Buffy – paralyzedbynotcaring

D’Orsay

Today is my last full day in France. I took the train and the metro to Paris proper to visit the D’Orsay Museum, which I have never visited before.

Back on the metro–luckily no one made pee.

On the walk from the metro station to the museum, I caught sight of that famous radio tower.

The museum has sort of a crazy floor plan made even more incomprehensible by a “map,” so I did the thing where you wander. I played my museum games: spot the dogs in the paintings, check the mirrors in the paintings, find the weirdest Jesus. The last game was quite a bit more difficult than it has been because many of the pieces of art glorified landscapes, ordinary objects, and Greek/Roman myths. I took a picture of what I thought was a soul being dragged to heaven by angels and presented to Jesus only to realize it was Zeus and I felt like a bad Christian. This was not my first sin, though. Hell, I’m a fan of all seven. And upon realizing this I found Silent Hill Jesus:

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If this isn’t the creepy crawliest Jesus ever depicted, I don’t want to know.

I saw some familiar faces, including this Monet:

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And I met a few new pieces with particularly beautiful lighting from within the painting:

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I stopped when I came upon this next one, mostly because the crowd was such that I could not pass. You know how you automatically pay more attention to paintings that other people seem to be killing themselves over? I try not to do that because art is so subjective, but the more I looked at this one, the more I was convinced the whole world has gone insane.

What sort of vegan pagan bad facial hair picnic is this? I have so many questions. Where is the real food? Is the guy on the right holding an umbrella? Why is she naked if it’s going to rain? What is that other girl doing–pulling out a splinter? And why is this nakedly nude lady glaring at ME as if I’m the one out of place? This is a very uncomfortable piece and I was not happy to be stuck in a crowd around it. Nuts.

Last but not least I saw this reminder for RS to call Dr. A.

And on the way back to the metro station, I stopped in for the obligatory french pastry.

I had the apricot tart (second from right).

As a subplot update, Dad went to the Wells Fargo in Red Bluff and convinced them to issue another replacement ATM card for me, so when I meet Dad in Copenhagen tomorrow, he will have it with him. It is easy to complain about small towns, but sometimes they are the best thing ever.

I am reading The Robber Bride by Margaret Atwood & rereading the Scandinavia chapter in Rick Steves’ book.

Another day another trdlnik

After a wholesome brunch

I made my way to Mala Strana, “Lesser Town,” where the Kafka Museum is. Here you can find glorious buildings such as this.

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Ignoramus that I am, I thought Kafka was German, but he was born in Bohemia, and said of this city “Prague never seems to let go of you.”

The Kafka Museum, in a word, is strange.

I guess I was expecting a glamorized bookstore with some letters and portraits of Franz, but what I got was a sort of maze through a dark attic that began with pictures of Prague during FK’s lifetime, his family tree, and his ferocious letters to his father. Then around the corner is a movie screen, the top half leaning forward, showing imagines of Prague with quotes about FK’s society. To the right are round tables illuminated from within showing books, portraits, and descriptions of the literati FK admired. Around the next corner was a tall file cabinet with certain drawers permanently opened. Some contained FK’s correspondence, some his sketches, which were mostly of a man’s silhouette hunched over a desk. Further on are screens hanging from the ceiling, each one showing a black and white picture of one of FK’s loves. Below the hanging portraits are remembrances of each affair, pictures, quotes, and letters. The museum is very dark and each exhibit is so brightly lit it’s like a star in a night sky. Through the next hallway is a semi circular table with letters asking for a reprieve from insurance writing work due to health. Kafka was educated as a lawyer and spent his working hours writing law stuff for an insurance place. The next hallway is a modern mausoleum, each square with an engraved plate with a FK character engraved on it. Everyone knows that mausoleums are big freaky cereal boxes of death, so I didn’t examine the name plates after I found our dear Mr. Samsa. Now you curve around through a white hallway with a curve such that your shadow and the shadow of the person ahead of you meet and create a totally new shadow that follows your motions but looks nothing like your own silhouette. Next is a sort of movie room with a projection on the far wall and a mirror on the wall to your left. As you sit, the images reflect from the mirror and join your own reflection. First a shadow of a man waking along a path, but getting no closer to the castle in the distance. Then a fence. Then fog and clouds. You are in this movie with this walking man, and before you are stuck forever you leave and find some first editions along with sketches made for The Metamorphosis (In the sketches, Gregor’s body is a dark red with black legs). The proofs of FK’s final work The Castle, which FK worked on as he was slowly starving to death due to cancer of the larynx. Then more letters about his health and finally his obituary. He succumbed to TB, as if throat cancer wasn’t enough.

Overall this was not only a strange experience but also uncomfortable. There was no single exhibit that was repulsive, but finding the way through the darkened museum with other people seemed almost intrusive, as though it is ok if *I* drop in on FK’s subconscious (or regular conscious, as in his letters to his daddio), but with other people there it seemed too public. It’s unlike any museum I’ve ever seen.

I crossed the bridge in the sun with everyone else ever born.

I visited a second museum today, a tiny one dedicated to Johannes Kepler, astronomer. I have a special interest in Kepler because of his relationship with Tycho Brahe, a Danish astronomer and notorious party animal (Google how he died). Kepler is pretty famous among science types, and to those people I would like to point out that the horoscopes Kepler wrote were just as respected as those “laws” he’s so well known for. Kepler and Brahe had a sort of difficult work relationship due to Brahe’s larger than life ideas and personality and Kepler’s quiet insistence on being treated as an equal, not an assistant.

Here’s a statue of these two scallywags.

This is a sketch of a pavilion-like structure showing that Kepler’s ideas were based on those who came before him, such as Copernicus and our dear Mr. Brahe.

There’s the Dane.

Though the museum was small, it had charm and I’m glad I happened upon it.

No sign of the demon since yesterday when I was locked in the basement.

Though I did find this.

Sweet dreams.

Germany doesn’t seem to celebrate the 4th of July

Which meant everything was open as usual. I continued with my bus tour (I’d purchased a 2-day pass) and it wasn’t so bad today–not because the stops were predictable or announced, but because by now these irritants were familiar. I love familiar things.

As promised I went to Museum Island. Now, erase the image of a round island with beaches sloping up towards a ring of five museums. “Island” is a technicality; these city blocks are bordered by a river and a few canals. And, after having seen the Mississippi River, the Spree is really just a large canal.

Once on this island, I decided to visit the Deutsche Museum.

I think this is a picture of the outside of the museum. I took a lot of pictures of a lot of old style buildings today and they start to look similar. Sometimes I wish the tour guide would say, and look, a totally modern and unremarkable building! I’d take a picture of that.

Germany’s history is really just European history, so I saw many elements similar to pieces in Dutch and Belgian museums; however, there were deffo more weapons here.

I got to touch a chain mail tunic and it was certainly not mithril. It was heavy AF and all the inter looping chain pieces pinched my arm hairs. Being a knight was no joke.

Probably my favorite exhibit was the old books section. This is one of the bibles that Martin Luther translated into the common tongue. That guy was super cool.

I can’t read it but it was open to a page with a picture so it was like Jesus was speaking right to me.

My favorite of my favorites was this religious liturgy book.

Isn’t it so so pretty? What aren’t books like this anymore? It’s got to be cheaper to manufacture them now than it was THEN. Come on people. No wonder reading is on the decline.

A painting that caught my attention was this portrait of Marie Antoinette’s mom.

She was on fire her whole life, too, it seems, being in charge of all sorts of stuff and things and then trying to give advice to Marie A and her NINE other children. Can you imagine? All while dressed like this? What a multi tasker. What an inspiration.

A German museum wouldn’t be complete without a huge statue of Victory.

I did a slight google and learned that the large, golden Victory statue I posted yesterday was in reference to a war with Prussia. It’s easy for me to forget that there were loads of wars and country reorganizations before that fateful day in 1776 exactly 240 years ago TODAY.

There were more modern pieces of pop art in this museum, too, but things get a little dicy when recording 20th century Germany and I opted to skip it and head for the Brandenburg Gate, which is the gate to Berlin.

It is closed.

I am trapped.

Well they’ve walled off this gate. I stood there in its shadow but all I could think is that the statues of the four horsemen reminded me of Angel season 5. The structure is impressive though the effect was diminished by the restricted area. I am not sure but this might be due to SOCCER. That sounds right. I’m going with that.

I tracked down the bus, but unfortunately it was the last bus of the day, so I didn’t stop at the wall. I did take a picture from the bus.

That’s the wall in the middle of the frame. It is fenced off so you can’t walk along it, but you can drive just along it outside that fence. On the right side of the fence is a memorial. Down on the other side of what remains of the wall is Checkpoint Charlie. I did not get to investigate this area yet, but I did see an American flag and that made me feel better about being abroad on the 4th.

Here is a statue called “Berlin.” The locals call it the Dancing Noodles, but it is (I think) supposed to be broken chains/liberty/freedom/etc.

Never mind, it’s spaghetti.

The tour guide went on and on about this new(ish) government building. I am not sure if it is the parliament or just another parliament-ish place, but the glass dome on top allows anyone to peer down into the offices of the government officials. The symbolism here being that the common folks are above the government, not the other way around, and that government work is transparent. The guide did end by saying this is purely symbolic because he’s never been able to tell if people down there are working or just playing on their computers.

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This is a pretty cool building what with all that symbolism (I’m a sucker for that) but my favorite building so far has been this one.

To the right is the TV tower. This gorgeous grey and green giant is the Berlin Cathedral.

I am still reading Catherine the Great. I caught a painting of her in the museum and I recognized her by her eyeballs and jewels. Both are stunning.

Sex, drugs, and black cats

Today my priorities were getting packed and buying more cheese. What a compelling first sentence. Any second now you’re going to make me smoke tobacco and-and have drugs.

First though I went to a cafe ruled by a cat.

This black cat’s reign of terror included the whole bar. No one’s seat, once warmed, was safe.This guy literally took his beer outside in the rain to finish. When I left, I passed him, and said “Cats, eh?” He said, “There’s nothing I could have done.”

Some of you may know that, in addition to legal sex work, Amsterdam also has legal drug use. It’s not the same for the rest of the Netherlands, but Amsterdam remains special. I went into a coffeeshop, which here means drug store, and asked for the mildest brownie. They suggested this space cake.

I bought it with cash, and when I passed a walking policeman down the block, I avoided eye contact. I don’t really need pot to be paranoid.

(Half of this brownie has been eaten, but I am experiencing no noticeable effects.)

After the coffeeshop I popped into the Sex Museum for lessons, but I’m afraid most of the information there was unenlightening.

As societies have progressed, their art related to sensuality has become coarser. Around one corner, a mannequin prostitute jumps out at you from behind a curtain. Fun times.

Tomorrow I travel to Berlin. I have only a bus to a train to a train to a train to a taxi to navigate, so it’s like a totally easy day.

I am reading Catherine the Great and The Stand.

“Your wit makes others witty.” C the G

(Entire brownie has been eaten per MP)

XXX

The city’s coat of arms, or what I would call a logo, is XXX. Apparently it does not refer to the liberal attitude towards sex workers here, but rather to the three disasters the city has survived: water, fire, and pestilence. So when you see a pole with XXX on it, like this one

it just means you are in Amsterdam. It has NOTHING to do with the lady who was just sitting in this nearby window.

I also learned that you are not allowed to take pictures at the Van Gogh museum, so these three that I took are ILLEGAL.

The first one is of a peasant lady working her ass off. A lot of his paintings are rural. Most of the people working in the paintings are women, whereas the people who are sitting around doing nothing are usually men. I was going to take more pictures to illustrate this point, but I got in trouble with the museum anti camera campaign.

Just look at this workin girl. Bent and dark and almost moving.

Now look at this guy.

Chillin smokin a pipe.

I actually took a photo of this painting because the subject looks JUST LIKE my airbnb host. There were several other paintings that better proved my point about the female vs male subjects, but I didn’t want to get escorted out. Imagine the page 17 headline, “San Mateo Co. Resident Kicked Out of Most Accepting Country on Planet.”

Here is the final picture I took before the axe came down. It is called “The Potato Eaters.”

Earlier in his career, VG thought this was the one that was going to make it for him.

I’d never heard of it before.

Not that I know much about art, but when I thing of VG I think of flowers and landscapes and his self portraits and oh yeah idk a starry night sky? (Starry Night is actually in NCY right now so I didn’t get to see it).

I did see his famous “Almond Blossoms,” which KB and I did excellent copies of a few years ago at a wine-and-paint event, and the sunflowers, and the smoking skeleton. Also about 500 others. VG did sketching/drawings, was a prolific letter writer, and he spent a bit of time in an asylum. Also, those blue irises on all the greeting cards? Yeah they used to be purple. The more you know.

Outside the VG Museum is the Iamsterdam sculpture/sign, so I took this obligatory shot.

It wasn’t raining yet, so I walked to the Heineken Experience, which is an interactive tour/museum/tasting at one of Heineken’s original brewery locations. No brewing happens there anymore, but a lot of the old equipment was there. I don’t really drink much beer. That’s a lie. I never drink beer. But the tour was right there and I had a discount card and when in Rome/Amsterdam. Well, today I drank more beer than I have had in the last ten years and I think my stomach is dying. I learned that I have been drinking beer incorrectly in that you must not drink the foam. What did we learn about beer? FOAMY!

Probably a bit more than 99 bottles of beer on this wall.

To settle my stomach, I had some ribs.

I ordered these based on a yelp review, and then people at the tables on either side of me ordered them also.

I think these ribs cured my beer disease stomach problem and would prescribe them to anyone with a similar or dissimilar ailment. By the time I was done with dinner, it started raining. Luckily there was a tram stop nearby and I was able to figure out how to get back to the train station. Navigating Amsterdam isn’t easy because the bikes are everywhere. I read that there are a lot of bikes here, and I thought well I’ve survived Davis, CA, how different can it be?

Very, very different. The city is basically designed for bikes, so pedestrians just have to look the hell out for their lives. Suddenly that cheery brrring-brrring of a bike bell becomes the sinister sound of death by pedals. I already hate crossing streets–I know everyone is out to kill me–but here each intersection involves cars, taxis, rickshaws, stoned pedestrians, city buses, motorcycles, trams, double-decker tour buses, tourists, and a swarm of bicyclists. It is a total circus and when the rain started, complete with tent-like umbrellas. Bikes have their own lanes, but they share them with motorcycles. It’s just all a little too much sharing for me. I was so paralyzed at an intersection, a bicyclist pointed at me and then motioned for me to go. I clearly need assistance.

You have probably long since figured that out.

En route

So far so good except for both my bag and my body failing the security test and requiring further investigating, almost falling asleep on the plane only to be awakened by a baby who suddenly realized it’s still a baby, and walking a few miles around the Dublin airport before sitting under the flickering light of the boarding display in despair. One bright light was a security lady who said “Just go wait at the pub then!” and shooed me away. This lady is an angel.

I did find my gate, though. Not to worry. I wasn’t reading the subtext:
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A few other delights happened, like my hair getting caught in a nightmare of accordion action on the boarding tunnel (how? what? how? three excellent questions), which I think gave me whiplash; a teenage boy standing over me in the aisle casually looking down my dress until I asked him about his SAT score; and Ian, who sold me a smoothy at the Dublin airport and then asked if I wanted a smoke break.

Other than eating beef stew airplane food and a lack of sleep the likes of which I have not dealt with since grad school, all is well.

Bu there are sill miles to go before I sleep.

Category: Buffy