Barcelona Images

Dave looking in at a pastry shop.
Evening on La Ramblas, the main drag through old Barcelona.
Kiosk.
Typical street in the Born/St. Pere district.
The market near our hotel in the St. Pere district.
Waiting in the strong wind for our tour guide at Sagrada Familia.
Waiting for the metro back to the hotel.

My Reef Experience: Skin-tight Blue Lycra and Little Blue Fishies

The whole reason to come all this way up to Cairns is singular: the Great Barrier Reef. The city is essentially featureless and serves as a central crossroads for tourists and adventure-seekers passing through to remarkably more interesting destinations. But the reef, after having seen a bit of it first hand, is phenomenally beautiful.

I booked an all-day trip on a fast boat called the Silverswift to go out on the reef and attempt snorkeling. Leaving at 8:30, about forty of us arrived on Flynn Reef, about 50 km out to sea, very close to the edge of the continental shelf. The boat maneuvered to three different locations on the reef, anchored and lowered stairs into the water off the back. Scuba divers went into the water, followed by us snorkelers.


After some equipment issues with my mask (involving swallowing sea water), I got used to breathing through my mouth and started swimming around the extensive reefs. I have to say this was one of the best things I have ever done. I spent about a total of 3 hours in the water. The sea was warm and the sunlight lit up the environment like a torch. I swam over large, shallow fields of coral, deep crevices and gentle mounds of underwater sand dunes. The reef teemed with sea life- so many colorful fishes of varying sizes, from large red bass to big schools of little minnows. The blue-colored fish fascinated me most- they shimmered in the sunlight darting around in synchronization especially as I reached out to touch them.

This is an experience I want to do again and soon.

A few words about Lycra:

1. It is recommended to protect snorkelers from the hot tropical sun as they flop around the water’s surface.

2. It is useful in protecting from the dreaded stings of jellyfish.

3. It is an amazingly stretchable material.

4. I look terrible in a bright blue full-body Lycra.

I have a photo to prove it but it will never see the light of day.

Traveled today from Sydney, New South Wales to Cairns in Queensland. Just the next state over. Close, right? Not quite.

I forgot just how vast this country is , about the size of the contiguous 48 United States. So the flight was three and a half hours, about 1200 miles, straight slightly west of due north. About the same as Seattle to halfway down Baja.

The distance is an issue of differing climates. From cool, temperate Mediterranean climate of Sydney to the tropical climate of North Queensland. Eucalyptus and Ficus bush country versus mangrove swamp and true primeval rain forests.

A wet, warm slap greets you as you step off the flight. This is a very different Australia.

Fond of Fauna

I almost never visit zoos or aquariums when traveling, or even back at home for that matter. My bias when traveling leans towards the cultural, historical and, of course, architectural. Captivity is something I usually find distasteful, as well.

This trip, and you can call me a hypocrite, I decided to visit the Sydney Aquarium and the Taronga Zoo to see the curious menagerie that is the fauna of Australia. Since childhood, you are taught how isolationism gave rise to unique animals. And how can you not be curious with some of the names of these creature?

There are Dugongs, Long-nosed Bandicoots, Bettongs, Kookaburras, Bilbies, Potoroos, Platypuses, Cassowarries, Yabbies, Dingoes, Kangaroos, Emus, Echidnas, Galahs, Goannas, Koalas, Kowaris Wombats, Quokkas, Spotted Tailed Quolls, Tasmanian Devils, Wallaroos and scary Salt Water Crocodiles.

The Taronga Zoo in particular was impressive. Most get there by taking the ferry from Central Sydney and then riding a cable car to the main entrance. It sits on a slope on the North Shore of Sydney Harbor so there are impressive views back towards the city center. Sprawling, very lush and teeming with large enclosures for the animals, this was a pleasant visit.

Closing observations:
Salt water crocs are dinosaurs in all their scariness.
Zoo animals sleep a lot.
And wombats and koalas are just so damn cute.

A Day at the Opera

I set out Saturday morning for a leisurely walk around Darling Harbor just a few blocks to the north and west of my apartment. With temps in the low seventies and a strong Spring sunshine it felt refreshing after last night’s passing front.

Back in the room, I changed into slacks and collared shirt and headed for a quick lunch one block away to a sushi place that had one of those cool conveyor belts that parades tasty bites of sushi just inches from your face. They need to invent something that soys and wasabies the roll and drops it in your mouth.

Jumped on the Metro Rail for two stops to Circular Quay. This is the heart of the city where Sydneysiders and tourists converge and either hang about the area or move out of the center by ferry, train or bus. It’s Saturday and the area is buzzing. Sidewalk cafes and shops are filled with people just kicking back.

I walked leisurely the quarter mile along the harbor side promenade towards Bennelong Point and the Opera House. Many languages are heard; various levels of dress are seen. Heading north on the promenade, the Harbor Bridge looms large to the left, heavy dark girders flanked by massive, stalwart concrete pylons. To the right the white, gossamer curves of the Opera House.
I needn’t comment on the iconic qualities of the building form, nor the inimitable siting in this beautiful harbor. Close up, some of the detailing is clunky and the building lacks finesse. The Opera House delivers in its big confident gestures: the great flight of steps to the upper plinth, the confident vault The raw, saw-edged concrete is visible throughout the interior. The walls, windows, stairs and other program elements are subservient to the structure which defines any sense of ornament with the stepping of the ridged rib structure. The over-riding impression I had was of an undecorated Mayan architecture in the act of overturning and fragmentation. Utzon’s design comes from the same school as Eero Saarinen, that Scandinavian modern expressionism through idealized organic structuralism, which I think was far ahead of its time and still has repercussions in today’s architecture.

Though the entire complex is called the Sydney Opera House, the larger of the sails actually contains an orchestral Concert Hall (that night the wonderful soprano Kiri te Kanawa is performing). The opera hall interior is small, but intimate. The principal direction is upwards. The concrete ribs of the giant shells all sweep towards the apex of the roof. The seating area coats the bottom half of the space while the rest is just free space. I feel like I am inside a spacious Victorian bustle.

I had booked tickets to the Opera months ago. I chose a matinee so that I could be in the building during the day. Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Mikado was playing, which I had never seen. The alternative was a performance of Aida. So did I want a light comic opera featuring characters named Nanki-poo and Yum-yum or ponder a story of verboten love by a mixed-race couple who at the end are entombed together? Sells itself. I am on vacation after all.

The performance itself was well sung and played to the hilt for laughs. Some of the dialogue was given a current twist,particularly the Lord Executioner’s ’List”, although some of the Aussie political and pop culture references were lost on me, this was well-received to the audience. I was surprised by the number of children in the audience, but perhaps this was because of the comic tone of this particular opera, rather than the high brow cultural leanings of Sydneysiders.

Leaving the Opera House, I found a shady spot on the promenade to take in the passing parade with a strong coffee and enjoy it for a bit longer.

Sydney: Icon 1

A Cloudy Morning.

The great phalanx of steps leading to the main podium.

The shifting light changes the surface.

On the interior, the structure always seems to apparent.


View of the Opera Hall Lobby before the performance. The view overlooks Sydney Harbor and the Harbor Bridge.

Familiar in the Far Antipodes

So here I am in Sydney. Not quite as exotic a destination as the last couple of trips. In fact, my first impressions have been based on a surprising sense of familiarity.

I landed at 0630 on a Thursday, which seemed to be a very busy arrivals time in Sydney. Overnight flights are apparently very popular. Large planes flying many different flags had disgorged their passengers seemingly simultaneously into the International terminal. My Delta 777, a Lufthansa 747, an enormous Emirates A380, a United 747. In the Immigration line, we were tired hundreds, single-filed, murmurring in hushed foreign tongues as we shuffled past the agents. The immigration line is the great equalizer of our day; economy, business and first class passengers must endure the same line. Even the flight crews were stacked up in their own queue.

By 0800 I was on the train heading into Sydney’s Central Business District, coincident with the morning rush. Among the business suits and rumpled tourist clothes, I glimpsed a familiar sight that overwhelmed me with a bittersweet nostalgia for my distant youth: the school uniform.

I flashed on my school years at in Hong Kong; Kennedy Road Junior School, Quarry Bay Junior School and King George V, where I spent my middle/high school years. The very British tradition of uniforms is alien to American culture (save for the military and Catholic School tradition) and, for me, it was a seemingly small but striking emblem of my uprooting from California to a very different culture in Asia. The transition was not easy for me and I treated it somewhat akin to exile, until I was able to integrate into this system.

Drab, dark-colored blazers sporting curiously ancient heraldic pocket School patches; somber dark grey or blue trousers often hemmed embarrassingly high, an impossibly maintainable line on a growing boy, and the ubiquitous white collared shirts, long-sleeved, but inevitably rolled up.. The tie, often the only opportunity for color in the ensemble, is the signifier of the students’ personality. The good (or fearful) student sports the Full Windsor cinched tightly to the buttoned collar with correct lengths. Non-conforming, rebellious or ‘cool’ students express themselves predictably with less correct variations.

What did I do with my tie? The correct, suck up, don’t-rock-the-boat way, of course.

I followed the masses of suits and blazers off the train at the Town Hall station, emerging from below on George Street, the main thoroughfare in the CBD. I watched the students disperse towards their schools whilst I thought back some 30 years ago of my similarly daily amble down Argyle Street towards KGV.

But enough nostalgia. I’m tired and grungy. Where’s my hotel?

Cobble, Cobble

I became aware of them as a first experience on arriving at the Namesti Republiky (Republic Square) in Prague. Not through the sense of sight, which is probably the most heightened sense when arriving at a new place; nor through the tactile senses as my feet hit the ground from the airport shuttle van- their unevenness requires subtle adjustments of the leg muscles to stay upright.

No, it was the sound, that jarring aural battery of plastic on stone as soon as the driver pulled my suitcase (Lil’ Red, short for Little Red Sarcophagus) out of the van and down to the pavement. As I wheeled Lil’ Red away with deliberate speed to cross the square, clattering applause rose up from the pavement. Embarrassed that all eyes were turned to me (which of course they were not), I paused. I looked downwards to see the conbblestones. Thousands of them in all directions. Pragmatically, I wanted to see how I could move along with making a minimal amount of racket. Instead I just paused to admire the lowly cobble. The patterns and sizes on the route ahead were as varied as the facades that lined the square.

As I moved along I listened to the music of wheels on stone. The smaller, tight fitting cobbles, seemingly more like mosaics, produced a short staccato rat-a-tat at a key high enough to affect my fillings. Long, linear cobbles with their meniscus edges mouthed deep guttural moans capped with a resonating ‘thok’ The typical fan array of square cobbles produced crescendos and decrescendos of clatter depending on the angle of attack. Given time and considerable amount of ridicule from bystanders, I think I could have found enough varied textural soundscapes to bang out a Smetana or Dvorak right their in that square!

But I wanted to get to the hotel.

Prague and the Jews

The Old New Synagogue (14th Century)

The expectation that the intersection of Prague and the Jews would end badly is not disappointed as you learn more about a rich culture that once flourished just outside of the Old Town Square for centuries. What remains as monuments to thousands who are no longer here are a handful of ancient synagogues, museums treasuring fragments of a wealthy community and an extraordinary cemetery.
At one time, Jews considered Prague as a safe haven in Europe. Although they were relegated as elsewhere to a specific walled enclave within the main city, they enjoyed protection under a succession of Bohemian kings. Mostly the Jews benefited from Christian usury laws and quickly took up financing nobles and merchants. They prospered and created a ‘Ghetto’ of great prosperity.
When the Austrians came in, they really began feeling persecutions and were even more restricted. They were force to learn German and take German surnames. Eventually the ghetto was dismantled and the Jews spread out to the general populace. The area began a slow decay.
As Czech nationalism rose, the Jews began to be resented along with the German speakers. As in other places, the Jews could not feel as they belonged anywhere. Czechoslovak independence in the 1910s saw some easing, but it all came to an end in 1939, when the Nazis invaded. Czech Jews, some 140,000 of them were shipped north to the fortress at Terezin, and half were eventually sent to the camps at Auschwitz and Treblinka. Only 17,000 made it through and only some 3,000 Jews remain in this area.
One of the synagogues has been converted to a Holocaust memorial. The space is empty except for the walls which are covered with the names and dates of birth and dates they were last accounted for. An upstairs gallery contained children’s drawings that were produced at the Terezin concentration camp. It was a little too much to take in.

The Jewish Cemetery

Show me some Krumlov

Dobry Den from Cesky Krumlov!

We have driven south of Prague through the rolling, verdant Czech landscape. Row crops are just being set out as the danger of frost has only recently passed. Dots of villages with the ubiquitous voluptuous, baroque church steeples pepper the countryside.

Occasionally we have passed ugly little industrial towns, some stark reminders of the Soviet era, and larger towns such as Ceske Budjevoce (where the original Budweiser brewery is located) and Benesov. The highway system is not as developed as in Western Europe, so we are forced to drive right through these towns and deal with traffic and mostly reckless Czech drivers.
South of Ceske Budjevoce, the terrain becomes more undulating. We are in spitting distance of the Austrian border when the turn-off for Cesky Krumlov comes into view.

Almost surrealistically cute, this Southern Bohemian enclave could be easily construed as a contrived Disney-ish fantasy replete with a looming castle, creaking water mills and tight narrow streets where the houses seem to overhang, their pointy rooftop tips just ever-so-slightly touching. But it is not contrived- it is a functioning millennium-old town that has avoided scarring wars and has benefited from benevolent rule from high in the castle.

The town consists of two parts: the Latran district which includes the rambling, lofty castle and a bit of town sandwiched between the castle and the river, and the main town which fits snugly in a 300 degree arc in the river. The town is mostly a car-free zone with parking provided in comfortably distant remote lots. Most visitors to C.Krumlov are day trippers from Prague, when the tourists leave around 5:00 the town is wonderfully quiet and slow.

Sebastian, Sabrina and I are staying overnight to enjoy an evening and a morning of this more ambling pace of town life. We walked around most of the village in a couple of hours, even at an unhurried pace; take in the views and have a beer (Pilsner Urquell, of course) at an outdoor café along the main drag in Latran.

We find a Pension in a fifteenth century building with original wood floors, antique furnishings and scary hand-colored photos of long dead (presumably) Slavic people. It is all quite amusing as it fits with the character of the town.

Right below our room is a small restaurant, expectedly rustic with heavy timber tables and chairs with equally rustic Czech food, heavy and plentiful to help combat the local Egger stein beers and shots of Bereshekova we consume.