"During the era of National Socialism (1933-1945) many of Munich's local citizens avoided going near the eastern side of the Military Commanders' Hall (Feldherrhalle) on Odeonsplatz. Situated on Odeonsplatz was a memorial for those who died taking part in Hitler's Putsch on 9 November 1923. Two uniformed and armed SS guards struck up a pose there day and night as a guard of honour. Anyone passing by was required to raise his or her arm in the 'Heil Hitler' greeting. A large number of people who would otherwise have passed the guards therefore took the detour through the Viscardigasse in order to reach Odeonsplatz. This led to the street being called 'Druckebergergassi' or 'Shirker's Lane' in the everyday language of the locals. With this winding trail of bronze set into the cobblestones on the lane, [artist] Bruno Wank reminds us of this silent form of opposition among Munich's population."
Munich's Christkindlmarkt
Germany might well best the U.S. in the celebration of Christmas. Plazas all around town, flanked by historically imposing buildings such as the Marienplatz, lit up with holiday lights and filled with midieval huts selling traditional holiday crafts and food. A lot of food, including all types of sausages, Gluwein (a warmed wine concoction with which--spoiler alert--one must pace oneself), and of course gingerbread. Thousands of locals, plus two Americans clearly not acclimated to the weather, all sharing in the Christmas spirit.
And they seem to largely pull it off without the plastic, commercialized brittleness that seems to creep into many American attempts to do the same.
Speaking of weather, we probably overdid it our first fill day. After dropping off our holiday cards at the Austrian post office, we spent the greater part of the afternoon and evening outside. We didn't realize how cold we had gotten until is was a little too late (the Gluwein didn't help), and we shivered our way back to our Air BnB a little less-happy than what we would have liked.
The Duomo
The Duomo in Milan is a staggeringly large church, even by European standards. All of the midevil church accoutrements inside have proportionately expanded as well--there's just an overwhelming number of intricate sculptures, stained glass windows, and renaissance art, all embedded in massive Roman columns and stonemasonry that leaves you gawking. Below is the front door, adorned with impossibly intricate metal work, and guarded by the Italian military with fantastically awesome hats.
Cinquemila (Five Thousand), Part I
I am slowly eking my way towards 5,000 total flight hours, so I thought it would be interesting to show what I've been doing all that time, aside from being slowly shaken to death.
Flight Hour Breakdown
My Navy experience still takes up the largest minority of time, part of it deployed doing anti-submarine warfare (ASW) and a little too much Search and Rescue (SAR), and the other part as an instructor to new pilots coming into the fleet. Helicopter Emergency Medical Services (HEMS) is the next chunk, most of with Air Methods but some in a death-defying stint in a Bell 206 Long Ranger. VIP stands for Very Important Person, and if you are wondering what constitutes a Very Important Person then you aren't one, lol. The "other" section I will need to parse out, but not on a Swiss train to Milan at 9 o'clock at night, which is where I am now. It includes a good deal of non-VIP charter, off-road racing support, and local news support. It also includes about a 100 hours of flying a Cessna 152 in Lexington, KY, where I learned to fly.
Overall, I consider myself quite fortunate in what I've been able to experience, and the different environs in which I've flown. There have been lows, no doubt, and lots of spikes of blood pressure, but so far it's been a magical trip for me. With no offense to KPMG Peat Marwick and Booz Allen Hamilton, I am so thankful I left financial consulting in the early 2000's and returned to the cockpit, and so thankful Stewart supported and encouraged the move.
Somewhere Near Imperia, Italy
Liam The Young, Ed and Stephen the Middle Aged, and Stewart The Elder.
Hide My Arse
Living in Europe has given us ample opportunity to repeatedly break the law. Most of it unintentional, as in virtually every moment we are operating a motor vehicle, but on occasion we have been known to intentionally skirt international dictates.
Most recently it has involved Game of Thrones, the addictive HBO series involving a very complicated and intertwining plot, randomly interrupted by gratuitous scenes of violence and sex. We had yet to the see the most current season, so when we discovered it was available for rent online we happily clicked on 'download' and went to make popcorn.
Except once it determined my computer was in Italy, it cut me off. Not available in my country, it said. Too bad you're traveling abroad, it mocked. Hope you get back to California before you accidentally read all the spoiler posts on Facebook, it sneered.
I had gotten that same message numerous times before, from other entertainment venues and some business applications, but Game of Thrones was the last straw. So I signed up with a company called Hide My Ass. Sporting a clever if not entirely subtle name, it reroutes my electronic devices through any number of portals, of particular interest a U.S. one. And in doing so my true origin disappears from view. So while hanging out in Italy, the Internet thinks my computer is in New York, and wants to download the Game of Thrones. Season Five, complete.
All that is a tad shady, I know. And HMA sells its services under the auspices of people wanting an anonymous online experience, which it provides and is another bonus of using it--those cookies that normally get placed in the bowels of your computer's memory have nowhere to go. You'd think the cookies would show up in New York and go, "Hey, there's no computer here" and then report back to their sender, but fortunately that connection is never made.
If This Is A Man
“Silence slowly prevails and then, from my bunk on the top row, I see and hear old Kuhn praying aloud, with his beret on his head, swaying backwards and forwards violently. Kuhn is thanking God because he has not been chosen.
Kuhn is out of his senses. Does he not see Beppo the Greek in the bunk next to him, Beppo who is twenty years old and is going to the gas-chamber the day after tomorrow and knows it and lies there looking fixedly at the light without saying anything and without even thinking anymore? Can Kuhn fail to realize that next time it will be his turn? Does Kuhn not understand that what has happened today is an abomination, which no propitiatory prayer, no pardon, no expiation by the guilty, which nothing at all in the power of man can ever clean again?
If I was God, I would spit at Kuhn’s prayer. ”
Hedgerow
A little caveat might be needed before this post. I have a near-obsession with a website called Atlas Obscura (AO). AO is a compendium of the unusual, of things and places and happenings I find quite interesting but that you won't find in one of the usual travel guides. Hence the photos a year ago of me next to witches' tombs, or Stewart listening to a musical instrument imbedded in a highway overpass, or two days ago in the northern reaches of Scotland looking at castle ruins that Bram Stoker--it is said--used to help him form the vision of Dracula's.
So yesterday at the guidance of AO we took a small diversion enroute to Edinburgh, to see the world's largest hedgerow, according to the Guinness Book of World Records. It is size and length were impressive (580 yards long and 100 feet high), especially for an organization of bushes that one expects not to see on such a grand scale. But the best part is that the Meikleour Beech Hedge was planted in the Fall of 1745. Standing next to a living 270 year old anything is rather impressive to me, but a hedgerow...well, what can I say.
The Mighty Meikleour Hedgerow
In case you were curious, it takes four people six weeks to trim it, once a decade.
Beggar Lady
Below is a photo of a famous tombstone monument, in the likeness of the deceased who is laid to rest there, Caterina Campodonico. She was a peasant nut-seller who saved all of her money in life so that she could be buried at the Cimitero Monumental di Stalieno in Genoa (or Genova, as the Italians call it). The quality of the monument is striking, but even more impressive is that this cemetery has hundreds upon hundreds of such sculptures with wildly varying themes, from family death bed mourning to the deceased being carried to the heavens by angels, to ships caught in tempests at sea.
The cemetery was commissioned by Napoleon in 1805 (who then ruled Northern Italy), but not opened until 1851. Upon his visit there, Mark Twain remarked:
“... We shall continue to remember it after we shall have forgotten the palaces. It is a vast marble collonaded corridor extending around a great unoccupied square of ground; its broad floor is marble, and on every slab is an inscription—for every slab covers a corpse. On either side, as one walks down the middle of the passage, are monuments, tombs, and sculptured figures that are exquisitely wrought and are full of grace and beauty. They are new and snowy; every outline is perfect, every feature guiltless of mutilation, flaw, or blemish; and therefore, to us these far-reaching ranks of bewitching forms are a hundred fold more lovely than the damaged and dingy statuary they have saved from the wreck of ancient art and set up in the galleries of Paris for the worship of the world.””
Stewart and I stopped by enroute back from Nice, and although the grounds have fallen into some disrepair, the statuaries are still quite impressive.
Danse Macabre
A few days ago Stewart and I visited Clusone, a small village north of Bergamo. It is known for the above outdoor mural of the Dance Macabre, completed in 1495. It apparently was a theme taken up by the Church, that regardless of your current station on Earth, we all wind up in the same place eventually. A small comfort to those whose station was near the bottom of the pecking order, I guess. A few interesting items: the actual dance is the lower part of the mural, with the rich and the poor dancing with the skeletons, on their way to their earthly demise; and in the top section Queen Death is flanked by two other skeletal figures, one with an arrow and the other with an early version of an arquebus, a muzzle-loaded firearm.
Prugne
Stewart and I have been eating fresh plums for breakfast from the tree in our back yard in Bergamo. As most Americans won't recognize the size or shape of the fruit, it is actually a special kind of plum named Ramadi'n, originally from a small area in Piedmont.
The variety almost disappeared because the trees were difficult to raise (and the fruit not very commercially viable), but our landlord Marcello's Mom received a cutting from his uncle, from one of the few trees left, which she successfully grew into her own tree. And then she gave a cutting to Marcello, and his tree is now flourishing. Which makes the prunes even better, knowing they're a small part of the Moro family and heritage.
There are actually more than 20 different kinds of plums in Italy, each with a number of varieties.
Fair Winds
This is a picture from my Client's yacht, after I had landed while it was underway. I probably touched down a tad aft, as the helideck itself is just a tiny bit smaller than I had imagined and the visual picture of landing so close to the yacht's superstructure takes a little getting used to. The ensign is from the ship's country of registry, the Cayman Islands; the white circular area near the deck edge is the helideck lighting, and the landing surface--teak, of course. Everything meticulously maintained.
The yacht is staffed with a crew of around 15, of various nationalities. The 2nd Captain and acting Master is American, the lead Chef German, the Purser British. It's a tightly run ship, with schedules and duties delineated and methodically carried out, but with a sense of ownership and camaraderie.
It's also runs a busy schedule. So far we have sailed to Bonifacio on the southern tip of Corsica, then to Olbia a little bit south on on the island of Sardinia, and last night we just returned from St. Tropez after more helideck training (it's been a very long time since I've practiced engine failures on short final to a ship..!).
Helicopter operations are taken seriously--there are three people on deck during landings and takeoffs: an HLO (Helicopter Landing Officer) who runs the show (subject to the Captain's final approval), and two crewman who are donned with firefighting gear from head to toe, and at the ready with water and fire retardant. In addition they deploy tenders (small boats, stored in the yacht's hull) that are standing by in case we have to ditch into the water.