Quadruped - two pairs of legs

Art and Sculpture 101, Firenze (Chapter 3)

2005-05-23T00:44:00.000-07:00

Art and Sculpture 101, Firenze

Steve was just outside the hostel, when I stepped out to check the clouds early in the morning.
He said he did carpentry for a living. He traveled every year from October to March, when it was a lean season in his profession. He had that bliss about being one with nature. Austria, Croatia, the United Kingdom, and this second trip to Italy. I envied him.
“You must visit India sometime”
“Yes, I have been thinking of it. In fact am reading this book on India – the religion, the mysticism and all”.
Felt proud on hearing that. India, to many was like this charming, enigmatic, immensely talented, sophomore brunette who one died to get introduced to, at college.
“Where else do you plan to go?”, asked Steve
“Florence and Rome. Pisa or Siena”
“Yesterday I met an Australian lady who was traveling north from Rome. She said of all the places she went to, Siena was the best”

“Breakfast in price”, was the deal at the Youth Hostel website. One warm croissant and a medium cup of cappuccino (or tea or chocolate, if you felt for it) – that was all what it was. Had read somewhere, sometime, that Italians have a very light breakfast. The neurons connected theory to experience.

The Galleria de Academia was chosen over the visit to the Church of Salute. It had a more prominent spot in the Lonely Planet guide. So.
Aptly named, this renowned school of art has a very modest façade. A group of kids were bring tutored in the crisp Venitian morning on the fundamentals of art.
After 14 Euros and a deposit slip for the camera, we were on board the first art gallery of our lives.
Thankfully each room had many information cards, in Italian and English. The name of the painting and the painter, the style of art (for beginner bozos like us) and more cryptic clues and details for those evolved enough to read between the lines and see the connection between Item XVXII in Hall XXXIII against the one at Louvre.
Triptych, Byzantine, Fresco, Balustrade, San Pietro, San Paulo, Polyptych, Veronese and another painter whose name began with a G (No, not Guili. He plays the right flank for Barcelona) – Would rather leave it at that now; trying to get into details would be stupid at this stage. One, we were just beginners. Second, we had just climbed one step in a long winding spiral stairway that led to the Nirvana in Western art – the pinnacle resided, for sure, in this very country. Three, two and a half hours was too short to take notes. The modest façade was deceiving – one hall led to another and another and time was running short, to keep count of the number of halls in all.
The good part is that the keywords picked up would be our first genuine tutorial in art. Art 101. The better part of it is, we would remember them the next time we see another of the same genre. The best part is, you know who is fake when some of the farty types pretend to be arty at parties.

“I don’t understand what he is saying”, giggled a young British girl. She was trying to capture an elderly Japanese man with the bridge and the canal inlets as a background, outside the Gallery courtyards. The instrument seemed to be freshly plucked fruit out of the techno-gardens of Sony.
“Pooosh”, the man poked the air in a vertical line, three feet high.
“But where???”
“Raaaayyd button”

A mask symbolizing the Venetian carnival was a must buy. That felt better than porcelain saucers that contained the gondolas, St Mark’s square or Ponte Rialto.

A quick checkout and 30 minutes later, we were at Piazza le Roma.

“A Eurostar to Firenze leaves in 4 minutes, you can catch it if you run”

“Where do we get bus number 17 to Salviatino”, I asked, trying to sound been-here-before, to the lady at the bus ticketing counter at the Firenze train station.
She didn’t understand.
“Where do we catch the bus to go to the Youth Hostel?”, asked Dechu. She preferred it that way.
“Ohhhhh… Ostello??. Other side. Buss 17”

We asked around for the stop to get down so much that by the time Salviatino arrived in thirty minutes, almost everyone in the bus told us “SALVIATINO, OSTELLO, USCITA HERE”.
Just round the corner across an Internet parlour were the signs “Ostello Firenze” and “Camping”
The hostel was on a hillock, a good 10 minute upward incline walk from where we saw the board. A roughly tarred road winded through thick greenery. Towards the right, thick dense vegetation which grew in a rather unkempt manner, which was its beauty. To the left, the incline was much steeper. Trees that looked like eucalyptus were planted. Each, 5 feet away from its nearest neighbour.

Our “bunglow room” was one of five rooms that opened to the vast camping grounds. Two tents were already in place and a group sang Eric Clapton – Unplugged.

The chap at the reception suggested that we go to the Galleria de’ Academia (was there one in every Italian city?)
Like in Venice, our first stop at the city was the San Zaccaria square. Italians had this incredible way with directions. They would rattle out in the native language and expect that you understood. But almost all were patient and nice.
We followed an arrow that said “David”, and did find the Galleria d’ Accademia. David was Florence’s pin-up boy.

To one side of the long hallway that led to David were four statues that are unfinished works, apparently of Michelangelo. (Later on, we were told that figures’ torsos seemed a little disproportionate to their legs. So it neednt be Michelangelo’s)
To the other side were photographs, candid shots of people gaping at the masterpiece that is David.
The man-boy masterpiece stood at the end of the hallway. There were no “Silence please” boards. But it was pin drop silence. It was jaw-dropping, eye-popping quiet.
At twenty or thirty feet of a single block of marble, David had magic written all over it. Light framed, powerful and sinewy – a swimmer’s physique more that a gymmer’s (Just to give the picture). A curly mop of uncombed hair topped a face that could have walked the ramp. A hand held folded up to hold the weapon – the sling and the stone.
The figure emanated a quiet confidence of the triumph of intellect over the pure brawn of Goliath. The steady eyes communicated a modest toughness, not the arrogant pride of triumph. The vein on one of the leg stretched lightly to indicate the transfer of body weight to that side. All in stone - with no second chances.
Our first tryst with the magician of marble – Michelangelo. Our first lesson in appreciating sculpture. God lies in the details – and in the temple of rock-chisel-and-hammer, Michelangelo was God; and Firenze was the high altar.
The other sculptures were brilliant in their own rights. They would have been better appreciated, had we seen them before.
I was so much at awe of the sculptures around that I slipped and fell. Anyone would, if one went down the stairs with eyes at the ceiling and mouth wide open in wonder.

Duomo was the next stop. It is that brown-orange brick-topped dome, which is associated with any website on Florence.

(To Be Continued....)

Vaporetto No 1, Grand Canal,Venice (Chapter 2)

2005-05-23T00:41:00.000-07:00

Vaporetto No 1, Grand Canal,Venice

The Alps were visible from the skies. No other important events. We read up about Ireland.

“Welcome to Treviso. Please ensure that you take care of your baggage”, (This felt like home)

The departure hall was called Partenso (or something like that) Sala. Was this the same “Shala” in Sanskrit which meant hall/place? Somewhere it seemed that some old men somewhere spoke one common grand-daddy language.
As many websites had indicated, ATVO ran buses from Treviso to Venice. Some tall, blazer clad, dark shaded Aviator-sporting dudes with gelled hair stood outside the buses.
“Which one goes to Piazzale Roma?”
“Dis one. You have ticket?”
“No. Where do I buy that?”
“There”, he said, pointing to a direction where we came from.

For 17 EURO, a pair of bus tickets to Venice and a pair of 24 hour “all-you-can-ride” boat passes.
The luggage was loaded into the flanks of the bus.

There were no stags in the bus. All were couples. Aged twenty to sixty. All cuddled up as if revving up to relive their heydays. Was there something in the air?
The spring was in fuller bloom in Italy than in Gothenburg. Violets and yellows were sprinkled lavishly on hedges, thickets and lawns. Flat plains were embroidered with old bungalows guarded by limestone lions that sat proudly at either sides of the tall gates. Reminded one of some of the lesser explored streets of old Goa. We crossed some small streams with a small boat on it and the cameras came out. But, the much written about city of Canals was not be seen. Where is all the water?
We crossed an appropriately noisy school with kids in cream shirts and dark green skirts and pig tails. This seemed much more like home.
Suddenly there was a clearing and there was WATER. Water all around us. Solo engine powered boats sped past. The driver on one of them pretentiously sniggered as though he was riding a Rodeo.
At the end of the rather long bridge, the bus stopped at Piazzale Roma.

The Youth Hostel is situated in the Guidecca Island (Ioland) in a southerly direction. Vaporettos 41 and 82 from Piazzale Roma. 41 was faster. We also considered taking the Grand Canal rightaway. But it was always better to check. There were rows of counters that said- “Informazione”
“Which do you suggest is a good time to take the Grand Canal trip”
“What”
I repeated the question.
“No comprehendi. Ask my behind”
“Excuse me?”
“Turn around. There is a lady sitting on my back side. She tell you”
There was another set of counters hidden from my view so I went round the corner.
“We are here till tomorrow evening. When do you suggest I should take the Grand Canal trip? Is it better in the evening or early morning?”
“Oh.. the boat running everyhour till midnight. It doesn’t matter. Any time”
(She was a native Venetian. I understand why she would say so. I would say the same, if some one asked me the best time to see Mayo Hall in Bangalore)
Or was it because she was sitting on the other man’s backside?

A lady at the vaporetto stop helped us. She felt evening was a good time to go. It was only 1320. So, we took 41 to Guidecca.
Our first ride through the famed Venetian canals. I am told that this was one place all the romantics of the world cherished going again and again. I didn’t know, till I told someone I was going. A nipping wind pinched the back of the neck as we chose to stand and take the sun and the breeze head-on.
Twenty minutes and we were at Guidecca. “100 metres to the right after you get down”, said the information provided by the Youth Hostel.

After about 300 metres, right on the banks of Canale Della Guidecca, stood a three storied brick building. Brilliant location for a youth hostel. This is bliss.
Two sets of crisply white and clean bed linen, locker keys and a receipt for 37.5 Euro. “Men right second floor. Ladies, left first floor.”
They didn’t have a kitchen facility, which meant we would need to eat out.
I found my dormitory. Clean rooms, bunk beds with two sets of blankets. There was no one there. Everyone was out canalling. As I checked my lockers and the bounce in the springy cot, a man walked in.
Curly hair, weather-beaten face, spectacles.
“Hi, am Steve”
“Ashok”
“Where are you from”
“Bangalore, India. And you?”
“Upstate New York”
“If this is the beginning of the season, I can imagine what it would be in peak seasons”, he referred to the crowds and continued. “Have you been here before?”
“No. first time”
“The streets are rather funny. You get lost. I got lost last night. But there are directions either to San Marco or the big bridge….”
“The Bridge of Sighs?”, I had read that at Lonely Planet’s Europe on a Shoestring
“No. …..Rialto. that is what it is”
“Thanks, see you around”

Dechu was waiting at the dining room downstairs. It seemed that a pouch that contained toiletries popped out in the aircraft or the bus. No money lost.

San Marco was the place to get to. That is where the action is. Every station run by ACTV (which expanded to something like Canal Traffic in Venice) had an overall traffic map of the city and detailed maps of the entire route the vaporettos that stopped there would go. Except for one, all of them went to San Zaccharia, two stops away. That was the closest to San Marco.
“Does this go to San Zaccharia”
“Si. Si” (Very dark shades of Ray Ban Aviator seemed the most common thing among vaporetti staff as well)

We landed at San Zaccaria Danieli and walked towards San Marco. Lonely Planet and a map of Venice were the navigators. Mobile souvenir shops elbowed each other for attention. There were pieces of cloth sporting huge, larger than life, male genitals. “Aprons”, Dechu said. Then we conspired whom we should be gifting it to. Found a few victims, guffawed at their plights on wearing the aprons and kept the purchase for a later time.
Steve was right. It was flooded with students and Casio-clad Japanese.
A bridge seemed very crowded with camera shutters snapping fast and often. “Ponte dei Sospiri”, the map said. “The Bridge of Sighs”, Dechu said. A twelve feet bridge connected the small water way between two old dungeons. Casanova, a native Venetian had walked those dark innards. Now this place called for a photograph together. In this crowd, one needs to spot someone who seemed decent and didn’t have the stamina to run away with the camera. We approached an elderly man.
As soon as he was ready to shoot, someone crossed the path. This happened thrice. The elderly man was part of a larger group from England and they all had a hearty laugh, everytime some passed by to intrude onto the photographic episode. Then they all formed a chain around the photographer and his blushing subjects, sang a song preventing people from coming in between.
The group comprised five couples in their forties and fifties. Wonder what this place did to the human spirit. They continued their song, were thanked and departed.
There was rather big queue of students to get into Palazzo Duccale when we crossed it. So we decided to consider it on our way back to the hostel.
The map showed us that we are on our way to the Piazza le San Marco. As you take a right turn from Palazzo Duccale on the left corner one sees two huge obelisks. One has a horse on top of it, the other I don’t remember. They arrived from the Far East, we learnt. The wide porticos of Palazzo Duccale were packed with students. They occupied the seats in most of the niches, threw passes at each other and howled when they received something in return.
A covered figure was surrounded by pigeons, which one had to be careful not to step onto, as one craned one’s neck to get the Campanile, the left flank of the St Marks basilica and the porticos of Palazzo Duccale in one photograph. The covered figure was a lady, who sold pigeon feed for a Euro each.
One feels tiny at the center of the San Marco Piazza. A person could stand on just two of the tens of thousands of cobbled gray stones laid across. Right in front is the awesome façade of the San Marco Basilica. Four (I think) golden horses stood astride at the top of the central arch, just below the domes. The frieze paintings atop the tall columns retain their freshness despite the seasonal cycles across the years. The bell tower (campanile) stands tall and sturdy to the right - Light brown torso with a white top. That is a steep climb up there. The pillared offices (or were they residences?) of the procurantes (junior priests) occupy the left and the right margins – the new buildings being a rather fair copy of the old. Except for a hoarding that advertised the Eiffel Tower, everything integrated together fairly well. Couples walked hand in hand, some pecked each another in the ears, a pair posed for a photograph a’la Roberts and Gere in Pretty Woman, the faint strains of a harmonica faded on and off, two cart trolleys sold Venetian jester masks, trophy saucers, camera tripods, rolls and batteries at a premium of 100%. A more adventurous bird-feeder kept the grains in his palms and the pigeons were all over him. (Remember Home Alone?). A fez capped man fixed his easel and made a rather fine painting of the piazza. A man strained to identify the best spot to position his five foot tripod, ultra-high zoom and fumbled around for the best lens in his photographer’s jacket. A small queue was forming at the Basilica so we moved in before it became too long.
Cameras and bags had to be deposited at counter around the corner of the building. One had to have his or her knees and shoulders covered before entering the basilica.
Brief blips of tourist commerce were evident in the extra Euro and a half each to see the jewel room and to see the 6’ by 4’ painting in gold and silver (positioned in such a way that it was hidden from the public view)
In a corner a small mass was being conducted. “Prayer purposes only. Please observe silence”, said a notice. The priest was a bespectacled man of small stature. We approached the place out of curiosity. About twenty people stood in solemn worship. The words from the priest became clearer now. “Bradeyrs aand sisteyrzs, let us oll prey for the Holy sbirit….”. Dechu pinched my hand and exclaimed “Mallooo”. I yelped. A lady turned back and brow-beated us down. “Do we go and say hello to him in Malloo?, Dechu whispered. Had there been time we could have. The session proceeded and we left the basilica.
To one side of the basilica was where the Moors tolled bells. That building is under renovation, we were told. Turned around to and a sign said “Rialto”.

Now we were at the much written zig-zag of Venetian streets. They weaved themselves so intricately and so narrowly that it is very easy to find yourself in the same place after getting lost for 10 minutes. As Steve said there were signs “Rialto”, “San Marco” and “WC”. After a small detour and a challenging treasure hunt to the WC we rerouted to Rialto. Some of the lovely Venetian papier-mâché jester masks cost 75 Euro. We set our eyes on one that cost 24.
A small waterway wide enough to hold two boats would appear as if to remind one that this city is built completely on water. In Venice, water was this universal substance that permeated every available nook and crevice.
Ponte Rialto used to be the only bridge across the Grand Canal that grooved through an inverted “S” across the six “quarters” of Venice. There lies the significance. Over time, many more bridges have been built for Venice’s most common mode of transport after the vaporetti – a pair of legs. A hoarding of Bvlgari fluttered right at the center of the bridge.
“Eighty Euro. But for you, sixty”
A tuxedo clad gondola rider negotiated.
At twenty feet or so, the view from the bridge was nice. An old pair sat snuggled arm in arm in a rather ornately decorated, gold embellished gondola below. An Indian family at the top of the bridge nodded acknowledging our presence. We passed another compatriot. They were on their honey moon trip, for sure. One could tell from the density of sindoor on the lady’s head. She had a long stemmed red rose on her hand, while her man stood close by with a camera and a puzzled look on his face.

“Let’s go to Lido”, Dechu said. The Grand Canal tour terminated in Lido, the beach once famed for rave parties. It would be evening when we hit there and would be ideal so we took the essential experience of the Grand Canal ride in Vaporetto No 1.
Again, we chose to stand. That way you get a 360 degree view to the whole trip. The boat meandered through, crossing arched bridges, and old buildings. A rather large gondola group crossed us. Four couples, one each in a boat, and a fifth gondola exclusively filled with harmonica musicians and would have been Pavarotti’s. Some things were worth a mention. For a city that lives on water, it has a very good civic sense. Absolutely not trash strewn around, no green moss and no stale water smell around. Tall buildings stood elegantly, tip-toed as Victorian ladies crossing a small pool of water, as the waves made by the vaporettis splashed against them often. Suddenly one wonders, how did it all happen? Why would there be a need to have a city like this?
We wobbled past the Church of Salutus, saw the Campanile from the waters and as evening set in we saw the main land of Venice disappearing in a distance. The sky was just about to get painted. A faint streak of purple emerged on what was so far bright and blue. Lido was approaching. An hour left for sunset. It was perfect.

Hunger has this character of dominating any other human need – basic or advanced. At least, it is like that for me.
A quick visit to the super market to buy the lost toiletries and something to munch. A 500 gram chocolate marble cake was decimated in one sitting.
Lido was not really in the “Top N” must sees of the people who thronged Venice – that reflected in the relative quiet.
Just two pairs were ahead of us in the one kilometer stretch that leads to the beach. Flowering trees lined the entire stretch. The setting sun played magic on the colours of the spring. It was all quiet, but for a car taking a steep turn as we crossed the road towards the beach. Many beach huts thronged the area, it seemed rather quiet, as if nursing a bad hangover from the party that ended the night before.
The sunset and a boulevard walk. It was time to head back to main land.

We had time on our side. So, decided to take Venice by night. The piazza had completely turned colours. The doves, the students and the souvenir sellers had gone home. There were restaurants along the procurantes halls. Tables, lit up with candles or a soft amber glow extended onto the piazza. For those who could afford sitting there, a group of accordion artists played along.
“Could you please take a picture of ours?”
“Of course. Initially I thought you were trying to sell something to me”
He can’t be blamed. Most of the guys who sold roses in the Piazza were South Asians.
A couple smooched each other at the Bridge of Sighs in a copy book fashion. Her hands around his neck, eyes meeting eyes, she leaned on her toes with one leg folded upwards. (Was Casanova watching?)
There was an hour and a half for the hostel to close. Spotted a couple of benches, hidden from light, facing each other right at the edge of the waters. It was dark, still and pleasantly cold. Sat on one bench, stretched our tired legs onto the other and we watched the land flickering 500 meters across. Separated only by water that bobbed up and down, when a boat passed by. A small group of people who lived in the hostel passed us every 15 minutes when the boat dropped them at Guidecca. A Pomeranian sniffed around the benches for food as his owner closed his shop shutters for the day. It ran away terrified by a wave that splashed on it, when a boat passed by.
This sitting session was the best part. Venice stretched out like a 70,000 mm screen and we were the only audience for this show, till the winds drew us back into the hostel.

Indeed, there WAS something in the air…

A one night stand at Hahn (Chapter 1)

2005-05-23T00:36:00.000-07:00

A one night stand at Hahn

One wrong turn and you would miss the Save airport, Gothenburg. Inside, there were just two lines, each being attended to by a blue and yellow clad Ryan air staff. Luckily Murphy was on our side. Our line moved faster than the other. We checked in the most colourful bag that I had ever carried.
(The yellow and grey rucksack was Dechu’s find at Clas Ohlson’s. A pretty good deal found by a lady amidst chainsaws, drills and switchboards, at a place they call “The Adult Man’s Day Care Center)

The departure lounge was simpler still. An English bar on the left, a souvenir shop on the right, the sitting space in between. Through the exit gates and the glassed walls we saw there was reason for this airport to be so inconspicuous. The spring-borne Swedish landscape stretched around, and at what seemed like the horizon, sky blue merged into a hue of new born green and fading winter grey.

A family occupied most of the lounge, in seat space and airspace. Father, mother and four kids. The youngest was probably 4 months and the eldest, 5 years. Yes, four kids in five years.
The experience in child-bearing and rearing showed in the way the father multi-tasked. The youngest was slung across his shoulder, and in that squatting pose, he was putting the little one to sleep and teaching one of the elder ones to tie his shoe laces. The mother tended to the beverage needs of the community.

Dechu posed with a Cornetto at the English bar. At least one person at the lounge found the photographic event amusing. The rest focused on the roar of the incoming flight. Quickly two lines were formed. One with people with boarding numbers 1 to 64. The second, the rest. Ryan air offered free seating. So.

In about 15 minutes the flight had turned around, baggage and people were evacuated and ready to board the rest. One of the reasons they can afford to be cheap.
The flight itself didn’t look cheap. Coloured interiors, clean seats, overhead compartments that close in one shot (of course…), and a rather informative magazine on Ireland.

Two hours later, it was touch down at ze Germany. Ahead of schedule. A brown haired, hyper tanned, line-lipped lady stood at the “Help Desk”. Our luggage came as one of the last pieces. I stretched a bit and proceeded to use the men’s room. “Zir, Ze room is closed. You have to uze ze one outside”. “Why”. “Zir, it closes when all ze luggage has come in”. “But the luggage neednt use the men’s room” (I didn’t say the last bit. Just thought). German precision. Had heard, now saw.

Apartment Haus Zum Hahn. The hoarding peeked from among the many that offered free pickups and cocktails and dinner. The mail that I received confirming my reservation said “Please call the portier(sic) at the below number if you reach before the prescribed arrival time”. Just to recheck, I had mailed them re-confirming my arrival and re-checking whether I would get picked from the airport. The reply just said “Please call the portier at the below number if you reach before the prescribed arrival time” In bold and red. No other pleasantries. So I called.
“Zu you know what a zebra crossing is”
“Yes”
“I would be waiting at ze zebra crossing outside Terminal 1”
“But how do I recognize you”
“You zust look for a black car wiz ze hotel name written on it”

When we spotted it, it was more of a van than a car. And more an orange and green mobile hoarding of the hotel, than black. In fact it was a complete tariff sheet. The only thing missing was “We are not responsible for your belongings”.
I tried to help myself and pulled onto what seemed like a handle of the luggage dickie. It was the wiper. “Not so fast”, squinted the boy-faced driver. In 2 minutes we were at the Motel.

It seemed crammed in old Hahn streets. It was dusk, so the streets looked all grey, black and white. The driver went a little ahead to take a U at a clearing to park right in front of the motel. Am happy he did that, at the clearing gave us a key hole view into acres and acres and acres of green, yellow and brown – rustic Buchenburen landscape. This was a definite bonus. This view was not in the itinerary.
The Apartment house, with the rooster for a mascot, was rather quaint. There was no one at the reception. A sign said “Please leave your keys at the box outside the door, as there would be no one at the reception while you go”. There were poppies and marigolds decorating the entrance. A huze Zerman wiz a waistline of 50 sat at the inside office, which a huge chart next to him. He spoke English, yes the actual way. Salt and pepper hair and beard. Combine Richard Branson and Kenny Rogers, you get the picture. The boy-faced driver arrived, checked surnames, the confirmation copy of the email and handed over keys – with key chains shaped like blue bells.

“Let me show you around the place”

The spiral stair case led to a floor below. The long hallway had a huge kitchen on the left,( “You have coffee or tea here whenever you want”) and an eating place on the right (“You could use the Internet from here…free”)
Two floors above, at the end of a similar hall way was our room. At 35 Euros it had a lot to offer. A very well laid out bed, with pillows plonked like sea-blue bells and pine wood furniture and a sparkling bathroom.
We pulled out the rice and potato curry, left the remaining “heat and eat’s” in the refrigerator and proceeded to the kitchen.
The kitchen had 10 stoves, 8 sinks (may be 9), 3 toasters, 2 coffee makers, 3 water kettles and plates and cutlery for all the 20 rooms in the apartment house. (I have a photograph of that room and that helped me count)
“Do you have any utensils to cook on?”
“But you need to wash them afterwards”
“OF COURSE” (I thought that was an obvious thing to do)
“Zest that there were some guests, who zest left it like that. So we make it a point to tell everyone”
Post dinner, we had to find where to go in Venice, once we reach there. The computer was unoccupied. Tried yahoo.com, but it didn’t connect. On a second inspection, it was a QWERTZ key board and “Y” was relegated to the bottom left corner which is usually occupied by the “Z”. Ze Germanz.

We had requested a cab to drop us at the airport at 930 am the next day morning. The Buchenburen landscape had to be visited, so we had an early start the next day. By 0630 we were out in the open. The day was rather bright. The streets still looked white, grey and black. Light gray walls, and dark gray roofs. There is a rather morose, bored look about them, unlike the brightly window-dressed, colorfully roofed Swedish homes. If Swedish houses were Cindrellas, the ones in Hahn were Hansel and Gretels. .
But the BuchenBuren landscape, in contrast, was a beauty. Vast undulating plains. Various shades of green. A barn, a windmill, a sheep pen guarded by a hound and a single lane road that winded its way through. A car sped past once in 10 minutes. The air smelt of fresh hay and sheep. Chill wind crooned from a distance.
The old church overlooking this amazing tapestry of green struck 8. There was just enough time for breakfast and a final packing check.
The kitchen was open for the “all-you-can eat” affair. The fridge was stocked with eggs, ham, bacon, cheese and yoghurt. There was bread, muesli, milk, coffee, chocolate, croissants in a rather simple but lavish spread.
In day light, the eating room opened out to a courtyard. A rooster carved in limestone stood at the center of the lawn and some chairs scattered around it. The wind was too much for eating out.

0938: We check outside to see if the taxi was there. We see a lady waiting outside with her luggage. (May be she wanted to go to the airport as well)
0940: We do a final check, if we had forgotten something.
0942: We arrive outside and check for the taxi again. There was no lady waiting.
0945: “Is there a place we can call up the airport?” “Duh!...????..????Deutsche. No English”, came the reply from a house keeping staff.
0948: “Ze put money and call” (There was a pay phone and she gave me the number)

“I had requested for a taxi at 0940 at Apartment Haus Zum Hahn” and it still isn’t here”
“Sire, there was a taxi there at exactly 0940 and the taxi didn’t see anyone and it returned”
“I was here at 0938 and at 0942 and there was no taxi”
“But it was there at 0940 and picked a lady and dropped her at the airport. Will be sending you one rightaway and it would reach you in 3 minutes”
Soon we were on our flight to Treviso.