The journey home

After 80 days on the road Anne and I are going home.

Staying in the Hotel Rose Garden {29,000 Yen for 3 nights} in a really good location in the Shinjuku district gave us a good perspective of the size and scale of Tokyo, the largest city in the world with some 12 million people.

All cities need to breathe.

During our stay we visited four beautiful gardens: Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden {300 Yen}; Yoyogi Park near Shibuya: Imperial Palace East Gardens (on our tour) Hama-rikyu Gardens- small but attractive landscape garden. The garden was a feudal lord’s residence during the Edo period (17^th-19^th Century) and is located alongside Tokyo Bay with seawater ponds, which change water level with the tides, former duck hunting grounds, forested areas and the Naka-no-ochaya teahouse.

My favourite was the Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden which is 58.3 hectares in size, and with a circumference of 3.5 km, blend three distinct styles: French Formal, English Landscape and Japanese traditional. The gardens have more than 20,000 trees, including approximately 1,500 cherry trees, the majestic Himalayan cedars, which soar above the rest of the trees in the park, tulip trees, cypresses, and plane trees, which were first planted in Japan in the Imperial Gardens.  We spent a good morning here against the backdrop of a blue sky with balmy 13°C.  

These girls like to shop.

We thought shopping along the Dotomborigawa River in Osaka was mad. The Shibuya district is the fashion capital with a sea of people, wall to wall, swarming around shops like bees to honey. We spent an hour here battling the multitude. How our girls would have been right at home here.  Nakamise Shopping Street in Asakunsa next to the Kannon Temple is another famous cultural landmark in Tokyo. Similar crowds to Shibuya we managed 45 minutes and found some nice souvenirs. Another  treat was to see the girls dressed up in Manga characters at Harajuku. They were a very popular for keen local and overseas photographers.

Oh Food, glorious food.

On second our night we splurged. A visit to the Sky Bar at the 52^nd floor of the Park Hyatt in Shinjuku, where they filmed Lost in Translation, had outstanding views of illuminated skyscrapers as far as the eye could see. With sultry jazz in the background we ate at the adjacent restaurant, New York Grill with floor-to-ceiling glass windows offering breathtaking views of Tokyo. The contemporary and sophisticated interior features four large paintings of New York scenes by Italian artist Valerio Adami. The food was superb. Anne had the Shrimp and I had the scallops and later we found out this is a place the ordinary Japanese come perhaps once in a lifetime for a very special celebration. The prices certainly attested to that but you only live once.

Yesterday we went to the world renowned Tsukiji Fish markets to have sushi at the highly recommended Sushizanmai {4,200 Yen}. To see sushi expertly prepared in front of you and then have the sushi melt in your mouth was certainly a culinary experience. Among our favourites on the menu were Red Tuna (raw), Flounder Fin and Sweet Shrimp. Some of these were suggested by a charming couple next to us whom we struck up a conversation with. She was an NGO having worked in East Timor for three years and now she was off to Zambia working for the UN for another two. He was a teacher of political science in a military academy. These vignettes of encounter are one travel’s most precious treasures.

The Sacred and holy

A visit to the revered Meiji Shrine located in Yoyogi Park was again an insight into Japanese Culture in terms of scale and approach to religion. There was a procession of pilgrims, somewhat like the hajji, through three large Tori gates to the shrine where people would throw coins at the collection box due to the crowd to either offer petitions or thanks. I thought this was crowded until I later learned that last week three million people passed through here in three days.

The Asakusa Kannon temple was similarly busy the following day. The explanation from our guide- The Gray Line {3,900 yen each} on the theology of Shinto, the syncrenistc Buddhism and the effect on the life of the adherents was instructional and illuminating. This was part of a Half day tour (9 a.m. to 1.00 p.m.) Talk of the Town which took us through the Imperial Palace- National Diet Building- Tokyo City View at Roppingi Hills- The Asakusa Kannon temple- Tsukiji Fish markets. Much to our surprise and good fortune Anne and I were the only ones on the tour. So imagine to our astonishment that they still ran the tour and we were picked up by our private 50 seater luxury coach. It was also a good opportunity for us to find out more about Japanese culture, religion, politics and its history.  

We head to the airport on the 3.40 p.m. Narita Express for our QF22 8.00 pm flight (to arrive on Tuesday morning 11^th January at 7.35 a.m.). Prior to this, and after we check out at 11.00 a.m., we will head to Ueno Onshi Koen Park, which can be translated as ‘Ueno Imperial Gift Park’ and The National Tokyo Museum {600 Yen} which has an excellent "The path of the Buddha' exhibition. This and all our days in Japan have only further imflamed our love affair with the country.

Epilogue

Travel has been a good teacher.

We have been blessed to be able to experience so many new things that have challenged us, enchanted us, humoured us and hopefully taught us that one way is not the only way to see and do things. And in so doing hopefully we became people that are a little more understanding... a little kinder to each other and to others.

The world is becoming a smaller place and has been for some time. Nicole who is 18 has been to 18 countries (Austria, Czech Republic, England, France, Germany, Hungary, Italy, Japan, Lichtenstein, Morocco, Nepal, Netherlands, New Zealand, Spain, Singapore, Switzerland, Thailand and USA). Katie’s is almost the same. When I was her age I had been to one, New Caledonia through soccer, and when my parents where that age they had not travelled.  I still marvel at the possibility that on the same day you can be here in Australia and on the other side of the world.

As our wonderful journey  draws to an end we are thankful to all our families for their well wishes, to Justine and Andrew who have leant us so much of their travel equipment and clothes, and to all of you who have taken the time to read some or all of these blogs. I have enjoyed being able to paint ,with words and at times light, a picture of the world as we saw it. I hope they have given you an insight into us and also to the wonders of travel.

For the last time

Good tidings and God’s blessings

Janika

Japan: A land of intrigue from Kyoto to Hiroshima to Osaka to Koyasan

It was a long, long day.

We awoke at 7 a.m. in order to catch our 12.40 p.m. one hour flight from Wien-Schwechat airport transferring at Munich for two hours and then a sleepless Lufthansa 12 hour flight for Narita airport Tokyo. It was another three hours before we caught the almost three hours and 513 km Hikarta Shinkansen from Tokyo to Kyoto arriving around 5.30 p.m. local time. It would not be until after 10 p.m. that we could call sleep our own- some 31 hours since our last sleep!

This in part was because we had received a message from the girls in Hong Kong ‘Please ring us urgently. If we are out could you please ring again?’ As it transpired the accommodation the girls were booked into looked more like a brothel than a hotel. Feeling unsafe they left. Upon making contact all was well.

Prior to our leaving a walk around the wonderfully lit Mariahilfer Strauss in our brief one night stop over {Wombat Hostel @ €68} gave us a taste of the beauty of Wintery Vienna. The airport bus driver to Vienna airport was in his mid-forties and typified the Slavic nations drive for a better life in Europe. Croatian by birth he swotted for six months to learn Slovenian so he could get better pay there. From there he learnt fluent German to work in Austria and was practising his tenses with us to improve his English. Soon he would be undertaking Spanish although he conceded that would take him a little bit longer as he was not as young as he used to be. This voracious appetite for languages was a reoccurring theme and perhaps a lesson for us in Australia.

Kyoto often referred to as the cultural capital of Japan, with its world heritage listed sites was as I remembered it on my inaugural visit four years ago. Staying at the conveniently located New Miyako Hotel {$AU200/night} adjacent to the magnificent railway station provided the perfect platform for temple visits and restaurants in the area.

I have long admired the Japanese pastime which the blue samurai excel in; queuing.  Queuing for restaurants, trains, buses, trams, shopping, toilets, and temples is assumed and done with a minimum of fuss. Even during the peak period between Dec 27 and January 3 when the Japanese take holidays, in the teeming mass of humanity whether it be in the train stations, temples or shopping centres there was a quite calm, respect for the other and order. Perhaps little wonder as Japan’s population density is around 330 people/sq km compared to Australia’s 3 people / sq km.

Anne and I saw in the New Year at my favourite temple Kiyomizu, perched high on a hill north east of the town centre, beautifully lit and covered with snow. It is another Japanese pastime to welcome in the New Year by visiting a temple. This is a far cry from Times Square or the Harbour Bridge. Ten minutes before midnight the resident elder monk chanted the blessings and began with others to sound the huge bell. Strangely and eerily there was no countdown to the New Year just a faint ripple from the throng as the gonging continued well past the hour. As it was nigh impossible to catch public transport we walked back to our hotel- a good omen for 2011 with an hour of solid exercise underneath our belt.

We christened the first day of 2011 with an afternoon visit by bus (101/205) to the 13^th century gold leafed Kinkakujii Temple {500 Yen} better known as the Golden Temple.  It was wall to wall people, clearly very popular with the locals but the temple’s backdrop to the snow covered ponds and gardens was well worth the crush. Later that afternoon Ryoanji Temple, the 15^th century Zen rock garden was such a contrast in its simplicity and solitude. The inscription: “Ware tada tauro shiru or Freedom from greed ensures a peaceful life” captured the essence of this serene environment.

Next day we caught the 40 minute train trip to the world heritage listed former capital, Nara, the home to the Good Samaritan Sisters convent and the beautiful Nara Park containing such treasures as Todajii Temple {500 Yen},  the impressive Nandaimon Gate and the Nara welcoming committee: the deer and lots of them. Anne decided not to attempt to go through ‘Buddha’s Nostril’ at the Temple which housed one of the largest Buddha’s in the world.

8.15a.m. August 6^th 1945.

[1]23895

[2]114

Pope John Paul II on his visit there in 1981 stated that “to remember the past is to commit oneself to the future”. Kenzo Tange, the architect of the Peace Memorial Park, said his design “attempts to combine the art of seeing with the art of praying”.

The world heritage listed Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum and the adjacent Peace Memorial Park is a testament to the insanity of war and the hopefulness of peace. An entire city was virtually levelled: around 160,000 people lost their lives and almost as many suffered irreparable physical and psychological damage. The United States (President Roosevelt) with the support of the English (Prime Minister Churchill) dropped an Atomic Bomb on Hiroshima then paid millions to help rebuild the city.

On our last full day the Peace Memorial Museum was an emotional experience. Seeing the charred clothes; the remains of those who perished (even finger nails were donated to the museum) and the many stories it is hard not to be moved by such tragedy.  

The day prior to this in the mid afternoon we visited the little known town of Iwakuni, 45 minutes by rail south of Hiroshima. Here was the elegantly formed and elaborate wooden Kintai Bridge. Three main curved wooden arches spanning 35 metres and each interspersed with concrete pillars formed an unusual roller coaster effect. A long slow stroll in the adjacent gardens made for a pleasant afternoon. Earlier on in the day we caught the 20 minute train and five minute ferry to the world heritage listed Miyajima Island. The island is home to the semi submerged Tori shrine (at high tide), Shinto temples and practices, many souvenir shops and also to the redoubtable Miyajima deer. Soon after we disembarked and sat by the waterfront getting our bearings Bambi came up and took a big bite out of my map. He continued to eat the map nonchalantly in front of us despite our quizzical looks.

Our stay in the Sunroute Hotel {$AU80/night} was in a perfect location with views and within walking distance of the Peace Memorial Park. A slow walk through the Park with the many memorials including the hauntingly beautiful Children’s Memorial (Sadako Sasaki and the thousand paper cranes) and the A Bomb dome   (a building severely damaged but not destroyed with its dome somewhat intact and later becoming a symbol of Hiroshima conveying the horror of nuclear weapons and the appeal for peace) was a fitting introduction into the city. Later that afternoon we strolled around the perimeter of Hiroshima Castle and spent considerably more time at the tranquil Shukkeien Gardens literally meaning ‘shrink-scenic garden’. Construction of this garden began in 1620 with the idea of collecting and miniaturising many scenic views modeled on Chinese tradition. Like many sites here the garden was destroyed in 1945 by the atomic bomb and restoration began in the early 50’s.

There is a strange paradox that stares you in the face when you walk the streets here. Trams that are called ‘Streetcars’ and the proliferation of McDonalds, Baseball all echo an Americanization of culture more apparent here than in other parts of the country. 

Just before we left Hiroshima on the 9.15 a.m. Shinkansen bound for Shin Osaka (arriving 10.44) on the fifth day into the New Year  we were thrilled to hear that the girls had arrived home safely and that George was purring. Many thanks too Margie for picking them up from the airport and driving them home. After finding two lockers {600 Yen/locker/day} to store most of our luggage we made our way by subway {240 Yen/person} to Namba Station located in the Osaka precinct before the trip to Koyasan. Prior to this in Shin Osaka we picked up a bargain suitcase for 10,000 Yen.

I had wanted to show Anne the shopping Mecca in Osaka. The Ebisu and Shinsaibashi-suji shopping street near the Dotomborigawa River is a honey pot for young Gen Y girls and their obsequious partners. After about an hour and a half of what felt like the ebb and flow of a tide of humanity Anne had had enough.

The pretty 90 minute train trip up into the world heritage listed Koyasan Mountains was such a contrast to the fast paced and bright lights of Osaka. {Nankai line-Limited Express, Namba to Gokurakubashi Stn then a cable car to Koyasan Stn, - not covered by our JR Pass at 1990 Yen/person}. A further 20 minute bus trip {340 Yen/person} and a short walk in the late afternoon and we were there at Ekoin {20,000 Yen/ person including all breakfasts and dinners} for our two night ‘shukubo’ or temple stay.  

Koyasan is home to an active monastic centre with over 50 temples that provide ‘shukubo’. It was founded 1200 years ago by the priest known as Kobo Daishi (Kukai) for the practice of Esoteric (Shingon) Buddhism. Set in a beautiful cedar forest, 900 metres above sea level and today covered in snow, the area known as Okuuno-in or Inner Sanctuary is the backdrop for a vast cemetery that features the mausoleum of Kukai. Interestingly followers of Shingon believe Kukai is not dead but meditating in his tomb.

The monks, heads shaved and dressed traditionally in identical blue yakutas; were courteous and the service is reminiscent of a ‘ryokan’, or traditional Japanese hotel. Our room was clean and quiet. The furnishings were sparse with just a low table which had under table heating with some cushions on the floor, a kerosene radiator, and strangely a TV (which we did not use). The rice paper sliding doors opened up onto the snow covered courtyard. Very tranquil indeed.

The Koyasan temples are famous for their gourmet vegetarian cuisine, known as ‘shojin-ryori.’ The food was generous, and served in our room at 5.30 p.m., and was, naturally, entirely vegetarian. A part of the main meal which was soba in soup, tempura, with rice and assorted fresh and pickled vegetables washed down with ‘kikucha’ tea was delicious. I was not so sure of the sesame tofu and the bowl of the famous Koyadofu, a ‘gammo doki’ (a kind of disk of fried tofu with gin nuts). Dessert was mysterious sweet vegetable roots that we'd never seen before and a mandarin. We liked the mandarin!

After dinner the monks removed the trays and made our beds on the tatami mats which consisted of a rice pillow, doona and a sponge mattress.

Anne and I had a soak, separately, in the temple's beautiful black granite ‘ofuro’ or communal bathtub around 7p.m.  Fortunately for the temple no one else was in the male communal bath at this time. It was seriously hot and I could only stay half submerged for a few minutes. (Enough details don’t you think?)

Off to sleep just after 8.30 p.m. and I awoke at 2 a.m. “Is it morning?” Tossing and turning with intermittent sleep we awoke just before 7a.m as the monk knocked on our door and led the four of us hardy souls to the temple's main hall, where the morning's main service was held. The monk chanted sutras from a venerable scroll, accompanied by cymbals. In the hall row upon row of sutra containers glowed in the dim candlelight. Later we moved to a smaller shrine, where two monks performed a ritual in which they built a fire, and one read prayers for health and prosperity from petitioners to Kukai and the other accompanied him on a ‘wadaiko’ or drum.

Breakfast greeted us just before 8 a.m. with of miso soup, ‘sansai’ or mountain vegetables, more gammo doki, rice, fried tofu and tea.

On a chilly, heavily snowing -3°C mid morning we walked to the huge Kongobuji Temple which is the headquarters of Shingon Buddhism in Japan, and contains administrative offices for the 3,600 or so Shingon temples in Japan. The temple's Banryutei rock garden is the largest in Japan (2,349 square meters) with its 140 pieces of granite arranged to resemble a pair of dragons emerging from a sea of clouds to protect the temple.

From here we were off to a magnificent 25 m high structure  called The Daimon, or Great Gate, at the west end of town. Looking like a Tori shrine, two fiercely glaring guardian deities flank both its sides and provide a majestic entrance to magnificent views of the mountains.

We had lunch in the town centre about a kilometre away and then headed back to the Monastery. Anne decided to enjoy some ‘me time’ while in the late afternoon, in a blanket of snow, I took a stroll through the cemetery.  The two kilometre avenue was flanked by tombs and towering cedar trees hundreds of years old where the stillness was only broken by the occasional pilgrim or the snow falling on cedars. In the fullness of Winter I was getting a glimpse of what brought Kukai to this sacred place.

There are an estimated half million tombs in the Koyasan precinct, the oldest dating back to the 9th century.  Okunoin, the main cemetery, has over 200,000. The biggest and most important of course is that of Kukai himself, at the end of the avenue of the vast necropolis.  The Okunoin Gobyo is a mausoleum and was erected by his disciples. Adjacent to this was the amazing Torodo or the Lantern Temple, in front of the Gobyo, which houses thousands of lamps, several of which have been burning for nearly a thousand years.

Not surprisingly, this is the most desirable cemetery in the country. The pole shaped tombs symbolise the departed waiting for the return of the Lord Buddha. The newer section has more modern designs. There are a lot of corporate tombs in this area, including Nissan, Toyota and Kirin Beer.  Upon my return after a quick nap and dinner Anne and I treated ourselves to another communal bath, this time in the company of strangers.
 

Cuisines have their own way of unlocking cultural nuances. It has been quite noticeable how the menus and hence our eating habits have changed as we have moved around the country. Ramen delighted our pallets in Kyoto while in Hiroshima it was Okonomiyaki (a savoury pancake with cabbage, meats and eggs) cooked before us on a hot plate that made us come back for more in Okonomi village. In the monastery in Koyasan it was the vegetarian miso soup, ‘sansai’ or mountain vegetables, gammo doki and fried tofu that challenged our gastronomical senses while in Osaka it was the rice omelette's that were popular.

After another night of intermittent sleep, stiff backs, cricked necks but a great experience, we said goodbye to Koyasan in the early morning (7.30 a.m.) with the snow still pressing hard against the buildings and caught the bus back to the station {340 Yen} then the 5 minute cable car and 100 minute train trip back to Osaka with the Nankai Express {1230 Yen}. At Shin Osaka we retrieved our luggage from the lockers, had a brief breakfast and caught the 11.40 a.m. Shinkansen bound for Shinawaga (5 minutes from Tokyo)  arriving at 2.35 p.m. where we could connect with a local train to the hip Shinjuku district in central Tokyo where our hotel was located.

We were on the homeward stretch and important questions came to mind. Had the girls remembered George’s birthday on the 6^th January? If so, had they brought him a present? It is not every day a cat is five years old. We also thought how much ‘Uncle Tom’ and Anne’s dad; Denis would have enjoyed the Shinkansen which are clean, highly efficient and very quiet.  At the end of the carriage each time a railway personal passes through they would turn, pause and bow to the people in the carriage. There were respective carriages marked ‘Silent carriages’ where the food trolley girls would whisper, mobile phones were asked to be put on silent and calls taken only outside the main part of the carriage. Sounds civilized doesn’t it?

Until next time, for the last time

Good tidings and God’s blessings

Janika

---

[1] Days since the Atomic Bomb was dropped on Hiroshima as of 7^th January 2010

[2] Days since the last Nuclear Tests ( USA Sept 2010)  as of 7^th January 2010 

The Mercurial Magyars

Time stood still as still waters run deep.

This is the fourth time I have visited the land of my mothers and fathers birth: 1980; 1998; 2003 and now in December 2010.

My family were greeted with the glow of the late afternoon sunshine, a single rose for each of us (so Hungarian and so thoughtful), a warm 10°C and Pisti, mum’s brother, and his wife Ili, Ersze, one of mum’s sisters, and her son Szabi at Gyor (population of 130,000) railway station in north western Hungary some 120 km from Vienna. Gyor is where Ersze and Szabi and his partner Jannette live while Pisti and Ili live in a beautiful village Raba Szentmihalyi (St Michaels on the Raba River) 25 minutes from Gyor.

We all went back to Ersze’s apartment and enjoyed the first of many Hungarian delicacies and later settled down to a lovely traditional dinner. Jannette, such a delightful person and well loved by the girls, joined us after work and it was a chance for all of us to catch our breath and catch up and enjoy each other’s company especially Szabi’s light hearted banter. Ersze had generously given up her bed and much of her apartment so we could stay the night; it was very much appreciated and we were tired and off to bed around 10.30 p.m.

A late rise and after the first of many filling breakfasts we were joined by Pisti and Ili. The eight of us had a slow walk around the city taking in many of the sights: such as the Christmas markets and a taste of Hungarian forro bor or hot wine; the Town Hall; parts of the Old Town; a five metre in diameter Advent Wreath and the correspondingly large was lit each Sunday of the season; Bethlehem Crib; Cathedral (where Pisti and ili were married 37 years ago); The banks of the Raba and of course the statue of a naked man and his csonak or boat with a somewhat large...oar (It is Ili’s favourite so in her honour I take a photo every time we meet).

Lunch at an etterem or restaurant mid afternoon reaffirmed by memory of Hungarian cuisine: very good quality and lots of it, and I mean lots of it. The girls and I admirably finished the schnitzel that not only covered the plate but also half the table! Eating in Hungary is always a pleasure of the senses.

Under the weight of our lunch we ambled, no crawled back to Ersze’s and then went to Raba Szentmihalyi where we were to stay for the next four days before heading back home via Vienna and Japan. Driving into the 800 year old village, the birth of my mother, and her father and her brothers and sisters filled me with such joy.

Raba Szentmihalyi, on the banks of the Raba River, is a small village of 543 people with a beautiful 300 year old church and is filled with many rich memories from my previous three visits as well as the countless stories that filled my head from my childhood from my mum.  

There is such a spirit of hospitality and connectedness here. Deep roots find their expression in the simplicity of the spoken word; a gesture; a homemade meal prepared with love and all home-grown ingredients washed down with convivial conversation and palinka and more palinka and age old piros bor or red wine. 

We settled into Pistil’s and Ili’s, reacquainted ourselves with the home and its refurbishments since our last visit and met Rex Baci, their 12 year old lovable dog. A scrumptious dinner followed and the conversation flowed amidst the eleg koszonom or enough thank you and hogy vagy? Or how are you? After the girls and Ili went to bed Pisti and I indulged in a panoramic discussion on Hungary’s past and present such as: The Treaty of Trianon; Soviet occupation; the displaced Magyars in Romania; EU; Dual Citizenship: Viktor Orban and Hungarian politics and 2000 Olympics.

A lazy and restful Christmas Eve morning greeted us with more palinka and reggeli or breakfast with lots of smoked meats, cheeses, fresh bread and cooked eggs. As my waistline expanded so did my appreciation of Pisti and Ili’s hospitality, in particular we were spoilt by Ili’s cooking which was nothing short of superb.

Mid morning through Skype I was able to reconnect with my family. It was the first time in my 50 years that I was not present at our family’s most significant celebration, yet I was home.  

In the afternoon my whole family visited the village’s cemetery and paid our respects to past members of mum’s immediate family who had so much shaped her life and Pisti’s. A brief visit to visit Olga neni’s, the widow of my late uncle Karcsi Baci and to Monci neni, Ili’s sprightly 87 year old mum (I can see where Ili gets her dry sense of humour from) and we were off to 7 p.m Christmas Eve Mass.

Hearing the rhythm of the Mass in Hungarian was an unforgettable experience even if it was considerably colder inside the church the outside. Some forro bor and some carols in the villages centre and we were truly immersed in the authentic Hungarian spirit of the festive season.

Prior to Mass, kis Jezus or little Jesus came with presents. It was an enduring theme that emphasised the heart of this area; not once did I hear the word Santa Claus or its equivalent but the Christmas season was draped in a proudly worn faith that permeated one’s consciousness.

Christmas Day was just that: peaceful, quite, relaxed with a little morning snow which did not settle as our thoughts turned to Anne’s family.

In Hungary one’s nevnap or name day is celebrated much more than one’s birthday.

December 26^th was Pisti’s name day. My family practised in Hungarian so in the morning they could say; “Yo reggel Pisti. Boldog nevnap kivanuk” Translated, “Good morning Pisti. I wish you a happy name day”. As it turned out Anne beat Ili to this greeting!

Katie and I had a mid morning walk with Pisti around the village in close to -10°C (wind chill). Raba Szentmihalyi is such a pretty village. Each time I am here I feel such a deep sense of peace and I have an unquenching yearning to buy a small home.

Early afternoon and into the evening some of my cousins and their families drove up from Szekesfehervar, (The Kings white castle) 63 km SW of Budapest and the town of my father’s birth. It was such a wonderful afternoon that went too quickly.

In this picture postcard afternoon there was: my cousin Imi, fast talking, friendly and engaging; his wife Erika filled with wisdom and their two beautiful children; Andras who is studying law is an impressive young man- erudite, articulate, fluent in both Hungarian and English and above all humble; Dori, who is delightful, pretty, insightful and just finishing school and is learning to speak to different degrees four languages.

It was so good to see them and my other cousin Ibolya, and her delightful husband Karez, or St Charles as I called him as he knew how to party, and their articulate and confident daughter Sophie. Anne enjoyed chatting with both Sophie and Andras and as the alcohol flowed, and the cacophony of laughter and raucous conversation rose to a crescendo my family reflected on my sense of connectedness which I never had in Australia. I was like a pig in mud.

The following morning the Muskovits’ and Pisti went for a walk around the Raba and parts of the village. As we walked I could see my family with each breath breathe in a little more of my heritage. It was nice to see.

Lunch with family and we were off.

Time marches on.

Still as we said our farewells on the Gyor platform I had sense that I would be back again, perhaps one day in May and hopefully for a lot longer. I am indebted to all who made my families stay so memorable and I look to the day where perhaps I will be able to repay their kindness in Australia.

From the homeland

Until next time

Good tidings and God’s blessings

Janika

From Berlin to Prague

It was snowing as we disembarked onto the bus near the terminal, appreciative to have arrived in Berlin; and we had an unfortunate encounter. A Neanderthal like figure pushed past on the bus almost flattening all who were in his wake, including Anne. I called across the crowded, silent, stationary bus for Neanderthal to “Be Careful”, he muttered back to me in German to which I reiterated “Be Careful”. He then continued in perfect English “In this country we move to the back of the bus” to which I replied “In my country we respect woman.” So on it went until Cro-Magnon decided to be quiet. As we alighted the bus and entered the terminal a statesman like German gentleman came up to Anne and said: “I am sorry, not all Germans are like that, I am embarrassed.” Fortunately, all of Berlin was not like this.

A yummy specially made late lunch in the cafe of the Circus Hostel and we decided to pay for an upgrade to an apartment {an extra €15/ night= €85/room}. On Facebook, we learnt that the Odyssey was not what the girls thought it would be. It was dead. Fortunately there was one double room left at the Circus, which was more like a hotel, so they moved from the Odyssey and we ended up having take away-pizzas for dinner in the hostel.

In Berlin there is a proliferation of tour companies: Brewers; Inside Tours; New Berlin, Mosaic; that are ready and  waiting  to provide you with the perfect Holocaust or Cold War or Third Reich tour. There was a certain irony that a city with such a dark past was capitalising on this.  Or was it reminding people of the atrocities in the hope it would never happen again?

The next day, the guide from Mosaic Tours did not show, but a kind Spanish tour guide showed us the train to catch as we joined another group from Inside Tours {€15/person} with the highly capable Pen, an Aussie tour guide, for a day tour of the Sauchsenhausen Concentration Camp {free entry} in -10°C wind chill 35km outside Berlin. Sauchsenhausen was the model for all Concentration camps around Europe and the administrative heart of the Holocaust operations. It was not a pleasant day, nor enjoyable, but terribly meaningful and worthwhile. We were asked to take our lunch and have it during the tour. I could not and would not eat until we were on our way home on the train around 4.30.  

For some shopping and a change of pace we visited the Christmas Markets at nearby Alexandra Platz. The markets lived up to their reputation with beautiful lights, snow, mull wine, bratwurst and many petite presents.

“You are now leaving the American sector” greeted us as Anne and I visited the Checkpoint Charlie Museum: A fascinating insight into life during the cold war and the ingenious ways in which East Germans escaped to the West.  Meanwhile, the girls were off to the movies at the Sony Centre in Podstam Platz watching Harry Potter in English.

A brief visit to the Christmas Markets in Alexandra Platz again and then we had a pleasant encounter with an Aussie couple in the early thirties from WA at dinner at the Circus Hotel restaurant. She had a PhD in pioneering innovative therapies with children with gross motor deficiencies and was currently in London, sharing her research.

A self guided tour in blue skies in warmer -4°C weather and we visited The Reichstag, Brandenburg Gate and The Memorial to the Murdered Jews in Europe, right in the middle of Berlin, near the Reichstag: The name and location says it all. The museum with its letters, personal testimonies, and faces of individual victims is a calculated polar opposite of the dehumanisation process that was practised in the Shoah. Needless to say it was more of a sombre and sober reminder of the past. Purposefully; it never leaves you here.

To lighten the mood we visited the Haupstadt Christmas Markets.   I was beginning to get a touch of the flu, and the girls were immersing themselves in the German night life, somewhat ironically clubbing with Aussies until 6am in the morning but interestingly reflected in the Aussie conversations,  as they pumped the bars, was: “Oh where did you go today?, Oh the concentration Camp, How was that?”


In a subway in Berlin Anne mets two of her ex-Ravenswood students (05) .Two salient points emerged from this encounter: One, Teachers cannot go anywhere and secondly Anne is so much like her late father Denis, with an ability to to talk to anyone, anywhere and anytime.

On a chilly-10°C on the taxi dashboard (even the taxi driver said it was very cold) we said goodbye to the Circus Hostel and onwards to the Bahnhoffan for our train trip to the Bohemian capital, Prague.

Apart from the vistas, different conceptual images flashed before me as I recalled my impressions of Berlin: An abating Underground alternative culture; Generational Attitudinal changes towards the Holocaust with Gen Y sick of the saturation of Holocaust spending to Pre baby boomers ashamed of the German flag;  Good food... the bratwursts and hot mull wine; Obedience to the rules; ruthless German efficiency in the Holocaust; Sauchsenhausen Concentration Camp individuals killed with a single bullet from behind... no mess, no trace.

For Anne and I Berlin was more of a gritty than a pretty city, in search of a centre, with such a heavy cloud of a dark and rich history. I recall a travel podcast caller enquiring about things to see in Berlin saying, “Where are the fun places?” Berlin was like an adolescent, not quite sure of how to live with her turbulent past but at times wanting to break out of the present.  I am glad to have seen her for her history and winter scenery. The snow covered buildings and gardens, still such a novelty, were draped around the Brandenburg Gate as a ‘Bear’ approached me looking at the beautiful winter scenery said “You can have the snow.”  

The girls loved Berlin, especially Katie and especially the night life.

Staring out the windows on our five hour train trip from to Prague reminded me of a scene out of a fairytale: the thick blanket of snow on the rooftops resembled ice-vovo biscuits and ginger bread house. Dresden looked beautiful and the lunch in the dining car restaurant was like something out of an Agatha Christie movie; enchanting and wonderfully exhilarating and comfortable.

We had been warned about Prague’s infamous taxis. Tired, cold and heavy laden with luggage we were greeted by taxi drivers who looked like KGB agents out of the sixties. Reputedly honest AAA taxis were not to be seen so I forlornly sent the girls off on one of these to their hostel. Meanwhile we got in one cab endeavouring to make the 1.3km ride from the railway station to our accommodation, Miss Sophie’s ($AU85/night) only to find out as we were leaving he wanted to charge us 960 Kroner, equivalent to almost $AU50. I asked the driver to stop and he said “500 Krona”, to which I said “No more than 200”. (I felt like I was momentarily back in Morocco).We agreed to disagree, hurriedly got out with our entire luggage and obtained a comparatively more respectable but highly inflated 300 Kroner ride. (One old 22 year girl I spoke to in Prague was charged 600 Krona for a 500 metre trip. On the way back we booked a AAA taxi which cost us 100 Krona.)

Miss Sophie’s gave us some great tips and we ate at an authentic Czech restaurant, Pompikinsky Dum. Anne had venison and I had the smoked pork in dumplings and sauerkraut washed down with Czech beer. We thought of Anne’s sister, Margie, and her travels through here.  

We had managed to arrange to meet in the old town square for lunch courtesy of Facebook. Prior to this Anne and I went on a free two hour walking tour with Brian, from Free Tours, who had only been in Prague since July. He introduced us and the twenty strong gathered to the well known sites in the city with his Irish interpretation of Czech history.  One story captured Anne’s imagination. During the war Hitler had ordered the statue of Mendelssohn to be torn down from the Rudolfinum. But as there where many statues with no names of them the workers inadvertently pulled down Wagner, who was Hitler’s favourite, instead. Justifiably quite ironic don’t you think?

In the afternoon with the girls we walked across the beautiful Charles Bridge and had a look at all the small stalls of painters and artists that lined both sides of the bridge. Katie made the astute observation that all of the many, many statues on the bridge looked surprisingly like King Charles!

At night Anne and I were off to the ballet at the State Opera House to watch Cinderella {400 Krona/person}. It was a beautiful restored rococo building and we felt very ‘Kaltured’.

On our second day full day we all visited Prague Castle. A snack at a cafe near the tram station reminded us all of how stern some of the Czech people are. The girls left early to pick up their tickets for Backlight Theatre, Aspects of Alice, a post modern interpretation, that evening while we went to the popular Brewery Monastery for lunch and sampled famous Czech beers all afternoon.  

A further visit to the Old town and the Charles Bridge and a good chat with an artist off  whom we brought a watercolour painting of the bridge.

Prague is such a beautiful city...the architecture...fine food...the arts... beautifully restored buildings the old town square in the heart of the city...a religious soul... But not quite the nightlife of Berlin and not quite the appeal for the girls.

 Next morning on the 22nd  December we were off to a hopefully a white Christmas with relatives in Hungary, just like Katie wanted.

Until next time,

Good tidings and God’s blessings

Janika

I was lost in France

Fortuitously we had pre-booked a minibus to the apartment and as the Parisian transport was grinding to a halt, due to the worst snow conditions in a quarter of a century, the trip from Orly was slow but comfortable. Our apartment in the heart of the Marais arrondissement was in an old residential building and had beautiful views of the snow capped Notre Dame Cathedral from our 6^th floor balconies. The girls arrived later that afternoon from London by Eurostar after a long wait for a taxi at Gare Nord.  

Their stories...of Wicked the Musical {£40 for a great seat}...Russell Square...Oxford...the Generator...food...the cold complemented the weather over a home cooked spaghetti bolognaise and red wine. It was good to see them again.  

Sleep.

We awoke at 10.30 a.m. to blue skies and a chilly 1°C.

By early afternoon we were off for a three hour walk to make the most of the favourable conditions: Notre Dame Cathedral; Point Zero; Deportation Memorial; Sainte-Chapelle; a walk along the Seine and her many Ponts or bridges; Jarden Des Tuileries and the Eiffel Tower. A quick bite to eat under the Tower, crepes and ham and cheese sandwiches, and we were off via the efficient Metro {€1.70/person/trip c/ to €1.40 in Barcelona and €1.00 in Madrid} to the Ark De Triumph and a walk along the Champ Elyse and dinner unashamedly at our favourite McDonalds there.

The operation was simple but elaborate.

At the Notre Dame Cathedral Anne and I were approached separately by deaf and dumb people asking us to sign a petition explanation on an ‘official letterhead’ to raise awareness of their plight: name; address; postcode; signature and a small donation. Anne gave €1.00 and I thought much the same, while others on the sheet gave €10.00, €20.00 and much more.

My suspicions were raised when I was approached shortly after time and time again and then from the corner of our eyes both Anne and I saw and heard two of ‘the deaf and dumb people’ in animated discussion.

It was Romany gypsies at their best: unashamedly exploiting the disabled and ripping off people for their gratuitous benefit (And casting doubt on genuine organizations asking for money in the future).  The scam was appalling brilliant as it crossed all language barriers.

Another scam that Katie saw was people being approached and asked to translate English and with their attention diverted they were robbed. (At least we were forewarned of this scam in our guide book).

At lunch I noticed the girls getting somewhat agitated and then irritated. Perplexed, it took me a little while to catch on to the amorous couple beside us. Between the entrée and main meal she had longingly starred into his eyes and frequently caressed his hair. By the main meal she was sucking his fingers. By the dessert, well...

We had left.

Riding the Metro in peak period was reminiscent of the crowded Japanese subways. It was here in the carriage that we were caught unaware as we failed, or were unable; to hang on as the train lurched heavily. Colie fell on Katie who fell on me and I fell on a petite woman a third of my size. My best French of “pardon, pardon” did not help alleviate the poor woman’s pain nor our embarrassment. Suddenly the carriage was laughing at us something to the tune of “you silly English”. (A witness to this was our beloved wife/mother who pretended not to know us!).

As we were walking through Paris we had all fallen in love with her. It was not hard to see why with her charming old snow covered buildings and gardens that lined the cityscape. The air was fresh and with the breeze brisk on our faces and the sound of ice crunching under our footsteps the blue sky provided the perfect contrast to the white cobbled stone city pavements.  

I was lost in the moment and began to sing Bonnie Tyler’s homage to Les Bleu: 

I was lost in France. In the fields the birds were singing. I was lost in France and the...

Soon by metro we had made our way to see street performers, elegant boutiques and a cavalcade of movement which lined the Champs-Elysee. Under the avenue of lights we bounced along to the beat of the song:

The Champs Elysee’s is a busy street. We’re getting down with everyone we meet
If you understand, then listen to me.

Parlez-vous Francais?  Oui!

Parlez-vous Francais? Oui!

It was late and we were glad to have arrived back at our apartment {$AU 170/ night}. After some light hearted family repartee we were off to sleep under the city of lights and we could hear the ghosts of the past singing:

Do you hear the people sing? Singing a song of...

The next day, Friday, we all left around midday for the artists’ quarters of Montmartre. It was seven years ago when we took a photo of an artist from whom we had purchased two oil paintings on small canvas depicting classical French windows and doors. These paintings have been proudly displayed in our lounge room ever since. But more importantly: Would he still be there? Would he remember us? Would we still like his work?

Not much has changed. Montmartre was still as beautiful as when we had left her. Perched high on a hill in the northern part of Paris the beautiful Sacra Coeur Basilica is nestled between the shops and artists entreating you to be sketched. Aptly the sound of music filled our senses from the street performers, beautiful to watch and exhilarating to listen to.

With some mull wine under Anne’s belt she jovially approached the artist quarters with a sense of anticipation.  Where is he? Where is his work?

“At last!” Anne cried out in exhalation, “we were here many years ago, and we bought some of your work and you are still here and you still look the same”, to which he responded with light hearted Montmartre banter; “Normally 3 paintings for €50, but for you, I give them to you today for €60”. Needless to say Anne bought another three paintings {€45} and engaged in more banter. Was there was just a hint of romance in the air?

We had a late lunch at the bottom of the hill at a little pizza place and at the girls request we visited the Holocaust Memorial Museum {free}, which describes itself as “the largest information centre in Europe on the subject”. The visit was a sobering reminder of the sanctity and fragility of life. 

As I wandered through the museum and reflected on the words from the brochure:

65 years after the discovery of the death camps, knowledge about the history of the Holocaust helps to fight against all forms of racism and intolerance

I hope so?

But I also questioned whether man’s inhumanity to man had really abated? 

The Genocide’s  in Kurdistan in Iraq in the mid 80’s under Saddam Hussein; By Bosnian Serb forces in Srebrenica in the mid 90’s and in Rwandan also at that time come to mind.

It was a somewhat sombre, thought-provoking and reflective metro ride back home for the day.

 Thankfully, Colie cooked a wonderful Chicken Bocconcino for dinner.

By now Colie was making the astute judgement that not only was I writing a blog but I was living in one, something parallel to the Matrix.  Anne meanwhile was immersing herself in the French language at the local Boulangerie, or Bakery with an eloquent Bonjour, Au revoir, Sil vous plait, Merci, Un Baguette, Pardon and Excusez-moi with every visit. She was in her element. 

The following day, the last with the girls in Paris, we visited the Musee d’Orsay {€8}, one of our favourites from our previous visit. The former old train station is a repository of fine Impressionistic art and such a wealth of social and cultural capital for the world. The Masters from Renoir to Rodin, Monet to Manet, and Gauguin to Van Gough, and Toulouse-Lautrec to Matisse, and Seurat to Signac, Corbet to Degas filled us with wonder.

We saw the girls off at the apartment (a taxi ride to Gare du Nord and then the train to Amsterdam) around lunchtime and then had a siesta.  After, for the next three hours we walked the Marais and its neighbourhood. Visiting what looked like the progressive parish of Saint Merry was interesting and watching life go by in a cafe was like being in a picture postcard soaking up the Parisian way of life. It really was such an accurate stereotype of this romantic city.

We visited the local produce markets, fruit, vegetables, fish, cheeses etc. Upon being offered a sample of fine cheese, which at € 11/kilo was sublime, we ordered a half a kilo. Only trouble was that my eyes needed checking as the cheese cost € 44 /kilo. None-the-less we felt very French.

Dinner was at the Le Bonnes Soeurs {€60}, which translates as ‘the good nuns’, near Victor Hugo’s home.  This convivial cafe was archetypal inner city and we were lucky to eat there as we had no reservation (very popular with the locals). We found out that two nuns actually opened the restaurant three years ago and the walls were lined with photos, caricatures and paintings of you guessed it, nuns. The food was superb, and we splurged on a half a bottle of a € 40 bottle of red. It was well worth it! We raised our glasses to ‘Auntie Vonnie’: such a tragic loss for us as family; to the Sisters of St Joseph and to the indigenous community in WA.  We thanked her for the wonderful legacy that she left us.

Eating here is such an art and not mere function. It is a celebration of what it is to be human. Time is respected, the cuisine savoured and the company enjoyed. Life is too short to forget about what is important. Le Bonnes Soeurs gift to us that night was to help us be present to life.

Our last visit to the Louvre, seven years ago, was a 30 minute mad rush to see iconic paintings like the Mona Lisa; “It’s so small” we remembered saying as we flitted off from gallery to gallery. It was like a scene out of the show The Amazing Race.

This time we took our time and we were able to savour the experience.

On a comparatively warm day at 7 °C a 20 minute stroll to the Louvre {€9.5} was followed by a four to five hour visit of some of the galleries. This time capsule of statues, artefacts and paintings, which in more ways than one belongs to the world, was like knowledge; the more you know, the more you realise how little you know.

Many emblematic pieces caught my eye: From the Greek period- the famous and well loved Venus de Milo (Aphrodite, c. 100 B.C.); The Winged Victory of Samothrace; From the Italian Renaissance- Mantegna’s St Sebastian; da Vinci’s Virgin and Child and the small Mona Lisa with her wandering eyes; Veronese’s huge canvass, The Wedding Feast of Cana; Michelangelo’s The Dying Slave; Psyche and Cupid; and from the French Neoclassical and Romanticism period- Napoleon’s official painter, Jacques-Louis  David,  The Coronation of Napoleon, Delacroix’s thought provoking Liberty Leading the People; and my favourite of them all, Theodore Gericault’s, pronounced ZHAIR-ee-ko, engaging masterpiece  The Raft of Medusa.

After a walk back to the apartment in the fading light it was time to rest and reflect upon the fruits of our day.

Mid Monday morning, December 13^th, the Hotel de Ville Metro Information board lit up with -1°C as we were on our way to Chartres via Gare Montparnasse. The one hour pretty trip {€28 each rtn} was filled with beautiful vistas of the French countryside with thinly wooded forests and gentle rolling plains and the residues of last Wednesday’s snow falls was still apparent.

Chartres and the village were impressive. The labyrinth and the stained glass windows all had a story to tell. Walking inside the Gothic Cathedral you could get a real sense of the pilgrims that would have visited in medieval times; people of simple and great faith. Lunch at the suitably named Le Serpent Cafe adjacent to the church, a quick stroll around parts of the village and we were on a way back to Paris.

We decided to walk from Montparnasse and we took in the illuminated sites of the Pantheon, Cluny Museum, Luxembourg Gardens and a visit to the St Surplice Cathedral (also of Harry Potter fame). Our very full day was complete with a two hour visit to third of the Holy Trinity of Art Museums, The Pompidou Centre {€12 each}, which houses a collection of modern and post modern 20^th and 21^st century art. (The Louvre and the D’Orsay form the other parts of the Art Trinity).

I have always had a predilection for cemeteries. In recent times with my sister Helen we would walk through the church graveyard at Punchbowl and remark on the early 19^th century graves. So a visit, on our last full day in Paris, to the Pere Lachaise was a must. This 100 acre city of the dead had some impressive long term residents: the writer and much maligned Oscar Wilde (whose grave is sadly gratified); Parisian singer Edith Piaf; the wayward and much revered 70’s rock star Jim Morrison; composers like Chopin and Rossini and Holocaust victims and members of the French resistance. It was an inscription from them that resonated most:

We, the survivors, have erected this simple monument as a witness to the faith, courage and hope that have ceaselessly driven and supported us through our ordeal.

So much of death reminds us of life. What are we here for? What have we done? What will we leave behind?

Two hours later, Anne was off shopping in the Rue Cler; traffic free with tiny shops that spill out onto the streets. Meanwhile I clearly did not have enough of my morning experience and visited the Catacombs. This ossuary from 18^th century Paris in a maze of underground tunnels is a tribute to French pragmaticism. Dinner at the hip Lizard Lounge {€27}, not out of place in Surry Hills, we reflected on our week. Anne named Le Bonnes Soeurs; Reconnecting with her ‘artist friend’ at Montmartre and the Louvre as her favourite experiences out of many.

On our first day in Paris in the Metro a couple of kind French residents recommended to us that we buy a carnet, a ticket of ten single tickets as it would be cheaper. They also said that the unused tickets are good for a lifetime. We hope one day to honour that promise.

In one weeks time we will be in the land of my mother and father’s birth under the roof of some fine Hungarian hospitality of my mum’s brother Pisti and his wife Ili. It is always a privilege to share precious time with one’s relatives.

But before then, I am reminded of the late US President, John F Kennedy’s words as he proudly proclaimed, “Ein itch bin Berliner”.

Soon, after a 90 minute delay on the tarmac because of heavy snow in Berlin, we arrived in this city of paradoxes,  bright and bubbly with a deep and sometimes dark history.

Until next time,

Good tidings and God’s blessings

Janika