Peter A Clarke

Day 2 in Austria and things follow a pattern, as should be in the case in a nice Germanic country (where we never mention ze vor).  The morning starts with light but persistant snow fall.  That is not so bad but it is usually accompanied by a reasonable breeze.  Net result, snow flakes in the eyes.  Ah well.  All the more reason to run inside for a brew or three. 

The Hotel is proving to be a real find.  The Post Hotel is right in the middle of the city.  About 5 minutes from St Stephens and the central square and a few minutes more from most of the sites. As importantly, it is close to the better bars.  It is nice to have a reliable hot shower, fresh sheets and towels.  As much as I enjoy roughing it the Turkish hostel room had a few downsides difficult to ignore.  Like a threadbare blanket and a showering system last serviced during the Ottomon empire. 

Yesterday was a bit of a blur, going from the Museum of Modern Art to the main art gallery.  The first was full of pretentious and forgettable works.  Most pretentious were the works of Schiele (?).  A wannabe Klimpt come Picasso.  If he wasn’t Austrian he would be lucky to get a showing in outer Bavaria.  I really enjoyed the main art gallery.  Not only is it full of my favourite painter, Breugal, but it had a fantastic exhibition of Goya.  All of those paintings you see in books and around the place one time or another are there.  Absolutely fantasic.  And the gallery was warm.  That brings on another dilema.  Put on the thermals in the AM for a winters walk and you feel great.  Get inside an toasty art gallery and within a half an hour the perspiration factor kicks in.

As per my last stay in Austria any trip is not complete without a lunch at Tresniewski.  And it hasn’t changed one jot.  Even the sandwiches are much the same.  The beer to wash it down with is Zere Gütt. 

The choice for last night was drinking heavily, a movie or the Opera.  In the end it came down to the Opera.  There has been a bit of drinking on this trip, though moderate by previous trip events.  There is just something so Viennese about the Opera.  Did the standing room thing.  That meant waiting in line for an hour or so, paying 3.5 euro for the pleasure and standing for another two and half hours watching Falstaff.  Not all that bad.  There were a few coffees before the performance and a coffee at intermission.  All rather upper crust what say.  Some of the dowagers are fearsome.  They can push into a line with all the power of a rhino, and for some the resemblence is remarkable. 

After that it was off to the Augustine Keller and the best beer and meal of the trip.  It was a total fluke.  Just put my finger on the menu and hope for the best.  Not a bad end to the day.  Austria is not particularly expensive, so far.  Time will tell.

Vienna is tidy and cozy but it is also as cold as….%$%&$$$.  To our amazement the Turkish airline 1887 left in one piece and even landed the same way.  Of course it was late.  Turkish and punctuality are words not often found in the same paragraph let alone sentence.  The car service to the airport was the usual Indy like drive I have come to expect from Turkish drivers.  Being stuck in a van with 8 buttoned down dour Danes did not help matters . Turkish drivers have an unerring ability to get through the narrowest gaps without a bump.  Amazing. 

Once in Austria everything changes.  The loud chaotic and but endearing organisation of the Turkish gives way to a straight lines efficiency of the Viennese.  Everything is clean ordered and efficient. 

The Apostlekeller has not changed much in the 15 years since my last drinking session.  The wheat beer is excellent. 

 İts easy to use up your quota of superlatives on the Blue Mosque.  İt ıs huge, opulent and ımposıng.  But the Aya Sofia puts all of that to shame.  Yesterday we were bedazzled by one of the most remarkable basıllıcas/mosques of all tıme.  It started out as St Sofias basıllıca, buılt by Justınıan in the mıd 6th century.  It was built ın less than 6 years which ıs remarkable given how huge and elaborate it is.  St Peters Basillıca is the closest in sıze and splendour.  Of course once the Ottomons took Constantınople ıt was converted to a mosque.  Funnıly enough ıt stıll retaıns ıts overwhelmıng Eastern Chrıstıan look.  İt ıs easy to understand why thıs church was the focal poınt of the Byzantıum empıre. 

After that we headed off to the Basıllıca cıstern.  That was the underground water supply buılt by the Byzantıum empıre.  It ıs basıcally a glorıfıed huge water tank below the centre of the old cıty.  It ıs huge, wıth more than 270 columns holdıng up the brıck ceılıngs.  It would have held a huge amount of water at ıts heıght. What amazes ıs the amount of engıneerıng nous for a 5th century people.  Defınıtely worth a vısıt even ıf ıt costs about 10 lıra.  Everything costs.

To keep ın the mood of all thıngs archaıc ıt was then off to the archeologıcal museum.  Cheaper than the rest of the other sıtes, at 5 lıra, ıt ıs a ramshackle serıes of rooms rangıng from a brıllıant collectıon of sarcophagıı, ancıent marble enclosed tombs by another name, to a faırly ordınary collectıon of early perıod pottery.  The defınıte hıghlıght was the Byzantınıum sectıon and some of the Roman statues.  In the grounds there was another fınd, an Ottomon era buıldıng for housıng Ottomon ceramıcs.  Quıte amazıng.

By then ıt was tıme for a small collapse before goıng out for dınner on the Eastern sıde of Istanbul. 

After 16 hours in the air and 4 hours on Christmas day, it was wheels down in Istanbul.  Air travel is pretty much the world over, uncomfortable with at least one screaming kid per flight.  The food on Air France on the Singapore – Paris stretch piled all over the rubber chicken on the Qantas, Melbourne – Singapore leg.  No surprises there I guess.  Probably not.  Leg room on a Qantas 747  beats the cattle class of the Airbus.

Much to my disappointment there was no Midnight Express moment on arrival. Officials seemed pleasant, at least as much as they allow themselves the world over.  That frozen grin must be in the international manual.  There is an excellent light rail line from the airport to the old city.  From there a taxi will take you to any part of the old city for less than 10 lira 1 lira = $1)After I parked myself at the Orient Hostel the rest of the night was a bit of blur. 

Istanbul is a fascinating bustling, chaotic mix of the old and new (just to rehash a cliche).  For us the starting point was the Blue Mosque.  It isn’t as big as St Peter’s nor as imposing as the Cologne Cathedral but it took my breath away.  The dome is magnificent and the 270 or so stained glass windows are breathtaking.  The dome is supported by 4 massive pillars which would have to be at least 3 metres in diameter.  It really tells of the power and awe of the Ottomon empire at its height.  Most of the historical sights are an easy walk from the Blue Mosque. 

 The Sul;tan’s Palace is huge and would have been spectacular in its day.  It is not cheap to get in, all up 32 lira to see everything.  But there is plenty in that everything.  The palace is a huge complex of buildings, some ornamental and some functional.  All of it is impressive.  The most impressive complex is the Harim.  In the Ottomon empire the Harim is just the living quarters for the Sultan and his immediate family.  None of this nonsense of scantily clad nubile young things running around waiting for the next nightly sojourn with an old sot.  Dammit!  If you love intricate gold inscriptions and a thousand different type of tiles this is the place for you.  Spectacular.

The crown jewels in London has nothing on the Sultan’s jewels.  I almost fainted when I saw an 89 carat jewel surrounded by diamonds and set in a silver clasp.  After a while you become blase about more emerald encrusted scabards, swords, flasks, writing boxes and just about everything else the Sultan used.

From the refined it was a descent into the hurly burly of the bazaar.  These traders are spruikers extraordinaire.  Walking around with a day pack marks you out as a tourist so you are constantly being hammered to look at this and that.  I dropped into Polish and played stupid (one of my traditional strong suits).  Even so “no” is not a word the average trader is used to hearing.  The leathergoods section of the bazaar is fairly ordinary.  The cuts are circa 1970 and the range is fairly ordinary.  Unless you are busting for a leather jacket try South America (for your jet setters).  The fun of the bazaar is just its size.  It goes on and on and on.  The mercantile class is alive and well in Turkey, just not well behaved. 

If you are after a bargain in Turkey think long and hard.  Nothing is all that cheap.  Makes you wonder how the Australian Economy is doing.  The prices are on a par with Melbourne.  The bargain buying will have to wait a bit longer.

After sitting for hours at Charles De Gaulle airport, watching our flight getting put back again and again flight 1590 left freezing France and reached freezing Istanbul at little after 4pm.  So far so good.  A quick crowded trick along the sole metro brought us to edge of the old city.  Then it was down to convincing a reluctant cabbie to get us the final couple of kilometres.  That is where overbearing Alpha male Turkish type came to the rescue and convinced cabbie to see the errors of his untouristy ways.  Nothing like a bit of shouting and screaming to make one see one’s responsibility more clearly. 

We are parked at the Orient Hostel for the next 4 nights.  The tidings are good. It is right in the middle of the old quarter.  More to follow…….

Christmas Eve took a momentous turn for the family Clarke.  In a significant break of tradition the family sat down for a traditional Polish meal at 11am rather than the early evening repaste.  It actually worked out quite well.  For the record, the borsch was particularly good thanks to the efforts of matriach Helena .

Any flight over 3 hours becomes a test of endurance and deodorant.  No difference here.  But good company, in the form of a sprightly, intelligent and most attractive passenger next to the writer made the time go past just that little bit quicker

Sushi Das isn’t a bad journalist.  She is a columnist who purports to deal with the hard issues.  She has a few hot button issues that get an outing; race/cultural issues, fertility/abortion, feminism/gender issues.  Comfortable Baby Boomer come Gen X soft left journalism that the Age cultivates so carefully. 

Her latest offering Let’s hear from the boys on feminism is an innocuous anodyne piece on feminist writers and feminism which doesn’t offend, uplift or provoke.  Otherwise forgettable but for the fact that it is a pale imitation of a Village Voice’s 14 November 2005 article Girls Just Want to Have Fun.  Both articles consider with Maureen Dowd’s article, Are Men Necessary in the New York Times Magazine and  Ariel Levy’s Female Chauvanist Pigs as two case studies .

Is it plagiarism?  No.  Walter Mizner quipped that if you steal from author it’s  plagiarism; if you steal from many its research.  There is no obvious lifts in Das’s piece and Das develops some insipid theme about feminism now being about confusion and infighting while the boys enjoy the spectacle (perhaps because we like to watch) which  Press leaves these ridiculous theory alone.  Probably because she is a better writer.  Press is a delight to read, in a very New York style she skewers Dowd and gives a nod to Levy. 

Das would have been better served plagiarising the Village Voice.  It is so much a better article.  Das won’t end up on Media Watch.  She is too smart for that.  But her piece is just plain lazy.