1975

Greetings!

It would take reams of paper to describe this year’s off-beat travels, so I’ll just try to hit the high spots, up to 1 oz. mailing weight! In August, I went, with considerable trepidation and apprehension, to East Germany on a specialized English group tour for art lovers, with a heavy sightseeing schedule of galleries, museums and palaces, etc.) and to Portugal (with even more trepidation and apprehension...on a general group tour, also English, covering a basic tourist route of historic, architectural and scenic interest). All this in the midst of Europe’s biggest heatwave in years.

Did not get swallowed up behind the Iron Curtain as I’d feared, and East Germany turned out to be more drab and bleek than anything else, with a great feeling of emptiness and joylessness & no bright lights, color, gaiety or night life to speak of. Since there were no policemen about (apart from a vehicle full lurking in the shrubbery near the huge Russian war memorial to prevent other Germans from desecrating it), one assumes there is an ample network of plain clothes police, Communist party, informers, etc. to keep the population in a subdued, guarded and circumspect state at all time

The museum in East Berlin containing the magnificent Greek Altar of Pergamon and the Market Gate of Miletus (2 ancient sites I’d viste on my Hellenic cruises years ago, in what is now Turkey), and the Ishtar Gate and processional Way of Nebuchadnezzar II of Babylon, were of particular interest. At Potsdam we visited Sans Souci, Frederick the Great’s palace complex, including his “Chinese Tea House,” and I distinguished myself by being stung by a bee while eating lunch at the hotel where the Potsdam Agreement was signed. Schloss Moritzburg, hunting lodge of the Saxon King Augustus the Strong, set on an island in the middle of a lake in a pleasant little village, was a quick detour en route to Dresden, where we had a large dose of art at Augustus’ Zwinger Palace. His collection of paintings, jewel and objets d’art, armor (elaborately decorated and inlaid weapons, uniforms, etc.) and porcelains, was quite staggering. The porcelains were from many places, but of course there was a great deal of Meissen, Augustus having been responsible for its existence. It seems he had imprisoned the alchemist Boettger with orders to make gold, but Boettger arrived at the secret of making porcelain instead (1709), hitherto a Chinese monopoly. We saw many examples of the work of the famous sculptor Kaendler of that early period--not only the wellknown dainty rococo figures of coy damsels and gallant lovers, but also some large, strong, masculine figures of birds, animals, and busts of people, in solid white glaze, which were magnificent. Schloss Pillnitz, Augustus’ residential summer palace across the river in a more rural area, was delightful on a steamy summer afternoon on the bank of the Elbe. A number of interesting objets d’art were on display here, including some very lacy Saxon glassware.

The little town of Meissen (untouched by the war) was quite charming and we enjoyed a visit to the porcelain factory, where the process of making and painting porcelain is demonstrated to visitors, and examples of their ware from the earliest times to the present may be seen in their museum. Leipzig turned out to be a city actually pulsating with a bit of life, a feeling we missed elsewhere on the trip. I speculated that the retention of some identity and morale here was perhaps the result of having been allowed to continue their 800-year-old right to have an international statue looking over it, just opposite the Maedler Passage where one enters Auerbach’s Keller (utilized in “Faust”), was full of people who actually seemed to be enjoying themselves, a few even laughing and joking and clowning about. We visited Bach’s St. Thomas Church, where he worked and is buried; his statue is just outside. Wagner’s birthplace is gone, a modern store standing in its place. A friend and I went to have a drink in Auerbach’s Keller one evening before dinner, and it was quite delightful--16th century or so, several rooms for drinking and dining, one with a pianist and violinist playing gaily away, all very lively and romantic and charming; the violinist apparently spotted us for “English” right away, as he immediately started playing songs from “My Fair Lady,” with much bowing and smiling between numbers. Naumberg has a fine old cathedral with some particularly beautiful cathedral with some particularly beautiful stone carvings including the figure of the lovely Queen Uta. Weimar is a delightful town, where we visited the Goethe/Schiller mausoleum (not only permanent artificial wreaths here at this place of pilgrimage for the German people, but also little clusters of two or three fresh flowers that individual visitors had brought--very touching), the homes of Goethe (both his main house and his summer house), Schiller, and Liszt (where one sees many of his personal belongings including his treasured death-mask of Beethoven). We also raced past the Architecture School where the “Bauhaus” movement started, which has subsequently furnished the whole world with so much stark functional building, and one marvels that it should have started in such a pretty traditional-style town.

Wittenberg was of much historic interest, to see the church (actually, second re-building thereof) where Luther preached and pinned his famous Theses to the door, launching the Protestant Reformation. Visited the Augustinian monastery where he lived. Reflected again on the colossal courage of this man.

Miscellaneous observations: Dining rooms invariably had desserts sitting on table when one arrived. Food pretty good solid fare in most places, lots of meat, lots of beer. Evidently a child care system is in effect for working mothers; saw uniformed nursemaids wheeling giant prams containing 6 to 8 babies each. Every hotel room has one potted plant (and one radio). Washed off potted plant at each place in my shower; (“What am I doing here, showering potted plants all over Germany?!”) Window sills of historic houses we visited also full of potted plants (usually flowering ones); this must be a German “thing.” Recalled Erich Von Stroheim with his geranium in the fortress of the old movie “Grande Illusion.” Shops rather dull--seemed to have ample “basics” but nothing much of interest. Visited small supermarket practically no fresh vegetables, and a few of poor quality, possibly because of the drought and heat. Post and catalog counters at all palaces, art galleries, museums etc. mobbed with tourists. (all from other Iron Curtain countries) craving a bit of beauty to take home. Battled my way through a cluster of Polish Boy scouts to get myself some postcards of paintings etc. at Dresden. Russian Army troops, trucks, tanks, headquarters, etc. everywhere. Germans refer to the Russians as “Sasha” now (during WWII it was “Ivan.”) Heard our driver refer to them as “Blancmangies.” To anyone who has ever eaten a blancmange pudding, this puts Cold War in a whole new light. Must say Russians look sloppy; however, there are an awful lot of them. Tourists have to put on huge “slippers” made of something like thick carpet under-felting, over their shoes, while visiting palace rooms with elaborate parquet or marble-inlaid floors, ostensibly to protect the floors, but also a way of getting you to polish their floors, since you must slide around like an ice-skater to prevent the slippers falling off.

End of tour - time to cross through the Berlin Wall again. Our own driver not allowed to drive us through, since he was unmarried, and therefore regarded as more likely to try to escape, so we had to change into another bus with a married driver, the wife thus being hostage to ensure his return. (Wonder if they ever had any married drivers who wanted to escape not only the country but also their wives?)

After we had settled into the our second bus, our original driver and guide came in to say goodbye, and at this point, we all began to choke up, since it was not just a case of saying goodbye after a pleasant week’s touring--it was the realization that we were free to go through that wall, and they were not. They too, of course, were feeling this same thing. An acutely poignant moment, which made it difficult to even speak, and left us with heavy hearts. Thus one realizes what freedom means.

As we entered the area for border-crossing formalities,our faces and passports were intently scrutinized to be sure we “matched,” the bus and luggage compartments were carefully searched and a huge mirror rolled under the bus, looking for stowaways. In this hideous maze of electrified wire, nasty wall, tank traps, & gun towers for shooting escapers, would you believe more potted flowering plants in and around the guards and money-changing buildings!! Finally, having been cleared, we went through the wall and on to the famous “Checkpoint Charlie” where Allied military guards just wave jauntily as you pass through--no formalities at all on the West Berlin side.

Feeling rather tired, sloppy and seedy in our casual wear, we were then suddenly plunged into a smart and luxurious West Berlin hotel, to clean up, pull ourselves together, and enjoy fine service, facilities and food, a bit of “glamour,” in staggering contrast to the drabness and dreariness of life on the East Side. After dinner we strolled outside on the famed Kurfurstendamm, to find West Berlin a really “swinging” city of bright lights, color, beautiful shops full of elegant things, cafes, restaurants, nightclubs, and people full of pep and zest for living, a terrific morale. Quite a unique little island of the West holding out against the Communist state surrounding it on all sides. Next day, a hectic city-tour, many very modern new (i.e. filling up bombed out areas) buildings, various old and new residential areas, historic sites from various periods including dismal memories of the Nazi regime (pointed out by guide,not marked as historic sites!), and the horribly pathetic graves of people who had been shot by East Berlin guards as they escaped over the wall to the West, to die in the attempt. It is hard to grasp that people can shoot their own citizens just because they want to live somewhere else. We visited the Berlin-Dahlem gallery, many marvelous paintings, including 26 Rembrandts, and the Egyptian museum, to see the bust of Queen Nefertiti, even lovelier than the photographs. Had a quick dash through part of Charlottenburg Palace, with a particularly lovely long elegant room in apple-green marble with fine gold rocaille. After lunch, departure from the Tempelhof Airport, famous from Berlin Airlift days. One would like more time for West Berlin, but at least it’s a place one could get back to fairly easily.

The tour of PORTUGAL began with even more advance worry, in view of the revolution, anarchy and civil war type of activity going on there, played up so heavily in the press and TV everywhere. However, we experienced no  untoward incidents, and for the most part the citizenry seemed to be going about their daily lives in the ordinary way. Since there were no other tourists, our little group of nine people (all of us having been too cheap to cancel the tour and lose all the money we had paid), had all the hotels, museums, etc. to ourselves, which made for easier, more relaxed ghostly feeling to be rattling around in big empty hotels etc. , and very sad, knowing the hotel trade would be completely ruined if this situation kept up indefinitely. Every building, wall, etc. all over the country was hideously defaced with political slogans, either painted on, or posters. This, combined with the apparently normal street garbage and litter and sewer smells, did not enhance the Portuguese scene.Only one pretty little “national historic monument” village (Obidos) had had the pride (and perhaps the courage) to clean the political slogans off its walls. Occasionally we would see groups gathering in public squares at night (carefully avoiding some) or hear the noise of their demonstrations at night after going to bed. We went through two towns where the Communist party headquarters had been burned out. (Santo Tirso and Braga), but saw one still quite intact in another village, with flag flying and party hack working late into the night. Portuguese soldiers were everywhere, with smouldering black eyes flashing about, missing nothing, lean and lithe like panthers in their camouflage suits, as if on perpetual jungle combat duty, giving one a slightly uneasy feeling, in view of the heavy political activity of all sorts in which the military are involved.

At any rate, after a few days I decided that since I looked like a harmless eccentric female in a floppy white hat and gloves, your basic bumbling Mr. Magoo-type-tourist, and was too big for anyone to attack (the Portuguese are rather short people), I was relatively safe no matter what happened; but as I mentioned, we did not encounter any dangers. The country is quite thick with pine forests in the north (tapped for pitch, for the manufacture of turpentine), olive groves, vineyards, rice paddles, and cork trees. The architecture is quite a strange mixture of styles, heavy Moorish influence, and in fact, the country itself has more of a Moorish feeling than European, with much poverty and squalor in evidence, and women carrying baskets of laundry or groceries on their heads, doing laundry in the rivers, and hanging laundry right out on public streets, even in cities. Our city started in Porto (“Oporto” to the British), quite a large and industrial city but with old seedy Mediterranean-looking central area, and is the headquarters of the port. We visited the cellars of the Calem company and tasted the various kinds of port; was enchanted with white port, a fry aperitif I’d never tried before. (I also tried the yards, table wine we’d have at lunch and dinner.) Guimaraes is the birthplace of the Portuguese nation, home of their first King, Alfonso Henriques, who fought off the Moors. Bom Jesus (good Jesus) is a lovely ape-cum-religiouspilgrimage place, attractive and peaceful, with the pilgrimage church and satellite chapels along an elaborate staircase all the way down the side of a mountain, and a gracious hotel serving fine food. Luso is a small spa town in the hills with springs producing the most delicious water I ever remember, and one can buy Luso water, bottled, all over the country for table use. Bucaco, noted for one of Wellington’s defeats of Napoleon, has a park-forest of trees collected from all over the world, and there is also a tree labeled as “Wellington’s tree” where he tethered his horse. Coimbra is the seat of Portugal’s university (one of the oldest in Europe) and the library is absolutely magnificent, the richly ornate decor complementing the richness of the beautiful old volumes. Understand they have a system of using bats to remove any bugs from the library, then removing and cleaning up after the bats. How’s that for harnessing the natural force of “ecology”? Was intrigued by the ruins of Santa Clara convent which has sunk 40 metres into the earth. “Children’s Portugal,” a sort of miniature village consisting of child-scale models of historic buildings all over the country, and also exhibition buildings for each of their overseas colonies, is meant for the entertainment and education of Portuguese children, but seems to delight adults very much as well. Large map exhibit showing routes of Portuguese explorers and their discoveries had me a little confused over a Fernão de Magalhães, until by studying the route shown I realized he was in fact our old friend, Magellan, in his own native spelling. Checked with guide and learned it’s pronounced “Mag's Lyench.” Conimbriga appealed to my archaeologyfiend self, nice ruins of old Roman villas on the edge of a dramatic river-gorge. Fatima is a place of religious pilgrimage for Roman Catholics, because of some children’s having had visions of the Virgin Mary there in 1913. Enormous arena and church provided for pilgrims. Masses of votive candles were melted in to hideous writhing tangle like waxen snakes in the boiling sun. Tomer - huge convent/castle of seafaring motifs such as shells, ropes, sea creatures, parts of ships, chains, etc.). Knights financed Prince Henry the Navigator’s exploration projects, and then received much wealth back from the colonies and conquests. Evora was the most striking old Moorish walled city, of great architectural interest, and would have been for the most part all snowy white if it weren’t for the political slogans defacing everything. Former Jesuit University, now a high school, had lovely pictorial tile facings throughout. (Pictorial tile found in many historic buildings, of Portugal, mostly from 17th-18th century, was lovely and most interesting.

*The fact that as a rule only men are seen out in public placessuch as cafes is also what one expects in Moslem countries or those formerly ruled by Moslems. Portuguese cuisine very tasty, by the way, apart from the ubiquitous cabbage (kale) soup.

Portinho de Arrabida is an off-the-beaten-track seaside place somewhat reminiscent of Big Sur, pleasant for lunch in a restaurant built into an old fortress on a cliff over the sea.

Lisbon -- now it felt as if it were “back in Europe again,” since the rest of the country felt a little more like North Africa or even the Middle East in many ways. Libson is quite a bustling and attractive city, mostly dating from the period since a major earthquake in the 18th century, but it was an old Moorish-type quarter still remaining with the most characteristic tiny houses, irregular, narrow, winding streets, etc. on a hill. The waterfront monument to Prince Henry the Navigator and the Portuguese Explorers is magnificent in conception and execution, with the figures (led by Prince Henry) arranged like the prow of a ship headed out to sea. I liked this so much I went back to look at it again on my own, as well as taking another look in the Naval Museum which has so many interesting exhibits pertaining to the Explorers and other items of naval history. The waterfronts of Lisbon are stacked up all over with crates of the belongings of Portuguese settlers returned from Angola, a pathetic sight, and these people are standing night and day filling the street in front of the Bank of Angola in fairly quiet demonstration, trying to get some financial assistance. Their return to Portugal at a time when it is itself in a state of upheaval is most difficult. Lisbon (and most other cities) has some fine broad sidewalk-pavings of white and black cobblestone designs, although they are not quite seen to best advantage, since street-cleaning in Portugal is apparently minimal. Probably they would look great right after a heavy rain. The Gulbenkian Museum was well worth a visit, particularly in its collection of French furniture, and also some interesting examples of Art Nouveau jewelry and accessories, among the wide variety of things Gulbenkian had collected.

Near Lisbon, we visited the Queluz 18th century royal palace; Sintra, considered a “romantic” vacation or honeymoon spot in the mountains; Pena summer palace of the royal family, on a mountain; and Cascais and Estoril, much-publicized seaside resorts, but which struck me as fairly uninteresting, and I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about.

The high point of my stay in Lisbon was the bullfight. It was quite different from the Spanish type. Actually, two types were presented. The most gorgeous was done by gentlemen in 18th century noblemen’s costumes, riding magnificent, fast, highly-trained horses which rush in near the bull while the rider puts the sticks into the bull’s back, then rushes away, just avoiding its horns--the most spectacular riding imaginable. It was absolutely beautiful and exciting to watch. They don’t kill the bull in Portugal--he is just escorted out of the arena by a group of steers wearing huge bells. (This style is very much like that of the “rejoneadores” of Spain except that the costume is different, and they do not dismount and kill the bull. The other kind of fight consists of some brave fellow who comes out jeering and taunting the bull to induce it to charge him right in the stomach. He is thus flipped over the bull’s head and back, and all the men in his entourage rush up and try to hold the bull so he and others won’t be gored or trampled on. However,somebody invariably gets trampled on anyway, and the brave bullfighter, very pained in the abdomen, limps around therest of the evening looking miserable. The crowd goes mad with joy and admiration at the sight of such bravery. Quite crazy, but in its way exciting. I should add that these particular bulls have their horns tipped, to diminish the goring dangers somewhat. Incidentally, by going out to thebullfight stadium on the subway, I luckily avoided seeing some Army troops and tanks putting down anti-Communist demonstrators who were trying to get anti-Communists put back on their jobs at a newspaper office the Communists had taken over. One man in our group had gone out to the stadium on a bus, and saw this spectacle en route.

In summary, I’m glad to have seen Portugal, but it was saddening to see it in such a state of political and economic disaster. The political changes and turmoil are ruining their economy, and with the vast amounts of money and guns being poured in there by the Russians to boost the Communist minority, one wonders if, and how, the country will stay afloat. Thousands of business people and intellectuals have already departed, so this loss of talent and capability will not help matters.

No exciting news on the California front. I’m still working in the Cardiology Dept. at Stanford, and recently enjoyed the San Francisco opera season although it was not one of their better seasons. “Gianni Schicchi” was, I thought, the best production (the deft hand of Jean-Pierre Ponnelle), but I also enjoyed “Werther,.” mostly because of so recently having “done” the Goethe sites in Germany. Now, if you haven’t gone totally blind from trying to read this crowded account, may I wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

P.S.I should add that between the German and Portuguese tours I spent some time in London, seeing friends and taking in a few plays, the best of which were Alan Bates in “Otherwise Engaged.” Even England was having a terrific heat-wave, simply astounding--I couldn’t believe it. Prices in London struck me as out of sight, in many cases much worse than in the U.S. It was good to be back in London, although August is really not an ideal time, too crowded.