Finse, Norway (long also)
A genial voice in a gentle Norwegian accent called out to us from the rock above: "Is this a philosophical expedition you are taking?" A bit bemused and befuddled, we started to answer, "Absolutely, how did you know?", when he added "Not a bicycle expedition?" We were walking down a dirt road beside the lake Finsevatte with our packs, heading out on a bit of a trek over the tundra, but these chaps were bicycle touring, a big deal here, and his impression was we were walking out of some philosophical principle. He also added, "Well yes it is better, if you drink too much, to be walking." Little did this friendly fellow know, but he came up with the label for this whole enterprise.
In the spirit of the old elephant joke about "No soap, radio," these two philosophers walk into a bar. One says "Gimme a Prolegomenon on the rocks," and the other says, "I'll have the Thing-in-Itself, straight up, no chaser." So the bartender answers, "No philosophy, bicycle!"
In the middle of the southern part of Norway, about two thirds the way from Oslo to Bergen, is a plateau and a clump of mountains, not all that high, only about 1800 meters (in the 5000' range) which is nonetheless high enough to hold the massive Hardanger glacier.
It seemed quite odd how we got here. Trains and planes were ridiculously expensive, so almost on a lark we jumped on an all night (and all the next day - 22 hr total) bus (who ever said Europe was small?), which turned out to include a long ferry crossing through Denmark, which was lovely -- literally hundreds upon hundreds of wind generators along the Baltic and North Sea coasts (
see Patricia and Jayson's work on these sorts of things), elegant and exciting to the eye. Upon arriving in Oslo late the next day, there was apparently a conference and therefore no accommodation to be had, so we continued right on to a night train toward Bergen, getting off at this little whistle stop named Finse (the highest train station in Norway at 1222 m) at 4:15 in the morning, still without a place to stay. But these "huts" that the Norsk have are, it turns out, very civilized hostels indeed, and the welcome sign on the entry to the Finsehytta invites folks who arrive on the night train to make themselves comfortable in the ample lobby. So we had ourselves a sleep of 2 hr before the reception opened at 8 am, spent much of the day on a short hike (6 km) up to a glacier and back, and enjoyed an astoundingly delicious dinner at the hostel that night. What could be finer?
Well, what was truly finer was the hiking the next three days up over the granite outcroppings 22 km past the edge of the glacier, among myriad icy lakes to the next hut called Rembesdalsseter, perched above a lake just below a tongue of the glacier with a torrential cascade out the bottom, and the lake giving onto a chasm of 800 m cliffs down to the Hardanger fjord. Oh my! Along the way there were torrential gorges with filamentary suspension bridges (which it turns out they actually dismantle at the end of every season, so as to not be swept away, so they are deliberately rickety).
The geology here is stupendous. Trileigh spent much of Friday's 10-hour hike oohing and aahing over the metamorphic rocks, which ranged from swirling gneisses to shiny black phyllites, trying to figure out how the whole picture fit together. It wasn't until we reached Rembesdalsseter hut that one of our new Norwegian acquaintances translated the term "Skyvedekke" on the map as "shoved layer" (= "thrust sheet" for you geologists out there) that she finally realized that what we'd been seeing all along was a massive fault that probably was formed during a continental collision on the order of a billion or two years ago, all the more exciting to see the mineralogy of her dissertation work in trondhjemites in situ (get it; Trondheim).
Anyway, our 22-km hike turned out to feel a LOT longer than that, and took about 9 hours for us compared to the 7 that the hardy Norwegians estimated. The final stretch into Rembesdalsseter involves a 1200-foot descent, first down a smooth arcing granite face and then down a seemingly-vertical rockfall, and we schlepped into the hut with aching muscles and joints...but minds full of the beauty and glorious vistas we'd seen over hundreds of square miles. Norwegian hiking huts are a real pleasure, beautifully constructed and stocked with canned and dried food that you buy on an honor system (make a list of what you took and leave the money in an envelope) and cook yourself with the pots and gas stove provided. Our hut had a "hyttevakt" (literally, "hut-guard"), a 20ish young man who as a team with his girlfriend showed us the ropes. He won me (T.) completely over when, as we expressed concern about the near-vertical 1200' ascent back *out* of the valley, he offered to carry our "luggage" up there for us because he didn't have much else to do! Almost everyone else staying at the hut was Norwegian, and as friendly and jovial as we've found most to be, staying up late and laughing uproariously over musically-cadenced but indecipherable-to-us jokes.
Given the difficulty of the 20-km hike in, we decided to split our hike back to Finse into two parts. After making the steep but surprisingly easy ascent back out of the valley, we hiked a couple more hours and set up camp in mid-afternoon at the base of towering Luranoten. The streams in Norwegian high country are apparently pure and giardia-free, so clean and delicious water was never scarce -- what a joy! The next morning we set out predawn for the last part of our hike (although that was made easier by the fact that the mountain was to our east, so sunrise occurred about 10:45) and had another glorious blue-sky mountain day, with clouds pulling in just as we reached Finse for Sunday evening dinner and welcome hot showers.
On Monday morning we took a train north 1/2 hour to Myrdal, where we switched to a private railroad for the stunning hourlong ride down to the village of Flåm, at the head of Sognefjord. The railroad winds quite literally through the mountains and has the steepest grade (1:18) in Europe over its 20 km length. Arriving in Flåm, again without a place to stay, we once again were recipients of remarkable luck and have ended up with our own little cottage, inexpensive, along a river at the base of a sheer, waterfall-laden rock wall.
And now it's begun to rain. Very glad not to be on a glacier in this. We're finally posting this from Bergen, having taken the train through spectacular country in heavy rain. Bergen is a very cute little town, even in the rain, but the place is overrun with head bangers this weekend as it happens to be the biggest heavy metal festival in Europe this weekend. Yeow! Anyhow, tomorrow we sail on a big old boat to Newcastle, and boy oh boy we will feel sorrry to leave this sweet country and the very sweet people -- almost without exception! -- that we have encountered here. Hmm... There ought to be some joke about what's the difference between a Swiss and a Norwegian standing out in the rain... Send your answers to the (anonymous!) comments column!
Leaving Brussels
One last quick blog entry before we leave tonight for Scandinavia... We've had a wonderful time relaxing in Brussels. A highlight last Friday night was a performance of Gounod's Faust in a tiny little theater just off a lively Brussels side street, performed by tiny little actors about 24 inches high: the puppets of the ancient Toone theater. Toone has been around since 1830, and the current director, "enthroned" in 1963, is the seventh in this line of distinguished marionettists. Although a bunch of the colloquial French escaped us, the spirit of the drama came through the movements of the simple puppets. You could see the puppeteers' faces and hands as they manipulated the strings, which added immensely to the performance. (Google "Toone" and "Brussels" for more info and pictures.)
Over the weekend we made several more tram trips to the Grand'Place, and on one of these spent a fascinating afternoon in the Musical Instruments Museum. Upon entering, you're given headphones so that as you stand in front of each instrument case you hear period music played on that instrument. The displays of fantastic and fantastical instruments from all over the world and centuries of development were augmented by Rob's knowledgeable commentary on the mechanics and music of each instrument.
Following the sound of closely-harmonizing singers one afternoon during this holiday weekend, we found ourselves in the Place Espanol under the gaze of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza -- and when we turned around discovered on the other side of the square a powerful statue of Bela Bartok, whom we visited several times over the next few days.
The downcast and pensive visage captured something ineffable and very moving to me (R).
Finally, last night we celebrated our anniversary with dinner by the Grand'Place, a wonderful finale to our time in this ancient living city. Tonight we board a bus for the 22-hour ride to Oslo and then on to fjord country!
Strasbourg to Brussels (long posting, having been unconnected a bit)
We wound our way up mountain roads and into the heart of the Alps at Interlaken, on the Swiss "National Day," celebrated with an extravagant display of fireworks, and general (for the Swiss) rowdiness. And then it began to rain. And continued to rain unabated, which rather dampened our wishes to go up to the peaks and hike about in the meadows. Sigh. For a couple of days were completely socked in, and as appealing as up-close-and-personal meterological field work may be to some, we decided to bail from rainy (and expensive) Switzerland, and true to the weather maps, the moment we crossed back into France at Basel, it broke warm and sunny.
But it wasn't just the weather. We both felt a remarkable sensation upon leaving Switzerland, a palpable sigh of relief, a sense that some mental tightness or suffocation, a general wariness, one's whole being on guard and on edge, could suddenly relax. What is it about the Swiss? Earlier we'd been speculating on what small changes in human character would be needed to make the world a better place, for people to consider more the general welfare than their individual aggrandizement (altruism being, after all a patter that can be cultivated, what would it take to be the normal default?) And with a shudder we realized that here is Swiss society, well-ordered, clean environment, people with their well-defined places in society, keeping out of the business of others --- is this an image of that "better place?" If so, then let us be grateful for our chaos and strife. Sigh^2.
So after an overnight in Colmar (which in spite of glowing reports, didn't make much of an impression, being an uncomfortable blend of medieval and modern), we drove the next day to Strasbourg, where we were met in front of the glorious cathedral by Trileigh's second-cousin Julian and his German friend Wazlaw (Vaclav?). Strasbourg is wonderful, like Amsterdam on the Rhine, a beautiful, ancient central town, surrounded by and laced with flowing canals, largely restricted to foot and tram traffic, where a truly multicultural mix of French and German is generally spoken. The town, being humane rather than automotive, has its own modern energy that gives it a feel of excitement and movement, a lot of bustle and street life, a liveliness reminiscent of the kind of spaces for people advocated by Patricia & Jayson (i-sustain.com) and their friend Jan Gehl from Copenhagen, which is maybe our next stop.
Julian (14 years old) was in Strasbourg with his mother Ursula (Trileigh's cousin Jack's wife), her friend Gudrun, and Gudrun's sons Vaclav and Martin. All of us went for a boat ride along the canals, checking out the bird life (coots, mallards, grebes, swans) as well as the bridges and churches, not to mention the presence of the EU alternate headquarters.
The magnificent Strasbourg cathedral is made entirely of a lovely sandstone whose colors seem to ripple in the changing light like a melting strawberry-and-cream popsicle.
And inside is an absolutely delightful mechanical "horloge" that's actually also a miniature Biblical theater.
It consists of a variety of celestial clocks that record the sunrise and sunset positions, stellar and planetary configurations, and oh yes, time; it also tells you the saint-du-jour for every day of the year. But the big performance is at noon. At the base of the horloge, one cherub rings a bell while another inverts an hourglass (day-glass?). A chariot carries away the symbol of the previous day of the week (Wednesday/Venus, in our case) as another chariot appears with the current day's symbol.
A couple of levels up, an old man representing the dying previous day moves past a skeleton Death to retire inside the clockworks as the next day's new infant emerges from the other side. (A mature man appears midday each day.) At the topmost level -- this is still all happening during the clock's noon performance -- the twelve apostles form a procession in front of a Jesus figure. At the 4th, 8th, and 12th apostle, a cock flaps its wings and then crows as a reminder of Peter's denials of Jesus. As each apostle passes by Jesus, the apostle turns and bows to him; Jesus then blesses him with his hand as the apostle turns to go. It is all quite a procedure to witness!
Somehow it never quite worked out for Rob to play the Strasbourg chess guy who spent all day every day out on the street playing any comer, but the guy was always engaged with someone, trouncing them in different creative ways (saw him sacrifice his queen on a couple occasions and thereafter eschew opportunities to take white's queen in turn, playing instead for position. Remarkable!), but did rent a bike for an afternoon and tore all around town, reminiscent of the old days in Vienna.
The two of us and Julian made the drive from Strasbourg to Brussels, which gave us a glimpse into the mind of a next-generation leader. Julian is remarkable, fully bicultural and bilingual as well as thoughtful and intelligent, and gives us hope for a better future. The seminar topic du jour was how his generation is going to save the world, and Julian took the long view -- long as in millions of years. His view is that there are natural species successions as ecosystems are changed by their inhabitants, and that human activity is opening the way for new species creation as it closes the path on others. We had a long discussion about the ethics of terraforming Mars in this context; when do humans have default rights to change ecosystems toward specific goals (or accidentally, for that matter), and when should we assume that, alternatively, such rights are by default limited and only expandable upon careful consideration and in absence of equally ethical alternatives?
So here we are back in Brussels for a few days to catch our breath before heading into the North Country. Our friend Jane has been so generous to us, not only loaning us her car for a few weeks but also opening her home here to us to stay as long as we want while she's traveling to Russia and the Black Sea. Jane's flat is full of treasures from all over the world, and is located down the block from an immense park/natural area that extends all the way to Waterloo (yes, the original) 30 km away. Last night we went walking near the Grand'Place, the central medieval marketplace and Brussels' most famous attraction, and had dinner on a lively little side street. We chose the place because (a) it was the only one that didn't aggressively solicit our business via a highly extroverted streetside waiter/marketeer, and (b) a talented clarinetist played sweet jazz while we ate. The nonstop parade of international visitors made their way along the shining wet cobblestones under brightly colored awnings, as the extroverted waiters tried in language after language to get them to stop for soupe de poissons or frites.
Back at Jane's, Trileigh was reading a chapter from _Bobos in Paradise_ by David Brooks: an amusing analysis of the "Bourgeous Bohemians" (BoBo's) that we've all become as us 60's hippies become Establishment members but simultaneously try to retain our rebel status. In his chapter on "Business Life," Brooks mentions Jane Jacobs' classic 1961 book _The Death and Life of Great American Cities_. And thence, having just returned from a wonderful city evening, we got into the following seminar: cities as incarnated models of human meaning. So here goes: Some thinkers have rejected religious systems as sources of meaning for modern-day humans on the basis that these systems are outmoded and rely on stories that science has demonstrated to be untrue in a literal sense. They -- I'm thinking of Brian Swimme and Thomas Berry here at the moment, but there have been many others -- propose that the scientific stories of origin and evolution can now provide a satisfying substitute for religious systems, since they provide both a grand(est)-scale creation story that acknowledges that humans are part of something much larger, and also a direction (evolution) to which humans can contribute positively. Those of us who are scientists, or in any case the two of us, find awe and mystery permeating the scientific enterprise. But many (if not most) humans seem to find the scientific story unsatisfying as a context for meaning in their lives; it seems impersonal and mechanistic.
These kind of characterizations, intriguingly, also are those used by Jane Jacobs against the new urban "improvement" projects of the 50's and early 60's ("High Modernist" urban planning) that razed neighborhoods and built extensive standardized apartment buildings that were considered "rational" and "orderly." She contrasted the impersonal and machine-like housing models with the quirky, unique, small-scale, unpredictable neighborhoods in which she lived, which added together compose a living, lively, energetic city, like where we had dinner last night. If we for the moment take cities as lived expressions of what humans in a group find meaningful as a context for living their lives, is there anything we can learn from modern urban systems about ways to adapt meaningful systems for contemporary humans, or ways not to?
For instance, we noted that in several of the cities we've visited to date, our favorite places were lively side streets that were on the close fringes (within a couple of blocks) of a major urban landmark and gathering place; for instance, at Montmartre/Paris and the Grand'Place/Brussels. It somehow matters, we think, that a big public place is very close by -- those side streets probably wouldn't have had their liveliness and sense of anticipated discovery if they'd been off by themselves in the country somewhere. So what would that pattern (viz. C. Alexander) suggest about meaning-contexts in a philosophical sense? Obviously, other people may love other aspects of cities than we do -- but the High Modernist projects are pretty universally reviled these days, so probably there are at least some generalities that could be tentatively made about positive and negative aspects of urban design in this light. We'd love any thoughts on this topic that our friends would have -- for instance, what are your favorite places in the cities you're familiar with? Why? What meaning do these places have for you?
We could probably go on about this for quite a while, but we'll stop here for the moment. This blog entry has gotten long enough since we haven't been able to connect well for a while. Off to Scandinavia after yet another national holiday monday. Oh Belgium!
Poitiers to Geneva and on to InterLaken
Poitiers to Geneva to Interlaken
We traveled more or less due east from Poitiers into the Massif Central, where lo! there is a great deal of vulcanism, calderas, lava flows, the whole bit. Trileigh has some explanation for this in terms of plate tectonics, which may not have been fully understood by her pupil. [TT: that may be because I actually have no idea, but was making up stuff about volcanism behind a subduction zone, which doesn't really seem to apply but was the best I could come up with at the moment...] We ended up camping up in the provincial forest above the sweet medieval village of Olliergues, in a raging thunderstorm, lightning crashing directly overhead, wind thrashing through the trees and all. Put the tent to the test, and it worked wonderfully.
Onward around the unnervingly complicated-looking Lyon, to the northeast through an area of marshes and bird sanctuaries, clearly an huge area for migrations, and finally into the foothills of the Alps. Stopped for the night in a cute little auberge in a town called Ruffieu (?). In all these little French towns there are poignant war memorials to the fallen and deported in the last several wars. Always in the central square, always very close to the collective consciousness; how does that ongoing proximity affect citizens' feelings toward their neighbors? The following day we went up through the Monts Juras, the real Juras-sic Park as it were, with some pretty extraordinarily revealed geology. [TT: Gorgeous folds and faults! Limestone and shales galore! Plate tectonics in action! Glacial icing!]
From that auberge I managed to contact a cousin once removed, Irene Duisberg Cassels, who lives with her family in Geneva and whom I had not seen in nearly 30 years. Checkpoints at the beginnings and now middle of whole lives lived! Geneva was gloriously beautiful and crisply clean as one might expect, and the hospitality of Irene and Keith was extraordinarily warm (especially given the fact that they'd been given less than 24 hours notice...such is our improvisation at this stage). Keith even sent us out to spend the day on Sunday sailing in his 10 meter sailboat out on the lake, a most unexpected special pleasure. And the lake was wonderfully refreshing to swim in, and the wind calm enough to make repeated plunges very inviting. All this plus Mont Blanc in the background.
On the Swiss national holiday of August first we found ourselves traveling into the real mountains, driving up an astounding long winding road that Rob had cycled during his Amsterdam-to-Vienna bicycle trip 30 years ago (!!!-TT), ending up at Interlaken, beneath the Jungfrau (4000+ meters). We wandered into town toward evening and got caught up in a festive crowd and were treated, again unexpectedly, to a completely extraordinary fireworks display. And all around the mountains, above the lakes, bonfires could be seen being lit!
Today's rainy weather gives us a chance to stop and catch up with ourselves and do a bit of processing of what we've been taking in over the month of our travels so far. Tomorrow we may head up into the high meadows and do some hiking up there in the glorious central Alps, so reminiscent of and yet so different from our own Cascades.
Chateau St. Julien l'Ars near Poitiers
Serendipity: Before leaving Paris, on Saturday night in the Latin Quartier, we were looking at a church when this older couple just walks up and says, "There's a concert here at 8:30." Well it turns out they had the wrong date, but we chatted a bit anyhow, whereupon it turns out they are from Tacoma, touring with the PLU Chorale and would be singing in Notre Dame at the 11:30 mass the next morning. So we chat some more and trade names and when Trileigh says "Trileigh Tucker," the fellow comes right back with "Formerly Trileigh Stroh?" After jaws drop, it turns out that he'd participated in some of Tri's soirees some 10 years ago. So naturally then, we headed for mass at Notre Dame that Sunday morning. We were so concerned with getting there early enough to beat the crowds that we were in time for the earlier mass -- a wonderful high-Gregorian event. We moved into almost-front-row seats for the 11:30 mass, which was quite something, and the choir was excellent. Also I don't know what it is about French organists; they seem to have a license to play the most edgy, modern, really wild stuff, and nobody seems to bat an eye. You would never hear this forward a music in any service in the states.
Finally we take our leave of Paris, where Peggy had made it so very easy to stay. We noodle on down toward the Loire Valley, and end up spending the night in a cute medieval town with the unpreposessing name of Meung. And then on down through the major chateau country to Chambord, in its full Disney-esque ostentation, and finally into the chateau of St. Julien l'Ars currently run by Nash Gubelman of Pacific Crest School.
But ultimately, the scene at the chateau, while serene, is kind of a bit down in the heels (understandably after 8 centuries or so). Nash has an amazing job on his hands. So we end up deciding not to stay as long as we might have thought, complete change of "plans" really, and are going to just head east, into the Massif Central, and see what we find. The adventure becomes entirely improvisational at this point!
Paris
We're currently in Paris, staying with my friend Peggy, who's known me since before I was born since her parents and mine were best friends at the time. Peggy owns a tea room/restaurant in a Paris "gallerie" called "A priori The". We've been hiking miles around the city each day, eating wonderful bread and cheese for many meals.
One of our "academy" seminar topics had to do with opinions about the difference between the spirits of Greek versus derivative Roman sculpture. Fortunately we had the freakin' Louvre conveniently at hand in order to test the theory. We went in the evening when the crowds were down so we actually got to see the portrait of Lisa Gherardini up close and personal. That was pretty special.
But also the structure of the tension-compression system that supported the famous pyramid as fascinating, and quite a contrast to all the classical work:
Mont Martre Sacre Coeur
Our first destination yesterday was Montmartre, and we got (way) up to Sacre-Coeur. After the hordes and long lines at Notre-Dame the previous day, it felt so peaceful and serene up there, and the church itself, seemingly as huge as Notre-Dame, managed to overcome that challenge to still be graceful and inspiring. A comment of Rob's got me thinking about the question of, for an alien being from another planet, what could be learned about these mysterious human attributes called "spirituality" and "religion" *just* from examining the architecture of Notre-Dame? And what different, or overlapping, conclusions might one draw from Sacre-Coeur? We arrived at Sacre-Coeur during a Mass, and it was wonderful seeing the variety of appearances of people coming to the altar. Some of the music we've stumbled into also has been very impressive. In Sacre Coeur, as well as in Troyes, they must have been playing Messiaen -- very forward, complex, grinding huge sonorities, and shifting multi-tonalities. Gripping and breath-taking stuff.
Bruxelles jusqu'a Troyes
After a leisurely last morning in Brussels, we wound our way through Belgium via the medieval towns (aren't they all?) of Namur and Dinant. Namur was hosting the last day of its summer music festival, and we conveniently ignored a "ferme" sign to make our way into a church in which the orchestra was rehearsing a Mozart symphony for that night's grand finale concert. How lovely to hear the extended reverberation of the last note among the church's ancient stones. We spent that night camping in a regional forest, playing chess and talking under the stars, drifting off to sleep until a herd of some mysterious but unnervingly (to Trileigh) large animals came through the woods, accompanied by the sound of Bastille Day fireworks in the distance.
The next morning we drove into France without even a trace of a border crossing, simply a sign along the little road after a creek, notifying us of French speed limits: one of our first direct experiences of EU melding. Trileigh kept expecting to feel a Monet brush stroke across her cheek, driving through the French countryside with its sweeping fields of broad pastel stripes under a watercolor-clouded sky.
When the limestone ran out, we began to encounter half-timbered villages instead of stone ones -- but all of them held walls of bright red or pink flower baskets that highlighted the textures behind.
Rob found the house in Vendeuvres without any problem, and we were greeted warmly by his nephew Adrian and then beau-frere Olivier, with his sister Stephanie and nephew Alex not far behind. We then had the honor of meeting Olivier's mother, sharp witted, active and delightful at the age of 90 (what an inspiration!), who has lived here for more than 60 years. Our room is in the attic of this wonderful house, which was built in 1660. Olivier has been a magnificent chef during our stay here, with his magnum opus being Stephanie's birthday dinner on Sunday: an appetizer of mushroom quiche and salad, followed by veal and delightfully spiced mixed vegetables, with a finale of plum-and-dark-chocolate pie. And a different wonderful wine with each course. Oooh-la!! Quelle fete!
The next afternoon we left Vendeuvres for Troyes, known for its seven Gothic churches - a major "eglise" per block. One in particular caught our attention with its filigree stonework; each front pillar had a mini-cathedral carved into it. Once in front, we heard music coming from inside, and for the second time in our travels entered a magnificent church with live music filling its immense spaces. Construction of this church had begun in 1209; it was consecrated in the 1400's, and was finally finished in the 17th century. We pictured generations of craftsmen passing along the family honor of getting to be part of this great sacred project, mounting stone on stone to create a 100' vertical space. The organ itself was a historical monument, built in 1869. Rob guessed the music to be Messaien -- turgid twisting harmonies and tone clusters showing an intimate command of the enormous sonorities of the organ, and perfectly breath taking in this huge powerful space.
