy Mediterranean city of Barcelona, Spain--the artist and architect Antoni Gaudi. After viewing the tenth store filled with Guqdi kitsch, Brett joked that he was the 'mickey mouse' of Barcelona. Barcelona is a laid back city with my kind of hours--breakfast is served until noon; things donùt really start moving until one; there is a midday siesta to prepare for the city's second wind which roles in around 9 p.m. The daylight hangs on until 10 at night when ,ost people are just heading out for dinner. Bret and i quickly adopted this habit. Natives start going out to the bars around 1 a.m. Managing to get sick during this leg of our journey, i couldnùt quite hang with the locals for those hours.

We found Barcelona to be an excellent vacation spot--a relaxed pace with wonderful food and phenomenal buildings that took you into another world. Brett and i both thought that Antoni Gaudi would have gotten along famously with Tim Burton. Walking the streets of Barcelona, exploring the architecture of the city is often like wandering through a dreamscape where there are no straight lines or expected forms. In fact, it seems almost as though Gaudi took to the maritime tradition of 'christening' buildings with bottles of champagne. The broken, glittering fragments of cava glass adorn all of his whimsical turrets and façades with splashes of color that are like the effervescent pleasure of a good toast.

So here's a toast to the gumption of Gaudi. He was such an innovator that his architecture professors reportedly wondered whether they were granting an architecture degree to a genius or a madman. Maybe he was a bit of both, but his influence on Barcelona is undeniable.

We arrived to Barcelona on a high speed train from Madrid. We wrestled our luggage through miles of metro and finally arrived at our pension--which left much to be desired, namely, the AC. Barcelona is hot in the summer, get a room with the air conditioning. We dumped our stuff and promptly headed out to La Rambla, Barcelona's main drag meaning 'a little stroll,'--a bustling street with a Carnivale at,osphere where musicians and hu,an statues vie for your attention and spare change, restaraunteers solitict your business at their establishement, and the leafy white oaks shelter you from the bold sunshine. We finally settled on a place and ordered up the menu del dia, a 3 course ,eal deal that served up the Catalunyan salad; seafood paella; and the famous Barcelona creme brulee, Catalunyan Creme or Crema Catalan ( doesn't beat Belem tarts though).

The next day we pounded the pavement (and we do mean pounded--we didn't set foot in a metro all day long) on the Gaudi trail--a nebulous journey to see his most famous masterpieces: We began on La Rambla where we fueled up with a relaxed breakfast at a sidewalk cafe ( Brett and I noz take our coffee like the English take their tea; it really is getting out of hand). then we made it to our first stop, Gaudi's Palau Guell only to find that it was closed for restortation work--thwarted again!

We decided to continue down La Rambla all the way to the sea where the Christopher Columbus monument is erected. We strummed along the boardwalk to take a different route back up towards the city center: In our trolling ze happned upon the Archives of the Kingdom of Aragon, some of Europe's oldest and best preserved archives: We saw documents written and signed by King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, by the chambermaids to some of the infantes and infantas, by medieval monks; by kings to the Knights Templar: It was one of those astonishing and serendipitous findings, and all I could think about was how much Dr. Ramsey would have loved it. He would have been right in his element. We next happened upon an antiques flea market full of cool treasures--none that we could afford, but cool nonetheless.

Finally we got back to Gaudi with Casa Batlo, but we'd missed the tour hours so we resolved to go back the next day. We marched on to Gaudi's La Pedrera, a building now owned by Caixa Catalunya bank. La Pedrera was Gaudi's final private project before dedicating the last 12 years of his life solely to La Sagrada Familia: This was our first chance to wander around inside one of Gaudi's ehtereal handiworks. It allowed us to see Gaudi's craftsmanship--concerned with beauty and always with functionality. His designs were ergonomical and eyepleasing as well. He thought roofs that ended abruptly in chimneys and antennae were "like one or tzo hairs on top of a bald woman's head." His designs provided for natural light and air circulation in every room. He built his structures in such a way that not all the interior walls were load bearing; so, the walls of individual apartments could be rearranged at will to suit that family's needs. Gaudi's architecture does not begin and end with mere edifices; he designed furniture; facades, stained glass windows, and even the floor tiles. The special tiles he designed for the child's playroom were used by the city of Barcelona to pave the grand Passage de Gracia in an homage to Gaudi.

We briefly repasted with some tapas--gambas al ajilo, I got some just because i learned how to say that in Spanish class. Then we walked the next distance to Gaudi's greatest and lifelong passion--The Temple of La Sagrada Familia, the sacred family--a legendary project of the people. Gaudi becama a fervent Catholic over the course of his lifetime. Brett and i are coming back again upon its completion: Part cathedral; part grotto, part sculpture garden; it is all mindblowing even in its unfinished state: I believe that it is a strong and fervent passion; an incredible and convincing vision that still carries on once the leader and master has passed on, and this is just what La Sagrada is. A fatal accident prematurely ended Gaudi's life; a fire in his studio during the Spanish Civil War destroyed a portion of his master plans; but the work still carries on according to his directions where they exist; and according to his spirit where they do not. Gaudi's version of the heavenly and holy is one burstingly alive with color and cava glass and animals and plant life and saints and angles and Christ and great art and lots of sunlight and swirling spires that look like icecrea, cones--I'm on board with that vision of heaven.

After consulting the trust Let's Go Guide, we walked all the way back down La Rambla to eat dinner at the local Les Quince Nits and finish our day in the Plaça Reial zhere Gaudi designed the lampposts. The restaurant doesn't even open its doors until 8:30 p.m. and we had to wait in a line tha extended into the square, but it was well worth the with and we were entertained by fire twirlers and a D.J. and the bustle of the people. We gogred ourselves on wine and patatas bravas and pasta and chicken followed up with a Catalunyan dessert and the now-ubiquitous cafes. It was the perfect end to a busy (dare i say, gaudy?) day.

The next day the strenuous pace we'd been keeping caught up with me. We overslept, catching up on some much needed sleep, then headed out for round two at Casa Batlo. Gaudi designed this space as a private residence for the Batlo family. The maritime motifs are present in every element from the wav y banisters, to the sea blue of the stained glass windows, to the whirlpool inspired ceiling.

Exhausted and sick we both welcomed lunch at a trendy Italian-style cafe called NoNo (I say it was a YesYes) that had designer pizza and smooth gelato. We just strolled about and got so,e extra rest during the remainder of the day; had some laundry done; read our books--I'm reading the world's first detective novel, Wilkie Collins' The Moonstone. We ventured out later on another Let's Go suggestion and dined at The Attic, where we ate perched on the terrace looking out on La Rambla and enjoyed the Barcelona specialty of cava where champagne isnùt saved for special occasions but carted out for generic Tuesdays and National Pirate's Day and casual brunch with your best friend. We continued our gourmet evening zith a coffee :0) at our hostel's cafe, got bored, decided to walk back to La Rambla for a beer, had said beer at one of the older establishments called La Cerveceria. I'm sure i'll miss the rambling evenings where all i have to do is wander around and figure out the next course.

The final day in Barcelona we were hunkering for some American food that came in American-siwed portions so we went to the Hard Rock Cafe on Plaça Catalunya. Instead of being on the beach on the Mediterranean coast, we found ourselves spending the day inside of the train station due to a train mishap. We took our first roll of the dice with the sleeperette option--superreclinable seats in lieu of beds--and ,ade it out to Paris alright and on the cheap.

Now we are in the City of Lights living it up, and there will be more to come on Sacred Space later.

Whether building an empire like Columbus or fantasmagorical edifices like Gaudi, the architecture of your own spaces or great ideas seems to be comprised of equal parts of the genius and the madman and always seems to require a serious dose of gumption.

Kristi

Paris: The Great Idea of Sacred Space

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times . . . just kidding. This is the tale of one city, the city of lights, Paris, France; and its sacred spaces. We arrived in Paris via an overnight from Barcelona. We stepped off the train into the brisk Paris morning and momentarily regretted sending our sweat shirts home. I later bought a very Euro pashmina to remedy the problem.

Paris, like Barcelona, isn't up at the crack of dawn, so we walked the streets until we saw a sign of life--some shopkeepers putting out cafe tables and promptly imposed ourselves as the first customers of the day. After a long; leisurely; expensive ( 3.5 euro for coffee? are you kidding me?) we started the trek up the steep staircases of Montmarte to reach the Basillica of Sacre Couer, Sacred Heart.

The vantage of the city from the steps of the church is one of the best in the city; but your first fez moments inside Sacre Couer, after your eyes adjust, are something even more magical. A huge mosaic of Christ and his sacred heart extends above the altar overhead. The flickering of hundreds of prayer candles along the side altars produces soft, ambient light. If you go to Sacre Couer as a tourist only (which we were mistaken for at first) you are marched around the central pezs along the sides of the churhc, down behind the altar and up the opposite side in one big circle that ends in a gift shop. We broke ranks and skipped into the rows of pews to wait for 11:00 a.m. mass to start. To experience Sacre Couer as a worshipper is the only way to truly experience Sacre Couer. The ,ass was long--it was a high ,ass co,plete with the bishop, 4 priests, a choir of habited nuns, and 4 catechumens who were getting confirmed (we think), so it lasted for an hour and 1/2. Even though the ,ass was in French and we could really only celebrate the liturgy of the Eucharist, Sacre Couer is such a powerful, sacred space that we did not find it hard to be prayerful the entire time.

After refreshing ourselves with hot showers (if you do not think of your bathroom as a sacred space, try sharing one for 3 days with a whole hostel and an entire Spanish family that speaks no English), we were ready to continue our traipsings and traipse we did to our next sacred space, the medieval cathedral of Notre Dame (sorry, no hunchback sitings).

Before I visited Paris the first time, one of my mentors, Mrs. Thomas, told me to go to Notre Dame and find the brass plate in the pavement in front. She said to stand on the plate and pray that I'll get to come back to Notre Dame. So, I drug my troop of girlfriends out to the front, found the plate, and prayed. Two years later I had gotten to come back, and youcan bet that I was standing right back on that plate again and praying some more. Due to limited time and a line that stretched across the front square, Brett and I declined to go inside Notre Dame and just snapped up some fantastic pictures of gargoyles, and made our way to the Musee Dorsay.

We were on a time crunch. The museum closed in exactly 2 hours and wasn't open the next day. We had to go straight there. And . . . Brett got the directions wrong. Not just wrong, but in-the-direct-opposite-way-of-right wrong. We had just wasted for 20 minutes. Repentant, Brett consented to us running back across town.

Breathless, we ,ade it to the Dorsay with an hour to spare. Cashless, we were praying they took cards. Helpless, we watched them close the ticket counters with only 2 people ahead of us in line. Then . . . they opened the doors and herded us past the ticket collectors and into the museum . . . for free! We had free reign for the last horu of operation of everything ecept the special exhibition space.

We headed straight for the Dorsay's most prized collection--the Impressionists. We saw works by Degas and Van Gogh and Renoir, all with tender, soft lines and muted pastel colors. The Impressionist pieces were not permitted into the sacred Louvre, and like pilgrims forced into exile, they form their ozn little colony here in the Dorsay and are well worth a visit. It's a whole new world.

After our exhausting outing and not eating all day, we settled in at a little Parisian creperie. You can eat crepes in Paris for any meal of the day and all snacks and all are delicious and that is my recommendation. I got a 10 Euro meal that came with a bowl of cider (and they did serve it in a literal bowl) that is the perfect companion to any crepe, a shrimp salad, a ham, cheese, and mushroom crepe for dinner, and a chocolate crepe for dessert. Scrumptious. Let's just say that there was no space, sacred or otherwise, left in my belly after that meal.

The next day found us at one of Dr. Ramsey's must-do's whilst in Paris--Sant Chappelle. It is well-worth the wait (ours was an hour) to see this space filled with colored sunlight filtering in through panels upon panels of stained glass windows dating from the 1300's. Two thirds of the windows are still the original glass that was crafted under King Louis' direction. He had the chapel built as a grand-scale reliquary th house his treasured relics and most priwed possessions--CHrist's crown of thorns, a portion of the true cross, and "reminders" of both the old and the new testaments. The entire story of sacred scripture is spelled out in the bold blues and reds. It is probably the world's most exquisite display of stained glass.

Our next venture was the Musee Cluny, the museum of the Moyen, or middle, Ages. Housed in an ancient churchgrounds, room after room of the Cluny unfolds precious artifacts dating from the 500's--1600's. There were many period pieces used to create sacred spaces, from ornate monstrances to transportable altars, from Jewish wedding ceremony rings, to crowns and intricate tapestries. My favorite parts were the medieval tapestries. The Cluny's most-prized holding is the 6 piece Lady and the Unicorn tapestry series. The first five panels feature the Lady and the Unicorn being tempted with 1 of the five senses. The final and grandest tapestry shows her throwing away a pearl necklace to listen to her sixth sense, "my soul's desire", the spiritual sense. Each piece is nearly wall-sized and I just can't imagine the patience and artistry that goes into stitching something that masterful by hand.

The rest of the day was full of wandering about the city . . .

--Somebody had put suds in St/ Michel's fountain and we got caught in a sudsstorm when the wind kicked up.

--I had a Nutella crepe (love those crepes!) (but really, you must try these kinds).

--I hit up the internet cafe and some gourmet hot chocolate from our hotel.

Our last morning in Paris was spent trying to get out, like so many Dauphines and Dauphinas had done, into the countryside to the grand palace of Versailles. Guess what? It was under construction and the line was stretched all the way across the expansive front courtyard nearly to the road. Brett and I opted instead to see the retreat from the retreat--Marie Antoinette's Le Petit Trianon Palace and her hameau, a quaint, quiet, countryside hamlet in the far end of Versailles' impressive gardens. It was intriguing to see where the French royalty would come when they neeeded their own personal space and solitude. If we'd had more time, it would have been a perfect place to picnic. Then we rented bicycles and whizzed around Versailles' gardens, the Grand Canal, the foothpaths and the fields, and the treelined walkways like we were kids again. You forget how freeing and how much fun it is to ride a bicycle! I even tried the no-hands trick ( and much to Brett's chagrain I did not bust my tail). After several big cities in a row, it was wonderful to be pedaling through gardens and trees and enjoying nature and God's sky, feeling alive and maybe even a little sacred.

Avois! (sp?)

Love

Kristi

p.s. We are love, love, loving Ghent, but more on that to come later

6/29/07

Ghent: The Great Idea of Folklore

Shh!!! Listen . . .

Ghent is full of confluence. To some, this may be mistaken as confusion. The greys of industrialization are interspersed with the prismatic flowers the horticulturalists are growing. The city is alive, yet no stores are open. Here, you'll hear Flemish, French, German, English spoken. Here, the 3 rivers get interwoven.

Ghent seems to be the red-headed stepsister to Brussels, Bruge, and Antwerp. She refuses to try on any glass slippers. She will find her own way sans a prince--thank you. That is her defiance. She is unhurried, self-reliant. The flowers overflow their boxes and drape down reaching for the rivers, like the nooses drape off the Stroppendraggers. The Ghent people--forced into public shame, clad in simple, loose shifts and nooses, paraded before their conquerers for that unrelenting, trouble-making defiance--took the symbol up like a royal mantle and strut about the streets now of their own accord. They will not be lorded over. They will drag their nooses and will walk straight and tall, their backs erect like Ghent's 3 straight, tall towers--St. Nicholas', St. Bavo's, and the Belfry that chimes the hours.

The clarion bells ring out clearly. Sweetly, the bell music fills the air with regular rhythms resounding above the Belfry's chamber of secrets. In this room the rights and privileges of those self-reliant people of Ghent spent years stored in trunks chained to the floor to be usurped by no one. Perched on the tower, four guardsmen kept careful watch like eagles, blowing trumpets to warn the people should any enemies dare, to breach the town and belfry tower, and the secrets which were kept in there. Atop the tower sat a weathervane in the form of a fearsome dragon--no rooster common, plain, would suit Ghent and its mythic distortion. Once one of the largest European cities, second only in proportion to the metropolis of Paris, Ghent grew up quickly and flourished--the center of the world of textiles.

~*~*~*~*

Belgium is a country of many folk traditions. The above stories float about Ghent like the boats float along the placid surfaces of the many canals. Victor Hugo called it "the Venice of the north." It is inherently walkable and walking is the best pace with which to soak in the beauty and charm of this little gem. It seems relatively undiscovered by tourists, so you are better able to blend in with the locals. Brett and I did just that with a day of shopping (we had to get some warmer clothing) and eating. The Flemish beef stew was nothing to sneeze at, but the waffles, oh, the waffles. Go up to a sidewalk stand and order a Liege-style waffle. You'll leggo of those Eggos right away. The sukrewafels are covered with a thin layer of crunchy, caramelized sugar and come with a variety of toppings, but eat them plain--I promise you'll never miss your Aunt Jemima.

And while we are talking about food . . .

Woman can't live on chocolate alone . . . but if she could, she'd have to live in Belgium. I visited a gourmet chocolatier's shop and admitted my ignorance (though not for want of years of trying). The amiable owner fixed me up a variety bag, and I've never had such wonderful chocolates in all my life. My favorites were the chocolate noir with the coffee cream filling.

The next day we visited St. Bavo's cathedral, which (just guess) was under construction, but we got to listen to an audioguide to its treasured polyptych while we carefully scrutinized the Van Eyck brothers' Adoration of the Mystic Lamb. Evoking iconography from the book of Revelations and innovations in perspective painting, the piece is wonderfully rich. We also explored the famed Belfry tower before going over to the folklore museum.

The Hospice of the Children Alijns has some lore all its own. It began with a feud between two houses that culminated in the murder of 2 of the Alijn family children. As part of their pardon, the murderers were required to build and finance this poor house. The museum bought and renovated the property to house the folk museum, which contains artifacts from the daily lives of the Belgian people through time, from funeral rites (they covered the mirrors to prevent dead relatives from coming back) to mourning wardrobes, from birthing gear (the forceps were popularized here) to leisure habits and school equipment like an abacus. After a warm dranken from the cafe on the courtyard, we made our way to the Castle of the Counts, Gravensteen, with its museum of torture instruments and collection of medieval weaponry. The damp of the castle just added to the chill that these 2 exhibits conjured, and I was happy to be back in the luxurious sunshine of the street headed out to a quick bite before leaving for our numerous connections to Praha, the city of a hundred spires.

Everything in Ghent seemed to have a story behind it--even our hotel, Poortackere, which was a converted monastery dating back to the 1200's situated at the edge of a port (poort) and a field (ackere). This sense of story in Ghent weaves a tapestry of folklore and tradition that saturates the city and gives it its strong character. When you are in Ghent, you know you are not just in Anywhere, Europe, but you are truly in some place, this place, and Ghent is not a place you'll readily forget.

We are now in Prague. More to come on the great idea of the artisan later.

Cheers,

Kristi

7/6/07

Halloo! Sorry i haven´t sent some emails in a while. We haven´t had internet. nevertheless. no more excuses. here begins some of the back emails. let´s pick up where we left off with Prague . . .

Prague-The Great Idea of the Artisan

´Prague is like a pearl of the earth for me, I feel happy here as if it was the last city on the earth where there would be a place for artists left. You can tell it from the way the city is full of art and not commerce, from the way the people treat art here. On the first day of my visit I noticed there was a poster for Don Giovanni on every corner, but not a single one for Star Wars.´´ --American film producer, R.J. Glickman

Prague feels like an artisan in temperament--an incredible richness and depth in her areas of masterz and a rather frank indifference to those subjects which are not. Take transportation for instance. Getting in, out, and around Prague was rather like a crap shoot most of the time. And if Brett´s and my luck with local transportation are any indication, you should keep us away from Vegas for a long while. But PRague´s lack of breadth, her aloofness, and inaccessibility are more than made up for bz the intense vibe of creativitz to be felt pulsing about the city-a true artisan´s city.

Brett and I lodged in Hostel U Melounu. My favorite part of this place was its hedg´-trimmed courtyard dotted with picnic tables where people gathered at all times to read, write, eat, converse, and exchange ideas. We grabebd some lunch at one of Prague´s top restaurants, U Sutere, a cavernous cellar that served up traditional Czech cuisine. Brett ordered the thick, rich goulash and hdleckny dumplings.

The Czech Republic is renowned for its glass artisans. I insisted on dragging Brett around to shop for a uniue piece of Cyech glassware for my new apartment in Ohio. How will we get it home? How much will it cost? Where are we going to find it? I ignored his protestations. I was a woman on a mission. THere are a zillion Czech glass and crystal shops aimed squarelz at tourists. With a little help from our guide book, we sought out a local store that guarantees its glass is created by artisans in the Czech Republic only. The quirky, modern Blue Praha has funky, innovative pieces designed to compliment a varietz of spaces--from vases to figurines, from candlesticks to large platters. I chose a middle-siyed centerpiece for my coffee table in a non-symmetrical design. THe artisan deftly swirled a cerulean blue and a se-green where the color gets deeper and deeper toward the center of the dish.

After this little excursion, I had worn Brett out and we returend to the hostel to rest and do laundry and use the internet and get showers.

The next daz we met up with Prague´s artistrz in a varietz of places. Our first walk took us to the Fred and Ginger dancing building, an architectural wonder designed to artfully evoke a couple dancing. We then sauntered along Charles Bridge. Here zou could find artisans of every stripe and skill level playing their trade and their wares--jewelery designers, painters, caricature artists, puppeteers with their maroionettes, jazz musicians, etc.

Across the bridge, we made our way to the Church of Our Lady Victorious. It is inside this churhc, tucked awz in the heart of Prague, where the Infant Jesus of Prague, or the Prague Bambino, stands. Numerous miracles have been attriubted to it and in front there is a kneeler with a prayer book that has the prayer and petition in manz languages. A group of devoted women artisans craft elaborate cloaks for the statue. We visited the museum where some of the many delicate and detailed garments are kept.

After lunch we wandered up to the Jewish quarter and took up residence for awhile at the Franz Kafka cafe. This Prague artist is widelz celebrated in the citz with a museum and an exhibition of his literarz career, but we just enjoyed the city as a writer might, as Kafka probably once did--stretched out at a sidewalk cafe, sipping coffees, reading books, observing life, getting lost in thought.

We ended our respite in time enough to find the National Marionette Theater in part of the library complex. This art deco theater was built in the 20´s in an effort to revive the old legacy of marionette artistry in the Czech Republic. Some of the first to arrive, we settled ourselves in front row seats and waited for the crushed velvet curtain to rise for the famed production of Mozart´s ópera of operas´, Don Giovanni.

The masterful puppetteers brought the opera about this philandering ladies´man who is ultimately pulled down into the depths of hell for his sins to vivid life in a style that crossed language barriers. The marionnette´s sharp, stiff movements exaggerated and elvated the story, giving it comic overtones. The Spanish costuming and careful crafting of the puppes themselves were an art quite marvelous. I enjoyed being on the front row as well because we had a good view of the puppetteers hands reaching over the set to ply the puppets into their motions. The players would pass puppets back and forth seamlessly--playing Don Giovanni in one breath, playing the hapless peasant girl he has his sights on in the next. Having never seen a marionette performance, I found it fascinating how the puppetteers far from trying to keep themselves out of the show, as though the puppetts all moved of their own accord, actuallz integrated themselves into the show--offering a hand for Mozart to kiss, dropping their hands down across the set when their character died, conspicuously checking their watch when the final aria moralizing about Don Giovanni´s fate drug on for too long. This show was the highlight of Prague.

We wrapped up the evening with a visit to a neighborhood favorite dive--Bandito´s.

Prague was probably the most different city we have been to thus far. Even its former execution method of choice was different--defenestration, or hurling the accused out of windows. Todaz (hopefully) the only thing being chunked out of windows are first drafts of woul´-be masterpieces as Prague´s artisans work away creating new beautiful things with which to clutter the sparkling shop windows.

We had a relaxing morning in the courtyard of our hostel, then hopped a 5 hour train to see John in Vienna.

More to come on Vienna and the great idea of empire during our next net session.

Much love!!

Kristi

7/8/07

Guttentag!

Vienna-The Great Idea of Empire

We felt it an appropriate start to the Great Idea of Empire to be picked up from the train station in a convertible Jaguar, driven to what would be our personal apartment for our stay, then driven out ot John´s home in the countryside for dinner on the terrace. I felt like an Empress anyway. John introduced us to some great Viennese beer and mayonaisse, and we spent a lovely evening in the company of him and the impressive Mango, John´s colorful parrot.

On our first full day in Vienna, we lunched at Smutny´s and enjoyed traditional Austrian fare that we couldn´t pronounce and that stained our faces with its delicious sauces. Then we trekked out to Schonbrun Palac´--the summer home of the Hapsburg monarchy. It was delightful to see whe re Marie ANtoinette spent the summers of her childhood in juxtaposition to seeing Versailles in Paris where she spent her adulthood. The palaces are strikingly similar in several ways. ALthough Versailles is more opulent, both palaces are constructed with the same yellow colored stone and boast magnificent gardens in which you truly could while the day away. The emperor typically moved court to Schonbrun sometime after Easter qand spent the entire summer there.

Schonbrun Palace was an exqample of the power and prestige Vienna once saw. As John told us--Vienna was set up to rule an empire of 60 million people, and today it is the capital of a country of 6 million. You would think Vienna would be ´too big for its britches,´ that its empirical nature would tug and stretch at its more modest, modern-day seams, but it is a city that retains its sense of majesty and models its restraint in the same breath.

After we returned to the city center inside ´the ring´, we went to cafe Sacher to emjoy one of Vienna´s culinarz inventions--the Sachertorte. The cafe had an upscale and elegant atmosphere--the cake left a little to be desired. (Those Belem tarts haven´t met their match yet). Afterwards, we wandered around getting the feel of óur´new neighborhood. We visited St. Pieterskirsche. The rain drove us into St. Stephen´s cathedral with its particolored tile roof. We grocery shopped at Spar. Later on we hit VIenna´s streets once more to have dinner at VIenna´s open-air film festival at the Rathaus, or citz hall--yes, that is its name however ironic (or appropriate, as John says). We ate Chinese food while watching an Italian opera film with the speaking parts spoken in German, sitting at a cafe table in front of one of Vienna, Austria´s churches. It was one of those Uber European moments, and I imagine the blend of cultures and peoples are something the Hapsburg Empire was used to with an empire that stretched from Bohemia to Tyrol to Venice and on and on.

My favorite day in Vienna started with a trip out to the Spanish RIding School at the Hofsburg Palace to see a showing of the Lippizaner stallions. ALthoguht it was more of a practice than a formal exhibition, it was fascinating to see this Imperial breed of horses. We got to watch two carriage exhibitions--one with ´´emperor Franz Josef´and his ´wife´.´But mz facorite part was seeing the babies, who are born a dark chocolate brown that fades into grey in adolescence and finally into the characteristic chalky white of the adult pure-breeds. They really were majestic creatures especially when running an an open gallop.

We decided to catch a guided tour (in English!) of the Hofsburg Palace, the seat of the Hapsburg government. We first toured the Sisi Museum dedicated to Franz Josef´s wife, EMpress Elizabeth. SHe led a rather melancholy life, feeling constrained and imprisoned by the strictures of Imperial life, and eventually was assasinated in Geneva by an anarchist. We saw the file that he impaled her with--gruesome.

Next we saw the Imperial Apartments. Thez were designed in very similar fashion to the palace at Schonbrun with white lacquered walls and gold leaf wainscotting, which surprised me because I thought the point of a summer retreat was to have a bit of variety. Those royals. We learned that the Emperor was a modest man. He slept in a simple iron frame twin bed, as did his wife, and he declined having a modern bathroom installed for himself. He took his job as emperor quite seriously, accepting general audiences twice a week from high nobilitz in their black coats to poor rural people clad in their regional costume. His most-used room was the Imperial office where he would stay at his desk reading his papers until 4 a.m. sometimes. We did learn of one pieces of extravagance in this otherwise prudent ruler--the Imperial family would eat 10-19 course dinners (and do so in 45 minutes). Apparently when the emperor layed down his knife and fork the course was officially over.

The Hapsburgs are one of the great examples of empire in history. In fact, Franz Josef´s grandfathter was the last emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. (Maybe empire is genetic?) After such an Imperial morning, we had more of a relaxed afternoon eating ice cream at JOhn´s favorite place and visiting the Jesuit church. Filled with rose and green colored marble, the churhc is stunning and inviting in a way that the cold plvain white of other marble is just not. The columns spiral up in a corkscrew pattern instead of standing perfectly erect--rather like the way most of us find God--going round and round in ever higher circles instead of strictly straight up. The whole place was rather fanciful and awe-inspiring.

At the close of the day, we were able to meet up with John again, and Susanna, and her son Christian. We ate at the very chic Do & CO on the top floor of one of the edgy, modern buildings on the Stephensplatz in the very middle of the city. Over a sumptuous meal, we chatted about many things, including Alabama football and possible strategies for building up the Ramsey Empire (we´ve been upgraded).

It was hard to say goodbye to such a lovely setting and lovelier company, but 11:30 rolled around and demanded we part ways.

On our final day in Vienna, we went to a couple of stores on our last jaunt through the lively pedestrian thoroughfares and met up with JOhn who took us out to one of the newest additions to his own little empire o´fitness. He insists that émpire´is an exaggeration, but we saw him pour the same attention to detail and personality into the newest project that Franz Josef must have poured into his. We left John to his club and took a blustery stroll to the Belvedere Palace which was filled with rooms of older art witlh a modern art installation superimposed in, on, and around them in just the way empire seems to grow and thrive--taking the new elements and integrating them with the old, valuing, respecting both on their own terms.

We bade farewell to John and Vienna and Empire and began the transition to Salzburg and the Great Idea of Music.

More to come on climbing hills, feeling alive, and listening to the sound of Mozart´s music later.

Much love,

Kristi

7/9/07

Salzburg--The Great Idea of Music

The Hill family were traveling through the countryside when their car broke down. Mr. Hill hiked up a mountain to the castle of a count. Nice Mr. Dracula allowed the family to stay overnight, promising he´d help them get on their way in the morning. Well, when the Hills all went to sleep, Count Dracula sucked out all their blood leaving them dead as doornails. After his feeding frenzy, Count Dracula had a surplus of energy, so he sat down at his organ and began playing furiously. When who should appear? THe Hills! One by one the Hill family entered the bewildered Count Dracula´s music room. ´´ I thought you were all dead!´ exclaimed Dracula. ´´Ah, yes,´ Mr. Hill replied, ´but you see, the Hills are alive . . . with the sound of music.´

--Joke told to us by our corny, but krather rioutous tour guide on The Sound of Music Tour

Our stay in Salybur was brief, but enchanting, effervescenft but incredibly memorable--just like a good song. We got into Salzburg in the late afternoon after bidding John goodbye in Vienna. After hiking up a mountain, yes a real mountain, to reach our guesthouse, Haus Christine, we were tired, but stunned with the view of the Austrian Alps. OWing to some unusual summer weather in Salzburg, they were even snowcapped.

The view itself is reason enough to stay at Haus Christine, but if zou are looking for a convenient, zip in, zip out, locale, this is not it. We hik ed down the mountain and into the village for dinner, ending up at Jagerwirt, a traditional (and reasonably priced!) restaurant with traditional Austrian fare. We had fried mushrooms with herbed mayonaise--theh Austrians would probably scoff at Hellman´s or Blue Plate and for good reason. A gew beers, some bratwurst, sauerkraut, and goulash finished up the meal andd we hiked backt up the mountain, in the rain to retire (but we worked off those calories!)

Early the next morning we breakfasted in Haus Christine´s glassed-in morning room, sipping our coffee with the mountains in the background. Then we headed out for The Sound of Music Tour. We visitend the Mirabell Gardens--patting the gnome on the head, frolicking on the Do Re Mi steps, skipping through the ivy covered walkway. We saw from a distance the palace used as the front of the Von Trapp villa and the lane where the children hung out of the trees in their curtain clothes to greet their father, the baroness, and Uncle Max. We saw Mt. Untersberg and the Nunberg Abbey where Maria was a novice. We also saw the glass gazebo where Liesel and Rolph danced. Zou can no longer skip along the benches as they idd because an 80 year old lady tried it and fell and broke her hip. We ended our trip with a visit to the village of Mondsee and the basillica where they filmed Maria and Captain Von Trapp´s wedding. Owing to unusually rainy weather, we couldn´t see as much of the mountains and lakes that define Salzburg´s ruggedly beautiful countryside, but we got along well anyway. Our tour guide, who refused to listen to our comments to the contrary, insisted ´´the honeymoon couple´´ take one of his umbrellas when it got really rainy in Mondsee. We then got to sing along to the Rogers and Hammerstein classics in the bus.

DUring the afternoon, we tried to get tickets for a tour to Hitler´s mountaintop hideaway, the Eagle´s Nest, but due to some miscommunication we ended up with tickets to Salzburg´s famous salt mines instead. Salz- (salt) -burg (castle or fortress) owes most of its wealth and early prominence to the salt tradae when a pound of salt was just as valuable as a hpound of gold. (Gives new meaning to being ´the salt of the earth´ doesn´t it?) Salt was so valuable that its linguistic traces are still present in the modern day sal-ary.

It just so happened that multiple tours ended up on the same bus, so we had to watch the 13 people who had managed to successfully get Eagle´s Nest tickets get offt the bus (it was, well, like rubbing salt in an open wound) before being dropped off at the newly renovated Salt Mines. Instead of donning our jackets and being conveyed towards the top of the world, we were donning miner´s coveralls and sitting on a miner´s train being conveyed into the annals of the earth. I thought it was fun! We got to slide down the wooden mine chutes, like real miners. They took a picture of our faces on the first drop which is priceless. We learned all about the formation and mining of this ´white gold´ in interactive displays. (I learned what is a lethal dose of salt for an average human adult). Then we got to ride a raft across an underground lake. I felt like I was in the middle of Journey to the Center of the Earth. We also got to taste thebrine--a saline solution of 27% saturation. I think it is a ploy to seel more bottled waters in the gift shop.

We rushed up and back down the mountain to grab our tickets and make it to St. Peter´s, home of the oldest restaurant in central Europe with its first documentation reaching back into the 800´s with Charlemagne´s visit. There we ate in a ballroom with a table-full of other tourists speckled in candlelight. The dinner concert came with musical expositions of pieces from Mozart´s finest operas--Don Giovanni, The Magic Flute, and The Marriage of Figaro--in between courses. The musicians were dressed in period costumes and played period instruments while we ate food prepared with recipes from the 18th century, food Mozart himself would have eaten. All in all it was a very authentic experience and a wonderful way to pass our last evening in Salzburg concentrating on the great idea of music. Brett and I agreed that opera really is the best instance for noticing the instrumentality of the human voice. The power with which they sang, and scaled trills, and skipped across octaves was a wonder to hear.

Salzburg is truly a city alive with the sound of music, in more ways than one. We had allotted enough time to really only do The Sound of Music tour, but Salzburg´s musicality is played out in many other ways. It definitely is a place we´d like to revisit, and no one on their Great Ideas Tour should miss it. After all, it is only 3 hours from Vienna.

The sun has gone to bed and so must I. I flit. I float. I fleetly flee. I fly. Goodbye!!

So long, farewell, auvois aufvetersang (sp?),

Kristi

7/15/07

Schorndorf--The Great Idea of Authenticity

So we're going from one end of the spectrum, from the farcical, the fantastical, the un-reality of Fairy Tales to an entirely different great idea--that of authenticity with its tangible, touchable, real reality. Why this sudden change of heart? Well, once upon a time, in a land far, far away two young travelers found themselves in a small town in southwestern Germany. Due to some miscalculations of travel time (9 hours total) visiting the fairy tale castle of Neuchwanstein became an imposibilty. So instead of getting mixed up in mischief and make believe, we had an entirely different experience than we expected in Schorndorf, Germany. This sort of messiness separates our stories from the pristine cookie cutter structure of fairy tales. We ride off into the sunset; we get sunburned. We ride off on a white horse; we endure chaffing. We may not live happily ever after, but we are moved by turns.

What we discovered in Schorndorf, Germany was not just the quaintness of a fairy tale town with its timber and plaster shops and its castle, but a real place, with everyday people, leading real lives. In a word, it was authentic.

Schorndorf, Germany and Tuscaloosa are sister cities. They frequently have delegates that do all sorts of exchanges between the two places--political, economic, cultural and academic. We stayed with the Sister Cities Coordinator for Tuscaloosa in Schorndorf, Mrs. Heidrun Bacher. Heidi loves the program because it fosters exchange on a private and not just a public level. Guests stay in private homes and get a glimpse of real life in another place. They have many opportunities to discuss the differences (and similarities) between the two places with their host families, gain new ideas and new respect. They get to have an experience of a place as is, and not as it has been idealized, or denigrated, by common rhetoric.

We arrived late in the afternoon. After time enough to shoot off an email or two, we were picked up by Mr. Ralph Beck, one of the Bachers' friends and colleagues because the Bachers were returning from a trip of their own. The Becks took us into their home for dinner and game night with their circle of friends. We were granted the side of a city you never see as a tourist--the private life of locals. What people do when the shops are closed down, the cafe awnings pulled up, when the cameras have stopped flashing. We enjoyed dinner, then they taught us how to play 6 Nimmites, a card game. Even though we were just learning the ropes and they played no practice rounds, and they kept feeding us glasses of wine, Brett and I beat them at their own game, taking first and second place. You gotta be in it to win it, baby.

Brett commented that if you turn the sound off--the foreign language playing upon our ears, it was a scene zo^'d find anywhere--friends laughing when someone got stuck with a bad card, reminiscing about memories, enjoying a meal. The American team :) then retired to our guest apartment above the bookshop on the Marketplatz.

The next morning Mrs. Heidrun Bacher met us for a breakfast of cold cuts and cheeses, croissants and coffee, then took us on a walking tour of the old town of Schorndorf, which was originally built as a buffer and protector city for Stuttgart. We saw houses built into the old town wall and fortifications and the castle (whose cellars are now used to store the government's wine). We saw Gottlieb Daimler's home, as well as a mosaic depicting the famous women of Schorndorf, women famous because they fended off invaders from raizing their town.

Afterwords, Brett and I were left to wander around Schorndorf's expansive flea market filled with trinkets (Brett thought) and treasures (I thought). After twirling around all of the tables, we repasted with some authentic German frankfurters and some Radler beer, a half beer, half lemonade concoction that Bret deemed 'the original cheerleader beer'.

In the afternoon, Mr. Lothar Backer took us outside of Schorndorf to the little town of Ludwigsburg where there is a large palace built for King Ludwig and several smaller palaces constructed for his several mistresses. We strolled about the fairy tale gardens which were teeming with young girls vying for a turn on the Cinderella throne and young boys rough-housing on the stone dragon. Instead of delving into a tour with a tour guide, a tour with an audio guide, or a self-guided tour, we went on no tour at all. We just blended into the mix having coffee and Blackforest cake at the palace cafe, letting the palace simply fold into the scenery. This sort of living-in instead of staring-at experience dominated our time in Schorndorf.

Upon our return we dined at Daimler's old workshop-turned-Italian restaurant with the Bachers, sipping carafes of sweet white wine against hte intense lavender of the flowers blooming in starburst patterns behind our heads.

We went to the neighboring village of Schwabensmunt after dinner to look around when we happened upon a concert in the main cathedral. We crawled quietly into pews and waited in the stark blackness until a spotlight centered upon 4 performers with only a solo drum and their 4 voices as they performed songs from the 13th century. Once they had exited, juxtaposed against this historical showcasing, a pianist and flautist entered to play originally-composed modern music that was accentuated with a stunning light show. The green, blue, yellow light flowed boldly up the grand stone columns of the cathedral, bleeding into the fan vaulted ceiling, cutting into the pitck black with only music and light. It was fantastic.

Our next full day in Schorndorf found us trekking out again with Mr. Lothar back to Schwabensmunt for mass. Schwabensmunt at one point in time had 13 active monasteries. That day, we experienced mass in German, but could still participate in the structure of the mass. After mass, Mr. Lothar, who had somewhat adopted us, took us to the next village of Schwabenshall for the day where we visited the Comberg, a hodge-podge of architectural styles that made up a churhc, fortress, school. We enjoyed a brunch inside the fortress walls of traditional Schwabian soup--a clear broth with stuffed dumplings--mmmm, Guttenappetite. We then took a tour in German of the magnificent church with its gilt corners and altar and 1 of only 3 crown chandeliers in Germany. The candles in the chandelier are still lit 3 times a year on Christmas, New Year's and Easter.

We ventured down into town to find a quiet place to sit and take cake and coffee. Germans typically take a break around 3:45 in the afternoon for cake (and it didn't hurt that Mr. Lothar had a major sweet tooth . . . we got along famously).

When we returned to Schorndorf it was time to pick Mrs. Heidi up and head off to an authentic German beer hall--the Kesselhaus--that makes its own brews in house. The traditional Schwabian delicacies, of course, had to be followed by dessert, so we went to Mr. Lothar's favorite ice cream shop where he got his 'special combination' of lemon and straciatella.

On our last morning, Mrs. Heidi took us to meet the Lord Mayor of Schorndorf who graciously sat down with us for about 15 minutes to engage in some real conversation. A young, energetic guy, he spoke with us about Tuscaloosa, the University, and the Ramsey with sincere interest. Brett and I bummed around town alone some to let the Bachers get some work down in their bookstore before meeting them for lunch at their favorite Thai place where the waitress already knew what they would order.

Mr. Lothar then took us to the train station and waited with us on the platform until our train came. He helped put our bags on the train, hugged us, then waited until it chugged away. Brett and I both got lumps in our throats as we waved out the window to Mr. Lothar who had pulled out his handkerchief and was waving and waving until he could see us no more. Hanky goodbyes are the saddest goodbyes.

To think that in three days, we could have built up a relationship that leaves you with such an emotional goodbye touched us both and was one of the most authentic experiences of our whole trip.

Love,

Kristi

7/15/07

Venice--The Great Idea of Secrecy

In the book, The City of Fallen Angels, written about Venice, one finds out that you can never believe anything a Venetian tells you--including that statement (if said by a Venetian). Venetians have had a long love affair with secrecy. Our tour guide at the Palazzo Ducale stopped a young boy from snapping her photograph, 'In Italy, photos are private. You didn't ask me, so you can't take my picture,' she said rather curtly. Intricate and ornate masks fill workshops and kiosks. Venetians were permitted to wear masks for many weeks leading up to both Christmas and Lent, so people could go masked for the better part of the year, and did so. With your identity kept secret one could pursue private vices or mischief with impunity. The labyrinthine alleyways, canals, and twisting passages that comprise Venice's city center are the perfect backdrop for secret interaction.

The Venetian Republic was an oddity--a powerful, well positioned, thriving republic in a time when kingdoms were the norm. In order to maintain their political stability as well as internal order, the Venetians turned to secrecy. The Republic was ruled by a Doge, or President, who served for life. In his residence, the Doge's Palace, we went on the Secret Itineraries Tour because it was here that all of the official secrets of the republic were kept. Babies baptized in Venice were written into a golden book (nobility) or a Silver book (commoners). The most important job in the Republic apart from that of the Doge was that of the Grand Chancellor who was the only other official appointed for life, but chosen from the silver book. The Chancellor was in charge of all the Republic's secret documents--commercial negotiations and transactions, and war and peace documents. This person was paid a handsome salary (today's equivalent of 600,00 euros) to make sure these secrets never left the Republic and compromised Venice's position.

Just as the political life churned on secrecy, so did the justice system. We saw the stone faces on the Doge's Palace that served as drop boxes for secret accusations. Anyone could drop a letter through the mouth denouncing someone for a crime. The feared Council of Ten and Council of Three handed down sentences swiftly after hearings conducted in secret. We saw the secret torture chamber where the judges elicited confessions using the strappato. These judges only worked at night under the cover of darkness. Then we saw the prisons and walked over the Bridge of Sighs, so called because as prisoners walked over it from the Palace to the prisons they took one last look at the azure waters of the lagoon and their last breath of freedom. We also saw the cell where the Palace's most famous prisoner was kept--Giacommo Cassanova. He was a real person (denounced in secret by jealous husbands). He and a fellow prisoner who was a priest and his accomplice were the only prisoners who ever escaped the Doge's Palace prisons. The daring escape involved files of iron, blackmail, a giant Bible, and some pasta. When Venetian officials caught up with him years later in Paris, they employed him as a secret spy. Hey, if you can't beat 'em, employ 'em. Cassanova later wrote his own memoirs. We bought a copy in Venice.

Young girls at slumber parties often play secret. A secret whispers gets passed around from one person to the next growing more skewed until it comes to the other end utterly changed. Venice is much like this childhood favorite. You start off on one street, it changes names without warning, dead ends in a canal, twists off onto a playa, remains unlabeled until you come out the other end of your intended trail in a completely different place than your goal. Venice is a terrible city to grow old in, a terrible place to try and bring kids who still require strollers, a terrible place to try to navigate on crutches--it is a wonderful city to get lost in--and you will, and you should enjoy it. Like anyone with a good secret, the city sometimes keeps you at a distance, sometimes takes you into her confidence, and always keeps you in a little cloud of mystery and suspense--exciting and unbearable by turns.

If you want a secret on visiting, get off the beaten path--just a tiny bit. The paths between the Rialto bridge, San Marco Square, and the train station are incessantly marched by armies of tourists armed with their 6 megapixel cameras hung off their necks like precious pendants, their fanny packs, and their bottled water litter desperately trying to keep up with a tour guide holding a particolored umbrella while simultaneously trying to shoot pictures of the pigeons. And let's face it, you're a tourist , too, but take a 20 minute walk across the Accademia and on the less trodden boardwalk. The kiosks pedaling gondoliers' striped shirts and the straw hats that say 'Veneyia? disappear, the herds of tourists disappear, the noise and bustle disappear, and you are left to a lovely 5 course meal (the menu della casa) in the swirling, salty sea breeye, watching the boats come in and out and listening to the soft waves lap at the algae covered banks.

Or slip into a gondola that is hidden away in a little secret side canal instead of on the Grand Canal or off San Marco's >Square. You'll experience a gondola ride the way Venetian residents of old did, and for a cheaper price.

Venice is also a city to shop in. Filled from canal to ceiling with beautiful Murano glass works, Burano laces, Italian leather goods, traditional Venetian Carnavale masks, and much, much more, it can seriously do damage to a pocketbook. Good luck keeping those receipts a secret.

Cheers,

Kristi

7/20/07

Lucerne, Switzerland--The Great Idea of Peace

Switzerland is a country known, if not for its peace, at least for its neutrality during war. To look around the lanscape of Switzerland it is hard to imagine how anyone could feel anything but peaceful when surrounded by such sheer, crisp beauty. Lucerne is an interesting mesh of old and new, the old covered brige and medieval tower stand in juxtaposition to the thoroughly modern thoroughfares lined with high-end stores. While life whizzes by at the uber-punctual Swiss pace, the transparent blues of the expansive Laske Lucerne create an oasis of peace. Surrounded by towering Mount Pilatus and the snow-capped Alps in the distance, Lake Lucerne is nothing if not breathtaking.

My favorite thing we did in the very outdoor-loving and active country of Switzerland was to rent bicycles from the train station. Once we had navigated the streets---those busses whiz by inches from your bike--we began pedaling around the perimeter of Lake Lucerne. Soon the precarious bicycle lane of the highway faded into tree-covered bike paths alongside the water. We pedaled aroundo the flora and fauna, paused to dip my feet in, pedaled to a different peer, paused to eat ice cream in the green grass while we watched the children swimming and the sailboats gliding over the waters.

After sampling some of the trademark Swiss cheese and chocolate fondue (one guess as to which was my favorite= we turned in so we could begin the grand Golden Loop early the next morning.

The Golden Loop begins with a steamer ride across Lake Lucerne. We grabbed up a wicker love seat on the stern and watched the swans duck and bathe and glide along, watched the mountains grow larger, watched the Swiss glas wave in the winde the boatcreated. The second leg ofthe Golden Loop is a trip aboard the world's steepest cogwheel train to the top of Mt. Pilatus. An engineering feat, the train uses a herringbone locking mechanism to propel the train cars up the mountain sometimes at an incline of 48 degrees.

On top of Mt. Pilatus was an other-worldly experience. We wathced paragliders jump off the mountil and go gliding off into the horizon line. We hiked to the second tallest point on Mt. Pilatus--Esel. From this vantage, you can see out over 6 lakes, the Swiss Alps, the Black Forest, and most of Switzerland. Our pictures, unfortunately, do not do it justice.

After hiking down, we took an air gondola down the mountain a ways to Frakmantug where we ate a light lunch on top of the world before we headed to the summer tobaggan run. Switzerland's longest summer tobaggan run find you careening down a metal half-pipe perched on a small sled trying not to fall down the mountain. It was exhilirating. The bst part is you don't have to cart your heavy sled back up the mountain. Instead they hook it (with you still on it) to a cable that conveys you back up the height of the tobaggan run to the starting point. On the way up you are left to the peaceful quiet of the mountainside, the tinkle of the Alpine cow bells as herds graze by, and the splendor of the peaceful view. A cable car then takes you all the way down the mountain where you catch a bus back to Lucerne, thereby brining the Golden Loop full circle.

That evening we sauntered down to the lake to enjoy a lovely meal and a walk around the Lake once night had fallen. The play of starlight and lamplight on the glassy surface of thewater created an ambience of peace and feeling right with the world.

On our final day, we went to Mass at the local church then returned to commune one last time with Lake Lucerne. We renteda paddle boat and went efficiently spinning out onto the crystalline lake. After a leisurely lunch and purchasing the requisite Swiss chocolates, we were off to Munich to catch our overnight back to Italia.

Everything is clean, sharp, even pristine, in Switzerland--the streets, the parks, the bathrooms, the hotels, the landscape. And if indeed cleanliness is next to godliness and God brings peace, then Switzerland is one of the most peaceful countries on earth. If, though, financial concerns disturb your peace of mind, don't come to Switzerland. Besides the exorbitant amount of Swiss Franks you have to pay (they are not on the Euro) for everything, you must have correct change for every public service--busses, bathrooms, telephones, because you don't get change back. The surplus goes to those mysterious Swiss banks?

Lucerne, while note in the heart of the trademark, Alpine Jungfrau region, does afford a splendidly peaceful stay beside the placid waters of Lake Lucerne and the commanding vista of Mt. Pilatus.

Kristi Wilcox

7/21/07

Florence, Italy--The Great Idea of the Renaissance

We arrived into Firenze in the morning and decided to check into our hostel, which according to the website was '25 minutes outside of Florence'. It was an hour . . . to the Figline-Valdarno train station where our campground was so far away it required catching the one evening shuttle or calling a taxi. We called a taxi. Hot, tired, and thoroughly annoyed with the situation and each other, our outlooks were completely reborn on seeing Village Girasole--a resortlike complex complete with 5 swimming pools, a bar, 3 restaurants, a market, a gelateria, mini golf, you name it. You really never have to leave, and we decided not to for the day.

We enjoyed lunch under a grape arbor and a drink in the bar before depositing our stuff in our cabin. Our nascent childlike sense of wonder resurfaced as we laid out under the Tuscan sunlight, splashed down the slide, clung to the innertube and rocketed down the water ride, and played water tennis in the lagoon.

After thoroughly exhausting ourselves, we went to the free wine tasting and sampled some local varieties. The most interesting was a sparkling red called Marzemino that is swerved cold as an after dinner drink. Then we had a nice dinner on the panoramic terrace, set out over the hills of Tuscany.

AFter many weks of non-stop travel, hurried transfers, long lines, we felt like we were not just on a trip, but a vacation as well. It was great to get recharged before seeing some of the great masterworks of Italian art in downtown FLorence. Village Girasole would definitely make a great 'home base' to explore the region of Tuscany and northern Italy.

The next day we got up early but by the time we made it to the main train station then out to Pisa, we had to make a pretty quick haul through town. After learning about it in my elementary program, TARGET, I had always, always, always wanted to see Pisa and its famed leaning tower. The white marble, cocked at a seemingly impossible angle truly is a sight to behold. It is a stunning example of taking a defect and letting it be reborn as a strength. What might otherwise have been a common piece of Italian architecture, throuhg this design flaw is now onw of the most unique and most visited sights in Italy. Its 'failure' has become iconic. With just time enough to snap up the requisite 'holding up the tower' trick photographs, we hightailed it back to the train station and Florence for a 3:00 appointment at the Uffizi Gallery.

If you only have a short stay in Italy, advanced tickets are a must. You won't have 3 or 4 hours to kill by standing in a drippingly hot quagmire of tourists awaiting their turn at the entrance. We presented our reservations and went straight to the front of the line. The U shaped Uffizi gallery is home to the Medici collection. The Medicis were Florence's most influential family, involved heavily in both the political and cultural life of thecity. It was their patronage of the arts in general and of specific individual masters that made Florence, Italy the birthplace of the Renaissance, a time blooming with arts, culture, creativity, scientific reasonin, and a return of classical learning. Firenze was at the helm as Europe slowly climbed out of the 'dark ages' of the Medieval period into a time resplendent with new knowledge and new creation.

We got to see works by Rembrandt, Tintoretto, Friar Lippi, del Sarto, Michaelangelo, among many, many other masters. But our favorites were the Boticellis. After reading a historical fiction book on Florence called The Birth of Venus, I had to see this classic painting that dared to portray secular, even pagan themes. It was wonderful, full of odd proportions and clean lines and quiet grace.

After art-ing out, we went to a trattoria and sprang for some pasta before walking around the magnificent Duomo church. It was too late to go inside, but the green, white, and rose marble of the church was a unique exterior and the iconic sienna-colored dome was a fantastic sight.

We trekked back out to Village Girasole again only to find that our door knob had fallen off our trailer. With maintenance proving slow and unresponsive , we took matters into our own hands, breaking into our own room with Brett hoisitn gme through a window. It was rather hilarious. After this misadventure, we had time enough for a quick dip in the pool before another dinner on the breezy terrace.

The next morning we put our luggage on lock in the train station in order to make our advanced tickets to the Accademia Gallery. QA rather small museum, its most famous holding makes the entire visit worth it. After wandering through a small exhibit of the Renaissance-era musical instruments, we turned a corner into a long gallery, kline with unfinished statues on both sides, leading to a circular show space where Michaelangel's David stands bathed in light, in his graceful beauty with his look of innocence. It was once said that after seeing Michaelangel's Davis one had no need of ever seeing another piece of sculpture again. And after standing, staring up at this unbelievable piece of art, it is easy to see why that statement rings so true. Michaelangelo somehow created fluency out of stone, the flex of muscles is subtle and true to form, you can even see the veins standing out against his hands. Just as the Renaissance marked a move away from religious themes and religious modesty in art, the David is definitely not for the prudiush. Michaelangelo sculpted everything--everything--but in a way that was not grandiose or exaggeratd, just natural. His David is reinvented from the traditional iconography showing David victorious and gloating over Goliath. His David's greatest virtues are his composed nature and expression of innocence.

We left and had some pizza and gelato (it was invented here) before hopping a train to the coast.

Ciao,

Kristi

7/25/07

Riomaggiore on the Cinque Terre, Italy--The Great Idea of Slowness

After the fierce, hectic gallery life of Florence, the Cinque Terre is just what the doctor ordered--a perfect place to have some R&R, to kick back, to take it slow.

We found our way to our accomodation at La Dolce Vita, the sweet life. And this place was appropriately named. We had an apartment, 2 bedroom, full bath, fully stocked kitchen, full living room, right in the heart of paradise. We wasted no time in heading down to the shore and carefully picking our way along the boulder beach.

Afterwards, we had a nice slow meal at La Grotta, a trattoria that serves up local fare. The Cinque Terre is home to several locally crafted culinary treats. We had some Cinque Tere wine, a dry white, with some pasta and pesto (the delicious green concotion was invented in the region), followed up with schiattera, a raisin-flavored dessert wine made there. We also had a sampler of some Italian cheeses with local honey, a combination I had never tried before. After such a feast, we were forced to make our way back to La Dolce VIta rather slowly.

We slept in luxuriating in the cool of a morning that promised to burn away quickly under the bright sunlight. We had a nice breakfast at a little local cafe where I sipped fresh-squeezed orange juice. I had nevr tasted anything like it. Unfortunately, it will ruin all future Tropicana for me. Then we caught a little local milk train to the furthest village on the Cinque Terre, Monterosso where you have to handle most train bookings. We booked our final train (sadness) to Rome. We then had a light snack and a 'girly boat drink,' as my friend Susan calls them, on the blue, blue waters of the coast.

We took the ferry boat back to Riomaggiore. It is slower by boat, but that's the way to xperience the Cinque Terre anyway, and it affords spectacular views of the villages. A one-way fare is 8 euro per person and is well worth it. You get a fantastic vantage of the almost vertical villages with their pastel flats sandwiched togther sandwiched together and set against the striped vineyards that carve into the mountainsides.

Back at Riomaggiore we crawled through the sticky heat back to our apartment to our beach stuff. The heat sings off the large boulders on the beach. So, we were into the glassy, blue-green waters in no time. I particularly liked swimming out to this one rock, doing 'the Ariel' (Disney lovers, you know what I'm talking about), then diving off into the chill, dep water. Even thought he rocky ocean floor gets dep quick, the relatively still and transparent water allows you to see clear to the bottom. This came in handy after I absent-mindedly dove off the rock with my sunglasses on and they floated *slowly* under the sea, settling in a nook between two rocks. Brett retrieved our snorkel goggles and within 20 minutes we had affected a successful rescue mission.

After washing off the salt water and beaching ourselves on some flatter configurationso f rocks, we let the sun dry us off. As the shadow of the mountain drifted over us and the tide began to roll in, we packed up our stuff to head to one of the hiking trails.

We travesed the Via Dell Amore between Riomaggioreand neighboring Manorola to eat dinner there. The seafood on the Cinque Terre is fantastic. I had some crab linguine and Brett some pasta with bel peppers and shrimp. We topped it off with Cinque Terre limoncino before slowly wadnering back along the darkened Via dell Amore to Riomaggiore. At some points, the trail that wound around the cliffs was so black it seemed to blend in with the inky sky and the black sea and it felt like you were ust walking off into the stars. It was really breathtaking.

Those were really our last moments in the Cinque Terre as we had to check out early and go straight to Rome, but it was such a wonderfully memorable change of pace that our time there really ranks among our favorites of the Great Ideas Tour. And for the hard-working, go-geter types who end up as part of the Ramsey family, slowness is something we have to actively remember to pursue sometimes--and there is no better place than this little grouping of 5 villages tucked into the Ligourian coast of Italia.

Ciao,

Kristi

7/24/07

Rome--The Great Idea of Reverence

Ah, Roma! The baking sun melts ice cream into tiny lukewarm streams of sticky sugar and toasts your skin in whatever shape the stencil of your clothes provides. It is a city steped in heat and history, and if you come in the summer months you won't be able to miss either. The Ancient Romans, a race of fierce warriors, craetd a city with a tantalizing blend of both reverence and irreverence.

Now considered the capital of the Christian world, Rome has a history of reverence that long predates the birth of Christ. After attending mass at St. Clemente's Basillica,we hopped in line to go on a 'scavi' tour of the excavations undrneath the church. As you descend, you drop out of the Roman heat and into the murky damp of the Rome's underground where the temperature hovers around a blissful 15 degrees Celsius. Underneath, we saw a traditional pagan tmple which was later a II century Christian house church, which was later a 4th century church, which was home to St. Cyril's relics, which was subsequently added onto, decorated, filled in, and built over riht up to the present day. For centuries, and centuries, people have been going to that spot to worship , to acknowledge something greater. Many Christian sites in Rome were in fact originally pagan constructions, such as the Pantheon. The dome of the Pantheon made of poured concrete was used to mark the movement of the heavens, the summer solstice, and other important features in the pagan calendar before being rechristened as the Basillica dei Santa Maria e Martres.

Then there are the catacombs that stretch on and on underground for miles, filled from floor to ceiling on4 levels with secret graves made famous for being the burial grounds of the early Christians undergoing persecution at the hands of emperors like Nero. But they didn't start that way. At first they were used for pagan resurrection cults like the cult of Isis who didn't believe in cremation. Then they were used by the Jewish people before being used by the ancient Christians. Our guides repeatedly warned us to follow the group and to go nowhere by ourselves. Just after WWII, a group of French schoolchildren and their teacher and their guide got lost in the catacombs and their bodies weren't found until the 1980's. Tucked away among long halls of graves are tiny chapels where the first priests would celebrate the Eucharist over the bones of the first martyrs. Many of the grave slots were short, crafted for the many, many chidren who were killed for their faith. It was moving to walk along the orginal stone staircases trod by those Chirstians who were so faithful and so reverent and so strong here, even as they worshipped in the presence of so many martyrs, knowing how easily they could end up as one.

Roma is thronged with churches. Close your eyes, put your finger down on a map somewhere, and you'll come up with at least one church in the area with some great claim to fame. We visited a church that had the relics of St. Valentine. We also visited St. Peter in Chains Church which holds the chains that bound Peter when the angel freed him from prison.

But you cannot explore the idea of reverence in Rome without a trip to the Vatican. Despite being able to say you've been to the smallest country in the world, you get to experience one of the most majestic and holy places to Christianity. Starting in the expansive Vatican museums, you stroll for hours through countless rooms filled with priceless treasures from paintings to tapestries to old geographical maps. They even have a modern religious art section which is relatively unvisited and worth a look. After being dazzled with the most valuable art collection in the world, you finish up with Michaelangelo's Sistine Chapel. Push through the crowds and vie for a seat on the wooden bench that wraps the walls. You'll want to spend a few long minutes craning your neck and straining your eyes in amazement. One of Michaelangelo's jealous contemporaries actually had him pulled froma scuplture project for the Pope's tomb and put on the fresco project in an effort to embarass and discredit him since he hadn't paitned a fresco in 15 years . . .

If you sneak out the right hand door instead of the main left-hand exit you can take a passage straight into St. Peter's Basillica and bypass the line. St. Peter's, built on the location of the first pope's grave, is a place that manages to maintain its reverence even when it is teeming with tourists. The high altar rises in the middle of the Basillica with dark spiraling columns embellished on topwith a dove in a splash of glittering gold sunbeams. The faithful file by in lines to rub St. Peter's foot (the statue, not the relics), and to see St. Jerome's grave. In the crypt people stand quietly, some silently crying, in front of the late Pope John Paul II's, grave. We spent a few minutes participating in eucharistic adoration before we stepped back out into the bold sunshine of the plaza.

All of Rome's reverence is easily juxtaposed with her irreverence. The sacred Palatine hill with the homestead of Romulus, fonder of Rome, is also th home of the extravagant Imperial Palace complex that epitomized the sumptous, decadent lifestyle of the Roman emperors. We stumbled through the dry, cracking arid ruins of Nero's tunel and Domitian's feast rooms (one went on for 16 hours straight). We strolled down the Circus Maximus where hundreds of thousands of people were killed for public spectacle and the best charioters of the empire competed. Even today, it remains the largest sporting arena i the world.

Then there's the iconic Colosseum in al of its stripped, naked glory. Here the people were entertained with bloodthirsty gaming and inventive executions--some criminals were forced towear wax wings like Icarus then were pushed to their deaths from some high point. The roaring crowds watched such spectacles 150 days out of the year enjoying free food, free drink, free admission, and free handouts while they were there. The fights were so bloody, the wooden floor had to be lned with sand to soak up the blood (and so it would show up better of course). Th latin word for sand (arena) is why we now call such sorting locales, arenas. Gross, huh?

Rome's intesne piety (you must cover your hsoulders and knees to be allowed in churches) is interspersed with a fierce heritage and a thriving material culture. Coming off the Spanish Steps and walking the Via del Corso, the shops follow one after another with designer logos, tuxedoed doormen, jaw dropping price tags, and crowds of people clutching shopping bags.

We bookended our stay in Rome with a visit to the Time Elevator, a Disney-esque experience that offers an Imax style introduction and brief overview of Roman history complete with moving seats and gusts of wind, and a final European meal at a sidewalk cafe overlooing the ruins of the Roman forum. Afterwards, we munched huge juicy lices of fresh watermelon as we cut through the sultry night air on our way back to pack.

Rome is a city where you cannot help being awe; you cannot help but feel small; and you cannot help feeling revrent towards something greater, better, bigger than you.

It was a perfect end to the Great Ideas Tour where the best ideas never end with yourself but point towards something bigger, just there on the horizon, like the fat yellow moon hanging over the Colosseum as we ended our final night in Europe.

Arrevederchi!

Kristi

7/25/07

Hi All!!

I hope you have all enjoyed reading through the Ramsey emails. It truly was a trip of a lifetime. Many wishes for more Great Ideas in the future! Thanks for everyone's prayers and support and the opportunity to be a part of such a special family.

Love,

Kristi