out a car window

Today, I rode in a car. Two, actually. It's really a different kind of life, being in a car. I mean, I saw little villages, and empty hillsides; running cows; old people drinking their afternoon beers outside the Gasthaus; it felt more like Living. People say that having a car makes you disconnected from the place you live but I feel just the opposite. All this train travel gives me a one-dimensional view of this country, and not a sympathetic one. The same shitty sandwich shops, and all the funny town names you see as you speed by (Wankdorf is a current favorite). The truth is, this country is beautiful, and it was like I felt it for the first time today, looking out my car window at the green, green hills, and the trees touching their branches to the ground.

Then, of course, we parked in a garage, and walked (not through the city center) to the church in Aarau where we were playing a Vespers service. If I hadn't taken the train yesterday, I wouldn't necessarily know what is charming about the place, its odd fountains and curving streets. If, if. We could go one step further, and I could mention the impression I got from the train station, each time I've gone to Zurich (it's on the way), and how, if I'd never played there, I would think Aarau dumpy, depressing, industrial, and sad. Too many "a"s all squished together in one word, it makes you wonder. Heh.

On the way there, I rode with Fredrik, oboe player of Norway. He has a station wagon because he has two children. On the way back, I rode with Joanna, violist of Poland. (Tangent: it occurred to me that the presence of "foreigners" in cities throughout Europe is not unlike the presence of people from Connecticut or Minnesota or Texas living in California; in this giant landmass, travel is easy, and relocation can be done for reasons like a job, or a relationship, or a whim. The only real difference from relocation in the US is that we share a language, television shows, Triscuits; while my childhood in Texas was undoubtedly different from my friends' childhoods in their respective states, we still operate under the same giant economy.) She has a station wagon because her husband plays harpsichord. She joked that the only people who drive this particular model of car are harpsichordists and retired people; she pointed out several examples of old-folks while we were on the road. My thoughts on foreigners moving freely throughout Europe (her husband is French) prompted me to ask her about her childhood in Poland. I think I initially won over this girl by proving my interest in Polish culture; I've read several books by Czesław Miłosz, who taught at UC Berkeley, and have of course seen all the same Krzysztof Kieslowski movies that everyone else has seen (The Double Life of Veronique; Bleu; Blanc; Rouge); plus, fortuitously, I had just read an interesting NYT article about the irrational tight-fistedness in Polish banks' willingness to give out loans to even wildly successful businesses, despite Poland's relatively stable economy. So. Joanna told me about life, as a child, under communist rule, where nearly everything was difficult to come by. The three things she was obsessed with having, she said, were bananas, chewing gum, and coca cola. Life in communism seems like such a foreign and ancient thing to me, I can't believe I have a friend--someone my age--who experienced it first hand.

I didn't manage to take any pictures today, and have only a few from my recent trips out and about. I'll include a short movie from this old church I visited in France, where, incongruously, someone was playing, with gusto, Pictures at an Exhibition on the organ. Other visitors to the church seemed annoyed that the music wasn't something predictable, or Baroque. I thought it was funny.

(Have I already mentioned how much my neighbor yells? He's really outdoing himself tonight.)

Here are some other random pictures. Charming statue of an observant boy.

Obscenely expensive shoes I bought and returned in Paris.

And, finally: what happens when your old bow is a little bit too tight, and the room gets colder, or drier, or something. I wasn't using it; I was, in fact, playing my other bow, when all of a sudden I heard a tremendous crack, and then, down at my feet, saw this. Shocked me to my core, I'll tell you. To my core. Oh well, it wasn't the best bow, and it can be fixed. It did have a really nice rehair, though, alas...

Je suis en Grenoble.

It's in the southeasternish part of France, in a valley surrounded by dramatic mountains, quite close to Italy, which explains in part the incredible meal I had tonight at Angelos, a tiny restaurant off one of the squares in the old part of town.  I went several days ago with some other people, and had a great meal; we tried to return a few days later, but came just as the restaurant was closing.  Tonight I was alone, I had arrived too early and had to wile away about 40 minutes waiting for the restaurant to open.  Naturally I was the first to be seated.  Angelo remembered what I ate the other day (I had asked halfway through the meal for a side of garlicky chard, which one of my table-mates had ordered) and came to my table to ask me if I'd like it the same way again.  His wife (I assume) does the serving and the parmesan cheese grating, along with any sous-cheffery that is required.  So.  I had gnocchi with tomato sauce and parmesan, and a side of garlicky, tomatoey chard, and a 1/4 litre du vin rouge, which is about at the limit of what I can drink myself.  It is difficult to eat well when you're away from home, I find, and the relish I took in tonight's meal should not be underestimated.

Two days ago afforded enough of a break in the schedule to make an excursion into the mountains.  In walking distance from the hotel is a 19th century prison, the old Bastille, and it's a brisk little hike up to the top of the fortress, although not quite to the top of the ridge.  I'm looking at it now, through my open hotel window, gauzy white curtains blowing in a late spring breeze.  The view from the top (or, as high as we went) is impressive, to say the least.  Clumpy, rounded mountains, their sedimentary layers visible, piled on one side.  Sharp points on the other side, graduated, growing higher and sharper into the distance.  In the middle, a valley floor, cut by the river Isère, with the old city in a huddle of twisty streets by the river, and the rest of Grenoble surrounding this, gradually built up as it has been along straight roads with the ugliest run-down blockish architecture you can imagine, standing like a blight against the verdant mountains.  

I have decided that wherever I choose to live, finally, has to have some dramatic element to set it apart.  The Pacific Ocean, for example.  Or these Alps.  Basel, it has the river, that's something.  It may not be enough.  We'll see.  Paris, I think that's the problem with it.  Many internal draws -- the varied Arrondissements, things to see, people to watch, culture, shops, etc, but then only the river running through the middle, and I don't even think you'd want to swim in it, as in Basel.

 

Several views from the Bastille.

Meanwhile, en France, je parle français.  Pas très bien, et pas tous les temps, mais j'ai un peu de vocabulaire et c'etais bien pour moi à comprendre ce que les personnes disent.  Two nights ago, I had a conversation Entirely In French, for maybe 20 minutes.  I couldn't believe it was happening.  We didn't talk about anything terribly complicated, but my ability to pull words out of my head after a break of 14 years is astounding to me.  If only the German language could be so smooth for me.  Quel dommage.

Alors, the wine has gone to my head, and I feel over-eager to nod off.  I have been sleeping poorly the past few days, though I anticipate a good sleep tonight due in part to the quiet side of the hotel, and the window that opens.  Small things like the window end up making a gigantic difference to my personal happiness and well being, away from home.  I do, by the way, miss Basel.  I'm looking forward to getting back to my bicycle, the print shop, my brown rice-lettuce-carrot-toasted almond salads.  The excessive amounts of chocolate I was eating before I left.  And, in June, several visitors, for whose visits I am extremely excited.

less-domestic

Went yesterday to see the Botanical Gardens here in Basel; they're funded by the University, along with some local pharmaceutical companies (Novartis, etc), so walking around is free.  There are several greenhouses; one with cacti and succulents, one Victorian-style building with all the wet species (giant lily pads, rice, etc), one for nurturing the new plants before they get properly placed in the other themed spaces, and then the tropical greenhouse, pictured above.  It is several stories high, at points, and includes a spiral staircase so you can look down from above at, excitingly, several species of tropical birds, chasing each other through the giant leaves and spongy-barked trees.  It's like the CA Academy of Sciences but without the steep admission and the noisy crowds.  I think this place will save me during the unending winter months.

The humidity was too high to get a proper, un-fogged picture, but here you can see some kind of bird that was maybe a yard from where I stood.

new growth in the potting greenhouse

the Victorian greenhouse, and the University library in the background

awfully nice, it was.

plant update

Hey, peas!

If the weather will warm up again, these might be ready to eat in the next few weeks.

The lettuce will be ready even sooner, methinks, and that tomato will be expecting its own pot before too long.

Rough equation: one sunny day = 3/4" growth.

I just made that up.  Based (at least somewhat) on actual (vague, lackidaisical) observation.

it's official:

I've been living here long enough (two and a half months, just about) that I no longer bring my camera with me wherever I go.  Train rides?  Just commuting.  Old churches?  Old hat.  (Ha.)  Although it spells doom for this blog (who wants to read a bunch of picture-less text?) it does mean that I'm more comfortable, and more adjusted, to my life here.  

Or, maybe my arm is just too sore to type.  (Not entirely a joke.)

At any rate, I don't want to imply that I don't still miss California desperately.  Because I do.  (Lately: sourdough bread. Dori and I would always have a loaf on the counter, and we ate so much of it that it was usually fresh.)

This week I've been traveling every day to Bern, for a program of Pergolesi and Michael Haydn.  The concert has no intermission.  What is it with these people?  As part of the continuo section I don't get any breaks, and I simply cannot play for two hours straight, it's too tiring.  Someone needs to tell them.  Maybe once I learn some more German.  

The church is pretty cool, it was built in the 1270s (I know).  As the only one on kontrabass I'm quite exposed, and it's a good opportunity for me to play extremely well in tune.  In general I'm rising to the challenge, but you know, being a good bass player isn't the easiest thing in the world.  It takes a lot of concentration. 

The other funny thing about this concert is that there is a violinist who looks like an almost perfect combination of Dominic West (Jimmy McNulty on the Wire) and Bradley Cooper (has been in some movies lately, though I haven't seen any of them).  When he plays, he slouches in a way so reminiscent of how McNulty would slouch if he were a Baroque violinist that I almost can't believe my eyes. 

Something I wished I had had my camera for was a transitional window display in on of Bern's major department stores.  During the day, I suppose, they had been prepping for the new beach scenes by putting out manikins and setting up props.  They saved clothes and hair for last, and must have run out of time, because when I walked by there were at least 8 separate displays of nude, bald figures (women, men, children) in poses that could only be described as suggestive.  Or, even, extremely suggestive.  I couldn't help but notice that all the lady manikins had articulated nipples.  Maybe an acknowledgment of how cold it can be in Switzerland?  Yeah, maybe.  I'm sure accuracy was the goal with that one.