Lyon, France

Lyon is the second largest city in France and it has a unique history. It is sometimes overlooked as it sits in the shadow of her older sister Paris just four hours away. Interestingly enough, Lyon began as the capital of Gaul under the Roman Empire and was once a trade center for merchant goods all throughout ancient Europe. Roman architecture is evident in the city buildings, theaters, and streets, and now the city is on UNESCO's World Heritage List. Geographically speaking, Lyon resides in the Rhone valley, home to some of the world’s most famous red wines (i.e. Cote du Rhone & Beaujolais-Villages to name a few).

The city is basically divided in thirds thanks to two rivers that run parallel north to south: the Rhone and the Saone. The easternmost third is the newest and most modern part full of modern day high rise buildings. Cross the bridge westward and the city gets more interesting as it begins to reveal its architectural nuances. This part of the city is just a sliver of land hosting old buildings with ornate facades, stuffy European hotels, charming storefronts, and overpriced restaurants. Cross yet another bridge and the historical medieval city center comes to life. In the medieval city, the buildings hold secrets of their own and the Roman theaters echo moments of an ancient past.

A friend and I ventured to find Lyon’s secrets on a chilly, yet sun-filled November morning. We took the train-lift up through darkened tunnels, to the road where the ancient Romans walked. Under my feet, a path of stones lay unevenly and in peculiar positions with overgrown grass flourishing between them. The path led to a maze of walls cut from ruined stones that have not seen a roof over them for some hundreds of years. Just beyond these ruins, up on the hillside, stood a glorious ancient theater.


Gallo-Roman Theater

I seized the stage, closed my eyes, and imagined the ancient Romans filling the seats in togas and Birkenstocks watching my performance of Homer’s Iliad. The acoustics were clear, and as I stood in silence, I listened to the winds & whispers of visitors that stood high up in the seats. I climbed the steps to become a Roman myself, and as I turned to look at the stage, I was enchanted by the city backdrop that stretched as far as the eye could see. The orange-tiled roofs glowed and the river waters glistened with absolute brilliance.

Within eyeshot the Cathedrale St.-Jean stood pompously above all other neighboring buildings on the hill. It too was an impressive structure reminiscent of many of Europe’s old cathedrals. Its architecture was cold and evoked an ethereal feeling as I looked up into the gigantic dome and the echoes resonated in my head, making me feel like a simple and diminished being. I stood amidst a rainbow of candles, each representing a prayer, perhaps a prayer for the family, or a miracle for a sick mother, or for atonement of a burdensome guilt, or maybe just a pretentious prayer by one who wanted to see the inside this cathedral. All in all, St-Jean seemed to inspire me with fresh imagination and wonder.


Prayers of the faithful at the Cathedrale St.-Jean

We said goodbye to St.-Jean as we snaked down a hillside garden full of marble statues and water fountains. Through brief openings in the trees, we caught glimpses of the cathedral for the last time. After descending a never-ending set of steps, we found ourselves on the cobblestone streets of medieval Lyon.


Neverending Steps

Here we were welcomed by the scent of fresh baked bread, almonds, and the charming restaurants that called to us like Sirens. Our hunger at that point was relentless, but knowing that the day was dwindling we resisted the temptation in order to explore the secret traboules of Lyon.

The traboules are a series of tunnels that the ancient Romans built within the ancient buildings. These shortcuts served the merchants, silk traders and vendors who wanted to protect their goods as they traveled through the city. Nowadays, many of the traboules are hidden and can only be found by pushing randomly on any given old oaken door. At first, we pushed rather tentatively on a few doors thinking that some curmudgeon of an old man might pop his head out and with a thick Pepe le Peu accent, scream “Get lost, you stupid Americans.”

Then finally, one door creaked open to reveal the mouth of a darkened traboule. We entered the musty labyrinth with careful footsteps along a narrow passage, leading up a spiral staircase, and past locked gates of what seemed like the chambers of an old dungeon. We found a long straight hall with a glimmer of light at the other end, and began to inch closer and closer when suddenly an elderly couple startled me as they turned the corner to meet my camera lens. “Pardon moi!” I said in my own pathetic version of French, and then I turned to find myself at the central courtyard of this ancient building.


Traboule

After just a brief stint of daylight in this courtyard, we re-entered the darkened tunnels into another maze-like gauntlet that led to the tail-end of the traboule at another oak door at a street along the Saone River. And so as the day began to fade, we explored more traboules, unlocking the secrets that lie within. But soon the Sirens of hunger called again, and this time we succumbed to their songs and fell at the mercy of a French bistro where we found dinner.

- Marvin A.

Barcelona - Part II

The Docks
Sunday morning was invitingly sunny and warm, so Michael & I decided to make our way to the beach. En-route, we passed through the marina at the port of Barcelona. We walked along the docks to catch a few glimpses of the hundreds of boats, whose naked masts stood idle just waiting to set sail into the Mediterranean.

Port of Barcelona

The Beach Debate
We arrived at the beach to stake out a peaceful spot among the golden sands. It was an ideal place to worship the sun, take in the waves, and watch people walk by. Here the fisherman anchored their poles deep into the sand, and the seniors fiercely played countless games of bocce.

Bocce Anyone?

As we walked along the beach, we noticed a pot-bellied old man with slicked back hair strutting his stuff like he owned the place. I can only describe it as disturbing. You know, like, make-you-feel-icky disturbing. “That’s just wrong,” I blurted out without a second thought. My remark somehow sparked an odd debate about the pros & cons of wearing a Speedo. From a European standpoint, Speedos are quite normal – a way of life – I suppose. So, perhaps I was just being an uncultured ethnocentric American. I mean, who am I to judge? I’ve never worn a Speedo in my life (with the exception of the tighty-whitey Superfriends underwear I wore as a kid). After all, there are benefits to proudly wearing that little piece of lycra. For instance, having clean tan lines, or being able to swim fast like Aquaman, or especially avoiding those annoying air bubbles in my trunks. And who knows, perhaps I might even look good in one? Yikes!

Port Olympic
After devoting way too much time to the subject, we made our way towards the Port Olympic and the giant copper fish that oddly poked out of the skyline. Along the boardwalk, a multitude of cafés and beachside bars beckoned us. So we took our chances at a place called Barnabiers. We sat down to the soothing sounds of a pan flute played by an ethnic South American guy with a rainbow colored llama-haired vest. At first, it was kind of nice as he played melodic tunes like the Song from Titanic, Chariots of Fire, Everything I do - I do for You, and Simon & Garfunkel’s Sounds of Silence. But then, we came to realize that the extent of his repertoire ended there, and the songs re-commenced in a nauseatingly endless loop. For a moment, I wished I were on the Titanic sinking to the abyss so I could be spared of the torture. To make matters worse, the service was at a snail’s pace (an authentically Spanish nuance). But after the third go around of the Sound of Silence, and me begging that it really were silent, we finally got the check.

Port Olympic

Nearby, we chanced upon the Parc en la Ciudad (Park in the City), where we found Barcelonians searching for some peace away from the busy city life. The center of the park was home to an incredibly elaborate fountain with dragons guarding its waters. Mike quickly pointed out that, "It is the architecture of kings, and not of the common people." So, like kings we marched through the trails, and paraded triumphantly through Barcelona’s Arc de Triumf.

Parc en la Ciudad

Another dose of Gaudi - Casa Batllo
Despite the miles of walking up to this point, I still craved to see more Gaudi. Like an addict needing another fix, I ventured alone to the Casa Batllo, to get an intimate view of one of Gaudi’s masterpieces. The Casa Batllo, also known as the "bone house," has a design that is both functional & aesthetic. The outer façade is adorned with purple scale-like tiles, and features these boney columns & balconies that resemble skulls. Inside, the rooms have peculiar mushroom shaped door frames, pastel stained-glass windows, and intricate chandeliers.

Casa Batllo

In the center of the building, an airy atrium made of blue tiles of every shade imaginable opens up to a skylight several stories high. I climbed the steps to a labyrinth of upper chambers where white arching rooms echoed with the whispers of curious visitors. Then through a narrow stairwell I arrived at the rooftop patio, where the roof-tiles seemed to resemble the back of a dragon with orange & green scales. Alongside it, proudly stood a pearlescent five-pronged cross crowning the building for everyone to admire.

Dragons & Crosses

I was absolutely captivated as I stood there silently gazing out over the rooftops as the dusk winds blew through my jacket. I stared into the distant mountains one last time as the faint outline of a domed cathedral faded imminently into the evening. And it was from here, I said goodbye to Barcelona once more.

-Marvin A.

Barcelona - Part I

The City - 11/05/04
Barcelona is my favorite city in Europe and in my opinion, the most ideal place to live. It’s nestled between a mountain backdrop to the west and the Mediterranean coast to the east. The warm weather (high 60’s during my stay) attracts world travelers looking to escape the cold. Barcelona is also a cosmopolitan city with a wide array of charming restaurants with delicious foods and wines to suit any palate. Most of all, it possesses awe-inspiring architecture, most notably the work of the modernist architect Antonio Gaudi (hence where the word gaudy originates). The spirit of Barcelona in simple terms is just that: gaudy, eccentric, and modern.


Barcelona

I had an ambitious itinerary and was looking forward to a full weekend of exploring this idyllic city. Two years ago, I was with Holli & a half-dozen friends from business school who cared only to drink up the night and sleep down the days. This time, a good friend (Michael) from Switzerland flew in to hang with me. We arrived after 9 p.m., the usual time for dinner here in what's called the Catalunya region of Spain. So we ventured for food to satisfy our hunger pangs in the most logical place to get oriented with Barcelona: Las Ramblas. This popular tree-lined street is sleepless and breathes with life at any hour. We could feel the rumble of the metro train below our feet as we walked down the wide median that cuts the street down the middle. We fought our way through the crowds, passing overpriced newsstands, flowery kiosks, tarot card readers every 50 feet, random guys selling beers by the can from six-pack plastic rings, and one dancing puppet show by a dreadlocked Brit. After countless rows of outdoor cafes, we swooped down upon one table, seemingly perfect for people watching, drinking beers, and munching on a variety of Spanish tapas. This was the fantastic scene that welcomed me back to Barcelona.

Wandering the Streets - 11/06/04
We started the morning navigating through the narrow corridors of the oldest part of the city: el Barrio Gotic. The streets of hand laid stone seemed to close into us, making each passage feel like we were in a maze. I imagine it’s quite easy to slip through the shadows of these streets undetected. Luckily all roads in this part of the city seem to lead to the Cathedral of Barcelona, a 13th century gothic cathedral, where the crypt of Saint Eulalia resides inside. If you want, you can put in a 50 cent Euro piece, and a light comes on for a minute so you can get a glimpse of the tomb. Kind of creepy!


Barrio Gotic

Just outside in the square, street performers work hard for the Euro. We stopped to watch the grungy flamenco dancers, bards speaking in broken English, flower holding clowns, ragtag puppet show theaters, juggling punks, and aspiring break-dancers. Some artists engaged us with more conventional acts such as the didgeridoo, hand drums, dueling violins, harpsichords, and classical guitar. It was all a bit charming to watch these troubadours gather the crowds as the autumn sun began to warm our faces.

Being a musician, I could picture myself playing on these streets, but I realized that it must be tough to be a performer in this competitive environment. There are just too many artists to count, and not enough Euros to go around (especially with the US exchange rate right now). As a result, Michael & I had to come up with special criteria to decide on who we’d give money to. So we came up with the notion of “eccentric creativity.” Like standing on your head while playing an instrument with your feet creative, or juggling knives creative, or even setting yourself on fire creative. This new measure seemed to work well as we found more unusual entertainment in the form of a haggard cat lady who adorned her cats with Hawaiian leis, or the statue guy who tied himself to the side of the cathedral wall in Christ-like fashion to emulate Jesus. But the most deserving performance came from none other than the headless accordionist who drew smiles from countless passers-by. Truly, these artists represented Barcelona’s eccentricity quite well.


Headless Accordianist - Can you spare a head...uh... Euro?

Michael & I would liked to have enjoyed the entertainment, but we were determined to see the work of Guadi. To do so, we made our way to the Placa Catulunya, the largest square in Barcelona. It is the heart of the city where the fountains burst with energy and people shoot pictures as pigeons swarm the brave few who offer portions of their lunch. We picked up a bus here to la Sagrada Familia.

La Sagrada Familia is the most famous cathedral in Spain. Gaudi took on this lifelong project in 1882, and died before seeing it completed. Construction still continues on today. His vision was to create a cathedral of mythical proportions that was inspired by his fervent faith and the natural world that surrounded him. When completed, la Sagrada Familia will have 18 towers: twelve representing each apostle, four representing the four evangelists, one for the virgin Mary, plus one large one in the middle representing Jesus. So far only eight towers are complete. It will have three facades: the glory façade, the passion facade and the nativity façade – the latter two being completed already. The nativity façade is adorned with stone carved leaves which look more like melted candle wax. The passion façade depicts Jesus’ suffering from a cubist perspective (Gaudi was a contemporary of Picasso).


La Sagrada Familia

The structure is enormous and boasts a blueprint inspired by the simple things in nature. For example, I ascended the complex towers through a narrow spiral staircase resembling the spirals of a seashell. The climb begins in darkness giving you a claustrophobic feeling that contrasts with vertigo as it opens up into small terraces hundreds of feet in the air. The spires are beautifully decorated with giant tiled clusters of grapes and leaves. And the columns closely resemble tree-like trunks looking up into the sky.


Treelike Columns of la Sagrada Familia

We continued our journey to Parc Guell, a hillside park overlooking the city. In fact Parc Guell, and the whole city was immortalized by the HP commercial featuring the Cure song, “Pictures of You,” filmed here on location. Here at this other Gaudi inspired respite, another musician played among the roman-style columns, while people sat on the veranda basking in the setting sun. Michael & I walked through the trails, stared at the chameleon fountain that many kissed for good luck, and admired the ornate mosaics decorating the park’s structures. It was a suitable place to watch the sun setting behind the mountains.


Parc Guell - Chameleon

Two Beds!
We headed back into the city for dinner at the oldest restaurant in Barcelona, Can Culleretes, founded in 1782. We found it on an obscure backstreet away from the busy Las Ramblas. They serve a menu del dia (menu of the day) where 15 Euros buys a three-course meal full of Spanish appetizers, baked salmon, ice cream, and plenty of vino tinto (red wine). The place though large, felt intimate as wall-to-wall people cramped in together. The walls were covered with yellow-stained pictures from the lingering cigarette smoke in the air. Wine flowed and conversations overlapped, as strangers glanced over at one another sharing the little space available. I slid between two tables practically sitting on top of one another.

A middle-aged balding Brit dined alone next to us. He smoked incessantly, and was determined to polish off his full bottle of wine. As the evening meandered on, our British friend seemed intent to talk to us, and began to recite bad jokes in his thick cockney accent. He took a peculiar liking to us. Apparently, he was on holiday, and he made sure we knew how frequently he traveled to Barcelona, and how the hotel clerks knew him by name. I politely smiled and asked him if he could recommend some good spots to hang out in. That only made things worse as he detailed the really great gay bars that he liked to frequent.

Then, I suddenly realized that from his vantage point we were two young guys having dinner together, and he probably assumed we were, you know, together. I guess I always heard of people having that mysterious gift called gaydar (apparently, the ability to sense the presence of a gay person close-by). I for some reason do not have this gift. Perhaps our new friend's gaydar was going off, but all the wine he imbibed seemed to be impeding the signal. Oddly enough, I found myself subconsciously trying to set the record straight as I deepened my voice and slipped in a few references about my wife Holli and my daughter, while I inadvertently played with my wedding ring explaining to him that I was here on business, and my friend Michael here, came to visit me for the weekend, and that we had two separate beds in our room. . .and. . .and. . . "TWO BEDS! TWO BEDS!" I so desperately wanted to shout out at the top of my lungs for the whole restaurant to hear. It was no use.

- Marvin A.

Hamburg, Germany

Hamburg Streets

It was only one afternoon, but an afternoon was all I needed to explore Hamburg. My mission was simple: go cathedral hunting. But to start, I sought coffee to revive me from the jetlag. In serendipitous fashion I came across a tiny church run coffee shop called Das Kirchencafe, at the base of the closest cathedral, St. Jacobi. I indulged in one of those miniature European espressos. It was just enough to kick me back in gear. I walked out into a gray and overcast day, and the wet air was the type you’d expect in northern Germany: hardy, thick, and heavy. It was an apt day for a leisurely stroll in the city.

The city of Hamburg was built on a port where water holds an important value. This is represented in a statue depicting a man carrying two buckets of water. Replicas of this same statue riddle the street corners of Hamburg. The man represents the people of Hamburg. And as history points out, these people made daily pilgrimages to the port's waterways to draw water and carry it back to their families for use. The statues are commissioned pieces of art, uniquely painted, each telling an individual story.

In Hamburg, the waterways are abundant and I walked a dozen footbridges over a series of canals that flowed through the city. Along the wider canals, colorful boats shamelessly cruise the rivers, proudly waving German flags. City buildings line the canals, except they don’t rise up like skyscrapers, they prefer to lie down alongside the rivers edge in one massive complex of a building stretching several city blocks long. The modern steel and brick structured buildings house countless shops. They share space with old wooden framed buildings, a faint reminder of old Europe.


One of the Many Canals

In essence, Hamburg is a juxtaposition of an old and new world. That's because in 1842, a fire broke out in a house on a little street: 25 Deichstrasse. The fire raged along, decimating the city in its entirety. And while most of the city was destroyed by the fire, some of it was salvaged and rebuilt. This did not last long, especially in 1945, when the allied bombs destroyed Germany. I stumbled upon the remains of one of these churches, St Nikolai. It’s an empty shell of what once was a cathedral of gothic beauty. I walked through the side door and found no shelter from the drizzling rain, it was only a hallway with no ceiling. All that remains is a lonely tower that arches high into sky with an exposed floor of ruins surrounding it. It serves as a simple reminder of the cruel effects of a war that crippled Germany.


St. Nikolai Tower

A few blocks away I spotted the clock tower of St. Michaelis cathedral. I navigated my way through an old neighborhood and up through a passageway that opened up to the church. Inside, I lit a candle at the altar, prayed for my family, and decided to climb the clock tower. Instead of taking the lift, I opted to brave the stairs and climb the 10 or so stories. It was a lonely dark climb where only steel support beams and concrete welcomed me. I felt like Jonah lost in the belly of a whale as each grueling step echoed on the cold steel in the belly of this beast. The climb took every breath out of me. At the top, I could see a sliver of light cracking through heavy iron doors, which broke open to reveal a platform offering a 360 degree panoramic view of Hamburg. The hazy gray sky made it hard to see far, but I could at least make out the ghosts of other churches in the distance.

After the tiresome walk through the city, I began to get hungry and decided to stop in the very spot where the 1842 fire began, Zum Brandanfang (the fire’s beginning) for some Konig Pilsner Beer and true German cuisine. I recommend the potato soup, fish filets with roasted potatoes, and the German cabbage. It all goes quite well with the beer. Zum Brandanfang is a charming place reminiscent of an old smoky bar with dark hickory bench seats. The cook passes food through an 18 x 24 inch sliding wood window, like those you might find in a dungeon where a prisoner receives his daily bowl of gruel and stale bread. Here the waitresses are girthy in a stereotypical German woman kind of way. They serve up patrons laughing, speaking in thick German accents, spilling beers, and smoking cigarettes. I sat there into the evening getting full, staring through the smoke filled room, focusing on the burning cigarette someone left in an empty ashtray. I got lost in a daze - jetlagged & daydreaming - all but convinced that the 1842 fire got started in a scene just like this one.

- Marvin A.