Canary Islands, Part 2

We spent day two and day three hiking La Gomera. We joined groups of German-speaking trekkers organized by Timah Travel, which arranged transit to the trail head, and back to town at the end of the hike, and provided a sure-footed guide so we weren't lost in the mountains.

We didn't get any photos that do justice to the twists and turns--not to mention the vistas--as the driver navigates through Valle Gran Rey. But if you look at this topographical map and follow the road with your eye, you'll get some notion of what I'm talking about.

On our first hike, known officially as "Forest of Fables," we walked through the northwestern part of Garajonay National Park. UNESCO has designated the park a World Heritage Forest in acknowledgement of its unique ecosystem.

What makes the ecosystem so unusual? Because the island rises dramatically out of the ocean, there are huge variations in elevation, so within a very small area, the temperature varies significantly. Another factor is that the prevailing winds bring moisture from the north, meaning that the northern slope of the island is wetter than the southern side. So La Gomera has what are called "micro-climates." Furthermore, the Canary Islands were completely unaffected by the ice age, which means that you find plants there that you don't find elsewhere. And because the island is remote and rocky, parts of the forest have been left pretty much the way they always were.

As you emerge from the forest and climb down the hill, the air gets warmer, and there are more traces of human activity. The island is covered with old, mostly unmaintained terraces. (These days, there are easier ways to get food than to terrace a cliff.)

On day three we tackled another hike, "The Scenic Way." Our first target was the peak of Garjonay, the highest point on the island (1,437 meters / 4,714 feet). Regrettably, the clouds were not cooperating, and we merely shivered in the mist.

Our second target was La Fortaleza (1,243 meters / 4,078 feet). It's not an easy peak to photograph from up close, because you actually can't see how tall and large it is. So let's paint the scene by showing you this big scary rock from a distance.

The hike to Fortaleza is gorgeous. One thing that really struck us is that you can't tell where the ocean ends and the sky begins. Actually, because you're looking down from high up, the horizon line is much higher than you might think.

Fortaleza means fortress, and according to legend, a group of native Gomerans fought their last stand against the Spanish conquerors there. It would be an ideal defensive position. But according to the story, when the aboriginals concluded they couldn't hold off the Spaniards, they threw themselves off a cliff. The story also goes that they were blonde, and that their suicide meant there were no more blondes on the island. Until the Germans arrived, I suppose.

The climb up induces vertigo, the climb down, panic. You get a bit of a sense of the steepness in this photo.

Canary Islands, part 1

As you may have gathered from previous posts, Europe has had a cold, snowy, dark winter. Berlin broke a record for most consecutive days without seeing the sun. Fortunately, E. and I scheduled a get-away to the Canary Islands in the gap between the conclusion of Bosch seminar II, and the start of her new post in Bonn.

In the wee early hours we stood freezing in little more than our windbreakers to hail a taxi to Tegel airport. Several hours later we had arrived in Madrid. As we stood on the jet bridge, preparing to board our second flight, a hot, high-in-the-sky sunlight poured down on us, and we knew were were doing the right thing to escape from northern Europe.

The Canary Islands are off the western coast of Morocco. They are to northern Europe as Hawaii and the Caribbean are to the mainland United States: it's where you go to warm up during winter. The Canaries are subtropical, not tropical, so the weather is springlike, rather than summery, but we weren't objecting.

Here's the view flying into Tenerife. That's Teide in the background, a volcano that dominates the island. Elevation 3,718 metres (12,198 ft).

When we got out of the airport it was warm and breezy, and there were palm trees lining the street. Wearing windbreakers didn't seem so crazy as it did back in Berlin.

From the airport we took a bus to Los Cristianos, and then sauntered down to the port...

... where we hopped on a boat to Valle Gran Rey, on the southwestern edge of La Gomera, the next island to the west of Tenerife. The water was rough, and everyone on the boat was on the edge (or over the edge) of seasickness.

On arrival, we walked through the dark to our hotel. Had I not investigated where I was going, I'm sure I would have been nervous. Everything was dark, the sidewalk was narrow, and the ocean was crashing on the other side of a breakwater. But we found our hotel quickly and easily, and at the reception we were greeted in German.

Yeah, La Gomera has a reputation as an outpost for German hippies. If you can speak German, you've no need for speaking Spanish. You can even buy your groceries at a Spar.

Anyhow, by daylight, the valley and the little encampment at water's edge (three mostly contiguous villages, La Puntila, La Calera, and La Playa Calera) are something else entirely. Dramatic volcanic cliffs rise steeply above a tidy, quiet seaside resort.

I'll blog more about the rest of our trip as time permits.

Berlin Graffiti

As some readers may know, I am no longer living in Berlin. Before I lose track of my thoughts, there's one more Berlin topic I want to tackle: graffiti.

To say that Berlin is covered in graffiti is merely to state the obvious.

Close your eyes and imagine Germany, and visions of beer steins and BMWs probably dance in your head. And you imagine a well-run place. Ordentlichkeit (order, orderliness) is a national virtue, right? So why is the capital city covered in spray paint and stickers--strong evidence of the absence rather than the presence of Ordentlichkeit?

In another city in another country, graffiti would be a sign of urban blight. In Berlin, it's art.

Where there's art, there are art books. Urban Illustration Berlin is essentially a museum catalog, except that the art is all over the city, and may have been painted over by the time you get there. Click here to peek inside the book.

E. and I purchased, as art, a photo of graffiti by an artist known as xoxo. We paid money so we can look at graffiti whenever we want.

What explains the Berlin's love affair with graffiti?

My first hypothesis has to do with history. The Berlin Wall was an endless canvas, an eyesore, and a reminder of the German fissure. The solution? Paint it. Hide it.

Here's a scene from what's probably my favorite film, Wim Wender's Wings of Desire.

That's the great Bruno Ganz walking along the Berlin Wall. See the graffiti in the background? I don't know the whole story but 1) I believe it was commissioned for the film 2) it's definitely by a particular artist 3) any Berliner would recognize it. It's famous. It's art.

Remember when I took a photography course? The Volkshochschule (community college) uses a version of the recurring image as its logo:

This hypothesis will only take you so far, however. The West Berlin side of the wall was covered in graffiti, but my understanding is that the East German authorities kept their side of the wall clean. These days if anything graffiti is more evident in the former east, whereas the west is a bit cleaner.

My second hypothesis is more abstract, but it strikes me as the best explanation. In the absence of graffiti, the "meaning" of a wall is whatever its owner choses. A shiny coat of white paint on your Gründerzeit home tells the world you have money and a well-engineered car. An abraded wall of crumbling stucco and leftover war damage tells another story. And so does a wall that's been tagged, stenciled, and illustrated.

The historical narrative of Berlin is still up for grabs. Is it a Prussian city? A Nazi city? An East German city? A world capital? A squat? A yuppie paradise? No one is sure, but everyone has ideas. Each new graffito is a fresh assertion: This, not that, is what this wall is about. This, not that, is what Berlin is. And until there's consensus on a narrative, no blank wall is safe.

German soundtrack

When you go abroad for a year, you hear different songs on the radio, and these become a mental soundtrack of the experience. I still have vivid recollections of the songs I heard when I lived in France, more than two decades ago.

E. and I have been gathering a list of the songs that for better or worse have defined our experience. Here's a partial compilation.

Cassandra Steen, featuring Adel Tawil: Stadt

If there's an anthem for the year, this might be it.

Black Eyed Peas: I Gotta Feeling

Catchy. Happy. What more do you need?

Lady Gaga: Poker Face

I kind of wish Lady Gaga wasn't rattling around in my head, but what are you gonna do?

Milow: Ayo Technology

It's a good song until you pay attention to the lyrics.

Agnes: Release Me

Good dance track. So I imagine.

Culcha Candela: Schöne Neue Welt

This song was on the air all the time when I arrived last summer. It's kind of a stupid song, but it's definitely cemented in my head.

Lily Allen: Not Fair

Lyrics not entirely suitable for the workplace. But very clever.

Robbie Williams: Bodies

I've never understood Europeans' fascination with Robbie Williams, but this is definitely among his best.

Sportfreunde Stiller: Ein Kompliment

Rock. Auf Deutsch.

Frauenartzt & Manny Marc: Das geht ab

Party anthem. Auf Deutsch.

Lady Gaga: Paparazzi

Yeah, darn it, she's left an impression.

Emiliana Torrini: Jungle Drum

Ooo. I love this one. Happiest, catchiest song of the year. I kind of hear Nancy Sinatra when I hear this song.

Nelly Furtado: Manos Al Aire

Whoa. Nelly sings Spanish.

Peter Fox: Haus am See

Rap. Auf Deutsch. In all seriousness, Peter Fox is one of the coolest German pop singers.

Berliners need to learn how to shovel their sidewalks

There's been snow on the ground in Berlin for weeks. Since Christmas I think. In other words, there has been plenty of time to get out there and clean the sidewalks. Oh, if only. Berliners obviously don't believe in clearing the sidewalks. Maybe 5% have been cleared by now. The rest just look like this:

The Berlin snow doesn't even pack down. Somehow it stays frothy, like a granita, and walking in it feels like walking through sand on the beach.

What explains this aversion to doing the obvious thing and clearing the sidewalk? I wish I knew. I think there may be a city-wide case of not-my-problem: the renters don't feel it's their responsibility, the landlords are elsewhere, the businesses figure if they clear their sidewalk snow will just be tracked over from the next business's unshoveled sidewalk, etc. I think that since this is a society accustomed to letting the government provide for them, everyone assumes the city will clear the sidewalk. (Note to all Berliners: If you think that, clearly you haven't looked out the window for the last three weeks.) Maybe they like it this way. As I explained in a previous post, every Berliner has a small child, and every one of those children has a wooden sled, and if there is snow on all the sidewalks, the parents can tug their extremely well-dressed and excessively cute children everywhere. Sleds are also useful for getting your groceries home, I've noticed.

Or are my expectations too high? Americans think in terms of conquering the frontier. Snow is something to be tamed. Maybe Berliners think snow is a coequal, a piece of their environment that they simply live with.

I'll say this for Warsaw. They push the snow into mountains lining the sidewalks. Yes, you have to climb the mountains, but there are relatively clear paths in every direction. Berlin, you could learn a thing or two.

Warsaw

I ought to have more to say about Warsaw than I do. As a result of the Dresden epidemic of '10, I was less than zippy as we trudged through the frigid Polish capital. We took a tour of the old town (rebuilt after World War II) until we couldn't feel our extremities. When I had the chance, I opted to spend the rest of the day at the hotel.

On day two I visited the National Museum and ate pirogi. And that was Warsaw.

Dresden. Bummer.

For Bosch Seminar II, we, the Boschies and the spouses, set off for Dresden.

I think Dresden was out to get us. For one thing, despite my good intentions, everything seemed to be closed. The major art gallery was closed for cleaning. A docent wouldn't let us in to the opera to take a tour (we think business was slow, and she wasn't in the mood). A Keller that looked promising for dinner was, surprise, closed. I went to a bookstore, saw a book, and left, mulling over whether I would like to go back and purchase it. When I went back the next day, the bookstore was closed. (On a Tuesday no less!? I understand that many businesses take a Ruhetag, or rest day, but I've never heard of Ruhetag on Tuesday.)

But Dresden's true assault on us was intestinal. After dinner with a jovial, albeit long-winded prince, over half of the group got miserably sick. In case you are eating, I will refrain from describing the symptoms. Some people were so sick they headed back to Berlin rather than head on to Warsaw. E. and I made the decision to head back, but felt sufficiently better in the morning to go on.

Our travails notwithstanding, I still think Dresden is a beautiful city. It was flattened in World War II. Some reconstruction took place in the post-war era, but there has been a huge boom in reconstruction since German reunification. We visited--and climbed to the top of--the Frauenkirche (Church of Our Lady). Destroyed in the war, the locals stubbornly left it as a pile of rubble for decades until the time was right, and the money was available to put it back together. It's unquestionably the icon of the city, which is saying something in a city crammed with amazing baroque architecture.

Dresden, as seen from the top of the Frauenkirche.

The altar of the rebuilt Frauenkirche. Seeing a brand-spanking-new version of baroque architecture improves my opinion of the style. The radiance helps.

Here I am in front of the Semper Opera.

Silliness on the Zwinger.

The streets were dead at night.