One of the fun features of facebook is the ability to register as a "fan" of various teams, causes, groups and individuals. But for some reason last week, I was feeling a bit dissatisfied about the on-or-off nature of such a choice. After all, there are things and groups I'm much more devoted to than others, and so I suggested an alternative--a three-level expression of fan-ness ranging from "fan" to "advocate" to "militant supporter."
While facebook has yet to adopt this suggestion, the conversation on this subject with my facebook friends yielded a further refinement--a scale starting at 6 and ending at ten that covers the full range of support:
6-would generally prefer it to competitors
7-consider it part of one's identity
8-would actively recommend to others
9-would defend its honor in an argument, or perhaps, a fist-fight
10-would start a fist-fight on its behalf (if the situation warranted)
In most categories, I have but one entry. For sports teams, my criteria is slightly more relaxed--teams which generally don't play each other can be added.
6: Burger King (global fast food), Ajax (Dutch soccer), Star Alliance (airline alliance), Starwood Hotels, Lonely Planet (travel guides), Vlasic (pickles), Cattleman's BBQ sauce, Calve chunky peanut butter, Louisiana Brand hot sauce, Arkansas Razorbacks (college sports team-US South), Caramel/Toffee/Dulce de Leche, Klene Suikervrije Visjes (licorice), Canadian Club (whisky)
7. Chicago Cubs (baseball), The Economist, Turkish Coffee, Eurostar (trans-channel train service), Sharp Cheddar, Limes, DC United (MLS Soccer), KimChee (Korean equivalent of sauerkraut), CCM (association of communication pros), Magret de Canard (duck breast-favorite French meal)
8. University of Wisconsin (university, sports teams), Belgian Beer, easyJet (European budget airline), Democratic Party (US), Cocktail Sauce (US condiment), Pastrami (favorite delicatessen meal), Prime Rib (favorite steakhouse meal), Iskender Kebab (favorite Turkish meal)
9. Tottenham Hotspur (English Soccer), Liberal Judaism, US Men's National Soccer Team (international soccer), Belgium (favorite country to live in), President Barack Obama, Landmark Education (kick-ass education and training programs), Reproductive Freedom/Abortion Rights, The Pigs (favorite species)
10. Israel, Health Care Reform (US), London Business School
What I found most interesting in looking at things this way is that it gave me an ability to compare my various favorites across categories. I'm about as much of an Obama fan as I am a Spurs fan--would defend their respective honor, but also occasionally moan about various on-field mistakes. It also reflects some personal evolution--while I love the University of Wisconsin, it's the Tottenham results I look for first these days.
The fist-fight distinction is also a bit aspirational--I haven't actually been in any fist fights since university, my last attempt being at a Young Republicans convention in 1992 which preceded my switch to the Democrats by two months. But it still crystalizes a level of support that goes well beyond mere preference or 'fandom'.
Please have a gander at this--and include your own ratings in the comments below!
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Winter Olympics--What I'd Like To See
Aaah, it is but a few days until the Olympic Flame makes its triumphant entrance into the stadium in Vancouver, marking the start of the chilly version of "Seventeen Days of Glory."
Despite having had an abortive winter sports career that consisted of an abortive attempt at cross-country skiing (one that I never adequately apologized to my dad for--having duly bought me a pair of skis at my persistent insistence), I've long loved the cold version of the Olympics at least as much as the warm. Still, I think there's room for improvement--hence, my 2010 suggested Winter Olympic Combinations:
1) Biathluge: Combining the high-speed excitement of the luge with the precision of target shooting
2) Alpine Hockey: The offensive team passes the puck down the mountain while the defenders wait in front of the goal in the valley
3) Halfpipe Curling: Instead of pushing the stone straight to the target, the stone moves in pendulum motion, zigzagging down the snowboard half pipe towards Olympic glory
4) Short Track Ski Jumping: An abbreviated launch from higher altitude heightens the drama of an already breathtaking sport
5) Figure Slalom: Combining the artistics of figure skating with the short but precise turning of the slalom
While these are too late for inclusion in the 2010 agenda--how about trying these as video games?
Despite having had an abortive winter sports career that consisted of an abortive attempt at cross-country skiing (one that I never adequately apologized to my dad for--having duly bought me a pair of skis at my persistent insistence), I've long loved the cold version of the Olympics at least as much as the warm. Still, I think there's room for improvement--hence, my 2010 suggested Winter Olympic Combinations:
1) Biathluge: Combining the high-speed excitement of the luge with the precision of target shooting
2) Alpine Hockey: The offensive team passes the puck down the mountain while the defenders wait in front of the goal in the valley
3) Halfpipe Curling: Instead of pushing the stone straight to the target, the stone moves in pendulum motion, zigzagging down the snowboard half pipe towards Olympic glory
4) Short Track Ski Jumping: An abbreviated launch from higher altitude heightens the drama of an already breathtaking sport
5) Figure Slalom: Combining the artistics of figure skating with the short but precise turning of the slalom
While these are too late for inclusion in the 2010 agenda--how about trying these as video games?
Thursday, January 7, 2010
3 Jews, 3 Quadrupels, and a Beer That Tastes Like Dirt
It took several months after I moved into my own Brussels apartment before I successfully organized my first social event.
Partly, this was because it took several months before I extricated myself from an unhappy job situation--and the attached grind of weekly travel to a country resembling a parallel universe from the land of my birth. Partly, this was because of a lack of occasion.
But such an occasion emerged last month when my dear Dutch friend, Gidon--a fellow congregant at the International Jewish Center (indeed, he's what passes for a "macher"--a "big shot"--at our modest temple)--contacted me about a long-deferred evening of beer tasting. We discussed a return visit to Moeder Lambic, a hoary haven for Belgium's beer nerds, but I finally took the initiative. "Let's have it at my place."
Two soon became three, as "D", a student at a certain semi-sectarian Belgian university wangled an invite. (He insists on keeping his identity secret as his doctoral colleagues believe he does nothing in Belgium except to drink beer).
I came well armed--with my main contribution a 750ml bottle of 2008 Cuvee van de Keizer (about which I've waxed rhapsodically in previous bloggings) and a 2004 vintage bottle of trappist-monk-brewed Westvleteren 12, which I had to break at least 3 of the Catholic Ten Commandments to obtain (as the monks of Westvleteren consider grey-market resale of their exalted ales an unoriginal but much-vexing sin).
But Gidon, he of 1500 beer labels collected (versus my mere 165 Ratebeer.com reviews) came prepared with Holland's Bommen en Granaten, which weighed in at 15% alcohol versus the more modest 10% of the Cuvee and 12% of the ill-gotten Westvleteren.
After some idle semitic chit-chat, and, for no particular reason, the donning of yarmulkes (mine was leather an had an Obama '08 log), the heavy business of tasting these exceptionally heavy brews began.
I opened with the Westvleteren. But after pouring the normal-sized 330ml bottle into three vintage beer chalices, I found myself unable to drink the Westvleteren. Why? Because it smelled sooooooo good. It smelled like the brown pumpernickel bread that's baked with raisins here. Deep, savory, and sweet. Finally, when I broke down and started sipping, the combination of treacle/molasses-like richness and raisin-like fruitiness was explosive on the palate. Whether it's worth my mortal soul may be another question.
Gidon replied with the Bommen en Granaten, Dutch for "Bombs and Grenades". Amber, clear and very gently carbonated, Bommen en Granaten unloads a mixture of flavors--fruity, malty, yeasty and just the tiniest bit floral--that can stir a palate that had just been sent heavenward by the Westvleteren. Interestingly, Bommen en Granaten may be more difficult to get than "Ole Westy"--it's produced by an obscure Dutch brewery.
This obscure brewery also produces the aptly named Hemel en Aarde--Heaven and Earth. It's an apt name because the brew is brewed with peat from some Scottish distillery with about 70 letters in its name. And it flippin' tastes like flippin' peat. I've never drank something that literally tasted this much like dirt, except for some of the water I found while digging in sandboxes as a child. If you are a single-malt scotch hound, you may like this...otherwise, accept that beer and peat don't mix.
Capping the evening off with the Keizer was nice--it too joins the Westy and the Bommen as a legit contender for the "Beer Champion Of The World" of the world title, though the evening was declared in the beginning as a non-title bout. This was good, because the early tastes of the Keizer served mainly to exorcise the peat flavor.
Will there be a champion bout at Maison Klein in the future? There's always a possibility--just so long as there's no peat involved, and no yarmulkes are required.
Partly, this was because it took several months before I extricated myself from an unhappy job situation--and the attached grind of weekly travel to a country resembling a parallel universe from the land of my birth. Partly, this was because of a lack of occasion.
But such an occasion emerged last month when my dear Dutch friend, Gidon--a fellow congregant at the International Jewish Center (indeed, he's what passes for a "macher"--a "big shot"--at our modest temple)--contacted me about a long-deferred evening of beer tasting. We discussed a return visit to Moeder Lambic, a hoary haven for Belgium's beer nerds, but I finally took the initiative. "Let's have it at my place."
Two soon became three, as "D", a student at a certain semi-sectarian Belgian university wangled an invite. (He insists on keeping his identity secret as his doctoral colleagues believe he does nothing in Belgium except to drink beer).
I came well armed--with my main contribution a 750ml bottle of 2008 Cuvee van de Keizer (about which I've waxed rhapsodically in previous bloggings) and a 2004 vintage bottle of trappist-monk-brewed Westvleteren 12, which I had to break at least 3 of the Catholic Ten Commandments to obtain (as the monks of Westvleteren consider grey-market resale of their exalted ales an unoriginal but much-vexing sin).
But Gidon, he of 1500 beer labels collected (versus my mere 165 Ratebeer.com reviews) came prepared with Holland's Bommen en Granaten, which weighed in at 15% alcohol versus the more modest 10% of the Cuvee and 12% of the ill-gotten Westvleteren.
After some idle semitic chit-chat, and, for no particular reason, the donning of yarmulkes (mine was leather an had an Obama '08 log), the heavy business of tasting these exceptionally heavy brews began.
I opened with the Westvleteren. But after pouring the normal-sized 330ml bottle into three vintage beer chalices, I found myself unable to drink the Westvleteren. Why? Because it smelled sooooooo good. It smelled like the brown pumpernickel bread that's baked with raisins here. Deep, savory, and sweet. Finally, when I broke down and started sipping, the combination of treacle/molasses-like richness and raisin-like fruitiness was explosive on the palate. Whether it's worth my mortal soul may be another question.
Gidon replied with the Bommen en Granaten, Dutch for "Bombs and Grenades". Amber, clear and very gently carbonated, Bommen en Granaten unloads a mixture of flavors--fruity, malty, yeasty and just the tiniest bit floral--that can stir a palate that had just been sent heavenward by the Westvleteren. Interestingly, Bommen en Granaten may be more difficult to get than "Ole Westy"--it's produced by an obscure Dutch brewery.
This obscure brewery also produces the aptly named Hemel en Aarde--Heaven and Earth. It's an apt name because the brew is brewed with peat from some Scottish distillery with about 70 letters in its name. And it flippin' tastes like flippin' peat. I've never drank something that literally tasted this much like dirt, except for some of the water I found while digging in sandboxes as a child. If you are a single-malt scotch hound, you may like this...otherwise, accept that beer and peat don't mix.
Capping the evening off with the Keizer was nice--it too joins the Westy and the Bommen as a legit contender for the "Beer Champion Of The World" of the world title, though the evening was declared in the beginning as a non-title bout. This was good, because the early tastes of the Keizer served mainly to exorcise the peat flavor.
Will there be a champion bout at Maison Klein in the future? There's always a possibility--just so long as there's no peat involved, and no yarmulkes are required.
Bret Bielema Is NOT Drunk
One of the weird things that happens when one pops a device like StatCounter into one's blog is that it becomes very easy to find out a lot about the people who visit the blog.
About a year ago, I wrote an article defending then-under-fire University of Wisconsin (American) Football Coach Bret Bielema after a difficult 2008 season. I had met Bret a few years before at a Wisconsin Alumni event, and came away extremely impressed with his intelligence and his grasp of the magnitude of the job he had been hired to do.
It is rare for a man in his late 30's to effectively be named the CEO and Chief Recruiter of a multi-million dollar business, and one which had to satisfy the validation cravings of hundreds of thousands of beer-sodden Wisconsinites and Badger Alumni. This year's strong 10-3 performance signals what I hope will be an increasingly successful continuation of the Bielema era.
HOWEVER--one of the quirks of Google and other search engines is that if someone wants to put in a search inquiry, the whole content of an article or blog entry gets sucked into the inquiry. And from StatCounter, I've learned that nearly half of the visitors to FlightKL18 come here because of one inquiry: "Bret Bielema Drunk".
Let me state for the record. I've never seen Bret Bielema drunk. And I think most people looking for that entry are gunning for the wrong guy.
Better they should pick on University of Tennessee coach Lane Kiffin. My dad doesn't like him, after all.
About a year ago, I wrote an article defending then-under-fire University of Wisconsin (American) Football Coach Bret Bielema after a difficult 2008 season. I had met Bret a few years before at a Wisconsin Alumni event, and came away extremely impressed with his intelligence and his grasp of the magnitude of the job he had been hired to do.
It is rare for a man in his late 30's to effectively be named the CEO and Chief Recruiter of a multi-million dollar business, and one which had to satisfy the validation cravings of hundreds of thousands of beer-sodden Wisconsinites and Badger Alumni. This year's strong 10-3 performance signals what I hope will be an increasingly successful continuation of the Bielema era.
HOWEVER--one of the quirks of Google and other search engines is that if someone wants to put in a search inquiry, the whole content of an article or blog entry gets sucked into the inquiry. And from StatCounter, I've learned that nearly half of the visitors to FlightKL18 come here because of one inquiry: "Bret Bielema Drunk".
Let me state for the record. I've never seen Bret Bielema drunk. And I think most people looking for that entry are gunning for the wrong guy.
Better they should pick on University of Tennessee coach Lane Kiffin. My dad doesn't like him, after all.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Paris vs. Brussels
It's taken me a while to come up with a paean to my beloved Brussels, mainly because it's such an easy place to live, and because so few of my readers have actually lived there.
Paris, on the other hand, provides a bold point of comparison, one much more familiar as a destination and as a city of significance. Now, on my first decent stay in the City of Light since returning to Europe in 2007, I am finding some help in telling the story.
Brussels is no Paris, in much the same way as Washington is no New York. While Paris (and New York) overwhelm with a density of world-class museums, ethnic and home-country eateries, and beloved visual landmarks, Brussels has a few showstoppers (the central Grand Place key among them) but they are delivered on a far more modest scale. Indeed, when I have visitors, I recommend that they spend their days outside Brussels in the more telegenic Brugge, Ghent ot Antwerp, unless they are true museum hounds. That much being said, I have yet to go to any Brussels museum.
Paris, of course, is a great place to visit. The shopping's world class, the museums, the landmarks, and the river, which creates breathtaking views, particularly after nightfall. The dining in Paris is superb, not only for all of the French standards, but because of the immense variety of ethnic places (I am writing this from an Afghan place on the Left Bank, having not had the cuisine de Karzai since leaving Washington in '07).
It's funny to go to Paris to eat ethnic. But in a way, that's a testament to the strengths of the Brussels eating scene as well as its weaknesses. Brussels is considered an outpost of traditional French cuisine, and it is hard to get a bad meal in Brussels, to the delight of my palate and chagrin of my waistline.
My favorite Brussels restaurant, Le Petit Pont in suburban Uccle, can go toe-to-toe with anywhere I've eaten in France (or anywhere, for that matter). But Brussels is the capital of a continent, not a capital of a diverse, fallen empire (and the cuisines of Congo and Rwanda have yet to build a following among non-members of the African diaspora). Asian cuisine in Brussels tends to be pedestrian, Indian inconsistent, Jewish nonexistent, and even Turkish, while widely available, suffers from a dumbing down of ingredients.
Brussels does do a good job of serving its big expatriate populations. Fat Boy's Sports Bar has the best hamburgers and BBQ wings in Europe. Western European restaurants abound, Balkan grills are on the rise, Italian and Greek are ubiquitous, and Brussels' longstanding Spanish and Portuguese communities have loads of cheap standardbearers in a number of enclaves.
Moving from eating to sleeping, the story becomes clearer. Property is at least twice as expensive in Paris. A small 20 sqm (220 sq ft) apartment in a prime Paris location costs EUR 1100. My larger 70 sqm apartment in a comparable Brussels location costs EUR 720, including the (intermittent) heat.
Paris has 19 metro and regional express rail lines. Brussels has four metro lines, though two were artificially created as part of a rebranding exercise. But while Paris has only four tram lines, Brussels has more tram lines than one can shake a stick at. And what's more fun. Dark, dank, underground Metros or romantic, elegant, and ever-so-European trams?
Paris is in France. No one can credibly dispute its Frenchness. But while many Bruxellois like to think of their city as a bastion of la langue de Moliere, the legions of French-hating Flemish civil servants who descend on Brussel daily, and the growing number of East European EU staffers who eat, work, socialize and above all socialize in la langue de Shakespeare have other ideas.
Going to Paris and seeing everything in French awakens my inner Francophile. But living in Brussels stirs my inner Flandrophile, who is larger, meaner and drinks more heavily.
Paris is 80 minutes from Brussels by high-speed rail, and reachable for anywhere from EUR 30 to EUR 150 round trip depending on traffic. Having Paris so close--and not having to live there--is priceless.
Paris, on the other hand, provides a bold point of comparison, one much more familiar as a destination and as a city of significance. Now, on my first decent stay in the City of Light since returning to Europe in 2007, I am finding some help in telling the story.
Brussels is no Paris, in much the same way as Washington is no New York. While Paris (and New York) overwhelm with a density of world-class museums, ethnic and home-country eateries, and beloved visual landmarks, Brussels has a few showstoppers (the central Grand Place key among them) but they are delivered on a far more modest scale. Indeed, when I have visitors, I recommend that they spend their days outside Brussels in the more telegenic Brugge, Ghent ot Antwerp, unless they are true museum hounds. That much being said, I have yet to go to any Brussels museum.
Paris, of course, is a great place to visit. The shopping's world class, the museums, the landmarks, and the river, which creates breathtaking views, particularly after nightfall. The dining in Paris is superb, not only for all of the French standards, but because of the immense variety of ethnic places (I am writing this from an Afghan place on the Left Bank, having not had the cuisine de Karzai since leaving Washington in '07).
It's funny to go to Paris to eat ethnic. But in a way, that's a testament to the strengths of the Brussels eating scene as well as its weaknesses. Brussels is considered an outpost of traditional French cuisine, and it is hard to get a bad meal in Brussels, to the delight of my palate and chagrin of my waistline.
My favorite Brussels restaurant, Le Petit Pont in suburban Uccle, can go toe-to-toe with anywhere I've eaten in France (or anywhere, for that matter). But Brussels is the capital of a continent, not a capital of a diverse, fallen empire (and the cuisines of Congo and Rwanda have yet to build a following among non-members of the African diaspora). Asian cuisine in Brussels tends to be pedestrian, Indian inconsistent, Jewish nonexistent, and even Turkish, while widely available, suffers from a dumbing down of ingredients.
Brussels does do a good job of serving its big expatriate populations. Fat Boy's Sports Bar has the best hamburgers and BBQ wings in Europe. Western European restaurants abound, Balkan grills are on the rise, Italian and Greek are ubiquitous, and Brussels' longstanding Spanish and Portuguese communities have loads of cheap standardbearers in a number of enclaves.
Moving from eating to sleeping, the story becomes clearer. Property is at least twice as expensive in Paris. A small 20 sqm (220 sq ft) apartment in a prime Paris location costs EUR 1100. My larger 70 sqm apartment in a comparable Brussels location costs EUR 720, including the (intermittent) heat.
Paris has 19 metro and regional express rail lines. Brussels has four metro lines, though two were artificially created as part of a rebranding exercise. But while Paris has only four tram lines, Brussels has more tram lines than one can shake a stick at. And what's more fun. Dark, dank, underground Metros or romantic, elegant, and ever-so-European trams?
Paris is in France. No one can credibly dispute its Frenchness. But while many Bruxellois like to think of their city as a bastion of la langue de Moliere, the legions of French-hating Flemish civil servants who descend on Brussel daily, and the growing number of East European EU staffers who eat, work, socialize and above all socialize in la langue de Shakespeare have other ideas.
Going to Paris and seeing everything in French awakens my inner Francophile. But living in Brussels stirs my inner Flandrophile, who is larger, meaner and drinks more heavily.
Paris is 80 minutes from Brussels by high-speed rail, and reachable for anywhere from EUR 30 to EUR 150 round trip depending on traffic. Having Paris so close--and not having to live there--is priceless.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Our Herb Brooks Moment
With the World Cup draw having been so ably handled by the gorgeous if ultra-leftist actress Charlize Theron last night in South Africa, we now know where all 31 of the qualifying countries will be playing, and we know where France will be playing as well.
For the United States, my first love in the game of "football" even if it is a place I prefer not to reside in, the draw could not be better. For not only does its group involve two of the last countries to qualify from their respective continents, Algeria and Slovenia, it also requires that the US kick off the account against England.
Fearsome England. Birthplace of The Game and home of the vaunted Premiership. Thanks to Charlize and the Football Gods, American soccer has been given the one opportunity it has sought, pined for, and ached for--a money game against the world's most storied football power on a Saturday afternoon in June.
For American Soccer, this game is for all the marbles. A draw, or improbably but not impossably a win, and this game will not only mark America's true arrival as a first-tier footballing nation but of soccer as a first-tier American sport. A humiliating shut-out, and it's time to forget soccer once and for all and start considering how many NFL rejects we can recycle into rugby players for the following year's Rugby World Cup.
Great games deserve great speeches. So, here is my adaptation of the famous speech by the last US Hockey Coach Herb Brooks to his charges before the epoch-changing match against the Russians in the 1980 Olympics, with apologies to Kurt Russell's performance in the movie "Miracle":
Great moments...are born from great opportunity.
And that's what you have here today, boys.
That's what you've earned here today.
One game.
If we played 'em ten times, they might win nine.
But not this game.
Not today.
Today, we play with them.
Today, we stay with them.
And we shut them down--because we can.
Today, WE are the greatest footballing nation in the world.
You were born to be footballers.
And you were meant to be here today.
This is your time.
Their time is done.
I'm sick and tired of hearing about
What a great football side the English have.
Screw 'em.
This is your time
Now go out there and take it.
For the United States, my first love in the game of "football" even if it is a place I prefer not to reside in, the draw could not be better. For not only does its group involve two of the last countries to qualify from their respective continents, Algeria and Slovenia, it also requires that the US kick off the account against England.
Fearsome England. Birthplace of The Game and home of the vaunted Premiership. Thanks to Charlize and the Football Gods, American soccer has been given the one opportunity it has sought, pined for, and ached for--a money game against the world's most storied football power on a Saturday afternoon in June.
For American Soccer, this game is for all the marbles. A draw, or improbably but not impossably a win, and this game will not only mark America's true arrival as a first-tier footballing nation but of soccer as a first-tier American sport. A humiliating shut-out, and it's time to forget soccer once and for all and start considering how many NFL rejects we can recycle into rugby players for the following year's Rugby World Cup.
Great games deserve great speeches. So, here is my adaptation of the famous speech by the last US Hockey Coach Herb Brooks to his charges before the epoch-changing match against the Russians in the 1980 Olympics, with apologies to Kurt Russell's performance in the movie "Miracle":
Great moments...are born from great opportunity.
And that's what you have here today, boys.
That's what you've earned here today.
One game.
If we played 'em ten times, they might win nine.
But not this game.
Not today.
Today, we play with them.
Today, we stay with them.
And we shut them down--because we can.
Today, WE are the greatest footballing nation in the world.
You were born to be footballers.
And you were meant to be here today.
This is your time.
Their time is done.
I'm sick and tired of hearing about
What a great football side the English have.
Screw 'em.
This is your time
Now go out there and take it.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Pro Choice on the Environment
OK, I’m back in blogging form and, as much as I love travel and beer (and am indeed writing this on an airplane with a newly malt-fortified Maes Pilsner in hand), headier matters come to mind.
This past weekend, I attended a conference called the European Summit for Global Transformation (www.europeansummit.org).
For the most part, it was an inspiring weekend spent with social entrepreneurs and activists from around the world. Included—women who founded high-performing schools in Nepal and Tanzania, a fellow who is spearheading an effort to buy 20 million hectares for reforestation (and thus suck and store CO2 out of the atmosphere--www.weforest.com), and a 23 year old from New Jersey who is now the “mother” of twenty seven orphans in the foothills of the Himalayas.
But I found one section of the event particularly disturbing—a three hour video session portending imminent environmental doom, and asserting that the only viable choice was some undefined notion of global economic “justice”.
I used to joke about being “pro-choice on the environment”. I accept it is no joke now. I believe that the current environmental crisis is the greatest threat to life on this planet since the ice age. But I also see its potential for enabling the greatest assault on human liberty since the end of World War II.
It does not need to be this way. Both extremes in the environmental debate—those who oppose any meaningful solutions for reasons of profit, inertia or laziness, and those who see the green banner this century as a way to achieve the totalitarian nirvana they failed to achieve under the red and brown banners of the last—are at cause for this duality.
But imagine this: what if the money, effort and energy being spent to refute right-wing denials of a problem could be spent on identifying viable alternatives and choices that can make a big difference for relatively little cost in terms of money and freedom? And what if people could see a viable environmental future that doesn’t require giving up cars, air conditioning, t-bone steaks and a child’s dream of being an airline pilot? What would be possible then?
A lot would be possible. Making some choices available would take some paradigm-shifting thinking. Some of this thinking is already going on—in aviation for instance, research is underway into bean-based jet fuel and high-capacity, fuel efficient turboprop airliners.
From a food standpoint, it is only starting to be well known that chicken production is far more carbon-efficient than beef production on a kilo-by-kilo basis. People are giving up some snobbiness towards boxed wine. Japanese breweries are brewing in Canada and trucking their “imported” brews over the border to the US. And Soda Club machines (www.sodaclub.il) are becoming increasingly popular, saving dozens of plastic bottles and eliminating the shipping involved in delivering sparkling water to the home.
Will a choice-based approach be enough? Are we really too far gone? In my view, free people will never be too far gone to fight for their freedoms, and even if things become dire, some choices will remain available, even if their cost may escalate to the magnitude of real sacrifice.
But at the same time, we also have the right to ask whether the world envisaged by those who place an environmentalist (and/or redistributionist) agenda ahead of human liberty is one that would be worth surviving in. And we certainly have the right to ask if there are indeed other ways of saving the planet that preserve those things we think make life worth living.
This past weekend, I attended a conference called the European Summit for Global Transformation (www.europeansummit.org).
For the most part, it was an inspiring weekend spent with social entrepreneurs and activists from around the world. Included—women who founded high-performing schools in Nepal and Tanzania, a fellow who is spearheading an effort to buy 20 million hectares for reforestation (and thus suck and store CO2 out of the atmosphere--www.weforest.com), and a 23 year old from New Jersey who is now the “mother” of twenty seven orphans in the foothills of the Himalayas.
But I found one section of the event particularly disturbing—a three hour video session portending imminent environmental doom, and asserting that the only viable choice was some undefined notion of global economic “justice”.
I used to joke about being “pro-choice on the environment”. I accept it is no joke now. I believe that the current environmental crisis is the greatest threat to life on this planet since the ice age. But I also see its potential for enabling the greatest assault on human liberty since the end of World War II.
It does not need to be this way. Both extremes in the environmental debate—those who oppose any meaningful solutions for reasons of profit, inertia or laziness, and those who see the green banner this century as a way to achieve the totalitarian nirvana they failed to achieve under the red and brown banners of the last—are at cause for this duality.
But imagine this: what if the money, effort and energy being spent to refute right-wing denials of a problem could be spent on identifying viable alternatives and choices that can make a big difference for relatively little cost in terms of money and freedom? And what if people could see a viable environmental future that doesn’t require giving up cars, air conditioning, t-bone steaks and a child’s dream of being an airline pilot? What would be possible then?
A lot would be possible. Making some choices available would take some paradigm-shifting thinking. Some of this thinking is already going on—in aviation for instance, research is underway into bean-based jet fuel and high-capacity, fuel efficient turboprop airliners.
From a food standpoint, it is only starting to be well known that chicken production is far more carbon-efficient than beef production on a kilo-by-kilo basis. People are giving up some snobbiness towards boxed wine. Japanese breweries are brewing in Canada and trucking their “imported” brews over the border to the US. And Soda Club machines (www.sodaclub.il) are becoming increasingly popular, saving dozens of plastic bottles and eliminating the shipping involved in delivering sparkling water to the home.
Will a choice-based approach be enough? Are we really too far gone? In my view, free people will never be too far gone to fight for their freedoms, and even if things become dire, some choices will remain available, even if their cost may escalate to the magnitude of real sacrifice.
But at the same time, we also have the right to ask whether the world envisaged by those who place an environmentalist (and/or redistributionist) agenda ahead of human liberty is one that would be worth surviving in. And we certainly have the right to ask if there are indeed other ways of saving the planet that preserve those things we think make life worth living.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Rejoining the Human Race in Luxembourg
The brasserie at the Hotel Koener in Clervaux, Luxembourg seems an unlikely place to rejoin the human race. But I chose to head for the Luxembourg Ardennes for some rest, relaxation and rejuvenation following a turbulent period in my career--to draw a line under it and contemplate the next adventure.
Following a four hour trip--which included a two hour journey through the Belgian Ardennes on a rail replacement bus, I arrived at the Clervaux train station, only to find I had missed the bus connection to my hotel, the Chateau d'Urspelt, a few kilometers away from this little town of 1800 souls.
The idea of staying at a Chateau had considerable appeal, not for the least to arouse jealousy among those I told. I also liked the idea of being in a completely different environment than anything I'd experienced in recent months--different languages, menus and beers.
When I arrived at the Chateau D'Urspelt after an hour-and-a-half bus layover and a non-descript omelet at a similarly non-descript lunch spot half-filled with Luxemburgers speaking Letzebuergesch, I found the place quite tasteful and modern. Not surprising, given that the place was restored in 2008 following 300 years of gradual but relentless dilapidation.
The Chateau has two spas, one of which I visited immediately upon arrival. There is nothing like a jacuzzi to make one forget what one seeks to forget.
It also has one restaurant, making it the only eatery within 3 km, a challenging statistic when one is without wheels amidst bucolic splendour. As the Chateau restaurant was booked, I had to take a hard-to-find taxi and head to the clutch of hotels in the centre of Clervaux, bringing me to the schnitzel at the Hotel Koener, washed down with the mild-but-tasty Diekirch Grand Cru, a local brew.
Going to Luxembourg, as much as anything, is a bid to reconnect with that which is Continental that I love.
A country with less than a half-million people, the size of a modest American county, with an affluent population that switches between four languages (including fair English), de-Luxembourg allows one to acclimate quickly and comprehensively while being sufficiently different from its neighbors topographically and architecturally. It feels more German than anything else, but less German than Germany.
A scene at a tavern near the Koener exemplifies. I can hear all three local languages, as American rock blares over the soundless broadcast of Schalke vs Bayer Leverkusen. Beers from Belgium and Luxembourg dominate the beer list, along with something called Humpen, which I've never heard of but feel compelled to order next. (As it happens, a Humpen proves to be the local equivalent of a "pint" of decent draft pilsner.)
Of course, spa-ing, eating and beering have not occupied the whole day. I also got in an uphill walk along the road from Urspelt to Fischbach, which intrigued me because I had a dorm-mate at Wisconsin named David Feshbach. Alas, Fischbach was a collection of a half dozen buildings, making Urspelt, a collection of two dozen buildings plus the Chateau, seem like a thumpin' metropolis.
One missing hygiene factor--Urspelt lacks a little shop, which was a bit of an irritant (the Fischbach walk was out of hope I could find a six-pack and some peanuts). But I'll take jacuzzi over peanuts if forced to choose...
Following a four hour trip--which included a two hour journey through the Belgian Ardennes on a rail replacement bus, I arrived at the Clervaux train station, only to find I had missed the bus connection to my hotel, the Chateau d'Urspelt, a few kilometers away from this little town of 1800 souls.
The idea of staying at a Chateau had considerable appeal, not for the least to arouse jealousy among those I told. I also liked the idea of being in a completely different environment than anything I'd experienced in recent months--different languages, menus and beers.
When I arrived at the Chateau D'Urspelt after an hour-and-a-half bus layover and a non-descript omelet at a similarly non-descript lunch spot half-filled with Luxemburgers speaking Letzebuergesch, I found the place quite tasteful and modern. Not surprising, given that the place was restored in 2008 following 300 years of gradual but relentless dilapidation.
The Chateau has two spas, one of which I visited immediately upon arrival. There is nothing like a jacuzzi to make one forget what one seeks to forget.
It also has one restaurant, making it the only eatery within 3 km, a challenging statistic when one is without wheels amidst bucolic splendour. As the Chateau restaurant was booked, I had to take a hard-to-find taxi and head to the clutch of hotels in the centre of Clervaux, bringing me to the schnitzel at the Hotel Koener, washed down with the mild-but-tasty Diekirch Grand Cru, a local brew.
Going to Luxembourg, as much as anything, is a bid to reconnect with that which is Continental that I love.
A country with less than a half-million people, the size of a modest American county, with an affluent population that switches between four languages (including fair English), de-Luxembourg allows one to acclimate quickly and comprehensively while being sufficiently different from its neighbors topographically and architecturally. It feels more German than anything else, but less German than Germany.
A scene at a tavern near the Koener exemplifies. I can hear all three local languages, as American rock blares over the soundless broadcast of Schalke vs Bayer Leverkusen. Beers from Belgium and Luxembourg dominate the beer list, along with something called Humpen, which I've never heard of but feel compelled to order next. (As it happens, a Humpen proves to be the local equivalent of a "pint" of decent draft pilsner.)
Of course, spa-ing, eating and beering have not occupied the whole day. I also got in an uphill walk along the road from Urspelt to Fischbach, which intrigued me because I had a dorm-mate at Wisconsin named David Feshbach. Alas, Fischbach was a collection of a half dozen buildings, making Urspelt, a collection of two dozen buildings plus the Chateau, seem like a thumpin' metropolis.
One missing hygiene factor--Urspelt lacks a little shop, which was a bit of an irritant (the Fischbach walk was out of hope I could find a six-pack and some peanuts). But I'll take jacuzzi over peanuts if forced to choose...
The Family
Clervaux, for a town of 1800, is well endowed in a number of areas. Aesthetically, it is hemmed in between the Our River (if there was a local hydroelectric station, it would give new meaning to the phrase Our of Power) and the steep pine-covered Ardennes hillsides.
This stretches the town along the river making it seem bigger than it is. It also has a good number of traditional small hotels, whose dining rooms constitute the main atmospheric eateries in town, but Clervaux also has two Chinese places, a relative diversity in a town that has no identifiable Jewish population.
But the one thing that Clervaux has that no one else does is a castle that is the home of the Family of Man photographic exhibition. Commissioned in 1951 by New York's Museum of Modern Art, this collection developed by Edward Steicher, a Luxembourg-born American photographer, and seen by more than 9 million viewers during its travels, includes hundreds of images of the human condition before, during, and shortly after World War II.
Arranged in a procession of sections commemorating human existence--starting with the bonding of lovers and progressing through childhood, work, eating and playing--and then into war, religion and politics, the collection is inescapably moving.
While I found two photos most compelling--Orthodox Jewish kids in an old-style religious school on the one hand, and a German child walking with his schoolbag through a bombed out city on the other, the most powerful thing about this exhibition was its datedness.
To a certain extent, the Family of Man is a bit of time travel--incorporating the kind of images one would see in postwar editions of Life and Look magazines, the great publications which provided Americans with a visual context for world events in the days before television took hold. But to a greater extent, humans and the human condition remain remarkably unchanged in the last sixty years, and there are elements of the exhibition that demonstrate this dramatically.
The castle also is home to a cozy cafe, whose proprietor offered me a complimentary glass of red wine shortly after finishing a local beer (Diekirch Grand Cru). On figuring I was American, he gushed about President Obama, and was quite surprised that I joined in the gushing. It's a pity that the Dems weren't running a candidate for Governor of Luxembourg--Obama still has coattails here.
This stretches the town along the river making it seem bigger than it is. It also has a good number of traditional small hotels, whose dining rooms constitute the main atmospheric eateries in town, but Clervaux also has two Chinese places, a relative diversity in a town that has no identifiable Jewish population.
But the one thing that Clervaux has that no one else does is a castle that is the home of the Family of Man photographic exhibition. Commissioned in 1951 by New York's Museum of Modern Art, this collection developed by Edward Steicher, a Luxembourg-born American photographer, and seen by more than 9 million viewers during its travels, includes hundreds of images of the human condition before, during, and shortly after World War II.
Arranged in a procession of sections commemorating human existence--starting with the bonding of lovers and progressing through childhood, work, eating and playing--and then into war, religion and politics, the collection is inescapably moving.
While I found two photos most compelling--Orthodox Jewish kids in an old-style religious school on the one hand, and a German child walking with his schoolbag through a bombed out city on the other, the most powerful thing about this exhibition was its datedness.
To a certain extent, the Family of Man is a bit of time travel--incorporating the kind of images one would see in postwar editions of Life and Look magazines, the great publications which provided Americans with a visual context for world events in the days before television took hold. But to a greater extent, humans and the human condition remain remarkably unchanged in the last sixty years, and there are elements of the exhibition that demonstrate this dramatically.
The castle also is home to a cozy cafe, whose proprietor offered me a complimentary glass of red wine shortly after finishing a local beer (Diekirch Grand Cru). On figuring I was American, he gushed about President Obama, and was quite surprised that I joined in the gushing. It's a pity that the Dems weren't running a candidate for Governor of Luxembourg--Obama still has coattails here.
Venison Sashimi
I've been of two minds about my Chateau-hotel in Luxembourg, the Chateau d'Urspelt. On the one hand, having been renovated to a modern, four-star (competent but not over-the-top) standard, the place reminds me a bit of a Chateau Novotel. On the other, it is self-consciously a family-run place, with references to the owning Lodomez family more visible than references to the mayoral Daley family in most parts of Chicago.
Where this place departs from the four-star into the stratosphere is its restaurant. Opting for sublime Luxembourgeois bubbly over an intriguingly unfamiliar Belgian beer, I've departed on a breathtaking culinary journey (which I am experiencing as I write, having my blackberry as a poor substitute for a date).
I could tell I was in for a ride when my first course was brought. I ordered "a tartare of smoked venison.".
What emerged looked at first like a lab experiment--a beaker that seemed a bit cloudy looking. But when the waiter lifted the "beaker", the fragrant smell of smoke enveloped the table--for the dish consisted of cubes of smoked-while-u-wait raw venison served on a bed of razor-thin sliced pears and red peppercorns. For the uninitiated, kinda like venison sushi, or more precisely, sashimi.
The main-a very-robust looking Magret de Canard, one of my favorite dishes of the Franco-Belgian-Luxembourgeois kitchen, served with a red peppercorn sauce. Interestingly, it was served with a side of fennel, my favorite vegetable, after fish. Excellent, if more conventional than the first course.
The wine list is interesting, more because of its presentation than its contents--it is printed as a label on a three-litre wine bottle. The vaulted ceilings do well as well. As for the clientele, they are all conversing in a number of languages, none of which I competently understand.
Hungarians have long been fond of saying that "Hungary is the only country in Europe surrounded by itself in all directions.". But they are wrong. Today's Rhode Island-sized Luxembourg is also a rump version of its former self, which once also included Belgium's (larger) Province of Luxembourg, and adjoining parts of Germany and France.
I ponder this as I ponder the dessert menu, which, written in French and German, offers but few clues about what is on offer. To be fair to my Level III London Business School French, this is more because I have no clue about what a "Fantasie autour d'un fruit d'automne" is than it is that I don't understand "fantasy" and "autumn fruit". Inquiring of the waiter, he says it involves a pear, but finds it otherwise difficult to describe. Convinced, I order it.
Another glass of Cremant de Luxembourg arrives. Cremant is a French-authorized term for "good sparkling wine that ain't Champagne.". I have long prized "Cremants" from around the world, partially because they are far better value than Champagne, and mostly because they marry the magic of effervescence with more varied grape styles (such as Riesling and Macabeo), and even colors (try sparkling Shiraz).
But this one beats Champagne at its own game--a full-blooded Pinot Noir rendition vinted less than 100 miles from Epernay, at less than half the price of the most basic chain-store Champagne.
It serves as a good complement to the Fantasie, which consists of a poached pear, a small chocolate-filled wonton, a tiny scoop of gingerbread ("speculoos") ice cream and a slash of raspberry sauce. Everything is excellent--but the ice cream is off the charts.
I am well and truly sated--a really first rate meal with intelligent, attentive and clinically multilingual service. And the location, overlooking the courtyard of Chateau d'Urspelt, could not be better. Particularly since it means only a short forklift ride back to my quarters.
Where this place departs from the four-star into the stratosphere is its restaurant. Opting for sublime Luxembourgeois bubbly over an intriguingly unfamiliar Belgian beer, I've departed on a breathtaking culinary journey (which I am experiencing as I write, having my blackberry as a poor substitute for a date).
I could tell I was in for a ride when my first course was brought. I ordered "a tartare of smoked venison.".
What emerged looked at first like a lab experiment--a beaker that seemed a bit cloudy looking. But when the waiter lifted the "beaker", the fragrant smell of smoke enveloped the table--for the dish consisted of cubes of smoked-while-u-wait raw venison served on a bed of razor-thin sliced pears and red peppercorns. For the uninitiated, kinda like venison sushi, or more precisely, sashimi.
The main-a very-robust looking Magret de Canard, one of my favorite dishes of the Franco-Belgian-Luxembourgeois kitchen, served with a red peppercorn sauce. Interestingly, it was served with a side of fennel, my favorite vegetable, after fish. Excellent, if more conventional than the first course.
The wine list is interesting, more because of its presentation than its contents--it is printed as a label on a three-litre wine bottle. The vaulted ceilings do well as well. As for the clientele, they are all conversing in a number of languages, none of which I competently understand.
Hungarians have long been fond of saying that "Hungary is the only country in Europe surrounded by itself in all directions.". But they are wrong. Today's Rhode Island-sized Luxembourg is also a rump version of its former self, which once also included Belgium's (larger) Province of Luxembourg, and adjoining parts of Germany and France.
I ponder this as I ponder the dessert menu, which, written in French and German, offers but few clues about what is on offer. To be fair to my Level III London Business School French, this is more because I have no clue about what a "Fantasie autour d'un fruit d'automne" is than it is that I don't understand "fantasy" and "autumn fruit". Inquiring of the waiter, he says it involves a pear, but finds it otherwise difficult to describe. Convinced, I order it.
Another glass of Cremant de Luxembourg arrives. Cremant is a French-authorized term for "good sparkling wine that ain't Champagne.". I have long prized "Cremants" from around the world, partially because they are far better value than Champagne, and mostly because they marry the magic of effervescence with more varied grape styles (such as Riesling and Macabeo), and even colors (try sparkling Shiraz).
But this one beats Champagne at its own game--a full-blooded Pinot Noir rendition vinted less than 100 miles from Epernay, at less than half the price of the most basic chain-store Champagne.
It serves as a good complement to the Fantasie, which consists of a poached pear, a small chocolate-filled wonton, a tiny scoop of gingerbread ("speculoos") ice cream and a slash of raspberry sauce. Everything is excellent--but the ice cream is off the charts.
I am well and truly sated--a really first rate meal with intelligent, attentive and clinically multilingual service. And the location, overlooking the courtyard of Chateau d'Urspelt, could not be better. Particularly since it means only a short forklift ride back to my quarters.
Lux City
My intention was to keep my trip brief, with two nights at the Chateau and then back home to start the job-search jihad in earnest. But the fates--in the form of a nationwide rail strike in Belgium--intervened. I thought another day in Clervaux would be a bit much, and after seeing an EUR 49 hotel special in Luxembourg City, I decided to head for the capital.
Much of the trip was spent on a bus, as the tracks between Clervaux and Ettelbruck were "gefuckt", as they say in Letzebuergesch. Buses in rural Europe offer better views and countryside than trains generally, so I hardly minded.
The journey finished on a train, which meant a ringside view of the spectacular cliffs and fortifications that make Luxembourg one of Europe's most visually spectacular capitals. Off the train, meandering through its cobblestone streets, you get the idea it is one of its richest, though it's low value added tax rate means good deals on the everyday and luxury items found in its many shops.
There is one beef I have with Luxembourg City--the vast majority of its hotels are located in the neighborhood by the train station, which, while not dangerous or possessing of really seedy businesses, lacks the attractiveness Lux City otherwise possesses in abundance.
My favorite hotel here, the Parc Plaza, is a notable exception-overlooking the ravines in a nice neighborhood near the centre-ville. But at EUR 120 midweek, that seemed excessive after two nights of Chateau at EUR 89. So I opted for the Hotel Delta at EUR 49, including breakfast.
The Delta has four stars on the outside, as did the Chateau. Its renovation, however, has been more selective, as I noted in a quick look at the unlocked rooms. Mine was unrenovated. It was much more reminiscent of the one and two star rooms I stayed in on earlier Europe travels. But somehow I liked it--it brought me back to the time when Europe was just an adventure.
Much of the trip was spent on a bus, as the tracks between Clervaux and Ettelbruck were "gefuckt", as they say in Letzebuergesch. Buses in rural Europe offer better views and countryside than trains generally, so I hardly minded.
The journey finished on a train, which meant a ringside view of the spectacular cliffs and fortifications that make Luxembourg one of Europe's most visually spectacular capitals. Off the train, meandering through its cobblestone streets, you get the idea it is one of its richest, though it's low value added tax rate means good deals on the everyday and luxury items found in its many shops.
There is one beef I have with Luxembourg City--the vast majority of its hotels are located in the neighborhood by the train station, which, while not dangerous or possessing of really seedy businesses, lacks the attractiveness Lux City otherwise possesses in abundance.
My favorite hotel here, the Parc Plaza, is a notable exception-overlooking the ravines in a nice neighborhood near the centre-ville. But at EUR 120 midweek, that seemed excessive after two nights of Chateau at EUR 89. So I opted for the Hotel Delta at EUR 49, including breakfast.
The Delta has four stars on the outside, as did the Chateau. Its renovation, however, has been more selective, as I noted in a quick look at the unlocked rooms. Mine was unrenovated. It was much more reminiscent of the one and two star rooms I stayed in on earlier Europe travels. But somehow I liked it--it brought me back to the time when Europe was just an adventure.
Remembering Private Levine
Figuring out what to do on the last day of a trip is always a challenge. Sometimes it becomes a jihad to see all that is unseen, other times a shopping trip to pick up local goodies. But one compelling destination had eluded me on previous Luxembourg trips-the US Military Cemetery in Hamm, Luxembourg.
The Cemetery is best known as the final resting place of General George S. Patton, buried under the marble Latin cross engraved with name, rank, regiment and home state common to the vast majority of the 5000+ soldiers buried here. But 116 of those soldiers are marked by a Star of David, and, as I walked around the stones, I inevitably was drawn by those markers.
Before I entered the cemetery, I gathered a handful of stones--commonly used as a mark of a visit to a Jewish resting place. Most of the Stars of David already had a stone or two on them already, and I ran out quickly as well. But I saw one Jewish marker with no stone, that of Private Stanley Levine of New York, who fell-like most here-at the height of the Battle of the Bulge.
What must it have been like for Private Levine? Did he he realise the contribution he was making for his country, his people and indeed for freedom itself? Or would he have rather been home watching the Yankees win yet another baseball World Series? His stoneless headstone offers no clue.
At the other end of the notoriety spectrum was Patton's cross, reluctantly exhumed from the main group of graves and positioned to the front and centre, as the flow of visitors wreaked havoc on the neighboring gravesites. Seeing the real gravesite of Patton inevitably reminded me of George C. Scott's portrayal of him in the eponymous biopic, Patton, which deptcted the General as crusty, brilliant and psychotic.
Yeah, Patton was a bastard. But he was our bastard. And does anyone disagree that the world and its current challenges could't benefit from a few (and I do mean a few) leaders who are a bit crusty, brilliant, and perhaps a little nuts?
The Cemetery is best known as the final resting place of General George S. Patton, buried under the marble Latin cross engraved with name, rank, regiment and home state common to the vast majority of the 5000+ soldiers buried here. But 116 of those soldiers are marked by a Star of David, and, as I walked around the stones, I inevitably was drawn by those markers.
Before I entered the cemetery, I gathered a handful of stones--commonly used as a mark of a visit to a Jewish resting place. Most of the Stars of David already had a stone or two on them already, and I ran out quickly as well. But I saw one Jewish marker with no stone, that of Private Stanley Levine of New York, who fell-like most here-at the height of the Battle of the Bulge.
What must it have been like for Private Levine? Did he he realise the contribution he was making for his country, his people and indeed for freedom itself? Or would he have rather been home watching the Yankees win yet another baseball World Series? His stoneless headstone offers no clue.
At the other end of the notoriety spectrum was Patton's cross, reluctantly exhumed from the main group of graves and positioned to the front and centre, as the flow of visitors wreaked havoc on the neighboring gravesites. Seeing the real gravesite of Patton inevitably reminded me of George C. Scott's portrayal of him in the eponymous biopic, Patton, which deptcted the General as crusty, brilliant and psychotic.
Yeah, Patton was a bastard. But he was our bastard. And does anyone disagree that the world and its current challenges could't benefit from a few (and I do mean a few) leaders who are a bit crusty, brilliant, and perhaps a little nuts?
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Bulgaria--Var and Away
The last day in Bulgaria began inauspiciously enough--with the intent behing my 9am alarm easily overcome by vivid dreams with well-placed Cyrillic characters.
I didn't fully rise into action until the Riu called to chase me towards checkout, at the more holidaylike hour of noon.Varna beckoned, and I sprung out of the hotel towards the closeby Autogara, where, fortunately, the midday minibus was to leave in ten minutes.
Noticing the 2 hour trip and that I opted not to claim my all-inclusive lunch, I scan the surroundings to find a snack counter offering TOCT, cyrillic for "toasted sandwich". Mine-mild, rubbery kashkaval cheese on toast slices the size of a clothes iron. EUR 1.10 please.
The 90 minute drive to Varna was the most attractive and intriguing of my various Bulgarian segments, particularly after the Vegas-like sprawl of Sunny Beach gave way to smaller, posher resorts like Obzor and small hamlets like Banya where newly-built and painted villas and decades old traditional homes that haven't seen paint since ex-local Party boss Todor Zhivkov was in charge.
Pine forests give way to sweeping bay views. Old Varna was aesthetically compelling. Fairly untouched by highrises built of bad Commie concrete, it is very much a product of its Black Sea envioronment--with a few Ottoman touches and ornate pastel-painted buildings evocative of Ukraine and Russia.
Indeed, if I were to come up with two words to describe Bulgaria, I'd say "Russia Lite." Weather is somewhat better, food more reliable, flags are the same save for the middle stripe (Russia's Blue vs. Bulgaria's green). Corruption and organized crime are pervasive, as is the all-pervasive cyrillic alphabet. Bulgaria is more tourist-friendly (no visas required). And Bulgaria can be seen in a week--though I did miss Plovdiv and Veliko Tarnovo, which are both world-class sites.
What's missing--Bulgaria doesn't have the nationalist edge that its Balkan neighbors have. An upcoming July election is drawing lukewarm passion, particularly following last month's EU poll which equalled a test run. (One observer said that the election offered voters a choice of which mob family they dislike least.)
Even Folklor TV, the all national-costumed-24-hour satellite Bulgarian ethnic kitschfest seemed more melancholy than defiant, particularly when compared to its Serbian sister station. Ok, there was one exception, a song where the word Bulgaria was invoked in pious tones, and images of Orthodox icons were interspersed with those of brave Bulgarian patriots hurling barrels down at fez-clad Turks on the slopes below. But Bulgaria last played smackdown with the Turks in the late 1800s, and since they are now both NATO allies, Bulgaria doesn't have anyone to chuck barrels at right now.
I didn't fully rise into action until the Riu called to chase me towards checkout, at the more holidaylike hour of noon.Varna beckoned, and I sprung out of the hotel towards the closeby Autogara, where, fortunately, the midday minibus was to leave in ten minutes.
Noticing the 2 hour trip and that I opted not to claim my all-inclusive lunch, I scan the surroundings to find a snack counter offering TOCT, cyrillic for "toasted sandwich". Mine-mild, rubbery kashkaval cheese on toast slices the size of a clothes iron. EUR 1.10 please.
The 90 minute drive to Varna was the most attractive and intriguing of my various Bulgarian segments, particularly after the Vegas-like sprawl of Sunny Beach gave way to smaller, posher resorts like Obzor and small hamlets like Banya where newly-built and painted villas and decades old traditional homes that haven't seen paint since ex-local Party boss Todor Zhivkov was in charge.
Pine forests give way to sweeping bay views. Old Varna was aesthetically compelling. Fairly untouched by highrises built of bad Commie concrete, it is very much a product of its Black Sea envioronment--with a few Ottoman touches and ornate pastel-painted buildings evocative of Ukraine and Russia.
Indeed, if I were to come up with two words to describe Bulgaria, I'd say "Russia Lite." Weather is somewhat better, food more reliable, flags are the same save for the middle stripe (Russia's Blue vs. Bulgaria's green). Corruption and organized crime are pervasive, as is the all-pervasive cyrillic alphabet. Bulgaria is more tourist-friendly (no visas required). And Bulgaria can be seen in a week--though I did miss Plovdiv and Veliko Tarnovo, which are both world-class sites.
What's missing--Bulgaria doesn't have the nationalist edge that its Balkan neighbors have. An upcoming July election is drawing lukewarm passion, particularly following last month's EU poll which equalled a test run. (One observer said that the election offered voters a choice of which mob family they dislike least.)
Even Folklor TV, the all national-costumed-24-hour satellite Bulgarian ethnic kitschfest seemed more melancholy than defiant, particularly when compared to its Serbian sister station. Ok, there was one exception, a song where the word Bulgaria was invoked in pious tones, and images of Orthodox icons were interspersed with those of brave Bulgarian patriots hurling barrels down at fez-clad Turks on the slopes below. But Bulgaria last played smackdown with the Turks in the late 1800s, and since they are now both NATO allies, Bulgaria doesn't have anyone to chuck barrels at right now.
Bulgaria--Finnish Karaoke
My desire for a congenial environment causes me to stumble into an American-style pub-restaurant called the Vagabond. Unlike most of the venues on Sunny Beach's seaside promenade, the Vagabond was more than half full, but no one was eating.
Instead, as I started to piece together from the amateur singing and ubiquitous television screens, this was a. Karaoke venue. But not your usual Gloria Gaynor, Mick Jagger and Frank Sinatra karaoke. No this was Finnish Karaoke.
One of my favorite TV shows ever was "Raid", a 12-episode Western set in and around Helsinki. And its themesong, "Vain Rakkaus", occupies a well-used slot in my Ipod. So, sensing a true once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I examine the song directory and duly find Vain Rakkaus.
I sign up. I endure an agonizing wait of 90 minutes. It could have been shorter, for I was actually called after 45 minutes but the Bulgarian presenter thought my name was Mila instead of Mike.
The delay gave me the time to download the Vain Rakkaus lyrics to one of my Blackberry devices. I practiced in the back, attempting to partition the small but pesky number of 10+ letter words in the appropriate places.
I offer to pay a barmaid 20 leva (EUR 10) to video the occasion. (I have yet to watch, and have conveniently misplaced the carmera, but the requisite memory was eaten on the memory card, so I hope it took). Once called, things take a turn towards the silly when the DJ cues the wrong song, a Finnish remake of I Will Survive.
I protest loudly, which convinces the organizer of my seriousness. Vain Rakkaus cues.I start singing when the words appear.
Of course, that's 2 seconds before the music begins. I resynch by stretching the vowels in "korventaa.". My volume picks up with the chorus, and one of the Finns in attendance runs to the center of the floor and starts bowing at my feet.
I continue undaunted. My singing of Vain Rakkaus was hardly the stuff of an award winning performance on Finland's Got Talent. But after inviting myself to the booth of the prostrate Finn and getting the reaction of him and his buddies, the shock and amazement was palpable.
"We knew you weren't Finnish, but it was obvious you knew the song," said Uki, inadvertently bemoaning the extent to which his nation's patrimony fails to travel much beyond its borders. More amazement followed when I shared how Raid became a cult Public TV classic in Washington, DC back in 2005. And how I own two sets of the DVD and the soundtrack.
But what I was left with was more shock and awe that I would actually find it within myself to sing Finnish Karaoke. And get a standing O.
Instead, as I started to piece together from the amateur singing and ubiquitous television screens, this was a. Karaoke venue. But not your usual Gloria Gaynor, Mick Jagger and Frank Sinatra karaoke. No this was Finnish Karaoke.
One of my favorite TV shows ever was "Raid", a 12-episode Western set in and around Helsinki. And its themesong, "Vain Rakkaus", occupies a well-used slot in my Ipod. So, sensing a true once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I examine the song directory and duly find Vain Rakkaus.
I sign up. I endure an agonizing wait of 90 minutes. It could have been shorter, for I was actually called after 45 minutes but the Bulgarian presenter thought my name was Mila instead of Mike.
The delay gave me the time to download the Vain Rakkaus lyrics to one of my Blackberry devices. I practiced in the back, attempting to partition the small but pesky number of 10+ letter words in the appropriate places.
I offer to pay a barmaid 20 leva (EUR 10) to video the occasion. (I have yet to watch, and have conveniently misplaced the carmera, but the requisite memory was eaten on the memory card, so I hope it took). Once called, things take a turn towards the silly when the DJ cues the wrong song, a Finnish remake of I Will Survive.
I protest loudly, which convinces the organizer of my seriousness. Vain Rakkaus cues.I start singing when the words appear.
Of course, that's 2 seconds before the music begins. I resynch by stretching the vowels in "korventaa.". My volume picks up with the chorus, and one of the Finns in attendance runs to the center of the floor and starts bowing at my feet.
I continue undaunted. My singing of Vain Rakkaus was hardly the stuff of an award winning performance on Finland's Got Talent. But after inviting myself to the booth of the prostrate Finn and getting the reaction of him and his buddies, the shock and amazement was palpable.
"We knew you weren't Finnish, but it was obvious you knew the song," said Uki, inadvertently bemoaning the extent to which his nation's patrimony fails to travel much beyond its borders. More amazement followed when I shared how Raid became a cult Public TV classic in Washington, DC back in 2005. And how I own two sets of the DVD and the soundtrack.
But what I was left with was more shock and awe that I would actually find it within myself to sing Finnish Karaoke. And get a standing O.
Bulgaria--Resting with the Lions
Arriving back in "Cote de Soleil", the French moniker for Sunny Beach, at 1 in the morning didn't leave me well-disposed to head for Varna on Saturday morning.
Sleep instead beckoned, and today's activities have been modest, even by my oft-sluggish standards. Lunch of dining room fish (the Riu serves a lot of it, and is a damn good non-pork option, even if I can't trace its provenance). A copy of The Times, and articles explaining the potential collapse of the governing dictatorships of Iran and Formula 1 motor racing. A stroll along the tacky but impressive beachfront. And, naturally, a quest.
Ever since my abortive attempt to play rugby at London Business School in the 1990s, I have been and ever-increasing rugby fan. I even have chosen favorite countries--Argentina (following a great conversation with a true Argentine rugbyman in andean Bariloche), and Wales, because they have the best in-stadium singing.
Today's quest was to see a match between World Champs South Africa, and the "British and Irish Lions.".The Lions are one of rugby's most revered traditions. Every four years, they gather the best of Britain's and Ireland's rugby pros for a three match series against one of the sport's fearsome Southern Hemisphere powers--Australia, New Zealand and New Zealand.
Rather than seen as an all-star jolly to sunny climes, the Lions series actually exceeds Rugby's World Cup in prestige--particularly with the World Cup incumbents as the hosts. So this year's epic first match demanded viewing. Being in Bulgaria was no excuse. And two rules: no empty venues and no Boliarka beer. As a haunt with a fair British clientele, seaside pubs with satellite tv were quite common here. But venues with the Lions were fewer on the ground. Some were showing Formula 1 qualifying, others obscure Norwegian League football matches. One, conveniently located, was pouring Boliarka, the ugly duckling among Bulgaria's otherwise competent local brews, the one on tap at the Riu.
I walked another half hour down the strand, and a seaside restaurant with 8 flat screens beckoned, along with a dozen brits wearing football shirts from the likes of Swindon Town and whomever has FourFourTwo.com as its shirt sponsor.
The crowd was unsociable, my Wisconsin Badger shirt and Americanized cheering failing to produce any response from the throng. But the match was more than worth the stroll and the surliness--with an epic brittanohibernian fightback following some easy early points yielded to the South Africans, only for the hosts to stymie the hybrid nationals at the end.
Sleep instead beckoned, and today's activities have been modest, even by my oft-sluggish standards. Lunch of dining room fish (the Riu serves a lot of it, and is a damn good non-pork option, even if I can't trace its provenance). A copy of The Times, and articles explaining the potential collapse of the governing dictatorships of Iran and Formula 1 motor racing. A stroll along the tacky but impressive beachfront. And, naturally, a quest.
Ever since my abortive attempt to play rugby at London Business School in the 1990s, I have been and ever-increasing rugby fan. I even have chosen favorite countries--Argentina (following a great conversation with a true Argentine rugbyman in andean Bariloche), and Wales, because they have the best in-stadium singing.
Today's quest was to see a match between World Champs South Africa, and the "British and Irish Lions.".The Lions are one of rugby's most revered traditions. Every four years, they gather the best of Britain's and Ireland's rugby pros for a three match series against one of the sport's fearsome Southern Hemisphere powers--Australia, New Zealand and New Zealand.
Rather than seen as an all-star jolly to sunny climes, the Lions series actually exceeds Rugby's World Cup in prestige--particularly with the World Cup incumbents as the hosts. So this year's epic first match demanded viewing. Being in Bulgaria was no excuse. And two rules: no empty venues and no Boliarka beer. As a haunt with a fair British clientele, seaside pubs with satellite tv were quite common here. But venues with the Lions were fewer on the ground. Some were showing Formula 1 qualifying, others obscure Norwegian League football matches. One, conveniently located, was pouring Boliarka, the ugly duckling among Bulgaria's otherwise competent local brews, the one on tap at the Riu.
I walked another half hour down the strand, and a seaside restaurant with 8 flat screens beckoned, along with a dozen brits wearing football shirts from the likes of Swindon Town and whomever has FourFourTwo.com as its shirt sponsor.
The crowd was unsociable, my Wisconsin Badger shirt and Americanized cheering failing to produce any response from the throng. But the match was more than worth the stroll and the surliness--with an epic brittanohibernian fightback following some easy early points yielded to the South Africans, only for the hosts to stymie the hybrid nationals at the end.
Bulgaria--Flying Domestic
I wanted to give myself a good day in Sofia, and a chance to see the country, and still get back to Sunny Beach to make reasonable use of my all inclusive vacation.
So, the logical move was to take a daytime bus to Sofia to see the countryside, and then fly back to the coast the next night.
Now as I find myself in the midst of a four-hour preflight experience at Sofia's sparkling but nearly comatose airport terminal, I'm thinking I may have been better off "leaving the driving to " one of this countrs numerous bus operators.
The bus to Sofia was cheap and simple. 6 hours, 18 Euros, leaving 500 yards/meters from my hotel. New buses, and relatively new EU-funded roads.
The flight back--2 hour delay for a 45 minute flight. Fare of 65 Euros, and the prospect of negotiating for an overpriced airport taxi now that the flight will arrive 'round midnight.
Airport dinner was 8 Euros--a draft Shumensko beer and a sandwich--about three times the price "out on the economy."
I've only flown domestic twice in my leisure travels, or at least those outside the USA. The first, back on the 2 week rampage through Turkey in 1998 that followed my marital split-up, was excellent. First class on Turkish Airlines, and I felt like a star with my cocktail served in a real glass. The second, over the Andes with LAN Argentina's service between Bariloche and Buenos Aires' main domestic airport, whose name escapes me but which had the most enticing-looking steakhouse in all of air travel.
To be sure, air travel has improved in Eastern Yurp in recent years. Bulgaria saw the disappearance of it's commie-era national airline, Balkan, and its replacement with tonight's tardiness culprit, Bulgaria Air. While Bulgaria Air doesn't belong to a major Western frequent flyer program, it does operate an all -Western fleet, including tonight's veteran Boeing 737. And, for effect, a large Lufthansa Technik maintenance hangar on the airport ground reassures the traveler.
So, the logical move was to take a daytime bus to Sofia to see the countryside, and then fly back to the coast the next night.
Now as I find myself in the midst of a four-hour preflight experience at Sofia's sparkling but nearly comatose airport terminal, I'm thinking I may have been better off "leaving the driving to " one of this countrs numerous bus operators.
The bus to Sofia was cheap and simple. 6 hours, 18 Euros, leaving 500 yards/meters from my hotel. New buses, and relatively new EU-funded roads.
The flight back--2 hour delay for a 45 minute flight. Fare of 65 Euros, and the prospect of negotiating for an overpriced airport taxi now that the flight will arrive 'round midnight.
Airport dinner was 8 Euros--a draft Shumensko beer and a sandwich--about three times the price "out on the economy."
I've only flown domestic twice in my leisure travels, or at least those outside the USA. The first, back on the 2 week rampage through Turkey in 1998 that followed my marital split-up, was excellent. First class on Turkish Airlines, and I felt like a star with my cocktail served in a real glass. The second, over the Andes with LAN Argentina's service between Bariloche and Buenos Aires' main domestic airport, whose name escapes me but which had the most enticing-looking steakhouse in all of air travel.
To be sure, air travel has improved in Eastern Yurp in recent years. Bulgaria saw the disappearance of it's commie-era national airline, Balkan, and its replacement with tonight's tardiness culprit, Bulgaria Air. While Bulgaria Air doesn't belong to a major Western frequent flyer program, it does operate an all -Western fleet, including tonight's veteran Boeing 737. And, for effect, a large Lufthansa Technik maintenance hangar on the airport ground reassures the traveler.
Bulgaria--Another Balkan Capital
Seated at one of Sofia's ubiquitous in-park outdoor cafes, I have a few minutes to reflect on my detour from my otherwise-all-inclusive beach holiday...
There was no question Sofia was worth both the visit and the schlep required to get in and out.It is not that Sofia is overwhelming or even all that aesthetically pleasing. More like an American state capitals rather than one of Europe's top cities, Sofia has little history to speak of, having been selected as Bulgaria's new capital in the 1890s. What little is here of architectural note is mostly fin de siecle in style, with a few Russian-style influences.
Sofia was also bombed intensively during WWII, but it was unclear by whom, as the Bulgarians switched sides in 1944. Outside of Sofia's small centre is a sea of what the Czechs call "panelaks"--the crumbling, dissheveled mid and high rise apartments bult of bad concrete to house the masses in Commie days.
In a fit of generosity during the democratic transition, the state gave most if not all of the flats to their occupants. This factoid explains a lot. Like how Bulgarians can live on an average monthly wage of about $300. And how even the most average of folks can have 1,2,3 properties. The economy was fuelled by a construction boom before, like economies everywhere, it stopped being fuelled at all.
Further out, onto Vitosha Mountain, lives Roy, an Antipodean ex-colleague of mine from our days at a quirky London communications consultancy. I was a huge fan of his at a number of levels (not least of which were his wit and healthy skepticism of our now-defunct company's culture), and the opportunity to pay a visit was one decisive reason for choosing Bulgaria. Roy did not disappoint. Now the Chief Executive of a leading Bulgarian commercial concern, Roy shared excellent stories about working and leading in an environment with a long and continuing history of being downtrodden. Roy looks the locals in the eye and doesn't buy their stories or take their crap, which they attempt to dish out in abundance. Roy has a great set up in Sofia--a beautiful mountainside home overlooking the city's expanse and "only 17 minutes to the snowfields" on Vitosha, a mountain with Olympic aspirations. (Sofia lost out to Sochi for the 2014 winter games).
But it quickly becomes apparent that being an expat here is several divisions ahead of my expat-lite experience in Brussels. "We needed to make sure there were several alternative heating systems. We avoided the gas shutdown (when Russia cut off all of Europe's gas to punish the Ukrainians), but we also have electricity and diesel as well.". Schooling is also a challenge, and security a concern. "We do live in a walled enclosure," noted Roy of his home's otherwise idyllic setting.
There was no question Sofia was worth both the visit and the schlep required to get in and out.It is not that Sofia is overwhelming or even all that aesthetically pleasing. More like an American state capitals rather than one of Europe's top cities, Sofia has little history to speak of, having been selected as Bulgaria's new capital in the 1890s. What little is here of architectural note is mostly fin de siecle in style, with a few Russian-style influences.
Sofia was also bombed intensively during WWII, but it was unclear by whom, as the Bulgarians switched sides in 1944. Outside of Sofia's small centre is a sea of what the Czechs call "panelaks"--the crumbling, dissheveled mid and high rise apartments bult of bad concrete to house the masses in Commie days.
In a fit of generosity during the democratic transition, the state gave most if not all of the flats to their occupants. This factoid explains a lot. Like how Bulgarians can live on an average monthly wage of about $300. And how even the most average of folks can have 1,2,3 properties. The economy was fuelled by a construction boom before, like economies everywhere, it stopped being fuelled at all.
Further out, onto Vitosha Mountain, lives Roy, an Antipodean ex-colleague of mine from our days at a quirky London communications consultancy. I was a huge fan of his at a number of levels (not least of which were his wit and healthy skepticism of our now-defunct company's culture), and the opportunity to pay a visit was one decisive reason for choosing Bulgaria. Roy did not disappoint. Now the Chief Executive of a leading Bulgarian commercial concern, Roy shared excellent stories about working and leading in an environment with a long and continuing history of being downtrodden. Roy looks the locals in the eye and doesn't buy their stories or take their crap, which they attempt to dish out in abundance. Roy has a great set up in Sofia--a beautiful mountainside home overlooking the city's expanse and "only 17 minutes to the snowfields" on Vitosha, a mountain with Olympic aspirations. (Sofia lost out to Sochi for the 2014 winter games).
But it quickly becomes apparent that being an expat here is several divisions ahead of my expat-lite experience in Brussels. "We needed to make sure there were several alternative heating systems. We avoided the gas shutdown (when Russia cut off all of Europe's gas to punish the Ukrainians), but we also have electricity and diesel as well.". Schooling is also a challenge, and security a concern. "We do live in a walled enclosure," noted Roy of his home's otherwise idyllic setting.
Bulgaria-Day 3
After a long sleep-in brought on by my lack of somnolescence following the virtuoso performance by the Globally Famous DJ Sash at SB's Den Glade Viking, I took one look at the pool area and its collection of aging Germans and tattooed Brits, and then call again for a road trip.
Yesterday's trip, to Nessebar, a small but cute Bulgarian seaside town of Romanesque provenance was pleasant if predictable. Lots of souvenir shops, everything at the relatively modest but high for Bulgaria tourist prices.
Today's trip, Burgas, was the real deal. An old school Black Sea port cum beach town, with a resort atmosphere set in authentically ex-commie digs.
One thing that's always struck me about ex-commie places is the sheer numbers of buildings with multiple layers of peeling paint. I first noticed this in Rugen, a Baltic resort that once catered to Erich Honecker and the heavies of the old DDR (East Germany for those who never saw the classic, Goodbye Lenin). Rather than marking eyesores, the peeling paint speaks to these buildings being witnesses to history, as the history in these parts was turbulent over the last 70+ years.
Bulgaria's history is interesting enough. A Nazi ally which nonetheless saved its 50,000 member Jewish community, Bulgaria switched sides to the USSR in 1944 and later embraced communism to such an extent that it asked to be annexed to the USSR in 1973. They must have dug Brezhnev's eyebrows, I guess.
Today, Burgas at eventide is bustling if not ostentatiously prosperous (guys in t-shirts driving late-model Mercedes notwithstanding). Streetside cafes are about half full. Prices are a little cheaper than in Sunny Beach, menus in Cyrillic and either English or German, depending on the place.
Cyrillic is fun. Invented by Bulgarians Cyril and Methodius, who were later sainted for their literacy-spreading deeds, it is at its most fun when Westerners mangle the pronunciation of letters like B, C, H and P, which have differing sounds in the roman alphabet. As was once said of a Moscow dining establishment, "I once thought that 'PECTOPAH' meant 'restaurant'. Then I ate there, and realised that in fact, it really meant 'PECTOPAH'.". To be fair, in Bulgaria, restaurant means 'PECTOPAHT'. I haven't had a bad meal yet, to be fair.
Yesterday's trip, to Nessebar, a small but cute Bulgarian seaside town of Romanesque provenance was pleasant if predictable. Lots of souvenir shops, everything at the relatively modest but high for Bulgaria tourist prices.
Today's trip, Burgas, was the real deal. An old school Black Sea port cum beach town, with a resort atmosphere set in authentically ex-commie digs.
One thing that's always struck me about ex-commie places is the sheer numbers of buildings with multiple layers of peeling paint. I first noticed this in Rugen, a Baltic resort that once catered to Erich Honecker and the heavies of the old DDR (East Germany for those who never saw the classic, Goodbye Lenin). Rather than marking eyesores, the peeling paint speaks to these buildings being witnesses to history, as the history in these parts was turbulent over the last 70+ years.
Bulgaria's history is interesting enough. A Nazi ally which nonetheless saved its 50,000 member Jewish community, Bulgaria switched sides to the USSR in 1944 and later embraced communism to such an extent that it asked to be annexed to the USSR in 1973. They must have dug Brezhnev's eyebrows, I guess.
Today, Burgas at eventide is bustling if not ostentatiously prosperous (guys in t-shirts driving late-model Mercedes notwithstanding). Streetside cafes are about half full. Prices are a little cheaper than in Sunny Beach, menus in Cyrillic and either English or German, depending on the place.
Cyrillic is fun. Invented by Bulgarians Cyril and Methodius, who were later sainted for their literacy-spreading deeds, it is at its most fun when Westerners mangle the pronunciation of letters like B, C, H and P, which have differing sounds in the roman alphabet. As was once said of a Moscow dining establishment, "I once thought that 'PECTOPAH' meant 'restaurant'. Then I ate there, and realised that in fact, it really meant 'PECTOPAH'.". To be fair, in Bulgaria, restaurant means 'PECTOPAHT'. I haven't had a bad meal yet, to be fair.
Bulgaria-Day 2
I have started to realize why I am growing to like this place so much. Unlike Greece which oozes Greekness, Italy which overwhelms with la dolce Italiana and the overwrought pungence of baked Parmesan, and Turkey with its addictive mix of Ataturkian ultranationalism, chilled-out Islamism and the dynamism of the diminutive Sezen Aksu, one of her iconic stars; Bulgaria does not attempt to have its visitors take it ultra-seriously.
Indeed, according to Lonely Planet, the national dish, Shopska salad, was manufactured by the Bulgarian Tourist Office in the 1970s to create some distinctive Bulgarianness on menus that even in Commie days tended towards bland internationalism. I've avoided it as I prefer the glorious local tomatoes without the adulturation of sheep cheese, raw onions, of which I am no fan, and cucumbers, which are equally tasteless everywhere.
Unlike in other holiday locales, where locals are keen to exult their nation's patrimonies and glories, Bulgarians express surprise at the interest of visitors. No more so in the case of the exceedingly rare Yanks on these Black Sea shores."Long flight!" said one Black Sea publican, expressing amazement that an American would venture here, and spreading his arms out for effect. I then told hime I actually lived in Brussels. What I left out was that the 3 hours en route aboard the aging 767 employed for Jetairfly flight 7147 brought me closer to The Creator than any recent transatlantic trip on an Airbus 330.
Immediately, my publican friend tells me about his relative in Chicago, and why the Bulgarian mafia sucks so much. I didn't argue. And, after watching the second half of the taped Romania-Uruguay rugby test match on Eurosport 2, I made a point of tipping well.
Bulgaria indeed gets very few Yank tourists. The main Black Sea airport at Burgas is nearly inaccessible, serviced mainly by charters from the UK, Germany, the Nordics and the Benelux, with twice weekly commuter flights from Sofia to connect with the global scheduled network. A round trip from a major Midwestern city that isn't Chicago costs about $3500.
By comparison, a week a one of my Riu's sister properties in the Dominican Republic costs a hell of a lot less than $3.5k. And they probably serve better beer and caipirinhas. I have only two complaints about the Riu two days in. One--they serve Bulgaria's worst beer on the all inclusive menu, Boliarka, and don't even offer a paid upgrade to the likes of Bulgaria's competent Zagorka or Kamenitza. And the watered down lemon Koolaid called a "Caipirinha" should spur inspired outrage from offended limes everywhere. Yuck!
Indeed, according to Lonely Planet, the national dish, Shopska salad, was manufactured by the Bulgarian Tourist Office in the 1970s to create some distinctive Bulgarianness on menus that even in Commie days tended towards bland internationalism. I've avoided it as I prefer the glorious local tomatoes without the adulturation of sheep cheese, raw onions, of which I am no fan, and cucumbers, which are equally tasteless everywhere.
Unlike in other holiday locales, where locals are keen to exult their nation's patrimonies and glories, Bulgarians express surprise at the interest of visitors. No more so in the case of the exceedingly rare Yanks on these Black Sea shores."Long flight!" said one Black Sea publican, expressing amazement that an American would venture here, and spreading his arms out for effect. I then told hime I actually lived in Brussels. What I left out was that the 3 hours en route aboard the aging 767 employed for Jetairfly flight 7147 brought me closer to The Creator than any recent transatlantic trip on an Airbus 330.
Immediately, my publican friend tells me about his relative in Chicago, and why the Bulgarian mafia sucks so much. I didn't argue. And, after watching the second half of the taped Romania-Uruguay rugby test match on Eurosport 2, I made a point of tipping well.
Bulgaria indeed gets very few Yank tourists. The main Black Sea airport at Burgas is nearly inaccessible, serviced mainly by charters from the UK, Germany, the Nordics and the Benelux, with twice weekly commuter flights from Sofia to connect with the global scheduled network. A round trip from a major Midwestern city that isn't Chicago costs about $3500.
By comparison, a week a one of my Riu's sister properties in the Dominican Republic costs a hell of a lot less than $3.5k. And they probably serve better beer and caipirinhas. I have only two complaints about the Riu two days in. One--they serve Bulgaria's worst beer on the all inclusive menu, Boliarka, and don't even offer a paid upgrade to the likes of Bulgaria's competent Zagorka or Kamenitza. And the watered down lemon Koolaid called a "Caipirinha" should spur inspired outrage from offended limes everywhere. Yuck!
Bulgaria-Day 1
Barely 18 hours into my visit to the shores of the Black Sea and I feel well and truly on vacation. Not sure if that's more a function of my interleaving of weak all-inclusive cocktails with strong cups of Nescafe, or whether the relaxed atmosphere of Sunny Beach, Bulgaria has ensnared me with its charm.
Sunny Beach, on the surface, is a complete abomination. Imagine a seaside knockoff of Las Vegas done up in Oligarch chic. Lots of new buildings in bright colors and bad concrete. But a different class of bad concrete than was used in Commie days, with but a few old-school reminders of the Big Red Machine interspersed among hotels like the Planeta, Hrizantema, and Polyusi.
The Riu Helios Palace is an oasis in this sea of post-communist tourist mayhem. An outpost of the Spanish-German Riu chain, it is four-star both in rating and performance. Not ultra-luxurious, but competently run and with a fairly high standard of food, drink and accomodation served up to a fairly well-screened northern European clientele.
Being a single at an all-inclusive is always a bit of a challenge, particularly when one isn't actively "on the pull" (once again, my vacation coincides with the early stage of a new relationship conversation). Mostly, I'm interested in meeting some new buddies to take in Sunny Beach's legendary dance-music nightlife with. But even sans buddies, there is an abundance of entertainment here--mostly to be gained from watching the legions of young Scandinavians letting their hair down to the techno beat.
Sunny Beach, on the surface, is a complete abomination. Imagine a seaside knockoff of Las Vegas done up in Oligarch chic. Lots of new buildings in bright colors and bad concrete. But a different class of bad concrete than was used in Commie days, with but a few old-school reminders of the Big Red Machine interspersed among hotels like the Planeta, Hrizantema, and Polyusi.
The Riu Helios Palace is an oasis in this sea of post-communist tourist mayhem. An outpost of the Spanish-German Riu chain, it is four-star both in rating and performance. Not ultra-luxurious, but competently run and with a fairly high standard of food, drink and accomodation served up to a fairly well-screened northern European clientele.
Being a single at an all-inclusive is always a bit of a challenge, particularly when one isn't actively "on the pull" (once again, my vacation coincides with the early stage of a new relationship conversation). Mostly, I'm interested in meeting some new buddies to take in Sunny Beach's legendary dance-music nightlife with. But even sans buddies, there is an abundance of entertainment here--mostly to be gained from watching the legions of young Scandinavians letting their hair down to the techno beat.
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