Memories and the Kaiserslautern Market

Don't forget to scroll down for scintillating commentary and more photos

Worthy of a Monet or van Gogh!

I’m a fan of the city of Kaiserslautern.  Lots of good restaurants, broad pedestrian shopping areas, pubs that brew their own beer, and always something going on.  Saturday morning is market day.

In Europe, as in the U.S., there are supermarkets of a pretty fair size, but I prefer the farmers’ markets.  Usually the vegetables and fruits are those in season.  They’re mostly local and haven’t been picked early and shipped for hundreds of miles, losing flavor, vitamins, and texture with every bump in the road.

Plus, there’s something special about chatting with the folks who picked the produce they’re selling.  Makes you feel a little closer to the earth, like the morning-after when you woke up on the front lawn, and wife and kids weren’t even a budding idea.

Plus, there’s always a grand supply and variety of meats and cheeses, plants, cut flowers, and herbs, again depending on what’s in season.  You get to taste the cheeses and smoked meats, and the flowers last longer in your favorite vase.

Another thing that whets my appetite is the variety.  I always see fruits and veggies I’ve never seen before.  This trip I ran into Mirabella plums, golden, sweet and succulent.  In Germany and across the used-to-be border in Alsace, they juice these plums to make delicious dessert wines and distinctive brandies.

I also saw some Romanesco broccoli, or Roman cauliflower, as it’s sometimes called.  You prepare it just as you would normal cauliflower, but it’s flavor is milder and you have to beware of overcooking because greenish-yellow curls are more tender than the white variety you’re used to.

Ever seen flowering Greek oregano?  Me either.  Picked up one of those, along with a curry plant with frilly leaves.  The only kind of curry I’d seen before had straight leaves.

Yes, they have farmers’ markets in the states, but few are on a year around, regular schedule, and the ones I’ve been to in the States don’t offer the same array, variety, or things like smoked meats, and fresh baked breads.

But, no matter where you live, it’s worth checking out the local produce.  Tomato sandwiches and stuffed zucchini taste fabulously different when they’re straight from the vine.  And, the scents alone will bring back fleeting memories of the good ‘ol, free wheeling days of yore, when you slept on the lawn, dusted yourself off, and sped to work with the top down.

Greek oregano in front, curry behind

Dogs are welcome almost everywhere.

Fresh and smoked meats

Romanesco Broccoli

The Eldorado Series - Derek Robinson

WW II

WW II continued...

On to the big money in D.C.

Off to L.A....

Ready for a great series of books about an uncanny spy who isn’t?  Luis Cabrillo didn’t come out of the cold and he’s always swimming in the raw lava of intrigue.  From his humble beginnings in the Spanish Civil War, he rides his brand of cons and schemes to wherever.  No risk is too great.  No escape is too narrow.  Riches?  Ruin?  Cabrillo fits somewhere between James Bond and Inspector Clouseau, with a little more "easy come, easy go" thrown in. 

With hilarious results, Luis flirts with Nazi dangers and British stuffiness.  When he smells money, he’s at his best and when the cards are dealt, he knows how to swagger and bluff his way to a winning hand.  But, he has some help in the form of Julie Conroy, a New York cutie that’s savvy as a cheetah catching the scent of blood.

She takes crap from no one, including the flirtatious and slightly irresistible Señor Cabrillo.  From 1941-43 together they scam the Nazis (The Eldorado Network), then it’s the British who get their tails twisted (Artillery of Lies). 

With the war over, Luis and Julie go their separate ways, or do they?  Not quite.  In Washington D.C., Luis once again catches the scent of mountains of cash, and the man who opens the vault is Senator Joe McCarthy (Red Rag Blues).  And finally, hunted by every spy and law enforcement agency with an acronym, Luis and Julie take their con game to L.A., via a circuitous route.  This time it’s the mob who’s caught up in easy money and Luis’ gift for slight of hand and slight of truth, (Operation Bamboozle).

Quite a ride, with snapss and turns that not only make you shake your head at Luis Cabrillo’s uncanny and ingenious way of slipping in and out of trouble, but laugh out loud at the quirky and outrageous characters.  The plot keeps you glued.  The humor keeps you holding your sides, and the believable, but terrifying twists keep you on the edge of your seat and flipping pages like a pancake chef with a small bladder.

Derek Robinson, a writer whose originality crackles with humor, is one of my favorites.  The Luis Cabrillo series is only one of several series he’s constructed around historical events. 

Others include flying tales of World War I and II.  I’ve previously reviewed books from both of these fine series that also sparkle with twists and tangles, humor and the grim tragedy of war as was fought by men in the RAF.

Almost all of Robinson’s books are available on Kindle and he’s written a pile of them, each and every one of them hard to put down.  My two words of advice for the author:  Write Faster!

Amsterdam, Part III: Impressions, Impressionists, and Scarlett O’Hara

In the main market area---scroll down for fascinating prose and more photos...

canal by night

just strollin' in the rain

During our week in Amsterdam, we spent most of our time in the bright halls and cafés of solidly built museums, gazing at classic and modern paintings, studying painters, and writing about color, form, vanishing points, and changing perceptions of art.  The topic was Vincent van Gogh, but the scope expanded like a married man’s waist.  Where did van Gogh get his inspirations, his techniques?  What was his background?  How did he live his life, and which painters influenced or were influenced by him?

Fueled by curiosity, discovery is a wonderful thing.  Leads to a certain depth of understanding and a warren of unknown trails.  The point is not whether you like a painter, or painting.  Personal likes and dislikes have to be cast aside like spent peanut shells.

Why did van Gogh paint the way he did?  Who were the Impressionists?  How did they vary from classical styles, color, and form?  Chances are, you’re asking yourself, who gives a damn, Scarlett?  Or, as Scarlett O’Hara herself famously said:  “I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow.”

I don’t have time to wait for you to catch up. I’m pressing on.  Something huge happened in the art world in the period 1836-40.  Photography.  Most historical art had been descriptive, capturing a moment, an event, a portrait.  Now a camera could do all that and better.  Artists were liberated to move on from their journalism in paint, to something entirely different.  But, can a camera also be a device for impressions?  I decided to go on my own voyage of discovery and seek out beer, pretty women, and the colors and shapes of Amsterdam.

In the world of art up to 1860, classicism held the field.  But, around this time, or a little before, painters like Manet, Monet, Degas, Cezanne, Renoir, and Toulouse-Lautrec, and many others, threw aside the trappings of classic art and began to paint common subjects, but with an uncommon touch.  A decade later, under the influence (he met and painted with many of the impressionists) van Gogh injected even more expressive techniques.  Depictions of landscapes became swatches of color, only suggesting individual stalks of wheat.  Skies roiled with smears of blues and greens and yellows.  Van Gogh wanted to make the viewer feel what he saw;  wanted to make the viewer a participant by expanding the boundaries.  Expressionism.

Heard the joikes (that’s Jersey for jokes) already.  “Makes me feel like I want to throw up!  I’ve seen that painting before --- in kindergarten.  Looks like the breakfast I saw twice.”  Or, my favorite:  “I could do that!”  Or, as Scarlett proclaimed:  “I never heard of such bad taste.”

Those are all judgment calls, which means against all odds, you’ve managed to miss every single point.  WHY, WHAT, and WHO?

Ever seen a game of craps?  To the initiated, it’s a group of people, standing around a table, throwing small cubes and screaming at the tops of their lungs for no particular reason.  Game’s been round since Roman times, but casinos haven’t.  Rules have changed.  Understanding takes work.  Otherwise you’re just looking, not seeing, or understanding.

I picture a chain of events.  Curiosity leading to discovery, leading to study, leading to knowledge, leading to more curiosity.  Doesn’t have to be art.  Can be anything, from cake decorating to motorcycle maintenance. Of course, you could disregard all that and stick with  the cuddly warmth of your personal comfort zone.   Of course, if you're not engaged,  that means, as Scarlett said, “My life is over. Nothing will ever happen to me anymore.”  At least nothing new.

Here’s a short course on the Impressionists.  They brought real subjects and real emotions to paint and canvas.  No longer stuck on historic figures, Biblical scenes, or moral lessons, they unglued the use of color, form, painting en plein air, and impressions of subjects rather than faithful reproductions.  As a result, controversy swirled around them. Museums bared their work.  But the paintings were real.  They resonated, and in Scarlett’s words, “He looks as if... as if he knows what I look like without my shimmy.”  Ah, Scarlett, if you only knew.

During my week in Amsterdam, I combined camera and Impressionism (intentionally and capriciously)  to offer a few of my impressions of Amsterdam.  I found that Black and White often provides more drama and texture, while night scenes lend impressionistic colors. Rain helps to expand the palate.  Should you find these photos objectionable, insane, or in bad taste, “Frankly my dear….etc.”

Near the market area 

In the tangle of restaurant streets... 

Amsterdam is a melting pot

bike lane

Amsterdam, Part II: Tyranny On Two Wheels

Don't forget to scroll down for verbiage and many more photos... 

almost made it

Amsterdam is a city of bicycles.  A green dream.   Bicycle lanes parallel the streets and sidewalks.  You’ll find bikes, stacked and chained everywhere.  The kudzu vines of the mechanical world.  Whole families ride down the street, happy, smiling, scaring the crap out of pedestrians.  People use bicycles for shopping, for baby carriages, and going back and forth to work.

What a beautiful idea.  Why don’t all cities integrate bicycles into the transportation grid?  Before you wet your pants, hold hands, and belt out Kumbaya, let me give you the real skinny on bicycles in a big, bustling city.

You want the truth?  Can you handle the truth??? Grab my handlebar, baby, and let’s get to the stark naked reality of this two-wheeled menace.  Rats of the road. 

In Amsterdam besides bicycles, swarms of pedestrians, cars, trucks, streetcars, buses, motorbikes, scooters, and motorcycles make their way along the crowded thoroughfares.  Add the bikes and a knotty problem becomes a Gordian knotty problem.  They all have to share the same space and in most cases the space is narrower than a spinster’s view of rough sex.

Bicycles, having no natural enemies, roam at will, day and night, rain or shine.  They crowd the bike paths, and scurry down the sidewalks like the vermin they are, to claim the debris laden streets.  Pedestrians beware.  Cars beware.  Anyone who values life and wants to live long enough to down another next Heineken, beware.

Streetcars are the only imperial modes of transport.   Bikes have to grudging yield an inch or two, their riders sneering at the injustice of it.

To walk across the street, pedestrians search long and hard for cars, trams, buses, but most of all for bicycles.  The latter do not observe stoplights, walk signs, pedestrian crosswalks, or laws of physics.

I observed an older English woman, walking calmly before a bike sideswiped her.  Fortunately, with the alacrity of a septuagenarian trampoline artist with explosive diarrhea, she bounded away.  “Nasty bugger!”

The cyclist stopped and backed up.  “Stay out of the way!”

The lady’s husband tried to calm her, pretty much like pleading with a bull to ignore the waving red cape and the guy with the sword.  “The little shit almost hit me. And as for you,” she said, going nose to nose with the biker, “I’ll stick that bike where the sun don’t shine.”  She evidently had a pretty good idea of where that was and how to wedge a bike into a very small space.

In Amsterdam, no matter what care you take, as a walker, you will come close to death and disorder two to three times a day.  Bicyclists will run your ass down and shout rude things if they miss.  The disease is spreading.  Motor scooters and motorbikes are beginning to use bike paths and sidewalks to spread their version of pedestrian panic.  

I stood on the sidewalk, waiting for the light to change. A Vespa, with a passenger hanging on and legs flapping, came at me from behind. I jumped to the side, just in time.  His handlebar caught the edge of my coat, but didn’t rip it.  I uttered loud and earthy oaths about self-copulation and his mother and her wicked ways.  By that time he was deaf and already speeding through a red light.  Cars honked, brakes squealed.

Maybe next time, he'll overdose on his own ego and take on a streetcar.  Ah, happy thoughts.

Outside the Rijksmuseum

Note the pedestrian crosswalk

N 

sidewalk cafe

Stacked everywhere

Not immune to graffiti

Another close call

On one of the restaurant streets