In the Sea
Veli Ločinj
Senj
Friday, August 03, 2007
By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea,
You and I, you and I, oh how happy we’ll be…
This summer I am spending some extended time on the Croatian coast along the Adriatic Sea. Within an hour we can drive by car to Croatia. If we time it just right and take the back roads we avoid the crush of traffic escaping the heat and the long lines at the border. The Croatians seem to resist welcoming the most common visitors from Italy, Slovenia, Austria, Germany and even as far as the Netherlands by making the summer tourist queue into one line to pass through the border. It almost seems as though they are saying, “What are you doing? Why don’t you just stay at home?” It is a forced cultural lesson. No one at the crossing gates is in a hurry. They seem to insist that we all start behaving like good Mediterranean residents and live life at a calmer pace. The roads are single lanes leading to and from the border, and the only travelers who are able to go quickly to the coast are the motorcycles that squeeze down the solid line between cars where there is dangerously not enough room. The car travelers must form a slow train to their holiday spot and there is no point in becoming anxious.
All along the Croatian coast, villages that were once supported by fishing or grazing animals are now swarming with tourists from all over the world. Hotels, resorts and summer homes of bright colors rest along side stone walls that once kept sheep from wandering. Medieval villages birth kitschy tourist shops selling things made from shells from every stone doorway. Captains of fishing boats are now tour guides to the islands and beaches. Single-family homes are being built to include rooms to rent or apartments in neighborhoods where each house posts a sign “Soba, Camera, Zimmer, Rooms” The tourist season is six months and the rest of the year is preparation for the tourists.
The economy appears to be thriving, but the attitude projected by the wait-staff in cafés and restaurants demonstrates the love hate relationship found in so many tourist areas. When I worked in Estes Park, Colorado we hated to see the tourists come. They were demanding, disrespectful, rude and often unpleasant. They were there to have a good time without concern for those who provide services. The students in Amish country in Holmes County, OH used to call the gawking aging bus tours “terrorists”. Yet like these places in the US, undoubtedly the life on the Croatian coast would be too quieter with out the tourists, and no one would have enough work to be able to live there. The tourists come for peace, relaxation, old charm, water and sun, but after dark the sound of disco throbs in the air, the beaches are packed with people, the old villages are decorated with flashing neon lights, the sea is being over fished and too much sun gives you skin cancer. Maybe tourism is not as good as it seems. I wonder if these villages will be deserted like Route 66, once the fickle tourist industry chooses a “new hot” spot; leaving deserted hotels and resorts.
In our part of Slovenia the world runs down to a halting pace in July and August. Shops and restaurants close down for the holidays, the library has shortened hours and even the health clinic in our neighborhood is closed. The streets are quiet and the pace is slow to accommodate the heat. Everyone I know goes to the sea. They take the 20-minute drive to Sistiana for an evening swim or they find a favorite spot on the Croatian coast and return year after year with friends and family spending all day in the water and roasting in the sun. The sent of fresh grilled fish, bought from the door to door fish monger, seasoned with sprigs of rosemary plucked from the yard, and smoked with fresh bay leaves cut from the hedge, peppers the air. Children play after-dark games while parents chat over a glass of wine. The world is relaxed. The Croatian coast resonates summer pleasures.
The coast was bare until after the war; no houses, no hotels, only fishing villages. Like Primorska, Italians following WWI, occupied the Istrian peninsula. Slovenes who were willing to change their names and speak only Italian were relocated here to work the land. They all seemed to have lived comfortably along side the Croatians and most signs are still written in Croatian and Italian. After WWII this coast belonged to Jugoslavia and many Slovenes bought small parcels of land for seaside cottages. Made by hand of Istrian stone, the houses were modest get away places that provided leisure, known before only to the aristocracy. Now, blurring historical class distinctions, the 20th century workers were provided holidays as their rights along with jobs, education and health care and they too spent the summer at the seaside.
Nothing grew on the cliffs over looking the sea. All building materials, and plantings had to be brought from elsewhere. Families spent every weekend creating by hand summer retreats to be enjoyed for generations. Originally there was no electricity or water supplied; cisterns were built under the houses for collecting rainwater and the glow of oil lamps lit the houses after dark. Concrete docks used mostly for sunbathing were built in the middle of the night during a full moon. Bags of cement were hauled down the cliff along with fresh water for mixing. When the tide was at its lowest the men stirred from sleep and poured cement in already constructed frames until the sea water returned to the shore. The docks are more like concrete platforms of varied heights jutting along the bottom of the cliffs, some have stairs into the water, metal cups for inserting umbrellas, others have cement seats formed for sun bathing and platforms for diving. There are no signs of private property or barriers to keep people from the houses further up the hill from enjoying the sea, it seems to be public land for all to share. The cottages are close together, but made private with 50-year-old pine trees and towering hedges. Now in the time of abundance, modest cottages are being replaced by enormous elaborate all season homes or rental apartments.
The sun is so beastly hot that I go swimming just to cool down. Never have I experienced anything so marvelous! The sea temperature is 25° [77°] and with the heat index of 41° [105°] the experience was amazingly refreshing. I have been swimming in salt water in Maine where it is too cold to stay long in the water, in Florida and Georgia where the waves are too strong to do anything but play, and in Oregon where I was certain I would get frost bite from putting my big toe in the water. But this water was luscious and so amazingly salty. It is difficult to swim because the sea seems to throw me out. I am so buoyant that instead of cutting through the water with my front crawl I bounce across the surface skimming like skipping stones. But to float is like lying in bed stretched out on top, toes pointed, legs spread, paddling with fin shaped hands lying for hours on top of the water. The density of the saline solution causes me to want to curl in a fetal position, slow down my breathing and revert to prenatal quiet. But all around are tanned little bottoms gallop along the shore in and out of the water wearing floating devices and clutching beach balls. Topless moms are sunning all possible bosom styles and grandmas wear the same bikini from the “itsy bitsy teeny-weeny” years, but to less affect.
I can stand erect in the water, arms hanging at my side, feet flat as if solid with only my head above the surface. The breaststroke seems impossible because the frog kick raises me up arching my back and throwing my feet out of the water. It is easier to walk in the water using the breaststroke with my hands but an upright walking motion with my feet. Swimming is not strenuous; it’s like walking on water. The quiet of the sea makes it possible to defy gravity.
I had fish tanks as a child, and now I think if I ever settle down in just one place again I will get a cat to snuggle on my lap, a dog to play Frisbee in the yard and an aquarium filled with fish of magnificent colors to watch swim around and around. I put on a snorkel mask and below me is a mystery. I am trying to not use trite overused phrases to describe things, but there is no other way to say that below the surface of the water is another world. A social structure is created by the diamond shaped shimmering schools of fish, crabs crawling over each other, sea cucumbers that must have inspired Jaba the Hut from Star Wars, and zillions of things camouflaged from me. Large stones litter the sea floor, blocks and pillars that I imagine are Roman are decorated with mollusks, mustard gold sponges. Only the fear that my back would get too burned in the sun pulls me from the vision of wonder in the sea.
My imagination that the pillars could be Roman is possible. The Istrian peninsula like all of this area was settled during the Roman Empire, but the sea rubble could be from the marauders who followed the Romans; the Goths, the Lombards, the Frankish kingdom [789], the dukes of Carinthia, Merano, Bavaria, the patriach of Aquileia, the Republic of Venice [1267], Napoleon, Austrian Empire, Italians, Nazis, Jugoslavs or simply rubble from the massive amounts of modern construction. I prefer to think that an ancient roman constuction crew littered a rejected stone and it has been home to sea creatures for centuries.
You and I, you and I, oh how happy we’ll be…
This summer I am spending some extended time on the Croatian coast along the Adriatic Sea. Within an hour we can drive by car to Croatia. If we time it just right and take the back roads we avoid the crush of traffic escaping the heat and the long lines at the border. The Croatians seem to resist welcoming the most common visitors from Italy, Slovenia, Austria, Germany and even as far as the Netherlands by making the summer tourist queue into one line to pass through the border. It almost seems as though they are saying, “What are you doing? Why don’t you just stay at home?” It is a forced cultural lesson. No one at the crossing gates is in a hurry. They seem to insist that we all start behaving like good Mediterranean residents and live life at a calmer pace. The roads are single lanes leading to and from the border, and the only travelers who are able to go quickly to the coast are the motorcycles that squeeze down the solid line between cars where there is dangerously not enough room. The car travelers must form a slow train to their holiday spot and there is no point in becoming anxious.
All along the Croatian coast, villages that were once supported by fishing or grazing animals are now swarming with tourists from all over the world. Hotels, resorts and summer homes of bright colors rest along side stone walls that once kept sheep from wandering. Medieval villages birth kitschy tourist shops selling things made from shells from every stone doorway. Captains of fishing boats are now tour guides to the islands and beaches. Single-family homes are being built to include rooms to rent or apartments in neighborhoods where each house posts a sign “Soba, Camera, Zimmer, Rooms” The tourist season is six months and the rest of the year is preparation for the tourists.
The economy appears to be thriving, but the attitude projected by the wait-staff in cafés and restaurants demonstrates the love hate relationship found in so many tourist areas. When I worked in Estes Park, Colorado we hated to see the tourists come. They were demanding, disrespectful, rude and often unpleasant. They were there to have a good time without concern for those who provide services. The students in Amish country in Holmes County, OH used to call the gawking aging bus tours “terrorists”. Yet like these places in the US, undoubtedly the life on the Croatian coast would be too quieter with out the tourists, and no one would have enough work to be able to live there. The tourists come for peace, relaxation, old charm, water and sun, but after dark the sound of disco throbs in the air, the beaches are packed with people, the old villages are decorated with flashing neon lights, the sea is being over fished and too much sun gives you skin cancer. Maybe tourism is not as good as it seems. I wonder if these villages will be deserted like Route 66, once the fickle tourist industry chooses a “new hot” spot; leaving deserted hotels and resorts.
In our part of Slovenia the world runs down to a halting pace in July and August. Shops and restaurants close down for the holidays, the library has shortened hours and even the health clinic in our neighborhood is closed. The streets are quiet and the pace is slow to accommodate the heat. Everyone I know goes to the sea. They take the 20-minute drive to Sistiana for an evening swim or they find a favorite spot on the Croatian coast and return year after year with friends and family spending all day in the water and roasting in the sun. The sent of fresh grilled fish, bought from the door to door fish monger, seasoned with sprigs of rosemary plucked from the yard, and smoked with fresh bay leaves cut from the hedge, peppers the air. Children play after-dark games while parents chat over a glass of wine. The world is relaxed. The Croatian coast resonates summer pleasures.
The coast was bare until after the war; no houses, no hotels, only fishing villages. Like Primorska, Italians following WWI, occupied the Istrian peninsula. Slovenes who were willing to change their names and speak only Italian were relocated here to work the land. They all seemed to have lived comfortably along side the Croatians and most signs are still written in Croatian and Italian. After WWII this coast belonged to Jugoslavia and many Slovenes bought small parcels of land for seaside cottages. Made by hand of Istrian stone, the houses were modest get away places that provided leisure, known before only to the aristocracy. Now, blurring historical class distinctions, the 20th century workers were provided holidays as their rights along with jobs, education and health care and they too spent the summer at the seaside.
Nothing grew on the cliffs over looking the sea. All building materials, and plantings had to be brought from elsewhere. Families spent every weekend creating by hand summer retreats to be enjoyed for generations. Originally there was no electricity or water supplied; cisterns were built under the houses for collecting rainwater and the glow of oil lamps lit the houses after dark. Concrete docks used mostly for sunbathing were built in the middle of the night during a full moon. Bags of cement were hauled down the cliff along with fresh water for mixing. When the tide was at its lowest the men stirred from sleep and poured cement in already constructed frames until the sea water returned to the shore. The docks are more like concrete platforms of varied heights jutting along the bottom of the cliffs, some have stairs into the water, metal cups for inserting umbrellas, others have cement seats formed for sun bathing and platforms for diving. There are no signs of private property or barriers to keep people from the houses further up the hill from enjoying the sea, it seems to be public land for all to share. The cottages are close together, but made private with 50-year-old pine trees and towering hedges. Now in the time of abundance, modest cottages are being replaced by enormous elaborate all season homes or rental apartments.
The sun is so beastly hot that I go swimming just to cool down. Never have I experienced anything so marvelous! The sea temperature is 25° [77°] and with the heat index of 41° [105°] the experience was amazingly refreshing. I have been swimming in salt water in Maine where it is too cold to stay long in the water, in Florida and Georgia where the waves are too strong to do anything but play, and in Oregon where I was certain I would get frost bite from putting my big toe in the water. But this water was luscious and so amazingly salty. It is difficult to swim because the sea seems to throw me out. I am so buoyant that instead of cutting through the water with my front crawl I bounce across the surface skimming like skipping stones. But to float is like lying in bed stretched out on top, toes pointed, legs spread, paddling with fin shaped hands lying for hours on top of the water. The density of the saline solution causes me to want to curl in a fetal position, slow down my breathing and revert to prenatal quiet. But all around are tanned little bottoms gallop along the shore in and out of the water wearing floating devices and clutching beach balls. Topless moms are sunning all possible bosom styles and grandmas wear the same bikini from the “itsy bitsy teeny-weeny” years, but to less affect.
I can stand erect in the water, arms hanging at my side, feet flat as if solid with only my head above the surface. The breaststroke seems impossible because the frog kick raises me up arching my back and throwing my feet out of the water. It is easier to walk in the water using the breaststroke with my hands but an upright walking motion with my feet. Swimming is not strenuous; it’s like walking on water. The quiet of the sea makes it possible to defy gravity.
I had fish tanks as a child, and now I think if I ever settle down in just one place again I will get a cat to snuggle on my lap, a dog to play Frisbee in the yard and an aquarium filled with fish of magnificent colors to watch swim around and around. I put on a snorkel mask and below me is a mystery. I am trying to not use trite overused phrases to describe things, but there is no other way to say that below the surface of the water is another world. A social structure is created by the diamond shaped shimmering schools of fish, crabs crawling over each other, sea cucumbers that must have inspired Jaba the Hut from Star Wars, and zillions of things camouflaged from me. Large stones litter the sea floor, blocks and pillars that I imagine are Roman are decorated with mollusks, mustard gold sponges. Only the fear that my back would get too burned in the sun pulls me from the vision of wonder in the sea.
My imagination that the pillars could be Roman is possible. The Istrian peninsula like all of this area was settled during the Roman Empire, but the sea rubble could be from the marauders who followed the Romans; the Goths, the Lombards, the Frankish kingdom [789], the dukes of Carinthia, Merano, Bavaria, the patriach of Aquileia, the Republic of Venice [1267], Napoleon, Austrian Empire, Italians, Nazis, Jugoslavs or simply rubble from the massive amounts of modern construction. I prefer to think that an ancient roman constuction crew littered a rejected stone and it has been home to sea creatures for centuries.
Monday, May 28, 2007
The teachers at Bob’s school take an annual spring educational holiday. Last year I went with them to Southern Italy, this year Bob and I both went with 35 other teachers and family members to Istanbul.
We left Wednesday evening with 2 holiday gift days from the school and returned on Sunday. We flew from Ljubljana at midnight with the Turkish truck drivers who load their trucks on tanker ships in Koper, Slovenija and then fly 2 hours to Istanbul to await their cargo. Once in Turkey the ride from the airport to Taksim square in the middle of the night gave us an unobstructed view of the city lit for the night; the Bosphorus river, the mosques and minarets, ancient walls of Constantinople and people gathering for kebabs and roasted chicken in the darkness. At first sight it was surprising the number of people casually wandering the streets in the early morning with the unexpected atmosphere of calm and safety linked by sweet smells.
Istanbul, known as Byzantium and then as Constantinople, is now a city of over 10 million people. Because of earthquakes the older buildings of the city are not tall, but they are crowded in together and piled on top of each other. The city has one foot in Europe and one in Asia spanning across the Bosphorus river that links the Black Sea with the Sea of Marmara and has been the seat of trade for thousands of years. Artifacts date settlements in this area from 5,500 BC and the history includes anyone who was anyone in the world [Ancient Greeks, Alexander the Great, Romans, Goths, Constantine, first church council at Nicaea, Theodosis I [same one who battled in the Vipava Valley in Slovenija], Justinian, missionaries from Byzantium to Slavic nations, Normans, Venetians, Turkic nomads, crusaders, Seljuk Turks, more pillaging crusaders, Ottoman Turks, countless Sultans, Sultanate women, more Sultans, Austrians, French and British soldiers and Greek forces]. Because of the influence of Mustafa Kemal Paşa [better known as Atäturk, “Father of the Turks”] Turkish land was reclaimed by the Turks, the sultanate was abolished in 1922, the country became a secular republic, the Arabic alphabet was replaced with the Roman alphabet, western dress was encouraged and all Turks were required to claim a surname. The red flag tells the story of the moon and one star reflected in the bloodshed of wounded Turkish soldiers fighting for independence. These are people proud of Turkey; proud of being Turkish and with every greeting they warmly welcomed us to their country.
Modern Istanbul a blend of new buildings, ancient remains, towering mosques, quaint cafés, crowds of people and stores, stores, and more stores. Little hidden stores the size of my bathroom, men with carts, men with card tables in the middle of the street, stores in basements, stores on side walks, stores in every nook and cranny and that is without even discussing the bazaars. It is obvious the Istanbul has been, and continues to be the mecca of trade, and buying and selling is a high art with rich social contact.
The bazaars are unbelievable!! [attached photo] Every arch hides a shop, wares tumble into the street, the colors are vibrant sparkling with brilliance, the air tastes sweet, tangy, hot and spicy, the salesmen call to you trying to guess your language mesmerizing you with friendly infectious charm and shoppers stumble over themselves, each other, the impromptu shop set up in the middle of the sidewalk, and the men carrying goods on their back or pushing wheeled carts. The entrepreneurial spirit has been tradition and culture in the Grand Bazaar since the 1450’s and the Spice Bazaar since the 1600’s. Everything is sold here; there is such abundance that the sheer number of goods in one place is overwhelming. Bargaining is expected and even fun.
We were pulled into a rug shop [“Madame I am proud of my carpets, and I want to show you, with no obligation to buy…. of course.”] and spent the most charming couple of hours with the owner learning about rugs, drinking apple tea and Turkish coffee. We went into the lower level of the shop and there were carpets and kilims everywhere; new carpets, semi old [50 years] and antique. [photo attached]There were 3 carpet rollers who flicked open the carpets at our feet showing us ones made from silk, camel hair, wool, natural dyed, synthetic dyed, tribal designs, floral patterns and each one identified by the area in which it was hand made. Kilims are tapestries that have geometric designs and are woven with a warp and weft rather than knotted like a carpet. The colors can vary greatly within the kilim because of the natural dye and the technique of weaving. Often their original purpose was not to be used as a carpet, but as a bag for carrying things. Because they were designed for use rather than decoration the exactness of symmetry is not important and they have a primitive look that I like very much. Now they are sold as floor or wall coverings and we are the happy owners of one with colors of green olives, red currants, golden wheat, camel brown, white sand, and sunshine.
We visited a number of mosques including Haghia Sophia [attached photo], which was originally an Orthodox church, and then a mosque and now a museum. This church, dedicated in 537 [yes that is correct five hundred and thirty seven], stands on the site of 2 other churches that were destroyed by fire and earthquake. The Ottomans added minarets, tombs and fountains in the 15th century when it became a mosque, walls were supported with buttresses to keep the immense dome intact and many decorative changes have altered the face of the building over the centuries. Glorious Christian mosaics still remain in the second floor galleries [attached photo], and some of the patterns in the ceilings and along the walls are original 6th century decorations.
The Blue Mosque has a much different feeling than Haghia Sophia. It is called such because of the İznik blue tile that covers the interior [photo attached]. This active mosque was built in the early 1600’s and its delicate interior beauty is in stark contrast to the bulbous gray exterior. The Rüstem Paşa Mosque is also an amazing collection of tiles and designs [photo attached]. There are no images of people in any of the mosques only patterns and natural designs. They are very soothing places open without charge to visitors at times when prayer is not taking place. The decorations are so much more peaceful to me than the images of martyrs and Christ hanging on a cross in painful death that we see in the European Catholic churches. The voice from the minarets calls the faithful to prayer, crowds of people slowly wander to a mosque, the men cleanse themselves at faucets provided along the wall before entering the mosque [photo attached], the women come with heads covered and long dresses covered by a floor length coat or a burka, all remove their shoes and the Moslem city prays. The rest of the city continues the hubbub of daily life and doesn’t even seem to slow down while prayers are being said.
Not far from the Hippodrome hidden from view is the Basilica Cistern [photo attached]. It is an amazing store of water from the 532 AD. After the occupation of the city by the Ottomans [in the 1500’s] people collected water and fished for food through holes in their basement floors keeping the cistern a secret for over a century. Now visitors can walk through the cistern looking at the fish, listening to soothing music and marveling at the construction of something so long ago.
We also visited Topkapi palace showing all the treasures of the Sultans in the museum, Galata Tower where we could see the entire city [photo attached] and İstiklâl Caddesi the pedestrian street [photo attached] crowded with people moving like an ant colony with purpose, but no rush or hurry. I was most fascinated watching the people. Beautiful dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes and every other blend of looks, women in full black covering with only their eyes showing and women in skimpy nothings with everything showing, men finding ways to earn money by shining shoes, carrying bread on their heads and bags on their backs and selling everything imaginable. I expected beeping horns, loud shouts and a dirty huge city, but the language is soft so even with so many people in one place the city is quiet, people do not seem to be in a hurry and the streets are clean, lined with vibrant tulips. It was not at all what I expected, we felt safe and welcomed, and we both look forward to the next visit and the discovery of so much more.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
The killing of 33 people at Virginia Tech. University last week has my classes discussing how a mass killing like this could possibly happen. In each class at least one student says that this could only happen in the U.S., and that leads me to try to explain why it is possible in the U. S.
From the founding of our country we were given permission to “bear arms” so that we could protect ourselves in war with the British and the Native people. The fear of having a standing army like countries on the European continent convinced the writers of the constitution that the people must create a civilian army if needed, and for that, weapons were necessary. The mind set from the very beginning was to provide us with the means of protection from the enemy, whom ever that may be.
The enemy is not only a force from outside our nation, but the enemy is the “bad guy” who lives in our community and may want to cause us harm. We are given permission to protect ourselves, our families and our belongings, from those with the intent to rob us of that which we consider precious. The permission to protect ourselves creates a fear that forces us to pass laws that allow us to carry concealed weapons, and gives us invitation to use fire arms indiscriminately, in rage or when frightened and against those whom we should be protecting.
The National Rife Association repeatedly reminds us that “guns don’t kill people, people kill people” and guns are not the problem. But we do not kill with knives and we all have multiple weapons nestled in the top kitchen drawer. If one is intent on protecting oneself, or committing a heinous crime it is much more difficult with a kitchen knife. That is a crime of intimacy. One must come close to the victim, make physical contact, eye contact and feel the heat of the other person’s body. The opportunity of a physical struggle is greater and the risk of personal harm is drastically enhanced. A gun is anonymous; a weapon can be engaged from a far distance or relatively close range. The shooter does not need to have contact with the victim, a massive number of bullets can be shot in a short amount of time and the personal risk to the protagonist is limited. Guns are the problem!! If we only had kitchen knives or red Swiss Army knives, killing sprees would be a rare occurrence.
Yet the problem is not only the access to weapons, but also a culture of violence. After WWII we marketed violence as entertainment; war movies, cowboy and Indian movies and television programs. The sight of Native savages and Nazi soldiers falling in massive numbers was the pabulum of the baby boomers. When that became tame the next generation enhanced the graphic depiction and added it to nightly news, prime time television, and popular music. And now we are exporting it to the entire world. The dulling of our sensitivities when we see someone die in the media is supported by a government who spends $.41 of every tax dollar on the military and only $.05 for education. Our priorities are obviously the support of violence. We spend 48% of the military spending in the world and the $415 billion price tag on the war in Iraq confirms that violence is very big business.
All of these things explain why an intelligent yet disturbed19 year old college student was able to kill himself along with 32 of his peers and professors. He immigrated to a country that gave him permission to purchase handguns without psychological testing, classes in gun safety or belonging to a registered hunting club and made his killing rampage possible.
The pattern of this discussion makes me ashamed of the United States. It makes it difficult to explain to my students that I am a normal American [nice, friendly, caring, intelligent]. It confuses them when I tell them that I am not afraid to live in the U.S. I do not fear for my life on the streets of Ohio and I do not lock the doors on my house or my car. People are friendly and hard working they care about their families and the rate of charitable giving shows how much they care for other people. Opportunities abound and creative energy is celebrated as we discover new ways to make the world a healthier easier place to live. Yet millions of our citizens do not have health care, 2million of our citizens [the population of Slovenija] are behind bars, the largest number of prisoners anywhere in the world, we kill criminals with the death penalty, we go to war under false pretenses, our children can buy guns before they are old enough to buy wine and almost 30,000 of our citizens are killed with hand guns each year.
It is hard for me to help my students understand all this, because I do not understand any of it myself.
From the founding of our country we were given permission to “bear arms” so that we could protect ourselves in war with the British and the Native people. The fear of having a standing army like countries on the European continent convinced the writers of the constitution that the people must create a civilian army if needed, and for that, weapons were necessary. The mind set from the very beginning was to provide us with the means of protection from the enemy, whom ever that may be.
The enemy is not only a force from outside our nation, but the enemy is the “bad guy” who lives in our community and may want to cause us harm. We are given permission to protect ourselves, our families and our belongings, from those with the intent to rob us of that which we consider precious. The permission to protect ourselves creates a fear that forces us to pass laws that allow us to carry concealed weapons, and gives us invitation to use fire arms indiscriminately, in rage or when frightened and against those whom we should be protecting.
The National Rife Association repeatedly reminds us that “guns don’t kill people, people kill people” and guns are not the problem. But we do not kill with knives and we all have multiple weapons nestled in the top kitchen drawer. If one is intent on protecting oneself, or committing a heinous crime it is much more difficult with a kitchen knife. That is a crime of intimacy. One must come close to the victim, make physical contact, eye contact and feel the heat of the other person’s body. The opportunity of a physical struggle is greater and the risk of personal harm is drastically enhanced. A gun is anonymous; a weapon can be engaged from a far distance or relatively close range. The shooter does not need to have contact with the victim, a massive number of bullets can be shot in a short amount of time and the personal risk to the protagonist is limited. Guns are the problem!! If we only had kitchen knives or red Swiss Army knives, killing sprees would be a rare occurrence.
Yet the problem is not only the access to weapons, but also a culture of violence. After WWII we marketed violence as entertainment; war movies, cowboy and Indian movies and television programs. The sight of Native savages and Nazi soldiers falling in massive numbers was the pabulum of the baby boomers. When that became tame the next generation enhanced the graphic depiction and added it to nightly news, prime time television, and popular music. And now we are exporting it to the entire world. The dulling of our sensitivities when we see someone die in the media is supported by a government who spends $.41 of every tax dollar on the military and only $.05 for education. Our priorities are obviously the support of violence. We spend 48% of the military spending in the world and the $415 billion price tag on the war in Iraq confirms that violence is very big business.
All of these things explain why an intelligent yet disturbed19 year old college student was able to kill himself along with 32 of his peers and professors. He immigrated to a country that gave him permission to purchase handguns without psychological testing, classes in gun safety or belonging to a registered hunting club and made his killing rampage possible.
The pattern of this discussion makes me ashamed of the United States. It makes it difficult to explain to my students that I am a normal American [nice, friendly, caring, intelligent]. It confuses them when I tell them that I am not afraid to live in the U.S. I do not fear for my life on the streets of Ohio and I do not lock the doors on my house or my car. People are friendly and hard working they care about their families and the rate of charitable giving shows how much they care for other people. Opportunities abound and creative energy is celebrated as we discover new ways to make the world a healthier easier place to live. Yet millions of our citizens do not have health care, 2million of our citizens [the population of Slovenija] are behind bars, the largest number of prisoners anywhere in the world, we kill criminals with the death penalty, we go to war under false pretenses, our children can buy guns before they are old enough to buy wine and almost 30,000 of our citizens are killed with hand guns each year.
It is hard for me to help my students understand all this, because I do not understand any of it myself.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Primrose
Zafran [wild crocus]
Spring has arrived in Slovenia. In the shade the air hints of a damp cold refrigerator, but the sun is so toasty that we shed layers searching for bare skin to sizzle in the sunrays. Each day more trees are blooming and soon the wild cherry tree out side our balcony will be exploding in white. The magnolia trees are giant pink ruffles next to the florescent feathery mimosa blossoms with crocuses underneath. Pansies and daffodils tilt their faces to the sunshine and shimmer in glowing light in the breeze.
Panovec is a wooded area close to the center of Nova Gorica. It has paths and dirt roads throughout the woods for hiking. In the lowlands wild crocuses speckle the grass between the toes of the trees where the fairies have left pink, purple, and white flowers. The snowdrops nod their bonnets, primroses clutch the earth on the southern slopes and white flowers that look like an anemones peak out of the carpet of leaves. The kos with it’s ink black body and orange beak sings arias from the tops of the trees while the little birds that look like a blend of chickadee and goldfinch add a pop tune closer to the ground.
The farmers have come alive too. The clear plastic protecting the salad crops is coming off, piles of manure delivered from the dairy farms in the high lands mark the ends of the gardens and the tractors are digging deep into the earth trading warm soil for the cool damp dirt. Small old tractors serve as modern horses pulling the hand led plow guided by a person walking behind.
It is also time to trim the vines. All over the steep hillsides people are working on the terraced land cutting the old growth so there will be grapes to harvest this year. The techniques of trimming are different with each grower; one vine from the trunk with 10-12 eyes curled and tied down or 2 vines with 10-12 eyes but not tied down, or the 3-3-3 system we were using in Joško’s vineyard; 3 short vines with only 3 eyes each, plus 3 nubs with only one eye as growth for the next year. Last year I was only willing to serve as the puller of the old vines for fear that I would trim something wrong. This year I boldly learned to see the growth of the vine, discern the old and unhealthy vines to be cut away revealing the strongest and healthiest left to nurture the 2007 grape crop. The hillsides are still with concentration with the occasional sound of a chain saw cutting posts for new plantings, and the slow dripping of the tears from the vines of the new cuttings.
The vineyards twist around the hillsides and everyone knows which section belongs to whom. Some of the current property boundaries were established by Archduchess Maria Theresia [1717-1780] of Austria, Holy Roman Empress and Queen of Hungary and Bohemia in the 1750’s. She brought unity to the Hapsburg monarchy and reform for the serfs living on the land in the empire. The serfs under feudalism leased specific land from a landowner, and the family passed from generation to generation the requirement to work this land in exchange for protection and care in time of famine. The understanding during this time of Enlightened Absolutism was that the strength of the monarchy was no longer determined by the size of the army and the amount of land, but by the health, well-being and productivity of the people. Maria Theresia imposed strict restrictions as to the treatment of the peasants by the landlords, and established that the work dues paid by the serfs become rent to inspire greater efficiency in the workers. The serfs had their own land of open fields for production, wood lots for fuel and building materials, and uplands for grazing the animals. These feudal lands have been inherited for generations and the style of farming small strips of land continues to this day.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Winter holiday from school arrives just as the kurent are scaring away the winter in their furry costumes with bells ringing around their waists. Children and their parents dress in costumes and parade around town throwing confetti for the pust celebration and carnival is in the air. In our town of Šempeter, the downtown area is closed on Saturday before Lent and the participants and the viewers gather under a sunny sky near the inflatable decorations and tents. The odd combination of balloons, krafa [a jelly filled donut sprinkled with powdered sugar], cotton candy, popcorn and beer are sold on the streets as people gather just to be out and about and together.
The parade consists of a marching band, costumed walkers, social commentary banners [that we can not understand] and a reproduction trolley built by the firemen at the firehouse across the street from us. Every night for weeks we could hear the pounding, the music playing loudly, the struggle to take tires off an old car as the volunteers had way too much fun building a workable trolley that held people dressed in historic dress.
We attend the biggest Slovenian pust celebration, Kurentovanje, in Ptuji on the Sunday before Lent. Thousands of people migrate to this river town and line the streets watching for the 400 international kurenti weaving through the medieval village in a 2-hour parade. The kurent are furry creatures made of sheepskin with horns, long red tongues that hang to their chests, cowbells hanging from their waists and headgear decorated with colorful streamers and horse tail. Traditionally the kurent paraded from house to house bouncing up and down ringing the bells to scare away evil and winter. They carry large pinchers used for catching girls and courting gestures were disguised within the general frivolity. The parade was begun in Ptuji, the oldest city in Slovenija, in 1939 to protect the traditions unique to this area. This year kurenti came from many Balkan countries that share the same ancient traditions. Parking was free, very few vendors were hawking wares and all the shops were closed, as is tradition on Sunday. It was refreshing to see that the motivation of the event is to provide a community experience and not to use it only to make more money.
Following the parade in Eastern Slovenija we head further east and north to Budapest. This is the first time we have been to Hungary [Magyar Köztásaság] and the trip across the border is like traveling into another world. The villages are made up of houses built along the edge of the road. The front wall facing the street is only the size of a wall with 2 windows and commonly single story, but the house continues long and perpendicular to the street connected to the barn and other out buildings. The streets are without curbs and a gate often closes the entrances into the yard. The grayness of the day and the dirt from the winter contributed to the sense of regimented desolateness in the fringed structures along the road.
New highways are being built to connect the capital cities of the EU countries and where the superhighway was finished we were often the only car on the road. It is an eerie feeling to be so alone on a beautiful state of the art road as if it was built in the hope that people will want to travel there.
Buda and Pest are marvelous cities separated by the Danube River and linked as one by majestic bridges. The Royal Palace, St. Mátyás church, the Liberation monument look down to the plains of Pest from the castle district. A funicular takes us up along the ridge where we walk among history beginning with the Celts from around 400BC. Other visitors have been Romans in AD 100, Attila the Hun, the Goths, the Longobards, the Avars, the Magyars [who arrived from the Ural mountains around 896], the Turks, Hapsburgs, the Germans, the Russians and the Communists. Labyrinths below the castle district have been places of refuge from vicious invaders since prehistory and now are mysterious channels of caves designed to inspire visitors to seek a mystical journey. Pest proudly displays a highly ornamented Parliament building, pedestrian streets with fashionable shops, courtyards, towering ornate buildings, museums, opera houses, universities and a luscious giant closed market.
We spend our 2 days walking all over both of the cities gawking at the mosaic decorations, the ceramic roof tiles, the giant sculptures holding up the buildings, the columns, turrets, domes. Riding the old tram around the city was better than any amusement park ride and we are convinced that we are the only people who ever pay for public transportation in this part of Europe, since no one ever comes to validate our ticket. The city is very people friendly, clean and quiet. The language is soft with out a harsh resonance and even in places with large crowds the sounds are gentle. Hungarian is not an indo-European language and is closer to Estonian and Finnish than the Germanic or Balkan languages. Fortunately everyone spoke English so that we did not have to decipher Kozöponti Vásárcsarnok as the Central Market. [We are having a hard enough time learning Slovene; we simply could not tackle Hungarian for 2 days.] The food is marvelous and not expensive. We are eating gourmet meals with excellent regional wines at every restaurant, and snacking on the local specialty lángos [deep fried bread with various toppings] and luscious sweets from the market.
On our way out of town and heading to Graz, Austria we stop for a picnic at Szobor Park where all the enormous statues from the Communist years have been moved. Cubist style statues of Marx and Engels guard one side of the entrance with Lenin on the other. 41Communist monuments live in this walled garden, many celebrating the Hungarian worker, heroes of the 1919 revolution lead by Béla Kun and the soldiers who fought the wars. The park is far out of town; the only statue outside of the walls is the remaining boots of a gigantic statue that was destroyed during the liberation, and it sets the tone that this period in history is not to be remembered or celebrated, but rather hidden and forgotten.
It was interesting to see the differences in topography on our way to Austria. The Slovene countryside is divided into small farm plots that are distinguished by a variety of crops. Villages speckle the landscape with church steeples stretching to the sky and it seems that those who work the fields live near by. But in Hungary the fields are enormous, planted in a single crop of vibrant green winter wheat or earth waiting for the new crop. For as far as we can see there are no buildings of any kind; no barns, houses, out buildings, only cultivated fields.
Our third day is spent in Graz, Austria. Many of my singer friends have traveled to Graz to study singing at the American Institute of Musical Studies. Everyone had beautiful things to say about the city so it seemed like a good choice on this trip to check it off the list of “places to see.” Graz is the second largest city in Austria and the core of the city is a park near the river. We walked in the early morning mist up the castle hill to the only thing remaining when the castle was destroyed by Napoleon. From the clock tower the moisture rising from the river and the sun warming the winter chill blanketed the city in a shroud of mist and hushed the stirring residents as they began their day.
We only had the early morning to spend in Graz, but Bob bought a beautiful corduroy Tyrolean sport coat in a shop along the river that sold only clothes in the traditional styles. He looks pretty gorgeous! Our time was cut short because we needed to meet nephew Matthew coming by train to Villach, but Graz is a city we would like to visit again with more time.
We are so enjoying having visitors. We delight in sharing all the wonderful places hidden to most tourists that are just as stunning as the well-traveled sites. Slovenija is struggling with identity in many areas and tourism seems to have them really confused. They know that tourism is good business for a small centrally located country with great natural sites and many sporting activities, but the infrastructure does not quite reach the potential yet. There is talk of building more casinos, an amusement park, as well as a man-made island in the Adriatic Sea to bring in tourists with “deep pockets”. We hate to see the tourism money spent on things that can be found in other places when there is such uniqueness in the tourist farms, the local traditions and the passion for nature. Unfortunately those who are looking for a quiet get-away may not spend enough money to be considered important and the world seems to be looking for holidays where people are searching for a holiday week to feel like they are among the “rich and famous.”
The parade consists of a marching band, costumed walkers, social commentary banners [that we can not understand] and a reproduction trolley built by the firemen at the firehouse across the street from us. Every night for weeks we could hear the pounding, the music playing loudly, the struggle to take tires off an old car as the volunteers had way too much fun building a workable trolley that held people dressed in historic dress.
We attend the biggest Slovenian pust celebration, Kurentovanje, in Ptuji on the Sunday before Lent. Thousands of people migrate to this river town and line the streets watching for the 400 international kurenti weaving through the medieval village in a 2-hour parade. The kurent are furry creatures made of sheepskin with horns, long red tongues that hang to their chests, cowbells hanging from their waists and headgear decorated with colorful streamers and horse tail. Traditionally the kurent paraded from house to house bouncing up and down ringing the bells to scare away evil and winter. They carry large pinchers used for catching girls and courting gestures were disguised within the general frivolity. The parade was begun in Ptuji, the oldest city in Slovenija, in 1939 to protect the traditions unique to this area. This year kurenti came from many Balkan countries that share the same ancient traditions. Parking was free, very few vendors were hawking wares and all the shops were closed, as is tradition on Sunday. It was refreshing to see that the motivation of the event is to provide a community experience and not to use it only to make more money.
Following the parade in Eastern Slovenija we head further east and north to Budapest. This is the first time we have been to Hungary [Magyar Köztásaság] and the trip across the border is like traveling into another world. The villages are made up of houses built along the edge of the road. The front wall facing the street is only the size of a wall with 2 windows and commonly single story, but the house continues long and perpendicular to the street connected to the barn and other out buildings. The streets are without curbs and a gate often closes the entrances into the yard. The grayness of the day and the dirt from the winter contributed to the sense of regimented desolateness in the fringed structures along the road.
New highways are being built to connect the capital cities of the EU countries and where the superhighway was finished we were often the only car on the road. It is an eerie feeling to be so alone on a beautiful state of the art road as if it was built in the hope that people will want to travel there.
Buda and Pest are marvelous cities separated by the Danube River and linked as one by majestic bridges. The Royal Palace, St. Mátyás church, the Liberation monument look down to the plains of Pest from the castle district. A funicular takes us up along the ridge where we walk among history beginning with the Celts from around 400BC. Other visitors have been Romans in AD 100, Attila the Hun, the Goths, the Longobards, the Avars, the Magyars [who arrived from the Ural mountains around 896], the Turks, Hapsburgs, the Germans, the Russians and the Communists. Labyrinths below the castle district have been places of refuge from vicious invaders since prehistory and now are mysterious channels of caves designed to inspire visitors to seek a mystical journey. Pest proudly displays a highly ornamented Parliament building, pedestrian streets with fashionable shops, courtyards, towering ornate buildings, museums, opera houses, universities and a luscious giant closed market.
We spend our 2 days walking all over both of the cities gawking at the mosaic decorations, the ceramic roof tiles, the giant sculptures holding up the buildings, the columns, turrets, domes. Riding the old tram around the city was better than any amusement park ride and we are convinced that we are the only people who ever pay for public transportation in this part of Europe, since no one ever comes to validate our ticket. The city is very people friendly, clean and quiet. The language is soft with out a harsh resonance and even in places with large crowds the sounds are gentle. Hungarian is not an indo-European language and is closer to Estonian and Finnish than the Germanic or Balkan languages. Fortunately everyone spoke English so that we did not have to decipher Kozöponti Vásárcsarnok as the Central Market. [We are having a hard enough time learning Slovene; we simply could not tackle Hungarian for 2 days.] The food is marvelous and not expensive. We are eating gourmet meals with excellent regional wines at every restaurant, and snacking on the local specialty lángos [deep fried bread with various toppings] and luscious sweets from the market.
On our way out of town and heading to Graz, Austria we stop for a picnic at Szobor Park where all the enormous statues from the Communist years have been moved. Cubist style statues of Marx and Engels guard one side of the entrance with Lenin on the other. 41Communist monuments live in this walled garden, many celebrating the Hungarian worker, heroes of the 1919 revolution lead by Béla Kun and the soldiers who fought the wars. The park is far out of town; the only statue outside of the walls is the remaining boots of a gigantic statue that was destroyed during the liberation, and it sets the tone that this period in history is not to be remembered or celebrated, but rather hidden and forgotten.
It was interesting to see the differences in topography on our way to Austria. The Slovene countryside is divided into small farm plots that are distinguished by a variety of crops. Villages speckle the landscape with church steeples stretching to the sky and it seems that those who work the fields live near by. But in Hungary the fields are enormous, planted in a single crop of vibrant green winter wheat or earth waiting for the new crop. For as far as we can see there are no buildings of any kind; no barns, houses, out buildings, only cultivated fields.
Our third day is spent in Graz, Austria. Many of my singer friends have traveled to Graz to study singing at the American Institute of Musical Studies. Everyone had beautiful things to say about the city so it seemed like a good choice on this trip to check it off the list of “places to see.” Graz is the second largest city in Austria and the core of the city is a park near the river. We walked in the early morning mist up the castle hill to the only thing remaining when the castle was destroyed by Napoleon. From the clock tower the moisture rising from the river and the sun warming the winter chill blanketed the city in a shroud of mist and hushed the stirring residents as they began their day.
We only had the early morning to spend in Graz, but Bob bought a beautiful corduroy Tyrolean sport coat in a shop along the river that sold only clothes in the traditional styles. He looks pretty gorgeous! Our time was cut short because we needed to meet nephew Matthew coming by train to Villach, but Graz is a city we would like to visit again with more time.
We are so enjoying having visitors. We delight in sharing all the wonderful places hidden to most tourists that are just as stunning as the well-traveled sites. Slovenija is struggling with identity in many areas and tourism seems to have them really confused. They know that tourism is good business for a small centrally located country with great natural sites and many sporting activities, but the infrastructure does not quite reach the potential yet. There is talk of building more casinos, an amusement park, as well as a man-made island in the Adriatic Sea to bring in tourists with “deep pockets”. We hate to see the tourism money spent on things that can be found in other places when there is such uniqueness in the tourist farms, the local traditions and the passion for nature. Unfortunately those who are looking for a quiet get-away may not spend enough money to be considered important and the world seems to be looking for holidays where people are searching for a holiday week to feel like they are among the “rich and famous.”
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Decorated for Christmas
Living room
Kitchen
The golden glow from the street light just below our bedroom window clicks off each morning as the sun peaks over the mountains. Sometimes both of those things coincide with the ringing of the church bells at 7:00 and the crowing of the neighborhood rooster to tell us in multiple ways that the day has begun. Our apartment is one of 5 flats on the 1st floor of a new building across the street from the fire station. We think of the apartment as being on the second floor, but the Slovenes had animals and work areas on the ground level so the first floor of their home is what we call the second floor. Some newer homes still have the garage and work areas on the ground level and a full flight of stairs up to the house. There seems to be no concern for building single story homes to keep from climbing stairs, as one gets older, like in the U.S. Our apartment is 3 years old and we are the first tenants. We live in extreme luxury with 2 bedrooms, 1 ½ baths a brand new kitchen with a dishwasher and a balcony off the living room. Our friend Breda owns the apartment and beautifully furnished it for us with all that we need including dishes, bedding and cleaning utensils.
If the weather is nice we ride our bikes 20 minutes to Nova Gorica along the bike path in the shadow of the snow capped mountains in the distance and the castle in Italy. Many people use this path to stroll pushing baby buggies, weave in and out on roller blades, and the ever-present older men wearing hats saunter with their hands clasped behind their backs. This winter has been unusually rainy and foggy [so they say], so on those days we catch the free bus from Šempeter to Nova Gorica, and within 15 minutes we can be at school without the hassle of finding a parking space or wasting energy to drive to town. The buses have been free since April in an attempt to encourage people to use public transportation. In the early morning and after school the buses run every half hour, and the rest of the day they are available every hour until 7:30. Early in the morning we stand crowded jostling along side our sleepy students. The music playing on the bus radio is often Slovene songs mixed with classic American oldies, but depending on the driver sometimes we travel to the sounds of Mozart.
When I arrive early for school I often stop at a café for a cappuccino and join the rest of the community in the delight of good coffee. Apparently because we live on the border with Italy we have better coffee than the rest of the country and a cappuccino only costs about a $1.00. Coffee is the excuse for gathering with friends. Seldom do I see people sitting alone enjoying their frothy brew and never is anyone working on their laptop and filling every waking moment with work.
I am teaching only 8 classes per week in collaboration with English teachers at the Technical high school. The students are almost exclusively boys majoring in vocational mechanics, computer technology, electrical engineering, energy management and woodworking. Some of the students have English skills comparable to my pathetic Slovene [my key phrase is “Moja slovensčina je slaba” = my Slovene is bad], but many of the boys have excellent use of the language due to watching American movies and using the internet. The best use of my role, as native speaker, is to engage the students in conversation applying their knowledge in actual usage. Generally the teachers give me a topic to discuss or grammar usage that follows their curriculum and after researching on the internet [hallelujah for the internet!] we talk about it. I try to apply the topic to their lives and challenge them to higher-level cognitive thinking and many have the skills to have very meaningful conversations. Unfortunately I don’t think their textbook inspires much in-depth thinking so I try to make the discussions stimulating as well as appropriate for their skill level. The difficulty in this is that I do not see the classes regularly enough to know what their skills are, how they have been taught or what they have been taught. So I go into each class with a hope and a prayer that the class I have planned is not too difficult for them, that they will find it interesting enough to want to discuss it with me, and that it meets the guidelines that the teachers are responsible for. As in all schools some teachers have great discipline in their classes and the students treat them with respect while others seem to tolerate more rude behavior than I am comfortable with. I strongly believe that students will rise to the expectations of the teacher if they are clearly and consistently demonstrated. But if the teacher just “wants” the students to behave and is inconsistent in the management of the classroom, the nature of teenagers will turn the class into the opportunity to do the least amount of work possible. In some classes I have been focusing on creative writing, which is also difficult because these are classes of males who have chosen technical fields and who sit in left-brain classes all day. Their creative right brain is very sluggish and many struggle desperately for imaginative ideas, so my challenge is to inspire them to want to do the opposite of what comes naturally for them and in a foreign language. Not an easy task, but many are rising to the challenge and some of the writing has become very creative and fascinating. I really am enjoying the variety of each day and I adore the teachers I am working with. They have been so generous with their classes and make me feel as if I am an important part of their program.
In addition to teaching at the Technical school I am also directing 3 choirs at the Gimnazia where Bob teaches. The teacher’s choir and the American choir were started last year and a women’s choir of students studying nursing was added this year. All the choirs sing in English and the teachers have encouraged the students to join for the pleasure of singing as well as an additional way to improve their English. For the Christmas holidays I took the student choirs to the resident developmental home and the nursing home where they entertained the residents with American holiday songs and Slovene carols. The American Choir also sang for the opening of the local 3-par golf course [who opens a golf course in December?] and for the entire student body and teachers at the end of the year convocation. I am so very blessed to work with fabulous kids who are really enjoying the opportunity to sing as a part of their school experience. Unfortunately the ARTS are very peripheral in these schools because students who are talented and focused in the ARTS attend subject specific schools [the music school is in Ljubljana], so there is little opportunity in the academic or technical schools for things beyond that focus.
I am also teaching some voice lessons for some of my choir singers, but also lessons for advanced singers who have completed the 6-year curriculum at the music school. It seems that it is impossible to take casual lessons at the music school without the entire program that includes theory and piano. These women have completed this program, but there is no venue for their continued study. Fortunately I am able to teach in a classroom at my school and I am very really thrilled to work with these very fine singers and young mothers, who are wonderfully trained and very anxious to learn more. In addition to the teaching I continue to sing in the choir at the Sveta Gora basilica and socialize with the other choir members after rehearsal and Sunday mass. These people have become wonderful friends and a great support system for us both.
I also tutor 2 young boys and a 13-year-old girl in their conversational English and meet weekly with an English conversation group of adults who are interested in improving their language skills and socialize in English. No wonder I am having a difficult time learning Slovene, all my work is in English, and of course Bob and I speak English at home, and except for a few occasions to greet a neighbor, buy something at the store I do not use much Slovene. I continue to try to learn because many of my choir friends do not speak English and I would like to have a more meaningful relationship with them in their language. So I continue trying, but my progress is depressingly slow.
On the weekends we are busy attending the many concerts in the area, celebrations of special days for our friends and traveling to discover more new and beautiful sights. There is so much to do that we sometimes have a difficult time deciding. On Tuesday afternoons and Saturdays we try to go somewhere in Slovenija or Italy and we have seen amazingly gorgeous places just a short drive from our home. The winter this year has been unseasonably warm which has made it good for hiking, but not good for skiing. We have followed many mountain paths enjoying the clear mountain air and the discovery of extreme natural beauty. The real advantage of this area is that within less than an hour’s drive we can be swimming in the Adriatic Sea, hiking in the Julian Alps, bike riding on the karst or wandering through historic villages in four countries, and we can be speaking Italian, Croatian, German or Slovenian, or trying to. The variety of choices is thrilling and makes us want to spend every free moment discovering something new. I think we could live here for a lifetime and not see all the area has to offer.
The golden glow from the street light just below our bedroom window clicks off each morning as the sun peaks over the mountains. Sometimes both of those things coincide with the ringing of the church bells at 7:00 and the crowing of the neighborhood rooster to tell us in multiple ways that the day has begun. Our apartment is one of 5 flats on the 1st floor of a new building across the street from the fire station. We think of the apartment as being on the second floor, but the Slovenes had animals and work areas on the ground level so the first floor of their home is what we call the second floor. Some newer homes still have the garage and work areas on the ground level and a full flight of stairs up to the house. There seems to be no concern for building single story homes to keep from climbing stairs, as one gets older, like in the U.S. Our apartment is 3 years old and we are the first tenants. We live in extreme luxury with 2 bedrooms, 1 ½ baths a brand new kitchen with a dishwasher and a balcony off the living room. Our friend Breda owns the apartment and beautifully furnished it for us with all that we need including dishes, bedding and cleaning utensils.
If the weather is nice we ride our bikes 20 minutes to Nova Gorica along the bike path in the shadow of the snow capped mountains in the distance and the castle in Italy. Many people use this path to stroll pushing baby buggies, weave in and out on roller blades, and the ever-present older men wearing hats saunter with their hands clasped behind their backs. This winter has been unusually rainy and foggy [so they say], so on those days we catch the free bus from Šempeter to Nova Gorica, and within 15 minutes we can be at school without the hassle of finding a parking space or wasting energy to drive to town. The buses have been free since April in an attempt to encourage people to use public transportation. In the early morning and after school the buses run every half hour, and the rest of the day they are available every hour until 7:30. Early in the morning we stand crowded jostling along side our sleepy students. The music playing on the bus radio is often Slovene songs mixed with classic American oldies, but depending on the driver sometimes we travel to the sounds of Mozart.
When I arrive early for school I often stop at a café for a cappuccino and join the rest of the community in the delight of good coffee. Apparently because we live on the border with Italy we have better coffee than the rest of the country and a cappuccino only costs about a $1.00. Coffee is the excuse for gathering with friends. Seldom do I see people sitting alone enjoying their frothy brew and never is anyone working on their laptop and filling every waking moment with work.
I am teaching only 8 classes per week in collaboration with English teachers at the Technical high school. The students are almost exclusively boys majoring in vocational mechanics, computer technology, electrical engineering, energy management and woodworking. Some of the students have English skills comparable to my pathetic Slovene [my key phrase is “Moja slovensčina je slaba” = my Slovene is bad], but many of the boys have excellent use of the language due to watching American movies and using the internet. The best use of my role, as native speaker, is to engage the students in conversation applying their knowledge in actual usage. Generally the teachers give me a topic to discuss or grammar usage that follows their curriculum and after researching on the internet [hallelujah for the internet!] we talk about it. I try to apply the topic to their lives and challenge them to higher-level cognitive thinking and many have the skills to have very meaningful conversations. Unfortunately I don’t think their textbook inspires much in-depth thinking so I try to make the discussions stimulating as well as appropriate for their skill level. The difficulty in this is that I do not see the classes regularly enough to know what their skills are, how they have been taught or what they have been taught. So I go into each class with a hope and a prayer that the class I have planned is not too difficult for them, that they will find it interesting enough to want to discuss it with me, and that it meets the guidelines that the teachers are responsible for. As in all schools some teachers have great discipline in their classes and the students treat them with respect while others seem to tolerate more rude behavior than I am comfortable with. I strongly believe that students will rise to the expectations of the teacher if they are clearly and consistently demonstrated. But if the teacher just “wants” the students to behave and is inconsistent in the management of the classroom, the nature of teenagers will turn the class into the opportunity to do the least amount of work possible. In some classes I have been focusing on creative writing, which is also difficult because these are classes of males who have chosen technical fields and who sit in left-brain classes all day. Their creative right brain is very sluggish and many struggle desperately for imaginative ideas, so my challenge is to inspire them to want to do the opposite of what comes naturally for them and in a foreign language. Not an easy task, but many are rising to the challenge and some of the writing has become very creative and fascinating. I really am enjoying the variety of each day and I adore the teachers I am working with. They have been so generous with their classes and make me feel as if I am an important part of their program.
In addition to teaching at the Technical school I am also directing 3 choirs at the Gimnazia where Bob teaches. The teacher’s choir and the American choir were started last year and a women’s choir of students studying nursing was added this year. All the choirs sing in English and the teachers have encouraged the students to join for the pleasure of singing as well as an additional way to improve their English. For the Christmas holidays I took the student choirs to the resident developmental home and the nursing home where they entertained the residents with American holiday songs and Slovene carols. The American Choir also sang for the opening of the local 3-par golf course [who opens a golf course in December?] and for the entire student body and teachers at the end of the year convocation. I am so very blessed to work with fabulous kids who are really enjoying the opportunity to sing as a part of their school experience. Unfortunately the ARTS are very peripheral in these schools because students who are talented and focused in the ARTS attend subject specific schools [the music school is in Ljubljana], so there is little opportunity in the academic or technical schools for things beyond that focus.
I am also teaching some voice lessons for some of my choir singers, but also lessons for advanced singers who have completed the 6-year curriculum at the music school. It seems that it is impossible to take casual lessons at the music school without the entire program that includes theory and piano. These women have completed this program, but there is no venue for their continued study. Fortunately I am able to teach in a classroom at my school and I am very really thrilled to work with these very fine singers and young mothers, who are wonderfully trained and very anxious to learn more. In addition to the teaching I continue to sing in the choir at the Sveta Gora basilica and socialize with the other choir members after rehearsal and Sunday mass. These people have become wonderful friends and a great support system for us both.
I also tutor 2 young boys and a 13-year-old girl in their conversational English and meet weekly with an English conversation group of adults who are interested in improving their language skills and socialize in English. No wonder I am having a difficult time learning Slovene, all my work is in English, and of course Bob and I speak English at home, and except for a few occasions to greet a neighbor, buy something at the store I do not use much Slovene. I continue to try to learn because many of my choir friends do not speak English and I would like to have a more meaningful relationship with them in their language. So I continue trying, but my progress is depressingly slow.
On the weekends we are busy attending the many concerts in the area, celebrations of special days for our friends and traveling to discover more new and beautiful sights. There is so much to do that we sometimes have a difficult time deciding. On Tuesday afternoons and Saturdays we try to go somewhere in Slovenija or Italy and we have seen amazingly gorgeous places just a short drive from our home. The winter this year has been unseasonably warm which has made it good for hiking, but not good for skiing. We have followed many mountain paths enjoying the clear mountain air and the discovery of extreme natural beauty. The real advantage of this area is that within less than an hour’s drive we can be swimming in the Adriatic Sea, hiking in the Julian Alps, bike riding on the karst or wandering through historic villages in four countries, and we can be speaking Italian, Croatian, German or Slovenian, or trying to. The variety of choices is thrilling and makes us want to spend every free moment discovering something new. I think we could live here for a lifetime and not see all the area has to offer.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Sveti Martin celebration in Smartno
Dobrovo Castle
Sveti Martin Day [Martinovanje] is celebrated on 11 November. This is the day that St. Martin turns the juice of the grapes into wine and the wine season begins. St. Martin was born in Pannonia, Italy in 316. He begged to be able to join the Christian church at age 10, chose to live as a hermit at age 12 but was conscripted into the Roman army at age 15 because his father was a veteran. He chose to take only one servant with him during his military service and continued to live a life of simplicity sharing everything equally with this servant. While serving as a soldier he saw a cold naked beggar at the gates of the city of Amiens in Gaul and he divided his cloak in half and covered the man. Later in a vision he saw Christ wrapped in his cloak and believed that he had cared for Christ with this act of kindness. Throughout the rest of his life he preached the gospel in the central and western parts of Gaul. He eventually became the Bishop of Tours where he continued to live the life of a hermit. He died around 397 and his feast day is 11 November. I could find no information as to why he is credited with the miracle of wine except that his feast day falls at the time when the wine is ready to be drunk.
To celebrate the feast day Joško lines up the wines from the different vats. Each has its unique sunny golden color, some are still a little cloudy but others are clearing up and look like wine. The flavors have evolved over the past 6 weeks from a sweet dense juice, to a slightly bitter taste lacking any sweetness, to a tangy bland flavor, to an almost tasteless liquid with the hint of wine, to a gentle wine bouquet and then finally to the warm flavor that perfectly reflects the sunny day that the grapes were picked. Each choir member tastes each wine and then by consensus “Kay’s Wine”, that was flavored by my bleeding finger, is chosen as the choir’s wine and will be drunk after practice every Wednesday.
On the evening of the Sveti Martin feast day we go with friends to Šmartno v Brdih to taste the wines of Goriška Brda. This village of 250 population teeters on the spine of a hill surrounded by protection walls that were built in the 16th century. The village was built on Roman ruins and the four watchtowers and gates remain. The streets follow the contour of the hill lined with ancient houses surrounding the church of St. Martin with its tower dating from the 14th century. First floor rooms that once served as stables for animals and storage for equipment now are crowded with people savoring the crop of the region. We buy a glass in a pocket that hangs around our neck at the Kulturna hiša [culture house] and wander from building to building sampling the fare. Pršt, “chestnuts roasting on an open fire” and homemade bread are served along side the wines grown at the feet of this village. For entertainment choirs perform in various locations, a polka band gets the blood pumping, the dancers swinging and museum buildings are open showing the style of living in old Brda. The streets are dimly lit so the glow from inside the houses is inviting and nostalgic. Life would have been difficult in this windy hilltop village, but I hope that they had community fun like this many times during their year.
There is indication that wine has been grown in Goriška Brda [gorica means small wooded hillsides, brda means hill] since before the Romans, and continuously from the 12th century. In ancient times the Catholic Church owned most of the vineyards. In 1880 a plaque infected the vineyards and by 1900 half of the vines in Slovenija had been attacked by aphids. Before the plague 126,000 acres in Slovenija were planted in vines, but the plaque bankrupted many wine growers forcing thousands to leave the area and immigrate to other lands. Pre-WWII records indicate that only 94,000 acres of vineyards remained in Slovenija. Prior to the entrance into the European Union barren hillsides were once again planted in vines to creep under the restrictive agriculture rules imposed by the EU. The jury is still out as to whether Slovenian wines will be able to survive in competition with the large vineyards of France, Germany and Italy.
In Brda the soil is mostly shale and sandstone and looks like it would have no nutrients for growing anything. The hills are terraced and grass is grown between the vines to prevent erosion. The climate is considered Mediterranean although it is not contiguous to the sea, but the annual rainfall is high and summers are moderately hot. This past summer was a very dry year and the grapes were sweet, but not as abundant.
Taken from www.matkurja.com
“Of all the Slovene winegrowing areas, Goriska Brda has had the highest "per hectare yield" of medals and awards from wine fairs and exhibitions in the last two decades. The characteristic white wines of the area are gentle, harmonious, fresh, and lively; they generally age well. The best-known white wines of the area are the dry Briski Tokaj (a variety of Toccai Friulano), with its characteristic almond taste and subtle flowery fragrances; the polite Beli Pinot; the strong Sauvignon with its harmony of aromas; dry Chardonnay which reaches its peak with barrique treatment; Sivi Pinot with its long tradition, known on the Italian side as Pinot Grigio; and Malvazija. Perhaps the most characteristic wine of the area is Zlata ("Golden") Rebula. The best red wines of this sub-area are Cabernet Frank, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Merlot - wines with rich and strong pigments that age particularly well - and Modri Pinot, a particularly elegant wine with its stressed extract.
The best known blended wine of the area is the white Brisko vino, a dry white blend of Rebula and Tokaj. The Brici - the Slovene term for inhabitants of Brda - produce and store most of their wine at the Dobrovo winery, the largest production cellar in Slovenia. The Dobrovo cellar also boasts the largest local wine archive that regularly stores some 300,000 bottles of their best vintages. Zlata Rebulais is the most precious wine in store; most of the older bottles are Merlot and Tokaj. This is the only archive in Slovenia that regularly ages Tokaj and offers the best example of how much this wine can improve with age."
I am beginning to distinguish the flavors of Slovene wine, but because so much of what we drink is a blend of grapes I am not always able to distinguish the kind of grape. I particularly like the local Rebula and every once and while I am served a Muškat I like a lot. At the wine bar in Gorizia, Italy the server is always bringing me new reds to taste from the Friulian vineyards and they suit me more than the reds in Slovenija. My friend Jack Keegan has been plying me with wines for years telling me the history that goes with each bottle. I am finally beginning to appreciate the magic and the stories in each glass.
Dobrovo Castle
Sveti Martin Day [Martinovanje] is celebrated on 11 November. This is the day that St. Martin turns the juice of the grapes into wine and the wine season begins. St. Martin was born in Pannonia, Italy in 316. He begged to be able to join the Christian church at age 10, chose to live as a hermit at age 12 but was conscripted into the Roman army at age 15 because his father was a veteran. He chose to take only one servant with him during his military service and continued to live a life of simplicity sharing everything equally with this servant. While serving as a soldier he saw a cold naked beggar at the gates of the city of Amiens in Gaul and he divided his cloak in half and covered the man. Later in a vision he saw Christ wrapped in his cloak and believed that he had cared for Christ with this act of kindness. Throughout the rest of his life he preached the gospel in the central and western parts of Gaul. He eventually became the Bishop of Tours where he continued to live the life of a hermit. He died around 397 and his feast day is 11 November. I could find no information as to why he is credited with the miracle of wine except that his feast day falls at the time when the wine is ready to be drunk.
To celebrate the feast day Joško lines up the wines from the different vats. Each has its unique sunny golden color, some are still a little cloudy but others are clearing up and look like wine. The flavors have evolved over the past 6 weeks from a sweet dense juice, to a slightly bitter taste lacking any sweetness, to a tangy bland flavor, to an almost tasteless liquid with the hint of wine, to a gentle wine bouquet and then finally to the warm flavor that perfectly reflects the sunny day that the grapes were picked. Each choir member tastes each wine and then by consensus “Kay’s Wine”, that was flavored by my bleeding finger, is chosen as the choir’s wine and will be drunk after practice every Wednesday.
On the evening of the Sveti Martin feast day we go with friends to Šmartno v Brdih to taste the wines of Goriška Brda. This village of 250 population teeters on the spine of a hill surrounded by protection walls that were built in the 16th century. The village was built on Roman ruins and the four watchtowers and gates remain. The streets follow the contour of the hill lined with ancient houses surrounding the church of St. Martin with its tower dating from the 14th century. First floor rooms that once served as stables for animals and storage for equipment now are crowded with people savoring the crop of the region. We buy a glass in a pocket that hangs around our neck at the Kulturna hiša [culture house] and wander from building to building sampling the fare. Pršt, “chestnuts roasting on an open fire” and homemade bread are served along side the wines grown at the feet of this village. For entertainment choirs perform in various locations, a polka band gets the blood pumping, the dancers swinging and museum buildings are open showing the style of living in old Brda. The streets are dimly lit so the glow from inside the houses is inviting and nostalgic. Life would have been difficult in this windy hilltop village, but I hope that they had community fun like this many times during their year.
There is indication that wine has been grown in Goriška Brda [gorica means small wooded hillsides, brda means hill] since before the Romans, and continuously from the 12th century. In ancient times the Catholic Church owned most of the vineyards. In 1880 a plaque infected the vineyards and by 1900 half of the vines in Slovenija had been attacked by aphids. Before the plague 126,000 acres in Slovenija were planted in vines, but the plaque bankrupted many wine growers forcing thousands to leave the area and immigrate to other lands. Pre-WWII records indicate that only 94,000 acres of vineyards remained in Slovenija. Prior to the entrance into the European Union barren hillsides were once again planted in vines to creep under the restrictive agriculture rules imposed by the EU. The jury is still out as to whether Slovenian wines will be able to survive in competition with the large vineyards of France, Germany and Italy.
In Brda the soil is mostly shale and sandstone and looks like it would have no nutrients for growing anything. The hills are terraced and grass is grown between the vines to prevent erosion. The climate is considered Mediterranean although it is not contiguous to the sea, but the annual rainfall is high and summers are moderately hot. This past summer was a very dry year and the grapes were sweet, but not as abundant.
Taken from www.matkurja.com
“Of all the Slovene winegrowing areas, Goriska Brda has had the highest "per hectare yield" of medals and awards from wine fairs and exhibitions in the last two decades. The characteristic white wines of the area are gentle, harmonious, fresh, and lively; they generally age well. The best-known white wines of the area are the dry Briski Tokaj (a variety of Toccai Friulano), with its characteristic almond taste and subtle flowery fragrances; the polite Beli Pinot; the strong Sauvignon with its harmony of aromas; dry Chardonnay which reaches its peak with barrique treatment; Sivi Pinot with its long tradition, known on the Italian side as Pinot Grigio; and Malvazija. Perhaps the most characteristic wine of the area is Zlata ("Golden") Rebula. The best red wines of this sub-area are Cabernet Frank, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Merlot - wines with rich and strong pigments that age particularly well - and Modri Pinot, a particularly elegant wine with its stressed extract.
The best known blended wine of the area is the white Brisko vino, a dry white blend of Rebula and Tokaj. The Brici - the Slovene term for inhabitants of Brda - produce and store most of their wine at the Dobrovo winery, the largest production cellar in Slovenia. The Dobrovo cellar also boasts the largest local wine archive that regularly stores some 300,000 bottles of their best vintages. Zlata Rebulais is the most precious wine in store; most of the older bottles are Merlot and Tokaj. This is the only archive in Slovenia that regularly ages Tokaj and offers the best example of how much this wine can improve with age."
I am beginning to distinguish the flavors of Slovene wine, but because so much of what we drink is a blend of grapes I am not always able to distinguish the kind of grape. I particularly like the local Rebula and every once and while I am served a Muškat I like a lot. At the wine bar in Gorizia, Italy the server is always bringing me new reds to taste from the Friulian vineyards and they suit me more than the reds in Slovenija. My friend Jack Keegan has been plying me with wines for years telling me the history that goes with each bottle. I am finally beginning to appreciate the magic and the stories in each glass.
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