*It's taken awhile to get back completing my post travel blog. Life started again, but I'm slowly progressing in converting my travel journal over to blog form:
---------------------------------
During my second day in Berlin I couldn’t help but look forward to the long leisurely train ride to Poland. I looked forward a cool train car where I could reflect on my journey and specifically my pilgrimage to Auschwitz. The train ride to Poland ended up being the most unbearable hours of my trip. The air conditioning in the train was not working and I was traveling in the midst of a summer heat wave. Not to mention, the train was packed. An hour into the ride my clothing was drenched, sweat was pouring down my face, tiny openings at the top of the windows offered scant relief from the stifling, stale air. To make matters worse the train car was inundated with European teenagers traveling to the capital of cheap revelry – Krakow. On the way to Krakow I tried valiantly to reflect on why I was going; but it was hot. It was nearly impossible to breathe. The stench was overwhelming. Positively overwhelming.
And yet I knew the dark irony of the situation. In those moments my mind kept drifting to the haunting train car scene in Night, and those visions of the prisoners starving, ready to kill for just a piece of bread. Even in the midst of my unreflective, discontented state on the train, I knew some twisted, unrelenting force was driving me closer and closer to Auschwitz.
The bus ride to Auschwitz was only marginally better than the train ride. It was cooler, but full of hung-over college kids. It was a despicable scenario, these backpackers galavanting through Eastern Europe drinking cheap beer and merely hopping on a bus to Auschwitz to kill time between one night of debauchery to the next.
Fortunately, I had Matisyahu on my iPod. The Hasidic Jewish reggae artist sung to me about redemption and the Promised Land. I forgot about the people on the bus and began to remember late nights in my little bedroom in Western, New York, surrounded by books from the A. University library. I remembered lying on my floor, taking notes, crafting my first research paper. I remembered reading Night for English class, confronted with the realities of human depravity. It was then as a sophomore in high school that I knew I would have to make a journey to Auschwitz. I don’t know why. Every sophomore at A-A completes a Holocaust project - but why do I seem to be the only one affected enough to journey across Europe alone on a sketchy Polish train to see this place of such despicable horror?
I remember coming into Auschwitz that day. The woods cleared and first I saw the barbed wire. Behind it the buildings. They looked familiar, that familiarity of something you’ve only seen in pictures. I was hard to believe, even after the hours spent in college libraries, and the long nights of paper-writing.
I remember the hair. The pile of human hair covered an area as big as my classroom. I remember the basement of Auschwitz Block II where countless prisoners were tortured and killed for leading uprisings, for standing up in faith, for maintaining a belief that injustice can be overcome. I remember the train tracks and the gate at Aushchwitz II-Birkenau. It was bright, sunny day and quite crowded with tourists. Despite all that, all I could think about was Elie Wiesel stepping off that train. The smell of burning flesh, the babies cast into the fire. The first time I read it I had to close the book. I remember opening it, reading it again. Closing it. Giving up for the night. And I thought about the pseudo-historians who denied that it ever happened.
But what I remember most about that day at Auschwitz was the countryside. The Polish countryside bears the marks of poor rural living, something that was the norm for me until I moved away at 18. On the two hour drive from Krakow to Auschwitz I felt keenly like I was at home. There was nothing foreign about the simple homes and farms, the haggard people, the old cars. It was not quaint like the French countryside, nor picturesque like the Swiss countryside. It bore the marks of everything I’d grown up knowing.
And there in Poland, on the outskirts of Auschwitz, this sick, dark thought started to creep into my mind and heart. I realized that the Polish inhabitants had been living in these towns for years, much as my own ancestors had been farming in the same town since immigrating to America. I realized that throughout the years of Nazi oppression those same families were there, occupying those little homes and farms and watching idly from their fields as train upon train passed by. Full trains. Full trains that returned empty.
And I saw it happening in Western New York. The Polish were just ordinary people. People just like my own neighbors. We would not have behaved any differently. I like to think I would have, but how? How can ordinary farmers lead an uprising against the Nazis? And against what exactly? The whole complex was kept in an air of mystery. Inhabitants were moved out of the immediate surroundings. As we crept closer to Auschwitz the towns gave way to dark, haunting forests. I believe my own neighbors, my peers, and dare I say my teachers and church leaders would have sat idly by. Had this happened in Western New York, we would have merely prayed in the comfort of our pews and quietly debated in the safety of our classrooms. We would have caved to the demands of the oppressors, afraid to stand out, to make the first move. We would have justified our safe and practical decisions.
The world has far too few revolutionaries. I'm inclined to believe the revolutionaries are the eccentrics. They are the ones who chafe at mainstream society and its inane residents. They are the people who question the norm and offer radical solutions to problems we have accepted. These are the ones whom we will call on to fight injustice and oppression when it arrives upon our doorstep.
The pilgrimage to Auschwitz helped me to think about the whole scope of the war and its effect on ordinary lives. The Polish learned to endure situations that would have been seemingly unthinkable years before. And what if you had told a promising Jewish student or established shop-keeper that he would be torn from his family, that he would die in a pool of his own diarrhea with other prisoners’ excrement dripping from the bunks above? As I wandered through the barracks at Birkenau I tried to picture these men and women who were respected citizens perhaps only a year or two before their death, now treated worse than animals, even behaving as animals.
There is not much more I can say about Auschwitz. Was it cathartic? No. It was a bit like going to the cemetery seeking comfort and cleansing but finding that you're are no closer to that person you’ve lost. You leave feeling just as empty as when you came. I guess I thought that maybe going to Auschwitz would make it easier for me to understand. But what exactly am I trying to understand? Perhaps I want to understand why God ordained a world where sin reduces us to such horrific creatures. How ordinary husbands and fathers can kill for a living. I cannot understand a world in which the beauty of the image of God is marred by cruelty and irrational hatred. God's own people are chased down and tormented and forced to suffer the unthinkable under a human system of oppression. What is the purpose? Where is the redemption? I do not even know for sure why I went, I just know that I needed to go.
I finished this entry in my journal with the question: “Do I really want to understand?”
I believe now, upon more reflection, that I do want to understand. I believe that the quest for understanding drove me there in the first place. Perhaps that quest for knowledge and understanding is somehow deeply intertwined in the purpose God has ordained for my existence. Perhaps that is what drives me on a solitary pilgrimage when other twenty-somethings are caught up in entertainment. In the end it is not evil that I understand, nor do I truly grasp the reason or Providential purpose of it all. I do understand human apathy. The pilgrimage to Auschwitz taught me that I cannot judge the onlookers. I would have been there among them. Perhaps I am one of them even now.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
I'll take my capitalism. On the rocks.
Berlin was my favorite city in Europe. When I think of Berlin I harbor the kind of affection that I have for my students. I could empathize, yet with the benefit of being an objective onlooker. Berlin is like a freshman in college. It's a nineteen year-old city, as our tour guide Summer was apt to say. Like a freshman embarking on the next phase of life, making a lot of dumb choices mixed with a few good ones. Finding what fits, sometimes wearing what doesn't. It's all part of growing up. I don't claim to be a grown up, neither does Berlin. That's why I liked it.
My journal entries from Berlin are the most copious of the trip, recording every minute detail in a feverish attempt to process all that I learned. Berlin courted my love of history and my fascination with subcultures. The guided walking tours unveiled communism, fascism, and counterculture so tangibly that it made me shutter and sometimes question or sometimes rejoice in the fundamental ideals of living. I didn't want to forget anything I learned. But as I left that unique and immature city here are a few thoughts I wrote down:
1. Political History - I do not understand how the leaders in the communist government justified it to themselves. Any system that has to build walls to keep the people in must recognize that something is going wrong. There is a huge Communist-propaganda mural still outside the Luftwaffe (now the Berlin tax office). It portrays the glory of the communist ideal with beaming workers and compassionate managers. The reality was that strikes in East Germany ended badly in 1953. Workers had to work longer hours with less pay. How could leaders be so blind? How do men become so corrupt? And yet, I saw the same theme in Versailles. Power leads to pride, pride leads to corruption. It is an inescapable spiral.
It makes me ponder the nature of man. I believe (like a good Calvinist) that people are born evil; but are we born as evil as we could possibly be? Do we start at the bottom with nowhere to go but up? If so, then it seems like most people end up climbing a few rungs on the ladder of morality. However, I am more inclined to believe that having a sinful nature doesn't necessarily require us to start at the bottom rung of the ladder. As humans we are still part of God's image and therefore even babies must harbor some shadow of goodness. However, people can make choices that lead them down to the very bottom where they fall down into utter greed and domination.
Regardless, when I look at Berlin I find it so disturbingly fascinating - the amount of expense and manpower that went into securing the border. It is scary. Depravity is scary. The only reason that democracy is worthwhile is that it forces accountability, it forces us to keep our total depravity in check through mutual self-interest. What a twisted world we live in.
2. The Culture: Berlin is not like any other city I experienced in Europe. In fact, when I first stepped out of the station I thought I would hate it. The buildings are newer and thus uglier. But when it sunk in that 90% of the city was destroyed I forgave Berlin for being ugly and modern. The West boasts bright contemporary architecture in contrast to the imposing and standardized feel of East Berlin. The West tries to make you feel empowered and comfortable, the East would rather leave you feeling puny and oppressed. Ok, perhaps that's a bit melodramatic, but trust me, there is a difference.
Today in Berlin the anarchist subculture is at war with the mainstream. Berlin is a changing city, a maturing city, but far from the mark of adulthood. It is like that teenager at the threshold. Berlin throws itself into parties, sex, and drugs like a unwise college freshman. The second a block of the city becomes "trendy" (meaning full of edgy, gritty, counter-cultural haunts) the rents go up, the tourists invade and its deemed "gentrified." Once the alternative becomes mainstream the counterculture crowd to flees its old haunts for new squats. They leave burning cars in their wake.
One of the walking tours was an "alternative city" tour led by a very charismatic twenty-something year-old named Summer. Tour guiding was her day job. She was also a stand-up comedian. (I'm actually serious, she had a gig that night) She held a degree in urban art from Yale and her focus was in street art (a.k.a. graffiti). Ok, I was in awe. I followed her around like an adoring puppy. She showed us the squats, opened my eyes to the graffiti-laden underground of Berlin, but quite honestly failed to sell me on the lifestyle. By the end of the day I was thankful to be an outsider looking in. A gawky, insecure yuppie from Northern Virginia. (Anyone truly meant for that subculture would certainly scoff at the idea of paying 10 euro for a tour. However, I did hear of an anti-capitalist group charging 6 euro to get into a party at their squat - although I guess it's ok if it just paid for the alcohol, as long as they didn't make a profit)
3. Protest Movements: Public protests are hugely fashionable in Berlin. I believe it is a reaction to years of stifling oppression. During the Saturday that I was there I observed a massive protest that started along East Side Gallery, the long, muraled relic of the wall. This sounds lame, but it nearly brought tears to my eyes to see this happening right in the heart of a place where fear silenced opposition a few years ago. And for all my cynicism about power and politics I found this experience purely gratifying.
The protest was part of a movement against multinational media companies seeking to establish offices along the River Spree. In Berlin, unlike other cities in Europe, the riverfront is actually the low rent district. It is the place where the starving artists and immigrants convene, where the grittiest clubs rage until dawn. So I observed the thousands upon thousands flooding the streets in their eclectic garb (and lack thereof). The music, the floats, the parade-like energy and swarming intensity of the crowd was overwhelming. They converged on the River Spree while the police watched from the sidelines. They disrupted transportation routes and took their message from East to West...literally.
It was beautiful.
But when it's all said and done there protests are worthless when the people do not go out and do what is most simple to the functioning of democratic society - vote. In Berlin voting takes place on Sunday. But by Sunday so many Berliners are completely inebriated and do not even bother. Fortunately, some astute bar owners noted that their patrons were the ones who would vote to keep the media companies from leveling eminent domain on the river. The bars and clubs needed the votes or they'd be bulldozed. Several bars kicked the patrons out at dawn and hired taxis or buses to take them to polling stations. The people voted to keep the neighborhoods free from corporate interests. Unfortunately, their referendum was not binding, so they continue to storm the River Spree in protest.
As I've noted, Berlin is an extremely immature city. Right now it is in the throws of a counterculture. It is releasing energy that repression quelled for so long. Hopefully in time it will fade a bit. I do hope that Berlin will find it's identity, but never lose a griping sense of its past.
In conclusion, it was in Berlin's lack of identity that I solidified my own. I'm independent and adventurous, but still anal and obsessive-compulsive. I can't really change that. I'm content to be an outsider on Berlin's party scene. I haven't the slightest desire to experience the nightlong raves and the clubs with the "sex bunkers." I don't believe I'm missing out if I don't pay 6 euro for a partying in an anti-capitalist squat. I'm a "gentrified yuppie" from a posh suburbia. A voyeur peering with fascination into the realm of anarchists, happy to return to West Berlin when the sun sets. Berlin has the opposite effect of Switzerland (see below). Berlin made me thankful for my life.
As Miriam Beard so aptly wrote: "travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent in the ideas of living." I think that sums it up.
My journal entries from Berlin are the most copious of the trip, recording every minute detail in a feverish attempt to process all that I learned. Berlin courted my love of history and my fascination with subcultures. The guided walking tours unveiled communism, fascism, and counterculture so tangibly that it made me shutter and sometimes question or sometimes rejoice in the fundamental ideals of living. I didn't want to forget anything I learned. But as I left that unique and immature city here are a few thoughts I wrote down:
1. Political History - I do not understand how the leaders in the communist government justified it to themselves. Any system that has to build walls to keep the people in must recognize that something is going wrong. There is a huge Communist-propaganda mural still outside the Luftwaffe (now the Berlin tax office). It portrays the glory of the communist ideal with beaming workers and compassionate managers. The reality was that strikes in East Germany ended badly in 1953. Workers had to work longer hours with less pay. How could leaders be so blind? How do men become so corrupt? And yet, I saw the same theme in Versailles. Power leads to pride, pride leads to corruption. It is an inescapable spiral.
It makes me ponder the nature of man. I believe (like a good Calvinist) that people are born evil; but are we born as evil as we could possibly be? Do we start at the bottom with nowhere to go but up? If so, then it seems like most people end up climbing a few rungs on the ladder of morality. However, I am more inclined to believe that having a sinful nature doesn't necessarily require us to start at the bottom rung of the ladder. As humans we are still part of God's image and therefore even babies must harbor some shadow of goodness. However, people can make choices that lead them down to the very bottom where they fall down into utter greed and domination.
Regardless, when I look at Berlin I find it so disturbingly fascinating - the amount of expense and manpower that went into securing the border. It is scary. Depravity is scary. The only reason that democracy is worthwhile is that it forces accountability, it forces us to keep our total depravity in check through mutual self-interest. What a twisted world we live in.
2. The Culture: Berlin is not like any other city I experienced in Europe. In fact, when I first stepped out of the station I thought I would hate it. The buildings are newer and thus uglier. But when it sunk in that 90% of the city was destroyed I forgave Berlin for being ugly and modern. The West boasts bright contemporary architecture in contrast to the imposing and standardized feel of East Berlin. The West tries to make you feel empowered and comfortable, the East would rather leave you feeling puny and oppressed. Ok, perhaps that's a bit melodramatic, but trust me, there is a difference.
Today in Berlin the anarchist subculture is at war with the mainstream. Berlin is a changing city, a maturing city, but far from the mark of adulthood. It is like that teenager at the threshold. Berlin throws itself into parties, sex, and drugs like a unwise college freshman. The second a block of the city becomes "trendy" (meaning full of edgy, gritty, counter-cultural haunts) the rents go up, the tourists invade and its deemed "gentrified." Once the alternative becomes mainstream the counterculture crowd to flees its old haunts for new squats. They leave burning cars in their wake.
One of the walking tours was an "alternative city" tour led by a very charismatic twenty-something year-old named Summer. Tour guiding was her day job. She was also a stand-up comedian. (I'm actually serious, she had a gig that night) She held a degree in urban art from Yale and her focus was in street art (a.k.a. graffiti). Ok, I was in awe. I followed her around like an adoring puppy. She showed us the squats, opened my eyes to the graffiti-laden underground of Berlin, but quite honestly failed to sell me on the lifestyle. By the end of the day I was thankful to be an outsider looking in. A gawky, insecure yuppie from Northern Virginia. (Anyone truly meant for that subculture would certainly scoff at the idea of paying 10 euro for a tour. However, I did hear of an anti-capitalist group charging 6 euro to get into a party at their squat - although I guess it's ok if it just paid for the alcohol, as long as they didn't make a profit)
3. Protest Movements: Public protests are hugely fashionable in Berlin. I believe it is a reaction to years of stifling oppression. During the Saturday that I was there I observed a massive protest that started along East Side Gallery, the long, muraled relic of the wall. This sounds lame, but it nearly brought tears to my eyes to see this happening right in the heart of a place where fear silenced opposition a few years ago. And for all my cynicism about power and politics I found this experience purely gratifying.
The protest was part of a movement against multinational media companies seeking to establish offices along the River Spree. In Berlin, unlike other cities in Europe, the riverfront is actually the low rent district. It is the place where the starving artists and immigrants convene, where the grittiest clubs rage until dawn. So I observed the thousands upon thousands flooding the streets in their eclectic garb (and lack thereof). The music, the floats, the parade-like energy and swarming intensity of the crowd was overwhelming. They converged on the River Spree while the police watched from the sidelines. They disrupted transportation routes and took their message from East to West...literally.
It was beautiful.
But when it's all said and done there protests are worthless when the people do not go out and do what is most simple to the functioning of democratic society - vote. In Berlin voting takes place on Sunday. But by Sunday so many Berliners are completely inebriated and do not even bother. Fortunately, some astute bar owners noted that their patrons were the ones who would vote to keep the media companies from leveling eminent domain on the river. The bars and clubs needed the votes or they'd be bulldozed. Several bars kicked the patrons out at dawn and hired taxis or buses to take them to polling stations. The people voted to keep the neighborhoods free from corporate interests. Unfortunately, their referendum was not binding, so they continue to storm the River Spree in protest.
As I've noted, Berlin is an extremely immature city. Right now it is in the throws of a counterculture. It is releasing energy that repression quelled for so long. Hopefully in time it will fade a bit. I do hope that Berlin will find it's identity, but never lose a griping sense of its past.
In conclusion, it was in Berlin's lack of identity that I solidified my own. I'm independent and adventurous, but still anal and obsessive-compulsive. I can't really change that. I'm content to be an outsider on Berlin's party scene. I haven't the slightest desire to experience the nightlong raves and the clubs with the "sex bunkers." I don't believe I'm missing out if I don't pay 6 euro for a partying in an anti-capitalist squat. I'm a "gentrified yuppie" from a posh suburbia. A voyeur peering with fascination into the realm of anarchists, happy to return to West Berlin when the sun sets. Berlin has the opposite effect of Switzerland (see below). Berlin made me thankful for my life.
As Miriam Beard so aptly wrote: "travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent in the ideas of living." I think that sums it up.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
When suburbia eats your soul - run to Switzerland
Beginning on a light note:
When we got off the train at Interlaken we were struck by two things - the mountains and the Asians. Now, the fact that I was surrounded by the most beautiful mountains on the planet was truly overwhelming, but this was mitigated a bit by my utter confusion at the fact that there were Asians everywhere! I had always been told that Switzerland played neutral, but I began to wonder if I'd missed something - had it in fact been taken over by some Asian alliance? In truth, I learned later that it is actually just a stop on a lot of the tour bus routes. Switzerland is still neutral and still ruled by the Swiss, it just took us awhile to find a Swiss person that actually lived there.
So Interlaken a tourist trap. It is nice and picturesque, but kind of feels a bit fake like Niagara Falls - with overpriced souvenir shops and expensive MacDonalds. I wouldn't want to live there. I want to live in Murren.
Let me explain: We hiked for five hours to get to Murren. In fact, before we even started hiking we had to take a train deep into the mountains and a tram up the side of a mountain so that we could start hiking up more mountains to get to Murren. Once we actually arrived up in Murren we had to take a cable car back to the tram which took us back to the train which took us back to Interlaken. Does that make any sense at all? Basically, what you should take away is this: Murren is remote. Murren is nestled far from normal civilization. Murren is the most beautiful place in the world to live. It cannot be easily reached by normal means of transportation. It is a little town of chalet-style homes with huge gardens and flower boxes on every window. The outskirts are populated by herds of cows and sheep, all wearing bells which ring together in this distinctive chorus of the Swiss Alps. And, Murren has fresh water running out of natural springs.
Murren is a long way from Northern Virginia. It is the place I will always think about when I am sitting at a stoplight in some god-forsaken suburb like Sterling breathing in exhaust fumes and staring at strip malls while my soul is disintegrating by the second. Murren represents the ruination of my contentment.
You can probably tell by now that I fell in love with Switzerland. I felt like I could be at home there. To me Switzerland felt so unpretentious. I could wear t-shirts and hiking boots without becoming the object of condescending Parisian glares. In the Alps the air was clean, the water was crystal clear and blue like none other. On our walks and hikes we passed little farms, idyllic and enviable in their simplicity. During the school year I pass mansions on my way to work every day without the slightest bit of longing. But when a hike lands me in the middle of a little Swiss farm outside the realm of Internet connectivity or cellphone service, well that is when my sinful heart begins to break the tenth commandment.
For me Switzerland represented utter freedom. Stress, anxiety, and negativity just dissipated. I wished that time would suspend, that I could just be caught there forever. All of those commitments that descend upon me every September seemed far away. It seemed almost impossible that I'd ever arrive back at them. If I ever turn up missing you will probably want to look for me there.
Ironically, the only other time I experienced such an overwhelming desire to live somewhere was when I visited Washington DC and Northern Virginia as a teenager. I had the distinct impressions that I belonged, that I would fit in to the culture. And indeed I do. I'm a token Type-A workaholic just like 90% of everyone else that lives here. However, reality sets in and you find that the life you always idealized is still just a lot of day-to-day routine. I guess happiness doesn't ride on where you are or how crystal clear the water is or whether you have sheep with bells. I'm struggling to remind myself that NoVA is exactly where God wants me. I'm doing what I love, what I need to be doing. But somehow the urban/suburban life that seemed so blissful when I was a tourist in D.C. suddenly became - well- life. Now I want to care for sheep and not people. Sheep are simpler. People are hard and stressful. Sheep are a lot of back-breaking labor. People are all too often heart-breaking labor.
The logical side of my knows that farming is stressful and draining. It is utterly dependent on weather. Income is never steady. Most importantly, you can't take your sheep to Heaven. And on that note, if God made Switzerland, I can't imagine what Heaven will be like. I wonder how Heaven can be any more beautiful, and yet I know that it will be.
When we got off the train at Interlaken we were struck by two things - the mountains and the Asians. Now, the fact that I was surrounded by the most beautiful mountains on the planet was truly overwhelming, but this was mitigated a bit by my utter confusion at the fact that there were Asians everywhere! I had always been told that Switzerland played neutral, but I began to wonder if I'd missed something - had it in fact been taken over by some Asian alliance? In truth, I learned later that it is actually just a stop on a lot of the tour bus routes. Switzerland is still neutral and still ruled by the Swiss, it just took us awhile to find a Swiss person that actually lived there.
So Interlaken a tourist trap. It is nice and picturesque, but kind of feels a bit fake like Niagara Falls - with overpriced souvenir shops and expensive MacDonalds. I wouldn't want to live there. I want to live in Murren.
Let me explain: We hiked for five hours to get to Murren. In fact, before we even started hiking we had to take a train deep into the mountains and a tram up the side of a mountain so that we could start hiking up more mountains to get to Murren. Once we actually arrived up in Murren we had to take a cable car back to the tram which took us back to the train which took us back to Interlaken. Does that make any sense at all? Basically, what you should take away is this: Murren is remote. Murren is nestled far from normal civilization. Murren is the most beautiful place in the world to live. It cannot be easily reached by normal means of transportation. It is a little town of chalet-style homes with huge gardens and flower boxes on every window. The outskirts are populated by herds of cows and sheep, all wearing bells which ring together in this distinctive chorus of the Swiss Alps. And, Murren has fresh water running out of natural springs.
Murren is a long way from Northern Virginia. It is the place I will always think about when I am sitting at a stoplight in some god-forsaken suburb like Sterling breathing in exhaust fumes and staring at strip malls while my soul is disintegrating by the second. Murren represents the ruination of my contentment.
You can probably tell by now that I fell in love with Switzerland. I felt like I could be at home there. To me Switzerland felt so unpretentious. I could wear t-shirts and hiking boots without becoming the object of condescending Parisian glares. In the Alps the air was clean, the water was crystal clear and blue like none other. On our walks and hikes we passed little farms, idyllic and enviable in their simplicity. During the school year I pass mansions on my way to work every day without the slightest bit of longing. But when a hike lands me in the middle of a little Swiss farm outside the realm of Internet connectivity or cellphone service, well that is when my sinful heart begins to break the tenth commandment.
For me Switzerland represented utter freedom. Stress, anxiety, and negativity just dissipated. I wished that time would suspend, that I could just be caught there forever. All of those commitments that descend upon me every September seemed far away. It seemed almost impossible that I'd ever arrive back at them. If I ever turn up missing you will probably want to look for me there.
Ironically, the only other time I experienced such an overwhelming desire to live somewhere was when I visited Washington DC and Northern Virginia as a teenager. I had the distinct impressions that I belonged, that I would fit in to the culture. And indeed I do. I'm a token Type-A workaholic just like 90% of everyone else that lives here. However, reality sets in and you find that the life you always idealized is still just a lot of day-to-day routine. I guess happiness doesn't ride on where you are or how crystal clear the water is or whether you have sheep with bells. I'm struggling to remind myself that NoVA is exactly where God wants me. I'm doing what I love, what I need to be doing. But somehow the urban/suburban life that seemed so blissful when I was a tourist in D.C. suddenly became - well- life. Now I want to care for sheep and not people. Sheep are simpler. People are hard and stressful. Sheep are a lot of back-breaking labor. People are all too often heart-breaking labor.
The logical side of my knows that farming is stressful and draining. It is utterly dependent on weather. Income is never steady. Most importantly, you can't take your sheep to Heaven. And on that note, if God made Switzerland, I can't imagine what Heaven will be like. I wonder how Heaven can be any more beautiful, and yet I know that it will be.
Monday, August 2, 2010
History, Tapestry, and Nutella: Bayeux, France
Upon arrival to Bayeux, in the Normandy region of France, one is greeted by some very fine cows and signs on shop windows that say "Welcome to our Liberators." You are not in Paris anymore. With the exception of a couple cranky hotel receptionists, we found that the Normans defied all stereotypes of French people. They welcomed us in with appreciation and gratitude. It is funny how keenly their sense of history remains, even two generations afterward.
History has a way of playing funny tricks on us. I'm a sucker for irony and nothing is perhaps more ironic than the love-hate relationship between the French and the British. You see, it was the Normans who invaded Britain to take control in 1066, and then fate came full circle when the British (and their former-colonist Allies) invaded Normandy in 1944. We found that Omaha beach, once part of the bloody D-Day landing, is now frequented by French sunbathers and small children building sandcastles. I guess that is irony at its finest. Freedom preserved. Freedom enjoyed.
On the Fourth of July we spent the afternoon at the American Cemetery. We met three young Air Force Academy graduates who "hitched" a ride to Europe on an Air Force cargo plane. We spent a few hours of our patriotic holiday surrounded by American flags and American tourists listening to Sousa marches played by a visiting high school band. Then we made our way back to town, where we dined on exquisite French countryside cuisine that puts even my favorite Northern Virginia French cafe to shame. We walked along the canal enough to make room for dessert, a purely delightful crepe, filled with bananas and Nutella.
On our second day in the French countryside we enjoyed the idyllic medieval town of Bayeux. We found, in keeping with French culture, that here all the shops are closed on Monday mornings. Not to worry, we did find an open bakery with Nutella-filled pastries. After breakfast we visited the Bayeux tapestry. This tapestry was created to preserve the story of the Norman invasion of Britain. It fascinated me in a twofold manner. As a "fiber artist" (a.k.a. a knitter) I appreciated the intricate detail, the color-work, the storytelling mixed with artistry. As a history teacher and self-proclaimed nerd, I simply enjoyed learning about history as the Normans perceived it. It was a truly unique "primary source" to be sure.
The other notable site in Bayeux is the Cathedral. Now I'll admit, that like every honest Christian I harbor my doubts at times. Sometimes I start to wonder if the whole thing is a sham. But when inside a Cathedral I find it preposterous to believe in anything else. Cathedrals always remind me that evolution alone could not have formed beings so profound and creative. They remind me how different we are from the animal kingdom in our search for meaning, for significance, our transcendence beyond the realm of mere survival into the realm of love and worship. Cathedrals remind me that we all have a mark of the divine, an indelible image of God, despite the various and sundry mean with which we try to mar that image through deceit and corruption.
I also wonder what it would have been like for an ordinary peasant in Bayeux, living in a damp little hovel, toiling in the dirt for six days, to come to this glorious Cathedral on Sunday morning. I wonder if it was a feeling of disgust, or one of solace. Would I have bitterly compared the Cathedral to my meager surroundings, or would I have simply rested in the peace and beauty in that place?
Of course I know the true history behind religion, especially religion in Europe. I've spent enough on textbooks and written enough papers to save myself from blissful ignorance. The priests and architects and even the builders themselves were largely corrupt. The Church was rampant with usury, bigotry, and adultery. Liturgy and tradition replaced authenticity. The masses were unwittingly entangled in a complicated (and no doubt expensive) religion that demanded blind faith.
As I sat pondering those things in the Cathedral that day I became increasingly thankful for Reston Bible Church. It's not a Cathedral by any means, not even in its new and improved building. Today, our church is built for functionality, a very different approach from that of our Medieval church fathers. But it is, I believe, a well-intentioned one nonetheless. Today we worship in part by spending our money wisely - helping the poor, training the children, teaching the adults, serving the elderly, and even the immigrants. We are trying to avoid a faith based on blind allegiance to authority. Perhaps then, our building and our liturgy is a bit less awe-inspiring, but it is sacred in its authenticity.
History has a way of playing funny tricks on us. I'm a sucker for irony and nothing is perhaps more ironic than the love-hate relationship between the French and the British. You see, it was the Normans who invaded Britain to take control in 1066, and then fate came full circle when the British (and their former-colonist Allies) invaded Normandy in 1944. We found that Omaha beach, once part of the bloody D-Day landing, is now frequented by French sunbathers and small children building sandcastles. I guess that is irony at its finest. Freedom preserved. Freedom enjoyed.
On the Fourth of July we spent the afternoon at the American Cemetery. We met three young Air Force Academy graduates who "hitched" a ride to Europe on an Air Force cargo plane. We spent a few hours of our patriotic holiday surrounded by American flags and American tourists listening to Sousa marches played by a visiting high school band. Then we made our way back to town, where we dined on exquisite French countryside cuisine that puts even my favorite Northern Virginia French cafe to shame. We walked along the canal enough to make room for dessert, a purely delightful crepe, filled with bananas and Nutella.
On our second day in the French countryside we enjoyed the idyllic medieval town of Bayeux. We found, in keeping with French culture, that here all the shops are closed on Monday mornings. Not to worry, we did find an open bakery with Nutella-filled pastries. After breakfast we visited the Bayeux tapestry. This tapestry was created to preserve the story of the Norman invasion of Britain. It fascinated me in a twofold manner. As a "fiber artist" (a.k.a. a knitter) I appreciated the intricate detail, the color-work, the storytelling mixed with artistry. As a history teacher and self-proclaimed nerd, I simply enjoyed learning about history as the Normans perceived it. It was a truly unique "primary source" to be sure.
The other notable site in Bayeux is the Cathedral. Now I'll admit, that like every honest Christian I harbor my doubts at times. Sometimes I start to wonder if the whole thing is a sham. But when inside a Cathedral I find it preposterous to believe in anything else. Cathedrals always remind me that evolution alone could not have formed beings so profound and creative. They remind me how different we are from the animal kingdom in our search for meaning, for significance, our transcendence beyond the realm of mere survival into the realm of love and worship. Cathedrals remind me that we all have a mark of the divine, an indelible image of God, despite the various and sundry mean with which we try to mar that image through deceit and corruption.
I also wonder what it would have been like for an ordinary peasant in Bayeux, living in a damp little hovel, toiling in the dirt for six days, to come to this glorious Cathedral on Sunday morning. I wonder if it was a feeling of disgust, or one of solace. Would I have bitterly compared the Cathedral to my meager surroundings, or would I have simply rested in the peace and beauty in that place?
Of course I know the true history behind religion, especially religion in Europe. I've spent enough on textbooks and written enough papers to save myself from blissful ignorance. The priests and architects and even the builders themselves were largely corrupt. The Church was rampant with usury, bigotry, and adultery. Liturgy and tradition replaced authenticity. The masses were unwittingly entangled in a complicated (and no doubt expensive) religion that demanded blind faith.
As I sat pondering those things in the Cathedral that day I became increasingly thankful for Reston Bible Church. It's not a Cathedral by any means, not even in its new and improved building. Today, our church is built for functionality, a very different approach from that of our Medieval church fathers. But it is, I believe, a well-intentioned one nonetheless. Today we worship in part by spending our money wisely - helping the poor, training the children, teaching the adults, serving the elderly, and even the immigrants. We are trying to avoid a faith based on blind allegiance to authority. Perhaps then, our building and our liturgy is a bit less awe-inspiring, but it is sacred in its authenticity.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Thoughts on Power
On our fourth day in Europe my mom and I trekked to Versailles. And when I say "trekked" I do mean "trekked." As we were walking up to the Palace in the pouring rain my mom remarked that it did look quite a bit like the peasants' Bread March. Hundreds of tourists unloaded from the train station, paid exorbitant prices for umbrellas, and flocked toward the Palace at 10 am.
The Palace of Versailles is far beyond the realm of adequate description. Ostentatious doesn't even do it justice. Paris was ostentatious, Versailles exceeded even that. I was disgusted, I couldn't even imagine the sheer repulsion of the peasant women who'd known only their dingy little hovels until the day they stormed this monstrosity.
I began to see that this family truly became imprisoned in their excesses. A part of me pities Marie-Antoinette. I wonder if she married in unawares, or more likely, she didn't really have a choice. Now a truly courageous woman would have stood up to her husband and the excesses of the empire. She took the less honorable route, retreating to her make-believe village to escape the absurdities of her life by enshrouding it in even greater absurdity.
Throughout the day at Versailles I couldn't help but start to wonder what happens to a person's psyche when they are thrust into power. Louis XIV was born into power and his sons afterward. Thus, the dementia of power just compounded and spiraled throughout each generation. Frenchmen vied for the honor of being Valet de Chambre, rising the Sun King in the morning and putting him to bed at night. But wouldn't it be terrible to live without the freedom to go to bed when you wished, the privacy to dress oneself, or to change plans on a whim? In some ways I wonder if the peasants really were freer. They were not slaves to their lives of excess. But still, I guess they were slaves to their hunger.
As we walked for hours all over Versailles, taking in the expanse of the tuilleries and grounds, I began to wonder how much the kings and queens that lived there could really enjoy all that it had to offer. There was so much of it, they couldn't possibly have had enough time to really make all of the little terraces, walkways, and the three palaces worth the trouble. Perhaps if Marie had done a bit more walking around her estate she would have been a bit slimmer.
By the end of the day we were exhausted from walking miles through Versailles. It would have been nearly impossible for us to stay upright long enough to eat in the one of those lovely French cafes. To stave off the impending grouchiness that accompanies a drop in blood sugar, I picked up my favorite French meal from the local patisserie - a simple baguette with ham and cheese. Perhaps one day I'll return to Paris and allocate enough physical stamina to be truly cosmopolitan and eat fine cheese and wine at 10pm. But by the end of our second day there I think we were just happy for the freedom to go to bed early in our budget hotel, unhindered by excess but full of baguettes, and unencumbered by the mental illnesses that saturate the powerful.
The Palace of Versailles is far beyond the realm of adequate description. Ostentatious doesn't even do it justice. Paris was ostentatious, Versailles exceeded even that. I was disgusted, I couldn't even imagine the sheer repulsion of the peasant women who'd known only their dingy little hovels until the day they stormed this monstrosity.
I began to see that this family truly became imprisoned in their excesses. A part of me pities Marie-Antoinette. I wonder if she married in unawares, or more likely, she didn't really have a choice. Now a truly courageous woman would have stood up to her husband and the excesses of the empire. She took the less honorable route, retreating to her make-believe village to escape the absurdities of her life by enshrouding it in even greater absurdity.
Throughout the day at Versailles I couldn't help but start to wonder what happens to a person's psyche when they are thrust into power. Louis XIV was born into power and his sons afterward. Thus, the dementia of power just compounded and spiraled throughout each generation. Frenchmen vied for the honor of being Valet de Chambre, rising the Sun King in the morning and putting him to bed at night. But wouldn't it be terrible to live without the freedom to go to bed when you wished, the privacy to dress oneself, or to change plans on a whim? In some ways I wonder if the peasants really were freer. They were not slaves to their lives of excess. But still, I guess they were slaves to their hunger.
As we walked for hours all over Versailles, taking in the expanse of the tuilleries and grounds, I began to wonder how much the kings and queens that lived there could really enjoy all that it had to offer. There was so much of it, they couldn't possibly have had enough time to really make all of the little terraces, walkways, and the three palaces worth the trouble. Perhaps if Marie had done a bit more walking around her estate she would have been a bit slimmer.
By the end of the day we were exhausted from walking miles through Versailles. It would have been nearly impossible for us to stay upright long enough to eat in the one of those lovely French cafes. To stave off the impending grouchiness that accompanies a drop in blood sugar, I picked up my favorite French meal from the local patisserie - a simple baguette with ham and cheese. Perhaps one day I'll return to Paris and allocate enough physical stamina to be truly cosmopolitan and eat fine cheese and wine at 10pm. But by the end of our second day there I think we were just happy for the freedom to go to bed early in our budget hotel, unhindered by excess but full of baguettes, and unencumbered by the mental illnesses that saturate the powerful.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Minding the Gap and Other Musings
There is something about the way British people speak that just charms us Anglophiles. I mean honestly, what American girl wouldn't be illogically swept off her feet by a Hugh Grant or Fred and George Weasley? While most Continental Europeans see the British as bunch of uncouth louts, most Americans are immediately won over with their accents and idioms.
For example, the British prefer the term "Way Out" over "Exit." When speaking about this to a young Brit, he explained to me that the word "exit" denotes emergency or fear. A "way out" is simply that - a way out. Now, take the phrase "mind the gap". When the doors open on the London tube this automatic forewarning on the intercom ensures that patrons do not trip off the train. In America we would say "watch your step." But really "watch your step" just seems to be a bit more overbearing, perhaps even a little demeaning - as if every passenger is a clumsy fool waiting to trip and fall and sue somebody. I'm so enamored with Brit-speak that I'm tempted to start using "the loo" and calling up my "mates."
London...my first impressions:
London is an old, old town that has proved resilient through years of turbulent history. I admire that about London. It has weathered plagues, fire, bombings, beheadings, and the perpetual follies of its ruling class. I like how they are steeped in all sorts of quirky traditions, the nightly ceremony of the keys at the Tower, the changing of the guard, the tagging of the queen's swans. The pomp and circumstance is quite amusing. Nevertheless, London flourishes and strives to become as hip and relevant as New York. In the past decade Londoners have watched the growth of new fixtures like the town hall, the Gherkin, and The Shard.
Quite honestly, I wasn't sure how I felt about this unabashedly 21st century architecture standing amidst the old-school landscape - that is until I learned that Prince Charles equated it with a "monstrous carbuncle". So I decided I liked it, just to spite him. 
I had expected London to be smaller, quainter. My ignorance slapped me in the face as I realized that London is a major world class city. I find it humorous however that the Tower of London still harbors its ravens in accordance with the old legend that the empire will fall if the ravens are removed. I wonder if the ravens were on holiday in 1776. Do the raven-keepers realize that the empire has already fallen? Maybe they just don't want to be out of a job.
London got me thinking about old age. You know those insecure old people that try so hard to stay young cool but end up failing miserably? You've seen them, they have cheap hair dye and wrinkles flopping over their bikini bottoms. They are put to shame by the more savvy old people, the unabashedly gray-haired retirees who get on Facebook and are off globetrotting in their spare time. This begs the question - What kind of "old" category does London fall into? Is London wearing a bikini at the beach or it is a spry, silver-haired adventurer?
Monday, June 28, 2010
Going to the Dentist
Of all the things we often take for granted one of them is going to the dentist. We hate the dentist, but ever since I traveled to Kosovo and saw the effects of not going to the dentist I've been so thankful for every visit.
That said, I've learned an important lesson in the past week. Always go to the dentist well in advance of the date you leave for an extended trip to Europe. You see, I thought that having cavities filled three weeks before I left would be quite enough time to solve any unwanted complications. Apparently however, when the cavity is deep you will be saddled with prolonged sensitivity and the potential for a latent infection. In short, it's best to go to the dentist months, not weeks in advance of a trip.
So here's the life lesson I'm taking from this. Every aspect of the next three weeks is in God's hands. From my health, to my safety, to my teeth. This past year I have been functioning quite independently of the God who calls us repeatedly to lean on Him. I remember the days in my first two years of teaching when the drive to school each morning was a prolonged prayer session, when early morning workouts were a chance to listen to sermons, when I made it a point to read and study Biblical literature and write pithy theological essays. This year I've been handling my career, my coursework, and my life pretty much on my own. I suppose there have been a few moments when the coaching gig has propelled me into some desperate prayer, but other than that I've taken life into my own hands. I haven't cried out in true helplessness in quite awhile.
Independence, comfort, and safety is always the easy default. Northern Virginia is now my home, classrooms are my sanctuary, debate tournaments are my social life (sad, but true). During the next three weeks I'm leaving that all behind. I am actually quite terrified. You see, planning this trip was a lot more exciting two months ago as I was sifting through travel guides and pricing out flights. Tonight, rather than thinking of this as a grand adventure my mind is starting to parcel through a highly imaginative list of all the things that could go wrong. Getting an abscess tooth is right at the top.
In truth however, I'm seeking out more than castles and museums, I'm seeking a renewed sense of faith. I'm trusting that the trains will run, the planes will fly, and dental emergencies will either be averted or dealt with. I'm trusting that God will take care of me tomorrow, and all the rest of my life.
That said, I've learned an important lesson in the past week. Always go to the dentist well in advance of the date you leave for an extended trip to Europe. You see, I thought that having cavities filled three weeks before I left would be quite enough time to solve any unwanted complications. Apparently however, when the cavity is deep you will be saddled with prolonged sensitivity and the potential for a latent infection. In short, it's best to go to the dentist months, not weeks in advance of a trip.
So here's the life lesson I'm taking from this. Every aspect of the next three weeks is in God's hands. From my health, to my safety, to my teeth. This past year I have been functioning quite independently of the God who calls us repeatedly to lean on Him. I remember the days in my first two years of teaching when the drive to school each morning was a prolonged prayer session, when early morning workouts were a chance to listen to sermons, when I made it a point to read and study Biblical literature and write pithy theological essays. This year I've been handling my career, my coursework, and my life pretty much on my own. I suppose there have been a few moments when the coaching gig has propelled me into some desperate prayer, but other than that I've taken life into my own hands. I haven't cried out in true helplessness in quite awhile.
Independence, comfort, and safety is always the easy default. Northern Virginia is now my home, classrooms are my sanctuary, debate tournaments are my social life (sad, but true). During the next three weeks I'm leaving that all behind. I am actually quite terrified. You see, planning this trip was a lot more exciting two months ago as I was sifting through travel guides and pricing out flights. Tonight, rather than thinking of this as a grand adventure my mind is starting to parcel through a highly imaginative list of all the things that could go wrong. Getting an abscess tooth is right at the top.
In truth however, I'm seeking out more than castles and museums, I'm seeking a renewed sense of faith. I'm trusting that the trains will run, the planes will fly, and dental emergencies will either be averted or dealt with. I'm trusting that God will take care of me tomorrow, and all the rest of my life.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Back again
Now that grad school is no longer zapping all of my time and energy and I am happy to announce that the next year of my life is going to be entirely devoted to pursuing a variety of eclectic interests that have been postponed in the onslaught of academic accouterments...
In order to maximize the margin in my life I need to consider throwing out some other wasteful excesses as well. In today's Washington Post the Outlook section ran a feature entitled "12 Things We Should Trash." Herein, twelve writers made their case for disposing of various elements of our society - virginity, tactical nuclear weapons, lawns, and many others. I thought this was a good idea and began asking myself what twelve things can I can rid myself of, and what will I add instead?
The first is going to be meat (with the exception of fish). Why meat? There are a variety of reasons people become vegetarian. They believe it's healthier, they believe it conserves energy, or because they oppose commercial farming methods. None of those reasons apply. I am basically doing it because I'm tired of food options. I'm tired of sitting down to eat at a restaurant and getting overwhelmed by the menu. I'm tired of trying to figure out what to eat for dinner. There are so many important decisions in life, why should I waste my mental energy trying to figure out if I want the chicken and rice or the steak? Once you cross all the meat options off the menu it's so much simpler. Life is less stressful with less choices. (that said, I'll eat meat if it is served to me by a host and probably won't forego my mom's hamburgers on the grill)
The truth is we are living in a society with way too many choices. This doesn't just apply to food. I rarely go to Tysons to shop, I like to just walk around and gaze at the mecca of consumerism going on around me. It's way to overwhelming to actually decide on something to buy. I rarely buy books at Barnes and Noble, though I visit nearly every week. There is so much I want to read, I can't pick just one, and I can't afford them all, so I walk out empty-handed.
There is so much I want to do with my life. So many roads to travel and things to learn. I want to take tennis lessons. I want to take a photography class, a creative writing course. I want to go to concerts and Seattle and Texas, and Chincoteague. I haven't even been to Baltimore or Annapolis yet! I love being 25 with a whole lifetime of experiences and lessons still ahead but sometimes I wonder if I'll be able to fit it all in. I don't want to walk out empty-handed from life.
That's why I'm throwing unnecessary stuff out. I don't want to become needlessly overwhelmed. Realistically, I can't have it all. I'll live without Omaha steak.
In order to maximize the margin in my life I need to consider throwing out some other wasteful excesses as well. In today's Washington Post the Outlook section ran a feature entitled "12 Things We Should Trash." Herein, twelve writers made their case for disposing of various elements of our society - virginity, tactical nuclear weapons, lawns, and many others. I thought this was a good idea and began asking myself what twelve things can I can rid myself of, and what will I add instead?
The first is going to be meat (with the exception of fish). Why meat? There are a variety of reasons people become vegetarian. They believe it's healthier, they believe it conserves energy, or because they oppose commercial farming methods. None of those reasons apply. I am basically doing it because I'm tired of food options. I'm tired of sitting down to eat at a restaurant and getting overwhelmed by the menu. I'm tired of trying to figure out what to eat for dinner. There are so many important decisions in life, why should I waste my mental energy trying to figure out if I want the chicken and rice or the steak? Once you cross all the meat options off the menu it's so much simpler. Life is less stressful with less choices. (that said, I'll eat meat if it is served to me by a host and probably won't forego my mom's hamburgers on the grill)
The truth is we are living in a society with way too many choices. This doesn't just apply to food. I rarely go to Tysons to shop, I like to just walk around and gaze at the mecca of consumerism going on around me. It's way to overwhelming to actually decide on something to buy. I rarely buy books at Barnes and Noble, though I visit nearly every week. There is so much I want to read, I can't pick just one, and I can't afford them all, so I walk out empty-handed.
There is so much I want to do with my life. So many roads to travel and things to learn. I want to take tennis lessons. I want to take a photography class, a creative writing course. I want to go to concerts and Seattle and Texas, and Chincoteague. I haven't even been to Baltimore or Annapolis yet! I love being 25 with a whole lifetime of experiences and lessons still ahead but sometimes I wonder if I'll be able to fit it all in. I don't want to walk out empty-handed from life.
That's why I'm throwing unnecessary stuff out. I don't want to become needlessly overwhelmed. Realistically, I can't have it all. I'll live without Omaha steak.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)