Thursday 30 June 2011

Rooftop

Local pastime: diving off of the Stari Most (Old Bridge)
Maybe wearing flipflops wasn't such a good idea. I pause for a moment to mop the sweat from my brow and gather my wits. How to get to the next flight of stairs without losing a toe? I take a deep breath, then continue inching my way forward. In the late afternoon light, the shards of glass at my feet flicker menacingly.

I am climbing the Ljubljanska Banka Tower, a derelict nine-storey building just a short walk away from Mostar's famous Old Bridge. Derelict, however, is a hopelessly inadequate description of the state of this building. Bombed out, utterly gutted by artillery fire in the 1990s civil war, all that remains today is an eerie skeleton frozen in time, silently watching how the town below shakes off the dust and rises to its feet.

The two faces of Mostar
I came to Mostar to get a brief respite from the Jadranska Magistrala, the coastal thoroughfare that runs the length of the former Yugoslav Federation, from Slovenia in the north to a place well south of the scope of my map of Croatia. Jadranska Magistrala. The sound of it is enough to give you the shivers. The road, hewn out of the precipitous cliffs of the Adriatic coast, cuts through top-notch scenery: barren mountains to your left, the bluest of blue waters to your right and each climb rewarded with a view of a delightful cove, or an island glimmering afar. But to fully appreciate the glory of the Jadranska Magistrala you would do well to bring four wheels rather than two. Cyclists have no choice but to keep their eyes glued to the narrow road, taking care not to get tipped over the edge by a passing lorry or an Italian family in a camper car. (It's your bleedin' holiday, why the rush?!).

However, Mostar wasn't as peaceful as I had hoped. Taking snapshots of young lads diving off of the beautifully reconstructed bridge, the ice-cream-licking crowds pushed me away from the cobbled lanes of the Old Town into a quiet area yet untouched by the careful hand of the restorer, the hand that covers everything. As I walked along the former front line, I lost count of the number of burnt-out houses I saw, their facades perforated, young trees peeping out of paneless windows. Across the river I stumbled upon a small cemetery. Each gravestone revealed a different name, a different face. There was one constant. The vast majority of the dozens resting there had died in the summer of 1993.

Climbing the Ljubljanska Banka Tower
On the rooftop of the Ljubljanska Banka Tower I am alone at last. I feel elated having made it all the way up without injuring myself. And no one here to block the splendid 360-degree city view. But after a minute or so it gets to methe rubble, the hollow-eyed buildings I have seen that day, the fact that I am happily taking snapshots of things that are beyond my imagination. Suddenly, I feel horribly out of place. I clamber down quickly, eager to hit the tourist-filled streets again.

Thursday 23 June 2011

sLOVEnia

The Soča: a rafter's paradise
Travelling without a clear plan, enticing as it may seem, can be something of a nerve-racking experience. Especially when you're the kind of person who is meticulous about the simplest of things: taking care not to crack the spine when reading a book, paying each exhibit in a museum the attention it deserves, making a to-do list for things that don't really need a to-do listYou get the idea.

What it comes down to is that I keep asking myself questions such as: how do I make sure that my objective itinerary through a particular country or region is, in fact, a route worth perspiring profusely for? Of course, I ask around, and there's always my not very detailed and thus not very helpful guidebook covering the entire Mediterranean. But at some point you have to make up your mind, turn left or right and just enjoy whatever the road serves you up.

Cycling in Slovenia, for that matter, is an almost therapeutic experience. This tiny speck on the map, wedged in between the Austrian Alps to the north, Italy to the west, and Hungary and Croatia to the east and south, is nothing short of sensational. Here, it doesn't matter whether you turn left or right, the country keeps shoving mind-blowing scenery in your face.

Lake Bohinj, less touristy than Lake Bled
I entered Slovenia at Nova Gorica, which, together with its Italian counterpart Gorizia, makes up a decent-sized town. Still, having just winded my way through Gorizia's colourful streets, Nova Gorica strikes the unsuspecting first-time visitor as a bit of an afterthought. It is, as it turned out, hence the 'Nova' part in the name of the place. But that was something my host for the night had to point out.

Gorizia used to be the capital of the former Slovenian province of Goriška. When after WWII the Italians took control over the place, the new socialist regime in Yugoslavia thought it would make a nice statement to build a brand-new town right next to it on the eastern side of the border. According to my host, they drew up some pretty ambitious plans, only a small part of which was ever carried out. Today, grim apartment blocks loom large, interspersed with the odd casino. The entire local economy depends upon attracting short-stay visitors from Italy, where casinos are rather thin on the groundan opportunistic move that brought about the steady decline of a once-thriving cultural scene.

Madness in downtown Ljubljana
From Nova Gorica I headed north along the banks of the Soča river (Isonzo in Italian), a major WWI front and the backdrop to Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms. More of a gorge than a valley, I kept shaking my head in disbelief at the contrast with the drab Italian Po valley I had just left behind. At the village of Most na Soči I turned right, ready for a frolic in the Julian Alps. However, within minutes the fine drizzle I had been trying to ignore turned into a fully-fledged thunderstorm. Having enjoyed ridiculously good weather ever since my departure from Holland, I tried not to curse, got out my rain kit and pedalled on. Even through the rain-covered lenses of my cycling glasses I couldn't help being amazed by the beauty of it all. Dense forests, deserted country roads, a cluster of white houses huddled around a charming church. Soaked and knackered, I ended up staying in a mountain hut. Seven euros for the night, and for a bit more the owner was happy to chop some wood and light a fire so that I could enjoy a warm shower. Later that night, I had to make an effort not to fall asleep and land my face into a bowl of piping hot pasta.

I continued my tour of Slovenia with a visit to the mountain lakes of Bohinj and Bled, decided to take a break in Ljubljana, with its stamp-sized historical city centre, and rounded it all off with a quick peek into the Unesco-listed Škocjan caves. Nearing the Croatian border, I noticed that rather than looking forward to entering a new country I felt sorry to leave the one I had just visited. And so, awaiting my turn at the border checkpoint, it seemed only appropriate to softly repeat after the national tourist board: I feel sLOVEnia...

Tuesday 14 June 2011

Venice in 6 Shots

117 islands, 177 canals, 409 bridges, 0 cars, 60,000 inhabitants, up to 25 million visitors a year and 1 big problem: the entire place is slowly sinking. An impression of Venice in 6 shots.






Saturday 11 June 2011

Funeral

What do you do when you suddenly find yourself in a tight spot? When the walls start crumbling, friends turn out to be foes and any minute may be your last? Some curl up in a ball and hope the storm will pass. Others prefer to face their opponent and go down fighting. Still others can't decide on a single strategy, lose control of the situation and eventually trip over their own feet.

Lately, Italian prime minister Silvio Berlusconi seems to fall into the latter category. In a surprising turn of events his party, the right-wing Popolo della Libertà, suffered a crushing defeat in last month's local elections. Things were looking bleak after the first round of voting on 15 and 16 May, but looking at the results of the recent runoffs even the most ardent of his supporters must admit that Berlusconi's political life is in danger. Overnight, a string of towns and cities across Italy changed colour. Painful, of course, but what really hurts is the loss of Milan, Berlusconi's hometown. After two decades of centre-right dominance, incumbent mayor and Berlusconi protégée Letizia Moratti suffered a 55-45 percent defeat against local left-wing lawyer Giuliano Pisapia.

Berlusconi, conveniently out of the country when the votes had been counted, responded by saying that he was 'too busy to go to his own funeral'. Cracking joke, in my opinion, but 'one in which defeat is tacitly admitted,' as one commenter pointed out. Perhaps he realised this himself, for then he went on to say that the main thing is to remain calm and move forwards. 'Every time I suffer a setback, I triple my forces.'

In Berlusconi's world that might well entail a further expansion of his broadcasting empirethe source not only of his personal fortune but also of his political success. Without batting an eyelid, Berlusconi blamed the press for the major blow his party had suffered, ignoring the fact that it's the prime minister himself who owns the bulk of the national TV channels. There had been what he called a campaign of press disinformation against the government. 'Many moderate electors, disgusted by the spectacle of this kind of policy, decided not to vote,' he said. 'There is real disinformation and it's always against us.'

The final KO might follow this Sunday and Monday, with the much-anticipated referendum on nuclear power, water privatisation and the question whether ministers can plead that official duties constitute a legal impediment to their appearing in criminal trials. Given the fact that the prime minister faces various corruption trials and still has to deal with the ever-expanding aftermath of the Ruby Rubacuori affair, the fate of Il Cavaliere (The Knight) is directly linked with the result of this referendum. The opposition is out for blood, hordes of youngsters in cities such as Milan are preparing for another celebration.

It remains to be seen what will happen, but whatever the outcome of the referendum I think the biggest gain for Italy is that the Italians suddenly seem to realise that their vote can make a difference. A surprising step for a country that has gone through the stages of frustration, anger and indifference. There is something in the air here, and I'm not sure Il Cavaliere likes the smell of it.

Wednesday 1 June 2011

Miracle

St. Columban, guarding his own crypt
O glorioso nostro Patrono, San Colombano, luce di santità ed esempio di fortezza, che per divina provvidenza venisti a noi dall'Irlanda per essere nostro modello di perfezione e rendere con la fondazione del Monastero la nostra terra culla di santi e centro di irradiazione della grande opera di riforma cristiana, accogli le nostre confidenti preghiere ed ottienici da Dio che, a tuo esempio, santificando la nostra vita col lavoro, con la preghiera e con la penitenza, possiamo meritare la divina misericordia, progredire ogni giorno nell'amore di Dio e del prossimo ed essere un giorno partecipi con te dell'eterna felicità.
                        Pietro Zuccarino

I found this prayer to San Colombano (St. Columban in English) in the basilica of Bobbio, a small town halfway between Genoa and Piacenza. Now, I'm hardly an expert when it comes to saints and the miracles ascribed to them, but this name rang a bell. The words 'venisti a noi dall'Irlanda' gave it away. I faintly recalled having written a paper on the notion of pilgrimage in a couple of Old English and Old Irish poems. The name of Columban had popped up a lot in the secondary literature.

St. Columban, I remembered, was one of the major chappies when it came to spreading the Word across the continent. Born in the sixth century in Meath, Ireland, Columban was so strikingly handsome that the Irish lassies went soggy at the merest sight of him. Legend has it that, after a good deal of fooling around, he got so fed up with this life of depravity that he told his latest love goodbye and vowed to dedicate the rest of his days to the works of the Lord. So off he went, taking a few masterclasses here and there, and embracing a lifestyle of modesty and abstinence. Soon, he became a teacher himself and set out to found a string of monasteries across the Frankish kingdoms, performing a number of rather curious miracles along the way, including the taming and subsequent yoking of a bear and escaping unscathed from a pack of peckish wolves.

Bobbio's Ponte Gobbo has eleven spans, all of different height
However, Columban pulled the biggest stunt towards the end of his life. Having finally settled down in Bobbio, which soon became the religious stronghold of the region, he thought the town could do with a bridge spanning the river Trebbia. Instead of hiring an engineer and a team of construction workers, he made a pact with the devil. Old Nick agreed to build the bridge in a single night provided that Columban gave him the soul of the first passerby. But when the bridge was finished, the saint, apparently more of a cat person, sent a dog.

Very nice, I thought, having crossed that oddly shaped bridge on my way to the basilica. Then I learnt that there are dozens of these devil's bridges scattered across Europe, each of them oddly shaped and each of them with a similar story. After the initial disappointment I counted my blessings. There I was, alone in a breathtaking basilica, admiring intricate frescoes and the marble sarcophagus of a saintall of this in a charming town that must be teeming with tourists in July and August. Not much of an epiphany, perhaps, let alone a miracle. But for a brief moment I felt tempted to kneel down and say a little Italian prayer.