Tuscany Raiders

To summarize what Tuscany is, it would have to be complexity in simplicity. This defines their wines, their food, the houses, even the land the live on.

Pasta pomodoro is a simple dish. You usually take spaghetti, and lightly coat it in tomato sauce, and garnish with basil. Simple, delicious, oddly hard to do it justice (go to tourist trap restaurants, you'll see how easy it us to make bad pasta). What I fail to mention is the pasta has to be cooked right (lightly al dente). This aids in digestion, and makes it far easier to twirl around a fork. The sauce is naturally acidic and needs to be balanced to get the sweetness in the tomatoes to speak. Olive oil is used to coat the pasta before it sticks together. Enough to coat, and have the flavor add to the tomato. Lightly salt the pasta to enhance the flavor of everything. Add just enough basil to highlight and freshen the fruit flavors in the sauce.

The wines are no different. To you oenophiles, this is the Brunello, Chianti and Rosso territory. A stop at a winery will show you just how much subtlety and difference there is between 2, 5, and 10 year old bottles. Not to mention how a single type of grape can yield three different wines with completely different profiles.

The land is yet another UNESCO site. The rolling hills have been cultivated for thousands of years. It has managed the unique balance of natural beauty sculpted and curated by man. A birds eye view shows nothing more than a hilly agricultural landscape, but dive through the winding roads, across carefully built stone bridges, and you realize how specific and intentional every man made object is intended to compliment the natural curve and crevice if the land.

I write this sitting on a hill top, in a stucco, rock and clay villa. An ancient fortress look out from when the city-states of Montelchino were resisting Spanish invasion. This is my home for the next three weeks.

Firenze in a Strange Place

This is the city. The city where the renaissance started, and modern banking was born. This is the city known for its long history of architectural feats. This is the city known for its painters, its sculptors, its power. This is the city known for its rich textiles, still supplying designers the world over with the highest quality leather. This is Florence.

Now, since its UNESCO world heritage proclamation, it is a beacon for tourists. It's a mix of the rich historical tapestry that influenced western civilization, and Disneyland. Its no longer Italy. You don't walk down the street and hear Italians talking passionately. You hear English. Everywhere. You cant get delicate Tuscan cooking. You get pizza al taglio, and pasta al Americano, which is to say covered in sauce.

But what a city.

I walked in wonderment. Every palatial church at the end of a crooked, cobbled street never wore thin. The museums with art, hewn by hands of legend, never grew old. The views - and what views - never ceased to leave me speechless.

If you need to step outside the city to really understand why this was a cultural hub, you only need to climb away, across the river, up the adjacent hill, and stand atop of the old city walls.

The other side of the ancient city is a sweeping countryside. The hills resemble quilt work, actually vineyard and olive grove. Each square of agriculture guarded over by towering cyprus pines, standing silently for centuries. Hill side after hill side. Its the Tuscan country side; capable of supplying a bustling city with all of its needs to eventually grant the rise of the Medici and Borghese, as well as the renaissance.

This is Florence.

What a city.

Germany Roads Must a Man Walk Down

München

My train pulled into Munich station after a 10 hour train ride from Denmark, which included a ferry (I didn't even know they put trains on ferries). I was greeted by oddly dressed Germans in pirate, witch, princess and, uh, ethnic costume. At first I assumed I walked into the worlds worst flash mob, instead it was the beginning of Carnivalé. Given Munich's placement in Bavarian territory, it was a bid tradition.

It was just my luck. The whole central area in Munich was a slow crawling amorphous blob of people wrenching their way down crooked streets to get their fill of brats and beer. Who was I to deny this tradition? I joined in and had one of each. Word of warning: the Germans measure in litre, so when you have options of .2, .5 and 1, 1 is not a manageable beer size. Not to mention that the happy waiter at the bierhaus will gladly fill and place an enormous litre beer in from of you. They call it Hugo, appropriately so.

The crowds cleared as I ventured into the streets away from down town. This was a perfect opportunity to explore. I peered in every church and any public building that had an open door. Gothic architecture and stereotypical Bavarian houses were abundant, as were the enormous public parks.

Unfortunately, I was not in Munich for long before I was on my way to a city outside of Augsburg.

Ulm (pronounced oo-ilm)

It was sold to me as a medieval hamlet. Even better, it was a hamlet that my friends parents were willing to house me in. Here I was treated to a family that was more than willing to show me all their town had to offer. Here I experienced true German food, outside of sausages and flasks of beer.

Each place I was brought to had its own charm. 

Ulm was a modern small city resurrected from destruction while maintaining parts of its medieval history. Its claim in the region was having the tallest church spire, which I climbed, and found out half way up that I have a crippling fear of heights. 

I was also taken to ancient basilica's that was taken by Napoleon and later rebuilt in Baroque style. I walked in old monasteries and saw what a Catholic community in the middle of Europe actually is - hint, they say god bless you when you walk into their towns.

Neushwanstein Castle

Ludwig II was a slightly insane inheritance king of Bavaria starting at the age of 18. He enjoyed Wagner and nice things like mountain top castles instead of things like state affairs. For better or worse, he used his power to create 5 castles during his rule. Unfortunately, he died at a young age for unknown reasons, but he left opulent castles as a cash cow legacy for what became the country of Germany. Disney liked it enough to model its castle after.

Roskilde and Roll

In 1971, a couple of students decided their love for music needed a necessary venue. Northern Europe was lacking in a notable festival in which people could appreciate the musical talent, so the boys were put up to task. The founded the Roskilde Music Festival in the small city in the shadow of Copenhagen. It was wildly successful, quickly becoming THE music festival in the area.

A thousand years before music was the principle attraction, this was Denmark's most import city. A church was built here on the tallest point, made visible by any ships in the nearby harbor. The Catholics built onto the church after recognizing the importance of the city, turning it into the largest church in Denmark. To this day, it still towers over the skyline.

You have to traverse winding and disorderly roadways, clearly planed out when the town was no more than a collection of tradesmen and townspeople. As you approach the looking behemoth, the road opens up into a large courtyard maintained to allow a full view of its impressive medieval facade.

Inside it is a mix of simple architecture, and macabre iron work and sculpture, highlighted in gold accents and crafty brickwork. Its many chapels contains generations of church leaders. Some in elaborate tombs, and others laying under large shale slabs that make up the floor. There are literally few places you can stand without trampling a resting place.

The most visually arresting piece is a large pipe organ that hangs precipitously over the main gathering area.

I left this strange medical relic in hopes of finding more oddities from the period. The town was full of it. Near the church was a system of gravity fed wells and fountains that created a community stream, carefully engineered to contain a wash area, a fountain, and a duck pond.

As I wandered down the crooked streets of the medieval city, I wondered how much of the old remained in harmony with the new. Reed  thatched roof houses, decrepit with moss and mildew, crafted by masons who lived a thousand years prior, are domiciles for modern families with Volkswagens and electric dishwashers. How much tradition remained in city within a country that largely gave up tradition for fast information ways and a general agreement with blank. 

Then, the 14th hour passed. The church maniacally rang its bell. Not in the number of hours, but as an alarm. It was Saturday, and if you were a shop owner, it was time to close shop. The store fronts shuttered with the clang of metal gates. The streets began to empty. Only cafe owners and ice cream parlor a benefited by this seemingly old ritual. Everyone lined up for an ice cream before heading home.

I passed by a graveyard awakening to the spring just before heading back to Copenhagen. Its was a trip back in time, only to be beaten by further travels to the south.