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.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
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.
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