Through the veins of Europe and beyond

Ronda - De Locos Tapas

chiacchierare — Tue, 13 May 2014 03:20:00 GMT

Ronda, inspiration for Ernest Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls, home of bullfighting & most importantly the location of De Locos Tapas. This restaurant, located on the outskirts of the old town, just inside the city wall is easily overlooked by the tourists who flock around the famous bridge and bullfighting arena. The small restaurant have few tables and if they are full might ask you to wait at the bar next door, which will provide you with liver-punching drinks during until a table is liberated. Many have written their praise of this gorgeous tapas bar and it is hard to argue against these revering critics. Not only does the food taste divine, take particular note of the beans with quails egg, but the presentation is inspired. After having had your fill of cattle slaughtering and windswept bridges I would therefore recommend descending the hill towards this restaurant, leaving the more touristy food joints behind. You might just need the walk back up after all of the food that you are bound to stuff into your face. Enjoy!

Climbing Los Riscos - Or rather, do not climb Los Riscos

chiacchierare — Tue, 13 May 2014 02:49:00 GMT

The stones were bouncing down along the mountainside. I pressed my body against the rugged mountain, panting. My hand grabbing the edge of my phone which moments before had been sliding down towards the steep drop before me.

For a long time I had kept fooling myself that there had been a path before me. A path that had been treaded by many a walker. Sure, I had found it strange when I could not find anywhere to get passed the wire fence and I had to crawl under it. Pressing down my weight into the red dirt and dragging my camera along by its chord. But there had always looked like there had been a path, an upset in the red dirt indicating that it had been trampled only moments before. But I did not wonder when the path had disappeared as I reached the square stone blocks that made up Los Riscos. So I had climbed, resting in the shade of the scarce trees I could find, crawling in under outshoots of rock which gave a moment of escape from the scorching sun. After little more than an hour I had reached the top. I welcomed the vigorous breeze that awaited me there and for some moments all I could do was to sit. Sit and watch the valley far below as the rugged cliffs above ripped into the blue sky. Forcing myself to get up before I got too tired to leave I jumped the crags, carefully making my way down to a dip between two peaks. The stone that surrounded me was so strange, it reminded me of a jigsaw puzzle. It had split into pieces with sharp edges but still remained attached until you reached out and removed a slot, which you could then put back where you got it and leave the puzzle just as you had found it. At the same time it had the appearance of honeycomb. Large rounded cavities and caves hollowed the stone and exposed their interior as honey coloured, a sharp contrast to the storm grey colour of the stone surface. In the small valley between the two peaks, several levels had been fenced of by round-stone walls and several round-stone mounds were located before the remains of a round-stone enclosure. I was struck by the strangeness of the location for what looked like ancient fields. I was far above the civilization below, any remnant of a path I had long since left behind and the only signs I had seen of life had been isolated to mountain goat excrement. It had been their paths that I had followed in the misguided belief that they would take me to safety. The view from the ruins was staggering, far below the two mountainsides converged creating a gulf in which a white village shone against an expanse of green chestnut trees. My desire was to continue upwards, wishing that against all hopes there would be a manmade path across the next mountain ridge. However, the clock was relentlessly moving towards five and I remained hours from home. After a short rest in one of the caves I had decided to attempt to descend. Initially I had not thought that it would be that hard, getting up had, after all, not been that hard, only draining. As it would appear climbing down a steep crumbling rock face is quite a different matter to getting up. So now I was standing on a narrow ledge, desperately clinging on to the mountainside, the edge of my escaping phone under my fingertips. The avalanche of stones was just quieting. My heart beating so hard my fingertips were vibrating.

For a long time I had had belief that all would be well. Now all I had was fear. Fear and the knowledge that I might never get down.

Photos: Spain

chiacchierare — Tue, 13 May 2014 02:25:00 GMT

Cafe Florian

chiacchierare — Fri, 9 May 2014 23:55:00 GMT

An almost non existent breeze still managed to find its way all the way from the piazza into the café. I leaned back into the velvet-upholstered chair and observed the wall paintings as I waited for my order to arrive. Beautiful men and women sitting on clouds draped in deep colours of red and blue surrounded me. Golden candelabras were lighting the room, even in the depth of summer. Heat was radiating out from the room as well as in from the piazza. Nowhere was safe.

A waiter came with a silver tray balanced in one hand and a soda streamer in the other. The white ice cream topped with a lemon sliver was already melting, but so was I so I couldn’t blame it. The waiter gave the streamer a shake, sprayed some of the water over the ice cream and put the hand-blown glass bowl down in front of me. Well, you can’t be in Venice and not eat from hand-blown glass I guess.

I was sitting at Caffé Florian on Piazza San Marco, strictly speaking the only piazza in Venice. The rest are apparently called campo. An orchestra was playing music out in the square and an extra 6 euros have been added to my bill, my contribution to the music which I could not escape however far into the café I ventured. As I watched the orchestra through the large open window I wonder how much has changed here since Goethe himself was sitting here. Judging by the look of it at least the décor remain intact, and the tourists are certainly no new concept in Venezia. Although, I presume that any orchestra then would have played less Sarah Brightman. With my beautifully sparkling lemon gelato consumed I open up my book and continue tracing my travelling companion. Goethe’s Italian Journey.

Château Minerve

chiacchierare — Fri, 9 May 2014 22:49:00 GMT

The tower surrounded by birds is all that remains of Château Minerve, which was besieged by Simon de Montfort in 1210. Following the massacre of Béziers in 1209 Château Minerve had provided a refuge for escaping Cathars. However, this haven did not last long and when the castle was surrendered to the Crusaders on 22 July 1210 it is believed that 150-180 Cathars were burned alive. The events were immortalised in the Song of the Cathar Wars

The castle of Minerve sits not on a plain,
But stands, as God is my witness, on a high spur of rock.
There is a no stronger fortress this side of the Spanish passes,
Except Cabaret and Termes at the head of Cerdagne.
William, lord of Minerve, rested and bathed,
Shut up in the castle with his whole troop.
Our French men and those from Champaigne,
From Maine, and Anjou and Brittany,
From Lorraine, and Frisia and Germany
Drove them all out by force before the grain ripened.
And there they burned alive many heretics, sons of bitches,
Frantic men and crazed women who shrieked among the flames.
Not the value of chestnut was left to the survivors.
Afterwards, the bodies were were thrown out and mud shovelled over them
So that no stench from these foul things
Should bother our foreign forces.

Opera in the Roman Arena

chiacchierare — Fri, 9 May 2014 22:27:00 GMT

The crowd was growing quiet as the darkness settled over the arena. A rustling noise announced that the candles that had been handed out at the entrance were being unwrapped. The few with lighters lit their candles and slowly the fire spread across benches and down rows, neighbours leaning over to light their candles on those of their companions. Before long the stadium was filled with flickering flames. Each on their own hardly noticeable but together they lit up the entire roman arena. As wax was melting onto people’s hands the spectacle began. The first singer walked onto the stage and a roar from the crowd greeted his appearance with approval. The air of the ancient arena soon vibrated with the sound of violins and drums and so the opera started. Just as they had for 100 years before when Verdi first set his Aida in this magnificent setting. Enchanted by the smell of a thousand candles, filled with the music of great composers and hypnotised with the floating costumes of the singers I was transported back to a time long since past.

Songs from Carcassonne

chiacchierare — Fri, 9 May 2014 22:20:00 GMT

The vaults above me point towards the sky. In an art history class a long time ago we were taught that this was an attempt to reach for the heavens and to glorify God. Gothic, someone named it. The light streaming in through the windows filtered through the coloured glass depicting scenes from the life of Christ. This leaves the large room with a constant red tint. I sit on one of the benches looking at the statues peering down at me from the ceiling above. Three men march up to the nave and stop in the choir, forming a small semi-circle. Two of them start humming as the third pull out a large book, and then they sing. A wave of sound sweep through the cathedral, incredibly emanating from only these three men. Their song stops the people photographing every nook and cranny, they move towards the benches and slowly the activity of the church halts, only the three singers remain standing. As a thundering base rolls down the aisles and fills the transepts, a voice, ever so clear tears us up and elevates us to the ceiling. Here in this small cathedral, locked behind the medieval walls of a fortified hill town this Russian choir present to us lucky few the physical manifestation of the heart wrenching passion concealed in the human spirit.

Photos: France

chiacchierare — Fri, 9 May 2014 21:52:00 GMT

Other photos from France 2013

Photos: The Pyrinees

chiacchierare — Fri, 9 May 2014 21:10:00 GMT

Photos: Italy

chiacchierare — Fri, 9 May 2014 20:39:00 GMT

Midnight Train to Paris

chiacchierare — Fri, 9 May 2014 20:32:00 GMT

Padova train station 20.34 Sunday evening

The darkness has started to descend and the people on the platform increasingly have to rely on the florescent lights above. The sky is turning an azurian blue but keeps exploding into a sea of white as the lightning crosses the heaven. No rain though, at least not yet. Announcements of delayed trains are read out every other minute and people are pacing restlessly along the platform. The wind blowing in from the direction of the thunderstorm seems much more real than any of the concrete and steal that surrounds me. Sleek silver trains glide in and out of the station with a singing noise announcing its modernity. Whilst old regional ones screech to a halt at their platforms and coughing attempt to leave again. A loud thunderclap is echoes through the station and for a brief moment everyone freezes with their eyes directed towards the sky as if they first now have noticed the raving storm above. Clearly the thunder and lightning that is so real to me is merely filtered as background accompaniment by my fellow travellers amassing below orange glowing billboards. In a brief moment the sky has turned from azure blue to a dark, almost grey blue, and the rain starts to fall. The smell of the water hitting the stones below the tracks is enticing. It is both sweet and musty with a tang of metal mixed in from the tracks. I wait patiently as a train to Milano passes by, my night train to Paris still remarkably absent. Melancholy as I feel upon my approaching departure from Italy I have to admire the display before me and I could not have asked for a better send off, on my way as I am, to the city of light.

On the Road - Old fashioned style

chiacchierare — Thu, 8 May 2014 20:37:00 GMT

I have the feet of a traveller, a pilgrim. Covered as they are in blisters, sores and dirty. A permanent ‘X’ embellishing them even when they are bare, a mark of the time spent in my sandals on dusty roads. Each weary step takes me forwards, but not closer as I am not going to anything.

I am approaching a walled hill town and a thought strikes me as I see it tower up ahead. Right now could be any time. The last half millennia has hardly left any trace here. The walls are the same, the olive groves though which I walk are the same. The same leather soles have beaten this path, travellers’ backs just as aching, their bellies just as empty. And the joy upon seeing this haven of rest is still the same.

From where I am standing you could choose your own time and it would have seemed just as accurate. The blue sky betrayed nothing, the sandy walls revealed nothing either, the browning grass told tales only of a summer of drought.

As I had indulged in these thought of time travel I had stopped but as soon as I realise this I start to move again. Staying stationary for too long will only make my blisters hurt all the more when I resume my walk. Not so much a walk any longer as a stumbling procession.

The Prayer

chiacchierare — Sat, 3 May 2014 20:35:00 GMT

It is time. I stir as I hear a faint crackling through some far away speakers. I turn over, waiting. The sheet has since long left my bed and I have spread my limbs to get the best effect of the fan which stands prompted on the wicker chair next to my bed.

Through the darkness some light has found its way through the open window. It is filtered through the metal bars on my window, leaving a chequered pattern on the wall next to my four-poster. I turn my head against the window, listening. Not properly awake, nor properly asleep I feel myself drifting in and out of slumber. Before many seconds are up a loud cry pierce the night. But this is no undirected cry in the night. It starts on a low note and quickly escalates in a melodic way, pulling you in whilst warding you off with its metallic rustle. It is heartfelt, it is earthly and deep. A cry you will rarely hear in the western world. A cry that grips the heart and pulls it through your throat, leaving you gasping for breath. An ancient, ancestral cry which cannot fail to affect the listener. I am used to the cry, I have heard it before. To me it comes as on a wave, a wave of heat from the city outside. It gently shakes my sleep, bringing the harmonic melody to me even in my muddled half sleeping state.

In my dozing state I ride the waves of sound, letting it lead me away from my own dreams to those merging with the reality of the magical world outside. The prayer stops, and I turn away from the window. So dependable, so comforting, I would not wish for a night without this ephemeral interference.

Night in Marrakech

chiacchierare — Fri, 2 May 2014 00:19:42 GMT

The heat was settling and the first cool winds were sweeping in from the desert. The sky slowly turning from a clear blue to an unapologetic black, penetrated by the white light of a thin moon shiver. Tunes from the snake charmer’s flute float to my rooftop on merciful winds. Lanterns in red and orange light up on the surrounding rooftops, accompanying my own humble iron wrought lamp. Hands decorated with intricate geometric patterns indicate that the time has come to leave. As I stand a musical prayer ring out from the nearby minaret. The sound is filtered through the metallic rustle of a microphone, maintaining its surreal beauty.
I walk down a steep staircase and a wall of heat meets me as I abandon the safety of the rooftops and head out on the streets. They are narrow enough for me to touch both of the earthen walls that surround me and still motorcycles drive past me, some getting stuck with meeting bikes causing a commotion as the handlebars interlock. A group of young girls hurry past and young men follow them with their gaze. One boisterous man asks; ‘How many camels for your hand in marriage? How many? I will give one thousand.’ But even faced with this lucrative offer the women hurry on.
A man cleaning the street outside of his shop throws water onto the street before it. Settling the sand. Traders call out to all passers by, trying to convince the last strollers to commit one last fools bargain before the end of the day.
The hot air is caressing my face, enveloping me in equal shares of spice and excrement. A whiff of henna reaches me and my eye is drawn to the last herbologist, still soldiering on in the stuffy night. A cat is lying lazily on a shelf yawning at passers by.
The music of the snake charmers is getting louder as I approach the Square of the Dead, Jemaa el-Fnaa. This is where people gather at night to see all the marvels on offer, from fire-eaters to monkey trainers. The hustle increase in volume as I get closer. ‘Very good price for you!’ ‘Ramadan price!’ I can do good price.’ I ignore these cries, having heard them all before. Dodging donkey carts and motorcycles I manage to cross the square, I trip and put my foot into one of the numerous holes decorating the square and brown water splash the dark blue of my trousers. I disappear from sight in one of the labyrinth like alleyways, bordered by freshly hung meat and ceramic pots. The colors of the shops fade behind me into a union of beige and brown.

Summer nights at the Duomo

chiacchierare — Sun, 9 Jun 2013 23:59:00 GMT

The wind is making the shutters shake. When the shutters were first installed the workmen must have decided that the fastenings must not be too close to the shutters, they could after all lock in place and no one would want to be stuck with immovable shutters! So the shutters shake, squeak and bang. Through the roar of the wind and the banging of the shutters, a different sound can be heard. A sound of drums. If you lean out the window, the warm wind will embrace you and bring you the echoes of the drums from across the valley. Apart from these noises there is nothing. No trains, cars or planes, just silence, wind, drums and shutters. The duomo, which is situated just behind my house and whose bells announce the coming of a new day, only a tad too loudly, dragging me out of my gentle sleep, is now silent.

Usually the old women are sitting outside my window in our little garden. ‘Our’ little garden is a small terrace overlooking the Umbrian countryside, it is situated on the top of a hill crowned with a city that has clung to the rock since before time began. A Neolithic wall separates us from the modern world below, in the valley. The streets up here on the mountain are not wide enough for cars, not that this fact prevents either cars or busses from driving here, gradually wearing down every house corner in the city until there will not be a sharp edge in the whole town. The streets, covered as they are in marble cobbles, provide a lethally slippery route down hill which ought not to be pursued in shoes with leather soles.

The sun has set long ago and usually the women can be heard chiachierano outside at this time of the day. However, today they seem to have retreated due to the strong gusts shaking the shutters, making the trees fizz. The yellow light from the street lights is also penetrating into my room and I rejoice in the magical light, which seems to emanate from a story book rather than from the street outside.

This is where I live, where in the morning, as the sun reveals the valley beneath our hill, waves of mountains, dotted with pert cypresses will be seen against the horizon.